bree

the restaurant is stunning, and the servings of delicious, mouthwatering food never ceases to impress you despite having visited and found your seat in this exact spot for years at this point. it’s always been an experience on its own right, simply sitting on one of the spotless benches inside a booth that offered comfortable privacy. often with excellent, adored company, other times, such as today, alone.

you’ve never been so grateful for the aforementioned privacy before, the one that offered half-walls covering you—and your face—what with the way you’ve absolutely been ogling at your waiter.

“would you like some dessert?”

the marvellously handsome waiter with a rather memorable tinge to his voice; it coats every word that leaves his mouth and you catch yourself not-so-inconspicuously staring at the movement of his perfect lips as he speaks. speaks to you, you realise belatedly, as he tries to get your attention again.

“that depends.” you settle more comfortably on the bench, crossing your legs as you smile at the way his eyes flit to the movement. “what do you offer?”

like an automation, your stunning waiter starts listing the menu off the top of his head. you can’t tell what he is thinking, what he has been thinking since you started this little charade, and as innocently attractive as it was to witness him deciding to humour you, you nudge the tip of your shoe against his calf to pause him—sevens, you can feel the moment his breath stills slightly—and before you can stop yourself, you find yourself smiling almost devilishly and uttering:

“say, are you on the menu?”

azul ashengrotto.

it takes azul a solid minute to process your words, and another one for him to actually reply with what only remotely resembles a proper human response.

inside of him, shock melts into mortified embarrassment (actually, that is an understatement of the century), hot and burning, and not in the pleasing way. no, not at all. his ears are not burning, and his hands are not itching to hide his face behind the clipboard in his hands, azul just… simply cannot believe you said all that out loud in the middle of the still-busy restaurant. while surrounded by full booths!

gracious sevens above, have you no shame? so what if everyone around you two were talking, laughing, not paying closer heed to what was occurring in this particular booth, or—

his grip on the clipboard tightens when you stroke the tip of your shoe against his calf again, motion deliberate this time, slow unlike the initial, fleeting touch. azul forces himself to exhale through his nose as he barely manages a smile that he’s sure looks half-mangled in comparison to his usual, suave ones.

your smile only widens at his evident attempt at salvaging what little dignity is left in him after your fatal heist. azul curses himself for floundering. it is not as though he is a fish on dry land. he has, should have, already found a secure enough footing here, yet you somehow manage to make him stumble over everything as though it was his first day on land all over again.

azul clears his throat with great difficulty. “m–my pearl—”

“‘my pearl’?” you’ve reached to fiddle with the cuff of his sleeve. azul promptly shuts up, mouth now dry. “why, you’re quite the flatterer, azul, sir.” (he will deny it later, but the way you stretch out his name in your mouth makes his knees buckle.) “am i already yours, hm?”

you raise your foot up until it rests against the inner side of his knee. it stays there—doesn’t move upwards, thank the sevens—but azul feels a little faint. it might be due to him inadvertently holding his breath for too long, or maybe it’s the fact that his heart is hammering so hard that he can hear the drum of it in his ears until it drowns out everything but you.

he suspects his next words are something along the lines of ‘i shall return with your dessert’, but it comes out a pitch too high and far too squeaky for his liking. his voice sounds foreign in his ears, but your smile never wavers and if anything, morphs into outright devious.

azul can only turn on his heel before you witness him melting into a boneless heap right in the middle of his own establishment, his walk of shame accompanied by your bell-like laugh.

jade leech.

oh?

so this was your play.

jade supposes he should have excepted it. after all, he was not so ignorant as to miss the long, lingering looks you had thrown his way all evening since he had started to serve your table, nor the coy manner in which you had asked for his name like he hadn’t heard it fall from your lips on more than one type of occasion—as a tinkling laugh while the two of you dance, a soft yelp when he surprises you with an embrace from behind, or his favourite, in pieces as you stutter the syllables out between barely audible gasps drowned by hungry kisses, with his hands somewhere on you to feel you, the thrum of your heart and the ever-moving bend of your body.

all that aside… why, he is positively delighted! it is not a rarity for you to indulge in this type of teasing, but goodness, does it always entice him to play along with this little game you initiate regardless of how many times it occurs. it is also a stark reminder why he chose to pursue that overwhelming affection of yours, why he willingly followed that fascination and whims you evoked in him in lieu of his usual caution.

