PistachioFiasco

And yet, as he closed his bedroom door and turned to find a familiar figure curled up in the black sheets of his bed, he wondered if he had ever experienced this.

It was different from the fear he remembered feeling towards the creature that had been considered his father. He remembers the distance, the avoidance, the protection, the childish feeling of needing to stay away from whatever that thing that stalked the palace hallways was. After the turning point – the image flashes unbidden in his mind again, always, always returning: black stone and black skies and heads on pikes and the sheer abject disinterest from those around him – his fear merged with his hate. In the Emperor's last moments, Gilbert realised one of his greatest fears had already become a truth: he was as much a monster as the man whose body fell and disappeared from his sight.

It was different still from the fear which lurked deep in his heart, which echoed with every thump of his cane, which lingered in every footprint he left behind. The fear he had been taught, which had been carved so carefully into the dark marrow of his bones. No one could be trusted. Every interaction would be analysed, every person would be guilty until proven innocent, every action would be a source of suspicion. It became fuel: for every moment of fear Gilbert felt, he paid it back twice-fold. He was the most feared man on the continent now. Every betrayal, every deceit, every knife was returned. This was Obsidian after all, lessons had to be learnt. It had always been this way.

It was different even from the fear he felt about his sickness. In his youth, he had been afraid of spending his entire life locked in his rooms. He longed to breathe fresh air and play in the grass like other children did. He wanted to feel the sun warm his skin as flowers swayed in the wind around him. In his weakest hours as a child, he would stare beyond the curtains of his bedframe, beyond the curtains of his windows, poised like delicate and intricate bars of a prison. Half-awake, his eyes would linger on clouds that floated so far out of reach of anyone or anything. He would wonder what it could possibly be like to be so free. As he grew older, he found Rhoderic and made plans – plans for a new Obsidian, a new order, a new world even – and his fear changed shape. It was no longer about where it would trap him, but when. There was so much work to be done, so many fine lines to tread and needles to thread. So much to dismantle. Every moment had to be worth something, no matter how much pain he was in.

Fear was a normal part of Gilbert von Obsidian's life. Receiving or inflicting, it was so ingrained in him that sometimes it barely registered anymore. It was fear that had brought him this far after all.

This was different. A feeling unique, reserved only for you (so many things in his life were just for you).

It was still quite novel to him, to walk into his bedroom of at least ten years and find you sleeping so soundly. His life had been full of novelty since he had pulled you into it and you had decided to stay. Mostly, he was delighted. Sometimes, the pit that opened up in his stomach threatened to swallow him whole. And very rarely, he would feel like this. Breath caught, chest tight, eyes wide, a pounding echoing from the back of his head throughout his whole body. Terror coursing through every inch of him. And it was from you. You, who wept for everyone's pain but your own. You, who reached your hand out to everyone with no lies in your heart. You, who had accepted his everything as it was, whose only wish for him was to find his happiness again.

You, who loved him.

(He knew this, though it still didn't make any sense to him. He had called your love absurd and mad and baffling more times than he could count. He knew it, and you took every opportunity to show it (soft affections and stern lectures both), though he understood that he still didn't trust it. Trust you. It was a discussion you had had before, a truth that you faced with your usual determination and clarity, even as the weight of it tilted his world view.)

This feeling brought out his worst traits. The easiest solution was always to remove the source. It made his vision blurry and made that old voice sing (kill it kill it kill it). It was the closest he got to panic, he realised, the desire to wrap his hands around your throat and silence you. Like forgetting to control his strength in a fight. Like using full force to throw you like a ragdoll against a wall to protect you from a knife. It only took a moment. It was dangerous. For both of you. Because at the same time, his solace in the dark for so long had been you. Akatsuki's stories, the you he met in Rhodolite, and now the you here now in Obsidian, in his hands. Every time he had felt himself drowning, your hand had reached for him to pull him back to the surface. You would probably never quite grasp just how deeply he relied on you.

