#like this is TEA i cannot possibly be expected to continue working in these conditions

[judasofsuburbia]

listening to an audiobook at work is all fun and games until the main couple start arguing and you're sitting at your computer like 😳😳😳😳

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

How do you think the Cullen's would have turned out if they lived their natural human lives and not forever frozen at an age / the state they were in? For example I think Carlisle would always be kind and tame but perhaps not as idealistic. Rose might grow bitter of the world since even if Royce didn't assault her I can't imagine he would be the loving husband she wanted. Edward, who watched his parents die and was dying himself, might not be as moody and miserable. Who knows about Jasper and Alice and Esme. Emmett would probably stay the same. Bella, if she never met the supernatural, probably would just be a quiet old soul but otherwise not mal adjusted. I can't even guess about Renesmee haha since she has no personality next to being ~inhumanly special.

I mean, sadly, we know the answer: they wouldn't be around very long and would have died miserably. There's no such thing as a natural human life, well, I suppose you can die of old age, but the fate of the Cullens didn't have that in store.

But let's get into it just the same.

Alice

Had James not come across Alice, she likely still would have been turned at some point by her maker, who seems to have been very fond of her. It was just a matter of time. The difference being that, instead of being a newborn completely on her own, her maker would have been there. This is an Alice very unlikely to see Jasper or the Cullens in her future, though who knows, Carlisle and her maker might very well cross paths someday due to the similarity of their work.

But I doubt Alice would ever end up on the diet.

For Alice to remain human, she can never have been sent to that asylum. In which case we have two options a) she's not sent to an asylum b) she's sent to a different asylum.

In the first case, Alice is more than likely murdered by her father. This is what got her sent off in the first place: she was running around town claiming that her father had murdered her mother and now planned to murder her. To shut the hysterical woman up, her father sent her to an insane asylum. Which effectively got her out of his life just as he wished.

If that didn't occur to him, then yes, Alice likely falls gravely ill or has some unfortunate accident that she cannot prevent.

Otherwise, Alice is sent to some other insane asylum, likely still loses all her memories due to electroshock therapy, and probably dies very young due to poor health conditions. The life she does live is utterly miserable.

Bella

Bella dies in a parking lot, she's hit by a truck out of control. Otherwise, Bella dies in Port Angeles, she's raped and her body abandoned in a dumpster. Otherwise, Bella is eaten by a vampire.

And if Bella miraculously survives all of that, I imagine her struggle with depression continues throughout high school and into college. In college, she may meet someone who catches her interest, in which case she becomes completely codependent on them for a sense of validation (as she did Edward and Jacob in canon).

The relationship is a toxic mess, ends in a very messy breakup, and Bella goes through her New Moon phase a bit later. She might finally get therapy and survive this very dangerous phase in her life, at which point, she finally starts the slow recovery from depression.

I imagine Bella will be struggling with depression though for all of her life and, if left untreated, it might very well kill her.

Carlisle

Had Carlisle not been turned this means the vampire likely drained him. Carlisle dies at the head of the mob, this sentences the other Cullens to death as well as now no one will turn them.

Let's say Carlisle wasn't as fast that day. He had a leg cramp, or something. Not being well in front of the others, he's not hit by the vampire first. This increases his chances of death, as the vampire seems to have killed the rest he took a bite of, but he could survive.

Carlisle lives with the haunting guilt that the one time he tracks down a true demon he brought death to his parish. Several died due to his actions, the demon got away, and now there's no sign of it. Carlisle completely and utterly failed.

This is probably the final straw for Carlisle. Demons exist, but they are beyond his capacity to hunt, this is a job for God and not mere mortal men. He stops the demon hunts, stops the witch hunts, and focuses himself strictly on helping the community and preaching.

He lives knowing his father would have continued to be sorely disappointed in everything he does.

Carlisle likely marries within a few years, now that his father is dead and he's the established head of the parish. He may or may not like his wife all that much, but he has a responsibility, and having a wife and children is one of those. I imagine that they either are somewhat fond of each other or quietly tolerate one another.

If Carlisle has a son, the son is trained as a priest, sent to seminary as he was, and set to inherit the parish. If he has only daughters, then it will be her husband who will inherit the parish.

When Carlisle dies he is likely remembered very fondly by the parish for the good he did for the community. No one talks about the demon hunting disaster. He's buried next to his father.

Edward

Edward dies of the Spanish Influenza in 1918.

