sol ☀︎

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“—which is why you must understand how wasteful it is to spend money like this!”

The words from your father’s mouth enter through one ear and leave through the other. Buying gorgeous dresses is not a crime. Not if they’re so beautiful and only made for one season. Men are too simple-minded to understand the pleasures of feeling satin against one’s fingers and marveling at pearls stitched into hems.

“Difficult girl, are you listening to me? Our family will be on the streets if you keep spending money on clothes and shoes!” Your mother can only shake her head in dismay at the scene, as if she wasn’t the one who raised you to want the finer things in life. Such irony, you think, as your eye catches the glint of the stones adorning her ears.

You sink further into your father’s office chair as your eyes look everywhere but his face. It’s not shame that prevents you from facing his reprimanding, but rather the sheer boredom that comes with hearing a speech you've heard not hundreds but thousands of times. You’ve memorized all the books on the shelf, from family records to accounts that date back to the day your father was born. The blue and gold Persian carpet beneath your feet wrinkles every time you move your feet to prevent yourself from falling asleep.

Your muscles itch to run to Yuki, your only confidante and true friend, who was waiting in the parlor so she could show you her crystal brooch for the Gojo ball tonight. If only you could jump out the window to escape. The thought does force you to glance at the French windows in the room. You would land right on top of whatever poor blonde soul was standing beneath it, talking to the blasted accountant who gave your father reports of what you did. Curiosity itches when you notice them shake hands. The blonde man’s shoulders are wide, almost as if they were too big to fit through any door of your house. You try to peer further, hoping to catch sight of his face but he walks away from the house too quickly.

Such a shame; he was starting to become a good distraction from the lecture you were receiving.

“Yes, yes, I understand—do not spend money carelessly. I shall be more aware of it from now on,” you grumble as you begin to get up.

“Are you seeing this?” your father asks your mother in disbelief. You choose to ignore her stern stare as you walk towards the exit.

“One day you will get married and your husband will not be as kind as me to let you frolic around boutiques and fan shops. You will have to learn how to use your money to run a household.”

You stop in your tracks, sighing as your eyes meet your father’s, both the same color but with different intensities. “Well, you should be most delighted to know that I plan on marrying someone even richer than us. That way I shall be able to live above my current means.”

You stride out of the room to drown out the sounds of your father yelling profanities. For a man of such high social standing, he tended to lose his composure a lot. It is probably why his heart is so sick so often.

You find Yuki nervously munching on the biscuits the servants had served her upon her arrival.

“Will you be able to go to the ball tonight?”

You scoff as you pull the velvet box out of her hand and trace your fingers over the delicate brooch. It is in the shape of a teardrop. “Of course. My father may have the patience of a feral horse, but he is not one to meddle with appearances. Come on, my ladies' maid will help us get ready.”

—

The Gojo ball is spectacular as usual. They are usually the ones to host the first ball of the season, social standing and all. Their family crest adorns the panelling of the walls and it makes you envious over how unremarkable your own home feels compared to the estate. The white-haired man had recently married the eldest daughter of the Iori family. You assume this may be the last time they host a ball this grand, as many people expect them to have a child within the next year or so. You will miss it very much. They redecorated their estate quite often, so it was exciting to visit.

Yuki sticks close to you, wary of all the young bachelors looking in both of your ways. “Just look at them—it’s like they haven’t seen a woman since the day they were born.” You hide your grimace with a neutral expression, keeping your fan close to your face in case your true feelings show.

“Well, many people in the ton have met their true love at a Gojo ball. It is a famous saying. It somehow happens to be the one that creates the most matches.”

You raise your brows at Yuki. “Are you hoping for it too? Meeting your match?”

“I shall hope so. My family is starting to discuss the distribution of the inheritance among my siblings and me. I doubt I will receive as much as my brothers.”

“You could always come live with me. I plan on killing my cousin and uncle so I can receive the inheritance.”

Yuki looks at you in shock.

“I was jesting. Goodness, what do you think of me?”

“I never know what you may do next. I am always at the edge when it comes to you.”

You both giggle and walk around, rousing your options for a potential husband that is not as desperate as most men but not enough of a rake to bring in a mistress a year into the marriage.

But a room full of people never interested you. Not when you knew that the Gojos had one of the most extensive art collections in the ton. It helped since they came from generations of money. Yuki gets caught up in a conversation with a soldier who seemed like he had kind eyes (according to her), so you make your way towards the gallery, which was unusually quiet.

You only wished you could see the paintings in daylight. The candles do nothing to highlight the beauty of them. You could only dream of having such a collection for yourself. Your father would’ve probably married you off to a farmer if you added paintings to your monthly expenses.

