katriniac

“We can always have another picnic, Abby. But these flowers…” Vincent let out a gentle sigh as he turned his face, his gaze softening as he looked at the field of flowers surrounding them. “These flowers won’t be here much longer. And I would like to paint my favorite flower amongst them,” he whispered, his blue eyes sparkling in the sun as he tilted his head, his eyes meeting Abby’s.

“That is,” he added, “if you will allow me this honor.”

“O-okay…” Abby replied. Filled with a warmth that did not come from the sun’s rays, she slowly uncurled her fingers from the hem of the sundress she was wearing.

“Could you tuck your hair behind your ear?” Vincent asked gently. “I don’t want a breeze to come by and your hair ends up covering your face.”

“Y-yes, of course.” She raised her hand and ran her fingers through her blonde strands, smoothing her hair before carefully tucking it behind her ear. 

“Perfect! Now stay just like that.”

“W-wait!” There was a rustle in the wind and Abby tilted her face; just as she had suspected, the thin shoulder strap of her dress had slipped down the slope of her shoulder. Her gaze was fixed on the flowers on her dress as she recalled the day Vincent purchased it for her. 

They had gone out for lunch and afterwards decided to take a stroll before returning to the mansion. There was a clothing boutique that had recently opened. Vincent loved spoiling Abby, and he especially loved seeing Abby wear more colorful outfits. 

Vincent had promised her if she didn’t like anything there that they could leave quickly. Not surprisingly, Vincent was the one to find the sundress she was wearing today. It was a bit bold in style – the skirt a bit shorter than what she usually wore, the bodice held up with thin straps tied into dainty bows – but when Vincent encouraged her to try it on, she couldn’t say no.

“H-how do I look?” Abby stepped out of the dressing room and twirled for Vincent, the flowers on the skirt twisting like the colors in a kaleidoscope. The way his blue eyes sparkled when she tried it on, Abby knew she had to have this dress.

“Leave it,” Vincent said with a smile, snapping Abby out of her reverie. “I like it.”

“O-oh...” Dropping her hand, the blush on Abby’s cheeks matched the petal pink flowers on her dress as a familiar warmth bloomed in her chest.

Not wanting to move from her pose, Abby stole quick glances of Vincent as he painted. While he was quiet for the most part, it was his expressions that were as colorful as the paints on his palette. His brows would knit together as he mixed colors, his face softening the moment he created the right shade. At times, his gaze would linger on his subject, and Abby would allow her eyes to meet his, a shared soft smile spreading across their lips. And when the rays of sunlight warmed Vincent’s face making his eyes crinkle, it was like staring at the brightest, most beautiful sunflower. 

“Vincent…” Abby shivered as a stronger breeze blew by. Her gaze flicked up towards the sky, only to find ominous grey stormclouds looming in the once clear blue sky. “I hope you’re almost done…”

Vincent paused, his paintbrush held in mid-air as an audible groan escaped his pursed lips. “I need only a few more minutes…” he softly prayed, pressing his paintbrush against the canvas.

Abby held her breath until the first flash of lightning lit up the sky like fireworks. “H-hurry, Vincent, hurry.” 

“Almost done,” Vincent replied, his voice muffled by the deep rumble of thunder in the distance. He laid a few quick brushstrokes against the canvas before lifting the brush. He looked up at the darkened sky once more, just in time to witness another flash of lightning. “This'll have to do.”

He swiftly gathered his art supplies, tucking his brushes and paints back into their picnic basket. Abby stood and helped him with the blanket they had been sitting on.

“W-what if it gets wet and ruined?” Abby asked while watching Vincent place the painting in the center of the blanket, her voice strained with worry.

“It won’t,” Vincent replied, gathering the corners and loosely tying a knot. “The carriage is not far. If I carry it carefully, it should not smear or get ruined.”

“Why won't you let me see your painting?” Abby peered curiously.

“It's a surprise,” Vincent said with a small smile. “The sooner we get home, the sooner you can see it.”

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.

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.

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.

