Chapter Text
Nero fancies himself an internet connoisseur. As a data analyst, searching and collecting information out of a complex interconnected system comes as easy to him as walking, and searching for online gossip across the web comes as easy to him as breathing—the cause and consequence of his obsession, one that has not only saved but shaped the route of his existence into becoming what it is. An idea, an entity, something much larger than life.
Nero is a hunter. Not quite the type coveted by children or recipient of frustrated long gone dreams. He doesn’t go out into the dark alleyways, gun in hand and senses kicked into overdrive. Instead of blood and bodies he sees numbers speeding past and metrics shooting up. He makes sense of the nonsensical, finds a crack before a gap forms. The screen is his battlefield and the lack of outdoor expertise doesn’t deter him. No, not a field hunter, but a hunter nonetheless.
His nose is behind any lead and scent of the object of his fascination like a bloodhound, relentless in pursuit. Built up a network of people alike from the ground up, all sharing one common goal—to preserve the essence of Linkon City’s hero. If he spends his time combing through anonymous tips sent to his email or looking for any type of newly released information related to it while on the clock, that is his business.
He’s got a sense for things, he’d like to say. It’s no surprise that he’s one of the first ones to see the picture.
A dark silhouette against a simple backdrop. That’s all there is. No text on the picture, bare of anything considered note-worthy. But he knows better. Even without the presence of the attached username, he can tell from a mile away.
He looks just like Nero imagined. If he didn’t know it was a promotional post, he would’ve celebrated a breakthrough—finally, after so many years, a quality picture of the Lumiere. He narrows his eyes as he picks apart the photo before him like a scientist looking through a microscope. Black and White, rich in contrast. His back to the camera. The figure almost manages to blend into the shadows, if not for the thin strip of lighting along the left side of his body. He can see the edge of an arm guard, slightly protruding against the rest of his clothes. The cursor zooms into the screen. A mask sitting atop the straight bridge of a nose.
Nero bites his thumb. There’s a strange inkling that he can’t seem to explain, knocks around the back of his head. It feels familiar, disturbingly so, like recalling the vignette of a dream only for it to wash out the more you attempt to remember.
Something whispers, this is a face he knows but not a face he expects. He recalls a moment from two years ago. The news had dropped, and instead of taking it as an exhilarating announcement he had felt nothing but dread. He remembers crucifying the casting of the main role—a young man hailing from a small theater, with minimal on screen credits. He hadn’t fit the bill, not in Nero’s experienced eyes. Blonde hair, a slight bump to his nose, and lacking the necessary magnetic presence characteristic of Lumiere. It was a badly thought, emotionally fueled judgment he has come to regret.
He continues staring as if the act alone would somehow reveal the answers he seeks. Nero shuffles away from his desk, looking at the picture from a new angle. Information hides within untold, quiet cues—the posture of a body, how they hold their weight. The tip of a nose, connected to a straight bridge or maybe a hook. Strands of hair, thick or thin? Minimal strokes that paint a full picture.
Behind the large of his computer screen emerges a figure similar in build. Tall stature and broad shoulders carry uncommon graceful steps. He doesn’t even hear him as he makes his way inside. The figure stops in his tracks, right behind the monitor. Nero watches his gaze curiously survey around the room.
“Are you looking for something?”
He tries not to shudder when blue eyes settle on him, ever so impassive and frighteningly gentle.
Xavier lightly shakes his head, bits of his fringe sway easily with the movement. “Not anymore.”
He expects him to leave immediately after, knowing from rumors he’s not much of a conversationalist. Nero looks back at the screen, only for his attention to be once again drawn towards Xavier as he suddenly says, “You should go home, it’s getting late.”
But he doesn’t quite register the words or the smoothness of his voice when he talks, not when all he can perceive is the stance of the man before him. A straightened back that sings a tune of poise and finesse. Broad, strong shoulders, honed for battle. Perfectly straight nose, a beautiful profile that matches the rumors, and wisps of hair that fall slightly out of place. He unconsciously holds his breath as he tries to place him in the night, a top of high buildings and showered by the moonlight.
