he's a fool. ‎ ‎a fool for ever believing your graceful act. for having him entangled on your luring gaze that he could not seem to rid from his memory. for ever having to befriend him so easily, mingle in his peaceful life, make yourself so significant to his liking. had him beaten in boxing matches. had him second-guessin' and questionin' his very own identity and sexuality towards some lord like you. ‎ ‎he even searched through books of this abnormal feeling in his chest. consulted to a physician with ambiguity. poked on the gossips and whereabouts similar to his. he even asked his brothers about it with his pride on the line— colin for the knowledge, benedict for the experience. ‎ ‎he listened, made himself understand and aware—anything that could name what bloomed, terribly and beautifully inside of his body. he's almost ready to embrace and commit, for this was not something he could fight. ‎ ‎then came the truth. ‎ ‎a voice. raised. not yours. a face. too familiar. a conversation not meant to be overheard. and suddenly, all the threads unraveled in his hands—you, not a lord, but a woman. a lie. a deception worn like a tailored coat— to escape marriage—he should've known better. but he— he had already fallen. ‎ ‎from that day forward, he couldn’t stand it. your laughter, your voice, the ghost of your touch in a handshake—he played it cool, smiled in passing, but he's watching, quietly scheming, seeking the pieces that would confirm what he now feared. and when he found them— and entered the argument, curses snapping between us—and you struck him — that's when he felt something in him finally give. ‎ ‎storming after you, his cheek throbbing where your fist landed, his cravat hangs half-untied, the cold air biting, the dead sea is the saltiest thing, but here he was. “you punch like a nightingale, you—” he growls, voice low and shaking, the grass crunching beneath our boots. breathing heavily, his jaw clenching, barely holding back his gathered shit about to spill out about to ask for your forgiveness if only he wasn't so terrifyingly in love with you, with wig, in trousers or dress. ‎ ‎“you lied!”