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A reputed figure steps out of the building in a manner suggesting that he’s out of there in a hurry. The man pinches at his eyes as the immediate blast of street noise hits him in full. He really misses his fridge.
And he needs to forget the soul-sucking events that just transpired in the building behind him. Ashveil tosses his hair over his shoulder, glancing at his watch and cursing the wasted time.
His trusty monkey associate tails him. “The detective heaves a sigh, his hands itching to burn down the—”
So much for ‘trusty’.
“Ooookay, Mister N, I’m stopping you right there,” Ashveil sighs dryly, “Seriously, what kind of assistant tries to get their employer arrested?”
…He’s not wrong though.
“Why, the kind that barely gets paid, Mr Ashveil.” the monkey-assistant drawls as they both make their way down the road.
“I should deduct some for your cheek.” the man mutters good-naturedly. He’d never do that, of course, and Mister N knows this perfectly well. The payroll Ashveil has him on is all he can afford, really. (Never mind that he could be blowing off his own, well-earned money on more useful things than takeout.)
Case in point: he marches straight for Yum Yum Alley. Despite not being his first pick, it’s usually not too busy at this weird hour—as in, nobody goes for food at this hour except for him, apparently—so better to take advantage of that fact.
As he sits down with his discounted combo meal and drink at a corner table, with two bananas for Mister N, he thinks back on the request he just refused.
He chews more aggressively the more he thinks about it. He finishes the food in record speed.
“That sly woman… I can’t believe people still resort to such methods to try and lure my services in.”
“The detective mutters under his breath, wiping his mouth with such a force that almost tears apart the poor napkin in his hands.” Narrator has long since finished his meal, and the monkey’s smile is especially smug.
Ashveil rolls his eyes, settling his chin against his palm. “You, Mister N, should know better than anyone why I hate those hypocrites.”
In his peripheral, the man catches a particularly crimson-tinged character sitting down near him, but pays no mind: tis the norm, in Planarcadia, to be so flamboyant. (And there is no smell of iron at all. No blood. Relax.)
“It’s just so infuriating… and a pure waste of time, for everyone involved!” Ashveil continues deploring his situation to his assistant, “I’m already sick of the adultery case requests, and now I’m supposed to deduce which ones are those in disguise??”
“The detective, at the end of his wits, throws his hollow head into his arms.” Mister N narrates dutifully, patting Ashveil on the back.
He deadpans his absolute hardest at the monkey, “I’m not that dramatic.”
“I’m just doing my job, Mr.Ashveil. Not my fault you didn’t actually do exactly what you were thinking of doing.”
Ashveil huffs lowly, chewing on the straw of his drink. (He had been thinking of doing that, but he’s in public—he cannot be tarnishing his reputation.)
“End of month reports always show that out of all the odd requests, infidelity investigations are the highest. I won’t ever understand it,” he gripes, “If their partners are supposedly cheating on them, how can they be so eager to do the same? Do they think of me like a prostitution service or what? By all the Aeons… ”
“The detective laments the idiocy of human beings in toxic relationships, despite never having been in one himself. Who’s to say he wouldn’t act the exact same?”
“Thanks, N.” Ashveil bites out sarcastically, “Feeling reeeeally loved over here.”
“I’m only stating facts, Mr. Ashveil.” Narrator sniffs—can monkeys sniff?
The man sighs for what feels like the hundredth time today, stirring the ice cubes at the bottom of the glass. A mutter escapes him, “What do they even see in me, anyway?”
Broke half the time, barely average looks; not too enticing of a package. Besides, the whiny, two-faced ladies who are usually the authors of those detestable requests are utterly against his tastes. They have zero class, zero shame, and are the worst hypocrites this side of Ahatopia has seen.
Ashveil is about to continue his rant to Narrator when a most radiant voice joins their little fray. “Apologies, I couldn’t help but overhear your plight.”
Ashveil stops short, mouth still half open, forgetting entirely what he was about to say.
The man—knight, rather—stands with distinct and glorious pride; his red, red hair cascading in soft curls around him, with only a dash of white near the layered bangs. Emerald eyes, somehow sparkling with a cosmic glint, are set earnestly on his.
The flowery armour the man dons gleams even in the shabby light of the restaurant’s terrace. But nothing can outshine the truly dazzling smile gracing the knight’s lips.
Ashveil blinks. He’s staring too hard. He clears his throat. Mister N distinctly snickers at his side.
“Oh? It seems we have an eavesdropper.” He tries to emulate some form of confidence. Besides, he couldn’t have been speaking that loudly; the knight would have to have been trying to listen in on his conversation.
