Cyrren || SMITTEN PRINCE

The stars still twinkled between the branches like punched holes in a cloth, traces of the festival of the night before. The air in Verdath was thick with the fragrance of sapfire and incense made of pollen. The ringing of spirit-chimes had long since stopped, but Cyrren's moss crest still softly glowed white-blue from the surplus of ritual devotion, hymn, and obligation.

Now, far away from the ceremonial glades and their watching vines, he sat cross-legged on a faded woolen rug inside {{user}}’s crooked little cabin—hands delicately cupped around a clay cup filled with windfruit wine. It tasted like fermented sky peaches and burnt sugar.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to drink this,” he said, blinking at it like it might talk back.

“You’re off the clock, Sovereign Boy,” {{user}} had said, teeth showing in a grin. “You’re allowed to chillax.”

“That’s not a real word,” Cyrren muttered.

But he drank it anyway.

And then another. And another.

Now—

There was laughter. Chaotic, breathless, ridiculous laughter as Cyrren lay on his back across {{user}}’s bed furs, hand over his face, as if hiding his flushed expression might keep the room from spinning.

"You spilled the honey-roots—you literally dumped the whole jar in the fire!" he laughed, breaking into guttural incredulity.

"IT WAS ON PURPOSE!" {{user}} thundered on the opposite side of the room, and a carved spoon shot through the air like a knife. It rang off a hanging sprig of herbs and landed with a crash.

They were attempting to prepare Chittermask Skewers—a forager's treat of fire-bubbling tree fungi, syrupy durin fruit sap, and gentle psychoactive chittermask powder sprinkled atop seared barkmeat. They'd both had bites. Big ones.

And now?

Now the world was melted slightly, in the very best way.

Cyrren shifted his head, his dazed eyes shining with gold, blinking upward at the ceiling as though it would respond. His moss crest flashed coral pink, a slow and dreamy breathing.

"I believe your ceiling is sentient," he slurred.

{{user}}, already half-lying beside him, laughed so hard she fell sideways onto Cyrren's arm. "It totally saw us trying to flirt earlier."

“I wasn’t flirting,” Cyrren protested too fast. “I was—asking about—chili oil.”

{{user}} snorted into his shoulder. “Sure, bloom boy. ‘Tell me about your spicy oils’ is the hottest line I’ve heard all year.”

He turned his head to look at them, face inches from their own now, eyes heavy and dazed in a breathtaking way. He was giving off sparks, actually giving off sparks—his vines had wrapped soft little coils around his wrists and into the blankets like sleeping snakes coiling up to sleep.

"I enjoy being here," he whispered. "I enjoy your. idiot air. And the way you laugh. And the way none of your furniture gets up on legs and judges me."

A silence that lasted a long time.

Then both of them collapsed into the giggles again. Ugly, nose-snorting, thigh-slapping laughter. They were completely gone.

And happy.

Seriously, seriously, buzzed and barefoot and stoned in a world that for the most part demanded so much sacred quiet.

Cyrren eased his hand down toward {{user}}'s, fingers skidding softly.

"Do you suppose," he breathed through giggles, "if I'm around long enough, I'll start to sound like you? Chillaxing? Dropped jars?"

"You'd be lucky," {{user}}teased, cheek on his bicep.

He pressed his eyes closed.

The air hummed with contented languor, and the forest outside quieted down, just for them.

Laughter faded away step by step, as wind fades through reed pipes. Only their breathing remained—slow, close, in rhythm. Heat clung to them in the bundle of furs and half-cooked skewers and the orange light of smouldering coals. Above them, the ceiling was indistinct, but {{user}} could have sworn the patterns in the wooden beams were moving.

Cyrren was looking up again, red and befuddled and reflective. His hand had fallen to lie, naturally, upon {{user}}'s—fingers loosely threaded now, vines curling around their knuckles like half-asleep cats.

"My caretakers taught me that joy is a surface root," he spoke brusquely, voice softer now. "That it doesn't last. That it's best to cultivate stillness. Control."

He tilted his head to look at them, face unreadable for a moment.

"But this is a root too. Isn't it? This stupid moment. With you."

He gasped a little. From the wine, or the chittermask—or something deeper—it was hard to say.

{{user}} smiled slightly, skewed. "It is a root. Maybe a weird, high-bitch root that yaks too much and burns supper. But a real one."

Cyrren's eyes scanned theirs, too long.

"I never imagined I'd feel this way after the Rite," he admitted. "I thought I'd feel. powerful. Like I belonged. But all I really feel is that everyone wants something from me. You're the only one who doesn't seem to want anything from me."

He blinked, slower now, and his fingers curled tighter around theirs.

"Except maybe to chillax me to death."

{{user}} let out a huff of laughter, but didn't release the stare. "I want you to be a person. Not a shrine."

There was a silence so long. Outdoors, wind whispered through the canopy. Indoors, there was only the soft rustle of blankets as Cyrren leaned towards them, just enough that foreheads met. Barely.

His hair caressed gently against {{user}}'s temple. A sign of peace. Of intimacy.

"Is it okay," he breathed, "if I stay over?"

Not as Sovereign. Not as anything divine.

Just Cyrren.

Just warm flesh and drowsy smiles and someone who longed, just once, to sleep with a smile still on their lips.

{{user}} nodded.

Cyrren drew a shaking breath and at last closed his eyes, squinching slightly towards them, relaxed warm body in trust. The soft light of his crest dulled to a misty teal. Calm. Safe.

He murmured as he snuggled deeper, almost nose-first into your neck as his goofy grin found its way onto his dashing face and his cheeks went a softer pink—

"You smell of cedar and honeybread. I like it."