Chapter Text
A loud clap of thunder startled Fern as they nestled in their cave; fat, heavy raindrops falling outside. The distinct scent of petrichor wafted in slowly as the storm began, somehow bringing Fern a momentary sense of peace. The panic attacks were back.
Ever since Arcade had left that day, Fern felt a vast emptiness all around them. Who were they without him? A lost soul who wanders aimlessly? A person without purpose? They gripped his borrowed sweatshirt closer around themself as they lay on the mossy floor, glowing lichen reflecting strange patterns onto their face.
Desperate for something to do, the prince dug into the pockets of the human’s cozy jacket, hoping that maybe he’d stashed some chocolate in them for a later date. To their utmost disappointment, the only thing that resided in the pockets other than dryer lint and mysterious fuzz was a folded up wad of paper.
It was small with rough edges, folded about as delicately as only a kindergartener could do. Out of genuine curiosity, Fern opened it. The handwriting that lay on the inside was childlike and messy, hardly decipherable. Fern concluded that future historians would decide it was an entirely different language had it survived all that time.
Just as they were about to toss the tiny wad into the little creek babbling by the mossy carpet, the prince had a feeling that that wad was in their pocket for a reason. Rather than stare at the unreadable script and giggle over it, Fern actually tried to read it. The eraser marks and smudged letters showed thought and dedication, if only they could figure out what it said.
All Fern could get out was a tentative “I’m ro**i*g for Y**,” but they had no idea what that was supposed to mean at all. I’m rolling for Yue? What did that even mean? They sighed defeatedly as they shoved the slip of paper back into the fuzzy pocket, burying themselves into Arcade’s scent once again.
When Arcade had returned the following afternoon, Fern showed him the half-crumpled sliver of paper. Instinctively, Arcade snatched the paper from their curse-covered hands, fearing a stray, creased page of his journal ended up in his pockets. After inspecting its contents, he breathed a sigh of relief. Fern crossed their arms and glared. They’d come for an answer.
“So what does it say?” they asked impatiently.
“‘I’m rooting for you’,” he translated. “C’mon Fern, my handwriting’s not that bad…”
The withering stare he received in response demanded otherwise. Fern snatched the paper back to analyze his friend’s handwriting. No, it was definitely that bad.
“In what world does that say ‘I’m rooting for you’?” they queried, utterly bewildered.
“In this one, obviously,” Arcade returned, feigning offense.
It was strangely quiet. Fern was still holding onto the slightly crinkled paper, finding comfort in its presence. The only thing they didn’t understand about the paper was why. The messy little smiley face doodled in the top margin of the paper stared at them blankly, unable to give them an answer.
“Um, Arcade?” they asked hesitantly. “Why does it say that? And why is it in your pocket?”