Get well, Miru! >O<;
Oct. 20th, 2011 08:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedTitle: Yes, sir.
Genre: General.
Characters: Albrecht, Tibeault.
Rating/Warnings: U, none.
Summary: Get well fic for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lemiru! Playing around with the characters for a webcomic she hasn't even started yet xD
Tibeault had been in Prince Albrecht’s service for long enough that he didn’t really need to listen to him in order to write down exactly what he was saying. The man’s voice had long since faded into the background while the seneschal’s mind drifted to other things, namely the way that the fabric of his trousers tightened against the back of his thigh as he paced in front of the fire, dictating a letter to someone that Tibeault had never heard of.
It certainly wasn’t the ‘done’ thing, for a servant to have such… thoughts about their master, but it hadn’t entirely been Tibeault’s choice. The feelings had stalked him, creeping closer until one day he was tapped on the shoulder and they smacked him in the face. He hadn’t been able to shake them since, and it was completely and utterly unfair.
“Tibeault, are you getting all of this down?” It was more the change in tone than the words that caught his attention and he snapped his head up, his glasses sliding part-way down the bridge of his nose. The prince was looking at him expectantly, his arms folded over his chest, the fire backlighting his frame and picking up the copper highlights in his hair. Tibeault felt his mouth go dry. He tried to smile, failed, and cleared his throat.
“Yes, sir,” he said. Prince Albrecht’s lips twisted slightly to one side as he raised one eyebrow, a low ‘hm’ sound of something like doubt escaping him. Briefly, he narrowed his eyes, then turned away, resuming his dictation. Tibeault sighed, nudging his glasses back up and continuing to write. He wasn’t looking at the paper. His eyes were at the prince’s lower back, admiring the way that the tailoring of his jacket followed the curve inwards just slightly. Following the seam up the other man’s spine, he watched as Albrecht rolled his shoulders back, and felt the usual, inexplicable drop in his stomach at that simple action.
His master had many physical tells, things he was sure that the man himself was barely even aware of, but Tibeault knew all of them. He knew when the prince was trying to hide something from him, when he was angry, distressed, or troubled, all from tiny physical tics that only someone who had watched him so closely and for so long could possibly know. That little roll of his shoulders said that he was relaxed, but the way he was alternately tapping and scuffing his shoe against the edge of the rug said that he had something on his mind, likely something to do with the letter that Tibeault was only half paying attention to.
It really was unfair.
At an apparently lull in his train of thought, Albrecht stopped speaking and Tibeault flicked his gaze up. The prince’s attention wasn’t on him, which was all the better as he used the opportunity to run his eyes up and down, from the soft shine of the other’s lightly buffed shoes to the top of his head, not a single curl out of place. A man should not have been allowed to be more attractive to him than any woman he’d ever come across, but there was something about the prince that he desired and it was something that no woman would ever be able to offer him.
“I think that will be all for tonight,” Albrecht said, tapping his lower lip with the tip of one finger.
“Sir?”
“Throw that into the fire.”
“Of course, sir.”
Tibeault kept his eyes on the desk, and the prince left, closing the door behind him. Slowly, as if releasing some great tension, the seneschal sank down into the chair and closed his eyes, sliding his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he looked down at what he had been writing, scanning the words. He should have known. A tiny smile quirked its way onto his face and he stood, picking up the paper and scrunching it into a ball in his hand, tossing it into the fire and watching as the flames licked and curled around the edges.
A reply to a proposal of marriage from some far-off princess or duchess. He hadn’t looked at the name, but he knew the language, the very specific way in which Albrecht would refuse each and every one before telling Tibeault to throw it into the fire, and never speaking of it again. Tibeault didn’t know if he replied to them privately… but he liked to think that he didn’t.
“Tibeault!” The prince’s voice behind him made him shoot up, his spine rod-straight as he turned on his heel to the door where Albrecht was poking his head into the room. “I will expect you in the main hall for fencing practice at seven sharp.”
“Yes-…” He was gone, and Tibeault cringed slightly, then smiled. “...Yes, sir."