He narrows his eyes slightly. Did he make an enemy out of someone? The detective mentally files through his cases from the past two weeks; any longer than that could not warrant this late of a retaliation. But nothing comes up: he’d solved everything within his usual timeframe.
The knight doesn’t look like an assassin, exactly, but he could be. Anyone in Planarcadia could be anything, look like anything. You never know.
“Believe me, good detective, I just have extra sharp ears, is all,” the knight says, winking like it’s some sort of well-kept secret that he just dropped.
Ashveil hates to admit that the wink garners the exact reaction the knight is no doubt hoping for. He pushes the blush down with all his might.
“Right… ” he drawls out, “Why approach me, then? Are you perhaps seeking this good detective’s services yourself? An adultery case doesn’t seem like it would ever happen to you, though.” The last part was nothing but a murmur, but of course the supposedly sharp-eared knight catches it.
The red-haired beauty laughs; a deep, rich sound. Not echoing with Elation, however, as a majority of laughs are prone to being on Ahatopia, but something else. Something scintillating with charm.
“Very roundabout flattery, indeed,” chuckles the man, “But no, however, I am not here to employ your services. Though I have no doubt they are excellent, I came over for a much simpler reason.”
The knight all but drops to one knee on the wooden terrace. Ashveil is stunned speechless. What in the Elation is going on right now what the fuck whatthefuckwhat—
“I merely wanted to say that your beauty is unparalleled. You shouldn’t speak yourself down like you just did.”
What.
No aspect of his Intuition could’ve thought of this. His usually lightning quick brain is having trouble connecting the neurons. Clearly.
As he struggles to find words and feels the inescapable flush that is creeping up his neck, the knight continues his flowery monologue.
“Hmm… Yes, I refuse to let you believe so any longer, my beautiful detective. How about a date?” the knight conjures a rose from nowhere, offering it with a flourish. “I understand if you are busy, of course, and this is simply a whim of mine. I only need to assure you of your own beauty, if you cannot do so yourself. I’m not staying for very long on this fool’s paradise, but I can always spare my time for a soul in doubt.”
Ashveil can’t get a word in edgewise even if he could’ve.
Mister N, however, seems to have recovered faster from the delightful shock. With a smirk in his tone, he narrates: “The detective flounders for several more seconds before the deep crimson finally overcomes his features, and he wonders—”
“Mister N, please, for once…” Ashveil buries his heated face in his hands.
Is this real? Did he fall into a dream, somehow? The knight is still waiting for a response, just inches away from him. Still on one knee.
Oh my Aeons.
He peeks through his fingers, “Actually, would you consider leaving me alone for a day if I give you an entire bunch of bananas?”
N raises an eyebrow. Somehow. (Ashveil rarely asks him to leave him alone, after all.)
“And where exactly are you getting the money for that, Mr. Ashveil?”
“I can cover the cost, of course.” The knight offers genially, rose still brandished like a gift. He looks expectant.
Ashveil automatically accepts the thorned flower before he can think more of it. Well, it’d be rude to refuse something obviously meant for him.
It smells nice, and he realizes he’s probably in the biggest daze of his life; even surpassing that one time he accidentally concussed himself against his fridge door.
Mister N snorts, snapping him half out of it.
“Oh, it’s quite alright,” the furred assistant snarks, “I was just messing with my foolish employer here. Please, take him out wherever. He so rarely gets the opportunity to, after all.”
“You–!” Before Ashveil can reprimand the monkey, Narrator scampers off to enjoy the impromptu day off, bananas or not.
The moon is still bobbing its head, after all.
Ashveil looks back to the knight. This is either going very well or very badly—for himself, that is.
He’s learning too many things about himself.
Exhibit A: his deducing skills are lying in shambles at his feet after a single, sincere, direct compliment from a handsome man.
He’s not sure he wants to learn any more. He lowers his hat to obscure at least a bit of his blushing face, clearing his throat.
“I… accept, I guess? The pr—the date.”
He nearly slipped and said ‘proposal’. At least he still had enough sense to steer clear of a wild misstep.
“Wonderful!” The knight’s eyes form happy crescents. “Ah, I nearly forgot my manners. I know your name, but you do not know mine.”
A silver, armoured hand finds a silver and golden chestplate, directly above his heart. “I am Argenti, of the Knights of Beauty. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my beautiful detective.”
Argenti… a fitting name. Somewhat familiar, but he can’t figure out from where he’s heard it.
“Name’s Ashveil,” the said ‘beautiful’ detective returns the useless greeting, because clearly his mouth can’t keep up (nor can his head, really). “I really don’t think I—”
“I shall stop you right there, my friend.” Argenti holds out a halting hand, “I know what you are about to say, and it saddens me greatly that you might think that way.”
