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For all of his life, Matthias has got used to being left unnoticed by the scene.
From his first step into this odd manor to the current ones he takes through the empty hall, he believed it would be no different than the past, walking just like a ghost under the light of the chandeliers and flame of the candles. Someone invited Matthias Czernin, but soon they would notice it’s Louis who truly shines under the spotlight, always putting on a show in name of some cursed game he takes part in as the Puppeteer for a strange audience, public eyes always unaware of what goes on backstage.
The wooden splinters that pierce through his heart are his to endure, with no need to bother others regarding the tangled strings he needs to deal with everyday.
It's under his unwillingness that Louis stays by his side in every step, and he becomes a puppeteer in his self claimed deserved place as the wooden-made doll’s shadow for eternity. A silent thing he is, therefore worth having equally silent friends doing him company in the times he finds himself in temporary rest.
Louis laughs at him for considering something else as inanimate as a book his friend, but no one hears his laughter while Matthias tries to concentrate on the written words of some book he got from the library on his way back to his bedroom for a goodnight story in peace.
Perhaps peace is a far too strong word in a place like this, even more so when he receives one of these “friends” in such an exquisite way in the middle of the night.
The fall of the night goes on with nothing extraordinary after he is done with the matches for the day. While the chimney’s fire burns bright in the living room with the extra exquisite wood the Puppeteer has fed it with, Matthias remains in his own room in his solitary demeanor seeking comfort through words and syllables created by others.
The comfort of the moon by the windows shining over his modest desk and a book on his hands — Dostoevsky, The Double; reading this book leaves a sour taste in his tongue, and he doubts he will be able to finish it by his own will with the way his stomach twists so badly with the flowing of the story. Ah, the idea of having someone so akin to you in appearance, yet much more loved and adored by others is…
Matthias dodges his eye..
He closes the book, before figuring out if Mr. Golyadkin even receives a brighter ending than his own or not.
Would he, too, come to commit the heinous act Matthias has done? Or perhaps has Mr. Dostoevsky changed his usual sorrowful stories into one akin to the writing of Mrs. Agatha Christie, where good always prevails with the charming help of Mr. Poirot? No, he wouldn’t do it, Matthias concludes while side-eyeing the worn sideview of the book’s cape, and wonders how many people have been fond of the main character’s disgraceful life.
But life is not a book, and differently from the one left to the side on his desk, he can’t make things be as simple as the act of closing a book on his own will, and leave it to rot away with time.
No, instead, Matthias goes on, for death wasn’t so kind as to end his suffering in the past, and it won’t be kind to his pitiful attempt to keep living instead of surviving.
His misery is his to live alone, and it’s a gift whenever Louis is quiet like this — burning hot in the flames of the chimney, porcelain eyes nowhere to stalk Matthias in his every step through his own room — and he is able to suffer under his own guilliable thoughts without the need for someone to point them out. That book was a reminder for him as to why he prefers romance instead of psychological studies, and that maybe… It wasn’t the best idea to give Mr. Dostoyevsky a try out of the manor’s library.
Matthias is amused for finding books of all kinds, at the very least. It is a delight to be able to get himself so deeply buried in the lives of those fictional beings, whose fate has always been decided from the very beginning rather than tricked in misfortune. He is especially fond of the ones that make his heart get warm, or the rare times he finds something bolder that can make his insides twist in some kind of warmth he misses from strangers, yet he doesn’t attempt to achieve in the manor by his own hands.
It’s okay, though. There’s no need to think of himself when he hears the trail of thoughts of renowned detectives challenging him with the ambition to figure out who is guilty before they do, or the affection of lovers fated to stay together no matter what.
Matthias sighs tiredly.
He doesn’t desire to end like Mr. Golyadkin, but doesn’t believe he is worthy of a good ending like Jane Eyre once had.
Insomnia is no kind to him, and this night is no different from any other, even when he leaves the book to the side. There’s the creek of the chair against the floor’s wood when he gets up from his seat, and his intention to attempt his entrance into Morpheus’ world…
…
…..is soon to be forgotten, as he hears the knocking at his door so late in the night.
Immediately he freezes in place, expecting the worst — to be precise, Louis, Louis is the worst he can expect. Matthias is naturally cursed, isn’t he? Meant to receive his presence, be tormented by it even when he finds solace in a supposed-to-be lonely room to call his own. No, of course he shouldn’t have dreamed that maybe this time he would only appear by morning instead of the middle of the night, just like he has been doing since his arrival in the manor.
It’s just like a ritual, in a way. He uses Louis for his advantage in endless games, hurts himself in the process, attempts to get rid of him by the flames or leaves him to rot seven feet underground in the garden every night… And then, he is welcomed with the familiar plastic smile that can make the hair on the back of his neck rise with a simple look each morning when he opens his room’s door. An unwanted gift he simply can’t get rid of, no matter how many times he try over and over and over and—
Ah, focus, Matthias.
Hesitation takes control of his body, but perhaps the surprising noise of steps moving away is what makes him slowly reach out to the doorknob with curiosity.
With an urge to discover who that person would be, or what they want.
But… It’s different, it seems; whoever usually leaves Louis by his door everyday never shows their presence, much less with something as obvious as the knocking of his door nor clear steps with no intention to hide them away. It has always been like this at his own home, it will always be like this for the rest of his life.
(Of course the person who keeps his nightmare alive doesn’t show themselves. The idea of committing a second crime would sound far too tempting to Matthias; someone whose hands tremble at the sight of fire.)
After affliction took control of his body for but a moment of hesitation, is it courage or fear that makes him finally turn the doorknob? Matthias doesn’t know, and it shouldn’t matter, for he still opens the door anyway, just to be welcomed with no breathing presence nor the wooden-made falsification of a human being he knows so well.
Instead, all that is last before his eye is a book.
Unadorned black cover in worn out golden letters entitling Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales on its cover, and a simple note left written “For Matthias Czernin” in pretty cursive. His focus remains on the object for a second, two, before he blink and slowly looks through the empty hall.
He is lucky his room is by the end of the manor’s wing, but it also means hardly is the chance someone mistook his door for someone else’s.
Therefore, it’s not only a book, but a book for him out of all people.
“Hello…?” His voice echoes through the hall just like a ghost whispering so lowly, and something in his guts makes him afraid to go forward and look for the person, much less in the middle of night. Why become bothersome with his steps through the hall while everyone else is asleep? Matthias gulps; he decides he doesn’t want to become even more of a burden.
