Chapter Text
The sun rose over Hertfordshire in a wash of gold and amber, burning through the morning mist that clung to the fields like a second skin. Suguru walked the path between the hedgerows, his boots damp with dew, his skirts gathered in one hand to keep them from dragging through the wet grass. A book was tucked beneath his arm—a volume of poetry he had read a dozen times before, its pages soft and worn from handling.
He walked to think. He walked to escape. He walked because the walls of Longbourn sometimes pressed too close, and the voices of his family sometimes grew too loud, and the only place he could find silence was out here, among the fields and the trees and the slowly waking world.
The morning air was cool against his cheeks, and he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of earth and grass and the distant promise of rain. It was a clean scent, uncomplicated, untouched by the heavy press of Alpha pheromones that made his temples throb and his stomach turn at assemblies and gatherings. Out here, alone, his head was clear. Out here, he could think.
He stopped at the edge of a field, looking out over the rolling hills that stretched toward the horizon. Longbourn lay behind him, its chimneys smoking, its windows catching the first light of dawn. Somewhere inside, his mother was already awake, already scheming, already calculating the odds of this season's prospects. His siblings were likely still abed, except perhaps Haibara, who always rose early to brush his long dark hair and press his gowns and prepare himself for whatever the day might bring.
Five omegas. Five children of the same designation, born to an aging Alpha whose estate would outlive him by many years but offer them no shelter. When his father died, they would have nothing. No fortune. No home. No claim to the very roof above their heads.
Suguru knew this. He had always known this. The knowledge lived in his bones like a second skeleton, shaping every decision, every word, every carefully maintained expression of pleasant indifference.
He was twenty years old, and he had never been in love. He had never been courted, not truly—not for himself, not for the sharpness of his mind or the quickness of his tongue or the particular way he had of looking at the world and finding it wanting. He had been appraised, evaluated, measured against standards he had never been consulted in creating. He had been found tolerable, acceptable, not handsome enough to tempt.
And he had smiled, and nodded, and performed the role of the agreeable omega, and pretended that their dismissals did not cut it.
But out here, alone, he did not have to pretend.
Suguru was not like his siblings.
This was a fact he had known for as long as he could remember, though it was not a fact he spoke aloud. Haibara, at twenty-two, was the eldest—slender and willowy, with dark hair that fell past his waist and eyes that held the warmth of a summer afternoon. He was beautiful in the way that paintings were beautiful, in the way that poetry was beautiful, in the way that made strangers stop and stare and forget what they had been about to say. His beauty was a currency, and he spent it without knowing, without intending, simply by existing.
Megumi, at eighteen, was quieter, with sharp features and sharper eyes that missed nothing and trusted no one. His beauty was the beauty of shadows—present but elusive, something you sensed more than saw.
Nobara, at seventeen, was all sharp angles and sharper words, her beauty a weapon she wielded with precision. Her crimson gowns and her cropped hair and her refusal to simper or defer made her a target for criticism, but she did not seem to care.
Shoko, at sixteen, was the scholar, her nose always in a book, her beauty obscured by ink stains and sleep deprivation and the particular intensity of someone who had discovered that the world made more sense on the page than it did in person.
And then there was Suguru.
Suguru was not slender. He was not willowy. He was not the kind of omega that artists dreamed of painting or poets dreamed of describing. His body had been built for other purposes—for warmth, for comfort, for the kind of embrace that made a man forget his own name. His hips were wide, his bust was full, his waist was small in comparison, creating a silhouette that the fashionable world had long since abandoned in favour of straighter, leaner lines.
The corset was not a choice for Suguru. It was a necessity.
Each morning, their maid laced him into the stiff boned structure that compressed his soft flesh into something resembling the expected silhouette. The process was uncomfortable—it was always uncomfortable, though he had grown accustomed to the pressure against his ribs, the way his breath came shallower at the end of each exhalation—and it left faint red marks on his skin that faded by evening, only to be renewed the next day. He did not complain. He had learned not to complain about his body, because complaints implied an expectation that something might change, and nothing about his body would change.
