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Pareidolia

Pareidolia: Azul Ashengrotto. Did you see it? It was there from the beginning. Foreword: TWST Fandom, I present to you, my love letter <33 Word Count: 4, 140 words. Warnings: She/her pronouns, I would call this xreader-ish, hurt no comfort; Azul being Azul, you have been warned…

It was a pale, yellow thing; the language of fools and all who had spoken it, held tightly by both his hands, spread neatly with all it's rectangular glory. And once neat and straight, is placed atop of it's family of the same face and number; 'thirty-five…' he muttered, and stacked another on top of it.

"That thing won't grow legs, you know―thirty-seven," her eyes pointed at the corner, and he turned his attention to the thing barely clinging on the table rim, a carbon copy of the fine materials towered on the table, that he clawed on two fingers, as if it was the divine word newly excavated. "Yes, thirty-seven. These things can very much grow legs, my dear, you underestimate the tenacity of magicians."

"I know only one magician who'd cast a protection spell for those. If they fly, so be it. What's one less?"

"There could be one more," it was followed by a dry sigh, as every conversation went, "and brought us to a total of eighteen-thousand five-hundred Madols, adding to a grand total of over fifty-thousand…since you're fiddling around Maths, why don't you assist me instead of sitting idly there?"

"And you'd blame me if you missed a penny: 'did you take it?!' It was a penny! I was honestly offended."

"So it unfortunately rolled under a rug, but it's my habit to salvage every single penny in my periphery, I'd never lose a penny."

"And, you'd blame me…so I politely refuse." Her chin was held up, scoffs were shared, and silence followed after.

Today was an unusual weekend. Instead of the Saturday morning crowds of caffeine-induced sophomores, he was instead left with a few, about fifty customers, desperate to buy points to whatever promise was in his menu, but not too desperate, as the usual six-zeros were cut into half. This was further affirmed with the face scrunching, he perhaps did it more than twenty times this hour, and he was the type to believe that scrunching results to wrinkles (which unfortunately does), but he scrunched again either way, a sour, wrinkled face, that would perhaps leave a mark he'd cry over later.

"It's just a few M's less―"

"Those few M's accumulate to an estimate of over eighty-thousand Madols! Thrice of today!"

"We can always try tomorrow."

"Of course, I will," the creases on his face softened as he turned to her, "other than that, my darling, what would you want for the weekends? Well, next weekend."

"Your time and effort."

"Only? There's a bazaar this Saturday, would you want me to accompany you? My treat, of course."

A laugh followed as a reply, "your time and effort, Azul. That's what I want," she gazed at him, and onto the towers on his desk, thin and gold, some were circular and solid, and his hand was a mere inch away from the stack of thin, shreddable things.

"Just that? Then you'll stay and watch here, wouldn't that bore you?"

"Not really, just talk more."

It was a long tower of blocks, such as: is she the shy type? Does she like the color blue? If so, she's more attuned to logical young men. How can you ask out someone like that?

The list goes on and on; she likes sweets, or she doesn't, the indication of glucose addiction; the continuous tapping of fingers might indicate…; habit of biting her nails. It was an assortment of embarrassment and proof of inexperience, and now, at the blank bottommost level, did he type a new bullet point: 'why does she not want to go out on dates?'

The answer was simple: ‘she doesn't like you.’

But now it was contradictory, the words ‘I like you’ came directly from her lips, it left there, and so did her voice with the very same words pronounced. I like you.

Therefore, she lied. But from the algorithm of a machine versus her words, who tells better lies?

Her, of course.

Scrolling to the topmost of the document, was her name written, followed by a colon, and the words 'relationship plan' on three times the paragraph text size in bold capital letters.

It was glass clinking and jazz, indulgent on it’s own, and on it’s own, it was nothing, the noises fading in the background of silence. There was a reason for the silence: first and foremost, it was the usual. Silence was necessary, any inkling of noise was a cause for disturbance in this small room. While Azul would entertain the calculator on one hand, and write an itinerary on the other, she would lay on one of the couches and read whatever business magazine she could find in this business-centric environment. “‘What was you isn’t you?’ See, his name here, Jacques―he had a capita of ten million a month, and he made a lottery business. Is it normal for people here to be so reliant on luck?” His face was ambiguous, they met each other’s eyes, then he looked as if she turned into a book. “Why? Did I say something?” She asked.

“No, no. I was just thinking, that, well, maybe you could talk more.”

“I talk a lot!” Angrily, she pursed her lips, maybe two or three times the exaggerated curve. “You just won’t talk back, is all…you should talk more.”

