Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yuuri’s office was too bright for Wolfram’s liking. Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows directly at the space in front of Yuuri and Gwendal’s desks, leaving no place to hide. 

It had been two weeks since his surgery. He still felt sore, but he refused to remain locked up in his room. He has spent too much time in solitude lately, and as much as he enjoys it, it gets a bit tiring too. And so here he was just before lunch, in Yuuri’s office with his brothers and with Gunter. He wonders briefly if Gunter and Conrart have too much free time or if they also have something to discuss with the young king. 

“Wolfram, have you been cleared to walk around already?” Gwendal questioned him, looking up from the document he was reading when Wolfram entered the room.

He stands at the center, back straight, hands clasped behind him. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times, refining every word, tempering every possible slip of emotion. He would be calm. Detached. 

He would be the Wolfram they expected to see now with his feelings ‘gone’.

"Good morning, Aniue. I am here to formally request the annulment of my engagement to His Majesty, King Yuuri."

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water, the ripple of reactions spreading almost instantly.

Gunter let out a horrified gasp, nearly knocking over a stack of documents. Gwendal's frown deepened, his fingers pressing against his temple as though Wolfram had just presented him with the worst possible news before he even had his lunch. Conrart, standing behind him, remained unreadable, though his sharp gaze never left Wolfram.

Yuuri stiffened. His dark eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing.

Silence stretched.

Gwendal was the first to break it. "Wolfram, this is not a decision to be made lightly."

"I have not made it lightly," Wolfram countered smoothly. "I have given it careful thought. Now that I have recovered, I see no reason to continue an engagement that neither of us chose."

Yuuri flinched, so minuscule a movement that Wolfram might have missed it if he weren’t watching for it.

"Wolfram," Gunter began, hands pressed dramatically over his chest, "I understand that your recent illness has put many things into perspective, but surely—"

"This has nothing to do with my illness," Wolfram cut in. "It’s simply time to end this farce."

Yuuri opened his mouth as if to say something but hesitated. He had dark circles under his eyes, it was clear he hadn’t been sleeping well. He looked tired but also resigned. For someone whose feelings can change at the drop of a petal, he surely seems very affected by all of these. 

Gwendal exhaled through his nose. "A formal annulment is not a simple matter, Wolfram. There are political considerations to be made."

"Then make them," Wolfram said evenly.

"If there is paperwork, I will sign it. If there are public statements to be made, I will make them."

"It is not just a matter of process." Gwendal’s gaze was heavy, searching. "The engagement carries weight. Publicly severing it could raise questions about your standing in the court, your role—"

"My role," Wolfram interrupted, "is to serve this kingdom as I always have. That will not change simply because I am no longer Yuuri’s fiancé."

Yuuri finally spoke.

"But why now?" His voice was quiet. He knew full well why Wolfram was doing this. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it. Couldn’t bring himself to let go.

"I mean—before, you always wanted—"

"Before, I was foolish," Wolfram said smoothly.

Yuuri’s breath hitched.

The silence that followed pressed down on the room.

Gunter looked ready to burst into tears. Gwendal’s expression had shifted from exasperation to something unreadable. Conrart, who had remained quiet until now, finally stepped forward.

"This is unexpected," Conrart said carefully.

"What is so unexpected about this? It’s a long time coming." Wolfram refuted stubbornly, but Conrart continued. He could be just as stubborn when needed.

"Given that there is no immediate urgency, I believe it would be best to allow more time for discussion before making a final decision."

Wolfram clenched his jaw. "What is there to discuss?"

"Your position," Gwendal said firmly. "Your future. This engagement is not just a personal matter. It affects the entire kingdom."

"So we wait?" Wolfram let out a short, humorless laugh. "For what? For people to forget? For time to pass until it no longer matters?"

"Yes," Gwendal said simply.

Wolfram bristled. He had anticipated resistance, but he hadn’t expected to be stalled like this.

"Wolfram," Yuuri said, voice quieter this time. "Are you sure?"

