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Chapter Text

On his umpteenth sneeze (Ororon had long since stopped counting), which turned out to be louder than he had expected—so much so that it startled a swarm of aphids into frantic flight—Ororon finally accepted the fact that the fever and congestion he had been dealing with all day and night were not just a simple cold.

He wiped his nose with his left hand, the one untainted by fertilizer, trying to dispel the sudden dizziness that struck. Gardening while suffering from a severe flu was far from a pleasant experience. Not something Ororon would recommend at all.

After apologizing to his rows of young cabbage patches for having to cut the gardening session short, as well as to the aphids who still dared not approach him, Ororon cleaned up and freshened himself while contemplating.

Should he go see a doctor?

Granny Citlali had vast medical knowledge; she would undoubtedly have an immediate remedy for his severe cold. But Ororon shuddered at the thought of the inevitable spiritual lecture she would unleash upon him afterward. Especially if she found out that his current condition was entirely his own fault—having carelessly flown through the heavy rain last night just to make it home on time.

(In his imagination, Ororon argued that he had just received a new colony of phlogiston aphids and merely wanted to check if they were safe from the storm in their new nest. However, for some reason, Granny in his imagination only grew angrier.)

So, Granny was not an option.

Just as he resigned himself to facing this severe flu alone, the sound of footsteps, the flutter of small wings, and a cheerful greeting swiftly stole his focus.

"Evenin', Ororon."

The silhouette of his friend, Ifa, shrouded in the dim moonlight, approached. And although half of his face was shadowed by his hat, Ororon could clearly see the wide smile he knew by heart.

"Evenin'!" Cacucu, Ifa's saurian assistant, flapped up and down, mimicking his colleague’s greeting in a high-pitched voice.

It was not unusual for Ororon to be active at precisely two in the morning. The Natlan sun was scorching hot during the day, so he preferred tending to his garden under the moon and stars. However, Ifa was a child of the sun. The Tlalocan veterinarian belonged in the golden light and the peak of the wind's breath. So Ororon had to blink several times just to make sure that his friend's late-night appearance wasn’t a hallucination (it had happened before).

And also, as a renowned saurian health expert, Ifa’s schedule was overwhelmingly packed, leaving him barely any time for himself during the day. The fact that he was here instead of in his bed was concerning. If this continued, the dark circles under his eyes would grow darker, like a total eclipse.

But still, Ororon did not voice his protest. He would always welcome Ifa’s visits with open arms, no matter the hour.

"Phew!" Ifa loosened the collar of his coat. "Just finished treating a patient nearby, so I thought I’d stop by for a bit. That okay?" Without waiting for his host's answer, Ifa casually plopped down onto the long wooden bench on Ororon’s porch, then stretched his arms and legs high into the air.

Cacucu, somehow, mimicked his exact gesture, complete with a satisfied groan as tense muscles relaxed once more.

Despite the throbbing headache hammering his skull, Ororon gazed at his friend with both eyes full of admiration. "Ifa, your doctor’s instinct is impeccable."

Ifa, in the middle of a stretch, paused immediately. He and his qucusaurus companion exchanged glances, then looked back at Ororon, tilting their heads in perfect synchronization. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sick," Ororon pointed at himself—at his now-reddened nose, at his half-lidded, drowsy eyes, at the nasal quality creeping into his voice. Then, he pointed at Ifa sitting on the bench. "And then you arrived."

Ifa sprang to his feet. "You’re sick?!" But just as quickly as his expression turned panicked, it shifted into a scowl after processing Ororon’s full statement. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "I’m an animal doctor, you know."

Beside him, Cacucu nodded fervently—an extremely amusing sight (but don’t tell him Ororon thought so) given that his head-to-body ratio was seven to one. "Yeah, no way, bro!”

Ororon shrugged. "One could argue that I could be classified as an animal—"

He had just begun listing the animalistic traits of his body—his pointed indigo ears, his long, sharp fangs, his tendency to sleep hanging upside down in trees—but was abruptly cut off as Ifa stomped toward him with decisive steps.

In his natural habitat, Ifa was not an angry person. Even if the naughtiest saurian patient acted up, the doctor would merely rub his face, take a deep breath, mutter, "Oh, come on, bro," then rise to complete his professional duties to perfection.

Perhaps that was why, when he did get angry, it was truly something to behold. Ifa’s fury was like the blare of a war trumpet—commanding and impossible to ignore. Everyone, human or saurian alike, would instantly fall silent and listen.

"Ororon." Ifa’s white eyebrows furrowed sharply. The eyes that always looked tired and drowsy now promised something dark, something grim, making Ororon instinctively take a step back. "Who said that? I need a name, location, and physical description."

Ororon swallowed. His sensitive bat ears throbbed at the unexpected weight and depth of his friend’s voice. "No one. It was just—an argument."

Ifa’s gaze was still as sharp as the syringes in his medical kit, but at least the dark aura surrounding his soul had slightly faded. Ororon was grateful for that, at the very least.

"A stupid argument, then."

"Oh, come on! Do you even hear yourself, bro?” Echoing his colleague, Cacucu flapped his little wings up and down animatedly, as if to express sheer disgust.

Ororon had just opened his mouth to defend himself (it was completely unfair to be judged from both sides like this), but Ifa stopped him once again.

The doctor bit the tip of one glove and pulled it off. He then pressed his now-bare right hand against Ororon’s forehead, brushing aside strands of his dark hair to fully reveal his heterochromatic eyes.

Ifa’s palm was not soft; it was thick with calluses and marked by various scars. Yet, despite this, Ororon had long associated those rough hands with comfort, instinctively leaning his head forward into the touch.

