Nox | Taehyung x Reader

Six

"Ahem. Good afternoon."

When you looked up from your journal with your usual smile, Taehyung stood but two feet away, holding the slightly-crumpled crocus by the stem.

Though its petals had certainly been straighter before it had spent several long hours in his pocket, the violet color was no less vibrant as it had been that first night it had caught his attention.

He had decided at last that it was better to give it to you and be done with the thing than to have it constantly on his person (and his mind). Late last night, he had abandoned prospects of sleep in favor of browsing the thick encyclopedias that filled the bookshelves in an attempt to identify the exact genus of the plant.

"Crocus banaticus," he said. "For you."

"Oh," you murmured, opening your bare palm so he could set the crocus gently down. "I've not cataloged this species before." You examined the delicate bloom carefully, turning it this way and that.

"So... You like it, then?" He ventured, after a minute.

"Of course!" With your other empty hand, you flipped through your journal until you were at an empty page. You urged the flower onto the blank sheet. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

Satisfied, he shifted his weight onto his back heel, prepared to take his leave. But before he could move, you said, "My lord, would you like to press this with me? Together?"

"I, uh..." He had not foreseen this. "I should not. I don't want to ruin your book."

"How could you? It's a simple thing. Easy to learn." You gestured to the flowers that were currently laid out on the table beside you, which he hadn't even noticed when he came in. "Pavel brought these for me from the countryside. Wouldn't you say it's far too much work for one person?"

Taehyung swallowed. You wanted him to stay here. Right here by your side.

He reached for a nearby chair. "How do I begin?"

Twenty minutes later, Taehyung's brows were knotted together as he struggled to remove thorns from a stem that had an entire swath of the dangerous things. He had taken the glove off of his dominant hand for a better grip on the tiny scissors. He nearly cried out in triumph when the last thorn came off, leaving the brown stem clean.

"I have never done things like this before," he muttered as he set the scissors down and stretched his stiff fingers. He had been so focused on the task that he nearly blocked out your scent altogether, though now it returned to him as a slow wave, a lazy crest in the back of his throat.

"You sound as if you have never had a friend before, my lord."

"Well." He took another plant of the same genus from your pile. "No, I... I did once, though it was a long time ago."

"Tell me about them."

You said it so easily, as if it weren't something he had been running from for most of his life. Maybe that meant he could confide in you. Maybe that was wishful thinking on his part. Still, his mouth parted as he cut a thorn free.

"We grew up together. When I lived in a different manor, far from here, I frequently took trips into town with one of the servants. That's where we met. Behind the local shops. He was running by and accidentally poured an entire bucket of water on me. I, of course, retaliated in kind with the mud he'd created.

"We were just boys. Getting into all the trouble you would expect from children of that age. I felt lucky to have someone to accompany me, besides my family. They only demanded things of me."

Though you stayed silent, your continuous nods of acknowledgement spurred him on, though he was careful to remain vague. "Things changed when we reached twenty years of age. It... It was my fault. If I had been more careful. If only I had noticed earlier...!" His chest constricted all at once, the familiar ache as acute as it had been that damned day.

"It became difficult for us to be around each other. I found it too... overwhelming." As a newly turned vampire, everything had been an attack on his senses. He had wanted to consume beyond his means, even when his thirst should have been quenched. And his family had encouraged it, for the sake of adding to his strength. "Then there was an accident."

You inhaled, sharp. "He...?"

"Yes. We'd been out riding on our horses and he fell. There was a rock. It was all so fast and I. I could not save him." He had tried. God damn it, he had tried, pumping his hands on his friend's chest, willing the heartbeat to keep going but the smell, the heavy scent of blood had filled his head with nothing but hunger and then, and then—he had lost all control over himself.

Before he noticed, you reached out and covered his naked hand with your palm. Warmth pooled over his skin.

"What was his name?" You whispered.

"Andrei."

Two hundred years since he had last breathed of that name to another.

Silence fell like rain upon the room. He stared down at the table but saw nothing.

What were you thinking? What had shocked you most—his story, his most devastating failure, or the temperature of his skin? Yet, he could not bring himself to move, to extract himself from you. How like a moth, flittering close to an open flame.

"Your hand is freezing, my lord."

Whatever he expected, it had not been... that. He raised his head and found you smiling, with tenderness. To his astonishment, he could see no fear.

"...A consequence of poor circulation."

"Perhaps this will warm you up then."

True to your word, you made no indication of retracting your hand.

He didn't understand it. You looked at him as if he wasn't a monster. There was only kindness, only compassion. He wanted to hide and bask in it all at once. How long had it been since he had faced those emotions? How long since they had stirred in his own heart?

It made him want to confess everything.

But he would lose you if he did. So he said nothing. Kept the rest of his secrets close, and the feeling of your hand closer.