a little bit of crafting and huge mess of the rest

Hi Kimi, I was your gift for the event! I had so much fun with this! I've always wanted to do a Hanahaki AU so when I saw it in your S-tier ranks, I knew I had to go for it.

But Eri had been troubled by Kenshin’s sulking, and she’d quickly been drawn into . . . something, that Shingen was still unsure about. A big import of some kind, that was all he knew. Art supplies or fabric, if Shingen had a guess. Her order was arriving today and if Shingen wanted to catch Eri’s attention before it was consumed by this latest craft, now was the best time to approach her while everything was being unloaded. So here Shingen was, trekking to the front gate to swoop in at the perfect time and steal just a few moments of his goddess’ time.

Shingen spotted her first, the breeze lightly blowing her midnight black hair about. Eri had to brush the strands out of her face, adjusting her round-rimmed glasses as she excitedly stared down the road. As always, Shingen was struck by her beauty; even her side profile was like something out of a painting. Shingen wished he had half the talent Eri had to be able to capture her likeness well; to immortalize the soft curve of her smile, her bright eyes as brown as freshly tilled soil, her cute little seashell shaped ears.

Caught up in admiring Eri, Shingen missed his opportunity to call out to her. Instead, Eri turned and noticed him, breaking out into a wide grin. “Shingen!” she called out, waving to him. Shingen’s heart turned so violently in his chest that for a moment, he feared he had imagined being cured.

“Are my eyes deceiving me or is there a princess among us peasants?” Shingen greeted as he strolled over to her.

Eri rolled her eyes in fond amusement. “And I suppose my dashing prince is here to save me from boredom?” She leaned up on her toes to plant a kiss to his cheek. Shingen turned his head to try to capture her lips, but Eri pulled back before they could meet, a teasing giggle his only solace. “What brings you here, love?” Eri asked, looking genuinely pleased at his presence.

“I heard your shipment would be here soon, so I was hoping I could tempt you to a date once everything’s unpacked.” Shingen leaned in conspiratorially, lifting the sweets just barely out of his pocket as though he were showing off contraband. “There will be a soft blanket, snacks, and good company.” He winked, causing Eri to smirk and shake her head in faux reproach at his flirting.

“You know you don’t have to hide your candy anymore,” Eri pointed out.

Shingen placed a hand on his chest, adopting a mournful tone. “Alas, if only that were the case, but Yukimura doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo; he’s still monitoring my sugar intake.” He took Eri’s slender hand in his and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “Thankfully, he hasn’t caught on to how much sugar I get from you.”

The line worked like a charm: Eri sputtered out a laugh, playfully swatting at his arm. “Careful, mister, or I may just tattle on you, and then how will you fulfill your cravings?” The threat carried no weight, especially when Eri leaned against him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “As for the date, that sounds like a wonderful idea, Shingen. It’s exactly what we need right now. Thank you for thinking of it, dear. I have been letting this get in the way of our time together, haven’t I? We should still be enjoying your good health.”

“Please don’t feel guilty,” Shingen reassured her, “Now that you saved me, we have many years ahead of us to spend together. And I’m sure there will be days where I’m drawn into something that regretfully casts my attention elsewhere.” The tension between them and the Oda forces was bound to coalesce into something one day, not to mention all the challenges that came with managing a territory and maintaining an allyship with Kenshin; yes, Shingen would one day be in Eri’s place, and he rested easy knowing she would do the same for him.

“Many more years,” Eri echoed on a murmur, optimism replacing remorse. “You’re right. We have all the time in the world, now. But I hope you know that I’m going to go all out for our next date, so you better. Be. Prepared.” Eri punctuated each word with a light poke to his shoulder.

“Then I will eagerly await it with baited breath. Shall we—oh, there it is!” Shingen spotted a cart coming down the road toward them, two men stationed in the box seat, presumably to help unload the order.

“Phew,” Eri exhaled in relief. “Now I don’t have to worry anymore.” She raised a hand to signal the drivers; it was unnecessary, but these small acts of respect for others was something that always warmed Shingen’s heart to see. She was going to be right there, giving them an extra hand, even though she could have asked one of the castle employees to do it for her. Shingen must have used up all his luck in life, finding a partner so perfect.