It made him ache.

Gilbert knew what you gave up for him. He knew all the concessions you made to him, how much you let him get away with. He had watched you butt heads with people for far less than what he had done to you, watched you not give an inch only to turn to him and give him a mile. He knew his worst habits and the worst he would do if you let him. You didn't, you couldn't, otherwise you would stop being yourself (and there would be no greater betrayal to Gilbert von Obsidian after all). But he was more aware than anyone how much space you gave him and how little he gave back to you.

In one moment – when you had stared into his soul, gentle but unyielding, and asked him what he truly wanted for Obsidian, for the people he worked so hard for – he had wondered what it would have meant for the two of you if he was 'clean'. If he could shed off the layers of grime and blood and filth that made this nation, as if he hadn't been mired and marinated in it since his birth. As if the name Obsidian, a name for fear and pain, wasn't moulded into his features, wasn't the only thing people could see when they looked at him. He felt the need to scrub at his skin and flesh and hair and eyes until there was nothing of Obsidian left and it was just him, just Gilbert, once again. And he could hold you without worrying about the smell of blood sticking to his skin and the image of dirt smearing across your gentle face, and you could smile and hold him like you had no care in the world and maybe you could both just be happy for the rest of your lives.

It was absurd. You had made him into an absurdity incarnate.

There was no coming back from everything the Emperor of Obsidian had done. And Gilbert was not one for regretting the choices he had made and the path that he had carved forward. But just in that moment, he couldn't help but wonder if you wished that of him. The look you had in your eyes sometimes when he returned from his work, when he knew you could see and smell and feel what he had done, made him wonder if you wished he could be better. (You didn't. You didn't wish he was better, you wished he was happier. You had told him that. Had told Gil, who hates liars, that.)

A ridiculous thought flits through his mind, almost making him laugh into the black night of his bedroom, over the pounding of his heart. Chevalier would be able to teach himself to be who you wanted him to be. It wasn't often that he compared himself to the Rhodolite prince this way; comparisons were inevitable considering the similarities they shared. Gilbert himself had always considered them two halves of the same coin – alike but clearly different. Chevalier Michel and Gilbert von Obsidian would never know love, would never know friendship, and would never find a middle ground. They would always be walking in opposite directions (he had believed that to the very end, and yet the stubbornness with which you wrangled him and Chevalier into each other’s company at every opportunity was almost scary. He expected it of himself. But to see Chevalier coerced into it too was beyond his expectations. They had both finally found something they agreed on: you were a force to be reckoned with when you wanted to be.)

But you had fallen in love with him as he was. And you had never denied what he was. Neither of you would have gotten this far if you had tried to ignore it after all. And so perhaps the terror came from the acceptance, the (almost) unconditional devotion. Perhaps for the Emperor of Obsidian, the weight of such feelings was just so unfathomably heavy that he felt it would be the death of him.

How strange, when his death was something Gilbert had never shied away from.

-----

"Gil?"

Your voice in the dark, sudden as a whip and gentle as a summer breeze, startled him. It sent a bolt down his spine again, hot and cold all at once. It made him dizzy how much he wanted to wrap himself in that sound, layer it fiercely around his wounded heart as it ached and throbbed in his chest. He felt like he might cave in on himself at any moment. He felt as fragile as you looked. So at home, unfurling in his black sheets, stretching the drowsiness away in his bed, blinking bright eyes open in his room to find him in the dark (just like you always did).

"Gil." Your voice was rougher than usual with the weight of sleep and small in the blackness of the room at night. You found him still. He could see well enough the way your gaze softened and your lips curved, even with half your face still buried in the pillow (his pillow too, since you seemed to be lying on his side of the bed). Your hand emerged from the covers and stretched out from the safety of the bed to him, inviting. It was cute, the way you wiggled your fingers to encourage him, the way the sleeve of what was definitely one of his shirts was too long and draped over your knuckles. It looked like salvation.

