Archive of Our Own ^beta

The soothing sunshine poured through the rustling foliage. All over, the gentle dewdrops glistened, clinging to the lilies like lifelines, afraid to let go. A huge storm had just passed the night before, the remnants still visible. Little ones, unaware of the fates that awaited them, debated excitedly of the possibilities to get a day off school.

The Fount smiled to himself as he made his way to his humble office, informing the management cookies in there that they were, indeed, free to enjoy a holiday. Excitement rippled across as they all thanked him and made their way to their abodes.

He'd never quite understand these cookies, he decided. All this happiness for lazing around and doing nothing? When there was so much learning they could do in the meantime?

Or atleast that's what his past-self would've told.

But today, he remained a hypocrite as he nearly skipped to his desk and pulled out a note with the day's activities in it. He wanted to make sure he had no other work, for he had some very important business to attend to. His days off were rare and he desired to indulge in a certain cookie's presence.

A fond smile tugged at his lips as he flipped through the pages, scanning his neatly penned schedule.

His eyes landed upon a couple of Council meetings, (they can do perfectly well without him) his usual magic practice sessions (surely, not doing it a day couldn't hurt!) and finally something he'd hastily scribbled on with a doodle marker. He squinted his mismatched eyes, the monocle helping him, as he made out what it read.

Recluse B-day <3 DON'T FORGET!!

He slapped himself on the head - a very indignant action he allowed, simply because he was alone.

“Of course,” he muttered, shutting the book with a soft huff of disappointment at himself. “How could I forget?”

It'd been just another day of their long winded conversations (one sided, mostly) where Fount rambled about anything and everything to the silent cookie, whom he cherished.

It had all started with a student offering him a piece of chocolate. Out of polite curiosity, he’d asked what the occasion was and only then did he learn the concept of “bakedays.” He’d been delighted by it, naturally. For centuries, he’d existed without ever once pondering the day of his own creation or questioning the way of the Witches.

His train of thoughts had led him to ask his dearest Recluse if he had any clue about his own. After much pestering (and perhaps some cheek-prodding), Recluse had finally muttered his own bakeday. Fount had been so ecstatic that he wrote it down immediately, vowing never to forget.

But... of course he had to forget about it on the very day he was supposed to remember it.

He didn’t waste another second. Staff in hand, black robes fluttering behind him, he set off for Recluse’s home. But only to stop the moment he got out of the door as a sudden realization struck him.

“…Wait.” A slight frown adorned his face as he thought for a moment.

What exactly was he supposed to do when he got there? Simply say “Happy Bakeday, Recluse”? Pathetic. Unworthy of the wielder of Knowledge himself.

He was half tempted to grab a random cookie and ask for advice, but his pride quickly strangled the idea. He, unlike others, had a reputation to maintain.

Upon few moments of contemplation - standing in the middle of the road, looking a bit lost - he made up his mind and set course for the library. His black robes sweeped behind him as he went inside, the familiar scent of parchment greeting him.

He tried not to be too holed up in the library for a specific reason though.

If this were any other time, he simply would've been in the air - quite literally - and juggle read at least 5 books (or more) at once. But now he had a mission, he told himself firmly as his slender fingers traced the spines of the books, searching for the title he wanted to stumble upon.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, a hopeful gleam caught the corner of his eye as he found a promising title. Retrieving it he heaved a huge relieved sigh. He would learn all of its secrets, he decided. And maybe then he wouldn't suck too much in trying to make the other's special day memorable.

“This had better help,” he muttered, flipping it open and skimming through the pages with focus. Seconds trickled down into minutes and minutes rolled by until he was almost done with the whole thing.

It had some not-so-creative sappy bakeday wishes to share and even more awful decorative cards.

'Have some class!', he wanted to yell at the book, but unfortunately the pages really had no say in what was put onto them.

He tapped his index on it impatiently, trying to get a hold of himself.

This can't be that hard, now can it?! He's seen cookies do this on a regular basis (everyday was somebody's bakeday) and they didn't look half as stressed as he felt right now!

He turned to the next page, determined that if he saw one more cheesy wish sounding more like a pickup line than anything, he'd burn the book and be on his merry way. He braced himself, nearly resigned to disappointment. But then a singular heading caught his eye.

