★ Gerald Aldrick ★

April, 27th, 1007

Brown, deep, so deep, were her eyes, the color that reminded him of warm honey and freshly baked bread.

She was sweet too. Slick and captivating. He couldn’t escape her if he tried, nor would he ever attempt it.

Elegant. Her hips swayed with each step. Those thighs, so curvaceous, so hypnotizing.

The silky feel of her skin below his bare touch… Her beautiful face, the kind that would awe millions if depicted in a renaissance painting.

Pursed lips.

Those lips.

Lisbeth…

A crash, a thud, and then a smack. 

Despite the vivid and warm cocoon of his dream, Gerald woke to the reality waiting for him upstairs.

He opened his eyes begrudgingly; the sun shone past the curtains into his personal quarters. His gaze fixed on the ashy ceiling above.

There was another crash, as if something just broke.

Someone should go check…

Oh, right. Gerald was the responsible adult here. 

Gerald Aldrick, the veteran Colonel turned Spirit Academy homeroom teacher. Upstairs were almost certainly his students. They all lived together inside the Indigo House. Seventeen students and two homeroom teachers.  

This was his job. This was what he signed up for. 

What could they possibly be doing at this hour? Recreating the destruction of the Altan Citadel?

Slow and steady, careful not to make himself dizzy, he rose out of the bed, his feet landing softly on the smooth wooden flooring.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO?”

Ah. 

He was already too late. 

Her voice alone was enough to make Gerald’s head throb.

“Bastion, pick that up NOW! And you, Nicolas, STOP laughing! Do I need to call Mr. Aldrick here to smack both of your bums until you’re purple?”

Despite the pointed threat from above, Gerald aimed straight for the restroom. 

She could handle it. He’d just pretend he hadn’t heard a thing. 

He tucked the line away for later as he started brushing his teeth.

Actually, wasn’t that the same excuse he used last time?

Would she notice?

Did he even care?

The scarf he had draped over the mirror had slipped loose along the left edge. He pulled it back into place, blocking the reflection.

After what felt like an adequate time, he put the toothbrush back in its place. He uncapped the bottle of mouthwash and tipped a decent amount into his mouth, letting it freshen his breath before he spat it out.

He plopped a reasonable amount of soap into his hands, rubbing them clean with a deliberate and practiced motion. Once they were scrubbed clean, he bent down, washing his face thoroughly. Freshened up, he dried his hands in the damp towel.

That one has been there for a while now, hasn’t it? He should have changed it by now. Decided, he pulled it off the hanger to throw it in the laundry bin.

As he tossed it away, a fleeting thought crossed his mind. 

That was the last piece of fabric he would hold with his bare hands today. 

He smiled despite himself. What has become of him?

Back in his personal quarters, he opened the heavy wardrobe. He had arranged everything with deliberate care: pants folded in the bottom section, belts coiled together, ties stacked in perfect rows. His shirts, suits, and jackets hung in strict order of wear, each one spaced evenly apart.

And yet, the first thing his hand reached for were the gloves. He slid them on slowly, feeling the leather mold to his skin. He pressed his fingers together, then worked his thumbs along his wrists, massaging the seams until the fit felt exact.

It wasn’t the best habit, he could admit that much. 

And yet ever since he returned from Volnyr, he couldn’t find it in himself to touch most objects, let alone people with his bare hands. 

His sins tainted those hands; he couldn’t risk spreading that onto anyone. Even through inanimate objects, it felt wrong. Like his vile past would curse his colleagues, or worse, his innocent students. 

Like he would mark them, destined for a future of suffering.

That barrier of protection allowed him some semblance of peace. 

Leon Akradites, Spirit Academy’s head medic, lectured him constantly about the risks—irritated skin from trapped moisture or bacteria, reduced touch sensitivity, compromised dexterity… He even tried to warn him about the emotional toll of avoiding touch.

Gerald would fire back in kind, hard enough that even Akradites’ sweet nurse eventually walked out. Not that it mattered; Akradites had a habit of turning up to work high and probably just zoned out his criticism.

Or he didn’t care.

Gerald didn’t know which was more impressive.

If Akradites could treat children with an impaired mind to cope with memories of amputating limbs in wartime, then Gerald could cover his hands to avoid thinking about the atrocities he committed in that same war.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He was fully dressed by now, but didn’t bother checking himself in the mirror. If his shirt was wrinkled, or his tie uneven, his partner would be quick to remind him. 

What was that hag yelling about earlier?

And just like that, he opened the door to their shared teachers’ quarters. 

Of course, she was standing there, prepared for him like a battle-hardened soldier.

“Well, about TIME, youngster! What do you think you were doing inside of your room for so long? Did you not hear me screaming MURDER at Bastion and Nicolas just now?”