. . .
"And those who were seen dancing
were thought to be insane
by those who could not hear the music"
— Friedrich Nietzsche
. . .
...How strange.
Alastor never remembered falling asleep or lying down. As a matter of fact, he can't even remember what happened after he...
...what?
After he what?
What happened again?
"Wow," someone whistled, "Cupid sure got your boy good, huh?"
His brow twitched.
He didn't recognize that voice nor that particular scent. And his limbs remained locked in place, he can't... move. Now that he thought about it, Alastor also realize that he can't open his eyes too.
Is he dying?
Did something happen to him?
Wait. Was he attacked?!
But... but he didn't feel hurt or have any injuries, so he can't be too sure. None of his limbs are obeying him and the air around him feels so nice despite the lingering fruity scent clashing with it, the comforter around him feels so warm and he has never felt so cozy since he slept on his mate's bed.
Wait a minute.
Her bed...?!
"Now, now, Poppy... drop that look on your face before you scare someone away," the same unfamiliar voice Alastor first heard when he was on the verge waking up was saying much more clearly now, their tone a playful mix of a drunken slur and something like scolding, "I think your big bad wolf's gonna be okay now. I never heard of anyone dying from the god of love's arrows, anyway... I think."
"You 'think'?!" she hissed.
That... that voice.
Alastor knows that voice.
His eyelids twitched, willing himself to move.
His attempts didn't seem to go unnoticed as his ears pick up the sound of something rustling, followed by a faint, masculine chuckle, and the scent of... grapes? "Poppy, I think your sleeping beauty's waking up."
As if on cue, Alastor finds his eyes blinking open.
Wrong move.
Light, there was too much light, and it's assaulting his eyes. Alastor stubbornly squints at it, trying to adjust to the sudden light as he groans, feeling so impossibly heavy and tired as he moves until he's lying on his side. He's aware he just came to, but the call of sleep was rather tempting.
The hell had he been doing to get this tired?
"Hey Al, glad to see you finally awake," William tells him, and Alastor caught sight of the kid standing by the doorway, arms crossed, "You gave us quite the scare when we found you passed out on a bench."
Alastor opened his mouth to say... something... but whatever it was he had been planning to say immediately died down his throat the moment he felt a familiar presence approaching him. The gentle scent of honey and vanilla trampling down the dizzying scent of grapes the more she came closer. Home. Mate. His.
A pale hand, smaller than his—and one that was marked with a floral sort of tattoo that his addled brain faintly registers as some sort of... wait, is that a spider lily? —suddenly rested on his shoulder.
