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Midday strikes with golden rays and a calm peace that mists in the air as the sun reaches its highest point in the sky, ready to soon tip into the start of a typical lazy afternoon in Dreamland, and Galacta Knight leans into it with ease, having scarcely moved an inch.
He's paid little mind to the rising sun, as he has for a while now, remaining stationary at his latest napping spot high in the sky, long since the morning began.
The last few days have been spent much the same, with the warrior propped up in the alcove of an open-window ledge that cuts into the very top of the castle watchtower, standing routinely in direct sun for the first half of the day.
He’s been using the location to sun himself, effectively chasing away the faint chill that has taken over in what many have claimed as “typical” winter temperatures for Dreamland. There’s not a speck of snow to be found—that weather phenomenon is a rare occurrence in such a grassy climate—though once night hits the air is cold enough to nip.
He can’t argue over it, exactly. Halcandra, the planet dotted with a plethora of volcanoes and everlasting-heat that he grew up on, didn’t experience anything much beyond an eternal summer year-round. The weather here, however mild the changes, does have noticeable seasons.
He’ll have to switch to the other tower soon, he notes. It’s just about time anyways. A line of shade has been drifting closer to the bladed edges of his fanned out wing-feathers, one inside the tower and one out in the air, and it's as clear a sign as any that soon he’ll be without the sun’s steady warmth.
Tsk.
Galacta Knight doesn’t say it aloud, but he doesn’t want to get up. The flight, a short minute at most to the other side of the castle, just sounds like too much of a hassle. It’s a busy day, after all. Though not exactly for him, that is.
Something’s been going on in the castle, that much he’s sure of. Preparations for an event. A festivity. He’s steered clear of it in what he would strongly claim as just disinterest, but in truth, the reason is much more redundant by his standards.
No one’s come up and asked him to involve himself with the rampant decorating that’s taken over the hallways and outer walls, he’s only watched from this perch as they were dressed with colorful streamers and shining tinsels. And, notably for just one night, a blinding array of light strings that flashed until the King’s advisor, the anxious snail, scrambled out shouting about the steep electricity bill they’d certainly be facing the next day if it kept up.
Since then, King Dedede has passed by multiple times down below, shouting orders to Waddle Dees loud enough for the warrior to catch the term New Year and celebration tossed around.
The overheard plans for an end-of-the-year party first spoken of a few days ago is what encouraged him to seek refuge up here in the first place, and he’s since filled in the gist of it.
The year is almost over, and Dreamland always throws a grand celebration in honor of it. The residents gather, sometimes deal with last-minute plots the King has staged by tossing Kirby at it and promising the puffball all the cake he could want in return, but the night is meant to be happy and full of cheer nonetheless. Something about resolutions, too.
Galacta Knight doesn’t dwell on it.
He’s always had a tricky relationship with time. He lost eons trapped in a dazzling, pink crystal seal, but he doesn’t dwell much on that either. It’s in the past, but he’s safely here in the present, living out a fantasy-esque life where he can get away with doing nothing for most of the day. That’s that.
Logically, he knows it’s ridiculous to feel the annoying prick of bitterness that he isn’t being directly involved in this most recent castle celebration. At first glance, it even looks as if he’s purposely avoiding it, reigning up here so high in the sky, not only out of everyone’s way, but their sight too.
Well, technically, he is purposely avoiding it, but not because he thinks its stupid or beneath him.
The shade inches closer. He watches it with a single, crimson eye, half-open behind his crosscut mask visor. He's not drowsy, even if he keeps coming up here under the guise of napping.
In truth, he’s nervous. It’s that simple, and that mortifying.
His time serving the The Ancients was spent with long days of fighting and endless nights of study, all with the intent to become the renown Greatest Warrior in the Galaxy—a title he lost to a certain pesky knight with too much ambition and too little common sense, but he’s over it now—and it was a life-style that left little room for downtime.
Holidays weren’t much of anything he ever took part in. He couldn’t say much about Halcandra’s traditions for them, because he’d been preoccupied for so much of his life with other things deemed too important. There were the numerous celebrations where he was paraded around as the magnificent warrior full of great promise, back in an ancient time before being betrayed and shoved under guard by a clockwork star, heroic title forsaken and left to be forgotten, but those were sporadic. Not traditional, nor well-known.
Galacta Knight doesn’t know what exactly it’s like to just celebrate something seemingly so mundane.
He’s already risked asking just one little question about it to the first inconspicuous being he could find: the guard commander, Waddle Doo, who told him off-handedly that it was just like any other anniversary event. Bring a present, like a birthday party.
Galacta Knight didn’t say anything about the fact that he’s never exactly experienced one of those either. He just left without a word while the other was busy helping out the Waddle Dees, the entire conversation forgotten.
He feels highly unprepared to even attempt participating in it, even just from the background, and asking someone else for a clear-cut answer was just intimidating enough that he resolved to simply not. Too much hassle.
He’d spend this night exactly as he planned. Watching from afar and telling himself that maybe next year he’d try participating after he had something to go off of. Wasn’t exactly as if his presence there was crucial. Might not even be missed.
Within the tower, the deeper shadows shift, cutting off his lagging train of thought.
There’s no sudden echo of footsteps coming up the spiraling stairs, no forewarning other than the slight ripple in space before Galacta Knight knows he’s no longer alone. A faint, glimmering presence shimmers into existence and blips on the radar of his natural magic perception: a sentient enchantment.
Specifically, a sentient weapon.
Galaxia.
Wherever that sacred sword is, it always marks the location of its wielder, serving itself well as an “x” on a treasure map discernible only to him and any other mage who might possess the skill. As far as he knows, he’s the only one in Dreamland.
A beat of silent, as first expected with these kind of encounters, then—
“Galacta Kn—?”
The warrior, despite sensing the other’s arrival and knowing what to expect, flinches up in surprise at the sound of the knight’s voice and topples right out the stone ledge of the window and into open air, a sputtering ball of ruffled feathers and gleaming armor.
It’s been half a second, and he already knows it's not going down as one of his best moments.
His lavender wings snap out, catching the wind before he can even fall very far, and at the same time he’s snatched by the wrist with the gloved hand of the one responsible for scaring him in the first place. There’s a brief wink of gold that reflects on his cuff, a trick of the sunlight, and it's gone.
He looks up—dangling there not-quite-so precariously, given he can just fly—and meets a familiar pair of amber eyes, widened in the barest hint of alarm.
Meta Knight.
“My apologies,” the knight says, hoisting him back up until Galacta Knight can grab the ledge with his freehand and pull himself up the rest of the way. “I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”
“Idiot,” the warrior half-heartedly snaps, heartbeat pounding from the adrenaline of the near-fall. He swats the other with an outstretched wing, stirring the top of his cape. “Wouldn’t have happened if you used the stairs like everyone else.”
Meta Knight doesn’t bat an eye. He’s used to such minor acts of rebellion, and it shows. “Teleporting is faster.”
And more dangerous, you nitwit, but Galacta Knight doesn’t say that comment out loud. It’s not a fair jab; messing with magic is always dangerous.
Admittedly, using the Dimensional Cape the knight always wears to warp around does fall on the side of less risky, even if it’s ten times more annoying.
“Then I’m sure you’ll waste no time in making your way back down,” Galacta Knight shoots back, hiding his dour mood by situating himself back on the window ledge, leaning until the points of his horns meet the stone frame with a quiet clack. His eyes fall shut, the riled feathers of his splayed wings lowering now that he’s on stable ground. “I’m napping. If you want something, go bug those two knights of yours instead.”
Sword and Blade. He’s seen them helping around too, easily discernible from afar by their armor. The knight beside him is one he’s caught sight of far less, but he doesn’t doubt that he’s aiding the upcoming celebration either.
Meta Knight is always needlessly stealthy, lurking around as if he was made from the shadows themselves, silent as a wraith. The castle is riddled with secret passages and hidden doors that the knight freely uses to pop out of nowhere whenever he deems it convenient.
