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He watches her a lot, she’s come to realize. Whether Lumine’s fighting, eating, or sleeping, Wanderer always keeps her in the corner of his eyes. Even when he leans in for a kiss—and she obliges easily, already used to his spontaneity—he never looks away.
When they break apart, she says offhandedly, “You never close your eyes.”
Wanderer raises an eyebrow. Lumine elaborates, feeling a little silly saying it aloud, “When you kiss me, you don’t close your eyes.”
Wanderer wants a lot from her. Always greedy for more, always testing her limits. But Lumine, she doesn’t mind him. He has a mean mouth, but he kisses so sweetly. So Lumine doesn’t mind the kisses, no. Because sometimes, he has that innocent, peaceful curve to his brows that makes her ache indescribably.
And she thinks about it too much: what he could have been, what he was, who he is.
Who am I to you? she had asked him once.
Wanderer took a moment, gaze narrowed in on the side of her face in contemplation. By that time, Lumine had become well-acquainted with this expression. Knew how to decipher every one of them, in fact—and it was a fact that unsettled her, but not enough to keep herself guarded or push him away.
A reminder of who I am, he finally said, plucking a stray leaf out of her hair with a casual flick of his wrist. To me, someone who understands.
He pressed the stem between his thumb and fingers, presenting it to her like an irreverent offering of incense. The gingko leaf drooped, fanning out to catch the bright sunlight, a feathered yellow.
I don’t need it, she told him, discomfited by the strange gesture. But something had compelled her then, to take the leaf from him, to twirl the blade between her thumb and forefinger.
But you wanted it. Enough to reach out and take it when it was offered, he pointed out. Lumine faltered, unable to refute him, and Wanderer smiled in that sly way of his, eyes set alight by a deep satisfaction. A cat that got the cream, was what Lumine thought, and she had made a note of the comparison, knowing Nahida delighted in them—but the thought then ended in a flurry of fabrics, scattered away like a disturbed flock of birds, because the next thing Lumine knew, his lips were on hers.
That was the first time. And even then, he hadn’t closed his eyes.
“Why do you close yours?” Wanderer counters, sliding his face so close to hers that she can see the delicate splay of each violet eyelash on his skin.
Lumine hesitates. “Reflex,” she says.
“There’s your answer, traveller,” Wanderer says. “Have you forgotten that I’m not human?”
As if he doesn’t remind her whenever he has the chance.
“Don’t be obstinate,” Lumine chides, leaning back to rap his forehead with her fingers. Another strange habit that’s built up along with the kisses, but he usually takes it. Annoyed, but knowing that whenever she does it, it’s because he deserves it.
Only this time, Wanderer catches her wrist before she can land a hit. “No,” he says softly.
Lumine blinks. “Don’t make such a strange expression,” she says uncomfortably. “You’re making this weird.” He likes playing these games, and she may oblige him most of the time, but that doesn’t mean she always will. But when she tries to pull her wrist away from his grip, he holds on even tighter.
“Do you really not know why I keep my eyes open?” he asks coolly. Lumine stops struggling, sighing in defeat. Let him do as he likes. It’s not as if she’s not used to it. “Why I always look at you like this?”
“Do I seem like I do?” she says.
“I think you do,” he murmurs, dipping his head to rest on her shoulder. Lumine’s heart drums against her ribs like an imprisoned secret, banging to be seen. She wonders if he can hear. She worries about if he does. The next he speaks, she can feel the vibration of his throat, the cool lash of his breath, and she flinches. “I think you understand me better than you’d like to acknowledge, traveller.”
He is supposed to be just a puppet. He is supposed to be just a human. He is supposed to be his own or Nahida’s or anything but hers. “Wanderer,” Lumine says, hesitantly placing her other hand on his head.
“Traveller,” he mimics, but doesn’t lift his head.
Lumine stays silent, struggling for words. She doesn’t know how to put him at ease, not without lying. Something that comes so easily with others, but with him, she’s at a loss.
“Is my existence,” Wanderer asks, “something that pains you, traveller?”
The sudden vulnerability almost makes her startle.
“...No. I like you, ▇▇▇,” Lumine says, stroking his hair. His true name slips out of her mouth easily, dropped like a pebble into a puddle. Fabric ripples as Wanderer shifts, but he stills doesn’t let go of her wrist. His other hand finds her dress, a fistful of the white cloth as though loathe to lose even that. He’s shivering—no, trembling, she realizes. “More than I should, truth be told.”
Because she doesn’t mind his careful touch, and she doesn’t mind his careful gaze, and she doesn’t mind his careful kisses. She likes them, in fact. Likes how he can be so spiteful sometimes, even as he’s cooking her dinner. Likes how his mouth speaks so harshly, but feels so soft. Likes how he holds onto her as though she’s a blink away from disappearing. She knows what he wants, why he's good to her, and she wants to return what she can.
“I like it when you kiss me,” she says gently. “I’m happy you’re here, next to me. Is that enough for you, wanderer?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbles into her shoulder.
“I like you,” she says again. “I do.”
“Enough to stay?” he asks, lifting his head to stare at her.
And maybe she does know him better than she wants to think, but that understanding extends both ways. They are running lines that are sometimes parallel, sometimes not. Their journeys are not the same, but where there is an intersection, there is a meeting. What is between them is not merely empty space.
“Enough to stay,” she confirms.
Wanderer clicks his tongue. “For now,” he says pointedly.
“Yes,” she admits.
He laughs, but it’s not mean-spirited. “Truly, you never give an inch,” he says. “Stubborn to a fault. You won’t change your mind for anything—or anyone.”
“Try,” Lumine challenges. “Convince me otherwise.”
He tilts his head and considers her. “Do you know what you’re asking for?”
“What, too daunting a task?”
“Not at all,” Wanderer says, a feverish gleam in his eyes. He loosens his hold on her wrist, the light imprint of his fingers a leftover shadow. He lays a thumb on her chin, the rest of his fingers splayed over the back of her neck. “I’ll succeed. Keep your eyes on me, traveller.”
“I will,” she says, impossibly fond.
(For now: it’s a good enough promise.)