He knows, by now, the number of interactions on the picture posted by the movie account must be well into the hundred thousand. Under any other circumstance, he’d brag about it, yet he remains in place, fingers frozen and breathing faint.
Nero can only watch as the mirror image of his fascination quietly leaves him behind.
The plastic of the spoon scrapes against the inside of your teeth. The fresh, savory taste of strawberry overtakes your tastebuds. You’re taking a small break. Patrolling has been increasingly monotonous this week, something which you should be thankful for. Boring walks means easy work, easy pay, and a safe city. No threat to take care of and nothing to be disrupted. The standard issued baseball cap on your head gives you enough shade, and sunglasses protect your vision from the glaring sun. You let yourself drink in the dullness of the afternoon and the habitual sounds of the city ambience. In this peculiar state of repose, you miss the blur of silver hair suddenly barreling towards you.
“Hey—” Your mouth opens in surprise, ready to yell at the assailant. “Xavier?” You register a cold slope of yogurt sliding along your chest, leaving a wet stain on your uniform. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry,” Xavier says, a little breathlessly. “But I need your help.”
Around the corner he’s just turned, a group of people with cameras and microphones argue with each other. Reporters. A bedlam in the plaza square that is, unfortunately, not a new spectacle when it comes to a profession such as yours.
You point to the scene, just to make sure. “That…?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“Please.” There’s no urgency to his tone, just a small, hopeful pleading.
You’re hit with a sudden sense of deja vu, slightly less chaotic but a hassle still. “Okay,” You grab him by the arm and calmly walk him a safe distance away from the frenzy. “They’re like animals, if you move too fast they’ll notice.”
The bell of a quaint little shop welcomes you. The walls are a pretty pastel, pinks and blues in a retro sort of style. They wouldn’t think to find him in a place like this. You sit him in the booth farthest from any windows.
“So, wanna talk about—” you gesture vaguely, “whatever that was?”
He shakes his head, decisive. “Not really.”
“Not really,” you repeat his words in quiet disbelief. Your yogurt paper cup is half-empty now. Not your doing. “Since you refuse to talk, you owe me another one of these.”
Xavier looks at the slow drying stain on your shirt and has the generosity to appear remorseful. “I’ll go get you another one.”
Your eyes roam around the shop. The very few patrons busy themselves, either on their phones or their own conversations. A little girl happily conversing with her mother, beaming a sweet smile with a missing tooth. A teenager impatiently tapping at her phone, perhaps waiting for someone. Xavier is still ordering, and he’s taking longer than expected. You peek at the space behind the counter, where an employee is currently attending. The short hallway to the back room is dark and seemingly empty.
There’s a faint chuckle. An employee ducks his head in what appears to be embarrassment. He looks rather young, wavy dark hair and sharp brown eyes. Maybe late teens or early twenties. The air carries the tails of a conversation.
“—pretty new at this.”
Xavier’s soft voice follows. “It’s alright. Take your time.”
The boy’s cheeks take on a rosy tone. He fumbles with the screen, a strained smile to his face. “Sorry, this might be random but you, uh, look sort of familiar.” He punches something into the screen. The order, you assume. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before…”
You know he’s going to deny it immediately. Xavier hums, as if pondering the question. “I just have one of those faces.”
Making a spectacle out of this boy’s mortification is the last thing he might want, so you face the phone in your hands to entertain yourself in the meantime. Your thumb rhythmically swipes at the screen, not paying much attention to the contents you come across. There’s a video of a cute cat with a funny sounding meow. Another of a drunk man singing a heartbreaking ballad at a bar. A woman angrily ranting in her car about her terrible job. Before you can press pause, the app automatically auto-scrolls into another video.
Screams and crystal shattering is the first thing you hear. The camera shakes as the person recording tries to capture movement. A sword sharply cuts the air. A blinding light follows, overtaking the screen. The brightness slowly dies down, like the gentle dim of a night lamp. The overhead lights flicker until finally settling into themselves. The video reveals the frame of a person. Tall, straight posture and glinting silver hair. He turns around and wears the impassive face of a man you know.