Unbelievable to say the least, yet real before his still-working eye. So real to the eye, even more to the touch as he leans in to hold on to the artifact carefully, handling it gently as if he had the impression it would vanish in a fog if he is too rough.
When a book is open, so is an entire new universe. Some worlds are already known by Matthias — England from Jane Austen, the New World from romantic poetries over the sea — and Poe’s words are no different.
Still, this book is a Pandora’s Box of surprises in his hands, from the very moment he has caught sight of it and its note meant to him.
The first thing Matthias notices is that one of the many tales is markek, the first page to Berenice contains a red rose and a simple paper piece written “I hope my words reach you beyond your heart” in the same cursive from before. The rose is one from Ms. Woods’ beloved garden outside, he concludes, while frowning towards the note.
The rose is still as alive in its vivid red color as it was back when the nutrients ran through its stem, now soon to wither away with the passage of time without something to properly feed it. It’s fine, though, for it served its purpose of temporary beauty under the spotlight of life, as it is the natural order of all things.
While the rose rests by his bedside table alongside the paper note, his eye trails down through the lines of the Berenice tale while Morpheus isn’t kind to his body’s urge to rest, keeping his mind active enough to notice the odd difference from this book to any other Poe he has ever read. He gives Berenice a curious try, for it’s been long enough since his last reading for him to take advantage of it to be surprised by the story itself.
Whoever owned this book previously to Matthias decided it was a good idea to underline a few phrases through Berenice’s beauty, making the current frown by the odd habit he notices through the text. Matthias can’t help but feel like this gothic tale has never been more thrilling as it is now, having lines of words pulling his eye and heart much more deeply than the text itself.
……How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness?.....
……to lose all sense of motion or physical existence, by means of absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in…..
……For these I longed with a phrenzied desire. All other matters and all different interests became absorbed in their single contemplation…..
……therefore it was that I coveted them so madly! I felt that their possession could alone ever restore me to peace, in giving me back to reason……
Poe’s words speak where the anonymous person’s words could not reach through the enigmatic message of art, and Matthias… Matthias feels his guts twisting with the undertone message he receives in his hands this night. A message, a letter made of another man’s poetic words in this gothic demonstration of obsession that Bérénice is.
Is it considered sick of the head to feel your heart pumping faster with something as stupid as the idea of words meant to him? Even if not directly made for him, could it be that, maybe, this book wasn’t merely randomly marked by a studious person, but rather by some fool thinking of Matthias and Matthias alone?
Or so he believes it's for him to receive, before his head betrays him with endless, paranoid thoughts.
Perhaps it’s not safe to daydream like that. Perhaps he is just stupid for overthinking too much about a simple book, as to believe these underlined words are meant to him — because, no, they are not! They are not, right? — Just in the way Poe has not thought of him to write that romance, Matthias should not believe someone went so far as to give him a secret message through the words of another. It’s unhealthy to think so highly of himself, to think he would ever be worth receiving as romantic as that! To think, to think…
To think someone would go so far as to gift him like that.
The higher his dreams reach, the worse it becomes later when reality makes him fall into a bottomless well, reminding him good things are not meant for him. The knot in his throat grows tight with the bittersweet feelings, trying oh so hard to not fill his heart with hopes nor the sweet scent of the flower lying peacefully not far from him.
The more he thinks of it, the worse it becomes, for he wishes he could be selfish at least for once, and desire something good to happen to him, embrace the words and make them his to possess. Desire to be the one who deserves the rose sleeping by his bedside, desire to be seen as an object of affection by someone, even in such a peculiar way.
Romance is meant for charming princes and knights, not broken toys and cursed hearts like his.
Heart heavy with a twisted kind of pleasure in believing it was made to him, and the fear of disappointment thinking of the time reality comes to hit him eventually, he lies down on his pillow and pulls his knees close to his chest while leaving the book to rest beside his face.
Matthias knows he won't be blessed with a magical godmother nor enchanted birds, as Cinderella once was. All that lasts for him is the soft kiss of the moonlight on his wounded skin, and the eyelids he forces shut to walk into dreamland, before the first rays of the sun rise to touch his pale flesh nor the tears threaten to wet his cheek.
Feeling so much can be dangerous to the heart.
“Good morning, Mr. Czernin!”
Keeping it up with the art of walking unseen anywhere has become harder since the Fire Investigator's arrival in the manor.
It just becomes even harder when Matthias can’t keep his mind shut, after last night’s surprise gift.
A simple, silent step into the waiting room, and the Puppeteer’s entrance is announced by the cheerful demeanor of the man whose smile is as bright as the sun, and equally as blinding as the star above. Sometimes it's hard to keep eye contact for so long with a man like that — or any person at all. But Mr. Brand? Mr. Brand is the brightest of them all, his presence of such an intensity to Matthias to the point it's hard to not pay him attention, even in the moments he has tried it.
Matthias is not used to intense things, much less intense people who give him much more attention than he actually deserves.
Even less after the strange appearance of a book and a rose by his door.
It's not good to have someone too close to himself. An ugly sight he believes to be, and his insides are no prettier than his tainted flesh, hardly raising his eye to avoid unwanted repulsive looks from anyone unused to him.
So, it’s just natural for him to keep something as good-looking as Mr. Brand away for his own well being, and to prevent Louis from doing another mocking remark about how someone as good-looking as Florian might feel sick to the stomach of looking at a walking rotten flesh like Matthias everyday.
“...Good morning,” Matthias replies as he takes his seat, but it’s almost an inaudible whisper. They are the first two to arrive by the table, per usual.
Of course Florian hears that breeze of an answer though. He always does.
“You look tired. Has the night been rough to you?” The blonde asks by leaning on his hand with a wide smile, despite the clear lack of initiative from the Puppeteer to go further with useless conversation. “A well rested body is essential to keep yourself safe and sound in these games.”
Forgive me if my face looks worse than usual, are words that don't leave the Puppeteer’s lips, as he swallows dryly his bitter thoughts and shakes his head instead. This kind of worry is not meant to be his.
“I’m fine,” a short answer is all he gives, his eye doesn’t rise from the puppet on his arm. He decides Louis’ static face is better than the brightness of the Fire Investigator by the other side of the table.
