Her answer betrayed her.

Again and again, conversation after conversation, when presented with his feelings, the florist always ran. As if poison hid behind the option of acceptance.

He recalled the words shared beneath the masquerade's iridescent lights. She held reason to point out a knife at every living thing that breathed their gratitude for her, but would that mean trust would never come? That he'd be fighting this losing war forever?

"Elisabeth,"

If she was going to ignore his words, there stood no reason why he couldn't do the same.

"what am I to you?"

@tag

Labels never mattered to him.

It required more thought than he was typically willing to employ, and thus, most names went years before being given the thought of one. And yet, when it came to Elisabeth, that apathy no longer applied.

Rather, he found himself wishing she would place thought into it, as he had.

"I'm me?"

For once, incredulity wore at his features. Then a flash of further frustrations.

"What did I do that was so wrong? Tell me!"

His voice grew loud, his expression fierce. Resolve shone deep within the emerald hues of his eyes, like a promise shared between old friends.

This he would not let go.

"Because I don't understand."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

"that's not what he's asking you."

Words spilled out between his fingers, unable to be kept contained, not that he placed any effort in doing so. All he could do was raise with its surge of volume, kicking out from his chair, shadows swallowing the underboss whole.

"We can talk about that later. Right now, I need to know: what did I do?"

Words meant nothing, but surely his actions spoke enough of his intentions. Or was that not enough?

Madness corrupted the committed. Again and again, he attempted to spin their fate into one he could accept, even when reality asserted itself as the opposite.

"Why are so against the idea of me?"

Elisabeth Fiorelli

His daring knew no bounds. To the crinkling of the ice queen's fortress, the knight rose to the question, bridging the gap with a solid step forward, a pair of heavy and obtrusive eyes.

"I don't care."

He never does. May the world aim their daggers at his throat, no dangers would ever amount to the villains he'd battled since conception. The demons he still fought during the twilight hours, when comfort is no more than a figment of one's own traitorous hope.

"I don't care if you hurt me," he assured, "I prefer that than whatever this is."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

Did she not see him? Did she hear him?

What arrangement of words would finally unlock this level of understanding he'd been tugging out of her since their apology in the cottage, before titles and hierarchy tore professionalism into their friendship?

"A friend! Someone you can rely on!"

Exasperation bled from his lips, poured from his eyes, and quaked off his fists.

Instincts tempted him to take a step forward, but doubts forced him to resist. There was no telling where that would lead. Especially in this state he was in.

"Do I have to say it again? I don't care!"

Fuck it.

He stole a step from her, bridging the rift between them with words and thoughts and feelings that extended beyond the boundaries to which she meticulously set.

"Hurt me, disappoint me - it doesn't matter. Just," his voice grew soft, cut off by his own uncertainty. "Let me be there for you."

Elisabeth Fiorelli