𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗗, 𝗨𝗡𝗪𝗘𝗗 [ 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘹 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ]
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 2
"Toss your dirty shoes in my washing machine heart
Baby, bang it up inside
I'm not wearing my usual lipstick
I thought maybe we would kiss tonight"
—ᴡᴀsʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴀᴄʜɪɴᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʙʏ ᴍɪᴛsᴋɪ
CHAPTER 2
He, who rose from the dead
"... Irog... "Mikhail trailed off, looking down at his soaking clothes. M/n was surprised to see the corpse in front of him, and frankly, he was scared.
"Goodness, someone's jumpy in the morning." Mikhail wasn't angry, he was more amused than furious.
'He didn't get the memo yesterday...Now I feel bad for splashing water...' M/n wasn't pleased to see Mikhail, though he still has manners. He splashed water on someone, a corpse.
"A—are you okay...?" M/n hesitantly asked, averting his gaze from Mikhail.
"No worries, water can't hurt anyone. Im completely fine. Just.... A little wet," Mikhail chuckled awkwardly, wringing his damp clothes to take off the excess water.
M/n really didn't want to invite the corpse over to his house, but sympathy was his weakness, and whenever he does something wrong to someone by accident, he's completely dead set on making it up to them.
"You should head inside, I'll give you a change of clothes; you might catch a cold." M/n halted for a moment.
'Does a corpse get sick?' he thought before shrugging it off.
Mikhail was over the moon, he could finally come inside with his beloved.
"You're too caring, Irog." The nickname made M/n uncomfortable. Hearing a dead corpse call him by that intimate nickname sets him off, especially when it's a random stranger.
M/n led Mikhail inside the manor, and Mikhail observed that the manor, his humble home, never changed; it was still in the same structure.
"You have a very nice home," Mikhail complimented, even though this house was his, it was M/n's home now, and it would soon be their home.
"Thank you..." M/n fiddled with his fingers.
"Ah, I never caught your name, may I know it? It would only be fair since I introduced myself already." Mikhail smiled, waiting for M/n to say anything.
"It's... M/n Percival..." The name made Mikhail fall head over heels for M/n. Knowing his lover's name was fulfilling for him.
"M/n... M/n..." He muttered, as if testing the name with his tongue.
"You can sit here, I'll bring you fresh clothes." M/n motioned for Mikhail to sit on the couch. The brown haired man happily obliged, sitting on the comfy couch.
Later, M/n emerged from the room with a set of clothes
"Thank you, Irog," Mikhail gratefully took the clothing.
"It might not be to your taste..." M/n scratched his head. After all, Mikhail does look like a sophisticated gentleman who has great taste, so it wasn't a surprise that he would like anything vintage of the sort.
"Nonsense, you choose this. Anything would be fine if it were from you." Mikhail smiled warmly, which made M/n a little flustered.
"The bathrooms that way..." He pointed towards the corridor.
Mikhaik nodded and excused himself. M/n was left to ponder what to do with the corpse. M/n finally let out the breath he’d been holding.
Okay. Think, M/n.
He’s in your house.
What the heck should I do?
Should he tell him the truth? That it was all a mistake, that the vow was spoken by accident?
But what if he didn’t take it well? What if he lashed out?
Or... should I lie?
It is not a full lie; it is just bending the truth. It was accidental. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d walk away. M/n rubbed his temples.
Yeah... I’ll lie. For now. Keep things safe. Calm.
Mikhail soon emerged from the bathroom, now dressed in a soft sweater and slacks that hung just a little loose on his frame. He looked oddly more human now.
M/n sat up straight, clearing his throat as he tried to hide how tense he was.
“H-how are the clothes? They're not tight, right?” Mikhail shook his head, brushing some curls away from his eyes.
“No. They're… intriguing,” he said, glancing down at himself. “Very different from my usual taste, but they’re comfortable. Cozy, even.” His lips quirked into a small smile.
“That’s… good to hear.” M/n forced a chuckle. A silence fell between them, M/n was never good at leading conversations, and the weight of what he needed to say pressed heavily on his chest.
“Mahal?” Mikhail's voice cut gently through the stillness.
“Is something bothering you? You seem troubled.” M/n's throat tightened. A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
“Um… about the vow, I…”
Mikhail tilted his head, curious.
“What about the vow?”
M/n looked away, anxiety flickering in his pale eyes.
