Idk Who This Guy Is

ok i absolutely need to know what accents u all have pls reblog and tell me or comment or whatever I must know

Something a little different today! The main illustration project I’m working on at the moment is a large gallery show opening next year. I’m going to keep most of the art hush hush for now, but here’s a tiny preview of one of the pieces! There’ll be a collection of spots like this as well as full-bleed pieces. I’ll tell you more about it closer to. Happy Friday, friends! 🌿

obsessed with how the entire movie is just this

[fic] Bookbound

Bookbound

Ikemen Prince | Chevalier Michel x Main Character (Emma) | T | 6.8k words ao3 link

Without their realizing it, Emma and Prince Chevalier have formed a book club.

A/N: The books used here are inaccurate versions of the real-life books. There are direct quotes, though. Some statements and conversations between Chevalier and Emma on the books are just for the sake of this fic. Poetry quotes are from Pablo Neruda. The metaphors are dangerous quotes are from Milan Kundera. A Lover's Discourse was written by Roland Barthes.

It begins—as always with Prince Chevalier—with a book.

“I’ve read a lot of foreign books about the subject, too. Would you like a recommendation?”

Lounging on the sofa, a hardbound book on hand, Chevalier makes no hint that he’s heard her offer. The afternoon light filters through the window, and the prince’s personal library seems distilled under the diffuse, misty glow. Like a fantastical place, frozen in time, and Chevalier its pristine owner.

“I can lend you one of mine. It was kind of you to let me read your copy of Midnight Cinderella. I want to return the favor.”

The sound of a page turning is loud in the wood-paneled room. “There is no need. I have an inkling of the kinds of books you read.”

Emma deliberately ignores the remark, her smile faltering only for a millisecond.

“Didn’t you say you want to expand your knowledge on human interest topics?” she goes on. “I think I have some books about love you haven’t read yet. No, I’m pretty sure of it. They’re good, I swear!”

Finally, Chevalier lifts his head to look at her, except his eyes are burning with annoyance. He snaps his book shut, and Emma flinches a little.

“If I say yes, will you stop pestering me?”

“Yes!”

“Then—” Chevalier sighs, and gets up to return the book to the shelf. Emma watches him, hopeful, as he approaches her. His movements exude a coiled energy in them, like a predator waiting to pounce at a moment's notice, his presence filling the room like overflowing water.

He stops a couple of feet away from her, disassembling her for any deceit with his icy stare. Emma tamps down the urge to avert her eyes.

“Fine,” Chevalier says, after a few tense seconds. “Impress me.”

And it’s like the first morning of spring; Emma can’t contain the smile pulling at her lips. She brings her hands together. “Wonderful! I’ll get the book now—be right back, Your Highness!”

As she hurries to retrieve her book, she fails to see the peculiar expression that settles over Chevalier’s face, as though he’s confronted with a rather curious problem. 

♔

When Emma comes back with her recommendation, Chevalier is at the sofa again, hands entwined over his crossed knees, seemingly deep in thought. He looks up when the door clicks shut, a perfectly arched brow raising in expectation.

“Here it is, Prince Chevalier.” Emma presents the book, a lady staring mildly in the cover. “It’s about two people full of misunderstandings. It’s short, but an enjoyable read. I hope it’s to your liking.”

It takes a moment before Chevalier accepts the book, the delayed response an indication of skepticism. But Emma is not deterred, and relief spills over her when the prince tucks the book under his arm.

And because she’s already this determined, why not go even further? “I look forward to your thoughts on the book, Your Highness!”

And this makes Chevalier pause, partway through his retreat to the sofa. He angles her a sharp look that, if only manners permitting, a click of the tongue would have completed the effect.

"While you're at it," he says, slowly, to drive the point home, "do you want me to write a report on it as well?"

"I—" Heat washes over her cheeks and ears, and she stutters a bit more. She clamps her mouth shut, breathes a little, and tries again. "I just want to have a nice conversation about books with you, Your Highness."

"That is unnecessary."

"But I—"

"If I liked it," he interrupts, emphasizing the word liked, "I would reconsider."

Emma exhales. Examines the prince. From his position—body angled towards the sofa, but his head turned in her direction—it's as if he's a snapshot of memory captured midway through recollection. His eyelashes gleam against his pale skin, dampening his usual harsh countenance.

"Thank you, Your Highness," she says. And, because there's nothing more to talk about, she adds, "I'll be going now, have a good day."