It is, however, no easy task to push someone like Florian Brand away, and Matthias has come to learn it from the very first time the man started talking to him in the dinner room, by the night of his arrival. Although he was the life of the party, loved by many who shook his hand with genuine interest in his field, it was the Puppeteer who got graced with his company by the dining table. No matter how many short answers Matthias had given him that night, none of his humming responses were enough to make the man leave his size until the clock struck midnight, and Matthias was able to leave under the excuse of sleepiness.
It felt good to receive some attention for himself.
It felt catastrophic to think Florian was simply acting polite out of courtesy.
“You certain of that?” Florian tilts his head, and Matthias’ eye moves towards his face for a moment before nodding. “Either way, don’t force yourself for too long. I’m afraid it’s not that hard of a task to break something as delicate as you if I try just a little harder,” Florian laughs lightheartedly, but Matthias finds no fun in the “joke”, frowning slightly at words anyone else would take as a threat.
However, he has no space to think further of it to give him a response, as the door cracks open and the two remaining teammates join the early birds into waiting for the beginning of their game. The Novelist and the Acrobat take their respective seats, greeting the earliest birds with smiles of their own kinds.
Florian’s conversation with the Acrobat in an enthusiastic tone soon filled the room, while Matthias’ mind was left behind filled with the uncanny words he couldn’t quite figure out the meaning just yet.
Meanwhile, his eye…
It’s rude to stare for too long, as mother once taught him in his young age, but he can’t help it — can’t help looking down at the Novelist’s book resting on the table not far from him, while his head becomes skeptical with stupid ideas.
Well dressed white gloved hand rests above a book’s case, while the brunette hair is turned towards Matthias, for Orpheus joins the blonde duo’s conversation. Something about the match strategy regarding the Goatman or whatever Matthias barely listens to from his seat, feeling himself deaf to his surroundings while focusing on the wrong things.
Ah, maybe he has gone insane for ever thinking it could be Mr. Orpheus who orchestrated that… That… gift from last night. He has been nothing but polite to everyone in the manor, with no different treatment towards Matthias, even showing interest in his past! If only the past wasn’t something as bitter, perhaps Matthias wouldn’t mind answering his questions of interest with genuine answers instead of omitted truth.
But then again, who else would have a better knowledge in literature if not a novelist?
As the final ticks of the clock come to an end, they all take part in the abandoned hospital to play a game Matthias never wanted to take part in, leaving his wandering thoughts to the side for but a moment.
Too lost in his own thoughts, Matthias was blind to the way Florian kept his amber-looking eye so often on him, with the green demon of jealousy growing each passing second the Puppeteer’s eye wandered somewhere else.
All Matthias could recall from the whole match was Louis’ laughter tormenting his head, missed calibrations out of his uneasy hands and the special lack of attention as to turn a corner and meet the Bloody Queen, serving himself as an offering to her majesty, while barely managing to keep it up with his own trail of thoughts, separating himself from what truly is reality and the mind-made hell. That would be a complete loss if it wasn’t by Mr. Brand’s doings, supporting him through hell and back even on a day like this, with loose feet barely managing to keep it up with the pace of the battlefield where the queen is the most powerful piece.
Far too distracted into his own matters, he is not the one teammate who notices it when the Novelist suffers from an ugly fall from the second floor of the abandoned Hospital caused by rather unknown reasons. That is an issue for the Doctor to deal with later after the match, not the Acrobat who gets busy with Your Highness, nor the Puppeteer tending the Fire Investigator’s wounds somewhere across the map.
It’s Louis who noticed the many glances the Fire Investigator has given him through the match and in the aftermath, and he doesn’t speak a word to Matthias about how he saw the funny guy in blue messing around a loose wooden floor from the hospital just before the Novelist came in.
It’s none of Matthias’ business to know about Mr. Brand’s doings, right? So why bother telling him needless things like that!
The puppet has no intention of opening his mouth to prevent the show he is able to watch in a privileged seat from ever stopping, as his round porcelain eyes stare over Matthias’ shoulder to the cutting glare Mr. Brand has on his beloved Puppeteer’s back when he takes his leave.
When his door is knocked for a second night in a row, Matthias is no less startled than he was the first time, with an attentive eye and unquiet heart staring at the door as if that would lead him straight to hell if opened at the wrong time.
Once more Matthias finds himself uncomfortably sleepless by what he supposes to be something past midnight, one of the first ones to take his leave by the dinner a couple of hours ago yet the last one to bat an eye under the roof of this manor, and once more he finds himself unable to confront his anonymous gifter, as his body remains still while his ears are filled with the steps walking away outside.
Usually one would not pay as much attention to trivial things, such as light steps or a deep breath with fresh air, but it’s amazing what fear can cause to your body, paranoia fueling his senses to be on guard even over a stranger’s quiet step, and the placing of something unknown to the eye.
From the crowded matches to his lonely room, no matter what happened in the outside world, his mind remained on a race through a new state of hell he didn’t think he would ever be able to achieve.
If Dante had one floor further down in the inferno he described in the past, Matthias would be there to welcome the holy man with the essence of agony running through his whole being.
Now in the present, what remains to his ears is one step, another, another… Until the mysterious person — not Dante, not God, not the Devil; someone in between these lines — arrives at the end of the hall, returning from the path they had taken.
It’s strange, in a way, to feel scared like that, yet eager to open the door to check what has arrived now. Poe’s book rests in a drawer, while the rose attempts to keep itself alive in a small glass with some water by his window, sharing its last breaths in the room with the Puppeteer.
Does he notice the way he keeps pulling on his own skin as a habit to distract his head? Or perhaps the way his leg shakes unstoppable while his eye simply can’t turn away from his door? No, all those things are trivial matters while something waits by the other side of the door. Something, anything, or perhaps nothing, if he is lucky enough.
He fears it the most if a gift is left outside again. He fears, eventually, growing used to receiving these good things. Fears, as he shouldn’t grow used to something good, for it will hurt even more when, one day, it stops, and he will be left with nothing but the bitterness in his heart.
Has Matthias been thinking about last night’s book throughout the whole day? Perhaps yes, and perhaps that could explain why not even a single spoonful of the dinner has managed to go past his throat, deciding it would be for the best to take his leave before the others were able to even arrive at the table. It’s not like the lack of his presence would prevent them from having dinner anyway, much less make someone concerned about his leave nor the way he haphazardly threw his beloved puppet in the oven’s flames while no one was looking.
Now, it’s not time to think of the past — no, actually, in fact, that is the moment to think of the past, the present, and whatever the future reserves to him with this new, constant event in his life.