As the cart came closer to the castle gate, Shingen had a better look at the size of their cargo. It was a bit bigger than he expected, considering Eri’s usual orders. Maybe it wasn’t a personal project but something for her class, then? Though there seemed to be too many boxes for that, too, especially since Eri’d recently told him a few of them had decided to travel to a port town to pick up new supplies of their own. And he could have sworn most of Eri’s craft or kimono supplies required different storage conditions than wooden crates and boxes. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it by the time the cart arrived in front of them and Eri was rattling off instructions as she and Shingen walked around the carriage.

“By the way, I never heard exactly what it is you’re working on. You’ve got quite a lot this time,” Shingen said as he grabbed the first box.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” Eri exclaimed in surprise. “I thought I had, but maybe it slipped my mind. Well, you can go ahead and look what I bought. I’d like your opinion anyway; I’m confident I chose the right ones but you know how doubt creeps in anyway.”

That only brought up more questions. Shingen would hardly know better than Eri the correct items to use for sewing or art—or more accurately, he has less knowledge on the subject than her—so why would she want a second opinion from him? If Eri wanted his opinion, it would be on what materials and designs he thought suited her best, not which ones would be right. His curiosity reaching its peak, Shingen cracked open one of the boxes to find . . . pickled plums?

“Those are the ones Kenshin likes, aren’t they?” Eri had opened a container herself and lifted out a bottle of sake from within, showing it off to Shingen. “And this is his favourite brand? I’ve seen them enough times that I shouldn’t be so uncertain, but it’d be awful if I got it wrong now of all times.”

Shingen glanced back at the cart, seeing the high stack of cargo with completely different eyes. “Eri, are all of these filled with pickled plums and sake? For Kenshin?”

“Of course!” Eri answered somewhat distractedly as she looked over the inventory. “I considered adding some treats for the bunnies but he’s even more particular about that, so I’m hoping the plums and alcohol will be enough.” Eri turned to Shingen, worry marring her face. “Is it enough? Should I have added the treats anyway, or more sake?” She looked at the nearly fully stocked cart, carrying what must have been dozens of boxes and then back at Shingen. “I knew it, there’s not enough, is there?”

“What is all this for?” Shingen didn’t have the date mixed up, did he? Was it Kenshin’s birthday or something?

Eri grinned proudly and announced, “A bribe!”

“A . . . bribe?” Shingen repeated, mouth agog. All of this was for a bribe? What was Eri bribing him fo—oh. “I see. Kenshin’s fit is bothering you more than I thought it would.” Perhaps Shingen had been letting his familiarity with Kenshin cloud his assessment of the situation. To him, this felt on par with the rest of the warmonger’s tantrums Shingen had dealt with, and he’d assumed Eri had gotten used to handling them as well.

“Mmm, I wouldn’t say it’s bothering me, per se. I guess I just sympathize with him this time. He was worried about you, but he couldn’t join us and leave the castle without both of it’s leaders. He had to wait here and trust that we’d get you healed in time and then return to this specific time. If I was in his place, I wouldn’t have been able to take it well, either. So!” Eri clapped her hands before spreading them wide to encompass her gifts. “A bribe. Or more accurately, an ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t take you with us, here’s something to make you feel better.”

Shingen was torn between bursting into laughter and growing teary eyed. Kenshin would be drowning in sake and pickled plums, but Eri’s reasoning for it was all too understandable. Shingen had constantly agonized over the thought of leaving his loved ones behind, and if there had been anything he was able to do to heal that hurt, he would have done it. But Shingen hadn’t considered the hurt that could still be had even after a miracle had been presented.

Eri had, though.

Unable to resist, Shingen wrapped an arm around Eri’s waist to drawn her against him, planting a soft, thankful kiss to her temple. “What fount of good luck did I stumble across to have you in my life?” he whispered, and if he sounded too awestruck, well, she was the only one to hear it.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call yourself lucky yet,” Eri teased, nudging him in the direction of the carriage. “I’m not letting you take credit for this. You’ll have to win Kenshin over yourself.”

