Work Text:
Prick, prick—
I wonder how many stitches it's been now.
The felt in my hands had finally taken the shape I'd been imagining. I sewed on the tiny gold-thread ornament, set a little crown right on top, and—
done.
“...I-It's finished...!”
At my desk late at night, I nodded to myself with a sharp little blink.
I had no intention of showing it to anyone. I didn't want anyone to know. And yet there was one thing I refused to give up—my own private comfort.
A tiny Orfe sitting neatly in my palm.
Well, to be precise, it was a prize plush modeled on Orfevre—a Paka Petit. The first time I won it in a crane game, I'd honestly had mixed feelings, something like, it looks like her and yet it doesn't... But by now this little thing had become precious to me.
“S-so cute...! But I'm sleepy...! Sleepy, but I at least want to take pictures first...!”
I pointed my phone at the tiny gold outfit I'd carefully dressed it in. The background was a miniature turf course I'd made recently. Tiny railings. Tiny grass. Even the spectator stands had been set up properly. All handmade too.
“All right, picture time. You're the cutest thing here today too.”
I found myself smiling as I pressed the shutter.
A grown woman acting like this is ridiculous, you say? I know that perfectly well. But this is time I can't hand over to anyone else. In front of the real her, I could never say these things. There is no way I could.
That girl is proud, imperious, overwhelming.
The face she shows me is only one tiny part of her.
But this little Orfe shows me everything. And I can show all of myself to her too—even the pathetic parts. On nights when work leaves me exhausted, on days when I lose the place to put my feelings, this tiny presence comforts me.
“...If she ever saw this, she'd definitely get mad. She'd probably say something like, ‘What, are you planning to change careers and become a puppeteer?’”
Even so, this is a hobby I discovered only after I became a working adult. I have absolutely no intention of quitting. Thinking about what outfit I should make next, I pressed the shutter again.
Tonight too, a private photo shoot with the smallest king in the world.
It was time that made sleepless nights just a little gentler.
“—After school, I permit you to attend me. It seems a new shop has opened. That confectioner's place we discussed.”
The moment I looked up, Orfe stood in the doorway of the trainer's office. Splendid chestnut-gold hair, a proud posture, looking straight at me as she spoke in a tone that was all but an order.
Ah. Here we go again.
The way she invites me with no warning, as though it should be self-evident, never changes.
“Sorry, I've got somewhere I need to stop by today...”
The instant I said it, I didn't miss the way her expression shifted—just a little, just the faintest bit. Probably so little that no one else would have noticed. But my heart stirred hard at that tiny movement.
“...You have to stop somewhere? Even though it means refusing me?”
“It's more like an errand... nothing important, really.”
I chose my words as carefully as I could, trying not to give too much away. It truly wasn't anything major. Just a few minutes to stop by that goods shop and check on some photo props I'd seen online. A miniature throne diorama for my Paka Petit Orfe.
Naturally, there was no way I could tell her that.
If she found out a grown adult was soothing herself with a stuffed toy, she'd absolutely say something.
“...I see.”
The sound she let out was half sigh, half dismissal. I couldn't quite read the color behind it. She didn't look openly angry, but she certainly didn't look pleased either.
“So you insist?”
“Today... I'm really sorry. Tomorrow, maybe—”
“Tomorrow would defeat the point.”
A quiet voice dropped over my words and cut them off.
I had no answer.
Without looking at me again, Orfe turned on her heel and left. Her back seemed unnaturally far away. Cold.
As I watched that gold hair sway down the hallway, I could feel guilt spreading slowly through my chest.
And all over something that should only have taken a few minutes.
That evening, I sat on my sofa with the tiny plush in my lap.
The palm-sized Paka Petit—with its lovingly reproduced golden mane—looked, when I perched it on the miniature throne I'd bought that day, almost as though the real her had been compressed and shrunk down.
I had adjusted the props and the background in fine detail. Layered green felt to imitate the texture of turf. Made the tiny gold fence out of wire and beads.
It had taken time and work, but in moments like this I could drift away from the exhaustion and noise of daily life.
Each time I pointed my phone at it and hit the shutter, a smile naturally rose as the little Paka Petit struck its adorable poses.
And yet—
somewhere in me, something was strangely restless.
I should have been happy.
I should have been soothed.
And yet I couldn't quite settle.
There was a shadow on the far side of my smile.
The memory of Orfevre's expression from today.
That tiny tremor she'd shown when I turned down the invitation.
She hadn't said a thing, and yet her silence had felt strangely heavy.
It hadn't been my imagination.
She had been angry.
Or... was that all?
More than anger, could it have been exasperation? Resignation? Or some other feeling beyond what I could measure?
It had been a long time since she'd invited me so directly. She was usually a tyrant—capricious, arrogant. And yet today had been a little different. Maybe using the sweets shop as an excuse, she'd actually had something on her mind. The regret of not understanding her real intention was now settling heavily in my chest.
“...She was angry, wasn't she? Figures.”
I murmured it softly and stroked the Paka Petit's head.