Unfortunately, Ifa quickly pulled away, shaking his hand as if it had just been burned. "Archons, bro, you’re burning up! No wonder you’ve been rambling." Without hesitation, he grabbed Ororon’s arm and dragged him inside. "How did this happen? Your immune system’s usually strong. Since when have you been like this?"

Ororon was not fragile. A mere cold and headache would not make him collapse. But still, he obediently followed Ifa’s lead into his bedroom. A warmth spread across his face, one that Ororon wasn’t entirely sure was caused by his fever alone.

It felt nice, he thought, to be cared for like this.

🐤🐤🐤

Chapter Text

As proof of the synchronization of the renowned medical duo from the Flower-Feather Clan, without exchanging a single word, Ifa and Cacucu maneuvered dynamically within Ororon's small bedroom. Ifa handed their patient’s arm to Cacucu and then began opening his medical bag, while the young qucusaurus continued his colleague’s task—biting the edge of Ororon’s cape to guide him to sit on the edge of the bed.

From where he sat, framed by the wooden doorframe, Ororon could see Ifa moving back and forth in his kitchen, which was directly across from the bedroom. His ears picked up the sound of a flame being lit, the clinking of glasses and spoons, the falling of powder fragments, and the bubbling of water beginning to boil. His friend had removed his white coat, now only wearing a black shirt tucked neatly into his trousers. Ifa’s iconic hat—unsurprisingly—remained in place.

At the sight, Ororon's lips slowly curled into a smile.

Ifa was using Ororon's kitchen with such familiarity, such domestic ease—as if it were his own—sending a warm sensation through the Mictlan youth’s heart, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

It felt right. It was right. It was how things should be.

Like the sky being blue. Like cabbage being green. Like snow being as pure and soft as his friend’s hair strands within Ororon’s grasp. (That last one was, unfortunately, mere speculation. Ororon had yet to test it for himself.)

"Since this morning, I think," Ororon answered belatedly, "I got caught in the rain last night."

Even without his friend turning around, Ororon could clearly picture Ifa’s skeptical expression in his mind. His back and shoulders were incredibly expressive. "And why exactly were you in the rain last night?"

"I walked through it."

"And why exactly did you have to walk through the rain instead of waiting for it to stop?"

Ororon pointed to a half-built phlogiston aphid nest perched at the ceiling’s peak. The nest had nearly doubled in size since he last saw it, and he was delighted that his new aphid colony had accepted Ororon’s home as their own.

Huh, a realization struck Ororon suddenly.

Is this what he also felt toward Ifa?

The same warmth stirred in his heart again, and Ororon decided he quite liked it.

"Remember the Big Pinecone’s neighbor?"

"Oh, Super Big Pinecone?" Ifa finally turned around briefly before resuming his work. "The one that got struck by lightning and fell? Mighty shame that."

Ororon couldn’t help but smile at that. Everyone was well aware of his eccentric hobby of naming all sorts of things—living or otherwise—which Ororon personally did not consider eccentric at all, as he believed every organism deserved at least a name.

At the start of their friendship, Ifa had looked at Ororon’s habit with the same expression he’d give a crooked-horned tepetlisaurus—an anomaly that needed fixing. Over time, however, that attitude shifted. Anticipation turned into warmth. And, just like that crooked-horned tepetlisaurus, the doctor had come to accept that sometimes, oddities were simply part of life, not things that needed changing.

"Yeah, and it turns out there was a wild aphid nest at the top, so I brought them home before they got too stressed. I mean, I’d be really stressed if my house was suddenly destroyed," Ororon explained. "Then yesterday, it rained heavily while I wasn’t home, and I was worried they’d get even more stressed if I left them alone."

Ifa let out a frustrated sigh, making Ororon’s ears twitch. "What kind of ridiculous excuse is that, Ororon?"

Immediately, the Mictlan youth’s shoulders tensed. He had no choice but to defend his new friends. "It’s not ridiculous."

Ifa’s shadow slowly loomed over the doorway. The doctor pulled up a stool and sat directly in front of Ororon, holding a large cup of thick, steaming liquid. When the steam’s peak brushed against Cacucu’s beak, the young saurian let out a displeased chirp and promptly scurried to the next room to avoid it.

It was a troubling sign of Ororon’s worsening condition that he couldn’t smell a single thing from the mysterious concoction.

"Sorry, bro, that’s not what I meant," Ifa said. "Your reason isn’t ridiculous, really. It’s just…"

Ifa’s fingers tightened around the cup handle, and to Ororon, it was an awful sight to see his friend looking this hesitant.

But Ororon did not interrupt. If Ifa had something important to say, he would say it—no matter how long it took. Ororon didn’t own many things, but he had time. And for Ifa, he would always have plenty of time.

His friend took a deep breath, seemingly coming to a decision. Then, lifting his head, Ifa’s eyes met Ororon’s.

Turquoise-orange met indigo and magenta.

"... I just worry," Ifa admitted. "If you’re willing to get sick over something small like aphids—no offense," he turned briefly to point at the aphid nest in the ceiling’s corner before facing Ororon again, "I can’t imagine what you’d willingly do if something really important came your way in the future."

Ororon was about to argue that such a thing would never happen. But as soon as he opened his mouth, he realized—too late—that he had no argument to make.

Archons, who was he trying to fool?

It would happen. It had already happened in the past, even if he had been too young to understand it back then.

History always repeats itself. What made him think his case would be an exception?