“Eh?” Shingen did a double-take. Sweat started to collect on the back of his neck at the thought of Kenshin expecting an equally large gift from him. “Wait, Eri? That was a joke, right? You wouldn’t leave me at that dragon’s mercy, would you? What happened to facing everything together from now on?”

You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth now, eyes burning. You're being ridiculous, you told yourself firmly, the way you had been telling yourself for the past twenty minutes, and it was working about as well as it had been working for the past twenty minutes.

The library blurred softly at the edges.

"If you are going to weep, at least do it somewhere that doesn't echo."

You spun around.

Chevalier sat in the high-backed chair nearest the far window — your eyes had simply slid over him in the dark — a book open across one knee, his pale gaze lifting from the page with the mild irritation of someone whose evening had been interrupted. He looked as immaculate as ever. Platinum hair. Sharp jaw. The particular expression he wore when he was cataloguing you, which was most of the time.

"I — " Your voice came out wrong. You stopped. Tried again. "I didn't know you were here."

"Evidently." He turned a page. "You made quite an entrance for someone attempting to be invisible."

"I'll go." You were already reaching for the door handle. Your throat ached with the effort of keeping your voice level. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude on your —"

"I didn't tell you to leave."

You paused.

Chevalier had not looked up from his book. The firelight caught the edge of his profile, the downward cast of his pale lashes, the faint tension in his jaw that you had only learned to read after months of careful study. He turned another page, deliberate and unhurried, and said nothing further.

Which was, you had come to understand, his way of saying stay.

You let go of the door handle.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortably — or at least, not in the way silence usually was. You crossed to the window seat on the opposite side of the room, tucking yourself into the corner of it, pulling your knees up slightly and staring out at the dark garden below. The moon was high and cold. The tears that had been threatening to spill simply sat behind your eyes like unwanted guests who had nowhere else to go.

Several minutes passed.

"Who was it."

It wasn't a question, precisely. His voice was even, almost disinterested, the way it always was when he was paying the most attention.

You glanced at him. He still had not looked up from the book.

"It doesn't matter," you said quietly.

"That is not an answer."

"Chevalier —"

"You came into my library at half past ten with red eyes and the particular expression of someone who has been told something they didn't know how to refute." He finally turned to look at you then, and the steadiness of his gaze was almost unbearable. "So. Who was it."

You looked back at the window. The garden. The cold, indifferent moon.

"The Duchess of Varell," you admitted, after a moment. "She said —" You stopped. The words felt embarrassing to repeat out loud, here, in front of him. "It was nothing important. She's right, anyway. It's nothing I hadn't already thought myself."

A pause.

"What did she say."

"That I don't belong here." You laughed quietly, and it came out slightly broken at the edges. "Hardly an original observation. I know that. I *know* that, I just —" You pressed your fingers to your mouth briefly. "I couldn't stop thinking about it. Which is absurd. I don't even particularly like the court."

The fire crackled. Somewhere in the walls, the old palace settled with a low groan.

Then there was the soft sound of a book being closed.

You looked up, startled. Chevalier had set it aside on the arm of the chair — carefully, with the kind of precision he applied to everything — and was watching you with an expression you didn't immediately have a name for. Not soft. It was never soft, with him. But there was something in the set of his mouth, in the quality of his attention, that was different from the usual cold appraisal.

"Come here," he said.

You stared at him.

"Chevalier, I'm fine —"

"You are visibly not fine, and you have been sitting across the room being not fine for the better part of ten minutes." He held your gaze with the particular kind of calm that brooked no argument. "I won't repeat myself."

Slowly, you uncurled from the window seat.

You crossed the room and stood before him, feeling somewhat ridiculous, and he reached out without ceremony and took your wrist, pulling you down until you were sitting on the footstool in front of his chair, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours. He studied your face the way he studied everything — thoroughly, without sentiment, missing nothing.

