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Spring, Lone Moon
Year 1205
The older he becomes, the less Felix understands of the world — and how much it's left them behind.
“Annette?” He blinks rapidly, rising from the bed. “What are you doing here?”
And when she makes no response, he only scans her face. She stands ways from the door, the tinder from the fireplace barely enough to lend him vision. His eyes trace over her — near-hollow cheeks, sunken, dim eyes, and her hair streaked with gray.
“Annette,” he tries again, his breath sticky in his throat. “...Why are you here?”
“...Same reasons as you, Felix,” Annette looks away in shame, her hand moving to tuck a stray piece of her hair.
“Where is your husband?”
“Off somewhere,” she murmurs, still unable to meet his eyes.
“Oh.”
“...This is wrong. Balthus must have made a mistake. I should—”
Felix raises a hand, the veins in his knuckles worn and blue. “No, wait. You mentioned Balthus,” he says, his eyes on nothing but her across the wide mattress of the country inn. “You're in the right place.”
And for all his words, Annette finally peers up at him, but does not move any closer. Her frame is swaddled by a thick leather coat, her eyes sunken and her lips chapped.
“...We don't have to do anything, Annette,” his hand descends, resting against his thigh. “We can just…”
“Just what?”
“I don't know,” he brings a hand to his temple, unable to find the right words. “We can just talk. Catch up,” he bites his lip, knowing his heart would hammer so loudly if she turned for the door. “It's been at least twenty years.”
“...Has it, really?”
“Yes.”
“...Well, we already paid for the room, so…”
Felix watches her sit on the edge of the bed, and he does the same on his side. Her worn leather cape sits on her shoulders, and his robes stay the same until morning — and so too does their smiles.
Summer, Garland Moon
Year 1206
“So, how did Balthus find you, Felix?”
“Hm?”
“Balthus knew about my husband’s years-long dissatisfaction.” Annette looks up from her embroidery, the glint of her needle bright in the tendrils of sunrise. “He sent a letter to me. That's how I came to know about his services.”
The question is a common one, Felix thinks, the book in his hands falling shut. “I’m a widower with more than enough money to spend.”
Annette snorts from across the room, her embroidery flat on the table. “You poor thing,” she shakes her head.
Felix crosses his arms, leaning his body against the headboard with a sigh. His eyes burn into the bed canopy, and the ring in his pocket grows heavy. “It's not so bad,” he runs a finger under his nose. “I’m not stuck at home. I'm doing something. I'm…” he waves a hand, unsure. “Social, at the very least.”
Annette's skirts rustle, and his gaze descends to her figure. Her head is turned to the window — her favorite view, she’d always say — and the gray in her locks shine like silverware.
“I'm sorry, Felix.” She does not whisper, and there is no pity but understanding in her voice. “Sylvain was — he was your…”
“I know.”
And she makes no response, does not continue her words. Annette only turns her neck to look at him, her eyes fond.
“Come sit with me,” she motions to the empty space next to her, the sun pale among the woven fabric. “It's my favorite time of the day.”
And he does.
Felix pulls a seat from across the room, situating it next to hers with only a soft sound. She smiles at him with patience, and he mimics her just as well. They turn their heads toward the rising sun, warm for the first time in ages, their shoulders only an inch apart.
Fall, Wyvern Moon
Year 1206
“Stay still, Felix!”
“I can't! It hurts so fucking mu—ah!”
“Felix!” Annette hisses, glaring down at him, her thread-spun fingers seemingly ready to smack him dead. “I can't clean up your brows like this!”
“Well, now I don't want it!” He bolts from her lap, rolling to his edge of the bed like a scurrying animal. “Whoever thought threading your brows was a good idea, anyway?!”
Her fingers are still raised in the air, the seemingly innocent thread the same paling color of his hair. He narrows his eyes and so does she, turning her body to the bedside table with a groan.
“Ugh, here!” Annette flings a mirror to him, her look imploring. Her pout deepens, and he sighs in resignation.
“See? What did I tell you?”
“It looks…passable,” Felix hums, unwilling to admit half of his face did look good. “But, fuck, Anne. Why does it hurt so much?”
“Beauty is pain, Felix!” She chides, rolling her eyes. “Now, lie back down and let's finish this, you baby.”
And Felix obeys. He puts away the mirror on his side of the bed, and grunts as he places his head on her lap. Annette hums appreciatively, and she resumes her work.
“...You do this to yourself?”
“Yes, Felix.”
“You—” he winces at a particular motion, his hand clutching the silky sheets. “You have a lot of spare time.”
“Well, you're in luck, then. Otherwise, who would have thought you'd look good in your forties with your brows threaded?” She tilts his head slightly, her tongue sticking out in concentration. “Who knows? Maybe tomorrow, you catch someone's interest and you won't have to pay Balthus anymore.”
“...I don't want that,” he says finally, the sting of her thread long bearable. “I’ll keep paying Balthus if I want to.”
Annette only nods in understanding, and he closes his eyes. She continues her ministrations, shaping and grooming his brows a certain way, her one-track concentration as plain as the leaves of autumn.
“How about you, Anne?” Felix blinks slowly. “If your no-good husband returns to you, will you stop?”
“No,” she answers easily. “He wouldn't, anyway. What use am I if I can't give him a son?”
“Does he know?”
“I hope not. Otherwise, Balthus can't keep extorting us like this,” she laughs. “A wife and a widower, availing a discreet service meant for seeking comfort in someone else? Imagine the scandal it’d cause.”
She then hums, leaning away to appraise her work. “There! All done, Felix.”
“We're not doing anything wrong."
Annette pauses. Felix sits up from her lap as she looks away, untangling the threads from her fingers in slow motions. He patiently waits for her to finish, his arms no further than on his sides. Annette then finally turns to him with an unreadable expression, and he only wraps his arms around her when she rests her head on his shoulder.
“It's not your fault.”
“But meeting you here is, isn't it?” Annette whispers. Her voice had long lost its capacity to crack, and it surprises him very little. “Sneaking out before midnight for many secret rendezvous? That doesn't look any good.” She clutches at his starched collar. “You say we're not doing anything wrong — that's only because we aren't having sex.”
He plants his chin on the crown of her head, and says nothing.
“...I feel so alone in that house. No one to talk to, no letters to write.”
The morning sun floods the room. His grip tightens, and they fall into the soft, velvety pillows.
“Did you know Mercedes just had her first grandchild?” She whispers, burying her head deeper into his neck. “He’s a beautiful little boy.”
Winter, Ethereal Moon
Year 1206
In the sunrise of the Ethereal Moon, Felix makes love to her.
They don their leather capes draped on the chairs by the window, their time nearing its end. Annette hands him his newly mended coat, her smile bright yet worn from another sleepless night. They've done as they always had — talk about everything and nothing all through the night, and watch the sunrise from her favorite window. No longer did they utter goodbyes — they were useless, they both believed.
She had draped the cape around his shoulders, and she had been focused on clasping the buttons when he lifted her chin to kiss her. It takes little for her to return his affections, her fingers pulling on his collar to tug him closer. He steers them toward the bed, their capes and clothes easily discarded on the carpet floor.
As snow trickles and falls, they say no words as their freckled hands roam on each other's bodies, no confessions of love as he holds her face and fills her whole, the hole in their hearts barely any more disdainful of the world beyond their room.