He blinked.

Then grinned.

Then immediately failed to stop grinning.

“Well, well…” he murmured, unable to keep the delight out of his voice.

“This is going to be fun.”

The harsh sunlight struck the bare walls, casting gloomy shadows on the plain white tiles. From the window he'd left open (an action he already regretted) came the annoying chirping of the bluebirds, each note pricking at his already frayed patience.

Tired two toned eyes stared straight at the ceiling hoping to vanish already. The day he dreaded every year was upon him once again, still as unwelcome as ever. He still wasn't sure how to feel about it. The more he understood the world the more he grew to resent it, so he really didn't see a reason to celebrate the day that marked the start of all his sufferings.

"Just another day", he reminded himself, pushing upright from his perfectly made bed. His hand found the familiar weight of his three-eyed staff resting beside him. Bare feet dragged across the cold tiles, each step echoing the same resigned truth:

Another day he was forced to endure for the sake of his existence.

“Meaningful gifts to present your partner!!” the header proclaimed in elegant, looping italics.

Fount blinked at the double exclamation marks floating beside the text. This cookie must really love their partner, he concluded.

He flipped the page expecting a list of actual gifts like trinkets, charms or anything as the title stated. Instead, he was greeted with what could only be described as a small but heartfelt sermon on the philosophy of gift giving. Fount wasn't complaining. He really needed this.

“It’s easy to gift anything,” the passage started,

“when the cookie you’re gifting is a complete stranger in your life.”

Ah, but that wasn't true for Recluse now, was it? They’d known each other so long, shared too many silent moments that to apply. Recluse was never a stranger to him. Even beneath Recluse’s indifference, there was… something. Something quiet, yes—but undeniably there. Fount was sure of that much.

“But it becomes confusing,” the passage continued,

“when the cookie in question truly matters.”

Fount found himself nodding along. So far, the book seemed to understand him perfectly. His fingers absentmindedly brushed the small keyhole stitched into his robes as he reached the final line.

“The key to the answer,” the page declared simply,

“lies in the inconsequential.”

He stared at the words for a moment. He tried flipping to the next page for any kind of elaboration. None came—maybe none was needed.

His blue-and-black robes pooled around him in a near-perfect circle as Recluse settled on the weathered riverside rocks. Though he knew his existence in this world was fleeting, moments like these allowed his mind to fall blessedly blank—free, for a short while, from everything he’d come to resent.

The riverside was quiet, save for the soft gurgling where water met jagged stone. The weather around him was gentle, almost pleasant, but such things no longer held meaning for those dull-eyes broken by the truth. He closed them anyway, surrendering to the comfort of silence over beauty he could no longer appreciate.

But silence, as always, proved temporary.

Hurried footsteps splashed through the shallows, sharp enough to cut through his fragile moment of calm.

'Could it be-?

'No.'

He dismissed the pesky thought without hesitation as the cacophony of shrill voices became clearer. The voices gave them away as they passed by the river-side.

High-pitched. Bright. Unburdened. Children, their laughter chiming through the air as if they had all the time in the world to play. Their bright eyes filled with innocence.

Recluse listened without listening, letting the sound pass through him like wind through the quiet branches. Once, perhaps, he would have understood it. Once, he might have been one of them—running, playing and even laughing with joy with his old friends...

'Ah.' he idly wondered, 'Slipping away again, am I?'

The thought held no weight. No consequence. He’d long accepted the parts of himself that were long gone by now. Fussing over them now would make no difference to this new life of his already frayed to the core.

As the young hearts wandered past, oblivious to the lone figure seated by the rocks, Recluse simply sighed, eyes wandering back to the quiet yet steady stream before him. The moving water was quite the fitting mirror, representing his slightly distorted figure with low-clarity.

He stared at it anyway.

He was determined, above all else, not to care.

"Inconsequential.", he muttered repeatedly. The word looped in his mind like a broken record, offering absolutely no enlightenment whatsoever. The scorching midday sun offered him no mercy as well, threatening to burn his already fragile dough.

Truly, could the world not spare him one moment of grace?

He couldn’t believe that after all this time—after all the observing and studying—he had learned nothing useful. Yes, he was beginning to understand the vague direction he needed to follow, but that didn’t make the ordeal any less maddening.

