Archive of Our Own

“LIES!” King Danuja shouted. “You don’t get to come in here and speak poison the day of my son’s birth—how dare you!”

“But you’re majesty.” Astrologer Hekima replied. “The prophecy is something you can’t ignore.”

“Prophecy bullshit! The stars are just lights in the sky, they mean nothing to us!”

“Look for yourself,” Hekima replied. “The once brightest star had begun to dim. I’m not here to tell you lies, your majesty, I'm only here in hopes of warning you of what's to come.”

Queen Etsuko, pale and resting in a velvet-draped cradle of cushions beside the dais, tightened her hold around the tiny bundle in her arms. The infant boy stirred, but did not cry—only blinked up at the towering ceilings, unaware of the doom that had just been spoken over him.

The king turned slowly toward the towering windows, each cut from crystal and open to the sky. There, hanging low in the east, above the very tower where his son had been born only an hour ago, was a once-brilliant star. It was still visible, yes, but weaker, flickering like a candle being slowly blown out.

“When a child is born, one star in the sky burns brighter—as a way to tell people a new life has entered this vast world. But a star that dims means the child will only live as long as the star itself. Once the star dies, so does the child that was born under it—”

“I should have you hanged for this nonsense!”

“Danuja, please!” the queen protested, tears in her eyes. “When has Hekima ever been wrong? He’s the kingdom's official prophet for a reason…”

Hekima walked over to the queen's bed and bowed. “I wish I didn’t have to bring this news… But as a prophet, it is my duty.”

Her eyes were fixed on the tiny face in her arms. The child was beautiful—dark-haired like her, with wide, thoughtful eyes that had already looked upon his father and seemed to understand something no newborn should. She held him tighter, her lips trembling as she leaned down and whispered words only he could hear.

The king moved to her side, his anger replaced with something that hurt more. “Is there anything we can do?” He asked Hekima.

The astrologer shook his head. “I’m afraid what's written in the stars can’t be changed.”

For a while, neither the king nor the queen spoke. The fire crackled. The baby made a soft, contented sound.

Then the queen whispered, “His name…” The king looked at her. The tears began to fall, and she did not wipe them away. “His name is Chikara.”

The king looked at his son. “Chikara…” He held his wife and son closer to him. “We’ll keep him safe, we’ll do anything to make sure he lives as long as he can.”

Hekima said nothing as he left the room.

…

Four years had passed since the star began to dim.

And still, every night, the king looked up at the sky and watched it weaken, slowly, painfully. The castle had become a gilded prison. No sickness was allowed to touch its halls. No one entered who hadn’t been cleansed, vetted, or examined. The kitchens prepared only the most careful meals. No sharp edges were permitted near the child. The windows of his chambers had been reinforced. The marble corridors were padded with imported silks.

And their son was loved deeply. So deeply loved that it terrified his parents to let him truly live.

That morning, the queen sat beside the window of the nursery, embroidering a tiny phoenix into the hem of her son’s cloak. Her hands moved with grace, but her eyes strayed again and again toward the boy playing with carved wooden animals on the sunlit rug. He had his father’s quiet intensity, but his mother’s gentle touch—he would line up the animals, then pretend one was hurt and gently “heal” it with a whispered word and a kiss to its wooden flank.

Then, Chikara stood and toddled over to her.

“Mama,” he said, tugging gently on the folds of her dress. “May I go outside? Just to the gardens?”

Her hand froze. She’d know this would happen eventually—he was old enough to ask, to want. “Chikara.” She said softly, setting the embroidery down. “The world is not always safe, my love. Even the gardens have dangerous things we can’t risk.”

His small face crumpled just a bit in confusion. “But the birds live there,” he said. “They’re outside every day.”

“They are,” she said, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “But you’re not a bird, darling. You’re our prince. Your life… It’s very precious.”

He blinked up at her. “But I’m still me. And I would be careful. I promise.”

She almost said yes. She wanted to say yes. But instead, she bent down and kissed his forehead. “You can fulfill your life right here, inside the castle. There is music, books, and the whole world of stories. You’ll never be without anything, I promise.”

Ennoshita looked away. He walked back to his wooden animals, but this time he didn’t play. He sat down beside them, quiet, and stared toward the window. And the queen watched him, her heart aching. Because she knew—no matter how many silks they wrapped him in, no matter how safe they made these walls—she had just denied him his first taste of the world.

And the star above them still dimmed, day by day.

…

Chikara was eighteen the first time he truly understood what it means to wait for death. He sat on the window seat of his chambers, legs folded beneath him, journal balanced across his lap. He saw the gardens outside—lavender, lilies, white roses dancing in the breeze like they were meant to do. He never got to touch them. Not once. The journal had worn corners and a spine that cracked when opened. It was the third one he’d filled since he turned ten, and this—this one was different. This one wasn’t full of courtly observations, or books he’d read, or sketches of hawks he glimpsed from his tower. This one held a list. Quiet. Plain. Hidden between pages of careful handwriting and pressed flower petals from the queen’s garden bouquets.

Things I wish I could do

Dance under the stars
Ride a horse
Try street food
Hold a firefly
Go to a festival
Fall in love, the stories always make it sound so magical

There were more, most of them impossible to accomplish even if he wanted to.

He looked at the stars in the sky. He didn’t hate them, not really. You couldn’t hate something so vast, so untouchable. But he had stopped looking at them for beauty long ago. They were a clock now. A reminder. And that dimming star, the one that still hovered low in the east every spring, was more accurate than any sundial. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, breathing in slowly, exhaling even slower. In the reflection, he saw himself clearly: dark eyes, thoughtful, and tired. A boy who had become a man, slowly, in a world too quiet.