To say you aren’t phased would be a lie. This is normal—something to be expected when attention is abruptly drawn. Civilians will stop and chase the fight, the frisson of excitement overriding logic. You’ve seen it happen, time and time again. It’s a known problem, people bridled with curiosity getting in the way, resisting evacuation. But you can’t remember the last time it was like this—focused on an individual rather than the general event unfolding. The camera stays on him as the sword disappears into specks of light. You know where this happened. Not too long ago, in the subway, right after filming the PSA. You don’t see yourself in the video—can’t remember what you were doing at all. There’s no trace of your presence, as if you weren’t there to begin with.
The camera is focused entirely on him, enthralled by his actions and his show of power and strength. The airy voice of the person recording filters through, a teenage boy. “ Fuckin’ awesome…” he mumbles to himself. He pans towards the people crowding the platform—you remember this, the tumultuous exit— faces of awe and astonishment being caught by the lens. He moves the phone again, zooming into the broken windows of the metro. Then he finds the retreating back of Xavier, walking away without a single word. Only then does the video cut off.
You make the mistake of looking at the comments.
narugoat: i was so surprised when he turned around omg,,,
tinyggo: the guy recording LOL
catsftw: Am I crazy I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before
lumieresolos: the official lumiere movie acc posted behind the scene pics of him a while back maybe u saw him there! he was a consultant iirc
catsftw: WHAT…..
kuromifan4ever: watching that irl was so fascinating but im glad no one got hurt. Thanks mr hunter
esnupilled: the sword?? is he cosplaying a knight or something
Givememoneyyy: Need him to slay me like that
yuriii_saveme: ok that’s a raw evol to have
lestatnation : to be fair light evol is extremely rare
tuna420: is this the claw machine guy
miniondefender: Wait he’s got lore??
waluigii: holy shit my sister saw him the other day!!! HAHA She was so starstruck she forgot she had almost died if he hadn’t show up
paprikaa: So like if i report a wanderer attack will he show up and save me
ilikehorses: Thank you for your hard work!!!
cocomelons: how much is this guy making to put his life on the line like that
uzumakiss: I’m saying like I better be making bank if my job involves me potentially being killed by space aliens 💀💀
cocomelons: death by xenomorph would go crazyyy tho
grassisgreener : I remember buying flowers from him once. I thought he was a florist.
cosmicrationale: someone drop the @
“What’s with the face?”
Your head instantly snaps up, fingers locking the phone on reflex. “What?” The little pinch on your chest fades when you scoff, an attempt to look casual. “This is just my face.”
He sits and slides the cup of yogurt over the table. “You’re frowning.” You take the cup wordlessly. “What were you watching?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” he asks, a brow arching up. You know he doesn’t believe you, yet you don’t concede.
The pink plastic spoon is caged inside your mouth. Doubling down, he receives another garbled “Nothing,” in return.
He maintains his eyes on you, analyzing, then shrugs. “If you say so.”
The yogurt— strawberry again, an educated observation on his part—slides down your throat along with any grumble you might want to add. There’s no prying eyes, and everyone remains mindful enough.
His gaze is set towards the windows. You only now realize he’s gotten yogurt for himself too. He surveys the outside, yet you can’t help but feel like his mind has wandered beyond the near streets. He does this, sometimes. Gets lost inside a memory or a fleeting moment, and when he comes to it’s not in a snap but rather a slow blink, as if waking up from a hazy dream. He never lingers on it. You do not ask, and he does not answer.
You can’t get inside his head, so instead, you’ve taken to studying him from a place you can reach. The plastic spoon that rests against his lips matches his eyes somewhat, a sort of sweet baby blue, yet lacking the depth and coolness of his own. Teeth bite down on plastic as you take his profile in. The graceful bridge of his nose, how it ends with a small but slightly sharp, upturned tip.
There’s a growing flush to his ears. Xavier doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink as his eyes seemingly lock onto something outside the window. He remains rigid, and a faint exhale from his chest is what breaks you out of your stupor.
