... It's all stories in the end, huh? Ones other people tell you. Or about you, I guess. You never really get a say in how it turns out.

[ She really can't draw a comparison between them. Oberon is so unfathomably old, a story playing out at a scale a tiny thing like her can barely even comprehend. Ai of B-Komachi was something she did to herself. Faerie King Oberon was burned into him like a brand. Everywhere you could even try to point to some way they're similar, Ai falls pathetically short every time.

But it still prickles at her skin like recognition. For the second time, she wonders if maybe she's just projecting. Then she decides it doesn't matter.

The hand that'd been gripping the front of her shirt at last slides down to settle atop his. When he'd lifted her into his lap, their hands had come unlinked but now she slides her fingers back into the gaps between his again. ]

I like the one we've been telling together. For what it's worth.