Chapter Text
She has rehearsed this conversation seventeen times already, each iteration growing more convoluted than the last. Just a casual inquiry, she tells herself. A friend wondering about preferences. Nothing more. Gods, where is he—
Her internal monologue is cut short by the sharp click of a latch, followed by the groan of the Hotel Bouffes d’ete’s heavy doors swinging open.
“Ah, Lyney!” The greeting erupts with a tad too much enthusiasm as she spots him emerging from his home. He startles—not only at her presence but at her obvious overzealousness. “What a delightful coincidence, running into you here!”
At his own home. Where he lives.
“Lady Furina!” Lyney recovers, tilting his hat in greeting. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She clears her throat, summoning her most convincing performance of nonchalance. “Oh, nothing pressing. I was in the area and thought I might visit.” Yes. Solid start. She hasn’t lost her touch. Now for the casual transition. “I just remembered—your father’s birthday is approaching, isn’t it?”
Lyney’s eyebrow arches upward in a silent question mark. The expression is so transparently perceptive that it makes her own fastidiously constructed nonchalance feel like a shoddy stage prop—the kind she’s always hounding her propmasters about.
Perhaps her acting skills have grown rustier than anticipated.
“It is, yes,” he says carefully after a beat.
“Right, I thought so! And I also thought—well, one likes to be thoughtful about such occasions. Among friends. Close friends, even.” The words tumble forth in an increasingly tangled rush. “So I wondered what sort of… what she might… that is to say, what would make her—”
“Happy?” he supplies gently.
Happy . Such a simple concept, yet when applied to Arlecchino, it becomes something precious and elusive—a rare flower that blooms only under the most particular conditions.
“Yes,” she admits, her voice smaller now. “I want to make her happy.”
Lyney glances over his shoulder toward the door he just exited—the very threshold behind which the subject of their discussion resides. “Perhaps we could continue elsewhere? This place has too many ears.” He gestures toward a nearby café. “We could have tea.”
The café offers welcome refuge. Once seated at a corner table, Lyney resumes their conversation.
“So! That’s… actually quite difficult,” he says, attempting a laugh that carries more nervous energy than mirth. “We’ve been trying to crack that particular nut for years.”
“Surely you must have some insight—”
“Maybe she should give Father a kiss for her birthday.”
Furina whirls toward the voice, her heart executing an elaborate somersault. Lynette materializes from what appeared to be empty space, her expression serene—as though she had been an integral, if silent, participant in their conversation from the beginning.
“W-What?” Furina’s voice climbs an octave. “How long have you been there?!”
“A kiss,” Lynette repeats, ignoring the question entirely. Given her gift for stealth, Furina realizes with a jolt that she very well could really have been present all along. “On the lips, to be clear.”
“Haha, oh—that’s—” Furina sputters, thoughts scrambling as heat rises in her cheeks. “I mean, I understand it might be tempting to have a famed figure such as myself involved with your father, but that’s not—”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Oh.” The sound escapes her like the slow, sad hiss of air from a punctured balloon. “Okay.”
How exactly is she supposed to interpret that?
“I mean, I don’t care about your fame or what ‘figure’ you are,” Lynette continues, unruffled. “I’d just be happy to have you as yourself.”
“Oh.” Furina’s throat tightens unexpectedly. She forces her voice steady through sheer will—though it still comes out higher than intended. “Okay.”
“So when are you going to get together? We’re all waiting.”
“Um.”
Gods, Lynette’s assault is relentless. She needs some time to breathe.
Furina’s gaze flies to Lyney, seeking rescue or perhaps contradiction. Instead, she finds him offering an awkward laugh and an apologetic shrug—somehow both terribly endearing and utterly unhelpful.
“Well—of course you shouldn’t worry about that, but…” His cheeks take on a faint pink hue as he glances away. “It’s true we’ve grown somewhat frustrated.”
“Lyney already lost the bet. He thought you’d get together months ago.”
” Lynette! ”
“What? Father taught us not to lie.”
“First of all, you volunteered that information—no one asked—”
“It would’ve been a lie by omission.”
“—second of all, that’s not true. Father expressly taught us how to lie!”
“Oh, right.” Lynette pauses, thoughtful. “I always did well in that class.”
Despite everything, Furina can’t help but feel amused by their banter. It always proves oddly soothing.
“To be honest,” she interrupts their bickering with a sigh, “my bet would’ve been on months ago as well.”
No point maintaining pretense at this stage.
Both twins’ mouths form matching, silent ’O’s of surprise. They exchange a look—one that communicates volumes in a fraction of a second—before Lyney visibly gathers himself, his performer’s smile clicking into place.
“Well,” he begins, “if we’re abandoning pretense entirely, perhaps we should discuss actual gift ideas.”
“Yes! That would be wonderful!” Furina seizes the opportunity gratefully. “I’ve been trying to come up with something, but your father can be so hard to read—” She shakes her head. Why must she be so difficult? “I’m sure she’d appreciate something practical, but she doesn’t seem to lack for anything… And I must admit, I’d like it to be something meaningful. Something that can reach her.”
“Ah, the eternal question.” Lyney runs a hand through his hair. “We’ve never quite managed it ourselves. Every year we attempt something different, and every year…” He trails off with a helpless gesture.
“Maybe you should go for a lizard?” Lynette suggests matter-of-factly.
Furina blinks. ”…What?”
“A lizard. That was probably the happiest we ever saw her.”
“When you… gave her a lizard? For her birthday?”
Lyney winces slightly. “‘Gave’ might be an overstatement. More that… a lizard got into the house, so we trapped it under a bowl on the table. Father assumed that was her gift that year.”
“Oh.”
“But she did seem to like it!” His eyes spark with earnest excitement. “The most engaged with a gift we’ve seen her yet.”
“Oh!” The prospect is surprisingly thrilling. Finally, a lead! But— “Though I suppose she already has a lizard now, so…”
The twins exchange another look.
“Well…” Lyney hesitates. “Actually… she released it. It kept prodding at the enclosure lid, so Father let it go.”
“And then it got eaten by a bird immediately,” Lynette supplements.
“I see. So I shouldn’t go for a lizard, then,” Furina concludes.
“Probably best not to, after all,” Lyney agrees.
They fall into contemplation, brainstorming in their shared, fruitless orbit around the impenetrable fortress of Arlecchino’s approval. Custom-blended tea? No, they don’t know her tastes well enough. A rare entomology book? She likely owns it already. A commissioned painting? That’s—
“This is hopeless,” Furina groans, dropping her head into her hands. “The woman is impossible.”