He was not beautiful. He knew this. He had always known this.
And yet, when he walked through the fields at dawn, when the mist clung to his skirts and the sunlight caught the dark waves of his hair, he sometimes caught a glimpse of himself in the window glass of Longbourn and thought—perhaps. Perhaps there was something there. Something that was not beautiful, exactly, but was not nothing either.
He tucked the thought away and continued walking.
<3
The breakfast room at Longbourn was chaotic, as it always was.
Suguru entered through the back door, shaking the dew from his skirts, and found his family already assembled around the table. His mother was speaking—his mother was always speaking—her voice carrying over the clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversation like a general issuing commands.
“—and Mrs. Yamada says that Netherfield is taken by a young Alpha of large fortune from the north of England. Mr. Kento is his name—Nanami Kento. He came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately.”
Suguru slid into his seat between Haibara and Megumi, reaching for the toast. His mother did not pause for breath.
“A single Alpha of large fortune, my dear. Four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our omegas!”
“How so?” Mr. Geto asked from behind his newspaper, his voice dry. “How can it affect them?”
Mrs. Geto stared at her husband as though he had asked why the sun rose in the east. “My dear Mr. Geto, how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of marrying one of our children.”
“Is that his design for settling here?”
“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so!” She waved her hand dismissively. “But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.”
Suguru buttered his toast and said nothing. He had heard this speech before—many times before, in many variations—and he had learned that silence was the only defence against it.
“I see no occasion for that,” Mr. Geto replied. “You and the children may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as beautiful as any of them, Mr. Kento may like you the best of the party.”
Mrs. Geto's hand flew to her chest, and her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up omegas, she ought to give up thinking of her own beauty.”
“In such cases,” Mr. Geto observed dryly, “a woman has not often had much beauty to think of.”
Mrs. Geto chose to ignore this remark—she had grown skilled at ignoring her husband's provocations over the years—and pressed on. “But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Kento when he comes into the neighbourhood.”
“It is more than I engage in, I assure you.”
“But consider your omegas. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. The Satos are determined to go, merely on that account. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him if you do not.”
“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Kento will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines to you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the omegas; though I must throw in a good word for my little Haibara.”
“I hope you will do no such thing. Haibara is a great deal too good to be an Alpha's prize. He is the most beautiful omega I have ever seen, and there is something so gentle and sweet in his manner that I am certain Mr. Kento will not be able to look at anyone else. But you must visit him, for Mrs. Yamada says that Mr. Kento brings with him a friend—a Mr. Gojo of Pemberley in Derbyshire, with ten thousand a year—and if we do not make ourselves agreeable, we shall lose the acquaintance entirely.”
Mr. Geto sighed and returned to his newspaper, leaving his wife to her schemes.
Suguru listened to the familiar argument and felt the familiar weight settle across his shoulders. The mention of Mr. Gojo—of any Alpha, really—sent a small ripple of unease through him. Not fear, exactly. Not dread. Something more subtle. Something that had to do with the way Alpha scents pressed against his senses like a hand against a bruise, the way they lingered in his clothes and his hair and the spaces between his fingers, the way they left him with a headache that lasted for hours after the encounter had ended.
He had always been this way. Sensitive, his mother called it, a quality that would make him a desirable mate for an Alpha who appreciated delicacy. Suguru called it a curse. The world was full of Alphas—in ballrooms and assembly halls, on country lanes and in market squares—and every encounter cost him something. An hour of clarity. A night of sleep. The small, precious peace that he cultivated in the early mornings, walking through the fields with nothing but the earth and the sky and the scent of rain.
The thought of a wealthy Alpha moving into the neighbourhood, of being forced to attend assemblies and gatherings in his presence, of having to smile and nod and perform while his head pounded and his skin crawled—it made him want to retreat to his room and not emerge until winter.
But he would not. He could not. He had siblings to protect, a family to support, a future to secure. He would go to the assembly. He would smile. He would dance. He would perform.
