Aamu
Hearing his name repeated back makes him oddly self-conscious, as if he is being weighed, measured, and uncertain of if he will be found wanting. He's still not sure of his place in this new world, merely offers a small, light shrug in response. A name's a name, and he's a poor judge of his own. It's done the job of identifying him well enough over the years, and a decent job of giving him anxiety now.
Ridiculous. Is it the fact that Henry specifically sought him out? Or his pretty face? His bold, cheerful manner?
Maybe it is because, at a glance, he seems to be everything Aamu sometimes wishes he was: truly young, confident, at ease with the world and himself. It is easy to paint your own dreams and desires on another and think you admire them when in truth you only wish you yourself were different—were them, perhaps. As if it will somehow protect him from this, Aamu neatly folds his arms over his chest and leans back against a table.
It's not like he knows Henry anyway, and it's not like there's anything wrong with being Aamu. Sometimes it's just so easy to look at someone else and wish you were more like them, and even more so when your own life is a complete mess and you have so much to mourn that you don't even know where to start.
What he does not expect is to be so frankly questioned about his origins. Aamu's eyebrows shoot up again, his mildly surprised face hiding the despair within him. He's not sure he remembers, and as ever, he hates not being able to give a straight answer. "I want to say Stormbreak," he answers after a few seconds of out-of-place silence, putting his hands against the table and gently hoisting himself onto it. It's tall enough to let him dangle his feet a little. "But I'm really not sure. Might've been Halo. 'But Aamu, surely you should know where you're from'?" he says, mocking himself lightly. "Well, I don't, I could tell you why, but it'd cost you extra." And he winks, playful, bright.
Ridiculous. Is it the fact that Henry specifically sought him out? Or his pretty face? His bold, cheerful manner?
Maybe it is because, at a glance, he seems to be everything Aamu sometimes wishes he was: truly young, confident, at ease with the world and himself. It is easy to paint your own dreams and desires on another and think you admire them when in truth you only wish you yourself were different—were them, perhaps. As if it will somehow protect him from this, Aamu neatly folds his arms over his chest and leans back against a table.
It's not like he knows Henry anyway, and it's not like there's anything wrong with being Aamu. Sometimes it's just so easy to look at someone else and wish you were more like them, and even more so when your own life is a complete mess and you have so much to mourn that you don't even know where to start.
What he does not expect is to be so frankly questioned about his origins. Aamu's eyebrows shoot up again, his mildly surprised face hiding the despair within him. He's not sure he remembers, and as ever, he hates not being able to give a straight answer. "I want to say Stormbreak," he answers after a few seconds of out-of-place silence, putting his hands against the table and gently hoisting himself onto it. It's tall enough to let him dangle his feet a little. "But I'm really not sure. Might've been Halo. 'But Aamu, surely you should know where you're from'?" he says, mocking himself lightly. "Well, I don't, I could tell you why, but it'd cost you extra." And he winks, playful, bright.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