A frown finds its way on Argenti’s soft visage. “No self-deprecation on this date, alright?”
Before Ashveil can so much as nod, the Knight of Beauty offers out a hand. “Allow me, my beautiful detective. I’ll be sure to make this a day worth remembering,” he promises.
It’s suddenly very, very hot around here. Which is odd, because Yum Yum Alley is adequately shaded.
Ashveil swallows, throat dry. He gingerly takes the Knight’s hand. It’s warm, despite the coolness the metal exudes. Or maybe he’s the warm one. He has too many layers on. (And he misses his fridge. Desperately.)
Argenti beams at him. “If you feel uncomfortable at any time, just let me know.”
“I feel fine,” Ashveil assures himself more than the other man. His heart is certainly not fine, clenching at the casual, genuine touch and beating faster than whenever he discovers the key to a mystery.
As the red-haired man leads him down the foodie street, he can only think of two things to ask himself, as opposed to the several questions he usually ponders over on a case.
Respectively, they are ‘Oh my Aeons did I really just get invited on a date?’ and ‘How????’
He knows the answer to the second; Argenti has already said as such, but… It sounds too nice to be true. However, from what he’s seen, the Knight doesn’t seem to be the time to lie at all.
His honesty glitters like silver and gold.
And Ashveil has always appreciated the treasure that is honesty.
The date in itself is a bit unconventional, as all things in Planarcadia are bound to be. Since both have already eaten, any snack or dessert stalls are out of the running.
And so, Ashveil finds himself strolling down the multicoloured roads of Duomension City, feeling like the tourist instead of Argenti, the actual interstellar visitor.
Somehow, the Knight wields his confidence adeptly despite fumbling a few times. His glitzy demeanor fits almost perfectly with the absurdism rampant in the loud streets.
Some accolade or other drops from his lips every other second, but they’re far from disingenuous. Argenti truly means every single one of them, Ashveil can tell.
His sudden companion also has a keen eye, other than keen ears; he notices Ashveil’s mounting discomfort with the surrounding din.
“Mr.Ashveil, how about we go somewhere calmer? Any suggestions, my beautiful detective?”
The detective gratefully leaps at the chance to return to the quieter Dovebrook, and says as much, willfully ignoring the recurring nickname.
His base’s district is only truly alive when the moon sleeps, after all, and the current, stiller nature of its roads and waters proves that.
The two men find a bench near the bridge, clear of any erring crowds.
“It’s a breathtaking view,” Argenti comments merrily.
Ashveil can’t think of anything but their hands that are somehow still conjoined. “It just blends into the background when you live here all the time,” he says offhandedly.
“Hmm, I can see how that could happen,” the Knight shifts toward him, “Since I keep visiting all kinds of landscapes in the cosmos, new ones are always the most beautiful.”
“However,” Argenti continues sternly, “Beauty can be found everywhere. In every little thing. You just have to believe it.” He taps a finger against his.
“Um… It’s prettier at night?” Ashveil tries again, willing his heart to calm down. Why is he trying so hard, anyway?
His inner Narrator springs up as it often does when his actual associate is nowhere near him.
His teeth were always aching to sink into more, more, more.
Argenti nods thoughtfully, “I’ll take your word for it, my beautiful detective. I hope I get to see it.”
There it is again. The detective can’t help but wonder; since Argenti finds Beauty in everything, then is he himself really so… outstanding? He can’t imagine being able to extend this spontaneous date ‘til the moon dozes.
No doubt the Knight would find the moon’s pale reflection on dark waters more attractive than him.
Something glints at the corner of his eye, and he suddenly remembers something—where he heard the name ‘Argenti’ before—it was from Boothill, the rogue cyborg roaming the stars.
He’d texted Ashveil (and Rappa, in their group chat) about the crimson Knight of Beauty who liked to shower his path in rose petals and spoke with grandiloquent countenance.
He’s still the same, it seems.
The cowboy spoke of the man with a certain fondness Ashveil rarely saw him wield; it was easy to deduce that Argenti easily grew close to him as well.
It is utterly irrational to feel a twinge of jealousy at that. Ashveil crushes the thought at once. He knows perfectly where he stands. No asking for more. (His teeth will ache regardless, though.)
“You look self-deprecating again, dear,” Argenti chastises him gently.
Ashveil laughs shortly. He adjusts his collar with his free hand, really regretting his usual layered garb. The fridge is nearby… “And how could you tell, Mr. Knight of Beauty?”
