A/N: Six thousand words ahead! ;-;

Vaughn found himself, once again, in that miserable classroom of his that felt so much like a prison as compared to its design.

He saw his teacher from second grade enter from the front door; pale and horribly ill—as though this was how he had looked like before he died. Vaughn stood to greet him, but the moment he did so, he felt a tug on his hair, downwards—refusing to let him rise from his seat.

The vulture resisted for a moment, and the pain began to spread across his entire scalp as though that itself was on fire. This happened before he heard the strange sound of shattering glass, in which he turned to look at the windows on his left.

They were intact; or so he registered, and it brought his attention elsewhere—to the person who was had their hands in his hair.

He whipped around.

There was no one behind him.

He turned back—

Cameron.

Cam didn't change at all. He looked exactly the same with his smiling eyes; confident grin to disarm anyone who thought themselves safe from such influence. His hair was dark, and a little messy as usual. He had forgotten to comb it again.

Vaughn! Cam was always so happy to see him. Hey, I wanted to talk to you!

What he didn't know was that Vaughn was happier than he—that there was, really, no expression in this world that could match the joy within.

Vaughn opened his mouth to speak, to agree and say that; yes, he had wanted to talk to him too.

That was all he wanted.

He just wanted to hear his friend talk. Smile. Laugh—

Laugh...?

The thought violated his heart and for some reason, he was hearing Cam's laughter in the strangest way possible; everywhere.

It was, supposedly, comforting.

The sound did that in the least; displacing him and rendering him quite helpless in the darkness that ate and swallowed him whole.

The Cameron beside him was tall; the one in front had his hair dyed—blonde; the Cameron on his right was gripping his shoulder so tightly he thought he was going to break; there were so many of them. All of them were Cam but none of them were looking at him.

He could not recognize who was the real one—why?

Because they all had different appearances?

Or simply because they all had the same laugh?

The vulture was lost in his world and it all amounted to the final scene.

His hair, the pale curtain, was on the floor as though someone had removed all of it from his head and thrown it to the ground.

How? He was not wearing a wig; this was not possible. His first instinct was to reach behind his neck to check if this was real but even then, he was stopped.

His mother took his hand in hers, caressing his head gently.

It's okay Vaughn. It's okay.

No it wasn't. It wasn't okay—Vaughn was not okay.

All he could do was look at his hair on the floor and cry for it was too much to bear.

The world was a knife; slicing through every bit of life.

*

The vulture returned with a jolt, barely escaping from the same nightmare that had plagued his unconscious for more than a year. Sweat (or were they tears?) clung to his face and the base of his neck in which he reached instinctively for.

There was nothing there. Despite the feeling of being strangled, there was nothing there.

He turned to his bedside table and groped for light. When it was on, he found the brush he had been looking for and ran it through his hair that was tangled and unkempt.

Once again, he could not remember anything from the dream. The only thing he could remember was fear.

A fear that strangled.

His feet touched the floor that felt like ice, and he made his way to the kitchen for something soothing—anything that was spicy.

___________________________

Dear Io,

Mama is worried. I feel that you are not eating your vegetables, but I can't scold you over a letter so you must scold yourself. Does the school have parent-teacher meetings like us? Our neighbour Gou has been asking about you, and Mama feels more worried. I think your school should have this meeting so we can visit you. Papa is out in the woods again. He is not at home during the weekends, but Mama will still cook your favorite boiled potatoes. Tell me if you want more sunflower seeds. Uncle Rick has sent an entire box for you. Eat your vegetables.

When are you coming home?

Love,

Mama

He checked the envelope. It was obvious that there was no packet of sunflower seeds in there, for the envelope itself was not big enough to contain one.

Io made a mental note to write back in the evening, for there was no time to do so now. He had come to comprehend that dull monotony of routine and its paced feet that swept his heart away. Things were going so fast that he had little time to consider the value in themselves; the purpose of his actions.

He had paused, however, to decide for a moment whether this was what he had come to be. His mother's letter had served as a reminder of his existence—seemingly more concrete and tangible back then, in the village—and his purpose of being.

With the first of his conscious will enacted; the first in five days, Io skipped dinner and made his way, instead, to the library.

It would come across to many as a silly thing; to be bothered by the lack of control he had over his life within a simple span of five days, for there were people out there who simply felt no authority at all. Not now, and perhaps not for the past years of their being.

Io understood that there existed bodies without a soul—form without substance. The idea had settled upon him as he was opening the packet of sunflower seeds that Luka had given him that night at the treehouse, when he was feeling a little lost. He decided at that point, selfishly so, that he would not want to be the last human on the island (or Earth, for the matter), to have a heart.