The plush softness reached my fingertips.
But that didn't solve anything.
A stuffed toy was never going to stand in for her.
And yet in front of the real her, I could never be this honest. So all the things in my heart that I could confess only to the Paka Petit, I held down inside me as though hugging them tight.
“Haah... seriously, what am I even doing...”
No answer came back from the ceiling above.
My phone was silent today too, with not a single message from her.
What remained in my chest was not the pleasant afterglow of the photo session, but an anxiety much heavier than that. Maybe her mood wouldn't recover at all. What if distance grew between us like this? What if a single refusal became a gap that could never be mended—
I gently hugged the little version of her in my lap.
The tiny plush, with neither warmth nor voice, answered none of my anxiety.
Even so, just for tonight, it gave me a little comfort.
That next day, I had my head in my hands from the moment morning came.
Half asleep, I'd accidentally dropped the Paka Petit into the gap beside my bed and wasted precious time searching for it. By the time I finally found it and stuffed it into my bag in a hurry, I was already on the verge of being late to work.
I hadn't had time to put it back in its usual place.
Bringing it to work was absurd in itself. Work and private life should never mix. Especially not with a “secret” I absolutely could not let anyone see.
But—
I was running late. That couldn't be helped. Better this than being late for Orfe's morning training.
That was how I justified it to myself, wrapped the Paka Petit carefully in a towel so it wouldn't be damaged, and smuggled it into my locker in the trainer's office.
I somehow made it through the morning's work, and the moment lunch break started, I quietly opened the locker to check inside.
Safe.
Thank goodness...
No one had noticed. That alone made relief pour up from the bottom of my heart.
And then—
“—Oi.”
A voice suddenly came from behind me without so much as a knock or a warning, and my heart almost stopped.
“Ghh! O-Orfe!? At least knock first—!”
“This is the king's residence. Why should its master need permission to enter?”
She slipped into the room as always—no, if anything with her mood just a touch worse than usual.
I hurriedly shut the locker.
But for one instant, I thought I saw her sharp gaze flick toward it.
Did she see?
“...We were supposed to review race footage this afternoon, were we not? What are you standing there gawking for?”
“Y-yeah. Right. Uh... I'll get things ready...”
I meant to sound calm.
But my voice shook more than I'd expected. My fingers were stiff, my palms damp with sweat.
The more I tried to pile words on top of one another, the drier my throat became, until only my lips were moving pointlessly.
Orfevre watched me like that, steadily—
with the same eyes a beast might use while holding its breath and sizing up prey.
“...What are you hiding?”
The words, dropped low and quiet, struck me straight down the spine.
“W-what do you mean...?”
I looked away.
She saw through that immediately.
“Do not avert your eyes. Did you truly think you could deceive the eyes of this king? Your eyes speak more than your mouth.”
There was no room left to escape.
“Th-that's not true!”
“Hmph. Idle babble.”
Letting out a little breath that was almost a scoff, she slipped past my shoulder and began walking toward the locker without a word. Every movement was calm, but there was a pressure in it that made escape impossible. I shot out a hand instinctively.
“W-wait, that's—!”
The sound that came out was close to begging.
But it was already too late.
Her white fingers caught the locker handle without hesitation, and the next instant—
click.
The door opened with a quiet sound, and the air grew heavy.
Inside sat a little shape wrapped carefully in a towel.
With chestnut hair close to gold, a dignified little face, and detail that was almost absurdly good—
a small plush “Orfevre” wearing a tiny crown sat there neatly.
I stopped breathing.
Silence.
Stillness.
For one instant it felt as though time itself had vanished, sound and all.
Without a word, Orfevre lowered her gaze to the plush.
As though looking down at herself.
“................What is this?”
The voice was unexpectedly low and flat. And yet instinctively I sensed something hidden in its depths—feelings boiling beneath the surface like water under a wavering skin.
“No, it's not, I mean—!”
I opened my mouth, fumbling for words of explanation, but too late.
She reached out and delicately plucked up that “self” of hers.
The plush swayed in her palm.
She stared at its face and gently stroked the hair with one finger. The gold-thread embroidery. The little cape that fluttered slightly. The crown that glittered in miniature.
“...A doll modeled on me.”
The voice in which she muttered it contained neither irritation nor a raised shout—
“There’s this thing called plush collecting... and, well... it's comforting, kind of, just a hobby...”
Even as I spoke, I felt my own voice growing distant. It wasn't an excuse. It wasn't even really an explanation. Just panic. My lips were dry, the blood draining from my face. My ears burned hot, but the rest of me was growing cold.
All the while, Orfevre continued to touch the plush as though it were fragile, lightly tracing behind its ear before stopping her fingers there. Without taking her eyes off it, she asked quietly:
“...For you, is this something that should take precedence over me?”
Her voice sounded like an inquisition.
Terribly quiet, as though it were peering into the center of my heart.
I knew I had to answer something—
and yet my mouth wouldn't move.
The thing in her palm looked like Orfevre from every angle.