He felt frozen, his muscles locked at the chill that ran up and down his spine. He wondered how much you could actually see as you lifted your head to squint and pout at him. It felt like something in his chest had opened up inside him. Like his heart had been precariously placed on a trap door and this one moment was the trigger. An ache in his ribcage, a weightlessness in his stomach, a chill in his spine. He wanted to close his eyes, to turn the handle of the door and leave and find a less frightening room to spend the night (the infirmary would do). And when you asked in the morning, he could laugh at the idea that you had missed him so much you dreamt of him coming to you in the night.

Gilbert von Obsidian was very used to fear. But it had been a long time since he had run from it.

Forcing past the stiffness in his limbs, he reached for your hand. He was still dressed in his formal attire, not even close to ready for bed. But he didn't have time for that now. The brush of your fingers against his even through his glove didn't shock him like he expected it to. His fingers tingled, almost ached, like his body had been craving your touch whilst his mind was preoccupied. Your fingers slid against his, skin finally meeting skin as you pressed your hand against his. He wondered again just how much you could see of his expression, but perhaps his silence had been a better indicator. You held him gently, reverently almost, even when you were just barely on this side of your dreamscape. You pulled him closer. His knees brushed the bedframe now. His hand, in yours, was turned softly. You brushed your lips across his knuckles and the warmth rushed through him again. It felt like something had taken an axe to the inside of his chest, the way it seemed ready to crack open. His hand was pressed against your cheek as you laid a proper kiss on the flesh of his palm. It made his lungs stutter.

He felt raw. Exposed and vulnerable. And when you looked at him, he couldn't decide between reclaiming control and giving in to you. He had been working so hard on trusting you more. He truly had. He had given you more space, tried to let you explore and expand your horizons as you wished. He had even come to you once when he was feeling unwell (you had dropped everything and devoted all your time and attention to him, just like he had hoped. And it had made him feel so hilariously shy, of all things. He felt like a child again. You had lay with him and watched him and kissed his forehead and thanked him. He had wanted to crawl into the warm safety of your heart and never leave it.)

He watched you sit up, still holding his hand to your cheek. In the midst of his ruminating, you had removed his gloves. He let you lift yourself up onto your knees, bringing your face in line with his. Let you hold his cheeks in your hands, sighing at the ache rushing through him again. He let you stare at what you could see of his face and when you reached behind his head to gently maneuver his eye-patch off, he let you do that too. You pulled him close, your fingers played with his hair and your heads leaned together and your hands held his face and he let you. Your breaths mingled as your lips pressed against his cheek, against the corner of his lips. He stayed still.

When you finally brought your lips to his, with all the softness and gentleness of your night, he remembered what it felt like to break. He felt like he had fallen from a height and splattered against the cobblestones of the castle gates; like he had been beaten with a club, so bruised and battered that not a muscle in his body would move; he felt like there were no bones left to break in his body when you held him like this. You terrified him, in all the ways he had come to crave. When you held him like this, tension flooded in and out of him at the same time. His lungs emptied in a rush but he breathed easier than he ever had. The chill that accompanied him all his life seeped away, replaced by your warmth. One numbness went away as another eased in.

You held him like he meant more than anything to you. You felt like daybreak.

it took weeks to decide just the last one of this (that's not an exaggeration, you can ask scummy)

also there are two easter eggs in here -> a frieren one - hint: the ost is amazing -> an epic the musical one - hint: i'm obsessed w ayron alexander as antinous

You couldn't see his face from this angle, had expected more of a reaction, maybe one of those delighted smiles for when you showered him with attention. Rinsing his hair, letting hair as black as obsidian (hah) slip between your fingers, you frowned lightly at a sudden thought. "Nevermind actually. You probably wouldn't feel comfortable letting anyone bring anything sharp near your neck."

You'd said it mildly, as lightly as the real un-offended feelings behind it, but as you turned to reach for the next bottle, you felt him shift beneath your fingers. Glancing back, you found him leaning his head back over the rim of the bathtub, mismatched eyes locked on you.

