They had been friends since childhood. Even if the houses were connected, and their surnames, in a way, forced them to become close, it had been their choice to form a bond as strong as they had.

Memories of their time together came to him as he walked along the gravel road beside her manor. The roses in her garden smelled of May, of her hands, of her hair in those rare ocassions she let it down when she was tired, sitting on the grassy knoll next to him. He felt his heart sink thinking of the reason he was there on this particular day. It was all in his mind—hearts do not sink like ships—but he had been doing his best to delay his arrival, treading back and forth the entrance of the Rainsworth property. This aimless walk had led him to the garden—her garden, where he had held her hand, many times, so many, he didn't know why it kept being exciting everytime their fingers touched once more, but it was. It had always been. And there was also that one time… but no, he mustn't think of that now. All his might had been used to bury that particular memory deep in his mind, and yet it always showed up, the unwanted thought, the one piece of knowledge he had no desire to possess. It wasn't even that exciting a memory. Just a childish, playful moment between two close friends. Why did it always come back, why did that memory pull at heartstrings he wasn't even sure he had; heartstrings he could've sworn he didn't have.

It had taken place in that same garden, years ago. Both were children, barely into two digits of age. Sheryl was so small back then, she had always been small—petite like all the women in her family, but she was particularly small in her childhood. He always had to look down to her as they walked together, his face bearing almost no expression, as usual, an unreadable mask. He sighed as he plucked one of the flowers. Perhaps it was precisely that mask what had cursed the both of them, cursed whatever could've been born that day, so many years ago.

Rufus and Cheryl walked through the garden, their mothers looking on, sat down for tea, chatting away. The two children had come to a small, secluded place amidst the trees and flower paths, out of reach of the adults' eyes, and little Sheryl declared she was tired. She had a very commanding way to her, even then. She didn't care that her best friend was just as noble, held just as high a stand as her, and was also taller; none of that mattered to her as she ordered him around, expecting her every whim to be tended to by him. And he let her. Never would he have admitted to it, but he liked it. He enjoyed very few things, and tending to her best friend was probably his favourite one. He would never say it, of course not, and neither would she, but they both knew. She declared her tiredness, and let go of his arm as she sat herself down in a small rock, placed as ornament on the grass, underneath a large tree.

He remained standing, looking at her, the way her large dressed covered everything around her, a beautiful flower opening itself from her waist.

"Are you not sitting down, Ru?"

"No," he replied matter of factly, "I have no need."

"But you're so tall. You shouldn't grow so much and so fast, it's disrespectful to me."

"I'll try my best not to, Cheryl."

"Well, that's good, because you can't be too tall, I may sprain my neck looking up to you."

"Maybe if you didn't spend so much time sitting down…" he muttered playfully. Although his expression displayed mild annoyance, he was comfortable saying these things to her, knowing she was comfortable as well.

The girl stood up quickly, the beautiful flower her dress had drawn in his imagination retreated, blossoming in reverse, he smiled inwardly: her dresses were always so beautiful. She stood right next to his friend, looking up.

"It's no good, too tall," she said, half to herself, lost in some obscure thought. She looked around, a pout on her lips, almost oblivious to Rufus. Suddenly, her face lit up as she stepped on the rock that had served as her seat.

For some reason, a reason that, at the time, he hadn't yet discovered, he felt as if the ground had disappeared, giving way to emptiness. Standing at the edge of a cliff would've probably felt the same, but there was no cliff: just her, standing on a rock, their heights almost equaled. His eyes were opened wide, bearing hints of unfamiliarity, of new discoveries. There was something happening, some unknown emotion had been tapped into, and he had no idea what it was or where it came from, but it was there and it was exhilarating.

He watched her stutter, gather her breath to say something, but losing her courage along the way.

"Ru," she started after a few moments.

"Yes, Cheryl?" he said, masking his uneasiness.

And before another word was spoken, she leaned in, placing her small hands on his arms, and brushed her lips against his ever so slightly.

"Ru!" he heard the familiar voice call out to him, forcing him to rid of the thought, forcing himself to bury it again. He looked up and saw Cheryl walking to him, one hand gathering her dress, so as to help her walk easier.

