#fullcowling

You feel so small compared to him. That would not be so farfetched. He is a remarkable man, and what about you? You are just a librarian at this school. You are like mere dust to him.

Yet, despite this, you continued yearning for him no matter how ridiculous it seems. Perhaps you have fallen too deep in romantic fiction that you make hopeless wishes. You are known to be excellent in reading people but for some reason, you find it hard to read Divus. His perfect posture whenever he would scan the Applied Sciences aisle showed that he is focused on his reading. However, it is his expression you find hard to decipher. He looks dashing as ever, of course, but his thin lips and neutral gaze makes it hard for you to know what he is thinking.

If your life is a novel it would be so easy to know what runs in his mind. What he feels for you. Maybe he could even know what you feel for him. In a story, what makes characters likable is knowing what their emotions, their feelings, their ambitions, and their dreams are, for they are already laid out in ink on pages. Implicit or explicit information, simple or complex structure of personality, it does not matter. You would easily know about them for they are just sentences away from understanding.

And in romance novels…oh, how dreamy they are. How easy they make it seem to fall in love, to confess, and to achieve a happy ending. However, as a librarian, you know the reality of your situation. Your relationship with Crewel is a professional. Strictly, if you were to add an adjective. Is it really strictly professional? Your right brain points out the moments in your life where you interacted with him. At faculty meetings, reunions, at the library…moments like those just feel surreal you almost believed that you made those up on your own. Probably because you initiated each of those interactions yourself.

The only time, where Crewel would come to you himself, are rare. One time he came to the library and checked out a book to read in his spare time. His voice distracted you. It was like cherry wine. Sweet, smooth, enough to make your throat dry and your cheeks flushed. Oh, you could listen to him talk for hours in that tone of his, and he could even make you do anything he pleases.

You greet each other good morning or good afternoon when you pass by each other, and he would smile a teasing one at you as if you two shared a secret with each other. Well, technically you did, for one time you bought him coffee under the pouring rain, and he repaid you for your kindness. Soon enough your coffee exchange became a routine for both of you. It was sweeter than the cream in his coffee. It was more refreshing than the rainy day you shared with each other.

His gaze. His posture. His voice. His smile. Despite those small interactions with each other you are still troubled by what he thinks of you. A friend? A colleague? A special someone? Why is this so hard? Why was it so easy to fall in love? And when things could not get worse for you, your left brain argued that he might not be interested to mingle with a man.

Well, you could find out for yourself, but that would be creepy. Your workspace is in the library! You could not just leave when you please just so you can observe him. You could not use the staff files to your advantage—that is being a borderline stalker. Whatever Crewel’s orientation is, is his to keep and his to disclose to you. Oh, but still. If this were a novel, you could easily analyze the situations that give off evidence of him liking men. Or liking someone like you.

If that were the case you would not have a hard time trying to decipher his words, his gaze, his tone, and his actions towards you. If that were the case…if that were the case…then…well, there’s no then. Divus Crewel is not a fictional character to analyze. He is your coworker, your colleague.

It is hard to know what he thinks of you, at all. You really wished that you could…but the thought of knowing what he thinks to scare you, as well.

Rejection is not that far from reality. Who are you compared to him again? A nobody. A simple, ‘timid’, librarian that enjoys reading romantic and fiction novels and inserts himself in scenarios he makes up for himself just so he can…find the happiness he wishes to have.

But Divus is your happiness. Became your source of happiness. Ironic how he colors the muted floor of the library with his monochromatic appearance. Maybe it is better that you keep your feelings to yourself. You avoid the risk of rejection and humiliation as well as ruining whatever it is your current relationship with Crewel is.

You barely registered the visitor in front of your desk until a familiar red leathery gloved hand rested atop of yours. The contact of the leather sent a spark of electricity through you that you snapped your head up to meet alluring silvery blue eyes. There is only one person in this college that owns those distinct, beautiful, silvery blue eyes.

Divus.