Matthias’ steps through his room creak the wood of the floor beneath his feet, waltzing in a dance he didn’t want to take part in as he carefully opens his door, and peeks outside through a small gap with his hand firmly holding on to the doorknob, as if that could anchor him if his body ever give in to the despair.
“Hello…?” His voice resembles the squeaking of a mouse, with no such a thing as strength to even echo through the empty walls outside.
And just like a mouse, too, his eye is quickly earned by the sight of food.
It’s not a fancy meal from those restaurants his parents used to take him to in Paris against his will, and in all honesty, he doesn’t miss those at all. Before his eye, there are two slices of bread with what looks like some strawberry jam on a plate with finely cut fruits — grapes, orange slices, mango — and a cup of nice, warm milk by the side with a small, folded paper leaning on it. A well balanced breakfast, with no better time to eat it than under the moon and the silence of the night.
In fact, such a silent night is enough for Matthias to listen to the growling of his stomach, reminding him he needs something nutritious in order to keep himself alive. Sometimes it’s hard to remember he is made of flesh and bones, until it’s his own body that makes him aware of his nature.
His own body is there to remind him of his need for something to fill him properly, and, apparently, his anonymous stranger is, too.
His worried eye wanders down the hall for no longer than a moment, before his hungry body decides to accept his stranger’s offering, welcoming it to rest over his room’s table instead of the floor.
If it’s poison, Matthias soon discovers if either its true nature is filled with arsenic or wheat by his own hands, as he raises the bread slice to his lips and takes a generous bite out of it as an act of need prevailing over his concerns.
Tasty, sweet! Good enough to make him hum to the taste, slowly chewing on the bite as his stomach completely begs for him to swallow it already.
Hunger almost makes him forget the side dish made to feed the eye and heart, but Matthias decides he prefers to finish his slice of bread before filling his anxiety with whatever empty word he will soon be welcomed with from that threatening piece of paper. For once, he understands the Mercenary’s bottomless appetite, giving food some priority for the time being.
Whoever prepared this, made it well, for as simple as it is… He can’t help but feel a strange kind of happiness for that, for eating something he is fond of, for knowing someone made it for him, for Matthias , for as stupid as it can sound. Bread and jam. As simple as the sun above and the river below. The sweetness opening his taste buds reminds him of kolache, and how mother used to be oh so kind to give him three of these delicacies if he was good enough in the puppeteering practices.
Sweet, so sweet…
If only mother didn’t deny him of them whoever he failed his abilities, perhaps they would be even sweeter to the tongue.
But, now, it doesn't matter, does it? Mother is not here to give him one of her disappointed looks, and neither is father to replace himself with Louis instead.
Louis, too, is quiet as he burns somewhere down the stairs and into the kitchen, making the sourness of the strawberries be on the perfect level for a good night meal. Almost too perfect to be true.
Mathias swallows away his thoughts, as he does with what seems to be the end of his second slice of bread, barely even taking track of how much he has eaten, nor how much time has passed. All that is last for him is paper, and as far as he is aware, paper is not meant for the tongue.
It’s of no use to prolong the seeing of whatever words are written, though. What is even the point of accepting the gift if he can’t do something as simple as being polite and reading the note left along the food?
Stupid thing it is, to question his own capacity to eat food simply left by his door frame, and yet feel suspicious over simple words. If he left it to burn with Louis by the stove, perhaps then Matthias wouldn’t need to…
He shakes his head.
Oh, no. Don’t act so frightened after receiving something oh so kind to support his weary body. Wasn’t someone so nice as to, perhaps, notice his absence, and think he would need something to fill him up? Such type of kindness, of consideration — it’s not meant for him, and Louis is the very first one who would agree to this thought, if wood wasn’t busy becoming one with the stove’s useless ashes.
He unfolds the paper, and blinks in surprise to two, simple words.
“Dobrou chut’!”
He freezes in time.
Not a single muscle moves, not a tissue relaxes.
…There’s only two people who could ever know czech in this place, and Matthias is one of them.
The Toy Merchant shakes her head in negative affirmation. “I’m afraid I haven’t written a letter to anyone in my native language ever since I arrived, Mr. Czernin. It’s been a while since I practiced my calligraphy in Čeština , but if you need any help, I’ll be happy to offer as I can,” she smiles kindly, sweetly, and Matthias feels his stomach immediately twisting at her genuineness.
Twisting, regretting, with the very idea of becoming suspicious even of someone as kind as Mrs. Lester.
She has been nothing but kind to him, even curious over his skills since the beginning. Such genuineness, such sweetness.. To the point he can’t help but believe it’s all because of Louis, and not because of him.
Would she still have talked to him in his arrival if it wasn’t by the exquisite toy he carries around? Would she still bat an eye to his presence if it wasn’t by asking about what kind of caring he does to keep Louis so intact after all his usages? Would she still be oh so nice to do something as simple as greet him in the halls with amiable a good morning?
Oh, Matthias doubts it.
It’s not that he has no hopes on others, but rather that he has lost the hopes on himself to believe he would receive these kinds of mundane things for free while carrying a rotten, ugly interior.
After what he has done, God should punish him for the rest of his life to be able to repent his sin and reach the pearly gates one day, that would include the sacred punishment of human’s kindness no longer belonging to him.
“I… I appreciate your offering, Mrs. Lester, but it won’t be necessary,” he shakes his head, and swallows dryly; now he regrets even asking it in the first place. Even doubting a woman good-hearted to be his anonymous sender. “I can deal with it,” he gives her a small, shy smile.
“You know… I think it’s funny you ask me that question though,” she replies, and he hums her a silent question while hugging his own arm. It’s unusual of him to keep Louis away so often, but lately it has become unbearable to hold on to him while he mocks his face and his most private thoughts, the ones Matthias thought would belong only to himself.
“Why you say that?” He asks, attempting to keep his voice above a whipsering tone.
“Just yesterday, someone else also asked about the czech language.”
Matthias blinks.
Someone… What?
“Really?” He tries to contain his interest, but his step forward betrayals him with utter curiosity; uncharacteristic of him.
“It was about something simple. He asked me about some common greetings from our country! In return, he taught me something in german, although I’m afraid my pronunciation isn’t that good yet to even try it on my own…” She sighs tiredly. “It’s been years since the last time I was able to study a new language, ah.”
