#ikevamp

He approaches the window but changes his mind about closing it. Their laughter is far more preferable than the silence. The backdrop of the blue hour spilling through the short curtain in the middle paints his room in a rare and intriguing light; one you can only get at this time of the year. It's a room he enters all the time, yet the moment she's not around, it becomes a foreign place.

She should've been here to immerse herself in this almost mystical atmosphere; they'd leave the window open just like that, falling into bed together and holding each other in the progressively darkening room. He'd play with the hem of her light dress and she'd stroke his hair.

Napoleon's brow knits in a frown directed at himself. Is he seriously such a hopeless romantic?

It's only for three days! Three days and then she'd be back - and they'll have many, many such nights all for themselves again.

No, the ambience of chatter intertwined with laughter coming from outside is not enough. Napoleon crosses the room to where a gramophone is placed upon a small table and places the needle at the beginning of the record without paying much mind which vinyl was last played. If it happens to be one that she chose, maybe it would even make him feel closer to her that way.

The melody is gentle and soothing; piano and violin strings fill the air and fit in perfectly with the rest of the scene. He already accepted his fate; he'll lie in bed and sulk like a teenage boy missing his crush.

Thank god she's not here to see him, actually. He put in a lot of effort in reassuring MC not to worry about him in her absence, and it's important to keep his word on that, mental states included. He's a grown man, he should be fine. He has a lot of stuff keeping him busy, between the école and the bodyguard gigs and his activities and hobbies around the mansion. Plus, he's not a baby.

It's funny that they never separated like that before, well, not after that incident at the beginning of their relationship; that's it. These memories are not ones he wants plaguing him, so he tries to shoo them away by moving his body in just any direction. Now that he thinks about it, his most trusted coping mechanism has become escaping into the presence of his lover.

And what if she's not around, and the thoughts are all about her? What then?

Napoleon lets his shoes fall with a thud to the ground, one knee already in the bed. He ends up lying down with his feet facing the headboard; the intricate comforter underneath him silky and smelling like laundry soup and sunrays. He rolls to his back and cushions his head with his right arm, staring at the ceiling.

Outside, Theo raises his voice an octave, leaving Napoleon wondering if he's being provoked by Arthur or if he's talking enthusiastically about his brother again. He should really go back out there. Maybe later, when it's for dessert. But not now.

The feeling of missing her is both torture and warmth. On one hand, the way she's missing from the picture is gnawing at his soul; on the other, he's thinking of all the things he wants to do with her once she's back - and she will be back soon, so that's soothing enough.

In their blissful daily life, he rarely has a chance to daydream about his Nunuche. His every wish is able to come true as if with a magic wand; all he has to do is find her and scoop her up and have her all to himself for a moment. He once read that distance makes the heart grow fonder. He hates how true that is.

Turquoise eyes moving from one blurry surface around the room to another, the faint blue light contours something sitting on the nightstand on her side of the bed. It's long become part of the background, much like the rest of her items scattered around the room that is now a shared space. But being this idle, Napoleon actually sees the objects for what they are - and he lets out a quiet huff upon successfully identifying what he's looking at.

It's a plush toy, a little puppy... something he gave to her back when she'd only been at the mansion for, what, a week or two? These days used to slip by like seconds until they made up the much larger mass of this beloved, seemingly age-long stage of falling in love.