Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain had been falling since morning — a steady, melodic pattern tapping against the windowpanes of Cinnamon Cookie’s tower. From the outside, the spiral structure looked like something out of a storybook, all swirling architecture and floating runes. But on the inside? On days like this? It felt like a cozy blanket fort of spellbooks and half-finished experiments — and right now, it smelled faintly of cinnamon tea and static electricity.

Lemon Cookie hadn’t moved from the couch in hours. Not out of sadness or lethargy, but because the heavy gray skies and soft thunder made everything feel… slow. Safe. Sleepy. He lay bundled up in one of Cinnamon’s oversized cloaks, which dragged behind Cinnamon like a cape but wrapped around Lemon like a cloud. His hoodie was even puffier than usual, sleeves long enough to hide his hands as he curled them near his chest.

Across the room, Cinnamon had been pacing dramatically with a mug in one hand and a conjured orb of magical light in the other, muttering something about a spell that would “make stars dance on ceilings” when he finally noticed the still form on the couch.

“…Sweet circuits, Lemon, have you moved today?”

A pause. Lemon’s voice came out barely above a whisper, slow and even.

“Breathing counts.”

Cinnamon blinked. “Touché.” Then his voice softened, all the bombast falling away in favor of a warmer, more genuine note. “Is this a low battery day?”

Lemon gave the tiniest of nods.

Cinnamon practically launched himself across the room with exaggerated flair, flopping into the couch beside him with limbs askew and hair slightly frizzed from the static in the air.

“You know what this calls for,” Cinnamon announced.

Lemon blinked up at him, eyes heavy with sleep. “What.”

“A cuddle operation of epic proportions.”

Lemon did not resist when Cinnamon gently tugged him into his lap, repositioning the blanket to cover both of them. His fingers sparked faintly with static but never zapped Cinnamon — they never did, not unless Lemon was flustered or startled. This, right now, was peace.

Cinnamon combed through Lemon’s soft, lemony hair with his fingers. “See? This is what the rain is for. Not storm magic. Not crystal enchantments. This.”

Lemon tilted his head, resting his cheek on Cinnamon’s chest. “You’re loud.”

“Affectionately loud,” Cinnamon said, booping the tip of Lemon’s nose. “You adore me.”

“…I tolerate you.”

“You melt for me.”

“I will zap you.”

“Promise?”

Lemon rolled his eyes. But his tiny smile gave him away.

An hour passed like that.

The couch became their entire world. Cinnamon leaned back and read aloud from a book on fantastical constellations, his voice animated and rising in volume whenever Lemon’s breathing deepened — determined to keep him awake just a little longer.

“Did you know,” Cinnamon said, pausing to make sure Lemon was still listening, “that the Nebula Capricious can only be seen during magical storms?”

Lemon gave a slow blink. “That’s fake.”

“You’re fake.”

“Your spellbook has ‘plz work’ scribbled in the margins.”

“…That’s a secret between me and the universe.”

Cinnamon laughed so hard his shoulders shook, and Lemon, despite himself, giggled too — a soft, brief sound like a spark cracking through a calm night sky. Cinnamon stopped everything. He cupped Lemon’s face in both hands and stared at him like he was made of stardust.

“Do it again.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“I will kiss your entire face, don’t test me.”

Lemon made a sound like static fizzing and tried to bury himself deeper into the cloak. But Cinnamon was already peppering kisses along his cheeks, forehead, nose, anywhere his lips could reach.

“You’re ridiculous,” Lemon mumbled, heat crawling up his face.

“You’re warm,” Cinnamon countered, nuzzling into him. “Like a sleepy little solar panel.”

“I’m not solar-powered.”

“You’re heart-powered, then. And I’ll power you all day.”

By the third hour of cuddling, the storm outside had picked up — wind brushing against the tower like waves against glass. Lemon had all but melted against Cinnamon, his head tucked beneath Cinnamon’s chin, hands curled in the fabric of his cloak.

Cinnamon’s voice had softened to a hum. He wasn’t reading anymore, just whispering nonsense about the shapes the clouds might be taking or the possible name of the next tea blend he wanted to make (“CinnaLemon Spark™ — no, too commercial”).

Lemon’s voice came quietly, out of nowhere.

“…Thank you.”