Matthias barely processes the information she gives him while his brain rolls around unwarranted fears over the man Mrs. Lester speaks of. Could it be the final key to figure out the final puzzle? Bon appétit is a greeting, isn't it? His head suddenly feels dizzy, spinning with terror in this story he didn’t want to take part as the main character of the Tell-tale Heart.
Can the Toy Merchant hear the hammering of his heart as loudly as he can? A hundred marches walk within his chest, an organ meant to pump blood dilating his belief! His reasoning!
While his rational side attempts to keep himself calm — as calm as he can possibly be, as relaxed as a prey being chased could ever feel while the predator’s fangs ghosts over his neck so closely — his knuckles turn white grabbing his arm for his dear life as he opens his lips again.
“M-Mrs. Lester, if you don’t mind me asking…” He gulps, and the woman tilts her head. He hopes, truly, deeply, that she doesn’t notice the way his sweat runs cold. “...Who… Who asked you about this lang—”
“Ah, there you are, Mrs. Lester!”
The male voice that comes with an arm around Matthias’ shoulders startles the Puppeteer to the core, eye going wide as Mr. Brand’s bright presence engulfs him whole and warms the Toy Merchant’s heart, enough to make her smile back at him with equal politeness.
“The match is about to start, we were just wondering where our favorite toy maker would be!”
The woman laughs, unaware of the way Matthias is fighting for his life under all the warmth making him burn so akin to a small, insignificant piece of wood burning inside a giant bonfire.
“I apologize! I just got distracted for a moment. I fear I need to go earlier than I thought and leave you alone for a while, Mr. Czernin.”
No.
No, oh, no, don’t leave me here waiting for an answer —
“Hah, don’t worry,” the arm around Matthias increased slightly in pressure, enough to make his head spin further with this much proximity, so unrespectful to something called personal space. The worst thing? Matthias likes it, deep down his core. He hates to enjoy this closeness, and hates to enjoy something as mundane as a simple touch making him realize how starved he has been for any human contact, even if he doesn’t move an inch to prove otherwise.
“Tomorrow it’ll be Matty who will join me in a match, so I’ll make sure he will never be alone!”
Again, Matthias is far too busy with his own matters to even be aware of the Toy Merchant’s accident through the match.
Something about her wings failing her middle flight, and the luck she had when Mr. Brand appeared just in time to hold her before she even reached the ground, her sorrowful look noticing the broken wings she had worked on so dearly… None of these things reached the Puppeteer’s ears by the rest of the day, and the Fire Investigator thinks it’s best this way anyway.
Violetta, oh so kind, went friendly for the rest of the match as an act of compassion and worry regarding the Toy Merchant’s well-being, and Florian was more than glad to do her a little request.
By the open windows, the rose slowly withers away with the passing of the nights.
It’s beauty attempts to stay strong, but the water soon to become greasy-looking reveals her life won’t last for much longer. Red turning into brown, a high crown descending slowly to rest for eternity.
Still, Matthias has no energy to take care of it. In his mind he can hear the gasp Ms. Woods would do in sight of the poor plant, but in his eye he has accepted his lack of ability to keep anything alive. In special, fragile things such as a simple rose, one he was supposed to cherish and adore ends up as yet another failure of his carings.
He was supposed to love it, wasn't he?
So why does he feel like an ungrateful, confused child when he looks at it?
At the rose. At Poe's book. At the two, simple notes he has kept untouched on his table, afraid they were poisoned by any means.
Now, he sits by his chair, facing his door with his hands turned into fists resting by his knees, firmly deciding in his choice to reveal his stranger’s identity by any means.
Brave is not an adjective he would give to himself, always running from the past that has long haunted him for his doings, and now he doesn’t want to have yet another fuel for his restless nights. Another reason to keep himself tormented by ghosts he simply can’t exorcize with his own hands at all.
He sits. He waits. He knows something is yet to come (someone is yet to come) even if he has not properly given instructions of this little joke in which he is taken as the main entertainment party.
A pathetic thing meant to be made fun of, becoming someone’s scared cat for life.
If Louis wasn’t drowning by the edges of the lakeside’s sea, perhaps he would come up with a bold commentary about it. Something in the lines on how, this way, Matthias finally makes someone laugh! With how comical he looks while in this state of paranoia, doubting every single person who fights by his side everyday, instead of giving them something as simple as trust when—
There’s a scratching coming from outside the door.
It’s a new sound, this time. A new way to scare the Puppeteer.
Scare him, as he believes, but for once… Refuses to remain in fear of the unknown.
Instead, he raises in a swift movement, refusing to let his stranger go this time as he quickly turns his doorknob open, eyebrows furrowed in a sullen expression ready to bite back, to face his fears, to speak against the evil with a simple “You—”
You.
You, in question, isn’t the Novelist, much less the Toy Merchant, or any other intellectual of literature and fancy words.
Instead, the you in question that Matthias faces is much smaller than him.
Small, on all four, fluffy with a tail.
The postman’s dog tilts her head up towards Matthias, whose semblance soon switches from annoyance to something much softer to not scare her, leaving all his bravery behind his pumping heart as he leans down to meet the dog's level.
“Wick…?” He calls out, softly, and receives a muffled woof! from the good girl carrying a plush on her back.
Should he thank her? Should he tell her to take it away from his sight? The late isn’t needed for curiosity takes control of his actions; he blinks when he notices a simple, white envelope tied along the toy's arms tangled together, and hesitates before reaching forward to hold it with a quiet thank you slipping his lips as his gaze is completely hypnotized by the brown bunny plush now in his hands.
When Wick walks away, gladly wagging her tail from yet another well done work, Matthias doesn’t even bat an eye towards her, far too stunned by the details of said plush.
It’s not a big bunny, no. Average sized for a plush, soft fur to the touch of his fingers untangling the tie around its arms, with its left side of the face missing a button eye. Its left ear is slightly burned by the tips, while the black tie around its neck remains messily tangled to keep a poor excuse of a bow. Its mouth has a few black stitches attached to it, messily done deformed lips lacking a smile most toys would usually carry to please the children.
If taken closer, Matthias could still smell the scent of the burned parts.
Whoever gave it the final touches with fire, has done it recently.
Adorable in a way, even with the flaws he knows oh so well every time he looks at the reflection he sees in the mirror. Perhaps this toy would look much more fitting to the likeness of a child of it was whole, perfectly crafted without these man-made imperfections.