“hm…” jade folds his hands in front of him, notepad and pen securely slipped into his front pocket now that he evidently has no need for them. watching your reaction to his faux contemplation is amusing, he admits, for he has always chased that thrill as much as his brother, though never so openly until with you.

giddiness bubbles in his chest, but he forcefully schools his expression. “i shall have to consider it, dear guest. i am not sure whether the chef is willing to arrange that at the moment, you see.”

the despondent pout on your lips makes him almost chuckle. almost being the keyword. instead, he stretches his own mouth into a rare, wide smile until you can see all of his sharp, pearly whites in all their glory, and he watches the way you stare at them, at the way your throat bobs ever so slightly.

“if odds are in your favour, however, feel free to visit in the afterhours.” jade reaches to lift your hand into his, attentively stares at you and your increasingly flustered reaction in kind as he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist; mostly with his lips, and then with the smallest graze of his teeth.

not enough to break skin, of course. jade would never mar you like so without your explicit comfort. the stutter in your otherwise steady pulse is enticing against his mouth, but jade simply smiles as he levels your wide-eyed stare with a crinkle of mirth in his own.

“in which case,” he hums, “i shall assign myself your personal escort and give you a very thorough tour around your desired delicacies.”

floyd leech.

floyd blinks once, twice, each eye languid enough to stir an impression of ease but too intentional to not raise alarm bells in any sane person’s head.

you blink back.

a small frown forms between his brows. you’ve been really confusing the whole dinnertime, he thinks, acting all oblivious and batting your lashes at him like you were trying to lure him into following your siren’s call.

floyd has no idea what you’re trying to achieve with this display. it’s not as though he isn’t already wrapped around your finger, he thought you knew that! you’ve been so touchy and teasing all evening, and were the circumstances different, floyd would be entertained by your little charade.

(and yes, perhaps his somewhat souring mood started when you pretended not to know his name. should floyd have made it a habit to make you say it until you were sick of the way it tastes? the thought displeases him. he’d rather you repeat it out of your own volition—the sound of it sits so nicely in your mouth.)

currently, though, his line of thought is as follows: it’s been a boring day, and he’d really just rather you pepper him with kisses like usual. floyd decides to continue that thought, flops beside you in the booth and all but abandoning the empty tray he had been holding till now.

well, more like on you than next to you. you let out a little oof as his tall frame settles against you, momentarily startled out of whatever had been taking over you the last hour or so.

“tesoroooo,” he whines into the crook of your neck, “why ya gotta act like a clueless guppy?”

“me?”

“yeah!”

why do you feign confusion? it’s not as though he thinks of anyone else as treasure, golden and shining, visible even through the murkiest waters. floyd reaches to pinch your cheek, and he sees you bite your lip to stifle a giggle.

huh.

“c’mon, tesoro,” he drawls lazily, changing his tune as he lightly probes your sides with his long fingers. he could dig deeper into the softness if he wanted to, true, but you are so comfortable and warm, and floyd is content to just run his hands up and down, ribs, waist, hips, back to waist. you dissolve into chiming laughter in his arms when he tickles you by nibbling at your neck, sound suddenly muffled when he surges up to kiss you square on the lips.

you hum contently and smile against his mouth, hands coming to cradle the sides of his head in the familiarly tender way. floyd pulls away to grin widely at you.

“there ya are. so mean, tesoro.” one kiss, two kisses. “can’t believe ya thought you’d get away with being so mean.” three kisses, one to your jaw. you sputter, trying to catch your breath through his loving assault. “ya gotta make it up to me, kayyy?”