There were things he had to do, then. To avoid this miserable end that seemed worse than a nightmare; that he—and only he—had the capacity to care.

As though frightened by his prospect, the night shivered with a sigh, cloaking the island with a hush that seemed surreal in its nature; listening, only, to the sound of Io's footsteps.

The grand double doors to the library were closed, but it lacked a sign that often hung in its place between the handles.

A rare coincidence, perhaps. Just when the boy had wanted to pay the books a visit.

He pushed on one of the doors carefully, startled by the creak that it produced before laughing at himself, then continuing on regardless. He peered inside.

The palatial thing was lit warmly; it's curtains half-drawn, the air a still water that rippled upon his entrance. It was, to his delight, empty.

Io was granted the quiet satisfaction of solitude, one that he found was sometimes quite important for rational growth—being aware of his consciousness, and acknowledging it despite the fear that it existed.

"Hello, I—" The boy jumped in his skin, whipping around to face the source of the voice.

"Oh!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, it's just. We're closed..." The morpho butterfly began without meeting his eye, then a glance. He recognized him. "Iolani. Isn't it time for dinner? Shouldn't you be in the hall?"

It was Sylvain. Falrir's friend, the one that he took Io to see during the night of the ball, his birthday.

"Mr. Butterfly!" Io had said instinctively, unable to remove his gaze from the fragile wings on his back—the ones that emanated a glow so subtle that it was precious. "Sorry, um—I didn't know. I thought. The sign, it wasn't there," He explained. Tried to.

Sylvain nodded anxiously, glancing over his shoulder to graze the door with his gaze.

"You should get going. What if a predator sees you? How are you going to get back in time for the curfew? The dorms are far from the library," Sylvain bit his lip, shuffling closer. "Someone might see you."

His words reflected the heart; and how he, so constantly, had to consider the possibilities of meeting someone who might hurt him. Io caught on.

"Alright Mr. Butterfly. I'll go," He nodded, turning to Lyra on his shoulder. "But there's something we came here to find...and, well. It would be nice if we had help," Io said with a smile—sheepish.

Sylvain, so, was disarmed.

"That is quite alright," His gaze swept the empty aisles once more, as if afraid that someone was watching them. "I will help you; just this once."

"Thank you Mr. Butterfly! I'd be lost without a guide. I've never had more than three books to read back at home," Io laughed quietly, aware that he was, after all, still in the library.

The silence was to be respected.

"What might you be searching for?"

"Is there a rule book?" The boy asked curiously. "For the season games. Do they actually write down the rules?"

Sylvain paused in careful thought, drifting towards one of the aisles as he did so. "There is—but I cannot show it to you."

"Why?" Io blinked.

"It...it is in the forbidden. Section. V does not allow it."

"Oh..." The boy answered simply, unfazed. "That's okay. Are there any books on the making of weapons? A knife, for example. Or a sword. A bow would be good too, you see—it would be good to have range."

The blue morpho was beginning to worry for the curious student.

His questions were far from comfortable, and the fact that Io had not bothered to hide his intentions were equally displacing. There was no roundabout manner in his inquiry; everything was straight as the course of a bullet would be.

"There is," Sylvain nodded quietly. "There is, but why do you want it? Do not do something dangerous, Iolani. What if you get in trouble? What if...what if you get hurt?"

In strange resolution; he had replied. "That's okay. I don't mind."

"If I was afraid of being hurt, then I would be afraid of...pretty much everything," Io laughed curiously—and Sylvain was surprised by this all.

"That is rather true."

Io nodded.

"There are some things worth being hurt for. Don't you think so too, Mr. Butterfly?"

Sylvain let slip a quiet smile.

"Perhaps."

"Could you tell me where the book is?" Io continued with a puzzled sweep of the library. "I can't seem to find my way around in here."

"You can follow me," Sylvain said, leading the way as his robes swayed and brushed the carpeted floor. Io tottered behind the butterfly, casting curious glances at his wings and paying little attention to his surroundings.

"Mr. Butterfly—why do I not see you in the morning? I come here often. On Saturdays."

"With your friend, yes? The canary," Io blinked. Then nodded in response upon meeting Sylvain's gaze. "I have seen you."

Io looked at his shoes. "Not anymore though. I mean, with Pipa," He smiled sadly. "It's just me now."

Sylvain bit his lip, shuffling over to a darker corner of the library.