What was he supposed to exactly gift a cookie who wanted nothing?!

“What am I to do with you…?” he sighed to the empty air, rubbing his temples in irritation. He tried to sift through his memories, searching for any moment—just a flicker—where Recluse had expressed a slight genuine liking towards something. The teeniest preference. A passing comment about something.

Unsurprisingly, he came up completely devoid.

He considered, at first, something simple. A calm stroll through the meadows, maybe? Warm sunlight and the breeze guiding their steps—perhaps that would count as “inconsequential”?

But immediately, without fail, he could hear that familiar, stoic voice echoing in his mind:
Peaceful walks are but a faint memory now.

“Hm.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, trying to think of an idea.

All right. A plushie, perhaps? Fount let the idea simmer for approximately three seconds before a vivid image flashed through his mind: a lonely plush sitting on Recluse's empty shelf, untouched and spending the rest of it's miserable life as a dust-collector. Recluse would probably not even glance at it's direction

He winced. Another idea shoved at the back of his mind like all the other's before it. Fount exhaled sharply, flicking stray strands of silvery hair out of his face as if that alone could clear his thoughts.

“Inconsequential,” he repeated flatly. At this point, the word was starting to personally offend him. Why couldn't he figure it out yet?

He glanced around as though the sky itself might drop an idea into his hands. But all it gave him in return was heat and blinding light, forcing him to look away. None of his ideas seemed to please Recluse at all. The mere thought of getting Recluse something unworthy made Fount shudder.

Recluse didn't want or care about anything that could be conveniently purchased at one of the Kingdom's many small gift-shops, apparently. Not that Fount was planning on stooping that low, either way.

Fount groaned and slumped against the nearest wall, the small stars in his long blue hair seemed to shimmer under the sunlight. He was exhausted from thinking this hard but not ready to give up just yet.

“What am I missing…?” He asked to himself, something he seemed to do was talking to himself when frustrated.

Fount pushed himself off the wall with a small huff, dragging his staff behind him as he wandered aimlessly. If thinking wasn’t helping, then perhaps moving would. That was how research worked sometimes: walk around, stumble onto inspiration, pretend it was intentional. He hoped that would be the case to his current predicament

His steps carried him back towards the Spire, but a different part of it. He managed to stumble across the little corner of the Spire where had once made a small garden years ago.

A garden, though calling it that felt a bit too generous.

It had begun years ago, on a day when Fount with far too much enthusiasm and far too little restraint, had insisted Recluse to “try something new for once.” Recluse had stared at him blankly for a full minute before mumbling something that vaguely resembled a refusal. But Fount was stubborn, relentless, and had physically dragged the other cookie outside, oblivious to his complaints.

That was how they ended up planning a garden neither of them needed.

“Choose the flowers,” Fount had said then, crossing his arms with exaggerated seriousness. “If we’re doing this, it should be your choices. I want to see what you pick.”

Recluse had looked mildly surprised at being put on the spot… but he did eventually look around, gloved fingers brushing through the seed catalogues in the flower shop where Fount had taken him to. And to Fount’s surprise and silent delight, Recluse had actually chosen a few seeds instead of an immediate refusal on how 'ridiculous' this was.

Periwinkles.
Primroses.
Lilies.

They planted all of them together at the small area in the back of the Spire—Fount enthusiastically and Recluse reluctantly, but together nonetheless.

It had been… nice. A pleasant memory he was happy to recall.

But that was years ago. Too long ago.

And Fount, in all his brilliance, had completely forgotten to care for the garden. His schedule as the Virtue of Knowledge grew longer by the day and he barely gets days off like this anymore.

Yet nature, unlike him, had not forgotten. Their garden had grown without him.

Periwinkles had spilled far beyond the small border stones he’d placed, glowing faintly under the morning sun. Primroses poked proudly through the mess, defiantly blooming in tight clusters. The lilies—Recluse’s favorites (which  he would have never admitted) had thrived the most. Their white petals were on full bloom, dew lingering on their petals from the previous storm.