“You’re telling us,” Lyney sighs. His gaze drifts past her shoulder to the café‘s ornate clock, and his eyes widen. “Oh—the street performance! We’re running late!” He jumps up, grabbing his hat. “My sincerest apologies, Lady Furina, but we really must—”
“A performance?” The word catches in her mind, snagging on other thoughts until an idea begins to spark and take shape. “Lyney, you’re a genius!”
He pauses. “I… am?”
“Not an actual performance,” she clarifies. This wouldn’t be theater for an audience—it would be a genuine, heartfelt offering. A grand display meant solely for an audience of one. “But something with… fanfare! A spectacle! Something so overwhelming that she’ll have no choice but to react!”
The twins look at each other, shared hesitance passing between them. Their father isn’t someone who appreciates spectacles directed her way—she rarely appreciates spectacle at all.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Furina says, reading the doubt in their faces. “It’s risky. But everything we’ve discussed is… safe. Has a safe gift ever truly moved her?”
The answer lingers unspoken between them, though they remain reluctant to speak it. To Lyney’s visible astonishment, it is Lynette who breaks the stalemate.
“She can set aside a book the same way she has been doing for years. She couldn’t ignore this.” She hesitates momentarily. “…Right?”
For years they’ve tried subtlety, practicality, quiet consideration. For years, they’ve fallen short. Perhaps this plan’s very unorthodoxy is what they’ve been missing.
“It isn’t just us two, you know,” Lyney says, his voice turning serious. “All of us at the House… We’ve all wanted to do something. Something to show her that we…” He trails off, the right words just beyond reach.
“…That you appreciate her,” Furina finishes softly.
The café‘s atmosphere shifts. The last vestiges of hesitation evaporate, replaced by tentative purpose. Watching the twins’ faces come alive with risky, vibrant hope, Furina feels a now-familiar warmth blooming in her chest.
To witness the depth of affection Arlecchino inspires in them—how utterly, impossibly endearing.
***
The air carries salt and damp sand, cool against her skin. Furina kicks off her heels with a sigh of relief, letting her toes sink into the fine grains. Beside her, Arlecchino is already rolling up the sleeves of her jacket. The white fabric against her darkened skin, the flex of tendons in her forearms—it feels like witnessing a secret, this unguarded version of her. A sight reserved for Furina alone.
The shore had called to them, as it often does after their dinners together.
“I find it endlessly fascinating,” Arlecchino begins, her voice a low, amused rumble, “how you will always, without fail, order the simplest item on any menu whenever we dine out—”
“A well-executed classic is a work of art,” Furina retorts, already on the defensive.
“—and yet, the last time you personally prepared a meal for us, I believe it involved both the eternal classic of macaroni… and marshmallows? Whatever happened to disfavoring ‘creative’ dishes?”
“That was a bold experiment in textural contrast! You simply lack the vision for true culinary innovation. Escoffier would have understood.”
She deliberately omits how Escoffier had later most definitely not understood, despite her usual receptiveness to Furina’s unconventional ideas.
“My vision remains quite content with being able to identify what I’m eating,” Arlecchino replies, and the deadpan delivery paired with the barest hint of a smile—one she reserves just for these moments—makes Furina laugh.
“You are a woman of tragically simple tastes, Knave.”
“And you, Miss Furina, are a delightful contradiction.”
Their easy banter fades into comfortable quiet, filled only by the rhythmic whisper of waves. This is what she treasures about these evenings—this relaxed space they create for themselves. Here, away from watching eyes, Arlecchino unbends.
A larger wave rushes up the shore, swirling around their ankles with surprising force. Furina gasps as the undertow pulls sand from beneath her feet, making her stumble. Instantly, Arlecchino’s hand finds her elbow, grip firm and steadying.
“Careful,” she murmurs, her breath warm against Furina's ear.
The touch lingers—a heartbeat, two heartbeats, long enough for Furina to notice the warmth of her palm, the gentle strength of her fingers. When Arlecchino finally withdraws, phantom heat remains. Furina’s skin tingles with the memory.
“It seems you’ve been spending more time at the House,” Arlecchino says suddenly once Furina has found her footing, her gaze returning to the distant horizon.
Her heart gives a nervous little skip. She keeps her voice light. “Have I? I enjoy the children’s company. Lyney’s been teaching me card tricks.”
“Card tricks,” Arlecchino repeats, skeptical.
“Very educational! Did you know there are seventeen different ways to shuffle a deck? He demonstrated all of them.”
“I’m sure he did,” she remarks with dry humor, then turns to study her with those perceptive eyes. “Though card tricks aside, I’ve noticed a certain… conspiratorial energy at the House these days. Whenever you’re present.”
A jolt of panic. Of course Arlecchino has noticed. How could she not? Think fast.
“Well, we have been discussing a very important matter,” she says, feigning gravity while her mind scrambles. “Lyney was telling me the most fascinating story about a lizard.”
Gods, why that of all things.
The slight arch of Arlecchino’s eyebrow serves as her only warning, but Furina marches forward regardless. Might as well commit fully. “Frankly, I found it utterly adorable. The great Knave, so diligently caring for a little reptile. Who would have thought you had such a soft spot?”
“It required care. I provided it.”
“Such a touching gift from the children, as well,” she ventures, testing these new waters. She’s genuinely curious about her perspective on the matter.
Something flickers across Arlecchino’s features—discomfort, perhaps reluctance. Her voice cools. “It wasn’t a gift.”
Furina frowns. “It wasn’t?” The way the twins had told it, their father had at least believed it was.
“It was an accident,” Arlecchino clarifies. “A creature found its way inside. The children trapped it. Nothing more. For it to be a gift would imply intention.” She pauses, her gaze turning distant. “An accident is simply… something that happens. I find that preferable.”
Preferable to intentional kindness? “But wouldn’t you rather have something that shows they care?”
Arlecchino stops walking, turning to face her fully. For a long moment she says nothing, and Furina can almost see the gears turning in her head—a search for an answer that is both true and safe. Then, as if deciding a demonstration is simpler than an explanation, or perhaps simply lost in thought, her focus softens, landing on a loose strand of hair the sea breeze has whipped across Furina’s cheek. Her fingers—surprisingly gentle—brush against Furina’s skin as she tucks the wayward lock behind her ear.
“You ask what I would rather receive,” she murmurs, her touch lingering by Furina’s temple, “but the need to care for something…” Her gaze drops to Furina’s lips, lingering there before slowly returning to her eyes. “It doesn’t ask for permission, or for anything in return.”
I don’t need you to be mine to want to care for you. I don’t need anything in exchange.
