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The mysterious Noble at the window had certainly seemed unshakable at first. The only thing he had responded to, really, was tea, for which Frankenstein could occasionally persuade him to take a seat at the table. When he had finally said in that quiet, melodic voice that he enjoyed it, Frankenstein couldn’t help but feel a sense of success. At least he managed to do something to repay his host. Truthfully, he doesn’t like being indebted to anyone at all, but this somehow feels… different, in a way Frankenstein can’t quite explain.
This is the fourth day Frankenstein is bringing tea for the mysterious Noble, who typically accepted the warm drink with both hands and drank it in silence, with only a quiet thank you leaving his lips. Frankenstein wasn’t sure what kind he preferred or how he took it, and quite honestly, the first time he prepared it such things were the furthest thought from his mind, so he had just been bringing regular black tea with no milk or sugar.
The Noble hadn’t seemed to mind so far, though. He had raised no complaint, so Frankenstein hadn’t done anything about it yet. But maybe he should ask, just to be safe. He had brought a tin of sugar and a container of milk this time, both of which he had located in the storeroom. “Sir Raizel, would you like anything with your tea? Milk or sugar?”
Raizel looks at him blankly. Is it possible… he doesn’t know what they are? Well, it seems that the Noble hardly leaves the room at all, so perhaps the idea isn’t outlandish. He hadn’t known what tea was, either, the first time he brought it. But the milk and sugar had been in his storeroom, hadn’t they? And the milk is somehow fresh as well— how is that even possible? It must be some sort of Noble power…
“You know… to make it more sweet or creamy.” Frankenstein offers a haphazard explanation. How does one explain milk and sugar?
Raizel continues to stare, but this time with a mild yet clear expression of confusion. Frankenstein seems to have made it worse. Oh well. Best explain by doing. “Here, I’ll put a spoon of sugar in your tea and you can see if you like it?”
After a moment of careful consideration, the Noble nods. All right then. Frankenstein gently takes the teacup back and stirs in a spoonful of sugar, which dissolves and disappears into the deep red liquid. He hands it back, and Raizel raises the cup to his lips and takes a tentative sip.
Frankenstein, watching closely, can barely identify it— the way Raizel’s scarlet eyes widen slightly and he pauses before taking another sip. His eyes flutter shut. Ah, I think he likes it. I mean, if he’s tasting sugar for the first time, it’s bound to be nice, right?
“Shall I put in another spoonful?”
Raizel nods almost straight away. Frankenstein mentally catalogs the second-ever reaction he’s gotten from him. It’s… kind of sweet, actually. The Noble has a strangely childlike air about him, a contrast to his aura that speaks of ancient age. Barely restraining a smile, Frankenstein gently takes the cup back and stirs in another spoonful. When Raizel continues to look at him, strangely and almost expectantly, Frankenstein tentatively puts in one more and hands it back. He wants three spoons? Well, I’m not one to judge.
Raizel takes a sip. Somehow, in this one moment, in a strange manor with an ever stranger Noble, time seems to have stopped. Then Raizel sets the porcelain cup back down with a clink. He stares at it, almost quizzically, as if expecting it to change.
Don’t tell me…
“Do you… want some more sugar?” Okay, so the Noble definitely has a sweet tooth. More than three? Is the tea particularly bitter or something?
Frankenstein picks up the teacup one more time, adding in another spoonful of sugar. Under the Noble’s watchful gaze, he hesitantly adds another, thinking it was certainly becoming strange. However… Raizel continues staring at him with those soulful scarlet eyes. There’s no way…
Hands nearly shaking, Frankenstein stirs in yet another spoonful. Six. It can’t possibly taste like tea at this point. And Raizel is still looking at him.
“Sir Raizel,” starts Frankenstein, “If you add anymore I don’t think it will taste very good…” A considerable understatement.
The look becomes downright plaintive. God. Well then. He puts in one more and hands it back, completely uncertain of what will become of teatime.
To his utter shock and horror, Raizel closes his eyes and drinks deeply. Then, his lips curve up ever so slightly. This… this isn’t possible. Are— are Noble taste buds different from humans’? They have to be. It’s the only explanation.
Suddenly something seems to come over Raizel. An almost… guilty look crosses his fine features. He holds the teacup unmovingly in his hand for a moment.
“...Frankenstein,” says Raizel, whisper-soft.
“Y-Yes?”
“...please, one more spoonful.”
Eight. Eight teaspoons of sugar in one cup of tea. Raizel was going to develop diabetes. Noble physiology or no, it was simply not possible. The drink was sugar syrup at that point, not tea. Frankenstein shudders just thinking about it.
Yet… Raizel had seemed so happy. He drank the whole entire thing. And then he looked at Frankenstein and smiled, really smiled, not one of those barely-visible things he pulls out sometimes. Pure, innocent contentment radiated off of him, like he was a child of five years. Good God. I’m completely helpless against that face, aren’t I?
Frankenstein sighs deeply, tangling a hand in his hair. This certainly was not what he was expecting. He can’t help but wonder what he’s going to do from now. Well… a few ideas come to mind to try and get some more reactions from his kind, strange host. Sweets, maybe? His mind wanders off before he can convince it to do otherwise. There was a selection of fruit trees and berry plants in the south of the island… maybe he could start there. He should do something to pay back his hospitality, right?
Some weeks later, Frankenstein has perfected the art of fruit tarts in his spare time. It isn’t terribly strenuous and he could do it while recovering his strength, since he’s currently contraindicated from proper exercise and he needs something to do, or he’ll lose his mind from boredom. Frankenstein never could sit still, even when injured.