“Have I interrupted your moment of peace, sir?” He asked in that cherry wine voice of his. It made your throat dry up and your face warm. “N-No—no!” You squeaked, shaking your head to brush off the embarrassment. Quickly, you fixed your composure and appeared presentable. As presentable as you could be under his stare that is. You just hope that he found some amusement in your haste. “D-Div—Mr. Crewel, what can I do for you?” You smiled as you speak in a professional tone. The edge of his lips curled into a familiar smirk and still you could not determine what was running through his mind at the moment.  

“I came to return the book I borrowed last week,” he said, placing down the novel on your desk. Sense and Sensibility. Jane Austen. Right, he borrowed that last week. It is not your place to judge whatever it is he desires to read. “Of course,” you nodded, “did you enjoy reading it?” You started on a small talk as you take out your logbook for the check-ins and outs of books. “Somewhat,” Crewel shrugged, “I had my eyes set on another book I would like to borrow.”

“Oh? What is it? I’ll go get it for you.” You stood up after sliding the logbook back to its drawer. Crewel did not leave from where he was standing. His eyes were simply on you. You had to hide your nervousness under his gaze. “I had my eyes on it ever since that rainy day, when you offered me shelter in the library until the rain passes,” he mused. “General fiction, I believe, was the genre.”

“If that’s the case then you better tell me the title,” you joked, taking a stool to the genre’s aisle. “Are you certain you can find it?” Crewel coolly challenged. You almost laughed but did not fight the smile on your lips. “Mr. Crewel, I spend most of my time in this library. I know every book and I still have the Dewey Decimal system memorized…” You kept your eyes distracted by scanning the spines of the books on the shelves. You are aware that he is still looking at you that is why you refused to look back at him. You are not sure what will happen if you look back at him while conversing.  

“If that is the case—” why does he suddenly sound a bit close? “—may you find ‘How to Ask your Dense Colleague Out to Dinner?’”

What a lengthy title. It sounds very basic and almost like a rule book than a novel. Well, that is General Fiction for you. Though you are quite unsure if such a book exists in the library. “Hm…” you hummed, a finger on your chin, as your eyes scanned the shelves. “I don’t think I have that here…Crowley pays me enough to support my rent and meals, but not enough to buy new books. Plus, the students…”

You heard him chuckle beside you and fought the urge to turn to him. “I believe I was not frank enough. Ah, well, I will put all subtleties aside, then…”

His warm breath tickling your skin was what made you finally turn to him. The proximity of your noses startled you that you nearly stumbled out of your stool if it were not for Divus’ hand grabbing yours to pull you to him. You gasped, shocked, as you landed close to his chest. His other hand supported your waist, and your eyes widened his silvery blues. You can feel your heart hammering against his. Your legs feel like putty when he gave you that teasing smirk. Your name—your first name—sounds surreal from his lips. Your entire world was a confusing mix of vertigo and bright lights.

“Will you go to dinner with me?”

You stared. You stammered. You are flabbergasted and flustered. You were unsure how to react to such a forward question that your brain completely shut down. But you cannot embarrass yourself—you must not. Not when…not when…not when…!

Oh, he will he stop saying your name with such sentiment?

“Is your silence a rejection or a consideration?” He rose a brow and your face flushed even more. “No! I mean yes—I mean—no, it isn’t a rejection—”

“Then you have been anticipating this?”

“Divus!”

He laughed. He laughed at your state. He laughed at your awkwardness. But most importantly his laugh sounds so pleasant. Like he was teasing you and you liked him teasing. You grew shy, averting your gaze from his and fidgeting with your fingers. “I mean…I mean…why?”

Crewel stopped laughing and looked at you. “Why what?”

“Why…me? Out of all people?” You asked as fear and denial keep you from grasping the fact that this is all real and not another scenario you made up during rainy days. Crewel’s face remained passive. Neutral. It was eating at your heart and you just wish what is going through his mind.

“Is it not obvious, puppy?” He raised a brow at you. The hand holding your wrist now tilted your chin in his direction. “It is not by fate or destiny, but a mere law that dictates the gravitational pull of similar atoms that is programmed by the need to chemically bind together.”

You suddenly felt stumped. “W—What?”

“I like you, puppy,” Crewel clarified, adoring the way your confusion turned to pure surprise, “and I would like to have dinner with you. Perhaps another, if the first went well.”