The worst part was that both he and Ifa knew—without a doubt—that when that time came, Ororon would go through with it, without hesitation.

So, he slowly closed his mouth again.

Ororon hated this.

He hated seeing his friend so unsettled, but he also couldn’t offer any comfort without lying.

And Ifa did not deserve to be lied to.

Ororon really hated this.

"Sorry," he finally said. "I don’t know how to make this sound okay for you."

"Okay for me?!" Ifa’s sudden outburst made Ororon jolt in his seat. "Okay for me?! This isn’t about me, Ororon! Have you ever thought about making this okay for you?!"

Apparently, Ororon wasn’t the only one startled by Ifa’s burst of anger, because Cacucu suddenly reappeared in the doorway. His round body swayed left and right, looking between Ororon and Ifa with his pink face full of questions.

"Oh, dear?"

Ifa averted his gaze immediately.

As if—

As if he couldn’t bear to look at Ororon.

The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his eyes, hiding his expression. But Ororon was very aware of the way Ifa’s chest rose and fell in an attempt to steady his breathing, as well as the way his right hand trembled against the cup handle.

His left hand waved toward his medical assistant. "It’s fine. Everything’s fine."

Rather than reassuring, the response only seemed to make Cacucu more anxious, given the erratic fluttering of his wings. He even turned toward Ororon, as if seeking further explanation, but all Ororon could offer him now was a lowered gaze.

Typical Ororon, making everything worse.

🐤🐤🐤

Chapter Text

The good news was that the young qucusaurus finally gave up, flapping away without further protest, once again granting Ororon and Ifa their privacy.

The bad news was that Ororon wasn’t sure privacy with Ifa—who was currently fuming—was something he wanted at the moment.

As someone with some of the most sensitive ears in all of Natlan, Ororon deeply appreciated silence. But the silence between them now was so thick and painful that it felt like it was pulling the very breath from his throat.

Or was that just his headache talking? The sharp sting at the crown of his head had been growing worse with each passing second.

Ororon shook his head vigorously. No, he couldn’t collapse now. He didn’t want to make Ifa any more upset.

It was in the middle of this worry that Ororon caught the distinct sound of Ifa’s sigh. That signature inhale—so unmistakably his friend’s—that Ororon knew was reserved exclusively for his most difficult, most stubborn patients.

Knowing that particular sigh was now directed at him alone made Ororon want to curl into a ball.

What was worse than making Ifa angry?

Making Ifa disappointed.

“You…” Ifa shook his head, each movement making Ororon’s shoulders tense. “You’re really gonna keep going with this, huh? This is your decision, a hundred percent?”

Even though—even though he knew his answer would only anger Ifa more, Ororon still nodded. He couldn’t betray his soul or his destiny. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your apology!”

Ororon braced himself for another fiery outburst from Ifa, but instead of erupting again like the Ancient Sacred Mountain, Ifa’s fury suddenly evaporated. His friend’s simmering rage cooled, like embers in a stone hearth.

And Ororon…

Ororon wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“I should be the one apologizing.”

Huh?

Completely unaware of Ororon’s confusion, Ifa continued. “Not for what I said, okay? Oh, for that—I’m one hundred percent—not sorry at all. But I’m apologizing for how I said it to you. I shouldn’t have criticized your decision like that.”

Huhh??

“This is your life, your fate, your destiny, and you have the right to choose your own path.”

Wait a second.

“I—I have no say in it at all. I shouldn’t have overstepped and tried to make you change your mind.”

Ororon took a deep breath. A cold sensation crept into his soul.

Why… why did this sound like a farewell?

As if Ifa was trying… to distance himself from him?

As if Ifa wanted to wash his hands of Ororon’s life?

… Was that really the case?

“So yeah, I’m sorry, okay? For overstepping.”

The young Mictlan man could feel his entire spirit darken at the mere thought of a future without Ifa.

(He would survive, of course. That was obvious.)

(Without Ifa, he would still function, he would still walk this land of Teyvat. And that was the worst part.)

The fine hairs on Ifa’s arm suddenly stood on end as a surge of electro energy flared from Ororon’s clenched fists.

“…Ororon—?”

Above them, hanging from the ceiling, a lantern bulb shattered into pieces.

“Wha—!”

Trance.

As a direct apprentice of the renowned shaman Granny Itztli, Ororon had assisted in countless rituals and knew exactly what a case of trance looked like. When your body became nothing more than a vessel, waiting to be filled. When your body was no longer your own.

It would have been within Ororon’s rights to interpret his next actions as one such instance. How his body, which had been on the verge of collapse, suddenly had enough energy not only to stand but also to grip Ifa’s upper arms and push him against the wall.

But no. Ororon wasn’t that much of a coward.

Besides, trance implied a loss of awareness—something completely opposite to what Ororon felt now.

Ororon was acutely aware of everything happening.

He was aware of how tightly he was holding Ifa’s arms. He was aware of the heated breath brushing against Ifa’s nose. He was aware of Ifa’s wide turquoise eyes, his pupils trembling in shock. He was aware of the frantic pounding of Ifa’s heart in his ribcage, like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. He was aware of the wooden chair Ifa had been sitting on, now knocked over. He was aware of the hot liquid spilled on his left arm, from Ifa’s large cup that was now only half full.

He was aware of Ifa’s hat, now hanging off his back. (Which, frankly, was a miracle, given that even the fiercest gusts of wind hadn’t been able to dislodge the doctor’s iconic hat from its throne of white hair.)

Somehow, without his hat, Ifa looked vulnerable in Ororon’s eyes.

“Ororon,” Ifa’s voice snapped him back to the present. “What the hell is this?”