"Where have you been? I thought I told you to be here early, there are still things I need to ask of you."

He didn't say a word, and merely offered his arm to her, letting her lead him into the manor.

"Only family has arrived, you won't have to worry about dealing with people just yet."

"You look beautiful," he said sincerely. She did: her hair was up, as it was usual for her, but beautifully done, in a way he hadn't seen before, and adorned by flowers, small and delicate.

"Thank you," she smiled at him.

The rest of the way they walked in silence, a comfortable silence, the one they had built after all these years.

Once inside the manor, she led him to the smoking room which, because it was large and available, she had made into her headquarters in preparation for the ceremony. Vases full of flowers with cards from people he didn't care for filled the room; elegantly wrapped presents from all the notable families gave the room a golden atmosphere; the gown that hung to one side of the full sized mirror only served as a reminder of what exactly the ceremony was about, of why her hair, her face, all of her, seemed so beautiful that day. It's only, he remembered reading ages ago, when we're about to lose things that they become beautiful. He thought it a stupid, nonsensical, unnecessary sentimentality but it was becoming true for him, and that annoyed him the most.

She turned to him, her hands occupied by her fan. Truly, he thought, she was beautiful.

"I have a favour to ask of you, Ru. And it's a very important one," she paused for a minute, opened her fan and closed it again, "I want you to be the one to lead me inside for the ceremony, I want to walk the aisle holding your arm," a bright, proud smile, lit up her features as she said this, it made it even harder for him to reply what he needed to reply.

"I can't."

"If it's about father, he's already agreed. He thought it a lovely idea actu—"

"No, it's not about that, Cheryl," he found it hard to deny her, but he had already thought about the possibility of her asking this of him, and his mind had been made up since the moment she announced her wedding, some time back.

"Then what is it?" she asked, placing her hand on her hip casually. Demanding, as always.

"The one who walks you is supposed to give you away to the… groom, isn't he?"

"Yes," she said firmly, "that's one of his duties."

"I don't want to do that," he paused, but before she could get a word in, he carried on, "I don't want to give you to him. He's going to marry you, he'll have you, I don't want to be the one who… gives you to him. I don't want him to think it's alright, or that I approve… that I want him to have you. Because it's not alright, and I don't want it." His voice was calm, flowing except for certain deliberate pauses, but exquisitely collected.

His friend, the woman standing next to him, the girl who had grown to be just a tad smaller than him, looked at Rufus, perhaps searching for the correct answer, or perhaps realising things she hadn't realised before. But it couldn't be that last thing, because if not—no, it couldn't. It wasn't all in his mind, he knew this. He wasn't the only one who felt a tingling, distinct sensation every time their fingers locked.

If only he hadn't contracted with his chain, if only—but it wasn't just the chain. He—and she too—they both had used his contract as an excuse not to deal with things that were painfully obvious, and maybe too painfully impossible. His now to be perpetual youth had been used as a means to avoid acting on whatever it was that lingered between the two, whatever it was that had been born under that tree, when she stepped on the rock and pressed her lips against his. It wasn't just the chain, or his expressionless mask, or her duties as a woman of the Rainsworth family to wed a notable man who wouldn't remain youthful forever. It wasn't just that, it had been them. They were both to blame, and yet, none could blame the other.

"I see," she said, concentrated on her fan, "I'll have to tell father he'll do it. I suppose he'll be pleased after all."

"I'm sorry, Cheryl," he started, but silenced himself as she gave him a look.

"There's no need to be sorry, Ru."

He nodded. The conversation was over. He needn't be sorry because she had already forgiven him, and him her. That is what happens when love exists in secret, hidden away from everyone else. She herself had written this, many years ago, in a small letter addressed to him. They had both pretended she was talking about someone else, two people she knew in passing, and she was merely recounting a story, commenting on it, as she wrote, "If there is someone you love in such a way, you would forgive that person everything, without him even having to ask, everything is forgiven, because that is what happens when people love silently, in dark corridors, away from prying eyes. Forgiveness is the only thing left to share."