Upsetti-Spaghetti's Writing

Your father had sternly told you that it had already been decided and that if you were going to cry, you might as well suckle at your mother's breast again. That had sent you into a whole new rage, for which you were punished with confinement. Once that was over, you had resorted to begging and pleading with him to no avail. You would marry Lord Rosera, and that was the end of it.

You've also heard that he's one of the most beautiful people in high society, and you would be lying if you said you weren't interested in seeing what he looked like. At any rate, he had to be better looking than that snobbish Count Sentara and perhaps it would make up for his wretched reputation.

You shudder thinking of the count. He's nearly your father's age and so stuck up he probably doesn't even know what the word fun means. He had been interested in making you his wife, much to your disgust. You were quite glad that Lord Rosera was your age at least.

The sound of footsteps reaches your ears, and you perk up, searching for their source. Your father rounds a corner, a short boy following him. Your breath hitches as you look at him. He's as beautiful as the rumors say, if not even more so. His delicate face is framed by snow white hair tinged with pink and freckles dot his round cheeks and nose.

But his outfit…good goddess! What a travesty! Bright pinks and blues clash together in a garish display that reminds you of those old women who wear such colors to make themselves look younger. And a sword? Isn't that a cause for concern considering how clumsy he is? What if he takes someone's eye out?

They draw closer, and you stand, ready to reluctantly curtsy to Lord Rosera. Who could have imagined that he would trip over his own feet and slam his chin into the table? You and your father gasp in shock.

"Good gracious, child, are you alright?" your father asks, helping him up.

"I—I'm fine. I just tripped. It's nothing new," he says sheepishly.

He rubs at his chin, a red mark already blooming on his pale skin. He glances at you, magenta eyes shy. You hurriedly shake off your surprise and curtsy.

"My lord."

He nods.

"My lady."

The two of you stand in front of each other awkwardly, not sure what to say next. He fidgets with the ends of his long hair. He's your height, rather short for a boy of seventeen. Your father clears his throat, looking between the two of you like he can't decide whether to leave or say something.

"Wh—Why don't we sit?" Lord Rosera says.

You do as he says, folding your hands in your lap demurely. You need to make a good impression, but you're still shaken by his arrival and subsequent tripping. It doesn't appear to be bothering him, though, as he calmly pours himself a cup of tea, dumping an obscene amount of sugar into it.

"Well then. I will…leave the two of you alone now," your father says, bowing to Lord Rosera and taking his leave.

You glance at Lord Rosera, watching him stir his tea and then take a sip. He hums, seeming pleased.

"This is a delightful tea," he says.

"So it is."

The silence stretches again, and you feel most silly sitting here like this. What a boring marriage this will be, if neither of you have anything to speak about. You glower at him over your cup, once again angry with your father for picking him out of all people.

"Do you trip often, Lord Rosera?" you ask.

A faint blush settles on his cheeks, lashes lowering over his eyes.

"Ah, well, I am rather clumsy."

Your eyes narrow.

"Oh my, I suppose your lessons with the sword haven't been going well."

He blinks, as though confused by your sudden hostility.

"I'm not that good, but they're going well."

"Really? It rather seems like a safety hazard."

His brows pinch.

"What do you mean? I don't go swinging it around for no reason."

You take another sip of tea.

"Is that so?"

"Have I offended you in some way, Lady L/N?"

"How could you offend me when we've just met? I only meant to point out that someone like you having a sword should be illegal."

"You're really quite mean for someone I've just met."

His eyes grow teary, and a pang of guilt throbs in your chest. But you're not the type to let such things bother you. You set down your teacup with a clang, startling him.

"I didn't want this engagement. Not to someone like you, who is gossiped about every other week and who cries when someone is mean to him. For an Archduke's son, you're," you pause, looking him up and down derisively. "Pathetic."

He looks taken aback by your statement, more tears filling his eyes. You stand, curtsying to him once more.

"Good day, Lord Rosera. I hope we see each other as little as possible for the next three years."

You stalk away, your heels clacking on the stone path. How utterly irritating. Not only was he clumsy and stupid, he was a crybaby as well. How did he expect to be Archduke if he couldn't even take a few snide comments? Useless. You will never like Lord Rosera.

He follows along behind the taller man, hands clasped behind his back. On the surface, he looks nervous, eyes flicking around with childlike curiosity, but underneath, he is seething. How dare that little whelp tell him to get married, as if he wasn't thousands of years older and capable of snapping his neck with a thought.