(if azul is shouting after floyd for abandoning his duties… well, floyd wouldn’t know. he’s too busy with you, isn’t he?)

malleus draconia.

malleus’ gaze sweeps over the mortals, frown deepening ever so slightly at the their lowered heads and near… skittish demeanour, and then his eyes sweep over to you once more.

there is something inherently arrogant about that light tilt of your chin — about the smile that somehow emits the word ‘victorious’ in waves so tangible he can practically taste it in the air in spite of the fact that no winner had yet been announced. thus far, malleus has had no lasting qualms with you in particular, but he decides now, then and there: the sight of that smile on your lips does not please him.

and most displeasingly, malleus cannot fathom as to why the mortals, quivering though they stand, shy away from the spring of endless, sparkling seawater he had created upon their grounds with his very own hands, with his mastery of power far surpassing yours. malleus had always been under the impression that humans have always been in need of the very basis of life.

so why, contrary to this belief, do they look more alarmed than pleased?

in stark contrast to him, you had created a tree with a strong — albeit somewhat twisted — trunk, crowned with leaves of silver sheen and small fruits resting along its branches. an impressive creation in size, malleus can admit; but a singular tree could not feed a polis of thousands.

the mortals’ eyes flit to your creation nonetheless. despite belonging to the depths, an indignant fire lights up in malleus.

“tell me,” he says to you, the sound rumbling in his chest. the sea of heads before him and you lower themselves even further, if possible. “what purpose does this tree of yours serve, o’ bright-eyed one?” 

that smile. it looks finer on you than it does on the sun.

“overseer of voyagers, my gift to this titleless city of glory hereafter bears fruit for abundant purposes.” your hand comes to rest against the bark of the tree as you speak. “nourishment for hunger, oil for preparation of meals, wood for craftsmen. shade from the burning daylight.”

malleus hums at that. “it is but one tree.”

“more will be planted, naturally.”

“life forms such as these die out far too easily.”

“they will stand on these hills for centuries.” your smile turns into something softer, fonder. your eyes are drawn back to the mortals, to those who have dared to lift their head to gaze upon the divinity amongst them. “it is more than enough time for mortals to make use of them.”

and despite his own words, malleus sees the brilliance of your creation. he can already envision it, the prosperity your gift will give to these people. the fame, the weight this city of sunlit splendour will carry among all mankind.

in hindsight, it was perhaps a folly to forego caution and drive himself to face the one they revere as ‘victor’ and ‘of wisdom’ in a debate of wits.

when he glances at the mortals speaking in hushed, affirming words to one another, he can all but see how they have made an undoubtedly unanimous decision. malleus, too, thinks he knows the outcome, for once.

“i see,” is all he says.

immediate silence befalls the crowd, air tensing up. by and large, the mortals straighten as though struck with lightning, waiting for their judgment day by his command. malleus’ indignation simmers out in a flash.

he should not be surprised, should he? at the reactions, the wariness. 

the ground quakes under their feet. small yelps of panic escape the crowd, but malleus does not care to turn to see which of the mortals may have lost their footing — they do not refer to him as “earth-shaker” without a reason, he muses, bitterly.

you call his name from behind, but malleus is gone in the blink of an eye.

the saltwater spring cracks in half amidst the incoming earthquake.

silver vanrouge.

“hello.”

you jolt away from the painted ivory statue you had been approaching. the voice, soft and almost human, didn’t seem to come from the stony mouth, but you kept uneasily looking at it nonetheless.

a beat passes, then two. you contemplate on chalking the moment up to hallucination when the voice speaks again; it might be just your imagination, but the speaker is a little more hesitant this time.

“my apologies. i… i meant not to frighten you.”

frighten you, they said?

well. you glance around the marvellous pillar carvings, at the tall ceilings with intricate art depicted on them, at the amount of bountiful riches splayed on both the exterior and interior — and you haven’t even been further inside than the entrance hall.

all the glamour, very distantly, reminds you of home. you think back to the warmth you grew up in, the sunlight tinting the corridors in golden colours and the smiles of those passing you; in contrast to the howling winds that had whirled around you, alone on the cliff and waiting imminent death. 

the other person(?) speaks once more. “i brought you here to be safe. you appeared troubled with the other mortals. was that… was that not what you wanted?” there is a brief pause, and you can almost imagine a scrunched up expression on this invisible face as the next words are murmured, just barely audible to your ears. “perhaps father was jesting me…?”

a certain phrasing in a couple of those words catches your attention. other mortals.

whoever was conversing with you was not of human flesh, then. a shiver runs through your spine at the realisation that you may be speaking to one of the divine. the other seems to notice, air turning into a lulling warmth, cocooning on your skin before continuing to speak.