“It was… a mistake. I didn’t mean to say it. I didn’t know it would do anything, let alone raise a corpse from the ground.” Mikhail blinked once. Then smiled softly.
“I had a feeling,” he admitted.
“You… did?” He nodded.
“But it didn’t matter. I still heard you.” His voice was quiet, but sure.
“After waiting for so long, hearing those words...it felt like a dream, even if it wasn’t meant for me.”
M/n sat frozen, unsure how to feel. Sympathy tugged at him, but he couldn’t ignore the chill in his spine.
“What is this? Are you one of those stuck souls from old stories?” he asked cautiously.
"Sort of,” Mikhail replied, his expression turning somber.
“I had an unfulfilled wish, you see.” M/n hesitated.
"And that was…?”
“It’s quite simple, really.” Mikhail folded his hands.
"I yearned for marriage.” M/n stared.
“My death was… sudden. I remember almost nothing about it. But before it happened, I was to be married to a woman I deeply loved.” His eyes darkened slightly.
“But I passed before the ceremony. My vow, my promise to her, it was never fulfilled.” M/n lowered his gaze. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the undead part, or the tragic romance.
“So I remained,” Mikhail continued, his voice quieter now.
“Trapped between worlds. And then… you spoke the vow. The very one written for me.”
Mikhail raised his gaze to M/n's, olive eyes warm.
“That’s when I woke.” M/n's voice came out smaller than he meant.
“But… doesn’t that mean you’re free now? You’ve fulfilled your vow, right? You can go?”
Mikhail smiled gently.
“Not quite. The vow tied us. And until you die, I remain.” M/n blinked. “What?”
“My soul is now tethered to yours,” Mikhail explained.
“When your life ends, our souls will bind. Only then will I find peace.” M/n's blood ran cold.
“So… we’re stuck? Forever?” Mikhail chuckled. “‘Till death do us part,’ no?”
M/n sank slightly into the couch. Not only was he accidentally married to a corpse, he was eternally bound to one. He never even wanted marriage to begin with. Mikhail, however, looked content. As if things were finally as they should be.
"Hold on! Isn’t this a bit unfair!?" M/n snapped, stepping back instinctively. His voice was high with panic.
"I accidentally said the vow! I didn’t mean it—I didn’t know it did anything! besides! I'm a man! That's taboo!”
His breathing was shallow, heart pounding as the sheer weight of it all slammed into him. Marriage, bound souls. Forever. All things he had run so far to escape.
This was the reason he left home in the first place. Why he burned bridges, ran from forced engagements, and disappeared into obscurity. Yet here he was again. trapped, cornered, and haunted.
Why did it always come back to this?
Mikhail let out a soft chuckle. But it didn’t reach his eyes. His calm mask was beginning to slip, the fragile edges starting to crack.
“Perhaps so,” he said quietly.
“But it changes nothing. I'll love my beloved through and through, gender doesn't matter if you're in love."
His gaze, gentle yet strangely unwavering, met M/n's and lingered. “Fate brought us together. You found me. You spoke the vow.” His voice held something deeper now.
"Accidental or not, our souls are now bound. That cannot be undone.”
M/n's mind raced. Think. THINK! How do I shove this through his thick skull?!
His eyes fell to his hand. Then he remembered. Desperation flared.
“Th-that’s not it!” he stammered.
“I... I can’t marry you. I’m already b-betrothed! To someone else!”
He thrust his left hand forward, showing the ring he always wore, a ring he used to fend off matchmaking attempts from his family. It had never meant anything, until now. Mikhail’s expression faltered.
His eyes dropped to the ring, staring as if it were something sharp and cruel. His lips parted slightly, a flicker of pain crossing his face, pain that twisted into something darker and unreadable.
“You… are betrothed?” he repeated. His voice was hollow, like the echo of a man trying to hold onto something slipping from his fingers.
“Y-Yeah. So I’m already taken—”
“You’re lying.” The words cut sharply. M/n winced.
Mikhail's gaze narrowed, now sharpened with certainty. M/n's averted eyes had betrayed him.
“I… I…” Lucien faltered. Then something inside him snapped.
“So what if I’m lying?! I don’t want to be married to anyone! I don’t like it—I hate it!”
His voice rose, trembling.
“Do you know how many times I’ve been forced into proposals I didn’t want? Pressured into smiling, nodding, saying yes to people I didn’t even know?! I ran away from all of it—I ran so far, just to have peace!” He felt the tears building, but pushed past them, letting his raw truth spill out.
