Once Upon A Time In Lockpiece Town

[THE PAINTER] 

Sunlight filters into the loft in golden beams of light, the smell of dust in the air. Its owner lounges on a velvet couch with a giggling woman in her arms, chin tilted up imperiously as she smiles. “Well, I am the best this town has to offer. I can answer any questions you like.” 

Leigh and his tour guide sit on opposite couches. He leans forward, amused but not particularly bothered. “Well, Miss Painter, can you tell me a little more about what you do for this town?” Eyes keen, he adds in intentionally, “I hear you’re the best artist around these parts.” 

Scattered about the room are easels with landscape paintings. They sit in a dizzying array around the room, until the Painter and Leigh are almost floating in a sea of them, a large bay window throwing light onto them and their companions. 

Leigh’s tour guide watches from under his hood and says nothing, legs crossed. Leigh can feel the weight of his gaze even while seated next to him, and finds himself cheerfully impressed by this stranger’s work ethic. 

The Painter puffs her chest up and preens. She’s beautiful, swamped in flashy clothing and finery. “They don’t give me that title lightly. You can see that answer all around you,” She motions to the paintings. Fields of golden wheat and brilliant grass. Orchards dappled with eternal fruit. “Thanks to me, this town has perfect weather. I make sure we get our rain on time, that we never have a cold spring, that we never see a bad wind.” 

Leigh can’t keep the excitement out of his face. It’s genuine when he sits forward, and the Painter blinks in surprise with the intensity of his, “Impressive!” (The tour guide muffles a chuckle under a folded finger, smiling.) “How does that work? Is it your brushes, or the paints, or the final product?” 

“Intention,” The Painter replies. “Magic is all about intention. And intention is all about desire. I’m an indulgent person, you see. So that comes out in my art quite well.” Her brow furrows and her smile twists. “Some used to look down on me for it – said I was a hedonist, even, but this town has been benefiting off of that hedonistic personality of mine for years.”  

Leigh tilts his head, smile watchful. “Well, who would ever say that?” 

The Painter’s smile is strange. “Nobody important.” 

The tour guide shifts and recrosses his legs. He softly clears his throat, and the noise breaks Leigh out of his brief reverie. “Ah, I wanted to ask you about your fellow artists in town–” 

From another room, a series of loud coughs. All heads lift up in unison to glance at a wooden door on the side, a small plaque covered in purple chalk with flowers scattered all over it reading, Delilah.

The Painter’s whole body twitches as she stands up. “There’s nothing to say, really. The Watchmaker is a useless lout. And the Woodcarver–“ Her expression changes, darkens with resentment. “--Hah! That wretched old man. He’s as stiff and as unyielding as his stupid little figurines.” Her companion watches in worry as the Painter stalks out of the room and past the wooden door, quickly getting up to follow after her, closing the door shut quickly behind them both. 

Leigh isn’t one to make light of this opportunity. He whistles a jaunty little tune to himself before springing up, putting his hands on his pockets and beginning to inspect the room in greater detail. The tour guide watches him from the couch, but says nothing. It’s fine, Leigh thinks. He won’t snitch. 

He’s not sure how he knows that. 

Leigh isn’t one to leave a potential friend unmade. He flashes one of his (very handsome!) smiles at his tour guide, wandering around the room to take a closer look at the paintings. “Have you lived here long?” 

The tour guide hums. “Well, certainly not compared to some folk. But one gets used to a place like this, circling around it enough times. You’re curious about quite a lot, aren’t you?”

Indeed, there’s nothing special about the brushes left scattered, nor the paints left half-dry in their palettes. Leigh, who has turned his attention instead to the canvases still covered in tarp, is in the middle of lifting one up. 

He pauses to grin, not even slightly ashamed. “Sure,” He says breezily. “Not least of all being what you look like under that cloak. You must be jaw-droppingly beautiful, to be hiding yourself like that, huh? Or maybe just shy?” 

Han’s fingers finds the edges of his cloak, long and manicured. “Beautiful? Well, maybe,” His voice is sly as he lowers the hood. Leigh pauses, rooted briefly in spot as their eyes meet. “However, I wouldn’t consider myself shy.”

