MCFLS 08

Chapter 08.

“And you?”

“What.”

“Am I not pretty?”

Adrien asked the question out of the blue.

…What now?

Cyril narrowed his eyes and looked at Adrien.

A few curls—just as unruly as their owner—fell down his round forehead.
The bright red hair contrasted sharply with the pale skin, each color making the other stand out.

Below it, the eyebrows were neat and well-shaped, and his lashes were already long enough to cast dark shadows.

Cyril had started looking at Adrien intending to scoff, but his expression grew more serious by the second.

And those eyes. The bluest eyes Cyril had ever seen sparkled the same, even at sunset.

Despite the strong features overall, the slightly downturned eyes made his face look gentle.

Thinking back, Cyril realized he had thought Adrien looked like a fairy at first. Well—before being told he was tiny.

…Not wrong, actually.

The realization hit Cyril.

Adrien de Cassinel Blois was, as he claimed—no, as everyone in the whole castle claimed—pretty.

Very pretty.

“…Not really.”

Cyril finally tore his gaze away from Adrien’s clear eyes and said the opposite of what he really felt.

Pretty was pretty, but if Cyril acknowledged that fact, who knew how Adrien would turn out later?

“Really?”

“…Yeah.”

After hesitating, Cyril slowly nodded.

Adrien dropped his doll with a soft thud.

“But Cyril is pretty.”

Your eyes sparkle, too.

Adrien mumbled as he stared down sadly at his doll.

It felt too much like his own thoughts had been exposed, and Cyril flinched.

Should he take it back now? Actually, you’re also a little—well, maybe more than a little—pretty…

Just as Cyril was wracked with guilt—

“But it’s okay.”

“What’s suddenly okay?”

“Because I just won’t marry Cyril!”

Adrien shouted with sudden cheerfulness, as if he hadn’t been upset at all. Even the way he picked up the doll again was lively.

The unexpected blow made Cyril open his mouth in shock before snapping it shut.

“Who said I want to marry you?”

“Then we just won’t!”

“I won’t!”

Why would I ever marry an idiot like you?!

Cyril swallowed his anger and jerked his head away. Somehow, he already felt like he’d lost the argument.

Who said he wanted to marry him…

Cyril internally denied Adrien’s claim again as he replayed the words.

As if he was the one desperate to marry him…

The overly strong denial continued until the moment Adrien left the room.

The mysterious illness was Cyril’s oldest friend—
and his cruelest.

Whenever he was about to forget it, it returned, startling him and tormenting him through the night as if protesting that he had neglected it.

After waking from a short seizure, Cyril stared blankly at the ceiling.

By the time the moment passed—when his own body had felt foreign—it was already morning.

The cycle of tingling limbs, sudden loss of sensation, and the resulting mental haze never got easier.

I think I saw Jérôme…

Cyril recalled the faint memory of his physician’s face.

He vaguely remembered tugging the bell rope in panic. So Jérôme must have come.

As always, Jérôme would have given him medicine, then massaged his arms and legs to keep the seizure from lasting longer.

Much like now.

Rub, rub.

The small, gentle pressure on his hand felt so familiar—

…Small?

—Except it wasn’t familiar. Not at all.

Jérôme was an adult man and a skilled physician. He would never massage this awkwardly.

Finally sensing something was off, Cyril tried to turn his head. Regaining movement after a seizure was difficult, so he moved sluggishly.

“…?”

When he finally managed to look, he saw an unexpected person.

Adrien.

His lips moved, but he had no strength, so the name came out soundless.

Adrien sat by the bed, massaging Cyril’s hand, the only part of his body the boy had pulled out from under the blanket.

Judging by the way he tilted his head, he clearly didn’t know if he was doing it right. The clumsy, inexperienced touch felt completely unfamiliar.

Am I dreaming?

Still dazed from the medicine, Cyril barely formed the thought.

It was quite a reasonable conclusion. What business would Adrien have being here at this hour?

Besides, Jérôme knew Cyril well—knew how stubbornly he hated others seeing him sick.

Cyril was certain Jérôme wouldn’t easily let anyone in, not even Adrien.

So it’s a dream.

A very plausible deduction. Relieved, Cyril slowly closed his eyes.

A fool who doesn’t even know what an heir is could never nurse someone properly…

And even if he could, Cyril didn’t want Adrien caring for him. Especially after already exposing a moment of weakness.