“Your vibes, of course, Mr. Ashveil. They get all gloomy.”
The detective laughs more genuinely this time. “Seriously, you’re really… ”
Argenti blinks, tilting his head a fraction. “Yes?”
…so very endearing, is what he wants to say. And nearly does. But that would be insanity. Too much Elation energy for one day.
“You’re very handsome yourself, Mr. Argenti,” he settles for instead, “So what do you see in me?”
“I see your gorgeous, wolfish features, of course,” the Knight begins, “And I see the indisputable bond between you and your assistant from earlier. I believe that you’re a wonderful person, and a great detective to boot, I hear.” Argenti ends with a teasing remark, before becoming serious once more.
“I think you know that part already though. Your achievements speak of your skills loud and clear, do they not? What you need is confidence in your appearance.”
Ashveil’s eyebrows knit together. “Isn’t that… rather shallow?”
The Knight adopts a look of surprise. “There’s nothing wrong with the ‘shallow’ aspect of Beauty, as you deem fit to see it. All Beauty is invaluable. You are invaluable.”
He doesn’t think his face can get any more toasted. He refuses to look at his reflection in the nearby water to confirm.
“I… I don’t know,” he falters, “It’s just… I see myself in the mirror every morning and, well. I’m nothing special. Just another soul on this elated land.”
And he believes it. He could be a better person. He could stop being lazy at times. He could manage himself and his finances more strictly. Maybe he’d like himself better then.
But habits are hard to change.
“I shall be your mirror, then,” declares Argenti, taking his other hand earnestly in his free one, “Since all others are obviously inadequate for you!”
Fuck, he must be as red as the man’s hair right now. Curse his overactive blood circulation. He misses his fridge. He misses it so badly.
He still needs to answer. “I—thank you?” He very eloquently makes it sound like a question. Somehow. It satisfies the other man, though. He’s awarded with another brilliant smile.
Argenti squeezes his hands one last time before letting go. Ashveil misses the comforting feeling immediately. They settle back into peaceful silence.
Unbidden, the thought floats over his head. He’d spend his money on this man, if given the chance.
Ashveil groans internally, chasing the Skybow-damned idea away. Mister N would laugh himself to Aeonhood at him if he were here. Since when was he prone to such… mush?
Honestly, the first man that comes along and tells him he’s beautiful and he folds? Just like that? Pathetic.
Besides, the red-haired Knight said so himself; he’s not staying for long, and he’s a traveler of the cosmos at heart. Nothing would be able to anchor him down.
Ashveil was only a passing fancy to him.
The detective sighs, mind made up. He stands abruptly. “I won’t keep you for any longer, then, Mr. Argenti. I also have some more work to attend to. I wish you safe travels in the cosmos.”
The Knight doesn’t seem taken aback by the suddenness.
“I see,” Argenti stands as well, “I hope you enjoyed our time together as much as I did. Remember what I said about your Beauty, will you?”
Anything leaving his mouth would probably embarrass him somehow, so Ashveil tips his hat wordlessly, flashing a small smile. He hesitates.
He’d like to ask for the man’s number, but that would be much too forward. Wouldn’t it? It would make him look as desperate as if he were dying of thirst. After he just decided to leave, too.
However, Argenti seems to be reading every single line in his head just as easily as Mister N does. “My contact info, my beautiful detective,” he announces, a slip of paper between his fingers presented to Ashveil, his slow, gentle wink managing to send the detective's stomach in twists again, as does the apparent pet name the Knight has decided on addressing him as.
…He’s so screwed. He is so fucked.
“—in case I visit this cosmically riotous Ahatopia again,” Argenti is rambling again.
Ashveil starts. He’s coming back, then. His breathing comes easier by a little bit. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic~ the Narrator in his head singsongs. (The real one will probably do the same later.)
“Then I’ll look forward to when you next drop by, Mr. Argenti,” he manages to voice, tone thankfully stable.
He’s probably imagining it—wishful thinking at its finest—but Argenti’s features soften, his green, green eyes sparkling tenfold.
“Your mirror shall return, Mr. Ashveil,” he promises, sweeping into a bow. “Until then, try to see your reflection as I would.”
So theatrical. Very endearing.
Ashveil walks away first, the giddiness overtaking him threatening to burst if he doesn’t. His teeth ache for something, despite having eaten earlier.
He refrains from looking back.
He can take a break from his reflection, after all.
Mister N asks later about the missing mirror in the bathroom, and Ashveil is forced to suffer a copious amount of teasing by his assistant before finding solace in his fridge. (Finally.)
And if he expects a certain nickname to start popping up on his phone more often, then that’s no one’s business but his own.