Had he never caught it, and thus never come across Carlisle, I imagine he lives a somewhat ordinary life. He goes to university somewhere very well established, perhaps even one of the Ivy League schools, I can see him training to become a lawyer. He either joins his father's law firm or, if his father's not a lawyer, some law firm in Chicago where he does quite well for himself.

He probably courts then marries some affluent, well to do, woman who hits all the checkmarks he expects from society. They probably get on quite well.

The market then crashes in 1929, when Edward's only 29 years old, and Edward gets to live through the depression. Edward may be lucky enough to retain his wealthy, however, he very well could not have been. Edward is now unemployed, destitute, and miserable just like the rest of the country.

I imagine this is very hard on him, he becomes very bitter and resentful, and as he desperately tires to find work it just gets worse. Edward becomes mired in cynicism.

Then the war hits, Edward is now 41, and he's too old to enlist in the army. He feels a sense of nostalgic bitterness that, once again, he can't go fight the good fight and has to cheer from the sidelines. Nonetheless, the economy starts to recover thanks to the war, Edward recovers with it and things get better.

Edward lives his ordinary human life and, perhaps, lives to sometime in the 1990's.

Emmett

Emmett is eaten by bears.

Had he not happened to be in the mountains that day then, likely, some other unfortunate accident would have befallen him. He's a mountain man, that's a dangerous life.

He gets eaten by bears, eaten by mountain lions, injured somehow and then dies, hit by a tree that he cut down, there are so many possibilities.

If he does live to an older age then he becomes the gruff mountain man stereotype that we all know. I imagine he remains a very friendly, cheerful, man, probably marries some local girl and has a very large family.

Esme

Esme kills herself. With the death of her child, that was the path she chose, and had she not been turned she would have been successful.

However, had her child lived, I imagine her life would have continued on the path it was on. She would have been a single mother, working as a teacher, and raising her child.

They would have been poor, but Esme seemed determined to make this work, and was doing an excellent job at it.

Perhaps, in time, she would meet the right man and remarry. However, I think that would take a lot of time as the whole issue was that she was hung up on the ideal of Dr. Carlisle Cullen who she met when she was sixteen and never saw again.

Regardless, she's far more of a real person grounded in reality than Esme the vampire ever was.

Jasper

Had Jasper not come across Maria, he likely would have died in the war. Many, many, people died in the civil war, and Jasper would be far from alone in that.

If not, he would have returned to the ravaged south, and likely found himself facing unemployment and very difficult times for wherever he came from.

Jasper would likely pull through, we know he has lived through hell in canon and pulled through there, though changed for life by the horrors of the civil war that will now never quite leave him.

Renesmee

Renesmee is never born. Her father is a demon a hundred years older than her mother. There is no chance that Bella becomes pregnant with Edward's human child, let alone his vampire child.

If Bella does become pregnant with a vampire child, she's likely been raped by Joham. Bella dies in confusion and agony, Renesmee is born into this world utterly alone, is picked up by Serena, and becomes yet another sister of Nahuel's.

Renesmee lives the miserable life that all of Nahuel's siblings do.

Rosalie

Rosalie is gang raped to death by Royce and his friends and dies in agony in an alley. Had she not come across Royce that night then likely, after they marry, he at some point rapes her to death and murders her.

The likelihood of Rosalie, with her parent's ambitions and her looks, of not marrying Royce is very small.

Even then, Royce is in town in general, that means all she needed was one bad night. Which, in canon, she had.

However, let's say she lives and Royce wasn't interested in her hand, she marries option number two. As you note, her marriage still likely isn't fulfilling. Rosalie is there to be beautiful and poised, to have tea with the ladies in society, and watch as a governess raises her children.

This is the world she lives in, and she accepts that, but over time she becomes increasingly bitter and resentful of this thing we call life.

TL;DR Remember, there's no escape from the pit of despair we call Twilight

[preciousthingsareprecious]

Light’s Out

Alright! I am here with my next installment for D&d week! I hope you guys don’t mind a quieter, fluffier one. 

Day 3: Trust / Adoption Papers / “You’re shaking”

Summary: Damian Wayne hates the cold. Dick knows this, and when a snow storm knocks the power out at the penthouse it's up to him to both warm his brother up and find a way to help him enjoy their unexpected snow day.

AO3 Link

~

“This is absurd.” Damian grumbled, tightening his hold on the blanket around his shoulders.