“I heard there’s a trip coming up.”
He hums, taking another dig at his own yogurt. “Trip?”
“A training trip, something like that. At least that’s what I heard.”
“Are you going?” he asks.
There’s a current of something underneath his question, an expectancy of sorts, almost like his decision might hinge on yours.
“Maybe. You?”
His answer hangs between you, a barely hidden smirk flickers the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.” The smile comes and goes like a spark of light, and he returns his eyes to the scenery outside. “They must’ve left by now.”
You take another spoonful. “The media? We could check.”
The bell of the quaint little shop bids goodbye.
The streets seem calm. There’s no rush or ruckus to be seen on the sidewalks. Cars drive past with less frequency than earlier and warm summer noise settles nicely. By all accounts, the coast is clear. “Guess you were right.”
You lead the way as you walk along the sidewalk. Turning the corner around a store, you catch a glimpse of a man holding up a phone. He appears to be casually recording, as if he were vlogging himself. The words are indistinct but you hear them nonetheless. “—hunter…. around here,” A laugh, a little louder. “Nah, not looking… If I run into him though—”
Xavier bumps into your back. You hear the man’s voice growing closer. He’s about to turn the corner. Your mind doesn't know whether to leave the hunter or hide the hunter, so your body reacts instead. The silver of Xavier’s hair is quickly covered by a baseball cap and his blue eyes leave no trace when dark shades are placed atop his nose. The man turns the corner and glances at the two of you before continuing his way uninterrupted, still muttering to the camera.
Xavier tilts his head in a silent question.
“He was looking for you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Can I have those back?”
He gingerly touches the cap, adjusting it on his head. “Actually, can I keep them for a bit? Until we get home?”
“We?”
You don’t see his eyes but know exactly what they look like, big and expectant like those of a puppy. “Are we not… going home?”
“Who said—” you sigh, not seeing the point in fighting a hypothetical scenario. Patrol is essentially over, and you can feel a sun-induced headache approaching. “Yeah, we are.”
It’s just your luck that you have to pass through one of the main districts of the city. Boisterous and hectic, buildings and LED screens with unending publicity assault your eyes, large and small, all competing for the passerby’s attention. Perhaps it’s the fact that you’re still looking out for potential journalists, or anyone with a camera pointed at you, really, that makes you even more hyper aware of your surroundings.
You turn towards a street crossing, and right in front of your face, a large screen flashes with a silhouette you are way too familiar with. How had you not seen it before? The photo is edited in a manner that leaves the audience wanting more—revealing but in a tasteful manner. Xavier’s back faces the camera, costume white and pristine. You don’t see his face, just the edge of a silver ear cuff glinting against the camera flash and wispy threads of an earring. There’s nothing below the photo except for a date. A nameless picture for a faceless man. Such iconography does not bother with a name to state themselves, not when even a silhouette is enough to declare on its own.
You wonder why they used Xavier’s photo to begin with, though.
Admittedly, it’s impressive how he’s taken on this persona at the request of the studio—how seamless, like rain merging into the ocean, one and the same. And he looks like every bit of the star everyone said he is. The staff, who consistently gushed over him, whether it’d be because of the strange glow he seems to bring everywhere he goes, or his knowledge on all things combat. Producers who somehow managed to get your contact information and continuously blow up your phone in hopes of—something, anything. An appearance perhaps, a publicity stunt. Another sequel, even. You don’t know and you think you don’t particularly care, not when he’s already getting hounded by reporters and being made a treasure to find by people on the street.
You doubt he feels any different than you. For now, the emails and texts remain unresponded. You survey the street and watch for any tentative looks sent your way, but no one’s looking, not when a figure like Lumiere exists. The screen switches to show the launch of a new makeup product. A beautiful model gingerly applies lipstick to her lips. She turns, mouth cherry red, and as if staring into your eyes with intent, blows you a kiss. Xavier’s sleeve meets your hold as you drag him along.
