out here writing some absolutely gorgeous bernelle this evening, friends
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out here writing some absolutely gorgeous bernelle this evening, friends

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So itâs been a hot minute since Iâve drawn an Elle, and I thought just for funsies (and practice, since Iâm nearly brand new to procreate since getting my iPad and Apple Pencil) I should make a sort of updated, 2022 version of what Elle might be wearing? Her initial design was very based in 2012-14, and I think she definitely would be evolving a bit and becoming more comfortable in her style and stuff over time. I also half think this evolution comes from occasionally clothes swapping with B-man, but Iâll leave that for you guys to decide, lol.
This is kinda too much unnecessary detail to consistently replicate for art or whatever, but hey: sheâs got a lot of outfits! I just think sheâs very trouser-y nowadays, with a side of sweater/turtleneck/blouse. Anyway this was a fun sort of warmup! Another one to add to the roe things tag, hehe
First RoE update of the holiday season will be posted on December 1st!
For anyone who keeps up with my writing: chapter 37 will be up soon so maybe take some time to catch yourself up on the story?
Link to chapter one here if youâre just starting this story! Link to last yearâs final update (chapter 36) right here
New to Rules of Engagement? Hereâs a summary to pique your interest:
A letter to Santa changes Elle Connellyâs life forever, leading to her becoming an elf. Thereâs also her newfound telepathy to adapt to, and if that wasn't enough, Bernard chooses her to become his number two, his right hand. Thereâs something powerful binding them together, something that neither of them fully understand...but will Elle learn to accept it, before itâs too late?
(Based off of The Santa Clause movies. Bernard x oc centric, slow burn. Word count: 232k+ and counting!)
Ya girl Dani is v tired but has decided on which scenario! Ahem! Both Bernard and Elle have the flower petal vomit thing due to unrequited love for each other, but don't realize it. One of them (I'll let you decide which of them) decides to get it surgically removed; the other one realizes it's for the other part of Bernelle and rushes to tell them. But it's too late, the surgery has finished and the petals are gone--along with the romantic feelings for the realizer. (i reasearched tf out of it)
Warnings: angst for the sake of angst. There isnât a happy ending to this one, guys. Itâs very bittersweet. Not a happy version of this au, but Dani was specific! Maybe I can do a version with a happy ending sometime, but for now, hereâs 5k of bernelle pain and unresolved feelings. Also apologies if itâs rough, Iâm still getting back into the swing of things asjjdkshl
Some mood music to listen to while you read:
AlmostIs Never Enough âAriana Grande ft. Nathan Sykes
You Donât Know Me by Michael Buble
AU description:
Hanahaki Disease (è±ćăç  (Japanese); íëíí€ëł(Korean); è±ćç  (Chinese))is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they sufferfrom one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romanticlove only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can becured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victimâsromantic feelings for their love also disappear.
One thing was certain: Elle knew thiswasnât how flowers were supposed to work.
They came in bouquets and posies and corsagesand arrangements, they grew in gardens and window boxes and out from thesidewalk when you least expected them. They were something happy, andbeautiful, and bright.
Not something to dread, because theywerenât supposed to grow out from your lungs when you couldnât find a way totell your friend that you were in love with him.
She wasnât sure when it had started. Infact, she suspected it had begun because of hissituation. Theyâd been walking towork together one morning, chatting and having a conversation about something funny BuddyClaus had done the day before. Elle couldnât help but laugh, and thatâswhen it happened. Bernard had been smiling, but the next moment he was coughinginto his fist.
âYou okay?â Sheâd asked, clueless to whatwas happening, unaware of what happened to those who felt a little too much forsomeone they shouldnât. Heâd straightened, staring at something in his hand fora moment before slipping his hand into his pocket and continuing on their way.
âYeah, absolutely fine.â Heâd smiled at heragain, but he seemed troubled, almost pained somehow. The subject had droppedfor the time being, seeing as Elle didnât like to pry.
But the cough didnât seem to go away. Hemade the excuse that he had probably caught some sort of coldâunlikely, for anelf, but not completely unheard of. Elle worried about him and kept an eye onhim in order to help in any way she could. It was that same vigilance thateventually led her to understand what was happening.