"She is a duchess," he said, at last. "She has spent thirty years learning to locate the precise fault line in a person and apply pressure to it in company. The fact that she succeeded tells me nothing about you and everything about her investment in keeping you diminished."

You blinked. "That's — that's not —"

"You are also catastrophically poor at distinguishing between a statement designed to wound and a statement that is true." He said it flatly, without cruelty. "They are not the same thing. Conflating them is a habit you should correct."

"So you think she's wrong," you said slowly.

Chevalier's eyes moved over your face — unhurried, precise. "I think," he said, "that belonging is a question of utility and competence, and you have demonstrated both. Repeatedly. To anyone with the capacity to observe it." A faint pause. "The duchess is not, from what I have seen, a particularly observant woman."

Something loosened in your chest. Just a little. Just enough.

"That's almost a compliment," you said.

"It is an accurate assessment. Don't romanticize it."

A surprised laugh escaped you — a real one, slightly watery at the edges, but real. Chevalier's expression didn't change exactly, but something shifted in his eyes, something almost imperceptibly warmer, gone before you could be certain you had seen it.

"You're terrible at this," you told him softly.

"I am not attempting to be anything," he said. "I am telling you the truth. The two of you are not equivalent. Stop treating her words as though they carry any authority over what you are."

The tears that had been waiting all evening finally made up their minds. You felt one slip down your cheek before you could catch it, and you turned your face away, embarrassed, pressing your fingers to your eyes.

"Sorry," you murmured. "Sorry, I'm not —"

"Stop apologizing." His voice was lower now. Not softer, exactly, but lower. More deliberate.

You felt his hand — cool, dry, unhesitant — come to rest at the back of your head, a careful weight, and then with the same measured precision with which he did everything, he drew you forward until your forehead rested against his knee. He didn't say anything. He simply rested his hand against your hair, and let you.

You breathed.

The fire burned low and golden beside you. The library smelled of old pages and candle smoke and something underneath it that was simply, irreducibly *him.* The tears came quietly, without drama, and he did not comment on them or try to stop them or offer you hollow words about how everything would be all right. He simply stayed exactly where he was, his hand a steady and unmoving anchor, and let the silence do the work that words were never quite built for.

After a while — you couldn't have said how long — you exhaled slowly, and sat back, and found that the unbearable weight behind your ribs had diminished to something manageable.

Chevalier looked down at you. His expression was still composed, still unreadable in the way that had once intimidated you and now, after all this time, simply felt like his particular version of peace.

"Better," he said. Not asked.

"Better," you agreed quietly.

He retrieved his book from the arm of the chair. Opened it to where he had left off, as precisely as though no time had passed at all. But he didn't move back — he stayed exactly as he was, close, your shoulder nearly against his leg, and the hand that had been in your hair settled instead at your shoulder. Light. Present.

"You may stay," he said, to the page. "If you intend to be quiet about it."

You leaned your head back against the arm of the chair. Looked up at the candle-shadowed ceiling.

"I'm always quiet," you said.

"You are, in fact, almost never quiet." He turned a page. "But I find that I don't particularly object to it."

You smiled — small, tired, genuine — and closed your eyes.

The fire crackled. The palace settled around you. And Chevalier read on in silence, his hand never leaving your shoulder, steady as everything he refused to say out loud.

But Eri had been troubled by Kenshin’s sulking, and she’d quickly been drawn into . . . something, that Shingen was still unsure about. A big import of some kind, that was all he knew. Art supplies or fabric, if Shingen had a guess. Her order was arriving today and if Shingen wanted to catch Eri’s attention before it was consumed by this latest craft, now was the best time to approach her while everything was being unloaded. So here Shingen was, trekking to the front gate to swoop in at the perfect time and steal just a few moments of his goddess’ time.

Shingen spotted her first, the breeze lightly blowing her midnight black hair about. Eri had to brush the strands out of her face, adjusting her round-rimmed glasses as she excitedly stared down the road. As always, Shingen was struck by her beauty; even her side profile was like something out of a painting. Shingen wished he had half the talent Eri had to be able to capture her likeness well; to immortalize the soft curve of her smile, her bright eyes as brown as freshly tilled soil, her cute little seashell shaped ears.