The words remain unvoiced, but Furina hears them anyway, reads them in Arlecchino’s touch, in the way she’s looking at her. Her breath catches. Her pulse becomes a frantic rhythm at her wrists, her throat, everywhere Arlecchino might notice if she chose to look.
Oh, she can be so infuriatingly, frustratingly dreamy.
She realizes she's moved closer without conscious thought. It always surprises her, this pull she feels whenever they're alone together, how she keeps drifting into Arlecchino's orbit as easily as breathing. How Arlecchino seems to do it too—how she's angled toward her now, close enough that Furina can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
The world narrows to just the two of them. This is it. Perhaps this time will finally be the time.
“Arlecchino,” she begins, the name soft and hopeful on her tongue. She needs to reach for her, to bridge this final, maddening gap between them, to turn what could be into reality—
“Perhaps we should head back,” Arlecchino says suddenly, her hand dropping away as she takes a small but definitive step backward. The warmth vanishes. The moment shatters. “The evening grows late.”
And there it is. The retreat. The door doesn’t simply close—it slams shut, locks, and bars itself before Furina can even lift her hand toward the handle.
It’s the same pattern as after the opera, when Arlecchino’s hand had lingered on hers for a heartbeat too long before vanishing entirely. The same as after their walk in the gardens, when she’d caught her looking with such unguarded tenderness it had stolen her breath, only for Arlecchino to turn and comment—rather unsubtly—on the botanical specimens. The same abrupt departure from the aquabus, when the setting sun had painted them both in gold and Furina had let her head rest against Arlecchino’s shoulder for just a moment too long.
The instant the air becomes charged, she pulls back. Every time.
“Of course,” Furina manages, the words tasting of ash and salt. “You’re right.”
They turn back toward the city lights, their easy rhythm now stilted and fragmented. What had been a comfortable quiet transforms into something strained—a chasm filled with the weight of Arlecchino's retreat and Furina's growing confusion.
“The dinner was lovely.”
“It was.”
“We should do it again soon.”
“Yes.”
Monosyllables. The wall has returned, seamless and impenetrable as ever. Why? Why does she construct these beautiful, tender moments only to shatter them with her own hands?
It’s becoming harder to bear—this pattern of approach and withdrawal, like some elaborate dance where only one person knows the steps. But even through her frustrations, Furina can see the caring figure that lives beneath Arlecchino’s layers.
That person deserves to be celebrated. She deserves happiness, even if she seems determined, for whatever reason, to stand in her own way.
Furina will make her happy for her birthday, she decides with a surge of renewed resolve. She’ll create such a spectacle of care, so overwhelming and undeniable, that Arlecchino won’t be able to deflect or retreat or dismiss it. She’ll simply have to face it.
She’ll drag her into all the good things she won’t allow herself to have, even if it means doing so kicking and screaming.
Especially then.
***
The report slides across polished mahogany. In the attached photograph, a nobleman’s face captures the precise moment of shock, an instant before his life met its end. Another account settled. Arlecchino sets the file aside, the task complete.
Her office, one of several the House maintains throughout Fontaine, remains silent save for the wall-mounted clock measuring her borrowed time in steady intervals. Late afternoon—time to conclude business and return home, where she knows the children's conspiratorial energy awaits. It’s the same energy that builds before every birthday at the House, yet this year it feels… amplified. More potent.
She doesn’t pry. Childhood should have room for secrets, even poorly concealed ones.
She remembers the old House, where no hushed conspiracies of celebration existed. Only cold appraisals and resentful, jealous glares. Only the silence of the great hall, the weight of dozens of eyes watching, calculating, as a child was either acknowledged or dismissed entirely.
She remembers Clervie’s voice, a conspiratorial whisper from a lifetime ago: “I have a surprise for you—for later.” Her eyes, sparkling with a secret that was hers and Perrie’s alone.
She shakes her head, rising from the desk. There is more work to be done.
She moves through the city’s arteries as the sun begins its slow descent. In a shadowed alley behind the Palais Mermonia, an informant waits. He flinches when her shadow falls over him, eyes widening—he’d clearly expected a subordinate.
“Your report,” she commands.
The man places a heavy, leather-bound book into her hands. “It’s all there.”
A curt nod dismisses him, and he scurries away into the darkening streets. Simple, efficient—unlike the changes at the House. This year’s heightened energy has an obvious source, a new variable she can identify with ease.
Furina.
She respects her—she had proven herself worthy of that respect after the flood, and it’s that very respect that makes Arlecchino step aside now, that allows her this… project. She trusts Furina’s intentions, even while remaining unable to comprehend her motivations.
Or the effect she has on her.
The scent of salt and the sound of waves seem to follow the thought. Moonlight dancing on water. Furina’s smile blooming into laughter. The phantom sensation of her skin beneath fingertips, the feather-light brush as she’d tucked that wayward lock behind her ear. The impulse had been overwhelming—not just to touch, but to hold. To cross the threshold Furina so willingly, so recklessly breaches every time they’re together.
Stepping back had been a matter of survival.
Almost as if drawn to the sea by memory itself, she finds herself at the docks. She has business here—a shipment requiring final inspection.
“Everything is in order, Lord Arlecchino. Will you be… celebrating, later?” the Fatui agent asks.
“That is not your concern,” Arlecchino says, voice flat. “Ensure this shipment arrives on schedule.”
The man pales. “Yes, sir.”
She signs the final manifests and turns away, the agent’s nervous energy fading behind her as she walks toward the harbor’s edge. The annual barbecue is a necessary performance, she reminds herself. The children need these rituals. They need a pretense to gather, to reinforce the fragile bonds of their makeshift family. She is merely the catalyst—an excuse for them to find each other. That is her proper role.
That’s why the lizard had been perfect. Furina hadn’t understood, back on the shore—but for Arlecchino, its beauty lay precisely in its accidental nature. It carried no intention, no expectation of grand reaction, no debt of favor earned or lost. That is the extent of effort they should need to invest in this day: accident, passing thought, background noise. Nothing more.
But this year, she already knows, will be more.
She closes her eyes, letting harbor sounds wash over her. The sun has set. Her borrowed time approaches its end. Soon, she’ll return to the House. She’ll play her part in their celebration, be the “Father” they need her to be until the spotlight shifts and they can simply enjoy themselves.
She will endure their misguided affection—for however long proves necessary, and not a moment longer.
***
The familiar creak of the House’s front door announces her arrival. Arlecchino steps across the threshold, bracing herself for the usual preparations—instead, she encounters a tableau that seems to belong in an entirely different performance.
A banner stretches between two pillars—“Happy Birthday Father” painted in what appears to be a collaboration between more mature artistic visions and the younger children’s enthusiastic penmanship. Streamers cascade across the room in an orchestrated chaos of black and crimson. The children stand clustered at the center, frozen mid-breath, confetti cannons poised in their hands.