Petals in the trash can in his office. Thescent of flowers always lingering on him. Heâd caught what sheâd heard Cupidcall in its simplest form lovesickness, and as soon as sheâd realized that, atiny seed of jealousy sprang up in her heart. Or was it jealousy? Because itdidnât feel sour and angry, but rather, longing. Â An ache blooming in her chest when she sawhim try to hide his affliction.
Maybe it wasnât surprising then when shebegan to cough up petals of her own. She wasnât sure when or how it had shiftedfrom friendly concern to a pain in her heart when she thought of him sufferingfor want of someone else. And the most terrible part of it all was realizingthat she dreaded the day he arrived to work with lungs free of flowers, becausethat would be the day that he had finally confessed his feelings. The day sheâdofficially lose her chance foreverâa chance she was too afraid to take in thefirst place. Â
It was stupid, Elle decided one morningwhen, after breakfast, she found herself coughing up rose petals into thekitchen sink. Why should he feel so alone in his situation? Clearly he thoughthe needed to hide itâwhich made sense, since if the lovesickness went untreatedyou could in theory die from it.Maybe he didnât want to show weakness. But the ache in Elleâs chest when shesaw him looking sad, when he didnât realize she was watching, tore her heart topieces more than the problem in her own chest, and her silence had to bebroken.
âItâs okay, you know.â It was a quietThursday evening, the workshop was slow and they were both in his officetogether sorting out invoices and inter-departmental memos. He looked up, mouthstill hidden by a handkerchief after yet another coughing fit. She could hearthe wheeze in his lungs, a sure sign of the diseaseâs progression. He wasfurther along than she was. He looked mildly confused, but also as if afraidheâd been caught. She was quiet, sliding the trashcan towards him. âI know.â
âWhat? I donâtâŠâ He watched as Elle turnedher pockets out, an array of softly colored petals falling into her lap. Sheoffered him a small, bittersweet smile, and his heart broke a little as herealized what she was trying to say.
âTakes one to know one, right?â She saidwith a slight laugh. Now that he listened, he could hear the telltale gratebehind her voice that betrayed her condition. âItâs not anything to be ashamedof, really. They say love is beautiful, right? Even if it is tearing you apartinsideâquite literally.â
Shehad it too. She had it too, his mind kept chanting at him, as if it meantsomething good for him. A slight bit of hope sprouted in his chest.
âHow did youâŠI mean, youâve done a betterjob hiding it than me,â he admitted sheepishly. She chuckled, and he watchedher scoop the petals into the trash. What a fitting metaphor for theirsituation: wasted potential, to love for nothing. âHow long?â
âOh about a month now. Not as long as you,but not by much. Did you know,â Elle said with a laugh, âthat at first Ithought it was contagious? That Iâd caught it from you. I had to read up on itto realize that it doesnât work that way.â
âIâm sorry.â
âItâs not your faultââ
âNo, Elle.â Bernard reached over and set ahand on top of hers. There was a moment of heavy silence between them, and thenhe continued. âI shouldnât have tried to hide it from you. Weâre a team, youand I. We shouldnât keep secrets like this, not big, life threatening ones atleast, not from each other. And even worse, I made you feel like you needed tokeep yours a secret too.â
âForget it.â She gave his hand a gentlesqueeze, unable to meet his eyes for the fluttering she couldnât stop in herchest. âWe know now, thatâs all that matters.â
He smiled, and she finally got control of heremotions enough to look him in the face. His eyes were warm, kind. She felt amiserable hollowness in her stomach at the thought that his love was already sostrong for someone that it manifested physically. God, she wished that were her. âNo more secrets, okay?â He said,and she swallowed her feelings down before replying.
âYeah, no more secrets B.â No more secrets, except that I love you.
It was so much worse after that, because hewas so much kinder and more caring for knowing she was ill too. He made effortsto check in with her more often, to make sure she was taking care of herself.He was the one who made sure she went to see Hismus so that she could get allthe help she could. She made sure he did the same. But pills could only do somuch to help the garden growing in their lungs, or what was growing in theirhearts.