“I don’t want this. I don’t want you!”
Mikhail’s face twisted, whatever gentle warmth had been there was gone now, replaced by a storm of conflicted emotion. His hands clenched at his sides.
“And what about me, M/n?” he shouted back, voice cracking.
“I waited. I waited, in darkness, in silence, with nothing but that vow holding me together!” His voice trembled, but it wasn’t just anger, it was grief, loneliness, and yearning.
“I finally hear it...and I come back to life. I can’t just let that go. Not when I’ve been waiting so long.” M/n backed up instinctively as Mikhail stepped closer, his eyes wide.
“Then find someone else!” M/n said, voice shrill.
“Someone who wants you!” “No,” Mikhail said, his voice was trembling with desperation now.
“I want you. No other. Only you.”
M/n's back hit the wall. He didn’t realize how far he had retreated. Mikhail’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm, not rough, but firm.
"I won’t let you go. I can’t lose you…”
And then, out of fury, Mikhail slammed his fist against the wall beside M/n's head, M/n flinched.
He stared at Mikhail, his lips parted, and for a moment no sound came out.
Then tears slipped from his eyes.
He was so tired.
Tired of being cornered.
Tired of being forced.
Tired of having no say in his own future.
Mikhail saw the tears and stilled.
His chest heaved, his clenched hand loosening against the wall. His eyes flickered, grief overtaking fury. But it was too late. The damage was done.
He dropped his hand, no longer touching M/n. But his expression remained conflicted, torn between love and obsession, hope and heartbreak.
“You’re not going to anyone else. I won’t allow it…”
Even as he said it, he knew how wrong it was. Knew what he was doing. But his longing had clouded everything else—twisting his wish into something dangerous. And M/n, chest aching, couldn’t do anything but cry.
“Forget it…” M/n's voice was thin, barely a whisper. “My feelings don’t matter, do they?”
He wasn’t shouting anymore. The fire had gone out of him, and what was left was worse, cold and crumbling.
“I’m tired,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the floor. “Just… do whatever you want.”
Mikhail opened his mouth, but no words came out. The weight of M/n's words pressed against his chest like a stone. This wasn’t defiance. This was surrender.
“No matter what I say, no matter how loud I scream, I’m always overruled,” M/n went on, hollow. “My parents only cared about legacy. I was never a son to them, just a name to pass down and preserve.”
He scoffed quietly.
“Every woman they threw at me only ever looked at the inheritance, never me. I could’ve been a ghost and they wouldn’t have noticed… as long as the ring was on their finger.”
M/n glanced over his shoulder, eyes glassy.
“I did want marriage once,” he admitted softly. “The real kind. The kind where someone chooses me, not what I came with. Not what I can give.”
He turned back again, swallowing hard.
“But now? Now I’m bound to a corpse who just needed someone to fill a space.”
Mikhail’s face twisted, stricken. “That’s not—”
“Don’t.” M/n's voice sharpened. “Don’t you dare try to spin this into something noble. You didn’t fall in love with me. You fell in love with the idea of me. the voice that woke you up. The one that made you feel like you mattered again.”
Mikhail stepped forward, slowly, hands trembling, reaching up to brush away the tears gathering in M/n's eyes.
M/n smacked his hand away, harder than he meant to.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, voice like broken glass. “You don’t get to comfort me after this.”
He pushed past him, every step like dragging chains.
“I’m going to bed,” he muttered. “Don’t follow me.”
Mikhail watched as M/n went up the stairs.
"wait-" Mikhail called out. M/n stops but never turned around to look at Mikhail.
Mikhail's gaze averted from M/n, his expression conflicted. There was a mix of frustration in his eyes, but also a hint of hesitation. He took a deep breath before speaking, his tone cautious.
Mikhail watched M/n ascend the stairs, slipping further from him with each step. Panic bloomed in his chest. He reached out before he could stop himself. “Wait—”
M/n stopped mid-step. But he didn’t turn.
The silence that followed pressed in like a held breath. Mikhail swallowed hard, his voice cracking as it softened.
“…Is this really what you want?”
M/n stood still for a long, heavy moment. Then came his reply. though it was like a reality check for the corpse.
“No. But let’s not pretend this was ever about what I want.”