In the Painter’s lodge of Lockpiece Town, just as the clocktower in the market square strikes 12, Leigh meets his match. 

A strange whisper brushes against the back of his nape. It’s warm, ill-befitting the overcast chill that’s been plaguing the town since Leigh arrived only a day ago. But it settles down his spine and stays there, and Leigh doesn’t think twice about it.

“Well, Mr. Scholar?” Han’s eyes glitter, having caught the way that Leigh freezes. “Am I beautiful?” 

(Han thinks to himself, that although it might be a little self-indulgent of him, he can’t get tired of the way Leigh looks at him for the first time.) 

Leigh coughs against a fist. “Yes, you’re very impressive.”

“Oh? How can I be so sure that you’re not trying to butter me up?” 

Leigh grins, flashy. He frames his chin with his index finger and thumb, lifting it up so that Han can get a better look. “Hey, you can trust my judgment. I was born with a face this good myself, after all.”   

Han is pretty, in that sort of obvious way.  The same way the sun is obviously brilliant, and the wind is obviously pleasant – but he’s prettier when he laughs. “I would return the tarp back over that portrait, if I was you.” 

Leigh glances back at what he was doing, realizing only belatedly how thoroughly Han had distracted him. Under his hands and the shadow of the tarp, a portrait of a young girl stares back at him. She’s smiling, eyes filled with warmth, a youthful replica that bears horrible resemblance to the Painter herself. 

Leigh drops the tarp back down and takes a half step back. In that same step, the wooden door swings open, and the Painter emerges with her lover quickly behind her. Leigh folds his hands behind his back innocently before she can register this new scene in front of her, and breathes a quiet sigh of relief through his nose when her face doesn’t draw in ire. 

She didn’t see him. But Leigh didn’t hear her, either, and Han is even further away from the door than he is. Leigh’s eyes glance over at his tour-guide, who has put his hood back on while Leigh wasn’t looking. How did he know? 

The Painter doesn’t seem to notice any of this. “I’ll have you leave, now. I have some personal business to attend to.” 

Leigh smiles, dropping his hands by his sides and stepping forward to gather his things by the couches. “Of course! Lockpiece’s famous Artists must be very busy. Well, thank you for your time. Me and my friend will get out of your hair.”

The Painter is already distracted. “Say, be careful with that old man. He’s got quite the temper.”  

[THE WOODCARVER]

Nobody looks Leigh in the eye on the way to the Woodcarver’s house. 

Lockpiece Town, for all of its rumored endless splendor, is quiet and gray. Han is a beacon of color within all of that, robust and alive, lowering his hood once they’ve both left the Painter’s lodge and are making their way down cobblestone roads. He falls into step next to Leigh so naturally that it’s almost a little uncanny. “So, Mr. Scholar. What’s brought you here?” 

Leigh turns to face him with his whole body, grin dimpling his cheeks. “I’m here to study the magic in this town. They say Lockpiece Town is blessed with eternal prosperity, thanks to their three lights–one light to fill the fields with an eternal harvest, one to keep the balance, and one to keep the people safe–oh, sorry about that. You alright?” His shoulder has clipped hard into a passerby’s arm, and Leigh stops for a moment to assess the damage. 

Han watches Leigh, and Leigh watches the stranger. They mumble something under their breath, eyes slipping off Leigh as if he isn’t there, before they move on. 

Leigh watches them go, before turning to Han. “Though the people don’t exactly seem happy here, for it being such an apparently prosperous town.” 

He expects Han to provide some sort of insight. Han just looks at him for a moment, careful. Waiting for something, maybe. “The Woodcarver might have some sort of answer. Though I would be careful about his temper.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me. You should see how many people I’ve charmed out of a fight.” Leigh winks, but Han doesn’t laugh. 

Han’s fists tighten around his sides. His jaw is tight, eyes colorful and bright with emotion. “Leigh. I mean it.” 

And oh, the way Han says his name. Like he knows the exact right way to say it. Leigh blinks, opens his mouth to say something–is interrupted by a loud DINNNNNG, a chime that bounces off the streets. 

Lockpiece Town’s clocktower is a behemoth of brass and brick. It chimes again, hands slowly shifting into place, casting its long shadow over Leigh and Han both.

