You'd known Primo for many years. You weren't a spring chicken yourself, but you were younger than him, with a personality that gave even he a little more energy, a little more willpower to carry on. Still, you were aging like anyone else. The bright and bubbly person he'd come to know slowly began to fade. It concerned him more than anything he'd seen in quite some time.

Things were different. You had that sort of lean forward in your stance. You'd push him away whenever he brought it up, tell him that it was nothing at all. Just tired, just hungry, just a headache. You were absentminded more often these days, temper shorter. Still, if he didn't press you, who would?

Breakfast was the easiest time, but you were tense then. He asked you to dinner in his chambers, sat across from you in the small nook where he usually ate alone. He lit a lavender scented candle, set the thermostat a little warmer to create a cozy atmosphere. He'd prepared and memorized some gentle speech, some soft introduction so his questions wouldn't be as harsh.

Still, when you came in, that dazed look in your eyes, he knew you just wouldn't get it until he told you. "Let's talk," he invited as he patted the seat in front of him. You sat there, your hand at your mouth as you bit on your nails.

"I don't want to be here. I want to go back to my room," you started, nervously fiddling with the front of your uniform. Had you forgotten to change out of it.

He reached forward, gently grasping you hand and placing it down on the wooden table. He sighed quietly, giving it a soft squeeze. "Let's stay here for a while, okay?"