˙ ✩°˖🍓🔪 ⋆｡˚꩜ when sukuna returns home, he doesn’t expect to find you — the annoying girl from university with whom he bickers constantly — tutoring his nephew and he is certainly not happy about it.
the second sukuna steps through the front door of his brother’s house, he knows something is wrong.
it’s not the smell— that’s the usual mix of jin’s attempt at curry and yuuji’s strawberry shampoo. it’s not the noise, either, because the house is never quiet when yuuji’s home. the kid bounces off walls like a pinball.
and then he hears your voice, calm and measured, explaining something about quadratic equations. he’d know that all-knowing lilt anywhere. it haunts his lectures, his occasional study sessions, his dreams and not in the fun way.
sukuna’s eye twitches.
he dumps his bag by the stairs and follows the sound to the living room, where the scene that greets him makes his vision go red.
you’re sitting at the kotatsu, yuuji’s math textbook spread out in front of you, a red pen tucked behind your ear like it’s the most normal thing in the world. your posture is perfect, annoyingly so, and you’re looking at yuuji with an expression that’s almost… adoring?
yuuji, his dumb, simple-minded, traitorous nephew, is nodding along to whatever you’re saying, a look of genuine understanding on his face.
“—so if you just move the variable over here, you can see it’s actually pretty simple. you were overthinking it.”
“ohhh,” yuuji says, eyes wide. “so it’s like when sukuna tries to explain something and makes it sound way harder than it is?”
you let out a soft snort. “a surprisingly apt analogy, yuuji.”
“what,” sukuna says, his voice flat and dangerous, “the hell is this.”
you just glance over your shoulder, and that infuriatingly calm expression doesn’t change. if anything, your lips quirk up just a little. “sukuna. good, you’re here. your nephew was about to fail his math test, but don’t worry, i’ve got it handled.”
“you,” he grits out, “are in my house.”
“i’m aware.” you turn back to yuuji, tapping the textbook. “so, for the next problem, you’re gonna want to—”
“no.” sukuna strides over, planting his hands on the kotatsu and leaning into your space. “no, shut up. get out.”
yuuji looks between the two of you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “c’mon, uncle, don’t be a dick. she’s helping me.”
sukuna is so distraught he doesn’t react to his nephew calling him a dick.
“huh?” his voice pitches higher. “since when?”
“since dad called the university tutoring center and she showed up,” yuuji says like it’s obvious and he is the dumb one. “she’s really good at explaining stuff. way better than you.”
sukuna feels a vein throb in his forehead. he turns to you and you’re just sitting there, looking up at him with that insufferable little smile, like you’re watching a particularly amusing bug twitch on its back.
“you knew,” he says, low. “you knew this was my house. my family.”
“i didn’t since yuuji’s dad has a different surname, although the pink hair seemed familiar.” you tilt your head. “imagine my surprise when i walked in and saw the shrine of baby photos on the wall. you were a very round child, by the way. i’m not sure why i’m surprised.”
“don’t—” he snaps, then stops himself. takes a breath. tries a different angle. “you’re doing this on purpose. this is some kind of— of long-con psychological warfare.”
you blink at him, all innocence. “i’m getting paid twenty dollars an hour to teach a sweet kid how to graph a parabola. if that’s psychological warfare, then call me a general.”
yuuji snorts.
sukuna rounds on him. “shut the fuck up.”
“hey, i just wanna pass math,” yuuji says, unrepentant. “also, dad said if you harass my tutor, you’re making dinner for a week.”
sukuna’s mouth opens. closes. opens again.
you pick up your red pen, clicking it once. “so, yuuji. problem seven. what’s the first step?”
“uh… isolate the variable?” yuuji tries.
“good. see? you’re getting it.”
sukuna stands there, looming, vibrating with rage. you ignore him completely, guiding yuuji through the problem with the same calm, methodical patience you’ve never once extended to him in the two years you’ve been at each other’s throats.
it’s infuriating.
it’s also— he hates to admit it— kind of effective. yuuji, who normally looks at math like it’s a personal attack, is actually following along. his brow is furrowed in concentration, not despair, and when you nod at his answer, he grins like he just won the lottery, wide and toothy.
“yes!” yuuji pumps his fist. “okay, give me another one. i’m on a roll.”
you smile and flip the page. “alright. let’s kick it up a notch.”
sukuna watches for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight. then he turns on his heel and stalks into the kitchen, where jin is stirring his curry and pretending he hasn’t been eavesdropping.
“you,” sukuna says flatly.
jin looks up, all innocence. “me?”
“you called the university tutoring center.”
“yuuji needed help,” jin says, stirring. “and you were no help. you tried to teach him and he cried, sukuna.”
“he’s just dramatic. he’s a teenager, for fuck’s sake.”
“he’s sensitive. and now he has a tutor who, from what i’ve seen, is very good at her job. and also,” jin adds, a sly note entering his voice, “very pretty.”
sukuna makes a sound like a dying animal.
“what? i have eyes.” jin shrugs. “you could stand to be a little nicer to her, by the way. she’s doing us a favor.”
“she’s being paid.”
“at a discount because she’s is kind. and because, and i quote, ‘i have a soft spot for kids who try hard even when they’re struggling.’” jin points his spoon at sukuna. “such an angel. sounds to me like you might have misjudged her.”
sukuna wants to argue. he wants to list every single fight you’ve had— the time you dismantled his argument in front of the whole seminar, the time you called his taste in literature “basic,” the time you smiled at him after he thought he’d finally won one and said “cute, but no”— but the words stick in his throat.
because the truth is, you’re not mean. you’re just the only person who doesn’t back down when he goes sharp-toothed and cutting.
and now you’re in his house, teaching his nephew, and yuuji is laughing at something you said, a bright, easy sound, and sukuna feels something in his chest crack just a little.
he doesn’t go back to the living room. he helps jin with dinner— mostly chopping vegetables with more force than strictly necessary— and listens to the low murmur of your voice, yuuji’s occasional questions, the scratch of pencil on paper.
when dinner’s ready, jin calls out, “kids! food’s ready!”
you appear in the kitchen doorway, yuuji behind you, and for a moment, you just look at each other.
“um, i should go,” you say, and sukuna hates how his stomach drops. “i’ve taken up enough of your evening.”
“nonsense, sweetheart,” jin says, already pulling out an extra plate. “you’re staying. you’ve earned it.”
you hesitate and your eyes suddenly flick to sukuna as if giving him the out if he wants to take it. well, he is not so rude as to literally tell you to leave after jin insisted.
he should thouvh. he should say yes, go, get out of my house, should cling to the familiar rhythm of your animosity like a security blanket.
instead, he grabs a bowl and dumps a frankly aggressive portion of curry into it, shoving it across the counter toward you.
“eat,” he mutters, not looking at you. “all that useless arguing must burn a lot of calories.”
there’s a beat of silence. he can feel you stare in bewilderment before you laugh. it’s not your usual sharp-edged laugh, the one that’s half a challenge. it’s soft, surprised, and it does something weird to his chest.
“fine,” you say, sliding onto a stool and nudging yuuji. “but only because jin’s curry smells incredible.”