There’s a small child who approaches with a pep to his step, a bright grin stretching across his face. You think nothing of it, until he stops before the two of you, looking up beneath his lashes like you had hung up the moon.
“Milo!” A concerned woman runs after him. She tucks a piece of hair behind a pierced ear. She looks young, not quite like you and Xavier but young enough to have a child of her own zooming off into the streets. “We don’t often see Deepspace Hunters where we’re from, please forgive him if he’s a little excited.”
The enthusiastic child tugs at Xavier’s pants. He shoots you a helpless look. You shrug him off. “You’re from out of town?”
“Yes. We’re visiting a family friend.” The mother pulls out her phone, and she practically begs with her eyes as she says, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but would it be okay if he took a picture with you two? He’s sort of obsessed with hunters, you see.”
Your eyes slightly widen at the request. Xavier gently tries to pry little fingers off of him. “Yeah, we can do that. Of course.” You squat to the child’s level. His eyes shine with excitement. “Milo, was it?” He nods, floppy hair bouncing along. “Let’s take a picture, yeah?”
“Yeah!”
The child stands between the two of you, a big smile adorning his cherub features. You try not to blink as the shooter sound goes off. “Would you like a selfie too?”
“Oh!” The mother gasps. “That would be lovely, thank you!” She hands you the phone, the front-facing camera already set.
Xavier shuffles closer and crouches low. His lips fall into a well-practiced smile. Simple and unassuming. He glances at the little boy through the camera and sees all bright eyes and little milk teeth. He doesn’t think there’s anything special about their job, not much worthy of a child’s admiration. But the apples of the boy’s cheeks are round and pink, his mouth stretched wide, and he finds that the corners of his own twitch then, a minute attempt to mirror the boy.
“1, 2, 3!”
He holds the smile.
Click.
You return the phone back to the woman. “Here you go!”
“Thank you so much!” The child intertwines his small hand with that of his mother. She nudges at him. “Say thank you, Milo.”
The child grips at the edge of his shirt, a small thank you falling from a timid voice. Waving each other goodbye, the boy walks alongside his mother, not any less animated than he was a minute ago.
The patrolling resumes. You keep an eye out for the pedestrians crossing the street. Activity in Azure Square has picked up compared to that of the last few days. There’s the ring of laughter of teenagers mixed in with the sounds of wheels against asphalt. It stays like this for a moment, the comforting mundane of the city.
Huddled in between the many plazas stands the main theater of Linkon. An array of upcoming movie posters are displayed outside for the public to see. You catch a glimpse of Lumiere’s poster, the same one you had seen not too long ago. A group of teenage girls giggle as they direct each other on how to pose next to the poster. A cheerful peace sign, a heart made with their hands, arms raised high.
Your mind drifts back to the child from before. While you do wear the standard uniform, Xavier does not. Perhaps he had assumed him to be one, as the child had found him walking with you. The flash of recognition shone on his eyes upon seeing you first, then him, either way, they held nothing but pure joy and child-like curiosity. He had approached because he thought you were cool—thought your occupation was cool enough to warrant a picture and sparkly eyes gazing at you. And it had felt good, in a way, to be recognized too.
You find yourself speaking. “You know, that was kinda nice.”
Xavier turns towards you. “Hm? The kid?”
“Yeah. I mean, that’s the first time someone asks me for a picture.” He seems surprised when you say this, if his expression is anything to go by. “What? I’m sorry, I forgot. You’ve probably been asked tons of times before.”
“I have.” He confirms, with no trail of humility. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He wipes under the tip of his nose, that habit of his on display when he’s flustered. “Like I’m bragging.”
A snort threatens to break at his reaction. You know him to be humble, or maybe it’s just carelessness in situations of the sort. He’s indifferent to the hazard spotlight. Brushes off the attention everyone else in your line of work would crave to have and treats it like it's irrelevant to his person. Like recognition doesn’t mean a thing.
Even so, you can't help but tease him.
“It certainly does sound like it.”
He heaves out a defeated sigh. “I’m just being honest.”
