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I was going to say 5 things for the five years that I’ve been in love with Lyney, but 5 won’t quite do—and maybe I’ll even make a list that’s up to a hundred…but that’s too much, so I narrowed it to seven.
One. Lyney hates being ordinary.
The moment I laid my eyes on him, I knew. He was anything but that. It's as if stars aligned and I caught lightning in a bottle. There was no spotlight, but an invisible one was shining on him for me. People call it love at first sight, but I think it was greater than that. Maybe we knew each other in a past life, and I was meant to fall for him, over and over again.
Most people know him as Lyney, The Great Magician. Others know him as Lyney Snezhevich, a high-ranking agent in the House of the Hearth. He has many faces, many façades, all reflecting his dislike of the ordinary. He always has the need to be better—no, to be the best.
My favorite version of him is just Lyney. No bravado, no stage, no blasts of pyrotechnics. Just him. When I wake up next to him every morning, his usually well-groomed curls messed up as he sleeps soundly. Or when he tried to improve his cooking after I joked that he needs to be a better cook if he wants to be husband material—and now he cooks not only for me, but all of his siblings and comrades as well. Or when we go out for grocery runs when he wears a simple hoodie and his face devoid of make-up and no one recogizes him, surprisingly.
I fell in love with the virtuoso on stage. I fell in love with the eldest son that shushes his younger siblings and ushers them to bed at 9 pm. I'm in love with the Fatui agent that makes me panic on his dangerous missions, despite the endless secrets unsaid between us. And every day, I fall in love more and more with the man who cooks me breakfast and keeps me sane when I hit rock bottom. I love him in every way possible, beyond the "what ifs" and "what nots."
There is beauty in his simplicity.
The world may only fall for his mystery and flirtatious persona.
When the curtains close, I'll still kiss him when the lights go out.
Two. He hates…his hands?
Hands. Or paws. I don't know which is the proper descriptor, actually. His fingers are candle-like, long and slender, with the exception of what almost seems like the pads of a cat's paw. I think they're cute. Lyney thinks it's stupid, so aside from the obvious practicality of using gloves for snap performances or street shows, he uses those to hide his...I don't know, toe beans? Hand beans? Either way, it makes him extra adorable.
His catlike fingers also make hand-holding more enjoyable. I get holding hands with my partner while having a mini version of a cat making biscuits on my hand. I'm not that much into hand-holding, but I do love it, especially with his bare hands. On difficult days, he'd rub soothing circles into my hands with his thumb, as if he was physically removing my stress away.
Most prominently, his hands are important to his career as a magician, obviously. I could go on and on about how nimble his fingers are, but I will probably sound like a creep. Once, he tried to teach me his tricks, and it turns out that my hands were too small and inflexible for his cards. Lyney laughs at me and tells me I could achieve it with practice, but I doubt that. I'd rather watch him practice another flick or shuffle. He sometimes does a little wiggle or stretch when he spins a card. Not sure if other people notice that, or I look at his hands too much.
But the thing I love about his hands the most? When I hold my hand up to his, it kinda dwarfs in comparison. His hands always engulf mine—warm and calming, like a portable cozy fireplace. Winter never gets too cold anymore with his hands in mine. Like a puzzle piece made to fit together.
Three. Lyney thinks his tummy is fat, and he hates that. I don’t know where he’s getting it from, because I think it’s quite adorable.
It started when I decided that it was better if I slept on him while I hug his waist. Instead of, you know, laying on a pillow like a normal person.
"Why?" was his one-word reply when I laid on top of him for about three days straight.
"You're soft. And huggable," I told him. Partially true. I love being as close to Lyney as possible because he's soft and feels safe. But also...he purrs like a cat, and I can hear it more clearly whenever I'm sleeping on his tummy.
I like him soft. And content. But Fontaine's gossip says otherwise. A celebrity would have a minor weight gain, and they'll latch onto it, capitalizing on petty stuff. Lyney sometimes skips out on meals when a tabloid comments on his body. Like that one date where he wouldn't dare touch a chocolate cake because some newspaper said he looked bloated. "Baby, am I fat?" I remember him asking, prodding at the slice of cake longingly with a fork.