“it does!” yuuji agrees, already piling his plate high. “dad, this is your best one yet.”
jin preens. sukuna ladles his own portion, trying very hard not to notice the way you’re sitting at his kitchen counter like you belong there, the way your knee is almost close enough to touch, the way you catch his eye and offer a small, genuine smile that he has absolutely no idea what to do with.
dinner is loud. yuuji talks about his friends, jin asks you about your major, and you answer in that measured way of yours, but you keep glancing at sukuna like you’re waiting for him to start something.
he doesn’t. he just eats and listens and watches the way you relax incrementally as the meal goes on.
when it’s over, you thank jin profusely, ruffle yuuji’s hair despite his protests, and gather your things. sukuna follows you to the front door before he can think better of it.
you pause on the porch, pulling your jacket tighter against the evening chill. “so.”
“so,” he echoes.
“for what it’s worth,” you say, looking at the sky rather than him, “i really didn’t take this gig to mess with you. i didn’t even know it was your house until i got here. i’m not that committed to our… thing.”
“our thing,” he repeats, expression deadpan.
“you know.” you wave a hand. “the verbal sparring. the mutual animosity. whatever it is.”
“i never said that.”
“you’ve definitely implied it.”
he can’t argue with that.
you finally look at him, and he finds that your expression is strange. open, in a way he’s never seen before. “yuuji’s a good kid. he works hard. i like tutoring him. so…” you take a breath. “can we call a truce? at least while i’m here?”
sukuna studies you. the way you’re holding yourself, like you’re braced for him to say no and the way your fingers are curled around the strap of your bag.
he thinks about the curve of your smile when yuuji got the answer right. the soft laugh at his terrible joke. the way you looked at him when he shoved that bowl of curry at you, like he’d surprised you for once instead of the other way around.
“fine,” he says and your shoulders drop just a fraction. “but only in this house. on campus, all bets are off.”
your smile returns, sharp and delighted. “wouldn’t have it any other way.” you turn to go, then pause. “also? your brother is a much better cook than you.”
“i—what? you’ve never even had my cooking.”
“i’ve seen what you bring to the shared fridge. i’m extrapolating.”
“that’s not—extrapolating—you can’t just—”
but you’re already walking down the path, and he can hear you laughing, and he’s standing in the doorway like an idiot, yelling at your retreating back about culinary slander.
when he goes back inside, jin and yuuji are both looking at him with identical expressions of smug satisfaction.
“not a word,” sukuna snarls.
“i didn’t say anything,” jin says, in the tone of a man who has said everything without opening his mouth.
yuuji just grins. “she’s coming back on thursday.”
sukuna closes his eyes.
thursday.
he’s already looking forward to it, and he hates you so, so much for it.
—
(you do come back on thursday. sukuna makes curry. it’s actually pretty good. you don’t tell him that until three weeks later, and only because yuuji lets it slip that he’s been stress-testing recipes every time you’re scheduled to come over.
no because nobody understands how hard it was to find x reader fics of anyone in the gaang or atla fandom in general before this movie came out. now there’s new fics coming out daily. I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS‼️
ㅤ♕ 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 has been nothing but a hopeless romantic, living licentiously and relishing in how women fall at his feet—yet never seeming to find the perfect soulmate like he finds in books. He thought he'd yearn his life away until you appear; a writer he has employed to transcribe his spoken novels, because he couldn't be bothered to learn how to use the typewriter. You think he's insufferable—meanwhile he could not be more enamored by you. Being spoiled rotten all his life, Satoru is quite stunned that you could ever reject someone as great as him. Is it even possible to fall in love with such an arrogant idiot of a man?
wc. 9.2k
ㅤcontent────period piece (late 1800s—early 1900s), sfw, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, unrequited love to requited love, heartbreak, multiple rejections, he's a persistent ass, one-sided pining, unrealized love, romantic tension, kissing/heated scenes, happy ending
ㅤpairing────prince!Gojo Satoru x writer!reader
ㅤseries masterlist / THIS CHAPTER IS ON AO3 TOO!
Summer was abuzz in its full bright glory. Bumblebees fed on the sweet nectar of the array of flowers in your small garden, which you’d tend to early before breakfast. The flowers were like your children, and sometimes you were more attentive to their health than you were to your own.
Mother was humming and buzzing around quite like a large bumblebee herself, cheery as the sun above for she was going to see her dearly missed eldest daughter after such a long time of being apart.
She was due to arrive at the station, at two o’clock exact, when you’d be busy at the castle—this made you frown a little while you watered and weeded the garden, eyes still bleary and stomach like an angry whale.
Your sister.
She was—how can I say it?—nosy yet caring and attentive, harsh yet loving. Unlike both your brothers, whom were very distant with you under the excuse of living in foreign countries, your sister wrote from New York often and maintained closeness despite the distance. She was always telling you of what new ribbons or fabrics she was buying for balls, or exclaiming her deepest love for her husband (despite his smallness in society).
Most of all, your sister wrote letters to you about love. A lot of your replies communicated a pessimistic view on love. You complained infinitely about having been sold a false idea by poets. Your sister got a good laugh out of it.
You continued pulling weeds, plucking a few flowers for pressing in books later, finding great harmony and peace in nature—when suddenly, your quiet indulgence was disturbed.
The window to the kitchen swung open.
“EARLY BIRD GETS THE PRINCE!”
“Momma, I’ve not eaten breakfast yet!—and it’s far earlier than I departed yesterday.”
“—it’s never too early to pursue your soulmate!” she shouted from the window.
“He is not my soulmate...” you grumbled to yourself, wiping your dirty hands upon your apron.
She waved her thick hand at you.
“GO.”
“OK.” you grumbled, resignedly.
The little whale in your stomach moaned softly in agony.
ㅤ⚜
Tired, hungry, you were lumbering your weight with you and stifling every yawn that attempted to creep out. With the thought that Prince Satoru—clothed in his fine blues with a crispened air--would see you like this, such a mess, made you erect yourself more upright. You swept a finger under your eyes, just in case—never know when those eye-boogers creep out, do you?
Under the moony gaze of chandeliers, you followed distantly behind your escort with brisk clicks of your heels across checkered marble tiles, each step ringing out as a reverberating echo.
Surely a place like this is easy to get lost in—how could anyone live in a palace comfortably?
With living quarters so large, it made sense to you why the prince was lazy. Even you’d grow lazy if it took this long to reach the study.
Upon reaching the east wing corridor, your escort suddenly stopped, then turned to face you.
“Wait here. His Highness will arrive... er, soon.” he said, with shifty eyes and a meek voice, and then left you alone there in the corridor to your own devices.
Soon.
That’s what he said; soon.
So why was His Haughtiness nowhere to be seen? You’d been waiting there for innumerable minutes, each one growing seemingly longer than the previous.
Did he forget that you were coming today?
Your heart sank a little at the thought of the prince forgetting you.
At first, you darted your eyes about and fidgeted impatiently. Then, arm growing weak after carrying the weight of your encased typewriter up all those stairs, you set it down and began to wander freely.
You tried burning the time, as infinite as it felt, by admiring the architectural wonder of the east wing corridor.
The east wing was newer. It had only been constructed recently as a new addition onto to the palace—a birthday gift for the prince. His own private wing. Well then, makes your cake and candle tradition look rather measly in comparison, doesn’t it?
You wandered down the corridor, head tilted back.
Roman columns upheld ceilings, upon which there were hand-painted depictions of gods and humans—the Trojan war. Achilles, weeping over Patroclus.
