Chapter Text
The faint scratching of graphite against paper was soothing to your ears; fingers stained grey with smudging as you copied down the butterfly before you. You'd found it this morning, flittering through the dead, frigid landscape that made up your family's garden. It had stood out to you, its dainty wings of blue and yellow a stark contrast to the dreary winter surrounding it.
Mesmerised by the way it twisted and fluttered in the air, you had gathered the first things you could find: a simple glass dome and large book. Successfully trapping it, you had set the remarkable creature gently on your desk. A simple study was all you needed; the design of the wings, sketches of its small body, and a small line of notes of its species and observed behaviours.
Leaning back on your stool, the old wood creaking as you did so, you admired the drawings in your sketchbook. Gently blowing off any last eraser residue before setting it aside, you stood, hips popping from being sat for so long as you opened the window just in front of you. Cold air rushed in, stinging your cheeks.
Taking one last look at the butterfly, you lifted the glass dome. It flittered around you, happy to be free, its wings brushing your cheek as it passed out into the world beyond.
The bustling sounds of the town filtered through your room, the chill wind rustling other insect drawings and notes stuck to your walls. You hunched your shoulders to the frosty air, gazing out your window and looking below.
The paper boy stood at his usual street corner, the metallic glint in his eyes and red-circled cheeks visible from where you watched. He called out to passer-by's — 'Papers, come get your papers! Only a tuppence for the paper!', — the robotic lilt to his voice carried through the winter air. You also watched as a pair of gentlemen passed each other, giving a customary nod and tilt of the had before continuing. One dropped a few coins into the paper boys hand as he passed, tucking the rolled-up paper under his arm as he continued on.
You could watch all day — people going about their lives. The woman buying bread from the bakery, children running by as the hoop rolled on the pavement. They nearly bumped into an automaton man, and he yelled at them to watch where they were going. A couple of stray cats howled at each other as they fought over scraps near the butchers shop.
The sound of wheels on cobble stole your attention, your family's carriage rolling into the front drive. A sudden sound of a bell makes you flinch, and you glare pointedly at the town crier as he paced near the front gates of your home.
"Hear ye, hear ye!" He cried, ringing the blasted bell between each word. "Twenty minutes 'til the Emily-Afton wedding rehearsal!"
You cringed, stomach twisting in knots as you remembered the plans for today. With a sigh, you right yourself from the window, hurrying to get dressed before it was time to leave.
~*~
Mrs Nicole Emily shivered as she stepped outside, her husband draping her fur shawl over her shoulders. She gave him a sweet smile and threaded their fingers together as they walked down the steps towards the awaiting carriage.
"It's rather funny," Henry Emily said, opening the carriage door, "I feel nervous, yet I'm not the one getting married."
Nicole laughed, light and airy as she climbed into the carriage, Henry following suit.
"I think it's alright to be nervous, dear. There's more to this arrangement than a wedding."
"True, true." Henry sighed. "High society investors, a wider array of clientele, etcetera." He waved his hand in a 'so-so' motion. "I suppose I'm more so worried about her." His gaze flickered towards the upstairs window and watched at the bride-to-be closed it shut.
Nicole laid a hand on Henry's knee, prompting him to look at her.
"Everything will be fine, my love. Trust our daughter and trust me."
Henry's shoulders dropped, and he smiled a small smile, pressing a chaste kiss to his wife's forehead.
"Of course, love." He hummed slightly. "At least this will give me a chance to talk with their automaton son — what was his name again?"
"Moon."
"Ah, yes, Moon — interesting name, but I digress. perhaps speaking with him will give us a better understanding of what it is automatons of his generation are looking for in terms of healthcare. it would be good to get his insights, especially considering William mentioned that he's a rather unique model —"
"That's lovely, darling, but perhaps now is not the time for business talk."
"Ah, well, yes —"
The sound of the front door closing and shoes clicking on stone took their attention. You entered the carriage in a rush, smoothing over your clothes as you sat opposite your parents.
