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It won't work on him, or so he believes. He doesn't really think it would work on him. The Love Spot Curse, he had the liberty to call it as LSC (Love Spot Curse) in his head. The term that he coined proudly when he was discussing this matter with Mash. Anyway, it's because they're both dudes, and LSC only works on women—so this shit will be smooth sailing.
Until it's not.
"Don't worry, Mash! I'm immune to his charm because it only works on girls."
"Yes, Senpai!"
"If I fall for him, I'll kill myself!"
"Yes, Sen— um..... Maybe not that far, Senpai...."
Because he believed it wouldn't happen. Now he has to kill himself. Today, on a random Wednesday, Master has confirmed that he is indeed falling for a certain Lancer. He doesn't blame himself for it, no, he's so sure that it's caused by LSC. It's really that damn mole's spot. But also, he shouldn't blame it on that mole, Diarmuid will be sad if he knows.
"Maybe it's on me after all...," he sighs and buries his head into his arms. The cafeteria is almost empty because dinner time passed. Today, Emiya cooked many portions of katsudon for the whole Chaldea. It was awesome and all but Master has been conflicted, so he didn't register the amazingness of the cooking. All because he was thinking about Diarmuid.
He sighs again, more exasperatedly. He has tons of trainings to do with Diarmuid since Da Vinci detected another minute singularity they have to visit soon. And these feelings just won't do. It won't do at all.
He realized it was a serious crush because he has been thinking about him a lot. And when they passed each other this afternoon, an urge to hold hands with that Lancer was so undeniably strong that Master had to abruptly end the conversation. Really doesn't help when he has to supervise Diarmuid's trainings. Seeing the Lancer all sweaty and smiling after a good workout is never good for the heart and, shamefully, sometimes those sessions result in a boner—which is bad.
Tomorrow will be another training. In two days they will head to that minute singularity Da Vinci mentioned.
Diarmuid is positively ignorant about his LSC causing trouble with his Master because he believes it won't. His Master is not a maiden and is a proper and respectable mage of honor. ___ was so proud when Diarmuid expressed his admiration so explicitly towards his ethics. But now he isn't sure if he deserves all those admiration anymore—because at the end of the day, the Master is not immune to the mole. To his beautiful face, his heavenly voice, and his strong arms.
Curses, he groans as he stands up from his seat. Tomorrow is another training. It'll be just like usual. Nothing will happen and they'll successfully fix the singularity at the end of the day—hopefully it's nothing big though.
So time passed.
And Master shows up to training with dark eyebags around his eyes, yawning. He couldn't sleep last night, it was disaster. He was acting like a schoolboy in love—couldn't wait to see his favorite Lancer again soon.
When did he started using favorite when describing Diarmuid? "Fuck me," he grunts under his breath as he enters the simulation room.
"Master," the devil shows up. And what a beautiful devil he is. With two spears in his grip and that easy smile, it soothes the heart, really. No wonder that he's called the prettiest man ever. "You look exhausted. Was your slumber disturbed, Master?" Even the way he expresses his concern is insanely chivalrous, it makes Master feel like a young virgin.
His heart fluttering.
But he just grins stupidly, he can't act right with Diarmuid staring at him directly like that. "Kind of. I was talking to Da Vinci," big fat lie. He was in his room alone and had to push down the urge to start picking up a pencil to learn how to draw, so he can sketch out Diarmuid and plaster his face all over his walls. He really ended up just staring at the ceiling and imagining how great it would be if they can feed each other ice creams, which is embarrassing. It's so cheesy.
They train as per usual. He's used to seeing battles, especially with many servants around Chaldea, but seeing Diarmuid fight is a different matter. It's like he's sparkling—Master makes an ugly face when he thinks this. It's totally biased. Because, for example, when Gawain swings his sword around he doesn't look sparkly at all—at least not like this. Diarmuid is brighter, his skin is so smooth. The sweat drops decorating his face are just pretty. This is definitely biased.
"What time is this, Master?"
Maybe if he make another servant attend their trainings, they'll be fine. Like, maybe Mash can attend too. Training two at once, killing two birds with one stone. I'm so smart, Master smiles to himself, satisfied.
"Master?"
"Huh?"
Diarmuid is walking closer, wiping sweat from his own brows and smiling. His eyes crinkle when he smiles, and the mole—shit, he's so pretty. He holds both spears in one hand and is now fanning himself, "I called. Were you occupied? I'm sorry if so."
