A/N: My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide CC hosted by the wonderful @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob
Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU; Prompt: Courage
I went a less obvious route with the prompt. It's not exactly nsft but it is suggestive. A kind of follow up to this Cyran Gangster fic.
WC: ~1k
In order for there to be courage, there must be fear. Darkness needs light to exist, light cannot shine without darkness. They are intertwined, interconnected, essential to one another like the moon and the tide, like oxygen and life.
In the shadows of your bedroom, the glow from the neon sign across the street slides its way through the blinds, bathes your skin in red.
Red means danger.
It means warning.
It means stop.
But Cyran couldn't stop now, not for all the money in the world. His hands travel down the smooth plane of your waist, slide across the round curves of your hips. It is a road he has only traveled once before but one he has never, ever forgotten. He feels the pressure of your arms around his neck, the way your fingers curl into the ends of his hair. More red.
His mouth follows the pulse in the side of your neck. He presses his tongue flat against it, then sucks hard. The sound you make should be illegal. It fogs his mind with desire, smothers the rational thought that thrives in the cold light of day.
Being the doctor they call, you are already in too deep with The Organization. No good can come of dragging you selfishly deeper, through the unpredictable danger of his job, under the waves of fear and anxiety that every assignment floods him with. He is certain that being with him will bring you nothing but heartache.
And yet……how can he stop an avalanche’s momentum? How can he push back the tide? How can he stop drinking in the taste of your lips? Stop drowning in your breathless whisper of his name?
He is a criminal, one who walks the opaque fog between right and wrong....but with you, everything becomes crystal-clear.
And he is not strong enough to deny what his body and soul so loudly cry for.
Cyran’s hands have divested you of all clothing. Only the golden rose necklace they gave you lays against your skin. He sweeps it aside, pressing a line of desperate kisses across your collarbone, first one, then the other.
He walks you backwards towards your bed, his clothing falling like flower petals along the way until he is as bare as you. When the back of your knees bumps into the mattress, you pause to drink in the sight of him, disheveled and alight with desire, his broad chest rising and falling with each labored breath.
God, is he beautiful. All sculpted muscle. Powerful lines. You unconsciously bite down on your lower lip as your fingertips trace the Rhodolitian rose tattooed on his shoulder. Unlike some of the other gang members, his rose is not blood red, but has been rendered in shades of gray. You follow the line of the petals, then glide down over the curved stem lined with sharp thorns. In reality, they would have torn your fingers to shreds. But right now, all you feel is warm skin. All you feel is him.
He can’t take the sight of your lip between your teeth. He wants it for himself. Surging forward, he kisses you and you fall back onto the bed, your body catching fire, your heart aflame.
The neon sign has blinked out, replaced by the pale yellow of early morning sunlight. Cyran is sound asleep, his red hair a bright spot among your white pillows. Propped up on one elbow, you watch him as he sleeps. You haven’t been able to tear your gaze away since you woke up, your body heavy with satisfaction, sore with the remnants of last night’s storm.
His face is softer now, carrying none of the hard, concentrated lines of responsibility, duty. He is at ease, for once, lost in the clouds of dreaming. He looks younger somehow. Almost innocent. You allow yourself the luxury of staring, of gazing at the line of his jaw, covered in stubble, the slope of his neck down to his broad shoulders. You notice the small crescent-moon marks there, the ones from your fingers as they clutched him, held him tightly against your body. A smile ghosts across your lips.
You follow the relaxed surface of his bare chest down to where your bed sheets are draped modestly over his hips. One long leg, bent at the knee, sticks out from the covers and you're struck by an overwhelming wave of emotion, something warm and bright that sends your heart into a gentle swoon.
Wanting him. Dare you even think….loving him…..is dangerous. You know it. There are a hundred reasons why falling for him is nothing but jagged peril, a treacherous road you should not walk.
But the way he rasped your name is still ringing in your ears.
Your fingers remember the grip of his own when they intertwine with yours.
You know the way his body feels against you. It is now written across your heart like a swathe of stars in the night sky, burned into your skin like a brand.
He sighs in his sleep, shifting to roll onto his side, and a lock of red hair falls across his forehead. You reach out instinctively to brush it away and something inside you is kindled, like a forge slowly coming to life.
Yes, it is risky to give yourself over to what you are feeling, to fight for a place in his heart and life.
But you are brave.
Your hand gently cups the side of his face and your heart sinks into the flame of the forge, becoming something strong, a sword to face the danger, a light to wield in the dark. Courage and determination flow through your veins as mightily as desire had just a few short hours ago.
Cyran is worth loving. He is worth every twist and turn if only for the feel of him under your palm, the light in his eyes as they flutter open and see you, his slow, sleepy, unburdened smile.
“Good morning,” you murmur, leaning down even as he reaches for you, a kiss already waiting on his lips.
This is worth all your courage. This will be your light.
Cyran x MC
Angst/Hurt/Comfort
~1.5k words
Prompts: determination, love, loyalty
My entry for Wish Upon an Aide Creation Challenge & the collaboration with none other than @wordycheeseblob ! Saki prepared the artwork -- the story is inspired by it.
To view the full artwork, visit @wordycheeseblob !
The clacking of high heels called order in the halls. The maid leaped off the sill and onto the floor, hands smoothing out any real and imaginary creases present over her uniform. Mildly embarrassed, she lowered her head.
“Do you know where Cyran is?” Emma asked.
“The word has it that Sir Rose has not returned.”
“Did you hear? Prince Clavis returned tonight, just before the dawn,” a maid chirped, vigorously polishing one of the tall windows lining the hallways in the residential wing of the palace. Not quite ladylike, she stuck out her tongue and stood on her very tiptoes, the cloth in her hand coming just short of reaching the upper end of the frame. She put her knee up on the windowsill.
“Truly? No, no, I wasn’t aware, no. And…?” her companion mused. “This is rather disgraceful, dear.”
“It is not like anybody is going to see.” The girl pushed herself further up, to eventually stand rather steadily, one pristine hand pressed against the wall for stability. A single stray strand sneaked out of her updo and fell over her forehead, perhaps challenging her to blow it back into place. “Besides, that’s not important.”
“That is youngster’s naivete,” the other sighed. “Well, what was it that you heard then?”
Hooks were undone and knobs were turned. The white apron billowed on the wind as a handful of rowdy gusts rushed inside, more than ready to rummage through the princely chambers and other kingly dwellings. “So you are curious!” She winked. “Apparently he was beaten all black and blue, so he won’t make any appearances for a while… And the word has it that his first knight, Sir Rose —”
The clacking of high heels called order in the halls. The maid leaped off the sill and onto the floor, hands smoothing out any real and imaginary creases present over her uniform. Mildly embarrassed, she lowered her head.
“Do you know where Cyran is?” Emma asked.
“The word has it that Sir Rose has not returned.”
***
Sir Rose has not returned, Emma was told by what felt like a hundred of mouths.
He hasn’t made it home.
He had to stay back.
They were supposed to meet up at an inn, but…
… but there was nothing following that “but”. Angered or desperate, or perhaps both, so thoroughly dissolved in each other that they ceased being either, she stood before Clavis’ room. The oaken door stared her down, old dark knots furrowing their grain-brow. A guest uninvited, Emma turned and pressed and pulled and pushed at the brass knob – and although it replied each time, be it with a bzzzt or a whoop or a snap, the door did not budge.
“Prince Clavis?” She knocked. Emma took a step back, anticipating some sort of explosion, or a contraption, concoction, trap… Something, anything, to befall her.
Nothing had.
“Prince Clavis?!”
Nothing.
“Clavis, goddammit!”