Now, standing so close, Ifa’s entire soul lay bare before Ororon. A swirling symphony of colors, like the fires of the Sacred Flame.

Ororon could sense a touch of fear, doubt, defensiveness, and sheer exasperation, all blending into a kaleidoscope of violet, blue, green, and orange.

And—

If Ororon focused just a little harder, he could sense a hint of red, buried deep within the layers of color. Sealed away, hidden, but undeniably there.

A longing.

Huh?

That fact startled him so much that the storm in his mind momentarily cleared.

“Don’t… go,” he whispered. Ororon was painfully aware of how much he sounded like he was begging, but he didn’t care. “Don’t—leave me.”

The silence that followed was even worse than before.

“Ororon, my man, my dude.” Ifa, bless the Archons, didn’t sound angry. He just sounded tired. So, so tired. “If you weren’t sick, I’d have flicked your forehead red by now.”

The mention of forehead flicking, at least, was enough to clear Ororon’s foggy mind a little. The bat-like young man immediately withdrew his hands to shield his forehead in defense. As a skilled medical professional, Ororon knew full well how strong Ifa’s fingers were.

Finally freed from Ororon’s grip, Ifa crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Seriously, listen until the end when people talk! Didn’t anyone teach you manners?”

As quickly as the adrenaline had surged, it faded. Ororon’s body rudely reminded him that, at his core, he was still sick. If Ifa hadn’t guided him back to sit on the bed, he wasn’t sure he could have taken another step without collapsing.

Ifa placed the cup on the table (a testament to his dexterity, given that it had miraculously survived Ororon’s earlier blunder), then pulled out a towel and a small bottle of ointment from his medical bag.

With gentle care—care Ororon didn’t think he deserved—Ifa wiped away the remaining hot liquid from Ororon’s arm and applied a thin layer of ointment over the reddened skin. Though the spill had barely hurt him, Ororon’s sensitive skin was prone to irritation.

“As I said earlier—this, all of this, is your fate, your choice, your life. I have no right to interfere.” Ifa lifted his gaze, forcing Ororon to meet his eyes. “And this—this is selfish as hell—but even though I know all that, I still want to be part of your life.”

Ifa’s heartbeat was so strong it made Ororon’s ears throb. And he couldn’t stop his own heart from matching its rhythm. “Ifa—”

“AHEM! That is—only if you want me to, of course! No pressure!” Ifa yanked his hat back on, lowering the brim until it completely covered his eyes. Maybe only just now realizing the weight of what he’d said. “Just a request. No biggie.”

Ororon could see it. The red in Ifa’s soul flaring, pulsing, spreading through his entire being. And then, just as quickly, it faded again.

Ororon didn’t want that. Ororon wanted to see it again.

So, with his fingers, he gently tilted the brim of Ifa’s hat back—just enough to reveal those turquoise eyes.

“I want that. I really want that.”

🐤🐤🐤

Chapter Text

With their faces this close, Ifa’s features were laid bare for Ororon to admire as much as he pleased. Ororon absorbed every detail of his perfection—like the color of his irises, as bright as the natural graffiti along the Coatepec Mountain; his nose, firm and proud like portraits of ancient heroes that adorned the tapestry walls of the Chamber of Weaving; and the brilliant waves of hair framing his face in a gleaming white curtain.

Even his imperfections—the scar crossing his left eye, grazing a line of absent lashes that would never grow back; the crooked bridge of his nose, a remnant of a break from an accident long ago, back when Cacucu first learned to fly with his partner; the stretch of sunburned skin across his cheekbones from relentless kisses of the sun—Ororon memorized them all.

He could spend his entire life weaving every detail of Ifa into a vast tapestry, and still, it wouldn't be enough.

Their current position—facing each other with barely an inch between them, close enough to feel each other’s warm breath—reminded Ororon of a particular paragraph he’d once read in a novel owned by his granny.

Word for word, it was identical.

And especially, the activity they were about to engage in.

("U-um, that—that's a gesture, okay?" his granny had flusteredly explained to him after snatching the book away from a young Ororon. He remembered being a bit annoyed—it had been getting really good. "It means we, um—oh goodness, how do I put this … oh!—it means we really appreciate someone we love. Got it?"

Young Ororon nodded. It wasn’t as complicated as he thought after reading the description. "Like head-pats, right?"

"Huh?"

"Grandpa Amazolli always does that when I help him carry things in the shop."

Granny went quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath. "W-well, sure. Yeah. Just like that."

Then, as if remembering something crucial, she gripped his shoulders and spoke with the seriousness she used when explaining spell consequences. "Listen closely, Ororon. You cannot do that with just anyone, okay? First, you have to be of age—yes, like drinking alcohol. Second—this is very important—the other person has to want to do it with you. Third, you can only do it with someone special, understand?"

"Special?"

"Very, very special. Like someone you want to spend your entire life with. That kind of special.")

Ororon was of age now. He had even tasted and made his own alcohol. But he’d never tried that gesture, because he had yet to meet that mysterious someone.

But …

His eyes drank in every detail of his friend once more.

But Ifa was special.

And Ifa wanted to be part of Ororon's life.

The young Mictlan man was not the type to act first. Taking initiative was a terrifying an unwise move. Like the first fruit to ripen—it’s the first to be picked. It might become a delicious salad or juice; but it could just as easily rot or be stepped on and crushed.

So too was Fate. No one knew what Fate would do once it picked Ororon from beneath the protective canopy of his tree.