Han, who has inexplicably put his hood back over his face again. “It seems we’re getting late. Let’s get going. The Woodcarver should be waiting on us, hm?” 

Leigh wants to chase him down. It’s a strange mix of his own inquisitive nature and Han’s strange pull that lets Leigh know–something here is off. He has half a mind to grab Han’s hand and ask, What do you mean by that? 

Alas. He has a job to finish. Instead Leigh glances at the clocktower and says, “Huh, it really is getting late. Don’t want to make our temperamental guest mad, right?” 

-

The Woodcarver serves them tea and cookies.

Leigh has had at least three before he remembers that he’s here for an interview. Crumbs scattered around his mouth, (and now quickly spreading to his pants as he haphazardly wipes his hands), Leigh asks, “So! Tell me about your magic, Mr. Woodcarver. What do you do for this town?”

The Woodcarver’s cottage is humble and smells like linseed oil, walls cluttered with shelves and shelves cluttered with figurines. There aren’t any chairs to sit, so they all cram inside to stand sort-of awkwardly between stools and balance their teacups on the edges of desks. 

The Woodcarver is shorter than Leigh and Han both, an old man who keeps his hands usually behind his back. He smiles a little and nods at the figurines. “Those are all the people of this town. I watch over them and keep up with their wellbeing.” At Leigh’s questioning glance– “Go ahead, feel free to look.”  

Leigh turns his back to the Woodcarver. Han does not. He goes to stare at the shelves with a hum, scholarly interest piqued, squinting at little faces to try to see if he recognizes any from the street outside. Asks, “They say you’re in charge of the people’s happiness.” 

The Woodcarver gives a loud, indignant, “Hah! By idiots who would love to romanticize the nature of my work. No, I just watch over the people.”

A figurine of a little girl. A name-plate under her feet reads, Delilah. Leigh does not touch it, but his eyes catch on the strange green around her throat and down her torso, staining the brown wood. “What does it mean if the wood is rotting?” 

The Woodcarver says, “Malady. That little girl you’re looking at, for example, is destined to a life of it.” 

Leigh frowns. “And you can’t fix it?”

The Woodcarver says, “Well, I could. But I won’t.” 

Leigh shelves his feelings immediately. He decides to focus his attention on finding Han’s figurine, walking past the person in question to inspect another shelf. Han’s hood puts a dark shadow over his face, makes it impossible to know what expression he’s making. But Leigh sees his crossed arms, the white at Han’s knuckles as his grip tightens. 

Leigh asks, “Why not?” 

“It’s not my right to interfere in the natural cycles of life.” 

Leigh is only meant to ask, record, understand. It’s outside of his scope of duties to question others. And yet. “Huh. Then I guess you think that doctors shouldn’t help their patients, too?” 

(Han tenses.)

The Woodcarver’s voice goes cold. “You young people, you’re all the same. Magic is not some indulgence meant to be used whenever you please. You have to have personal limits. Exercise discretion. If I intervened with one person’s ailments, then I would have to intervene in everyone’s ailments. And when I’m gone, and the villagers have forgotten how to fend for themselves, what would they do?” 

Leigh can see each step of logic perfectly. An aging old man’s worry for his people and their autonomy. Maybe it was even a little bit true–there were only three magicians in town. What would the villagers do if any of them left? And yet–

Coughing behind a door with a door. A painting of a young girl, a beloved portrait done by a landscape artist. A wooden figurine, touched by rot. 

And yet he couldn’t understand it. Leigh had only ever wanted to look in front of himself, to consider what was directly in front of his eyes. “Except you can’t really guarantee that.”

He can feel Han’s eyes burning holes in the back of his neck. The Woodcarver’s voice rises. “Excuse me?” 

Leigh turns around. “You can’t guarantee that what you’re doing will be good for them in the future. You can talk about the principle of things for as long as you like, but the only thing you’re actually doing is ignoring a miserable little girl. Being a coward is a bit of an indulgence too, don’t you think?”

The Woodcarver’s face goes dark red. Han sighs audibly. Leigh’s eyes squint handsomely as he smiles.

The next few moments happen very quickly. 