Not a thing, regardless of how hard her fist struck. Thinking it was just a cruel joke, a tactless prank, Emma let her feelings pound away at the wood, impact shaking her down to her very bone marrow. Hinges rattle-cackled, laughing only louder the longer she fought. As futile as it was, Emma did not lack in persistence. No, far from it – her will was a rock, only solidified by the gossip still churning in her mind.
It was only when the afternoon sun tinted the corridors in vibrant vermillion, so very familiar, that Emma regained some of her reason. She hid her bruised hand in her skirt, head hanging low.
“Clavis?” she called one last time, her voice rasp. To no answer, of course. Defeated and deflated, Emma turned away from the door, dreading being swallowed and digested by the ever-present silence.
***
Follow me —
Emma burst out of her room, carried forth and entrapped by the winds still lingering in the halls, little different from a gale herself. A force petrified with uncertainty, she clutched the letter to her chest. Her body did not hurt; it was the motion that found her, pulled her through the gaps between the hastily jotted down lines, made unstoppable by the sliver of hope setting her thoughts ablaze. She didn’t want to oppose it. Not when the singed paper fit in her palm so warmly, so crumbled and mistreated it could easily fall to dust. The previously dreadful corridors, overly long staircases, the dewy gravel and the shivering afternoon – it sped by her. Emma simply ran.
Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies.
The message was unnecessary; it had branded her mind the moment she’d first read it. A fresh burn, it sizzled and it howled, each of its whines revealing a fragment of the path. Like through a haze, Emma ran, faster than her legs could carry her. She skipped over the road leading to the town in a flash, the wicked buildings and their convoluted streets sprouting seemingly straight from the depths of the ground to entrap her. Not a single familiar path remained in place, trade signs playing the game of tag and rearranging themselves. The capital drowned in a mist conjured by the voice of a siren-heart, the cafes, restaurants, stores, all somehow bearing the familiar flickers of red hair, phantom figures moving behind the glass displays, playing out stories of days long lived through. Echoes of laughter coiled around her legs, the sweetest doubts weighing down her heart.
Emma ran.
Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will —
He would.
So she had to meet him there.
Emma tore away old nostalgia strings. She averted her eyes from the coffee shops, forgot about the happy pair that once sat by the door and drank tea as golden as her eyes. She let go of the memory of the dark cherries, of her love’s delight, of the feeling of his hand over hers, of his lips and their timid caress. Cast away, they shattered under the heels of her shoes, the shards being swept under the hem of her skirt. She could collect them later, put them back together, smelt them anew if time allowed…
… if there was still time.
Emma ran.
Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will meet you there after midnight strikes.
The town ceased, plains opening to greet her to then turn into hills. Completely in their domain, winds broke off the leash, trickster gusts pushing at her back while gales took her hands and pulled her onwards. Through the sea of swaying grass, past thorny blackberries, prickly thistles with their purple crowns and grooves and rivulets and other scrubs – Emma ran, out of breath despite having become the air personified. Stumbling as she did, she reached the clearing. Their clearing, although then it was already occupied, an all too familiar sword protruding from the ground. Scarlet blade stared at her, basked in the last of bloody sunlight.
Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will meet you there after midnight strikes. I promise.
Red roses reeked of sweet decay as Emma took a shaky step. Abandoned by the strength of elements, she could all but crumble on the spot – yet even in that, she chose to crumble onwards, dragging her pained feet until she faced the dearly beloved sword properly. She set her hands on the hilt and sat on the ground. Accompanied only by the hooting of the owls, Emma closed her eyes, waves of desperation that led her thus far easing into a state of calm.
He promised, she repeated to herself. He promised, so he will come.
***
Brilliant sunlight had begun to flicker over the horizon line by the time Cyran made it back to the hill. Beaten and battered, still encased in the constraint of his military garb, he dragged himself through the winding path hidden among scrubs. A broken branch there, an odd clearing here – he did not notice anything. Not until he saw the carmine hue of Emma’s skirt, a rough scrap hanging off the raspberry branch, hardly different from the ripe fruit surrounding it.
Cyran run.
Metallic thudding banished exhaustion from his limbs, thunderbolts lending him their speed. The world ceased in a blur, light tore its way into the diminishing dark – and it was only after he entered the clearing that he was robbed of his might. Cyran forced his body to oblige to his demands, the woman he longed to see sleeping while sitting upright, hands propped on the hilt of his sword.
“Emma?” he whispered, not believing his eyes. She must have been soundly locked in her dreams, however, for she did not reply. As if cocooned in the fabric of the night, Emma swayed lightly, perfectly in sync with the crimson roses blooming around. Petals fluttered, few discarded ones lifting off the ground, huddling towards her to settle in her hair. Still just as surprised, Cyran sat down behind Emma, pulled her frame into his arms. She was a feather when she fell against his chest, so very light he feared his hands may be too rough to handle her. Nevertheless, he found his courage again and swept her hair aside, his fingers brushing against her cheek in reverence as he unveiled her visage. His touch descending to her neck, his arm reached to free her from her duty at the hilt —
“Cyran?”
He kissed her nape. “I’m back.”
His forehead pressed against her shoulder, Cyran prayed to always find her safely there, enchanted where the crimson roses bloomed under the clear skies.
Characters: Maron, White Horse, Licht Klein, Chevalier Michel
Wordcount: ~6400
Prompts: Blue: Loyalty, Yellow: Friendship
Summary: A late-night chat between horses and humans. Each has the potential to offer something, but gestures and facial expressions and mind reading aren't enough to tell when someone is asking for help.
A/N: My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide CC hosted by @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob. This story may borderline crack with its execution, but I hope it's an enjoyable read regardless.
If you were to ask Maron what he most wanted in the entire world he might respond with an enthused neigh, throwing back his mane, and a clop clop from his front-right hoof. If Maron could speak, he could say it was to eat carrots fresh from harvest, or to race through the fields outside the palace with the other horses, or to snooze indoors on a rainy afternoon while his rider Licht sang him a lullaby. Or something along those lines. In truth, it is difficult to say. The intricacies of horse communication cannot be covered comprehensively through text alone—tail swishing and muzzle twitching can easily get lost in translation, you see—but an attempt will be made to relay the events of this particular evening from both the equine and human perspectives to most accurately depict the story from all participating views.
Now, as we were saying, Maron, much like yourself and I, often finds it difficult to express his desires when asked on the spot. Any manner of things could affect the answer, from the place to the weather to even the time of day. Indeed, a much simpler question to ask (man and horse) is what he dislikes the most. And in the palace stables on that muggy summer’s eve, Maron was confident he was experiencing the absolute most dislikable thing imaginable.
“By the way, the kitchens were out of carrots.”
Licht ducked his head in time before Maron whipped his tail.
“There’s no use taking it out on me,” Licht said, straightening up and resuming brushing Maron’s flank. “Believe me, you do me a favor eating them. But I swear this time they were gone before I could get to them.”
Maron snorted once and rubbed at his muzzle in what one would believe to be a contradictory manner.
“I doubt it. You should’ve seen the way Yves’s eyes lit up when he read about that new carrot cake recipe from Jade. He ordered double the monthly stock of carrots. And Leon approved it without even batting an eye.” At this, Licht covered his mouth and let out a small groan that on the surface appeared as though he was repressing a gag. Maron wiggled his nose in circular motions in response, which I am told is the horse-equivalent of scoffing and rolling one’s eyes.
“Don’t give me that. I said I’m fine,” said Licht, but both he and Maron knew he wasn’t.