Dick had to hold back laughter at his little brother. Damian was coated head to toe in an attempt at keeping warm. He wore a sweater, coat, sweatpants --stolen from Dick’s dresser-- the thickest socks in the Penthouse, and to top it all off had encased himself in a blanket.

His nose was shaded a little red, and his face puckered in a furious scowl, “I do not understand why we cannot do anything to stop this--” he stopped speaking to wave a blanket covered hand at the window, “ nonsense. ”

Dick crossed his arms and grinned at his brother, “If you can tell me how you expect us to stop a natural weather phenomenon then I’d be happy to help.”

“Tt.” Damian spun on his heel, presumably to glare at the weather outside.

Outside the penthouse windows the site was gorgeous. Snow drifted past in huge fluffy flakes that piled against the windows and built up on the ground. It had been doing this for days now, and honestly Dick was kind of enjoying it. Gotham was cold, and often plagued by rain, ice, and snow, but rarely did it snow quite like this unless instigated by someone like Freeze.

But this? This was all mother nature. Come to give Dick and Damian a much needed break from patrol and work.

They’d gone out the first couple nights, but Damian’s obvious total distaste for the “dreadful cold” and the conditions growing more and more dangerous had pushed them inside. If Batman and Robin weren’t out, then Dick doubted too much crime was going on. They were all as snowed in as Damian and he.

“I think you’re overreacting a bit. We do have the heat on you know.” Dick said, moving over to stand beside Damian.

He shook his head, “Not nearly high enough. I do not understand how you two are not frozen through.”

Dick glanced towards Alfred’s room. The butler had taken an actual pot of tea and a book into his room earlier that day declaring a reading day and requesting they refrain from doing anything too catastrophic to the penthouse.

He was a bit jealous of the older man, Dick would like to settle in with a book or some knitting, maybe to do a puzzle. Cold like this stilled something in him, at least for a bit. But Damian had him on edge. He’d been wandering around the penthouse, piling on more layers and shuffling from room to room aimless and ornery.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, “We make do. You get used to Gotham’s cold. Especially with Freeze about.”

Damian slid his gaze towards Dick, “Are we certain it is not Freeze?”

“I’ve told you six and a half times, that it’s just weather. Freeze is snug in Arkham wishing this was him.”

“Tt.” Damian tugged the blanket a bit tighter around his shoulders, spun on a heel and stomped off.

Dick watched him for a few more minutes as Damian paced. He wandered from the living area over to the kitchen, stared at the fridge, turned and trudged down the hall. Dick could hear his socked feet scuff against the wood floor, then the carpet of his room, and back onto wood.

When he returned to the living room Dick stepped in front of him to stop his continued pacing.

“Dames.”

“What?”

“Why don’t we sit down and do a puzzle? Or we could get out those coloring books Stephanie dropped off a couple days ago, I saw you eyeing the forest animal one.”

His brother’s scowl deepened, “If I become stationary I will freeze.”

Dick sighed, unable to stop himself, “Damian, stop. The thermostat is set to the same it always is. You won’t freeze if you sit with me for a bit.”

Just then, the lights around them flickered then clicked off altogether. Dick and Damian were blanketed in darkness in a moment, with the only light inside that from the clouded sky outside the windows. The room was strangely silent without the heater running.

“This is your fault.” Damian snapped, and turned again to leave Dick alone in the room.

“Well.” Dick said, to the dark, “I guess that  happened.”

He sighed, and with a forlorn glance out the windows at the snow still gently drifting down, he got busy getting the penthouse ready for a blackout.

After about fifteen minutes Dick had successfully dug out a number of candles, and a few of their big flashlights. He lit a few candles to add to the dim lighting in the room, then rolled up his sleeves to get started on the fire.

The fireplace was traditional. Bruce had insisted on it, in case of events just like this. Electric or gas just couldn’t be relied on in the case of bad weather or a Rogue attack. They stocked plenty of logs and starters in the penthouse, making it quick and easy for Dick to get the fire set up and started.

Soon it was crackling away and adding its own light and warmth to the room.

Dick stood and grinned at it for a moment, then moved to check on Alfred and Damian.

He knocked on Alfred’s door first, sure his welcome would be better received here than at Damian’s door. After a moment he cracked the door open.

“Hey, Al. I got a fire going if you’d like to move to the living room.”

