“This is what Monsignor Adam chose for me to wear?” Gawked Valentine, his eyes scrapped over his own, stiffly posed, full body reflection. The frills of his layered sleeves should've trickled down from his mid bicep, but instead started at his elbow, making the rest of the sleeve that was tied at his wrist, bulge and balloon unflatteringly. The bitter-coffee brown, flower patterned vest stopped just above his hips rather than at his waist, slightly overlapping the matching trousers that were clearly meant to be fitted higher on the torso.  If the trousers had belt loops, the fabric would still bunch and look ugly, even if it was slightly less so. 

The only part of the outfit that wasn't abhorrent was the ruffled collar of the under shirt. Maybe it stood a little too far up his neck, but he could deal with the lace tickling his jaw. Frills poured over the vest’s v-neck, barely hiding at how poorly fitted the top was. His arms refused to touch his sides, and hovered awkwardly frigid in the air. 

Perhaps the colour of the clothing wasn't awful either. It complemented his pale complexion and wine-red hair quite well. Now he was all out of generosity to give.

“I'm afraid so,” not even Rhys could conceal the horror frozen in his tone—or the judgement in his eyes—from over Valentine's shoulder. 

“He’s trying to humiliate me, I know it. He must be,” Valentine turned to the side, driven by a morbid fascination to see just how disastrous it was at every angle. The trousers sagging on his arse was particularly awful. “Has he gone mad? Did he forget what I look like? It hasn't been very long. Rhys! I'm a fully grown man, did he think I would gain weight and sprout, what, fifteen centimeters in six months? Do not answer that,” the man shot a quick glare at the butler in the mirror when he noticed Rhys’ disgust curling his lips into amusement. Rhys' smile of feigned innocence was not the current target of Valentine’s frustration.

“Arriving in this mess wouldn't only humiliate me, you know. It would be a disaster for him as well! I do not believe this is from the Monsignor. Even if we ignore the blaring issue of it being too large–”

“If that's possible,” Rhys hummed. 

“It isn’t. But where are the accessories? What universe would someone like him not include a necklace, or a ring–even if it were cheap and ugly, There isn't a single cross anywhere. Don't you think even if he wanted to make a fool out of me, his ego wouldn't squeeze in one measly crucifix necklace?” Valentine said,

Monsignor Adam was limited to the outfits he could wear and he made up for it in other ways by supporting local jewelers in their reverence of Earth’s finest beauty bestowed upon us by God. Rhys was well aware of the expanse of his collection, where somehow, every piece saw an equal amount of use. 

Valentine could no longer bear seeing his reflection in this dastardly thing.

He knew he was handsome. His slender limbs were attractively long in proportion to his average height, his shoulders were wide enough, and his waist slim, to give him a regal silhouette in properly fitted clothing. To say the least he had a beautiful figure that these clothes offended. 

As a boy, his mother’s style of dressing him was similar to all of his sisters—lace and ribbons. As a choirboy, up until his early teens, he was doted on the most for being the cutest despite wearing the same cassock and surplice. Into his older years he was shoved into any fancy ensemble a designer paid his family to show off and advertise at parties, especially at Adam’s. 

Seconds after glancing away he caught a glimpse of Rhys’ face settling into his planning mode from the corner of his eye. 

Valentine, the walking mannequin, looked unflattering. 

His mother would be fuming. 

Valentine let out an involuntary chuckle. 

Followed quickly by another. 

“My lord?” Rhys’ eyebrows leapt up his forehead at the laughter that bubbled up from Valentine’s chest. Valentine’s head tilted to the side, bitter mirth filled his squinted eyes. It was natural to smile while laughing,  Valentine was no exception. 

Valentine spun on his heel, his arms flung wide as if presenting himself anew. 

“Look at me, Rhys! Isn't it awful? Isn't it ugly? Don't I look dreadful?” the madman giggled. 

With that explanation, Rhys still wasn't privy as to what was humorous. 

“Oh come now. It's hilarious, don't you see?” 

It was not as though he relished in being a living, breathing advertisement, or dress up toy. Even in the seclusion of the Nidus House, with only him and Rhys around to judge his appearance, his form of rebellion was mild—an untucked shirt, trousers that didn't quite match, his pajamas worn for days on end. He didn't look put together, but he never looked bad. 

What should’ve wounded his self-esteem, and would’ve explained his laughter as a means of coping with the tight ball of dread that habitually made a home in the pit of his stomach, simply didn’t. Instead, something sickly sweet blossomed and tickled his chest.

A slim smile cracked across Rhys’ face, he bowed his head to quietly snicker behind his fist. 

