[ The orbs of hope hold two distinct memories for him, opposite in every way. Memories of the dead. Of souls fading and returning from the sea. Memories of celebration. Of souls, brightly burning, embarking on a new voyage. ]
I was collecting them. The jars of hope that day. [ He tells him, no longer far away; present in the telling. ] The day my brother turned into a beast. The day you fought him.
[ He breathes deeply, letting those memories slide back into the folds of his mind. They still hurt. Seeing his brother turn into a twisted version of their father. Seeing Allen struck by his ice, bleeding and fading in his arms. Memories of that day still haunt him. Still clog his throat, still overwhelm him. When he walked into the room decorated with those jars, that long-ago feeling of loss overtook him, overshadowing the burgeoning feelings of affection tied to them too. ]
I forgot [ he admits, expelling a shaky breath ] they were at the Tanabata Festival, too.
[ Overwhelmed by affection, the corner of his mouth tugs up, even as the corner of his eyes well up with a hint of tears. ]
Thank you for reminding me. That bad memories can also be good.
[ His eyes glitter with affection, regarding Allen with a soft look brimming with more than those burgeoning feelings tied to the jars strung up around them. They had taken root since then, matured. Developed into a kind of secret correspondence of the heart. He kisses him, loving how natural it is to kiss him. Loving the certainty in his heart, no longer conflicted over details, knowing this feeling was so deeply entrenched it would always be a part of him.
All those feelings, he pours into the kiss, no longer afraid when his quirk fluctuates between fire and ice. He lets it bleed into his fingers that gently touch his face. Lets it bleed into his hair, letting one side dance in flames and the other freeze in frost. Lets it bleed into his mouth, tongue half-cold, half-hot. Trusting his heart to sort it out on its own. ]
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I was collecting them. The jars of hope that day. [ He tells him, no longer far away; present in the telling. ] The day my brother turned into a beast. The day you fought him.
[ He breathes deeply, letting those memories slide back into the folds of his mind. They still hurt. Seeing his brother turn into a twisted version of their father. Seeing Allen struck by his ice, bleeding and fading in his arms. Memories of that day still haunt him. Still clog his throat, still overwhelm him. When he walked into the room decorated with those jars, that long-ago feeling of loss overtook him, overshadowing the burgeoning feelings of affection tied to them too. ]
I forgot [ he admits, expelling a shaky breath ] they were at the Tanabata Festival, too.
[ Overwhelmed by affection, the corner of his mouth tugs up, even as the corner of his eyes well up with a hint of tears. ]
Thank you for reminding me. That bad memories can also be good.
[ His eyes glitter with affection, regarding Allen with a soft look brimming with more than those burgeoning feelings tied to the jars strung up around them. They had taken root since then, matured. Developed into a kind of secret correspondence of the heart. He kisses him, loving how natural it is to kiss him. Loving the certainty in his heart, no longer conflicted over details, knowing this feeling was so deeply entrenched it would always be a part of him.
All those feelings, he pours into the kiss, no longer afraid when his quirk fluctuates between fire and ice. He lets it bleed into his fingers that gently touch his face. Lets it bleed into his hair, letting one side dance in flames and the other freeze in frost. Lets it bleed into his mouth, tongue half-cold, half-hot. Trusting his heart to sort it out on its own. ]