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Her right ankle is hooked around her left heel as she sits on the couch. Before her, the coffee table is adorned with a vase of rainbow roses, a platter of cake, the kettle she’d brewed her tea in, the sugar cubes, the milk, two teacups, and two dessert plates. Her legs swing just slightly while she sits there humming, piece of cake in her mouth, the prongs of the fork lingering pressed into her lips. She chews with her mouth kept politely shut, slow like she’s savoring it wholeheartedly. Her eyes are closed by the time she swallows, one hand falling down to rest on her lap, atop the soft white thighs revealed by her shorts. And then, like she’s savoring that, too, she lowers the fork from her lips, sets it down on the plate and nudges the end to straighten it out properly.
The Knave watches, standing silently in the doorway, when Furina leans down to lift the saucer her teacup sits on, one hand holding the plate and the other taking a gentle, dainty hold around the cup’s handle. She brings the porcelain to her plush lips, blows for one, two seconds while she watches the ripples over the surface of the liquid. And then she tips the cup up just slightly, letting just a little slide smoothly into her mouth before she swallows with a pleasant hum, setting the teacup back on its saucer and its saucer back in its place.
She even takes her tea beautifully.
The Knave steps into the room without a word, rounding the coffee table to take her rightful place at Furina’s side and tip two cubes of sugar, no milk, into her own teacup. “Furina,” she says, as a belated greeting.
“I must have made an entertaining sight for you to stand there watching for two minutes,” Furina immediately replies, scooting to the side to sit closer to Arlecchino, her gaze flickering over with a hint of delight in those eyes.
“Just entertaining enough,” the Knave murmurs in response, looking down over Furina’s body, the softness of her skin, her small form in comparison to the Knave’s, her mismatched eyes, and her white-and-blue hair. The Knave is too entranced not to lift a hand and brush the bangs from her eyes and let her hand linger over the base of her jaw. Furina is so very soft beneath her hands, delicate in a way that forces the Knave to be gentle herself, careful with her hands, with her claws, with her teeth. It had been years since she had last thought she could be so soft. In a moment of impulse, staring at Furina’s skin, she tilts Furina’s head up to press her lips to her cheek and draw away just as quickly, turning her head away like it will hide the unusual warmth on her cheeks, folding her hands in her lap like that will help her resist the urge to hold Furina closer. “How do you like the cake, dear?” she asks just to change the subject. To give her fingers something to do instead of curling around themselves and clawing into her own skin, she reaches forward and cuts herself a small slice of cake.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” Furina answers with a light, relaxed expression, leaning into her lover and linking their arms together. “Definitely one I wouldn’t mind having again. Thank you for bringing it, Arle.”
The Knave is quiet for a moment, fork in between her fingers as she brings it down to cut away a bite from her slice. “Of course, dear,” she says finally, lifting the bite to her lips, and then, just before she closes her lips around it, “I enjoy bringing you things. And more than that, I enjoy sharing cake with you.”
The taste on her tongue is sugary and light, the cake sponge-like and soft between her sharp teeth, the cream between the layers refreshingly smooth. She pulls the silverware from her lips once the piece has slid from it, doesn’t chew for as long as Furina had, and swallows without fanfare. Furina still beams at her.
“I enjoy sharing cake with you as well,” she says. The Knave slips her arm from Furina’s hold to instead wind it around her waist and gently pull her closer, enough so that Furina’s body rests against hers, enough so that the Knave can feel her warmth. Furina leans into it, lips curved happily upwards, not at all bothered to be pulled away from her tea by her lover’s indulgences. To rectify that even without her request, the Knave leans forward to pull Furina’s saucer to be within her reach.
Furina hums pleasantly, like a thank you, takes her teacup into both hands and sips at it leisurely. She smiles with her eyes briefly closed when she sits up to set it down, uncurls her gloved fingers from around its base and its handle and settles back into the Knave’s arms like resting with her is natural. The Knave ducks her head down and, unable to recognize why she feels so indulgent today, kisses Furina’s temple through her hair.
“Are you tired, Arle?” Furina asks, and perhaps, that could explain it. Yet she feels more restless than anything, lightly bunching the fabric at the side of Furina’s suit as she curls her fingers around in circles, careful to make sure her nails don’t catch on the silk. Arlecchino shakes her head.
“Maybe so,” she replies in the end, and then admits, “But more than that, I just feel…unusually affectionate today. You’ve disarmed me with your beauty, Furina.” She moves lower and kisses Furina’s cheek, one hand snaking up to tangle itself in the base of her droplet’s hair.
As expected, Furina giggles, and brings her hand up to stifle the sound as any noblewoman would. “So disarming? This is just my usual attire,” she protests half-heartedly, moving her head away but staying within Arlecchino’s arms.
“And it’s always disarming,” Arlecchino insists with a smooth voice, curling her fingers through Furina’s hair and leaning forward after her. “I just usually have more resistance to it.” She presses her lips to Furina’s forehead and then draws lower, pausing. “Dear?” and it’s a soft murmur, her breath against Furina’s lips.
Furina takes the hint, concedes, and closes the distance to connect her lips with her lover’s like a brush of mercy from a goddess. It’s only now that Arlecchino savors the taste of the cake, the vanilla, the cream, the hint of citrus and the sugar, the sweetness she finds on Furina’s lips. Beneath it lies the faint, tasteless texture of Furina’s lipstick, and Arlecchino pulls her closer, presses against her with an intense but soft touch, and she holds the kiss, the connection, the taste, until she can no longer excuse her indulgence within herself and she draws back with reluctance. She drops one kiss to her droplet’s button nose as thanks, and then hums in thought. “Hmm, it is good cake.”
It’s worth all the confliction she feels to see Furina’s cheeks bloom with pink. “Were you only just paying attention to the taste?!”