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She can tell it’s going to be a bad day the moment she wakes up.
It's in the way her limbs feel heavy, her movements laborious and sluggish. In the way she has to spend a few extra minutes in bed staring at the ceiling and willing away the voice—sounding suspiciously close to her own—begging her to just stay under the covers, before she can collect herself enough to get up. In the way she has to cover the mirror as she gets ready, uncomfortable with her own reflection—with even just her own eyes on her. Luckily, or maybe not so much, she's done this enough times before that her morning routine goes by without a hitch regardless.
On a day like this she'd very much like to do nothing but stay inside and wallow in her misery, a privilege she was never granted until recently, and that even more recently has been newly taken away. Turns out that having a job, whether as a god or as a human, severely limits one's “wallowing in misery” time. What a scam.
To add insult to injury, it looks like the day is going to be particularly stressful, with rehearsals getting more chaotic and intense as the date of her current production’s first showing approaches, her troupe not quite up to task just yet. Not to mention the prop master has yet to get back to her with the final version of the protagonist’s sword, among others, despite being so adamant he could have it all ready weeks in advance. At this rate she's going to have to track him down herself. She's starting to get a headache just thinking about it.
Perhaps it's precisely the knowledge of how much she's going to have to deal with that's preemptively bringing her down, her mundane affairs having turned out to be no less taxing than the godly ones.
Still, she would never go back. For all she's lost along with her former status—things she never wanted to begin with—she has gained much more as a human. As a god, she had nothing to retire to after a long day. All that awaited her was the promise of another day to follow, one that would play out exactly the same as what came before. As a human, her days are varied, filled with both joy and grief.
As a human, even in the face of difficulty, she has the evening to look forward to.
***
She tried being optimistic.
Even if they couldn't fully fix her mood, sweets always had a way of lifting up her spirits, and nothing bad had even truly happened yet. Perhaps all she needed was a pick-me-up to get the day on track before it could actually devolve. Her instincts might simply be off, and she'll finally realize it once her stomach is full, the sweet taste of today's pastry of choice lingering on her tongue.
That's what she tells herself as she walks into the nearest café to her workplace, only to find out the morning rush was particularly intense today, and they have already sold out all their pastries.
She doesn't need the girl at the counter to tell her there's more on the way, the enticing smell from the back tipping her off all on its own, but she's already late and can't afford to waste more time waiting for a freshly baked croissant—no matter how delicious and soft and warm and frankly irresistible it sounds.
Alas, her will is mightier than the gods'. She walks out of the café empty-handed.
She trudges along towards the small theater her troupe has been renting, her stomach grumbling the whole way.
This truly is shaping up to be the worst day ever. Or the worst she's had in a few weeks, at least. In all honesty, it probably wouldn't even make it into the top fifty worst days of her entire life, although that wouldn't be a fair metric. Still, she's allowed to complain.
***
“No, Théo,” she starts, exasperated. “As I’ve told you already, you need to speak louder, or people at the back won’t be able to hear you. And your delivery there should be softer, or the audience won't catch Francis’s inner conflict.”
Théo sputters, embarrassed at being reprimanded for the third time in such a short amount of time, and she almost feels bad for him. He’s a young and talented thing, if clearly inexperienced. She knows he’ll grow into his own eventually. Unfortunately, they can’t afford to wait for that to happen in its own time.
“I apologize, Lady Furina—”
“It’s Miss,” she interrupts dryly. It’s been months since she stepped down from her previous role, and she still has to constantly correct people. It’s aggravating on the best of days.
“Miss Furina, I’m sorry, I—”
“Just get back to practicing your lines.”
Maybe she came across as more caustic than intended, because he looks downright panicked now. Her actors aren’t strangers to her harsh moods and sharp remarks, and they know to take it in stride, trusting that Furina's guidance will always lead to a better performance, even if it's not always the gentlest of approaches.
But it’s not even halfway through the day yet, way too early for this side of her to come out, usually spurred by low blood sugar and rising frustrations, and they’re clearly beginning to pick up on the fact that something is off. Not just Théo, but also Maxine, Lorraine, Renaud—more and more people have been shooting worried glances her way, some looking on the verge of speaking up, and it's starting to get a bit overwhelming.