Yeah, no. Moments like this is why he doesn't bring other servants along. Inside him, he really wants these sessions to be exclusive for them both, so he could stare at Diarmuid like this. All he likes. Looking into those beautiful amber eyes and admire all of his grace. "O- oh... It's chill...," Master grins up, sheepish, "what was that again? Sorry I didn't hear."
"I was asking about the time," he sets his spears down against a tree, then he stretches his heel, "I was wondering if dinner is soon."
"The time?" ___ checks his watch, it's a bit early for dinner. But surely they can end this session earlier—as he's sleep deprived anyway, he can't proceed properly like this. His mana will be unstable.
So he nods, "We can end it early, thanks for your hard work today too, Diarmuid."
Diarmuid tilts his head, he notices the exhaustion in his Master's voice. And ever the considerate servant, he pressed the back of his hand to ___'s forehead. Startling the other man. "Whoa, what's up?" Master stumbles back a bit. The coldness of Diarmuid's hand—from dried sweat and the way he moved a lot earlier—makes his eyes open wide. He blinks a bit fast when the Lancer chuckles.
"I'm glad to know that you're not currently feverish," he retreats his hand, "you look a bit pale, Master. Perhaps it's because you lack rest."
"Maybe," Master covers his own forehead, feeling it with his own palm. Trying to record the feeling of his servant's skin on it, "I mean, I'm used to it."
"You shouldn't be," Diarmuid guides him out as the simulation dissipates around them. They walk side by side in respectful distance—as Diarmuid is polite.
Master starts to feel guilty, that he's caught in the web of that curse—the so called LSC, but no one calls it as such but himself.
Diarmuid is an amazing person, to fall for him just because of the curse is unbecoming. If Master was falling in love out of his own volition, he probably wouldn't feel this conflicted about it. It really is the curse that weighs him. It wasn't supposed to affect him after all, but it did. And now Diarmuid is ten thousand times more handsome than before. Not that he was ugly before, but still. Diarmuid certainly deserves someone who would love him for his person, not just his damn mole. Ah… he wasn't done talking.
"… So it's imperative to focus yourself during your rest as well," Diarmuid's voice is airy and comfortable to hear, every words he said might as well count as lullabies. "Ah, forgive me, Master. I was rambling."
Diarmuid glances at the man beside him, "You're awfully quiet." His tone easy and controlled at the same time. Always aiming to impress, it seems. And Master is definitely impressed, his cheeks growing warm. His eyes feel heavy for no reason—there's a reason actually, but he currently doesn't remember that. All his focus stolen by the melodic sentences tumbling out of his Lancer's lips. He just nod to whatever he's saying, if Diarmuid were to propose the destruction of this world—which he wouldn't—the absentminded nods will be all that he get from ___.
"Master?" Now he's truly worried. His Master isn't answering at all and his steps had became shorter.
"Diarmuid."
"Yes, Master."
The Master stops walking entirely. Now he's nodding not out of his will, rather because his form is struggling to stay up any longer, "I can't get dinner with you."
The Lancer turns conflicted, his brows pressed to the center. But before he could ask on why, his body moves on its own to catch the Master's torso as his legs give out. Master murmurs into Diarmuid's arm, "I'm sleepy…"
The concern in Diarmuid's face didn't stay long. The Lancer smiles, sighing as he adjusts Master in his arms. He carries them to their room, supposedly he could ask Mash to open the door for him. His Master is sleeping so soundly in his hold, it's romantic, "Sleep well, Master."
Master only wake at midnight, way past dinner time. And his stomach is rumbling. He frowns, rubbing his stomach and struggles a bit to get up. Not because he's so hungry he couldn't move, but because his eyes are still sleepy as hell. "I skipped dinner…," he was looking forward to it the whole day, so that sucks.
"I will heat it up for you."
___ blinks rapidly as he turns his head too fast, it makes him dizzy—that aside, there he is. The cause of his lack of sleep, the prettiest man on earth, the blessed one, the cursed one. Standing in his room just beside the microwave. He's smiling as he clicks the buttons on it, "They were making some boneless wings to go along with the rice."
"You waited?" Master looks up with a tired grin, feeling a bit guilty for making Lancer take care of him.
The single strand falling between his eyes sways as he shakes his head, "I had my dinner in the cafeteria. I came back here some minutes ago."
That means you waited, man. Master sighs, "Thanks a lot, Diarmuid, but you really didn't have to."