And the wildflowers…were something he didn't remember planting. It was almost as if the flowers decided to come there on their own volition as the time passed. He didn't mind at all, really. The bright pink and red spots of some small flowers and the fluffy dandelions were quite a sight.

Fount closed his mismatched eyes for a moment, letting the scent of flowers and damp earth wash over him. For the first time that day, his mind which had been so cluttered with questions and the pressure of giving the perfect gift slowed. Just a little.

“Is this what it means…?” he whispered to the garden, perspective eyes gazing at the assortment of flowers before him. He wasn’t entirely sure what question he was asking. Perhaps seeking clarity from flowers was ridiculous. Perhaps he was truly losing it.

But then his eyes drifted to something else. Something tucked at the far end of the overgrowth. The spot where Recluse used to sit, whenever he used to wait for him to return from his daily lectures.

A quiet shaded corner overlooked by lilies and too many memories.

Fount blinked, trying to get his thoughts in check.

Suddenly… the meaning of “inconsequential” didn’t feel quite so impossible anymore.

He had just figured out the perfect gift for Recluse.

Recluse remained by the riverside long after the children’s laughter faded into the distance. The world around him settled back into a comfortable quiet—just the steady rythm of water and the occasional rustle of leaves from the breeze. He preferred it this way.

He exhaled slowly, using his staff to stir the water in small circles, the ripples reflecting the sunlight. He allowed his eyes to slip closed, letting the breeze brush past his robes. It carried the faint scent of wet earth which was evidence of the storm from the night before and for a fleeting moment, he let himself have a moment of peace.

Only for it to immediately be broken by a high-pitched chirp.

Recluse opened his eyes in slight annoyance, glancing toward the source of his disturbance, he found only a small bluebird perched atop a smooth stone not too far from where he sat by the riverside.

The tiny creature puffed up its feathers, tilting its head at him with bold curiosity. Its black, beady eyes blinked as if waiting for him to say something.

Recluse sighed. “Not today,” he murmured, waving a tired hand in its direction. He already figured out what it wanted from him.

The bluebird did not care. It hopped closer.

Recluse pressed a palm to his forehead. “Persistent little thing…” Staring at the creature in slight disbelief

Another hop. A soft chirp. Then another. At this point, it seemed as if the bird had made it a mission to close the entire distance between them until it finally stood right beside his knee, looking up at him as if demanding acknowledgment.

His brows twitched. “Why are you all like this,” he muttered at the sky, because surely no one below it would give him an answer.

He looked down at the bird again, its feathers a soft blue shade—it reminded him faintly of blueberries, which would quite obviously be the reason for it's name

Another chirp from the expectant creature made something like faint guilt tug in his chest.

He hadn’t brought anything today. Not even the little scraps of bread he usually tucked into his robes before heading out. He had been too busy this morning—avoiding his own thoughts, avoiding the significance of the day. Feeding the birds, as trivial as it was, had slipped his mind for the first time in… he wasn’t even sure how long.

Recluse shifted slightly, looking away from the bird’s gentle stare. “…I have nothing for you,” he admitted quietly.

The bluebird chirped again—louder, cheerful, unbothered. As if to say: "I don’t care."

Instead of leaving like he expected, the bird hopped even closer. Then, to his surprise, it leaned in and nuzzled its tiny head against the sleeve of his black robe.

Recluse stiffened. “You really are too friendly for your own good.” Reluctantly letting the bird do it's thing. “I’m not…” he began, then stopped, because the bird chirped again to interrupt his words.

Of course it wouldn’t leave. Of course it would find comfort in the most inconvenient company. Of course it reminded him of someone.

Annoyingly persistent. Unreasonably patient. Always hovering nearby even when Recluse tried his best to appear uninviting.

Recluse’s shoulders dropped a fraction, accepting his fate. “…Fine,” he muttered under his breath. He extended a hesitant hand, fingers hovering above the tiny creature. The bluebird closed its eyes, leaning into the touch before he’d even made contact.

Recluse blinked once, almost startled by the trust.

Carefully—almost awkwardly—he let his fingertips graze the bird’s fluffy feathers. It was warm and velvety soft, the small action almost soothing. The bird chirped softly, pleased, nestling even closer to him with an affection so genuine it made his chest feel unbearably tight.

