Joshua Rosfield x writer!Reader
1005 words, fluff
Short fluffy fic for Valentine’s. Happy Valentine’s Day! It’s the same reader as anecdotal inspiration, but you don’t have to read it to read this one (but I would be very happy if you did :))
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You sighed, leaning forward and bumping your head against the book in your hands.
Opposite you, Joshua gave you a curious look. “Is something the matter?”
This had been going on for a while: you often spent your free time scrawling down children’s stories in blank notebooks, and when you had finished, put them up in a quaint corner in the library for the children to peruse. There weren’t many books suitable for the young ones at the Hideaway. You would never have dared to initiate something like this yourself, but with Harpocrates’ kind, homely encouragement that you would almost accuse as manipulative, your hobby had found meaning in one of the lowest shelves that any child could reach.
Then you had an unexpected patron—the younger of the Rosfield brothers, no less—and he was somewhat of a busybody, and he’d become particularly sticky to you after finding out you were the author of those stories in the tattered notebooks. But if anybody asked you if you minded it, you wouldn’t say you did.
You turned the closed book over in your hands. It was a random book on the history of Valisthea that you’d picked off the shelf in hopes of finding an answer. “I’m looking for a word, but I can’t remember it…”
“Have you consulted the dictionary?”
“I don’t remember what letter it starts with, so that’s not helpful.” …You hadn’t come across as rude, had you? “Um, but thanks.”
Joshua didn’t look ruffled in the slightest. He slid his own book shut and propped his elbows up on the table. “Then, would you like to describe it to me? I might know what word it is.”
He most definitely did. Although you’d done your own fair share of reading, it was hard to deny that Joshua was much more well-read than you, or anyone else at the Hideaway. Sometimes he’d dive into a monologue patterned with flowery sentences, but maybe you’d given him one too many confused looks, because he had pretty much stopped doing that with you. But those alone were enough to prove to you he had picked up far more books than you—although that was to be expected, considering he had been raised in royalty.
You let the book in your hands slide down onto the table, chewing on your bottom lip. “Well… it’s part of a castle.”
Joshua nodded attentively. “I grew up in one.”
Oh, you’d forgotten that. “It’s something like a tower..? I think? They’re usually along the walls—at least I think they are.”
“Are you thinking of a turret?”
Right—that was the word. “That’s—That’s the word. Thanks.”
“Delighted to be of help.” He leaned forward. “What did you need it for?”
“Are you asking for spoilers?”
He puffed his cheeks indignantly, almost like a child. “It’s been a fair while since you’ve published anything, so you will have to pardon me for being curious.”
Published was far too fancy of a term for you.
You glanced down, turning your wrist over experimentally. “Tarja said my wrist hasn’t been good, so I haven’t written much for a while.”
“Oh?” Faint alarm was tinged in his voice, despite him usually trying to keep a composed facade, something you had picked up on yourself. “What happened?”
Apparently, you’d been writing too much. It had prompted a cramp in your hand and after paying a visit to Tarja, who had suggested the most probable cause was your extended periods of time jotting away at your desk. Which you had initially found weird, since it had never happened before. Then after some reflection, you had realised in the past few weeks, particularly after a specific someone discovering your secret of writing those books, you had been feeling too motivated to settle down; sometimes you’d even forego a good night’s worth of rest to spend the time whittling away at words.
Not that you would ever say any of that out loud, so the long and short of it was: “I wrote too much—so my hand hurts.”
Joshua frowned. “Is it an injury?”
“Something like that… I think.” You hoped you weren’t wrong.
“I could heal you, if you’d like?” he offered.
Injured hand darting in front of your chest reflexively, you shook your head. “I couldn’t—you should save your powers for other… stuff.”
He didn’t seem to agree. “What better stuff would prevail over this?”
“People who are actually being useful on the field?” you tried.
This time he frowned at you. “Perhaps you don’t think your contributions are befitting of any reward?”
That wasn’t… “I don’t mean that, but…”
You weren’t sure what you were trying to say, either, so you trailed off. For a long moment, there was a stuffy silence between the two of you. Although you were terrible at conversing with others, Joshua always seemed to know what to say at every moment, so stretches of quiet didn’t happen with him often. Now that there was one, it felt gut wrenchingly nauseating and you contemplated excusing yourself to the toilet so you could retreat back to your bunk and shut the door and wither and die in a corner.
When he finally spoke again, it was soft. “I won’t do anything that you aren’t comfortable with. But as for your implications that your writing and your work aren’t important, those I can’t agree with. Reading your stories holds more importance than just a moment of respite for the children, and myself, as well—and if you allowed the others to peruse them, I’m sure they’d come to the same conclusion.”
Joshua held out his hand across the table.
“So, please don’t think any less of yourself.”
You stared at his outreached hand.
Slowly, from in front of your chest, to over the table, to the palm of his hand, you reached back out to him.
It was funny. You had never even said it out loud, and maybe you hadn’t even realised it yourself, so how, you wondered, did Joshua seem to know you better than yourself?