"I have heard about her. I hope she gets well soon."

It was then, when it clicked.

Io must have been far too clouded to have noticed.

"Mr. Butterfly, do you...only appear at night?"

Sylvain paused in his steps, turning a little to face the boy. "Well, that is. Not exactly, but. You may be correct."

"You were the butterfly, then? The one that landed on my finger that time," His smile was contagious; more than disarming, it glowed. Sylvain couldn't help but return one of his own.

"Yes. Yes, that was me. I apologize for the surprise," He said softly.

"Are you always a butterfly in daytime?" Io prompted further, admiring the fragile wings of the older male. "You know; I've always wondered where butterflies hide when it rains. It must hurt when a raindrop hits their wing—don't you think so?" He met his gaze.

Sylvain was, for all intents and purposes, lost for words. The boy had taken them from his heart, and made it seem so simple to grasp.

It was simply the fact the he—alone and unsheltered—had nowhere to go when the day turned dark and the sky broke down, that made him so vulnerable to his circumstances. But how did this young boy, a sparrow at best, understand the extent of his pain to ask such a question?

Not even Falrir had done so.

"It...it hurts. Yes, it does," Sylvain looked up with a pained expression that resembled a smile. He reached up to take a leather-bound book from the third shelf, the second from the right, before handing it to the curious boy.

"Then I think you should give yourself more credit, Mr. Butterfly. You did well not to give up."

To Io, it had been a minor compliment. Something genuine but without purpose; it had not meant any right, or any wrong for the matter. But to the butterfly, it felt as if his small existence was appreciated, and perhaps that was really all that mattered.

In that instant, he missed Falrir.

"Thanks for the help, though! I couldn't have done it without you," Io's eyes were alit. "I promise to return this on time. Oh, and if you miss Mr. Dragon, you should send a letter to him! Uh, preferably with your cinnamon rolls in a lunchbox if that's ever possible," He laughed sheepishly.

Io had always been bad at remembering names, but for some reason, he had remembered both Sylvain's and Falrir's. It was only in that moment that he had decided to let Sylvain know that it was, certainly—

Alright to be who he was.

And that they all had a dream;

The dream of a world where butterflies

Could be friends with dragons.

______________________________

It was when Io had eliminated the general prospects of wielding any form of a sword (it was far too...too wieldy, per se) or dagger (kitchen knives?) that he had decided upon a trusty bow. Ideally, of course, it was long-ranged. Not that his bony arms could handle the taut pull of the bowstring, but at least there was some hope in the form. All he had to do was to pray that he had, somehow, inherited the instincts of his father's obsession with shooting. Accuracy was key and...and, well, unfortunately absent.

On the other hand, he had thanked the skies for his uncle who, like his father took interest in hunting, had taught him archery. Naturally, for someone who made bows and arrows in his leisure time, his nephew was implicated in his hobby. Though...Io was never really good at it.

"Luka, Luka!" Io had found him along the corridors to class; the connecting bridge between lecture halls one to five and six and seven, to be specific. People stared. "I want to tell you something!"

The golden eagle, quite astonished that Io, unfazed or perhaps recovered from whatever shock he might have experienced from that night over dinner, merely pulled him aside in anticipation. This, however, didn't quite show on his face, and Io thought that he was displeased by his sudden exclamation.

"Um, is it a bad time now? Should I—"

"No," Luka said forwardly, interest piqued. "Stay. What is it?" He was anticipating something about himself. Perhaps Io had come to realize how he truly felt; or what he truly was—

"Oh," Io responded, quietly pleased that his friend had asked him to stay. "W-Well, I was wondering if Victoria knew where I could find some...good wood. I mean, I don't even know what that means but surely...Luka?"

Victoria, perched on the lockers they were standing aside, was laughing.

"Luka, what is it?"

"I thought you had something to tell me. Not Victoria," The eagle said without tone; which was, really, his usual tone. It was pleasant, strangely—a low sound that was rather soothing.

"O-Oh." Io blinked. "I'm sorry...um. I didn't mean it that way. If it's Luka, then...I guess I don't have anything to say..."

Luka felt a little disappointed.

"I just wanted to see you? I suppose," Io continued thoughtfully. "I mean, I always do."

He felt better after that.

And so Luka and Victoria agreed to help Io and Lyra look for the materials to make his tiny kit; in which he had planned to bring along to the games.

*

"Did it? Did it?" He prompted upon the eagle's arrival.

"63. One weapon is allowed per participant," Luka reported simply. "Nothing about Marks."

