Hai :-p, sorry if you didn't want me to resend this ask but just incase. The ask was about fluff w/ Angelico Fra and maybe some shenanigans involving the Pureblood Club and stuff. It depends on you what you wanna do! Anyways, sorry for resending the ask and take care, have a good day!
Yes yes, i actually am very glad You did because my inbox went crazy with a lot of hate and i deleated IT and now i am building IT back up.
Thank You so much and i hope You enjoy! And have a good day or night too!
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Something was wrong with Angelico Fra.
The Pureblood Club noticed it immediately.
He was distracted.
Not the usual strategically aloof kind of distracted, but… staring-into-space, missing-comments, responding-three-seconds-too-late distracted.
Hoyle was the first to say it out loud.
“You look ill.”
Angelico blinked. “I am not ill.”
“You haven’t insulted anyone in twenty minutes,” George added gravely.
Fred leaned forward. “And you just stirred your drink without drinking it.”
A pause.
All of them stared at him.
“…Angelico,” Hoyle said slowly, “are you dying?”
Angelico’s eye twitched. “I am perfectly fine.”
“You’re not,” George countered. “You look like someone who has been struck by divine punishment.”
Fred snapped his fingers. “Love.”
Angelico froze.
Silence fell over the table like a dropped curtain.
“…Excuse me?” Angelico said, very carefully.
Fred leaned back, smug. “You’re in love.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
Hoyle narrowed his eyes. “Who is she?”
Angelico stood abruptly. “This conversation is beneath me.”
“Who is she?” they repeated in unison.
Angelico hesitated. That was the mistake. Because Angelico Fra never hesitated.
The Pureblood Club gasped.
“It’s real,” George whispered. “He’s gone.”
Angelico pressed his fingers to his temple. “…It is not as dramatic as you are making it.”
“Then explain,” Hoyle demanded.
A long, painful silence.
Then, stiffly, awkwardly, with the dignity of a man being dragged to execution, Angelico muttered—
“…Her birthday is approaching.”
They blinked.
“…And?” Fred prompted.
Angelico’s ears were red. Red.
“I require… assistance.”
The table erupted.
“Necklace,” George said immediately.
“Flowers,” Fred added.
“A romantic evening,” Hoyle suggested, tapping the table thoughtfully.
“A ring,” someone muttered.
Angelico choked. “A ring?”
“It’s efficient,” Fred shrugged.
“It’s deranged,” Angelico snapped.
Hoyle leaned in, smirking. “Poetry.”
Angelico went still.
“No.”
“Yes,” George said. “If she’s a Delico, she’ll appreciate it.”
Angelico looked like he had just been handed a death sentence.
“I will not write poetry.”
“You asked for help,” Hoyle said sweetly.
“And we are helping.”
He tried.
Gods, he tried.
That evening, hunched over a desk like a man deciphering an ancient curse, Angelico Fra attempted poetry.
It was a disaster.
He scratched out line after line.
Your eyes are like...
No.
Your presence is tolerable—
Absolutely not.
You are… adequate—
He slammed his head lightly against the desk.
“Pathetic,” he muttered to himself. But he didn’t stop. Because it was you. His childhood friend. The one who had always walked beside him, never behind. The one who never cared about his name, his title, his expectations.
The one who had somehow become—
Everything.
The next day, the Pureblood Club followed him.
Of course they did.
They hid behind a tree in the courtyard like the worst conspirators in existence.
“This is beneath us,” Hoyle whispered.
“You’re the one crouching,” Fred replied.
Angelico stood in front of you, posture rigid, paper in hand.
You blinked up at him, curious.
“Angelico?”
He looked like he wanted to evaporate.
“…I have prepared something.”
“Oh?”
He unfolded the paper. His hands were steady. His voice was not.
“…You are—” he paused, visibly recalculating his life choices, “—a presence that is… statistically significant in my daily routine.”
Behind the tree, someone choked. He continued, because he had committed and now he would die with dignity.
“Your existence improves—certain variables.”
More muffled wheezing, the tree was moving.
“You are… not unpleasant to be around.”
You stared at him. He stared at the paper to not even dare meet yours.
“And—” his voice faltered just slightly, “—I find myself… preferring your company above others.”
Silence.
The Pureblood Club burst into silent applause behind the tree. Angelico lowered the paper.
“…This was a failure,” he said flatly. “Disregard it.”
He turned on his heel and walked away with the speed of a man fleeing a burning building.
“Angelico—wait!”
You ran after him.
He stopped, back still to you.
“There is no need to spare my dignity,” he said stiffly. “I am aware that was—suboptimal.”
You stepped in front of him, catching his sleeve.
“It wasn’t.”
He blinked.
“…What?”
“It was nice,” you said, a little breathless. “It was really nice.”
He stared at you like you had just rewritten reality.
“That,” he said slowly, “was objectively terrible.”
You smiled.
“Maybe. But it was you.”
Something in his chest tightened. You looked at him softer now.
“And I liked it.”
Angelico exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders just slightly.
“…I can attempt something more conventional.”
“You don’t have to,” you said gently. “Just… stay like this.”
He hesitated. Then, quieter—
“…May I take you somewhere? For your birthday.”
Your smile widened.
“I’d like that.”
Later, when he returned to the Pureblood Club, they stared at him like he had conquered a kingdom.
“Well?” Hoyle demanded.
Angelico sat down, composed once more—but there was something different now. Lighter.
“…It was successful.”
The table erupted again.
Fred slammed his hand down. “The poetry worked?!”
Angelico frowned. “Do not ever suggest that again.”
George leaned back, impressed. “You won her over with affection. Amazing as always Angelico!.”
Angelico allowed himself the smallest, proudest smile.
“…She was always going to be mine.”
And for once— It wasn’t arrogance, well, not fully, because Angelico is always proud and arrogant, but now he was certain too. Certain that he has a chance.