Was she too stern with Théo, after all? The softer approach has not been yielding results, or at least not fast enough, so isn’t it just in the best interest of everyone to push him harder? He's not so soft he can't take it. Or maybe she was wrong to chide Ollie for taking so long with the props? She hasn’t even gotten around to her list of grievances with the lighting crew, but did she already take it too far? Are they fed up with her? Are they truly staring at her, or is she just imagining it? She can’t tell for sure sometimes, and the knowledge that the former is always more likely than the latter isn’t helpful in the slightest.
She can never take the spotlight off.
“I’ll be right back. We'll be redoing this scene from the top once I return.” She doesn’t wait for a reply before turning tail and exiting the room, looking for a quiet place to unwind, but she can still hear the nervous chorus of “yes, ma’am”s as she shuts the door behind her.
She wanders around until she finds what she’s looking for—a somewhat neglected storage room, filled with old props from past productions that have been slowly gathering dust over the years. Not many people come here these days, not since the building was renovated, a fact she's found herself grateful for more than once already. It’s not the first time she has needed to get away for a few minutes.
The instant she closes the door she feels her whole body go limp, the tension leaving her as she leans her forehead on the wall and closes her eyes, sighing in relief.
It never got easier. She thought it would, and perhaps it actually will, eventually, but it’s taking too long, and it’s terribly exhausting. She can last longer in public than she could in the first couple of weeks since she started her new career, but every once in a while she’ll have a day like this, where the slightest attention on her will make her skin crawl. Where the gaze of the people will feel like unsheathed blades eagerly reaching for her flesh, wanting nothing but to tear her apart and leave with a piece of her. It makes her nauseous.
It’s not fair towards her troupe to feel this way, she knows that. They look at her for guidance. It’s what she’s there for, and it's unreasonable to expect them to look away. They’re all good people too, and she can tell their concern is genuine, rather than owed. She still can’t bear to be placed under their scrutiny, no matter how well-intentioned.
She wants the day to be over already. She wants to be back home, in her bed, surrounded by her plushies. She wants to burrow under the covers like a child terrified of vaguely defined monsters she was born too old to ever believe in, warm and safe and hidden from sight—from consumption.
But she can’t, not just yet. Her people are relying on her, and that has always been her downfall.
She’ll simply have to dust herself off and march right back to rehearsals. She’ll be gentler this time, because Théo and the others don’t deserve to be on the—admittedly unwarranted—receiving end of her frustration. She’ll do better, she'll get through the afternoon, and then she’ll finally be home, satisfied with the knowledge of a job well done and away from prying eyes.
And hey, at least she still has the evening to look forward to. Right?
***
She's not looking forward to the evening.
The realization breaks her a little, as she enters her apartment and lets herself flop down on the sofa.
Just as she resolved to make happen, the rest of rehearsals went much more smoothly. She was much more cheerful, especially once a stagehand presented her with a bag of pastries acquired during her brief break—an attempt to appease her, clearly, and a very much appreciated one too.
She didn't apologize to Théo, but she did change her approach. Between his inexperience and natural aptitude, she figured he needed practical examples to draw from, rather than being told what to change in terms he might not fully understand, and luckily he happened to be in the presence of the best actress Fontaine has ever produced. Going over his lines and playing out the scenes in his stead took more time than she would've liked, but it was worth it. His growth by the end was evident.
Ollie was trickier, but after some more needling he finally admitted he's been having issues with money, and was forced to pick up a number of side gigs to get by, which led him to neglecting his work on the props. Of course, she made sure to lecture him on his priorities, but she didn't feel the need to be too harsh. After all, the situation should be settled now, and with how skilled she knows him to be it surely won't take long for everything to finally be set.
Hopefully Surintendante Chevalmarin doesn't have too much to say about her decision to give him an advance out of pocket.
Sorting out the lighting crew was the most tedious job of all, although it also turned out to be the simplest. Everyone was all too eager to abide by her directions, reluctant to test her patience, and she ended up spending much less time on it than initially expected. A small mercy.
All in all, the day had picked up, much as she had hoped in the morning. She didn't feel any better for it.
She had promised herself she would never act as anyone other than herself again. She hadn't quite broken that promise, but “playing” the version of her capable of getting through it all despite her low spirits still somewhat felt like a betrayal.
She's worn out, her limbs heavy and unresponsive once again. She should be changing right about now, dressing up for what was supposed to be a fun night out on the town, one she has been looking forward to for days. She can't bring herself to move.
She feels an all too familiar prickling in her eyes, and it only serves to frustrate her more.
