Archive of Our Own ^beta

Only when Superstitional Realism finally has a moment to himself does he realise that he hasn’t seen Cyan since he won their race.

They only spent seven minutes in that maze together; there’s no reason for Realism to feel so strange about the other’s missing presence. Yet the feeling sticks to him, like his mind has been shifted an inch or two to the left– a vague sense of wrong that both confuses and unsettles him.

Why is he so bothered by Cyan being missing?

It feels almost childish to admit it, but he had kind of expected them to celebrate him getting his first win. Both of them were the underdogs, the worst racers of the group, and they’d formed a bizarre kind of camaraderie around that. We may be the worst, but at least they we have each other ,’ or however Cyan would choose to describe it.

Maybe it’s a little too far-fetched, the idea Cyan would celebrate his victory alongside him, despite the fact that it firmly cemented Cyan as the worst-performing racer… but if they’d swapped placed, Realism still would’ve showed up to support him.

…Okay, this is making him sound a little desperate. It wasn’t like Realism needs Cyan there to support him. Practically the moment he reached those carrots, he was bounding over to the other racers to celebrate.

He remembers the clapping, the cheering, the gifts; cradled in his arms is a bouquet of daffodils, given to him by someone– perhaps Yellow, judging by the colour– that he doesn’t really know what to do with.

Well. He has an idea of what to do, he just doesn’t know if it will go down well.

Cyan’s always been a bit quiet, and a bit more pessimistic with every loss. Where all of the other racers have become more open with the others, Cyan has become more and more withdrawn over time. Realism has always been the one horse that Cyan seems content with– whenever someone needs Cyan for something, it’s always Realism that’s sent to fetch them.

In short, Realism is a certified Cyan-whisperer, and if his experience with the other is any proof, there’s a good chance that Cyan is isolating himself further to shield himself from any potential upset. There’s an even greater chance that Cyan is isolating himself from him.

And that just won’t do, will it?

Realism doesn’t need Cyan’s support, but it’s clear that Cyan probably needs Realism there to support him .

It takes a little while to slip away from the party. Everyone seems to want to talk to him, but he takes his leave whilst everyone is distracted– judging by the hollering, it seems that an off-circuit race is beginning. He shakes his head at their antics, but he’s smiling anyways. Maybe he can drag Cyan out to participate later, and they can both lag behind everyone else like they usually do.

Every stable is detached to give the racers privacy and a quiet place to recollect themselves, and much like the horse himself, Cyan’s stable is a little more away from everything else. Because of that, it takes Realism a little bit longer than he’d like to reach Cyan’s stable, but it does mean that it’s a whole lot more quiet. He’d like to say that it makes it more peaceful, but really it just feels a little strange.

Speaking of strange, he feels kind of weird just standing outside Cyan’s door. He needs to think of something to say; it can’t be enough to just shove the bouquet of daffodils in his arms and tell him “in my heart you’re a winner,” can it?

His eyes wander, and eventually land on the mulberry tree besides his stable. It’s a proud thing, branches stretching outwards and bearing sweet black berries that he’d tasted once or twice on Cyan’s insistence.

He recalls sitting beneath it, Cyan pressed against him so that their backs were both against the trunk. A heavy botany book was a burden shared by both of their laps; Cyan was a suburbanite with no real experience with nature, but on his insistence– always on Cyan’s insistence, it seems– they tried to figure out what kind of tree it was.

He remembers trying not to blush when Cyan’s fingers would touch his thigh when he turned the page.

Realism never had any interest in trying to figure out what it was. He stayed anyways. Always on Cyan’s insistence.

Mulberry. He mouths the words. He remembers when Cyan figured it out, enthusiastically pointing out the fruit and leaves as if Realism was paying attention to that– his eyes were stuck to the way his lips, the way his mouth formed the letters.

He mouths it again. Mulberry. Mulberry. Mulberry. The word sounded better coming from Cyan’s lips than it did from Realism’s.

He wonders how Cyan’s lips will look when he says Realism’s name.

He sighs. He just needs to do it. He just needs to go in and talk to Cyan, and then they can move past this.

It was just a race. It didn’t have to mean anything for them.

With his nerves steeled, he knocks.

A few seconds later, with no response, he knocks again.

Again, no response. Again, he knocks.

Maybe Cyan is asleep? Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to anyone?

“Hey, Cyan?” He spoke up, because Cyan was more likely to respond to him than anyone else.

Again, there’s nothing, just the quiet sound of his awkward shuffling and distant shouting.

He sighs. Time to get annoying.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK–

“What are you doing?” A boisterous voice comes from behind him.

“Agh- Horse, Jovial! You can’t sneak up on a guy like that!” He spins around to glare at the other horse, who isn’t at all put off by his anger.

She cocks her head, hands on her hips. “What are you doing?” She repeats.

He points to the door behind him. “I’m trying to get Cyan to talk to me, but he isn’t responding.”

Jovial scoffs. “Stand back, I’ll kick the door down.”