Alfred’s room was already lit with candles, and Alfred was snuggled in his bed. He folded a book closed around his index finger and smiled, “If I get too cold I will gladly join you, but for now I am fine. Have you checked the bunker yet?”

Dick shook his head, “Not yet, I figured I’d get upstairs livable first. Plus it’s got emergency generators. It should be fine for a while. And--” he grinned, “If it really gets too cold up here we can always head down there.”

Alfred nodded, “Excellent. If the blackout persists we will have to consider alternatives to dinner.”

Dick nodded, “Yeah, but I’m sure you can figure out something. You are a wizard in the kitchen.”

Alfred waved him off, “Is your next stop Master Damian? I doubt he has experienced this kind of outage before.”

“He told me last week he spent a week in the mountains of--somewhere without power.” Dick pointed out, a little joking, but also serious.

He wasn’t sure how true Damian’s story had even been, but he had a feeling there was at least a grain of truth to it. Just imagining a milder version of the story had set off Dick's desire to tug the kid into a tight hug.  

“Which was an expected situation. This is anything but that. Have patience with him, Gotham is something entirely new.”

Dick nodded, “I hate that it was ever a situation for him, but you’re right. I was going to see him next.”

Alfred nodded, “Be off then. I will let you know if I need anything.”

“Be sure you do, I know you’re enjoying the quiet but if it gets too cold please join us.”

With that Dick left Alfred to his reading and moved to Damian’s room. He stood at the door for a moment, considering what his brother’s reaction might be to being interrupted.

As dramatic as Damian was being over a little cold weather, Dick knew he was shaken. He’d been obvious about his distaste for the cold, which had surprised Dick more than anything. Damian never admitted to things that might seem like a weakness. The power going out had probably made everything worse.

He knocked on the door, his knuckles rapping lightly, “Dames?”

“Go away.” came the muffled answer, “Unless you have devised a way to change the weather.”

“I haven’t, but I did get a fire started. It’s really warm to sit by, and probably better than hiding in your room.”

“I am not hiding.”

Dick tried the handle. To his relief it turned. If Damian was really angry with him he’d have locked it tight.

Inside, he found a bundled Damian sitting on his bed. He was glowering out from his blanket, now pulled up over his head. He hadn’t even bothered to dig out a flashlight or candle, so the only light in the room came from the window.

“What?” he snapped.

Dick leaned against the doorframe and grinned at Damian, “You sure you’re not hiding? Bundled up in here in the dark?”

“Tt. And who’s fault is it that I am in the dark?”

“Yours?” Dick raised an eyebrow.

The boy shook his head, knocking the blanket off and revealing tousled hair.

Dick shifted, crossing his arms, “You can’t possibly blame me for the weather or the power?”

He looked over Damian. His brother still didn’t look happy, but the stubbornness dropped off his face. He shrugged, tugging the blanket a bit closer. Dick sighed, and pushed off the frame to move into the room.

“Come on, Kiddo. You can’t just stay in here all day.” He said.

Damian straightened,  his expression set, “I can and will.”

Closer now, Dick could see Damian was shivering. Really, his stubbornness was just as bad as Bruce’s sometimes. Dick shook his head.

“You’re shaking. There’s no way I’m leaving you in here alone.” He nodded to himself, “No, there’s only one thing to do.”

With that, he closed the distance between himself and Damian. In a movement he scooped his brother up into his arms. Damian immediately started to squirm and kick.

“Release me, Richard!”

Dick adjusted his hold, Damian was slippery on a normal day, and cocooned in a blanket it was even harder to hold him. He ignored Damian’s protests, tucking his bundled brother under his arm and strolled out of the room.

“Put me down!” Damian yelled, kicking his legs.

It was funny to watch, with them wrapped up in his blanket and partially restricted. However, Dick didn’t laugh. The goal was to get him comfortable, and laughing at Damian was the opposite of that, no matter how adorable he was.

“Here you go.” he said, reaching the living room.

There, he plopped Damian down onto the carpet in front of the fireplace. Dick left Damian there and moved to the kitchen. Ever practical and overly prepared, Bruce had set the fireplace up so if needed, they could hang a pot or kettle over it. Some hot tea would be just the thing to soothe Damian. Well, Dick hoped it would at least help.

He tested the water, happy to find it running still, and filled a kettle with enough water to make a few cups, but not take forever to heat over the fire. When he returned, Damian hadn’t moved from the spot he’d been dropped in. He had adjusted his blanket, and was leaned against the brickwork.