Every day, Elle choked on the confessionshe wanted to make. But the timing was never right, or sheâd see him speakingwith another elf and reality would strike her like a slap to the face. It wasnât her. He was in love, and itwasnât with her. He had been the one to say no more secrets, right? If heâdfelt anything for her heâd have said it then.
She just wished it were easier to stopfeeling the way she did for him. Because every little smile and every littlesideways glance and every passing touch left her hunched over the sink when shegot home, coughing for hours and crying with anger at her own stupidity. Cryingbecause she hated her own stupid broken heart.
It was two and a half months later that thegrowth had spread throughout both of their lungs. The secret was officially outnow, for both of them. Elleâs condition had progressed more quickly than hisand was near surpassing Bernardâs in severity. Quentin and Curtis had teamed upunder Santaâs orders to run the workshop until Bernard and Elle figured outwhat to do. It was late, past 1 am, and she was sitting in his house, on hiscouch in a mostly dark living room.
âIâm going to do it,â she told him, theache in her chest feeling empty in spite of the blooms she knew were trying toclaw their way out. She didnât have to explain, he knew what she meant. âIâŠIcanât take it, anymore. Itâs too much. Itâs not even whatâs in my chest, itâsâŠâshe trailed off, coughing. He passed her a tissue; by the time sheâd stoppedcoughing, it was speckled with blood. âItâs whatâs in my heart. The weight ofit makes me wish I was dead.â
âDonât say that.â Hearing her say that somatter-of-factly tore at Bernardâs conscience. If heâd told her by now, maybe she wouldnât feel this way. Thenagain, maybe if heâd told her, she wouldnât be sitting next to him either. Thatwas what had been keeping  him silent:the fear of losing her altogether.
âI know, I know.â Elle gave a shaky sigh. âIâmnot thinking clearly. Hell, I havenât been thinking clearly for a long timenow.â Her pulse was racing just from sitting beside him, but she still feltthat sense of belonging that toyed with her hopes all too much. âI have to dowhat my head tells me is right. My heart has been in control for too long now,and look what itâs done to me.â
Heâd worried sheâd say that, dreaded theday it would come to that decision. Heâd sworn heâd be brave, that heâd tellher before she had to make such a terrible choice. Maybe even a selfish part ofhim wanted her to have the surgery;if her feelings for whoever she loved were gone, maybe sheâd have room in herheart for him, and all he was carrying in his. âThatâs one way of looking atit,â he admitted, leaning back and slowing breathing in. It was excruciating,but the slower the better.
âYou donât agree?â He didnât reply. A noteof desperation came into her voice, a dread. âBâŠno. Donât tell meââ
âI donât think I need to tell you. You seemto already know.â He leaned his head to the side, a gentleness in his gaze. âIdonât want to let this go, Elle. Iâve never felt something like this forsomeone beforeâŠwho knows? I might never feel anything like it again. It meanstoo much to me to cut the flowers out and throw away everything I feel withthem.â
âBut you know what happensâŠâ she trailed off, her throat tightening as tearsthreatened to spill out of her eyes. She took a deep breath and forced herselfto continue. âYou know what happensif you donât get them removed. If you donât tell them.â
âIf I donât tell her,â he clarified, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behindher ear. Elle felt her stomach twist bitterly, her cheek leaning subconsciouslytowards his palm. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. âI know. But Elle.â Hesmiled and she felt the tears spill out and down her cheeks. She could tell bythe feeling of his thoughts that heâd made up his mind as much as she had abouther decision. âIâve been around long enough. If this is how I go out? Fromloving someone? Then thatâs not the worst way to go, now is it?â
She couldnât find words. Everything wasblurry and her lungs ached and the next thing she knew she was pulledtight against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat against her ear.
âWhat am I supposed to do?â She sobbed,hiding her face in his shirt. âIâif youâre g-gone what am I supposed toââ
He shushed her, stroking her hair. âItmight not come to that.â
âBut if it does?â
He didnât reply. Elle knew right then andthere that there was no turning back for her. If he was willing to die for hisfeelings, then she would cut hers out. Because if she didnât, and he died, thenit wouldnât be long before she was in the dirt with him.