Caught up in admiring Eri, Shingen missed his opportunity to call out to her. Instead, Eri turned and noticed him, breaking out into a wide grin. “Shingen!” she called out, waving to him. Shingen’s heart turned so violently in his chest that for a moment, he feared he had imagined being cured.

“Are my eyes deceiving me or is there a princess among us peasants?” Shingen greeted as he strolled over to her.

Eri rolled her eyes in fond amusement. “And I suppose my dashing prince is here to save me from boredom?” She leaned up on her toes to plant a kiss to his cheek. Shingen turned his head to try to capture her lips, but Eri pulled back before they could meet, a teasing giggle his only solace. “What brings you here, love?” Eri asked, looking genuinely pleased at his presence.

“I heard your shipment would be here soon, so I was hoping I could tempt you to a date once everything’s unpacked.” Shingen leaned in conspiratorially, lifting the sweets just barely out of his pocket as though he were showing off contraband. “There will be a soft blanket, snacks, and good company.” He winked, causing Eri to smirk and shake her head in faux reproach at his flirting.

“You know you don’t have to hide your candy anymore,” Eri pointed out.

Shingen placed a hand on his chest, adopting a mournful tone. “Alas, if only that were the case, but Yukimura doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo; he’s still monitoring my sugar intake.” He took Eri’s slender hand in his and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “Thankfully, he hasn’t caught on to how much sugar I get from you.”

The line worked like a charm: Eri sputtered out a laugh, playfully swatting at his arm. “Careful, mister, or I may just tattle on you, and then how will you fulfill your cravings?” The threat carried no weight, especially when Eri leaned against him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “As for the date, that sounds like a wonderful idea, Shingen. It’s exactly what we need right now. Thank you for thinking of it, dear. I have been letting this get in the way of our time together, haven’t I? We should still be enjoying your good health.”

“Please don’t feel guilty,” Shingen reassured her, “Now that you saved me, we have many years ahead of us to spend together. And I’m sure there will be days where I’m drawn into something that regretfully casts my attention elsewhere.” The tension between them and the Oda forces was bound to coalesce into something one day, not to mention all the challenges that came with managing a territory and maintaining an allyship with Kenshin; yes, Shingen would one day be in Eri’s place, and he rested easy knowing she would do the same for him.

“Many more years,” Eri echoed on a murmur, optimism replacing remorse. “You’re right. We have all the time in the world, now. But I hope you know that I’m going to go all out for our next date, so you better. Be. Prepared.” Eri punctuated each word with a light poke to his shoulder.

“Then I will eagerly await it with baited breath. Shall we—oh, there it is!” Shingen spotted a cart coming down the road toward them, two men stationed in the box seat, presumably to help unload the order.

“Phew,” Eri exhaled in relief. “Now I don’t have to worry anymore.” She raised a hand to signal the drivers; it was unnecessary, but these small acts of respect for others was something that always warmed Shingen’s heart to see. She was going to be right there, giving them an extra hand, even though she could have asked one of the castle employees to do it for her. Shingen must have used up all his luck in life, finding a partner so perfect.

As the cart came closer to the castle gate, Shingen had a better look at the size of their cargo. It was a bit bigger than he expected, considering Eri’s usual orders. Maybe it wasn’t a personal project but something for her class, then? Though there seemed to be too many boxes for that, too, especially since Eri’d recently told him a few of them had decided to travel to a port town to pick up new supplies of their own. And he could have sworn most of Eri’s craft or kimono supplies required different storage conditions than wooden crates and boxes. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it by the time the cart arrived in front of them and Eri was rattling off instructions as she and Shingen walked around the carriage.

“By the way, I never heard exactly what it is you’re working on. You’ve got quite a lot this time,” Shingen said as he grabbed the first box.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” Eri exclaimed in surprise. “I thought I had, but maybe it slipped my mind. Well, you can go ahead and look what I bought. I’d like your opinion anyway; I’m confident I chose the right ones but you know how doubt creeps in anyway.”