Still, he doesn't let go of it; doesn't give up on the bunny's blemish appearance.
The act of keeping is driven by pity or sympathy?
Matthias doesn't know.
The letter doesn't enlighten his thoughts any further.
“Hurts me so deeply to see your wandering eye waltzing around everyone when it should be only on me.
That's why I've taken its left eye for myself — as a token of your attention.
I keep the memory of you dearly to my heart, so why can't you do the same and think only of me?
But soon I'll make you realize. You'll see I'm the only one to you.
I'll make you realize it. I'll make you understand.
I'm the only one who can save you, Matthias.”
Knight, Doctor, Puppeteer, Fire Investigator.
Undead.
A harsh battle from the moment when Mrs. Dyer turned to be the first one to encounter the Undead’s merciless weapon, swifting his great blade through dirt and blood to meet her back a few times before achieving her end.
From across the map, Matthias heard it when her last cry echoed through the empty walls of the abandoned hospital, knowing she was about to return to the manor after bleeding for so long.
Ah, Matthias has lost count of how many times she has attempted to take care of his wounds, or the many times she was oh so kind to let him take care of her in the irony of fate, becoming a doctor’s caretaker for his own wellbeing. Could it be considered selfish, to feel well in knowing he was somehow useful in the past to tend her wounds? He didn’t know back then, and felt himself unsure as he focused on the cipher before his eye with some hint of guilt consuming him for not being able to be any more useful.
Blame on him for not going to her rescue! He is still whole to be used, whole in the best way he could be! He should’ve given himself to the hunter, blocked his harmful aim to make sure Mrs. Dyer would survive long enough in order to live instead, made himself be her shield to—
The Knight has been downed.
Matthias blinks; he doesn’t know what happened, unaware of the ill-favored terro shock he received somewhere between the maze of walls.
This match has been doomed from the beginning.
There are yet three deciphering machines to be done, soon to be two with the almost finished one Matthias takes care of by the shack.
It’s then that he realizes… Mr. Brand is much quieter than usual.
Always a helpful hand to everyone, always there to support no matter the risk, yet now remaining as a silent thing to Matthias’ surprise, making a hint of worry twirl down Matthias’ stomach.
Has the hunter caught him? Oh, no, Matthias would know it by now, and so would the Knight — and perhaps that’s it. He might be there, somewhere waiting patiently so he can tend to Mr. Sterling’s wounds, someone who deserves to be taken care for facing the hunter with brevure.
Or so Matthias believes, before fate proves him otherwise.
A final tap on the deciphering machine and its light turns on immediately, but Matthias barely pays attention to it. No, he has no time to even think of it, as his arm is suddenly — roughly — grabbed by a gloved hand that pulls him forcefully down the basement’s stairs leading him to an area he shouldn’t be going willingly.
Well, he isn’t willing as to follow Mr. Brand there, more like too surprised to even have any right to react to his doings.
“Mr. Brand?” Matthias calls out the man's name, but doesn’t attempt to push him away, far too used to the idea of being pulled around like a mere ragdoll. “Is… Is everything alright?”
Still, he finds it oddly strange once the blonde doesn’t answer him just yet, instead casually using his remaining hand to aim his support tool towards the basement’s entrance, casting an airbag to keep it closed the best way that could do.
Then, he turns around, and Matthias is finally able to face him.
Face him. See the familiar smile, as bright as the sun above, as eternal as time itself.
A pure contrast to the rough hand that doesn’t let go of his arm.
“Just Florian is fine, no need for that kind of formality when talking to me. We’re good friends, aren’t we, Matty?”
Matthias nervously looks down at his arm, and back at Florian’s face, but it seems to cause no effect in his possessor, clutching on to his arm hard enough to leave the promise of a mark over Matthias’ pale skin once the blonde’s fingers are gone. It hurts, he thinks, but no confession comes out of his sealed lips.
If Florian notices Matthias' confused expression, he shows no concern regarding it.
“...Florian,” Matthias speaks, whispers as the man pleases, and Florian's eye seems to spark with interest, or something else Matthias doesn't know the name yet. “Is there something wrong?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “Not anymore, that is.”
Silence.
Pure silence, broken only by the vague sound of the Undead’s blade crawling just up there, somewhere not too far yet not close enough to fill Matthias with fear of getting caught. A different type of fear from the one he feels under Florian's presence, confusing Matthias furthermore with the uncanny smile from ear to ear, never to vanish away.
When Matthias takes a step back, Florian takes two forward.
“We still have two ciphers to be done,” the Puppeteer tries to argue; his attempt to pull his arm off the Fire Investigator's hold proves to be useless. “The hunter is nearby, looking for us,” he warns, but it falls under deaf ears.
“This game has been a fiasco from the beginning,” Florian shrugs. “It doesn't matter, no,” he shakes his head, laughing to himself. “We are here now— just you and I, so let's focus on what truly matters.”
Matthias gulps. “But Mr. Sterling is—”
“To hell with that cheap excuse of a knight,” Florian's smile wincing the hint of annoyance through the sharp response forces Matthias to shut up immediately.
It's the first time Matthias sees the man speaking like that, so rude and bold regarding anyone in the manor. That makes something inside him feel… Afraid the fox's teeth filled grin would bite him if he ever opened his mouth again.
Matthias' eyebrows slightly frown, fighting back a pleading face of concern, fear, trying to not give himself in a silver plate so easily.
“Please do tell me, why is it so hard to gain your attention, even after everything I've done?” The same hand that roughly held his arm now softens his grip, turning into an amiable caress with the back of his fingers, as if Florian was calming down an wild animal to become pliant to his likeness — and what else is Matthias, if not a cornered animal ready to be devoured?
Matthias blinks, and asks slowly through his confusion. “What do you mean by that?”
“After all my efforts, after all my attempts, I still need to see your focus going elsewhere, even when I make sure all you need is right before your eye?”
Matthias barely realizes it when his whole body starts shivering the moment Florian's hand reaches his shoulder, neck, his body reacts against his will to touches he hasn't received in years. Desperate for human contact yet too much of a fool to ever reach out for it, finding himself unaware of what he should do in such an intimate scene he doesn’t remember signing in to, and simply closing his eye shut instead, as if that could make him suddenly wake up from this bad dream.
Poor thing, still scared to show his true colors, isn’t he?
Now, locked in the basement with nothing but Florian’s presence to overwhelm him, the sound of the Undead’s blade becomes a long lost concern somewhere else far away from them.