"Presentable?" You asked, lurching forward slightly as the carriage began to move, righting yourself with a strained laugh.
"You look lovely, dearest." Nicole leaned forward, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. Henry smiled, giving you a double thumbs up and laughing as you rolled your eyes at him.
Settling your gaze out the carriage window, you felt your face settle into a half-frown as you clasped and unclasped your hands in front of you. Your chest felt tighter every moment you got closer to the Afton Estate, mind whirling with thoughts of 'what-if' and worst-case scenarios.
As if sensing your inner turmoil, your mother leaned forward again, clasping your hands in her own. Startled out of your thoughts, you see the knowing expression on her face and deflate.
"What's on your mind, love?"
You inhaled deeply, rolling your shoulder to release some of the tension radiating through your body.
"What if," you sighed, "what if he is unkind? Or, I don't know, ugly? What if this doesn't work out? I know this needs to go perfectly, but what if that doesn't happen?" The furrow between your brows grew deeper as you spoke, your worries radiating off of you. "I know why I need to do this — the business, the history between our families — but what if it all goes wrong?"
The carriage shook as it bounced over a loose cobblestone. You removed your hands from your mothers, gripping the seat for stability.
Your parents exchanged each other a look, and your stomach fluttered like the butterfly you released earlier. The idea of you getting married so soon sent your mind into a whirlwind. Growing up, you'd always fantasised about meeting someone, falling in love, and getting married in a dream of gratuitous romance. But now? Your fanciful imaginings seemed nothing more than that; fanciful. An idealistic dream created by your younger self. Hell, you didn't even know the man you were marrying. He could be everything you hoped for, or everything you feared.
Giving your knee a gentle tap, you father cleared his throat.
"I understand how you must feel," he said, scratching his cheek slightly, "but from William — I mean Lord Afton's letters, I do feel like you have nothing to fear." Nicole nudged his side, giving him a pointed look.
"What I mean is," Henry continued, "in terms of your betrothed. We wouldn't have agreed to this arrangement if we didn't think he was a good match for you."
You mother nodded in agreement.
"Yes," she said. "While this whole situation is good for the family and the company, we also wanted to keep your best interests at heart. I know this is... stressful, dearest, but we would never put you through something you couldn't handle."
You swallowed thickly, giving your parents a curt nod as you digested their words. Gazing out the carriage window, you realised that the homes and building from your side of town had diminished. In their stead stood homes and boutiques of the more high-end luxury you'd expect from such a high-status family as the Afton's.
All too soon, the carriage slowed, pulling up the drive of a lavish mansion of weathered stone. The estate stood tall, the Afton family crest on full display. You felt rather small in comparison, choosing to let your parents exist the carriage first before following.
Henry rang the doorbell, its chimes echoing inside. You straightened up slightly, righting your clothes and holding your head high. Despite the flutters of anxiety still present in your chest, you were determined to make this work. If not for yourself, then for your family.
~*~
Sitting casually by the large window in his room, Moon contemplated the words he had written. The page of his journal was full of half-thoughts and crossed out lines, the remaining sentences forming the beginnings of a poem, or perhaps a song. Moon wasn’t sure just yet, frowning as he jotted down another line before groaning and scribbling it out.
Huffing to himself, he closed the journal with a snap, instead turning his attention to the view beyond his window. The skies were overcast and grey, promising rainfall or sleet to further sour the automaton’s mood with foul weather. The icy cold seemed to cling to his joints and wires like glue in a human’s hair. No matter how long he stood by the fire it never seemed to cease.
Right as he was about to stand, a flash of movement caught his eye. Turning back to the bleak view, Moon's eyes widened as a butterfly fluttered past his window. It settled right on the outer windowsill, its blue and pale-yellow wings moving languidly. It stood out like nothing else - a drop of colour and life in the dull, washed-out world Moon had grown accustomed too. Transfixed, he reached out to the small creature, momentarily forgetting the glass barrier between him and it.