It's not fair. She was supposed to be happy as a human, and she is—most of the time. She was supposed to find her job fulfilling and rewarding, and she does—on most days. She was supposed to look forward to her date, and she did. They haven’t had an opportunity to see each other in a while, busy as they both can get, and she’s been giddy at the prospect of tonight all week.
She wants to enjoy herself, to wander the streets of Fontaine on her girlfriend's arm, to go to that cute little restaurant she was promised serves the best boeuf Bourguignon in the city, a nice change of pace from the fancy locales she's used to. To hold hands on the walk back to her apartment, to be gently kissed at her doorstep—either as goodnight or as a preamble to something more.
She wants to have fun without having to worry about passersby pointing at her and excitedly whispering in each other’s ears as she walks past—always much less subtle than they believe themselves to be. Without feeling paranoid at whether the rest of the restaurant’s patrons are stealing glances her way or not. She really does not want her girlfriend to reserve the entire establishment for just one date again, but she had admittedly ended up appreciating the gesture.
Perhaps she'll have all that, but—as she curls in on herself and attempts to will the tears away—she knows it won't be tonight.
***
“I must truly apologize, darling, but it looks like something has come up. I won’t be able to join you on our date tonight.”
Standing at her doorstep, looking oh so handsome in another one of her tailored suits, flowers in hand—beautiful lakelight lilies, likely handpicked if Arlecchino’s track record is anything to go by; the sight of them makes Furina’s heart twist in guilt—Arlecchino’s expression does not change. It would be a stretch to say she expected this, but she’s not unfamiliar with Furina’s occasionally unpredictable nature, and so she only waits for her to explain herself.
Now, that will be quite the difficult endeavor.
She had considered simply fessing up about her terrible mood, but looking for the right words to explain it had only made her feel silly. What was even so bad about today, in hindsight? She got everything done just fine, didn’t she? And what would she even say, anyway? “Sorry I can’t spend time with you tonight, I’m too busy feeling sad about myself for no real reason again. Toodles.”
Arlecchino had been understanding with her at the start, maybe even for longer than truly warranted, but by now Furina knows she should be better than this. She shouldn’t keep abusing other people’s patience.
Still, that doesn't mean she can muster the energy from out of nowhere, and any realistic excuse she attempts to come up with will likely be immediately seen through. So, she plays it up as one of her many eccentricities.
“As it turns out, I have been visited by an unexpected houseguest tonight.”
An eyebrow, raised. “Have you, now?”
“Indeed. His name is Monsieur Blubberbeast.” A hum. She’s not sure how to interpret it. She keeps going. “It’s a very unfortunate ordeal. He’s terribly sick, you see, and I couldn’t possibly leave him by himself. We suspect the flu, although it could be anything at this point. He’s looking worse by the minute.”
“I see. Truly unfortunate, as you say,” Arlecchino says, unreadable as ever. “Although I must wonder, why is it that this... Monsieur Blubberbeast—whose name is peculiarly identical to that of a stuffed animal I acquired for you last month—requires your assistance, specifically?”
Ah, a perfectly reasonable rebuttal. Luckily, Furina’s improvisational chops have been refined over centuries of constant practice. She’s got this.
“It’s such a sad story,” she drawls. “Private affairs, but I know you wouldn’t casually speak of other people’s business, so I’ll let you in on it.”
“You think very highly of me. How flattering.”
“But of course,” she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “So, here’s the rundown: the good Monsieur here is quite advanced in age, and sadly his wife has already left him behind. As for their children… Well, he wouldn’t go into detail about it, but it seems they’re always very busy with work and their own families, and rarely ever visit these days. His other friends are hardly spring enough to take care of him in this difficult time, dealing with their own maladies. He has no one else to turn to.”
Arlecchino ponders her response for a moment, and the brief silence is enough to make Furina almost regret the whole charade. Of course it’s silly. She never really expected Arlecchino to drop their date without question, over something so frivolous at that. All she’s hoping for is that her girlfriend, with her keen eye and propensity for tact, will get the hint that tonight is not going to work without pushing for an explanation she’s not prepared to give.
She’s still abusing her goodwill, even now.
“You’re right, this is certainly a tragedy,” Arlecchino finally responds. “Of course, I would never dare to take away the Monsieur’s only caretaker in his time of need. Still—” Furina almost lets out a sigh of relief, but it dies in her throat when she realizes Arlecchino is not done speaking. Her girlfriend pauses, red crosses searching her own mismatched droplets, and Furina has to resist the urge to look away. She only hopes her eyes are not still bloodshot and puffy from earlier. “I have plenty of experience dealing with sick children, myself. Should assistance be required—and welcome—I would be more than willing to offer mine.”
