Kaito was lying on his stomach, face smashed into the pillow like he could suffocate his problems if he just held still enough.
Unfortunately, he could still think. And lately, that was the problem.
It'd been two days since the Count summoned him. Two days since that creepy not-quite-a-conversation where words like "debut" and "smile" and "pleasing" were thrown around with just enough emphasis to make him want to crawl under the nearest table and stay there.
He hadn't left his room much. He showed up to the required etiquette lessons and the dance practice, mostly because not doing so would raise questions—and he was doing everything in his power not to raise questions. The teachers were polite enough, though his dance instructor kept looking at him like he was some lost noble phoenix chick that had been rediscovered after centuries in hiding.
"You learn fast," the instructor had said. "Most students take weeks to pick this up."
"Must be the shoes," Kaito had replied, with a smile that was technically acceptable by etiquette standards but fully hollow on the inside.
Back in his room, he did nothing. Sat. Ate. Slept badly. Tried not to think too hard. Played with the embroidery scissors for a bit. Stared at the seams of the bed canopy like they were going to show him a hidden exit from the story.
His siblings had knocked once or twice. Maybe more. He didn't open the door. He didn't care if it looked suspicious. Nothing good came from seeing them, and nothing he said would sound like the "real" Aurelian anyway.
It seemed to be day by day he is becoming a real shut in. He should atleast go outside and touch some grass.
But He hadn't exactly memorized the guy's entire life. Just the game version. And that version was mostly moaning or crying or doing both while shackled to some ornate magical headboard which is making him hard to behave the the original.
So yeah. He was not feeling optimistic.
Still, it wasn't until late afternoon—sun slanting in gold through the windows, warm and useless—when the real spiral started.
He'd been pacing a little. Not dramatically, just… aimlessly. Then sitting. Then pacing again.
Then, out of nowhere, a thought popped into his head:
What if I sold my fluids?
He paused mid-step.
Blink. Thought again.
What if I… no, yeah, he definitely just thought that.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, and sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
Where had that come from? Why the hell had that felt… reasonable?
And yet, there it was. Sitting in his brain like a half-drunk idea you know is terrible but also kind of brilliant if you don't think too hard about it.
Why not sell it first?
He slapped himself. Not hard. Just a light tap on the cheek to try and reboot his brain.
"No," he muttered. "Bad thought."
But the thing was—he didn't have any other plan. No money. No allies. No way to survive once he left this gilded hellhole unless he could buy a way out.
Eben if he stole some things form the manor and fled it would only last him about some months at best but a steady source would be good.
And people would pay.
He remembered in the original plot just before the banquet at the imperial palace a cut scene was shown of a love interest at a action house getting in invitation.
He was that action house's owner from what I had known.
Viable. Jesus.
He flopped back onto the mattress, groaning into the sheets.
"Why am I even thinking about this shit. Have I fell to this leavel already?"
But it was the most possible thought and way to live slacking off but if be was caught then it would be hell but there are no rewards without risks.
It was a black market auction so the identity with me hidden and it woukd make it easy for him to get the money and escape.
It sounded stupid even as he said it. But it also sounded better than doing nothing.
He sat up again, rubbing his face.
"I'm going to end up dying in a brothel," he said flatly. "if things don't go my way"
Still. It was an idea.
One of his worst ones.
And probably the only real option he had.
"…What fluid should I sell?" he said out loud, instantly regretting it.
Silence.
Then, as if to punish him for the sentence, the wind outside shifted and slammed the shutters hard enough to rattle the walls.
He laid back down, defeated.
"God, I hope no one can hear my thoughts."
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