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“Do you like birds?” Xavier asks, hovering over your shoulder, his eyes never once parting from your face.
“What?” The movement of your pen comes to a halt. You crane your head over to catch a glimpse of Xavier, not ready for the proximity that exists—or rather, doesn’t—between your faces. In the reflection of his blue-grey eyes, you can see yourself; shocked.
Xavier’s gaze never once wavers from yours, his blue-grey eyes never taking the time to blink, desperate to drink your expression in; sublime.
“Do you?” he reiterates, his voice steady. You wonder if you’re the only one who’s bewildered.
Turning away, your face growing warm, you respond, "Yeah, I like birds.”
Xavier’s gaze never once wavers from the expression on your face, the way you begin to fiddle with the pen, the way your eyes cast downwards, staring at the post-mission report. What would it take? Xavier wonders, his lips drawing into a thin line. To become a report?
What would it take to be the pen that balances in between your fingers? What would it take to be the chapstick that glides over your lips?
Xavier wonders if you like birds (they’re always chirping outside his window), if you like strawberries (is that why that’s your chapstick flavor?) or if you like stars (you know, he knows a thing or two about stars), or if you like fish (he likes fish).
Most of all, Xavier wonders if you like him.
He’s always wondered that, really. Back then and now. Xavier has always had so much wonder within him; it stretches across planets, across galaxies, across timelines. Xavier’s wonder coexists with the rumble of his stomach, the spasm of his heart—it coexists as the wildest, however, with his brain, tucked away like a chain, tied to the fervent thought of you. Wonder.
You look up at him, remaining seated in your chair, watching Xavier drift off into his own reveries, his brows furrowing while his bottom lip juts out slightly.
“What about you?” you ask, feeling half-bad for him as he snaps from his stupor, staring at you with that look of his; that look where he frowns, just a little; that look where his eyes grow wide, glimmering; that look where he seems so tiny and so adorable that, for but a second, you forget that he’s supposed to be one of the best hunters at the Association.
“Me?” He tilts his head a little, discombobulated.
“Do you like birds?”
“Yeah,” Xavier responds, nodding. “I love birds.” And fish. And stars. And you.
“That makes the two of us then.” You grin. Xavier mirrors your smile, his blue-grey irises reflecting the expression which it beholds.
The next day, Xavier pulls up with a bird in hand.
“What?!” you exclaim, shocked. Xavier’s index finger and thumb come to form a circle around the neck of the bird, its feathers splaying all across his hand, its beady eyes blinking once, twice, before a chirp resounds from its opened beak.
Despite being held like a fine lab specimen, the bird doesn’t seem to mind Xavier’s grip. You stare at its head, a shade of pale yellow while the rest of its body fades into a tender grey, spotted with white.
“This is Alarm Clock,” Xavier finally explains, lifting the bird up slightly towards the artificial light. Alarm Clock juts its chin up towards the roof. You think you can make out the rays of the sun protruding from its head.
“Alarm Clock?” you echo. “You keep birds, Xavier?”
He lowers Alarm Clock, the hints of a smile ghosting across his face. “No, not really.”
“But… you know this one?”
“Alarm Clock wakes me up every day. That’s why it’s named alarm clock.”
“Oh.” You mirror his grin, and although his face doesn’t betray his thoughts, Xavier rejoices. He is going to go home today under the impression that he absolutely nailed it. You smiled at him like that too back in Philos, wholly, with your crinkled eyes and your gummy-like expression. That was love.
“Do you have more birds?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. Xavier sets Alarm Clock down, its beak sifting through your various reports and pens.
“Yes. There’s one called Fatso.”
You laugh. “Wow.” The sound stays with him still, pervading, despite your gaze departing from him to stare at Alarm Clock, its outstretched wings drowning in your attention. This—he doesn’t pay any mind to the bird, his blue-grey eyes absorbing your features like light in a vacuum—this is love.
The next day, Xavier’s impression—that he swept all potential competitors, that he triumphed and won your smile and therefore your affection—completely shatters.
You’re smiling. At Jeremiah. Who even is that? Xavier had brought you to a flower shop in an attempt to surprise you with a new side of himself; the gardener, florist side, which he doesn’t really tend to often, but he knows enough about since he knows Jeremiah—wait, no, because of sheer luck and personal passion.