Galacta Knight doesn’t admit that he’s minorly ticked off by the fact that despite all these secret methods of fast-travel, this is the first time the other has shown up and spoken to him in three days. It’s petty, and once more, he’d done nothing but hide away up here anyways, basically sulking. That demeanor was practically a bright and bold glittery sign that says leave me alone.
He’ll get over it once the day is over, and he doesn’t have to worry about not knowing anything about celebrations. Feeling insecure about it, of all things. Pathetic. What kind of pitiful warrior was he?
He tosses out the thought as soon as it comes, disliking the sour taste it leaves in his mouth. He used to internally beat himself up over little things like that often, back when he was first adjusting to the idea of a calmer life. Usually, it was in an attempt to fuel the ceaseless cycle of anger that he’ll still get lost in from time to time, which always leads to his unfortunate habit of destroying everything in a mile-wide radius.
It’s gotten better with time—blasted, tricky thing—but there’s only one being that he can think of to thank for leading him away from that desolate place of broken rage. Not that he ever says it out loud, of course. He’s great at pretending he doesn’t care about much of anything, it disguises the fact well that he would readily rip apart anyone who’d dare hurt a friend of his.
Meta Knight continues to stand there, oh so calm. He’s staring at him, the warrior knows it, even though his eyes are still closed. It's a common habit for the other, letting his gaze bore into you like he can read your very soul, and one that can easily unnerve those who are just meeting him for the first time.
“Your patch of sunlight is almost gone,” the knight states.
It’s an obvious, and yet extremely purposeful observation. Galatca Knight would bet an entire slice of shortcake that the other already has more than half of his avoidance game figured out.
Blasted perceptiveness. Probably heard what he asked Waddle Doo, too.
“So?” He jabs, aware that he’s just playing dumb to delay the inevitable, but he’s sternly refusing to budge from this spot, even without the extra sun.
“You fly to the other tower once it’s gone,” Meta Knight states again, in a way that suggests he knows more than he’s letting on, and is being deliberate with what information he’s offering up.
Galacta Knight resolves to give in, just this once, and cracks open an eye with feigned disinterest. “Then why did you show up at such an obviously inopportune time.”
“Because,” the knight says, without a hint of derision, still in his absolutely insufferable tone. “You’ll miss the firework show if you go to the other side and stay there all night, like usual. You’ll be facing the opposite direction.”
The warrior falters at that unexpectedly, his other eye snapping open and his expression twisting in bewilderment, first at the fact that the other has been keeping close enough tabs on him to know that, and second—
“Fireworks?”
What in the stars is a firework?
“You’ve never seen them before?” Meta Knight asks, sounding only curious, and not scornful at the idea like Galacta Knight has been playing it up as in his head. “The Cappies light them off every new year at midnight. His Majesty is creating another contest for everyone this time around.”
Galacta Knight is now staring intently at the fading fragment of sun glinting off the point of his platinum sabaton, forcing himself to act like this is the most boring thing he’s ever heard, and not buy into the subtle hint that it may be the invitation to join he’s been so petty about not getting.
He still doesn’t know what he’d do if he went, though, and telling Meta Knight that he’s never attended a casual celebration of good-will is an absolutely laughable idea that will surely damage his pride more than he’d like. He opens his mouth to pretend he doesn’t catch the hint—
“You’re welcome to attend, you know,” Meta Knight adds, a dash of amusement lining the words, like he can just read the warrior’s thoughts and finds great satisfaction over-abusing it for this. “Dedede might try to convince everyone otherwise, but you’re not required to bring an entry for the contest or even a gift. They’re usually just to convey well wishes to those you want to show appreciation to.”
Galacta Knight doesn’t know how this complete idiot can get away without acting outwardly smug right now, but part of him is relieved by the news. There’s even less expectations than he thought. It doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind about showing up, though.
Tsk. And even if he did, he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself show up empty-handed. He couldn’t go. Where would he even find gifts to bring? The store in Cappy Town? He doesn’t ever even shop there, he mostly lives off what he has access to in the castle.
The soft click of the knight's own sabatons breaks through his bombardment of thoughts, and the noise rings out as the other turns around, cape rippling, preparing to depart.
“If you don’t make it,” Meta Knight says and he stops halfway, looking back intently to Galacta Knight, who watches only from the corner of his eye, unmoving. “Then see you next year, Gala.”
Overlooking that terrible joke, the knight doesn’t use that short nickname often. It’s only when its just the two of them present, and it’s only tolerated because Galacta Knight can’t get past how incredibly stupid it is that such a thing can make him feel instantly cherished.
He’s always had a tricky relationship with friends too, but Meta Knight has broken through that barrier with less trouble than most. Perhaps because the knight isn’t quite so threatened by his reputation like everyone else, having beaten him in a duel and all, as even those who have gotten used to his presence in Dreamland still give him the occasional fearful look.
Perhaps it's also that Galacta Knight didn’t mind having the knight as a friend as much as he thought. It led to moments like these, which the warrior secretly appreciated as much as he found them excruciatingly aggravating.
Meta Knight is gone when he looks up, but because that knight has the sheer gall, he hears him taking the stairs on his way back down.
–
Four hours remain until sunset, the time everyone will be gathering in the courtyards for the celebration—followed much later by the impending firework display at midnight—and Galacta Knight is scrambling around Castle Dedede like he meant to be here the entire time.
“What are you bringing?” He says idly to a cluster of Waddle Dees, buzzing with enough manic energy to rival Meta Knight when he’s had far too much caffeine. He’s re-attaching some of the streamers that had fallen down from the top floor of the castle, getting lost in the work. It’s remarkably easy, given he can fly wherever to scoop them up, and it saves the Waddle Dees the effort of stacking themselves on top of one another like a make-shift ladder. He gets a few squeaks and arm-waves in response to his hasty question, and he nods along like he understands perfectly.
He doesn’t, but he’s practicing the art of small-talk. He usually finds it useless—who wants to talk about how the weather is nice today? This is Dreamland, the weather is always nice—but now he’s doing the ludicrous thing of imagining that he just might show up tonight—he is in the area after all—and he needs to be prepared if on a whim he does.
He’s gathering intel, treating this celebration like an opponent he needs to assess before battle. If he makes a wrong move, he’ll be dealt a blow in turn. He needs a proper defense.
He can’t just “show up”, he’s already argued to himself multiple times. Sure, his title has been denounced to Ex-Greatest Warrior in the Galaxy, but that doesn’t mean he has to do everything else second-rate.
The warrior is decidedly not making a firework—he doesn’t even know what they are, aside from the fact that they’re supposedly explosive and colorful, the two adjectives the Waddle Dees were able to convey to him by miming—but it sounds close enough to something he can reconstruct using his own magic that he isn’t worried. He can summon whirlwinds of fire and sizzling beam swords of pure energy; that can cover any firework expectations attendees might have of him.
The problem he’s been hung up on is the gift aspect.
It doesn’t have to be grand, it’s just to show appreciation. Doesn’t even matter, not a big deal, he could write a note of thanks and it would be perfectly acceptable—just also unreadable for anyone who can’t understand written Halcandrian, which was unfortunately just about everyone on Popstar.
He’s gotten one down though, thankfully. Galacta Knight does know that Kirby appreciates food above all else, which makes it easy enough. Perhaps he’ll bring the pink puffball a slice of strawberry shortcake, one that the warrior personally has stashed away in the hidden compartment of the castle fridge where Meta Knight also hides parfaits for midnight snacks.
Speaking of that pesky knight, he had since disappeared by the time Galacta Knight worked up the nerve to leave his tower napping-post and come back to the realm below. No sign of any watching shadows with glowing yellow eyes greeted him, nor the ghosting presence of his petty sword.
Meta Knight has slipped away again, as usual, but Galacta Knight isn’t about to stoop down low enough to admit he’s actively seeking him out.
He’d see him at the celebration, fair and simple.
…If the warrior went of course—it was still undecided.
There’s still a few others on the gift-list he needs to cover in the meantime.
Galacta Knight isn’t particularly close to anyone, not even the other castle residents he sees in-passing enough to at least say that he’s acquainted with them, but there’s still a thread of appreciation in the spool of their mutual tolerance of each other.