There was a knock at the door.

He didn’t turn. “Come in.”

One of the attendants entered quietly, bowing slightly. “The queen asks if you’d like to join her for tea in the greenhouse.”

The greenhouse. Still inside. Still safe.

Ennoshita didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Tell her I’ll come soon.”

The attendant left without another word. He looked back at the window, at the garden, at the birds dipping low through hedges. The gardens were always so pretty in the morning light

…

The stars were bright tonight. Chikara leaned against the railing of his balcony. He wasn’t allowed on the balcony, but he learned to pick the lock years ago. His breath curled in the cool air, forming little ghosts that drifted up toward the constellations. He’d spent the last hour tracing them with his eyes. He thought back to his journal.

Dance under the stars.

He could accomplish that right here. He was under the stars on his balcony, but it wouldn’t be anything magical. It felt useless to dance without music, he should be dancing to something soft playing in the background while he tripped over his own feet. But he shouldn’t get his hopes up. Hope wasn’t an option anymore, not for him. Chikara stepped back from the railing. The sky above him stretched wide, and the stone floor of his balcony was cold beneath his bare feet.

Then he heard it. Soft. Barely there. The music was coming from somewhere below — not a full orchestra, but a single instrument. A fiddle, maybe? Or an old violin, worn with age but still capable of joy. No footsteps, No voices. Just the music, Rising. He looked down at himself. Simple nightclothes. Slippers left at the door. He felt ridiculous. He was a prince. A dying one. But the stars didn’t care what he wore — and neither, he suspected, did whoever sent the song.

He moved. Carefully, at first. One hand raised, mimicking steps he had only watched at a distance from balconies and stairwells. Then both hands. Then a turn. He stumbled, then smiled at himself—crooked and shy—and tried again.

A spin. A reach. A laugh, breathless and stunned. He was dancing. And maybe he was alone up here, but somewhere, someone was playing for him. He danced until the song ended—not in a crescendo, but a slow, soft tapering, like someone saying goodbye with their hands.

He stood in the silence afterward, chest heaving, cheeks pink.

There were tears in his eyes, but he didn’t wipe them away. He looked up at the stars once more, then whispered into the night:

“…Thank you.”

He got silence in return. But he was thankful for whoever played a song for him tonight.

…

Chikara looked up at the stars the next night. He looked at his star, dimming, still faint.

He remembered the mysterious music from last night. Whoever it was, he got to dance on his balcony under the stars. He didn’t believe in miracles. But the smile crept up on his face before he could stop it.

“Nice smile ya got there, angle.”

Ennoshita yelped and whipped his head to the right. Sitting on a tree branch was a man, no older than Chikara himself. He had bright red hair, ruby eyes to match. And a violin rested on his lap like it belonged there.

“Who are you!?” Chikara demanded.

“Call me Satori—and don’t worry, I’m not an assassin or bounty hunter.” He lifted up a violin. “I’m just a lone violinist, and I've been watching long enough to see you thinking yourself into a headache. ”

Chikara’s eyes widened a fraction. “It was you! You played the music yesterday!”

“Indeed, I did, your dancing was lovely by the way.”

“YOU SAW ME!?”

“Course I did,” Satori said, casually plucking at a

string. “I was playing for you, wasn’t I?

“But—wait, wait, wait. How did you know—”

“Ain’t that hard to guess with a terrible fate like yours, people have always told me I have a good sense of intuition.”

Chikara was baffled.

“W-were you the one who told my parents about my fate?” Chikara asked.

“Nah, that was my old man. I was just a little toddler at the time, but he reminded me your time was running thin. Said the prince under the dying star had maybe two years left, if that. Said it like it was a weather report.”

“You’re… the prophet’s son?”

Satori gave a mock bow from his perch. “Tendou Satori. At your service.”

Chikara blinked. “How old are you?”

“20—and might I say, what a fine looking prince you’ve grown up to be.”

Chikara felt himself chuckle as his cheeks dusted pink. “Well, aren't you just a charmer?”

“Can’t help it when I see such a pretty face.” He replied as he stood up on the branch and swiftly hopped onto the balcony railing.

“Get down!” Chikara warned. “You could hurt yourself—“

“Life’s too short to worry about things like that angle.” He hopped down right next to Chikara. “Besides, once I die, I become a star anyway.”

Chikara blinked. “Pardon.”

“You’ve never heard about that belief?”

Chikara shook his head.

“Well… my family has always believed that once you die, you take the place of a dying star. It's God's way of saying you still have a purpose, even if you aren’t there on earth.”

Chikara took a step closer. “That’s… oddly beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Chikara’s Eyes widened, and the warmth that hit his face was immediate. “Wha—! Don’t say things like that!”

“Why not?” Satori said, laughing as he plucked a string on his violin. “I mean it. And I can’t help it. You’ve got that whole tragic-locked-away-prince look going for you—it’s very romantic. Sort of doomed, but in a hot way.”

Chikara found himself chuckling again. “You are quite the man, Satori.”

“So I’ve been told… Now show me that list.”

Chikara blinked. “What—how do you know about that?”

Satori raised an eyebrow. “I’m the son of a prophet—slash—astroligist, remember? Intuition’s practically in my blood.” He tapped the side of his head with a crooked smile. “Besides, you’ve got that look. The kind of person who keeps their wishes close and their fears even closer. Let me guess—small, well-loved leather cover, pages worn thin near the edges?”

Chikara narrowed his eyes but said nothing. That was exactly what it looked like.

With a sigh that was only half resigned, he turned on his heel and crossed the chamber. From beneath his pillow, he pulled out the notebook. He hesitated a moment longer, thumb running along the spine… then walked back to Satori and held it out.