“well, uh.” a pause. “you may ask for anything.”

“anything?”

the voice perks up. “if it makes your stay here more pleasant.”

stay, as though this was a short visit of some kind and not… living the rest of your life surrounded with more gold than all the living kings combined (gold that you couldn’t even spend), and accompanied by a bodiless — though ultimately kind, you think — voice.

you mull the question over in your head as your eyes trail across the hall. if the other in the room is of divinity, catching a glimpse would remain impossible, and yet your eyes are drawn everywhere in hopes of seeing something.

an idea pops in your head. it is ridiculously wishful, and in spite of that, you voice it.

“i wish to see you.”

“see me?” despite not seeing your conversation partner, you can feel the air shift around you, currents slow and hesitant. half-confused, half-nervous, you guess.

you bite back a wider smile at the tone. “it is awfully dull to speak to air.”

“ah.” the air stills; you presume the speaker has stopped causing the wind to redirect itself in ways impossible when untampered with. “i shouldn’t.”

and despite the gentle firmness in the tone of this unknown voice, witnessing your slight deflation is all it takes for the air currents to start moving once more, wordlessly nudging you forward. led into the unknown by something intangible — somehow managing to concurrently feel like both a light hold and a respectful distance — and then stopping in front of a large mirror propped upon an intricately carved ivory vanity, you lay eyes on the reflective glass as directed, curiosity overwhelming your senses.

a beat passes. two beats. you stare at your own reflection, finding nothing out of the ordinary. disappointment has barely any time to wrap its tendrils around you when in place where your eyes would be, a pair of the most breathtaking irises appear, iridescent and auroreal, and framed by soft, silvery lashes.

you stare.

as though reading your mind, the voice whispers by your ear: “you are stunning.” softly, like it had not meant to slip out, except it is directed towards you, and not at the one whose gaze reminds you of the colour of nacreous seashells. it’s the exact words you had heard so many times from the lips of many an admirer, words which had driven you to be left to die when ordered by a messenger of the divine.

and yet, the heart in your chest stutters a little. the eyes reflected on the mirror, in a slightly sheepish response, crinkle ever so slightly as if to smile, blinking once, twice, in the beat of your hammering heart.

riddle rosehearts.

it is a small, bustling cafe – one of those situated just outside the campus, commonly used by the student body during their free time – where he meets you for the first time.

then again, meet might be too strong of a word for the continuous, stolen glances he throws your way when he spots you at one table, just a couple long strides away from the one he has decided to seat himself at on that day.

riddle knows odd little things about the cafe and now you despite visiting the place only a handful of times — and this being the first of seeing you there. if somebody were to inquire about the nature of his knowledge of you, riddle would candidly reply that he is an observant person by nature. nothing more, nothing less. he doubts there is anything strange about the fact that he knows your usual order by heart even if he has only heard it listed twice (first when you ordered, second time from the barista when they finished with it), nor about the fact that he knows the names of some of the books you have brought with you to the cafe due to his constant peeks at your table.

riddle thanks himself, in hindsight, for not bringing any of his dorm mates with him. the teasing he would have received, from something as simple yet as confusing as this. riddle has no clue what to name it, and he taps the side of his teacup in thought, the pad of his index finger drumming rhythmically against the ceramic.

he glances at you again. something in him screams about the impropriety of it all. and still, he cannot help but think how you appear so peaceful with the afternoon sun framing you as you lean over the papers neatly spread on the table you have come to occupy, and riddle finds himself looking a little longer.

the tea is going to grow cold… how troublesome.

riddle forces himself to move his gaze back to the book he had brought, and brings the cup back to his lips. though the liquid has significantly lost some of its warmth, the ceramic rim feels hot against his skin, and he keeps reading the same line over and over again. riddle frowns a little at the observations. he takes a sip the tea in hopes of calming down the subtle racing of his heart, and then makes the mistake of looking up from the pages of his book, at you again.

you are looking back at him. with a dazzling, almost knowing smile on your face. in your dominant hand (the one he has seen holding a pen over your notes for the past half an hour) is an unevenly ripped piece of paper, two words inked onto it in penmanship so undeniably you that the sight catches his breath.

hi, handsome, it reads. riddle somehow manages not to choke on his tea.

