Solstice and Eclipse: Part IV

Prologue

When (F/N) (L/N) woke up that morning there were no signs that that day would turn out to be any different from any other day. He was awake before the grass had the chance to shake off the morning dew. The other's probably wouldn't wake up for at least another hour, but he'd always had a tendency to stir the minute the sun started to creep above the horizon. The last traces of sleep left him in the form of a large yawn as he stretched out his arms. He wiped the pads of his fingers several times across his eyes and then rolled onto the side facing his nightstand, reaching for the book he'd left there. He would read until he heard that someone else was awake, then get dressed and head to the kitchen for breakfast.

The rest of the day also offered no hints, no word of what was to come, passing as it ever did. It wasn't until day gave way to night did tragedy rear its ugly head, hidden in the darkness of the nighttime. It started as an itch in his eyes, the irritating sensation rousing him from his sleep. At first, he tried to blink it away, but the itch quickly grew to a sharp stinging, and finally a searing burn. He cried for his parents.

Half asleep, his father and mother shuffled into his room, eyes heavy and hair unkempt. His father turned on his bedside lamp with a 'click' while his mother gently rubbed his forehead. They didn't even have time to scream before they were disappeared in a flash of blinding light. Frightened by what he felt, (L/N) closed his still burning eyes. He had no way of understanding the power he now possessed, no way of knowing what he had just done. All he knew was his eyes were on fire and he was alone.

When (F/N) (L/N) went to bed that evening, eight years later, there were no signs that that night would turn out to be any different from any other night. It was nearing midnight and Kendo had snuck back to her room some twenty minutes prior. A single blue and white pill muffled the rattling of the furnace, and, noticing with some shock that he felt something close to content, he drifted off to sleep, the corners of his mouth upturned in the smallest trace of a smile.

The days that followed were the worst of his life. And when Kendo left Shonien's a month later, he was left broken. The guilt kept him from eating and the nightmares prevented sleep. Some weeks later he tried to find solace in the piano as he had so many times before, but when he sat down at the bench all he could hear was the echo of the ghost of her laughter. His love for the instrument had been taken and so he left it to gather dust.

Most of his time was spent clinging to the stuffed bear she had given him. For over a year he tried desperately to find any trace of her warmth left behind in its aging fur, clinging to the memory of her. Memories of the nights they spent simultaneously talking about everything and nothing. Memories of her laughter and her kindness and her warmth. The things that made him happy. The things that made him smile. But the memories of the time they had together were soon tainted by his isolation and so he abandoned them. He never smiled since.

That had been the final confirmation he didn't even know he'd been searching for. A simple two-word theory, proven before it could be asked. People leave. People leave and people lie. They might say otherwise. They might even promise to stay. But (L/N) had heard enough promises to know they were always empty. Words held no truth. The only truth was the simple fact that people leave. In the end, it's all they could be trusted to do.

With that knowledge in mind, (L/N) decided. He decided he would never be hurt again. And so, picking up their broken promises he used them to build his walls. Brick by brick until his heart was made of stone.

When (F/N) (L/N) first met Momo Yaoyorozu there were no signs that she would be any different from any other person. And that's why he was caught so off guard. Because there were no signs. There were no signs that she had gotten close to him. There were no cracks in the wall he had built around his heart. No breach or fracture for her to have snuck through. But one day he heard her voice and found it soothing. One day he felt her hand and found it calming. One day he found that he wanted her to stay.

He never expected this. He never expected to feel this way. He was drowning. Sinking in the ocean's depths until he finally surrendered to it, too tired to fight it. The water filled his lungs, and the ocean pulled him deeper, crushing him in its frigid embrace, until the cold was the only thing he knew. Then suddenly she was there.

The warmth she brought was unfamiliar and it frightened him. So hot that he was afraid if it touched him, he would surely get burned. He felt vulnerable around her. Exposed. So, he retreated further within himself and put up more walls. But she was patient and kind and warm.

So warm.

But he couldn't let her in. No matter how much he wanted to. She was only a person. And he knew better than anyone, people leave. So, he told himself he didn't want her warmth. He told himself he didn't crave it. But as much as he tried to deny it, he too, was only a person. And he knew, people lie.

He said he didn't want it, but it was too late for that. The ocean didn't seem so cold when the cold was all he knew. But then came the fissure and it bathed him in its heat. All it needed was one single crack. One fracture and the walls he had built would break down. The dam would burst, and he would find himself once again drowning. So instead, he opened the flood gates.

He knew he could lose control if he became overwhelmed. But by setting the pace he could mitigate the pressure and let her in slowly. He could take the time to do things right. And most importantly, he could control which parts of him he allowed her to see. And he could keep the truth hidden.

Yes, she may have knocked down his walls, but that didn't mean she had found him. The walls were built simply to protect him, but he had been hiding log before they existed. Before the fissure, before the ocean, before the walls. Long ago on a dark, quiet night, he had locked it away.

Some might call it his heart. Others might say it was his soul. Regardless of what name you gave it, it was the part of him that could feel. The part of him capable of feeling joy and love and all the foolishly blissful idiosyncrasies that came with being alive. But it was also the part of him that felt pain, and in fear of pain's return he had tried to kill that part of him. Now it was starved and malnourished, but not so weak that it couldn't still feel hope. And hope was a dangerous thing.

Hope, in and of itself, was not something to fear, but it is hard to kill, and it always ends in despair. Because hope is not truth. Hope is a dream, the whetstone that sharpens the blade of reality. And those cuts run deep, he had the scars on his heart to prove it. And even knowing all that, he still allowed himself to hope.

The problem is in order to feel those things, in order to hope, the part of him that feels had to be open. He had to be vulnerable. He had to be exposed. He had to stand in the light and be seen by the world.

But what the world saw was ugly.