His brow twitches, and he has to remind himself that he is supposed to be a young, clumsy man on his way to meet his fiancée. He would never kill the Archduke, but he feels as though the man has gotten too comfortable lately, as though the man thinks that he is really his son and not his ancient ancestor.

He hasn't really heard much about you, other than that you were the daughter of the Marquis and had a sour disposition. He can understand why; there is immense pressure on you to conduct yourself well as the Marquis' only child. He is sure that you've been trained from birth to be his successor and heir.

He glances at the man in front of him. He looks hardened by age and expectation, a most severe expression on his face. Apparently shrewd as well, seeing how quick he was to agree to the Archduke's offer. All it took was the promise of connection, of power. Does he think that little of his daughter, that he would he toss her away in an instant?

He sighs internally. It really isn't any of his business what the Marquis chooses to do, not any of his business that you suffer for your father's ruthlessness. He'll just meet you, shyly make a greeting, and leave, and your marriage will simply be two people living in the same house, knowing nothing of the other.

The Marquis rounds a corner, and he follows, gaze looking ahead to the girl sitting at a table. Surprise flits across your face first then…horror? He has to stifle a laugh at your reaction to his manner of dress, hiding his smile by ducking his head for a moment.

As he draws closer, you stand, hands ready to lift your skirts in a curtsy. A sour expression mars your face, much the same as your father, though he wonders if you even know how similarly you carry yourself to the Marquis. What will you think of this then?

He twists his foot deliberately, careening forward so that his chin slams into the table. It doesn't hurt at all, but it makes you and your father gasp, the Marquis bending down to help him up.

"Good gracious, child, are you alright?"

"I—I'm fine. I just tripped. It's nothing new," he says, making his voice small and wavering.

He rubs at his chin, feeling nothing but the sensation of touch. He doesn't feel pain anymore, but neither you nor your father are aware of that. He glances at you, lashes lowered a tad. The shock quickly clears from your face, and you curtsy.

"My lord."

He nods at you.

"My lady."

He reaches up to fidget with his long hair, the perfect picture of nervousness. You stand stock still, hands clasped in front of you. No human would be able to tell that you are nervous, but he can scent it on you. The Marquis clears his throat, looking between him and you. He decides that he should say something before the awkward air grows any thicker.

"Wh—Why don't we sit?" he gestures to the table.

He sits down, immediately pouring a cup of tea, spooning a massive amount of sugar into it. This appears to disgust you, judging by the slight curl of your lip.

"Well then. I will…leave the two of you alone now," the Marquis says, turning and leaving.

He takes a sip of his tea, humming.

"This is a delightful tea."

"So it is."

He glances at you. So curt, when you've barely touched your tea. You finally pick it up and take a sip, your eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The look in your eyes takes him aback. It's hatred. Boiling, all consuming hatred.

"Do you trip often, Lord Rosera?"

Your tone is mild, but the implication is clear. You think him a fool.

"Ah, well, I am rather clumsy."

Your eyes narrow further.

"Oh my, I suppose your lessons with the sword haven't been going well."

He blinks, resisting the urge to show his teeth at you. What a wild, little thing you are, so openly hostile to someone you don't know.

"I'm not that good, but they're going well."

"Really? It rather seems like a safety hazard."

His brows pinch, and he grits his teeth. Are all human children this bold nowadays?

"What do you mean? I don't go swinging it around for no reason."

You take another sip of tea.

"Is that so?"

"Have I offended you in some way, Lady L/N?"

"How could you offend me when we've just met? I only meant to point out that someone like you having a sword should be illegal."

"You're really quite mean for someone I've just met."

He makes his eyes grow wet with tears, but it doesn't faze you in the slightest. In fact, it seems to make you more irritated. You set down your teacup with a clang, and he pretends to startle. How impudent of you.

"I didn't want this engagement. Not to someone like you, who is gossiped about every other week and who cries when someone is mean to him. For an Archduke's son, you're," you pause, looking him up and down with a look that clearly says you think little of him. "Pathetic."

He does growl then, quietly enough that you don't hear it. You stand, curtsying to him once more.

"Good day, Lord Rosera. I hope we see each other as little as possible for the next three years."

You stalk away, your heels clacking on the stone path. He clenches his hands, wanting nothing more than to rip one of your limbs off. He breathes, once, twice. He cannot kill you, no matter how much he may want to. What the hell was wrong with you, that you would dare to so openly mock him? Had he not excellent control over himself, you would be screaming and covered in your own blood right now. He will never like someone like you.