It is at this point I must confess that while I myself am not proficient at human-horse translations, my ineptitude is not a universal ailment. If you were so far unaware, there exist in our world a gifted few interspecial interpreters across the ages. Perhaps you have seen a dog warmly protecting a flock of chicks while the hen takes a bath? Or maybe you witnessed a squirrel rushing to call a goose to save a kitten from drowning in a lake? Sometimes this communication is as implicitly universal as a mother cares for her young, while in more curious cases gesture and sound bind common souls together. On exceedingly rare occasions, such a bond can manifest from one source to multiple different species with zero previous contact, as is the case with the Eighth Prince of Rhodolite. But just as special can be the connection built upon years of collaboration and struggle and trust, and Licht and Maron checked all these boxes multiple times over. Why, when Licht wraps the reins twice around his hands, Maron understands to hurry home because Yves is baking something special. And when Maron bonks his jaw against Licht’s head, Licht knows he’s being chastised. And whenever Licht says “I’m fine,” Maron learned it always to be a lie.
“Really, I am,” insisted Licht. “Let’s go for a ride in the morning. You’ll see.”
Not in the mood for an argument (they always ended up with them going in circles), Maron turned to look out the window and the two resumed their brushing routine without communication. The dewy night air hung thick and silent around them, and several times more Licht had to cover his mouth and cough as he worked. Maron’s ears twitched at the sound, but he never commented further.
Just allergies, Licht told himself. Horse doesn’t know what he’s thinking.
And the night would have continued on unyieldingly so, as it always did when they disagreed in private, were it not for an unexpected development. The hairs on their limbs shot straight up as a cold, prickly sensation overtook the summer warmth, and Licht and Maron spun their heads towards each other in unison. Someone was entering the stables.
Stubbornness forgotten, Maron slowly lifted his head and peered over the high walls. His stall was located in the back corner of the stable, but even through the darkness he could make out the tall cloaked figure leading a horse by hand through the entryway.
Licht tapped his knuckles against Maron’s neck. What do you see?
Maron raised a hoof up and down twice. One human and one horse. Both look male.
Got it. Stay low. Licht quietly reached for the sword he lay on the ground beside Maron’s grooming tools. A prince wouldn’t be so foolish as to wander the palace unarmed, and Licht knew better than most how easy it was to sneak past the grounds undetected through the stables.
Be careful. Maron gently rubbed his muzzle against Licht’s back and ducked low behind the wall. What was meant to be encouragement consequently had the opposite effect on Licht. Maron, like all who lived at the palace, knew of his rider’s unparalleled mastery of the sword. It is said that his skills were only rivaled by two, but Prince Leon was presently knocked out on his couch after a full day tidying up the faction office, and to even consider Prince Chevalier to sneak around at night like some common hoodlum was simply unthinkable. So Maron’s warning made Licht grip his sword more forcefully as he took a defensive stance by the door.
What need would a talented fighter have to visit the stables at this hour? Licht pondered the question as the foot-and-hoofsteps steadily approached their stall. Was it a spy fleeing into the night to relay royal secrets back to his master? A horse appraiser here to kidnap (horsenap) a prized palace stallion to sell off for exuberant riches? An enemy of the royal family who knew the swordsman Sixth Prince was an equine enthusiast and would therefore hesitate to fight back with a defenseless horse on the battlefield?
The truth, as I am sure you have already deduced, was none of the above. Unfortunately, the only living thing in the vicinity that could steer Licht’s thoughts away from the bizarre was currently pondering whether he could fight with a flat brush between his teeth if things became too dicey. And with the intruders now only a couple of stalls away, Licht did not have the agency to think rationally and burst out from his stall ready to swing.
What followed was a short, anticlimactic confrontation that I am sure Licht would prefer never to see the light of day. Unfortunately for him, Maron found the whole affair rather amusing, so I shall provide an abridged account.
No sooner than Licht exited the stall did an overwhelming cough threaten to overtake him. Midway through winding his arm for an attack, he had few options to steady himself from the conflicting forces of his limbs propelling him forward and his lungs pushing him back, and in the heat of the moment he elected to toss his sword upward into the air and simultaneously tackle the mystery man. He had hoped the shock of it all would stun his opponent long enough for him to recover and strike again, but this plan came to an early stop when his midsection was caught by a pair of taut arms and he found himself flipped, lifted, and staring upward into the displeased face of Prince Chevalier.
If you have ever been caught by your elders for sneaking out of your room past your bedtime, you would understand only a fraction of the dread coursing through Licht’s nerves in that moment. Aside from the obvious fact that he ambushed (with the intent to at the very least incapacitate) the Second Prince of Rhodolite, Licht was physically in a state he would best describe as Yves’s Fashion Nightmare™. His eyes were redder and less alert than usual, his frown curved down farther than it had in years, and his typical restless bedhead stuck out at wild angles, not in the least bit aided by the fact that he was currently suspended upside down. But oh, the worst offense of it all was his wardrobe! When the coughing fits had extinguished any hope of getting sleep, Licht slipped into the muckiest boots in his closet, tossed on a tattered old coat from his teenage years, picked up his sword, and headed straight for the stables. He could only pray Chevalier was too distracted by his annoyance to notice the wrinkly, hay-infested, cough-stained mess of his nightclothes.
Chevalier’s stern gaze followed Licht’s to his outfit. Whoops… I forgot to mention Chevalier could read minds as well as narrations.
“Please put me down,” said Licht, his voice barely masking: and spare me some dignity. Behind them Maron let out a sound almost like a chuckle, and Licht shot him a warning look he was sure lost all credibility of appearing threatening.
“What purpose have you here at this hour?” asked Chevalier, still holding on. It took a great deal of fortitude for Licht to not give in to his embarrassment and wiggle his way out of Chevalier’s clutches like a worm, but in the end he swallowed his discomfort and strained his neck to look back up.
“I could ask you the same,” Licht replied, and instantly regretted it. The blood flow to his brain must already be making him hysterical. Is that how blood worked? How long was he upside down for, anyway?
Chevalier’s expression twisted into a deeper frown that easily topped any of Licht’s personal records. “Employ deflection at your own risk, mime,” he warned. But just as Licht was calculating the combined punishment for assaulting and backtalking Chevalier, a sudden gallop echoed across the hall, the pressure on his stomach lifted, and Licht fell head-first onto the mucky stable floor.
Once the pain and shame faded enough, Licht opened his eyes and sat up expecting to find Chevalier towering over him. When all he saw was Maron merrily rolling on the floor whinnying, apparently now fully recovered from the intruder fiasco, Licht wondered if it was all just a sick-induced hallucination. The figures cloaked in night, the galloping, this headache; surely it was all in his mind and he merely tripped and fell from exhaustion. Bothered and bitter, he buttoned his coat and rubbed his bruising head, wondering if anything like this had happened recently, when Chevalier appeared once more in the entryway patiently guiding White Horse back inside.
“You frightened him,” he said when they reached the back stall.
“Me?” said Licht, forgetting his headache and rising to face the pair. In all the years he’d known him, White Horse proved a stallion who did not know fear. Chevalier selected him to be his trusted steed from among all the foals—even passing up baby Maron and his adorable wobbly knees—because he was the first to fully stand on his own and the quickest to wean off from his mother. As the years passed, he only grew more magnificent and intimidating among his peers, heading fleets into battle like the gleaming helmet of the army. White Horse admitting he was afraid seemed the equivalent of Chevalier admitting defeat.
“Indeed. He was shocked to see you bursting out of the stall like a lunatic,” said Chevalier.
Licht felt his eye twitch, and not from the returning pain. “He’s a war horse. He’s seen far worse than that,” he said.
“True,” said Chevalier, “but you have never appeared before him looking so disheveled.”
