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— — —
Kronii is perfect. She knows, and she flaunts it every chance she gets, because it evokes laughter from everyone and makes her feel better about herself. It is also inconceivably true.
In the dark hours of the night, it is difficult to flaunt. There is no use in doing so, because the only person who will hear her flaunt is Ina, and Ina knows. Kronii knows that Ina knows. They know each other quite well. They know each other very well.
She never quite makes the leap of completely finishing that thought. But she knows.
They both do.
So throughout the nights, in between warm cuddles and sinking deep into eyes the color of the deep ocean depths, Kronii watches Ina. And in the bright hours of the day, between going out with friends and napping, Ina observes Kronii with a keen eye.
Ina picks up on things. She is perceptive, catching her nonexistent routine. Kronii tried to hide it at first, barely even cognizant of the fact that there was a routine in the first place, but she found it anyway, in that slow and sly way Ina always finds things. In that exact manner, she alludes to it. It feels like an unfair game.
She has the Ancient Ones. Kronii just has a bunch of clocks.
But, she thinks, she has eyes too.
— — —
Every night, Ina draws.
It’s not necessarily her job. Kronii knows, because Ina always talks about how much she loves doing it. She can see it, too.
There are two ways Ina goes about drawing.
On the particularly exhausted nights—the ones where she did not nap most of the day away with Kronii—she is indolent. Lines are drawn without a care in the world. Kronii thinks that is the liberating aspect of drawing, the thing that brings Ina back even when she’s so tired. The thing that keeps Ina awake for one more hour, which can sometimes turn to two.
It is immensely rare for Ina to overwork herself. There is a level of awareness that she has that Kronii also has, a blessing for her artist and a curse for herself. Kronii lingers anyway, until Ina falls peacefully asleep.
She can sleep literally anywhere, Kronii thinks with a huff, wishing it were that easy. Sometimes, she has the heart to carry Ina to bed. It wakes her up most of the time, but Ina rarely says anything.
Some nights, she has to pry her artist away from herself. The part of her heart that wishes to stay and longs for sleepy cuddles longs even harder after those moments, and Kronii sits in her little time room for hours with a detective who teases and mocks her for it.
(“Aww, you love her so much, Kronii,” Amelia Watson says with such prideful assuredness, Kronii almost punches her. Still, she says nothing in return besides a mumbled agreement.
It’s the only time she outwardly agrees.)
On ordinary nights, Ina draws until morning. Those nights are the nights she observes the most, where she leaves to her little time room with that stupid little detective and comes back to find a concentrated Ina. Every hour or so, she leans back a bit in her chair, examining the drawing with meticulous eyes, and pressing her pen against her lips.
Kronii can’t imagine what goes through Ina’s head during those moments, what she’s looking for in the pretty thing she’s made with nothing but (digital) black lines. There are times where it lasts merely a second before it happens again after she changes something, and other times where it lasts more than a minute.
At the end, Ina always parts with either a good enough or a satisfied smile.
Then, of course, she comes back to bed and Kronii gets her fill of cuddles that she definitely had not been impatiently waiting for even despite the adorable view of Ina concentrating very hard.
It’s adorable. She loves flaunting her perfection every day, but she can never wait for night, for these moments of Ina that are difficult for anyone else to capture.
Kronii is grateful.
(She loves her.)
— — —
(“The both of you sleep at ungodly hours, it’s insane,” Gura says to Kronii, and Kronii rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that sass, I don’t sleep at six am, ma’am.”
Kronii hums. “Yeah, sure, and unicorns are real, right?”
“Actually, yes, they are. What kind of idiot are you to not realize that they’re real? You're literally friends with Mother Nature! Your girlfriend could make you one!”
“Fauna doesn’t know every creature that exists. And Ina makes takodachis. Those aren’t real.”
“If she can make takodachis, then she can make unicorns. They’re real.” Gura crosses her arms, smiling smugly. “Just like your love.”