Anger is a rot that poisons more than just wood. The Woodcarver’s skin twists brown-gray-green as he lunges forward for Leigh, hands outstretched and gnarling into old wood. Leigh has enough reflex to narrowly dodge and throw himself back against a shelf, figurines clattering loudly and falling in a sea against his back.

One hits Leigh against his head. “Ow–” He winces and touches the top of his head with a pout, glancing at his feet where the figure fell–and blinks. Rogueish grin, ponytail, a touch of rot at his head, and a plaque that says, Leigh. It’s him. 

The flooring under the little figurine slowly deteriorates and turns grey-green, and Leigh looks up to see the Woodcarver. At the old man’s feet, the rot spreads across his own house like a disease, against the floorboards, crawling up stools and bookshelves. 

“I was just being honest.” Leigh remarks, petulant. He reaches quickly at his waist for something to defend himself, but–the Woodcarver does not seem to find this funny.

He turns and lunges for Leigh again, one horrible hand outstretched, and Leigh ducks with an “Oops!”, going for the figurine on the floor. It makes him slow, and this time when the Woodcarver twists and goes to grab for the back of his neck, Leigh knows he won’t be able to move–

A spark of heat, a brilliant flame. The golden backlight of it makes Leigh’s eyes shine as fire catches onto the hand only inches from his face, giving him enough time to scoot backwards as the Woodcarver recoils and gasps in pain. Leigh turns to his companion, grinning. “Wow, my hero!” 

Han, not prone to violence but certainly not afraid to defend himself or his people, flexes his fingers delicately. His hood has slipped off during the altercation. Han isn’t exactly smiling, but Leigh’s words do make the corners of his mouth soften upwards. “I do remember warning you about this.” 

The Woodcarver is not really hurt–but charred, stunned. The rot on the floorboards shivers and stalls for a few moments, and Leigh takes the chance to grab Han’s hand. “You can scold me about it once we’re out of here?” 

Han nods, and interlaces their fingers together, turning towards the door–the Woodcarver’s voice, dry and raspy, sounds out, and Han looks back. “Wait. You. I’ve seen you before…” 

Han’s eyes flick to Leigh in a panic, knowing that Leigh has more than enough reason to be suspicious of him, and Han hesitates. But Leigh doesn’t. Leigh smiles at Han, golden eyes squinting, and pulls him towards the door. “Come on!” 

And they’re out the door, and they’re running, though the Woodcarver makes no attempts to run after them. A scream of frustration erupts from the house behind them as Leigh and Han take off down the street, feet hitting cobblestone, sunset stretching out their shadows into dark velvet. 

He pulls on Han’s hand, who drags his feet for only a few seconds to throw the Woodcarver one last glance–and then the two of them are stumbling out of the house, taking off down the street, hand-in-hand, side by side. 

The strange twist of confusion and nostalgia still sits like a weight in Leigh’s pocket, the weight of a stolen wooden figurine. And Han is still afraid–Leigh is not sure of what, but he can almost feel it, the fluttering strangeness of it in the way Han grips his hand tight–and yet, Leigh thinks that he’s alright with it all. 

Because he’s not alone. Han is there with him. 

They make their way down residential streets, weave their way further into the shopping district of the little village, run slowing to a walk. The villagers have returned to their homes, leaving Han and Leigh to wander through empty streets lined with empty stalls and closed shopfronts. Even now, they don’t let go of eachother. In this gray and strangely lonely place, neither of them really want to. 

Leigh says, in the silence, “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” 

Han hesitates.

Leigh turns to face Han. He’s not smiling anymore, but there’s a quirk to his eyebrows. “I know you.” Leigh says, and it’s by saying it that he knows it’s true. He reaches out to touch Han–recognizing, now, the unimaginable tenderness that whispers under his skin, warm sunshine and soft breeze–tucking Han’s hair behind an ear. 

“And I’ve been here before, haven’t I?” 

Leigh reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wooden figurine of himself, showing it to Han. And Han, who has always been weak to these little bids for connection from Leigh, has no reason anymore to keep silent. He presses his lips together before he reaches out and interlaces their fingers, gaze rising to meet Leigh’s. 

“Lockpiece Town isn’t blessed with eternal prosperity, Leigh. It’s cursed with eternal stagnation. Stuck in a time loop. You and the rest of the townfolk have been repeating the same day over since–well, I can’t quite remember now.” 