Sword and Blade, the two knights who follow Meta Knight, don’t exactly like the warrior, but they don’t dislike him either.
They got off on the wrong foot—Galacta Knight fought all the time with Meta Knight, Meta Knight’s friends and allies didn’t really appreciate that and fought with the warrior, but by the time he had cemented a solid friendship with the knight, it was too late to just shake hands and overlook the bumpy start that led him here.
Galacta Knight isn’t one to vouch for being open and inviting, part of the reason he’s been at the mutual standstill for so long, but he’s confident enough that a small gift won’t be a hassle. It could even be a step in the right direction—if he can get past the awful feeling of unsureness that keeps making him second-guess everything. Stars above, he didn’t have to deal with this when he was busy living off of the soul-consuming desire for revenge.
Anyways, maybe he should do something more clever, and give them a get-Galacta-Knight-to-leave-the-room-for-free card, in case they decide there’s an instance where he’s just a little too intimidating to keep on mutually tolerating, and they don’t want to risk provoking the harbinger of destruction without Meta Knight nearby.
Might work. He’ll put it down as a maybe.
The last two are also remarkably easy once he puts enough thought into it. Tiff and Tuff, sister and brother, the children who are always running around the castle to prevent—or cause, in some cases—mischief.
Tiff will spend hours investing herself in anything that catches her interest; this time, he’s betting on magic. The warrior’s caught several instances of her staring at the flickers of fire he creates and the pinkish-orange sparks that signifies a casting. She ventured to ask about it once before, but was stopped when a typical Dedede scheme got in the way.
He can give her whatever information she wanted to know about it. Next to combat, he’s a skilled mage, after all.
As for Tuff, Galacta Knight can offer to take him for a flight around the castle. It's a reasonable enough action-packed substitute for not being able to see the warrior’s first fated duel with Meta Knight, which the boy laments about frequently when he catches the two arguing over menial things like who’s taller—it’s Galacta Knight, the horns are attached to his head after all—and who can draw a weapon faster. That one gave everyone in the area a minor heart-attack when they attempted it on a whim.
He’s just about finished justifying this whole attending a real celebration out of his own volition for the first time idea, if it weren’t for the real issue that’s steadily becoming harder and harder to ignore.
He has no idea what to give Meta Knight.
So, under the pretense of politeness, Galacta Knight keeps hanging up fallen streamers as he counts the passing minutes, and the Waddle Dees continue to chatter away their unintelligible advice.
–
Two hours until sunset. The sky burns a seemingly brighter blue than before, and the air sings with the growing crisp of soon-to-be late afternoon.
Galacta Knight is half-convinced Meta Knight has staged this as a plot against him.
Why else would he show up out of the blue like that after three days of watching from afar? Just to invite him to the celebration the warrior obviously already knew he could attend even before the knight had reaffirmed it?
It must be a game. A trick. A clever ruse, all set up so that the knight could have the satisfaction of besting the warrior at…
Well, besting him at something. Galacta Knight hasn’t quite figured it out yet, but he can make a few good guesses.
He’s currently balanced on the jutting branch of the tree in the very center of Cappy Town’s main plaza, watching the chaos of hand-crafted fireworks and present-making below with Tokkori, a little yellow bird who loves to talk about gossip and himself, and who’s currently reclining on an adjacent perch.
“I’m the best gift any of these fellas could ask for,” Tokkori declares, going into detail about the list of deeds he’s done for everyone here. Most of them include the times he screamed “Emergency!” at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night, and he jabbers on about how no one seems to recognize how he’s indirectly saved their lives on countless occasions this way. “Consider right now an early present to ya, Cupid, my advice is worth its weight in gold.”
Galacta Knight doesn’t quite believe that, but he doesn’t say it out loud. He fixates on the nickname the bird squawks at him often—Cupid—instead, using the minor distraction as a reprieve from his other swirling thoughts.
The name’s tied to the fact that his wings look like that of an angel, at least according to most on-lookers—Meta Knight has called him a devil in disguise often enough to counteract it—and his ability to create a rare artifact called a Heart Spear. The first time he asked, Tokkori claimed that Cupid was an angel who flew around with heart-shaped arrows, and that it's fitting, given all that. Galacta Knight went on to explain that Heart Spears are much more intricate than some flimsy set of decorative arrows, and how they’re crafted with a powerful, pure bond that has the ability to eviscerate negativity and seal off dark gods of unimaginable—and Tokkori promptly fell asleep. Or pretended to, in a convincing enough manner that the warrior just left and never mentioned it again.
The little bird is still talking when a minor commotion hits the plaza. A herd of sheep burst in from the main road and circle around the tree they’re both resting on, kicking up dust in an endless loop of wool and spiraling ram horns. They’re the Mayor’s flock, most likely, and several of them are covered in sparkling flecks of confetti ribbon and streamers.
Residents nearby rush to grab any supplies in the way of the stampede, and in moments, the sheep are reduced to nothing more than background noise in the Cappies' minds. Years of the King’s dealings with monsters and shenanigans has rendered them used to this kind of nonsense, and they don’t waste time getting back to work in preparation for tonight's celebration, sheep baaing relentlessly or not.
The celebration, of course, that Galacta Knight will probably go to, but it isn’t like he’s actively planning on it for sure. He’s just spending some more time here thinking it through, getting a better scope of it.
He’s not worried about the fact that out of everyone he’s known, Meta Knight is the closest friend he has, and somehow, that little tiny detail has made it infinitely harder to pin down a reasonable gift.
There’s the easy answer. Just get a dessert, like the chocolate parfaits the knight loves. It’s an open secret—that will always be met with open denial—that the other has a ridiculous sweet tooth. Really, a parfait would work perfectly. Why did he even waste the energy flying here to Cappy Town in the first place? Did he really think Tokkori would tell him something useful?
But… It’s too easy, just swiping one of the decadent desserts from the fridge. Meta Knight would be suspecting it, surely. It would all be part of this little game he has Galacta Knight masterfully dragged into.
The warrior wasn’t going to let it work that easily. He has to come up with his own counter-attack, and soon, even as he counts the dwindling hours. Why didn’t he start preparing for this three days ago? Tsk.
Galacta Knight was going to be the one to win the satisfaction of genuinely surprising the other with this measly little New Year’s gift, he was dead-set on it now. That would show him. He’d win this unspoken competition. Somehow, even if he still didn’t quite know what he was walking into.
The knight probably suspects that he’s still up in the watchtower, napping away. The warrior can use the other’s underestimation of him to his advantage.
Meta Knight wouldn’t suspect that the Galacta Knight, ex-greatest warrior who readily claimed emotions were worthless and that sentiment was scornful, would put some genuine thought behind a gift, would he?
Exactly. Therein lies the challenge.
He’d prove him wrong.
Galacta Knight’s convinced, then. He’s going to do everything in his power to come up with a gift that will make Meta Knight feel so unexpectedly appreciated that he would never underestimate the warrior’s ability to best him at trivial celebration traditions ever again.
It was going to go flawlessly.
–
One hour. It was not going flawlessly. In fact, nothing was going much of any way at all.
Galacta Knight has his mask pushed up to rest over his golden horns, and he’s been glaring, eyes their natural ruby-pink hue without his visor in the way, for twenty minutes at the syrup coated, rice-dumping snack he was given as he passed by Kawasaki’s on his way out of Cappy Town. He’s returned three times in the past hour for seconds—technically fourths, counting this one—and scarfed down each one. What? He didn’t eat breakfast, and flying takes energy.
His sweet tooth isn’t as terrible as Meta Knight’s, but the celebration treats are surprisingly yummy, and the skewer they’re on gives him something to gnaw so he can take out his frustrations passively.
He’s gotten no further ideas, and the sky is taunting him with the pale brushstrokes of orange that are creeping up on its edges. Sunset is nearing, Cappies are moving their carts of fireworks and supplies to the castle grounds, and he finds himself standing outside the door to Kirby’s little domed house on the hill, safely in the distance from all the commotion.