That was the worst part. The way Yuuri looked at him now. Not confused, not pleading, but unwilling. Like he was holding onto something he wasn’t ready to lose. 

Seeing the young king be this upset felt nice, it made the lie easier to tell.

"Yes," Wolfram said. "I no longer have feelings for you, Yuuri. There is no reason for this engagement to continue."

Yuuri’s expression tightened, he looked lost and helpless. If Wolfram was in the mood for jokes he might even mention that his expression was unbecoming for a king but quite fitting for a wimp. Alas, this was a serious conversation that they were having.

Gwendal sighed, rubbing his temple. "We will revisit the matter after further deliberation."

Meaning: not today.

Wolfram swallowed the frustration rising in his throat. The conversation was over, but Wolfram knew this wasn’t the end. They weren’t letting him go just yet.

"Very well," he said, his voice level. He turned on his heel, making his way toward the door.

He didn’t look back.

If he did, he might have seen the way Yuuri's hands had curled into fists on the tabletop.

Might have seen the way Conrart’s eyes softened, as if he saw right through him.

Might have seen the flicker of doubt on Gwendal’s face.

But he didn’t.

Because none of it mattered.

This was his second chance at life. He refused to waste it on a love that had nearly killed him.

Chapter Text

The rumors spread faster than Wolfram expected.

It had been a month since he submitted the petition to annul their engagement. It was a quiet, unceremonious act that had nonetheless shaken the still waters of court politics.

And yet, in that month, life had continued with a strange, almost insulting normalcy. He oversaw his squad’s training drills with the same precision as always, shared afternoon walks and stories with Greta, and found himself buried deeper and deeper into the archives of the royal library. He drank tea with his mother, mostly in silence, and occasionally ventured into the town square, pretending not to notice the subtle glances thrown his way.

No official announcement had been made regarding the annulment proceedings. Gwendal, ever the strategist, had managed to stall the process, keeping it in “deliberation” within a court that was more family council than legal body. Wolfram had expected pushback, but it still grated on him.

The so-called court, which consisted of his brothers, Gunter, and Yuuri, was hardly impartial. They debated the political ramifications, the diplomatic fallout, and the optics. Whether the kingdom could afford to have its royal couple publicly split. Whether it was wise. Whether it was necessary.

But outside those closed doors, whispers flourished.

First in the palace. More than once, Wolfram had seen servants and guards exchanging glances, murmuring behind tapestries and doors barely ajar. Then in the city. Then, inevitably, it reached the ears of the nobility. Even without a formal decree, the message had been received loud and clear.

The King was free game. The Bielefeld heir was unattached.

And that, apparently, was all the permission they needed.

Wolfram wasn’t really surprised when the letters began arriving. Despite his (soon) annulment with Yuuri, he was still quite the catch.

And so he watched blankly as they came in waves, elegant envelopes sealed with wax, thick with imported perfumes and insincere flattery. Proposals, dinner invitations, and not-so-subtle overtures from noble houses eager to align themselves with his name and title. Some bore the crests of families he'd known since childhood. Others came from foreign courts, seeking opportunity in a kingdom that had, until recently, seemed romantically sealed.

A few were respectful. Others were blatant. One letter was so bold that Wolfram briefly considered torching it with a flick of his fingers out of sheer offense.

He ignored them all. Every last one.

But then, one day, they stopped.

Not gradually. Not in a polite fading of interest. It was sudden, like a door slammed shut. One day, his correspondence tray was stacked with invitations and expressions of intent. The next, it was filled with nothing but duty: patrol reports, ceremonial updates, council schedules. The shift wasn't subtle by any means, of course, Wolfram noticed. 

He noticed when one of his knights, usually brisk and impersonal with the daily delivery, hesitated before presenting the stack of letters. Wolfram glanced through them, frowning as he sifted past reports and mundane notices. Nothing personal. Nothing of note.

“Is this all?” he asked, tone deceptively casual.