A knock at the door startled him. Moon shot up, accidentally smacking his hand against the glass. Startled, the butterfly took off, disappearing from view. He quietly cursed, sour mood returning in a wave at the interruption.
"Come in." He called, careful to make his voice neutral.
With a slight squeak of the door hinges, Ms Chica stepped into the room. The yellow and white colouring only just standing out against the rest of Moon's room, though not quite enough. Not like the butterfly.
Ms Chica was the only other automaton Moon currently knew. She stood a good head shorter than him and had been employed by the Afton's for as long as he could remember. Childhood memories of kind pink eyes and bedtime stories came to the forefront of Moon's mind, his metallic heart twisting as the third occupant of the memories came to view. The yellow of his brother's synthetic skin was only two shades darker than Chica's, and Moon could still remember the exact way his eyes used to light up during Chica's stories of her youth.
Moon grimaced, pushing the memories as far back as possible. He didn't need to think about him right now.
"Hello, chickadee," Chica's voice was cheerful and warm, the childhood nickname almost immediately defrosting a bit of Moon's icy bitterness. "The Emily's will be here soon." She raised a brow, giving Moon's current outfit of simple navy trousers and loose shirt a once over. "I hope you don't plan on wearing that to the rehearsal."
"I actually planned on borrowing one of your nightgowns."
Chica snorted, her composure dropping for a single moment. A small cheeky grin appeared Moon's face at her reaction. With a slight smile, Chica moved over to Moon's wardrobe, pulling out a few loose dress-shirts.
"Glad to see your sense of humour has remained intact, chickadee." She hummed a simple tune to herself, holding up the shirts to Moon's lithe frame before choosing one in a dark shade of blue. The room filled with the sounds of Chica's lilting voice as she meticulously chose Moon's rehearsal outfit, ushering him behind the dressing screen to change.
As Moon peeled off his shirt, hanging it over the top of the screen for Chica to take, his mind couldn't help but wander.
If there was one constant in Moon's life, it was Chica. Her soft humming and snorting laugh made up the background noise to most of Moon's memories, more often good memories than bad. As a child, he'd often daydreamed about her whisking him and... him away. Going far beyond the horizon to somewhere better, brighter, with less expectations and rules. Maybe even more automatons, more people he could call family.
Instead, his life had consisted of those uncomfortable yearly upgrades, a simulation of a human childhood brought the cold hands and dead eyes of his creator. William had been... louder once, the anger and grief-filled insults emphasised by the slapping of a belt buckle against skin. Moon could still remember the night Micheal left; the bruises on his arms and sad, desperate expression in his eyes before he closed the backdoor behind him.
Clara Afton hadn't been much better. She always had this forlorn look to her, gazing at the two automatons — only one now — before her, desperately trying to see the two children she had lost. All she ever really did nowadays was snap at people or stare blankly into the hearth fire, more of an irritable ghost than an actual living woman.
As time passed, the Afton Estate only got emptier and colder. The layers of debt only became more and more unmanageable, wispy cobwebs covering the closed off rooms that were too expensive to heat. The house staff seemed to dissipate, leaving one by one until only Chica and the butler remained, forced to quit or sacked due to lack of funds. Furniture and decor were slowly sold off, aiding in the ever-growing dreariness of the place Moon was forced to call home.
"Chickadee?" Chica's voice brought him back to awareness, her arm snaked around the edge of the dressing screen, holding his folded shirt and waistcoat for the day. "I would like to talk to you about something, before the Emily's arrive."
Anxiety that Moon would never admit to twisted at his wires as he buttoned up his shirt.
"Something the matter?" he queried, careful to keep his voice as steady as possible.
"Look," she paused, "I understand how you feel about marriage with... what happened. And I know you understand the reasons behind this arrangement."
"Of course I do." Moon's tone was sharper than he intended. He sighed with a hiss of static. "Sorry."
