Chapter Text
The Vanilla Kingdom is chillier than one would expect, being a technological marvel floating above the sky. Strawberry Crepe awakens, as they usually do, at the crack of dawn—just when the sun begins to set, painting the sky in a myriad of orange and purple hues. They yawn loudly, brushing down the locks of their hair sticking out and rubbing the sleep from their eyes.
Strawberry Crepe pulls their curtains back and is met with unceremonious blinding light of morning. The kingdom flew at a perfect enough height, and was located at a perfect enough location, that the sunlight reflected off the mountains overlooking the mountains. They'd call it beautiful if they weren't constantly tired.
A genius is never one to dawdle though, especially not at artistry, and especially when one has work to do. Espresso always rose from his brief slumbers at this time—and unfortunately, that meant they had to follow suit. In the seven-or-so years since they have agreed to the arrangement of having the magician move in to work on their experiments, Espresso was always up, bright and early, toolbox in hand to aid them in reattaching their prosthetics.
They look over, irritated, at the robotic limbs sitting on the table next to them. Certain days meant he was elsewhere though, and today was one of those days, they supposed. No work was to be done today if they didn’t get those attached, so, they push themself off their bed and lumber off to find Espresso.
It didn’t take them long. Strawberry Crepe grew accustomed to the spots Espresso frequents within their shared laboratory—in this instance, a balcony near his bedroom—back turned, wearing his pajamas and a simple brown overcoat, a cup of espresso in his hand. Strawberry Crepe steps up behind him, yawning loudly.
“God, it’s early…” Strawberry Crepe mutters. “I want coffee. And I need help with my arms. I have a project to finish and I am not going to waste any time moping around.” They lift their left arm up, almost to emphasize their point.
“...In a minute.” Espresso replies absentmindedly, taking a sip from his own cup, everything that Strawberry Crepe had said going ignored.
Their lips thin and their eyes narrow, ensuring that their annoyance was evident on their face. It may have been many years since Espresso met them as a young child, but they always acted with petulance when their requests weren’t met. Instead of voicing it loudly like they used to in the past, Strawberry Crepe huffed and pouted, looking away.
Silence flew between the two; Strawberry Crepe had noticed the odd mood Espresso was in. He was being more distant—more… mournful.. They tilted their head up towards their lab partner curiously, his back still turned away from them.
“You seem…” Strawberry Crepe hesitates. “...sadder. Sadder than normal.”
“Morning blues. We all get them.” Espresso replies quickly, not meeting Strawberry Crepe’s concerned gaze. “I shall meet you inside to help you with your arms, I promise.”
Strawberry Crepe’s grimace deepens. They know he gets like this sometimes, almost always around the same time of the year—waking up one morning, cup of coffee in hand, staring at the sky—almost like he’s waiting for something, or someone, to appear from the sky.
The first time they saw it happen, Strawberry Crepe was younger, more naive, more prone to irritation. There was much work to be done, and they didn’t get why the normally busybody professor was mucking about in his room. They distinctly remember stomping up the steps of their laboratory, as loudly as possible so Espresso would be as bothered and annoyed as they were, and entered his bedroom without even knocking.
“Hey! Will you help me with these robots already?!” was what Strawberry Crepe distinctly remembered wanting to yell at Espresso that day. One look at the magician was enough to stop them in their tracks then.
He sat motionless in front of the railings of that very balcony, staring up at the sky, looking down at a heart-shaped locket they had never seen before. Even when Strawberry Crepe marched right up behind him, Espresso didn’t react—though they knew he knew they were there—and sat down next to him on the floor, the concrete bringing a biting chill to their bones. Strawberry Crepe could only guess why he let them stay. Maybe he just wanted company, not judgment.
Strawberry Crepe stayed until nightfall, picking at the fluff that lined their poncho, until they fell asleep against Espresso's shoulder. They awoke the next day on their bed, with a slice of their favorite cake on their bedside table.
They never bothered Espresso too heavily around this time of the year after that. Never asked, never pried. Not like they were good with emotions, or anything of that matter—and if it got to lift Espresso’s spirits a little, well, at least it wouldn’t hinder their research.
They were always curious, though.
Strawberry Crepe had stood long enough at the balcony, waiting, that Espresso finally turned to face them. The magician carried himself with a sluggishness they don’t often see, and had a look in his eyes that seemed tired—a crack in his seemingly-invulnerable wall.
Espresso doesn’t say anything more; he just walks past Strawberry Crepe and into the hallway, gesturing with a half-hearted wave in their direction to indicate that they should follow along. They reenter their bedroom, messy, with clothes and rusted tools littering the floor—because Strawberry Crepe never cleans their room—and sinks down onto their bed.