The knight’s shoulders stiffened. “Ah—yes, Your Excellency. The others," he hesitated, "weren’t delivered.”

Wolfram’s eyes narrowed. “By whose order?”

A beat. Then, almost reluctantly: “His Majesty’s.”

Wolfram stared.

Then, slowly, he leaned back and exhaled through his nose, a scoff escaping without permission.

Of course it was.

He didn’t need to ask why. He already knew.

Yuuri had never liked the courtship rituals of noble society. He’d dismissed them as outdated, uncomfortable. But he had always, always been territorial in his own strange way. Possessive, though he would never admit it. Even when he insisted that their engagement was nothing but an accident, he had bristled at the idea of Wolfram entertaining the affections of anyone else.

And now, even under the belief that Wolfram no longer loved him, he was still interfering. Still guarding a claim he had all but abandoned.

Still keeping others at bay.

Wolfram's chest ached, but he set his jaw.

This was why he hadn’t trusted Yuuri’s feelings. Why he had grown wary of the way Yuuri looked at him only when it was too late.

Fickle. Inconsistent. Guided more by instinct than understanding. He had once been willing to give everything, to stake heart and future on a love Yuuri hadn't even been sure of.

Never again.

If Yuuri wanted to play these silent games, let him.

It changed nothing. It couldn’t.

With a flick of his wrist, Wolfram dismissed the knight and turned back to his work. His gloves were still lying beside his sword on the desk. He slid them back on with practiced precision, already preparing to rejoin his unit for training.

There were more important things to worry about.

Let the politics burn behind him. He had a future to forge with or without a king who didn’t know what he wanted.

Chapter Text

Wolfram didn’t spend any more time with Yuuri than necessary.

Their paths still crossed, of course—at council meetings, during state functions, in the hallways of Blood Pledge Castle when they couldn’t avoid it. But the easy companionship they once had, the moments stolen in between duty and battle, the idle conversations before sleep—those were gone.

Wolfram had made sure of that.

In his free time, he was with Greta.

He took her riding in the fields beyond the castle walls, taught her swordplay in the training yard, and sat with her in the gardens when she wanted to practice reading aloud. When she dragged him into one of her games, laughing as she wove ridiculous stories about gallant knights and daring rescues, he let himself be pulled along.

She was growing fast.

Too fast.

It unsettled him more than he could ever say.

For all his pride in her, in the bright, stubborn child she had become, there was a quiet fear that settled in his chest whenever he looked at her.

One day, she would be grown.

One day, she would be gone.

He had always thought Yuuri’s perspective was strange—contradictory, even. Yuuri, who hesitated at the idea of marrying a man, yet had no qualms about human-Mazoku relationships. He had no issue with Greta taking a human husband in the future if that was what she wished, nor did he frown upon the idea of Conrart’s mixed heritage.

But between the two, wasn’t it obvious which one had greater consequences?

A human and a Mazoku were bound for heartbreak from the start. It wasn’t just lifespan, it was everything. Aging, illness, and the difference in how time itself moved for them. A human-Mazoku child would spend their life straddling two worlds, belonging to neither.

He had seen it firsthand.

He had watched his mother come undone when Conrart’s father died, had seen the way she held onto him as if trying to memorize every second of his existence before time took him away.

He had never understood it.

Why let yourself love someone you knew you would lose? Why invite that kind of pain?

He had pushed Conrart away for that very reason, knowing that his half-brother would age faster, that his time would come sooner than Wolfram’s. It was easier to keep him at a distance than to suffer through losing him one day.

And yet—

Here he was.

With a human daughter.

Wolfram exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of Greta’s hair from her face as she dozed off against his side, exhausted from their training.

He had already lost this battle.

Even knowing the pain that would come, he had accepted her. Loved her.

And someday, he would have to let her go.

That was why Yuuri’s reasoning made no sense to him. Why hesitate at the thought of being with a man, of all things, while embracing something as devastating as this?

But then, Yuuri had never really thought things through. Wolfram wasn’t sure he ever would.