Furina stands among them, seemingly at ease, but Arlecchino has long learned to read the tells beneath her flawless performances. She sees the way her thumb presses once, hard, against the knuckle of her index finger—she is nervous as well.
“Well?” Furina prompts the children gently, as if attempting to encourage stage-frightened performers. “What are you waiting for?”
Arlecchino considers her options. She could feign surprise—widen her eyes, perhaps allow her mouth to fall slightly open in theatrical astonishment—but the thought feels insulting to them all. They know she knows, that she has known. This game isn’t about deception, or even truly surprise—it’s about participation.
Instead of theater, she offers something more honest: a single, approving nod.
It instantly ripples through the gathering—shoulders that had been tense with uncertainty begin to ease, Furina's posture softens visibly, and the children take their cue. The cannons discharge in a burst of color, filling the air with celebratory paper fragments. A chorus of voices rises— “Happy birthday, Father!” —some shouted with enthusiasm, others called out more shyly, all layering together.
Arlecchino stands perfectly still as confetti settles on her shoulders and hair, and prepares herself for what comes next.
***
The party unfolds around her like a symphony performed in an unfamiliar key—recognizable melodies rendered somehow foreign. The usual barbecue has been elevated into something grander, though essential elements remain unchanged. Marc attempts to balance three plates while expounding his theory about optimal pasta-to-sauce ratios to anyone who will listen—namely Furina. Sylvie has claimed dominion over the dessert table, fussing over pastries that must have consumed hours of her morning. Jules, their newest addition, hovers at the edge, still learning the House’s particular rhythms.
Arlecchino understands the feeling.
She positions herself at the comfortable periphery, close enough to observe without being pressed into active participation. From here, she can safely monitor the celebration’s pulse.
At the same time, Furina moves effortlessly through the space, drawing children into conversation, encouraging their enthusiasm, creating pockets of warmth that feel both spontaneous and artfully crafted. Watching her work resembles observing a master craftsman—her skill at putting others at ease is so refined, perfected over centuries, that it appears effortless.
Much unlike herself.
“You’re brooding,” Furina says when her path brings her back to Arlecchino’s corner, though there’s a note of apprehension beneath her teasing tone.
“Am I? I thought I was simply observing,” Arlecchino replies without missing a beat.
“Uh-huh.” Furina says, unconvinced—then stops, suddenly studying her with proper attention. Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “You know, I actually wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Your expression would probably look the same in both scenarios.”
Arlecchino’s eyebrow lifts, amused despite herself. She briefly wonders if Furina would notice even that faint shift. “Truthfully, large celebrations aren’t my natural element,” she admits.
“Ah,” Furina says, settling beside her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her smile doesn’t falter—if anything, it grows softer, more understanding. “And yet here you are, tolerating our excess with remarkable grace. One might even mistake it for enjoyment.”
“One might be reaching.”
Furina’s laugh carries no trace of disappointment. “Now there’s the honesty I was fishing for.”
Arlecchino finds herself grateful for this easy acceptance, even as she recognizes that Furina must have hoped for more… engagement.
“Truthfully,” Furina echoes, leaning closer— dangerous —“we originally planned something much grander. Something that would’ve made this look positively restrained.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief and something else—fondness, perhaps. “But after hearing more about your past birthdays from the children, how there was barely any acknowledgement of the date… Well, I thought something more moderate might be wiser. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you.”
Furina likely doesn't realize what she's revealed—that she's been listening, learning, adjusting her approach based on what she's discovered. It’s both touching and unsettling, this evidence of how purposefully she's been observing her.
Arlecchino returns her attention to the children.
“They’re happy,” she says quietly, nodding toward where Lyney attempts to teach Freminet some elaborate card flourish while Lynette watches with deadpan amusement.
“They are. They wanted to do something special for you.”
The statement doesn’t sit right—not because she doubts its truth, but because she struggles to understand why her happiness should matter so much to them.
“And you?” The question slips past Arlecchino’s lips before she can reconsider it. “What did you want?”
Furina looks at her then, and there’s something raw in her expression that makes Arlecchino’s chest tighten. “I wanted to make you happy.”
A fragile, electric current passes between them—then breaks with an explosion of voices.
“Lady Furina! Lady Furina!” A gaggle of children descends in a whirlwind of tugging hands and competing demands. “You have to judge! Marc says his tower is taller but Sylvie says hers is better!”
“Tower?” Furina asks, rising and allowing tiny hands to guide her.
“We’re stacking macarons!” Marc announces proudly. “Mine’s definitely taller!”
“That wasn’t the challenge!” Sylvie protests. “We said whoever could make the best tower, not the tallest!”
“But taller is better!”
“No it’s not! Mine won’t fall over when someone breathes on it!”
“Oh my,” Furina laughs, glancing back at Arlecchino with sparkling eyes. “Come on, I believe Father should be the final arbiter! This clearly requires your expertise in… macaron architecture.”
“I’ve been waiting for that specific qualification to finally prove useful, but unfortunately someone needs to ensure the grill doesn’t go neglected,” Arlecchino says, gesturing toward it. “You handle this crisis.”
Furina protests briefly, but allows herself to be swept into their chaos, throwing herself into the role of impartial—if rather dramatic—judge. The children’s brewing conflict dissolves instantly, forgotten in the face of the entertainment she provides.
Hours drift by just like that: Arlecchino tends to the grill, watches from afar, exchanges brief conversations that require nothing more than her presence. Perhaps this won’t be as difficult as she’d anticipated, after all. All she needed was for them to enjoy themselves, and that seems to have been achieved.
The thought has barely formed when Furina claps her hands together, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Before we cut the cake,” she announces, and the children immediately perk, taking their cue, “the children have something they’d like to share with you.”
Arlecchino’s earlier optimism evaporates.
They arrange themselves into a line with rehearsed precision that transforms the atmosphere entirely—casual ease dissolving into something formal and unnervingly orchestrated.
“Oh?” she manages, and even to her own ears the sound carries more resignation than curiosity.
The youngest steps forward first, her voice small but determined. “We wanted to thank you for taking care of us when we were sick last month. You made soup and read to us and didn’t leave even when we were cranky.”
She presents Arlecchino with a drawing—stick figures arranged around what might be a house, their crayon smiles disproportionately large and naive. Her tiny hands tremble slightly as she offers it.
Arlecchino accepts the drawing with the careful attention it deserves, studying the figures as if they were a masterwork requiring serious contemplation. At the same time, something heavy begins building in her chest, unfamiliar and difficult to parse.
