❝ you have a nice smile, has anyone ever told you that before? ❞
As if on cue, Arthur’s smile faltered, the fragile curve of it slipping away before he could even understand why it had been there in the first place. The fading warmth left him oddly startled—like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. “Sorry—uhm, I…”
The apology tumbled out of him on instinct, quiet and uncertain. He wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for. Maybe for smiling. Maybe for existing in a way that felt too visible. His adoptive parent hated when he smiled—hated any hint that Arthur might be happy, or comfortable, or anything other than small and silent. They didn’t enjoy seeing him happy. Most days, it felt like they didn’t enjoy seeing him at all.
So to hear someone say his smile was nice… It was strange. Suspicious, even. Like being handed something delicate he didn’t know how to hold without breaking.
Arthur’s fingers twitched at his sides, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment as that heavy, familiar tightness settled in his chest. But curiosity—soft, stubborn curiosity—pushed its way through the weight.
“Did you mean it?” he asked, the words quieter now, careful, as though they might shatter if spoken too loudly. He glanced up again, searching their face for any sign of teasing or pity, anything that might confirm the small hope trying to bloom where it shouldn’t.
“That my smile is nice… I mean." The last part came out almost in a whisper, like he was still deciding whether he was allowed to want the answer to be yes.