Greta shifted in her sleep, sighing softly. Wolfram closed his eyes.

At least for now, she was here and that was enough.

It has been 2 months since the flowers in Wolfram’s heart vanished in the middle of surgery. 

The proof of Yuuri’s love, there for Wolfram and the healers to see. 

Two months, and Wolfram had yet to tell anyone.

Gisela kept glancing at him with quiet concern, always too perceptive for her own good. But he could ignore a few glances. He’d endured far worse stares before.

Right now, he was in the garden with Greta, enjoying a rare pocket of peace. Since he hadn’t been cleared to resume his duties as a soldier—though he was allowed to join training again—he’d been focusing more on Greta’s education.

‘Even though I said I feel better,’ he huffs to himself. 

“Papa Wolf, did you travel a lot when you were young?” Greta asked. They had just finished reading and were now enjoying a small tea break.

“Hmm,” he thinks for a while, “when I was about your age, I stayed in the castle most of the time,” he said. “But later on, I decided to pursue art, and that took me to Gyllenhaal. Eventually, I chose to take up swordsmanship more seriously and had to enlist.”

He reached out and gently wiped a few cookie crumbs from Greta’s cheek, smiling faintly.

“Who did you travel with? What was it like?” Greta’s eyes lit up, wide with curiosity, already preparing herself for one of her Papa’s stories.

Wolfram smiled at the memory. “I actually went to Gyllenhaal alone,” he said softly. “My siblings and mother had their own responsibilities. And well,” he pauses, “I was too proud back then to get close to any of the servants. So even though they came along, I still felt pretty alone.”

Greta’s smile faltered.

The thought of her papa—young and proud and all alone in a faraway land—made her heart ache. Ever since Yuuri adopted her, Greta had never once felt alone. 

There was always warmth, someone to hug her, someone to listen. Someone to love her. She couldn’t imagine not having that.

“Were you sad?” she asked quietly, her voice dipping, unsure.

Wolfram caught the change in her expression and let out a small chuckle. Gently, he reached over and pinched her cheek.

“You don’t need to worry so much, my darling princess,” he said, voice warm. “In hindsight, I think being alone was good for me.”

Greta frowned, rubbing at her cheek. “Good? How is being alone good? That doesn’t make sense, Papa.”

Wolfram leaned back a little, thoughtful. “Well, in my opinion, when someone is really, truly trying to accomplish something, something that matters, that person is always a little bit alone.”

Greta tilted her head. He continued, more gently now.

“At the end of the day, only you truly know how hard you worked. Only you can really understand the struggle and the choices you had to make. Even if I celebrate with you, and I always will, I won’t know what it took the way you do.”

He smiled at her then, proud and steady.

“Your victories are yours alone, Greta. And that’s why you must take pride in them. You must carry them with you, even when no one else is watching, even when it’s hard. That’s what makes them real. That’s what makes you strong.”

Greta looked at him, eyes big and round, trying to understand. Then, slowly, she nodded, still a little pouty, but quieter now.

“…Even if I’m strong, I still want you there.”

Wolfram’s heart clenched, and he gathered her gently into a hug.

“I will always be there,” he whispered into her hair. “Even when you’re standing tall on your own.”

Chapter Text

At first, Wolfram thought nothing of it.

Yuuri and Greta were very close to each other. If Greta wasn’t trailing after Wolfram, she was seeking out her other father, eager to share whatever new skill or story she had learned from her lessons with Wolfram. And Yuuri, for all his faults, had always been good with her. It wasn’t unusual for him to join them now and then, whenever his schedule allowed.

But lately, Yuuri started showing up more often, lingering at the edges of their time together and pretending it was all a coincidence. 

When Greta wanted to practice archery, Yuuri would just happen to stroll by, offering tips with a soft smile, acting like he hadn’t planned it at all. He’s not even a good archer himself, just parroting the tips he got from his own lessons.