Cinnamon paused. “For what, sweetheart?”

Another beat.

“For letting me be quiet.”

Cinnamon’s arms wrapped tighter around him. “Always. I like your quiet.”

“You like noise.”

“I like your quiet.”

Lemon pressed his face into Cinnamon’s collar. “That’s stupid.”

Cinnamon kissed the crown of his head. “So are we. Now hush, I’m planning our ten-step cuddle plan. Step one: you never leave this couch.”

“…That’s the whole plan.”

“Exactly. Ten steps of stay here forever.”

They didn’t notice the time passing.

Dinner was a lazy affair: takeout from Wizard City’s finest soup cart, delivered by a floating rune Cinnamon summoned earlier. Cinnamon fed Lemon spoonfuls while making exaggerated airplane noises, which earned him a few tired swats and another rare giggle. Lemon, still snuggled in Cinnamon’s lap, leaned into every touch, even if his face stayed mostly neutral.

But Cinnamon could read the shifts in weight. The way Lemon curled closer. The way his static dimmed, softened, when he felt safe. Loved.

Later that night, tucked in bed with their limbs entangled and the rain still pattering softly outside, Lemon whispered, “You’re warm.”

Cinnamon, half-asleep, grinned. “You’re the one cuddling me like a space heater.”

“…Don’t let go,” Lemon added.

“I won’t,” Cinnamon murmured, kissing the tip of his ear. “Even if you shock me into oblivion.”

“I might.”

“I dare you.”

A tiny fizz of static popped in Cinnamon’s hair.

He yelped. “That was a love zap!”

“…Maybe.”

And Cinnamon fell asleep with a grin on his face, arms wrapped around the Cookie who never needed to speak much to be heard — not with Cinnamon always listening.

Chapter Text

When Cinnamon awoke, the sun had barely begun to rise. Rain still pattered softly outside, more of a whisper now than a storm. His first thought, naturally, was of the soft weight against his chest.

Lemon Cookie was still fast asleep.

He had tucked himself against Cinnamon like a sleepy magnet, clinging in the quietest way possible. His hair stuck up wildly in all directions, his hoodie tangled somewhere between a blanket and a pillow. A faint, peaceful hum of static energy buzzed against Cinnamon’s chest — not painful, not zapping, just a constant reminder: he’s here, he’s safe, he’s with me.

Cinnamon smiled so wide it made his cheeks hurt.

He didn’t dare move for several long minutes, content to stare up at the ceiling and savor the moment. Everything was warm. Everything was soft. Everything was so disgustingly sweet he was half-convinced the room might melt.

Eventually, though, his stomach growled in protest.

“…I’m being betrayed by my own body,” he whispered dramatically.

Lemon stirred — only slightly. His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a little line. He didn’t wake, but his hands tightened in the fabric of Cinnamon’s sleep shirt.

“Shhh, it’s okay, little spark,” Cinnamon soothed, rubbing slow circles into Lemon’s back. “Go back to sleep. I’m just going to summon breakfast using the ancient magic of Kitchen Sorcery.”

Lemon’s eyes blinked open — slow and unfocused, like a phone booting up from 3% battery.

“No magic before tea,” he mumbled.

Cinnamon snorted. “Is that a new law?”

“It is now.”

And then, with the most ridiculous level of effort, Lemon lifted his head and peered up at him.

“...Stay,” he said, voice scratchy and full of static sleep.

Cinnamon looked down at him like he’d been punched in the heart by a cloud.

“You’re going to be the end of me,” he whispered.

He pulled Lemon in closer, nuzzling their noses together until Lemon’s face scrunched.

“I’ll make breakfast later,” Cinnamon promised. “Right now, I’m snuggling the literal sun.”

“I’m not the sun.”

“You radiate.”

Lemon, somehow, made a tiny indignant sound that could only be described as “bzzt,” and Cinnamon dissolved into laughter.

A little while later — and only because Lemon begrudgingly untangled himself from the blankets after being promised toast with “as much honey as you want, even though we both know you pretend not to like sweet things” — they migrated to the kitchen.

Lemon sat at the breakfast bar, still wrapped in Cinnamon’s cloak. He looked like a sleepy lemon burrito, only his eyes and nose peeking out. His fingers occasionally sparked against the stone counter, tiny pops of electricity that danced harmlessly across the surface.