That’s not what she expects. What is Arlecchino signing up for, exactly? To spend the evening taking care of a “sick” stuffed animal? She doesn’t actually believe there’s a sick person in her home, right?
Her expression is stiff and austere as usual, although Furina has slowly learned to read the nuances of it over time. For all the playing along, she can tell she’s decidedly earnest in her offer.
Then, once she properly meets Arlecchino’s gaze, she finally understands what is going left unsaid.
We don’t have to go out. We don’t have to talk about it, either. But if you’d like my company, I’ll be here for you.
As she looks away and steps aside, wordlessly making room to let her girlfriend into the apartment, she can feel the prickling in her eyes again. She only hopes Arlecchino won’t notice.
***
“So, this is our patient. You were right, he does look terrible.” He looks like a 3-foot stuffed animal tucked under the covers of her bed. Hopefully he doesn't take offense. “Have you taken his temperature yet?”
“Um… No?” She hesitates, unsure on how to handle this new direction for Arlecchino’s character. Or rather, the way her character has not changed at all, despite the ridiculous circumstances.
“This is dire, Miss Furina. We need to know his status before we can proceed with any treatment."
Arlecchino raises an eyebrow her way once she notices her still faltering, and she takes it as a hint to finally get into character. Never let it be said Furina de Fontaine is not quick to the draw when it comes to an acting challenge. She performs an exaggerated salute, her usual flair for the dramatics coming to her like second nature.
“I’ll grab a thermometer right away, doc!”
She’s not sure if she’s imagining the slight curve of Arlecchino’s lips as she rushes out of the room, but she can definitely feel the one threatening to tug at her own. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad, after all.
***
“I don’t believe this is the common flu, Miss Furina. I worry we might be dealing with something much more severe.”
“So my fears have been realized, after all…”
“We should not rush to conclusions just yet. Let’s have a more thorough exam first.”
“Of course, doctor. We must keep our composure in front of the patient—Woah, hold on. You can do that?”
Furina might be a professional, but the sight of a stethoscope suddenly materializing in Arlecchino’s hands would startle anyone. Curious, she scoots closer, taking the tool in her hands and giving it a once-over.
“It doesn’t actually work,” Arlecchino offers. “My powers can be quite versatile, but it turns out there’s a reason medical equipment is made of the material it is.”
“Hmm. Still, this could make for a good prop.” It really could. She’s not exceedingly familiar with the specifics of a stethoscope’s makeup, but going by the amount of detail carved into it, her girlfriend might be. It would fool the average theater-goer, at least. Or rather, it could, if not for—
“As long as it’s appropriate for the prop to be an ominous, glowing red, I suppose," she concludes.
“You could paint over it?”
Ooh, now that sounds like it could be a fun enterprise.
She doesn’t have any paint in her apartment, but she does have some nail polish conveniently sitting on her vanity. She hands the stethoscope back to Arlecchino to grab it, uncapping the small bottle and then trading it back for the prop. Arlecchino obediently takes and gives at her discretion.
She attempts an experimental swath of polish and watches as the coating only takes a few seconds to dry up and crumble. Welp, she thinks, that was disappointing. She has to sadly sweep the debris off her bed.
“Hmm. I apologize, I should’ve known this would happen.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve seen this phenomenon before. With my scythe.”
“Hm?” With her scythe? …Oh.
She doesn’t need to ask for the exact circumstances under which Arlecchino would end up with "paint" on her weapon. In fact, she’d really rather not hear the details, and it looks like Arlecchino can tell, going by the look on her face—is it just her, or does she look kind of amused right now? Of course it would be at her expense. She has to change the subject, fast.
“Ahem, let us get back on track.”
“Of course.”
“We’ve been quite rude to our patient, getting distracted right in front of him.”
“Indeed.”
“Hopefully he can forgive our brief lapse in professionalism.”
“If he could ever be so kind.”
They lock eyes, and Furina finds herself giggling at the quick exchange. Still laughing, she rests her forehead on Arlecchino’s shoulder, feels her hand tangle itself in her hair, holding her close, and lets herself linger on that mirth for a few more seconds.