Strawberry Crepe has half a mind to sleep again, the warmth of their blankets lulling them to slumber—but then, Espresso motion for them to raise the nub where their left arm would be. They exhale as he attaches the robotic prosthetic to the socket, securing it in place with a couple of screws.
They watch, silently, as has become routine for the both of them. Espresso helps them with their arms, Strawberry Crepe watches quietly, and they both go off and do their own businesses until nightfall, when the magician has to aid them again in removing the prosthetics. Rinse and repeat.
Yet, and perhaps to break a pattern, Strawberry Crepe speaks their mind. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” Espresso replies, eyes flitting upwards briefly as he grabs a monkey wrench from his toolbox.
“You stare off at the sky like you’re waiting for something.” Strawberry Crepe winces as Espresso tightens a knob, the familiar twinge of pain rocking through their arm as their nerves connect with the robotic prosthetic’s inner wiring. “Every year. Around the same time. You’ve been doing it since I let you move in.”
That’s when Strawberry Crepe sees it—a pause, a hitch in his breath. Hesitance.
“Not that I care, you know. It’s your life.” Strawberry Crepe says, attempting to appear indifferent to Espresso's melancholy by drawing their gaze away from Espresso and his work. “But you never talk about what you’re waiting for. If we continue to work together, I need to know.”
They cringe again as Espresso tightens the last bolt on their left arm. They flinch their fingers, testing its motion, as they have always done. As Espresso works on their other arm, Espresso speaks in a tone barely above a whisper, “his name was Madeleine. He was a knight.”
Strawberry Crepe blinks in surprise. Espresso's eyes flit upwards briefly, before returning to their arm, almost like he was gauging their reaction. “I don't know if you remember him. He was with me as a representative of the Créme Republic, back when Pure Vanilla was congregating with the other Ancients.” Espresso chuckles, melancholic. “I was under the impression you never liked him.”
Strawberry Crepe racked their brain for that information. They were young back then, and they remembered, though vaguely, long before the mess that was the Beast Yeast expedition, a time when a young Strawberry Crepe mocked a tall, blond knight during one of Ginherbrave's Halloween parties. They remember his explosive reaction afterwards, storming out of the room as if the mere thought that anyone thought his costume was tacky was a personal offence to him.
“What happened to him?” They asked, breath hitched.
“He ventured beyond Crisipia, and never came back.” Espresso replied, voice tight, as if recounting his grief would cause him to fall apart all over again. “I told him once that if he chose his own path, it would be enough. And he chose it. I have accepted it.”
He died, is what Strawberry Crepe knew he was saying. The magician sits back as he tightens the last few screws on their arms and Strawberry Crepe tests the motion on each one of their fingers.
Espresso doesn’t move back to let Strawberry Crepe off the bed, instead, he reaches into the pocket of his robe and pulls out a heart-shaped locket—the same one Strawberry Crepe had seen him gazing sadly at all those years ago. He traces the rusted, silver margins of the jewelry, regarding almost like a prized treasure. “This was one of the last gifts he had given to me.”
Strawberry Crepe shifted a little closer to Espresso, their eyes landing on the aged picture within. Espresso was much younger then, grumpily shoving at an overly enthusiastic knight in gleaming, cream-white armor. They blink, confused. “You don’t seem very happy here.”
Espresso chuckles, a playful smile remaining on his face as he gathers his tools. “I was unhappy with many things back then, including Madeleine. I suppose it worked out at the end.”
As Espresso turns to leave and Strawberry Crepe plants their feet on the ground to get up, they take one last look at the magician. “Espresso.”
“Hm?”
They hesitate for a moment, biting at their lips. Then, they speak up: “Don’t lie to me. You’re still sad about him. You haven’t accepted he’s gone.”
Espresso freezes in place, yet Strawberry Crepe keeps going, because if there was one thing they weren’t going to do was stop when they know they’re right. “Like, I don’t know if you think I’m stupid but you don’t look up at the sky because you’re feeling nostalgic. You don’t look up because you’re admiring the view of the Vanilla Kingdom that day—no, you look up because you want him to appear there and fly down to you or something.”
Strawberry Crepe stands up and marches over to a stunned Espresso, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I’ve lived with you for years now. I know what you think. So just man up and confront how you feel instead of hoping.”
For a fleeting moment, Strawberry Crepe watches Espresso’s expression shift. In a span of a second, they watch his face go from shocked, to angry, to devastated. For a fleeting moment, Strawberry Crepe reverts back to their child self—when consequences were a simple inconvenience to them—before they revert back to their current self and wonder if they have gone too far.
Espresso doesn’t say anything though. He just picks up his toolbox, fixes his coat, and leaves Strawberry Crepe alone in their room, and with their thoughts.