"So what," I told him. "Just eat. I would rather have you squishy and well-fed instead of miserable." He doesn't change his mind, so I cut a bite of the cake and fed it to him.
When we headed back to his place, I laid on him, like usual. I raise his shirt a tiny bit. Kisses his tummy and bites it lightly. He chuckles and caresses my hair. I hope that it made him forget about those stupid rumors, even for a bit.
To hell with those tabloids. I wouldn't dare change a thing about Lyney.
Four. He hates his thighs, I think. He doesn’t make it obvious. It’s one of my favorite things about him. I would hug him from behind and give him a squeeze. Or I would nap on him while he sits—I'm so lucky, free access thigh pillow!
He had a show where he wanted to debut a new outfit. It was skimpy and a little risque. In his dressing room, he looked at himself in front of the mirror, almost deciding to take the outfit off. Something about being told that men shouldn't be wearing those types of outfits. That men should have muscular thighs, and not squishy ones.
"Darling," he calls out to me. "Do you think this okay?"
I gave him a thumbs up. "Yeah!"
"Baby, I think they will complain about my thighs," he said, pulling the outfit down.
I rolled my eyes. "How do you like the outfit?"
Lyney shrugs. "I don't know, babe, they say it's scandalous-"
"I asked what you think, not them," I said, cutting him off.
He exhales sharply. "Well. For one, I think it could be shorter."
"Okay, then make it shorter," I said. Lyney doesn't do anything. He just stands still. I rolled my eyes. "What are you waiting for? It's okay. Make it shorter. I can fight," I said, patting the vision on my side. "How do you want me to fight them? By duel or by the elements? I can handle them."
When he still didn't move, I grabbed some tailoring scissors from nearby and cut his outfit myself, showing off more of his thighs. I folded the raw parts and secured it with some glue. A quick fix. He was flustered.
"My love," he started. "Thank you."
I kneeled in front of him and kissed his thighs. Upon closer look, I see scars—probably from Fatui missions or something else. I briefly lay my head against the soft flesh, like a child would to a stuffed toy. Fontainians are too nosy about blemishes at times, but I don't care. My Lyney is perfect, and I wouldn't trade him for the world. Not when I can hold him like this, all mine.
Five. Lyney doesn’t like his voice, sometimes. People say it’s too high and he sounds like a girl. Or, they don’t realize he’s the eldest sibling. Chapleau sounds older than him, they think.
ASMR is becoming a trendy form of influencing in Fontainian circles. But I don't need one when I have Lyney.
I've been watching his shows for years now, but his performing voice still gives me butterflies. The flirtatious lilt, the captivating cadence. I would hang onto his every word. Tune in without looking away. Fontainians fall for his silver tongue with the smallest of interactions. I could get used to hearing him every day. (And I am used to it, but his flirting still makes me blush.)
Maybe he'll make a fine job at hypnosis, too. Lyney rambles a lot before bed. I listen. Or at least, I try to. I have a hard time sleeping, but his voice is my comfort. One time, he offered to hypnotize me. We didn't even know if it was effective, but since I fell asleep the moment he said "focus on my voice," it most likely is.
One thing that I noticed, his voice changes when he's mad. A teensy bit deeper, harsher. I heard it when he was reprimanding his siblings once. (Archons, I'd be lying if I denied finding it hot, but still.) That's something I don't want to hear from him often. The stern emphasis. The little shake in his voice. The harshness. Maybe one day he'll live in a better environment where that won't be a thing much.
Heroes in Remurian myths had sirens and angels. They're long gone by now, but like a sailor drawn to a siren's song, I am allured by Lyney.
Six. He hates it when he can’t keep people’s eyes on him long enough when he doesn’t reuse an old trick. I think it’s genius that he comes up with a novel trick every time.
"My love, do you think I'm boring?" he asked me one time while he modified his cards for a new trick.
"Why?" I asked him. "What is this about?"
Lyney's face was downcast, I guess. He was pouting, but it isn't the type that's trying to be cute for me when he needs something. He genuinely was bothered about something. I ask him again.
"My last show didn't sell out," he said with a frown.
"The Hotel Debord one?"
"Yeah."
I stay silent. I don't know what to say, so I wrap my arms around him. He leans into my touch and asks, "Are you bored with me?"
