Work Text:
The moon was full, the stars were shining, the trees were Nope... Too wordy.
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away Nope... Too boring.
It was a dark and stormy No. Too cliché.
You were on your third cup of coffee, and you were about to pour yourself a fourth.
How hard was it to start a book?
It wasn't as though you were an amateur. This was your third children’s book this month alone. Surely you knew how to start a story by now...
It all started when I found the mysterious letter...
You sighed and settled on a phone call to clear your mind.
Your illustrator answered on the first ring.
“How do you feel about skeletons?” you asked.
“Good morning to you too, little wordsmith.”
“Seriously. Are skeletons too much?”
Sylus sighed on the other end. It was a bit early; 6:10am to be exact. But Sy was always up this time of morning. Mephistopheles demanded it of him.
“What's the premise?” he asked. You could hear a bit of gruffness to his voice; a bit more than usual. He was likely doing something strenuous. He would be on his morning jog by now.
You looked out at the sunrise in front of you. The leaves on the sugar maple tree in your backyard were just turning orange. Another season, another beginning. You took a breath and launched into a rendition of your latest idea.
“Alright,” you started. “Picture this: a skeleton—I’m still figuring out his name—spends his nights digging up corpses and studying them. And he does this to try and figure out how he can blend in with humans and make friends with them in the daytime.”
“That's pretty sweet,” Sylus grunted mid-sentence. Okay, he was definitely doing something.
“Where are you on your run right now?” you asked.
“Vale and Gander.”
You had known Sylus for about a year now. You had originally enlisted the help of his younger brother Kieran for your children’s books illustrations—with Kieran being a tattoo artist and all, he was the best illustrator you knew. Unfortunately, Kie was too busy to fulfill his end of the deal.
He did, however, recommend Sylus; an archivist who worked with local museums and universities preserving old documents. Kie had made a comment about being worried that Sylus was spending too much time alone—with his job being quiet and solitary in nature, much like the man himself, Sylus didn't have much opportunity to socialize.
Kieran gave you Sy's number, the two of you met, and the rest was history.
Of course Kieran had planned to set the two of you up from the beginning; since he had first agreed to illustrate your books, fully intending on offloading the responsibility to Sylus and introducing the two of you as soon as possible. But he would never tell you that.
“Ah, that’s farther than usual. Are you free to talk? I can call back...”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just wrestling with the Dictator right now.”
Well, that was an interesting choice of name.
You had taken to calling Mephistopheles The Duchess with how demanding she could be sometimes, and you thought that was overkill.
“Dictator?” you questioned.
“Yeah. Mephi's insisting we stop at Kie's shop to see him. She keeps trying to pull me down the street to it.”
“Ah, sounds rough. I'll call back—”
“No no, it’s fine. Tell me more about your nameless skeleton.”
The first book you had pitched Sylus all those months ago was True Love: the story of two goldfish who meet after each having been abandoned in the Cindervale Ocean. Being the only two of their kind in the ocean, they stick together, develop an unlikely friendship, and eventually fall in love. It was a sweet story—simple in its premise and earnest in its execution, the kind of story that wore its heart openly and without shame.
Sylus had listened with that same silent attentiveness he gave everything you loved; head tilted slightly, eyes thoughtful, weighing the emotional misfortune of two very small fish against the vastness of an ocean that had not been made for them.
“You’re aware,” he had said afterward, measured and dry, “that goldfish do not belong in the ocean.”
You had waved that away immediately. “That’s the point. They’re out of place. That's what makes it romantic.”
He had hummed at that, the sound low and contemplative. “Tragic,” he corrected gently. “But yes. Romantic too.”
You had taken that as approval.
He had sent you sketches that very night of the story details. Two little fish. Engaging in various activities. Drinking tea, playing cards, eating cakes together.
It was perfect.
From there, the pitches had become a nightly ritual; half-serious, half-indulgent. Stories hurriedly whispered over the phone or rambled through overcooked dinners. Ideas sketched out with your hands in the air, eyes bright with possibility. Some were stranger than others. Some made him pause, ask questions, push at the logic of your worlds until they felt sturdier, more lived-in. But all of them, without exception, shared the same core. They were about finding someone when you were certain you were alone. About choosing to stay. About love, stubborn and improbable, surviving in places it had no business existing. Sylus had noticed that long before he ever said anything about it.