She leaves the library with the image of Chevalier opening her book in her mind.

♔

Exactly two days later, Chevalier barges in Emma's room and glares at her, his arms full of books.

"Good morning, Prince Chevalier…?"

"I finished your book," he says, with great effort, enunciating the consonants in a way that makes Emma brace for an inevitable tirade. "It is a standard story. I am hardly impressed by it. Goes to show how a simpleton like you would latch onto books like this."

"I beg your pardon?"

He lays Emma's book on her desk, fishes out another one from his pile, and shoves it to her.

"Your Highness?"

Then he heads straight to the spot on the sofa that he has unofficially claimed as his and begins reading.

Emma studies the book he gave her. Thick, and with an unobtrusive cover, like a mystery waiting to be solved. She glances at Chevalier, who is now acting as if nobody exists in the world, then back at the book again. 

Her confusion must've felt palpable to the prince, because Chevalier exhales a loud, emphatic sigh and says, without even looking at her, "Surely you cannot stay a simpleton forever. Then again, you must be content with your laughable naiveté."

Is that Chevalier-speak for his lending his own book to her, in return for what she did a few days ago? It doesn't matter, in the end, what he thinks of her. Another marvelous book offered to her by the prince, and who is she to refuse? Emma gasps in delight.

"Thank you, Prince Chevalier! I'll start reading this right now!"

That pulls Chevalier's eyes away from the book. His face morphs into something complicated, and he mutters, almost to himself, "You are a strange one."

But Emma misses what he said, because she’s too absorbed with starting the book.

Enveloped by the soft, cozy colors of Emma's room, the two are wrapped in their own worlds, held by words in pages.

♔

In between her duties as Belle, her role as a student under Sariel’s imperious tutelage, and her goal of surviving interfactional conflict, Emma still manages to squeeze in reading Chevalier’s book. The first few chapters have her go back and forth, initially puzzled by what it’s all about until, eventually, she realizes that Chevalier may have done this on purpose.

The book is brilliant—a work of art, even—but it’s also difficult, with heavy themes about time and family; plus it also has a questionable love story. And the prose just adds to the challenge. Emma spends three whole hours cursing Chevalier’s name for trolling her with this book. Is he insulting her? Her intelligence? Does he think she’ll give up on this dense and difficult book? In the name of Rhodolite, she’ll finish this within the week—and understand it!—come hell or high water.

But if Chevalier thinks that Emma will take this lying down, he’s mistaken. Challenge accepted.

♔

“So, you’re finished reading the book,” he notes with amusement as he eyes Emma up and down, lingering on her very dark undereye circles. “And just under a week? Impressive.”

“Oh, don’t act so giddy,” she snaps, and Chevalier arches a brow, a warning sign. She collects herself. “You did it as a test! Clearly you wanted to see me fail.”

“What would I get from seeing you fail?”

“I don’t know—entertainment?”

“You think so highly of yourself.” And Emma would have fired another snappish retort to that, except Chevalier shifts from his seat to face her fully, his hand migrating from his knee to his cheek, leaning forward, ready to observe her. “And what are your thoughts on the book?”

So they’re really going to do this, and for a wildly hilarious moment Emma pictures Chevalier as her elementary tutor, thick-rimmed glasses and slicked-back hair, the nasally snobbish pitch to his voice. She bites her tongue to keep herself from snorting with laughter, lest Chevalier take offense and execute her on the spot.

Chevalier waits patiently in silence, opting to watch her try to get it together. She hopes her thoughts don’t telegraph across too obviously, but she succeeds in swallowing her urge to chortle after a few calming breaths.

“The main characters fell in love when they were kids, and they ended up together in their old age. It’s taken a while to get there, with a lot of complicated things in between, but I suppose I liked that they still ended up together, in the end. I guess that’s what you call true love …”

“True love?” The curve of Chevalier’s smile appears to be ironic. “Of course you’d believe that nonsense.”

It’s a jab she doesn’t like. “What’s the harm in believing in the idea of true love?”

“False expectations that lead to a disappointing outcome.” His reply is quick, as if he’s answered something along that line in the past. “There is no such thing, true love. What is real and more enduring is the coldness of betrayal. Remember that.”