But the real her was standing right in front of me, looking down at it.
And somewhere deep inside her, I could feel something creaking.
One moment I thought Orfevre had thrown the Paka Petit toward the nearby sofa—
and the next, she had slammed me back against the wall.
My back struck the metal of the locker with a dull clang.
“Ow... Orfe, wait—”
“Silence, you faithless creature.”
Her voice was low, and not a single shred of indulgence remained in it.
Her eyes, bright gold like fire, pinned me where I stood.
She was angry.
No—this was much more than anger.
It was unmistakable fury.
Jealousy, suspicion, possessiveness—everything mixed together into a violent craving to monopolize me.
“I did not know you had a hobby of doting on dolls. —And one modeled on me, no less.”
“Th-that's not...!”
I couldn't breathe. The words wouldn't come.
“Do not lie. Have you forgotten refusing me yesterday? What was that business of ‘tomorrow, maybe’? Even a clown would tell a better lie.”
She grabbed my chin and tipped it up. Her face came close.
“Did you wish to dote upon this stuffed imitation so badly that you would carve away time you might have spent with me?”
“That's—!”
“You wanted ‘comfort,’ did you? But instead of confiding in me, you poured everything out to this thing? ...What a convenient way to love. Answer me. How attached were you to this doll modeled after me?”
Pinned by that direct gaze, I choked on my answer.
“U-um... taking photos, making outfits, little decorations... just normal fan stuff, really...”
The words spilled out while my eyes darted around everywhere. I knew how childish I sounded even as I said it, but I had to offer some explanation.
“You made clothing for it. Took photographs of it. I might allow that. However—”
Her fingertip touched my neck.
A tremor ran straight up my spine.
“Why, then... does it smell so strongly of you?”
Startled like a little animal with nowhere left to run, my eyes flickered helplessly.
“Th-that's... well... I had it on my lap a lot. And sometimes before bed I... hugged it a little... I mean, without really thinking, I kind of held it tight... because it was cute, I guess...”
The words tumbled out while my eyes kept skittering away. Even to me they sounded childish, but at that point I was desperate to defend myself somehow.
“In other words... you held it while you slept, night after night.”
Orfevre's voice pierced like ice.
“N-not every night...! I mean, only sometimes! When I came home tired and just... without thinking...!”
“Hmph... Why should I put faith in the excuses of a liar?”
The air froze in that instant.
Her voice was low and quiet.
But beneath it there was a clearly felt sting of anger and—more than anything—the vulgar scent of jealousy, far too worldly a thing for a proud king to be feeling.
“So it truly is that special to you.”
Her gaze remained lowered to the floor as she spat out the line.
“Huh...?”
My breath caught. I hadn't expected her to touch that.
“Detestable.”
The word fell from her lips like something spat out, and though it was colored by anger, it trembled too.
“Why do you offer your affection not to me, but to that soft bundle of stuffing?”
“Th-that's not—!”
“It is. Do not deny it.”
The merciless retort cracked out at once.
“You chose that. Sneaking about where my eyes could not reach. Night after night, embracing it, warming it in your arms, were you not?”
Her gaze shifted toward the Paka Petit.
It was sharp and cold enough to pierce.
And yet the feeling hidden there was obvious—burning jealousy.
“You are mine. And yet while I was not looking, you went and poured affection into something else. Into a fake thing—a lump of cotton that cannot return even a single word.”
Anything I might have said was swallowed by her anger and jealousy.
Even if I wanted to run, that gaze never left me for a single instant.
“—By royal command. What you did to that thing, do to me. Now.”
The low, resolute order locked my body in place.
“...What?”
“Hold me. Stroke me. Call my name. —Dote. And be doted upon. By me. By me alone.”
She seized my hand hard enough to hurt.
And yet the tremor running through her was not anger alone.
Jealousy. Desire. All sorts of feelings tangled together into something desperate beyond help.
“Th-that's... that's embarrassing, and weird...!”
“Weird? Fool. To whom do you belong? Do you think you could turn your face toward anything else while setting me aside and still be forgiven?”
My heart leapt at the anger in her words.
“You are mine. My ‘staff,’ my subject, and above all—mine. And yet you allowed only that thing your softness. With a face you never show me, you gave it sweet words and pressed your body against it, did you not?”
Her eyes turned toward the Paka Petit she'd thrown aside.
Cold. Almost hateful.
“If that is so, then show it to your king this instant. The affection you bestowed upon that—pour it all into me now. Leave nothing behind.”
She dragged me to her by the waist and shut me inside her arms.
It was a forceful, dominating embrace.
“...Quickly. This is a royal command. Stroke me. Touch me. Call my name. Look at me—and at me alone.”
What lay beneath the imperiousness of her voice was not anger so much as obsession. Unable to resist, I timidly slipped my arms around her back. That alone drew a small breath from her.
“I permit you to touch me. ...Carve that deeply into your heart.”
Later, the trainer would say:
“The embarrassment of what she made me do then was worse than the Kikuka Sho and the Hanshin Daishoten combined.”