After uncovering a series of grisly murders, the Holy Church sends Seren to investigate one of their prime suspects; a mysterious dhampir named Lore Seymour. Although a seemingly kind man and wonderful father, Lore's life is a riddle overcome by tra...
One may be wondering why I'm standing in Draven's room in the middle of the night wearing a headband and apron while carrying cleaning supplies. That would be an excellent question, which I have a superb answer to!
Draven and I haven't made up after that rather meager incident in my lab because he's a petty bitch like that (and by he, I mean both of us, really.) Draven hasn't been waking me up or checking on me. I haven't been speaking to him either, although I wouldn't have been able to even if I tried. He's been so busy that he hasn't returned often, which has to do with why I'm in his room. I thought it'd be a grand idea to tidy up his room since he hasn't been around. That's nice, right? A great way to start an apology...
Except we live at Seymour Manor where there are maids and butlers who clean our rooms for us. Draven's room is already spotless. Why does my brain only function in the lab? Once I leave the science environment, it's like my intelligence leaks out of my ear to vacation in a jar until I return like a fucking loser.
"What are you doing?"
I curse and knock over the mop bucket. Draven and I watch the carpet soak up the water. Then our eyes meet. Though expressionless, I swear I taste his disappointment, as well as smoke. Where has he been that was smoking? Didn't have anything to do with me this time. Someone is stealing my gig.
"The... the water was clean. I hadn't started because, uh, because your room was already... clean." I am going to bite off my tongue and feed it to the stray dogs because that is the only way it'll ever be truly useful.
Draven steps further into his room. The door shuts behind him. My hands tighten on the mop.
"And why are you here to attempt cleaning my room?" He slips the jacket from his wide shoulders to fold and place on the dresser. Even his dirty laundry has to be pristine. What an overachieving wart.
I drop to the floor to desperately attempt drying the rug. I've got a rag that I scrub against the wet spot then twist the rag into the bucket.
A simple answer rests on the tip of my tongue, but nothing's ever simple with Draven. Though I came here to make up, now I'm wondering if we should. Perhaps this is best. We spend less and less time together and these feelings will disappear. Except moments like this have happened before and we're drawn back together like a set of annoying magnets that someone keeps losing then discovering under the couch and eagerly stashing them someplace else they won't forget, only to lose them again. This is a very specific example because I speak from life experience.
Once I realize I can't dry the carpet with a wet rag, I sigh and rise to my feet. "You've been gone a while and probably haven't had time to clean so I thought it'd be nice to do that for you."
"But you forgot that we have people who clean."
"Yep."
A soft sound erupts from Draven's throat that I would say was a chuckle except I didn't hear it that well. I raise my gaze to catch him resting a fist over his mouth as if to silence the noise.
"Why do you suddenly care about cleaning my room for me?" he asks, leaning against the dresser with his arms crossed.
"I..." His intense gaze makes it hard to speak. Why must he look at me like that? Or am I merely so taken that all he has to do is look at me in the simplest way and I'm a mess? Because, if that's true, I may as well take a long walk into a ravine to spare myself inevitable humiliation in the coming future.
"I thought it'd be... it'd be a good start to apologizing," I say. Every word got softer until I was whispering by the end.
Draven shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "What are you apologizing for?"
"You know what," I groan and grip my headband to hide my eyes. "In my lab when I snapped at you. I--the truth is, I don't really mind that you keep an eye on me. I just, um, it's hard to explain. I don't like being treated like a child and knowing you only do it out of obligation to His Grace."
My face burns so hot I realize that, in almost every aspect of my life, I'm seconds away from starting a fire or blowing something up. Perhaps I should have been the one born with red hair instead of Draven.
"I never meant to make you feel like a child," Draven says, causing me to risk my blush getting caught by peeking up at him. His gaze is lowered to the floor. "I really never meant that."
"Then why do you always get so frustrated and run after me like a toddler about to fall into a lake?"
"Because you're always getting yourself hurt," he answers so swiftly that I don't even think he realized he said it. He snaps his mouth shut like he revealed a grand secret, then sighs. "You're always blowing something up--"
"Not on purpose."
"That makes it worse." He turns away to tug his tie off, which looks great at every angle honestly. Slapping the tie on the dresser, he continues, "I swear every time I take my eyes off you, something happens, like that time you were shot--"
He stops himself. The air grows tense. Heavy with an unspoken rule that makes us both rigid. He almost brought up The Unspeakable Incident. One would think after three years, we'd have found a way to never bring it up, and yet, here we are... staring at each other, practically challenging one of us to finish the story.
Standing tall, Draven heaves a long breath. He faces me again, expression apathetic once more. "To clear things up simply, His Grace has never ordered me to keep an eye on you. The things you say I do out of obligation, watching over you, waking you up, reminding you to eat, I do that of my own volition," he says like he's telling me the weather and not basically admitting that, somewhere in the dark abyss of his conscious, he may actually care about me.
Isn't that what I've always wanted to hear? Confirmation that Draven has some semblance of feeling for me, whether it's what I secretly yearn for or not. But now that I hear it, I'm terrified. Petrified by what it may cause within me; hope for something that'll never be. Not just because Draven has the pick of whomever he wishes, but also my... condition. Even if I want to cross this room right now and kiss him, I'd be scrubbing my lips raw a moment later.
"That's... it's... it's late. You've been really busy so you should rest. Sorry about the rug." I grab the bucket, almost spilling it a second time on the way to the door. If Draven's disappointed by my reaction, he doesn't show it.
"I'm glad you're finally back," I add. Now the words won't stop spilling out of my mouth, "But every once in a while you should tell His Grace to ask someone else for help. He relies on you so much that you hardly have any time for yourself."
"Is that another attempt to get more work by His Grace's side?"
I don't blame him for asking, but the question still makes my heart clench.
"No. I just want you to take some time for yourself." I leave without hearing his response. I probably wouldn't have heard even if I stayed because my heart's beating so loudly, a lot like it did three years ago...
- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -
Cyan and Draven have made up! I think? lol And we got a hint into their past; something about Cyan getting shot. What else do you suppose happened? Draven made a pretty big admission, but is it a sign of romantic feelings or just friendship~
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