"I know. All I want is for this to be a good thing for you, because you deserve that." She passed him the last of his outfit, waiting for him to finish dressing. "Please, for my sake at least, try and approach this with an open mind."
Moon stayed silent, mulling over her words. The old wounds from back then never seemed to heal. Everything Moon did, everywhere he went he was reminded of his brother. The one who betrayed him, running off into the sunset all those years ago and forgetting him. Moon knew he should hate Sun, hate him for leaving, hate him for never bothering to write, but he couldn't. Not entirely. There was a small, treacherous part of his mind that missed him, despite everything he did.
"I—" Moon faltered, his hands stuttering on his necktie, voice quiet and laced with old pain, "I sometimes wish he was still here."
It was the admission of a lifetime, something he'd never aired before. The ache in his chest felt lighter in a way.
"What was that, Chickadee?"
The ache returned tenfold.
"Nothing. I'm ready now."
"Come now, chickadee, let me see."
Moon stepped out from behind the dressing screen, brushing some lint from the front of his jacket. With a soft, delighted clap, Chica moved forward to brush it off for him, straightening his waistcoat and collar.
"There you are," she turned him to face his reflection in the mirror, "very handsome — your betrothed is lucky to have you."
Moon stared at the reflected image of himself, the dark blue of his shirt, the grey and black of his waistcoat, and the just barely noticeable star pattern on his navy trousers. He frowned slightly. Ms Chica was certainly good at styling him, but his wires couldn't help but twist at her words.
"I'm not sure how much that matters," he muttered, words tinged with thinly veiled resentment. "The only reason they're forcing me to do this is to get us above the poverty line."
Chica sighed, clasping Moon's hand in her own. Her gaze was filled with softness and old grief.
She moved to speak but was cut off with a sharp rap at the door, the hinges squeaking slightly as it swung open. Chica immediately moved to Moon's side, head bowed slightly, and hands clasped behind her back as the Afton's stepped into the room.
The atmosphere shifted, and Moon felt himself stand taller, shoulders tense. Clara Afton, gaze as sharp as ever, gave Moon a once-over while her husband stood by her side looking even more exhausted than usual.
"Glad to see you're... presentable." Clara stepped forward, her shoes clicking against the wooden floor. "The Emily's will be here soon, so be downstairs within the next ten minutes."
William cleared his throat.
"Look, son," Moon grimaced slightly at the endearment, wires twisting uncomfortably, "This needs to go perfectly - no getting caught up in your personal qualms about marriage."
"This is a contract," Clara continued, "do not mess this up for us."
Bowing his head slightly, Moon nodded. "Yes ma'am, yes sir."
"Good." The chime of the doorbell sounded throughout the house. "That will be them. Don't keep us waiting. Come now, Chica."
Following behind the Afton's, Chica gave Moon one last look before the door swung shut with a harsh click.
~*~
One of the first things you noticed when entering the Afton Estate was how cold it was. There was a thick chill in the air, one that sat against your skin and slowly burrowed its way down to your bones, making a home there. It was different from the cold outside; the type to nip at your nose and cheeks and continue on.
The second thing you noticed was how grand the foyer was. A grand staircase stood in the middle of the room, branching out left and right to the upper floor. The ceilings reached an impressive hight, with a beautiful unlit chandelier hung above where you stood. The wood panelling on the walls were intricate with carvings, and the floors were a stunning checkered marble. Though, despite the grandeur, the foyer felt barren and empty. You could see old cobwebs in the uppermost corners, and the only piece of furniture was an old grand piano to your right.
Before you and your parents, stood on the lower step of the grand staircase, were the Aftons. Though only Mr and Mrs Afton — their son was nowhere to be seen.
Lady Afton stood quite tall compared to her husband. Her skin was pale and slightly sunken in, eyes framed with deep bags. Her blonde hair was done up in a neat bun, not a single strand out of place. In fact, nothing seemed out of place. The dress she wore buttoned up to her neck and each fold of its fabric looked intentional. She barely looked at you, her sharp gaze reserved for your parents only, examining their every detail.
