My Baby (Sun/Moon x Reader)

Seven is the Number of Heaven

(Date of new edited version: 2024/7/12)

-x-

They want to say that they remember their childhood, but that would be a sour lie. Neither of them do, for one reason or another, seem to remember much of their younger years.

Sometimes, they'd get a flash of a memory, but they can't be sure if it was real or the creation of a dream they had. Other times they'd hear a voice—very distant and muffled, but it's there—and even then they are never sure. Neither is certain if they were just hallucinating stuff out of the life they had after.

Their planet was forgotten too—destroyed, someone had told them. They were taken a very long time ago, taken and held down and beaten to submission. All of that was a blur, and neither really wanted to remember it anyway.

They do not remember their first owner, not who it was or what it looked like—however, they do remember the heavy emotions that would sometimes circle them like a shark. They remember being scared and someone shushing them down with an edge of a warning—trying to prepare them for this new world they suddenly found themselves in. They didn't want to go, but they didn't want to stay either. They didn't belong anywhere they went regardless.

A first.

It went on like this for years. And, while sometimes it wasn't so bad, it never stayed peaceful, not with their thoughts anyway. Sun and Moon used to believe they are likable and lovable, and if not, then not hated. But this mindset was burned to ash not so long after their third owner. Perhaps they weren't as likable as they thought—not as important nor talented.

What were they good at that may benefit those who decide to own them? Nothing, they have found out. Nothing that anyone would take them in for. Sun was to be said they were too annoying and Moon too withdrawn. These quirks didn't help, not that either of them could control it.

A second and a third.

Years went on, time doesn't wait for anyone. This was something Moon feared. Wasting time. Not being fast enough. Failure. They became even more withdrawn, more closed in, and ignorant. They didn't want to listen, the noises were too loud—anything started to make them jump—flinch—jolt. Coldness crawled in, and heavyweight held them down by the neck. The more time they waste, the worst. One day they'd grow too weak to do anything—one day they wouldn't be able to even stand.

Then, their leg broke. Moon thinks they broke more than that. And when they no longer felt it hurt, they knew they had waited too long to do anything. It was already too late.

A fourth and a fifth then a sixth.

Sun wasn't any better. Their optimistic self only seemed to drag them down. They rise their hopes up so high that, when they break, it falls harder. Anxiety began to crawl in. Uncertain about any and every move they would make—were they too loud? Too energetic? Too annoying? Were they a burden?—

They are a burden, it was obvious to the naked eye. But maybe! Maybe that wasn't it! Who knows, perhaps one of those days something good would happen! Yes, of course. Why wouldn't anything good happen? Oh, so many questions. But people's words hurt, they always have something mean to say, don't they? Their words always have a double meaning that they sometimes miss.

Too optimistic. Nothing good ever happened, and when it does, it either never lasts or would have consequences to it later on.

Anxiety seemed to gnaw on them the same they do when they drag claws over their thighs or pull on their rays to control such flinches—jolts—gasps. It was harder to keep steady and not move.