The words cut through Mikhail like ice, leaving a cold hollowness in their wake.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“But you did hurt me,” M/n replied, finally turning to face him. His voice was raw. Frayed. “And the worst part? You still think I should be grateful for it.” The blow landed harder than Mikhail expected. His chest tightened.
“I wasn’t trying to trap you—”
“Yes, you were. You just gave it a pretty name."
Mikhail looked down, ashamed.
“I just… I wanted you to want it too.”
M/n let out a soft, bitter laugh upon hearing those words come out of Mikhail's mouth.
“You think that makes it better? That it makes this noble somehow?” M/n asked. “You pulled me into something I never agreed to. And now you’re hoping I’ll grow into your dream? Catch up to the fantasy you’ve been feeding yourself all this time?”
Mikhail’s fists clenched at his sides.
“It wasn’t like that…”
“It’s exactly like that.” M/n's gaze was hard now, cold and tired. “You didn’t fall in love with me, Mikhail. You fell in love with an idea. And now I’m left carrying the weight of your unfinished story, like I’m supposed to make it right.”
"I don’t know what I am to you,” M/n hissed. “A savior? A placeholder? Someone who you think can feed your delusions? But I know what I’m not. I’m not yours.”
There was silence. Then, softer, cracked by emotion.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you, Mikhail. I am. But I’m not the one who left you in that coffin. I’m just the poor bastard who read the vow at the wrong time.”
Mikhail’s face crumbled. “I just… I didn’t want to be alone anymore…”
M/n's voice dropped to a trembling whisper. “And I’m supposed to pay for that?”
M/n was right. Each question M/n had let out was the truth, without sugarcoating or filter. “Is it really love… if you have to chain someone to keep it alive?” Mikhail had no answer.
He lowered his head, guilt swallowing him whole. M/n turned, climbing the last few stairs. His steps were steady, but his voice broke when he spoke again. quiet, but firm enough to splinter the air between them.
“Mikhail… maybe you were someone’s tragedy. But you don’t get to make me yours.”
And then came the final sound, the lock sliding into place. A tiny, cruel click that echoed like a gunshot.
Mikhail stood there, staring at the empty stairwell, the silence screaming around him. He had dreamed of love.
But maybe all along, he had mistaken possession for devotion.
And now he was alone again. trapped, not in a coffin this time, but under a roof where someone still breathed…
…just not for him.
MIKHAIL lingered at the bottom of the stairs, his gaze fixed on the room M/n had retreated into. The sharpness of M/n's words struck him like cold water, dousing whatever deluded notions he had clung to.
He didn’t understand, wasn’t marriage something all humans longed for? Everyone he knew had always talked about getting married young. Some even boasted about having a fiancée at just ten years old.
So why didn’t M/n want the same?
He would have, perhaps, if he lived in the same era Mikhail had died in.
“M/n is mad… how do I make it up to him?” Mikhail murmured to himself. He racked his brain for anything he remembered about couples making up after a fight.
“Chocolates?” he considered, before frowning. “No money... Right. A letter, then?” He nodded to himself with resolve and began to search the house for writing materials.
Eventually, he found a sheet of paper and oddly enough, a strange-looking pen. It wasn’t the quill he was used to, but it would do. Sitting himself down, Mikhail began to write. He poured his thoughts onto the page with as much grace and vulnerability as he could muster, hoping M/n would feel even a sliver of his sincerity.
There was no envelope, so he folded the letter neatly and made his way to M/n's bedroom door.
“M/n? Mahal? I… I know you’re still upset, and I wanted to apologize,” he said softly through the wood.
Silence.
Mikhail’s shoulders sank. “I’ll… just leave this here, alright?” he mumbled, sliding the letter gently under the door before walking away, deciding to give M/n the time he clearly needed.
Inside the room, M/n lay motionless on the mattress, his pale blue eyes resting on the folded letter near the door.
‘What is that man up to now?’ he thought, sighing as he finally pushed himself up.
Cautiously, he picked up the letter. The handwriting was ornate, beautiful, but not the easiest to read. Still, he read on. The letter began:
________________________________________
To M/n, the Light I Dared to Grasp,
There are no words vast enough, nor parchment wide enough, to contain the sorrow that festers within me. Yet still I write, for silence now feels more cowardly than cruelty. M/n, I have wronged you. That is the simplest truth, and yet even that feels too small for the weight of what I’ve done. I did not lift you into this bond with reverence.