Oh, we're veering into sulking territory.

You raised an eyebrow at him, smiling softly at the pout on his lips.

"Do you think, in this situation, that you're just anyone, little rabbit?"

"I'm not," you agreed, settling back into your seat and cupping the back of his head against the cold porcelain. "But you still don't trust me as much as you love me."

The pout slipped off his lips now. His face had the blank mask on again, the one where you always got a little too close, a little too quickly. His eyes were still locked on your face, and by now it was so easy for you to see the whirlwind behind them. He'd turn the tables soon, re-establish his control over the situation, redirect your attention, lock down the fear with a genial smile, like he has done for so many years.

It didn't bother you most of the time; you knew it for what it was. And you'd already promised to spend the rest of your lives proving he didn't need to with you. In this moment, it felt like as good a time as any to remind him of that.

Before the maelstrom could pick a direction, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his wet forehead. Lingering, you smiled against his skin as your noses bumped lightly.

"Maybe I'll learn anyway." One hand still holding the back of his head, the other brushed back the strands sticking to the sides of his face. Another kiss to his nose, you sat back up. He was still looking at you (he was always looking, always, long before you ever even knew). "So that when I prove I'm right, you'll be comfortable enough to let me."

It was like being in the eye of the storm, a momentary pause in all the chaos and confusion. You'd managed to surprise him (you were quickly becoming hooked on the thrill you got when he looked at you like that, wide eyed and lips parted, especially when what followed it was that boyish grin that you knew hadn't changed from the past, even if you'd never seen it). You smiled, grinned really. Red and blue eyes had settled. This one was your win.

You gently tipped his head back up, fingers lightly working through the soft black to scratch at his scalp, just barely grazing his ears. The slightest flinch and a hand shooting up to grip your fingers. You froze, wondering if you'd pushed just too far so soon. But he simply tugged your hand forward, pressing it against his lips in an approximation of a kiss. You took it for the acquiescence it was, smiling wider. This close, leaning forward, you laid another few kisses on his head, against his cheek, finishing with just the lightest, mildest little nip at his shoulder.

The regret was immediate. You yelped as his teeth sank into your finger, a sharp "Gilbert!" ringing out, and you saw just a flash of his grin over his shoulder, mischief in his eyes, as he pulled you bodily into the tub, clothes and all. Spluttering, spitting soapy bathwater and your own (now very wet) hair, you could hear him laughing, the sound clear as a bell, echoing in the room. Not bothering to bite back your own grin, you splashed him, trying to stand, complaining loudly as he wrapped his arms firmly around you, dragging you back into the warm water, pressing his cold nose against your neck.

And the storm came and went, like it usually did these days.

A short but pleasant trip back to Rhodolite, but a difficult journey home to Obsidian. The changeable weather and the days long travel time had left your body sore and tired, compounding into a minor fever and a not so minor headache. Recovery would likely take a few days of solid rest. It would be such an unremarkable occurrence, if the man waiting beyond the comforting dark of the carriage was anyone other than Gilbert Von Obsidian.

The soft jolt as the carriage stopped felt like a (metaphorical) nail in a (metaphorical) coffin, which somehow didn't feel so metaphorical the longer you waited to step out. The outcome was a forgone conclusion, you knew, but still. An attempt (to delay the inevitable) couldn't be held against you.

A nervous "my lady?" from outside the door told you you had to move, dizziness and queasiness be damned. Even through the dark wood of the carriage, you could feel the increasing pressure of Gilbert's presence on everyone present. He had probably already figured something was wrong.

Pushing up the latch, letting the door swing open, teeth grit against the unsteadiness as you pushed and pulled the heavy (and, made with all his (excessively jealous) love or not, currently infuriating) layers of your dress to at least let you avoid stumbling out like a drunken fool. Or worse.

One foot at a time. You can do this. Just one foot at a time.