Lord Afton, while still tall, barely reached his wife’s eyeline. Everything about him was in stark contrast to the woman by his side. His posture was loose, greying brown hair ruffled from threading his fingers through it. His clothes, while lavish and certainly expensive, were rumpled and creased. He carried an air of perpetual exhaustion that only diminished slightly when he looked at your father.
They both reminded you of living ghosts, haunting their own home. Knowing the tragedy surrounding the Afton name and family, you certainly couldn’t blame them.
With the clocking of heels on marble flooring, the Afton’s butler stepped forward, making the introductions.
“Lord and Lady Afton, may I present Mr and Mrs Emily.” He paused for a moment, then introduced you last, as if you were an afterthought.
Henry took a step forward, grasping Lord Afton’s hand in a firm shake, voice thick as he spoke.
It’s good seeing you, William,” he said. “I hope the years have treated you well?”
Afton blinked in surprise, then shook back, but with much less vigour.
“It’s good to see you also, Henry.” He cleared his throat, releasing any raspiness from his voice. “It’s been a long time.”
Your parents and the Aftons exchanged pleasantries for a minute longer before Lady Afton gathered everyone’s attention.
“We’ll take tea in the west drawing room,” her voice was simultaneously sharp yet worn. “There are still matters to discuss before the rehearsal.”
“Of course.” Your mother holds your fathers arm as the pair follow the Aftons into the drawing room. You trail behind, feeling separate from the group and the drawing room door closes behind them. With a sigh, you turn to the piano.
It’s an old thing, but very well made. The wood is beautiful, though needing a good polish. Glancing towards the drawing room, the muffled sounds of conversation coming from within, you take the chance.
Lifting up the lid, your fingers graze over the ivory keys as you sit on the stool, finding their familiar positions. Taking a deep breath, you start to play.
The music notes echo and float through the empty foyer, weaving their way through your ears and mind as you quickly become lost in the sounds. Your fingers sweep across the keys like trained dancers, and all the nervousness once swirling in your chest becomes akin to a forgotten dream.
~*~
The butterfly from earlier had carved such a profound image in Moon’s mind that he kept trying to sketch its wing pattern from memory. Although, no matter how hard he tried, the lines ever seemed right.
With a huff, he closed his journal, leaning back on the window seat. Art was always a skill more reserved for his brother. Sun always had a better understanding of how shaped and colours worked, something Moon could never quite seem to pick up. The written word was more his area, but even now he was having difficulty with it.
The sounds of piano music wafted through the air. Moon sat up, listening intently. Music, in the Afton Estate? The last time there was music in this house was when Sun was—
Abandoning the window seat and journal, Moon bolted out of his room. Crossing the landing towards the grand staircase, he half expected to see familiar yellow sunrays at the piano nobody touched anymore.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, resented disappointment twisted at his wires. There weren’t any sunrays, wasn’t any yellow. Of course not. Instead, sat at the piano was an unfamiliar figure. Moon watched as deft and talented fingers danced across the keys, creating a melody this cold house had not witnessed in many years.
Pushing the bitter disappointment aside and replacing it with curiosity, Moon descended down the stairs, approaching you as you played your heart out. You were so lost in the music; you didn’t notice him approach. Only when you opened your eyes did you see him standing beside you in your periphery.
You jumped with a startled squeak, the piano stool falling over behind you with an echoed crash.
“Oh, God,” You righted the stool, heart hammering in your chest from the scare. “I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to bother… you…”
Your voice trailed off as your gaze travelled up your betrothed’s body to his face. He was tall. Taller than Lady Afton by a mile. The top of your head was a good few inches below his shoulders.
The moment your eyes met an embarrassed flush blossomed on your cheeks. They were a cherry-red, you noticed, probably much like your face currently. Clearing your throat, you lowered the piano lid, trying to keep your hands busy.