“I see,” Rhys said, “does this mean you intend to wear it?” 

“Absoluetly not,” Valentine swiftly answered, pointing his nose and a disdainful side eye at his reflection once more. “I doubt it was the Monsignor who personally picked it out. At most, he shoved it off onto someone else without giving them proper instruction. I know you suspect as much, so spare me the argument,” Valentine already began untying the ribbons around his wrists. 

“I’ve no intention to embarrass him or myself, so find something more suitable, would you. And throw this in a fire,” he discarded the ribbons off to the side. 

“Nevertheless, it was still gifted by Monsignor Adam Sterling–” The butler bent down to retrieve the thin strips of lace from the floor.

“Rhys,” Valentine’s razor edged glare shot at the dark haired man who straightened his posture. 

“But I would not allow you to walk out of this manor as you look now. Give me an hour. Now, kindly strip,” he spoke steadily as if the haughty man’s reflection staring him down hadn't tried to interrupt. A grandfather clock chimed elsewhere in the manor and floated into Valentine’s bedchamber.

Valentine blinked twice at the taller man, “give you an hour for what?” 

⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰

True to his word, Rhys knocked on the library door the second after the library grandfather clock finished tolling. 

After shedding the abomination, Valentine retreated into the library bay window with the intent to continue reading Charles Crow’s Wooden Sheparid. The obsessive circling of his mind wouldn't allow him to read words. No matter how many times he attempted to start from the top of the page, midway down they were blurred as the future nagged at him. It would be a disservice to Crow if he lingered on a page for a few minutes, then flipped it out of habit. So it was bookmarked and set aside for a sketchbook instead. 

“Enter,” Valentine spoke up.  His pencil continued its light strokes, shading in the final touches of his sketch. The door clicked open before the satisfied butler butler came in. 

“My lord, your–” 

Valentine turned his sketchbook outward toward the arriving butler. In the center of the off-white paper was a face. A messy recreation of Rhys' smugness that was a brief reflection of reality. Until the real expression faltered when the butler saw what was on the paper. 

“My lord–” Rhys attempted again. 

Valentine flipped to the next page. Stormy eyes observed Rhys register the second sketch—a severe deadpan fitting for his opinion on his lord’s antics. Tarnished gold flicked from the scribbled graphite face, to Valentine's neutral stare beyond the sketchbook. 

“It seems we must revisit your lessons on facial proportions and confident linework, sir," Rhys commented. The sting of his criticisms had Valentine rolling his eyes and clicking his tongue. The book came to his chest to hide away his insulted work. Rhys thinly smirked, up until the younger man flipped to the next page and began turning it around. Rhys’ eyes jerked to his poorly done smirk before it got the chance to fully face him.

“My lord!” Finally came the groan of exasperation. 

“Don’t be dull,” Valentine scoffed. The book smacked shut and was tossed to the other side of the window seat. His pencil and rubber were given a gentler set down. 

If Rhys didn’t want to be called out for being so predictable, perhaps he shouldn’t be predictable.

“If you wish to draw attention by arriving late, then by all means,” Rhys said and stayed a pace behind Valentine on their way back to the young man’s room. 

The next time Valentine saw himself in his full length mirror, he looked upon in surprise rather than dismay. It fit. All of it fit. 

“Since when were you a tailor?” questioned Valentine, twisting and contorting his body in order to admire the transformation. The difference was night and day—especially on his arse. 

“I am a butler of the Sterling household. It should be no surprise I possess many talents,” the taller man answered. 

Rhys always said he was a butler, not a chef, pâtissier, chocolatier, tailor, gardener, landscaper, farmer, tutor, or all of the other hats he wore maintaining the manor, and Valentine’s whims. In the start it left Valentine puzzled. Now he could only hum as if he hadn’t heard that explanation before.

“It is easier to size clothing down than you think. It would’ve been wasteful to feed this to the fireplace, the quality of the material is noticeably high,” Rhys walked between Valentine and the dressing table and retrieved Valentine’s rosary from its garnet, velvet-lined coffin. His gloved hands handled the beads with care when he draped it around Valentine’s neck. 

There would be prayer tonight, no doubt. There always was.

Valentine was certain a blessed rosary could burn the average—not possessed by demons—human. He couldn’t remember precisely when the beads first singed. Five years ago, perhaps, when he was around fourteen. His hands weren’t much smaller than they were now when he recoiled away from the rosary before prayer. His mother had raised an eyebrow, and he quietly blamed static. 

Perhaps he had been possessed? Wouldn't that be amusing.