A knot swelled in Licht’s throat. Was Maron right? Surely he hadn’t neglected his condition so carelessly that he let his appearance grow abominable enough to scare White Horse of all creatures. Yves, perhaps, but that was exactly why Licht had been avoiding his brother like the plague.
“You do have some manner of plague,” said Chevalier.
“It’s only allergies,” Licht countered, muffling a cough into his arm.
“Strange how the clown never developed the same.”
It was only then that Licht noticed Chevalier carried a bag across his shoulders when he pulled something out and tossed it. Licht caught it and looked it over; it was a newly washed towel, like the type soldiers used during training, but the stench it gave off was far more repugnant than even a shirtless, sweaty Prince Jin in the height of July. An earthy smell that lay buried deep in the back of his mind, but Chevalier was not intent on giving him the time to dig it out.
“Clean your face, it is offensive,” he said, then moved past Licht to look in the stall. Maron instantly sobered and stood. “And you, get out.”
“What for?” Licht asked. He held his breath and quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face.
“This is White Horse’s preferred stall.”
“We were here first.”
“And I asked you first what you were doing here, and you have yet to answer me,” snapped Chevalier. “Our needs supersede yours unless you can prove otherwise.”
Licht and Maron each glared back at him, simmering in place. It wasn’t as though they didn’t have their reasons for choosing that particular stall; Maron enjoyed the bit of extra leg room the corner stall provided while Licht favored it for its distance from the entrance and ease to hide away in. But the other corner stall on the opposite side of the hall provided the same advantages, and Licht and Maron wondered why Chevalier and White Horse couldn’t simply occupy that one.
Normally, Licht would either frame his suggestion of the other corner this way or simply agree to move out to avoid confrontation, but he was ill-feeling courteous tonight after Chevalier banged his head like a boiled egg.
“What’s so special about this one that the others don’t have?” Licht asked. If by now you’re thinking Licht was playing his luck talking back yet again to Chevalier, you’d be right. But ever the megalomaniac (as Prince Clavis would insist), Chevalier acknowledged an informative rebuttal to his authority as a worthy challenge and allowed the conversation to continue for just a little longer.
Chevalier rolled his eyes at this insinuation. “The window,” he responded.
“They all have windows,” said Licht.
“This one provides the best view of town,” said Chevalier, then he huffed. “I grow tired of this chatter. Vacate yourselves before I do it myself.”
Licht was not satisfied, but he knew better than to argue with Chevalier once a discussion was deemed concluded. Though Maron would take some more convincing to leave. They were still midway through grooming and all the tools were laid out and ready after all, but to Licht’s surprise the horse walked out without any prompting, passed Chevalier, and lowered his head to sniff the towel in Licht’s hand.
“Don’t lick that, Maron. It’s dirty,” said Licht, pushing him away. But Maron pressed his nose to the towel and began chewing at its edge. “It’s not food. Stop!” Licht grabbed the other end and pulled and pulled, but Maron’s chomp was firm and refusing to yield.
“Haybrain,” Licht said, tugging harder. “You’d think you were munching on a bunch of—” And then the pain in his head nearly completely vanished as a wave of realization surged through him. Sometimes it takes a little longer for Maron’s messages to reach Licht.
Still maintaining his grip, Licht steadied his stance and asked, “Prince Chevalier, what else is in your bag?”
Chevalier, who had been leading White Horse into the newly emptied stall and therefore took little notice of the tug-of-war behind him, curled his hand around the straps on his shoulder at the sound of his name. “Has your condition also turned you excessively chatty?” he said. “Perhaps some rest will restore your quietude, mime.”
Licht and Maron exchanged a glance across the towel and nodded. “Employ deflection at your own risk. Now!” yelled Licht, and the two charged towards the stall.
If you have been at all paying attention to this unwieldy tale, you may recall the last time Licht attempted to ambush Chevalier earned him an unsavory bump on both his pride and his forehead, and you are probably wondering what on Earth would lead him to believe a second attempt would fare any better. You may also remember in that little skirmish Licht threw his sword up in the air and have probably been questioning this story for the past few pages about where it landed. Rest assured, these inconsistencies shall be answered in due course. But first we must discuss strategy.
In addition to being a gifted swordsman, Licht was also a budding tactician. And while his brothers agreed his open-fighting battleplans leaned excessively self-destructive, no one could deny Licht’s acumen for sneak attacks. Even Maron trusted Licht on this front, which is why he made sure to match Licht’s speed in their charge even though his trajectory would knock him into White Horse. As soon as Chevalier noticed their approach, he whipped around, grabbed the towel with both hands, and ripped the fabric in midair.
The force of the rip wobbled the two off guard, and while Maron quickly managed to steady himself to a reasonable halt before colliding with White Horse, Licht surged forward and knocked his side into a pillar separating two adjacent stalls. But before his fall, he made sure to wrap his remaining half of the towel around Chevalier’s wrist and drag the man down with him. The impact of the hit shook the entire building, causing a certain misplaced sword that was previously precariously balanced just above the princes to slip out of its place and fall. Chevalier, still stuck in the hand trap, roughly shoved his and Licht’s bodies out of the line of descent and replaced them with his bag. The bag cushioned the fall and prevented the sword from ricocheting into anyone, but not without sacrificing itself to the cause as the blade cleanly cut through the linen and deposited the contents within. Dozens of bright orange carrots, of different sizes and thicknesses by the bushel, spilled out from the tear and rolled across the stable floor.
This narrator now takes this chance to inform the audience (and Prince Chevalier) that Licht is also very skilled in deflection. And in humility.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut if you do,” Licht offered once the two managed to pry as many carrots as they could away from the hungry horses’ mouths. They piled the saved carrots into the bag and lifted it together to keep them out of the horses’ reach and from spilling again.
“The information I have on your condition is far more significant than a simple carrot heist,” said Chevalier, unperturbed by the turn of events.
It was the truth. Licht nabbed carrots from the kitchens loads of times before, and the response from the cooks never extended beyond an angry rant to the domestic faction office about coordinating supply every few months or so. Jin always claimed it was probably a herd of hungry rabbits sneaking into the kitchens at night, and that was enough to placate the masses. Missing carrots didn’t spell the end of the world, after all. Surely they would treat this incident in the same way. On the other hand, Chevalier still lorded Licht’s illness over his head like a carrot on a stick (which in Licht’s circumstance meant the exact opposite of that saying). Any moment now he could decide to leave the stables and tell Sariel about Licht’s total lack of self-care. Or worse, he could tell Yves.
No, Licht had to gain some leverage over Chevalier right there and now. If only he could figure out why he was there in the first place.
The bag seemed to increase in weight with each passing moment, and the orange poking out from the rip goaded Licht like a heckler in the audience. He shut his eyes and breathed through his mouth to stave them off. Just their presence muddied his mind—why did there have to be so many carrots?
The best he could do for now was to keep up the deflecting. Even if that meant he had to keep up the talking.
“If White Horse eats this many, he’ll have an upset stomach in the morning,” he said.
“They were not all meant for him, obviously,” Chevalier explained. “When dealing with animals, extra precautions must be taken to guarantee a successful transaction should any anomalies arise.”
Licht pondered over those words. Couldn’t Chevalier ever say what he meant directly? (“No,” said Chevalier.)
“You’re saying you needed hush money—er, food in case other horses saw you two? Were you expecting to wake up the entire herd?” asked Licht.
“Precautions taken for the worst-case scenario naturally account for any hypothetical.”
“Except for my being here, apparently.”
“No, I had accounted for this as well. Though I had expected you to have fled from the vicinity of all these carrots by now.”