Io beamed, having entrusted the task of information gathering to his friend. After all, predators had the privilege of having access to all sources in the library—forbidden or not.

"It's stated there? In the rule book?" The sparrow confirmed, raising his gaze to meet the eagle's.

Luka nodded.

"Number 63?"

"Yes."

"You must have flipped through so many pages. How did you find it?"

"...sharp eyes," Luka said after a while, seemingly disinterested. Io found the combination rather humorous, and let himself be entertained by its prospect.

"Thanks though! I couldn't have done it without you," He recited a phrase from one of the strange tales that he had read recently, from one of the books that Pipa often drifted towards during their time in the library.

The eagle blinked, slightly confused by the rousing creature in his cage. He would have responded— perhaps by saying that it wasn't a difficult task—but his words were swallowed in the midst of a beat that blared in his ears.

"That was weird, wasn't it? I suppose. I mean, lines from storybooks don't really fit in real life, do they?" Io laughed sheepishly, averting his gaze and keeping his hands behind his back.

Luka shook his head.

"Do you know why?" The sparrow continued. "Does that mean we are, in reality, not that grateful to the people who help us? Or maybe we are. We just don't put it like that—in that way. It's sort of cheesy," His tummy called embarrassingly as he said so, and it was a coincidence on the next level of coincidences.

Luka blinked, staring at him.

Io shied from his gaze; awfully self-conscious.

"I, um...I think I might be hungry."

Victoria laughed and Lyra sighed with a helpless chirp.

*

Io was having trouble smuggling his pillow out of the dorms.

The implications of this, however, came in the form of various consequences—of which included the worst, and that was the terrible thought of Luka's ending up in the most uncomfortable resting position; Io's head. Of course, this would all happen as they were, unassumingly, being in each other's company on a night at the treehouse when the time to rest would make its quiet entrance, lulling them to sleep. Leaning against the wooden boards.

It wasn't that Io particularly disliked having Luka's head weighing down on his own but rather the thought of how uncomfortable it must have been for the poor eagle. The last he checked, his skull was fairly...durable. Simply put, it was no fluffy pillow. He would have to worry if it was.

The real problem stood its stand; Io was already having a hard time sneaking out of his own dorms before curfew without gaining the attention of the Nocturnes roaming around. The addition of a large, white and puffy pillow did not seem to make this any easier.

Io wondered if anyone had seen him.

"H-Help," He said, voice muffled behind the pillow, breathing hard from his run across the grounds and the stretch between the west woods and the treehouse. There was, also, a bunch of sticks that he had gathered in the morning stuffed in a sack and slung over his back. Luka appeared in the balcony, looking down at his friend who was having difficulty climbing the ladder with his pillow.

He called for Victoria and shifted into his form, gliding down to meet Io.

At first, he nipped the pillow with his beak but Io quickly resisted. "Wait! It'll tear," He protested, worried that all the fluff would come spilling out upon tearing.

Luka let go, and shifted back. "You want to sleep here?" Was the first thing he asked.

Io pouted. "Well, we always end up doing so even if it wasn't intended in the first place. I brought this for you actually, so that you'll be more comfortable."

Surprised, and yet pleased, the eagle nodded vaguely. "I see."

He took the pillow from Io's arms to lighten his load, then signed for him to climb the makeshift ladder first. "I'll come through the balcony."

Pleased but slightly puzzled at the same time, Io agreed. He made his way up into the treehouse easily, as per normal, really. However, he almost had a heart-attack when he saw that Luka was already in by the desk, placing the pillow on top of it.

"How did you—um. You flew?"

Yes, well it should be rather obvious; since Luka was half-dressed and his shirt and blazer was over his shoulder. Io mentally hoped that he would put them on soon because he still wasn't used to so much skin. After all, his village was rather conservative no matter the gender.

Pleasant lot, your village. Victoria said in a quipped tone, nestling by her favourite spot in the corner. Io had forgotten that his mind was left open, and it made him rather embarrassed indeed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I...well I didn't mean to put it that way, um. I don't mind!" He shook his head at that. "M-maybe a little. That's all."

Luka acknowledged this with a nod, fastening the buttons on his shirt before taking his place beside his friend. "Different people. Different minds."

Io agreed. He took the kerosene lamp that Luka had lit before he arrived and placed it between them to share the warmth. It had been a long standing question; where Luka was from.

What nationality? Ethnicity? Language—was English his first? Did he come from a city? Or perhaps a small village like himself?

Hearing this, the eagle turned to Io with the glowing embers of his eyes. It was the fire that had died within.