Is this how they see their life together?
“Thank you,” she tells the child—and means it, even as that strange weight presses against her ribs. “I can see you put considerable effort into this.”
The young girl beams, relief visibly flooding her tiny body. The next child steps forward, then another, each delivering their speech, their handmade gift, their earnest expression of gratitude for some kindness she’d provided without thought. One thanks her for helping with nightmares. Another for teaching him to tie knots. A third for showing her how to properly sharpen a whittling knife, trusting her with it when no one else would.
The gifts accumulate in her hands—family portraits in primary colors, scenes of domestic happiness rendered with more heart than technique. The words accumulate as well, building into a catalog of moments she’d forgotten or dismissed, small kindnesses elevated to profound significance through their childish perspective.
There is something familiar and deeply unpleasant about this ritual. A memory prods and builds at the back of her mind—a parallel between this moment and others best left buried.
Finally, Lynette steps forward, attempting composure despite the nervous tells she cannot quite suppress—ears flattened against her head, the barely perceptible twitch of her tail.
“I never had the opportunity before now,” she begins, steady despite everything. “And I know you said I didn’t have to—but I wanted to thank you. For saving me that night, from that nobleman.”
Her gaze grows distant, her mind clearly returning to that moment—the terror, the helplessness, then the sudden, shocking salvation in the form of a woman more terrifying than anything that had come before. She blinks, pulling herself back to the present.
“And I also wanted to thank you,” she continues, “for bringing me and Lyney here, to this family. You didn’t have to, but you did anyway, and I’m grateful every day.”
There’s something in the way Lynette looks at her—or rather, through her, past the reality of who she is to some foul, idealized construct built from misunderstood motivations. She sees a hero where none exists, a savior who acted from noble purpose rather than convenient timing.
It makes her sick.
Lynette is wrong. She’s wrong about that night, about the intention behind it, about the heroic narrative she’s constructed. Arlecchino had been there as an assassin, not a savior. The nobleman had been a target—scum marked for elimination—and Lynette’s presence had simply accelerated the timeline.
And bringing her here—to this house, to this family, to this life where she’ll never understand what a real home looks like because Arlecchino doesn’t know how to provide one—that wasn’t kindness either.
She shouldn’t be grateful. None of them should be grateful. They should—
Without warning, her mind takes her elsewhere. She sees children arranged in neat lines, hands clasped behind backs, speaking words of gratitude they’d been taught to recite. Not to her, but to Cruçabena—to “Mother”—who sat beside her, smug and satisfied, while they thanked her for guidance, for her wisdom, for her generous and frequent punishments that helped them grow stronger and wiser.
Different circumstances, different children, different words—but the same fundamental wrongness, the same choreographed appreciation for acts that should never require gratitude.
“You have nothing to thank me for,” she tells Lynette, the words surfacing from somewhere far away as though spoken by someone else entirely. It’s the only truthful thing she can say. She sees confusion in Lynette’s eyes—concerning. She needs to fix this quickly. “But your sentiment is appreciated.”
Lynette hesitates for a moment longer, her brow furrowed in a silent question. But she seems to decide against voicing it, giving a small, stiff nod before retreating back into the crowd.
They shouldn’t be grateful. They should be somewhere else entirely, with people capable of giving them the kind of family they deserve, one that exists beyond the strict boundaries of survival that define their current existence.
The gifts feel heavy in her hands now, like evidence of some transgression she doesn’t remember committing. The children are dispersing, their ritual complete, mingling amongst themselves once more. Furina beams from her position nearby, pleased with how everything has unfolded.
Good. That means she has performed her role well.
“The cake,” Furina announces brightly. “I think it’s time for—”
“We’re running low on meat,” Arlecchino interrupts. “The children will want seconds. I should retrieve more from the kitchen.”
“Oh, I can get it,” Freminet offers immediately, already moving toward the house. “You don’t need to—”
“No.” The single word comes out sharper than intended, and Freminet halts mid-step. She moderates her tone. “I’ll go. You enjoy the party.”
She’s already moving before anyone can protest further, the drawings clutched in her hands. Behind her, she can hear Furina redirecting the children’s attention, seamlessly covering for her abrupt departure.
***
The kitchen is mercifully quiet. Arlecchino sets the drawings on the counter, relieved to have them out of her hands, though their bright colors continue to catch light from the overhead fixture.
Her excuse was transparent at best, and she knows it. The grill still has sufficient food for several rounds of seconds, but sometimes thin excuses serve their purpose simply by existing.
She moves to the window, ostensibly to check on the children but really to ensure her absence isn’t disrupting their fun. They have indeed returned to their easy camaraderie, their duty discharged and attention free to focus on more immediate pleasures. Furina watches over them, making sure no one feels forgotten or overlooked.
They don’t need her. The realization brings relief rather than hurt.
Satisfied, she allows herself to sink to the floor, back finding support against the kitchen cabinets. The position lacks dignity, but dignity feels less important than this simple relief.
The drawings still rest on the counter above her, visual representations of a life she provides but remains separate from. She appears in each one—a tall, dark figure surrounded by smaller, brighter ones—made both gentle and unrecognizable through their eyes.
Why did accepting these gifts feel like participating in something corrupt?
Her arms begin to ache, a familiar throb she forces herself to ignore. The kitchen door could open at any moment. Furina might come looking for her, or one of the children might need something, and she would have to resume her performance.
The very thought exhausts her.
At least they’re enjoying themselves. At least she’s managed that much—keeping their evening intact, their happiness undisturbed. But the questions won’t quiet: are her attempts at protection genuine, or simply another mechanism of control? Another way of binding them to patterns they cannot fully see or question?
The ache in her arms sharpens. She flexes her fingers once, then forces them to stillness.
She closes her eyes and reaches for a familiar ritual—breath in, hold, release. Focus, find the source of this budding unease—but tonight her thoughts refuse to settle, refuse to let her make any sense of them. Each attempt to center herself only fractures her focus further, memories bleeding into present, questions multiplying faster than she can silence them.
After several minutes of futile effort, she accepts defeat. She instead allows old, reliable instincts to surface like muscle memory: compartmentalize, suppress, file away what cannot be processed cleanly. It’s the only way she knows to survive moments like these—let them sink into deep places where they cannot touch her.
Move past it. That’s all she can do.
Footsteps approach in the hallway—the distinctive click of Furina’s heels, her performatively unhurried pace that nonetheless skips the occasional step in her nervous haste. Arlecchino’s time for solitude is ending.