I dragged you, unknowing, unready, undesiring. I mistook the warmth of your voice, the mercy in your gaze, for invitation. I was foolish enough to name it fate. But it was not fate, was it?
It was grief. ancient and relentless. It was loneliness, echoing through the hollow of my ribcage for far too long. And when you spoke, when your breath stirred the dust of my forsaken heart, I clung to you as though you were a promise made flesh.
How arrogant. How selfish.
And how I weep now for it.
You were not meant to carry my ruin, M/n. Not meant to inherit my longing, my ache for something I never truly had. I see now, too late, perhaps, that I did not fall in love with you, but with the hope you represented. And that is not love. That is a hunger I never learned to silence.
You deserve a love that asks for nothing but your presence.
You deserve mornings without dread, nights without pressure, and a partner who sees you not as salvation, but as someone sacred and whole, even in your silence.
Even when you walk away.
I cannot undo what was bound in haste and grief. But I can choose now to let go, not of you, no, I would carry your name in my bones until dust takes me again, but of the claim I laid upon you. I release it. And if you leave me with only the echo of your footsteps, I will still bless the ground that bore them.
Forgive me, M/n. Or do not. It is your right.
But know this, if ever you look back and find my name upon your lips again, I will be here, no longer with hands that grasp, but with arms that simply wait.
Yours, painfully and quietly,
Mikhail A. Beaufort
________________________________________
“Tch… Where was this attitude earlier…” M/n clicked his tongue. He crumpled the letter and tossed it outside his door like trash, an unspoken message loud enough for Mikhail to hear: Not impressed.
Still, the bond remained. Bound to a corpse. What a life.
With a deep sigh, M/n retreated into his room, locking the door without another word. He didn’t want to see Mikhail for the rest of the day. Cleaning could wait. His pride came first.
Downstairs, Mikhail stared at the crumpled letter like it was a death certificate.
“…Strange… usually that works,” he muttered, sweat beading at his brow. “Mother said if you write your lover a sweet apology, it softens them…” He scratched his head, utterly puzzled. “I even wrote all the things M/n would want to hear…”
He rambled like a drenched pup who’d been kicked, completely unaware that someone upstairs had heard every word.
After a few silent seconds, Mikhail bent to pick up the discarded note and sighed.
“If words won’t work… maybe something else will.” Chocolates are still out of the question, although other gifts are available. Like flowers, mother keeps flowers from her garden, right? Then, that should be the next thing he should do.
"I'm not sure what kind of flowers he likes..." Mikhail mumbled. His gaze shifted to the memory of his mother’s garden. flowers, always flowers. They never failed to make her smile. M/n hadn’t said much about flowers, but… maybe he could find something that reminded him of M/n instead. he ventured to the garden outside of his home, where his mother used to plant various flowers.
"It should be around...here...?" Rather than the colorful flower bed he remembered, it was just lumps of soil with withered flowers.
"Oh...right. The house hasn't been tended to for years..." Mikhail was disappointed, but that doesn't mean he had given up yet. The forest is still available, and there were many flowers in those areas that he came across yesterday night.
Mikhail adjusted his sweater, making sure to be cautious to not dirty the clothes that M/n had given him. he ventured deep into the forest, looking for the perfect flower that reminded him of M/n.
It took him a couple of minutes to search for a flower, but eventually, his hard work paid off. he saw a beautiful flower that his mother used to grow from her garden. Mikhail still remembered the meaning of the flower.
He picked a couple, enough for his hand can take.
"Hope this works, this always makes mother happy whenever father gives her flowers." Mikhail smiled, excited to see a face appear on M/n's face.
Back at the manor, M/n blinked at the silence. He heard the door earlier… Did Mikhail leave? Did… did that idiot finally get the hint? He went down the stairs slowly, scanning the empty space. The air felt still. Barren. Cold. Just the way he liked it.
His stomach growled.
“…Great.” In all the drama, he had forgotten to eat. A glance at his phone told him it was already 2:40 PM—lunch became an afterthought. He scoured the cupboards and stared at the sad excuse of ingredients.
“A sandwich and fruit… again.”
He slapped together a ham and cheese sandwich, added a few grapes and a glass of water. Pathetic. Almost like he was on a diet he never signed up for.
"I really need to order someone to deliver groceries..." Lucien facepalmed at how sad his meal is. M/n cannot cook; he can only do simple foods like boiling eggs, noodles, frying an egg, and cook rice. very basic knowledge about cooking. Though he did wonder how he was still alive in these conditions...