Ah. So it’s like that. Perhaps it is true for him, someone who grew up surrounded by politics and intrigue. The palace is a dangerous place for anybody, even her, with its whispering walls and its suffocating chambers. There are eyes everywhere, and one cannot afford to be truthful to survive. Chevalier must have learned the meaning of betrayal long before he knew the definition of love, which he now seeks only from books, a secondhand experience. Not even to understand what it feels like but to fashion it into his arsenal. Love as a weapon.

It’s a sad and lonely way to live, and somehow, Emma pities him for that.

“Anyway!” she says, more cheerful than how she feels. “I’m not here just to return the book. I’m also here—” she brandishes another one in front of the prince “—to tell you not to underestimate me! As a response to that book, here is mine. And don’t refuse it! I’m staking my pride here, you know.”

He takes the book gingerly, and Emma can see how dubious he is of her latest recommendation after her first offer more than a week ago. She grinds her teeth and thinks that her smile looks sarcastic now.

“Huh,” Chevalier says, inspecting the book. It’s thinner than the one he lent, and though it’s not as dense and difficult Emma is confident it packs just as much punch as the former. “We’ll see, then.”

Just you wait, Emma thinks. You’ll change your tune after this.

♔

At the courtyard, in the middle of reading a newly purchased book, a familiar cover materializes in Emma’s vision, and she looks up to find Chevalier, a disgruntled air about him.

“Not bad,” he says, and there’s an almost-smile gracing his lips.

He leaves as soon as he hands the book, his cloak billowing dramatically behind him as he walks away.

Emma watches him go. Then, looking down at her book, she feels a smile creeping in.

Not bad. It’s not a complete surrender, but it feels like victory all the same.

♔

From then on, they develop a sort of unspoken ritual, taking turns recommending a book from their shelves, after which they engage in a lively discussion on their interpretation and verdict.

Emma has since learned from these exchanges Chevalier’s thought process; has since developed an intimate familiarity with his mannerisms—like how he taps with his index finger whenever he formulates his response to an argument, how he looks to the side whenever he finds the other person’s reasoning to be flawed, how he faces the other person fully whenever he’s interested in what the other has to say.

And because of this, their time together lengthens that even the other princes notice. At one point, Clavis pulls Emma into a corner and expresses his glee over this development.

“If you want some advice, I’m here for you,” Clavis says.

Emma boggles. “What are you even talking about?”

Midway through her third week of being Belle, Emma encounters Chevalier during a ball. Now that she has the hang of it and that she’s already developed friendships with some of the princes, she’s asked Luke to accompany her as her escort. Thing is, while Luke has agreed to her request, he suddenly disappears as soon as she converses with some acquaintances she’s made in her previous social gatherings.

So much for that friendship. Emma sighs, but ultimately she should have seen that coming.

Not far away from her left she spots Chevalier striding away from the crowd, and based on his expression Emma surmises that he’s had enough of pleasantries and reports for the evening. Next thing she knows, her feet are moving of their own accord. Towards him.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” she begins once she’s within hearing distance.

Chevalier glances at her, and for one fleeting moment his face cracks. Emma smiles, painfully wide and painfully sarcastic, and inwardly she regrets approaching him.

“What.” At least he still deigns to respond to her greeting, no matter how begrudging his tone is.

“Calling it a night?” When Chevalier’s expression twists Emma hastens to add: “I just want to say that I’ve finished the book! And I’ve a lot of questions.”

“And you wish to discuss it here and now?”

“Well, Luke has already left me, and I no longer have anybody to talk with …”

Chevalier’s sigh sounds like it’s dragged out of him. He could have huffed like other times, but now, as Emma takes a closer look at him, under the bright and dazzling lights of the hall his skin is at an alarming level of pallor. She remembers the latest clash between him and Leon about border protection, and while Leon has a point about screening procedures Chevalier is too paranoid to adjust his airtight stance on the matter.

“Your Highness, if you want I can accompany you until we reach your chambers. I can ask my questions on the way there.”

The pointed glare he sends her way would have cowed her during their first meeting, but Emma has since then developed immunity after repeated exposure. Despite his negative reaction he doesn’t protest, so Emma interprets that as an assent.

When they’ve reached the palace hallways, Chevalier speaks: “Well? I’m waiting for your questions.”

Emma startles. Honestly, that was just an excuse to divert Chevalier’s attention from her inexplicable folly. She’s also concerned about Chevalier’s exhaustion; no doubt he’s working himself to the ground over that border issue.

But she supposes this is a good time as any other to bring it up.