You need some time to process this. Your head felt so light you might pass out in his arms. Actually, you would not mind that in the slightest. His coat is just so soft it feels like heaven. A proper response of agreement failed to come to your mind so instead, you asked him again, “And what if the first does not end well?”

Crewel smiled at you. “Then we shall try again with the next dinner. Mind you, puppy, as a man of science, I am not afraid of failure if trying means more chances of perfecting my goal.”

“And what’s that goal?” You asked and physically stopped yourself from combusting when he leaned closer to you that your noses touch and you smell his cologne, and his bold scent.

“The goal to become yours.”

You nearly laugh when his face slightly contorts to disbelief. "I came with you as an assistant, not a test subject." Vil planted his hands firmly on his waist. "What reason do you have to not consume it yourself?"

You remembered a mundane ingredient added to the potion. "I'm allergic to nutmeg," you answered.

You were not allergic to nutmeg.

Vil squinted his eyes at you and you smiled. Sighing with a roll of his eyes, he takes out a small kit from his bag. It was a rectangular mahogany box, varnished, with intricate gold borders. Inside were empty vials and flasks with nameless labels. "Fine. But I will not be drinking straight from a beaker. That is highly dangerous and unethical."

"Ace and Grim did it once or twice." Your queen looked at you with a certain judgement behind his goggles. "You often forget that I am different from them, darling," Vil stated.

Your eyes looked back and forth on your notes and your boyfriend. His skin became noticeably paler and he was visibly perspiring. Once you identified the obvious signs of discomfort, you knew the potion was taking effect. Vil was quick to unbutton his lab coat—and suddenly you remembered that you still have an ounce of decency left and turned away. You bit the inside of your cheek as excitement bubbled at the pit of your stomach. You were excited about two things: one, being that you may have successfully brewed an animal shifting potion; and two, you get to see Vil Schoenheit turn into a cute little furball—

You...did not expect his voice to exasperatedly purr your name.

Startled, you turned around—forgetting the moments before that was disrobing himself; he must be covered in fur somehow—and became even more startled that you nearly elbowed nearby equipment. You gaped at him, words failing to form out of your mouth and instead stammering gibberish that soon turned into a single, coherent, verbal reaction.

"Holy fuck."

"How eloquent," Vil snide sarcastically, his tail—holy fuck it's so big and fluffy—swaying behind him.

You tried not to—but you did—took note of his partially disheveled appearance. His lab coat and goggles were neatly placed on the table. His pants were slightly hung loose around his waist and a few buttons of his shirt collar were undone, exposing the dip of his neck. Both of you were expecting at least some fur to cover his skin, but alas, there was none.

Instead, a pair of fluffy ears twitched atop his head, and a tail nearly round and fashioned from the clouds, soft around the edges and puffed up like a squirrel's. But Vil did not turn into a squirrel. He turned into a minuet cat. Half-cat. You turned Vil into a catboy. It seems the potion did not work in a way you were expecting it to.

"I don't understand," was all you could say. Vil scoffed. "Now you speak after ogling at me?" He raised a brow, tail flicking behind him at a sudden intonation. You noticed that his manner of speaking changed a little. If he was elegant before he is certainly more elegant now. Like...a domesticated cat that perfected etiquette lessons.

"I wasn't ogling—I was just staring, surprised," you corrected, despite the heat at the tip of your ears. Vil hummed—purred—and his eyes narrowed at you. "Ogling and staring are two very similar things, darling."

You question if he is purring on purpose. Every syllable at the end of his sentence ended with a smooth purr. Maybe, you thought, it is just an adverse effect of the potion.

So, you tried retracing your steps. Where did it possibly went wrong? All ingredients were measured carefully, weighed even, and you made sure to be precise in stirring—

"Darling." You jumped a little from your thoughts. When did Vil get so close to you? "You are standing there like a sprouted potato," he said, eyes peering at you. "Have you figured out where you went wrong?"