That only brought up more questions. Shingen would hardly know better than Eri the correct items to use for sewing or art—or more accurately, he has less knowledge on the subject than her—so why would she want a second opinion from him? If Eri wanted his opinion, it would be on what materials and designs he thought suited her best, not which ones would be right. His curiosity reaching its peak, Shingen cracked open one of the boxes to find . . . pickled plums?

“Those are the ones Kenshin likes, aren’t they?” Eri had opened a container herself and lifted out a bottle of sake from within, showing it off to Shingen. “And this is his favourite brand? I’ve seen them enough times that I shouldn’t be so uncertain, but it’d be awful if I got it wrong now of all times.”

Shingen glanced back at the cart, seeing the high stack of cargo with completely different eyes. “Eri, are all of these filled with pickled plums and sake? For Kenshin?”

“Of course!” Eri answered somewhat distractedly as she looked over the inventory. “I considered adding some treats for the bunnies but he’s even more particular about that, so I’m hoping the plums and alcohol will be enough.” Eri turned to Shingen, worry marring her face. “Is it enough? Should I have added the treats anyway, or more sake?” She looked at the nearly fully stocked cart, carrying what must have been dozens of boxes and then back at Shingen. “I knew it, there’s not enough, is there?”

“What is all this for?” Shingen didn’t have the date mixed up, did he? Was it Kenshin’s birthday or something?

Eri grinned proudly and announced, “A bribe!”

“A . . . bribe?” Shingen repeated, mouth agog. All of this was for a bribe? What was Eri bribing him fo—oh. “I see. Kenshin’s fit is bothering you more than I thought it would.” Perhaps Shingen had been letting his familiarity with Kenshin cloud his assessment of the situation. To him, this felt on par with the rest of the warmonger’s tantrums Shingen had dealt with, and he’d assumed Eri had gotten used to handling them as well.

“Mmm, I wouldn’t say it’s bothering me, per se. I guess I just sympathize with him this time. He was worried about you, but he couldn’t join us and leave the castle without both of it’s leaders. He had to wait here and trust that we’d get you healed in time and then return to this specific time. If I was in his place, I wouldn’t have been able to take it well, either. So!” Eri clapped her hands before spreading them wide to encompass her gifts. “A bribe. Or more accurately, an ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t take you with us, here’s something to make you feel better.”

Shingen was torn between bursting into laughter and growing teary eyed. Kenshin would be drowning in sake and pickled plums, but Eri’s reasoning for it was all too understandable. Shingen had constantly agonized over the thought of leaving his loved ones behind, and if there had been anything he was able to do to heal that hurt, he would have done it. But Shingen hadn’t considered the hurt that could still be had even after a miracle had been presented.

Eri had, though.

Unable to resist, Shingen wrapped an arm around Eri’s waist to drawn her against him, planting a soft, thankful kiss to her temple. “What fount of good luck did I stumble across to have you in my life?” he whispered, and if he sounded too awestruck, well, she was the only one to hear it.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call yourself lucky yet,” Eri teased, nudging him in the direction of the carriage. “I’m not letting you take credit for this. You’ll have to win Kenshin over yourself.”

“Eh?” Shingen did a double-take. Sweat started to collect on the back of his neck at the thought of Kenshin expecting an equally large gift from him. “Wait, Eri? That was a joke, right? You wouldn’t leave me at that dragon’s mercy, would you? What happened to facing everything together from now on?”

His arm wrapped around her waist, Leanna releases a pleased sigh. If he could, he’d freeze the moment, preserve it in time… Just this once, just for her, just because of her. Before the well of years they have left to share fully dries out. Leonardo nuzzles against his love, lips hot on her neck. Her pulse is still strong, and it lures out his fangs, something inside of him begging to turn her seconds ironclad.

His stomach drops.

He shouldn’t.

“Leonardo?” Leanna asks, turning onto her back to better see him. He’d rather she didn’t. “Why so early?”

He can’t.

“It seems your pull on me is stronger than expected, cara mia. Couldn’t help myself.”

