It was Cillian who finally broke the silence as he began cutting onions. "When I was a kid, my friend told me he's smart. He said onions are the only food that makes you cry." A mischievous glint appeared in his eye. "So I threw a coconut at his face. You should've seen his expression!" He burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls.
Luxana's eyes widened in shock before she joined in his laughter, the earlier tension dissipating like morning mist.
Emboldened by her reaction, Cillian continued, his voice taking on an excited edge. "And once, when I was drinking alcohol- Oh! Right. Not to mention, I have the highest tolerance to beer, alcohol, and wine in my entire family, including my relatives."
While Luxana stood there, watching him from behind, with a face that said, "Is this guy for real? S-Rank Assassin who throws coconuts at children and brags about his alcohol tolerance like it's a superpower? Next he'll tell me he once won a staring contest with the sun and the sun blinked first."
I mean, this man has 'demon contractor' on his résumé but his go-to icebreaker is attacking a child with tropical fruit. Impressive. The 7th Key of Minsan apparently unlocks the door to Awkward Conversation Town, population: this guy.
And that alcohol tolerance flex? Classic. Nothing says "intimidating dark fantasy character" like sounding like every frat boy who's ever existed. "Bro, I can drink SO much beer, it's crazy. My cousins tried to outdrink me once and they literally DIED. Not from the alcohol, I just killed them for challenging me. Because I'm an ASSASSIN, remember? Did I mention that part? About being an assassin?"
If his knife skills with those onions are anything like his social skills, we're all definitely crying tonight, and not because of the onions. Luxana mused inwardly.
"I bet you inspire many people. Not to be like you," Luxana remarked, her disgust barely concealed.
Cillian, seemingly impervious to her disdain, chuckled. "For real, my grandfather once said, I'm not completely useless, since I can be used as a bad example."
Luxana's knuckles whitened as she gripped the counter. The casual mention of his grandfather sent her mind reeling. Wasn't he Cillian's............abuser? The cognitive dissonance was almost too much to bear.
Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Cillian continued his tale. "So there I was, drowning my post-mission fatigue in alcohol, hidden away in my room. Next thing I know, my uncle's giving me a three-hour lecture on responsibility. What a pain in the ass."
Trying to maintain her composure, Luxana asked with feigned nonchalance, "Do you smoke?"
"Yeah!" Cillian exclaimed, turning to face her. "How'd you know?"
Luxana's response was as cold as ice. "Only dead fish go with the flow," she said, turning back to knead the dough with renewed vigor.
Cillian's eyes lit up, misreading her words as camaraderie rather than criticism. "Ohhhh~" he exclaimed. "Seems like I forgot to give you a warning. I come with a mouth and a backbone, and I'm not afraid to use them."
With a flourish, he swept the chopped onions into the salad bowl, his movements betraying a precision at odds.
Luxana's hands worked the dough with increasing ferocity, her frustration finding an outlet in the innocent flour and water mixture. "Seriously. You must want to thank all those who destroyed you into the person you are today," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Cillian's response came with unexpected enthusiasm, his hands busy attempting to salvage overcooked macaroni. "YEAH. I REALLY WANNA," he exclaimed, his volume matching the intensity of his task.
The air grew thick with unspoken histories and barely concealed pain. Cillian, seemingly oblivious to the weight of the moment, continued with a chuckle, "You know what? I'm proud of myself, for not being fake. I'm difficult sometimes and have few loose screws but I'm 100% of me!" As if to punctuate his point, he coolly flipped the pan one-handed, catching it with a flourish.
Luxana couldn't help but be drawn into his odd charisma. "For real. We need screwdrivers and grease for you," she quipped, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.
Their banter teetered on the edge of something deeper, more dangerous. Cillian, adjusting the stove's heat, dropped a question like a stone into still water: "Hey, not to be rude or anything, but what's the most hurtful thing anyone's ever said to you?"
The query hung in the air, heavy with potential. Luxana's mind raced to her mother's cutting words, a wound still fresh despite the passage of time. Deflecting, she countered, "How about you go first?"
"Nah," Cillian replied, his focus on the bubbling pasta. "I asked first. So you answer first." The tomato sauce gurgled as he poured it into the pan, the rich red a stark contrast to the pale noodles.