Still…

Thinking it was a dream made it less unpleasant. Cyril drifted off with a more peaceful expression.

In the dreamscape he returned to, Adrien was waving at him.

Strangely, just that sight made the pain of the night feel as if it had vanished.

Wrapped in a soft, ticklish sense of comfort, Cyril fell asleep with a small smile on his lips.

It was a day after winter had passed. A chilly spring breeze brushed tender branches outside the window.

Cyril lay in bed, staring blankly at the scene.

After days of being sick in a row, his pale face looked heavy with gloom.

“You’re much better than before. The paralysis is far milder now. It’s just a simple feverish cold—nothing serious.”

Jérôme spoke reassuringly, but only certain words made it into Cyril’s ears.

Because of that, only the negative ones—“paralysis,” “fever”—echoed in his head.

As a result, Cyril lay dispirited, waiting anxiously for the next seizure.

Only last week he had cautiously hoped that the start of age seven would be a little better than the end of six.

To begin a new year with a cold? How disappointing.

Cyril coughed lightly. In the quiet room, the sound felt louder than usual.

Tck.

A faint tapping noise reached his ears.

Cyril coughed a few more times before finally turning his head toward the sound.

It came from the window. Something thicker than a branch was tapping on the glass.

The Cassinel estate had many old trees thanks to its long history, but even so—trees were still trees.

A tree moving on its own to poke a window? Impossible.

Besides, Cyril’s room was on the first floor. Branches from tall trees normally didn’t reach that low.

“Adrien?”

A shadow crossed the window, and then Adrien appeared.

The thick “branch” was a wooden practice sword. Adrien stood there gripping it tightly.

“What are you doing there?”

Cyril muttered, knowing Adrien couldn’t hear him.

Because Cyril had banned him from entering—worried he might catch the cold—this was their first meeting in a week.

Cyril quietly studied him.

Unlike himself, who had done nothing but lie in bed sickly, Adrien looked healthier than ever.

A warm flush colored his pale cheeks, and his bright eyes sparkled with energy.

How nice for him.

A little jealous, Cyril thought grumpily.

Some people have the strength to even go outside…

He knew it wasn’t Adrien’s fault he was sick, but the small, ugly envy rose anyway.

Tap. Tap.

Still meeting Cyril’s gaze, Adrien tapped the window again—harder this time.

“What.”

Cyril answered curtly.

It wasn’t like Adrien could hear him. So what did it matter how he spoke?

Regardless of Cyril’s internal excuses, Adrien pointed to himself, as if telling Cyril to keep watching.

What is he up to this time…

Though he felt no anticipation at all, Cyril kept watching.

Once Adrien was sure Cyril was looking, he stepped several paces away from the window.

Then he took a breath—

Swish!

—and swung the wooden sword. Completely unexpected, incredibly swift.

Cyril’s mouth fell open.

Adrien continued the bizarre performance. Judging from the occasional grimace and open mouth, he was probably shouting battle cries, too.

What on earth…

If Lady Parthenne had seen it, she’d have shrieked, “Mademoiselle Cassinel! Such unladylike behavior!”

Cyril, like a tutor, stared in disbelief—until eventually he couldn’t take his eyes off the kid’s sharp movements.

“The Count Cassinel is the very image of a strong, steadfast soldier. I guarantee the young master will grow up healthy under his care. This nanny swears it.”

The night before he left Tejar, his nanny had held his hand and said that.

Back then, he had been too shocked at being sent away to listen…

He kind of IS good at it.

Watching Adrien, Cyril had to admit the Count’s reputation felt justified.

As the Count’s blood, Adrien moved lightly and swiftly.

Of course, to a real knight it would look like child’s play, but to bedridden Cyril, it was impressive enough.

While Cyril was unknowingly mesmerized, Adrien finished his short demonstration and approached the window again.

Knock, knock.

This time, it was a small fist tapping the glass.

Cyril snapped back to himself, quickly adopting a neutral expression as if he hadn’t been absorbed at all.

By then, Adrien was right in front of the window.

Bright red hair shimmered beyond the large pane of glass. The midday sun hit it squarely, and Cyril found it almost blinding.

“…What?”

He couldn’t catch Adrien’s words because of that. It was too sunny to read lips properly.

Not because Adrien was… glowing or anything…