Chapter Text
The mantis dancers had always taken a special liking to Blue. An almost protective liking. Yellow suspects it's because he's the only one pretty enough for them.
Tell me all the time not to worry
And think of all the time I'll have with you
When I won't wake up on my own
Wake up on my own
Yellow can hardly blame the dancers, but sometimes you'd think that he was the only one of them they liked at all. Well, he supposed they liked Aqua alright, too, as she was the one to swat flies and squash beetles for them, which Yellow uses now to call them off as he approaches Blue, sitting in the violet grass of the vast garden surrounding the castle.
Held close all the time, knowing I'm half of you
Think of us inside, after the wedding
Suffering the while to lie a time or two
The dancers seem willing to tolerate Yellow today, at least, as he scatters the dead insects around them. Even as they feast on legs and wings and mandibles, they still gently sway to the sound of Blue's gentle voice as it rings, soft and clear, through the garden.
When we won't wake up on our own
Wake up on our own
Held close all the time, knowing this was all for you
He does like Blue, just as the mantis dancers do. Maybe a bit too much, really. Falling for him hadn't been a subtle descent like what their king described in the books he read, but more akin to tripping down three flights of stairs, blacking out, and coming to in a pool of sap and broken glass, with his wrist broken and his head spinning. And as he approaches Blue, sitting in the grass with his wings folded behind him, that same feeling comes over him, the one he can only compare to being hit by a train. It's alright, though. Part of him has learned to find a sort of enjoyment in the feeling, knowing it'll never go away and never be reciprocated and never be resolved in a way that's satisfying.
He slowly sits in the grass next to Blue, his hands flat on either side of him. "Howdy," he says quietly.
Blue glances up at him, gently pulled out of his song, and he smiles pleasantly. "Hello."
"What song was that? It was nice."
"Oh... just one I overheard. Music, poetry... physical beauty... it all has a way of sticking with me, I've found, long after I've first heard or seen it."
Yellow can tell. He looks from the side of Blue's face to the flowers in front of them, pure white and hanging down almost solemnly. "Well, I think it was a mighty fine song. Worth stickin' with ya."
Blue hums in agreement, and Yellow is acutely aware of his eyes lingering on him. That's one of the unnerving things about his feelings for Blue: how aware he always is of him in a way he hardly shares for anyone else, sometimes not even himself.
Eventually, Blue asks, "What brought you here, Yellow?"
Yellow clears his throat and ducks his head, the brim of his hat falling over his eyes. "Uh... well, I just was wantin' to see ya, 's all," he responds sheepishly. "I ain't interruptin', am I?"
"No, no, not at all. I'm glad you're here."
It's unfair how four simple words, fifteen simple letters, sound like poetry when they come from Blue's voice. Absolutely unfair. Unjust, really. But Yellow's not upset with Blue— the thought of being upset with Blue over anything doesn't even cross his mind— he's upset with himself for reacting so strongly, for probably scaring poor, perfect Blue off with all his yearnin' and clingin' and puppydoggin'. Yellow feels the tips of his ears grow hot, and he clears his throat again, his traitorous face breaking into a grin.
"I'm real glad to hear that. Glad that yer glad, I mean, t'see me." How is it that he, someone who could hardly string together a sentence on a good day, has fallen for someone who speaks and thinks and breathes poetry? He spares a look back up at Blue, who's turned his beautiful face fully to Yellow, a small smile crossing his lips.
And there it is again, that feeling of falling into a meat grinder.
"I wish I heard ya singin' more." The thought doesn't even register to Yellow until he's already said it aloud, and he looks away again, staring at the drooping flowers. "You've got a real purdy voice, Blue, nice and clear."
"Thank you. Truthfully, I... I don't often get the opportunity." Yellow looks back at Blue as he leans back on the grass, his palms flat as he looks upwards to the grassy cliffs. "But I do enjoy it. There's something rather cathartic about song, I believe."
"I think yer just good at everythin'," Yellow says, leaning forward to take a better look at Blue's face. "Singin' and dancin' and... and all of it. I don't know how you do it."
"Oh, I'm not good at everything."
"Yeah? What ain'tcha good at?"
"Well, I'm simply abysmal at math."
"So am I."
Blue shrugs, looking down at the lilac grass with a small smile. "You hold me on far too high a pedestal, dear," he says softly, shaking his head. "One of these days you're going to be disappointed."
"There's nothin' you could do that would disappoint me, Blue."
Yellow, without realising it, has started leaning closer. When Blue looks back up at him, sees the way he leans towards him like a sunflower to dawn's light, he doesn't lean away. "Not a thing?"
"Not a thing," Yellow repeats. Blue sits up a little straighter, and suddenly, he and Yellow are barely a foot apart from one another.
"You've always been so very sweet," Blue murmurs, looking up at Yellow through his eyelashes. Yellow swears his heart stops for a moment. "I sometimes think your heart is far too big to be encased by your ribs."