"Me? Bored with you?" I said, scoffing. "Baby, you know you're the only one who keeps my attention."
"You're saying that to flatter me."
I lay in front of Lyney, urging him to do anything. He does a card shuffle that I've watched a million times, my eyes fixated on him. Fontaine's art connoisseurs are so weird, I think as my eyes remain fixated on Lyney's hands. They complain when Lyney doesn't repeat a magic trick, but when he does, they call him bland and uncreative on the tabloids. He did confide to me once, his greatest fear was a show filled with empty seats. Every time, I reassure him. None of his shows would be completely empty as long as I am here. I will always fill a seat.
Lyney does a cheesy old trick where he asks me to rip a card and then he'll make it whole again. I oblige and laugh when my card was restored. My eyebrows knit as I thought about the trick. "You've done it a million times around me but I still can't figure it out," I said.
He sighs. "Is that why people want me to repeat my tricks? To figure them out?"
I shrug. "Maybe. But they'll never figure it out. You're too good for that."
"The critics disagree."
"Who cares," I said. "They make money off of being miserable. I doubt their critique of you holds more credibility as a grade schooler's essay."
He finally cracks a smile. "You have a way with words," he says, before repeating the trick with me. I picked out a card—the King of Hearts—and he made me tear it up. Instead of restoring it, the card turns into a rainbow rose. I never get people who call him boring. At the end of the day, he never fails to surprise me.
I hope he knows my eyes are always on him.
Seven. Lyney hates being an overthinker. But I think it’s quite endearing. Everyone calls it anxiety (it definitely is). I say it’s “detail-oriented.” It's his own burden that no one could take, so I get why he hates it.
Even on the evening before his birthday, he was busy overthinking his birthday surprise for Lynette, even if he knew she'd find out about it anyway. He still tries every year. I remember that night, when he dragged me to Cesar's now-available workshop, dumping a bunch of props and mechanical parts. I knew nothing about tinkering stuff, so I just watched him as he quietly worked. He mutters to himself while working. (I find it adorable.) As if it were the holidays and not his birthday, he made a gift for all of his siblings. Catered. Tailored. Personalized.
He was so focused on making sure the Bogglecat replica on top of his hand was working as he intended. I bet he didn't notice me taking a picture of him.
It's not limited to his family, too. Because in our five years together, he does it to me. I tell him that I don't need to be babied. I don't want to add to his anxiety! But in my whole life, I think, he's the only man who actually cared for what I liked. The one who truly knew me. Often, I feel like the men who went out with me treated me like a trophy. Do they actually like me? Or are they interested in what I can bring to the table for them? Lyney's never like that.
I'm used to generic cafe dates and walks in the city, so I mentally prepare myself for that every time I date a new person. When we started dating, I expected the worst. Only for the worst to never come.
He knew I liked the moon, even if I never told him. One night, he took me to Mont Esus, conjuring roses, confetti, and doves out of nowhere. "Even the moon and roses have fallen for you tonight," he says.
He knows I can't handle fish and seafood, so he never eats those dishes around me, even if he loves fried fish to bits.
Fancy jewelry and bouquets aren't my style. But he remembers I like rainbow roses even if trends say they're outdated and corny. He knows I don't care for expensive sets even if he can afford it. "I would rather spend it on food," I told him, and that's what he does. He insists on one jewelry, though—he got me a simple silver promise ring, inlaid with a red gem that reminds me of him.
Sometimes, we plan a date, but I would end up wanting to stay home instead. He notices when no one does. I feel tired most of the time, but I want to push through when it comes to him. He doesn't let me. I wonder if he knows me more than I know myself, catches the telltale signs of fatigue before I do. When my body gives in to the tiredness, we stay at home while I cozy against him, warm blankets around us.
I'm not sure if I can meet anyone who thinks about me that much. Or just thinks too much, in general. "To be loved is to be known," the saying goes. He knows me so much, I'm sure of this love.
Goodness. I'm such a sap, I don't know how to end this list. Whatever. If anyone's reading this...I'm down bad for my man, yup.
And Lyney, if you're reading this: I wish you could see yourself from my point of view. Know that you are loved, always, in all ways.