There’s evidence of recent activity here in the scattered pieces of colored paper and scorch marks that have given the grass a sooty, yet fittingly celebratory appearance, but there’s a solid chance he’s already missed everyone who came through. The curtains for the round window are drawn shut behind the glass, no light peaking through between the ruffles of star-stamped fabric.
Tokkori’s back the other way in town, and Kirby’s usual friendly entourage of Tiff, Tuff, and the other Cappy kids passed him from afar on his way over. He didn’t catch sight of the pink puffball, but that doesn’t mean he’s still lagging around here specifically.
The warrior continues standing there, conflicted, holding the skewer of dumplings. His wings flex in and out in a rare display of apprehension.
Galacta Knight isn’t going to eat it, he decides, imbuing himself with his usual air of confidence. He’ll give it to Kirby as a welcoming present.
If the puffball is here, of course.
Knock knock.
He gives the door two raps, light and simple. Loud enough to be heard, he hopes.
If it was windier today, the noise might have even gone on completely unnoticed.
The silence drags on anyways, aided only by the soft swish of the leaves in the large tree shadowing the house from behind. Dappled shade cuts through the golden-tinged light, letting a pleasantness drift aimlessly in the atmosphere alongside a stray leaf.
Galacta Knight sighs, irritation—aimed at himself—flashing on his face. This was stupid. What did he hope to accomplish from this?
He turns, crestfallen, just as the door creaks open an inch.
The warrior perks up and spins around to face it in an instant, staring at the single eye, shimmering with a well of familiar blue, peeking at him from within the house.
“Poyo?” Kirby lets out innocently, tilting his head in question.
He is here. He hasn’t left for the castle.
Galacta Knight is quick to shake off his nerves and extends the sugary offering he brought along, using his other hand to slide his mask down securely in place with a clack. “Here,” he says. “Brought a snack.”
Kirby’s face lights up in immediate starry-eyed delight, an expression renowned for winning the hearts of even the most malicious of entities, and within seconds the treat is inhaled—skewer and all—leaving the warrior’s hand empty.
The puffball opens the door wider to let him in, a cheerful smile on his face—and then promptly freezes mid-action with a startling jolt.
He turns to Galacta Knight and fixes him with a narrowed-eye stare full of such a strong sense of suspicion, that for a moment, the warrior is convinced he’s somehow personally committed a dozen crimes in the past minute, and that Kirby’s going to drag him into custody for it.
He tenses, alarmed by what could bring on the shift, and ready to reach for his lance if there’s a threat nearby.
“Po—yo?” Kirby questions slowly, still eyeing him as he stretches up on his tip-toes to peek around behind Galacta Knight, resolute to not move from the doorway.
The warrior casts a look of pure animosity around their entire surroundings, focus sharp as he seeks out what could be amiss. Did he sense a monster was on the horizon? That shouldn’t be possible, Nightmare’s long gone, but—
“...Meta?” Kirby quips, and for a rapid moment Galacta Knight is scrambling to determine where that pesky knight is lurking and how he got so close without Galaxia being sensed sooner—
…And then it dawns on him what Kirby is asking, and what this behavior is about.
“Oh,” Galacta Knight finally answers, willing the feathers of his wings to smooth back down faster. “No, Meta Knight isn’t here, young one. Just me.”
Kirby nods to him like they’re both conspiring together, and then the glow of happiness is right back on his face, as if it never was gone, and he welcomes the other inside.
The door shuts with a soft thump, and Galacta Knight stands in the center of the domed room, wings drawn in close as he eyes the un-lit fireplace and newly made bed.
The puffball pads over to the bed frame and flattens himself down instead of getting on it, working to drag out a piece of paper from underneath. It’s soon followed by a box of crayons.
Crimson eyes watch with a mix of intrigue and apprehension, but it’s replaced by curiosity when Kirby flips over the paper, and shows it to him.
“Poyo,” Kirby says happily, holding up what is unmistakably a scrawled drawing of Meta Knight holding Galaxia, complete with the golden bolts of lighting the sword throws off whenever it's drawn. Different colored stars are doodled around the paper’s edges, and Kirby’s written something on it as well. Galacta Knight can’t read it—not because of Kirby’s questionable handwriting, but because he doesn’t know how to read Popstar’s modern language. Yet, that is. He’s thought about swallowing his pride long enough to admit that he’d like to learn it.
Kirby tilts his head again, turning quizzical, and pats it insistently. “Poy?”
He’s looking for any comments or critiques, it seems.
Galacta Knight doesn’t have any. He’s grinning just slightly behind his mask at the sheer Kirby-ness of this, and he skims the large end-feathers of his wing over the other’s head, a stand in for a congratulatory pat. “It’s charming. You might even get Meta Knight to smile if you give him that.”
Kirby chitters off several more poyos of delight as he breaks out the crayons and adds the finishing touches to his drawing, sprawling out on the carpeted floor while Galacta Knight watches like some sort of angelic guardian, a hint of fondness in his gaze.
It’s not that far from the case, but Meta Knight is closer to the smaller star warrior than Galacta Knight. As for guardian, Kirby practically fills that role himself, being able to defend Dreamland in any crisis while the two troublesome knights are busy annoying each other to death and shouting insults they’ve cleverly crafted.
The warrior’s unasked question is answered just like that—and yet, the insight hasn’t brought him any closer to determining what to give Meta Knight. At least he can make peace with the fact that Kirby has something for the other, and the knight won't end the celebration with nothing.
Galacta Knight just wishes he could say the same for himself.
–
Sunset passes in a blur, a golden glimmer that dips below the horizon and allows the bright prickle of far-away stars to emerge in the darkening sky.
Normally, this would be the time Galacta Knight sneaks into the castle kitchens to nab something for dinner before he returns to holing up in the far-side castle watchtower, as he routinely has the past few days when he was still stuck in his daze of pettiness and irrational worries.
Now, he’s milling about the bustling castle courtyards, dodging Cappies with sparklers—a small, far less explosive firework he’s heard it called—and multi-colored smoke bombs, adamantly pretending that he isn’t avoiding a certain knight by hiding in plain sight after he had the audacity to show up here without coming any closer to finding a gift.
Well—It’s not hiding so much as it's making himself unreachable. Meta Knight is far from social, and he tends to stick to the sidelines at events, both to draw less attention to himself and because he dislikes being stuffed into crowds. It’s easy to tell when the knight is itching to leave, he’ll start fidgeting with the ends of his cape, drawing it tighter like he wishes he can justify disappearing into it and spiriting himself away.
If he does know on the off-chance that Galacta Knight is here, he’ll wait until the warrior makes it to the outer edges where there’s less foot traffic. If the warrior makes it to the outer edges where there's less foot traffic.
Naturally, Galacta Knight is still standing in the masses dead-center, not planning to leave anytime soon.
He’s been here over an hour, observing the celebration with an odd sort of peace he didn’t expect to find amidst all this chaos. He doesn’t quite know why he let himself stay apprehensive about joining in for so long—no one has snapped at him for intruding, nor sent hostile glares as he passes through. He’s been gifted cheery welcomes, and treated like any other resident. It’s nice.
He flew Kirby here as soon as the puffball finished up his new-year present, and was greeted by Tiff, who thanked him for delivering the star warrior. He exchanged the gift he’d decided on for her—a promise to teach her how to read basic runes—and in return he was given a small gift bag of homemade candies, a kindness he admittedly didn’t expect.
He’s munched through half the sweets already before finally tucking them beneath the strap of his shield where it rests at his back. He uses the space as a makeshift pocket when the platinum disk, embellished with its flashy four-point star, isn’t drawn forth and set before him in battle. He doesn’t have a magical cape with infinite dimensional pocket space at his disposal, so he makes do with what he has.
Galacta Knight is narrowly avoiding a collision with Cappy Town’s infamous criminal, who’s sprinting past, arms full of stolen fireworks, and followed immediately by Chief Bookem, blowing a whistle and rapidly running out of breath, when King Dedede makes his fashionably-late appearance with a blast of confetti cannons and the blare of trumpets.
The crowds quiet down to a murmur, and Galacta Knight busily watches a shiny piece of star-shaped confetti drift down from the air.
The King lets out a typical, hearty laugh, and declares into the microphone, “it’s time for the real celebration to begin!”
