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A light melody dances through the air, the sound only muffled by the door to the parlor. Romarriche pays it no mind for now, content to listen to the voiceless song as he prepares the afternoon tea and cake. He sets the cutlery down with a satisfying clink before he places two teacups on flower adorned saucers. Next he places two plates down, each holding a slice of strawberry cake. And finally he lifts the tray, balancing it with one hand, and makes his way to the parlor.
With a silent, practiced ease, Romarriche clicks the door shut behind him. He overlooks the pianist in favor of gently setting the tray down on a table in the corner. He takes a moment to close the curtains so the sunlight doesn't warm the cake and then finally turns around. Immediately, a warmth settles in his chest at the sight.
Merold's hair hangs up in a ponytail, a headband keeping his bangs in place to match, and his attention remains solely on the piano in front of him. His hands sweep across the piano keys with a precision only muscle memory provides. There's a moment where his left hand rises up to flip the sheet music to the next page, and Romarriche has to keep himself from humming along. Rarely does Merold play the piano anymore, either for himself or Romarriche, so he would be remiss not to enjoy the scene before him.
Merold's back is straight, but he sways slightly in his seat feeling the music as he plays. If Romarriche attunes his ears, he can hear the faint hum coming from the pink haired man. The music consumes him in the same way the sight consumes Romarriche.
So many words come to mind to describe how Romarriche feels at the moment. Fondness. Affectionate. Endearment. And yet none of them truly feel right. Because what word is there to describe the soul crushing devotion one holds for a man whose love exists for his Lord and only his Lord? Yearning, perhaps.
Contentment is another, Romarriche decides. It's a word people from MarronCream's kingdom know all too well. Content in the familiarity of tradition and unchanging times. Yes. Yes indeed, Romarriche is content in the knowledge that he can witness Merold exist. He needs nothing more.
He wants nothing more.
He wants and wants and yet all he can have is a glimpse of who he wants.
"Romarriche~" his name falls from Merold's lips like an angel's sigh.
It pulls his attention from his thoughts, and Romarriche wonders if breathing is supposed to be hard. Has he ever been so conscious of the air in his lungs before now? He inhales slowly and blinks at Merold. "I brought cake," he says kindly.
There are whirlpools in Merold's calm blue eyes, violent and all-devouring. His lips curl into a smile. "Did you make it yourself?"
"Just the tea." Romarriche shakes his head. Then he gestures to the table. "Take a break and join me?"
Merold doesn't respond, rather he stands from the pianist stool and moves across the room in four steps. He settles down on the sofa on the other side of the table, eagerly looking up at Romarriche. The request goes unasked.
And who is he to deny Merold?
Romarriche slides forward a plate with cake on it and then picks up his and Merold's teacups. Then he sits next to the man on the sofa, conscious of their distance immediately. Their shoulders don't touch, the space between them akin to when a magnet tries to claw its way to its other half.
For years, for months, for weeks: for a few minutes the two sit in silence. Merold's fork scrapes against his plate and Romarriche barely sips at his tea as he watches Merold from the corner of his eye. Merold's bangs are falling out of the headband and Romarriche ignores the want to brush Merold's hair out of the way.
He doesn't dislike when Merold visits his kingdom. In fact, Romarriche cherishes these visits as one cherishes flowers slowly losing life in a garden. They had more time to meet as children, and now as Fragaria their visits are few and far between. Unfortunately, his visits often remind Romarriche of his hopefully flawed romantic inclination.
Though, perhaps pining for his best friend is a love letter in its own right. Sealed and left in the bottom drawer of a desk in a forgotten study, Romarriche writes out his confession with fading ink.
"What's the matter?" Finally comes the dreaded question. Merold, naturally, sees right through Romarriche's silence for what it is: an anxiety capable of corroding his stomach.
There's no escaping the sights of a master tactician, especially not when Merold wants an answer. The small cake fork in his hand would be a deadly weapon if he wanted to torture Romarriche. Actually, if he wanted to torture Romarriche, he needs only keep their eyes locked and Romarriche would falter.