But this time, courage surged through him from who knows where. Maybe it was his pounding heart. Maybe it was the fever rattling his brain. Maybe it was his cheeks, slowly heating up without mercy—this time, Ororon dared to rip open the curtain of leaves and vines, standing face to face with Fate ready to pluck him.

He eliminated the distance, leaned in toward Ifa’s lips—

Only for Ifa’s entire body to freeze like a stone statue.

His friend didn’t lean in. Didn’t respond. Ifa's body now was tense, like a taut guitar string seconds from snapping.

In that instant, Ororon’s soul froze over.

Ifa … didn’t want this?

(But—)

Ifa didn’t want this?

As if to confirm, the doctor pushed his chair away from Ororon. “I … I get what you were about to do,” he said. Firm, and without room for negotiation. “And I think—that wasn’t the right move. Not right now.”

A swirl of red in Ifa’s soul shimmered in a cage of wistful blues; pressured, wrapped tight, but still visibly glowing. A small strand of that red soul even reached out, trying to touch Ororon’s, again and again—failing each time, pulled back by a burst of other colors.

Ifa clearly wanted it. And also clearly didn’t.

Looking down, Ororon voiced his confusion. “I don’t understand.”

What’s wrong with me? Unspoken—but Ifa seemed to hear it.

“That’s not it, bro!” His friend almost jumped up. He took a deep breath—a peculiar kind that made Ororon’s ears perk up. He’d never heard it before. “Huff, this is so embarrassing—”

There was a touch of humor in his tone, enough to spark Ororon’s curiosity. Beneath his heartbreak at the rejection, he dared look up—and saw Ifa, once again, with both arms tightly crossed over his chest.

A defensive pose. His instincts should’ve bristled. But it was hard to feel afraid when Ifa’s face told another story entirely. His whole face was so red it made the roots of his white hair look pink. Even his sun-dappled freckles had vanished in the blush.

It was like watching a sunset sky.

Never one to censor himself, especially not around Ifa, Ororon said it plainly. “Your face looks like a sunset.”

“What?!” Ifa's cheeks flared instantly, blazing like a phlogiston torch.

“Oh! Now it looks like a phlogiston torch.”

Ifa yanked his hat down over his nose in a flash. A futile move—the shadow couldn’t hide his glow. “Stop, stop! Shut your mouth or I’m not talking!”

“But—”

Slamming his lips shut, the doctor clamped his jaw so hard it clicked. Ororon winced.

Ifa no longer hid under his hat. He lifted his head and glared at Ororon as if daring him to speak.

So Ororon yielded.

(Ifa, in his natural habitat, was mature and wise. But Ifa, in his rare stubborn mode, could be even more headstrong than a rampaging tatankasaurus.)

Even so, Ifa needed a full minute to calm down before speaking again.

“I won’t lie. The idea of doing that, especially with you—” the you was spoken with such intensity it might well have been the root of all his frustration (not an incorrect assumption), “—is … tempting. Very. Even more than that, honestly.”

Ororon couldn’t stop himself. “Then why—”

“Shush! I’m still talking!”

“Oh, sorry—”

“Shush!”

Ororon raised his hands in surrender. Ifa kept glaring a moment longer, then continued.

“I want to. Okay?” He paused, only continuing when Ororon nodded in understanding. “I know you don’t like stepping out of your comfort zone. So seeing you try, taking initiative like this—it’s good. Even if it’s a little extreme, in my opinion, I’m still really proud of you, bro.” Ifa’s smile was the most beautiful thing he’d seen all night. “Okay?”

Ororon nodded. He hoped his face wasn’t as red as he feared.

“But like I said, now’s not the right time. Sorry, but to be honest, your mind’s not in the best shape tonight.” His little laugh was as soft as wind chimes. “Okay? You can talk now.”

Unfortunately, the first thing that came out was, “My mind is fine.”

Ifa folded his arms again. “My dude, you literally threw me across the room earlier just because you thought I didn’t want to be your friend anymore.”

“Oh. Right.” Ororon rubbed his neck. Ifa clearly wasn’t going to let him live that down for months. “Sorry.”

“Huff.” The vet shook his head. “You have to understand, Ororon. A tired body can mess with your mind and judgment. I just don’t want you to regret anything later.”

The idea that he, Ororon, might regret such an act of appreciation—especially toward Ifa—was ridiculous. “I would never regret you.”

That soft smile returned, tinged now with a melancholic glint that made Ororon’s heart tremble. He could sense there was something he didn’t know about his friend. “I know, Ororon. I just … want to protect my heart.”

Before he could ask what had brought on that sudden sorrow, Ifa cleared his throat loudly. “And this isn’t the end, okay? Just get better, clear your head, and then we can talk about this—whatever this is—again. Deal?”

Ifa sounded sincere, and Ororon believed him. Still, his anxious heart had to ask, “So this isn’t … rejection?”

Like spring rain on a droughted field, Ifa’s laughter made Ororon’s soul bloom. “Of course not, bro! I could never reject you like that.”

“Oh. Thank goodness.” He sighed, not realizing how tense his shoulders had been from fear and frustration. “I could feel you wanted it too, Ifa. So when you didn’t … I … I was so scared—”

He knew he was rambling, but he didn’t care. He was just glad Ifa was letting him.

“You can’t read souls, but somehow, I know you could feel there’s something very, very wrong with me. So even though you wanted to, you still couldn’t.”

He heard Ifa's laughter again, that same sweet chime he was addicted to. “Pffft, please. I’ve always known you were a bit off. Why are you only panicking about it now?”