She should get up, compose herself, arrange her expression into something appropriate for a gracious host and grateful recipient. Instead, she remains where she is, back against cabinets, surrounded by evidence of love she doesn’t know how to process.
The footsteps pause at the kitchen door, and she waits as it swings open.
***
Furina finds her exactly where she expected to—seated on the kitchen floor like some dethroned monarch who has abdicated her responsibilities. She isn’t surprised. Arlecchino doesn’t appear surprised that she isn’t surprised.
She could break the silence with questions, with concern, with all the words that crowd behind her teeth demanding release. Instead, she leans against the doorframe and studies Arlecchino carefully.
“You know,” she says finally, with a twinge of theatricality, “I’ve seen more dignified exits, but there’s something to be said for the understated approach. Old reliable.”
The corner of Arlecchino’s mouth twitches—barely perceptible, but Furina has learned to read these minute expressions. “I was retrieving provisions,” she replies, deadpan. “The grill requires constant attention.”
“Ah yes, the grill. That demanding mistress.” Furina pushes off from the doorframe, moving closer with measured steps. “And here I thought you’d simply grown weary of being celebrated.”
Even as her heart had hoped otherwise throughout the evening, as she’d watched Arlecchino navigate festivities with apparent engagement, some part of her had been waiting for this moment. The retreat.
Still, she’d been so skilled at appearing comfortable, at playing the gracious host—though perhaps Furina had been deluding herself, reading contentment where there was only tolerance.
“That’s not—” Arlecchino shakes her head, the movement sharp with what might be frustration. “I was enjoying myself. Watching them…” Her gaze drifts toward sounds of continued celebration filtering through the walls. “I thought this would be like any other birthday. If with a touch more… enthusiasm.”
“So it wasn’t the party itself that sent you fleeing to commune with kitchen appliances?”
“I wasn’t fleeing—”
“What was it, then?”
Arlecchino glances toward the window, jaw clenching. “The evening grew warm. I thought perhaps some water…”
Furina stops listening. The excuse is so transparent, so obvious, it feels almost insulting. She knows precisely when it happened—anyone observant would be able to identify the exact moment.
But Arlecchino won’t acknowledge it—not directly. She would view honesty as an indictment of Furina’s efforts, criticism of the very thing she orchestrated for her sake. It hadn’t been entirely her conception, but her encouragement had helped bring it to life when the children’s natural hesitation might have killed it entirely.
“You’re always doing that,” she snaps.
Arlecchino blinks. “Doing what?”
“Retreating.” Her tone is sharper than she means, months of accumulated frustration bleeding through her composure. She takes a small, shaky breath, and forces her voice to soften into something more understanding. “You always do this, Arlecchino. We’ll be talking— really talking—and you’ll say something that makes my heart skip a beat, something that makes me think that maybe this time will be different. But the moment it becomes too real, you just… disappear.”
Her hands flutter in a gesture encompassing the kitchen, Arlecchino’s position on the floor, the gulf she’s created between herself and everything good waiting beyond these walls. “You leave me running in circles, trying to understand what I’ve done wrong, what invisible line I’ve crossed. Why won’t you just talk to me?”
A lump forms in her throat, the vulnerability in her own voice catching her off-guard. She hadn’t meant to reveal quite so much, but there it is—laid bare between them.
Arlecchino remains quiet for a long moment. When she finally speaks, it’s with the measured cadence of someone venturing into unfamiliar and potentially dangerous territory.
“You ask me that, but I’m… not sure where to begin, or that I even have the answers you’re looking for. I’ve never been good at this. At making myself understood.” She trails off, her gaze unfocused for a brief moment. “Even as a child, when I made my most earnest attempts at communication, there always seemed to be something about me that put people off.”
“You don’t put me off,” Furina says immediately, moving closer until she can settle beside her on the cool floor. Close enough to catch the faint scent of Arlecchino’s cologne, mixed with lingering smoke from the grill. “Quite the opposite, actually.”
Arlecchino glances at her, her expression softening. “I suppose I could make an attempt.”
Furina nods encouragingly, settling in to listen.
“You know I grew up in the House as well—the old House.” It’s a tentative beginning, testing waters. “I’ve mentioned it before, though you’ve never pressed for details.”
She remembers those brief references, the way Arlecchino’s voice would cool whenever the topic arose, how she’d learned to recognize the signs that meant steering their conversations elsewhere.
“The children lining up tonight—it reminded me of something. A ritual that occurred with… certain regularity.” She stops herself, shaking her head. “But perhaps that’s not the proper starting point. It wouldn’t explain the core of today’s problem.”
Furina waits, letting Arlecchino find her way through her own thoughts.
“Birthdays weren’t often discussed at the House,” she continues. “They were… rare occasions.”
“You didn’t celebrate them?”
“We did. But only for children who had earned the privilege.” Arlecchino pauses, her gaze lifting to search Furina’s face. “I imagine you assume my discomfort stems from inexperience—from never having known celebration.”
Furina nods, though something in Arlecchino’s tone suggests she’s wrong.
“The truth is quite the opposite.” Her gaze drifts downward, landing on a single drawing that must have slipped from the pile to rest on the floor beside her. She stares at it with an expression Furina can’t quite read. “My birthday was celebrated every year, without fail. I was ‘Mother’s’ favorite—her golden child.”
The coldness in her tone, as she describes what should have been happy memories—it makes Furina’s stomach tighten with dread.
“These weren’t blessings,” Arlecchino continues, as if reading her thoughts. “They were tools—instruments of manipulation. Birthdays fostered competition among the children—made them fight for the privilege of being elevated in ‘Mother’s’ eyes. Pushed them to identify the weak, the expendable. Pick a target, apply pressure, eliminate potential obstacles.
“Even those of us who received these… ‘celebrations’ weren’t truly fortunate. They were designed to isolate us. Every year, I would sit surrounded by my siblings as they watched me eat cake while their own plates remained empty. They were made to present gifts—taken from their own meager possessions—while maintaining the pretense of joy. Forced to look me in the eye and wish me happiness while resentment burned behind their gaze.”
“Arlecchino, that’s…” Furina begins, her hand lifting as if to reach out, to offer some small comfort in the face of such calculated cruelty—
“I didn’t care.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact, carrying no trace of pride or shame. “That’s the truth of it. Not that I enjoyed their suffering—I would have preferred to do away with the charade entirely. But I simply… didn’t care. ‘Mother’s’ poison had no effect on me. Her whispers about jealousy, about how I couldn’t trust them, how only she truly understood me—none of it took root. I couldn’t care less either way. Though it worked perfectly on them, turning me into their most despised rival.”
The confession, so simple and devoid of feeling, leaves a cold ache in Furina's chest. All she can do is swallow a lump in her throat and search for a kinder truth.