Nevertheless, food is food.
M/n ate his so-called lunch. munching on it slowly to savour the food, while he swipes through his phone and finally orders groceries to be delivered by tomorrow. he knew that the food he had wouldn't last a week, so the earlier he gets the goods, the better.
While M/n continued to chew, he didn't notice the corpse approaching him.
"Is that all you're going to eat?" M/n was startled, almost stumbling from his seat. He snapped his head towards Mikhail, who was looking at him in confusion.
"I thought- urgh... never mind." M/n knew this was too good to be true. We were talking about the same corpse that was bound to him, of course, he wouldn't leave him.
"I'm sorry if I startled you...u-um! anyways! Here" Mikhail shoved the flowers towards M/n, who stared at them. M/n's pale blue eyes lit up when he recognized the flowers. "Is this Sampaguita?" he questioned. The sickly sweet smell emanating from the flowers had invaded his nostrils.
"Indeed...it reminded me of you...it means purity, love, and devotion." Mikhail waited for M/n to take the flowers. But to no avail, the dirty blonde male didn't move an inch.
"I'm not taking that," He plainly said, continuing to eat his lunch.
"Ah..." Mikhail stood awkwardly. He looked at the sampaguita in his hands with a dejected expression. Why wasn't it working?
The sampaguita would be a waste if he just threw it out. he grabbed the empty vase on the counter, filled it with fresh water, and put the flower inside. Lucien watches Mikhail, his eyes looking away.
Sadness was one of M/n's weaknesses. And just by hearing Mikhail's sad rant earlier, it made him sympathize. Though that doesn't mean he'd forgive him that easily.
But it was hard, Mikhail reminded him of a puppy of some sort when he saw the sad expression plastered on his face. Mikhail puts the vase in the center of the countertop, right in front of M/n.
Mikhail sat across from M/n, silence accompanied them; and M/n would like to keep it that way. However, Mikhail, being Mikhail, started a conversation.
“Your lunch looks… light. Are you sure that’s all?”
M/n's jaw tightened. Concern. That tone again. He hated it. Concern was something foreign to M/n, and seeing Mikhail give him that made him feel...uneasy.
M/n didn’t answer. He slowly finished chewing, then stood and brought his plate to the sink without a word.
Mikhail watched him, fingers twitching against his thighs. “I—I could try making something next time. I remember how to cook some things. Stews, bread, um... sausages- though I doubt you'd like those—”
“Stop,” M/n cut in, voice firm but not loud. “Just stop.”
Mikhail’s mouth snapped shut. He looked down. M/n washed his plate with a little more force than necessary. The running water filled the uncomfortable space between them, and Mikhail fidgeted.
“…Do you not like the flowers?” he finally asked, voice small.
M/n didn’t look back. “They’re fine.” “Oh,” Mikhail tried to smile, as if that was some kind of win. “So… you do like them?”
“I said they’re fine. That’s not the same.”
“O-Okay.” Mikhail nodded to himself, unsure what to do with that information.
He shifted in his seat, trying again. “I just… picked them because they reminded me of you. Pure, and…” he trailed off when he saw M/n turn his head slightly, enough to glare.
“Don’t call me pure,” M/n said flatly. “That’s creepy coming from you.” Mikhail immediately sank a little in his seat. “R-Right. Sorry.”
M/n dried his hands and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze pinned Mikhail like a knife. “Why are you even doing all this? The flowers. The apology. All this for what? For me to just forgive you and forget this never happened? You changed my life, Mikhail.”
“Because I messed up…” Mikhail said. “I thought… people still liked marriage. That it was romantic. That proposing meant something beautiful.”
“To you, maybe. But not me.” M/n shot back. “You don’t know me well enough to make that kind of assumption.”
“I’m trying to,” Mikhail said earnestly, though his voice wavered. “That’s why I’m still here. I want to know you. I want to make up for what I said.”
“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for,” M/n muttered, walking past him.
“I do!” Mikhail turned toward him.
“I know I made you uncomfortable. I know I forced a fantasy you didn’t ask for. I just… I panicked. I'm just trying to make you at least comfortable with this bound marriage,” Mikhail corrected himself, not wanting to make M/n think he only wanted his peace.
"If you really want to make me comfortable with this 'marriage'. then, why don't you try to make me want this marriage yourself?" It was supposed to be sarcastic, but to Mikhail, he viewed it as a challenge.