It was childish, but Ororon couldn’t help pouting. “That’s not how you’re supposed to respond. In all Granny's novels, when a character says ‘there’s something wrong with me’, you’re supposed to say ‘there’s nothing wrong with you’.”

“Oi. First,” he pointed a finger, “don’t use novels as a basis for real life. Please. Second, why would I lie? You’ve got a ton of flaws. Want me to list them?”

“Ifa!”

“First, how many heart attacks have I had because you always sneak up and touch my shoulder out of nowhere? Second—”

“Ifa!”

This … was comforting. Familiar. As it should be.

Talking with Ifa freely, without holding back, without second-guessing his words.

Despite everything—despite Ororon’s blunder that might shake the foundation of their friendship—Ifa still welcomed him with open arms.

Ifa saw and understood his imperfections. And even so (or because of that?), he was generous enough to let his soul fill the cracks in Ororon’s broken one.

🐤🐤🐤

Chapter Text

Ifa was absolutely not joking when he said he had a complete list of everything “wrong” with Ororon—and that he could recite them one by one on the spot. This time alone, the doctor had already listed a total of six key points—and that was only six, because each one came with an incredibly long-winded explanation.

A normal person might have been deeply annoyed if their flaws were exposed so freely—especially by their own best friend—but Ororon was not a normal person. On the contrary, the bat-winged young man found every single detail fascinating. Some, he hadn’t even realized himself.

For instance, he hadn’t known that when Cacucu spent too much time near him, the little creature’s fur would stand on end from the root due to constant exposure to Electro energy. As a result, Cacucu’s fluffy pink body would puff up like a bundle of giant dandelion seeds which, in Ifa’s words, “looks like he's just gonna float away if a strong wind blows.”

(Ororon raised a hand high in the air, as if he were in a classroom. “What’s a dandelion?”

“Oh, right. You’ve never seen one, huh? It’s a plant—I usually use it to treat saurian stomachaches. Hmmm,” Ifa tapped a finger on his chin, his usual thinking gesture. “Okay, I’ll ask my penpal in Mondstadt to send you some seeds. Dandelions only grow there, but I’m sure with your gardening skills, you’ll figure something out.”)

What surprised Ororon the most was the fact that, in the early years of their friendship, Cacucu had really disliked it. Hated it, even. He still kind of did. But over time, the young qucusaurus had gradually come to tolerate it because, quoting Ifa again, “his desire to hang out with you is stronger than his dislike of getting zapped by your Vision.”

Another point that caught Ororon’s attention was that Ifa had ordered dozens of custom-made eating utensils just for him. Apparently, Ororon’s fangs were so sharp that they left bite-sized holes in Ifa’s spoons and forks whenever he came over to eat. And if he bit down too hard, his fangs would sometimes get stuck.

Ifa’s first solution was to replace all his wooden utensils with metal ones. He didn’t do it halfway either—he commissioned Xilonen, the most famous blacksmith in all of Nanatzcayan, which left Ororon more than a little bewildered.

(“...Just to make spoons?”

The doctor crossed his arms, suddenly defensive. “Xilonen was looking for commissions to get away from the Pyro Archon, so she’s taking whatever jobs she can. She even gave me a discount.”

“Still. Just for spoons?”

“Not just spoons—there were forks too!”

“Semantics.”

“Your face is semantics!”)

But the story didn’t end there. Because the very first thing Ororon said after using the spoon Ifa had specially commissioned for him from the most renowned blacksmith of the generation… was a complaint. Apparently, he didn’t like the sharp clinking sound his fangs made against the metal. And, in his own words, he actually preferred the old wooden spoons.

That made Ororon uneasy. First, the reason he barely remembered the incident was because, to him, it was trivial. The “complaint” wasn’t really a complaint—more of a passing comment. A neutral observation. He hadn’t meant anything by it.

Second, there’s no way Ifa would go out of his way to replace all his utensils just because one spoon made Ororon slightly uncomfortable, right?

Right?

(“S-so what did you do?” The thought of how much mora Ifa must’ve spent gave Ororon’s headaches their own headache.

“I replaced them, of course. You clearly like wood more than metal. Xilonen introduced me to a carpenter friend of hers, so I asked what types of wood would work best and ordered a new set.”

“All this just for spoons?”

...Just for me?

“Told you, not just spoons!”

Then… who else could it be for?)

All of this—every little story, every strange and silly thing that had come to light today—led Ororon to a simple realization he should’ve noticed long ago.

That someone had always been paying close attention.

A warm feeling began to blossom in his chest.

“You really do always look out for me, huh.”

Ifa froze.

Immediately, a flush of red colored his bronze skin. His cheeks now looked like a very ripe sunsettia. Ororon’s hand—almost unconsciously—lifted, as if to pluck one.

The doctor turned away, pulling his hat down to hide his eyes. “I regret saying so much,” he muttered. “This was supposed to embarrass you, y’know. Are you embarrassed yet?”

Ifa didn’t even deny it.

Ororon’s laughter was now the freest it had ever been. “I don’t know about being embarrassed. But I do want to hear more.”

Ifa’s scowl had never looked this comical. “Then I’m not saying anything else.”

“Ifa!”

“It’s not that hot anymore,” Ifa shoved a cup of mysterious brew right in Ororon’s face. “Drink it all, okay?”

It was the most obvious attempt at changing the subject Ororon had ever witnessed. But Ororon, if he may say so himself, was a kind person. He allowed him the escape—for now. There would be plenty of time to tease Ifa later.

Besides, he had honestly forgotten about the mysterious potion. Staring into the cup before him, the liquid was so dark and thick that he could see his own reflection in it. The fact that his nose still couldn’t identify any of the ingredients didn’t exactly make him eager to drink it.