"I don't remember."

His friend paused in dismay, the light in his eyes dimming just a little before he could form some sort of reply.

"Since when?"

"Since I came here," He directed his gaze towards the woods beyond—the trees that so strangely grew on an island so poisoned. "I don't remember who I was."

"Do you think the people you knew before; last time, before you came here, do you think they still remember you?"

Luka couldn't give an answer to Io's question. He simply felt as if his heart had been fed on by the island, consumed by its appetite for the weak. It was without a heart that he became strong; but perhaps it made him forget who he was.

In the end, was he even alive?

"You are!" His friend had let out without much thought. The process seemed almost unnecessary in a moment like this, not that he was capable of doing so at present moment either. "You are. You are alive!"

What he really meant was that he could feel Luka's existence. His consciousness, and his awareness—and most of all, he could feel a humanity that lived within the eagle.

Or perhaps what he really meant was that Luka lived within him. Just like Pipa did. And his mother, and his father, and the people he loved and cared for.

They were, for all intents and purposes, living within himself.

Death, in and itself, was the leaving of the heart;

And for Io, no matter how hard people would try, it seemed...

Fairly impossible that they would leave once they had come to stay.

*

He tried to put this in words but words, as they were in their very nature, contained also the possibility of failing.

And they did.

It was at this point where neither of them appeared to understand when they did, in fact, understand the voices of the creatures within their cage that spoke no language, or no words at all.

For what could one understand from the beat of a heart? It was constant and boring and absolutely uninteresting—but it wasn't nothing.

Unlike words as they sometimes were, the beat of the heart was not empty; void of meaning.

Luka rose from his position, leaning down to take something out of his bag that leaned purposelessly against the desk.

It was a short bow. One that he had, once again, spent hours at the post fitting words to imagination and imagination to the pictures on the catalogue. This had been done at such precision and efficiency right after hearing of Io's expression of hope for the workings of his plan.

Luka, beginning to understand that the voice of his heart refused to appear in the form of words or facial expressions, found comfort in the act of giving.

The act was truly rewarding, for the smile in Io's eyes was nowhere seen in the catalogues at the post that practically included everything in the world—tangible or not.

He held out the bow, a small, sturdy frame, to his friend.

"It was the only one."

Io felt a swelling in his chest that filled the cage within; as if all of a sudden, the creature had become too big for his home.

Speechless, and afraid that anything he'd let through his lips would turn into a sob at any given moment, Io reasoned through his mind.

You keep giving me things.

But that was because the things Luka had gotten in return were more than often unable to be bought or sold; and human as he was, Luka did not know how to respond in kind.

Thanks! You know, I really appreciate it.

You make me really happy.

I mean, even though I might probably have forgotten how to use it. I don't even have arrows to begin with.

He glanced at the sack of sticks he had brought along, gathered over an afternoon at the edge of the woods, hoping that they would hold up and yet knowing that whatever he had read in the book would not come to fruition so easily. He was no fletcher.

But it's like you're saying that I should go for it, even if there's a possibility of failing.

So it's nice—

To know that someone will be there no matter what I become.

Oh dear. At this rate, he was going to cry. Io felt bad if he were to do so, since he'd rather cry in private and not bother anyone with his tears that did not know why they were appearing.

To distract himself, he produced from the sack of specially selected sticks a single one, taking out his pen knife and doing mindless things like shaving off the outer layer to reveal the beige within.

"Thanks for having my back," He said finally, unable to look anywhere but the knife in his hand and how it shaved off the layers so easily. "I...I thought I was alone."

Now he knew he wasn't. And now he really wanted to give something to Luka in return but he didn't know what to give.

Io realized that Luka had never really talked about what he liked.

It wasn't a huge matter, per se. Victoria commented lightly that Luka rarely thought of material desires. Even if he did, there wasn't much will to satisfy that yearning.

In fact, the eagle had thought that there wasn't anything to like in this destructive place. The world was in ruins; and there was nothing to like about it.

But perhaps over the course of the time they had spent together, Luka had learned something about himself. A simple conjecture, really.

"I like company," He said rather strangely, and had it been any other person he had said it to, they would have thought he was mocking them.

For how could it be that the lone golden eagle liked company?

It was, for all intents and purposes, the complete opposite of what he had assumed himself to always be.

Io however, took this with complete gravity. He dropped what he was doing and picked up the pen and diary on the table.

Flipping to an empty page, he wrote 'Things that Luka likes:'

One; company.