The warrior does what he always does when the King begins speaking: he tunes him out, only catching key words about kicking-off the night with something called karaoke—which Kirby is apparently banned from—and a minorly shady promise that he isn’t up to any trouble.
This is a mistake, he realizes, when the crowd switches focus to the stage that’s just been revealed from behind a large sheet, and they all rush towards it in excitement, bunching close enough that Galacta Knight knows he won’t be able to wedge himself into the center unless he takes out his lance and starts jabbing.
The buzz of his nerves, which was mercifully quieted after how smoothly the first hour here went, ramps up again, and the warrior’s eyes dart around as he frantically searches for a new sanctuary to reside in. He’s decided he’ll stay until the fireworks at midnight, but that’s banking on the fact that he can outwit Meta Knight for that long, and won’t run into him.
His focus snags on the teal armor of Sword, who watches from a castle balcony high above, likely on lookout for any antics. On another ledge, several paces away, is Blade, doing much the same. Each knight meets his gaze in turn, lingering for a beat, but they don’t seem alarmed. They both turn back to the King after a moment, busy with other work.
And then Galacta Knight catches a blink of gold and the flash of a blue cape emerging from an open castle entrance that doesn’t have its lanterns lit, and he knows it's not a trick of the light because Galaxia’s faint presence brushes his senses in forewarning.
The warrior responds on panicked instinct; before he knows it, he’s taken to the air with a heavy flap and a stir of loose lavender feathers, wingbeats soundless as he rises up and out of reach in the rapidly chilling air.
A few straggling Cappies and Waddle Dees watch him with a faint awe, but he doesn’t let his gaze linger on the ground. Meta Knight won’t call after him without a solid reason to suspect this is on purpose, and as far as he knows, Galacta Knight’s spur-of-the-moment flight is nothing out of the ordinary. The warrior must just not have seen him, he’ll hopefully think. Must have just wanted to get a view from the air. That was all.
Sure, Meta Knight could just fly up here himself, but Galacta Knight knows the chance of that is not only laughable, it’s down right non-existent.
Meta Knight is touchy about the subject of his wings, which he keeps hidden away with the magical properties of his cape, and Galacta Knight is equally as touchy about the fact that the knight refuses to fly because he thinks everyone will mistake their bat-like appearance for that of a demon’s.
It has spawned numerous arguments, several sparring matches that always ended with both of them battered and bruised, and one ill-fated instance of Meta Knight risking his life and Galacta Knight in turn saving it by just a hair-breadth.
As a result, the warrior refrains from bringing it up often, and the knight doesn’t throw a hissy fit when he needs to fly in a matter of convenience. It’s another open secret to be shared among those in the castle, even King Dedede, but it's one spoken of far less. No one wants to get on Meta Knight’s bad side. No one wants to face a murderous Galacta Knight if he catches word someone’s pushing that line.
Regardless, Meta Knight won’t be coming up here to share the airspace, even if the warrior invited him to, and Galacta Knight won’t be coming down unless he’s shot out of the sky.
–
Galacta Knight will come to resent that thought and the irony fate so readily rushes to dish up for him because of it, but not quite yet.
He eventually stooped back down, only to seize the opportunity to greet Tuff and hand out his next gift: a fast-paced, white-knuckled flight around the castle, where the warrior had to fight a small grin as the boy shouted out excited cheers of encouragement to go faster and fly higher.
He left him with Sword afterwards, jittery with the adrenaline rush and going on and on to the teal knight about how cool it would be to have wings of his own.
Galacta Knight left the ledge after dealing out the other two presents with surprisingly little trouble—a promise, one he’d honor—to both Sword and Blade. He would leave them with no hassle if they gave him a quiet, simple signal to do so, and it was to be used sparingly.
He’s caught the hand signals Meta Knight’s given them before to convey orders quickly and silently, and he figures it’ll be the smoothest way to communicate the intention without drawing attention.
Besides, past this occasion and just in general, it feels like a step in the right direction.
Galacta Knight can get out of hand, he’ll admit it, and for a while Meta Knight was the only one with the power to actively do something about that. To keep him from blowing apart the castle into a heap of smoking ruins, or instigating a brawl at every small slight unfortunate enough to be sent his way.
He doesn’t want more friendships born out of fear—it’s what led to him being back-stabbed and betrayed, after all—and he isn’t in Dreamland to cause havoc. At least, not anymore. He’s making an effort to keep the peace.
Galacta Knight rides the cool air current now in lazy circles, getting lost in the glowing lights and the scent of festival foods.
There’s been no further sightings of Meta Knight since. It’s probably because he purposely hasn’t been looking, rather than coincidence.
There’s a light ache in his wing-joints, the muscles fatigued from the steady amount of exercise he’s put them under today, but it’s nothing to fear. He’s flown farther distances under much worse circumstances before, and tonight, the open sky that stretches past the castle rooftops is his haven from confronting the fact that he doesn’t know what to gift the closest friend he’s ever had.
The issue has only gotten worse the longer he’s let it fester like this, tucked in the back of his mind and yet undeniably still there. It’s made it hard to ignore the more treacherous train of thought that barrels on in his head.
The thought that screams Meta Knight is going to be disappointed in him.
It’s—It’s stupid, it really is, but it’s also just rational enough that Galacta Knight can’t seem to let it go.
Meta Knight wouldn’t express it outright, he’d be subtle, that only flips when he’s at his wit’s end, but the notion would still be there. A dismissive look, a sudden excuse to slip away and not return for an indeterminable amount of time. Not even that, sometimes.
Galacta Knight shouldn’t care about such a small setback as failing to pick out a present. It would only be a minor hiccup in their otherwise surprisingly solid friendship. A barely noticeable chip.
…but what if that chip led to a crack. And then a crack would lead to a fracture, and that fracture would lead to a break, and soon it would snap clean in half and—
Galacta Knight realizes he’s started rising higher, and that he’s beyond the castle rooftops and ever closer to the stars, his breaths coming in short bursts and coalescing into light, visible puffs clouding his mask visor. It’s cold up here, no sunlight in sight. He takes a moment to let his heart rate slow, chiding himself for getting caught up in the ludicrous idea that Meta Knight would terminate their friendship all over the lack of receiving a New Year’s gift at a celebration the warrior had spent three days treating as the most boring idea in the universe that he wants nothing to do with.
A sharp, whistling noise sounds from below, but he doesn’t check to see what it is. He’s letting the chill in the air steady him, and he resolves that maybe, it really is best if he does just spend the night in the other watchtower, away from the celebration and all it entails. Keep his mind clear, and stop getting so rattled by the little things.
Then he’s hit head-on by a rampant firework.
–
The burst of color is so bright it’s blinding, a flare of red that morphs to a shower of pleasant gold shimmers and dying embers as Galacta Knight plummets from hundreds of feet up in the air, an ethereal, fallen angel against the rich dark-blue of the moonlit sky.
Odd, is all he can think through the haze and pounding ache in his head, there was at least another hour until the contest was supposed to start.
Dedede, he resolves to blame it on, wincing at how the air stings.
His wings hang useless and wrenched behind him from the growing force of his fall, loose feathers getting snagged in the whipping wind only to then drift in a slow, seesaw motion, unlike him. He’s too dazed to even try slowing the descent, and in the back of his mind, he just feels terribly inconvenienced by this. The bursting after-image has left him momentarily blinded, and he blinks rapidly with a confused look on his face, getting it to clear.
There’s a flash of color, but he’s not sure which one.
It occurs to him that it’s the ground and festivities, rising up rapidly to meet him, and he flinches involuntarily as the realization that he’s about to collide with it like a meteorite.
SMACK!
The impact hurts, but not nearly as much as Galacta Knight expected, his sight too busy crashing sideways for him to begin the arduous task of making out which way is up and which way is down, and he takes a stuttered breath, winded.
It’s dizzying, and the world won’t stop moving, and he’s aware now that there’s a distinct jostling that he really doesn’t appreciate alongside the terrible headache he’s going to have, and—
—and then, suddenly, Galacta Knight realizes that he’s still moving.