“You were just children,” Furina says, the words rough with emotion. “All of you. You deserved proper happiness, genuine celebration, not… not that torture .”
Arlecchino watches her as she speaks, expression unreadable. Furina can’t tell if she finds the response naive or if something in her words is somehow managing to reach her.
“I did have that,” Arlecchino says eventually, and something in her voice grows softer, more vulnerable than Furina has ever heard it. “Proper celebration, I mean. There was one person…”
She pauses, as if the memory itself is too fragile to handle.
“Clervie. After each of those performances ended, she would find me. Drag me off to some hidden corner of the woods where ‘Mother’ couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t, find us.” A real smile touches her lips—small and bittersweet, but genuine. “She would steal pastries from the kitchen, insignificant things that would never be missed. In later years, she attempted to bake cakes herself—disasters, mostly, but…”
She trails off, lost in the memory. Then continues, “She would gather actual gifts. Insects, usually. Small reptiles she’d discovered. Nothing of actual value, but chosen specifically with me in mind.” She grows quiet. “I tried to reciprocate for her birthdays—the ones that went unacknowledged by everyone else. Though I suspect I wasn’t nearly as skilled at it. She deserved better than I could provide.”
The way she’s not quite meeting Furina’s eyes suggests there’s more to that story—something that ended badly, as most stories from the old House of the Hearth seem to.
“I still hope I managed to bring her some small measure of peace on those days,” Arlecchino finishes softly.
Furina doesn’t press for details, recognizing the gift in what’s already been shared. The fact that Arlecchino is revealing this much feels precious, not something to be taken for granted.
“So seeing the children tonight,” she begins carefully, “reminded you of your siblings being forced to give you gifts?”
“Partially.” Arlecchino nods, but tension returns to her shoulders as if they’re approaching something even more difficult. “But there was another element. One that extended beyond birthdays. Mother punished us frequently. Often the entire House would be held accountable for individual transgressions—collective responsibility, she called it. And afterward, once she was satisfied with the damage dealt…” Her jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath skin. “Once our flesh was torn and bleeding, she would make us line up. Each child was required to thank her individually. For her guidance. For making us stronger. For teaching us the correct path.
“The worst part,” Arlecchino continues, “is that they meant it. The gratitude was genuine. She had conditioned them so thoroughly that they truly believed her cruelty was kindness. From my position as the favored child—often exempt from these punishments—I would watch that nauseating display of loyalty in their eyes as they groveled before the source of all their suffering.”
Her hands clench into fists in her lap. “I couldn’t understand it. Why should they ever be thankful for—” She stops herself, but forces herself to continue after a moment. “Tonight, watching those children thank me for acts of basic decency… I am the source of their circumstances. They’re trapped in this life because of me, confined to this House, to this dangerous existence. And yet they thank me for it.”
“Arle—”
“I understand,” she says quickly, anticipating Furina’s protest. “The situation is different. I’m not her. I don’t punish them, don’t force their gratitude. They chose to thank me because, for reasons I cannot fathom, they genuinely wished to. I’m not dim—I can see the difference.” Her voice grows bitter. “But can I really claim to be so different from her? For all my efforts to be a better ‘Father’ than she ever was a ‘Mother’, what truly separates us? Haven’t I created the same bonds of loyalty, the same dependence? Even if unintentionally?”
Furina begins to understand now, what Arlecchino had been trying to tell her on the shore. It wasn’t that she doesn’t need reciprocation—she was trying to tell her she doesn’t want it.
It’s not out of fear of being hurt or rejected. It’s terror of the transaction, of love becoming another form of manipulation. In Arlecchino’s understanding, shaped by Cruçabena’s poison, care that expects something in return transforms automatically into control—and she would rather starve than risk becoming what her “Mother” once was.
Arlecchino pulls back not because she doesn’t want love, but because she’s afraid of what her acceptance might do to the person offering it.
“Is this why you keep pulling away from me too?” The question slips out before she can stop it, carried by months of accumulated confusion and hurt.
She thinks of all those moments—the opera house when Arlecchino’s touch had lingered a breath too long before disappearing entirely, the garden walk when tenderness had bloomed in her expression only to be ruthlessly pruned away, countless dinners that ended with careful distance the moment intimacy threatened to take root. Not rejection, exactly, but retreat. As if Furina’s affection were something dangerous that needed to be managed rather than welcomed.
The pattern makes terrible sense now. If gratitude feels like chains to her, what must love feel like?
Arlecchino goes very still. This is the first time they’ve addressed it explicitly—this dance they’ve been performing for months. After what feels like an eternity, she answers: ”…Yes.”
There it is—the confirmation. Furina steadies herself, gathering her courage for what she needs to say next.
“You deserve love, Arlecchino.”
The sound Arlecchino makes might be laughter if it weren’t so devoid of humor. “Do I? That’s quite a generous assessment—”
“ Don’t . Don’t do that.”
Arlecchino falls silent, chastened.
“You do deserve love,” she continues, gentler now. “I’m sorry you went through all of that. I’m sorry she twisted something as basic as affection until it became indistinguishable from manipulation. But you don’t have to remain trapped there.”
“I’m not trapped anywhere.” Arlecchino’s voice carries an edge of defensiveness. “I’ve been moving forward—that’s all I’ve done since becoming ‘Father’. Moving forward, building something better—something that doesn’t need me—”
“You’re stuck , Arlecchino.” The words feel dangerous to speak, but they need to be said. “You’re still in that House, still living in those terrible celebrations and punishments. I’m not saying you should pretend it never happened—gods know it doesn’t work that way. I know it doesn’t work that way.” Her own voice catches slightly on the words, memories of her own struggles filling her mind. “I just… I wish you’d give yourself the chance,” she concludes, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.
She looks at Arlecchino directly, letting her feelings show clearly in her expression—love, longing, hope, all the things that make this woman recoil. As expected, she sees her start to pull back, sees the familiar walls beginning to rise.
This time, Furina reaches for her hand before she can retreat completely.
“I wish you’d let yourself be loved.” Her heart hammers against her ribs as she speaks the words she’s been carrying for months. “If not by me—” Arlecchino’s breath hitches at the flagrant admission, ”—then at least by them . By your children. You’re not her. Your love for them is real. You’re not leveraging it for control—isn’t your reaction tonight proof enough? The fact that their gratitude makes you sick instead of satisfied?”