Han continues. “The two of us came here to understand what was going on, but the first time we visited the three magicians–the Painter, the Woodcarver, the Watchmaker–it wasn’t you who got in an argument with the Woodcarver, but me. To leave a little girl to her fate wasn’t something I could stand for. And when he lost his temper and attacked me, you got in the way. You got hurt for me.” 

Like a fool, Han doesn’t say, though he trembles briefly with it. Like an idiot who can’t seem to understand his own worth. 

“I had no idea how to heal the rot in you. It was an emergency, and you were going fast–so the Watchmaker suggested putting you in the time loop, too. It would reverse the Woodcarver’s magic, but it meant that you would forget me.” 

The pieces click together. Han, knowing exactly when the Painter would come back while Leigh was snooping. Han, strangely familiar. Han, who warned Leigh before meeting the Woodcarver. 

Han had said, ‘One gets used to a place like this, circling around it enough times.’

Leigh asks, “Wow. How many times have we done this?” 

Han says, “At least four. We’ve tried everything. Appealing to the Painter, the Woodcarver, the Watchmaker–but none of them listen. The Painter is busy with her sister, the Woodcarver’s pride is impossible, and the Watchmaker–” Han just sighs. 

Four times, Leigh thought. Four times they had this same conversation, and tried to make things better, and failed. Han could have left any time he wanted, but he was still here, still hoping, still holding onto Leigh.

Han says, “It must be a little hard to believe.” 

Leigh shakes his head. “I believe you.”

Warm relief floods Han’s features as he smiles at Leigh, and Leigh thinks a little painfully, He’s too pretty for his own good. 

They still hadn’t visited the Watchmaker. Maybe there isn’t really a point to it, knowing what they know now, but if he is the source of the time loops– “We still have one more interview. Let’s go to the Clocktower.” Leigh suggests.

Han knows what he’s thinking. “He won’t stop the time loop, Leigh. We’ve tried convincing him before. More than a few times, now.” 

Leigh nods. “We won’t try to convince him. We’ll figure something else out. But let’s go again, yeah? One more time.” 

Leigh reaches out to offer a hand. Han looks at it before smiling at Leigh, a little tired, but not without faith. Never without faith. 

Han takes Leigh’s hand. “One more time.” 

[THE WATCHMAKER]

Han doesn’t wear his hood this time. 

The top of the clocktower is the Watchmaker’s workshop, smelling of metal and brass. Leigh can feel the machinery of the tower under his feet, gears working together seamlessly, a dull metal hum in the back of his ears as the two of them face the Watchmaker. 

The Watchmaker’s studio is full of old photographs–younger versions of himself, the Painter and the Woodcarver, smiling brightly. The man himself is tall and quiet, dull skin and folded hands. He says when they enter, “Welcome back. You don’t have much time.” 

“That’s a great start,” Leigh says, jovial, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks for your help healing me. You’ll have to refresh my memory if I’ve asked this before, but how exactly do I get out of this time loop?”

The Watchmaker says, “You can’t. Not until the time loop stops.” 

Leigh says, hand still intertwined with Han’s–they hadn’t let go of eachother, even now–”Well, then, can you stop it?” 

The Watchmaker’s eyes quietly go to Han. “We’ve talked about this. I told you, I won’t. You’re wasting your precious time together.” 

Leigh is quiet for a moment. But why a time loop at all? And how had the Watchmaker known to heal him? “Who else has the Woodcarver hurt before?” 

Han understands immediately. When the Watchmaker doesn’t reply he steps forward, imploring. “Please. We’ll listen to what you have to say–we only want to help.” Han means it, of course, but oh, his charm is a force of nature: sweet blue eyes, open hands. Leigh tries not to look too hard himself and fails, caught up in it in the same instant that the Watchmaker is. 

Leigh’s eyes catch on the old photographs and adds, “I hadn’t realized that you three were close. It seemed like the Painter and the Woodcarver were at odds.” 

The Watchmaker relents. “It was never a problem before. But when her sister’s condition got worse, the Painter couldn’t take it. Every single time, after sunset today–she’d go to him, and ask him to help. And when he’d refuse, and they’d argue and he’d lose his temper without meaning to–the whole village would pay. The results are always catastrophic to our crops and our people. This is the only thing I can do to protect them. All of us.”