He…He didn’t hit the ground. He’s watching it careen past out of the corner of his eye, and a shadow is pressed to him, holding the warrior securely by one pauldron and one feathered wing.
A distinctive, repetitive whoosh sounds close by, and he now understands that it’s the labored beat of wings, which belong to this shadow. He catches the ivory flash of a curved wing-talon in the shifting festive lights, the glow of amber, and with that, the warrior knows without a doubt who’s come to his rescue.
He just can’t quite believe it—because it’s insane, and it further cements the fact that fate is always looking for ways to spite him—and he just can’t help it either. He barks out a sudden laugh, finding this hilarious.
“You’re laughing?” Meta Knight’s voice comes crashing in, spiked with a mix of incredulity, strain, and concern. “Galacta—”
The wind is still streaking past, stealing the words and bringing to Galacta Knight’s attention the observation that they’re still moving very fast, and that the castle walls can’t be far away. They won’t clear them, their altitude is too low.
Meta Knight must have hit him at a side-angle, and redirected the warrior’s momentum.
But he doesn’t have the wing-strength to bring us to a full-stop without crashing. His own fault, really, for thinking that he could carry Galacta Knight. His armor and weapons aren’t exactly light, like the knight’s, and the other doesn’t fly regularly enough to counteract it with muscle alone.
The warrior still can’t get his own wings to work, they’re half-sprawled open and he’s too disoriented, but he can save them from both smashing into a fortified brick wall. He knows Meta Knight won’t bail and let him go like someone who isn’t invested in going down with a ship. That troublesome honor of his.
“Cape,” he says, a sharp, simple reminder. One quick twist while holding onto the fabric, and they’ll warp through dimensional space and teleport to safety. Meta Knight, even when flying, doesn’t go anywhere without it. He’ll tuck it in at his side. “Use it, you dolt.”
“I don’t have it,” Meta Knight shouts back.
Oh. Scratch that.
Galacta Knight curses in Halcandrian, and seconds later, they rocket down right into a wall-side hedge, marking the edges of the castle gardens as the official crash-site.
–
It’s been an eventful New Year’s Eve, but unfortunately for Galacta Knight, it isn’t over yet.
“Sit still.”
“It’s a scrape, stop acting all solemn like I’m going to die.”
“It needs to be cleaned. Infections aren’t pretty.”
“I can clean it myself.”
“Of course,” Meta Knight says, unlatching a first-aid kit with a touch more force than necessary, betraying his irritation, “because you never say that so I leave it alone, and then proceed to ignore it.”
Hm. Fair point.
He doesn’t know exactly when the knight managed to figure out things like that, but it’ll be added to the list of excruciatingly annoying things that bug him to no end, nonetheless.
“Fine,” Galacta Knight concedes, his arms crossed as he stares at an abandoned bowl of fruit on the flour-dusted counter across from him, pots and pans hanging from a rack on the ceiling. He’s got some soot on one of his gloves, and he treats it like it’s a personal offense, trying to brush it off. There’s still plenty of soot left on the rest of him.
They’re both in the currently-empty castle kitchens, the Waddle Dees all having cleared out when the celebration outside first began. Galacta Knight stands on a wooden stool near the sink, and Meta Knight is on the counter beside it, going through the medical supplies he’s just taken out of the top cabinet.
His mask is pushed to his forehead, white eyes narrowed in concentration. His wings are still out, the bright lights of the kitchen causing the webbing to shimmer a deep purple that’s typically unnoticeable out of direct light, especially when held up against the night sky. It blends in easily with all the shadowed dark-blue, and allows the knight to fly with a natural camouflage.
They’re both covered in scratches from the broken twig branches the two fought their way out of, and Galacta Knight is sure he’ll have bits of leaf tangled in his feathers for the rest of the night.
Actually, more like the rest of the year.
He still thinks that’s a terrible joke.
He can’t argue that all the soot the firework left on him will really complete the whole disheveled look he has going on in the meanwhile.
The warrior’s own mask is off, currently set aside and over by the knight’s feet. The scorch mark, which resides conveniently at the outer side of his right horn, just past where his mask normally covers, is in full view.
It’s not bad, thanks to the fact Galacta Knight is a mage who often wields fire and volatile energy freely, and that he naturally heals fast. He’s not fireproof, but he’s fire-resistant enough to walk out of a head-on collision via wild firework remarkably unscathed.
Meta Knight grabs a hand towel from the cabinet, and turns on the sink, his footsteps silent on the counter top.
The warrior’s dramatic fall from the sky was caused by two things: his distractedness, and as he originally thought, Dedede.
Specifically, his latest plot: sabotage.
From what Meta Knight witnessed, standing beside Blade on the balcony, it went as such:
The King ordered his advisor, Escargoon, to set off the entire stash of contest entries earlier, leaving only his untouched and unlit, therefore allowing him to win his own contest by default.
Here’s where it went wrong—or right, in a way—the snail made it to only one before Tiff caught wind of it and tackled him.
Meta Knight had taken note—because of course he did, blasted perceptiveness—that Galacta Knight had been keeping himself glued to the skies, and he’d watched the striped-rocket shoot up and up, just in time to notice that when the firework went off, it had hit what was believed to just be an unlucky, large bird.
Not a bird, the warrior had snarked at hearing the news.
It was hard to tell such from so far away and under the cover of darkness, but Meta Knight has fairly keen night-vision, and he’d come to the same conclusion. There wasn’t time to do much beyond fling off his cape and dive forward, hoping the timing was right, and barrel into the warrior in a last-resort attempt at catching him.
Galacta Knight would give him a solid score of six out of ten, and then not-so-kindly tell him to never try that again.
Few had seen the commotion they’d caused, they’d been busy watching the showdown between Tiff and Escargoon, which by the time they had climbed out of the hedge, escalated into Tiff and Kirby against King Dedede and a cowering Escargoon—and then finally, as they were heading inside, to just Kirby and King Dedede. Odds were it had yet to conclude, but he’d vy for Kirby.
Meta Knight made a beeline for the kitchen after their crash; it was the closest room with medical supplies. He may have just chosen to save Galacta Knight mid-air at the risk of any attentive Cappies catching sight of his wings, but he still gravely disliked having them out in the open.
He wanted to check how serious—serious? It’s a scratch—Galacta Knight’s head injury was first too, before venturing back up to retrieve his cape.
It’s a fairly common sight, one or both of them looking as if they’d been in a recent fight, followed by nagging about taking care of themselves better.
The warrior is convinced he’ll be stuck with a mild migraine until morning, but that’s all.
Galacta Knight doesn’t bother to wince when the brush of a damp cloth skates the edge of the star-burst shaped burn that he doubts will even scar. He’s about to toss another sarcastic remark at the knight delicately dabbing away at the injury, when it dawns on him that he still doesn’t have a gift.
He’s—He’s effectively out of time, and less than a foot away from the exact being he’d swore to avoid because of it.
The warrior freezes suddenly, holding his breath, and is all-too-aware that he can’t possibly let Meta Knight know this. The feathers of his sore wings rise, and a few sparks of magic flicker into existence and then back out, the only outward sign that something’s off. If the other sees, he doesn’t comment.
Maybe it would have been fine under normal circumstances, if the evening hadn’t involved this fiasco, but the knight is sure to have his patience worn down by this detour. Forget disappointment, what if he ventures into the realm of disdain? Or even worse, they start a fight—and not the physical kind where they trade blows with sharp weapons and waves of crackling magical energy, but the bad ones that are harsh words tossed from opposite sides of the room, where every retort has been dipped in poison and looks truly can kill.
Those are rare, incredibly rare, because they only happen when they’re both run ragged and struggling to keep it together, but they’ve broken out into arguments over lesser things. This is the cusp of the New Year, fate wouldn’t hesitate to make sure it went out with a bang.
Oh stars, Galacta Knight has set their friendship up for ruin now, hasn’t he? All because he just couldn’t get it together and come up with something good enough to give as a gift.
Maybe there’s still time to grab a parfait, he thinks, his eyes darting over to the fridge like it’s his only hope left in the world. They’re right there.