“Hello,” you said stupidly, voice cracking horribly mid syllable. Your blush flared with the intensity of a bonfire.
A slight smile broke onto his face, slowly growing wider as he began to laugh. It was a low raspy giggle that you couldn’t help but laugh along with. You embarrassment slowly subsided, and the air felt lighter than it had since you’d arrived.
“You’re Ms Emily, then?” His voice had that same raspy quality as his laugh.
“Oh, um, yes. And you’re Mr—”
“Moon,” he interrupted. “Just Moon.”
You weren’t going to question his avoidance to the Afton family name.
“Well, ‘Just Moon’,” he chuckled a bit at that, “it’s actually quite nice meeting you.”
“Were you expecting different?”
You sighed. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect.”
“Me either.”
A comfortable sort of silence fell between the two of you. Moon lifted up the piano lid again, metal fingers lightly running over the keys.
“You play beautifully.” He sat down on the piano stool, playing each note in sequence C, D, E, F, G, A, B and back again. “Beethoven, right?”
“Ah, yes.” You sat beside him, thighs just grazing each other on the small stool. “Moonlight Sonata. It’s one of my favourites."
Moon turned to you, an amused look on his face.
“’Moonlight’, hm? Perhaps this is your attempt to serenade me before the wedding."
You bluster, pinpricks of a flush returning to your poor cheeks. Looking at his face, you suddenly realised that in just three days you would be married. This is the face of the man you would most likely be spending the rest of your life with. Out of all the possibilities and worse case scenarios, you find yourself almost content with that.
“Well, um,” you clear your throat, “like you said, we are to be married. I reckon that’s what married people do. Perhaps.”
“Married people in love.”
The harshness of his tone takes you off guard. He quickly realises that, a flash of guilt in his eyes before he stands.
On the lip of the piano is a small vase with little white flowers. You hadn’t quite noticed them before. Moon takes the flowers from the vase, frowning slightly at them. He seems to study them, twisting the stem with his fingertips before handing them to you.
Standing, before him, he cups the back of your hand, the metal of his own hand cool on your skin. He settles the flowers into your palm.
“Here.” He sighed with a hiss of static. “I— I apologise for snapping.”
“It’s alright.” You hold the flowers to your chest. “This whole situation. It’s… It’s difficult.”
“It is."
You looked up at him, craning your neck slightly. There was a sadness in those cherry-red eyes, you realised, a sadness you were all too familiar with. You’d seen it your whole life in the eyes of your parents, ever intensified whenever they’d talk about your sister, Charlotte.
You’d never known Charlotte. She had died a few years before you were born. She was only eight years old and had been lost out in the freezing cold all night. She was found the next morning in an alley near the edge of town frozen to death.
Though you never knew her, the echoes of her were felt everywhere while you were growing up. Her birthday was always bittersweet for your parents, and each year you left a small toy gift for Charlotte outside her bedroom door. The gifts were always gone by the time you returned — something unspoken between you and your parents.
But the grief lingered, even twenty-two years after her death. There was a variation of that same grief in Moon’s eyes. A similar sort of echo lived in this house, too, like there was something — perhaps, more appropriately, someone — missing.
Whatever had happened to cause such sadness in those pretty, cherry-red eyes, one thing you knew for certain is that you would never pry.
An indignant cough sounded behind you.
You turned in a rush, hiding the flowers behind you back. Lady Afton stood about five feet behind you, a stern expression on her face.
“This is completely inappropriate, being alone together without a chaperone.” You hunched your shoulders in slightly, her tone cutting, and sharp gaze digging into you and Moon. “Hurry up and get inside. It’s a minute to five and I will not have the pastor waiting.”
You nod, giving Moon one last look as you hurry past her. Behind you, you can hear Lady Afton spare a few more words to Moon.
“Do not ruin this for us.” She hissed. “We cannot afford a scandal. Now get inside.”
Moon joined you as you both entered the drawing room, the faces of your parents, Lord Afton, and the pastor waiting within.