The moment his pen touched paper, something loud startled the boy. It sounded as if something had landed on the roof of the treehouse. Something light.

Then there was another; and another; and soon the sky fell in pieces, like a veil, obscuring the moon and the stars. It was raining.

Luka and he exchanged looks of surprise, having experienced this for the first time since their first encounter at the treehouse. Victoria took cover underneath the open sleeping bag, and raised her wing for Lyra to join her.

"Are there any other things you like?" Io said a little louder, raising his voice above the sound of the sky.

Rain fell in whispers; drumming against the roof, splattering through the open balcony which had no door.

Io sneezed. Luka pulled him away from the balcony, but failed to evade the might of the beginnings of a thunderstorm.

"The roof is leaking," He stated impassively, and helped Io gather his sticks to put them closer to the kerosene lamp. The short bow was stowed away in his bag.

"Luka, are there any other things you like?"

Puzzled as to why Io was so insistent on knowing, Luka shook his head. "I don't remember."

Crestfallen, the boy let it slide.

"That's okay. We just have to find out then! At least seven things that you like, alright? Wait, no—eight. No, let's make it ten." Io corrected himself twice, shaking his head each time he did. "Let's find out ten things that you like."

Strangely fond of the word 'we', the eagle agreed. There was a soft rumbling of the sky that rolled in the wake of his agreement, and Io laughed. He picked up his pen knife and stick, and continued to do what he was doing before.

Luka produced his Swiss knives and pulled out one of the blades, proceeding to help his friend in his task.

"Is it normal to know what your friends like?" Io asked as he recalled how his uncle had taught him to plane his arrows from scratch. Making something without shape square, and then making square things round was, indeed, a tedious task.

"It is possible that it isn't the case," Luka pointed out after a while, rationalizing that simply because two people were friends didn't mean that one of them would make the effort of knowing what the other truly liked.

But did that mean, then, that they were friends at all?

Io was glad that he knew at least, what Pipa liked. Potato chips. Oh, and that Nash preferred silence. Or that Jiro loved his predator, and that he liked to sing for him, and that he liked cookies and cream ice-cream. He made a mental note to ask Jing what she liked next.

"Do you know what your friends like?" He posed the question to Luka curiously.

The answer was, of course, inevitably simple. It made Victoria scoff.

"Sunflower seeds."

_________________________

Vaughn was recalling his dream by the window, wondering just where everything began to go wrong and the scape collapsing as though the world inside his mind had something to do with the one that existed beyond it.

There was no surprise; his dreams always seemed to end worse than a nightmare and this was no exception. It had been the same dream once again—with the same people, and same castings of fear. So similar that though the context was different in each one, Vaughn felt as though they had all been the very same nightmare.

He had been thinking; thinking about the dream and about the things that his mother had told him to do during the games that were to commence in two days.

His heart—fast from the cold kimchi he had in his fridge, consumed in tiny portions but letting the spice numb his tongue—slowed to an awareness of the sight before him.

The vulture had been looking out of the window, past the trees and the night that lay beyond; but a small movement caught his eye.

Something had skirted around the edge and made a turn into the shadows of the trees.

There had been something strapped to his or her back, even a strange white sack of some sort in their arms. Who?

At such a time—

And where?

There was nothing past those trees. One would know better to leave the grounds.

It was dark however, and Vaughn was no Nocturne. He could not make out the individual that was most likely up to no good.

But what did he care? Was any of it his business?

But foolish Vaughn did care.

He always had; and he was known for caring too much.

"Nox, follow him."

__________________________

A/N: Eeep /.\ that was so long! Does anyone know about dream interpretation? I have been using dreams for some time now across the span of this book. I often try to interpret my own dreams to find out more about myself, or the things that I was unconsciously thinking about, but was perhaps too afraid to think about it during my waking life. 

I think the tone sort of suggests that the end of the book is approaching. Also because Io is becoming stronger and stronger and starting to realize a lot of things. 

I'm glad that he has people to help him along the way. He couldn't have done it by himself. 

-Cuppiecake! 

P.S, I don't think many of you got why Vaughn was part of the Astronomy Club ;-; and why he no longer attends it ;-; 

Cameron is a Nocturne, and the only reason why any diurnal Winged like Vaughn would be foolish enough to join a club that takes place at night is only because they would have a stupid reason to stay awake or be seen going around the campus at night. Well, unless you are Io of course :> And Callaghan sort of begs you to join his club. 

Basically, socially awkward Vaughn wanted to spend more time with his friend.

Who abandoned him.