Gold glistened within refractions of glass chandeliers.
Staring straight up as you slowly ambled down the east wing hall, hem of your skirt rippling behind you, you could tell at which point there was an extension made to the wing, because the paintings went from depictions of gods and wars to women in gardens and wraiths of flowers.
The Prince loved women; you know that pretty well all-right, and so did everyone else. He’d had enough scandalous affairs to draft a million manuscripts worth.
And you would rather be damned than be the inspiration for his next book.
ㅤ⚜
Pale and puffy-eyed, the prince sniffled and rubbed his rosy face. He took dragging, slow steps, and let out a big yawn. He looked ridiculously cute when he yawned. You had to look away.
This is the state in which he came to you. Sloppily dressed, blinking blearily through eyes that looked like they were still sleeping.
He beheld you through his sleepy gaze. Instreaming rays of coldest purest morning sunlight lit you with a pale, but luminescent glow. Curiously, he fixed a perplexed face at you—but only for a brief moment.
Prince Satoru grumbled a small, oddly adorable grumble.
“Good morning, Prince Satoru.” you greeted with a professional lilt.
He blinked at you as you made a lingering curtsy at him.
Warmth filled his chest.
“Mm, g’mornin’.” he returned, voice reverberatingly deep and raspy. “I’m sorry I’m late. I o-o-o—o”—he yawned big—“oooverslept.”
You quirked a brow at him.
What an odd thing... Prince Satoru, so-called most unapologetic man in all the land, apologizing for his own lateness?
It was such an odd thing that you couldn’t help but smile.
And that smile is what woke the prince right up.
Satoru straightened his back, as if he suddenly felt aware of his sloppy posture. He returned a weak smile to you.
Dust glittered in the beams of sunrays.
He opened the door to the study and welcomed you in.
“Mm. I hope you can keep up with me today, I’m feeling very inspired.” he teased.
“Nothing I can’t handle. I type uncommonly fast.”
He chuckled, the lilt of your voice pleasing his ears.
“So I’ve seen. Let’s begin, then, hm?”
ㅤ⚜
His cheeks quaked.
Softly, subtly, they quaked and they glowed. Red as a winter berry, warming like skin under summer sun, yet he was in the cool sanctuary of the study with you.
Always at the moment the door clicked closed behind you and him, he felt his heartbeat pick up.
I’m alone with you.
His whole body was aware of every move you made in the room. He tightened. He scratched at his neck. He cleared his throat. And then all at once, it’s affection stifling his senses, it’s his feelings rising from slumber, overwhelming him like the scent of too many different flowers in bloom.
You were readying yourself. He was watching, adoringly.
Slowly, you prepared in the same fashion as you’d always prepared. Unglove, unpack, and begin to heave your heavy typewriter all by yourself—releasing the little grunt that pulled at his heart strings a little harder than usual.
You hauled the device onto the little table by the window-side, delicately setting it down.
Suddenly, from behind you, there sounded a soft hiss of chair legs sliding across wood.
You started a little, finding that Prince Satoru was right behind you.
He’d pulled out your chair.
Blue eyes caught yours. His looked tired, eyebags clearly carved out. Inky-blue irises full of midnight scribblings.
The Prince was close enough for you to not only see into the depths of his eyes, but to smell his slight scent. Soft. Linen. Sweetish, like stamped flowers in an old book.
“Please,” called his cool voice, “Be seated.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
You politely took your seat and felt your heart beating rather hard.
He swiftly and slowly pushed the chair inwards.
Two hands lingered at the gilded top rail.
He lingeredon you. Perhaps for a moment too long to still retain properness.
Then, he moved on like he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary at all. How curious.
Satoru shuffled through his papers, sniffling and coughing. You noticed blue ink stains along the edge of his hand.
“I was writing last night.” he sniffled, “Felt rather restless.” he glanced up at you when he said this, as if expecting a look of concern from you. He felt a small disappointment when you failed to meet his gaze—too busy smoothing out the pleats of your skirt and readjusting your seat a thousand times.
After a while of shuffling, he organized a small stack of freshly drafted papers.
“I thought up a rather cruel idea—which, you may not like—for my story. But I’m bored, and I think I ought to subject my characters to a little more torture. They’ve been having it far too easy. Oops—”
He dropped a few papers and clumsily dangled over the floor to pick them back up.
“What kind of torture?” you asked.
“The fun kind.”
You observed him as he gathered his things.
“Right.” he huffed, as if he’d expended much energy, and got to his feet.
Prince Satoru caught your eyes once more.
He stood there, arrested and unmoving for a moment, seemingly stricken by something in your appearance.
You didn’t understand why he seemed so especially distracted today.
He stared at you for a long, long moment.
Then he shook his head.
“Maybe I’m going mad...” he muttered to himself.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s begin.”
“Right.” you smiled. “Let’s torture your poor characters.”
He chuckled again, cuter this time, mannerisms mildly disturbed as he took his seat.
How peculiar.
He chose to sit opposite you.
He’s never done that before.
You have to understand; it’s a small table.
This was close.
Very close.
Almost improperly close.
Your ankles met by accident under the table. He blushed and nervously apologized—but was he really sorry? Hardly.
The contact must have stirred him greatly, because afterwards he kept picking uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt, like he was hot and bothered.
He sat rigidly upright. You cleared your throat. The bright sun blinded his profile a little, making him blink.
Satoru did not meet your eyes for a long time. He pretended to be heavily occupied with his manuscripts, but really he had already ordered the papers and knew where to begin.
He leafed through the pages until the awkwardness of the moment calmed down.
“Ahem.”
“Yes?”
“Sorry. Just clearing my throat.”
His ankle kicked yours again. By ‘mistake’.
“—ah.”
“Sorry! I’m clumsy today.” he muttered, trying not to smirk.
He didn’t move for a moment. All was still in the dusty study room. You gave the sly prince a look, and it seemed that this diffused his third attempt of ‘accidentally’ kicking ankles with you under the table.
“Shall we...?” you said drily.
“R-right.” he nodded. He seemed overly happy—elated, even.
ㅤ⚜
Snowy tufts of hair grew wilder, and wilder, as pale hands tugged on them. It was as if the prince was trying to yank ideas out of his hair.
But it was for naught; he could hardly think straight today.
And who might have been the culprit for his cloudiness?
You. Of course it’s you.
Poised and pretty upon the typewriter, waiting without glancing once or peeping a word when his speeches abruptly stopped. He loved it. He loved how you continued writing exactly when he continued speaking, there was just something special about the way the sound of the keys paired with his voice. Like a memory he’d remember forever into old age.
Ding—!
His thoughts popped.
Taktaktaktaktaktaktaktak...
Ding—!
His thoughts popped again.
Tikka-takkatak, taktaktak...
It was no use; that sound was Pavloving him.
Each time the typewriter dinged, his heart would pop.
Oh god, you’re beautiful.
The gleaming light hitting your face just right. The roses outside, growing envious of you. The way you sat so upright, in comparison to his lazy slouch.
“Prince?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve gone quiet again.”
“Oh. Where were we?”
“... chandeliers seeming to spin a little, they twirled down gleaming chambers, completely love-drunk...”
“Right...”
His mouth was open, as if to continue, but he didn’t.
ㅤ⚜
The hour turned, and Satoru had run dry of words.
