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The late afternoon sun cast long, dusty gold streaks across the parquet floor of the second-floor hallway. Urbain, whistling a slightly off-key tune, a habit he’d picked up from Harmony, rounded the corner, a blueprint for their latest plan for Lumios tucked under his arm. He was looking for her, wanting to show off a minor breakthrough he’d had on the structural integrity of some of the roofs in the city.
He stopped just outside the half-open door to Harmony’s room, his smile already forming in anticipation.
Then, he heard voices.
“...just needs to be packed and gone before the end of the day, Lida.”
It was Harmony. Her tone was firm, a little tired, but absolutely businesslike.
Urbain froze, the blueprint slipping slightly in his grip. Packed and gone?
“Are you sure about this, H?” Lida spoke next, her voice soft with concern. “It’s happening a bit fast, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not fast enough,” Harmony sighed, the sound echoing the scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor. “I should have done it weeks ago. I don’t know why I was procrastinating.”
Urbain’s stomach plummeted like a stone tossed into a well. He didn't need to hear more. The facts, as far as he was concerned, were already laid out in a horrifying, inescapable tableau:
Harmony was packing.
She was moving out.
She was leaving.
No. Nonono. His chest tightened, a cold dread displacing the warm euphoria he’d felt just seconds ago. He couldn't process the fact that their relationship might be ending. Not like this, with a few overheard, cryptic sentences. His mind, usually sharp enough to calculate battles and everything, went completely blank, save for one terrifying thought: I have to stop her.
He did not wait for Lida’s response. He did not stick around for Harmony’s clarifying, crucial sentence: “It's not like I’m leaving the hotel, silly. It’s literally just moving my stuff to the next room.” He did not hear Lida laugh and say, “Right. To Urbain’s room. You two finally got that sorted, then?”
Instead, Urbain took a silent, panicked step back, turning on the heel of his polished leather shoe. He retreated as quietly as he had arrived, the architectural plans abandoned in the hallway as he stumbled towards the stairs.
For the next four hours, Urbain operated in a haze of mounting hysteria. He barely registered the concerned glances from everyone. His usual methodical approach to life was replaced by a frantic, scattershot mission: Save the relationship.
He had to beg. He had to plead. He had to remind her of everything they had.
He raced down to the garden, ripping the gloves off one of the groundskeepers and plunging his hands into the rich earth. He found a trowel, dug up a handful of the largest, most vibrant red roses he could find, the ones he knew she loved, and sprinted back inside, mud clinging to his pants.
He found Harmony in the kitchen, carefully labelling a box.
“Harmony!” he gasped, shoving the muddy, stem-torn bouquet under her nose. “Please! Don’t go! I love you! I can’t live in this house without you!”
Harmony jumped, dropping a pen. She looked at the muddy flowers, then at Urbain’s wild, pleading eyes, then at his mud-splattered shoes. She blinked, utterly bewildered.
“Urbain? What in the world are you doing? Are you alright? Did you get paint thinner in your eyes?”
“I’m fine, I’m dying, I’m terrible!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “Please, if it’s the toothpaste cap, I promise I will put it on every time! If it’s my snoring, I will sleep with one of those nose strips and a muzzle! Just don’t… don’t leave me!”
Harmony slowly picked up the pen and looked pointedly at the box she had been labelling. It read, in neat script: 'Harmony: Books/Office Supplies.'
“Urbain, darling, I’m just moving my…”
He cut her off, spinning away dramatically. “No! I won’t hear it! I need a bigger gesture! Something to show the magnitude of my devotion!”
The evening found Urbain hovering by the piano in the main drawing-room. He had changed into a suit that was perhaps too formal for a casual Tuesday evening, meticulously combed his hair, and placed a single, polished apple on the keyboard. He’d read somewhere that a spontaneous gift of food was a sign of commitment.
Harmony entered, looking utterly exhausted. She’d spent the last hour lugging boxes, and now she just wanted a quiet dinner.
“Urbain, look, I’m just about done in my room, but I need to talk to you about the layout of…”
He slammed a hand down on the piano keys, creating a discordant, jarring C-major chord.
“Silence!” he declared, his voice trembling with manufactured emotion. He sat down and launched into a truly terrible, off-tempo rendition of a classic Kalosian love ballad, singing the lyrics with the desperate fervor of a man clinging to the edge of a cliff.
“...and if you leave me now, you’ll take the biggest part of meeeeee…”
He stopped mid-verse, his voice choked with sobs. He then pulled the apple from the piano and held it out to her like a holy relic.
“Take it, Harmony! Take my sustenance! I will starve for you! I will wither away in this empty wing of the house, a shadow of the man I was before you left! Please, tell me what I did wrong!”
Harmony stood there, completely stunned, the box of office supplies she was carrying clattering to the floor. She looked at her manic-eyed boyfriend, the terrible singer, the man with the dirt-stained trousers and the desperation of a soap opera star.
A slow smile spread across her face.
She walked over to him, gently took the bruised apple, and placed a hand on his cheek.
“Urbain,” she said softly, fighting back a fit of giggles. “You absolute, beautiful, panic-stricken idiot.”
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you… completely forget our conversation last week? The one where we decided I was moving all my things into your room so we could finally stop having two separate bedrooms?”
Urbain’s eyes widened. He blinked, once, twice. The memory, obscured by a thick fog of panic, slowly came flooding back: The late-night discussion, the happy agreement, the logistics of clearing out the second room to use it as a proper home office.
Oh. My. God.
“You… you weren’t leaving the hotel?” he squeaked.
Harmony laughed, a sound like wind chimes. “No, darling. I was moving my things next door. To live with you. You were begging me to let you share a wardrobe.”
Urbain slumped over the piano keys, hitting another discordant note. The weight of four hours of abject terror lifted instantly, replaced by a deep, burning embarrassment. He had completely, utterly fabricated a disaster, and now he was wearing an overpriced suit and holding a bruised apple.
“So… you are not leaving me?”
Harmony kissed him, right on the end of his nose. “Not a chance, you lunatic. Now, are you going to help me move the desk into our new shared space, or are you going to keep composing your mournful suicide symphony?”
Urbain, flushed with relief and mortification, jumped up. “Desk moving! Absolutely! But… can I give you this rose? It’s kind of… muddy.”
Harmony took the single, wilted red rose, her heart swelling with affection for the man who would tear up his garden and sing terribly just to stop her from moving to the next room.
“It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it.