From Florian’s perspective, it’s a beautiful scene, to say the least, finally able to reveal his role as the hero of the book Matthias belongs to. He has decided, from the very first day entering this place he has called over to save poor unfortunate souls, that Matthias would be the greatest of the challenges God put in his path, and he isn’t here — still breathing, still alive — to disappoint all mighty God after his second chance to raise anew from the flames.
It’s just fair to repay such a blessing by leading a lost lamb into the right path in return, making sure someone as glorified and well-rewarded by the flames as Matthias once was can understand God’s meaning in writing his life the way it is. It’s written in his skin, in the same letters Florian knows so well on his own flesh, all he needs to do is translate it to Matthias' reasoning.
Florian is a good man, a well behaved believer who treats God’s gift with utter care, with no intention to throw away His will.
So, so much care, just the way he has been taken care of by Him, too.
“Matty,” Florian comes closer, close enough until Matthias has no space to run, his back against the basement’s cold wall, eye clenching shut and his knuckles turning white when he holds on to Florian’s arm.
To push or to pull? To keep him or discard? Hell if he knows; Florian decides the dilemma for him.
“Look at me,” Florian asks, demanding through the honey-coated smile, his breath entering Matthias’ lungs, invading it with no invitation.
It’s hard to speak through the knot in his throat, yet Matthias manages something just above a whisper to leave his tongue. “What do you want from me?”
“I said, look at me, Matty.”
Then, the beast’s claws appear.
A hand suddenly yanks on Matthias' hair, hard enough to force a pained noise out of him, who forcefully opens his eye with horror. His globe is wet, yet he doesn’t know why he has the urge to shed a tear.
“There, there, hush now, much better, isn’t it?” To Matthias, that’s no longer the smile of the man he once envied — a much better version of himself even though they are both products of the flames — but rather the hunter his instincts warned him to be careful about in the past, the man Louis has felt jealousy of for giving attention to Matthias much more than to him. “No need to give me that frightened look when all I’m doing is for your own good.”
All Matthias wanted to do was struggle free when Florian approached his ear, whispering the devil’s words to enchant him.
But, instead, he stayed still, baring his neck in his cheap attempt to move his face away.
No, no, no, don’t get too close, it’s rotten, it’s not pretty to the eye, it’s not as flawless as Louis—
“May I remember you, I’m just here to make you understand,” Florian inhales deeply, enough to make Matthias feel goosebumps running down his spine from the hot air. “I’m the only one who can save you, Matthias, so why don’t you be good to me now?” Florian laughs; it’s not as sweet as it once was in the past. “You know I don’t want to hurt you.”
These words were enough to make Matthias feel dizzy immediately.
His eye go wide, his head spins.
The dots connect with the final puzzle piece, and the answer reveals to be right before his eye all this time.
The letter attached to the bunny plush; the wicked words of desire.
A fool. That’s what Matthias considers himself to be, a damned fool for not realizing it sooner, for not paying enough attention to all the little signs leading back to the Fire Investigator.
The man Mrs. Lester spoke of, the one who has always visited the library just as often as Matthias himself, the one survivor whose identity Matthias wasn’t aware of just yesterday but knew the Soul Weaver was enthusiastic over some secret gift, and now the exact same words he had read just last night… It was all before his eye.
Always has been.
Florian Brand has always been there.
In every risky kite supporting him with his blood and sweat to prevent Matthias’ self-righteous sacrifice, in every dazzling smile he has to offer at Matthias' presence, in every dinner night doing him company despite Matthias' silence and lack of interesting characteristics to offer.
While Matthias finds himself stunned by the realization of his utter act of foolish blindness, Florian can’t hold it back any longer, biting on the forbidden fruit he has desired for so long, and earning a blissful moan from the Puppeteer just above his ear.
What else can Matthias do if not hold on to him? Unable to force his body to push him away, unable to want something else knowing there is no one else who would wait for his return at home, he decides to seek comfort in what makes his heart twist and shiver. His hand blindly seeks support, grasping with an iron grip to Florian’s vests to anchor himself into reality as the man put his fangs on use and a knee forcing its way between Matthias’ legs to support his weight.
Too much, too little.
Too much information, too little to make him feel safe.
There are tears in the corner of his eye, and a silent sob pumping its way up from his throat, soon to be ignored with every new bite and kiss Florian plants on his skin, completely devouring him as he finally softens the meat to bleed in his likeness.
Succulent to the tongue, soft to the teeth; Matthias’ skin is the perfect meal!
“Florian, you— the gifts were —”
Perhaps the time for a conversation has been gone already, for Florian doesn’t allow the Puppeteer to speak further, grabbing his waist with both hands instead so he could force him down to grind against his thigh. Matthias feels it when the man smiles just above the skin of his freshly wounded neck once his breath becomes louder with the stimulation in his crotch, uncontrolled through his fear and need.
“Did you like them?” Florian's tone is of a happy child, or a cat who has just came back home with a dead bird in his teeth for his owner. His smirk widens when he faces Matthias’ uneasy expression. “My gifts. Did you, Matty?”
Matthias needs to bite his lower lip with the handling of his body like that, forcing him to keep on the shameful act of grinding against Florian’s thigh while his legs give in to tremble under Florian’s vulgar lead. He doesn’t even realize it when he nods, but he does, and that's enough for Florian to reach the heavens and back with growing excitement and an eye sparking with happiness.
“I knew it,” Florian laughs. A maniac man, in Matthias' opinion, but one crazy enough to pay attention to a broken toy such as himself. “I knew you would understand!”
Understand what?
Understand that man is insane?
Understand Matthias is no better, feeling somehow happy someone looks at him like that? That the gothic romances he has read oh so many times has become true with him as the main character? Really, only someone as mad as a hatter would ever adore a broken thing like himself.
No, not a broken thing, for a “thing” would not be whining and moaning and feeling an one of a kind guilty pleasure by another man’s hands, wouldn’t be breathing the same hot air that leaves another man’s breath.
A sane person would run, leave this madness for once.
But can Matthias ever be considered a sane man again?
Oh, no. He has lost such a role long ago, being both haunted by a supposed-to-be inanimate doll and denied of affection for so long makes incorrigible things to one’s brain, such as well behaving while his body is manhandled to turn around, and his under vests are roughly mistreated to move down just enough for another man’s pleasure.