Your writing gave Sylus inspiration to draw, and his drawings gave you further inspiration to write.
“Well," you said, returning your attention to the nameless little skeleton. "On one of his grave robbing outings, he makes friends with a graveyard cat who's the first creature ever to not think he’s scary. The skeleton then tries befriending the cat, but she always runs away before they're able to talk about anything... meaningful.”
“Uh huh.”
“Anyways, the skeleton follows the cat one day and he finds out that the cat is friends with a swamp monster who haunts the Ashenridge Lake. It turns out that the swamp monster feeds the cat fish because the cat's blackmailing him! The cat takes fish in exchange for keeping the swamp monster's existence hidden from the others in the forest that would be eager to catch the creature's scent and eat him!”
“I like it.”
“That's pretty much it. The skeleton interrupts the cat’s manipulation, the swamp creature and skeleton become friends, and the three of them become a sort of... found family.”
“I really like it. That's a good story.”
“I know that. What I don't know is how to start it.”
“Well... what were you thinking? What are some of the choices you had?” Knowing that your mind always had six concurrent thoughts running at the same time, Sylus knew you would've had options.
But your issue wasn't getting started.
It was knowing when to stop.
“... Nothing I want to tell you about.”
Sylus paused what he was doing. It wasn't like you to be embarrassed with him, and he didn't like it.
You had always had... outlandish ideas for stories. At first, you were so excited to meet Sylus—someone, you quickly realized, who was both non-judgemental and existing on the exact same wavelength as you, that you had forgotten yourself—forgotten to be embarrassed. Before you had even finished telling him the story of True Love, you had interrupted yourself to tell him about The Boring Blue Balloon in which one day, a blue balloon named Sammy finds tinsel and string in the dumpster he lives in. He then decides to fashion a wig so he can blend in and make friends with humans. When his wig falls off at the party, all of the people reveal that they knew he was a balloon all along, and they liked him all the same regardless.
It was a fun little story about insecurity being all in your head.
And all the friends you had pitched it to thought it was... weird that you dreamt up a balloon that lives in a dumpster whose biggest goal was to go to a party with trash on its head.
Sylus understood it though.
He always understood you.
Back in the present, Sy called your name from the other side of the phone. He continued: “Your ideas are always great. You know that. If you really are—Mephi, don't eat that. Listen, if you really are having trouble starting the story, why not write the parts that come easy to you? Then we can Frankenstein them together into something tangible. Digestible”
“I don't want something digestible, I want something perfect.”
“Perfection can come later. Right now, let's do what we can with what we have.”
Damn it.
He always knew what to say to get you out of your head.
“Thank you,” you said. “Really. That's very helpful.”
“You're welcome. We’re getting close to your complex if you want to take a walk with us to clear your head? You can thank me by buying me coffee on our way back.”
You smiled at that. The first time the two of you had met, you were two minutes late to the little café. You had promised to buy Sylus a coffee to make up for your tardiness, but he had brought coffee from home and he couldn't be tempted by any of the confectionaries. The next meeting—this time he was the second person to arrive—he offered to buy you a coffee to make up for his tardiness, but you had already gotten each of you a lemonade from a local vendor.
It became a running gag that eventually, one day, you would buy each other coffee.
Sylus would never let you pay for him, of course, but he knew your little wager would get you out of the house and spending time with him.
“Yes. Absolutely, I will. I’ll be down in two minutes. Let me just brush my hair. And my teeth. And change my shirt...”
Sylus exhaled, something soft and full of love with a hint of adoration.
“There's a common theme in your stories, you know,” he said.
“Hm? What's that?” Your words were muffled by the sweater you were gracefully yanking off your head.
“An outcast finding love in another outcast.”
“Huh. I never noticed that.”
Sylus smiled once more. He always did when he was with you. You made it impossible not to. It came as easily to him as breathing when he was around you. It was instinctive by now.
He shook his head. Eager to see you again, as though you didn't spend every waking moment talking to each other. Bouncing ideas off of each other. Unknowingly loving each other.
He supposed it was only a matter of time before he said it out loud. Soon, he would have to find the courage to tell you what he already knew. He was running out of reasons not to confess. It was almost funny how close he was to saying it.
And if anyone could love him, it was you.
He had already chosen you; all that remained was to say it.
“Hurry up and come down," he said, voice warm, and tone soft. "We’re waiting for yo—Mephi! Don't eat that!”