“I loathe when you’re ill,” the elder Aguillard stated quite flatly as cerulean hues traipsed across the room to the bed of his betrothed. Ivory sheets invited her like a coffin to a corpse within his own chambers, an occupancy she hardly ever accepted. With a rouged bridge of her nose, the woman rubbed a tissue beneath her nostrils as ringlets fell in a carefully deconstructed braid to slump over one shoulder.
“I loathe when you hover over me,” countered the ever dried affect of Sienna Villefort. Even plague-ridden, the woman was never devoid of a manicured aesthetic, even with an oversized tunic slumped over her shoulder. She allowed the weight of her skull to fall against the headboard with an audible thunk. Honeyed, hazel hues shot toward the Cathedral ceilings, garnering a fleeting sneer as she briefly resented the very opulence which drove their union. Was being ungrateful of his attentiveness, and she knew it.
However, Fernand was not at all deterred by the thunderous disposition, wandering closer to seat himself on the edge of her bed nearest the elevated stack of down pillows. Immediately, he began changing out the depleted tissues with new ones, urging them closer to the woman before slumping to partially lean against her stretched thigh, wedging the ivory cloth near her nose. She snared it from him with an apathetic huff, a smile escaping her lips even in spite of her best efforts. “I almost like you better negligent, my Lord,” she crooned with no shortage of nasal filtering through her timbre.
“And I like you undressed. But we both agreed to a union where neither of us win, now didn’t we, my Lady,” he jeered in jest. Snapping the tissue away from her, clammy digits made chase before an abrupt sneeze lurched the youth forward, stalling her pose as dizziness clouded her vision. Even when sprayed with mucus, Fernand eased upward, both hands steadied upon her shoulders as he eased them back to the pillows, lips finding residence upon her boiling temple. He noted the toll such sudden movements took upon her liquified lungs, a wheeze quietly occupying the air between them.
She reached a balmly palm to lay atop his right hand, giving it an assuring pat. “Lady indeed,” she huffed.
“The Lady I love,” he proclaimed, head bowed to linger his lips atop her bared shoulder. “Even though she is the most grand pain in my ass one could possibly be,” crooned he before her response came in kind.
“It’s a shame I am so ill,” she feigned. “I would ravage you this instant, Fernand Aguillard.”
“No wonder your eyes are so brown, Villefort. They’re so full of shit.”
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