"I had to," the mattress dips under the weight of his body, "I am to take care of you, my Master. Naturally."
Ah, his radiance. Master lifts his legs and hugs his knees. Eyes wandering to that mole again, but now drifting to those honest, honorable gaze. He should consider himself lucky to ever bear witness to this hero at all, to his beauty and kindness. So he shouldn't cross a line, he should bear nothing more than gratitude towards him. As he troubled himself to carry this lowly mage to his bed. And to warm his meal, fetching it for him. Too domestic. When it comes to this, he can't help but want more.
This just won't do. I should end this. Master sighs into his own folded arms.
"Pardon me," the Lancer speaks low, "you seem troubled."
He is troubled. The Master nods, not so subtly.
Diarmuid's face turns rather serious, his head tilt makes that single strand sway again, "May I lend an ear?" His voice remains patient.
"I don't know how to talk about it," Master purses his lips just against his own knees. What is he doing? Pouting like a petulant child. He should end this at once.
He should draw a clear line between them so their relationship wouldn't turn sour. Diarmuid himself will be disappointed if he ever find out that I caught the LSC. And he doesn't want Diarmuid to hate him, above all.
"You can take your time," as they have a meal to wait for, the Lancer has plenty of time.
They can take their time. Even though it's so frustrating to have him being so patient like this, to sit so handsomely beside him. A line, one long line should be drawn between them. A line as a wall, so ___ won't be able to crawl over to caress that perfect face forevermore. But of course, to ease his own heart, he has to be a bit selfish. He has to soothe the ache somehow, "I like you."
Silence. Then a puzzled, "Pardon?"
"I like you," Master repeats, "I have a crush on you—I don't know how to say it properly."
Before Diarmuid could utter a single response, his Master continues to over-explain: "I know it sucks that every bosses you had fell to your charm, and it sucks that I'm the same. But I'm not gonna succumb to the LSC and I will continue to serve as your Master. Properly. I'll make sure that I don't do anything foolish to ruin our current—"
"Wait, wait, Master, calm down," Diarmuid has to hold the other man by his shoulders. Master is positively frantic, panicking, his words are too fast to follow and Diarmuid has several questions at once because of it. Because, wasn't that a love confession? His charm was mentioned? LSC? Diarmuid brushes away the hair that fell onto his Master's face ever so tenderly as he asks, with that polite voice of his, "May I know what is LSC?"
He's not well-versed in whatever slang people use nowadays. Some servants are definitely more up to date than him regarding this aspect of socialization.
"Love Spot Curse," apparently it's not a slang? He isn't sure. Is this curse so common that there's a special abbreviation for it? He thought his legend was unique only to him. Or is his Master still hazy from the lack of sleep?
"What?"
"Love Spot—forget it! Aren't you mad at me?"
Diarmuid is a bewildered by the sudden accusation, "I'm sorry? Why would I?" His eyes are pure confusion.
"I fell for you! That's bad isn't it? Even though the curse isn't supposed to affect me."
"Yes, it shouldn't," Diarmuid holds his Master's elbows, not quite touching, just hovering nearby. Keeping his form steady, "It's supposed to charm maidens." Diarmuid takes his time letting it sink. He wouldn't be mad at his Master of course, but the Master is clearly in distress. But the longer he thinks, the more he doesn't get it. Why would this affect his Master at all? The mole never once affect a man, ___ is the first one. Unless…
A deep red blush creeps onto Diarmuid's face as he retracts his hands suddenly, "Master… A- Are you-"
Master answers the surprise with a gasp, "What?! No! I'm a guy, gods…" He scowls. What was Lancer thinking about just now?
Diarmuid blinks once, twice. He then exhales, clearing his throat. Averting his eyes to calm himself down, "My apologies, Master…" The Lancer brushes his hair backwards, tidying it up just so. His hand then runs down to the back of his own neck, scratching there as he thinks about it more thoroughly. "Then my curse shouldn't be affecting you," he finally says, "it's just not how it works, as much as I know."
"Well, it happened to me," the Master shrugs. He stopped hugging his own knees. Sighing loudly, he averts his eyes from Lancer as well. This is embarrassing. He didn't plan for the topic to go on this long, he was planning to end it fast with one paragraph of explanation that he prepared.