Genre: General.
Characters: Albrecht, Tibeault.
Rating/Warnings: U, none.
Summary: Get well fic for
lemiru! Playing around with the characters for a webcomic she hasn't even started yet xD*****
Tibeault had been in Prince Albrecht’s service for long enough that he didn’t really need to listen to him in order to write down exactly what he was saying. The man’s voice had long since faded into the background while the seneschal’s mind drifted to other things, namely the way that the fabric of his trousers tightened against the back of his thigh as he paced in front of the fire, dictating a letter to someone that Tibeault had never heard of.
It certainly wasn’t the ‘done’ thing, for a servant to have such… thoughts about their master, but it hadn’t entirely been Tibeault’s choice. The feelings had stalked him, creeping closer until one day he was tapped on the shoulder and they smacked him in the face. He hadn’t been able to shake them since, and it was completely and utterly unfair.
“Tibeault, are you getting all of this down?” It was more the change in tone than the words that caught his attention and he snapped his head up, his glasses sliding part-way down the bridge of his nose. The prince was looking at him expectantly, his arms folded over his chest, the fire backlighting his frame and picking up the copper highlights in his hair. Tibeault felt his mouth go dry. He tried to smile, failed, and cleared his throat.
“Yes, sir,” he said. Prince Albrecht’s lips twisted slightly to one side as he raised one eyebrow, a low ‘hm’ sound of something like doubt escaping him. Briefly, he narrowed his eyes, then turned away, resuming his dictation. Tibeault sighed, nudging his glasses back up and continuing to write. He wasn’t looking at the paper. His eyes were at the prince’s lower back, admiring the way that the tailoring of his jacket followed the curve inwards just slightly. Following the seam up the other man’s spine, he watched as Albrecht rolled his shoulders back, and felt the usual, inexplicable drop in his stomach at that simple action.
His master had many physical tells, things he was sure that the man himself was barely even aware of, but Tibeault knew all of them. He knew when the prince was trying to hide something from him, when he was angry, distressed, or troubled, all from tiny physical tics that only someone who had watched him so closely and for so long could possibly know. That little roll of his shoulders said that he was relaxed, but the way he was alternately tapping and scuffing his shoe against the edge of the rug said that he had something on his mind, likely something to do with the letter that Tibeault was only half paying attention to.
It really was unfair.
At an apparently lull in his train of thought, Albrecht stopped speaking and Tibeault flicked his gaze up. The prince’s attention wasn’t on him, which was all the better as he used the opportunity to run his eyes up and down, from the soft shine of the other’s lightly buffed shoes to the top of his head, not a single curl out of place. A man should not have been allowed to be more attractive to him than any woman he’d ever come across, but there was something about the prince that he desired and it was something that no woman would ever be able to offer him.
“I think that will be all for tonight,” Albrecht said, tapping his lower lip with the tip of one finger.
“Sir?”
“Throw that into the fire.”
“Of course, sir.”
Tibeault kept his eyes on the desk, and the prince left, closing the door behind him. Slowly, as if releasing some great tension, the seneschal sank down into the chair and closed his eyes, sliding his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he looked down at what he had been writing, scanning the words. He should have known. A tiny smile quirked its way onto his face and he stood, picking up the paper and scrunching it into a ball in his hand, tossing it into the fire and watching as the flames licked and curled around the edges.
A reply to a proposal of marriage from some far-off princess or duchess. He hadn’t looked at the name, but he knew the language, the very specific way in which Albrecht would refuse each and every one before telling Tibeault to throw it into the fire, and never speaking of it again. Tibeault didn’t know if he replied to them privately… but he liked to think that he didn’t.
“Tibeault!” The prince’s voice behind him made him shoot up, his spine rod-straight as he turned on his heel to the door where Albrecht was poking his head into the room. “I will expect you in the main hall for fencing practice at seven sharp.”
“Yes-…” He was gone, and Tibeault cringed slightly, then smiled. “...Yes, sir."