As if reading his mind, Ifa chimed in with a stifled laugh. “It’s safe to drink.”

Ororon gave him a skeptical look. Just because his best friend swore it was drinkable didn’t mean he’d enjoy the process. “But is it delicious to drink?”

The young Mictlan man instantly regretted holding off on teasing Ifa earlier, because Ifa—so shamelessly—grinned the most mischievous grin in his entire arsenal. “Bro, I’m a vet, not a chef.”

Ororon was a grown man of 22 years old. A mere bitter potion wouldn’t take him down. But he still wanted to complain, just because. “If anything happens to me, Granny’s going to throw a fit, y’know.”

Ifa waved his hand dismissively, clearly used to this routine. “Mutota can fly me away. I’ll be fine.”

Ororon brought the rim of the cup to his lips. One last warning. “Cacucu doesn’t like seeing you fly with other qucusauruses.”

Ifa pouted, apparently unable to come up with a comeback. “Not fair, bringing up Cacucu like that.”

This time, it was Ororon who smirked. At least he won this round.

Still basking in his victory, Ororon took a cautious sip. His tongue waited for the wave of unpleasantness to flood his senses.

Instead, a warm rush welled up from his throat and settled comfortably in his stomach. One sip became two, three, four, five—until only a trace of wet granules remained at the bottom of the cup.

“Do you like it?” Ororon could hear the smile in his friend’s voice, and he responded with an enthusiastic nod. “It’s my special recipe—ginger and embercore blossom tea. I added a little of your honey, too, though I think it was pointless since your tongue’s probably already numb.”

Ororon’s brow furrowed. His defensiveness returned, and just as he opened his mouth to scold Ifa about the superior quality of his aphids’ honey, which could pierce even the dullest of tongues—

A massive belch escaped him, startling them both.

They could only look at each other.

Then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

🐤🐤🐤

Chapter Text

Ororon couldn’t remember the last time he laughed this hard. Fever and relentless headaches weren’t even a hindrance. He and Ifa were both doubled over, clutching their stomachs, giggling uncontrollably.

In theory, this wasn’t funny at all. No matter how abysmal their sense of humor might have been, Ororon and Ifa at least had some standards. (Debatable.)

But in practice? That was a different matter. Whenever Ororon’s laughter began to subside, he would catch sight of Ifa’s flushed face still contorted in wild laughter. That sight alone would automatically trigger another wave of giggles, pulling him right back into another fit. The same happened with Ifa. Over and over again. They were now trapped in an endless cycle of cheap humor, like two boiling kettles hissing back and forth at each other.

Apparently, their laughter was concerning enough that Cacucu poked his round little head into the bedroom to check on them.

“Oh, dear?”

Ifa—still caught in giggles and barely able to breathe—waved a hand at his colleague, signaling they were okay.

The young saurian stared at his human friends with suspicion, one golden eye narrowed sharply. But in the end, he wisely chose to flap away. Cacucu probably didn’t want to catch whatever it was they had.

Ifa wiped at his teary eyes, finally managing to gather enough breath to speak a few words. "Oh, dear—"

Meanwhile, Ororon had removed his hood and was now massaging his ears, which were ringing. Laughing this hard was clearly a mistake. His skull felt like it was being poked by dozens of Ifa’s syringes.

But it was all worth it. So worth it.

“Ifa, my head really hurts—take responsibility.”

“Serves you right!”

Even so, Ororon’s worsening condition seemed to worry Ifa enough that the doctor fought to suppress his laughter and focused on helping Ororon toward the pillow. “Just lie down for now, okay? You really need to rest.”

This time, Ororon didn’t argue. It felt so comforting, being cared for like this. Besides, Ifa’s concoction was calming enough to make sleep begin to take hold.

With heavy-lidded eyes, the young man from Mictlan watched Ifa’s hands fluttering busily—arranging the blanket, helping him out of his cloak so he could lie more comfortably on the bed.

It was a scene very typical of Ifa’s veterinary clinic. Especially after major surgeries on saurian patients. But doing it to Ororon, in Ororon’s room, on Ororon’s bed—rekindled a gentle warmth in his soul.

Then, a sudden thought struck him, and Ororon couldn’t help but start laughing again. With a victorious grin, he pointed a finger right at the doctor’s face. “See? I told you!”

Startled, Ifa tilted his head. “Huh?”

He probably looked ridiculous lying there with his hands on his hips, but Ororon was far too pleased to care. “You’re taking care of me while I’m sick. That means I must be part of your job description too, Ifa.”

His friend seemed too shocked to respond.

“Bro,” Ifa finally said, eyes squeezed shut, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Do you even hear yourself?”

Of course, Ororon didn’t stop there.

“You always say you’re a doctor for animals, not a doctor for humans. So, by that same logic,” his finger pointed again, now in a perfect checkmate pose, “you, taking care of me right now, must mean I’m also considered as an—ow!”

Ororon’s hands flew to his forehead. All the pain in his skull had now gathered into one hot, red point—exactly where Ifa’s fingers had just made contact.

Ororon was stunned.

Did—

Did Ifa just flick his forehead?

After swearing not to?

Because he couldn’t bear to do that to a sick Ororon?

“Deserve it.” Ifa showed not even a hint of regret.

But the laughter faded—not because the joke ended, but because something in Ifa’s face no longer matched the tone.

Then, in a much heavier voice, devoid of any humor, Ifa added, “Ororon. Please. Don’t joke about this ever again.”