Kronii scoffs indignantly. “You don’t even get to start this. I see the way you look at Mumei.”
“It’s not even Mumei, gayass!”)
— — —
Ina hums a lot.
During the night, she is almost completely and absolutely silent. Kronii has had days where she is forced to be the Warden of Time when she, in fact, did not want to be the Warden of Time. Days pass before she can begin to relax. By the time she is back, only a few hours have passed since she left. It’s the damning part of hopping around timelines.
She can never understand why Amelia Watson willfully hops around them. Until the moment comes where she does and sighs, swallowing her pride to tell the detective—seriously—that she cares. Kronii cannot allow a tragedy of that nature unless it was a completely unavoidable affair. There has not been an instance where it has been a completely unavoidable affair.
Still, sapphire meets pink in those moments and Kronii reminds Watson that Ina will not be particularly happy about her current state. No one would, really, because everyone cares.
Amelia waves her off with a bloodied hand. “It’s fine. Ina’s never stayed mad at me for too long.”
Ina is not mad. She never truly is mad. Kronii doesn’t believe it’s achievable by any of their friends. Or herself.
Yet Ina is not happy to see Amelia Watson, bloodied, for what could be the fiftieth time. Amelia tries to crack jokes, and Kronii watches her priestess’s eyes shine with concern, the barest hint of a smile there but never changing with each verbalized joke.
The silence is tense and Kronii considers leaving to alleviate the pressure of conversation. She stays when Ina begins to hum.
It’s a small thing. She approaches to sit behind her and listen, as Watson closes her eyes.
(She is not watching the way Ina gently strokes her fingers through Amelia’s hair. That’s ridiculous. The absurdity of the thought that she is thinking of how nice it would feel if it were her instead has her trying very hard not to keel over with laughter. It’s simply not true.)
Ina hums when she cooks, cleans, draws, and reads. She plays games and hums quietly herself. On the nights when Kronii is too tired to stay awake with her, Ina hums short lullabies. It doesn’t happen that often, but Ina has a nice voice.
She loves Ina’s voice. It’s as delicate as her touch.
(It’s hers to listen to for as long as immortality lasts.)
— — —
Kronii finds that Ina sleeps in a lot of places. She can sleep anywhere that has a blanket and a pillow. She can sleep on the floor so long as it is warm enough.
She finds Ina on the roof near the evening one day and thinks, wow, I love you so much. How do you do that? Can you teach me?
(It’s the first time she thinks about it without thinking.)
— — —
Ina has delicate hands. They are dainty things, capable of the softest touch in the world.
Kronii is in heaven. It’s been a stressful day. Ina loves doting on people. She loves pampering them. She learns about it the first time Ina begins doing these small massages, touches that wring out the tension from her muscles.
Today is slightly different. It’s a little more intimate than usual. Lips are planting small kisses all along her neck, over her collarbone, and down her bare back. She sighs at the ones that linger, at the ones that have the barest addition of fang. Her fingers paint patterns on her skin alongside her lips.
Kronii loves this. She wishes she could have it every night.
(She could, if she asked.)
Ina knows. But Kronii knows, too. It’s not a secret that Ina has over her.
She’s moving. Ina finds her face and places soft kisses along her cheek, tracing down her jaw. Kronii looks at her. She stares at the deepest depths of the ocean.
Ina whispers, voice low and husky, “I love you, Kronii.”
Kronii breathes. And she dives in.
The kiss steals her breath. She drowns in it, but it’s delicate. It’s gentle. It’s what Ina is, with her gentle hums and her delicate hands, her searching eyes and her doting love. There is nowhere Kronii would rather drown than in here, in this kiss, which does not grow more heated as it becomes more loving. Ina is still tracing patterns into her skin, up her back and along her face with meticulous fingers practiced in the art of making beautiful things with simple lines.
They separate, then.
“I love you, too,” Kronii says, and Ina smiles so warmly, with an adoration so entrancing, she dives in again, drowning once more.