Crow’s feet appear around her eyes as she smiles, and she is just as radiant as when he’s first met her. Leonardo cups her face, his thumb stroking the dark circles underneath her eyes. How very selfish of him to disturb her rest; as if to apologise, he kisses her forehead, to then draw her against his chest, their limbs tangled as they strive not to fall off the piece of furniture he generously calls “his bed”.

“Hey!” she protests, but without any real spirit behind the sentiment.

“Five more minutes,” Leonardo murmurs against the crown of her head. Five more minutes is reasonable. That much he is allowed. His eyes close to shut off any hesitation, the warmth pressed against his heart lulling him into the most pleasant of temporary dreams.

Days turn into weeks, which in turn become months, years, decades… No more than decades. Leonardo runs his hands over the duvet to smooth any folds in it, rather unsure whether his life hasn’t been just a particularly long nap. It hasn’t felt real for a good while. The door to their bedroom opens, and Leanna joins him with an armload of fresh linens.

“Laundry duty?” he asks.

“Laundry duty,” she echoes, rather tired by the looks of it. “Sebastian said there was no room left in the closet and that we should store them here. Open the chest for me? I can hardly see where—”

The globe – his favourite – spins just as his world does, slamming against a stack of books right when his back hits the floor. Leonardo tries to look around, but a fallen sheet obscures his vision. A weight presses him down, a sharp elbow turning against his ribs, and after a moment he is no longer blind. Leanna peers down at him, her brows knitted together in a lovely frown. Spread half on the floor, half over his torso, she does not appear to be particularly pleased with the present state of affairs.

“I thought it was your favourite,” she remarks. “Weren’t you supposed to put it away? Three days ago?”

“Oh? So it wasn’t months this time. I told you, dolcezza, I would improve.”

“I should have left you below that bedsheet.” Leanna glares at him, but he can see amusement glimmer in the depths of her eyes. In either case, she averts her gaze soon enough.

“Well, we could still fix that.”

Her face turns towards him, surprise flashing though her features lightning-fast. That moment he, too, will cherish. Leonardo catalogues her expression in his memory to later sketch it out, and it is only the silver woven into her hair that worries him.

Time.

He needs more time.

It moves on too fast. He won’t be ready to let go.

“Cara mia!” Leonardo announces upon entering their bedroom. “I wound your watch.”

“Was it a nice walk?”

Leonardo sits on the edge of their bed – a proper one, for the old couch has long proved to be insufficient. Leanna lay on her back, snow-white hair spread over an equally pristine pillow, eyes expectant, dim, yet not fully devoid of light. Wrinkled as they may be, her hands still belong to her, and he craves them all the more now that they are approaching the end. Leonardo entwines their fingers. He hasn’t changed, aged for even a second, never mind a day.

“Yes. Next time, I will carry you along.”

“People are going to think I’m your grandma. Again,” she complains, although with a hint of humour in her tone.

“Let them think whatever they want.”

“There is no other choice.”

Silence falls, heavy and too thick to swallow. Leonardo shuffles his feet against the carpet; if he wanted to, he’d distract her with another story or play for her until his fingers grew numb. Perhaps that would be the right thing to do, however, he stalls.

“Soon—”

“We’ll start again,” he assures, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I won’t stop looking until I meet you again, Leanna.”

***

Leonardo lacks a compass or a map, the path he seeks remaining stubbornly uncharted, obscured even from his very own eyes. Minutes have become a century and a half, the memories of affection now bitter-sweet, the rotten heart in his chest still daring to instruct his actions. Leanna is gone. Has been for a long, long while. Yet… Yet that ridiculous, wretched organ holds an eternal hope. Leonardo clutches his suitcase to then set it down on the conveyor belt. Onto another country. This time, this time surely, he will find her.

Cheap airlines have never been the height of Leonardo’s dreams, but it is what the moderate remains of le Comte’s fortune can afford him. The digital age has not been particularly kind to their kin — one can only transfer assets so many times without raising any suspicions, although the word has it Queen Elizabeth XVIII of England has tasted the eternity. One day, Leonardo will have to pay her a visit and inquire about that personally; currently, however, he has more pressing matters to attend to. A child seated beside him breaks into a healthy cry. The plane takes off. Five hours to go.