Cinnamon busied himself with toast, jam, and brewing the strongest black tea known to Cookiekind. He kept glancing back at Lemon between movements — unable to help himself.

“You know,” he said casually, flipping the bread with an enchanted spatula, “I could just enchant your hoodie to be permanently warm.”

“No,” Lemon said immediately.

Cinnamon blinked. “No?”

“Your cloak’s better.”

That shut Cinnamon up for a full fifteen seconds.

And then: “Darling, you can’t just say things like that when I’m holding a butter knife. I almost carved your name into the bread.”

“I dare you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Cinnamon shot back, grinning. “You’ll wake up to heart-shaped toast every day for a week.”

Lemon didn’t answer. He simply rested his cheek on the counter and watched him with sleepy eyes, the faintest smile curling at the corner of his mouth. A blink, a breath, a tiny static pop. His version of a love letter.

They ate together in the sunlight — Cinnamon chattering about his latest failed potion (it turned someone’s tongue polka-dotted) while Lemon listened in serene silence. Occasionally, Lemon would reach out to fiddle with a corner of Cinnamon’s sleeve, or gently brush their knees together under the table. Quiet affirmations.

When they finished, Lemon stood — sluggish and loose-limbed like he might fall back into the couch any second — and said, “I’m going to do something dangerous.”

Cinnamon looked up from licking jam off his thumb. “Dangerous?”

“I’m going to brush my hair.”

“Oh no.”

“My hair’s a bird nest.”

“I forbid it,” Cinnamon said dramatically, standing. “You’ll be electrocuted and tangled and we’ll have to call in a priest.”

Lemon blinked slowly. “You’re brushing it for me, aren’t you.”

“I was born to brush your hair.”

Back on the couch — because where else would they ever be — Cinnamon sat cross-legged with Lemon nestled between his legs, back to his chest. The brush was one of his own enchanted ones, charmed to detangle without pulling, but Cinnamon still worked carefully, fingers gentle as he carded through the soft, slightly frizzy lemon strands.

“You’ve got sparkles in here,” he murmured.

“That’s static.”

“It’s glitter now. I declare it. You’re a glittery angel.”

Lemon let out a long sigh, the kind that meant he was embarrassed but not enough to stop him. He leaned back further into Cinnamon’s chest.

Cinnamon grinned. “You like this.”

“I’ll zap you.”

“Zap me right now.”

A single, delicate static spark danced from Lemon’s ear to Cinnamon’s cheek. He yelped and laughed, then leaned forward to kiss the spot just behind Lemon’s jaw.

“Love zap,” Lemon mumbled.

“I’m going to marry you.”

“You’re absurd.”

“You’re glowing.”

“You’re—”

Whatever insult Lemon had queued up got lost when Cinnamon reached forward and gently began braiding his hair. Slow, steady, reverent. Not messy or performative — just soft touches, consistent strokes, fingers that knew the shape of Lemon’s stillness.

“I’ll enchant this braid,” Cinnamon murmured as he tied it off with a thread of spellcloth. “To hold in all your sweetness. So it doesn’t spill everywhere and ruin people’s lives.”

Lemon tilted his head slightly. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Because loving you feels like a spell I’ll never fully master.”

For once, Lemon didn’t respond. Not with words.

Instead, he reached up, curled his fingers around Cinnamon’s wrist, and leaned into his touch — warm, static, real.

Cinnamon stopped breathing for a second.

“…That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done,” he whispered.

“Don’t get used to it,” Lemon said, but his grip didn’t loosen.

Cinnamon wrapped his arms around him again, resting his chin on Lemon’s shoulder.

“You’re doomed,” he whispered. “You let me in. I’m going to build you a thunder-themed tea shop and name every blend after your moods.”

“I’m going to build you a silence room.”

“You love me.”

“Maybe.”

Cinnamon kissed his cheek again.

He didn’t need a “yes.” Not with the static warmth buzzing gently against his chest, not with Lemon’s breath steady and quiet and safe in his arms.

They stayed like that as the sun rose higher — nothing but a pile of blankets, tea mugs, static, and soft cinnamon warmth.

And if Cinnamon later cried a little while Lemon dozed off in his arms, he’d say it was just the spice fumes.