One foot at the edge. The driver, from his position by the door, seemed to sag in relief. You spared a glance in his direction as you pressed forward, down to the carriage step, wanting to convey at least some sort of "thanks" and "sorry" and "I promise I won't let him kill you". It was too bright though; you couldn't make out his face as you squinted in the sunlight under blue Obsidian skies.

Your foot landed heavy on the metal step and you could feel your weight shift uncertainly. The tremor of it shot up through you, sending another quake through the back of your skull. Panic was curbed by grim determination. You were not going to fall on your face in front of Gilbert and all these people. You were, however, definitely going to break your heel and possibly sprain your ankle.

Momentum carried you forward and even through the heavy pulsing in your head, the rolling in your gut, and the flush of gross sticky sweat dripping down the back of your neck, you could swear you heard a collective sharp breath. A harmony of dread and despair – Gilbert truly had picked people who could read the situation very well.

Eyes on your feet, you watched with bated breath as the ground drew closer. Even the slightly glossy polished stones made you squint in a blurry glare, as you waited for the impact, the snap of the boot heel, the twist and pain of your ankle rolling. It would spare you from the sting of scrapes and cuts and humiliation at least.

The heel hit the paved stones hard and you felt the shock of it jar its way up your leg, your body, in your head. The pounding increased and the sun bore down and you could feel your teeth grit against the urge to empty your guts on the steps of the Obsidian palace.

You heard, more than felt, the snap of you boot heel. Black gloved hands, black cape, black hair were all already there before you could lose balance, before your other foot could come down to brace you. Hands holding you steady, cape blocking the gleam off paved stones, black hair as good a place as any to bury your face until the world stopped tipping and sliding in all manner of directions.

"Little rabbit."

There was a warning there, more than a question. What the point of warning you now was, you had no clue. You had already crossed the line into 'clearly not healthy and not okay', there was no point picking a fight about it now. You found you didn't have the energy to say it though, instead sighing heavily against his neck.

The black shifted, hands moving to grip you tighter, head ducking to brush hair closer. "Little rabbit." There was an edge now; you were on very thin ice. You knew what he wanted, tried to pull forth the energy to respond. You had been telling him so often to communicate when he wasn't feeling well; you couldn't be a hypocrite now. You could do this, just a few quick words, just the bare bone basics. Not feeling well, rough trip and the weather was unkind, I'm okay, I'm not lying, I'll be fine after some rest, just help me get to bed.

Later you'd wonder if you got anything other than "bed" out audibly. As it was, even through the banging of drums in your head, you could tell the air had shifted. The blazing sun felt so far away now, Gilbert's temper chilling against your sweat soaked skin. Words were said over your head, sharp and cutting and clear enough that you could see the image of his daunting smile behind closed eyes in the dark kindness of his neck. Arms moving, shifting under you to lift you like a child even with all the layers of fabric weighing you down. Against the sticky skin of your forehead, you could feel the fast beat of his pulse under his jaw.

Go to Rhodolite for visit with entourage. Write multiple letters saying you're okay. Get sick on return journey. Announce arrival by almost collapsing out of the carriage. Well done me.

Breathing deep, you tried steadying yourself in familiar smells. The medicinal tone was still there, undercutting everything, but it had become increasingly overpowered by something warmer, headier, sweeter, (healthier). Always there was a whiff of vanilla on Gilbert now, as if the delicacies he'd raided from your kitchen clung to him as evidence of his (comparatively petty) crimes.

The thought brought a smile to your lips. He'd been using your vanilla syrup. You could smell it on his breath, despite having hidden it away before you left. Bad man.

As he lifted you, you reached up to wrap your arms around his neck. You turned your head to meet his gaze, and finally get a glimpse of his face after almost a month away. You'd missed him too, after all (though he'd never be fully convinced, never fully understand just how much; how often you thought of him, wanting to show him and share with him the things that brought you joy and the things that reminded you of him. He still considered it going back to Rhodolite, after all, not coming home to Obsidian, coming home to him).