“…Ridiculous,” he murmured but didn’t pull his hand away.

The bluebird fluffed itself against his side, content to stay. Recluse’s expression remained flat, but the dullness around his eyes softened, just slightly. For all his inner protests, he did not push it away.

Maybe—just for this moment—he didn’t mind the company.

Fount crouched beside the overgrown patch, staff leaned against his shoulder as if it, too, were watching him work. His eyes moved over the flowers with the same clinical calculation he had when doing research. He had never actually made anything like this before but he did know everything he could possibly need to know. It was… quite a strange feeling.

Knowledge was supposed to make things easier. Yet here he was, staring at a cluster of overgrown periwinkles like they were some riddle he had to solve. He inhaled deeply.

“All right,” he muttered to no one, rolling up the sleeves of his robes to physically and mentally prepare himself for making his ridiculous idea. “Flower crown-making. A simple art. Completely beneath my capabilities. Nothing too complicated.”

He hated how wrong he was.

“It’s just a crown,” he reminded himself under his breath as he struggled to twist a stubborn primrose without snapping it's stem. “Children make these. Children.”

Fount froze, staring at the broken stem in disbelief. “…Really?” he muttered, holding it up as though it had personally insulted him. The delicate blue petals trembled in the light breeze. He set his failure aside carefully and examined the remaining flowers with narrowed eyes. Periwinkles, lilies, primroses… All perfectly lovely, all completely uncooperative.

Fount shut his mismatched eyes. Counted to three. A part of him just considered conjuring the flower crown using his magic—it would be done in merely a few seconds. But of course, the louder part screamed at him that it would count as 'cheating' so he forced himself to open his eyes again and stare at the mess of leaves and fallen petals on the floor.

He shifted onto his knees, gathering a few different flowers, trying to arrange them in some semblance of a circle. The stems were too short for him to braid. Suddenly another idea began to form, "Maybe there's another way to do this. Perhaps the solution could be changing the structure..." he muttered out, his fingers subconsciously tracing over a petal.

Braiding soft, green stems might have been the traditional way. It might have been the normal way. But that method was quite inefficient right now considering how weak the stems were. If he couldn't make the structure using the stems, he could just make one using something more stable, flexible but also light.

A solution presented itself. A simple one. A practical one.

He immediately reached into the small bronze-satchel at his hip—a satchel that, technically, was only meant for any important books or tools—and withdrew a neat coil of thin, silver crafting wire.

Fount held it up, blinking slowly, as though surprised at his own preparedness. “…Why do I even have this,” he whispered in disbelief, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small smile.

He straightened up, pushing his white bangs out of his face, as he tried again with a different approach. Why hadn't he done this sooner?

A stable base, adjustable diameter, durable and predictable. The wire bent obediently beneath his fingers unlike those traitorous flowers.

“Aha,” he said under his breath, satisfaction warming his tone. “At last. A cooperative material.”

Once he had a perfect circular frame, he began attaching the flowers one by one—using short bits of wire to fasten each stem to the structure. Suddenly the fragile primroses stayed where he placed them. The periwinkles didn’t droop. He even added a few leaves and more flowers that he thought looked good. The best part? Everything held.

His shoulders relaxed for the first time since he’d sat down. “Yes,” he murmured, leaning over his work with a bit of pride. “Yes, this is significantly better. I should have thought of this from the start.”

Fount held the completed crown carefully in both hands, turning it in such a way that the petals caught under the soft dusk. It wasn't as perfect as Fount would've liked it to be, a few flowers a bit out of place but maybe that's what made it look even prettier.

He exhaled softly, brushing stray strands of hair from his face. “Not bad,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Not bad at all. But I'm not done with you yet.”

Fount held the crown a little higher now, examining his work a bit more critically. The flowers looked alive even in the dimming light, but he wasn’t satisfied. A crown—especially one meant for Recluse—could not merely exist. It had to endure.

“Fragile,” he murmured, “beautiful, yes… but fleeting. Unworthy of its purpose if it fades by tomorrow.” A faint hum escaped his lips as his fingers traced along the frame.

He could enchant it, of course. Simple preservation magic: a spell to keep the flowers from wilting, from losing their softness and color, from betraying all of his painstaking effort.