“Right. I’m just curious about this particular book … It’s a short story collection, but all of them tackle, in one way or another, a different kind of love. This one story that stood out for me has the girl fall in love with the wolf. It’s not common for stories to have a person fall for a beast—a beautiful man who turns into a beast. Usually it’s the other way round, right? Love transforms the wicked into the beautiful, but here, the beautiful is wicked all along. And the girl doesn’t care.”

“And your question is?”

“So I guess my question is …”

Why does this remind me of you? A beautiful man, a wicked beast. A man without a heart.

But Emma cannot utter it out loud, for speaking of it means implicating her into the equation. A girl who falls in love with a beast not in spite of, but just is. Total acceptance.

She glances at Chevalier, whose features have captured the attention of so many: straight-backed and tall, a fair-haired immaculate pillar with the bluest eyes she has ever seen. Nobody can deny his beauty, and this beauty obverts the heart within. He claims to have no heart, but Emma knows that is not true. It just takes effort, patience, and determination to decipher the puzzle that is Prince Chevalier.

Why did you choose this book? What do you expect me to take away from it?

What do you want to tell me?

“I guess my question is,” she repeats, and Chevalier is quiet at her side, “what did you think after you’ve read it?”

He doesn’t reply for a long time, and Emma is too afraid to see his expression. Is it disappointment? Annoyance? Anger?

Sadness?

Alas, she is spared an answer: they’ve arrived at Chevalier’s room, and whatever the prince’s response was, it is now lost into the silence. Emma can no longer recover the moment.

“Well, here we are, Your Highness. I’ll return to my own room now. I bid you goodnight.”

She curtseys and immediately turns around, not waiting for his affirmation. Even so, she can feel his eyes on her as she leaves.

Maybe she should have asked those questions, and maybe he would have answered them sincerely. But what did she want to hear? And what is she so afraid of? What does she expect from a man who doesn’t see himself as human? Hope is not expectation; expectation ensures guarantee, and she’s sure Chevalier would say of hope: that it’s only for dreamers like her, heads stuck in the clouds, unable to see the ground. 

Perhaps she’s been reading everything wrong from the start. A metaphor is a connection between two things, but it falls upon the reader to accept that link. And she might have seen something that doesn’t exist, and it’s just her wishful thinking that gave it life.

Perhaps—and maybe this is what she fears all along—she’s been extending a hand to someone who doesn’t want to reach out in the first place.

♔

(Somewhere in one of the palace chambers, an unfolded letter rests on a desk, filled with the most beautiful cursive:

I know that it wasn’t the question you wanted to ask, and I can see it in the dip of your brows, your downcast eyes. I can read you like how I can read all the books in the palace—and remember them.

So, this is my answer:

The world is beautiful, but in this beauty lies danger. Beware of gifts wrapped in honey and silk; the sweetness hides the hungry fangs beneath. It will tear your flesh the moment you look away.

I chose that book because I want to teach you a lesson. Isn’t that how metaphors work: an image for a notion? And this is the lesson: kindness is cruelty, love is the savage beast of fallen kingdoms, and in the end you will be devoured by its wickedness. It doesn’t matter which comes first; beauty is not a moral concept, and I am not a moral person.

Whether the story reminds you of me is unimportant. We all have things to cling to.)

♔

On the fourth week of being Belle, Emma and Chevalier have so far exchanged a total of six books, and despite some intense arguments that ensued over a difference of interpretation, Emma likes to think they’re all productive—and thus, an accomplishment.

She thinks that this seventh book will inspire the same level of fervor in discourse.

“Ah, I’ve read that already, years ago,” Chevalier says, tone dismissive, eyes glued to the report he’s editing.

Emma freezes from her place, caught off-guard by the revelation.

“Oh,” she manages after three excruciating seconds, silently proud that her voice is not coming off as warbled. “I see.”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

At that Chevalier's eyes abandon the report and casts an exasperated look at her, impatience oozing all over his pores.

Emma scrambles for something to add. “So! Doesn't that mean we can talk about it right away? There’s a part where it’s speculated that people are just halves of a whole, and when they find their significant other, they will feel complete. It sounds a lot like soulmates and true love, isn’t it?”

“For its absurdity? I agree.”

And Emma should have foreseen this, but Chevalier’s repudiation of it grates her. It’s as if nothing has changed at all.

“I just thought that it’s a nice sentiment.”