“Careful or you’ll set your blanket on fire.”

“Doubtful.” Damian said, eyes on the kettle, “This is not my first time being settled by a fire.”

Dick hummed, and hung the kettle. He plopped down next to Damian, kicking a foot close to one of his brother’s hidden beneath the blanket.

“Is it helping you warm up?”

“It is doing an adequate job.”

Adequate was about as good a descriptor as Dick could expect to get from his brother, and he accepted it. He nodded, leaning back on his palms.

“Good, now I guess we just wait on the lights to come back on.”

Damian hummed, his attention on the fire.

This close, Dick could see the light flickering against the green of Damian’s irises, and the way the heat was already warming his cheeks. He should probably tell the kid to scoot back a bit, but it was the first time all day he hadn’t complained of feeling cold, so he left him be.

“I’m going to grab a couple things to do, you want something to read, maybe your sketchbook?” Dick asked, pushing himself to his feet.

The dark and Damian were making him antsy again. He’d feel better with a goal. A book to read, a page in a coloring book to fill in. Anything. The idea of waiting had his feet almost physically itching in a way he hadn’t felt since he was a kid, learning how to sit quiet for his first stakeout next to Batman.

Damian shook his head, still watching the fire.

“Ohh-kay.” Dick said with a clap, “I’ll just get a little of everything then.”

He used his phone to look into the closet where they kept games for infrequent hang outs with Steph and Tim, and any of Dick’s old friends who might show up at random. He considered for a moment actually grabbing a board game, then decided against it. Damian didn’t seem in the mood to get trounced at Twister or to totally defeat Dick at Monopoly. Instead he scooped up a puzzle featuring a kitten playing with a ball of yarn and moved on.

From there he stacked a couple books from his bookshelf on top. One he’d been looking forward to reading, and Howl’s Moving Castle. He kept seeing Damian linger by, but he’d never picked up. Dick figured it was because he’d probably thought it was childish to pursue fantasy.

Coloring books and a box of garishly shaded colored pencils were balanced atop the stack, and with that Dick made his way back into the living room.

It was cozy, the fire having warmed the area considerably in his short time away. Snow still drifted lazily down outside their windows, and Damian was still perched by the fire. He didn’t look like he’d really moved at all.

Dick returned to his seat on the floor and dropped the stack of ‘things to do’ between him and Damian. When his brother didn’t so much as glance at it or Dick, he opted for selecting his own book and waiting the kid out. Damian would get bored eventually and the temptation of books and art was too strong for any ten year old. Even one supposedly trained out of being a kid.

For a long time they sat there together, with only the crackle of the fire and the wind outside to keep them company. Dick’s attention kept drifting over to the fire as well, his mind wandering onto his dad.

If only Bruce were still alive. He’d be secretly delighted to finally get to use all the fail-safes he built into the penthouse. Then again, if Bruce were alive they’d be at the Manor, with its own generators, and back up energy pulled from solar power and not facing the blackout at all.

Still, Dick thought Bruce would enjoy this. Gotham quieted by snow, all real distractions pulled away from them along with the power. All they could do was read or write, or talk. Dick would have pestered his dad with a million words, a flood of conversation that could have easily made the time fly by.

But he wasn’t here. And he’d never experience this strange sort of twilight quiet with them. Dick’s heart twisted a bit. A sharp tug of grief he hadn’t been expecting. But then again, he never really expected the way it washed over him. It was always something little. Bruce’s contact still in his favorites on his phone, the scent of his cologne on someone else passing Dick in the street. And now this. A missed moment.

Tears wanted to prick at his eyes, but Damian was right there. Dick couldn’t just randomly start crying in front of him. And getting up to leave suddenly would only draw his attention. Instead he blinked them back, and tried turning his attention to his book.

It took a few tries, as he had to re-read a page almost four times before it sank in, but eventually Dick got back into the narrative.

When the kettle started whistling Dick moved to get mugs and tea bags, one for each of them.

Damian watched him, his attention moved for the moment on Dick as he went about his task. He seemed a bit more relaxed, even if he hadn’t risen to Dick’s bait yet. Still, he was confident Damian would enjoy this unexpected free time with him at some point.

“Thank you.” Damian said, when Dick handed him a steaming mug, fitted with a bag of green tea already seeping color into the water.

