The room was intimate.
Henry wasn't made for that kind of atmosphere. Sure, he'd lost his V-card and had had many sexual partners in the last six years, but there was a time, just recently, when he'd become deadly afraid of anything intimate—at least the serious kind.
He might joke around here and there, but that stuff made his skin crawl.
The two of them were sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. Between them were two chalices and bottles of different fruit juices that Henry had turned into wine and other alcoholic beverages. The game had just started; they were two rounds in. Both of them had answered truthfully, resolutely.
They were just simple questions, after all.
This was the third round, and it was Henry Savoy's turn.
The big guns were about to rain fire.
"Lady Keirin Dorthen," he began, smirking. "You are an aristocrat, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am," she replied, looking straight at Henry Savoy.
"An aristocrat who's also a saint—now that's a curious arrangement. How did that—" he grinned, the thrill of testing her barely contained.
"One question every turn," she cut him off, raising her brow.
"Alright, alright, fair enough," he threw up his hands, like some kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Your turn then."
"You are the Chosen One, and it is your fate to be one," Keirin leaned in, staring right through him. "Why do you fight so much against something that you cannot escape?"
Henry Savoy snickered, taking his chalice and skulling the Apricia wine before pouring some. He drank another and poured half again. Lady Keirin quirked his eyebrow, she didn't really think that she was touching on some bad waters. She didn't, really.
To her surprise, Henry Savoy started to answer despite drinking.
"The thing about fate, sweetheart," he started, slow, "it's all a damn self-fulfilling joke. I mean, hell, I've seen it my whole life. Some poor bastard hears he's destined for greatness, so he spends his life running after it. And what does he get? Exactly what he's supposed to, 'cause he couldn't help himself. Me? I don't want a damn thing to do with any of it. I know my place in the world, and it's far away from all that."
Keirin shook her head slowly, a cold smirk tugging at her lips.
Keirin shook her head slowly, a cold smirk tugging at her lips.
"This world isn't yours, Henry Savoy. You weren't born here. You didn't choose it. There are forces bigger than you here, ones you can't just dismiss. They command you, whether you like it or not."
"I'm just saying, if there's no way, I'll make one," Henry Savoy spoke with a determined voice.
He was serious about that whole shtick.
"Alright, my turn. So, how's it work, really? How does an aristocrat end up in sainthood? Seems like mixing oil and water to me. Not that I'm an expert on the selection process or anything," he added with a shrug, clearly enjoying the challenge in his tone, "but I gotta say—an aristocrat as a saint? Feels like someone's playing a pretty long con here, don't you think?"
Lady Keirin's eyes softened as Henry's fell on them.
There it was; he'd gotten to her with that question. Henry Savoy wanted to laugh and shout so badly, bellowing congratulations to himself. It was a bad habit that made him obnoxious, and he was aware of it. But, suddenly, her eyes fell on her chalice. Following a page straight out of Henry's playbook, she downed her drink in one go, refilled her chalice, and took it down again without a flinch.
Henry slowly clapped with a grin on his face.
"Wow, my lady, earlier you acted as if you were about to die when you drank it—now you're even imitating me."
It does not stop there, Henry Savoy," she said, licking her bottom lip. "I have yet to answer."
" Well, shit, the floor's yours, then," he chuckled, gesturing for her to go on.
"Truth be told…" she began softly, her voice almost a murmur, as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. "I always wanted to be a saint. There was a time, though, when I dreamed of being someone else entirely. I'd nearly forgotten that, until recently."
She paused, drawing a deep breath.
"To be a saint, one must be devout, forsaking what others freely indulge in. You have to preach the Codex Oberin with unwavering conviction. And traditionally, a saint chooses their successor on their deathbed. That's how it's always been—until Saint Valepth."
She looked at Henry, but her gaze was distant, "he died suddenly, right in the middle of a meal. Within a week, we were at war, and every family clawed for the title. My family seized it first, and… somewhere along the way, I found myself wanting to be a saint."
"You didn't want it," Henry quickly replied. "You were made to think that you did."
"Why did you say so?" she asked.
"Apart from what you said, I don't know much else," Henry shrugged, swirling the wine in his chalice. "But I've seen it before. There's this look people have when they're living in a borrowed dream. The one you gave me while you spoke. That's it, babe. You stare but look somewhere else far from the surface you're physically seeing. Sure, you might want it now, but I'll bet there was a time when you couldn't have given a fuck."
Lady Keirin's eyes narrowed, something like anger flickering beneath her calm exterior. "You seem to think you understand me better than I understand myself, Henry Savoy."
"Maybe," he replied, not flinching. "Or maybe I'm just better at spotting a puppet on strings. Believe me, I've been one."
She held his gaze, pausing for a few seconds, her stare piercing.
"You're hardly the first 'chosen one' who thinks he's free just because he resists his destiny." She leaned closer, her voice a whisper laced with something sharp and cold. "The strings are there, whether you feel them or not. And no amount of resistance will change that."