And that he does. He falters, his mouth unable to open in answer. Romarriche draws his eyes to the tea in his hand, thankful for its weight against his palm. A comforting gesture versus the violence in his chest. The warmth is now a wildfire eating up at his inside.
With a quiet sigh, Romarriche sets his teacup down. He angles it so that the handle is diagonally facing him. Then he wishes he didn't, because now his hands feel empty and clammy. "Merold," he starts and stops.
It feels as though he's about to confess a crime.
Merold watches him, those blue eyes calculating even now. There's no doubt he knows what's on Romarriche's mind because once he sets his fork down, his hands reach for Romarriche's. His thumbs brush against the back of Romarriche's hands, and Romarriche almost balks from the touch alone. "You can say it," he says.
But saying it confirms everything. It breaks the tradition of their occasional meetings. It breaks the rarity of watching Merold play piano while Romarriche admires him. All of that and yet, it ruins nothing.
"I find my thoughts are very preoccupied." It's a start. Romarriche stares at his and Merold's hands. "And I can't help but wonder if I should act on them or not."
Slowly his gaze moves upward. From the golden wrist watch fit against Merold's pale wrist to the buttons on his pink cardigan. Merold is handsome in the same way that a razor blade in its sheath is alluring- Romarriche cannot pull his eyes away. "It's silly. I know Fragaria aren't meant to feel this way, and yet..."
The words hang between them like a noose. Would Merold push Romarriche's head into place and tighten it? Is that a mercy that Romarriche deserves because of these shameless feelings?
No. No he wouldn't, because Merold is neither merciless nor as cruel as others think. The proof comes from the small laugh that leaves his mouth. "What makes it silly is that you're overthinking it, Roma."
Merold leans back further into the couch, his hands pulling Romarriche with him. It compromises their positions, pulling Romarriche into his lap and making the other's mind convulse in on itself. Merold stares up at him, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "We're not Fragaria right now, are we?"
They are, though. Their position as Fragaria never ends, not even in the privacy of the parlor. Though, there's an underlying permission to actually convey what he means. Romarriche smiles, his cheeks burning as he stares down at Merold. "I suppose not."
"So then, what's on your mind?" Merold prods. He frees one of his hands and slides it up Romarriche's arm, stopping only when he can touch the back of Romarriche's neck.
The shiver that runs down his spine reminds Romarriche that Merold is a terrifying foe in battle. He swallows, every word in the dictionary struggling to find their way out of his throat. "You're worse than any SEED," he says.
Merold snorts in response. "Am I?"
He is. He is and Romarriche wants to spend the rest of his life drowning in Merold's eyes. "I don't know how to tell you..."
"You don't know how to tell me you love me?" Merold tilts his head to the side. "Shall I tell you how I love you, then?"
If he was too conscious of his breathing earlier; then now Romarriche no longer knows how to breathe. His throat seizes, constricting in on itself and Romarriche can't decide if he needs tea or not. "Will you?" He asks.
"Do you know what song I was just playing?" Merold asks, his eyes briefly flickering to the piano across the room before they settle back on Romarriche's.
He shakes his head. "Not at all." What he does know, however, is that every time he's caught Merold playing the piano, it's been the same song. The sound of it is familiar and comforting, and one day Romarriche knows he'll memorize the tune.
"It's called 'Salut d'amour,'," Merold answers. His hand moves from the back of Romarriche's neck to his cheek, fingertips ghosting his skin.
Romarriche blinks, translating the title mentally. Then he lets out a quiet gasp.
Love Letters.
In the many years they've known each other, Romarriche has seen Merold play the same song at least twenty times. All rare occasions. All alone between the two of them. Merold's been playing him a love song all this time, waiting for Romarriche to come to him.
"If anything, it's silly that I've had to wait all these years for you." The tease is light. Confident. Melodious. It's so very Merold that Romarriche can't help but laugh.
"You are anything but silly." He leans down, pausing in the space between them. "I apologize for making you wait."
"I might forgive you if you say it." Merold slowly closes the gap between them. Their lips barely touch now.
"I love you." The words mesh between their lips as Romarriche finally gives in.