“You should keep your elbow a little higher,” Yuuri said one morning, stepping behind Greta to adjust her posture.

Wolfram, standing to the side with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. “I already told her that.”

Yuuri glanced over his shoulder with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I just wanted to reinforce it. Show her how to do it and stuff.” He chuckles while scratching the back of his head, one of his tics. 

If Wolfram noticed that Yuuri’s eyes kept flicking back to Wolfram more than necessary, he didn’t say anything. 

When they went riding the next week, Yuuri showed up at the stables with a casual, “Mind if I join you? It’s been a while since I rode Ao.”

Wolfram didn’t answer at first. He helped Greta into her saddle, adjusted the reins, and only then said, “It’s not my decision.”

Yuuri hesitated, but then mounted up anyway.

The ride was quiet. Greta filled the silences with cheerful chatter, but Wolfram didn’t speak to Yuuri unless addressed directly. And even then, his answers were clipped, polite in the coldest sense.

Still, Yuuri kept showing up.

"It’s such a nice day for a ride," Yuuri said, smiling. "I should do it more often."

"You always say that," Wolfram replied without looking at him. "And then you don’t."

Yuuri scratched the back of his neck. “Fair point.”

He stayed there awkwardly, as if waiting for an invitation that didn’t come. After a few seconds of silence, he walked over and offered the mare a sugar cube.

Greta, still excited from the ride, came skipping back. "Papa Yuuri! Did you see me jump the ditch?"

"You were amazing," Yuuri said, catching her as she ran into him. "Almost as good as your Papa Wolfram."

“Papa Wolfram says I’m better than he was at my age,” Greta beamed.

Yuuri’s gaze flicked to Wolfram then. “Well, if he says so, then it must be true. You’re amazing, princess.”

Wolfram didn’t reply. He handed the reins off to a stablehand and gave Greta a tired smile. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Yuuri followed.

When Wolfram and Greta sat in the gardens, reading under the shade of the trees, Yuuri arrived with a stack of documents in hand.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already lowering himself to the grass beside them.

Wolfram didn’t respond. Greta did, of course. Ever innocent of the tension humming beneath her father's silence.

“Papa’s reading me this story about a knight and a sorcerer,” she said brightly. “They don’t like each other at first, but then they have to go on a quest together!”

Yuuri chuckled, stealing a glance at Wolfram. “Sounds familiar.”

Wolfram didn’t look up from the book. “It’s a popular trope in fiction,” he said flatly.

Yuuri’s smile faltered.

That night, Greta fell asleep in the drawing room with her book still in her lap. Wolfram scooped her up gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Yuuri stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Wolfram said without looking at him.

“Doing what?”

“This.” He turned slightly, adjusting Greta’s weight in his arms. “Hovering. Even using Greta as an excuse to have some kind of ‘family bonding’. We’re no longer together, we’re simply co-parenting, there’s no need to do things with all three of us so often.”

Yuuri blinked. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly: “I miss you.”

Wolfram flinched.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He just turned and walked away, Greta safe in his arms, his heart a careful knot of restraint.

Chapter Text

The first time Wolfram saw Frederick again, it was entirely unexpected.

The court had just concluded yet another round of deliberations. Another endless, useless discussion about the political consequences of their annulment. As usual, nothing had been decided. Gwendal had looked like he wanted to flip the table, Gunter had waxed poetic about duty and heartbreak, and Yuuri had said very little.

Wolfram had barely stepped out into the corridor when a familiar voice called out to him.

“Wolfram.”

He turned on instinct, hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize him.

Frederick von Gyllenhaal had grown since their last meeting. Broader in the shoulders, taller by at least a few inches. His long, light-brown hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, and his once-boyish features had sharpened into something quietly noble. But his eyes, steady, golden, and warm, were the same. The same as when they’d painted together as boys in the sun-drenched gardens of the Gyllenhaal estate.

“Frederick,” Wolfram said carefully. “What are you doing here?”

Frederick smiled, easy and unbothered. “I just got back to Shin Makoku, and I decided it’d be nice to see you again.”