She watches as competing instincts battle within Arlecchino—old habits battling against her pleas. Furina continues:
“So maybe you can’t help pulling back sometimes, maybe you’ll always feel that disgust when faced with gratitude. But as long as you try…” Furina’s voice grows softer, more hopeful. “Don’t you think that could change, one day?” She takes a shaky breath. “And I won’t demand this of you—I know it’s asking a lot. But if you could find it within yourself to try with me as well…” She laughs, the sound wet and bittersweet. “Well, I know that would make me quite happy.”
Something shifts in Arlecchino’s expression at her words, and for the first time in months, Furina sees her make a choice—the choice to take a step forward.
She leans in, her hand moving from Furina’s grip, traveling slowly up her arm until it cups her cheek. The touch is reverent, hesitant—it carries surrender, but not defeat. Their breaths mingle in the space between them, and Furina realizes this moment has been building for months. Every shared glance, every careful conversation, every retreat that left her wondering and wanting —all of it leading here, to this kitchen floor, to this choice.
“Are you sure?” Arlecchino asks in a hushed whisper.
She can’t help but laugh. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“I will be difficult. There are many things I cannot give you. You deserve—”
“Arlecchino, I swear to Celestia, if you don’t kiss me right now—”
She kisses her.
She kisses her, and it tastes like victory—not over her, but over every moment of retreat and hesitation, over the poison that tried to convince her love was just another form of corruption.
It starts tentative—barely more than a brush of lips, testing, questioning. Furina’s arms wind around her neck immediately, pulling her closer as if she can anticipate her inevitable retreat and prevent it through sheer determination.
But Arlecchino doesn’t pull away. Instead, she kisses her again, with more pressure this time, more certainty. Each press of her lips grows bolder, hungrier, as if she’s finally allowing herself to want something she’s denied herself for months.
The third kiss is deep enough to make Furina’s toes curl, Arlecchino’s mouth moving against hers with a fervor that steals her breath. She’s trying to be considerate—she understands this might overwhelm Arlecchino, knows she should let her set the pace, determine the boundaries. But Arlecchino seems surprisingly eager to push past them herself.
It’s not just lips now. Her hands find Furina’s waist, pulling her closer with desperate hunger, as if she can’t bear even the smallest space between them. In her enthusiasm—or perhaps an endearing, unexpected lack of coordination—she pulls Furina so close that they overbalance. She finds herself on her back against the cool kitchen floor with Arlecchino above her, her weight firm between Furina’s legs in a way that makes her pulse spike.
She’s not sure if the fall was intentional. She’s not sure Arlecchino could answer that question honestly either.
But now that they’re here, pressed together from chest to hip, she stops trying to hold herself back. Her hands thread through Arlecchino’s hair, messing the usually perfect strands as her kisses grow more heated, more desperate. This is different—deeper, more urgent, proximity having stripped away the last of their restraint.
Gods, Furina has wanted this for so long—wanted her in her arms, wanted to feel the controlled strength of her body, wanted to be the thing that finally makes her lose that iron composure.
When Arlecchino trails kisses along her jaw, Furina lets her head fall back against the floor, a soft sound escaping her throat. Her mouth finds the sensitive spot where Furina’s pulse flutters against her throat. She wraps her legs around Arlecchino’s waist, keeping her exactly where she is—where she’s meant to be.
Arlecchino’s name spills from her lips—breathless, wanting—and she feels rather than sees the way it affects her, the slight tremor that runs through her frame, the way her grip tightens as if she needs the reminder that this is real, that Furina is here beneath her and not some fever dream conjured by want—
“Father? We were wondering if— oh .” Freminet’s voice suddenly bursts their small, intimate bubble.
They freeze, the spell broken so suddenly that Furina almost feels dizzy from the transition. Arlecchino tries to push herself up, muscle memory and propriety threatening to take over, but Furina’s arms tighten around her almost reflexively. Her grip is loose, barely more than a suggestion, but somehow it’s enough to still the retreat entirely.
Arlecchino looks stricken—like someone caught in terrible transgression instead of simply kissing the woman she clearly adores.
“Everything’s fine,” Furina manages, her voice only slightly breathless. She hopes her smile appears more composed than she feels. “We’ll be back out shortly.”
Freminet nods enthusiastically, clearly desperate to escape the scene. His face has gone an impressive shade of red, and he seems to be looking everywhere except at them. “Right. Yes. Good. I’ll just—”
“Perhaps,” Arlecchino clears her throat, “you might refrain from mentioning this to your siblings?”
The nod becomes even more vigorous, if that’s possible. “Absolutely. Didn’t see anything. Nothing at all. Father was just… helping… with… kitchen things.”
“Kitchen things,” Furina repeats, fighting back laughter.
“Very important kitchen things,” Freminet confirms solemnly, then immediately contradicts himself by backing toward the door with obvious haste. “I’ll tell everyone you’ll be right back. Take your time. But not too much time. But enough time. I’m going now.”
He flees, and Furina allows herself to laugh fully. After a few seconds, Arlecchino melts back down against her, forehead coming to rest against her chest. She keeps giggling, now more delighted than amused, her hands finding their way back into Arlecchino’s disheveled hair.
“I thought you’d want to get up immediately,” she says, marveling at the way she seems content to remain pressed against her. “It seems I still have quite a lot to learn about you.”
Arlecchino mutters something indistinguishable against her ribs, the words lost in fabric. She can’t make out what was said, but the tone is distinctly petulant. It’s adorable.
“What was that?”
She lifts her head just enough to press a kiss to Furina’s collarbone before settling back down. “I said you should tell me to stop.”
Furina grins. “If you’re counting on me to be the responsible one here, you’re really barking up the wrong tree.”
Arlecchino makes a sound of discontent but doesn’t move away. Instead, she leaves another kiss against the sensitive skin of Furina’s throat. “If it were up to you, we’d spend the entire evening on the kitchen floor.”
“Now you’re getting the idea.”
She sighs against Furina’s skin, lifts her head to capture her mouth in one more kiss—slow and sweet and thoroughly indulgent. They both melt into it, savoring this newfound permission to want each other openly.
Finally, reluctantly, Arlecchino pulls away and sits up. “That would be rather impolite to the children.”
Furina sighs dramatically, but allows her to help her to her feet. “I suppose you’re right. Though for the record, I’m expecting a round two later.”
Something heated flickers in Arlecchino’s eyes. “As am I,” she says, her lip curving upward.
They straighten their clothes, attempt to tame their hair, and prepare to return to the celebration. As they reach the kitchen door, Furina catches her hand.
“For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, “I think you’re doing just fine. Being their father. Being yourself. All of it.”
Arlecchino doesn’t answer immediately, but her fingers tighten around Furina’s.
“Thank you,” she says finally. And for once, she doesn’t sound like she’s questioning whether she deserves it.