“Well alright…the man, Sir Jacques Ros, is a professional in metaphysics and astrology, and an alumni from Night Raven. It’s not ‘lottery’ in the literal sense, it functions as science. You see, my dear, mere education was never his key to success. Jacques is a dogmatic person, and his words shake towers. Astrology by the Sorcerer of Sands was fluctuated into a personal enterprise because of the charm of words. Mere simpleto―no, from the public eye, it’s perhaps a few given sentiments, adding the prior popularity of the Lord as one of the Seven, but the words that were bygones written in parchment, he transformed to something feasible to the public’s understanding! Now, he earned millions from something so obvious; don’t you see? Magic is inherently powerful, but power in its superior form, it’s―”

“M’s. Yes. M’s. The world, however round it may be, revolves around money! And when the talk is money, you turn to a dictionary.”

“You wanted me to talk more, here I am.”

“But not Madols. I’m not growing into a businessman.”

“You may very well be. I studied his tactics of thought process, and it was undoubtedly charisma and analytics. I cannot stress his charisma enough. His business breakthrough had been integrated into modern astrology, website algorithms follow his design, and had he been alive, I would shake his hand in two years or so. If you’d like, I can lend you my notes.”

“You write notes? On Jacques???” Giddy she was, chuckling, and he huffed. And a round of her laughter followed after.

“I’m not crazy!”

“Yes! You are a Madol-maniac!”

In sync, the small room was now a music room, from both his groan and her laughter combined. In her midst of vertigo, he interrupted with a dry sigh: “do you have plans for the weekends?”

“W-well―ahem. Yes, where were we?”

“Weekends. I made a reservation at Tiana’s, I saw you browsing through the menu.”

“Oh, I’ve never been to other food facilities other than Mostro…and, I heard their beignets are to die for!”

“Excellent. I’ll look forward to Saturday,” he put his pen down, and rested his back against the chair. Then they gazed at each other, and that was ticklish, her laugh was too contagious, he couldn’t help but stretch his lips further as she reciprocated his smile with hers. Today, he was content.

It was quarter to one; he’s still awake, and everything was blurry.

Things were silent, no one talked here. Of course, things were supposed to be silent, he wasn’t in his usual nighters; there was no keyboard tapping, there were no calculators, no pen against paper, no humming her; he laid there in bed, awake. Today was Friday―well, early Saturday morning, and it was eight hours until their date. It brought upon his thoughts if she was as awake as he was, and as much as he wanted to whisk his thoughts away to REM, but even closing his eyes never made him any less awake. He’d blame it on her, why she nagged him earlier for an afternoon debate on marine anthropology, ‘so you really have lungs? Air doesn’t magically, magic in you? Are your lungs like mine?’ And he had explained everything by definition, and redefined debate from ‘to argue in a formal manner’ to ‘I ask the most ridiculous questions after you explain the previous by definition,’ and now everything was about marine anthropology.

He exhaled. Then followed a ding from the bedside, and he begrudgingly took his glasses, which was placed conveniently beside the noise, and the buzzing phone itself.

‘Hey smarty, does fate really exist here?’

He sighed, ‘why are you awake?’

‘Why are u awake?’

He clicked his tongue, ‘Fate exists, I suppose. The Moirai, from the records of the Lord of the Underworld, predicted a cause, as well as death. However, historians are still looking for more evidence. You’ll cover this in your second year.’

‘So it isn’t real? Whachu think bout fate tho? Ur opinion.’

‘Hm…’

‘Don’t give me the ‘according to…’ YOUR OPINIOOOONNN!!!’

‘If you can get something by your own accord, why rely on fate?’

If I were to secure an investment, then wouldn’t it mean that the hard work wasn’t mine but fate’s―

‘Zuuu, don’t turn this into money discussion’

He erased the passage; ‘I wasn’t planning to.’

‘Oh.kay. Sleep, we still have sumwhere to go tom’

‘You sleep first.’

There was a pause. The room was silent again. After two minutes, still no reply. Was she asleep now?

Ding!

Probably not.

‘So, I was thinking abt smthing: “If you sign here, all your necessities will be provided for, as well as your wants on occasions. The requirements are simple, really. You are to accompany me through tours in a span of three months, then I’ll decide if we are compatible.”’

‘…’ Two minutes passed. He did not reply, and consequently was he speechless.

‘Why? Embarrassed~?’

‘I thought you promised never to bring that up again.’

‘Correction, I said, not promise~ your confession was weird.’