The redhead took it with reverence, setting his violin down softly. He flipped through the pages with a hum. “‘Ride a horse.’ ‘Hold a firefly.’ ‘Fall in love.’” He paused, grinning. “You’ve got quite the taste, angel.”

Chikara flushed. “I didn’t think anyone would ever see that, it’s not—wait.” His brow furrowed. “Why are you looking through this like it’s a to-do list?”

“Because it is, angel.” Satori looked up, eyes bright and completely sincere. “We'd better get started on it if we want to finish before the clock runs out.”

Chikara blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

Chikara stared at him, his notebook still in Satori’s hands, his heart doing an annoying sputter. He should have laughed it off. Should have scoffed, called him ridiculous, and demanded his journal back.

But instead, he narrowed his eyes. “I’m not an angel.” He said

“Agree to disagree! Now—” He handed the notebook back to Chikara. “Let's cross one of those off the list, shall we?”

“Wait, what are you—”

“Give me 5 minutes, angel, don’t miss me when I'm gone.” He said with a wink. Before Chikara could say more. Satori was already climbing up onto the railing again.

“Don’t you dare—!”

“I told you,” Satori said, glancing over his shoulder with a wink, “I know what I’m doing.”

And then, he jumped.

“Satori!” Chikara shouted, running to the edge. But when he looked down, Satori had already landed like it was nothing. He looked up at the balcony and smiled.

Chikara let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, covering his mouth with one hand. “You’re insane.”

“Five minutes!” Satori called, pointing a finger up at him. “Don’t fall in love with anyone else while I’m gone!” And with that, he dashed off into the night, his red hair flashing in the moonlight, violin slung across his back like a sword, vanishing into the trees.

Chikara smiled despite himself. What a man Satori was…

True to his word, Satori came back five minutes later. He climbed the tree he was once perched on and landed on the balcony with ease. He was grinning and holding something in his cupped hand.

“Alright, prince.” He whispered, like this thing was a secret. “Hold out your hand.”

Chikara blinked, but obeyed. Slowly, he lifted his palm and held it steady between them, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Gently—so gently—Satori tilted his hands and let the firefly crawl into Chikara’s hand. It was smaller than he expected. Its glow pulsed like a heartbeat, warm against his skin. And strangely… it didn’t fly away. It stayed.

Chikara looked at it like it was a whole Christmas gift. The insect wandered across his palm like it belonged there, its lights flaring and dimming, flaring and dimming in the quiet rhythm that felt like a secret.

“I didn’t think they’d still be around late in the season.”

Satori shrugged. “Most aren’t. But this one was waiting for you.”

Chikara snorted and looked at Satori. “Do you always talk like the world’s a fairy tale?”

“Nah,” He replied. “Just when you’re in it.”

“Quit doing that!”

“What? Complimenting you?”

“Yes, you’re too charming.”

“Then I must be doing something right.”

Chikara rolled his eyes, but he smiled anyway.
Satori watched as Ennoshita continued to look at the firefly. He didn’t crack a joke right away. He just smiled to himself, eyes distant, as if remembering something old.

“You know,” he murmured, “there’s a prophecy about fireflies.”

Chikara looked up, raising a skeptical brow. “Of course there is.”

Satori chuckled. “No, seriously. My father used to say it all the time when I was a kid. ‘If a firefly chooses to rest on your hand, it means your soul still burns bright enough to be seen by the sky. That no matter the fate written for you, the heavens haven’t stopped watching.”

Chikara blinked. “What with your family and all of its poetic tales?”

“Eh, prophecies usually are comforting. Or they’re terrifying. It’s a fifty-fifty kind of thing.”

Chikara smiled despite himself. “How many of those do you have in your pocket?”

Satori booped Chikara’s nose. “A lot, angel. A lot. My brain’s like a library of poetic doom.”

“That’s not as charming as you think it sounds.”

Satori grinned. “Oh, this time I’m not trying to be charming. That’s just a tragic bonus,” he leaned in closer. “Go on, make a wish.”

Chikara blinked. “A wish?”

“Yeah. That’s what you’re supposed to do with fireflies, angel.” Satori gave a light nudge to his shoulder. “You make a wish, and then you blow, and poof—it carries your wish to the stars.”

Chikara stared down at the creature still crawling across his hand. The idea felt childish, maybe even pointless—but something about the quiet night air, the ghostly glow of the firefly, and Satori’s presence beside him made it feel… real. He shut his eyes for a brief moment, barely a breath, and whispered something only the stars could hear.

Then he opened his palm… and gently blew. The firefly lifted, weightless, a small miracle rising into the night. Its light floated upward, blinking once, twice, then vanished into the darkness.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Satori muttered, suddenly glancing back over his shoulder. “Guards usually patrol the north courtyard around now, and I’d rather not become a red smear on the garden floor.”

Chikara looked at him, startled. “You’re leaving?”

Satori gave a soft, lopsided smile. “For now. Can’t let your royal jailers catch me, can I?” Satori stepped up onto the railing once more, balancing with infuriating ease. “Don’t worry,” he said, glancing back at him, “I’ll come back tomorrow night. We’ve still got a list to work through.” He pointed at Chikara with two fingers. “Be ready, angel.”

And with that, he vanished into the night, like he was never there, save for the firefly’s fading light and the quiet flutter in Chikara’s chest.

…

The next night couldn’t come fast enough. Chikara had barely eaten, barely read, barely done anything but pace, and glanced at the setting sun through his chamber window. As soon as the light dipped and stars began to peek through the dusk, he slipped out onto the balcony—his heart beating an impatient rhythm against his ribs.