Though the tip of Yellow's tail sways gently at the praise, he feels a sense of doubt at Blue's words creep into his chest. He should pull away, he thinks. If Blue gets close enough, keeps looking into his eyes like that, Yellow fears he'll see whatever rotten swirl he tries to bury deep inside himself. He'll see that he's tricked him. But, selfishly, he doesn't pull away— he swallows thickly and says, his voice a bit hoarse, "Well, I try."
Blue smiles, and for a moment, the doubt Yellow always carries with him is silenced. Only instinct is left, and his instinct is to lean forward and kiss Blue.
Instinct only lasts so long before Yellow realises what he's doing and stumbles backwards, his hat falling off his head. Blue, eyes wide, has his hands pressed to his mouth— oh, no, no, no, why doesn't Yellow think? "Blue, I am so sorry, I-I don't know what came over me—"
"Yellow, I—"
He's horrible. He's selfish and horrible and rotten to the core, and Blue must be regretting every kind thing he's ever said to him. Yellow knows he would.
"If you ain't ever wanna talk to me again, I don't blame you, I— I'm just so— you must feel horrible, I feel horrible—"
"Yellow—"
Yellow's chest is tight. The pleasantness he'd found in the suffocating yearning Blue brought upon him had gone, leaving only the feeling of being smothered, mixed with the rot swirling around in his head, and Lord, is it ever-hungry, clawing its way through him like bile up his throat.
"I'm so—"
Blue's face is only inches from his again, his hands resting on Yellow's jaw. Yellow's heart quickens at the sudden proximity, then slows again as he realises it's not his own selfishness again, but Blue, who, for some reason, wants to be close to Yellow. "Oh, dear, I understand a fit of passion all too well," he breathes, "and I can hardly blame you."
Yellow looks down at the grass, keeping his hands on his lap to prevent himself from doing something stupid with them. "I-I shoulda asked, I'm sorry," he manages, his throat tight. "You deserved somethin' better than that, I'm sorry." If he apologises enough, perhaps it'll undo everything.
Blue's silent for a moment. "You... can ask," he says softly.
"Huh?" Yellow's face snaps up, and he feels the heat in his ears creep through the apples of his cheeks.
"You can ask," Blue repeats.
Yellow stares at him blankly for a moment, waiting for him to continue speaking, before he realises that Blue's waiting for him. He swallows and asks, his voice strained and hurried, "M-may I kiss you?"
"You may."
Yellow leans in again, and the distance is closed, Blue's fingers in his wispy hair. Yellow's very grateful they're sitting down, as he's suddenly lost feeling in his knees. He's far more aware of this kiss than he was the first one, far more aware of where his hands are as one rests on the back of Blue's neck, the other on his waist, far more aware of how chapped his lips probably are compared to Blue's, far more aware of the taste of salt when he finally does pull away, his eyes still closed.
"Oh, dear," Blue whispers, and Yellow realises Blue's not the one crying, but him, his throat tight and his eyes stinging. He picks his hat back up and holds it against his chest, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"'Scuse me," he says, his voice still strained. "I ain't know why I'm cryin'."
"Oh, that's alright." Blue gently sets his hands on Yellow's shoulders, his head tilted up at him. "You must be overwhelmed, hm?"
"I..." Yeah, overwhelmed is the word for it, overwhelmed by the push-and-pull in his head, overwhelmed by Blue's gentle presence, overwhelmed by how gracefully he's handling it all compared to Yellow. As graceful as Blue always is, he supposes, so he shouldn't be surprised. He really does like Blue too much, too clumsily, too crassly. He clears his throat, putting his hat back on in a vain attempt to regain some of his composure. "How 'bout you? How're you feelin'?"
"Well, I..." Blue looks down, and in his peripheral vision, Yellow sees the way his periwinkle wings flutter. "I'm quite pleased, to... no, that's quite the understatement. I'm very happy. I did have my suspicions, but I'm happy to see it confirmed that you feel the same."
That you feel the same? Fresh tears pool in the corners of Yellow's eyes as he processes Blue's words. "You... y'felt...?"
"I do. I know I should have said something, but..."
Yellow could kiss him again. He doesn't, not without asking, but he could. He hangs his head and coughs pathetically, his hands curling and uncurling on his lap. Blue looks at Yellow, and all his clumsiness and clunkiness and too-loudness— Yellow, who could be a much better friend, a better brother, a better cowboy, and feels all the same admiration Yellow feels when he looks at Blue. Yellow is so, so grateful they're sitting down.
Blue reaches up to wipe the tears from his cheeks, and Yellow can't help but grin at the feeling of his hands on his face. "It's alright to cry, Yellow, dear," he murmurs.
"Thank you," Yellow whispers, leaning into Blue's touch, "and I'm sorry again."
"Oh, and stop with the self-flagellation; I've already forgiven you."
"Yer too kind to me."
"Au contraire. I don't think you're kind enough to yourself."
Yellow coughs pathetically and hangs his head, leaning his face into Blue's hands like a dog seeking pets. "Stay with me a while," he breathes.
"Of course I will. I could sing something else for you?"
"That'd be nice," Yellow says, his voice barely audible through the tightness in his throat. "That'd be real nice."