‘It wasn’t a confession! It was a contract. A CONTRACT.’

‘Sure~? When did u start liking me?’

‘Go to bed.’

‘I am on my bed. Answer, or I’ll spam.’

‘You tore the paper and had the audacity to kiss me.’

‘I would have done it on the lips ;)) C’moon, when? Your honest opinion, Sir. Please~’

Huh, when did he start liking her? ‘Sleep, or I’ll cancel the date.’

‘Cancel the date, and I’ll spam. No sleeping toniigghtt Azullyyyyyy’

He huffed, and his tapping turned into aggressive pinching, ‘Alright. It was after Scarabia, I think.’

‘Why? Was I pretty?’

‘Probably.’

‘D’awwwww. U think we’re fated?’

He sighed, then looked at the screen. Perhaps fate did bless him this opportunity to ask: ‘Why do you like me?’

‘You’re smart, Azul. Kk, goodnyt. I’m sleepy.’

He blinked, squinting his eyes, and trailing the message all over again. And again, and again. He read the passage ten times, probably more. Why?

‘Goodnight too.’ Then preluded silence.

“It costs three-thousand Madols…you know, that thing. The jittery, alive one from Sam’s, the yellow one―the one he kept in jars. What do you call that again?”

“Butterfly wings,” he replied. Today was their date, and they sat opposite to one another.

“Oh, so the one from the Queen of Hearts section? But they’re literally bread, sliced in quarters, that moves, resembles no insect, and costs three-thousand Madols per piece!”

“If I were Sam, I would have sold it to ten-thousand, it’s rare to cultivate the species, and if you’re a devout to the Queen of Hearts, you won’t complain if I demanded a hundred-thousand Madols from you.”

“Oh…that’s cheating.”

“I prefer the term ‘wise-stocking’. NRC’s dorms have their fair share of traditions, and it just so happens that Heartslabyul requires Buttertoast-fly on one of them.”

“What does it taste like?”

“Must we discuss this at dinner? …Although, I did hear it tastes like…butter.”

The clinking stopped; she paused, as she looked at her plate, her knife sliced halfway through her butter steak, then gazed at him, mouth agape. “Appetizing.” She shook her head, up and down, swiftly bringing a piece to her mouth, and he scoffed.

On his plate were three halved zucchinis, arranged in rows, stuffed with an assortment of vegetables, with three red slices of tomatoes on the side; the pretty crème decorations won the presentation. It tasted wonderful, as one would expect no less from a five-star dish, but he ate barely a quarter of the first piece.

“Ah, here’s the Beignets! Zu’, Zu!” He heard a small thank you when he turned to her, then sweetness was shoved in his mouth and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, then he stretched his mouth, and what he chewed was soft, and in a second melted into his mouth. “How was it? Tasty?”

He nodded, “a-ah, but! I’d rather not partake in dessert.”

On the table center was a basket placed with ten or fifteen more of those abominations. As much as the dessert was equivalent to a pillow, coated in white sweetness, and crispy golden brown, fried in the hottest oil, and was extremely delicious, he couldn’t possibly take another bite.

“It’s their specialty, not partaking is a no-no,” she took a piece and bit it, chewing in bliss. She took another and placed it on his plate, “i’sh fine ta’ eat nishly onsh in a―” she swallowed, “―while.”

“Manners,” from the piece on his plate, he performed a neat slice with his knife and stabbed the tiny cut portion (the size of his thumb) with his fork, and took a bite. Thereafter, he took the remaining piece by hand and chewed it whole.

“See?”

“I shimply codnn’t ‘elp it.”

She chuckled, taking her knife and fork and stretched her hand to his plate, slicing half of his main dish, and ate it. “Stuffed Zucchini’s yummy, but you should have ordered something you’d like. This is our date, it won’t be fun if I’m the only one enjoying it. Want mine?” She pointed her fork to her plate.

“That has too much butter.”

“Alright, you can take the Beignet and zucchini, then.”

“With the most grateful of heart,” he hummed, taking another dessert, and plopped the whole portion within his mouth. “How’s your steak?”

“…buttery. And good.”

“Just good?”

“Yeah. I ate these almost every dinner…”

“Oh,” he uttered. She had a somber expression, contrary to her usual silly smile. “Why choose it, then?”

“It reminds me of…home,” she sliced a portion, and ate it. “The Buttertoast-fly thing? I don’t like it.”

“…oh.”