there is no denying of the flush of his cheeks and ears, though.

leona kingscholar.

some might say he’s being paranoid. that he’s being too careful, too wary. leona isn’t known for erring in his hunches, but for a split second — just a split second — he considers the possibility of his recurrent fatigue and constant on-guardedness to have caused him to feel like… whatever this is.

the aforementioned this doesn’t occur anywhere else except during his spelldrive matches. more specifically, in the last three games where leona shouted commands at his teammates, throwing the disc with nigh violent force at the goal rings all while that acute impression of being watched continued.

that feeling — it doesn’t feel bad, per se. it’s more similar to gentle, curious prodding, never too invasive or intrusive, but always lasting the entire game. none of his teammates seemed to share his sentiment, meaning leona, lo and behold, is the only one being observed.

he doesn’t know why or who and it’s driving him absolutely insane.

leona glances at the audience of today (for the umpteenth time), at the sea of bobbing heads watching the game intently or animatedly chattering among themselves. none of them seem to even look specifically in his direction, much less long enough to be the cause of this feeling. with no luck and a new irritated crease to his brow, leona takes off on his broom. focus on the game, he chants in his head as the disc is passed to him again. focus on the game.

the opposing team’s captain barks orders to their team, and two people fly towards leona at the same time. he dives down sharply mid-flight. focus on the game.

wind howls in his ears and leona can feel his ponytail loosening ever so slightly when he manoeuvres around his opponents, the yells of the audience increasing steadily. focus on the–

the feeling returns, stronger, at the exact moment the disc flies through the opposing team’s goal. a loud blare announces the end of the match as leona whips his head around, too distracted to fully register the celebratory yells and whoops of his teammates in the background. where? leona turns on his broom. where?

and then–

there.

his eyes, almost missing you by a narrow second in his haste to swirl around, lock with yours across the hundred and some yards of stadium space. he’s so far away, and yet, leona feels like your expression lifts into a small smile when you notice that he stares back, and something, something indescribable about that smile and that silently studying gaze of yours tells him he has found the culprit of his troubles.

his team chatters around him, most of them ecstatic about the victory. emboldened, perhaps, by the cheers of his pride surrounding him, leona stares at you longer. defiantly, challengingly, and you?

he swears, despite being so far from where you sit, he can see you cocking an eyebrow at him, equally unyielding on your ground.

if that’s your angle… fine, leona thinks as his feet hit the ground, the thrum of adrenaline still clinging to his hammering heart. i’ll play your game.

azul ashengrotto.

ever so discreetly, azul glances at you sitting by your table where you unhurriedly wait to be served.

he still doesn’t know your name; it is, despite that fact, undeniably you sitting there, mouth set into that smile he recognises from his earlier years, and you look as radiant as you did back then, only with less of that more prominent, youthful softness of childhood.

would you recognise him if you saw him now? azul hopes, prays not. he has changed plenty from his younger self – surely it is enough to start from a blank, a clean slate, if only from his side. there is no guarantee you’d even know or remember his name, much less that shy octomer who hid away from others’ most scrutinizing gazes.

(the thought somehow makes him feel simultaneously relieved and disappointed. you likely never became aware of the fact that azul had seen you laughing your heart out that fateful day, his eyes wide as they took in the sight.)

admittedly, azul has been waiting planning for this a while. made sure that if– no, when you would eventually cross paths again, he’d have everything set out neatly, the rush hour would be far, far away, and he would be more than available when you chose a seat. 

deep breath in. deep breath out. in. out. he can do this. he has contingency plans for this exact moment, and those plans have contingencies of their own, endless nights spent on endless planning. there is no way i won’t succeed here, azul chants to himself, over and over, as he approaches your table with a charming smile. he hopes it’s not evident how his knuckles threaten to turn white under his gloves, and how tightly he’s gripping the clipboard and the menu. the clack of his shoes sound far too loud despite the ambient chatter all around him, muted slightly by the drumming heartbeat in his ears.

he tries. he, frankly, really tries. but somehow, azul ends up with a too-dry throat and a blanking mind when you turn to him, giving him that smile.

