#lbc lars

It is tempting—to poke your forehead as he used to, back on your boat when his world seemed to limit itself to you. But, instead, his hand travels to your cheek, knuckles gently carressing your soft skin.

If yesterday is a day of firsts—the first time he saw you again, the first time he held you again, and the first time you uttered those three words, which, for the longest time, he heard only from the ghost that haunted him—then today, as well, should hold that distinction.

For today is the first day of the rest of their lives as emperor and empress—

And the first time he can appreciate your slumbering visage outside of his nightmares.

The slight furrow of your brows. The faint smile playing on your lips. The way your nose lightly puffs up with every breath you take. And the shadow cast under your eyes by your thick lashes, short though they may be—shorter than his, supposedly.

You measured them both out last night. He sat obediently with his eyes closed, the taste of your lips lingering on his tongue. As the seconds passed by, you grew increasingly miffed. Though you could grasp his lashes, such a fact did not seem to aid you in proving your point.

(You once heard a woman you'd befriended complain that her husband's eyelashes were long and beautiful, and his skin required virtually none of the upkeep hers did. She said she was sometimes jealous that he was more beautiful than she was—but mostly, it was the fact that everyone else knew to appreciate his beauty that drove her.

Somehow, when a brief awkwardness descended after that first kiss, that was the first thought your mind offered you.)

When he opened his eyes, you were as close as you had been at the start of it all. Close enough to hold, closer still to kiss. His lips had flattened; his smile, behind which he was attempting to smother his laughter, deepened.

Amusement glinted in his blue eyes—as it does now, in the present—and he asked:

"So, have you found your proof yet?"

The word no never left your lips. With the way a scowl crept up onto your face, it wasn't necessary. That was when he laughed, and his shoulders felt so light. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this way—but he figured it must've before that fateful night, when they hadn't even said goodbye.

Before his smile could fade, ever so slight, you were already holding his face. And with that came another kiss—this time, from you to him.

Spurred by the memory, Lars leans down and kisses your forehead. Your eyes are still closed, but your hand manages to capture his own. Your once faint smile has grown uncontrollably, its soft edges cutting into your flushed cheeks.

"Good morning, my empress," he whispers softly into your ear, and watches you bite your lip.

(The truth is, you've been awake for a while now.

Or, perhaps, it's more accurate to say that you never slept at all. How Lars managed to fall asleep with the many thoughts that must've been running through his head is a question for the ages.

But if you'd been sleepy at all, then his little stunt certainly woke you up.)

It's only when he pulls away that you deign to crack one eye open. Squeezing his hand gently, you bury your head into his chest with a groan, any thoughts of waking up seemingly forgotten. He chuckles warmly and squeezes your hand in return.

Outside, the sun has already risen. Gentle winds carry birdsong to every corner of the empire as his stomach—and, undoubtedly, your as well—reminds him of its hunger.

In the previous days, Lars would've already been up by now, a quill in hand while he poured over documents in his office. Even in the short time he lived with you, he was always waking up first. You hadn't been joking when you appointed him as your personal chef, after all.

And even if you had been, Lars finds your smile—and your snack stash—to have been payment worthy of an emperor playing fisherman. There are few things a man wouldn't do a for beautiful woman he was beginning to fall in love with.

So, with great reluctance towards disturbing your peaceful countenance, he attempts to wake you up in the only foolproof way he knows how.

"How does some grilled fish sound for breakfast?" Lars asks.

You pull away, lifting your head off his arm just enough that he could easily slip it away. Propping himself up by his elbow, he watches you quietly contemplate your options. Eventually, you sit up, legs folded and bent to the side.

(You would never turn down food when it's offered to you.

And you would certainly never turn down food made for you by the man you love—who also happens to have proved his skills in the kitchen. Naturally, there's only one choice you can make.)

"Good—" A yawn breaks up your words; you cover your mouth with your other hand. "—morning. Fish sounds good."

And his hand remains still in your grasp. Only that, instead of clutching it against your cheek, you have it resting atop your calf. He can't help but think back to the days when even something as simple and domestic as this seemed to be out of reach—that is to say, up until last night.

"Some grilled fish worthy of an empress, coming right up."

Intertwining their fingers together, Lars smiles softly. You don't fight him when he draws your hand closer—and for his efforts in kissing the back of your hand, you reward him with flushed cheeks and a distracted smile.

(It truly is unfair how beautiful he is, you think, and it is perhaps the only part of your thoughts that happens to be coherent. The rest of it comes in the form of visions—of things one would normally expect to happen the night before.

It's hardly the first time you've thought such things, but it is most certainly the first time it's happened in front of the man himself. You suspect this won't be last time either.)