And then he would come home and press his forehead against the cool glass of his window and breathe until the world stopped spinning.
<3
The morning light had shifted from gold to white by the time Suguru finished his breakfast and retreated to the window seat with his book. He did not read—not truly—though he held the pages open and turned them at appropriate intervals. His mind was elsewhere, entangled in thoughts of the impending ball, of the unknown Alphas who would soon descend upon Meryton, of the press of bodies and the crush of scents and the headache that awaited him with the certainty of a lover long expected.
Haibara settled beside him, his pale gold gown pooling around him like spilled sunlight. His dark hair had been brushed to a shine and threaded with a ribbon of cream silk, and his scent—soft, sweet, like vanilla and warm milk—was a comfort in the chaos of the morning. A comfort, Suguru thought, that he scarcely deserved.
“You are worried,” Haibara said quietly. It was not a question; it was a statement of fact, delivered with the same gentle finality as the turning of a page.
“I am thinking,” Suguru replied, and knew himself to be a liar.
“You are worrying. I can tell. Your forehead does something when you worry.”
“My forehead does nothing of consequence.”
“It creases. Right here.” Haibara reached out and touched the space between Suguru's brows with a gentle finger. “See? It is creased. Quite severely, I might add. If it were any more creased, one might mistake you for a gentleman of fifty.”
Suguru swatted his hand away, but a smile tugged at his lips despite himself—or perhaps because of himself. Haibara had always possessed that particular talent: the ability to draw affection from Suguru's reluctant heart. “I am not worried. I am merely—I do not enjoy balls. You know this.”
“Because of the scents,” Haibara said, and his voice was soft with understanding. “Because of the Alphas. Because of the thousand small cruelties that a crowded room inflicts upon a sensitive constitution.”
Suguru did not answer. He did not need to. Haibara knew—had always known—about the headaches, the discomfort, the particular misery that Suguru endured at every social gathering. He had held Suguru's hair back when the migraines had been bad enough to make him sick, had sat with him in the dark when the light had been too much, had pressed cool cloths to his forehead and murmured soft, useless comforts. Useless, and yet precious.
“Perhaps this time will be different,” Haibara offered, though his tone suggested he did not believe it. He was an optimist by nature, but not a foolish one.
“Perhaps,” Suguru agreed, though he did not believe it either.
And yet—there was something different about this ball. A new name had been whispered through Meryton's drawing rooms and tea tables, carried on the breath of matrons and the speculation of young Omegas alike: Satoru Gojo. An Alpha of considerable fortune and even more considerable pride, who had let it be known that he found the country's society deficient, its inhabitants beneath his notice.
Suguru had not yet met the man, and already he disliked him.
That, at least, was a feeling he could rely upon.
<3
The Meryton ball was held in the public hall, a long, draughty building that had once been a granary and still retained something of its former purpose in its high ceilings and bare floors. The walls had been whitewashed so many times that they seemed to glow faintly in the candlelight, and the windows were fogged with the breath of two hundred people pressed into a space designed for half that number.
Suguru arrived with his family in good time, having endured the carriage ride with his mother's last-minute adjustments to the fall of his skirts and Nobara's pointed commentary on the quality of the local Alphas. He wore his best gown tonight—a deep blue silk that Haibara had once told him brought out the darkness of his eyes—and his long dark hair had been pinned up in an elaborate arrangement that had taken their maid nearly an hour to complete. A strand of pearls, his mother's only remaining jewellery of any value, had been loaned to him for the occasion, and they rested against his collarbone like small, cold promises.
The corset was tighter than usual, compressed by their maid's steady, merciless hands, and his breath came in shallower measures than he would have liked. But the effect was acceptable. The blue silk draped over his curves—over the wide sweep of his hips, the full swell of his bust, the smallness of his waist between—and for a moment, looking at his reflection in the darkened window glass, he had thought: perhaps. Perhaps there was something there after all.
But then his mother had called his name, and the moment had passed, and he had followed his family into the night.