The urge to touch them burns under your skin. Waves of the water call you, wanting to drown you from across the frame. And you would. Happily, if you could. You sigh, sitting back into a chair as you gaze upon the beautiful paintings. You will need to make good friends with the lady of the house if you wish to see them in the morning.

You are not sure how long you end up marvelling at the paintings, but you are sure it is enough to send your mother into a frenzy so you decide to leave.

You’d think that no one would’ve thought to go as far into the manor, but you are proven wrong when you hear boisterous laughter from a little room.

You were bored. The paintings needed to be left alone. What’s a little eavesdropping?

“So I told the poor man”—chuckle—”that the job is all about living hand-to-mouth!” The man’s voice is deep. Rich like chocolate from France.

“The queen’s painter can barely afford to live in a single room in Mayfair, so how can a farmer’s son? I gave him a few pounds to give him some real direction,” he continued.

“And pray tell, what direction was that?” another man asked.

“Away from the art school, of course!”

All the men burst into laughter once more and you gasp, quickly clamping your gloved hand over your mouth. The audacity.

“Painting is not a real job. Especially now that the world is moving forward, we need people who can do more practical jobs. People like him shouldn’t dream too big, am I not correct?”

Even the way he phrases his sentences sounds obnoxious, like his opinion is the most important one in the room. The men hum in agreement and cheer their drink to the idiot’s proclamation.

Well, you always believed that men were simple-minded creatures. A little bit like monkeys. Well, that is an insult to them. Monkeys are capable of feeling empathy.

The grandfather clock in the room strikes eleven and the men disperse. They ask Mr. Idiot if he was going to leave as well but he refuses, choosing to relax in solitude before going to the busy ballroom.

Not if you could help it. After all the men leave, your pride pushes you to confront Mr. Idiot.

“So you think painting is not a respectable job?”

You are met with the sight of a pink-haired brute. He is broad, much like the blonde man outside your father’s window, but there is an element of roughness to him. As he walks closer to you, the candles illuminate his face.

Scars, everywhere. Along his jaw, beneath his right eye, and a big one cutting through his brow.

“And who may you be?”

“My introduction does not matter, for you do not respect those who like the arts.”

“So you’re a painter,” he assumes.

“No, I am not.”

“Sculptor?”

“I do not like getting my hands dirty. No.”

“A sketch artist.”

“...No.”

“Then why should I care about what you have to say?" he scoffs before taking a gulp of his drink. You can feel his deep, crimson eyes drink in the sight of you. Like you are his prey.

“I am simply someone who appreciates the beauty and hard work that goes into creating art,” you sternly answer, even though you know you sound quite immature. What standing do you have to defend a whole field anyway?

Good taste? Possibly. But there are no real achievements of your own.

“Of course, someone who simply appreciates hard work. Tell me, if I were to slip your glove right off, would you have any calluses on your hands?”

“I do not understand why that is of any significance." Your hands immediately go behind your back, and you gulp. He walks closer to you, and you feel like you can almost smell him. Tobacco and hints of cedar. A little bit of brandy too.

“A person who truly works hard and contributes to society has marks on their body to show it. I have fought with our troops. What have you done?”

“Well, people contribute in different ways. Your way of thinking is too small to understand the world. A brute like you can only think of violence as a viable way to live and survive, while artists survive by creating beauty and soothing a common man’s soul through his eyes.”

The man barks in laughter and you feel as if the floor has shaken beneath your feet. At this point, random words are only spilling out of you to preserve whatever you have left of your pride. You could think of a hundred things that are wrong at this moment, but the sheer sight of him is only reminding you that you are unchaperoned with a man.

If word gets out—

“You know quite a lot about the world,” he snarks. “I think you are right. I have much to learn.”

“Why I—” You hear the sound of footsteps far off in the corridor and leave the room as fast as you can.

You feel as if a boulder has been lifted off your chest when the man is out of sight. You rush to Yuki and absentmindedly pull her away from the person she was talking to.

“Are you well? You are sweating.”

Your eyes dart around the room, hoping to find the brute before he finds you. “I think I got myself into trouble without meaning to,” you mumble, walking towards a sculpture of Venus so you could hide behind it.

“Did your father notice your new necklace already? It usually takes him a week to notice new jewelry.”

“No, I opened my mouth. That is what.”

“I don’t—”

You turn when you hear your father call out your name. Usually when the man calls you, you feel like running in the opposite direction, but this may be the one instance where you feel safe with him. A smile stretches across your face when you turn to face him.

But it is quickly gone when you notice who is walking next to him.

Your father happily introduces you to the pink-haired brute you had just told off earlier.

“Meet Lord Ryomen; he has just returned from France.”

———

Author’s note: as mentioned on my pinned post, I will only post previews or the first chapter of the story on tumblr. If you’d like to continue reading, head on over to AO3 :D