"You asked me earlier, whom I loved the most, I answered it, but you didn't-" Luxana began, her voice trailing off as she sought to deflect Cillian's probing question.
"I love myself the most," Cillian interjected, his words carrying a weight that belied their apparent narcissism. "Your turn."
Luxana glanced over her shoulder, her thoughts a mixture of judgment and curiosity. My my. What a self-obsessed b*tch, she mused silently, even as a part of her wondered what lay beneath that bravado.
"I won't answer, till you do first," Luxana pressed, her stubbornness matching his.
Cillian's demeanor shifted, a crack appearing in his carefully constructed facade. "Bruh, fine, whatever. I can't actually remember anything..." He paused, the silence pregnant with unspoken pain.
Luxana's mind raced. Had Cillian's past been so traumatic that his memories were a blank slate? Was this selective amnesia the very thing keeping him in one piece?
Breaking the tense silence, Cillian spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "It wasn't said to me directly, but I once overheard my mother tell my father: 'The peace I had without you is worth being seen as the villain in your story.'"
The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, and Luxana felt her heart skip a beat. The casual revelation of such deep-seated family trauma left her reeling. Cillian's past, it seemed, was a labyrinth of pain and conflict that she had only begun to glimpse.
Turning to face her, Cillian's next words came out hesitantly, laden with vulnerability rarely seen in his usually carefree demeanor. "I just hope...what we have doesn't end up like that." The pain, sorrow, and unease in his voice were palpable.
I turned back to face Cillian, and the sight before me was a stark contrast to his usual demeanor. His expression was dull, lifeless, a far cry from the animated and often irritating persona he typically projected. His gaze was fixed downward, as if the weight of his memories had physically manifested, pulling his eyes to the floor.
Without allowing myself a moment to second-guess or rationalize, I rushed forward.
*Hug*
My arms found their way around Cillian's chest, my ear pressing against his heart. The sudden intimacy of the gesture seemed to shock us both.
"HUH?" Cillian blurted, slightly tumbling backward at my unexpected action. His surprise was palpable, his body tense and uncertain.
As I held him, I could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic emotions that had been swirling between us moments ago. In this closeness, I found myself speaking words I hadn't planned, but which felt deeply true.
"It's not your responsibility to rebuild a bond that you didn't break. But it's our responsibility to strengthen the bond that we made," I said, my voice soft and mesmerized by the slow, steady beat beneath my ear.
Cillian's response was not immediate. He stood there, arms at his sides, like a statue brought to life only by the gentle thrum of his heart. No words escaped him, no sounds. It was as if he had become a void, absorbing the moment without reaction.
As we stood there, locked in this unexpected embrace, a realization dawned on me. Cillian was far stronger than I had given him credit for. To have endured abuse far harsher than Helios at such a young age, and to still maintain such control over himself – it spoke of a resilience I had never before recognized in him.
Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously. I didn't dare look up, afraid to break the fragile moment we had stumbled into. The kitchen around us faded into insignificance, our shared breath and his heartbeat the only sounds that mattered.
It was the insistent hiss of the pasta boiling in the pressure cooker that finally broke the spell. Reluctantly, I moved away, giving Cillian space to handle the demanding pot. He said nothing as he moved to the stove, his movements mechanical as he removed the gas from the pressure cooker to release the lid.
The silence that followed was heavy as steam billowed from the opened cooker.
The kitchen settled into silence as I returned to the dough, shaping it into hearts and circles. As I slid the donuts into the clay oven and began preparing oatmeal, my mind wandered to the past. Memories of cooking for myself after my mother's departure flooded back, reminding me of the skills I'd honed out of necessity.
A small smile tugged at my lips as I realized the irony of my current act – pretending culinary ignorance just to elicit reactions from Cillian. It was a game, but one with unexpected depth.
"Hey," Cillian's voice broke through my reverie, a hint of his usual self returning. "Think of a number and don't tell me."
Intrigued, I played along, settling on the number 7 in my mind.
"Double it. Tell me when you're done," he continued, his voice taking on a showman's cadence.
I quickly calculated. "Mhm. Done," I responded within three seconds.
"Add 6," he ordered.
20, I thought to myself.
"Done," I added aloud.