âYou though.â She hadnât expected him to goon. His voice was low near her ear, comforting and soft. âYouâre very young,Elle. You have time to love again if you want to. If you were very brave, you could even tell the onewhoâs made you so sick.â
She didnât reply.
âDo they even know that theyâre the reasonyouâre sick, Elle?â
A long pause. âNo.â
âDonât you think they deserve to know?â
She shook her head, the motion sharp andtight. âNo, B. He loves someone else.â
âAre you sure?â
âNearly positive.â
âWhat if you just told himââ
âItâs not that simple.â
âWhy not?â There was a desperateexasperation in his voice. He knew it was going against his best interest toargue for Elle to tell this person how she felt, but his feelings for her made theurge to see her happy, and safe, and loved and well again overrule his own needs. âIf you just explained, maybeââ
âB!â Elle pulled away from him, a fieryanger in her eyes heâd never seen from her before in spite of the tears stillstreaming down her face. âHeâs more than I deserve,â she said, tremblingly. âIshouldnât have dared to feel what I do, and now Iâm paying the price for mychoice.â Her shoulders sagged, and she looked down at her lap. âHeâd never wantme. Please, just take my word for it.â
It tore at him to let her think somethinglike that, but he knew arguing would just hurt her worse. âOkay,â he conceded,and her body slumped in relief. âBut only because I donât want to stress youeven more by trying to change your mind.â
She leaned back against his shoulder, limpand hopeless. âThank you,â she whispered, and he nodded. âYou know there isnâtanything I wouldnât do for you,â she said quietly. âBut to change my mind onthis is too much. Please forgive me.â
âThereâs nothing to forgive, Elle. Iâm sorry for making things worse.â She had noidea how much he meant by that. Â
No more was said that night about thematter, nor in the days that followed. They became less and less functional,but for some reason nearly always found themselves at one anotherâs places; ifnot one, than the other. Only one day Bernard showed up to her loft and foundit empty.
âElle?â Worry ran through him, panicbuilding in his pulse even though he knew he shouldnât let himself. It was badenough that he couldnât stay away from the girl who would be the end of him,but he had to let the small things bring him closer to that demise? Maybe shewas just out for groceries, but the severity of their situation made him worrytoo much.
He found no sign of Elle, other than asheet of paper and a book on the kitchen counter. The paper was from theelfirmary, he realized, and knew he should stop reading right there. Hisstomach sank when he saw that it was an appointment dateâfor that day. So shewas finally going through with her decision. He felt sick to his stomach andsat down, scanning the page for more details against his good judgment.
Bernard didnât know if he should feelrelieved or concerned. Since he didnât know who she loved, he didnât know whoto feel sorry for, and he couldnât help but feel nervous jitters at the thoughtof her maybe, just maybe having roomfor him in her heart when it was over. Maybe she was right, maybe the surgerywas her best option.
But then his eyes glanced down at thecounter and saw the book on the counter. It was a journal, actually; well used,with many of its pages filledâmaybe a little less than half of the pages leftuntouched. It had a strap around it, which served to keep it relatively flat. Asoulmates journal, he realized, something that those with lovesickness oftenused to funnel their emotions into one place in case they never got the courageto speak to the object of their affection. Elleâssoulmate journal. It looked full of secrets; ones that belonged to her andtold what was really inside her heart. He knew he shouldnât touch it but at thesame time, it was like it called out to him in a language he could only hear.Then again, maybe that was just the ache in his own heart speaking. Unable toresist the urge, he pulled the book closer and removed the strap.
The pages were filled with writing, Elleâs writing. Her distinct handwritingcovered the pages; little doodles in some of the margins, other slips of paperfolded and tucked between the pages along with a wide array of petals of allsizes and colorsâand later on, some smaller, complete flowers. His eyes grazedover the pages, almost not daring to read words not meant for him. It made hischest sore, and more than once he had to take a break to cough into his sleeve.
But at last he flipped back to the first pageand found her starting point, an inscription on the inside cover dated early onthat year.
Wow,I really donât know how to start this.