what was supposed to be a suave, confident greeting crumbled into a singular squeaky “hello” escaping his throat almost involuntarily fast, the sound sneaking past his lips just as he snaps his mouth shut in horror, and azul wishes the ground could swallow him now. in fact, if someone would be willing to bury him right this instant, he would pay them triple the value of—

amidst his spiralling, you greet him back, voice familiar and that smile etched onto your lips. azul stiffly hands you the menu, all too aware of the slightest, burning warmth that has started to creep up his neck.

i can work with this, he supposes, subtly straightening his back as you ask him something regarding the dishes. you hum thoughtfully throughout his explanations, gaze flitting between the menu and his eyes.

azul swallows, hard. time to move on to contingency plan number one, then. (hopefully without bumbling through it and needing to move on to the next plan. he’s not entirely convinced he can pull plan c off anymore.)

jamil viper.

for jamil, there had straightforwardly been too many things for him to sort out, too much noise and too many unspoken commands echoing in the halls, and he had, uncharacteristically impulsively, taken the nearest turn to what he had presumed to be an empty balcony, his head spinning and lungs aching for a gasp of night air.

he hadn’t meant to stumble upon you, much less during what was likely your own downtime, away from the flashing lights and loud laughter of the party. just like him, seeking refuge in a place shielded from view.

in a setting like this — where most invitees undoubtedly shared their host’s enthusiasm — people tended to stick inside, dancing and singing the night away, but here you stand, alone, gazing somewhere far with an inexplicable expression set on the part of your face he can see from where he himself stands, frozen, hesitant.

eyes still searching for something, something the extravagance all around you didn’t fulfill, you turn to fully face him, eyes locking with his, and somehow, for someone like jamil who runs and runs in the quicksand, the neverending race swallowing him whole as he gets buried under the imposing tasks and duties, time seems to… stop.

part of your face is illuminated by the warm lights peeking through the slightly opened doorway, while the moon rims your frame in its paler, starker glow. a faint surprise has etched itself into your eyes — a fraction wider than before you took notice of another’s presence in your chosen sanctuary — as you study him carefully from where you stand. jamil forces himself to move his eyes away, an apology building up in his throat already—

and he hears you utter one of your own in sync with him; incredulous, jamil glances back at you. it’s a touch sharper than he intended, and knowing the company most of the invitees share, he almost regrets it. something in your eyes keeps him looking still, the two of you holding each other’s gazes for a while in an odd kind of stalemate which ends when your face eventually breaks into a smile, a puff of a laugh sneaking past your lips. he doesn’t know what about this could possibly seem hilarious to you, and yet the sound of your laughter, however small, makes the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. just slightly.

“not much of a life of the party?” he asks before he can stop himself. you tilt your head, humming in something that sounds half like contemplation and half like agreement, and then you wave him over. it’s not a command, as far as jamil can tell; there is less of an edge to your movement. he hesitates, looks over his shoulder and debates whether he should return to his duties, but ultimately joins your side to overlook the scene spanning from the balcony’s edge.

jamil doesn’t know what to make of that — doesn’t know what to make of you. despite your relaxed posture and unguarded countenance, jamil can make no tail nor head of you. it’s… oddly intriguing. 

and frustrating, he realises as he turns his gaze to you who, for reasons unfathomable, in utter silence stare at the scenery enveloped in the dark blanket of night, expression unchanged aside from the few times you catch him staring, flashing him that same smile before your eyes are drawn elsewhere. it is increasingly frustrating, for jamil, who has made it a habit to know. to find out, if only out of built-up instinct.

(but perhaps that is part of the fun. it’s been a while since he’s been challenged like so.)

vil schoenheit.

when vil feels a tap on his shoulder, his first — immediate, built-in — reaction is to sigh, internally.

on one hand, he shouldn’t be too surprised that he is stopped on streets every now and then, but vil had hoped that a bit of a disguise would’ve been able to give him some level of privacy. (if only.) perhaps it was the call he had been on with his manager for a while that gave him away even in spite of the fact that the area is, especially at this time of day, much less flooded with people; vil had deliberately come there specifically knowing that.

clearly, even with all that taken into account, there had not been enough foresight on his part. vil considers ignoring the interaction (if the one-sided, brief touch could even be called one) entirely when his manager pauses mid-rant, and her voice takes on a questioning tone.