Fount closed his eyes and concentrated on using his familiar magic. Tiny sparks of soft blue light wrapped around the petals, absorbing into them without changing their form. The crown glowed a faint blue for a moment before going back to it's original state after the spell was done.

His mismatched eyes opened briefly with curiosity, checking to see if it had worked. He sighed with content as he gently held the flower crown in his hands. “So small,” he whispered, almost fondly, “and yet it feels so… significant. How Inconsequential.” That word had undeniably stuck with him through this entire day.

Inconsequential. That was what this crown might seem to anyone else—a small, fleeting thing, easily overlooked. Yet to him, every careful twist, every placement of a flower, the hidden thoughtfulness. It was delicate. And yet, it mattered.

He took out a small box, lowering the crown into it and adjusting it a little so that nothing was bent or crushed. The soft velvet at the bottom, held it in place like a gentle promise. His gaze lingered for a moment before he closed the lid slowly, listening to the faint click of the clasp.

Ridiculous idea or not—he needed to see this on Recluse's blonde head.

The sun rose and fell with little to no gusto, its faint hues painting the evening sky a brilliant crimson that bled softly into violet. Only when the last bluebird had stopped its chirping and turned in for the night did Recluse finally stir from his resting place.

The day had been uneventful with the exception of one stubborn bluebird that demanded all his attention.

Still… if he were being honest—not that he ever would be—he hadn’t minded the company as much as he pretended to. The interaction had been...tolerable. It was the kind of inconvenience he could complain about while secretly appreciating the lack of anything worse. And for Recluse, that counted as a good day.

Locking his door, he laid back in his uncrumpled bed as if he'd never left it, sinking into the mattress with a tired sigh. Maybe if he were lucky, he thought, he'd sleep through this horrid day and wake up the next, unperturbed and uninterrupted. A rare blessing he doubted he'd ever receive, yet he clung to the hope anyway.

But fate had awful plans and even more awful timing.

Just when his heavy lashes threatened to close in what could've been a deep, dreamless slumber, the three sharp knocks to his wooden door snapped him awake as effectively as a bucket of cold water.

He just stayed there for a full second, staring at the ceiling in quiet disbelief. Then came the second round of knocks—same rhythm, same insistence, same complete disregard for his sanity. He groaned loudly into his pillow, half tempted to just ignore the visitor.

Of course. Of course fate wouldn’t let him rest. It never did.

Dragging himself upright, he rubbed the lingering sleep from his right eye with the back of his hand. He blinked blearily at the window; sometime during his attempt to sleep, the sky had fully shifted into a deep indigo littered with stars.

“Of course,” he muttered, shoving himself off the bed with far too little enthusiasm, “Can't even let me sleep...”

Recluse sighed under his breath as he headed toward the door looking far more tired than truly annoyed. He still reached the door. He still wrapped his hand around the handle despite every voice in his head insisting he ignore it.

The only reason he even bothered was because he recognized that knock.

Three taps. Evenly spaced. Firm. A rhythm he’d never admit he knew by heart.

No one visited him in the first place, so he'd gotten accustomed to silly mundane things such as the obnoxious patterns of wood tapping.

‘This better be good,’ he thought bitterly, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. The night air brushed against him—and standing on the other side was a silhouette he painfully recognized.

Fount.

The scholar stood there, slightly out of breath, as though he’d run all the way instead of floating or using one of the countless more efficient methods he had at his disposal. His white bangs were a bit messy from the wind, his chest rising and falling just a touch faster than normal.

Recluse didn’t fail to notice the way Fount’s already luminous eyes brightened even further upon seeing the mere sight of him, as if Recluse himself were something precious. Ugh.

Recluse voluntarily chose to ignore the uncomfortable flutter that stirred in his chest at that look, rolling his eyes as he addressed the scholar's uninvited presence. “What,” he rasped, voice strained as usual, “brings you here at this ungodly hour?”

Fount hesitated, a fleeting flicker of nervousness beneath his smile. That alone was enough to make Recluse frown. "What did you do?"

Then Fount blurted out, “Do you trust me?” Too fast, too shaky, and too rehearsed.

Recluse stared at him. The question was absurd. Sudden. Absolutely uncalled for. And the look on Fount’s face, the hopeful yet nervous expression was even more unforgivable.

