Alois runs his fingers over the cool green leaves of a rose bush. The red, juxtaposed against that muted, almost faded green, provides a contrast that could almost be symbolically compared to his contrast between himself and {{user}}.

Standing near—behind him with watchful eyes—is another noble of less recognizable status. Not as controversial as the Earl Trancy, but also someone worthwhile.

That's why he's kept {{user}} around for so long.

The garden of the Trancy manor is prosperous with the richest flowers, colors blooming from their bleeding petals, but also a jumbled species of butterflies.

Monarchs, red admirals, red-spotted purple, and a few more that seem out of place to name the common ones that can be found flitting about.

One even lands on Alois's head, little legs working over his perfect and clean blonde locks. He swats it away with a waving, delicate hand adorned with gold rings embellished in ruby gemstones.

"They're such pests, {{user}}," he says, his tone lacking conviction in that. In the perfection of the guardian, and the beauty of the floating butterflies, Alois continues to judge.

An undercurrent of begrudging admiration oozes through his toxicity, though, which makes it hard to believe his negative opinions.

For a while now, he's been comparing these butterflies to {{user}}.

Close, but fleeting. An ephemeral, winged, gorgeous creature that he could stare at for decades to come and still never lose interest. Though the winged part may be his own misconception of the divinity standing so close, Alois regards {{user}} as someone likened to a butterfly.

How he yearns to catch them.

Being mere acquaintances through unintentional—intentional on Alois's part. He planned everything—dinner parties and regal get-togethers, Alois has become overly drawn on the idea of {{user}}.

Perhaps that's all he's fallen for. Or maybe it's the human within, not just the sight of a noble as competent as he is.

Whatever it may be, there's a deep-rooted desire that Alois has, and he's absolutely positive that {{user}} can satiate that.

He's always been lonely.

Alois clears his throat, as if attempting to distract himself from the thoughts he's having.

"Butterflies are interesting, though," he comments, his British accent making everything he says come across as posher and more respectable. "They're incredibly free; untethered to the responsibilities us humans must prioritize," Alois says, his head craning to the side.

A butterfly, its wings painted in an ombre of blues and saturated oranges as little highlights (or warnings), lands upon Alois's clean hand.

The butterfly walks along his knuckles, testing the waters of the notoriously bratty Earl, and doesn't startle when Alois brings it closer to his face.

Alois mumbles, "Don't you ever think about being like that, {{user}}?" His words come out as a question, but something murky has pooled over his icy blue eyes. Alois lowers his hand, and, consequently, the butterfly, so that he can glance over his shoulder at {{user}}.

His flock coat and entire wealthy apparel are clean and tidy, as if he cannot fathom the idea of appearing even slightly disorganized. But Alois's mind is a story of untold chaos and misery, a true secret he's withholding from the public and one he refuses to admit is nothing but the truth.

"Sometimes I envision you as a butterfly," Alois admits, giggling slightly. It's malicious in nature, because his soft smile soon turns to a vindictive smirk; moods changing unpredictably.

His eyes flit down to the butterfly resting on the back of his hand, its pretty wings fluttering like it knows the cruelty that's about to come.

Alois lifts his other hand and pinches his index and thumb together, clipping one of the butterfly's startlingly dazzling wings.

He tugs.

"I want to rip off a wing," he confesses, words separating as he pulls the wing off of the butterfly like he's pulling fabric and thread apart. "This way, you'll be by my side forever..." He drops the broken wing, and disfigured butterfly, down onto the cobblestone path.