“yes, adela, i am still here.” vil pinches the bridge of his nose, turning as gracefully on his heels as he can. perhaps it’ll be just an autograph, then i’ll be on my way. “give me a moment, there is a—”

he sees his belonging first, clutched in someone else’s hands, and vil’s body goes rigid. that someone else is colouring the soundscape with their voice, alongside his manager– they’re talking to him, but vil can’t stop his train of thought going from who dares to take that which is mine to how could i have become this careless.

before he can smoothly gather himself and act before any possible altercation occurred, you have stopped talking and just hand the object to him. vil stares, at his belonging, then at you, at the way your mouth moves and curves around words as you start apologising, something about interrupting his phone call, of all things.

vil remembers, faintly, seeing you somewhere around here earlier that day. he is not sure what exactly made him remark you in the first place, but something about you now catches his eye. the way a smile, genuine and warm, finds its place across your lips, and your extended hand patient, unhurried. and you ask for nothing else, even when vil finally comes to and slowly takes his belonging from you, brushing your hand just the slightest in the process. 

he can’t tell if you recognise him. it’s rarer to find someone who doesn’t know his face or name, but whether you realise who he is, you don’t show it. vil watches as you excuse yourself – with much more grace than he, much to his horror, can muster in that moment – and wave in his direction when you take your leave.

vil stands at the same spot for a while, mulling the interaction over and over in his head. he hadn’t had that in a while, especially off-campus. that. such a heartwarmingly simple thing.

“vil?” his manager’s voice cracks in his phone. vil frowns when he realises that he’s been gripping his phone a little too hard, and brings the device back to his ear. he needs something else to think about.

“still here, adela.” vil adjusts his bag, eyes drawn down and catching sight of the object that had fallen, of the object you had picked up. your smile flashes before his eyes again. “you were saying?”

malleus draconia.

“would you care to share the space under my umbrella?”

you glance at him once more, more deliberately than the first time when he had first appeared next to you amidst the rain. malleus delights in the way your eyes, again, drift over him more so in a considering, pondering way. unafraid, you meet his gaze for a few moments before lingering at the sight of heavy rainfall, the pitter-patter showing no signs of coming to a curtain call anytime soon.

you are a curious thing, he decides at that moment. curious, in the intriguing way; and equally curious, in the searching way. malleus finds odd joy in comparing the meanings in his head, both comparable measures to the little amount of your character he has unravelled by just existing a few moments beside you.

and yet, it is the nature of your soul that makes him wonder the most. what could have possibly stopped you from braving the weather, whether with the protection of a cover like his own or a touch of the familiar hum under one’s skin, magic lingering at the precipice of some a person’s —most certainly including his — fingertips, malleus doesn’t know. there should unquestionably be various different ways for you to escape what is generally considered most dreadful weather.

you do not answer him yet. malleus certainly does not mind waiting, umbrella perched neatly to cover the both of you. with the sight of the intricately carved statues on a nearby building perfectly in sight for him, malleus only hums a short tune under his breath, the rain tuning out the rest of the surrounding soundscape.

suddenly, you speak amidst the downpour. it is his turn to glance at your way as you agree to move with him under the safety of his umbrella, and despite being the one who — admittedly on an unusual whim — offered first, malleus cannot help but wonder if you had no precaution against strangers, much less strangers clad almost entirely in black and crowned with imposing horns. he would think many find it comparable to the horrors of the warning fairy tales.

the voice of his governesses rings somewhere in the back of malleus’ head as he offers his arm to you. he can’t tell if you find that peculiar, but, perhaps in search of securing yourself better under the shade of his umbrella, you wind your hand around the crook of his elbow.

surprising him yet again, you ask him about the gargoyles pictured on the inside of his umbrella, and malleus thrills in imparting his knowledge on you. a complete stranger, yet so willing to listen to him talk, the rain enveloping the two of you in a tranquil dome of your own.

malleus meets your eyes mid-sentence. this is… quite nice, he thinks as he watches you nod along to him, attention raptly on the words that flow past his lips.

if fate was kind, malleus would delight in having you regale him with your presence once more.

perhaps on another rainy day, one quite akin to this. he certainly wouldn’t mind.