The Watchmaker motions to them both, leads them to a window overlooking the town. He points to the Painter’s house on the hill, tracing a path down to the Woodcarver’s hut. Leigh watches his face, the soft mourning that overtakes it. “I can’t tell you how many times I tried to step in, talk to them both separately to make things better. But before I knew it, I…gave up. I had to. It takes all of my energy to keep the magic up, so all I can do now is watch things happen from here. In about an hour, the Painter will leave her house, and they’ll do it again. They’ll hurt everyone.” 

After a moment of silence, Han asks, “Are you sure you’re okay with that? Standing on the sidelines like this?”

It’s the kind of question that only he would ask. 

The Watchmaker doesn’t meet his eyes. “I miss my friends. But everyone is safer like this. If we can’t be happy together, then at least we can live without consequence.” 

Leigh pulls out the wooden figurine and lifts it up. “I’m not so sure about that. Your magic isn’t perfect–There’s proof of that everywhere. This, for one. The townspeople, for another. You can’t tell me that they were so…antisocial, when you first started doing this.”

“It’s not just the townspeople.” Han is next. “Your friends are being hurt by this, Watchmaker. If I’m not wearing my hood, they recognize me. And I’ve seen it with my own eyes–every time we’ve gone to visit them, they get worse. The Woodcarver’s temper gets shorter. The Painter refuses reality even more. And what about people like us, who wander in and get swept up into things?”

The Watchmaker’s face flushes with shame. His voice wobbles, thick with tears. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t even leave the tower anymore. And the two of you have tried everything, too, you’ve spoken to them both separately, you’ve spoken to me…” 

That much was true. What else was there? 

Han shakes his head. “We can’t just give up. There has to be something else. I’m certain there is.”

Han is so steadfast that it’s impossible to feel discouraged in his presence. And in his light, inspiration dawns on Leigh like sunshine. “You’re right. There’s something we haven’t tried yet.” 

The Watchmaker sniffles. Han blinks. “What’s that?” 

Leigh reaches out and gives the Watchmaker a friendly, reassuring pat. “Call both of them here. It’s time for a reunion.”

[THE THREE ARTISTS]

Fifteen minutes before midnight, at the Watchmaker’s call and Leigh’s direction, the three Artists of Lockpiece Town gather together under the clocktower. 

“Well, Mr. Scholar?” The Painter drawls. “What is all of this about?” 

Standing side by side, the three of them look brilliant. As fantastical as they had been claimed to be–one light to bless the harvest, one light to keep the balance, and one light to protect the people. 

The Woodcarver’s hand is wrapped carefully with gauze. It was a minor burn. He doesn’t meet Leigh or Han’s eyes at all, quietly ashamed. 

But for all of their supposed brilliance, they were imperfect. 

It wasn’t that they dazzled Leigh. It was that he had never done something like this before. It was easier to be the observer–to keep his feelings quiet, to live without risk. If this failed, if he failed–

(“Then we’ll try again.” Han said, while they were still in the tower. “No matter how many times it takes. I’m not leaving without you, Leigh.”)

Han was by his side. In the end, that was the only thing that mattered. 

Leigh steps forward. “You know after all this time, I realized that nobody had tried gathering all of you for this conversation together. I’ve spoken to each of you separately and I know that all of you have only been trying to fulfill your duties. But yeesh, you all have really shit conflict management skills, huh?” 

The Watchmaker flushes and glances at the ground. The Painter frowns, and the Woodcarver says nothing. Han steps forward. “Miss Painter. If your sister is sick, I can help her.” 

The Painter’s expression changes, and she steps forward. “How do you know about–you can?” 

Han nods and places a hand against his chest. “Of course. It’s my duty. But it won’t mean anything if the Watchmaker reverses time.” 

The Woodcarver looks tired. “Is that what this has been? I thought today felt strange.” 

“I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to stop you two from arguing and hurting the village. All I can do is try to keep the people here safe.” The Watchmaker turns to his companions, arms wrapping around himself. “And even if Han heals your sister and this issue gets fixed, Painter, what will happen the next time something this important comes up?”