Then, she leans away, schooling her features back into the perfect picture of resolve.
They have a life to save, after all.
***
“Doc, we haf to brinh ‘im in, he’s—”
“Furina. Swallow, first.”
Furina rolls her eyes, but does as she’s told. She glances sadly at the plate of boeuf Bourguignon in her hand, unwilling to part from it even briefly—she’s not sure when or how Arlecchino managed to arrange for the delivery, though she’s not going to ask too many questions when she could spend that time enjoying a delicious meal instead—but she gets her line out anyway.
“We have to bring him in, he’s in critical condition!”
“You’re right, Miss Furina. We’re no longer equipped to handle this in an at-home environment.”
Furina solemnly nods, shoveling another spoonful of stew in her mouth as she does.
An idea. She goes to speak, then quickly closes her mouth at Arlecchino’s judgemental stare. She swallows.
“So… Do you think you could make some more props?”
***
Her room is nigh-unrecognizable now, more closely resembling a hospital room than anything else. A hospital room from hell, maybe, but still.
At some point she just started naming things that sounded like they would maybe belong in a medical environment, just to see if Arlecchino could materialize them in perfect detail—the answer was pretty much always yes. She had to stop once she was told that no, a saddle for seahorses would not be appropriate in a hospital, actually. Boring.
At least their current storyline isn’t, though.
“Doctor, I have an update.”
“Hm? Has the patient’s condition changed?”
“Oh, no. Not about that. He’s still in a drug-induced coma, no changes there. It’s about that one couple that keeps sneaking into the on-call rooms when they think no one’s looking. You know, the chief physician and that nurse?”
“Oh? What have you learned?”
“You will not believe this.”
“Try me.”
“The chief physician is actually married.”
“How positively scandalous.”
“I know, right?”
“Surely we could use this information to ensure the best care for Monsieur Blubberbeast. Getting into that drug trial through the proper procedures is taking quite a while…”
“Oh, doctor, I like where your head’s at.”
***
A few hours and quite a lot of drama later, both medical and interrelationship in nature, Monsieur Blubberbeast finally finds himself back home, surrounded by his loving children. The scene where they showed up at the hospital just in time to see him recover from his coma was certainly a highlight of the night. She would never admit it, but Furina is sure the reconciliation was so emotional it must have tugged even at Arlecchino’s heartstrings. Or perhaps it would have, had she not comically been playing all the roles.
Either way, now that their unexpected and unexpectedly enjoyable play-acting session seems to be drawing to a close, Furina can’t help herself from doing nothing but… stare at her girlfriend.
It’s not that she thought there was nothing to Arlecchino but her stern and serious side, not at all. In fact, they would banter quite often, and although she had to take a moment to get used to some of her more peculiar—someone less kind and less aware of Arlecchino’s charms might call them creepy—jokes, she was keenly aware she was capable of them. Still, she had never seen her engaging in something so… childish and undignified, before.
“Well then, the Monsieur seems to be in stable condition. He should be well on his way to recover, so we only need to wait for his check-up in a week—”
“Arle,” Furina interrupts, the sudden fondness in her voice not quite fitting the scene.
Arlecchino's attention turns from the “recovering” stuffed animal to her girlfriend, watching as Furina scooches closer to her spot on the bed and eventually settles herself in her lap.
“Furina, that's inappropriate. Not in front of the patient,” she reprimands, not dropping her role even now. Despite the stern words, blackened hands still easily find their way to Furina's hips, possessively holding her steady and close, and Furina feels that warm, fuzzy feeling that's been accompanying her all evening bloom in her chest and grow tenfold.
It's too much, but she craves more and more of it anyway. Centuries of starvation have left her with an all encompassing hunger that can never quite be satisfied, even at the risk of feeding that warmth until it turns into a blazing hot fire. Or maybe it's the fire itself she's seeking, its burn what will finally render her content.
“Oh, hush. He's home with his family and there will be no more complications. End of scene. We can move on.”
Arlecchino raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't protest as Furina leans closer and wraps her arms around her neck, letting her weight rest on her chest.
“I expected a more professional attitude from you.”
“You'll have to forgive me,” she retorts, “I've found myself rather distracted, you see.” Idle hands play with soft hair, and the feeling grows warmer yet again.
A hum, contemplative. “Care to illuminate me on the source of this distraction?”