A hand comes to pat him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you are.”
The production team lets you know when the ad is set to be released. You would’ve completely forgotten, if not for that viral video that reminded you of it. It’s a week later, and the conversation surrounding it seems to have simmered down a bit.
Xavier is meant to come down in a few minutes. He had seen a recipe for matcha cookies he wanted to try out together. You don’t expect much to come out of it, even though his baking skills have improved, if only slightly. It’s adorable in a way, how he insists you two do these things together—these meaningless things that make you shift in anticipation.
More often than not, he finds himself in your apartment instead of his own. Morphed into part of your routine. He lets you know about movies he’s interested in, asks your opinion about it. Asks for recommendations, asks if he can come over, asks if you can teach him how to cook something, asks if you are free, asks if you’re hungry. Now, whenever you see him, you expect a question to fall readily from his lips.
There’s a soft rasp at the door.
“It’s open!”
He walks in seconds later, holding a bag of powder and baking soda in his arms. “You shouldn’t leave your door open. Anyone could come in.”
You motion for him to follow you into the kitchen. “Like you?”
He sets down the bags on the countertop. His eyes longingly drift towards the airfryer tucked away in a corner. “I’m not just anyone though, am I?”
You catch the direction of his gaze and point a warning finger at him. “Don’t even think about it.”
His body visibly deflates like that of a reprimanded child. He stands lost in the kitchen, like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“You have the recipe, right?”
His face briefly brightens as he pulls out his phone. “Yes. I’ll send it to you as well.”
You go to preheat the oven while Xavier mixes in the cookie dough. Next, comes creating round, plump little balls to place in the tray. Xavier, on his own, goes to help with the making, but instead of plump balls what comes out are just weirdly shaped ovals.
He stares at the dough like it personally offended him. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“Try making another one,” you say. “Maybe it’ll come out right this time.”
You focus on his hand movements as he repeats the process. His palms rub together back and forth, stretching the dough too thin. “Wait, stop. It’s your technique.”
“...My technique?”
Picking up the dough, you tell him to watch as you mold it into a ball. He stares at your hands intently, and then at his own. He mimics your movements, yet despite his best efforts the shape he makes stays the same. With a shake of your head, you go to grab his hands. It’s comical, his larger ones directed by yours, forcing him into small, circular motions. He doesn’t say a word, and neither do you. You open his palms, a perfect little ball of dough cradled in between. Your eyes stare not at the green dough, but the connection of your skin on his. His fingers are long, peeking out from beneath yours, but not frail. Never frail. There’s a slight rough texture to some of his digits, like he’s gripped something for far too long.
You cup his hands but yours don’t cover his wholly, and you wonder for a second how they'd look somewhere else, all splayed out.
“I think you got it.” You step aside, resuming your work. “Hey, you could open your own bakery anytime now.”
He lets out a small chuckle. “I think I’d go bankrupt in a week.”
“You’d have lots of customers! People are always drawn to you, anyway.”
Xavier blinks, tapering the surprise that almost overcomes him. “Is that what you think?”
“Are you bragging again?”
“No—”
Your laugh breaks the tension building on his face and in the kitchen. He relaxes upon realizing you’re only teasing him. A small, amused smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“Why do you keep doing this…”
Half an hour later, you two lounge on the sofa munching on freshly baked matcha cookies. A movie continues playing as you clear the plate.
“They’re not bad at all,” you say in between bites.
Xavier nods, swallowing one of his own. “I know. I wasn’t really expecting it.”
You decidedly ignore the dig at your teamwork efforts.
On the screen, an assassin manages to shake off and kill a group of attackers on his own. He uses everything at his disposal—chairs, tables, plates, even chopsticks. He possesses an otherworldly control of his body, a durability that doesn’t make sense for a human to have.
You nod towards the screen. “I bet I could do that.”
“Do what? Fight like him?”
The assassin on screen picks up kitchen knives and flings them through the eyeball of two of his attackers at once.
“I totally could.”
Xavier scratches his nape. “Um, sure.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“Well, it’s—“
“Is it because I’m a girl?”
