muse: lace, they/them, mute, servant turned (royal) clothing designer
They had no idea how they’d ended up here. Lace wasn’t one for parties, let alone elite parties, but one thing had led to another and here they were - sitting and picking at their finger nails while inwardly cringing at the almost pulsing sound of people talking around them. Every second that passed felt like it was a second to long, parties like this brought back bad memories of the days in which they were forced to work these sorts of parties. They were just running through the idea of trying to find a way to leave when there was a voice right next to them and Lace’s eyes flitted over, only to pause in surprise at the sight that greeted them. They knew him. Not directly of course, but in their line of work it wasn’t hard for Lace to memorize the faces of royalty, even if they weren’t their own. However the words, the pout, and the way it seemed no one was paying attention to the prince told Lace all they needed to know about the situation so they let their eyes fall on the blood and was quick to swat at the mans hand rubbing at it. That would just make it worse! Holding up a finger to tell him to stay there Lace gets up, manages to find some water and a couple of cloth napkins, before returning only to yank his wrist toward them and begin cleaning off the spots.
Kazu was surprised by the sudden smack to his hand, blinking a few times as he processed what had just occurred. He’d never been hit like that by someone before aside from his caretakers when he was child. It wasn’t painful and it definitely caused him to stop what he was doing — which was, to be assumed, what the other wanted to happen. He watched with curious eyes as they left. Not a word had been spoken, but they weren’t entirely necessary. The other was quite straight forward with their intentions through their actions — especially when they returned and pulled on Kazuya’s wrist. He didn’t resist as he watched. At least he’d been correct in his assumptions as he noticed some of the blood start to lift out of the fabric as they started to work on it. “Um, thank you,” he said, words slightly uncertain. “You were the right person to come to, huh? My shirt and I are in debt,” he said, laughing slightly as he tried his best to use a small dose of humor to entertain the other. “I’ve never had to get blood out of my own clothes before, obviously, but you have it seems. Have you worked with blood before? Is it common for you?” He asked, already falling into his typical chatty mood when he was curious about someone new. What he had failed to realize is if the other even wanted to speak to him at all.