He waited. He waited until the shadows stretched long and the wind cooled to a gentle breeze, brushing his cheeks. The stars above him were shining brightly, even if his star was still dimming. He started to wonder if yesterday was—

“Don’t stare too hard,” A voice called lightly, full of smug amusement. “I’m starting to think you missed me or something.”

Chikara startled, nearly jumping out of his skin. There he was again—Satori—perched on the same high branch as the night before, his red hair wild as ever, eyes gleaming like molten rubies under moonlight.

“You—! Could you not sneak up like that?” Chikara snapped, half flustered, half relieved. “You’re going to make me fall off this balcony one of these nights.”

Satori just laughed, swung a leg over, and leapt down onto the railing with practiced ease. “And here I thought you liked the thrill. Besides,” he added as he hopped to the balcony floor, brushing imaginary dust off his coat, “being normal is boring anyway.”
Chikara was about to scold him, but Satori held up a brown paper bag in his face that smelled unmistakably greasy.

“Hope you’re hungry, angel. Tonight we cross off street food.”

Chikara stared at the bag, then back at Satori. “What is it?”

“Everything good,” Satori said, sitting down on the balcony floor and patting the space beside him. “Now eat before it gets cold. You’re not dying without knowing what real food tastes like.”

Despite himself, Chikara laughed, sinking down next to him. And pulling out what looked like some kind of meat on a skewer, as he took his first bite—hot, messy, and nothing like the delicate palace dishes he’d grown up with—he couldn’t help but let out a small, surprised noise.

“Oh wow, that’s spicy—”

Satori smiled. “Told ya.”

Chikara finished the skewer and sighed happily. “I’m stuffed.”

“Street food is meant to be filling.”

Chikara chuckled. “You seem to know a lot about the streets.”

“You bet!” he gestured to the violin on his back. “I play this thing all day every day, especially at festivals.”

“You’re really good at it, from what I've heard at least.”

“Why, thank you, your praise will go straight to my ego.” He said with a wink.

Chikara laughed once more. He’s never eaten with his hands like this before. He’d never laughed with his mouth full. Never had someone like Satori—untamed, wild, and bright—close enough to bump shoulders with him, close enough to feel real. The night was quieter now—no guards on patrol below, no footsteps echoing down palace corridors, just the wind whispering gently between the balcony columns.

He turned his head, eyes fixed on the boy beside him.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked softly.

Satori blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. He looked away for a moment, his usual smirk fading into something more subdued. It was the first time Chikara had ever seen him look… still.
Satori drew in a breath. “I had a sister,” he said. “Younger. Tiny little thing. Always clung to me like I was the sun.”

Chikara didn’t speak, only listened; the sound of Satori’s voice suddenly became heavier, deeper.
“She was born under a dimming star, too,” he went on. “Like you. But hers must’ve been farther along. She only got to live until six.” He paused, jaw tightening just slightly. “Six. And she spent most of those years in bed, eyes too big for her face, always tired but always smiling. I used to sneak her out into the garden at night. She liked to pretend the stars were whispering secrets just for her…”

Chikara felt his breath still.

“I remember my dad talking about you,” Satori continued. “The royal boy born under another dying light. How he gave you your fate like it was a forecast, just another thing to say and walk away from.” He finally looked back at Chikara, his red eyes steady. “And I don’t know… maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s just guilt, or maybe it’s because I see the same look in your eyes that she had—like you’re already mourning yourself even though you’re still breathing.”

He sighed. Then smiled softly. “But you’re here,” Satori said, louder now, more certain. “You’re still here. So if there’s even a sliver of a chance to give you something she never got—to give you more than a cage and a clock counting down—I’m gonna take it… she would’ve liked you, you both had a thing for stars.”

Chikara didn’t say anything for a long time. He just slowly, carefully reached out and laid his hand over Satori’s. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Satori smiled, sad and warm. “We’ve got a lot of livin' to do, angel. Let’s not waste it,” he said, standing up suddenly. “That’s enough feelings for one night,” he announced, his grin back in full force. “We’ve got one more thing on our agenda.”

Chikara blinked up at him, caught between lingering emotion and confusion. “What?”

But Satori didn’t answer. He gave a long, dramatic stretch like a cat waking from a nap, then turned toward the edge of the balcony.

“Satori—wait, don’t—”

Too late. Satori leapt effortlessly onto the balcony railing, hands out at his sides for balance, hair glowing like flame under the moonlight. With a wink, he pivoted on his heel and hopped clean off the ledge.

“Satori!”

Chikara scrambled to the railing, heart in his throat, but the panic twisted into disbelief when he saw Satori land smoothly on the grass below, knees bending just enough to absorb the fall before he stood up straight again, arms raised theatrically.
“Ta-da!” he called up, that grin never leaving his face.

“You’re going to get yourself killed!” Chikara hissed down at him.

“I told you, angel,” Satori replied with a lazy shrug. “Being careful is boring. Now come on—jump.”

The prince gaped. “Are you insane?!”

Satori looked up at him, eyes catching the moonlight like rubies. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Chikara’s stomach twisted. He shouldn’t. He’d only known this boy for a few nights—this strange, infuriating, wild creature who flouted every rule Chikara had lived by his whole life. But he did. Maybe that was the most terrifying part.

“I’ll catch you,” Satori said again, softer this time. “I promise.”

Chikara hovered there for a moment, frozen. Then, with a quiet curse under his breath and a racing heart, he backed up a few steps. His palms were sweating. Every part of his body screamed that this was foolish, reckless, and dangerous. And maybe for once… that was the point. He took a running start. And he jumped. The wind rushed past his ears in a brief, weightless second—his heart stalling in his chest—and then arms caught him, solid and sure, dragging him against a warm chest with a laugh.