His flower knowledge has nothing to do with Jeremiah. Who even is that, anyway?
He did not intend to bring you to a flower shop so you could hit it off with some Jeremiah dude.
“That’s hilarious!” you exclaim, unable to contain your laughter. Xavier scowls. What’s so hilarious? Jeremiah? Is Jeremiah hilarious? Maybe you’re just so joyous, finding mirth and humor in places where others don’t. Xavier likes—no, he loves that about you.
“Right? And then—oh, hey, Xavier. When did you get here?” Jeremiah asks, smiling that damned smile of his. Xavier’s brows furrow for but a second, only a second, because your gaze quickly finds him and Xavier can’t afford to be frowning when you’re looking at him.
Like a vacuum, he absorbs your stare, your light, basking in its color and its magnitude. Colossal.
“I was here the whole time,” Xavier mutters, not even wanting to look at Jeremiah, for he can’t afford to waste his eyes on some random guy (again, who even is that?) when you’re right there. Tangible.
“Have you two known each other long?” you ask. Jeremiah hums vaguely. Xavier shakes his head.
“Not that long.”
Jeremiah doesn’t even bat an eye.
“I’m just a florist.” Who even likes flowers anyway?
That’s right, Xavier thinks. Know your place.
“Your flowers are really beautiful,” you affirm. “I love the lilies.”
Did Xavier ever mention that he likes flowers? Maybe he should bring it up, so the two of you can talk about lilies and flora, and this good-for-nothing Jeremiah dude can go back to doing florist things. Or maybe not. Maybe this good-for-nothing Jeremiah dude can just see himself out.
“Do you know flower language, [Name]?” Jeremiah asks, feigning ignorance to the piercing stare which stabs the side of his head, the faintest essence of a light blade which manifests at the base of his neck. He shivers.
Still, Jeremiah thinks that the prank comes first. This is necessary. For Xavier’s own good. Because lilies, in flower language, symbolize rebirth; a fresh start; innocence. Jeremiah looks at you—the blade materializes fully, cool against his skin—and he thinks, truly, wholly, that this is it. The rebirth. The start.
He looks at Xavier, who withdraws his scowling glare, and his sword, the moment you turn towards him. Well, Jeremiah thinks you were turning towards him, to be polite, of course, but Xavier makes an effort to step forward, effectively blocking your view of Jeremiah. Who even is that guy?
“No,” you reply glumly. “What do lilies mean?”
Xavier thinks, You. Jeremiah responds, “Rebirth.”
This is a fresh start. This is a chance at redemption. This is it; the rebirth; the life; the moment. Everything will have been worth it. Every life, every death, every planet, every protocore—everything, everything!
Xavier looks at you; like light in a vacuum. He absorbs the sight of your face greedily, the features which leave an imprint in his mind, a figure, a wish. Xavier has waited. He has always waited for you, after all; but this last time, he has waited a little longer. Three hundred years.
Xavier looks at you; it was all worth it. The curve of your lips, the shape of your face, the ridge of your brows. Rebirth, a fresh start, a change. And yet, Xavier thinks that, across every life, every planet, every universe, you have always been as you are: ethereal. Otherworldly. Radiant.
“Thank you for spending time with me today, Xavier,” you say, smiling. Only today? Xavier thinks. What’s a day in the face of a lifetime? His two-hundredth spring—how many days is that? Not enough. Xavier looks at you, Not enough.
This—his gaze traces over your face, stopping and shuddering within the reflection of your pupils—this, this is not enough. His hands have become jealous of his eyes, unable to cup your face in between his grasp the same way that his irises can clutch onto your figure like a claw.
To feel the warmth of a star, to hold the world, even for but a moment; Xavier wants. After all, he has only ever waited.
What’s a day in the face of a lifetime? Or two? Or three? Or, or—he returns your smile—or, a millennia? A universe?
“I will always spend time with you,” Xavier states bluntly. “Always.”
Today, tomorrow, and the tomorrow thereafter, and many more tomorrows. This is a start. A rebirth. A change. A chance at redemption—and Xavier thinks that this is it. This is life. This is love.
After all, both you and him like birds. And lilies. So, really, Xavier thinks that the two of you are meant to be; this is love.