M/n didn’t say anything more. He walked away, leaving Mikhail to sit alone with the faint scent of sampaguita and an apology that, once again, didn’t land where he hoped it would.
Once M/n retreated upstairs, the air grew still. Mikhail stood in the middle of the kitchen, fidgeting with his sleeves as the silence grew heavier around him. The rejection had settled like a weight on his shoulders. he had expected coldness, but it still stung.
Not knowing what else to do, Mikhail wandered through the house. His steps echoed in the quiet, his fingers grazing the old walls, the worn corners of the place. Eventually, he found himself in front of a familiar door, barely cracked open. He paused.
The study room.
He gently pushed the door open, greeted by the familiar scent of old parchment and polished wood. The room was dim, curtains drawn halfway, but the sun still filtered in, just enough to dust the shelves in warm gold.
Books lined the walls like sentries from the past. Some were worn with cracked spines and folded corners, others were untouched. Mikhail stepped inside slowly, brushing his fingertips along the rows.
His eyes landed on a book with a deep navy-blue cover and faded gold lettering. He reached for it and gently pulled it free: Beauty and the Beast, the original version, its corners frayed by time. The very one he'd read over and over again as a child.
“…You’re still here?” he whispered, brushing the cover with his thumb.
He sat down in the old armchair, the cushion creaking softly beneath him, and opened the book. The first page greeted him like an old friend.
Mikhail opened the book, his eyes trailing over each word with a soft, aching nostalgia. It had been years, decades, even. But the pages still welcomed him like an old friend. He sank deeper into the armchair nestled in the corner of the study, its cushion sagging beneath his weight, but it didn’t matter. He was comfortable.
The quiet creak of the house, the smell of fresh lemon lingered. all of it wrapped around him like a memory. He took his time, reading line by line as if savoring a long-lost lullaby.
So immersed he was in the story that he didn’t notice the sun dipping behind the trees, casting a warm orange hue across the wooden floor. Shadows lengthened across the shelves, and yet, the golden glow did nothing to dim the bubbling warmth blooming in Mikhail’s chest.
He flipped to a familiar chapter, one he’d always loved.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” Mikhail read softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I only hoped you might enjoy your dinner.”
He stared at the line, lips parted, heart quiet. The Beast sat in silence, offering Belle a warm meal. No demands. No conditions. Just quiet hope.
The scene had always stayed with him. Even now, it stirred something in his chest. He traced the edge of the page with his thumb, gaze distant. He didn’t ask her to stay. He just wanted her to feel safe.
'Why don't you try to make me want this marriage yourself?' M/n's voice rang through his head.
Maybe he’d been going about it all wrong.
Maybe M/n didn’t need grand gestures or flowery words. Maybe, like Belle, he just needed to feel... cared for.
Without pressure. Without expectations. Just a quiet dinner. A warm meal. Something simple. Something human. Mikhail closed the book with newfound resolve. Maybe he couldn't rewrite their beginning, but he could start again with something warm. Something that spoke, not with words, but with care.
He stood up, determination softening his features.
If he couldn’t get through to M/n with words or apologies, then maybe, just maybe...he could try what the Beast did.
"I need a new plan...Something that wouldn’t feel like a bribe or performance. Something more… natural. We’re bound for life now, he reminded himself bitterly. Maybe I can show him the good parts of that..."
If M/n could see even one benefit of this forced bond—just one kind gesture that felt real, maybe he wouldn’t look at Mikhail with such exhausted resentment. Maybe he’d even stop glaring at him like some sort of parasite.
But what do spouses do?
Mikhail tilted his head and thought hard, trying to recall what his parents used to do for each other. His mother always cared for his father—she cooked, kept the house neat, and made sure everything ran smoothly. She never had to be loud or pushy about it, just… consistent. Present.
I can’t go outside with him, not yet. And I doubt he’d want to. Especially not after the mess he’d made of everything. So maybe Mikhail should start with something small. Something he could do. Like cooking. A gesture of care, not grandeur. just like what the beast did.
Mikhail went downstairs to the kitchen. It wouldn’t be rude to use a little of his food, right? Just enough to make him dinner...
Determined, Mikhail made his way to the cupboard and scanned the contents inside. Bread. Jam. A few canned goods. He raised an eyebrow and took one of the cans, reading the label aloud:
“Tuna...? In a can? There’s a whole fish in here?”