Wolfram blinked. “It’s been years.”

“Indeed, it has. Not to worry, you’re still much more beautiful than the art pieces I’ve seen in my travels.”

Wolfram rolled his eyes, though a ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. If those words had come from anyone else, he might have bristled. Offended at the implication that his worth lay in his appearance rather than his skills as a warrior. 

But Frederick’s tone carried no attempt to diminish him. He was simply a man unashamed to speak in praise when he meant it. And though Wolfram would never admit it aloud, there was something disarming about his easy admiration, as embarrassing as it is.

Before he could respond, Frederick lifted something from his side, a long, rolled canvas.

“I heard the rumors,” he said, his tone not unkind. “About your engagement with Yuuri Heika.”

Wolfram’s expression cooled.

“If you’re here to capitalize on those rumors like the rest of them—”

“Not at all.” Frederick refuted calmly. “I came because I wanted to visit. Although, to be honest with you, Father did ask me to meet you as a representative of our house. To ask for your hand in marriage, should you be willing.” 

“Fred—” 

“Don’t worry too much, I won’t do anything you do not agree to. We’re friends first and foremost. I came here not as a suitor, but just me. Frederick, your good friend who has been away for a while.” Frederick placates Wolfram’s worries before he even voices them. 

“Here I have something to show you.” 

He unraveled the canvas, careful and slow, revealing a half-finished painting beneath.

It was a portrait.

Unmistakably of Wolfram.

Barefoot, laughing, wind-tossed and sunlit, sitting in the gardens of Gyllenhaal. He looked younger in the painting. Unburdened. A brush in hand, bright green smudges on his fingers, and a soft smile he hadn’t worn in years.

“I started this when we were children,” Frederick said quietly. “I never got to finish it.”

Wolfram stared at the canvas for a long moment, unsure of what to say.

Frederick’s voice was gentle. “I think it was because I was upset when you told me you had to go back to Bielefeld. So I was sulking and ended up not finishing the painting. But I decided to show you this to show my earnestness.”

“It’s beautiful,” Wolfram murmured, before he could stop himself.

Frederick smiled. “You are.”

That made Wolfram pause. He looked away, jaw tight. “I don’t understand why you’re showing me this.”

Frederick’s smile grew sheepish, though his eyes remained steady. “I know I said I came as a friend, not a suitor. But it would be dishonest to pretend I don’t wish for something more, if you would allow it.” He gestures to the canvas in his hand, feeling a bit more confident. “This painting here, although I can’t gift it to you yet, is to show that should you allow me to petition for your hand in marriage, it would not be only my family’s will, but because I have cared for you, truly, since we were young.”

Wolfram opened his mouth, then closed it.

Deep down, beneath the court deliberations and stilted conversations, a quiet, almost cruel truth sat waiting.

He knew Yuuri loved him.

Or something close enough to it.

He had known it the moment the flowers disappeared mid-surgery.

One moment, the castle halls closing in on him as he hides away the flowers born from his love. Next, they were gone.

Vanished the moment he opened his eyes.

Hanahaki was not some harmless illusion. It was an ancient magic, rooted in the deepest chambers of the heart. It bloomed from emotions raw and unguarded. It was wild and reactive, but never false. 

This was not a magic one could deceive, nor was it a spell that could make mistakes. It was as certain as grief. And Yuuri had never been the kind to command his feelings with discipline. So for the flowers to vanish so suddenly…

Wolfram had known.

But knowing did nothing to ease the ache. It didn’t change the years of uncertainty. It did not soften the memory of every dismissal and denial. 

Even when the world was watching, every denial was spoken aloud for everyone to hear. Love had made him vulnerable, and for years, that vulnerability had been met with rejection. Humiliating years, spent suffocating on both flowers and hope.

“I won’t press you,” Frederick said softly. “If you cannot envision us being more than friends, I am alright with that as well. Our friendship is very dear to me, and it won’t end simply because of a rejection. Just give us the chance to get to know each other once more. As we are now.”