"Half that," Cillian exclaimed.
10, I calculated silently.
"Mhm," I hummed in acknowledgment.
"Subtract the number you started with," he instructed.
3, I concluded mentally.
Without missing a beat, Cillian declared, "Your answer is 3."
I turned to face him, finding him leaning against the countertop, a smirk playing on his lips. For a moment, genuine surprise flickered across my face. "HUHH? How-"
"Magic," he replied, cutting me off with a theatrical wave of his hand.
The spell broke as quickly as it had formed. "Wait. That's a forced outcome trick, also known as mathematical inevitability trick," I sighed, turning back to the oatmeal with feigned disinterest.
"Still, you fell for it," Cillian teased, his voice light but carrying an undercurrent of something more – perhaps relief at the return to our usual banter.
I couldn't help but scoff, "Lmao, you act like that was some genius-level trick. Try harder."
*BANG*
The tranquil atmosphere of the kitchen was shattered by a thunderous bang as the door flew open. The sudden intrusion sent a jolt through the air, instantly transforming the intimate space into a scene of controlled chaos.
"YOUR MAJESTY!" Marliene's voice rang out, a mixture of relief and urgency. She was one of my lady-in-waitings, and her eyes locked onto me with laser-like focus as she rushed forward, a book clutched tightly in her hand.
Close on her heels, Charlotte's voice joined the chorus of concern. "Your Majesty, we have been tirelessly searching for your esteemed presence! Your absence had caused a stir among your devoted staff, who have been scouring the premises to ensure your well-being. It is a profound relief to finally locate you and confirm your safety." Her words were formal, yet tinged with genuine worry.
As if summoned by some unseen signal, five of my ten lady-in-waitings swarmed around me. Their collective presence filled the kitchen, transforming the space into an impromptu royal court. I couldn't help but sigh inwardly at their puppy-like devotion. With practiced grace, I reached out to caress one lady's cheek, a gesture meant to soothe and reassure.
From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Cillian. He stood frozen, a look of confusion and discomfort etched across his features. The domestic scene we had shared moments ago now seemed a distant memory as he watched the ladies cluster around me, clearly out of his depth in this sudden display of royal protocol.
As I caressed the cheek of one of my ladies-in-waiting, the others enveloped me in a protective embrace, their loyalty palpable in the air.
Leaning close to Fiona, who held me from my left shoulder, I whispered a delicate mission into her ear. "Fiona, I task you with conducting a thorough inquiry regarding a maid assigned to serve me tea during the late hour of 12 o'clock in the morning last night. I expect your investigation to yield the necessary information about this individual, as well as the circumstances surrounding their assigned responsibilities at such an unusual hour."
Fiona's sharp intellect was one of her most valuable assets. Without need for further explanation, she responded with a simple, "Acknowledged," her voice barely audible above the rustle of fabric.
Young Haeyln, the most emotionally expressive of my ladies, clung to me with tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "Your Majesty, please kindly provide us with prior notice of your departure," she pleaded, her voice trembling with a mixture of relief and lingering worry. I couldn't help but smile as I gently patted her head, touched by her genuine concern.
To Charlotte, pressed against my back, I murmured another covert instruction. "James, the chef. Relay a message to Elenor to keep a close eye on him." The subtle nod of her head against my shoulder confirmed her understanding, the movement so slight it would be imperceptible to any onlooker.
Throughout this flurry of whispered commands and emotional reunions, Cillian stood frozen in place, a look of bewilderment etched across his features. He remained oblivious to the undercurrents of power and duty flowing around him, a stark reminder of the two worlds colliding in this humble kitchen – the intimate and the imperial.
Marliene, ever observant, glanced at Cillian with a mixture of curiosity and caution. As she embraced me, she deftly slipped a book into my hands, her whisper barely audible above the rustle of fabric, "Your Majesty, may I respectfully inquire as to the identity of the individual who has evoked such a sense of apprehension?"
I turned my gaze towards Cillian, who stood frozen, his face a canvas of confusion and mild disgust at the sight of my ladies enveloping me. A giggle escaped my lips at his expression, causing him to flinch as he realized his reaction. Hesitantly, he turned back to the pasta sauce, his movements betraying his discomfort.
To be Continued...