Thereafter, was an exchange of clinking utensils, as they continued on with their meal. He looked at her, whose attention was on the food at hand, to which the meat was cut into even slices. He looked at the basket of dessert, to what divided their portion of table space in half, and stabbed his fork into one. He placed the beignet on her plate, and she looked up to him.

He smiled; “Enjoy.”

It came to his mind one day that he was walking in reality, his feet were on marble, and he was standing on the halls to the cafeteria, and there were no towers. And she was beside him, walking. She said it was a custom, holding hands as for the longevity of their relationship (she lied about that part).

“Azul,” her fingers captured his hands tightly, swinging their arms back and forth. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“The other night…‘do you think we’re fated?’”

“Darling,” he chuckled.

“Your answer, ‘Zu.”

“…No.”

She stopped walking, “…No?”

“I don’t believe in fate, darling,” he didn’t turn to look at her, only towards the open cafeteria doors. She loosened her grip, he clenched her hand. “I like you. Fate did not tell me to do so,” he finally turned to her; “what about you? Do you believe in fate?”

“I want to, Azul,” she yanked her hand from his, he was slow to catch it within grasp. She smiled, “They’re serving Cheese Soufflé today, I should catch up to the line.”

She walked in front of him, perhaps a little faster, but stayed within reach's distance, and he was walking right behind her. Today, the grand pillars of Night Raven were large in comparison to both of them, and today, his feet were firmly planted on the ground. “Darling…”

“Azul―” stopping her tracks, she turned to him, “where are you looking at?”

“You.”

Followed was glass clinking, and jazz, fading to the background. He looked at no towers, nothing else, only her.

‘―: RELATIONSHIP PLAN’

Today, he built no towers. On his desk, there were no yellow things, no masterplans, and he wasn’t on his desk at all. His hand sits on keys, pressing the F minor, then to A, thin melodies echoing within the vicinity. There are a total of eighty-eight keys in this grand thing, and it was a secret he could play such a grand thing. Today, he builds notes. He writes what ‘like’ is, to redefine ‘was’ to ‘today’. Words he can’t string with voice, ideas incomprehensible to mere words, and the ‘like’ that a contract can never satisfy. Many are thoughts that hang about: “thank you for the food,”; and, “I’m grateful you’re here,”; or, “please, stay.”

How juvenile it was to eat barehanded in a five-star restaurant, but she laughed anyway. Their interests never aligned, and they had few in common; he was ambitious and she was a simpleton; he was a liar and she was an even better liar. Words, more often than not, mean not the word at all.

Instead of words, there are notes, and in notes, would he ‘like’. Truthfully, his reunion with the piano was awkward; he would play, once, twice, to entertain, but it wasn’t the intimacy he felt when his little hand pressed a key for the first time, the world was in his hands that time. To relive the experience, a song for her; that’s what he wants.

Words like “what was you isn’t you,” are what a dogmatic person would say. And he admired the dogmatic, wanting to entitle himself one who could shake towers with mere words alone. Charisma is what brought him this far, but he emulated charisma, molded ‘Azul’ to ‘charismatic’, as he was born uncharismatic.

In tunes are the whispers of his secret hates, as it follows to a crescendo. He’ll never eat zucchini again. In music are the undertones of his wants. He wants to eat those beignets again without the formalities of a gentleman.

He wants to be a little more honest now, of what he hates.

In his secret room is him, the piano, and his thoughts, “I want to go out on a date with you again.”

―: RELATIONSHIP PLAN.docx File deleted.

‘I have something to discuss with you, do spare time from 6-8 pm, I’d like to clarify derivatives…’ sent nine weeks ago.

Yesterday was yesterweek, and he said these words: “If you sign here, all your necessities will be provided for, as well as your wants on occasions. The requirements are simple, really. You are to accompany me through tours in a span of three months, then I’ll decide if we are compatible.”

He was dressed in a flashier attire than usual: he wore no hat, and was dressed in a black tuxedo, with red accents in the cuffs and in the inner cloths; on his left breast pocket, a bright red rose; his hair was swept back, and his curl was tucked behind; the only thing that held semblance to himself were his glasses. His chin was held up, as his right hand was pressed down on the table center, over a thin yellow thing (for all eternity displayed in big bold letters) and a space that was desperate for a signature. Beside it was a pen; it served no other purpose than temptation, as the ink desired intimacy for the paper.