“Fine, I’ll humor you.” Chevalier sets his papers aside and faces her. Emma straightens up in reflex. “Let’s say that the premise is true, that we are indeed just half of the person we were, then what does it mean to be whole? We live our lives missing something crucial, and yet here we are, still thriving, still surviving. What would we gain if we become whole?”

And this is the crux of the matter for Chevalier, isn’t it. The disavowal of the heart, torn flesh and emptied ribcage. As a royal, his existence is in the service of Rhodolite, and he embraces this purpose like someone with nothing to lose because he has nothing in the first place. Due to this great responsibility, he has shed the worldly layers of his humanity and all that’s left is cold and ruthless efficiency.

He would not recognize the buoyant foolishness of dreams, the exhilarating breathlessness of love. And this is what's been bothering Emma, even before that night in the ball: that, for all the times he spurns the good things, her heart still aches for him.

“Well …” Emma hesitates. “Happiness, I guess?”

Chevalier stares at her blankly. “Happiness,” he echoes, every syllable round as if tasting it for the first time. His face crumples in disbelief. “What does happiness have to do with it?”

And this is no longer just about the book for Emma, but also about the prince as well. With every book she lends there's a corresponding meaning to it, a hidden language that she hopes Chevalier would pick up. After all, interpretation lies on the reader, and Chevalier is intelligent enough to piece the hints together. It's her way of telling him that he's not alone and that she is with him—whether he wants it or not.

“Prince Chevalier,” Emma begins, earnest and full of meaning. In a sudden bout of boldness, she places her hand over his. Squeezes once. “I just want you to be happy.”

For a few nerve-racking moments it is deathly silent. Then:

“You want me to be happy.” He shakes off her hand, his expression incredulous. “This is absurd. Do not waste my time any longer.”

He gets up from his seat and storms off the room, and isn’t this funny—the last time this happened it was Emma who had turned her back to Chevalier, and now it’s the other way round, with her watching his tall, proud figure recede in her vision.

♔

But she doesn’t waste time: the next day has her rummaging through her shelves, searching for that one particular title. When she finds it, Emma exclaims in triumph. If she can’t convince Chevalier through her words, she will convince him through her books.

It doesn’t take that long to locate him. She finds him at the rose garden, except he’s not alone. Chevalier is with Clavis, though judging by their body language they’re not discussing something important. Emma takes this opportunity to march towards Chevalier and, as she nears both the princes, readies the small book.

She shoves it into Chevalier’s unprepared hands. Chevalier jerks slightly in surprise, his eyes widening a fraction. He opens his mouth to speak, probably something incendiary, but Emma doesn’t let him.

“Here!” she yells. Both princes cringe at the volume. “Read it immediately! I’ve thought about it long and hard! You better appreciate this!”

And then she flees, denying Chevalier an opportunity to refuse. In the background she hears Clavis’s gleeful laughter, and the sound doesn’t leave her until she is out of the garden altogether.

♔

Prince Chevalier may not have been an emotional man, but he’s clearly vindictive, as evidenced by his barging into Emma’s room just as Emma is settling in for the night. He conspicuously locks the door, and Emma would have questioned him about that action had it not been for Chevalier’s piercing gaze when he turns to her, crystal sharpness that prickles at her skin, and involuntarily she shivers.

“I finished the book as you’ve ordered,” he begins, and even though he displays insouciance, his words have bite in them. Emma flinches. “And how do you want me to proceed?”

It takes a few seconds for Emma’s mind to come up with something. “I’m sorry?”

Chevalier only stares at her, waiting.

The lack of response this time has Emma panicking. “Honestly, Your Highness,” she stammers, “I did not expect that you’d talk to me about the book on the same day. I, uh, well, um …”

Her words taper off into silence. Chevalier continues to watch her, until finally he huffs and goes to her in five definitive strides. He stops within a couple of feet from her, and the distance, or lack of, causes Emma to stiffen. Chevalier’s gaze remains stubbornly on her, and the moonlight that slants through the window glances half of Chevalier’s face, so Emma can see the glimmer of the prince’s blue, blue eyes, cut sapphire against pale ivory skin.

He raises one hand, and in that hand Emma’s book bends slightly from the pressure. He steps closer. The book’s spine hovers near Emma’s cheek. Taps. The smell of book paper invades Emma’s nose.

“Poetry,” he declares, incredulity and derision mixing in that one word. He taps the book on her cheek once more. “You wanted me to read poetry. Although …”

He lets the last word linger. Then slowly—achingly slowly—he slides the bookspine down her cheek, to her neck, like the caress of a teasing finger. Emma’s breath catches.

