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Artful insisted he wasn’t excited.
He insisted it five times, in fact, before the two of you even passed the ticket booth—arms crossed, chin tilted upward, complaining loudly enough that people passing by looked over. But you knew him well enough now to see the spark in his eyes every time he caught sight of a ride.
“This is not thrilling,” he muttered as a roller coaster thundered overhead, his fingers twitching like he wanted to hide behind you and throw a fireball at the same time. “It’s simply unnecessarily loud.”
You hummed, stepping calmly beside him. “I never said you were excited.”
Artful stiffened, scowling dramatically. “I’m not.”
“Of course not.”
He threw you a glare—but your steady tone already defeated him. His shoulders dropped, and he followed you deeper into the park with a huff.
The scents of popcorn, caramel, fried dough, and the distant shriek of people on rides blended into a lively chaos. Artful pretended he hated all of it.
You could tell he didn’t.
He kept drifting closer to you—subtle at first, then more obvious when large crowds passed. At one point, a group of teenagers hurried by, laughing loudly, and Artful gravitated toward your side like a startled cat.
His arm brushed yours.
He pretended it didn’t happen.
You paused in front of a haunted house attraction, gothic-themed and dripping with fake fog. Artful stared at it for a long moment.
“…I want to see how pathetic their illusions are,” he declared suddenly, clearly trying to mask interest with arrogance.
You raised a brow. “Mm. Then let’s go.”
Inside, the darkness swallowed most visitors—but not you. You walked steadily, unfazed. Artful stayed slightly behind you, scoffing at animatronics and flashing lights.
“Hah! Amateur work,” he boasted—just before a ghost dropped down from the ceiling.
He jolted so hard he bumped into your back.
You stopped. Artful froze. His hand was gripping the back of your coat, knuckles white.
“Artful,” you said quietly.
“…I knew it was there,” he whispered.
“Of course you did.”
He swallowed, stepped back—but didn’t let go immediately.
You let him keep holding on until you reached the exit.
The sun began to set, painting the sky orange and pink. Artful’s eyes flicked toward the enormous Ferris wheel.
“…It’s tall.”
“It is.”
“…Dangerously tall.”
“You’ll be with me.”
He went silent, lowering his gaze. His face turned red, just slightly.
“…Fine. Let’s go. For… scientific observation.”
You got a private cabin, the two of you seated opposite each other. As the wheel rose, Artful pretended to study the mechanisms.
But halfway up, he went quiet.
His foot brushed yours.
Once.
Then again—intentional this time.
He didn’t look at you, but his voice was softer than before.
“It’s… peaceful up here.”
You smiled faintly. “It is.”
A gust of wind rocked the cabin gently. Artful immediately leaned forward, gripping the seat.
Without speaking, you reached out and placed your hand over his.
He stared at your fingers resting on his, eyes wide, breath caught.
“…Why are you doing that?”
“You’re tense.”
“I’m not—”
Then the wind shook the cabin again.
You squeezed his hand—firm, steady, unbothered.
Artful shut his mouth instantly, cheeks burning.
“…Fine,” he muttered. “Just—don’t let go.”
You didn’t.
On the way out, a booth caught his attention. Throwing rings at glass bottles. Artful narrowed his eyes at the prize hanging overhead:
A small black cat plush, white eyes, slightly grumpy-looking—far too similar to him to be coincidence.
“Hmph. I could win that easily,” he scoffed.
You paid for the rings before he could complain. Handing one to him, you said:
“Go on.”
Artful’s face reddened. “…You—You don’t have to just buy things and—”
“Artful.”
He stiffened instantly.
“Throw.”
He threw.
He missed.
Four times in a row.
He glared at the bottles like they had personally wronged him.
“This game is obviously rigged.”
You picked up the last ring.
Artful watched, arms crossed, trying to act unimpressed.
You tossed it once—gently—landing it perfectly around a bottle’s neck.
Artful’s mouth fell open.
The booth attendant handed you the cat plush. You turned and held it out.
“For you.”
His entire face went red, from his cheeks to his collar.
“I—I don’t—You—This is—”
He snatched it from your hands like someone might take it away.
“…It’s fine. I’ll keep it. Because you can’t take care of things properly.”
You smiled softly. “Mm. Whatever you say.”
He hugged the plush close to his chest the rest of the walk.
As the two of you headed toward the exit, the night lights reflecting in puddles along the path, Artful walked closer than he had all day—close enough that your shoulders brushed with every few steps.
“…Today was tolerable,” he muttered, which in Artful-language meant “I had a great time.”
You hummed. “Tolerable, hm?”
He glared up at you, flustered. “…Stop that.”
But then, quieter—barely audible:
“…Thank you. For… being here.”
You placed your hand gently on the back of his neck, guiding him forward.
He almost tripped.
“…D-Don’t do that,” he whispered—but he didn’t pull away.
You kept walking.
Artful stayed close the entire time, clutching the black cat plush like it was something precious.
And for once, he didn’t complain.