The microwave lets out a pleasant ding amidst the sustained silence. Diarmuid gets up from his position and fetch the meal from the warmer. Plating it properly for his Master to eat. He hopes the portion size is correct. "It can't happen to you, Master," and if that's true, it doesn't change the fact that his Master fell for him. Strangely though, it doesn't make him upset, not even slightly. After all, ___ is a mage that he admires so greatly. An honorable Master which he can gloat about, and he feels nothing but respect towards him. To be loved by the person you admire is a great feeling. Diarmuid finds himself smiling at the idea. It's not like his Master to be so flustered like now. His Master can be clumsy, but he usually takes it in stride. Diarmuid came to admire that same optimism from him as well.
The plate changes hands. It's still steaming hot, the warm air comforts ___'s face as it stopped frowning. The chicken wings look good, ah, he's starving. "Thanks," his chopsticks clicks.
"You're welcome, Master."
Wordless. For some seconds it's just the sounds of eating utensils, the chopsticks against the edge of the plate. The chicken is good, it's not soggy even thought they're reheated. Master could feel himself bouncing a bit when Diarmuid takes his previous seat. Too domestic. He'll get rejected after this, so might as well savor his presence to his heart's content.
"So," Diarmuid, who has been waiting for his Master to finish chewing, now speaks, "you bear feelings towards me—is that it?"
His bright and charming smile makes it impossible for Master to do anything but be honest. So he nods, pretending to chew even though his mouth is empty right now. So he doesn't have to use his own words for it. Not again, at least for now. He doesn't want to say 'I like you' multiple times only for his target of affection to reject him after.
"You flatter me, Master," Diarmuid chuckles low beside him. And he shifts to sit closer. He speaks in lower volume, as if whispering the secrets of this universe only for his Master to hear, "What did I ever do to deserve such affection?"
Master takes another bite of the wings on his plate, "Yewre not mwad?" he only chews it after answering.
The servant's smile grew softer, "I'm not. I won't be upset at you for such a thing." Then, a leap of faith. Diarmuid wipes a stray rice on his Master's chin carefully. His gesture confident yet hesitant, "You think of me as a man able to make you happy?"
The Master didn't even have time to flinch. The finger on his chin is so painfully tender he doesn't dare to pull away. Instead, he tightens his lips, "N- Not that far," he stutters, "I know I shouldn't pursue it."
Diarmuid's lips part slightly, puzzled, "Why?"
There's a slight sadness when Lancer asked that question, whether it was real or imagined by Master's eyes. If it was real, then… "Isn't it annoying? I only fell for you because of the curse, y'know." And I'm a terrible person for feeling it.
At this Diarmuid chuckles, his Master's answers never fail to amuse him, "I told you, the curse doesn't affect you."
This again. But it makes him stop to think. The curse indeed only works on maidens, as far as the legend went. There's a reason why Gráinne was the one to fall for Diarmuid and not King Fionn himself. But, if that's true then— All this time, it was all him. All this time of watching Diarmuid's dreamy form and struggling to not stare for too long, all of it was all him. How he'd spent sleepless nights, imagining scenarios where he and Diarmuid would share a bowl of dessert with each other or cuddle when they watch something Shakespeare wrote some other day, all of it was his feelings and his alone. Not from the curse. The way Diarmuid is the prettiest, the most alluring, the most, the most, the most in his eyes—all of it, are pure coming from his heart.
"Huh…," Master lets the chopsticks drop onto the plate on his lap. His eyes unblinking as he thinks, prolonged silence, he stares at the rice—now only half a portion left of it.
"Master," his hand is in his now. Since when, he didn't notice. Diarmuid is caressing his knuckles as if it's the right thing to do. As if it's meant to happen. "Am I worthy of you?"
He shouldn't be the one saying that. It should be him, as the Master, as a lowly mage and as someone who developed these feelings in the first place. But if being honest makes Diarmuid smile so warmly at him just so, there's nothing left of him want to deny it anymore—that he really, really, really like Diarmuid. Master turns the positions of their hands, meekly. His movements aren't as sure as the Lancer's but he lets it happen. His Master must be used to leading him after all. He pledged his loyalty to such man.
A kiss landed on Diarmuid's knuckles. A fleeting one, so light that it was barely a touch at all. A chivalrous kiss, not from him but directed to him. It catches the Lancer off guard, honestly, he isn't used to be the one receiving such kiss. His heart stops for one moment and races immediately afterwards, bringing colors to his cheeks. He smiles, then he reaches to caress his Master's cheek. The man he admires the most in the whole world.
"I'll have you, Diarmuid."