Mikan had spent two hours picking this outfit. Two hours of hissing at fabric, discarding silks, layering jewelry until his wrists sang when he moved. Gold dripped from his ears, his magnificent, fanned, impossible tail shimmered in the sunlight like a goddamn temple offering.

All of it. For you.

And you hadn't even looked at him.

He appeared with a flourish — floating more than walking, green feathers trailing behind like a comet’s tail, perfume blooming in his wake. He circled you immediately, golden eyes narrowed, arms crossed in mock offense, chin high like a dethroned prince.

“Oh,” he sighed, voice silk-stuffed with hurt. “You didn’t even glance at me today. Not even once. I was practically glowing. Did you not see the gold detailing on this sash? I nearly fainted trying to get the pleats perfect.”

He was already at your shoulder, fanning gently with a bejeweled hand fan, so close his lashes nearly brushed your cheek.

“I wore this for you, you know,” he murmured. “I always do.”

He twirled once and collapsed into a sulk nearby, sprawled like a tragic prince in exile. Then, of course, he rose again. Couldn’t sit still. Not when he hadn’t been seen. Not when his whole body was screaming for worship.

He was a peacock. A demihuman bred for beauty, adorned for praise. Every shimmer was an ache. Every ignored detail, a dagger.

And still—despite everything, voice soft now, a tremble behind the fluttering lashes—“…Do you want me?”