The Saint Wants to Rest - vanish into fiction

Ian laughed softly and leaned his back slowly against the sofa.

“You really have changed.”

“So, do you dislike it?”

As he said this, he looked at Ian with eyes curved into soft crescents. He looked so absurdly beautiful that the words “I dislike it” could not come out.

“You’re doing this on purpose because you already know, aren’t you?”

When asked, Vermouth shrugged his shoulders as if he knew nothing at all. Watching him, Ian blurted out his honest thoughts.

“I don’t dislike it.”

At that, Vermouth’s eyes sparkled.

“In fact, it feels good because you finally seem more human. Come to think of it, even though we were together for five years, it feels like we don’t know much about each other.”

Ian tapped the spot on the sofa next to him with his palm.

“Come over and sit. Since things turned out like this, let’s do a background check on each other. It would be nice to have some drinks to go with it, too.”

Since his older brothers detested Ian drinking, there was a bit of personal desire included in this opportunity to have a drink. As soon as Ian finished speaking, Vermouth went to the kitchen and set out several types of alcohol and simple snacks.

“I didn’t know what kind of alcohol you would like, so I prepared a variety.”

“…I see. It really is a variety.”

It was enough to open a bar. Under the soft lighting, the two sat side by side on the sofa and tilted their glasses. The alcohol slid pleasantly down their throats, relaxing their stiff bodies.

It was Ian who opened the gates of conversation.

Ian brought up stories of his ordinary school days before he crossed over to Lancia. Stories about learning how to play games at a PC cafe with his brothers after school, though he had no talent for games, and how he eventually got his act together to prepare for exams. He told stories of how his brother made him porridge late at night while he was studying. Trivial but peaceful memories.

However, as he listened to those ordinary stories, the pupils of Vermouth’s eyes flickered darkly.

Ian’s past, which he could never know. A young Ian who would have laughed and chatted brightly even without him, and the brothers who were by his side. Vermouth tightened his grip on the glass. A murky jealousy sprouted from the fact that he did not fully possess the Ian of those days.

Ian swallowed a laugh internally while looking at the stiff jawline of Vermouth, who was merely listening to his story with intense focus. That possessive desire, which was so transparent it was obvious, was no longer hateful.

“That’s about it for my story. What about you?”

“Me, you mean?”

“Yeah. What was it like when you were young, Vermouth? You couldn’t have been the Captain of the Holy Knights since the day you were born.”

At Ian’s question, Vermouth lowered his gaze for a moment. His face, reflecting on the past, was infinitely calm and indifferent.

“There are no particularly interesting memories. From around the age of three, which is as far back as I can remember, a wooden sword was in my hand.”

“Three years old? You learned the sword that early?”

“Yes. Originally, those of noble bloodlines receive education for the sake of the family from the moment they begin to walk. My family has faithfully believed in Lady Regnasia for generations. I was more proficient with my body than others my age, so I trained with the goal of becoming a Holy Knight.”

Vermouth took a sip of alcohol and continued in a very serene voice.

“I woke up at dawn and swung my sword until the sun set, and if I sustained an injury, I would treat it and then grip the sword again. It seems I had a talent for it in my own way. I grew up hearing that I was a genius. Since I was stronger than others, I moved twice as much as others.”

Ian’s brow narrowed slightly at the stories flowing out so indifferently.

Vermouth, the Captain of the Holy Knights who was famous for being arrogant and doing as he pleased. But behind the power he enjoyed, there was a child who had been stripped of his freedom since his youth.

‘That was the problem.’

It seemed Vermouth did not realize that the environment he grew up in was harsh. He seemed to regard it as something he naturally had to do since he was born with noble blood. However, the more Ian heard his story, the more unsettled his heart became.

To have only trained without being able to properly rest or play from such a young age.

Ian quietly reached out.

He then placed his hand over Vermouth’s large hand resting on the sofa. A firm, rough hand with thick joints and calluses embedded like medals of honor.

“…Ian?”

“You are quite amazing, my Knight.”

Ian smiled tenderly while softly stroking the back of Vermouth’s hand with his thumb.