The tear gaped slightly as Licht’s hold tensed. Did Chevalier view him as a child who still couldn’t look foods he disliked straight on? Was Chevalier basing his reactions on tests he performed on Nokto, he wondered? He recalled a time years ago when Nokto returned from a diplomatic trip to Benitoite complaining about how their boasting of their recent super successful carrot harvest forced him to cut the trip short. It was the first time in ages Licht felt so strong an urge to console his twin when he heard the news, but what if Chevalier had a different reaction? Something seemed off about it all.
He decided to test his theory. “You’d need a boat-load of carrots to do that. And strand me on a deserted island first,” he said.
“I shall keep that in mind for the next order and charter a vessel from the Jangler,” said Chevalier.
“Nokto already asked us to halt carrot orders to the palace once. Leon told him to submit a lengthy request form with evidence and justifications and we still voted against it, three-to-one. Unfortunately.”
“My word supersedes the clown’s, as well as it does yours.”
“I wasn’t implying otherwise. Only that palace supply orders are under our faction’s scope, not yours,” said Licht. This time the rip tore larger from Chevalier’s end.
Licht really was only speaking fluff at first, but now he felt he was on the verge of uncovering something scandalous.
“In fact, food orders are specifically handled by one of us four princes to prevent showing favoritism to any one noble or grower. And we keep the records of all orders locked in our office,” he continued. “Strange how you were able to run your worst-case scenario calculations when supply was different this month. Was it just a happy coincidence?”
“Enough stalling,” said Chevalier. “Speak your mind directly.”
“Prince Chevalier.” Licht paused and inhaled. “Have you been illicitly influencing the domestic faction’s operations behind the scenes?”
The stables went eerily quiet. Even the horses, who stopped following the conversation ever since the carrots came into view, could tell an intense weight had dropped, and this time Chevalier was on the receiving end. Maron silently cheered for Licht, while White Horse ground his teeth impatiently.
Slowly, purposefully, Chevalier’s mouth widened to a grin. One that simultaneously filled Licht with a sense of victory and unease. “You speak it as though it was a laborious effort, when in truth it does not take much to influence you buffoons. A cursory inspection of your office is proof enough of your dullwittedness, which made it exceedingly simple to send the clown over on his futile carrot prohibition request to peer pressure your lot into establishing a cleaning routine. Even simpler was it to determine which days were Black’s, considering he wakes with an obvious imprint of his couch’s pillow embroidery plastered across his cheek. But simplest of all was slipping the latest edition of Jade’s Renowned Recipes onto the showoff’s desk the morning after one of Black’s cleaning days.”
The only thing preventing Licht from completely tearing up the bag was the understanding that it would drown him in those awful carrots, and that would only make him more upset. “There’s no way Nokto would agree to that,” he said to release some of the anger. “Your plan ended up with double the order of carrots in the end.”
“I never deigned to have co-conspirators,” said Chevalier.
It didn’t make sense, and yet with Chevalier it could. But it took such precise managing and calculating of everyone’s opinions and behaviors to have carried out so perfectly.
“But… but you still miscalculated,” Licht said in a small voice. “With me.”
“An unfortunate side effect of your seclusiveness. Lack of data points skews the probability of success. But this defect is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things,” said Chevalier, dropping his face to a frown once more. “Very well, we shall agree to never speak of this encounter beyond this night.”
A victory? Against Chevalier? On a mental battlefield? By all accounts, Licht should have been thrilled, even if this arrangement meant no one would ever know of his triumph. But a hollowness still dominated inside, different from the betrayal he felt from Chevalier’s reveal. He looked to Maron for support, and even his horsey smile wasn’t enough to satisfy his troubled thoughts.
“You still admitted political subterfuge, even if this is an admittedly minor instance of it. How can we guarantee you haven’t done it in the past, or won’t do it again?” asked Licht.
“You have my word that I have not nor shall I ever plot such an endeavor again without the knowledge and approval of the eight,” said Chevalier.
That should have sufficed, but Licht shook his head. “I’ll need some collateral to prove your sincerity.”
Chevalier narrowed his eyes. “What do you require?”
“Half your remaining carrots,” he said. “And tell me why you did it.” Maron perked up and licked his lips greedily while White Horse snorted and rushed beside Chevalier.
“White Horse says one-fourth and no more,” said Chevalier.
“Half,” Licht demanded. “Yves never would have put the double order if he wasn’t so intent on baking the carrot cake for me.”
Chevalier and White Horse stared intently at each other. You may have guessed correctly that these two make up another human-horse bonded pair, but unlike Licht and Maron, they mainly communicated through staring contests to determine the other’s thoughts and feelings. To the onlooker it is a curious sight, and Licht and Maron watched the pair mentally debate like statues for several awkward minutes until at last they broke apart.
“Agreed. But tonight you must vacate this stall and share your grooming tools,” said Chevalier.
“Fine, you can use them after we finish our routine,” said Licht, and the princes set out dividing the carrots equally among themselves and leading their respective horses into opposite stalls. Maron happily gobbled up his share before Licht could finish setting his tools up again in the new stall, and White Horse solemnly poked his head out of the window as Chevalier passed him carrots at regular intervals. A complacent tranquility settled in as the sounds of horse munching, hair brushing, and the late night summer breeze whooshed through the stables, calming its occupants and warming their hearts. While these two princes were inclined to introversion, the silent acknowledgement of horse care they shared bonded them on that night closer than they ever knew in the past.
Once the grooming session was completed, Maron shook his head satisfied as Licht patted his neck. Licht packed his tools neatly in their kit and crossed over to the other stall, ready to hear Chevalier’s story, when he saw his brother holding two long strips of ribbon, one bright yellow and the other bright blue, up to White Horse’s pearly mane.
“They’d both look nice on him,” Licht said as he entered the stall. He extracted a fine brush from the kit and began working out the knots in White Horse’s mane.
Chevalier watched intently, holding the ribbons closer so Licht could see. “But which will look nicer?” he asked.
Another ripple of warmth began to swell in Licht's cheeks, but a breeze hadn’t blown in a while. Did Chevalier actually value Licht’s opinion?
“Well, maybe the blue will look better in the daytime and the yellow at night,” Licht replied. Chevalier hmmed and took the ribbons back, tying them into different intricately shaped bows on his fingers. No doubt Yves would find them charming, and a small smile involuntarily crept onto Licht’s face as he pictured the three of them dressing up White Horse in tiny bows.
What a ridiculous idea! As if Chevalier would ever agree to that! But still, even though Licht always spent time in the stables alone, the thought of inviting others once in a while wasn’t too indigestible. Is this what it was like to share hobbies? Could this be how Licht could cure his—as Chevalier called it—seclusiveness? They could have been friends all along?
The moment seemed right. He decided to shoot his shot. “Yves has lots more ribbon. And lace, too. Maybe we could all make bows for Maron and White Horse someday?”
“Perhaps,” said Chevalier, all ten of his fingers now bound by bows. “Tell me, do you think White Horse is attractive?”
Or maybe they were never meant to be friends after all.
“Er—” Licht stumbled. “He’s a healthy and well-kept stallion. I could ask for nothing more from him.”
“Not to you. A female.”
“Uhm… You could probably ask Nokto to grab a maid’s opinion?”
Chevalier clenched his fists, crushing the tiny bows. “A female horse,” he hissed.
“Oh!” Licht accidentally pulled too hard on a knot. White Horse turned to him and snorted sharply, dousing his face in chewed-up carrot. Yes, that tranquil moment had definitely passed.
Licht quickly unbuttoned his coat and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. The very next morning, that shirt would be burning in the back of his fireplace.
“Is White Horse trying to impress a mare?” he asked in an attempt to salvage the conversation.
“We only agreed I reveal my intention for the carrot theft,” said Chevalier.