The room was already crowded when they entered, filled with the familiar faces of neighbours who had known Suguru since childhood and whose opinions on his prospects had long since hardened into comfortable assumptions. Mrs. Yamada nodded at him from across the floor with an expression that managed to be both pitiful and triumphant—her own daughters were betas, which was not quite the same as being Alphas but was certainly preferable in the eyes of the marriage market. Sir Hiroshi boomed a greeting from near the punch bowl, his good-natured voice carrying over the din like a foghorn.
The Geto family arranged themselves in a cluster of chairs near the far wall, as they did at every assembly. Haibara was placed nearest the aisle, where he could be most easily approached. Megumi was seated beside him, his dark hair braided and pinned, his grey gown blending into the shadows. Nobara had claimed the chair closest to the punch bowl, her crimson gown a bright slash of colour against the whitewashed wall. Shoko had already produced a book from somewhere and was reading it with the single-minded focus of someone who had forgotten that other people existed.
And Suguru, Suguru was seated slightly apart from the others, not by his mother's design but by his own. He needed space to think, space to observe, space to prepare himself for the assault of Alpha scents that would soon flood the room.
He did not have long to wait.
The musicians tuned their instruments with the cheerful indifference of men who knew that no one was listening to them anyway. The candles burned low and guttered in their holders. The evening stretched ahead, full of possibility and dread in equal measure.
And then, at a quarter past eight, the doors opened, bringing that unfamiliar scent to Suguru's nose—two Alpha scents, distinct and unmistakable, cutting through the fog of beta neutrality and omega submission that filled the room. He felt the familiar pressure begin to build behind his eyes, the beginning of the headache that would surely follow him home, and he braced himself for the onslaught.
One of the scents was ordinary enough: clean, straightforward, the smell of old books and wool and something that might have been freshly laundered linen. It was not unpleasant, but it was unremarkable, and Suguru's attention passed over it without stopping.
The other scent was different.
It arrived like sunlight through a window left unexpectedly open—bright, sharp, impossibly clean. Citrus, Suguru realized, though not any citrus he could name. Not the heavy sweetness of orange or the bitter bite of lemon, but something lighter, more elusive. Bergamot, perhaps, or yuzu, or some other fruit he had never tasted but could suddenly imagine on his tongue. The scent carried undertones of something else beneath the brightness—tea, maybe, or the faint mineral smell of cold water running over stone—and it did not press against his senses the way other Alpha scents did.
It did not give him a headache.
He stood very still, his hand frozen halfway to his glass of punch, and he inhaled again, carefully, as though testing the temperature of bathwater. The scent was still there, still bright, still impossibly clean, and his head remained clear, giving Suguru a sense of something he had never felt before.
The music seemed to change. It did not change, not really—the fiddlers were still playing the same country air, still sawing away with the same cheerful incompetence—but something in the room shifted. A collective intake of breath. A hundred heads turning toward the door. The candles flickered as though a wind had passed through, though the windows were closed.
Suguru looked toward the door, and he saw them. Two Alphas, standing just inside the entrance, shaking the rain from their greatcoats and submitting to the scrutiny of the room with very different expressions. The shorter of the two—shorter only by comparison, for he was still tall by any reasonable measure—had fair hair and a face that might have been pleasant if not for the weariness etched into its lines.
The other Alpha was taller. Much taller.
His hair was white—white as snow, white as milk, white as the first frost on the autumn fields—and it fell across his forehead in careless waves that looked too artless to be accidental. His eyes, when Suguru could see them, were a blue so pale they seemed to belong to a creature of frost rather than flesh, and his features were arranged in an expression that could only be described as bored. Not the performative boredom of a man who wished to be approached, but the genuine, bone-deep boredom of someone who had seen everything the world had to offer and found it insufficient.
He was beautiful. Suguru noticed this the way one notices a particularly fine painting in a gallery—with appreciation and not a single flicker of personal interest. Beautiful men were not rare. Beautiful Alphas were not rare. Beautiful Alphas who smelled like citrus and cold water and something Suguru could not name were—
He stopped that thought before it could complete itself.