“No,” Recluse replied bluntly, crossing his arms.

...Or tried to. His staff made the gesture awkward, and Fount’s amused glance at the struggle didn’t help his mood.

“Why should I?” he added, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Fount exhaled, soft and resigned, as though he’d already expected that answer and already rehearsed his disappointment for it. He stepped closer, his posture shifting sincere.

“Pretty please?” he tried again, words saccharine and offensively sweet. He clasped his hands together, lashes blinking up at the stoic blonde who just glared at him for his absurdity.

“It’ll be worth it,” he continued, stretching the words out in a slightly pleading tone. “I swear.”

Recluse glared even harder at that, eyes narrowing.

Unfortunately, Fount’s persistence was relentless. And Recluse—who should’ve closed the door a long time ago—found himself standing there, caught in the sheer stupidity of the moment.

He could hold firm.
He should hold firm.

But Fount wasn’t backing down. And… strange as it was to admit, Recluse felt no irritation at the persistence. Not really. Just a quiet, confused warmth he immediately tried to smother.

“Fine,” he muttered at last, his cheeks were already heating from the inevitable embarrassment he knew this man was going to put him through.

Fount lit up. If he’d been bright before to see Recluse, now his smile was practically a solar flare. “Thank you, my dearest,” he said, tone soft enough to be lethal. "For trusting me."

The tips of Recluse's ears heated up a bit more from the nickname. He shut his eyes on instinct, refusing to witness any more of this humiliation. "Don't call me that."

Even with his own eyes closed, the eyes embedded in his staff stayed open—offering him a vantage point. Recluse could see the scholar’s fond face illuminated in the moonlight, the soft curve of a gentle smile as he reached into the folds of his robes.

But before he could make out what it was, he felt it. A light delicate weight settled on top of his unkempt hair. Recluse’s entire body went rigid.

And when he thought Fount was done with his nonsense? Of course he wasn't! 

The scholar suddenly leaned in before Recluse could react—too close for comfort. He had a hand on Recluse's shoulder for support as he whispered against the other's ear with far too much affection that made the blonde's heart skip.

A warm breath brushed against the shell of Recluse's ear before Fount whispered out a soft and sincere: "Happy Bakeday Recluse."

He felt his breath hitch. The sheer audacity of this scholar never fails to catch him off-guard. The sudden proximity and whispered words were far too distracting to keep his composure in check. The subtle pressure of the hand on his shoulder, the faint scent of blueberries from the other was enough to make his face burn a degree hotter.

Then just as sudden as it had happened, the Fount pulled back, the warmth leaving Recluse like it had never even been there in the first place. Then he heard it—A small giggle before it turned into a full-on laughing fit.

Recluse’s eyes snapped open at that offensive sound. He glared at Fount, who was standing a few steps back now, hands over his face, shoulders shaking ever so slightly with restrained laughter and that infuriating grin was brighter than ever.

“Sorry,” he said, managing to sound completely unapologetic while still stifling his giggles, hands raised in mock surrender, “I always wanted to do that to you”

Recluse clenched his jaw, a hand reaching to cover his face. “What exactly on Earthbread, have you done to me?” he asked, trying his best to sound irritated. He knew the scholar hadn't cursed him, but still he had to know.

Fount’s grin didn’t falter, not even a fraction. He tilted his head, letting the moonlight catch against his hair “Nothing significant... Just a little something I made for you” he said lightly, the sparkle in his eyes never fading.

Recluse narrowed his eyes. “Nothing significant?” he repeated, voice sharp, though there was an undercurrent of hesitation.

The scholar chuckled, turning his head and brushing a strand of hair from his own face. “Shh. Don’t think about it too hard. Just… look.” He gestured to the stream near them. “See for yourself.”

Without another word, he grabbed Recluse’s free hand—without any consent, of course, tugging him forward despite the blonde’s muffled protests and stiff resistance. Recluse reluctantly shuffled along. And yet, the subtle warmth of Fount’s fingers holding his did little to calm his racing heart.

When they reached the stream, Fount let go just enough for Recluse to bend forward, gaze falling onto his own reflection in the slightly rippling water. It stared back at him, its head adorned with an intricate bunch of... leaves?