Han replies, “And what is going to happen to you all if you don’t give eachother a chance to grow and change?” 

Leigh glances at the Woodcarver. “Speaking of. You owe me an apology, you know? You almost messed up my face,” He sighs, dramatic, lamenting. “My beautiful, perfect face!” 

The Woodcarver doesn’t look Leigh in the eye. “Um. I’m sorry.” 

Leigh says easily, “Eh, it’s alright.” He’d only look more handsome with a few more scars anyways. 

It’s Han who can’t accept that, jaw tight and blue eyes glowing, “No. That’s not enough. You have hurt him before. Your inability to control your anger has a steep price tag. You are the main reason why all of us are here.” 

The Painter bristles and opens her mouth to intervene. But the Woodcarver lifts a hand, nods at Han in quiet acknowledgement, and asks the Watchmaker, “How many times have we done this?”

The Watchmaker’s eyes turn downwards. “I stopped keeping count.” 

The Woodcarver shifts towards Leigh and bows deeply. Leigh blinks in surprise, raising his hands up out of reflex–”I am truly sorry for hurting you. How can I take responsibility?” 

It’s a bit…awkward, to have an older man do this. Leigh gives a half shrug and scratches the back of his head, eyes wandering away. His good humor doesn’t leave him. “Well, you know. Stop mauling each other and causing the destruction of your own town and we’ll call it even, eh?”

Han huffs. 

Cute, Leigh thinks.

The Painter chimes in, “I’m sorry too. I don’t uh, know what for, but I’ll be sorry and change or whatever too if it means you’ll help my sister.” 

It’s just a promise. A promise can mean nothing, at the end of the day. Han asks, “Watchmaker, what do you think?” 

And the Watchmaker stares at them both. “I don’t understand you two. Why didn’t you just give up?” 

Leigh replies, maybe more seriously than he means to, ”Because I wanted to be with Han.” 

Even if things didn’t go right. Even if Leigh didn’t fully remember him. Even if he had to question everything–that much was true. That much would always be true. Han shifts his head so his bangs hide his eyes, a little. So nobody except Leigh knows about the shuddering, trembling emotion on his face. 

The Watchmaker looks at both of them and doesn’t say anything. And like a secret, Han and Leigh’s hands reach out for each other. Their fingers intertwine. The clock strikes midnight. 

The shift in the air is immediate–a held breath finally being released. Leigh feels the ring of the bell flood his brain, golden light filling his eyes. Layers of memory unfold themselves as Lockpiece Town shivers and finally falls asleep. 

But Leigh, for the first time in a long time, is awake. 

“Ugh,” The Painter is complaining. “Shit! My head!” 

Leigh comes back to the dim feeling of Han’s hands pressing against his skin, supporting him up. Han’s face is close, the worry shimmering in his eyes. “Leigh?” 

Leigh’s eyes crinkle as he puts his hands over Han’s. “I’m here. I’m home.” 

Han sucks in a breath, and the corners of his eyes spark briefly with tears. “Welcome home.” 

It’s hard to tell who leans in first. Han’s hands cup Leigh’s jaw, Leigh pulls Han in by his waist, and their kiss is pure, warm, golden joy. Time moves in in Lockpiece Town. 

The End. 

—

[JK SMALL SCENE I ENDED UP CUTTING BUT DIDN’T WANNA DELETE]

Not all stars were meant to shine. Leigh knows that better than anyone else. 

Black ink, from coal and crushed berries. The rune for shadow, spun carefully into Han’s palm like a charm, the lines twisting into new words–whisper, secret. When Leigh looks up from his work, Han’s eyes are shining. He’s been looking at Leigh this whole time. 

Leigh’s heart twinges, a little. He asks, light-hearted, “Like what you see?” 

And Han says, “Yes. I do.” 

Leigh doesn’t need to shine to be special. To win this faith, from Han. To be loved so much that he has somebody who won’t give up on him, even after all this time. Leigh’s hand wraps around Han’s wrist for a moment, gentle. “I can’t wait to know you again.” 

The way Han’s face flushes. Leigh thinks that even if they fail, and he forgets everything again, he’ll most certainly remember that.