Like a bored child, he twirled and messed about the study, pulling books in and out of the shelves, humming to himself, until finally he wound up laying sloppily upon the recamier, clinging to the gilded edge.
He closed his mouth, looking adorably toad-like in appearance, and stared at you.
Blue eyes swirled in contemplation, like he was a great physicist on the brink of solving a century-old hypothesis.
Your neck, your cheeks, your ear, isn’t it all familiar?
Your throat constricted, chest tremored. He’d been silent for a while now. You’d grown anxious to continue writing.
“My prince?”
Pop—!
Your voice startled him.
“Sorry.” he muttered croakily, before slipping beneath the recamier’s edge.
Again with the sorry?—what on earth had possessed the prince to become so... small? Usually, the space his presence took up was big. He would be bounding with energy, bursting with jokes...
Now he was cowering behind the recamier, shivering at the revelation slowly unravelling in the back of his mind.
Is it you?
Blue eyes took one more glimpse of you over the gilded edge, before disappearing with a glint.
Ah, couldn’t be.
ㅤ⚜
A robin shivered in the stone basin, flicking its head about. Little roses, reds and pinks and whites, held royal court in the palace gardens. White shied away from pink, red dissuaded the two hearts.
And then the bird fluttered high up looking for a better place to spy.
The roses, too, ceased court, just to listen a little more closely.
Everything in the garden stilled,
“and then it struck him like a sword to the gut. Her words.” he spoke, then stopped.
You hammered quickly at the keys of the typewriter, keeping up with his words. He admired you in all your beautiful oblivion—marvelled at you with soft eyes.
“Prince Satoru, you’re wrong.” you noted.
His heart froze.
“Am I?” he blinked at you, blue eyes scared enough to break, “Whatever am I wrong about?” he asked, voice lowering into a frail and sensitive murmur.
“Your sentence, sir. It’s a dependent clause; her words.”
His shoulders shifted down as he relaxed again.
He listened to you, “... it’s quite an eyesore in the middle of the paragraph. Shall I correct it?”
The prince huffed, amused, and then surrendered to the idea that maybe you were right—maybe he did make a mistake.
Was that all you focused on?—the correctness of his writing? What about the content? The blazing brilliant emotions he conveyed, were they just a string of words to you?
Oh, never mind, never mind.
“Alright then, correct me. I guess.” he said, a bit snootily.
Satoru’s blue eyes kept active on you; your hands, your delicate wrists, as you lifted the metal lever of the typewriter and carefully removed the finished page, scratching the mistakes and inking the corrections.
Satoru nibbled his bottom lip. His hands refused to remain still at all—the pillow a victim to his excessive fidgeting.
Something had been eating at him since he saw you in the glowing corridors this morning, but he could hardly bring himself to understand what it was.
At last, he broke his gaze from you, and paid glance to the roses.
The roses, presiding over royal court in he plump bushes just beyond the edge of the window.
When you fed a new paper into the typewriter, Satoru shuffled through his manuscripts and told you he was changing chapters.
“... second chapter... character A sought the consolation of the gardens yet felt his quaking soul was far from soothed. He draped over the... he... uhh... uhh... did I really write this? This is terrible. Where’s the rest...? oh, seems I left that thought unfinished.” he grumbled to himself.
Satoru yanked frustratedly at tufts of his unruly white hair, until it was a mess. You had to hold back from snickering. He looked ridiculous.
The prince’s attention flitted between his manuscripts and the roses. He kept stuttering, unsure how to continue writing.
“Uhh... uhh...”
He stared at the roses, as if trying to milk his next sentence from their sweetly wrapped buds.
But the roses weren’t very inspiring.
So once more, he turned his gaze, to you.
Sat in wait at the typewriter, you inhaled a few sleepy breaths and released them with that tell-tale sign. He recognized that sigh; you did it when you were tired, when you needed a break from writing.
He could never admit it, but he felt your soul with clarity.
He always felt it. Lingering, sometimes fluttering when you laughed.
It was like he’d known you.
Like he’d known you for much, much longer than what was true.
Suddenly, a heat struck his chest—and just like that, he prince’s soul was thrown into a tumult once again.
What is it? What am I missing?
Frantic thoughts surged through Satoru’s mind.
You had no clue of the prince’s state. You only continued writing whatever he spoke, as disjointed as his speech was. Clacking away at your typewriter, you were completely oblivious to the prince’s frantic gaze, writing with a focus that not even a crack of lightning could disturb.
“He was suffering,” cracked his voice, as he spoke unsurely, like the sentence had not fully formed in his mind, “suffering... skin... running hot... like a fever... the crimson court of roses... was pitying him... as he wept over stone... alone, alone... in the garden... aching, desperate, to fathom... what is it... what is it...”
The prince stared at you. Gaze of a million years glimpsing in just that second, eureka slowly unravelled in those genius blues.
“And then he rose, and he thought to himself; my darling rose, it’s you isn’t it?” his breath shivered.
A smile crept across his lips. “My, am I quite the foolish one.”
You kept on typing, diligently listening for any further mistakes.
“...character A could not make sense of it all; why did she seem more familiar today than yesterday?—maybe his eyes were deceiving him, after all, sometimes they overlooked the most obvious of things.”
“My prince, that doesn’t make any sense...” you stopped him again, much more abruptly this time.
“What this time?” he smiled, voice lilted.
“Your statement is contradictory; in the prior chapter, you detailed that character A’s eyes could unveil even the most secret of secrets.” you pointed out, hands posing at the typewriter’s edge. “But now you’re saying that sometimes he overlooks the most obvious of things? It doesn’t make sense. This is a complete mischaracterization.”
He blinked at you.
For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard a single word you said, for he sat there rigidly and only blinked slowly a few times at you, without reply.
To press a response out of him, you continued.
“Furthermore, what you have written last night, if I may be so bold as to criticize, has many errors...”
“What!” he cried at last, “My sweet rose, what have I done wrong?”
“You’ve overused the comma.” you pointed out, completely missing his affection.
“It gives me a certain style.”
“It does not; this is comma abuse.”
“Bleh!” he flopped over.
“These imperfections are flawing your writing.”
“Blehhh! Come on now, beauty stems from imperfection.”
“Does it?”
“Yes!” he cried emphatically, erecting his body now and tossing to his feet.
“Yes, it does. See, I’m going to pioneer a new style; it’ll be free of any grammatical or syntactical inhibitions and be beautiful because of its imperfections. And then I’ll be rewarded for my brilliance—the handsome prince who writes handsome romances in his handsome palace, with his handsome little writer.”
You chuckled, he thought bashfully, your hands shifting at the typewriter’s edge.
“I’m not handsome,” you began.
“Right, you’re not handsome. You’re beautiful.” he said.
You stiffened at this, visibly blushing.
He seemed satisfied with getting this response out of you—that he could fluster you. It made him feel much too confident.
“... and many beautiful women, including yourself, will adore my writing.” he blurted, proudly.
You soured, the glow on your face fading.
“... I’m no admirer of pretentious poets...”
“What was that?”
“A slip of the tongue.”
“A slip of the tongue...” he repeated, eyes narrowing at you. “And here I thought you liked my book. But as it turns out ladies are liars indeed.”
Suddenly, you burst at him. Cold, restrained, cutting right through him—it felt good.
“I don’t lie. I’m honest. More honest than most poets in this age!”