“Political subterfuge,” Licht corrected.
“Shall I send you to dreamland instead?” said Chevalier.
“I’ll be sure to ask for the story in the morning then,” said Licht.
Chevalier leaned against the wall and began undoing the bows as he spoke. “Do not interrupt. It began on a trip west last fall. Clavis and I were inspecting numerous citadels along the border, and as luck would have it I received word that the newest volume of a series I was following was set to release the day before our scheduled return to the palace.”
Licht swapped his brush for a flat bristled one and started on White Horse’s neck as he listened. He recalled Chevalier’s trip very clearly. Clavis had made a point to leave behind a timed-trap in his absence. On the morning of the twins’ birthday, hundreds of colorful paper airplanes were released in the roundtable room, each bearing a handwritten message like: “Thinking of you from so far away!” and “Big brother will bring home a bigger gift, just you wait!” and “Say your prayers, Sariel!” Licht occasionally still felt the ghosts of those paper cuts stinging his skin.
Unfazed by Licht’s cringing expression, Chevalier continued. “Despite Clavis’s bemoaning protests, we managed to reach the final location of our tour and complete the inspection with time to spare, albeit at the sacrifice of several nights’ rest. Our fool of a brother was at his wit’s end, but aside from his sanity we arrived back in town with zero casualties. He agreed to retrieve the book before returning to the palace as an excuse to finally be out of my sight, so he broke off from our party as we rode up. And seeing as White Horse knows the way to the gates I saw no imminent danger requiring my remaining alert and allowed myself to rest my eyes.”
Licht tried to remember the exact day of their return and if anything remarkable occurred, but his mind kept coming up with blanks. (He wasn’t allowed to interrupt, but the narrator can. Chevalier said he fell asleep.)
Chevalier finished removing the yellow ribbon from his fingers and crumpled it in his fist. “While resting my eyes, I could still sense the passage of time, and after an appropriate amount of time until when I knew we should have reached the palace had passed I opened them again but found we were in an unfamiliar area I had never visited before. We were near the outskirts of town where the cattle graze. Seventeen houses in total, each unremarkable in size and structure, yet White Horse perched at the fence of the red brick house watching a jet black mare race across the yard. Never before had I seen him so fixated on one task, even when we are in battle. I called his name and pulled his reins but he completely ignored me. I was about alight from his back to admonish him when the woman of the household spotted us from her window, and she let out a piercing scream that would have woken the entire town had it been dark. It was enough to startle White Horse, at any rate. More than seeing you tonight.”
At this, Licht instantly remembered the day. Everyone at the palace heard the scream, and the subsequent chill emanating from Clavis’s smile when he suggested Licht join him to wait by the gates could only be bested by Chevalier’s cold stare. Never before nor since was Licht so grateful for it to be his turn to clean the domestic faction office than on that day. Maron remembered the day because it was the only time Chevalier returned wearing robes stained not in red, but brown. And Chevalier remembered the day because there did not yet exist enough scientific literature in Rhodolite on lobotomy.
Recounting is all well and good, but White Horse preferred matters tending to the future. And while he was used to his master and his soft-spoken brother’s tendencies towards silence, this silence stretching on in their conversation soon bored the stallion. When at last it became too much to bear, White Horse sucked in breath through his teeth, pressed his nose against Chevalier’s head, and released a mighty sneeze that nearly shook the princes off balance. From across the hall, Maron whinnied at White Horse in disapproval, and Licht quickly steadied himself then began patting the horse’s white neck. This served two purposes: calming White Horse’s fury, and giving Licht an excuse to turn away as Chevalier picked globules of horse mucus out of his hair.
It seemed acceptable for Licht to speak now. “So White Horse likes Verona?”
“Who?” Chevalier raked the last of the snot out with the blue ribbon and tossed it onto the remains of the ripped bag.
“The mare. That’s her name,” said Licht.
“Don’t be ridiculous, they have never once interacted for White Horse to develop any feelings of ‘liking’.”
“Fine. He fancies her.”
“Such a useless emotion. Enough of it to lose his head at the screams of her owner,” scoffed Chevalier.
“He’s alright though, isn’t he?” said Licht.
“Only because I had the sense to steady us in time,” said Chevalier. What he conveniently neglected to mention was how after steadying White Horse, the woman raced out of the house waving a broomstick in the air because she didn’t recognize the Second Prince and assumed he was there to horsenap Verona. Before Chevalier could diffuse the situation, White Horse jumped at her advance and fell backwards, landing both himself and his rider in a puddle of mud. Prince Clavis was the only person standing at the gates to witness their soiled return, and he keeps the memory fresh in his mind for days when he feels blue. But there was no reason for Licht to know about it, so Chevalier said, “I have upheld my end of the deal. Pass me a brush.”
“But you didn’t explain the carrots,” said Licht.
“Do not ask for a story if you are too bleary-eyed to follow along,” said Chevalier. He swiped the brush out of Licht’s hand and began grooming White Horse’s other side. White Horse neighed softly and went back to staring longingly out of the window.
Rays of false dawn shone from the horizon, layering the first brush stroke of saturation on town. Licht followed White Horse’s gaze out the window towards the pasty colors of the pasture in the distance, just as the signs of a red house came into view.
Perhaps it was the exhaustion truly catching up to him, but Licht didn’t notice Maron trotting up to him until he felt his warm muzzle pressed against the small of his back. Even without facing him, he knew what Maron wanted to say.
“Maron’s friends with Verona,” said Licht. “We visit the horses there every month for a stretch. We could introduce White Horse next time we go, if you want.”
Perhaps the exhaustion caught up to Chevalier as well, because the small part of him that planned to find Licht in the stables tonight tingled with vindication. “What do you require?” he asked.
“I don’t need anything,” said Licht.
“And I do not desire to remain in your debt. Name your price,” said Chevalier.
It is a curious state to find oneself able to demand anything from Prince Chevalier. I can think of several princes who would jump at the opportunity and ask from him all manner of favors. But Licht was a simple secluded sword master equine enthusiast who when asked what he wanted most in the world would probably reply with the most seemingly mundane thing. And yet, it would still make him smile.
“Help me get rid of this cough. That way I can help disrupt the carrot supply chain next time.”
I once wrote a fic in the past when I thought Maron was a mare. If anyone else mistakenly thought he was a lady horse because of that fic, I take full responsibility, that's my bad.
With this fic I tried out a new narrative style. It was out of my comfort zone, but a fun experiment. If anyone has any constructive feedback about it (positive or negative, I want to learn) feel free to leave a comment or an ask. Did it engage you more in the story, did it slow it down, did it make you laugh, did it bore you... whatever you feel like sharing :) Otherwise, thanks for reading.
Tags: Canon Divergence, Hints of Magical MC, Background Isaac x MC, Fluff
Summary: One would think that after dying once and becoming a vampire, it would take out the strangeness of waking up when you thought you were dead. It didn’t. But in the midst of his confusion, he met with Isaac's girlfriend, the woman to whom he owns his third chance at life, even if she has no idea how that happened either.
My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide event by @wordycheeseblob and @lorei-writes, for the Yellow Prompt: Life
Although I had more ideas, this is probably the only one I will finish in time (well, "finish" if you count a chapter as finishing, but it's that kind of chapter that can kind of stand on it's own, at least form my pov). I chose this one of all the ideas I had because I felt like it was something quite unique that although I thought of long ago, I don't think i would have another chance to actually write since unique things usually make e nervous...
Also, I feel like this fic sounds a little too shippy from all sides, and that was not the intention 😅
IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist / AO3 Link
One would think that after dying once and becoming a vampire, it would take out the strangeness of waking up when you thought you were dead.