“Alright–” he moves out of the way before he can process what she said– “WAIT, WAIT THAT’S NOT AT ALL NECESSARY-”

He’s too late. Jovial acts quickly, far too quickly for Realism to prevent her from literally kicking the door in. It’s almost cartoonish; one moment Jovial is backing up slightly, and the next, the door is swinging open, far too easily for a locked door.

He’s not the only one to pick up on it. “The door wasn’t locked. Did you even try opening it beforehand?” She asks him, a brow raised as she peers into the dark room.

“I was trying to be pol-”

“He’s not even here, so it’s not like your politeness mattered,” she says bluntly.

He sighs. One day, someone ( cough cough, Yellow, cough cough, ) will convince Jovial to take those social skills classes.

Wait. “What do you mean, he’s not here?” He pushes past her, ignoring her cry of indignation as he enters Cyan’s stable.

She’s right. There’s not hide nor hair of Cyan anywhere in the room. Strange. Really, really strange.

“Doesn’t Cyan usually hole up in here after his failures?” She asks, stepping in after him. She immediately begins looking around the room in interest, presumably because she’d never been offered the opportunity to look inside before.

He chooses to pay her nosiness no mind. “ Don’t phrase it like that– but… Yeah. I figured he would be in here considering that I haven’t seen him at all this evening. Maybe he decided to go take a walk or something?”

“Nope,” Jovial immediately refutes, popping the p. She starts messing around with the stuff on Cyan’s desk, picking up a lone piece of paper that disturbed the otherwise clean desk. “I’ve already ran around all the trails a bunch, and I didn’t see him at all. I asked all the others as well, and they said they never saw Cyan either, so–”

She stops speaking.

She takes the piece of paper in two hands, scanning the page with an unreadable expression.

“...So?” Realism repeats, approaching her slowly.

The paper is snatched away from where he can see it. She presses it against her chest. “I- I don’t think you should read this.”

Huh? “Why not?” He asks, swallowing down the dread that begins to creep up his oesophagus. “What’s on that piece of paper?”

She looks away, eyes darting around the room. “I really, really don’t think you should read this.”

“Dude, it’s fine. I can handle whatever Cyan’s written down. Just let me see, it might tell me where-”

Suddenly, she darts out of the room, leaving Realism shocked by her sudden departure.It doesn’t take long for him to follow suit, chasing after her.

He finds her talking in hurried, hushed tones with the rest of the racers. When he arrives, they immediately become silent. Their expressions range from troubled to almost in tears; what shocks him the most is that it’s all directed at him.

“What?” He asks. “What’s wrong?”

Nobody answers him. Instead, their gazes drift to Jovial, who looks torn.

“I really don’t think you should read this,” she repeats once more, but this time her tone is uncertain, like she’s advising him against it.

Yellow places a hand on her shoulder. “He’s gonna hafta read it at some point, doll,” she says softly, consoling her over something that somehow involves Realism–

“For Horse’s sake, just give it to me!” He says, arm stretched out and marching towards her.

Jovial glances at Yellow, who nods. Only then does she turn back to Realism and reluctantly pass the paper over. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says quietly, before shaking off Yellow’s hand and stalking off elsewhere.

He’s not paying attention though. He’s too focused on figuring out what the hell has made everyone so… so… so miserable.

There’s a message scrawled across it, short and to the point. The handwriting is neat, careful, like the author had anticipated it being read and wanted to make sure it was legible. It was so unlike the Cyan that Realism had come to know.

He can barely take in the words.

His thumb scratches lightly at the tear stains on the paper.

“He’s–” he reads the paper again, and again, trying to make sense of it, foolishly hoping that this time the words will suddenly mean something else. Anything else. Anything other than this.

He laughs, but it’s not a kind one. It’s shock. He’s shocked.

“He’s– no, he can’t be–”

He turns sharply to Yellow, who nervously wrings her hands.

“This is an awful prank to pull, this– this is an awful prank. Why would you do something like this?” He laughs coldly again, gesturing to her flippantly with the paper. “Cyan loves racing, why would he–”

Gently, Yellow eases the paper from his tight grip. “That’s Cyan’s handwriting. You know it is,” she says firmly, but not unkind. “You know none of us would joke about something like that.”

He’s going to vomit.

“You’re lying,” he hisses. “You’re lying!”

She was lying. She had to be.

Cyan wouldn’t leave.

…Would he?

What about all of those things he said, all of the times he talked about his love for racing, how he wanted more than anything to win just once ? What about all that time they spent together, underneath that mulberry tree, quietly discussing their races and then whatever else had come to mind?

What about Realism ?

Yellow glances over the paper like she’s already read it before– and of course she would, of course Jovial would show her before she’d show Cyan’s– Cyan’s– Well, whatever he was to Cyan.

“He left,” Yellow tells him softly. “They’ve demoted him back to the lower tracks.”

He left.

As if he hadn’t read the paper, she continues relaying the information. “He didn’t want to go. This wasn’t his choice.”

He left.

“He told them to hold off on sending his stuff over so you could grab a couple of keepsakes. He insists you take the botany book.”

He left.

Yellow swallows nervously. “He’s moving back in with his family until his manager can agree on a deal for a minor league. They live far away, but he promises he’ll write to you when he gets home.”

…

This was all Realism’s fault, isn't it?