“Nanami Kento,” Mrs. Geto breathed, her hand finding Suguru's arm with a grip that would leave bruises. “That must be him. Oh, Suguru, look at the tall one. Look at his coat. And Haibara, Haibara, stands where he can see you. Turn slightly, my dear, present your profile. Yes, like that. Oh, he will be struck. I am certain of it.”
“Mama,” Haibara whispered, his blush deepening, “you cannot arrange me like a painting.”
“I can and I will. This is your future we are discussing.”
Suguru pulled his arm free from his mother's grip and smoothed the fabric of his sleeve. The tall Alpha was still standing near the door, still surveying the room with that expression of bored indifference, and Suguru found himself watching despite his determination not to.
“He appears to be suffering from a severe case of being here,” Suguru said, more to himself than to anyone else.
“Do not be impertinent,” Mrs. Geto replied automatically, though her attention was fixed on Haibara's profile. “This is our chance.”
“It is a ball, Mother. Not a proposal.”
But even as he said it, he found his gaze returning to the tall Alpha, drawn by something he could not name and did not wish to examine. The scent was still there, still present, still refusing to trigger the familiar ache behind his eyes. It was unsettling and disorienting.
It was, he told himself firmly, completely irrelevant.
The tall Alpha's gaze moved across the room, as though he were counting the cattle in a field and finding the number acceptable but the quality lacking. His eyes passed over Nobara's crimson gown, over Shoko's book, over Haibara's blushing profile.
And then his eyes found Suguru.
For a heartbeat—no more than two—their gazes held. Suguru did not look away. He had been taught that Omegas should lower their eyes in the presence of an unknown Alpha, should present a soft and deferential silence, should make themselves small and pleasing and unthreatening.
Suguru had never been very good at lessons.
The tall Alpha's expression did not change. Not a flicker of interest, not a spark of recognition, not even the slightest elevation of that bored, beautiful brow. He looked at Suguru the way one looks at a piece of furniture—functional, present, utterly unremarkable.
Then he looked away, and Suguru watched him turn to say something to his companion, and the moment was over.
Suguru released a breath he had not realized he was holding.
Completely irrelevant, he told himself again. He is nothing to me. His scent means nothing. His beauty means nothing. He is exactly the sort of proud, disagreeable Alpha I have always despised.
The music swelled. The dancers formed into sets. And Suguru, standing against the far wall with his pearls cold against his collarbone, decided that he had learned everything he needed to know about Satoru Gojo.
<3
It happened during the third dance, when Sir Hiroshi Tanaka—flushed with the importance of having such distinguished guests in his hall—approached the corner where Suguru stood with Shoko and Nobara. Sir Hiroshi's round face was beaming, his cravat was wilting, and his voice carried across the room with the cheerful disregard for privacy that only a man of his position could afford.
“My dear Mr. Geto,” he said, bowing first to Haibara, who had just returned from his dance, “you must allow me to present these gentlemen to you. Mr. Kento—Mr. Gojo—these are the eldest Mr. Getos. Mr. Haibara Geto, Mr. Suguru Geto, and Mr. Nobara Geto.”
Suguru turned, and there they were.
Mr. Kento stepped forward first, his expression warm and apologetic, his scent of old books and clean linen a gentle wave in the crowded room. “Mr. Haibara,” he said, bowing over Haibara's hand with a deference that made the young omega blush to the roots of his dark hair. “I am honoured.”
Haibara murmured something soft and pleased. Suguru watched the exchange with a small, private smile. Then Mr. Kento stepped aside, and Mr. Gojo was standing before him.
Up close, the Alpha was even taller than Suguru had imagined. His white hair fell across his forehead in those careless waves that looked too artless to be accidental. His pale blue eyes—the colour of winter sky, of ice over deep water—studied Suguru's face with an intensity that might have been flattering if it had not been so clearly appraising.