---------------------------

𝓑𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓼 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓸𝓷𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓣

Ship: Vernard x reader

Themes: Fluffy, pre-relationship, he is slowly falling in love

Warnings: None

----------------------

The night has fallen upon Rhodolite, as its residents were sleeping. Well, maybe not all..

You were turning around in your bed, not even being able to find the most comfortable position to sleep in. You have been trying to sleep now for three hours, but nothing has worked out for you.

You don't know what the cause is, but just lying in bed is boring. So, you decided to take a walk through the castle, hoping a reading session in the library will tire you out enough. The bright moon is shining through the windows, wrapping you halfway in its light.

You soon reached the library, but you were surprised to see the door being slightly open. In the middle of the room, there sat a man in his late twenties at a table. The light on his table was on -not very bright though- and he was reading a book.

His emerald green eyes were gazing down onto the book he was reading. This man was so focused on reading, it felt like he was tuning out the world around him.

You immediately recognized him. It was Vernard. You were confused though, because why was he here? Couldn't he sleep either? Or does he just enjoy reading at night?

A surge of hesitation filled your body. Should you call out to him? Should you ask what he is doing here? Maybe he wants his own peace right now?

But without realizing it, you did. You called out to him. “Vernard?” Due to time of the day, your voice was automatically quiet. But it was loud enough for him to hear you.

Vernard looked up from his book and his gaze wandered to you, who was still standing at the door. He seemed surprised… Probably because he didn't expect someone to walk into the library.

“Shouldn't you be in bed?" He asked, his gaze wandering back to the book in his hands.

“I could say the same to you." You replied, approaching him to where he was sitting.

“But to answer your question, I couldn't sleep well… So I decided to go to the library to read a book.” You replied to him, trying to see what he was reading. “And you are here why, Vernard?"

“I just simply like reading at night.” Was all he said, before returning back to his book.

His short and dry sentences made you think he wants to be alone. Maybe it is better if you leave. “I’m sorry.. If you want, I can leave.” You stood up and were about to leave, but his next words surprised you.

“No… You can stay. I don't mind…” His words have surprised you. He actually wants you to stay? Is he just being kind? No.. He sounds sincere...

You stayed seated onto your chair. And so, around three minutes have already passed…

The atmosphere was a bit awkward. Neither of you two were speaking. He was focused on his book, while you were staring down onto your hands.

You finally decided to break the silence.

“The moon is very beautiful, right? It seems nice reading a book, while the moon shines through the windows.” You commented, looking at the windows with a smile. The moon was shining onto Vernard, lightning his hair with its enchanting light up.

Vernard looked again up from his book at her. “It is nice…” He added in a short sentence.

“... You also like books. Why not get one too?”

You thought that this is a good idea, afrer all, it is the same reason why you even walked to the library. Mayhaps you forgot about the book, since Vernard distracted you. You left your seat and went to the shelves, to take one of your preferred books.

You sat back down next to him, opening your book and starting to read.

The silence between you two was more comfortable this time. It wasn't like any of you were trying to force a conversation or forcing yourself to be quiet. You two were simply enjoying reading in silence.

You were so invested in your book, you didn't even notice Vernard sometimes looking up from his book to look at you. He also saw how the moon lightened onto your beautiful hair. He saw how focused your eyes were on the book in your hands.

Vernard couldn't explain it… But something about you was enchanting for him. You just… Looked so beautiful in that very much moment… And it wasn't just because of the moon. No, very deep down, he knew it wasn't just because of the moon.

After Vernard finished yet another chapter, he closed the book and stood up. “I’m going back to my room.” He announced, turning to the door.

“Oh, I’m going with you! I finally feel tired.." You yawned and repeated the same movements as him.

“Let me accompany you to your room.” Vernard suggested, walking out of the library with you. You two weren't talking much, but it wasn't awkward again. It was the nice silence from before again.

Vernard saw your tired expression. When he was sure you wouldn't notice it, he had a slight smile on his face as he admired your adorable expression. It wasn't clear, whether Vernard was already accepting the fact he was falling in love with you. But perhaps one day, he will admit it.