He placed the can down gently, as if unsure it wouldn’t start flopping around. Then he opened the fridge: eggs, some cheese, and a handful of grapes. His brow furrowed.
“What am I supposed to make with these?”
He scratched the back of his neck. This food felt depressing. Bland, almost. No rice, no potatoes, no meat, nothing that screamed "dinner." But he figured he could work with what was there. A meal was a meal, and starving M/n wasn’t an option he wanted to entertain.
Egg, cheese, tuna, and bread. It’s not much, but… It’s something. He could at least try to make it feel like dinner. He decided on sandwiches. It wasn’t fancy, but it could be filling.
“Hope he doesn’t mind…” Mikhail muttered to himself as he opened the can. The tuna inside made him flinch, he’d expected it to be raw or slimy, maybe even still moving. But instead, it smelled surprisingly… good. Far better than the pungent fish he was used to handling back then.
He dumped the tuna into a bowl, cracked an egg in, and added a bit of shredded cheese. As he mixed it all, he tried to picture M/n's reaction. Would he accept the food? Ignore it? Throw it in the trash?
Mikhail glanced toward the hallway, then down at the bowl again.
“…Even if he hates me, at least he won’t go hungry.” He prepared a pan, turned the stove on, and began to fry the concoction.
It smelled surprisingly pleasant, mild and savory. The tuna didn’t have that strong, pungent odor Mikhail expected, and it actually looked… edible. He watched it until he was sure it was done. Carefully, he plated it and turned his attention to the bread.
He seared both slices slightly, just enough to add a bit of crispness, then spooned the tuna-egg mix onto one slice and topped it with the other. With delicate precision, he cut the sandwich diagonally.
"...Still looks sad," Mikhail muttered, eyeing the meal. A faint pout formed on his lips. It wasn't the most cheerful dish. Acceptable for breakfast, maybe, but as a dinner meant to show care? To make peace?
Pitiful.
Still, it wasn’t for him. It was for M/n. With a sigh, Mikhail poured a glass of water, set it beside the plate, and glanced outside. Night had fallen. The soft chirping of crickets filled the silence.
Mikhail gathered his courage. Before heading up, he paused by the mirror. He checked his reflection, brushed his tousled hair down, adjusted his collar, tried to look... less dead. But there was only so much one could do about skin that resembled marble and the faint shadows under his eyes. Despite it all, he still looked young. Unnatural, yes. But not monstrous.
He reached M/n's door and gently knocked.
"M/n? Are you hungry? I made dinner." Silence. He hesitated before continuing, voice softer this time. "It may not be much, but I promise it's something. I, um... I apologize for using your food without asking..." Still nothing. "...If you're in the mood, please eat. I—I don’t want you starving."
A beat passed. Another. Mikhail stood still, waiting. But when no reply came, he lowered his gaze. The light in his expression dimmed, like a kicked puppy in the rain. He held onto the thought that maybe M/n was just asleep. Or ignoring him. Either way, he didn’t want to push.
The last thing Mikhail wanted was to seem forceful. Or overbearing.
He returned downstairs, set the plate on the table, and covered it with a lid to keep the bugs away. Beneath it, he tucked a small note, scrawled in his slightly dramatic cursive:
“Please eat this. I hope it’s to your taste. – Mikhail”
With nothing else to do, Mikhail wandered the living room, poking at trinkets and tapping his fingers against the walls. Boredom soon crept in. After a while, he returned to the couch, curling up with the book he had left earlier.
An hour passed. M/n still hadn't come down. Worry tugged at Mikhail's chest, but he resisted the urge to go upstairs again. He told himself it was fine. M/n needed space. He would come down when he was ready.
An hour and a half later, the book slipped from Mikhail’s fingers. He had fallen asleep, quietly snoring, curled on the couch with the now-closed book resting on his chest.
DICTIONARY SECTION:
IROG — Sweetheart
MAHAL — Love
SAMPAGUITA — Jasminum sambac commonly known as Sampaguita was declared as the national flower. believed to symbolize purity, fidelity, and hope.
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ARCHIVES:
—marriages have historically been very popular and considered a cornerstone of Filipino culture, deeply intertwined with religious and family values.
—In traditional Filipino contexts, a verbal apology might be accompanied by, or even replaced with, a concrete action. This could include offering food, performing a service, or some other form of practical gesture to make amends, which was a more tangible way of showing remorse and seeking forgiveness.
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