Oh my god, your anger was beautiful—is that even possible?
He became defensive, deeply narrowing his blues at you, but he also nibbled his bottom lip like he was chewing on the ecstasy that is being yelled at by a woman.
Satoru’s heart began to beat harder. The tension was rising. He rushed with the need to throw his arms about you and kiss you. Hot with desire, mad with love—
“—and I never said I liked your book.”
And then it all came crashing down.
He wilted over the recamier.
“You don’t?” his voice came out weak, like a sad little boy’s.
You stuttered and ceased. “Uh.”
He blinked rapidly at you, entire presence shrinking a little.
Slowly, his eyes softened with a dull anger.
Then, he scoffed and cocked his head away from you.
“So that’s how it is...”
He sunk beneath the horizon of the gilded edge of the recamier, disappearing from sight.
The air stiffened in the study, stagnancy of your argument suffocating out any prior undertones of affection he was emanating.
That was all dead now.
The prince was upset. You were guilty.
You bit your lip when the urge to apologize arose. He was rude, why should you? Even if you did sort of insult him. After all, he started it, didn’t he? The fool—this was his fault.
You’d long stopped typing by then, air now devoid of the comforting taktaktak-ing sound, wrists resting heavy at the edges, skin marked by the metal keys denting into it.
A long silence stilled the atmosphere, one that seemingly had no end to it, one that felt like it petrified you with small agonies.
You looked out the window.
Clouds gathered in the far distance, swelling with the promise of heavy rain.
Satoru, overwhelmed with emotion, decayed into the plush pillow, face trembling with the promise of heavy tears.
And his pathetic little heart continued beating... thuk thuk thuk thuk.
ㅤ⚜
The hour turned.
Its peak reached, now the sun began its slow descent down the sky.
And it sank, and it sank, and it sank...
Yet the two of you spoke not a word.
Clouds pinkened, nearly matching the shade of the rosebush which you melancholically admired. The flowers were drooping at you, as if asking what was wrong.
Something shifted. Fabric ruffled. A little sigh was sighed.
“I can’t think of anything more to write.” a frog croaked—oh, sorry, it was the prince.
You felt bad, turning your fingers over in your lap anxiously.
“Would a change of scenery help?” you suggested carefully.
A curious head of white hair peaked slowly from behind the recamier’s edge.
Blue eyes found you. That, plus the pearlescent wisps of hair, and upwardly arched brows, were all you could see of the sad prince.
“I—I mean to ask,” you choked, embarrassed, “if you, er, might take a turn about the garden with me? It might refresh you.”
His eyes widened, gleaming curiously.
A turn about the garden... with you? Together?
His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed.
Then, the prince finally revealed himself, pulling himself upright, eyes stilled on you.
“I suppose it would be a shame not to enjoy the garden at its golden best.” he muttered.
The Prince fixed his gaze on you.
The way the golden light made you glow, like an angel, and your pose—in profile, contrasted to the flush reds and pinks and pure whites of roses, head slightly inclined in an introspective pose...
Satoru’s brows lifted to their highest point. His mouth, it dangled open.
Ah, eureka.
ㅤ⚜
Guided by the prince, you wove through the palace gardens in utter silence.
Exotic fruit trees were planted in neat rows, their leaves rustling gently in the evening stir. A butterfly fluttered about, looking to slurp sweet nectar from the flowering trees.
Cool at your skin, this breeze tickled the back of your neck—but something else, too.
This feeling, it rose up our spine, like a secret message, further and further along, until it made you tingle all over.
You bristled.
The butterfly continued its desperate search for something sweet, fluttering on in search for the sweetest of flowers.
The prince’s head of white hair seemed so dull in this paling light, hardly as moonbeam shiny as it usually appears in bright light.
He turned a blind corner, for a moment disappearing into nothingness, until you caught up. Every turn into the hedge-walled part of the gardens now felt like it was leading you deeper into a secluded intimacy with the prince, one you couldn’t escape.
He walked deliberately slowly, waiting for you every step of the way.
Pink clouds were slowly being encroached by a brooding grey, as rain crept across the countryside plains.
Your eyes kept at his back, admiring him. His slender-fit physique. His shoulders tapering off so sharply. The back of his neck, somehow inspiring the strangest ideas in your mind. The unruliness of his hair—it looked so soft, it must have been even softer to the touch.
His back was straight as he continued to walk ahead of you, not once looking behind him.
Guilt deepened in your stomach.
He felt your presence all over his back, felt heat at his cheeks blooming softly, hotly.
There came a stillness in the gardens, not a single leaf seemed to shift or shudder for a moment.
You could sense the prince’s sadness. It seemed the gardens could not bring much consolation to his hurt little soul, so you decided to take initiative.
The butterfly that had been searching for nectar seemed on the brink of giving up its search.
The silence was waiting for a voice to puncture it.
And then you did the honours.
“My uncle used to preserve insects; he had a large collection of butterflies.” you began, and immediately the break of silence earned a head turn from the prince, clocking left to listen, “One day, I snuck into his study and found that he’d caught a butterfly. It was fluttering frantically in the glass, desperate, almost calling out to me. I couldn’t bear to see such a beautiful, innocent creature trapped. So, I stole it, crept out to the gardens while everyone was laughing in the living room, and released it back into its home. Though, I wasn’t all too sneaky—I’ve always been a terrible liar—my sister found out and then told my uncle. I got a small scolding, but it was all worth it. I will always remember the sweet joy I felt when I saw that butterfly happily fluttering free.”
The prince was silently listening to your story as he led you further down the garden paths, nearing the conservatory now; a glass sanctuary so large that it was visible even from this considerable distance. Much, much prouder and larger than yours, which in comparison was a modestly small plant room adjacent to the living room. His was a plant sanctuary.
Even in the dim light, from this awkward angle, you could see a faint smile appearing on the Prince’s face.
He blinked softly for a few moments, seemingly absorbing and contemplating what you’d shared, before he finally made up a response.
When he responded, he turned his face away from you.
“Well aren’t you just sweet as jam...” he murmured, voice perking your undivided interest—it was intimate, almost sultry.
Heat spread across the tops of your cheeks, rippled down the back of your neck, bloomed at your chest, at hearing his all too flirty compliment.
Not a trace of sadness lingered at the prince’s sharp shoulders. He seemed decidedly composed now, like he had come to a conclusion on something very secret in his heart—but what? What could it be? Why was he so decidedly secretive about his glances now?
It was rather unlike the prince... usually he gave his eyes proudly to you, but now he was careful about placing them on you.
ㅤ⚜
The two of you arrived at the conservatory, feet coming to a standstill.
The clouds purpled, grey encroaching from the distance, and the sun burned its goodbye slowly, as if letting the two of you bathe in its romantic warmth for just a little longer.
The prince’s eyes were on you.
Discretely, and yet you felt it. Certainly anyone who was less perceptible than you to gazing eyes would not have noticed at all.
The hem of our dress rippled in the small breeze.
“You once mentioned that you have a conservatory,” his cool voice broke the silence once more, “what kinds of flowers do you grow?”
“Many.” you replied self-consciously.
“As many as I have here?”
“No.” you blushed. “Not even half.”
“The plants here are preened and plucked every day,”
“Wonderful.” you croaked again.
“Let me show you.” he invited you in.