She sat opposite to him, narrowing her eyes when she turned her gaze to his. Then, she stood up, took the pen and paper, walked to the opposite couch, and sat beside him, for the yellow, thin thing indeed meet the pen, but not her signature; instead, it was met with heaps of squiggly lines, and scratches over printed words, ink over the legislations, and everything. Now, it was a scratch pad. Thereafter, she placed each of her hands on both ends of the paper and tore it in half, until it was shredded into little things. He only watched wordlessly.

“I think it’s better if it’s white.” She turned to him and smiled, leaned over, and gave him a chaste kiss against his cheek. “You see,” she sat back, and kept his gaze on him, “I like you as well, but I hate contracts.”

“Oh,” he uttered.

“But. I think we’ll be good!” She chuckled, as she brought the pen to his open palms, “I prefer zero signatures, but you’ll have to go with me to wherever, then we’ll decide if we’re compatible. How about that?”

“B-but…”

“It’s your confession, take responsibility for my feelings.”

“I-I…alright,” he clutched the pen. “I’ll also be in your care…”

That was three months ago, and today is the present.

‘Meet me in the Lounge at 6, I have a surprise,’ and sent.

There is a secret room in Mostro Longue, and it’s rarely used. It’s a smaller room than the main interior, a private grotto for the Dorm Prefect since his term from the beginning of his second year. She is taken through walls of water, glass as the thing that separates drowning from air. Everything glows blue as the living marines thrive on the outside waters. On one hand is a big white envelope, hugged against his chest, and on the other was hers―guiding her to wherever that secret of his is.

“How much further?” She asks.

“Almost there…”

Then they stop by a door; it looks like any other door in the establishment. Twisting the knob, he smiles, “lady’s first.”

Entering the room, she is greeted with the interior dome, white intricate arcs spin into a spire, vanishing to the center when she looks up. It is akin to the pretty shells she’d seen in pictures, and when she turns her gaze below the center, is a piano. Honoring the aesthetic, the walls are painted in lavender, and in the back was glass separating water from air, where fishes swam about, the piano, the only thing painted in black in this light-colored room. And then there stands Azul beside the piano.

He opens the white envelope―inside are white papers, littered with ink―and places the papers on the music rack. In his eyes is what ‘liking’ is, and he smiles, “Darling.”

“Azul,” she looks at him, she isn’t smiling this time. “I think…”

“Yes?” He beams at her.

“We should…pursue our interests.”

…

He blinks. Once, twice. “…Pardon?”

“You know this isn’t working.”

“…H-huh? But, it’s working just fine!"

…

"W-what did I do?”

“…Nothing. I just…don’t know anymore.”

“But. Why?”

“You’re smart, Azul. You should know.”

“But you can’t just―I was beginning to…I-I’m trying…”

“I’m sorry.”

“―BUT I LIKE YOU!” From the top of his lungs, his voice echoes in the small room.

She looks at him, neither smiling, nor is it remorseful, “I like you too…but we should just stick to where we were heading to.”

“I’m happy with you.”

“Yes, you are. But will we be?”

Then follows silence…followed by a sigh. Then clicking, she turns her gaze to the door, and walks towards it―

“Wait.”

She stops. “…Yes?”

"I want to play. Please, stay. For a while. Stay until it ends."

“…okay.” She stands there.

He places his hand over minor F, presses the keys all-over again. Ping! Ping! Ping…it falls to a crescendo, the sound echoes in the room. He keeps his eyes on the keys, the black and white alternated things as he presses another, and another. What’s left in the piano is his ‘liking’ and the tears that stained the keys, they won’t stop flowing, neither will he stop playing. She’ll stay for a while…even in that little while he will cry, and he will play.

On the music sheet flattened against the rack, the topmost part is his own handwriting, things written in letters, ‘liking―’ followed by her name; a beautiful calligraphy.

Afterword: #1 When it comes to Azul, there's always a sense of intrigue in relationships, as he is a skeptical character. He would question the further indication of habits, and I want to frame him as a paranoiac with habits. Take for instance: He would count the times you would blink, and draw a conclusion to it. She blinked the regular twenty-times this minute, but the trend increased to thirty, thus implying she was nervous. Why was she nervous? That is a case to be investigated. I think his obsessive compulsion comes with a cause, there is no certainty of anything. Thus, he fails to see the big picture. #2 "Alice in Wonderland" and "The Frog Princess" references #3 For the reader's character, I'd like to leave the interpretation up to you. #4 Lastly, this fic wouldn't have been made possible if it weren't for a bet that I owe to a friend. Thank you.

#I #OP #IM CRYING REAL TEARS!#I CA CA #I LOVE THIS SO MUCH #reblog #azul ashengrotto

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