But how can he possibly pull that off without looking conspicuous?
The quick answer, he can’t, the long answer, he’s not confident enough right now to risk trying.
“Galacta,” Meta Knight cuts in, having stopped with the towel—now smudged with soot—and is taking out a bandage. He grabs the warrior’s horn and nudges it sideways, causing Galacta Knight to have to tilt his entire head because of it. “Don’t move.”
His tone is missing the sharp bite of a command, but it’s the note of fatigue that keeps Galacta Knight from arguing. For once, he listens, feeling as if he’s somehow balancing on eggshells, and knowing full well that he put them there himself.
Guilt—an emotion he absolutely hates, given it pops up frequently and unwarranted since he’s accepted that bottling everything up and ignoring it isn't exactly productive—washes over him in a rolling wave, ebbing and receding in a sickening cycle.
It’s not because he fell and Meta Knight had to catch him—that was the firework’s fault—nor all this needless work the other is putting into dressing the burn, or even the thousands of other things the warrior has done to act like a menace ever since meeting the knight.
It’s that he feels like a truly sorry-excuse for a friend right now, just sitting here gift-less and distraught, and that there are few things Galacta Knight has come to secretly care about more than actually having a genuine companion. He spent eons in that temporal crystal seal, isolated, trapped, and torn through by betrayal, and when he finally broke free he was a vengeful wreck ready to make the universe pay, crippled by an unending loneliness he refused to acknowledge.
He hates dwelling on it, because he despises the past and how twisted up it can make him feel—and he no longer is like that, he’s better, truly—but most of all, Galacta Knight knows that despite how hard he tries to ignore it, he’s seen his worst and he’s afraid to wake up one day and find himself back there.
Should have just stayed up in that watchtower, he determines bitterly, ruby-pink eyes conflicted as he stares at that aggravating bowl of fruit again, now with his vision tipped to the side. Would have saved a lot of trouble. All this, over a measly gift.
But—Wait.
He’s ready to spiral into disarray and go off to sulk alone for the rest of night when a single bolt of hope strikes unexpectedly, and he comes to a second, daunting realization.
Meta Knight hasn’t given him a gift either.
Any other day, Galacta Knight would have been petty about it. So petty. He’d be taunting the other over it for a week—but right now, it was as if fate had taken mercy on him after all. He might be saved.
He should play it safe, he knows, and leave the observation unspoken and free for him to find solace in—but he can’t help but jump at the opportunity. It’s too irresistible, and for all he knows, it would be suspicious if he didn’t.
“So,” he begins, and Meta Knight doesn’t break from his task of finding the best way to line up a bandage over the burn. The warrior’s horn makes it more difficult than it looks. “Was tackling me so I didn’t land face-first in the dirt your idea of a ‘well-wishes’ gift?”
The knight goes still at the word gift, as expected, and in that instant Galacta Knight is convinced the other is now dealing with the exact same turmoil he’s saddled the warrior with all day.
Good, he thinks to himself, fully aware that he’s embracing the spirit of pettiness if only to cover himself. Got you, pesky knight. Maybe he bested him at something after all. He’s probably already won the award for over-thinking today, but then again, Meta Knight is capable of tripling that at any given time.
It’s a double-edge sword, Galacta Knight’s resolve to live beside his emotions instead of just repeatedly shoving them away. He falls victim to minor anxieties more often than he used to, but he also isn’t at risk of blowing something up with his fearsome temper because of it. He lives with the trade-offs fairly well, and he’s living through this now, just fine. Crisis averted.
The night is saved, and Galacta Knight can return to the celebration without hassle and forget all of this.
Until Meta Knight lets out an irritated sigh, completely serious as he presses the bandage down securely and says, “I left it in my cape.”
Galacta Knight is right back to square one, drowning in an overwhelming torrent of dread as he wishes that he’d just stop tempting fate.
–
Midnight is nearing, King Dedede has been “de-de-disqualified”—as he put it—from his own competition, and Galacta Knight is watching Meta Knight catch up on the past hour of events with Blade, red eyes narrowed down to slits as he plots out how he can stage his grand escape unnoticed.
The green-armored knight glances at the other’s taloned wings every minute or so, probably because it’s such a rare sight, but refrains from commenting on it out loud.
Meta Knight is doing his best to pretend he’s not completely paranoid about it. One of the appendages twitches, as if to extend and help him take to the air. It’s an obvious tell. This isn’t the first instance his knights have seen his wings, but he often treats it that way anyways.
The report wraps up and the Dimensional Cape is handed over, magic-imbued fabric rippling even though there’s no breeze at the moment, and is securely attached. Meta Knight’s wings disappear, safely hidden away yet again.
Galacta Knight catches that gold flash on the knight’s wrist again, but doesn’t dwell on it. His window of opportunity is rapidly shrinking to nothing, and his confidence has been eaten away at long enough that he’s remained hesitant.
If he wants to move, it's now or never.
So, the warrior bolts and doesn’t look back.
Fueled by the nerve-wracking way his heart twists at the foolish thought of ever letting himself get involved in the celebration today and a rush of bitingly cold adrenaline, Galacta Knight sprints through the castle corridors as fast as he can, wings half-open at his sides as the feathers slice through the air, begging to take flight.
The sharp, metallic click of footsteps is on him in an instant, unmissable, and he knows that Meta Knight is after him yet again.
Galacta Knight tunes it out, focusing on his set path instead, and he doesn’t slow down until he reaches the spiraling staircase he’s steadily been becoming familiar with the past three days. He beats his wings hard as he skips the labor of running and just flies up them inside, the motion making him dizzy and leaving his headache pounding, but he pushes on.
Part of this is immensely fun. He knows it’s probably grating on Meta Knight’s nerves, and he knows the knight won’t stop pursuit until he catches him, and another grin breaks out behind his mask.
The other part he’s ignoring is that the consequences are inevitable, and he’s genuinely worried.
The staircase ends, and Galacta Knight all but flings himself to the watchtower ledge, the same one he had been peacefully pretending to nap on this morning. The fireworks will be in full view from here, but that’s not his concern.
He settles in an instant, reclining there and shutting his eyes like he hasn’t been running around all day, wings splaying out and draping down the sides. He’s the epitome of laziness.
His heart rate is deafening to listen to, his lungs screaming at him to take deeper breaths, but he ignores it and still catches the sound of Meta Knight storming his way up here.
“Galacta,” the knight says as he emerges, equal parts worried as he is exasperated.
“Meta,” the warrior fires back, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice at the fact that the other chased him all the way up here.
The footsteps grow closer, and more pointed. “What exactly was that about?”
It’s a good question, but Galacta Knight isn’t handing out any worthwhile answers. “What’s what about?” He responds in turn, as if he has been here all day, and has no idea what has been going on.
Silence is the only answer he gets.
Maybe he’ll get fed up and leave. The warrior could use an actual nap, anyways.
Tsk.
Something nudges aside one of his sprawled wings.
Galacta Knight pauses, sighing, and then peaks an eye open. “What are you doing?”
“Figuring out the best way to shove you out the window,” Meta Knight answers, hopping up onto the ledge now that he’s created a minuscule amount of space, and balancing there. There isn’t much room, but they both fit regardless. Neither of them are exactly large, at least in comparison to what would be expected from the greatest and ex-greatest warriors in the galaxy. “Seeing as I failed to do it right this morning.”
Galacta Knight smacks him with one of his wings, not quite hard enough to knock him off. The nerve of this idiot, using actual sarcasm. “Leave me alone.”
“To stay up here for another three days?” Meta Knight remains on the ledge, and after a moment of eyeing him with suspicion, he sits down, drawing his cape over his arms. “I don’t know what exactly is so interesting about napping up here.”
The warrior shuts his eye, back to feigning disinterest. “That’s because you don’t take naps.”
“I don’t need to.”
“That’s not the point of a nap,” Galacta Knight points out. “It's extra sleep, it’s not supposed to be necessary.”
“I sleep enough already,” Meta Knight edges, with just enough sincerity for the warrior to know he genuinely believes that.
“You sleep for like two hours a day.”