“Told you,” Satori breathed, barely winded. “I always keep my promises.”

Chikara clutched at him, legs still dangling slightly, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a laugh. “You’re mad.”

“Mm. But you’re smiling,” Satori whispered.

And he was.

Satori led him quietly through the trees. The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, dappled across Chikara’s face like a blessing. The night felt alive—every rustle of leaves, every crunch beneath his slippers amplified by the adrenaline still crackling in his veins.

“How far are we going?” he whispered.

“Just a little further,” Satori called over his shoulder. “It’s safer past the outer ridge. Less chance of your fancy guard dogs picking up your scent.”

“The dogs are nice.”

“Not to red-heads apparently.”

Chikara snorted in amusement. Eventually, the trees opened up to a wide clearing, the moon hanging low and heavy above them. And standing in the center, nibbling lazily at the grass, was a horse. Not a palace steed. No silken bridle or polished saddle. Just a scrappy, dapple-gray mare with a crooked mane and soft, dark eyes.

“She’s not much to look at,” Satori admitted, walking toward her and stroking her neck fondly, “but she’s loyal. Stubborn. Kinda like you.”

“Excuse me?”

Tendou ignored his pout and walked over to his horse. “This is Miso.”

“…You named your horse Miso?”

“Miso soup is comforting. So is she.”

Chikara shook his head. “You are very interesting, Satori.”

“I get that a lot.” He smiled and got on the horse. “Hope you’re not scared of horses,” he said as he held out his hand.

Chikara’s mouth dropped open. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“I’ve never ridden a horse before.”

“Well, tonight’s full of firsts, isn’t it?” Satori said, already climbing up with practiced ease. He extended a hand. “Come on, it was on your list.”

Chikara hesitated. The wind whispered through the trees again, tugging at the hem of his nightshirt. This was insane. Still, He bit his lip, then reached out and took Satori’s hand. It was warm. Steady. Satori pulled him up behind him, careful and strong, until Chikara was seated awkwardly against his back, arms clumsily wrapping around his waist for balance.

“Hold on tight, okay?”

“How tight should I—”

Chikara didn’t get to finish that thought because Satori nudged Miso forward. And they were off. Chikara tightened his grip like a vice, arms wrapped around his waist as if letting go would send him hurtling straight into the stars—and not in the poetic way. Every bump and sway jostled him, and the ground felt miles below his dangling feet.

“You good back there?” Satori called over the rush of wind, laughter thick in his voice.

“I am not built for this!” Chikara hissed into his shoulder. “We’re going to die. I’m going to fall and break every bone I’ve never used—”

“She won’t,” Satori said easily. “Miso’s got better balance than I do.”

“That’s not comforting!”

But Satori only laughed, his body shaking slightly in front of him. “Relax, angel. Let her carry you. You don’t need to hold so tight—you’re safe.”

The night air cooled the sweat on his skin, and the steady rhythm of Miso’s hooves against the grass began to lull the panic in his chest. The stars above were endless, clearer than he’d ever seen them from his balcony. The moonlight bathed the clearing in silver, soft and dreamlike. Eventually, he loosened his grip just a little. Then a little more. And then, without realizing it, he laughed. A small, startled, breathless sound that burst from his mouth like it had been waiting years to escape.

“Having fun?” Satori asked

“It’s terrifying, but it’s—god, it’s—freeing!”

Satori beamed, full and proud. “Told you.”

“I can’t believe this is real,” Chikara said, breath catching in his throat as he looked up at the stars above them. “I feel like I’m in one of the stories my mother used to read me.”

“Then I hope she gave you the good ones,” Satori murmured.

Chikara leaned forward a little, chin nearly resting on Satori’s shoulder now. “She did,” he said. “But I don’t remember any of them feeling quite like this.”

They rode for a while in silence, nothing but the wind and the sound of hooves over soft earth. And for once in his life, Chikara wasn’t counting the days he had left. He was just living them.

…

By the time they reached the edge of the woods again, the night had deepened into a thick velvet hush. The crickets sang their lullabies, and the moon had drifted just a little further across the sky. Miso slowed her steps naturally, as if even she knew the magic of the night was starting to wane. Chikara felt the shift instantly—the world creeping back in, reminding him gently that this wasn’t forever.

Satori clicked his tongue and gave Miso a soft pat as they came to a stop. “Good girl,” he whispered, hopping off with that casual grace Chikara was growing used to. He reached up with both arms. “Alright, angel. Your chariot ride is over.”

Chikara rolled his eyes but took his hands anyway, and Satori helped him down easily. His feet touched the ground with reluctant softness. For a second, neither of them let go.

Then Chikara stepped back, brushing hair out of his face and catching his breath. “That was… more than I expected.”

Satori grinned. “That’s the point.”

They didn’t say much as they made their way back to the castle wall. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was heavy in a good way, full of everything that didn’t need to be said. Chikara walked with his hands behind his back, glancing sideways at Satori now and then, the way his red hair glowed faintly in the moonlight, the faint smirk still tugging at his mouth.

When they reached the base of the castle, Satori tilted his head toward the tree he always climbed. “Same way up?”

“I still think you’re insane,” Chikara said softly.

Satori gave him a wink and grabbed a low branch, hoisting himself up like it was second nature. “Takes one to sneak out of a castle, doesn’t it?”

Chikara followed carefully, a little more confident than he’d been weeks ago, and by the time he pulled himself up onto his balcony, his muscles ached with warmth and effort. Satori followed a second later, swinging one leg up and then hopping down onto the stone railing with ease. He sat there for a moment, violin slung on his back, the night air ruffling his clothes and hair.

Chikara stood just inside the doorway of his chamber, watching him. “You keep surprising me,” he admitted, voice quiet.