A selection of small tarts in lemon, blueberry, strawberry, and apple flavors lay neatly arranged on a platter, one of each, lined up nicely with a dusting of powdered sugar. Not bad at all. He can’t help but feel a little proud of his work— excellence in all is his motto, after all, even in cooking. (And of course, the recipe has twice as much sugar as he’d typically use. Frankenstein nearly fainted looking at it, but it would certainly be to Raizel’s taste.)
Satisfied, Frankenstein picks up the tray and heads to Raizel’s room. The Noble really hadn’t left the place once since Frankenstein arrived, which he found incredibly odd. And he doesn’t think that all Nobles have a penchant for staring out windows all day. But that was a question Frankenstein was fairly certain he wouldn’t be getting the answer to for quite a while, so he let it go, giving the Noble a warm smile.
“Good afternoon, sir Raizel,” says Frankenstein politely, setting the tray onto the table. Raizel turns back to look at him with a mildly interested look. “I brought something I think you might enjoy…”
Almost hesitantly, Raizel steps away from the window and takes a seat at the table. Frankenstein sometimes feels like he’s coaxing a stray cat. Raizel stares at the plate, his scarlet eyes unblinking, seemingly uncertain. He glances back at Frankenstein with a silent question in his eyes.
“You can take one,” Frankenstein informs him gently. “I made them for you.”
Ever so slightly, his eyes widen. Is he unused to gifts? Is he not a Noble of high status? Everything Frankenstein learns about him is stranger and stranger. Then, after an eternity condensed into a few seconds, Raizel gingerly extends his hand and picks up the lemon tart on the left. The whole thing makes Frankenstein oddly nervous as he watches Raizel take a small, delicate bite out of the tart, even though he has no real reason to feel that way.
And then, watching carefully, he could identify the slight look of contentment that alights on his fine features. Success. Frankenstein files the information away for later. He likes sweets, including fruit tarts. Frankenstein waits patiently for Raizel to try all of them, and though he’s curious about which one is his favorite, Raizel doesn’t seem to express a preference. Well, it won’t be too much trouble to keep making a variety. It would definitely give him something to do.
By the time another few weeks pass, all but Frankenstein’s most severe wounds have healed completely. He’s still a little weak and off-balance, but certainly no longer in the near-death zone he had been after fighting Rayga and Gechutel. Frankenstein and Raizel had settled into a sort of rhythm, with Frankenstein bringing tea and snacks every afternoon. They never talked much, but the silence was never oppressive. There was a delicate sort of peace that lingered lightly in the air.
Not to mention that Frankenstein has been getting a little better at interpreting the emotions of his distant host. Strangely, it’s gratitude that he sees most often, peace and serenity as well, sometimes shyness or uncertainty. Once Frankenstein learned to look for them, he found Raizel’s emotions to be honest and open, if you really took the time to look close enough to see. The slightest tilt of his lips or scrunch of his brows said all that Raizel didn’t.
It’s standing in his room during teatime, a light afternoon breeze through the window, when it suddenly occurs to him. Raizel didn’t seem to have a preference when he’d first tried the tarts; when Frankenstein asked, he hesitated a long time before saying he enjoyed all of them. Frankenstein figured it was the end of that and left it alone.
It was a small thing, but he recently noticed— although Raizel used to simply eat them in the order they were presented on the tray, now he seems to consistently pick the strawberry one first.
“Ah, so you prefer the strawberry tart?” The observation slips out of him as soon as he makes it. Perhaps he should have taken more time to think about it before essentially blurting out whatever was on his mind, but it had already been said. To his surprise, Raizel looks down, looking almost a little embarrassed.
“...Yes.”
So he does have a preference. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
Raizel hesitates for a long time. Frankenstein was starting to think he would never get an answer when, “I… appreciate the hard work that you have put into everything you create…”
Frankenstein stares, nearly dumbfounded. For a reason like that, he didn’t mention he liked strawberry tarts? Because he respects the work of a human stranger who wandered into his mansion two months ago completely unannounced? It was true— Frankenstein had put a lot of care and effort into the tarts. He’d developed the recipe himself, gathered all the ingredients, took the time to assemble and present them. But the idea that Raizel recognized all that, and for that reason felt it disrespectful to choose one over the other?
And the best or maybe worst part is that Frankenstein senses nothing but complete earnesty from the Noble. He means it. What kind of person… is that thoughtful and considerate, to the point of nearly being excessive…?
“And… I didn’t want to cause any trouble for you,” finishes Raizel, near silently.
Raizel is… kind and considerate, no, maybe even… naive, with the amount of genuine trust and respect he seems to place in Frankenstein. He, not realizing that in fact it would be easier to simply make four strawberry tarts in the afternoon instead of one of each, simply accepted what was put in front of him without wishing to express a preference or cause further inconvenience to— to a trespasser, really.
Frankenstein suddenly feels intensely guilty. Raizel— truly wishes no harm, huh? He had really taken Frankenstein under his wing, a total stranger with a bizarre dark power, with genuinely no ulterior motives. Raizel really had done it out of the kindness of his heart, and he does care about Frankenstein and his well-being, even such things as his pride in his work. Would this place, with this kind Noble, really become… somewhere where he could relax? Somewhere he could call home, even?
It had been two months. Frankenstein had almost completely healed. If he really wants to, he could make his escape now, before the Leaders could catch up to him. If he was feeling daring, he could go confront the Lord himself now. But… is that really still what he wants? Is that really still the future he wants to have?
Maybe… he could stay here a little longer, spending peaceful days Raizel’s side. Just a little bit longer. A little bit more happiness.