Ororon’s ears twitched instantly. He looked up at his friend again.

“You are not an animal, Ororon.”

A sharp inhale. Narrowed eyes. His fingers clenched the blanket so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Shadowy webbing slithered around his dimming soul. All of it led to one conclusion—Ifa was very upset.

The look on his friend’s face set off every emergency alarm in Ororon’s mind. “This topic … really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Ifa’s heavy sigh was all the answer he needed.

Truth be told, Ororon wasn’t the type to censor himself. Not even around his beloved Granny (who had countless blood-boiling triggers after living for so many centuries). Sure, there were times when he stayed quiet. He wasn’t particularly sensitive to social norms, but he knew when to hold his tongue (hopefully). Still, if the opportunity allowed, he always preferred to let his brain, tongue, and mouth do as they pleased.

Partly because constantly policing his words sounded exhausting—not his style at all. And partly—honestly—because he enjoyed seeing people’s reactions.

Especially Ifa’s.

Oh, Ifa.

His friend’s reactions were responsible for most of the bizarre philosophies he loved to blurt out.

Their routine was simple. Ororon would say something absurd for the umpteenth time. Ifa would object, pointing out just how ridiculous it was, then refute it—with theory or action. From there, the scenario split into two: 1) Ororon was proven wrong and Ifa got to feel smug all day; or 2) Ororon was proven right and got to feel smug all day, plus, he can add the argument to his future arsenal.

Regardless of how the debate ended, Ororon already had his own rewards.

Ifa’s animated body language, his hands waving all over the place when he argued, his vibrant soul flaring up with passion, his expressive face (those sharply furrowed brows, that adorably crinkled nose, his irises glowing so bright, his sweetly pursed lips when he—once again—ran out of counterarguments, and his cheeks blooming like embercore petals).

Ororon hadn’t yet studied the latest innovation from Fontaine called “film,” but he knew, deep down in his heart, that Ifa’s very existence was a cinema.

But this time … their banter was different.

It didn’t follow the usual script or routine.

Ifa’s soul now looked so dim, and Ororon … Ororon was heartbroken to see it.

“Ifa?”

Ifa’s breathing grew heavier and heavier. Yet the vet still forced a smile. “It’s not your fault … hufff—it’s just my mind running wild again, like always.”

On the blanket, Ororon saw Ifa’s left hand gently rubbing the top of his right, more specifically over the jagged scar that stretched across his knuckles.

The scar had faded now, a pale scribble on his golden skin that once stood out much more. Now, it was just one of many among the dozens scattered across his body.

Still, Ororon remembered exactly where that scar had come from.

He hadn’t been there when the incident happened. He’d only arrived after a guard came to fetch him at home with the startling news, “A veterinarian from Flower Feather Clan has been injured, and Chief Biram urgently wanted you there.”

That day, Ororon had never flown so fast in his life.

After reading the official report woven personally by Chief Biram, and hearing the excited chatter of the Masters of The Night-Wind soldiers who were on the mission, Ororon pieced together what must have happened.

The Masters of The Night-Wind soldiers were raiding an illegal saurian smuggling and hunting operation. Ifa always joined such missions as part of the medical crew, even though he came from a different tribe. Mictlan and its entire population were known to be reserved people who preferred to handle their affairs without outside help. However, Ifa's competence as a professional had become so well-known that the soldiers always welcomed his contributions with open arms.

Everything went smoothly; all suspects captured, and the saurians were mostly unharmed—except for one young Iktomisaurus, who was severely wounded.

Something happened. Then Ifa beat one of the suspects to a pulp.

In the report, Chief Biram explained that if he hadn’t stopped him in time, Ifa might have beaten the hunter unconscious—and shattered his own finger bones, in the process.

Ororon never asked Ifa about the mission. He didn’t feel it was his place. He knew it would only be fair if Ifa chose to tell him. That was Ifa’s right alone.

“People always use that excuse,” Ifa whispered, voice barely audible. “As a justification. As the justification for what they do.”

Ororon gently wrapped his fingers around Ifa’s. He wasn’t sure it would help, but at least he wanted to anchor him—to let Ifa know he was here. That he’d always be here.

His friend responded, holding on just as tightly.

“‘Oh, they’re just animals. Just beasts. Why make it such a big deal?’” The way Ifa repeated the words made Ororon’s skin crawl. “It’s not even that I think animals are beneath us. Oh no, the opposite. None of us are purer than them.”

His laugh was bitter with self-contempt. “But every time I hear you compare yourself to animals—joking or not—I, Ororon, I…”

Their eyes met. Indigo and magenta locked with turquoise-orange.

Ifa gripped his hand like it was the only thing keeping him from flying away in the wind. Like Ororon was the only tether strong enough to keep him grounded.

“I think … maybe there’s one more reason...," His voice faltered even more, barely louder than the wind tapping Ororon’s windows, “People could use it to justify hurting you. Every time I see animals hurt in my hands, wounded by humans, I think, there’s a chance—a small one, very small, but not zero—that you could be there too. Hurt for the same reason.”

Ifa’s jewel-like pupils quivered, trembling in their bicolored cage. Ororon could see his own reflection perfectly within them.

“And I ... I can’t accept that. Not even the thought of it.”

His head dropped, breaking eye contact. His hat slid down as well, shielding his face, as if trying to protect him from whatever Ororon’s reaction might be.

“I know this is all too much. Like, why am I even thinking this far? Heh. But … that’s what goes on in my head.”

Ifa’s soft laugh was so fragile it shredded Ororon’s eardrums on the spot.

🐤🐤🐤