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He comes in at convenient times.
Your father is terrified of no man, he sees no point to be fearful of the thought that anyone could stumble onto him berating his daughter for playing the part of a hero in saving the prince of the ball, but people like to talk that Axion is not a man as much as he is a nightmare—so some part of you wonder if you should cower in front of him, more so since your own father had fled the scene of the crime.
Thing is: you do not.
He is not a nightmare, not to you, at least.
When Axion Vergette finds the sight of you in tears, he does not say much. No noise, no voice of rejection, no abject horror—nothing.
You like to think to yourself that he’s not technically the same person as he was in your fifth life, even if he has his name and his likeness and his face and his veins and his sky blue eyes and everything else that makes Axion to be Axion, so you wouldn’t wish that he’d cradle you in his arms and tell you everything that will be alright.
It fails anyways, and everything inside you crumbles apart the moment he finds himself taking a deep breath, pulling you into his arms.
(The other thing is this:
This man has killed people today. People who would kill a boy for his blood but people nonetheless, all done just a few hours ago. He has undone the lives of far too many men, left wives to be widows and children to be orphans. There is blood on his coat and the very idea of violence itself should repulse you, and yet the scent of metal does not scare you and you think that it is strange.
But then the man strokes your hair and the blush that very easily creeps up the lightness of your skin is also strange so really, perhaps it’s just your mind doing things, or perhaps it’s just another price you have to pay for rebirth, again.
Axion’s hands are gloved but you still think that even with them above his skin, they feel warmer than your father’s hands have ever been.
“Please don’t tell anyone.” you say, the plea coming in the form of muffled whispers against cloth and he can barely hear it, you know this because he has to tilt his face towards you to hear you better. Because he always, always listens, “Please forgive my father for making a ruckus, my lord. Please let his ignorance disappear from your mind.”
He probably won’t ever be able to do that, you think as he clutches his fist away from your sight, but you’re still aware of it anyway because seeing through tears became easy the moment you realized crying wasn’t just another emotion as much as it was a daily activity. But it’s the thought that counts, you think again when Axion tries to hide you from the mass of humans that start to pour out from the hall. He has never found pleasure in torturing those who deserve kindness. Selfishness has never quite suited his tired eyes.
The boy doesn’t understand why you’re doing this, why you’re defending a man that doesn’t deserve to be called father. He’ll soon find that he can’t ever understand anything about you in this life. Even then, it never quite stops him from trying.
You don’t know if you’re supposed to wish that he didn’t, or not.)
He likes to smile with you. You know this because Schleimann tells this to you, verbatim. The chief smiles a lot when you’re around, he’s always happy with you, he says, often with a grin to tease, and it’s not like Schleimann will get any benefit from lying about the fact that the corner of Axion Vergette’s mouth only rises whenever he’s around you so really, you don’t have an incentive to suspect that he isn’t saying the truth.
At the brink of dawn, three steps into the palace, you mention it to him because small talk makes everything less awkward, Hilise! and he calls Schleimann a dimwit.
He doesn’t say anything about the burn on his face that kills every thought of potential ignorance at your piercing comment. Pulls his gaze away, provides some undeniable living proof that there is blood instead of empty spaces of air inside him, contrary to human belief.
You don’t know how to interpret what any of that means.
“Are you not dancing?”
“That is an activity that I have never taken pleasure in, my lord.” you tell him and he chuckles. He’s always happy around you, you remember these words again because any type of joy that radiates from him has always been an infectious thing. The smile that decides to stumble upon your lips is not missed by his eyes, “And you’re not dancing with anyone around?”
Axion tilits his head, feigning pure innocence.
“Who would want to dance with me, Hilise?”
You hold the laugh that bubbles in your stomach.
“Everyone in this room would pounce at the chance if you gave them one.”
You’ve seen them.
There have been women dropping their fans by account of an accident, there have been men trying to flaunt their own daughters to him on hand. There have been engagement talks from his elders because oh, lady Inoaden, please tell him to take someone as a wife before he becomes too old instead of telling him themselves because they know he likes you.
Likes you platonically, likes your companionship, as a companion, a friend, and friends often listen to friends so he’ll listen to you, right?
Doubt still outweighs every other feeling, in all honesty.
But you know there have been people and there will always, always be people around him.
There will always be thoughts that Axion Vergette is the most ideal of an idea of faithful husbands at the end of the day.
“Not everyone.” he counters, his shoulders falling against the same beige wall you’re on. Relaxed, he turns his head towards you and it makes you feel almost tiny when he towers over you with ease.
“The lady I would like to offer my hand to seems like she wants to decline my request. So I am not dancing.”
You stare at him, bemused.
“Ah.” really, now? “What a shame.”
“Indeed.” He offers you another one of his smiles; a rare sight to others, but he gives it to you so easily and it's never felt like charity, “So, if I may truly ask, are you dancing?”
You blink.
“...Me?”
“You, Hilise.” His affirmation is gentle, and the smile never ceases when he extends to you a hand, “My offer still stands. Would you be so kind as to dance with me, my lady?”
You can never say no when it comes to him, your one of many weaknesseses; you find yourself wishing for a companionship with him that'll come to last.
You’ve thought of this boy a lot. A lot doesn’t even come to capture it, the words itself being the clearest example of an understatement. If he were oxygen—and in some ways he is because he is needed for this world to not collapse, you would know this better than anyone—-you would be singing his notes at every single second.
You made this boy in some way, you pushed a life into him. The person he is now would not have existed had you not meddled in his life. Have you ever thought of that? Will you ever think of that again when you find him in your next life?
Axion Vergette would never have thoughts of breaking this world apart if he did not have a beloved. Axion Vergette would never think of going against his own morals if he did not have feelings for anyone.
He’ll beg for you, the boy, sacrificing humanity with his cursed fingers. He would do anything for you.
“Undo me, Hilise. Please.”
This is not the last time this will happen.
There’s a tragedy in all of this, you start thinking to yourself while fate assembles your body back into one whole, unbroken state. You can see him there, holding your dead body as you wait for the reversal. Don’t do this to me, he cries while trying to patch your limbs with his own pieces, dust sieving through broken bones, broken bones keeling in disgust, Hilise, please. Please come back. even though he knows that you can’t.
He will always find it in himself to want every part of me, you think as you watch him cry, unmoving. He’s always the first to cry whenever you die and no one is ever there to wipe his tears away for him.
You want to tell him that you’ll be alright, but you can’t. You want him to live a happy life after bringing back your head as a trophy, but you can’t.
A dead body cannot speak, a dead body cannot tell lies.
You sigh. Your heart has started to beat again, and your hair returns to its normal length. Eyes closed, you desperately try to forget everything that has happened—even if that is an impossibility in itself.
You’re dead in this life. You’ll be dead again in the next.
He’ll always be the one living.
(And it’s a shame, really.
But the thought still continues on and on and on anyways, never stopping once underneath it all. Not even when he first appears in front of you in that abandoned basement as the child holds onto you in your arms, not even when you kiss him for the first time as the world spins down into a halt. It’s a shame.
You shouldn’t be letting him hold you like this, but here you are.
I do love him.)