It didn’t. Waking up this time was equally disorientating.
Where was he? How did he survive? The only strange thing he could remember as he lost consciousness was a strange warmth that spread from the wound, enveloping him.
He stood up, but not without having to find purchase on the wall. It hurt to breathe too deeply, making him check to find the wound hadn’t fully closed. Did that mean he wasn’t out for too long?
He took in his surroundings. A simply furnished bedroom, with the curtain drawn over the window, only a sliver of light escaping through it and indicating it was daytime.
With the fog clearing from his mind, he realized there was only one place he could be in. That didn’t explain why he was alive, though.
He could feel the light burning in his throat, making finding food his priority. But he had no idea where to find the kitchen, and moving was difficult. Sometimes he had dizzy spells. At others, his legs threatened to give out.
He had to stop to catch his breath when someone finally found him.
“Mr. Hooke? You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
It was Isaac’s lady - had she told him her name? A lot of his memories were foggy, - who rushed to his side, balancing the empty tray she was carrying with one hand and pressing the palm of her free hand against his forehead.
“You’re burning up. Let’s get you back to bed and I’ll get you some Rouge. Even if you don’t think you need, I think it should help.”
“Thank you.” Robert nodded and let her guide him back.
It was strange to find himself alone with her again, with the woman being so nice to him.
Despite his messed up memories, he was aware of what he had done. They had smoothed things out before his ‘death’, but it still felt strange that she was so comfortable and so worried with him.
He was happy Isaac found someone like her.
It took a few minutes, but she returned smiling, bringing, besides the Rouge, a pair of sandwiches and another cup.
“I brought food and coffee too, but you don’t need to eat if you don’t want. I just thought it would be nice.”
“That is nice of you. Thank you.”
Although vampires didn’t need to eat, she went out of the way to make him something in case he wanted.
“You’re welcome. I always find that good food helps when you’re ill, if only by improving your mood. Although I just improvised something I could make quick. And I don’t even know if you like coffee…”
“This is enough.” He smiled, reassuring her, before drinking down the Rouge and then turning his attention to the food. “Will you sit with me for a moment?” She nodded and pulled the chair from the desk closer to the bed. “How long I was asleep for?”
“About five days. Your wound was taking too long to heal, and we were worried. Isaac especially. He’ll be happy you woke up.”
Robert nodded. He would be happy with the opportunity to talk to Isaac again, but that reminded him this was his third shot at life. Not many people received a second chance, let alone a third. And this time, he hadn’t chosen to come back. He had no idea why he wasn’t dead.
“Mr. Hooke?” The sweet, worried voice interrupted his thoughts. “Should I leave so you can rest?”
“No. I was just lost in thought.” He thought of asking Isaac about this latter, but she was there too. Maybe she would have answers. He wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for long until he had answers. “Do you know how I survived? Both of us know I shouldn’t. What happened?”
She furrowed her brows and looked down at her hands that closed into fists around the fabric of her skirt before speaking, voice just above a whisper.
“I… I think I saved you. But I have no idea how I did that. My body reacted on its own and… there was a light… your wound started to close, but not enough that you were out of risk. Whatever energy had overcome me was gone in an instant. Comte said it was a miracle. Whatever they shot you with should have been able to kill a vampire. He said I should be proud to have been able to save a life but… well, I am happy. But I’m also confused, and… maybe I didn’t fully recover from losing that energy either. And up until now we had no idea if you would really survive…”
“I admit I am curious about how you could save me,” Robert interrupted her, seeing how distressed she was, “but I will also be forever grateful to you for this.” He stood up, feeling a little more stable, and bowed to her, making her look up at him with surprise. “After wasting my second life with senseless grief, chasing something that no longer exists, I am glad for a chance to restart, and that I will have an opportunity to talk to Isaac again. And it’s all thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome, then. I am also happy that Isaac will have a friend like you. Now,” she stood up, “I think I should get back to work and let you rest. I will tell Isaac to drop by when he comes back.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Thank you for keeping me company.” He bowed again, and she mimicked the gesture with a smile.
“It was my pleasure, Mr. Hooke. If Isaac doesn’t come home soon, I’ll drop by again. If you don’t mind.”
“I would love that. And you can call me Robert.”
She told him her name, extending a hand for him to shake.
Robert hoped their relationship would remain friendly, since she was the one who saved his life and they would both be sharing a close relationship with Isaac, and he knew she had priority.
Isaac went from a man who lost everything to one who had everything while he wasn’t around. Maybe it was selfish of him to seek to restore the relationship they once had. Maybe he was too stuck in the past.
But he was given a third chance. Something he thought impossible. And he would try not to have so much to regret this time.
I did't know if I should tag people on this, but...
Tag List: @tele86, @nightghoul381, @natimiles, @bicayaya, @eventinelysplayground, @2-lines-and-a-circle
If you want to be tagged/untagged on future writings, you can reply to this post or send me a message
This is my second entry for @wordycheeseblob and @lorei-writes challenge Wish Upon an Aide, this is also doubling as my birthday post for Leonardo as I was so busy I forgot about it until last night. I went with the themes of serenity and life. On the eve of Leonardo returning home Mitsuki and Lumière have a late night 'chat'. As in my previous italics are used for the pets 'talking'. Pure fluff WC approx 900. Language note: Lumières gift suggestion is an affectionate joke from my mom's side of the family, it means a pretty little brand new nothing.
Birthday Surprise
The night was calm, a slightly crisp early spring breeze wafted through the windows making the curtains dance. The mansion was normally a lively enough place even at this hour but tonight was different and quiet ruled.
Mon dieu I'm bored, what is everyone doing tonight? I want to be entertained!
Pacing down the hallway he looked into the open doors in hopes of finding a distraction if nothing else. He was going to give up when he passed the parlor and his eyes caught sight of a familiar figure reclined on the sofa.
Mais bien, our compagna is still awake!
Lumière silently walked over to the sofa and looked up at Mitsuki whose head was buried in a book. He studied her in silence for a moment before pouncing onto the sofa and nudging at the corner of her book.
“Oh Lumière!”
Compagna, mmm that feels delightful.
Lumière leaned into Mitsukis touch as she pet him and scratched him behind the ears.
This isn't exactly entertaining but… I'll let it pass for now.
Lumière sat in the small space between Mitsuki and the sofa's edge and started to purr contentedly. Soon he heard her book close followed by a soft sigh, he opened an eye ever so slightly and saw her glancing from her watch to the window.
“I didn't realize it had gotten so late I really should be getting to bed but honestly I'm too excited and nervous to sleep.”
Excited I get he's coming home tomorrow after all but, pourquois nervous?
“Maybe I'm just too much in my head about it all.”
Mitsuki said nothing more for a while, her fingers also stopped their movement and Lumière looked up at her in annoyance.
Are you going to finish that thought or… also come on, back to spoiling me.
“Meow!”
Lumière pressed his head into Mitsukis hand and she looked down at him and smiled.
“Sorry, I guess I got lost in my own thoughts for a bit.”
As his attention resumed Lumière once again closed his eyes, enjoying himself.
This is serene, I always love when you pamper me. Of course I enjoy it more when I steal your attention away from him but-
“I hope Leonardo's sleeping well tonight.”
Mmmm I'm sure he's not, he doesn't do well without you. He barely ever slept properly before you came along, not like he could have found his bed even if he wanted to some days.
“Mroow.”
“Ya you're right he's probably not.”
A small laugh escaped Mitsuki and she suddenly reached out for Lumière placing him in her lap.
“Hey Lumière can you keep a secret?”
Of course I can!
Lumières tail swished back and forth in affirmation.