ㅤ⚜
He beheld you in your entirety; soul to ribbon.
And that ribbon, how it rested at the base of your how it fluttered in the cool evening stir, is what drove him to madness.
He kept to himself, but you could feel the quiver of his need in the air—a want to be close, a want so strong that it made the atoms in the air vibrate just a little more frantically.
The prince brought you to a vividly pink, plump flower bush. Like a troupe of ballerinas.
“Do you know what this is?” he quizzed.
“The fuchsia?” you answered.
“Clever girl.”
“I prefer lethally intelligent woman.”
“Lethal?—well, you do kill me.” he teased.
You couldn’t help but chuckle, even though it irked you to see the man triumph in earning a laugh from your sweet, sweet lips.
A moment passed.
He bent low down and plucked a single fuchsia from its bush of pink sisters, then drew close to you—close, close, much too close to be polite at this point.
Pinching the flower at its stem with his thumb and index finger, Satoru began, “They attract butterflies,” he explained, “and my favourite part about them... is that they’re like little ballerinas. Observe.”
You observed.
Prince Satoru began rubbing his finger pads together, the flower twirled, and then it began. Act I: Dance of the Fuchsia...
Stamens dangling long and graceful as a dancer’s legs, petals like a pink tutu, as vivid rouge.
You smiled.
“It really does look like it’s dancing.”
The prince continued to spin the flower in pirouettes, relishing in how it humoured you.
Then, he stopped, paused delicately, and offered you the flower.
“Keep her safe.”
“Of course, my prince.”
You accepted the flower as he placed it into your opening palm.
Slightly.
So slightly, you made contact. Rouge fingertips. Ticklish, airy. His breath slipped.
He lingered on you, breathtaken. Big blue eyes ran through every detail of your face, matching it to hers, feature for feature.
Eureka, eureka. It is you, I know it’s you. It has to be.
Suddenly, the prince pulled back. His heart, it began beating rapidly. Sweat prickled under the collar of his shirt. Hair on the back of his neck bristled.
You looked at him, beholding his slightly bewildered state with a distant worry—he only bore that maddened expression when he was struck by divine poetic inspiration.
It seemed he might say a verse or two, but then he rather surprised you by instead asking in an impatient voice.
“Come with me.”
ㅤ⚜
Cold, wet, erratic; the first break of raindrops pelted the tops of your heads and the prince, in a swift and thoughtless gesture, ripped open his waistcoat and used it to shield you while he took the brunt of the rain.
Quickly, the thin cotton of his shirt soaked through—yes, god, you swore you tried not to steal a glance or two of him at your side, but it was nearly impossible; the way the fabric clung wetly to his form, carving out every shape, both soft and hard, of the male physique which you were certainly not well-acquainted with.
Since the prince loved to boast about, well, nearly every single aspect of himself—how pretty his eyes were, how fair and clear his skin was, how heavenly his white hair was—you thought he would acknowledge your blatant side-eyeing of him, and tease you for relishing in his good looks.
But he did not tease you. In fact, you’re sure he didn’t even notice, because he was so determined to usher you inside, to make sure that his waistcoat shielded you from the cold rain.
For perhaps the first time in your recollection, the prince was oblivious to his own ego.
He seemed perplexed, preoccupied, even though he was presently guiding you through the palace corridors.
Down the royal halls you went, urgently swept along by the prince.
Gleaming carved golds, a thundering of rain against tall windows left the crystal chandeliers to shudder. You could hear it; the glass subtly shaking above with each rumble from the heavens.
He must be eager to return to the study, you thought.
Yes, that must be it. The prince must have been bursting with poetry, and that’s why he was racing down the glistening halls with such haste.
But then, most peculiarly, he strode right past the door to the study.
Confused, you trotted after the prince, curiosity blazing now—if it was not poetry, then what was it?
Long, black-clad legs strode ahead. A head of white hair flicked to the side as if to make sure you were following behind him. You completely ignored the brilliant sculptures lining the halls, eyes fixed on his back.
Cotton clung to skin. White hair was flattened by rain.
And then at last, he halted and you, you came to stumbling stop behind him.
ㅤ⚜
There, in the hall, you stood with him in front of a painting.
It was hung in an ornate baroque frame, and, peculiarly, was the only piece of art in this lonely, gleaming corridor.
The portrait of a young woman in profile, her head slightly inclined in the introspective pose, clad in a robe en chemise.
It was hard to make out her features, almost as if the muse herself did not want to be painted. Almost the entire right-hand side of her face was concealed; she was just a slither of nose and lip and cheek captured with imprecise, sloppy brushstrokes.
The column of her neck looked like it had ghosts of kiss marks along it. But perhaps that was just a trick of the light.
Your heart began pounding.
The prince looked between you and the woman in the portrait.
It was all familiar.
Yes, oh god, it was all too painfully familiar. You could feel the memory creeping over your back.
The muslin kissing your skin, the pungent oil paint permeating the air of that small artist’s studio, the aching silence, the half-finished portraits discarded in a fit of perfectionism, the dull pain in your tailbone and spine from sitting for so long, the artist’s affection suffocating you, black hair running down his back like ink. An impertinent confession. A crude kiss stolen from pure lips. A portrait ruined by soft hands. The artist, distraught. His muse, spurning his advances.
It was the last portrait ever painted of you, the only one that preserved your coming of age. The rest meant nothing, the rest were merely childhood portraits, none that revealed the true character of your face.
It’s a memory you’ve smothered.
But now, the prince brought you right back to it.
He’d been silent beside you, watching your expression freeze with horror in your eyes.
Then, at last, he punctured the silence.
“I sought many women in my life,” he began, “And tried and tried to match them to the one you see in this painting, but none matched. Princesses from faraway lands have come here upon my request, spent evenings twirling with me through ballrooms, only to be brought here as their last judgement... and every last one of them, I turned away.”
You listened to him, blinking at the portrait.
“I thought I was going mad, you know?” Satoru chuckled nervously, “H-here I wasted most of my youth trying to find the muse of a portrait long that my best friend has long forgotten painting by now—how I’ve hounded his memory all these years! But he told me he hardly remembers. Funny that, huh? An artist whose hand has impressed a thousand strokes of a face, yet cannot remember... strange, isn’t it?”
Your breathing struggled, ache now becoming more prominent in your chest.
“My prince...” your voice shook.
You were panicking inside. Heartstrings pulled on to sound off the bells, like a warning—he was feverishly looking at you, in that exact same way that that lustful artist had looked at you.
“I-I’ve been convinced that the woman in this portrait is the love of my life. Yes, I know—I’m a madman, aren’t I? But I can feel it in my heart.”
He continued,
“I thought my search was futile...”
Satoru’s eyes twinkled.
“But now I’ve found you.”
“My prince.” you said again, beginning to shake your head. “You’re mistaken.”
He tilted his head at you.
“Mistaken? I’ve stared at this portrait for hours, taken in every feature. You match it like no other.”
“The girl in this portrait,” you retaliated, “is not me. My portrait has never been painted.”
He looked like he’d begun to doubt himself.
Lashes shuddering, you began to back away.
Panic struck his chest, and without thinking, his hand shot out to grab your wrist.
“It must be you.”
“It’s not!”
You wrung yourself from his little grip. The brightness in the prince’s face disappeared. His brows twitched and his mouth hung open.