Notthat I expect youâll ever lay eyes on these words, since Iâm terrified of youeven knowing how I feel. You didnât ask for thisâyou love someone else. I seethe signs all over you  and it breaks myheart, but thatâs not your fault, or your problem. I just hope that maybe, if Iwrite down the things I wish I could say to you every day, this will hurt a littleless and my lungs might give me a little longer before choking me out with myown feelings. A little more time to spend by your side.
Doyou mind if I address my entries to you? I hope not. Youâre always the person Igo to first, the only person who makes me feel safe when I speak my mind. Hereare all the things I wish I was brave enough to say to your face, all thethings I bite back when you ask me what Iâm thinking.
 Her initial was at the bottom of the page,and the entries began on the next. Starting withâŠwithâŠ
DearB,
Iâmso sorry, but Iâm terribly in love with you.
Bernard looked up, hands shaking, heartstopped in his chest. No, he couldnât have missedâŠhe couldnât have missed this,could he? Had he been so blinded by his own fears that he couldnât see herbeing just as in love with him as he was with her?Â
The entry went on fromthere, leading into the rest of the journals contents. Day after day ofentries, sometimes multiple entries a day. And then he noticed what the slipsof paper were. A photo of them at last yearâs Christmas after party. A ticketstub from the time heâd taken her to the movies. The birthday card heâd givenher that winter. A note heâd left her asking her to make sure she got enoughrest. A few petals of his, glued to the page with the caption, does she know how lucky she is for you tolove her this much? He stared back down at the page, tears stinging hiseyes as they trailed back to her first sentence. Dear BâŠIâm so sorry, but Iâm terribly in love with youâŠ
Next thing he knew heâd sprung to his feet,eyes still blurry with tears and a sob half hanging in his throat. He snatchedthe journal off the table and ran for the door, hoping against hope that itwasnât too late.
Moments later he appeared outside the elfirmary,bursting into the lobby so winded he was nearly doubled over. Any attempt tohurry nowadays left him short of breath, but that didnât stop him from hurryingtowards the nearest nurse. âElle,â He wheezed out, feeling petals at the backof his throat. âWhereâsââ
âBernard?â Her voice. Her voice, but toocalm, too clear. His stomach sank like a stone, his eyes almost refusing tolook up. He slipped the book behind his back and turned to see Elle, standingin the doorway with Dr. Hismus just behind her. âAre you looking for me? Whatâshappened?â
âYouâreâŠâ He couldnât finish the sentence.Heâd spent so long used to seeing love in her eyes but not understanding whatit meant; now that it was gone, her expression seemed all wrong.
And then it hit him. He was the reasonsheâd done this. He was the one sheâd been talking about all along. Heâs more than I deserve, sheâd said. I shouldnât have dared to feel what I do,and now Iâm paying the price for my choice. Heâd never want me. Please, justtake my word for it.
This was his fault. Elleâs heart was empty,and it was his fault.
âIâmfine,â she reassured him, coming over and setting a hand on his arm with asmileâbut it didnât read genuine like it should have. âYou didnât think youneeded to come and check on me, did you? I asked Abby to let you know Iâd be byonce I was done.â
âI guess I didnât run into her in time.â Hecouldnât help but search her face for any signs of her still feeling the wayheâd read, the way heâd been feeling for her all this time, butâŠ
âHer surgery was a complete success,âHismus explained with a smile that felt cruel, even though it wasnât meant tobe. Bernard felt numb to his toes, devoid of any feeling with the sudden senseof overwhelming loss. Heâd had everything at his fingertips, for just a moment,and just as quickly, it was gone.
He was too late.
Elle walked him home. She might not havefelt any love for him anymore, but as his friend she still felt obligated tomake sure he got out of the cold safely. There was an emptiness between themthat her small talk couldnât fill, and he couldnât bring himself to try and fixit. He was too deep in thought, searching for some way to ask if she reallydidnât have any of her feelings anymore. It was like he couldnât fully comprehendthat what he wanted was forever out of his reach, that that hope heâd had ofher finally having room for him in her heart was completely gone.
âHow are you feeling?â Bernard asked Elledirectly, maybe a little too directly even. They were on his front porch, snowjust beginning to fall in gentle flurries. Elle took a deep breath of the chillair, her exhale a cloud of steam. A smile crossed her lips, but when she lookedat him there was still that hollowness behind her eyes.