“That’s not what I meant—“
“Do you wanna go? ‘Cause we can go right now.” You form two fists and playfully jab him in the shoulder. “Come on.”
The beginning of a smile cracks at his mouth. “Stop that.”
“Come on!” A jab. “You scared?” You change directions, feather punches gracing the side of his abdomen.
His face scrunches into something like a pained gesture. He groans as he hunches over himself. “That hurt.”
“I didn’t even—” You suddenly question your perception of strength. Your hands hover awkwardly over him, not knowing what to do. “Are you really—” His shoulders begin trembling, and a little snicker follows immediately. “Do you think you’re—” His body slumps sideways as you push him down on the couch. “ Funny? ”
His eyes are closed and low chuckles continue coming out of him, like a kid that’s gotten away with it.
You don’t know what’s so funny about the situation, why he finds it amusing enough to keep laughing. Your fingers aggressively poke at his torso, where you know him to be somewhat ticklish. You continue pushing his buttons, trying to find a sound you have yet to hear. There’s a small squeak, barely noticeable. He attempts to twist around, chest facing the couch, but you dig your fingers into his sides, below his ribs, before he can fully turn. His arms are tucked into his chest, smile wide and clenched teeth. You hear a small crackling, like that of a tiny sparkler. Ah, there it is. The inception of a bright new sound.
You look at him in wonder. “Did you just… giggle?”
Xavier abruptly stops. His mouth sets into a fine line. “No.”
“I think you just did.”
He peers sideways, trying to dispel his embarrassment. “You are hearing things.”
A snort escapes you. His attempt at covering up the truth of it is funny on its own, but the face he makes—the stretch of his lips as he gets flustered, the wandering eyes trying to deflect, all encompassingly adorable.
“You’re getting so red right now.”
Xavier brushes the back of his hand against his cheek. The slow blooming coral contrasts the spread of his freckles. “Stop teasing me.” There’s the tinge of a childish whine in his voice, and your mind grabs it and tucks it into your memory like a keepsake.
He looks so different like this, with his furrowed brows and pouty lips. So unlike the strong and fearless hunter everybody knows. Easily bashful and at the mercy of you, like an entirely new person. The comments roll behind your eyelids, and a strange sense of gratification trickles in like poison. To know he’s just someone on a screen for most, unapproachable and highly skilled to your acquaintances, generally far away and out of touch. Yet here he is, in your home, laying before you, adoringly ticklish and with a quiet sensibility one could be lucky enough to witness.
A terrible part of you wishes they did.
You realign your spine and settle again. “Alright, alright. Sorry.”
Xavier positions himself back properly. He reaches for another cookie, then takes the remote and switches to one of the local tv channels. “I just remembered, but the promotional ad is supposed to come out in a few minutes.”
“Don’t tell me you want to watch that.”
He looks you in the eye, that innocent, unblinking stare that beckons you to give into his wants. “Yes.” If he enjoys the portrait of your flushed face, he doesn’t say anything.
A day later, Tara sends you a string of strange messages.
Tara
currently watching our co-worker try not to lose his sanity
you haven’t been in the office these days
so you wouldn’t know
but he’s been acting so weird lately
[attached video link]
btw unless you wanna see people go crazy over your partner
don’t go online <3
You stare at the screen helplessly. As it turns out, the ad had also been released on various online video platforms. Meaning, anyone with internet connection could easily watch it if they so desired. The ping of a notification draws you back. You tap on it without even reading, embracing any distraction to take you away from the unwanted knowledge that now resides in your head.
Xavier ⭐️
Help
What is it
Can U help me pack
Idk what to bring
For what?
The trip
Are U not going or
Yes I'm going!
Be there in 5
Ok
Door’s unlocked
The doorknob feels foreign in your hand. A remnant from the past you can’t seem to understand, just like how you still can’t make sense of the penchant Xavier has for vintage items. You walk into his living room, greeted by a row of books and cds that seem to belong to many years past.
“You should've locked your door,” is the first thing you say when you enter the living room.