That red eye finally entered your line of sight and you felt your chest clench. There was a look there, beyond the anger ("you said you were fine, were you lying to me") and worry ("someone is going to die if this can't be fixed"). There was a panic, wholly unfamiliar to you. To him as well, it seemed. When your mind is clearer, you might be able to follow the thread of his feelings (you were always better at understanding him than himself). And you might consider how long it has been since Gilbert Von Obsidian has loved anyone, and what happened to the people he had loved before. And, most pertinently, where it had happened. But your head was still spinning, such thoughts feeling far beyond you at the moment. But you knew Gil (not The Conqueror Beast, The Worldwide Disaster, The Emperor Gilbert Von Obsidian, but Gil, just your Gil) still needed something from you.

"Gilbert." It was quieter than you intended, breathier too. You weren't aware of how you were breathing before, but the scratchiness of your throat made you realise you might have been panting. Swallowing you tried again, the sound more in focus this time, with more strength behind it. His eye never left you. "Rest with me?"

It was a question, more than a demand. What the point in either was you weren't sure; you (both) knew this man would deny you hardly anything you asked of him.

You were barely moving as he carried you, extra care being taken to not jostle you in the slightest, all the way back to his room.

A gentle kiss pressed against the skin of his neck, the smell of vanilla right under your nose, safe arms wrapped firmly around you. You were asleep before you even made it to the castle doors.

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

"You're awake, little rabbit."

Turning your head, you found Gilbert set up on his side of the bed. There was a strange wooden table, L shaped, jutting over from the edge of the bed frame. Reports and paperwork were laid across it and more were stacked on his bedside table, along with an ink pot and pen (vaguely you recalled a comment you had made weeks ago, half asleep, curled into his chest, holding on to him as he made to move to his desk. You had told him to make a table that wouldn't require him to leave the bed and he had laughed ecstatically as he attempted to peal your fingers from his shirt (you both knew he could have easily broken away from you, you both knew that he was exceptionally delighted at your display of clinginess, and you both knew that he would – lovingly – hold it over your head and you would – lovingly – deny any memory of it)).

Looking back at him, you watched as he pushed the table, turning it away from the bed (he had added a rotating hinge to it, of course he had, the show-off). He shifted back to you, leaning over to brush back some of the hair stuck to your face.

He was moving gently, more gently than you'd ever seen him. You smiled at him, calling his name and reaching for him, and watched as he breathed out a deep breath, shoulders relaxing.  The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual. Well, eye. The eyepatch was in place.

"Are you okay?" You reached out to him, hands finding his neck to play with the black strands there. The aching stiffness in your body and the heaviness in your limbs suggested you had been lying here for definitely more than just a day. He looked vaguely unamused at the question; his usual smile had a slight tilt to it that you could tell was fondness, with just a hint of exasperation. Clearly in no rush to answer, he fiddled with the stands of your hair, adjusted your duvet. He didn't seem mad at least and he wasn't throwing out threats of conquering nations so he wasn't sulking either. As he made eye contact with you again, his smile turned somewhat rueful.

"You, little rabbit, are a terrible patient."

"Excuse me?" That hadn't been what you were expecting.

"You sulked every time I asked you to eat something and you refused to take your medicine. You wouldn't listen to me even though I was clearly trying to help you."

Pot meet kettle, anyone?!

You stared at him, trying to parse if this was a joke or jibe, payback for sleeping for too long. He was still brushing your hair back, smile in place. Squinting, you read the lines of his face, his eyes, his lips. He wasn't joking.

Oh, you little...

"Well..." you said, and his one neat eyebrow went up at the sickeningly sweet tone, “now we both know what that's like, don't we?" Your tone was something of a surprise to both of you, with more attitude and more needling than you had intended. Maybe you were slightly offended. Briefly, you wondered if you might have cause to regret this confrontation. He seemed to find it incredibly amusing, lips widening into something more genuine (more childish, like having a spat with his significant other was enough for him to be having the time of his life).