And his scent, his scent was everywhere.
The citrus surrounded Suguru like a wall, bright and clean and utterly unlike any Alpha scent he had encountered before. There was no heaviness to it, no press, no intrusion. It simply was, as present and as unobtrusive as the air itself. Suguru could feel it settling against his skin, could taste it at the back of his throat, and his head remained perfectly, infuriatingly clear.
He hated that. He hated that this proud, cold, impossibly wealthy Alpha smelled like something Suguru would have chosen for himself, if scents were a matter of choice.
Mr. Gojo's blue eyes swept over Suguru once, twice, with the brief efficiency of a man appraising a horse he had no intention of purchasing. He took in the blue silk gown, the pinned-up hair, the pearls at the throat, the face that Suguru knew was handsome enough though not remarkable. His gaze lingered for a moment on the curve of Suguru's hip—the corset could disguise, but it could not erase—and then returned to his face. His expression did not change, except for a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth that might have been disappointment or might have been boredom.
“Mr. Geto,” he said, and his voice was exactly what Suguru had expected: low, clipped, and utterly devoid of warmth.
“Mr. Gojo,” Suguru replied, matching his tone precisely.
The silence that followed was brief but pointed. Sir Hiroshi Tanaka, hovering nearby with the desperate cheerfulness of a man determined to make conversation succeed, cleared his throat.
“Mr. Gojo,” Sir Hiroshi said, “would you not dance? I am certain one of our young omegas would be honoured to stand up with you.”
Mr. Gojo looked at the dancers—at the couples turning and bowing, at the gowns and the sweat and the earnest, hopeful faces—and his expression did not change. He looked, Suguru thought, exactly like a man who had been asked to admire a collection of mud pies.
“I shall not dance,” he said, "if I can help it. The company here is... tolerable. But not handsome enough to tempt me.”
The words fell into the space between them like stones into still water.
Suguru felt something cold settle in his chest, not hurt, never hurt, but something sharper. Something that might have been confirmation. Beside him, Haibara's blush faded into a pale, startled stillness. Nobara's mouth fell open. Shoko's eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.
Sir Hiroshi's smile faltered but did not fall. “Of course,” he said, recovering quickly. “A gentleman of your consequence must find our country dances rather... rustic.”
Mr. Gojo did not answer. His gaze had already drifted past Suguru's shoulder, back to the dancers, back to the windows, back to anywhere that was not the assembled Omegas of Meryton.
Mr. Kento, who had been watching this exchange with visible discomfort, stepped forward. “Mr. Haibara Geto,” he said, his voice warm with apology, “would you do me the honour of standing up with me for the next set?” Haibara blinked, startled, and then his gentle face broke into a smile. "I—yes. Thank you, Mr. Kento. I would be delighted."
He rose from his chair, his pale gold gown pooling around him like spilled sunlight, and placed his hand in Nanami's offered palm. As they walked toward the dance floor, Haibara looked back at Suguru over his shoulder, a quick glance, wide-eyed and questioning.
Suguru smiled and nodded once. Go, he mouthed. Enjoy yourself.
Haibara turned back to Nanami, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd of dancers, just like they were meant to be.
<3
“Your friend is very kind,” Suguru said, not looking at Satoru Gojo. He was watching the dance floor, watching Haibara's golden gown swirl among the other colours, watching Mr. Kento’s hand settled at the small of his brother's back with careful propriety. “It is a shame that kindness is not contagious.”
Beside him, Nobara made a sound that was half-laugh, half-cough. Shoko had raised her book in front of her face, though she was not reading a single word.
Satoru Gojo turned his head—slowly, as though the effort of acknowledging another person's existence was almost more than he could bear. His stupid blue eyes fixed on Suguru's profile, and for a moment, there was something there. Not interesting, not exactly. But not boredom either.
“You speak very directly, Mr. Geto,” he said.
“I have been told it is a fault," Suguru replied, still watching the dancers.
"I did not say it was a fault.”
“No. You merely implied it.”