Satori turned toward him, a smile softer than usual playing on his lips. “Good. I hope I never stop.” There was a pause, still and full. Then Satori tipped an imaginary hat. “Sleep well, angel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chikara’s chest fluttered. “You promise?”

“Swear it,” Satori said, then dropped over the edge like a shadow vanishing in moonlight.

Chikara lingered on the balcony, fingers curled around the stone rail. Somewhere, far below, he thought he heard a faint whistle—Satori’s signature retreat. He turned to go back inside, chest still tight with laughter and wonder, and crossed one more thing off his list.

…

Chikara was sprawled on the rug near the balcony, journal open in front of him and a half-finished thought lingering on the tip of his pencil, when the sudden thump of boots on stone made him jolt.

“Afternoon, angel.”

He whipped around, startled, only to see Satori standing on the balcony with the sun flaring behind him like some half-divine mischief god. His ruby eyes sparkled. He was a bit breathless, as if he’d run the whole way, and he had a canvas bag slung across his back.

“You’re early,” Chikara said, blinking.

“Nope,” Satori grinned, stepping forward and offering a hand. “I’m late. The festival starts in less than an hour. If we wanna see it, we gotta go. Now.”

Chikara’s heart jumped. “Wait—what festival?”

“The Lantern Festival,” Satori said, bouncing on his heels. “In the valley past the woods. It’s a small one. Real locals-only vibe. But it’s beautiful, and it’s on your list. Come on, angel, grab your cloak. No time to waste.”

“This is a death wish,” Chikara muttered to himself, but reached for his cloak anyway.

“But a fun one!” Satori replied.

They were out the window in minutes—Satori hopping down the tree with practiced ease, Chikara fumbling but determined. Miso was already waiting at the edge of the trees, reins loosely tied to a branch, like she knew this was another night to remember.

“You’ve got everything?” Chikara asked as they mounted the horse together.

Satori tapped the bag on his back. “Blanket, snacks, two apples, and extra coins. We’re gonna eat, watch the lanterns float into the sky, maybe dance a little, and cross off another dream. Sound good?”

Chikara smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

And with that, they rode off into the falling sun, the sky blooming with the first hints of festival lights in the distance, and the smell of firewood and spice drifting faintly on the wind.

“So, I assume you’ve been to many different festivals?” Chikara asked.

“Yup, I play at almost everyone.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

The valley was glowing by the time they arrived.

Lanterns of every color swung from long strings across the treetops and rooftops of the small village, their light flickering gently in the warm evening air. The scent of roasted meats, sugared fruit, and fresh bread wafted through the crowd. Laughter and chatter rang out from every corner. Music drifted on the breeze—quick, joyful, alive.

Chikara was speechless. He sat frozen atop the horse for a good minute, just staring at the celebration below. It felt like a different world entirely—like the pages of his journal had somehow spilled open and bled into reality.

Satori, already half off the saddle, looked back up at him and smirked. “You coming, or are you planning to admire the scenery from up there all night?”

Chikara climbed down, his boots landing with a crunch on the earth. “It’s just… so much.”

“That’s festivals for you,” Satori said, grabbing his hand without warning and dragging him into the thick of it. “Now c’mon. We’ve got food to eat and stalls to admire.”

And he did just that—took Chikara through every winding alley between stalls, pointing out things with wide eyes and running commentary. They tried spiced dumplings, sweet fried dough, honeyed chestnuts, and a peculiar drink made from chilled citrus that made Chikara scrunch his nose before smiling and taking another sip. Satori bought him a hand-carved wooden charm in the shape of a tiny star, saying, “It’s for luck, and I’m told you could use a little.”

“You spoil me,” Chikara replied.

“Anything for a perfect angel.”

Chikara let out a flustered chuckle.

Eventually, they reached the village center, where a flat cobblestone space had been cleared for musicians and dancing. A trio began to play—strings and pipes, fast and lilting. The crowd parted, some watching, others stepping forward to dance. Satori turned to Chikara, eyes gleaming.

“Well, this feels familiar,” he teased.

Chikara blinked. “What?”

“You, stars, music…” Satori held out his hand with a flourish. “Just missing one thing. Dance with me?”

“You’re serious?”

Satori stepped closer. “Angel, I snuck you out of a palace, rode you across a forest, and fed you street food your royal court would faint over. Of course I’m serious.”

Heart thundering, Chikara stared at the outstretched hand for a beat longer… then took it. Satori grinned like it was his birthday. The music swelled as they stepped into the circle of dancing. Satori guided him easily, one hand on Chikara’s waist, the other holding his hand.

“Is there some kind of rule for festival dancing?” Chikara asked.

“Nope! That's the beauty behind it. Now c’mon!”

Their movements weren’t perfect, Chikara stumbled once or twice, flushed and breathless—but it didn’t matter. They twirled under strings of lanterns and stars, under the amused and warm eyes of villagers, under a sky that felt wider than anything Chikara had ever known. And in that moment, for just a little while, the prince forgot everything else. Just Satori’s smile, the music, and the warmth in his chest that made him feel like he wasn’t running out of time.

…

Later that night, the festival began to quiet, music softening into a distant hum and laughter fading into murmurs of farewell. The sky, once painted in hues of gold and rose, had deepened into indigo. One by one, the stars began to show themselves, blinking gently over the hills. Satori guided Miso away from the village and up a narrow path, Chikara leaning into him from behind as they rode, both of them quiet now, holding the weight of the night between them.

At the top of the hill, they stopped. Below, the lanterns from the village floated upward like stars being released from the earth itself—orange and red and pale blue lights drifting into the sky, each carrying a wish, a name, a quiet hope. Above them, the stars mirrored the lanterns, blinking slowly and steadily, as if watching the people below with quiet understanding.