“Will you have the carriage readied for me? I-I have to go home. It’s getting late. My prince, I’m sorry.”
He looked at you incredulously, as if now doubting himself. Was he mad? Had he stared too long at the painting, grasped at any small semblance you bore to it?
“Er, of course.” he muttered, “I’ll have the carriage for you.”
He looked at you, long and hard, with a waning sureness, but above all, a disbelief.
ㅤ⚜
The pale-faced prince watched as the carriage took you away. He stood, clothes soaked through and hair flattened, until the rain had long subsided, until his blouse had dried, until the night had deepened into a Prussian blue.
“You are a terrible liar, my sweet rose.” he muttered sadly to himself, before letting out a sigh and returning, again, to that corridor.
He stared, for a long time, at the portrait.
His eyes sharpened. He analysed every brush stroke, ghosted his fingertips across, In fact, his whole soul knew.
He heaved a great sigh and locked himself in his study.
Crumbled over the desk, he sat in misery. His head turned to the left, eyes falling on the silver-gleam of your typewriter, which you’d left behind. It sat silently, glinting in the dimming light.
“A terrible, terrible liar.”
ㅤ⚜
Cypress trees & nutty earth and brooding skies breaking clear blue in the distance. Swaying to and fro, the carriage ride home felt more turbulent than usual. Or perhaps you were just experiencing heightened sensitivity.
It was all so overwhelming. You lied, when you’ve never lied before. You rejected a man, and brutally so—left him there in the melancholy of gleaming gold corridors, heart hardly pumping hard enough to sustain himself.
Was it a mistake? But these were your principles, why would you think it a mistake to live through them? After the incident in the art studio, you’d bound yourself to a new policy; that you’d never let a callous and love-wild man think it his destiny to have your heart. You were preserving yourself like a rose in a glass casing, protecting yourself from ruining hands.
The carriage made its way through the city centre, gleaming lamplights
The carriage swayed less and less as it slowed, rounding the bend bordered by thick bush thickets. o a rolling halt outside your home in the east end.
You felt sensitive to everything, a shiver rippled at the nape of your neck, body growing more and more uneasy as you ruminated.
ㅤ⚜
With a rickety squeak of the carriage’s step under your shoe, and a head drooped forward, you descended from the carriage. You’d thanked the coachman, and for a while stood quietly outside the gates of your home in the black of night, not thinking a single thought nor feeling a single feeling. It was almost like a numbness had overtaken your mind, the shock of being recognized in a portrait you had thought never survived. Tree branches obscured the moon, but through them it still glowed down at you, satiny light cast over your tired face, as if to ask what was the matter. You couldn’t tell it to anyone else but the silver mother in the sky, nobody would listen and even if they did, they wouldn’t understand the complexity of your feelings—no, they’d just laughingly deride you.
But not the moon.
The moon listened, the moon understood.
And after your confession to her, you swept your skirt and scurried off into your home.
The instant the front door closed behind you, it was like entering another world. It was warm, there was an uproar of voices, a happy shouting, and then suddenly you saw your sister appear at the archway.
“You haven’t grown at all.”
“And you’ve grown like a weed.”
She smiled. You smiled, but waveringly.
“I missed you.”
Without reply, you tottered over and put your head to her shoulder for a hug.
She wrapped her arms around you, squeezing you with all the tender love of her soul, cheek nuzzling affectionately atop your head.
“So, how was New York?” you asked.
“Invigorating.” she swooned, “Lots of handsome men, none more than the prince, though—you have a lot to tell me, don’t you?”—you groaned—"Tell me over dinner. But first, I have gifts.”
She was frantic, pulsing through her words with this unrestrained excitement all of a sudden. She swept you into the living room. Mother and father were discussing news in the kitchen, her sighing at his opinions and him grumbling under his breath.
Your sister began shoving gifts in your hand—a book on floriography, a small wooden keepsake box with intricate floral carvings, and confectionaries you’ve never heard of before.
“Fudge?”
“You have to try it.”
“Not before dinner! Kitchen, now, girls, come eat before it gets cold or I’ll eat the rest myself.”
Your father left the table by the time you and her sat down to eat, not because he was finished but because the instant you joined, mother began talking obsessively about the prince.
Though you tried to divert attention from the topic, your sister persisted. At last, you writhed free by bringing up her husband—a topic which she has no restraint in gushing over.
Your attention wandered away for the whole dinner; and who noticed if any but your sharp sister.
Immediately after dinner, she cornered you in the upstairs hallway, prodded with interrogations that made you stutter. Being persistent as she was, she didn’t give up until you gave her any slither of information—but even then, she crinkled her nose.
“You’re not letting on—what’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“You’re an awful liar, you are.” she pinched your cheek hard, “Tell me, or I’ll tell mother that you’re keeping secrets.”
You surrendered, chest collapsing with a defeated sigh.
How could you fight against that?—it’s the one trick she’s used since childhood to get something out of you, because she knew you’d much prefer confessing to having committed a crime to her than to mother.
“Alright, then. But later.”
ㅤ⚜
You bathed while she read, door ajar just enough to let through your echoing voice. A gold strip of light leaked in, your only light source as you sunk into the warm water.
“So, the prince is in love with you.”
“It’s horrid.” you groaned.
“Is that a smile in your voice I hear?”she teased, peeking into the bathroom.
A splash echoed off the tiles.
You’d slipped under the water, to hide you and your smile beneath.
Through the water, you could hear her; she honked with laughter. You could even hear her clapping, wickedly—because she loved figuring people out, and you were just about her favorite thief to catch red-handed.
And you, bubbling beneath the clear water, felt a throbbing deep inside your chest, one that you couldn’t quite figure out.
ㅤ⚜
Wet out the bath, enrobed in soft white nightgown, you sat at your vanity and cared for your hair, slowly and meticulously brushing it. Your sister spilled lazily over a heap of pillows, and like spinning thread out of a spool she tried to get every last bit of information out of you, right down to the details of how what you and the prince were up to today.
“... then he invited me into the conservatory... and then he showed me the fuchsias... and then...”
“And then?”
You continued combing your fingers through your wet hair. Breath jagged, heart tossing itself off cliff peaks, palpitating so hard that you felt paranoid that your sister could hear it. Was your heartbeat so strong that she could feel it?
You took a glance at her reflection in the mirror, and saw that she was not looking at you at all. She was gazing at the moon, upside-down from the edge of your bed, knocking her knees.
A lie slipped smoothly through your lips.
“And then he called for the carriage and I said my goodbye.”
She stopped knocking her knees. She looked at you from between her own legs, like some kind of seriously perplexed toad.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
She stared at you for a long, winding moment. Her mouth was open. One eye squinted at you.
You swallowed. Your chest was tight, toes curled in, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. And with the way your throat constricted, you could hardly utter your next lie.
“I didn’t want to... seem too eager.”
At once, your sister’s expression cleared and she fell back to resume her gazing at the moon, seemingly unsuspicious of how tight your voice sounded.
“Oh.”
You stopped fussing with your hair and let your gaze fall. Guilt pooled in the pit of your stomach. You hated lying, but this was necessary; this was your secret. You deserved to keep one.
Somehow you managed to conceal your guilt-stricken face from your sister.
After a small bout of contemplative silence, she suddenly leaped off the bed and began talking very animatedly. You played into her excitement.