For Florian’s pleasure, he thinks (fixes himself) as his cheek meets the cold of the wall with a loud thud due to the pressure Florian applies on his head, holding on the brown locks hard enough to hurt and burn, in contrast to the the warmth of Florian’s breath just above his shoulder coming from his every syllable.
“I want this moment to last forever,” he speaks through his laugh and Matthias hums to whatever he says, taking a deep breath out of Matthias’ shoulder level; the hair by the back of his neck is raised with goosebumps, eye closed while Florian hurriedly undoes his own belt with his free hand.
Next thing Matthias knows happens too fast, fast enough for his body to moan and arch with sudden fullness from the meeting of their hips, keeping his vaginal entrance filled up with something warm, hard, too much—
All the sweet pressure surrounding his cock leads Florian to heaven and back, but Matthias isn’t sure if what he feels is truly a product of the pearly gates, shoulders stiff with the initial pain his insides meet and face twisting into a grimace of pleasure. Stuffed to the core, reaching places his fingers have never been before, his legs become jelly with so much happening, so much overwhelming him in every way.
There’s not a single thought unoccupied by Florian in his mind to worry about the bleeding Knight nor the hunter looking for them outside when Florian is present everywhere, taking control of his very being.
Florian’s presence is all around him. In his heart, in his mind, in his core.
“I’ve dreamed of this for countless nights, Matthias,” Florian wraps an arm around Matthias’ waist, forcing him to arch his lower body against his hardened cock while taking control of his whole body. If it wasn’t by his handling supporting the man’s body, Matthias knows he would be laying on the floor the very moment Florian thrusts in once, twice, forcing his whole length to push through Matthias’ moisturized folds, pushing the most shameful noises out of his throat. “Say you’ll never leave me, please, ah! ♥’
It’s hard for Matthias to keep track of Florian’s words, the gears inside his head breaking with the way Florian treats his body so harshly, hard grip on his scalp and forceful pace penetrating him in every thrust, every meeting of their hips. Saliva threatens to drool down the corner of his deformed lips, deaf to the loud, vulgar sounds his tongue keeps producing so shamelessly, echoing around the whole basement and returning as a strong fuel for Florian to keep it up with his pace.
He feels good. Too good to be true.
Good. So good. Good enough to make him forget his loneliness for a tad.
“I love you,” Florian confesses, his pace growing faster. Watching Matthias nail the wall makes him almost envy it; he could have marks made by Matthias on his body instead, what a waste of precious energy! “Say it back,” he asks, begs, orders. Matthias doesn’t know which is more fitting, as he screams when Florian pulls his head back, forcing his body’s flexibility to come in hand with the curve of his back.
“Say you love me back!”
Coherence is not a remarkable adjective to the syllables that escape Matthias’ lips middle moans. “I do!” he desperately says, blindly, trying to please the possessor of his body. “P-Please,” he pleads through gasps. “Love—” he nods, just to scream instead, the very moment Florian’s ungloved hand reaches down to stimulate his hooded sex.
A finger pulls the skin over it, while another draws circles on his sensitive flesh, all while Matthias clenches his fists against the wall he gets abused over. Not much longer after his erratic breathing becomes worse, holding on to Florian’s working hand yet unable to push him away — either by his lack of strength or will.
Matthias doesn’t know when, but he comes, as hard as he has ever reached his peak, and his mind shuts with overstimulation during the extra thrusts Florian pushes against his sensitive body in order to reach his own climax. Matthias’ bliss is music to Florian’s ears; heavenly-made orchestra as they mimic the divine act Adam and Eve have once realized in Eden long ago.
Akin to Adam and Eve, too, Florian believes the both of them were created to complete each other, fully and whole.
Their shared essence leaks down Matthias’ thigh, but he doesn’t have the mind to care about it, too busy trying to learn how to breathe again. The grip by the back of his hair loosens, and he lets out a whine of relief, making no effort to help Florian out when the man is oh-so-kind as to raise his black pants and buckle his belt, all while giving gifting his neck with the softest kisses a lover has ever given.
The survivors have surrendered. Returning to the manor.
“Where, exactly, have you two been?”
Matthias has no such a thing as to face the knight, left to bleed until he reached his return to the manor in the same match Matthias had filthy acts with another man. It’s even harder to look anywhere else but the door to leave the room when Florian’s behaviour is much brighter than it was before.
Florian is a shameless thing — even sounding more lively than ever as he answers Richard’s question.
“Ah, my bad about your conditioner, Mr. Sterling!” Florian is, in fact, not sorry at all, still his cheerful demeanor proves otherwise. “We happened to get busy with the ciphers, and lost our notion of time,” he shrugs carefreely.
Richard is no naive, though, and his mismatched eyes are smart as they turn towards the Puppeteer’s back, the same man who is leaving the room without a single glance back towards the others. Shame stamps deep into the light pink of his cheeks, unseen by the Knight and cherished by the Fire Investigator.
What really catches the Knight attention is the way the Puppeteer’s tie is, for once, well laced around his collar.
Well tied piece, unlike how it looks messily done every other day.
Still, not enough to hide away all of the red and purple flowers that bloom underneath.
“...I see,” Richard simply answers the Fire Investigator, his eyes burying daggers on Matthias’ back until he finally leaves his eyesight.
And Florian, well, he is no less smart, too.
“I’m glad you do,” Florian returns with a palpable threatening undertone. “I’ll make sure to make everything clear next time.”
Before Florian can leave the room, Richard cleans his throat.
“By the way.”
Florian stops on his feet, but doesn’t turn around.
“While I was kiting around the holy image of the saint, something, which I presume could be a piece of stone, fell right on my way to the nearest pallet,” he narrows his eyes; hopes it burns right through the golden halo of Florian’s hair. “So, Mr. Brand, I highly recommend of you to act carefully around that place, and dodge the possibility of receiving a fate as unfortunate as mine, to lose my balance and fail my mission to bring fortune for our match.”
To others, it would be taken as a mere warning.
To Florian, it is hard not to sense the palpable threat the Knight has to offer, insinuating things a holy man like Florian himself would never commit.
Such as, perhaps, sabotaging another man's business.
So, as a kind boy, Florian turns around, and gives one of a kind sharp smirk, putting on display his fangs as a silent sign that no glory behold upon a knight will ever protect him from the dragon’s fire-breathing heart if fate so wish to make him show his true colors.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Florian simply answers, before trailing his way back under the path he is sure Matthias has taken a few moments before himself.