"Make Sure Sensei Isn't Lonely This Winter."

"Make sure Sensei isn't lonely this winter."

my 2 moods

more i think about it, more i realize antarc got gwen stacy’d for the creation of a god. pre-antarc, phos had two braincells and used maybe half of one. post-antarc and they were using both braincells plus their instincts and all the knowledge, skills, and charm they didnt think to use before and what did that do? create an entity that could not accept that their entire existence is not only meaningless, but so is their proverbial death bc gems dont really die, do they? they can erode, get crushed, eaten, and they can come back over and over again, but what WON’T come back are the memories that are sacrificed for that eternal survival.

and phos will never forget. whereas other beings have learned to cope one way or another, phos will always be a victim of their memory of antarc, their love for antarc, and the knowledge that the antarc they desperately, truly, and deeply loved is gone forever. a hundred more will be born over the next million years, but it will not be their antarc. an eternity knowing they will never find peace from their grief, call that the perfect recipe for a murderous god.

The 3 musketeers or something idk I never played it

Hnk Oc

"Oh," Phosphophyllite stops in place, kneels down. "A flower!"

Light reflects off their hair. Throws facets across their shoulder, the bare stretch of their cheek. Antarcticite stops, too, and turns back towards them.

"A flower?"

Snow is heavy around them; the temperature is cold, and Antarcticite is solid. A flower shouldn't-

"Yeah!" Phosphophyllite chirps, looking up at them. Their face is open, bright. 

Even though the sunshine is pale, and washed out, their face glows.

(the rising morning sun, welcoming them home)

A sharp blink. Antarcticite follows their own path back, crosses over to Phos' winding, unsteady one. They've not made it that far. Home is still nestled just before the horizon.

There, small and bristling with frost, is a flower.

"Oh," they kneel. Puts their weapon aside, and reaches out a tentative, unsure, hand.

Yet they don't quite dare touch.

"What kind is it?"

Phos hums, thoughtful. Leans closer, and their arms brush. The presence of another gem, one that isn't Sensei's comforting size is- odd.

(Antarcticite does not, they find, hate it)

"You don't know, do you?" they ask, when Phos doesn't say anything, and they offer a sheepish little laugh, expression contrite.

Antarcticite huffs. But something fond lingers in their chest, and hesitantly, they press a finger to the flower's petal.

The thing shivers at the touch. 

But it doesn't wither. 

"I've never seen one before," they admit, softer than they want.

"Never?"

A shake of their head.

They've seen ice, patterned like flowers. Twisting and reaching, endlessly stretching. And they've seen dried ones, dying ones, unspoken kindnesses left from the others.

But this is different.

The flower is alive. Perhaps it won't be for long, but right now, in this moment, there it is. Its petals alive and vibrant, turned towards the sun.

An arm brushes against theirs.

"It's pretty, right?"

Antarcticite taps at the petal. Watches it rise, then fall, with the motion. The sun curls over it, pale and waning. 

If they turn their head, they'd see Phos' face.

"Yeah," they say, leaning back. Picking up their weapon. "It's pretty."

Despite themself, they let their gaze shift to Phosphophyllite.

(a smile, as bright as the summer sun)