"I was getting there," you muttered, eyes glancing at his tail again. You wondered how soft it would be if you run your fingers across the fur. Can a cat's tail reach that level of fluff? Now you wonder about his ears...would they be as soft as they look? If you touch it—pet it—would he like it? Will he lean more to your touch like a cat asking for more affection? Would he—

You froze when your chin was lifted. Your entire face flared at the intimate gesture. "It seems you would rather focus elsewhere than pinpoint your misstep..." he purred. There was a hint of teasing in his tone. You swallowed. "I mean, this—" you gestured at him vaguely "—this is new." You lightly chuckled, trying to calm yourself down. You cannot even meet your boyfriend's eyes from how intense he is staring at you. Vil's fingers remained curled under your chin. Light, but noticeable.

"And what do you plan on doing?"

His fingers moved on from your chin and slid behind your neck to fiddle with the hem of your back collar. Now he is starting to act like a curious cat.

"W-Well if I plan on reversing the effects then that means I have to properly observe this result of the potion first," you mumbled, not fighting the smile that draws from your lips. Something about this scene seemed affectionate. Vil chuckled, and you did not miss the way his lips tugged into a slight smirk. "Is that what you are suggesting to do? To observe?"

You do not miss the flirtatious tone in his voice, either. "Don't make it sound weird, Vil..." you muttered, and he laughed at your probably pouty face. A laugh that is soft and quiet. His hand slid past your shoulder and he sat down on his chair. He leaned back with his legs crossed. His tail idly swayed back and forth behind him as his ears twitched with interest. His plum-purple eyes beckoned you, as do his inviting purr.

"Well, your assessment is not finished yet, yes? Go on. Observe me."

You waited until it was time to interview the celebrant for NRC News to give your present to him. You were nervous—really nervous—in giving your lover your gift. Rook probably noticed that you had not placed your gift by the present table, but even if he does, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Your presence here is a gift enough, mon cheri,” he smiled, pressing a kiss on your knuckles, and you felt as though your heart will fly from your chest. He laughed at your reaction and you had to assure him that you did bring him a gift. “Once the interview is over, I’ll give it to you,” you promised with a twinkle in your smile.

Rook gave you a hearty chuckle. “Why not give it to me now?”

“I want to surprise you,” you simply said, gesturing for him to sit down so you may begin your interview. The smile Rook gives you is a sly one. You noticed how his hand doesn’t leave yours, and it feels oddly risqué that you’re holding his bare hands. You’re sure that he had noticed the heat on your ears. Rook chuckled once more. “Oh, mon filou, you certainly know what votre chasseur d’amour certainly like. I shall wait until the interview is over then!”

You chuckled, charmed, that it calmed your nerves a little bit. His hand feels warm on yours and you couldn’t help but draw a slow breath when he squeezed it. Your eyes locked upon his. Rook certainly knows what he’s doing. He needed no words to praise you—his beautiful eyes can do it for him.

Beautiful…

Dang it, Rook. You’re supposed to be the one to praise.

“It feels weird to see you without your hat,” you started. You shifted your gaze down to your intertwined hands. “And your gloves.”

“In a good way, J'espère?” His smile is just awfully contagious. It was light, warm, and sweet. “Yeah,” you chuckled, “in a good way. Your hat is a part of you, I guess, so seeing you without it is just…new.” You feel your cheeks lightly flush as you watched his soft blonde locks seemingly sway at the air-conditioning. You threaded your fingers through his hair before. They were pleasant to touch. They were beautiful, and most of all they were a part of him. “Your hair is wonderful as ever, too. I don’t think I need to stroke them to feel how soft they are.”

You don’t miss the way he suddenly blinks at your compliment. Though he quickly recovered, and his eyes squinted playfully at you. “Oh, mon filou, as much as I appreciate your merveilleux praises about moi I should remind you that we are having an entretien.” You felt a little cold when his warm hand left yours, so you decided to fold yours on your knee instead. “Right, right, sorry,” you apologized, shaking your head at your attempts. You were supposed to give his gift after the interview not before.

However, you don’t seem to mind changing your plans a little bit.

“I just—well you’re just…” you looked down at your hands, giving yourself time to pause for your thoughts, “…just beautiful, you know?”