Wolfram stared at him, at the painting, at the impossible softness of the memory he hadn’t allowed himself to revisit in years.

He exhaled. “I’m free tomorrow afternoon.”

Frederick’s smile bloomed. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. It was wonderful seeing you again, dearest Wolfram.”

As he walked away, canvas tucked under one arm, Wolfram watched his retreating back with a mix of emotions that refused to settle. There was warmth, yes. And there was also a comfort in his familiarity. 

Even then, it didn’t silence the voice in his chest.

The one who remembered how Yuuri had looked at him when he woke up from his ‘surgery’, quiet and wrecked. How he had seemed lost ever since that day.

Wolfram shoved the thought away.

He had told himself he was done waiting.

Maybe it was time to let someone else step in.

It’s a dishonest and foolish thing to do when he knows how he feels for Yuuri, and he knows how Yuuri feels for him. But, well, he never thought of himself as a paragon of good decisions.

Their appointment came faster than Wolfram anticipated. The afternoon sun bathed the castle gardens in golden light, filtering through the trees and casting dappled patterns on the ground. 

A soft breeze carried the scent of flowers, mingling with the surprisingly faint scent of paint, very much different from the scent of the more common bearbee-based paint.

They’ve decided to do a bit of painting in the garden. They were trying out the new waterborne paints that came from the Gyllenhaal Conservatory of the Arts’ research department. Just like what they used to do when they were young men studying art in Gyllenhaal. They even brought Greta with them, since her lessons with Anissina ended early.

The princess sat cross-legged on the grass, her face scrunched in concentration as she carefully mixed colors on her palette. Beside her, Wolfram sat with his own canvas, sleeves rolled up, golden hair catching the sunlight as he traced smooth, confident strokes across the canvas.

Frederick, watching them both with amusement, leaned over slightly to peek at Greta’s work. “That’s a very interesting shade of orange, Greta. What are you painting?”

Greta grinned. “It’s you, of course!”

Wolfram glanced over and let out an undignified laugh. “Frederick, you look like a tangerine.”

Frederick placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “How dare you. I am clearly a majestic, noble tangerine.”

Greta giggled, adding a few finishing touches to her painting. “I ran out of brown, so I mixed some colors, but it turned out more orange than I expected,” she paused, then beamed. “But I think it makes you look nice!”

Frederick chuckled. “Well, I’m glad to know that orange suits me. Perhaps when I need a disguise, I’ll get an orange wig.” He turned to Wolfram. “And what about you? What masterpiece are you working on?”

Wolfram, who had been unusually quiet, flicked his gaze to Frederick. “It’s nothing impressive.”

Frederick wasn’t convinced. He leaned over slightly and saw Wolfram’s painting, softer than he expected. He foregoes the abstract style that Frederick knew he was currently studying. In its place is a tender, more realistic portrait. It was a simple moment, Greta, laughing with flowers in her hair. The strokes were delicate, full of warmth.

Frederick smiled. “You always had a way of painting people beautifully.”

Wolfram huffed, ears tinged pink. “It’s a simple portrait. No need for the high praise. I simply have a beautiful muse.”

Frederick leaned in a little closer, voice lower, teasing. “Your daughter got her beauty from you.”

Wolfram’s brush faltered slightly, a faint smudge of color landing on his wrist. He scowled, reaching for a cloth to wipe it off. “Stop being ridiculous.”

Frederick only laughed.

Greta, still oblivious to their exchange, sat back and admired her work. “I think we should paint together more often!”

Frederick nodded. “I’d like that.”

Wolfram didn’t answer right away.

But as he watched Greta grinning at her messy, colorful creation, and Frederick, kind and ever-gentle, looking at him with a soft smile, he found himself relaxing.

“...fine,” he muttered, dipping his brush back into the paint.

Frederick chuckled, and Greta cheered.

And for the first time in a long while, Wolfram let himself enjoy the moment.