“Mm? Why would I do that?”
On the wooden table, not too far from where he stands, rests a CD player. You haven’t seen one of those in a while. Such a digital world has turned certain technologies unnecessary—obsolete. And behind him, tucked in a corner near the window, a collection of vintage vinyls. You wonder how old they are, how long it took him to collect those, if he searched along dusty shelves of forgotten shops to find anything specific, or if it was one of those purchases, where you take something home without knowing anything about it, all in the name of spontaneity. You wonder if any of those were gifts from someone else or from himself. More than anything, you wonder how a vinyl might sound, how it differs from the digitized sound that you’re used to.
“Anyone could come in.”
You might ask him to play one for you.
“But you’re not anyone.”
His voice draws your eyes towards him. He looks at you with this tilt of his head, as he always does. He looks at you like he always tries to decipher something, searching between the nooks and crannies for anything that you might give, unbeknownst to you. And he says these words so casually, rolling off his tongue like they mean nothing but everything at once. He makes it look so simple, at times.
You wonder if he’s always been like this, too.
“So, about packing?”
Xavier nods. “This way.”
He guides you to his bedroom. Big, warm, cozy and very much him. There’s a nice looking duffel bag on his bed and an array of clothes are thrown around it. He must’ve been in the middle of raiding his closet.
“I only have the essentials, I think.”
“That being?”
“A toothbrush. And a neck pillow.”
“That’s what you call the essentials?”
He stares at the items in disarray, a lost expression on his face. “For now.”
Off the top of your head, you make a list of basic necessities for him to retrieve. Clothes for training and leisure, underwear, hygiene products, a set of pajamas, and whatever else he might want to add, depending on space. He returns holding different pieces of clothing, running shorts and some sweats, as well as a couple of shirts, both athletic and for casual wearing. As if pulled by a magnet,you pick up a cream colored sweater littered with black, embroidered stars. The material feels feather-light and incredibly soft, almost melting into your touch.
“Pretty nice, isn’t it?”
“It’s so soft,” You are so enthralled by the delicate texture you can’t help but run the sweater along your cheek, “How is this possible?”
“I’m not sure, but I read it has something to do with the goat and the climate.”
You look back to the garment in your hands. “Goat?” Peeking into the back of the sweater, you read the letters on the label. 100% pure cashmere. With slow, deliberate movements, you position the piece back into his bed, afraid of making any harsh actions that might pull a thread. “You could’ve just said it’s cashmere.”
Xavier watches as you painfully back away from the sweater. “You don’t like it?”
“I do! I mean, it’s just—”
“You can have it.”
You stare at him dumbfounded, and he looks so serene when he offers this, like he truthfully means it. The words out of your mouth sound as disconcerting as you feel.
“Are you out of your mind?”
He shrugs. “Well, no.”
“Is this a thing you do? Give away extremely expensive pieces of garments?”
Xavier picks up the sweater and walks towards you. He places it in front of your body and hums. “It’d fit you.”
“I can’t just take it like that…”
To suddenly have something of him, something as expensive as this, the laundry scent that you know him for, lifting to your nose and enveloping your senses. With a sound mind, how could you possibly accept it?
“It’s a gift, then. For always being a good partner to me.” He hovers the opening of the garment above your head. “May I?”
Despite your inhibitions, you nod. Xavier fits the loose collar of the sweater through your head, and helps position your arms through each hole. He accommodates the piece so it falls properly, and you find it feels like utter heaven on your body. His hands brush the back of your neck as he untucks pieces of hair from the inside. He looks down at you dressed in the garment, and takes a moment. You wish you could bypass his reticent nature, pluck the thoughts from his head or identify the throbbing of his heart, know what he thinks and feels when he looks at you this way, with such a strange tenderness that you don’t even know where to place it.
“See, told you it’d fit.” You can only hope that the tiny bits of pleasure dancing in his eyes are real. “Besides, I have another set. That way, we can match.”
When you go home, you do so wrapped in the warmth of luxurious wool and the scent of him.