No they were flowers, he realized upon closer inspection. The crown on his head shifted slightly as he dipped his head downwards to get a better view.

'Wait a minute... These flowers seemed oddly familiar...'

And then it hit him.

"Oh." He swallowed, words lodged somewhere between sentiment and disbelief. “You… made this for me?” His voice was barely above a whisper, though the edge of incredulity refused to fade entirely.

Fount, hovering just behind him, just leaned over the blonde's shoulder with that soft, knowing smile. “Of course I did. You said you liked our garden, remember? I thought… why not bring a piece of it to you?”

Beautifully gilded petals sparkled in the moonlight as he stared at them through the reflection, the silver glow highlighting the delicate edges of each flower. A strange, unfamiliar warmth stirred within him as he adjusted the fragile crown on his head.

"They're primroses with a touch of periwinkle," the Fount elaborated, as if Recluse hadn't noticed how the soft blues peeped out shyly through a sea of yellow, subtle but impossible to miss.

"I know," the Recluse replied, feigning indifference, despite his hands continuing to trace the edges of the delicate flowers. He was careful, as if it would shatter if he touched it wrong. Fount seemed to notice it as he smiled before he started again.

He chuckled a little before adding "They're enchanted," to reassure the blonde, a faint note of pride mixed into the gentle whisper.

Recluse turned his gaze fully upon him, heterochromatic eyes widening ever so slightly, waiting, silently prompting him to elaborate.

Fount began, taking the invitation to speak, "What I mean is that," He was happy to finally have someone patient enough to listen to his rambling after all the effort he had gone through, "they won't wilt or wither away. A humble gift from yours truly."

The blonde rolled his eyes when the scholar did a short bow after he was done, nodding to the explanation. His gaze returned to the token of affection, the crown settling gently upon his head.

Fount reached forward, intertwining their fingers with the ease of someone who had always known they belonged there. The Recluse just sighed but didn't let go, feeling the warmth seeping through the gentle hold.

"You know," Fount began, sensing the other's unwillingness to start a conversation, "are you perhaps curious about the exquisite reason I picked this?"

Recluse let out a long, resigned sigh, tilting his head back to stare at the pale moon hanging high above them. “Are you going to stop if I say no?” he asked quietly, voice filled with the familiar soft weariness.

"Nope," Fount replied immediately, shaking his head with a soft giggle, the sound warm and infectious. Without further ado, he began to retell his exploits through the day with the speed and fervor of someone who simply could not contain himself.

Recluse listened with a strange combination of indifference and reluctant attention, nodding at certain parts for reassurance. And when the Fount was cracking up at a particular part, his gaze softened despite himself.

He caught himself staring at the way the moonlight caught the strands of the scholar’s hair, almost making the tiny stars in it glow, illuminating the soft curve of his face and his fond features. And for just a moment, it seemed as if the outside world faded away, leaving only the two of them in their own world near the river-side.

His heart melted just slightly at the thought of someone caring enough to go through such measly troubles for him. To have someone who remembered, who noticed, who cared—it was an unfamiliar sensation, yet somehow comforting.

"Next year," the Fount was saying, "You and I are going to that café. No buts. You're stuck with me." He leaned his tired head against the blonde’s shoulder, the small weight of him grounding the moment, the faint warmth pressing against Recluse. 

Recluse offered a non-committal hum just to prove he was listening, one of his hands running through the soft strands of the other's hair, with a gentle fascination he'll never admit.

This time, the words 'next year' did not stir the familiar dread that usually accompanied plans or expectations, rather something akin to hope flared in his chest. The thought that they might share another day, another quiet moment like this, made the corners of his lips twitch almost imperceptibly.

'If every year were like this,' he found himself thinking, a rare smile breaking through the usual guarded mask, tugging at the corners of his mouth 'Maybe bakedays could be tolerable,'  

The night air wrapped around them, carrying the faint scent of the flowers from the gentle gift. Recluse felt the steady rhythm of Fount’s breathing against his shoulder, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself stay still, let himself exist simply in the presence of someone who wanted to be there.

It was not grand. It was not loud. It was just… enough.

And that, somehow, was everything.