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by Edmondia Dantes
Disclaimer: They aren't mine.
AN: For the lovely starsplinter.
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The problem with Cecil, Kain thought, was that he laughed. Well, no, it wasn't that he laughed. No. Cecil giggled. And he didn't even giggle like a proper girl, like Rosa did, who when she giggled made it clear she was giggling at the situation and not at you.
But not Cecil, oh no. Cecil giggled with all the might of his ten-year-old lungs and all the grace of the more harridan-like of Baron's courtesans. And schadenfreude, which was a word Kain had looked up last week to prove that it was a real word and he wasn't making it up because Cecil called him a liar, which didn't matter because Cecil was a jerk who giggled with schadenfreude every time Kain wound up doing something that was embarrassing, because if Kain was doing it that meant Cecil wasn't, and training to be a dark knight led to far fewer instances of getting stuck on rooftops than training to be a dragoon did.
He hadn't meant to go through that window. Or land in that bathtub. With that handmaiden. And he definitely didn't find her total lack of offense at all creepy, or the way she patted his head and said he was so dashing and had such pretty hair and--
It still counted as training if he jumped back out the window anyway.
And none of that was the point, which was that Cecil was a giggling girly stupid jerk and Kain was going to get up and then he was going to kick him so hard.
Just as soon as he got his ponytail untangled from his spear.
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