Her eyes glittered at you, cheeks plump and rosy, as she caught your shoulders.
“This is good. My sister is a clever girl after all.” she commended, “Leading him on will make him want you even more.”
“That’s not what I meant to do at all!” you grumbled, disgruntled with her.
But your sister was so sure of your actions, no explanation could diffuse the truth she decided to believe—that her sister was putting the sweet pressure of suspense on the love story between her and the handsome prince.
You had to fight hard to defend yourself against her projections, raising your voice much louder than you’d like.
“I’m not in love with him! Infatuation, yes, maybe I’m insane enough to say that I like him, but my god I’m in no state of love! “
“You’re smitten.” she teased in a sneering voice.
“I barely know him—”
“—and I barely knew my husband. Three days! And then he asked father for my hand. Now that is a true man.”
“Now that is a true fool. Love doesn’t happen in three days; he was just another example of a man being impatient to claim a woman.”
You hurt her, clearly, because her upper lip stiffened at this.
“Do you realize,” she began, “what good would come from marrying him?”
“Nothing!” you cried, nearly bringing yourself to tears. “He’d never love me how I want to be loved! He’d love me like a portrait of a woman, not flesh and bone.”
“You think too selfishly!” she quavered, “If you married, mama and papa could retire and enjoy gardens and grandchildren instead of paperwork and dishes.”
“I only want to marry for love.” you asserted.
“And this is the same girl who has sent me long letters expressing her hatred for poets, who complains that everyone is much too invested in love?”
You stuttered.
“You’re a hypocrite.”
And now, you fell silent. Completely still and completely silent.
Your sister stared at you with a look of deepest disappointment at you for a little longer, then raised herself from the edge of the bed, dismissed herself with a curt goodnight, and left you alone to rot with your little hypocritical feelings all alone.
ㅤ⚜
Humming in your mind forbade you from sleeping. And so, with the floriography book tucked against your bosom, you quietly went down to the conservatory, adjacent to the living room.
There, you dwelled in the earthy air. The safety of this company of flowers and plants quietened the hum. Flowers understood you better than words sometimes, so your sister knew well to gift you this book.
It was a thin, tiny book—just half an inch thick and only a little larger than your whole hand. The kind of thin, tiny book that was more special than the rest in a bookshelf. Embossed, its gilded edges glinting in the pale moonlight.
You searched the pages.
Touch me not—balsam, red
Refusal—carnation, striped
You were already assembling the bouquet in your mind, envisioning its delivery, and the prince’s reaction...
and yet... you flipped to another page and ran your eyes down the alphabetical list.
Love—rose
Your eyes lingered.
To all the intricacies of your feelings, you hardly knew a thing, only that they were there, throbbing, deep within your chest, and that they concerned the prince and nothing but. The roses whispered amongst themselves.
After all you’ve said, after all your loud rejections to romance, deep down you were still that lonely little girl, the one who used to read mountainous piles of romance books with the belief that, one day, you too would be so lucky to live such a brilliant love story.
But he was just another lying poet, was he not?
Evil and pretentious, sitting atop reams of typewritten pages like a throne, pretending to understand the hearts of women when really he knew nothing of their sensitivity. All he was doing was what poets always do; delivering us to disillusionment and heartbreak. No love story could ever be as perfect as the one he’s writing—love just didn’t happen like it did in books. It was all a lie.
You despised his pretentiousness.
And yet... after all this time you’ve spent rewriting his manuscripts, you felt a slither of his real, raw feelings underlining all that verbiage.
A sigh befell your downturned mouth.
What a hypocrite I am...
... and what a fool you are.
ㅤ⚜
Swell of crickets, in the garden, night full and moon half empty, he frowned.
The prince draped himself over the edge of the fountain and stared into the inky black water, emotions at bay behind his quivering blue gaze. The crimson course of roses pitied his sorry state, as he wept over stone, alone, in the garden.
All he could think of was that moment—so sloppy, so mislead, so unfinished; like his novels up until now.
It was horrid, horrid to him how life doesn’t flow as poetically and precisely as it does in books.
Perhaps that’s why he has spent too much time in them.
Because they were chronological, very logical, and conveyed the illogical heart so profoundly.
Not like whatever the heck that was earlier... that... inkstain in this chapter.
It wasn’t supposed to go like that, he gritted to himself. He’d plotted something entirely different—something far more eloquent, something perfectly romantic.
You, exclaiming at his revelation of the painting, tossing your arms about him and crying “oh, oh!” at his cheek while you softly weep, warmth of your embrace seeping into his cheeks, “how did you know, how could you possibly know that is was me?” to which he replies...
... no, no, not like that, that doesn’t sound right. More like, the handsome prince was rejected, yes indeed, but braving his feelings he sought after the fleeing little woman, crying out for her not to go just yet, to understand him...
... but then how to continue this? It’s useless, it’s futile...
“Words are just no good.” muttered Satoru to himself, pouting.
He continued wilting over the fountain, swirling his fingertips across the glossy surface of water, perturbing the medium with ripples and ripples...
until suddenly, he plunged his hand into the cold water.
He let himself feel the consolation of its cold embrace for a few moments, furthering his hand until the water met level with his wrist, before releasing a hiss through his teeth and withdrawing his hand completely.
Then, he brought his wet palm to his cheek.
It was like ice to fire. He’d burned up at the thought of you throwing your arms about his neck, cheeks crisp with heat from just a few murmuring visions of you.
Your pretty, pretty face.
Not a chance that he was wrong, right?
No, no. He’d stared for hours at that portrait—not a damn chance his eyes deceived him.
What did it all mean?
Were you simply overwhelmed to be confessed to by someone of his standing?—surely it was not his impertinence that stirred you wrong. He was so sure of his charm. After all, how many times had he twirled women in circles around a gleaming ballroom and won their hearts? Without fail, mind you.
They gave in.
They melted in his arms.
They were eager for his lips.
Yet what was this now?
Ahem, ahem... well it was just a blunder, of course.
His next move would ensure his checkmate.
ㅤauthor's note──── I must say I’m rather self-conscious about the length and quality of this chapter.
The first half is not as good as the latter half. It’s the first time I’ve undertaken a novel-length story, so weeding through it and cutting out the parts that are too wordy is really hard. I’m trying my best to improve my clarity and remove unnecessary verbiage. If there are still common errors or mistakes, I'll be embarrassed but I've read through it a few times so hopefully they are minimal if any.
At times I look back on my writing, and I can hate it so much that I want to destroy all of it. I can fully understand why writers back in the day used to want to burn their manuscripts. Sometimes you just feel dumb and like your writing’s very existence offends the world, so you need to destroy it.
Anyways, rant aside!
Yay! Second chapter, finally!—the third one to come might feel a little different, since my writing is developing a lot at the moment (or so I feel it is, maybe the change isn’t noticeable). I will try to keep it cohesive. Hopefully the prose will be consistent throughout each chapter hereon. I always tell myself to write quicker, because otherwise I lose sight of the vision for the story and this affects my prose, but I’m just a very slow writer.
Sorry for how long and tedious the first half is, but hopefully this chapter is enjoyable despite its mediocrity. As for the next one, I’m not sure how long it will take. Right now it’s very bare-bones, and I have to do a little more research before I can write it. Besides that, I have a lot of other stories (including non-fanfiction ones) which I’m working on sporadically.
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