It was a beautiful summer day in Rhodolite; around the time the roses fully bloomed in the country. Lady Aino had visited the country under the pretext of a political visit, which happened quite often to keep up relations with Rhodolite. 

Today, Aino sat in the garden of the grand palace of Rhodolite where their renowned flower grew in masses. The flowers lined the hedges; some hedges short, some tall, and even some trimmed into intricate designs such as birds and deer. The leaves rustled in the slight breeze of the day, which carried the smell of fragrant floral along with it. To some, this was a wonderful place to enjoy a tea party; this weather was perfect for this sort of occasion after all. 

However, to Aino, she felt terribly out of place.

It wasn't that she hated the outdoors; quite the opposite actually. It was the fact that a garden with beautiful roses was elegant; she however didn’t share this sentiment. Elegance was an unfamiliarity for her; spending days on a battlefield teaches you to be tough, not proper and poised like a delicate flower. 

Yet, here she was sitting before Licht Klein, the Sixth born Prince of Rhodolite, and the man she was betrothed to on a date-of-sorts that his older brother Yves had set up for the two of them under the guise of “spending more time together”. 

She was impartial to being here on this date. On one hand, this was to the man she was supposed to be with out of duty for the safety of her country. On the other hand… she knew quite little about the Prince, despite her many attempts to get to know him.

Now here they were, sitting in front of each other drinking tea scented like bergamot and peppermint with an array of freshly baked good made with love from the Fifth Prince of Rhodolite on three-tiered dessert towers, and Aino, figuring out if she should tuck her pinky inward or leave it out when drinking the tea and making sure not to chew too loudly or with her mouth open.

“Hold your pinky out, like this.” Lichi explained in his ever monotone voice as he raised the hand that held the teacup to demonstrate how it was to be held, bringing the liquid to his mouth, enjoying its contents.

“Ah, thank you.” Aino replied as she then followed suit, copying the movements shown before her, bringing the liquid to her mouth as well. The tea was warm, minty and slightly sour, but was quite a refreshing beverage to have on a sunny day.

Bringing the teacup down she quietly placed it back on the plate as a silence passed between the two of them.

“I’m sorry, I’m not the best at casual tea time banter,” she adds as an apology.

“It’s fine. I appreciate that.” 

He then reached over to the first tier of sweets tower to grab one of the many darioles scattered on the tray.

“Is that your favorite?”

The man before her answered with a nod grabbing another from the tower. Instead of eating it, he extended his hand over to her, offering the sweet treat.

“Here, take it. They’re good.”

Extending a hand forward to grab the small pastry, she raised the dariole to her lips, taking a bite from the velvety delicacy. The pastry had a rich creamy texture on the inside that simply melted in her mouth as the second passed.

Finishing the pastry, she made contact with his red eyes.

“You know Prince Licht, you’re kind of like a Rose; prickly to the touch, but you’re quite kind even when you’re trying to distance yourself,” She absentmindedly blurts between bites of the delectable pastry.

“Ah…” he let out as his eyes averted from hers, pink dusting his cheeks. Then, her own eyes looking away due to his lack of a reply.

Yet another bout of silence fell over the two royals. This time it was an awkward silence as they looked at the surroundings pretending a hedge was far more interesting than each other's presence.

“I’m sorry if that offended you.”  Aino let out an apology for the awkward air that was created between them, hand reaching behind her neck; a physical display of the discomfort of the difficult social situation.

“No. I appreciate that you felt comfortable enough to speak your mind.” A blunt, fast, yet honest reply from the Sixth Prince.

“You don’t think that it was unnecessary?”

Her eyes traveled back to meet his, already looking back at her own eyes.

“I do not. I honestly prefer that you’re honest with me.” 

A small smile formed on the Prince's lips, the first she had ever seen from him in the years she had known him. Her lips then formed into a small smile as well, mirroring the exact one he was adorning.

Elegance was never Aino’s strong suit. However, it is most certainly not her weakness.