“I have a big surprise for Leonardo, I was going to surprise him right after he gets home tomorrow but I decided to wait the extra three days until his birthday.”
Are you sure that's wise? You're never very good at hiding anything from him and you know that.
Lumière gave Mitsuki a look and she answered him as if she could read his thoughts.
“I know I know, I've never been good at hiding things from him but I can do it this time! If I don't I'll have to think of something different to give him for his birthday and I was already having trouble coming up with something.”
You needed ideas? Un beau petit rien de neuf, that's what you get him.
“I wanted to get him something nobody else ever has before and that's really hard to find for somebody who's been alive as long as Leonardo has but...”
You already gave him back his heart, and you give him a haven of serenity every day. I think that's enough to last a lifetime, even an eternal one.
“Then this came along at just the right time.”
Lumières eyes followed Mitsuki's hands as they came to rest on her lower stomach.
Is that why you've been acting differently lately? It's a very subtle change and I assumed it was just because you were missing him but it appears I assumed wrong. Well now, guess I can take back what I said about him having serenity everyday.
“You're the only other one who knows right now.”
I'm flattered.
Lumière sat purring in Mitsukis lap for a short while and he could feel her hands trembling as she stroked him.
Compagna, there's no need for you to be so anxious.
Lumière purred louder and stronger in Mitsukis lap hoping to help calm her nerves.
“I keep trying to picture how he's going to react when I tell him.”
Well let's see…. He'll be speechless, that's for certain. That will be a fun sight, but he'll be happy once he gets over the shock.
Lumière watched as a soft smile lit up Mitsukis face.
This wasn't quite the entertainment I had been looking for tonight but, hehe the stunned look on his face when you tell him will be worth the wait. Oh this is going to be fun!
“What do you think, Lumière? Do you think Leonardo will like his present, even though he’ll have to wait a while to actually see it?"
What do I think? Well, other than c'est tres merveilleux… I think that you better not leave naming it up to Leonardo unless you want it to be called Bambino for the first two years.
Entry three for @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob Wish Upon an Aide challenge. I have been having too much fun with these and have two more that are half done that I may or may not get done in time. This was inspired by the events at the end of Comtes chapter 9 and I used the red prompt love and the yellow one friendship. Language note for this fic: near the end Cat(Lumière) says Mais sacrifice which it's literal translation is but sacrifice however in Canadian french this is a swear with emphasis. The closest in English would be like oh FFS or uggh stupid SOB. Basically used when something/someone dumb and or annoying has aggrevated/pissed us off lol. Time consults his friends on what to do about Comte. Pure fun, WC approx 1045.
A Plan
It was a quiet afternoon as three friends sat talking in a dusty cellar.
I wish he would just tell her already.
Uh huh.
I mean he’s clearly in love with her and he's doing nothing about it at all! If he doesn't do something about it soon he's going to miss his chance.
Uh huh.
I mean there are ten other men in this house right? And between the Italian and the other two. Especially what's his name, the more obnoxious one!
Uh huh.
Arthur.
Arthur, that's it! I mean Arthur has no self control and is just a disaster waiting to happen.
Uh huh.
I don't understand why humans-
Vampires.
Ugh I don't understand why vampires have to be so guarded and flippant.
Uh huh.
Time turned to look at Harry who given the way he was replying was clearly off in his own little world again.
And the mansion is on fire.
Uh huh.
Oh for the love of, HARRY!
Time tossed a cork at Harry hitting him on the nose and startling him.
Oh Time, I'm sorry but ummm what were we talking about? I was thinking about-
Apples?
Eeep!
Harry let out a small sound of distress. He tilted his head up towards the voice and saw Cat sprawled out along a shelf.
Don't scare me like that! How long have you been up there anyways Cat?
Since before you both came in. I've even spoken before now, and also that's not my name.
Right, sorry about that.
Why apologize to him, Cat is what the Italian calls him so that's what his new name is. Not exactly a creative name or anything bu-
Ya because Time is sooo unique et spécial.
Écote toi-
That's enough!
Harry let out a loud chatter stepping into Time and Cat’s line of sight of each other.
Let's focus on the problem of ummm….
Cat rolled his eyes and Time sighed.
The problem of Comte being in love with that girl and doing nothing about it!
Right, okay well then umm…
Time sat patiently waiting for Harry to pull his thoughts together.
Well what's been done so far?
Well they spend an awful lot of time together, and the girl has made some small efforts but she seems confused, like she can't make up her mind.
She's perfect for him then!
Arrête ça.
Harry gave Cat a stern look. Cat let out a tiny meow and stretched out his front paws plopping his head down onto them before Harry turned his attention back to time.
Now then if they're already spending a lot of time together that's a good start. Let's see…
Does Comte even realize he loves this woman?
Well of course he does he's not…
Both Harry and Cat were giving Time a look and he stopped talking. He hated to admit it but perhaps they had a point.
I mean he has to know, doesn't he?
Not necessarily, he may be mistaking his feelings for something else..
That's a nice way of saying he's lying to himself.
Time tilted his head to the side in thought.
Why didn't I think of that before?
Harry shot Cat a look that clearly told him to keep his mouth shut.
Never mind about that right now, what we need to do in that case is make it clear to him what he's feeling.
Cat & Time both looked at Harry incredulously.
What? It's the truth.
Just how am I supposed to do that?
Well I…ummm…maybe you….I don't know. Surely the three of us can think of something though.
I don't remember volunteering to help.
You're here so you're helping, now think.
Time and Harry wore serious expressions on their faces while they tried to come up with any sort of idea. The three sat for a long time together, Time and Harry occasionally beginning a thought but then trailing off after apparently internally deciding it wouldn't work.
Sorry Time I really can't think of anything.
It's okay Harry I appreciate you trying to help me, maybe I'll just sneak out to the kennels later and ask Vic or King if they have any ideas.
Oh yes, asking those mutts will be soo helpful! All they care about is chasing their own.. Mais c'est ça!
Cat stretched and then jumped down from the shelf, coming to sit in front of a confused looking Time and Harry.
It’s almost too simple. All you need to do is get Comte to ‘chase’ her.
What?
Time and Harry spoke in unison and Cat tapped his paw on the ground in front of them.
You get him to ‘chase’ her. Put them in a situation together where lying to himself or not he realizes he could lose something valuable to him and so he can't help but go after it. In this place that should be simple enough non?
Oh I see! Thanks Cat I think I know just what to do now.
Ummm Time…
Harry started calling out to Time but it was too late as he had already scurried away.
I have a bad feeling about this.
Pour quois?
Didn't it seem like Time caught on to that way too quickly?
You worry too much.
Three days had passed since the conversation in the cellar and Cat was sleeping peacefully under a table in the hallway when he heard a sudden commotion.
“Squeak squeak!”
“Over there!”
“Time!”
“Squeak!”
“Ah no! I almost had him!”
Cat stretched out his paws and peered out from under the table.
Qu'est que passe?
Oh nothing really, just Time doing what you told him to do.
Cat startled slightly at Harry's unexpected presence.
What do you mean what-
At that moment Cat saw Time scurry past him with a pocket watch in his mouth.
“Time!”
“Squeak!”
“No matter how much you run, we will catch you eventually.”
Time, followed by Comte and Mitsuki disappeared around a corner.
Mais sacrifice!
I told you he caught on to that way too quickly.
I know…but maybe this could still work.
Harry tilted his head in thought for a moment then turned to look at Cat.
Hey, wanna follow them and see who wins?
Cat’s lips turned up in a smile.
Allons-y mon ami!
Harry smiled back at Cat before they both took off in a mad dash to see if Time could really make Comte realize just how deeply in love he had fallen.