Rook made no sound and you lift your head up to him in anxiousness. You were a little surprised at how surprised he was. Taking his unguarded expression, you quickly took the chance. “Everything about you leaves me in a breathless awe.”

You stood from your seat and slowly made your way to stand before him. “Your wit is exceptional, but not as exceptional as your skill for hunting. You hunt as you breathe, and you move like you’re part of your surroundings—” that doesn’t sound as poetic as you hope it would be but “—it’s startling but exhilarating to watch you in your passion.”

Rook still says nothing, but his flustered countenance assures your anxiety. His eyes softened when you kneeled beside him. You took his hand back to yours and looked up at him. “You’re guileless, you simply live as you wish to, and when you’re in your prime I find myself wondering how I end up with such a beautiful, beautiful man—which is everyday of my life.” You kissed his knuckles with a soft sigh and you continued, pressing your lips up to his arm, to his shoulder, then you meet his eyes. You hear him draw a shaky breath like you do—and you both smiled. Your fingers caressed his skin, and he held onto your hand when it cupped his cheek. Your voice, now soft, tender, sounded clearer than what was around the both of you. “I admire so many things about you, Rook. It’s not just your physique but the effect you have on people. The effect you have on me.

“Your smile, your gestures, they’re as warm as the sun in a bright morning. You’re as warm as a welcoming hug and your words are so sweet and encouraging that—that you just lift everyone’s spirits up.” You gazed at his eyes—captivating, hunter greens, as deep as the canopies brightened with the sun—and he saw how limpid yours are. “Looking at you know, my heart feels like it’s gonna jump out of my chest because—well, you just look so handsome!” You both chuckled, feeling each other’s soft breaths touch your skins.

“You’re amazing, Rook. A splendor to witness. A delight to be with...” Rook leaned unto your hand, unto your words, unto the love you pour in the praises. He knows that they are more than words for he can feel you pull them from the depths of your heart—the depths of your being—from your very soul. And when you shower him with words that are more than compliments, for these words mingled with the kisses you press on his skin, he feels special.

Your noses touch and your eyes nearly fluttered to close. “And I am blessed to love someone as beautiful as you.”

And you finally pressed a kiss on his waiting lips. Soft, tender, and clear intentions of showering him with love. When you part with both your hands still on his cheeks, and his hands on yours, Rook exhaled the breath he was holding. “Oh, mon dieu,” was what he said that made both of you laugh lightly with a full heart.

“You rusé filou,” he sighed, a beautiful smile on his lips and a twinkle on his beautiful eyes. “You completely enamored me with your words, luring me with such melody—mon dieu!” Rook’s chin dipped to his chest and he dramatically clutched his heart, still careful not to ruffle his lapel. “Rook!” You exclaimed, kneeling again so you may meet his eyes. His cheeks are a splendid rosy color. When he opens his eyes, they were brighter than they were. “Ce n'est pas l'appel du vide,” he muttered, and you have no clue what he just said but he continued, “c'est l'appel d'une sirène! Oh, mon cheri!”

Rook lifted you by the arms and kissed you again. You gasped at the sudden passion but returned it anyway. You can feel your heart practically leaping from your chest. When you pulled away to avoid escalating things, Rook sniffled rather emotionally. He wiped his eyes, but he could never replace his tearful gaze at you. Tearfulness brimming with overwhelmed gratitude. Rook laughed at your probably goofy face. “That was supposed to be your surprise for moi, non?” You ditched it as a surprise and completely forgot about the interview. You laughed, nodding. “Yeah…but I couldn’t wait. And that isn’t just my gift—surprise to you!”

You sheepishly look down. “You always regard everything as beautiful, meaning you acknowledge their existence. I want you to know that you are beautiful too, Rook. And you exist—and I—along with many others—acknowledge your existence.”

“Oh, mon cheri, you spoil ton bien-aimé too much.” Rook took your hands and kissed it affectionately. “Such loving praises from a deity such as you is a gift. Ah, I did tell you earlier, non?” He brought his face closer to you once more and you blushed.

“Your gift of praise to me is well appreciated. But your love, your beauty, your existence, is le meilleur cadeau.”