âLike Iâm finally thinking clearly for thefirst time in a long time.â
She left him at his own house, alone. Forthe first time in weeks it seemed that she didnât feel the need to be therewith him. It was only when sheâd gone that he realized he was still holding herjournal, surprised that she hadnât noticed him carrying it. Maybe it justdidnât matter to her enough anymore to warrant saying anything.
It was too quiet with just him and hisfeelings for company.
The ache in his chest was constant, now. Ifheâd thought he was heartbroken before it was nothing to the wavering, wiltingsensation crushing him from within. He spent a good portion of the eveningcleaning bloody petals up off of his floor, wondering why he was evenbothering.
But at last, he came back to the journal.He sat on the floor in his living room and read the whole thing from front toback, reliving every moment theyâd spent together, every laugh, cherishing everysweet thing sheâd wished sheâd said aloud but had written down instead. Thelast few entries were wishes, things she despaired sheâd never had the courageto do with him, and then apologies, apology after apology for her decision. Thepages were tear stained before heâd read them, but they were much worse forwear after he had. And then he sat, surrounded by petals and tissues, staringat the remaining blank pages spread out before him.
Heâd never kept a soulmate journal of hisown, but maybeâŠmaybe he could finish their story.
And so he sat there well into the night,writing replies to the words sheâd never said. Penning more moments theyâdshared, regrets of his own, words of comfort that she didnât need anymore.Telling her things about himself heâd been too afraid to share, making his ownwishes that would never come true. But the last thing he wrote was an apology.
Iknow I told you that I would rather die than lose the way I feelâlose the way Ifeel about you, Elle. But now I know that I love you too much to do that. Ilove you too much to leave you alone.
Pleaseforgive me.
A few days passed. Elle showed up to work asshe always did first thing in the morning, bringing some fresh departmentreports to his desk with a cheerful smile yet still calm and cool andcollected, her telepathy still down and out from the anesthesia from her surgeryseveral days before. She looked around, finding his office rather cleaner thanusual. There was even a vase of roses on one of the side tables, without apetal out of place. She wasnât exactly sure why that matteredâŠthe explanationseemed foggy, and far away. Unimportant, even.
âGood morning, sir.â Elle said. âI didnâtexpect to see you back so soon. Are you feeling better?â Sheâd never called himsir before. It wouldnât be the last time, either. Maybe their friendship hadgotten lost along the way with their other feelings, too.
If he noticed, he didnât seem to care aboutthe change. Bernard looked up from the book he was reading, and smiledâbut therewas a void behind the eyes. A lack of feeling that would never quite heal, asign of something that had been taken away. He got up, closing the journal andsetting it on the bookshelf directly behind his desk.
âThank you Elle. Iâm feeling much betternow.â
If you think Bernard would not wear a fanny pack while on vacation with Elle you are very much mistaken (and will see this shortly in action during said vacation chapters)

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wow, I sure havenât thought/talked/wrote about bernelle in awhile...đ€
annnnd the newest update of TEC:R is live! This is the second and final part to the Jacqueline/Elle reunion. A mighty big thanks to @safyresky for collaborating with me on this and the chapter before it! Having so much lovely input from the leading expert on Jacqueline and the Frosts was truly an honor, and it came out all the better for it.
Link to chapter one here if youâre just starting this story! Link to latest update (chapter 31) right here
New to TEC:Reloaded? Hereâs a summary to pique your interest:
A letter to Santa changes Elle Connellyâs life forever, leading to her becoming an elf. Thereâs also her newfound telepathy to adapt to, and if that wasn't enough, Bernard chooses her to become his number two, his right hand. Thereâs something powerful binding them together, something that neither of them fully understand...but will Elle learn to accept it, before itâs too late?
(Based off of The Santa Clause movies. Bernard x oc centric, slow burn. Word count: 211k+ and counting!)
It should say âby etiquette-faux-pas and SafyreSkyâ because this chapter was a collaborative effort! Please enjoy part 1 of the Elle/Jacqueline reunion, here (part 2 coming soon!)