—and, darling, steal the moon from the sky; pein x konan — pg.

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“What does it feel like to do nothing but fold paper all day?” The words leave Pein’s lips like rainwater from the clouds above; but Konan says nothing, absolutely nothing at all, and everything that makes a sound comes from paper, paper, paper—a frog, and then a cat, and then a crane, and then a swan—and… and something else.

“Pein,” she answers quietly some moments later, finishing what resembled a white flower and setting it into her hair, “I don’t think that you are in a position to ask me that.”

“I am your—”

“—Master—”

“—and you are my—”

“—Partner, to say the most.”

—Folding, the folding, the folding of paper, paper, paper (When will you, wretch, finish your damn folding? Pein thinks abrasively, shaking the auburn hair out of his eyes and traces the piercings on his ears.) A swan. A dragon. Another flower. All the same. And then a snake; it was all the same to Pein’s sharp eyes.

“Pein,” she said apathetically one day.

“Konan,” he answered her in a monotone.

“What does it feel like to do nothing but dancing on stars all day?”

“More than you can imagine.”

Konan’s dark eyes pierce into Pein’s for a second—and she breathes huskily, and then she says, “I can imagine what Heaven is like, Pein; for you are a God and I am an Angel—” (at “Angel,” Pein is reminded of the dull scent of paper) “—and if I were ever you, I would imagine that it would hurt.”

“Stars are hot,” he agrees passively.

“Stars are hot,” she agrees passionately.

“And if you are truly an Angel,” he says, “then you shall fly up to the moon and steal the moon from the sky.”

“Why not the stars?”

“Because I’ve been walking on stars all day and my feet hurt like nothing you can imagine.”

“I can imagine that they are hot.”

“Stars are hot,” he agrees passively.

“Stars are hot,” she agrees passionately, and the folding, folding, folding of the paper begins.