𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐈𝐗 : 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬

"Which you can work on it while Niccolo and I are away," the author said without looking up from his work. "For now, grab another sheet and draw something new."

While Mr. Kirstein grumbled, Niccolo paced over to the sofa and sat at the open end. The chef laced his fingers behind his neck and placed his hooked ankles on the coffee table's corner. He stretched comfortably and let out a loud yawn over the room.

"Appreciating the silence?" Mr. Arlert asked.

"It's a nice change. I don't know how you managed to get Y/n to keep her mouth closed, but you have my thanks."

"Hey!" you whined. "That's–"

"Shhh," Mr. Arlert hushed you. "Finish your work, and you can talk all you like. For now, enjoy the tranquillity."

"Le pouvoir lui monte à la tête."

"You too, Jean. Speech is silver, but silence is golden."

Another two hours ticked, and Niccolo fell asleep on the sofa with his head slumped onto Mr. Arlert's shoulder. As you haphazardly stitched little daisies into the edges of the flower cluster, you smiled sweetly at the sleepy sight. It had been so long since Niccolo napped so peacefully. After you first moved in, you regularly caught him, and Sasha cuddled up on that same sofa with his head resting softly in her lap while she played with his hair. She would hum to him softly, and maybe it was the boredom or the silence, but you swore you heard the familiar tune floating in your ears. You had not thought of that song in years.

Today, your mind raced with so much more nostalgia than you were accustomed to. Hopefully, those thoughts did not translate to dreams.

"I finished," a French accent trampled over the soft melody buzzing in your memories. "May I leave now?"

"Show us what you drew," Mr. Arlert spoke with all the sternness of a governess.

"I am not a child, Armin, and this is not an art show."

"When you prove you can behave like an adult, I will treat you as such. Until then, let's see it."

You snickered under your fingertips, and the artist whipped his head to you. His eyes reminded you of Eren's during your shared lessons growing up whenever you corrected his wrong answers—embarrassed and furious. It must have been the disbelief of how easily you turned on him and sided with the instructor over a peer.

A puff of air escaped Mr. Kirstein's lips, and he flipped his picture around. "It is Niccolo."

That was precisely what it was—a perfect recreation of the man slumped over on the couch. Everything was there, from the broad shoulders creasing his vest to the eye wrinkles aging him ever-so-slightly to the long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He even captured the softness of Niccolo's hair, and you swore you could feel the warmth of his soul bleeding through the page. Your eyes shot back and forth from art to reality as you desperately tried to find a fault, but there was nothing to pick apart.

It was perfect.

"That's..." Amazing. Spectacular. Magnificent. "Surprisingly accurate," you mumbled.

"Jean specializes in portraits, but he can paint just about anything if you give him the instructions," Mr. Arlert explained, still entirely focused on his pages. "That's why my family has kept him close for so long. Now, show her the first piece you drew."

"No, I am leaving," said Mr. Kirstein as he stood up abruptly. "I have played your game, and now I need to sleep if I am expected to do it again tomorrow." He carefully collected the picture of Niccolo and the crumpled-up paper that he hid in the cushion and dipped out of the parlor.