Days Union Oneshot Book [DISCONTINUED]

Feeling Wrong

A/N: Edited as of 3/15/2023 for the sake of it

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"Oh, what an awfully dull day!"

Nearly everyone in the Sunrise Republic had heard Loch say that sentence at least once before; one would expect him to grow accustomed to the drab weather, but some things never change. It could be compared it to how people would often say "Ow!" to mitigate the pain of an unexpected bump, sting, or poke, but Loch deemed it an indirect prayer of petition as if the goddesses above would hear his cries and bless him with a ray of sunshine through the dense, dark clouds.

But alas, they never listened.

The Prince observed his room once again and counted what he had done: he had read every book on his shelf at least three times, his inkwell had run dry after he spent it all on his letters and poetry written in loopy calligraphy, and he had judged the potential of every outfit combination in his closet. Now all he could do was sit on his cushioned chair and daydream about his adventures, but even that bored him back into listlessness.

An awfully dull day, indeed.

"One does wish that something interesting would happ'n..." he sighed again. Maybe this time the goddesses would harken and answer in a miracle.

A knock at the door startled him with curiosity and excitement for the uncertain. Perhaps Bobbeche finally gained permission to visit him, or maybe Orion decided to meet with him on his own travels instead of demanding that he take a carriage ride up to his offices. He bounded out of his seat and sauntered toward the door with the most pleasant grin he had displayed in a long time. The goddesses above had finally listened!

"Good morrow!" he sang as his fingers opened the door with delicate fingers. But instead of a tall porcelain jester or the President clad in medals and mystery, standing there was the man he had least expected.

And he was a wreck.

Yaroslav hardly bothered to tie his wild black hair into a ponytail, only going as far as to gather it behind his head and leave it to fend for itself against the heavy air. His yellow eye blinked heavily underneath the glass of his mask in a struggle to stay awake, as if a single blink would send the poor reporter into a deep slumber. The coat he donned as an upper-class Sunrise civilian was far more wrinkled than the repeated results of his all-nighters. It almost repulsed Loch enough to slam the door, yet a glow of sympathy for his friend convinced him to welcome him in.

"Aie, Yaroslav! Mine dear friend, what hath happen'd to thee?" he gasped as he ushered him inside. The journalist trudged inside and held the center of his forehead—a habit that Loch had picked up on. "Here, have a seat. I shalt make thee some tea." Yaroslav needed no more instruction; he collapsed onto the couch without a second to hesitate.

"Ugh, my head hurts so much more than usual..." he groaned into the palm of his hand before it tugged the mask off of his face and threw his fedora to the floor. His left eye was bloodshot, the red veins branching through the white sclera.

Loch tutted as he boiled a kettle over the oven, "Thou should not work so tediously and arduously, Yaroslav." He only grumbled in retaliation but succumbed to silence, for talking ached his head even more. "Ah, here we are." Loch poured the steaming tea into two china cups and brought one out to Yaroslav.

He mumbled, "Thank you, Prince."

"Of course. Now, could thou tellst me of thine troubles?" Loch questioned as he raised his cup to his lips.

Yaroslav sipped at his tea and began, "Oh, dear. This will sound stupid, but—"

"Fie, hold thine tongue! Thou should not say such insults regard'ng thyself!" Loch lightly scolded, but a trace of guilt twisted his brows when Yaroslav only rubbed his head more and bashfully sipped his tea once more. "Mine dearest apologies, Yaroslav. Do continue."