Chevalier’s eyes fall to her collarbones. “I have gone marking the atlas of your body / with crosses of fire.”

His voice reverberates in the confined spaces of Emma’s room.

“My mouth went across: a spider, trying to hide. / In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.”

The spine migrates to Emma’s lips, as does Chevalier’s burning gaze. He presses down her lower lip, Emma stays still.

“I must say: very bold of you to order me around. Commanding me to read the book you threw at me—and it's poetry. I should have severed your limbs for that insolence.”

Emma can’t reply; the book remains on her lips, a slim but hard weight grazing her lower teeth.

“Why have you chosen that book,” Chevalier asks, but from the tone of his voice he isn’t seeking an answer. “Do you have something to say to me. No—” he lightly shakes his head “—answer me this instead: who is who in your little book of poetry?”

And of course Chevalier has caught on to the meaning of her gesture. The fact that Emma has chosen this particular set of poems means that she is baring everything to him, all cards laid down the table. That hand reaching out to him hasn’t left at all; it’s only waiting, however long it will be.

Tentatively, she raises her own hand to touch his wrist. When Chevalier doesn’t reject it, her other hand follows. All the while her eyes never leave Chevalier’s. Carefully, she takes the book away and pulls the hand down, her lips freed from the pressure.

She breathes low, relieved, then says: “What do you think, Your Highness?”

The prince’s brows furrow, annoyed at her deflection. “You vex me so much.”

Then, with his free hand, he grabs the back of her neck and brings their lips together.

Emma jumps at the contact, but his hand cradling her head stays firm and solid. Chevalier tilts his head slightly and bites her lower lip, and Emma moans in response.

When they part, Chevalier glares at her. “Do you think you can get away with placing me as the object of your desire? How arrogant of you.”

He proceeds to bite and tug at her lower lip again, and even if Emma wants to say something in return the only sound she can make is a sigh. Her hands tighten their grip on Chevalier's wrist.

His tongue peeks out and licks her teeth. Emma blooms before him.

"My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road," Chevalier whispers into the corner of her mouth, his breathing loud and ragged.

"For someone who seems to hate poetry," Emma pants, "you quote them a lot."

There's a pause, and for one distressing second Emma thinks Chevalier will pull away, but he just moves his lips to her neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on her pulse.

When he finally answers, she feels more than hear his words:

"You made me read them."

“Should I … apologize, Your Highness?”

This time, Chevalier does release her, taking a step back and shooting her a considering look. Emma falters, feeling suddenly bereft, but tries not to let it show. But Chevalier, being Chevalier, realizes this, and he smirks, and Emma feels hot all over again.

“You should apologize,” he answers, oh-so-casually; “regardless, you will be punished.”

The huskiness of his voice, the seeping desire within, inflames Emma’s flesh, and Emma has the mind to defy Chevalier a little more.

“Shouldn’t we—” Emma stumbles over her words after seeing the prince’s dark gaze on her. “Shouldn’t we talk first?”

“Talk?” Chevalier repeats. The smirk still on his lips; it gains a predatory edge, and Emma’s heart skips a beat. “We have done enough talking. Now …”

He closes the distance again, his hands finding their place on her waist. He directs her towards the bed. When the back of Emma’s knees hit the edge, Chevalier pushes her down and follows suit. Above her, Chevalier crowds Emma’s senses, everything else is just white noise.

He dips his head to position his lips right by her ear, his breaths giving her goosebumps, and Emma shudders when Chevalier begins to speak.

“I hope you’re prepared for your punishment, because it will last the entire night.”

♔

The shaft of light streaming through the window pools on Emma’s face, and the stinging sensation wakes her. Her mind still sluggish, Emma groans and turns away, wanting to go back to sleep. She almost succeeds, were it not for a voice floating somewhere above her.

“It’s almost awe-inspiring how irresponsible you can be, at times.”

The cadence sounds familiar, the timbre rich and lilting, but it still takes Emma close to fifteen seconds before her brain finally puts a name and face to the voice, and the realization of it has her shooting up from the bed, whirling around and finding Chevalier beside her, lounging with a book in hand, loosely dressed, his shirt only buttoned halfway.

“I,” Emma says eloquently.

Chevalier snorts.

“Good morning?” she tries again. “You’re up before me.”