How playful, her Knave turned out to be. How sweet and caring, and ever so subtle about it. How willing to acquiesce to her whims without complaint, to spend what was supposed to be a romantic evening playing with plushies simply to lift her spirits.
“Hm. It might be easier if I just show you.”
She kisses her, as she's been wanting to do since Arlecchino first play-acted taking the blubberbeast's temperature, her expression serious and stern, a doctor dealing with a difficult patient.
She kisses her slow, languidly. She takes her time savoring her lips before the hunger takes over again, and a swipe of her tongue grants her further access to bounties beyond.
Arlecchino lets her set the pace, and she takes full advantage of the opportunity. She greedily and thoroughly explores the depths of her Harbinger's mouth, leaving nowhere untouched. She relishes in the feeling of hot breaths mixing together, of hands tightening their grip on her waist before moving down to caress and fondle at her bare thighs, playing with her garters, relishes in the occasional low moan she manages to extract from her lover.
She carefully files it all away in her mind, treasured memories she's sure she'll come back to over and over again in the following days.
Finally they part, but the look in Arlecchino's eyes is almost enough to make her dive back in right away. She looks almost as hungry as Furina feels, and considering how practiced she is at not letting her emotions show on her face, it might be a good indicator that she's actually starving. Furina would happily offer herself up on a platter for her. But she has something to say, a feeling she wishes to convey, so that will have to wait.
“Arle—” she starts. Words fail her, her mind still fuzzy from the kiss, from the overwhelming affection that's been slowly building up over the evening until it became too much to contain. It's as disorienting as it is beautiful, new to the feeling as she is, but Arlecchino is more than willing to be patient for her.
“Sorry.” Tears prickle at the corner of her eyes, motivated by vastly different reasons as the ones threatening to spill just that same morning, as she stared at her own reflection. “It seems I'm feeling rather… Fragile, today.”
She lets out a wet chuckle, ashamed at the admission despite her best efforts.
Arlecchino's knuckles catch her tears before they can truly spill, gently swiping them away.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
The words are soft and understanding, but the tone is firm. Someone else might even describe it as harsh. But Furina knows her, knows how uncomfortable Arlecchino feels around tears. She never quite said as much, but she knows she feels inadequate in her ability to comfort.
Does she even realize comfort is all she's brought her, tonight? How her simple way of caring stopped her from spiraling further into herself? How wonderful Furina truly believes she is? How endearing, how lovable?
Suddenly, she realizes there's only one thing she can say in this situation.
She leans back into Arlecchino. It's only a soft, chaste kiss this time, followed by a light tug on her lower lip, the teasing serving as a—rather pleasant, yes—way of buying her a few extra seconds, enough to gather her courage.
Then, she whispers against her Knave's lips.
“I love you.”
Arlecchino's whole body goes still from under her.
She leans away, lending her some much needed space to process the words.
She wonders if it hurts for her too. If it's as overwhelming and confusing as what she feels. As she watches Arlecchino imperceptibly frown, so unmoving she's not even really breathing anymore, she realizes there's no way it doesn't hurt. In fact, it must feel even worse to her, closed off and unwilling to let her feelings take over even for an instant as she can be.
“You don't have to say it back.”
For some reason, the thought that she wouldn't doesn't scare Furina at all. She already experienced Arlecchino's love on her skin, after all, and she doesn't doubt its veracity. Of course she'd love to hear the words one day, but she's in no rush. Just as Arlecchino was with her, Furina could be patient, too.
Arlecchino relaxes at that, finally resuming breathing. She slowly shakes her head, eyes not quite meeting hers. Then, she leans into Furina, hides in the crook of her neck, hugs her even closer.
How cute, she thinks. Was she embarrassed? She can't quite see her face, but she can feel her ears growing hotter against her skin.
There it is again. The warmth, the hunger, the giddy affection that leaves her reeling in its wake—
“I love you, too.”
Oh.
It's quiet. Quiet, and muffled against her skin. She could've easily missed it, were she not so attuned to Arlecchino's slightest movement, to the most minute vibrations of her voice. Could've mistaken it for an exhale, a sigh. She might've not felt it at all.
Instead, it comes across loud and clear. She might as well have shouted it for all to hear, with how hard and powerfully it hits her.
The warmth painfully explodes in her chest, grows hotter and hotter into an ever blazing inferno, eating her alive. She never wants it to stop.
She wraps her arms tightly around Arlecchino's back, and feels the tears come back. This time, she lets them flow freely.