Henry raised his chalice to her, eyes twinkling. "Then here's to cutting those strings. One drink at a time."
She snorted softly, but there was an edge to it. "You think freedom is a toast away?"
"No," he replied, clinking his chalice against hers, "but it's a damn good start."
"I do not understand how your mind works."
"It's simple," he chuckled, pouring himself another drink.
"Then how?"
"Hey, I think it's my turn." He pointed at her, grin widening. "You've asked four questions in a row."
She blinked. "Four? I only asked three, and that doesn't count."
"It does, and that's the fourth one," he smirked, raising his chalice.
"You're a scumbag," she laughed, eyes half-closed.
She looked, for a moment, genuinely off-guard. Her cheeks flushed, perhaps from the wine, and he couldn't help but notice how the drink made her movements slower, her expression softer. Of course, this was her first time drinking it, hell, it was the first alcoholic beverage that she had ever ingested. Then that means her alcohol tolerance was low.
It showed, too.
Her movement was fluid and smooth like a well-made martini, like the ones Henry Savoy used to make back at the Walking Stick. Her cheeks were glowing pink like liquor in a club's neon light. It must've been the first time she'd really chuckled like this. At least, since a long time ago.
At least, since a long time ago.
Henry Savoy cleared his throat, removing whatever was blocking his words from coming out.
"Why do you want to escape with me?" He said straight, no intro or nothing.
She looked at him, eyes flicking closed, then open, in slow motion. After a few seconds of thinking, she just took the drink and downed it all. She really had no reason—at least, not one that made an ounce of sense. Lady Keirin didn't like that because it was illogical and everything she did not stand for.
"So, nothing? Alright, babe," Henry snickered. "I thought we're getting comfortable with each other."
"No, it's just, I do not know. I would say what you said to me earlier. I just wanted to," she responded with a coy tone.
Realizing how she's acting, she chuckled again, covering her smile. "This drink, this wine, it makes you say things, huh? I feel braver, as if the world will fall apart tomorrow. Maybe it will. After all, the Chosen One was resolute on breaking the stone where Fate carved his future."
Henry leaned back, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. "Ah, so you're catching on, my lady saint. Now you know why I don't go in for 'destinies' and 'chosen ones' talk. It's a lot better just doing what you want."
"Is that all, then? Just… follow your whims, wherever they take you?" she asked, swirling the wine in her chalice, her voice almost wistful.
"If you're smart enough to dodge the stupid ones, why not?" he replied. "People look at someone like me and think it's about the booze or the jokes or…" he shrugged, "…whatever they think freedom looks like. But really? It's just about being able to look myself in the eye every morning."
She tilted her head, her gaze softening. "And do you?"
"Every damn day," he said, his tone unusually serious. He didn't look away.
For a moment, she didn't respond, lost in her own thoughts. "I never had that. Everything in my life was… arranged, even this sainthood. I was raised on obedience, not freedom."
"Well, Carpe diem," he chuckled.
She frowned.
"Carpih diem?" her words slurred, making him laugh.
"Carpe diem, it means 'seize the day.' Or night. Whatever works," he shrugged, still smirking.
The game was out of the window, both of them were just drinking now—sharing the next bottle. Lady Keirin didn't even realize that she was now just sipping wine. Henry Savoy was still grounded, he wasn't really that drunk. His constitution made him so, and also his skill Happy Hour helped, too.
"Seize the day, huh? I like the sound of that," Lady Keirin giggled, placing her chalice down and leaning forward to Henry Savoy before crawling slowly to him. He was pinned to his place like he was bolted there by a glacier.
She nudged the chalices with her feet, but she didn't care. She got closer and closer.
Then her lips met Henry Savoy's, both of them closed their eyes, breathing hotly on each other's lips in between the rosy meeting of their mouths. Henry's thought was blank, other than that her lips were soft like a delicate and dangerous rose.
When Lady Keirin snapped out of herself, she stopped the kiss and leaned back away from his face.
"I—I apologize," she stammered, eyes averted. "I do not know what came to me."
And so, Henry was on the verge of making another bad decision. He never wanted intimacy, not again. His heart was broken four months before by a woman he thought would change her.
But everyone's but a bag of snakes.
That's why we're all so afraid of getting stripped naked in front of the people we love. We are afraid that they might run away when they see that you are not the thing that they thought. All loveliness might fade away in the moment of fear and ugliness. But that's not how it works. They who ran away never truly loved. For loving truly is embracing the unlovable and unloved.
Henry Savoy, with life full of bad decisions, wanted this one to be a part of it. He took her wrist, tugging it gently towards him so they'd close the distance again. Maybe, even, that she will forget this night ever happened.
"Wine, alcohol, it makes us stupid; it makes us forget things, too. At least, what we did while we're influenced by it. If tomorrow shall come and I decided not to bring you, this night would be a mere speck in a sandstorm. You won't remember it. So, seize the night, babe. Alcohol's for bad decisions and stupid whims."
"Bad decisions and stupid whims," she whispered, eyes meeting his.
And their breath embraced together, once more.