Another silence. This one was different, charged, crackling, like the air before a summer storm. Suguru could feel the Alpha's gaze on his face, on the curve of his jaw, on the small shell of his ear where a pearl earring caught the candlelight. He did not turn. He would not give this proud, disagreeable man the satisfaction of seeing him unsettled.
“Do you dance, Mr. Geto?” Mr.Gojo asked.
The question surprised Suguru so much that he did turn, finally, his dark eyes meeting those pale ones. “Do I dance?”
“It is a simple question.”
“You have just announced to the entire room that you do not dance, Mr. Gojo. And now you ask me if I dance?”
“I did not say I would dance with you. I merely asked if you dance.”
Suguru stared at him. The Alpha stared back. And despite himself, despite everything, Suguru felt the corner of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but something dangerously close.
“I dance," Suguru said slowly, "when there is a partner worth dancing with.”
Mr Gojo's expression did not change. But something in his scent shifted—only slightly, only for a moment. A note of something warmer beneath the citrus. Amber, perhaps. Or sandalwood.
Then it was gone, and the Alpha was as cold and closed as he had been before. “Then I hope you find one,” he said, and turned away.
At half past ten, Mrs. Geto announced that it was time to leave. The younger children were asleep on their chairs. Haibara said a soft goodbye to Mr. Nanami, who promised to call on them at Longbourn in the coming days. Suguru gathered his shawl around his shoulders and followed his family toward the door.
He did not look back.
He told himself it was because he was tired, because the scents of the evening had finally begun to press against his temples, because he wanted nothing more than to remove his corset and fall into bed.
But as he stepped through the doorway into the cool night air, the citrus scent followed him—just for a moment, just a ghost of itself—and Suguru's head remained stubbornly, impossibly clear.
He paused on the steps, the carriage waiting in the darkness, and allowed himself one thought:
He will never understand that man.
<3
The carriage ride home was noisy and cheerful. Nobara recounted every dance he had refused. Haibara spoke in soft, wandering tones about Mr. Nanami's kindness. Shoko woke up long enough to ask if there had been cake, then fell asleep again. Megumi stared out the window in silence, his grey eyes reflecting the moonlight.
And Suguru—Suguru sat in the corner of the carriage, his pearls cold against his collarbone, and said nothing.
He was thinking about pale blue eyes and white hair and a scent that did not give him headaches. He was thinking about the way Satoru Gojo had asked if he danced—not would you dance with me, but simply do you dance—as though the answer mattered to him in some way he could not articulate.
He was thinking about the tightening at the corner of that beautiful, bored mouth, and the flicker of warmth beneath the citrus, and the way the Alpha had turned away as though Suguru was not worth another moment of his attention.
“Suguru?” Haibara's voice was soft, concerned. “Are you well? You have been quiet for the entire journey.”
Suguru blinked, pulled from his thoughts. The carriage was stopped. They had arrived home. His family was already climbing out, scattering into the warm light of the open door.
“I am perfectly well,” he said, and it was almost the truth. “I am merely tired.”
Haibara studied his face for a moment, then nodded. “It was a very long night.”
“It was.”
They walked into the house together, the door closing behind them, shutting out the night and the cold and the lingering ghost of citrus that still clung to Suguru's lungs.
<3
That night, lying in his bed with the corset finally removed and his hair loose across the pillow, Suguru stared at the ceiling and admitted something to himself that he would never admit aloud:
Satoru Gojo is the most disagreeable Alpha he have ever met. His pride is insufferable. His manners are an insult. He looks at everyone in the room as though they are dirt beneath his boots.
And he cannot stop thinking about him.
He turned onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and closed his eyes.
The citrus scent was gone now—dissipated into the night air, replaced by the familiar smells of home. But his head was still clear, still free of the pressure that usually followed a ball. It was as though the Alpha's presence had done something to him, changed something in him, left a mark that he could not see but could feel.
It means nothing, he told himself fiercely. It means absolutely nothing.
He almost believed it.