"Are you calling me difficult, little rabbit?" He leaned in further, hovering over you on the bed. He meant to intimidate, certainly, and on another topic you might have backed down. But Gilbert von Obsidian called you a 'difficult patient' and that was not a fight you would run from.

"Well, you're no peach, that's for sure." You tone was dry, nose turned up and, taking a leaf out of his book, you raised one eyebrow back at him.

"That's incredibly hurtful, little rabbit. And after all the effort I went to to help you recover."

You could have caved, softened, and thanked him for clearly watching over you the entire time you were bedridden (there was still a tension, etched in the lines of his neck and shoulders, from worry he wouldn't easily own to – your heart clenched at the idea of what he might have felt sitting and waiting beside you, what memories it might have dragged up). But you were still a bit miffed and his smile was brighter with every word you said, so today you wouldn't give in so easily.

"Oh yes, I'm sure you went through so much looking after little old me."

"Are you mocking my efforts to help you, little rabbit?"

"Are you mocking mine, Your Majesty?"

You stared at each other in silence, eyes narrowed in challenge. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the fever or the still present heaviness across your body and your head. Or maybe you were just having that much fun in this quiet moment with your not-yet-husband(-but-definitely-eventually-going-to-be). There was a quiver on your lips that his eye immediately dropped to and there was no helping the laughter bubbling beneath your next words. "Walter likes me better anyway."

His eye went wide, mouth just slightly open in the Gilbert equivalent of jaw dropped. You had very genuinely surprised him with that one and it was so very rare to see this man speechless. You took in the expression for just a moment, before rolling away, attempting to muffle the snort that you knew you couldn't stop. He would never let you get far though.

As you buried your face in your pillow, you felt the bed shift as Gilbert lunged for you. Deft fingers and evasive hands grasped you, finding that spot on your side that made you shriek with laughter. He was persistent too, half pinning you down as you yelled his name and reached back to try push him away. Tears leaked from your eyes as he pulled you back towards him, turning you in the circle of his arms, still unrelenting, his face a blur of malicious glee. You gripped his fingers, crying for mercy as he finally stopped. You blinked away tears to stare up at him, hovering over you once again, looking exceptionally pleased with himself, with his grin stretched to face splitting proportions.

Reaching up the cup his cheeks gently, you brushed under his eyes, trailing over the new dark circles and creases there. You felt your chest swell once again with how much affection you had for this man, and with the knowledge of just how precious you were to him. You didn't even need to consider everything - just the look on his face was enough. His eye was sparkling, even in his own shadow, and his smile was softer, sweeter; this expression was the most 'truth' that Gilbert could ever offer you. He said nothing, content to watch and rest his face in your palms, enjoying the light pressure of your fingers moving across his face, down his nose, against his lips. He couldn't help take a little nip, quick and sharp enough to hurt surely, but you didn't even flinch.

"...Thank you, Gil, for taking care of me."

Your tone might have been too sincere, too loaded with everything else you wanted to say but didn't have the words for. Perhaps if your feelings weren't so strong, didn't sometimes make it hard to breathe when you so much as thought of him, it might have been easier for the words to leave your mouth. But as it was, you found them, so many thoughts and feelings clambering to get out, stuck in your throat. Gilbert knew you, better than anyone else (though Mr Akatsuki and Rio would strongly disagree). Gilbert recognised everything you wanted to say, all of it culminating in three tiny little words ("I love you I love you I love you") that you pressed against his lips.

He kissed you short and sweet and you kissed him soft and warm. Again and again, until he hummed and pulled back to smile at you again, brilliant and dazzling and radiant.

idk if this makes sense to anyone else but sometimes canon!MC is a little too puppy-coded for me and i need a more cat-coded interactions (but that might just be me who knows)

tagging fellow gilbert fans