“It’s almost noon, actually.”

Emma processes this information. “Oh,” she says. Then: “Oh.”

She remembers the night before, a burst of fire that ignited her nerves, her blood singing with every bit of his touch. The hungry way he devoured her, like a beast but without the savagery—only passion.

It summons heat to Emma’s cheeks, and with Chevalier so close to her, having a full view of the gamut of her reactions, she just wishes for the world to put her out of her misery.

Mercifully, Chevalier doesn’t say anything while she wills herself to non-existence.

It takes a few more awkward silence before Emma notices one significant fact.

“Prince Chevalier?” she says. “If it’s almost noon, then why are you still here, not, um, properly dressed?”

Instead of an exasperated look like what Emma’s been expecting, Chevalier becomes thoughtful, snapping his book shut and putting it on her desk. Directing his full attention on her, Chevalier smiles dryly.

“Didn’t you want to have your talk?”

Oh. It’s an odd feeling, to see this aloof prince being gracious to her. Normally he would have dismissed anything that resembles a heart-to-heart conversation, and Emma had tried subtly, numerous times, before.

So for him to stay in her room, waiting for her to wake up and not leaving right away—it’s progress.

“I do,” Emma says, burgeoning hope in her tone. “Let’s talk.”

From where they sit on the bed, Emma and Chevalier are facing opposite each other. Emma relinquishes her slouch; Chevalier’s eyes drop and he sighs, reaching behind her to drape the blanket over her naked body, which she’s just starting to take notice of. She blushes, hard.

“Okay,” she continues, distracting herself from the embarrassment. “So. What happened yesterday? Do you really hate poetry that much to, uh, attack me like that?”

Now it’s Chevalier’s turn to feel uncomfortable. He averts his gaze, shifting from his place on the bed. Exhales.

“It’s not …” he hesitates. Brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “When you gave me the book, Clavis was with me.”

He pauses, and gives Emma a pointed stare that conveys how from that alone she should grasp the implication.

And grasp she does. She imagines Clavis’s reaction after he realizes that Emma practically ordered Chevalier to read love poems. 

“I’m sorry …” she mumbles, feeling chastised.

“The poems in the book,” he continues, “are blatant in their desire. Do you really feel that way about me?”

“Oh. Oh, well—” It seems that they’re taking turns with the discomfort, Emma looking down and formulating her reply. “I thought it’s the quickest way to clue you in. I was actually thinking more about how they articulate longing quite well, rather than the, you know, sensual. But I wasn’t discounting that, to be … honest.” Then she looks up again. “Why were you so fixated on who is the desirer and who is the object?”

“I find it arrogant of you to have such designs on me,” he says without a beat. Then, more subdued, “It just feels jarring, to be desired by someone when all your life people fear you.”

And Emma just slumps from that admission, her heart clenching for Chevalier, the loveless years that froze his heart, unable to learn about and accept the kindness of unconditional affection. The urge to take him in her arms is strong, but she keeps herself at bay.

Nonetheless, Chevalier picks up her thoughts, and he throws a warning glance at her. “Don’t.” Then, after a moment: “Since when?”

She understands what he means. “I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but I’ve always looked forward to our conversations, you know? Thinking about what book to lend you, enjoying the books you’ve lent me … I guess it’s cumulative. Then one day, I found myself wondering what it’s like if you allowed yourself to love. And, more hopefully, to love me.”

She gives him a rueful smile and a helpless shrug. And another:

“Do you feel the same way as I do, Prince Chevalier?”

It must've looked ridiculous, to Chevalier, or to anybody who would come across the scene: two people in a room, on the bed, one naked, the other dressed, talking about love. Confessing her love to him and asking if he loves her back. Emma has always thought that her love life would involve grand declarations of love, what all those books have promised: heroic swordsmanship, the defeat of an embittered enemy, the impassioned call of her name—the works. Not this. This ridiculous quasi-interrogation of each other's thoughts about a night that derailed the trajectory of their relationship. The lack of gravitas and splendor. Chevalier is not even properly dressed for the occasion.

But—and this is the thing—Emma is not in a romance book, and Chevalier is not a romantic hero. Far from it. Chevalier has done all the things for the sake of Rhodolite—merciless things, callous things, unforgivable things—and will do so again if he deems it necessary. And Emma knows that. And yet—

And yet, here she is, naked save for a blanket, giving her heart to the heartless prince, longing for his love.

