the seven husbands of y/n l/n ✷ gi

in which a star is made of cloth

Y/N HAS LEARNED TO MOURN WHAT SHE HAD NEVER ONCE LAID HER HANDS ON. 

Nestled within the frayed edges of her torn notebook were the curves of her handwriting which she silently took pride in. The fashion of each loop and hook laid out with a slight tilt made her feel slightly more comforted in the blizzards of Snezhnaya. If Y/N could not confine herself in conversation, she would write her woes and wonders on paper under the curtains of night. Thus, as Y/N sprawled herself over the sheets of paper, her jaw tightened slightly. 

Tonight was the night, after all. 

After the visit from the Fatui, much of Cheklain grew more dreary than it already was. The souls of the throng dampened as children were swept away like dust flying off shelves. Parents mourned the loss as if their death had already occurred long before it even started. 

Consequently, Y/N's class size was reduced by half. The remaining children hung with the reminder of friends torn asunder as their weakness became their only redeeming quality. 

Thus, unable to stand the scent of despair, Y/N orchestrated a play for the children to act in. 

As absurd as it sounded, the town opted not to waste their energy in objection. Rather, they remained silent and indifferent. Nevertheless, both shared the distinct truth that swelled in their chest: it was all but a distraction for the forsaken children whose minds brimmed with scattered truths. 

The play was seemingly simple, comprised of only a handful of characters crafted by Y/N's assiduous hands. In essence, the plot of the play was a coupled copy of any children's book or novel. However, behind the fictional curtain that silently eased the applaud, a message unfolded itself like paper cranes being shot down from the sky. 

The 'stage' in which the children were intended to perform would not be considered a stage at all. In fact, it was merely the classroom, its desks pushed to the sides as a dozen chairs were keenly set in rows. A large velvet cloth strung by the edges and hung as a background despite the evident patches and loosened strings. However, the vehemence efforts of Y/N would not go in vain as her hands currently cut stars from scrap fabric: intended to act as additional props for a dead stage. 

"The children will like the play," voiced Capitano, who gingerly stepped into the classroom, "No doubt it will get their mind off of the Fatui." 

Y/N merely nodded, her eyes burning into the fabric as she hastened her cutting: the dull scissors providing little aid.

Despite her silence, Capitano continues, gradually approaching her, "Do you need help?" 

Y/N scoffs, suppressing a snide smirk, "You? Arts and crafts? You must be delirious Captain." 

'Only for you.'

Capitano shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest as he looms over you, "Tonight is the play. And seeing how much fabric is left... it looks like you need help," He swiftly grabs a spare chair from the side, comically far too small for a teen like himself.

Y/N sighs, shaking her head before remarking, "It won't be my fault the stars look like circles by the time we're done," she then smoothly reaches for the pair of spare scissors, nonchalantly handing them to him. "Since you came 'late' I'll give you the smaller pair." 

Capitano simply chuckles, his slender hands artfully taking the scissors as he silently follows suit. Cutting stars from the spare patches of fabric absent struggle or dispute. 

On the contrary, Y/N found her mind wandering; stealing occasional glances at Capitano who did not once bat an eye. His hands artfully manipulated the scissors like his own; seemingly clipping and refining the scum piece of fabric like a clean, satisfying cut of the universe. Despite the growing sturdiness of his transitioning figure, Capitano treated the petite piece of cloth like the finest of silks. The 'Captain's' utmost care radiated through the room with each precise cut and delicate fold.