“Gala,” the knight breaks in sharply, tired of talking in circles, “that firework was not out to get you.”
He’s caught on to the other’s mood, Galacta Knight knows it now, and he’ll start fishing for the cause. “And? It’s an inanimate object, of course I know that.”
The warrior isn’t going to make it that easy to figure out, of course.
Meta Knight switches tactics. “Have you been to a celebration like this before?”
Galacta Knight grimaces to himself. There’s no point in outright lying, not when he knows that the other can see through his deflections when he’s giving his full attention, like right now. “No.”
He blinks his eyes back open, looking to the stars, and makes a show of stretching out his wings before sitting back up. “Never found them interesting enough.” That’s not the full story, but it’s acceptable enough by Meta Knight’s standards.
“This one is enjoyable enough, though,” he goes on. “Even with all the weaponized decorations.”
“Just fireworks,” Meta Knight corrects, and his gaze tints pink in amusement for a passing moment, before fading back to amber, like he can't make up his mind. He ceases digging around. “Everything else is relatively harmless.”
For a moment, they both sit there in the quiet. Meta Knight kicks his feet in an rare, idle gesture that suggests he’s feeling carefree, and Galacta Knight waves his hand around as a swirl of pink sparks flicker in the air. Far down below, in the courtyards, Cappies are gathering. Preparing to light off the displays as a countdown begins, just audible from up here.
“Wait,” Meta Knight says suddenly, even though neither of them have moved. His eyes shift between green and yellow for a handful of seconds, piecing something together. “You wanted to bring a present,” he notes, “didn’t you?”
A scoff. “I thought those were optional,” Galacta Knight says, attempting to play it off as a joke, but even he can hear the undercurrent of strain in his voice. This is it, isn't it? “Don’t tell me you were banking on one from me.”
Meta Knight’s gaze cuts to him, unreadable as he regards the warrior who has somehow dug out a place at his side as a friend. “Are you saying you were darting around purposely avoiding me for fun?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the warrior retorts, expertly hiding how deeply aggravating and startling it is that the other has this all figured out. And you’re one to talk. Avoidance is practically second-nature to the knight. If he wants to start a fuss now that Galacta Knight’s taken a page out of his book, then he’s going to find himself shoved off the side of this tower and forced to use his wings again.
He’s rapidly whipping up an excuse he can use to save his pride in this moment, preparing to go on the defensive if the knight pushes it—all until a quiet, bubbling laugh breaks his thoughts.
It’s familiar, but it's still far from a common occurrence.
Meta Knight holds a hand up to his mask to stifle his laughter, but it doesn’t do much,
“You sound like an idiot,” Galacta Knight states instantly. “A maniacal, star-blasted idiot.”
The knight shakes as he laughs harder, not louder, but almost the start of a cackle. Absolutely ridiculous. The warrior has been worried about this all day, and the other is just laughing.
Finally, he composes himself and slides his thumb under the rim of his mask, before pushing the metal disk up to his forehead, and Galacta Knight sees that he’s grinning like an idiot too.
The warrior does the same with his own mask, leaving it up on his horns so the knight can witness the full-force of his glare. Normally, he’d be teasing the other about the fact that he’s showing his face for once, but right now, he’s intent on getting his immense disdain across.
Meta Knight doesn’t pay it any mind, and reaches into the depths of his cape to pull out—seemingly nothing, until Galacta Knight realizes he has his fist closed tightly around something. Whatever he’s holding, it’s tiny.
“What is it now?” The warrior says flatly.
“A gift,” Meta Knight states. “For the New Year.”
Galacta Knight, exhausted and head aching, gives in for the second time today, and holds out a hand wordlessly.
The knight drops two glimmers of gold into the palm of his glove, and they wink in the moonlight, the weight chilled in the warrior's hand, like coins.
Galacta Knight’s expression is hit with confusion, and he brings it closer to examine.
They’re golden pins, similar to a pair of cufflinks, but they're mismatched. One is a traditional five-pointed star, rounded at the edges, and the other is a sharper cut, four-pointed star.
The latter is Galacta Knight’s signature emblem, matching not only the shape of his mask visor, but the marking on his shield. The former is undoubtedly in reference to Meta Knight’s status as a star warrior. The knight has a star-shaped badge the warrior’s only seen once, which he claims he used to wear on his pauldron when he was fighting for the GSA, and this is a smaller, spitting image of it.
“Kirby was adamant about the idea of friendship bracelets,” Meta Knight explains, silvery-white eyes watching him closely. “But I figured metal would hold up better in a sparring match, and you wouldn’t want something clamped on your wrist.”
Then, to further the surprise, the knight holds up both his hands and turns them to show off two, mismatched star pins that are situated on the cuffs of his glove, one on each. The same as what Galacta Knight’s still holding in his hand. They're responsible for the gold glimmers he’s been mistaking for tricks of the light all day.
The warrior stares at him.
A fleeting look of worry crosses Meta Knight’s face, but it’s gone in an instant, the only crack in his calm composure. “You don’t have to wear them, of course. For all I know, they’ll melt if they get too close to that fire magic of yours.”
Galacta Knight’s eyes prick without warning, and all of the sudden they’re much more watery than they were a second ago. He doesn’t know how to explain how truly stupid it is that he can feel so unabashedly happy at something so small and insignificant. That’s a large part of friendship, it seems. It hits him like a sucker punch everytime.
“Idiot,” he bites out, closing his hand over the two trinkets and swiping his eyes quickly with his fist. “You’re insufferable, you know that? Absolutely terrible. I don’t know how anyone stands you.”
Meta Knight visibly relaxes a notch, and turns back to the sky. The countdown has steadily gotten louder. Midnight is mere moments away. “You're welcome,” he quips, a hint of that stupid, smug grin back on his face.
Galacta Knight fumbles silently as he clips them into place on his glove cuffs, the opposite arrangement that Meta Knight has. He can already imagine the pain it would be if one slipped out of his grip and fell down the side of the watchtower, and he’s fully aware that he would vault himself down after it, cursing the whole way.
He looks to the knight again, to this idiot with the audacity to pester the warrior like this to no end, and in that moment he finds he knows exactly what to give him. It’s not much, not a star-shaped trinket, and it’ll be rightfully bothersome, but he knows that it will at least be memorable for the occasion, and convey the swell of intention he’s been scrambling with all day.
Galacta Knight grabs Meta Knight by the wrist, who looks at him with a startled jerk and the slightest crease of a question on his face, and pulls him into a hug. He's careful not to jab him with the edges of his pauldrons or points of his horns.
There’s a jolting pop as several fireworks shoot up from the courtyard and explode in dazzling bursts of multi-colored light, showering the night sky in brilliant glittering specks to rival the shining stars. It's officially midnight. The New Year.
The knight is tense for all but a second—he’s not used to physical touch, but he doesn’t mind it; he’s said as much and Galacta Knight can recall all the hilarious times someone has brushed against the other unexpectedly only for him to look at them like a startled Waddle Dee—and then he leans into it almost imperceptibly, returning the sentiment. His defenses remain lowered, Galaxia safety tucked in its scabbard at his side.
The warrior releases him before long, saying nothing, because mushy things are the bane of his existence and the action speaks loud enough, and settles back in. Meta Knight is probably looking at him with some utterly terrible mix of fond amusement, but Galacta Knight ignores it, as always, staring instead at the blooms of color in the sky. They’re pretty, but—
“They look much better from far away,” he comments, the light show reflecting in the platinum sheen of his armor and dancing off his horns. His wing curves in to rest behind the other, hitting against the top of his cape, and he notes in the back of his mind that he's feeling the slightest bit drowsy. It’s been a long day.
“Yes, well you’re not supposed to be that close to them when they go off to begin with,” Meta Knight responds, eyes flitting down to the courtyard, where everyone else is gathered, and then back to the skies.
They fall in and out of their typical bickering just like that, slumped against each other as they trade empty threats and argue over the meaningless topic of which decoration would stand a fair chance against Galacta Knight in battle.
“None,” he assures. “I’d rip each to shreds.”
“Fine,” Meta Knight says, “but next year, just stay away from the fireworks.”