Four and a half.

Three and three quarters.

Three…

Two.

One and a half.

One.

A half.

A quarter.

Ten minutes…

At last, the plane lands, and it takes all of Leonardo’s patience not to burst through the emergency door. None of his ploys have worked, all his genius rendered fully inconsequential in the face of inaccessibility of the MelonNana TV channel. Nevertheless, he is tactful enough to exit it as a normal person would, even going as far as to collect his luggage. His looks must have alerted the taxi driver. The man doesn’t strike a chat. That suits Leonardo just well, his head turning towards the window, although he can hardly see the buildings they pass. They stop in front of his hotel sooner than he would have expected.

The reception, his suitcase hitting the floor, the rustling of the bedsheets as he drops among them, all thoughts fade out of his head. Leonardo closes his eyes. A cat nap wouldn’t hurt, but the persistent meowing outside pounces on his consciousness whenever it is about to dissipate and release him into the ether. His brow furrowed, Leonardo gets up to his feet and walks up to the window. He glances out of it, but he cannot see anything. He grabs the handle.

“Meow!”

A cat looks at him from the ground, its black fur shimmering in the setting sun. Red ribbon tied around his neck, it holds its chin high, golden eyes filled with pure, unfiltered disdain.

“Hey, you there! Tone it down a little, hm?”

“MEOOOW!”

“Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“ROOOWR!” The cat bristles. “MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!”

Leonardo runs his hand down his face. His options are numbered, so… He takes a note out of Dazai’s book and leaps out the window. The creature doesn’t seem affected. It simply begins to walk away.

“You’re a rather cold furball.”

The cat glances over its shoulder.

“If you don’t like that, you should change your attitude.”

The cat takes a few steps. Again, it looks over its shoulder. Leonardo needs no further instruction – he follows after the pet.

They cross busy, four-lane roads, march through bridges, cross all sorts of neighbourhoods (some more than once). Leonardo has begun to question his sanity, however, a part of him enjoys the walk. The watch he’s been ordered to take care of also appears rather pleased, the mechanism inside of it heating from excitement. Sweet ragoon creeper climbs up fences and walls.

“Where are you taking me, gattino?”

The cat opts to remain silent, as per its right.

The door to a building opens as a man exits onto the street; seizing the opportunity, the cat plunges inside. Leonardo stands still on the pavement for just a moment. He looks up to investigate the sign.

BLACK CAT

It tells him precisely nothing, but he does enter the establishment.

Dark eyes settle on him the moment his foot passes the threshold. The watch on his wrist stops together with his heart.

“How may I help you?” Leanna asks from behind the counter, the black cat stretching besides the register. She is exactly as he has remembered her, from her tired eyes, to the charming air of awkwardness, and her dearly beloved hands.

“Scusa… I followed the cat,” Leonardo blurts out after a short while.

Her eyebrows shot up at the remark. “It’s a coffee shop, sir.”

“One espresso then.” Leonardo sits down in the nearest chair. “What’s the name?”

“I’m Leanna.”

He smirks at her. He’s known that much for far longer than she has. “I meant the cat.”

“Lux.”

Light. Yes, the light has returned.

🙀🙀🙀

Dear Rina,

As you know by now, you were my giftee. I hope you like the story I've prepared and that I did Leanna justice. I gave it my all.

Truth be told... When it was greenlit that I would prepare something for you, it made me really happy. Sure, sure, I joke that I'm your fangirl, but it isn't wholly incorrect -- I do appreciate you a lot as an artist and a person. So... >:) In a way, this is also a revenge story for all the nice things you've made for me.

Keep warm,

Lorei

PS

I had to read Leonardo's route specifically for this story and I was so uncertain about my characterisation choices I ended up asking 5 people to verify them -- so I owe major thanks to Shao-wei @youngshaowei1991, Venulus @venulus, Chisa @cheese-ception, Lily @pond-lilies, and Eli @cottonfluffballofdoom.