She feels a ghost of a touch on the corner of her eye, and then Chevalier tucks a stray lock behind her ear. The action was so gentle that it almost breaks her heart.

“There’s a fragment in a book that I’ve read a long time ago.” The hand on her hair doesn't leave; instead it follows the downward path of her cascading locks, stopping in the middle, right over her heart. There's a hypnotic quality descending on the prince's gaze right now, his eyes trained on his hand, and slowly, that hand opens, rotating to press its palm on her chest, where Emma's heart beats wildly inside.

Emma remains still in his hand, afraid that if she moves, the spell will break and Chevalier will no longer show this side of him ever again.

“Something about metaphors,” he resumes, entranced with the memory. “It says: Metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.” 

He finally lifts his eyes to meet hers, and the fire in his sapphire gaze sparks a gasp out of her. 

“Love begins with a metaphor. To me, that metaphor—it’s that beautiful, wicked beast.”

And Emma remembers that evening ball, filling the quiet hallways with her inchoate yearning, unspoken questions that would unravel her desire, nascent but hopeful, a bud waiting to bloom. Why does this remind me of you? Because—and it dawns on her now because of his confession—Chevalier had understood the parallels and the metaphors, had expected the connection that would untangle itself before Emma, but had chosen not to speak of it. At the time, was it because he still found hope to be a nebulous image of a future he did not want to see, one that had no use to him?

And what about now?

She looks at him and still sees an immaculate pillar, sleeted with ice. But there are cracks at the foundations, and it may take a long time to chisel them away, but Emma is patient, has always been with Chevalier despite their clashes and arguments. It will be worth it. Love thrives, after all, in courage amidst struggle.

Her hands ascend and halt inches away from Chevalier’s face, uncertain. He does not tear his eyes away from hers, and that makes Emma swallow her hesitation. It feels like a long time before her palms touch his skin, and when Chevalier exhales, the first step in a new world, her hands slide down to the nape of his neck, to his back, as she embraces him as though she’s never letting go.

“You’re going to regret this,” Chevalier says into her hair.

Emma grins. She's too happy to count on that possibility. “We’ll see about that.”

♔

“Here.”

In Chevalier’s hand is a book, the cover simple, the title embossed. A Lover’s Discourse.

Emma blinks. “Hmm? It’s not your turn yet, Prince Chevalier.”

“It’s yours. I’m giving it to you.”

“Oh!” Emma smiles and takes the gift, hugging it to her chest. “Thank you, Your Highness! I’ll treasure this forever.”

Chevalier just watches her in reply, a curious expression on his face. Recently, the severe edge that graces the prince’s countenance has lessened, especially around her. He smiles more, his eyes gentler—although it cannot be said of the same when it comes to other people. Clavis still delights upon Chevalier’s harshness towards the other nobles. For now, Emma relishes being special to Chevalier, but in the future, she hopes that the kingdom will see how she sees him, too.

“You’re really strange, you know,” he says.

“Hey!” Emma pouts. “I hope that’s not an insult. It’s a gift from you, of course I’m going to cherish it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes!” Then a thought occurs to her; she inspects the book. “I am a bit surprised by the title, though. Why this book?”

“Why not? It’s my answer to that book of poetry you forced me to read.”

“I didn’t force you to read it! I just—I was just frazzled!”

Doubt is written all over Chevalier’s face, and Emma glares at him, flustered.

“Of course you were.” But then he softens. “I found it an appropriate response, anyway.”

“Oh?”

Chevalier looks away. “I am devoured by desire, the impulse to be happy.”

Oh. Chevalier has never forgotten what Emma wants for him, that day. Warmth unfurls inside her, blooming like spring flower. This is what love must feel like. Complete and whole, sunlight in her veins.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a bop to her head. Chevalier pulls back, another book in hand, sighing in displeasure.

“Less daydreaming, more reading.”

And Emma can’t help but laugh at that. “Yes, as you wish, Your Highness.”

She snuggles further into her bed. There’s movement near her side, and then Chevalier’s arm presses against hers. Emma ducks her head to hide an elated smile.

Her days as Belle are already nearing their end, and there are still a lot of things to confront—Clause 99 being one of them. But right now, as one of Chevalier’s hands finds hers and intertwines their fingers, Emma doesn’t care.

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Kicho and Mitsuhide with Kuromi and Cinnamoroll inspired by the Ikemen Sengoku x Sanrio collaboration 🥰

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