Satori slid off the horse and offered his hand again, this time without a word. Chikara took it. Together, they walked a few steps into the soft grass, then sat beside each other on a blanket Satori had pulled from the bag.

“Scoot close,” Satori said.

Chikara smiled and sat down close to Satori. The redhead easily wrapped an arm around Chikara’s waist. The prince had no complaints.

The breeze was soft. Crickets sang in the tall grass. The night air smelled of woodsmoke and blossoms.

Chikara looked up at the lanterns. “I think this might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… you can’t see things like this from a castle balcony… It feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m not scared up here,” he said quietly.

Satori looked back up at the lanterns, “that’s the magic of it all.”

Chikara looked over at Satori. “Do you think… maybe, when it’s time, I’ll become a star… like you said I would?” Chikara asked.

Satori sat up slowly, eyes locked on him now.

“I don’t think,” he said. “I know.”

Chikara smiled faintly. “I think I’d like that. To watch the world from above. Maybe I’d guide someone else like you guided me.”

Satori’s expression softened in a way Ennoshita had never seen before—like something unguarded had slipped through. “You’re not done yet,” he said gently. “You’ve got more lists to finish.”

They watched in silence as more lanterns floated upward, joining the stars, and Chikara whispered, more to himself than to anyone: “I want to remember this. All of it.”

Satori leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder.

“You will,” he said. “Promise.”

…

Satori steadied Miso at the edge of the palace garden walls, glancing up at the towering stone exterior like it was just another ladder to climb. The stars still shimmered faintly above them, the last lanterns drifting like soft echoes into the sky.

Chikara clung tightly to his cloak, cheeks still flushed from the night’s cool air—and something deeper.

“All right,” Satori whispered, “I’ll go first, make sure it’s safe. Don’t fall behind, angel.”

He scaled the tree with ease, branches bending slightly beneath his weight as he climbed to the familiar balcony. Once there, he turned back and held out both arms.

“Your turn.”

Chikara exhaled through a nervous grin. “You make this look way too easy.”

“Because it is,” Satori teased.

With a deep breath. Chikara climbed up the tree and landed on the stone balcony—stumbling slightly, but strong hands caught his arms and steadied him before he could fall back. He looked up, face inches from Satori’s, hearts beating close.

“You good?” Satori asked.

“Yeah,” Chikara said, barely a whisper. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Satori let him go gently, stepping back with a soft smile. “Well, we crossed off a lot tonight. What’s left on your first list?”

Chikara looked down, fingers slipping the notebook from inside his cloak. He opened it slowly, flipping through pages that now held more memories than wishes. His eyes lingered at the bottom of that first list, the words carefully written in neat, quiet script:

Fall in love with someone.

He reached for his pencil… and drew a firm, clean line through it.

Satori blinked. “Wait—why’d you cross that one off?”

Chikara looked up. The balcony was dim, the moon casting soft light over Satori’s bright hair, his wide, curious eyes. He looked so alive at that moment. So real. And Chikara felt the fluttering weight in his chest settle—sure and full.

“Because I think I already did.”

The world held still. Satori’s mouth parted slightly, surprise blooming into something warmer. Slower. His voice dropped, as though afraid anything louder might break the moment.

“You’re serious?”

Chikara nodded.

Satori stepped closer, his mischief quieted, gaze gentler than Chikara had ever seen it.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, a smile tugging at his lips. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Chikara laughed under his breath. “You started it.”

And Satori, glowing under the stars like he belonged there, whispered back, “Yeah… guess I did.”

That was all that Chikara needed. He grabbed the front of Satori’s tunic and softly pulled him forward. At last, he leaned forward and kissed him.

Satori froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide. But then he kissed back. Hands curling around Chikara’s waist, pulling him closer. It was a kiss like they had all the time in the world. Like they had already lived lifetimes together. Like nothing mattered except this… This one breath, this one moment, this one boy who had once lived in the shadow of a dying star but was now burning brighter than the heavens above.

But the moment was stuffed short when Chikara’s fingers loosened around Satori’s shirt. And suddenly, he slumped.

“Woah–” Satori barely caught him, arms wrapping around him instinctively as they both sank to the cold stone balcony. At first, he thought maybe Chikara had just swooned, maybe he’d kissed him too hard. Maybe he was just—

“Hey.” Satori gave him a soft shake. “Hey, angel—come on, don’t mess with me.”

But Chikara didn’t stir. His head lolled slightly against Satori’s shoulder, lips parted, breath gone.

“No, no no no—” Satori’s voice cracked, panic rising. He shook him harder this time. “Chikara, wake up! Please—wake up!”

Still nothing.

Satori lowered him gently to the ground, one hand cupping his cheek, the other holding his limp fingers. His voice trembled now, choked with something desperate, something breaking. “You’re okay, you’re okay—you were fine, you were just here—you kissed me—” Satori took one look at the sky. And then he saw it. The place in the sky where Chikara’s star had always glowed, dim but ever-present.

Gone.

Satori stared up at it, tears welling in his eyes. His chest ached. His heart thundered painfully against his ribs like it didn’t know what to do without that soft starlight watching over them. His whole world crumpled.

“No,” he whispered. Then louder—“No. No, no, no—this isn’t how it ends—Fuck,” Satori breathed, voice hollow, shaking. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His hands trembled as he gripped Chikara’s cold fingers. The boy's face, soft and peaceful like he’d just fallen asleep, didn’t match the suffocating silence around them. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. His father had said twenty years. Twenty.

They were supposed to have two more.

