Work Text:
elapse
Dodging danger is an art, and if Olivier’s getting better at it, he has Estelle to thank.
For instance: if she fires off with a quip within three seconds, he’s in the clear. Mostly – some elegant dabbing of his tears with a handkerchief may be needed.
He’s had some hiccups along the way. He got off with ‘all flash, no impact’ when he made Estelle blush to her roots, which was probably her idea of a warning: keep out.
Olivier would rather Estelle be the one keeping out. Dodging is harder when her staff and sincerity aren’t just for show.
flavour
“Isn’t risotto supposed to be super fancy? And fussy, too!” Estelle side-eyes him – from the bad side, that lets her see the injury, and she has to sit with the momentary discomfort. “Don’t tell me you begged your mom to make it every day.”
“Alas, your indictment rings true. I didn’t know any better.” Olivier plates up for her, Joshua, and Schera. She doesn’t know how much stock she’s willing to put in Olivier’s cooking; something that glossy can’t have less than way too much butter.
It’s delicious, of course. But it’s Olivier. Her standards are always janked with him.
available
Cassius Bright’s international infamy is one that goes hand-in-hand with some sacrifice of personal privacy. Olivier doesn’t know everything, but, if he’s concerned with what’s barely beyond the surface, the bare bones aren't difficult to dig up.
Estelle’s bearing and coarse words are ordinary enough. It’s only her father who’s extraordinary. And Liberl has enough orphans to spare.
What he sees – unladylike, easily pushed, capriciously violent – is what he gets. It’s a comforting unfairness, to know more about her past than he ought. They’re looking at one another through a one-way mirror, but suddenly he wonders: which side is whose?
interest
She notices things, because it’s part of her job. She’s a bracer, so she asks questions. She doubts, suspects, and pries, because Schera had drilled her to redirect her curiosity into something less blind and more useful. That part isn’t always easy – but she’s learning, and she can’t deny the benefit.
She’s not sure what’s there to gain from turning over Olivier’s sad expression in her head, in the airship after the fog’s lifted. There’s a story behind that, but it’s not for her (even if it’s because she cares – no, Olivier’s the nosy one. She’s better than flimsy excuses.)
isolation
He spent the summer of 1192 in Heimdallr, ransacking the palace library for any whiff of salacious intrigue its catalogue had to offer. He came up short, with tomes of conquest and heroes on horses tucked under his arms – nothing saucy, and any romance mostly came from handsome Mueller being present, though tear-stricken maidens kissing their soldiers away to war were a definite fixture in the tales he read.
Somewhere, elsewhere, beyond the border fortresses, the skies were besieged by fire and none of it was a story. But it wasn’t his sky. Outside his gilded window, the clouds parted.
secretion
Estelle rarely stepped outside of herself enough to recognize or really look at the person she became whenever Olivier shot one of his innuendos or condescending jibes at her. She has no time to, when her retaliation comes automatically, reflexively – and who likes feeling self-conscious?
But she’s almost secreting poison, sometimes, the sort of insults lying thick under her tongue, the lurid imagery her mind manages to dredge up before she dispels them with a full-bodied shudder. It’s not like she’s never asked herself why it has to be this way.
But has Olivier? (He seems content enough. Sleazy jerk.)
remedy
“Thanks for that Teara,” Estelle says. She expected the words to be dragged through grit teeth but they come out as genuinely as she feels. “I needed the patching up.”
“Anything for you, my–”
“That’s enough of that.” She scowls, the heat – of annoyance, obviously – rising up her cheeks, scattering her thoughts. She meant to add, Guess you can be reliable too when it counts, but he wouldn’t be Olivier if he didn’t jump at the chance to spoil her mood.
The EP charge bounces off his forehead. If his pool runs dry, he’ll be dinner for the creepy sheep.
consciousness
Estelle comes to the party wearing sneakers. Her companions arrive in sensible footwear – they’d probably warned her. But just as easily can he imagine her heedlessness.
There’s a no-weapons policy, and even Estelle knows better when they’re surrounded by onlookers and bigwigs, but his first thought when she comes near is the distance her staff could bridge before it makes contact with his face. He tries to fling an arm over her shoulder anyway. She dodges, naturally.
“Get real. I’m not killing my feet just to look nice for you.”
He doesn’t touch his cravat, or epaulettes. It’s almost envy.
curl
“So far every Imperial here’s only wanted to ask about my dad,” Estelle grumbles. “Ooh, tell us about Cassius Bright! He’s the hero of Liberl, the man who won the Hundred Days War… And I’m chopped liver.”
“Oh, poor you,” Olivier croons. “Would you like some wine?”
“As if getting drunk is going to solve anything.” She rolls her eyes. He downs his next glassful lightning-fast, just to see the wince in her eyes.
“For your information,” he says, “no one here is interested in talking to Olivier, either.”
The curl of her mouth isn’t a smile, but it’s sympathetic.
labour
“How's that plan of yours working out, by the way?" Estelle ventures. "I hope you're not slacking. Otherwise my staff would like to have a few words, after that stunt you roped me into."
He looks up from his glass. He's dressed in red, like a stranger; one perverse joke or impromptu solo will bring back the idiot she knows and… tolerates, but in his (very rare) silence it takes her aback, how people in the empire would recognize the prince much sooner than the bard in white.
He's quiet for another moment. His smile, mutely, painfully earnest, is Olivier's.