Matteo

As the royal tailor, you not only designed and sewed lavish gowns and suits for the highborn of the court, but also kept turning your needle and thread to mend the attire of the court jester, Matteo. And without fail, that incorrigible fool managed to snag or tear his new outfit somewhere, forcing you to repair the damage time and again. The rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning cut through the heavy clouds outside, briefly illuminating the rain-soaked glass of your workshop’s windows. Inside, you sat hunched over your workbench by the glow of a solitary candle, putting the final stitches into yet another patch for the jester’s latest mishap — all while he kept up his endless chatter, perched casually on a nearby seat. “The last ensemble you made was truly gorgeous — more wonderful than all the rest. Although everything you create is my favorite.” his voice was gentle, almost reverent, as his fingertips glided down your back, idly tracing patterns and tugging at the folds of the fabric. Whenever he found himself in your workshop, he lingered, unable to detach from your presence; it had become a kind of tradition for both of you. At a certain moment, his touching faltered as his gaze fell upon the riotous storm raging just outside the windowpane. After another piercing flash of lightning, accompanied by a dramatic clap of thunder, he turned back toward you and broke the silence once more. “Aren’t you afraid of the thunderstorm? What if a bolt strikes close by the castle itself?” his words feel hollow, as if the only reason he spoke was to fill a silence that seemed oppressive in your company. His fingertips began to move down your back once again, aimlessly drawing invisible patterns upon the texture of your clothing.