They were supposed to ride to the coast, stargaze from rooftops, try every flavor of festival sweets, fall asleep side-by-side under patchy quilts and wake to each other’s messy hair and sleepy eyes. They were supposed to live—just a little longer.

But fate was cruel like that. And Satori, son of a prophet, should have known. Fate doesn’t keep promises. Fate breaks them, twists them, takes joy in the ruin of them. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, but the tears kept falling.

“You were supposed to have more time…” he whispered, voice raw. “We were.”

His fingers brushed Chikara’s hair gently from his forehead, memorizing him. The softness of his lashes. The curve of his mouth. The boy who smiled at stars and kissed like he knew how it would end. With a breath that shook him down to his bones, Satori reached into the lining of his coat. His hand closed around the hilt of the dagger he always carried—sharp, worn, small. The kind you keep when you grow up on streets where kindness isn’t guaranteed. His fingers curled tight around it. He looked at Ennoshita one more time, his throat aching. And then—he smiled, even if it was broken. Even if it was soaked in grief.

“You sure know how to make a guy go out Romeo and Juliet style…” he whispered with a watery laugh. “Dramatic until the very end, huh, angel?” He brushed his thumb over Ennoshita’s cheek, kissed his forehead gently. “If people really become stars after they die…” he murmured, raising the dagger with slow, steady hands, “then I’ll test that theory myself.”

He looked up at the sky. The stars seemed closer somehow. Waiting. “We’ll be together,” he said. “Up there. Shining.” He closed his eyes. “And this time,” he whispered, voice quiet and sure, “we’ll have forever.”

…

Chikara stirred—slowly, like waking from a heavy, dreamless sleep. But when his eyes opened, he wasn’t in his chambers. Not on the balcony. Not anywhere on Earth.

He was floating.

All around him, an endless cast of stars shimmered like lanterns adrift on a celestial sea. They sparkled in colors he didn’t even have names for—deep golds, ancient blues, flickers of violet and soft-burning crimson. The air felt warm, quiet, and sacred. The stars were close. So close he could reach out and touch them. He did, brushing his fingertips against one glowing orb that pulsed gently at his touch, like it remembered him. He wasn’t confused. He knew what this meant. His star had gone out. He was dead.

Chikara closed his eyes, and for the first time since he was a boy, there was no lingering fear in his chest. Only… emptiness. A cold, hollow space inside him that ached like it had been torn out with a jagged edge. He’d known this was coming. His whole life had been shaped around the prophecy. He’d grown up with an expiration date stamped into his soul. He had prepared for this.

So why did it feel like his heart had just been ripped out of his body?

He sucked in a shaky breath that didn’t feel real and blinked up at the stars, the eternal sky that now held him. He had done it all—danced, laughed, ridden horses through moonlight, kissed someone he loved.

Satori.

The memory of that kiss—full of life, of future, of trembling, impossible hope—stabbed deeper than anything else.

Chikara’s hands clenched tightly at his sides. “Satori…”

God, what had he done? Because he’d seen the look in his eyes that night. That bright red hair under the stars, that soft smile asking what was left on the list. And he—he was the last thing on it. Chikara’s stomach dropped, panic suddenly rising like a storm in his chest.

He spun around, eyes scanning the stars, the horizon, anything— “Satori?” he called, voice cracking. “Satori, where are you!?”

Silence

Chikara swallowed the lump in his throat. There was no way he could do this—

“Told ya we’d become stars after we died.”

The voice came from behind him—so familiar, so that Chikara’s breath caught. He whipped around, eyes wide, heart suddenly racing despite the fact he no longer had a pulse. And there he was.

Satori.

Standing a few feet away, dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the night they danced in the square, hair as red as a comet’s tail, eyes gleaming like polished rubies under the celestial light. Behind him, a new star burned—bright and unshakable. It pulsed once, gently. Like a heart.

Chikara couldn’t speak.

Satori’s crooked smile softened as he took a step forward. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you float up here alone, did you?”

“You—” Chikara’s voice broke. He tried again, shakier. “You followed me.”

Satori gave a small shrug, but his grin was quieter now, more tender. “Well… yeah. You’re the only angel I’ve ever loved. Kinda felt like a package deal.”

Tears stung Chikara’s eyes, and he hated how they floated freely around his cheeks now, like tiny shimmering orbs in zero gravity.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he said. “I never wanted you to—”

“Die?” Satori finished, still walking closer. “Yeah. I figured. But I know for sure… I’d rather have twenty years with you than a hundred without.”

Chikara felt something in him crack—then rush forward like a wave. He stumbled to meet him, and the moment they were close enough, he threw his arms around Satori, burying his face in his chest. They held each other tightly, glowing softly in the presence of stars. For a long moment, there were no words. Just the hum of eternity stretching around them, and the rhythm of two souls that had found each other in life—and now, even in death.

Eventually, Satori whispered into his hair, “I know this wasn’t the ending you wanted.”

“No,” Chikara said quietly, pulling back just enough to look at him. “But… if I had to end anywhere… I’m glad it’s here. With you.”

Satori smiled, then tilted his head back, eyes gleaming. “Wanna add something to the list?”

“We’re dead,” Chikara said, laughing softly through a fresh tear. “I think the list is kind of… done.”

“Yeah, but like,” Satori said, grinning again, “what if… we made a new one?”

Chikara blinked at him. “A star list?”

“Sure,” Satori said, pulling him in by the waist. “Number one: float through a nebula. Number two: annoy a few constellations. Number three…” He leaned in. “Kiss under a sky that never ends.”

Chikara smiled, leaning their foreheads together.

“I like that list already.”

And so, beneath the light of stars—two new ones shining brightest among them—Chikara and Satori kissed again. Not in desperation this time. Not in fear.

But forever in the stars.