“No problem.” Dick answered, “Want to do a puzzle?”

Damian shrugged, and Dick bit back a smile. See, a little time was all the kid needed.

He shifted the mess he’d brought in to the side and promptly dumped out the puzzle pieces onto the floor in a heap. Almost automatically, Damian started shifting end pieces away from middle ones. Dick followed suit, and soon they were slowly but methodically putting the puzzle together.

“I hate the cold.” Damian said, the statement so sudden and surprising Dick actually dropped his puzzle piece.

He bit back an immediate response of ‘You don’t say.’ and instead picked the piece back up and nodded at his brother.

Damian fiddled with a puzzle piece, turning it over between fingers in his hand, “It makes me slow.” he continued, careful with his words, “It makes my fingers feel dumb and my body tired when I’ve worked so hard to make it anything but. I can catch an arrow shot at me, and climb a mountain with a broken wrist. And yet--the cold seems to step in and say that all of that work is for naught.”

He pressed the piece down into its spot, fingers lingering on it for a moment, “It makes me feel powerless in a way only Grandfather’s stare could.” his voice was so soft at this point it was almost like the whisper of the wind outside their window.

“It is not that I am unused to the cold. I trained in it, and we had winter. I simply have never been able to acclimate to it.”

Damian pulled his legs towards him and turned his gaze back to the fire, “What does that make me?”

“It makes you Damian.” Dick said, “Human. A child. One of many people who prefer warm sunny days to cold cloudy ones.”

Damian’s arms tightened around his legs, and Dick could practically read his mind. He could almost hear the list of people in Damian’s family who would disagree with that statement. Who would call him weak and a failure and unworthy of his title.

“Plus, that’s why you have me. And Stephanie, and Cass, and even Tim.” Dick added, “Though, don’t tell anyone but I’m pretty sure Steph hates the cold about as much as you do. My point is, we’re here to help. To have your back if you want to go out, and to be by your side if you want to stay in. And to remind you that being yourself means liking, hating, excelling, and failing at all kinds of things. You are not defined simply by your failures or successes. You are every bit of Damian.”

His brother’s gaze flickered back over to him, and after a moment he nodded, “Perhaps.” he said.

“You have done a good job making it bearable. Even prior to the power failing.” Damian added, uncoiling a little, to let his legs slip forward, “Though, your taste in puzzles is questionable.”

“Hey!” Dick protested, “It was this or the totally impossible all black one.”

“It is only one color?” Damian asked.

Dick nodded, “Bruce got it thinking it would be a good Robin challenge. Only even he got so frustrated he gave up on it after a while.”

A flicker of competition lit behind Damian’s eyes, “Get it. We will accomplish together what Father refused to. And if we fail, it will at least be a better challenge than this kitten.”

It was a request Dick couldn’t say no to.

They worked on the puzzle through the rest of the day. Into Alfred joining them by the fire, through a simple dinner of sandwiches, and into the evening.

When the power at last kicked back on with a gentle hum that was the heater, Damian was leaned against Dick, his blanket drooped off his shoulders, snoring slightly. The puzzle was half finished. And the sun was just peeking over the horizon.

[paradife-loft]

In the blood orange sky

Well. Does anybody remember a couple months ago when I made this post? Because apparently I’ve been thinking about it a fair bit.

And also thinking about... maybe doing a thing? A thing that involves writing various vignettes as I’m moved to, very low pressure, but all in the same continuity, about sequences of various events that are related to one another and a central premise...? So kind of maybe like a “multi-chapter fic” as they call them, but y’know. No particular goals for “finishing” something, or requiring they be in chronological order or any other strict structure binding them together. Just exploring things for fun, and I’ll see where it goes!

But yes, so, I have written a bit this week that I think does what I would like for a first portion of something like this, and... here it is!

1.4k words, Xiyao, post-canon, dark-ish mystery/intrigue/character and relationship exploration I guess?; warnings for injury and general unpleasant body stuff, and also unpleasant mental health stuff, and also discussed off-screen (mass) murder.

*

When he comes to this time, he is sitting - propped up in the gentle rays of early sun against something he can vaguely identify as soft, with enough give to cradle his shoulders. That alone is a departure from each time previous… and Jin Guangyao supposes he ought to be thankful he continues to wake up at all; that his condition upon doing so this one time at least is no longer face-down, body practically smeared into the dirt.

An unpleasant prickling in one of his legs prompts him to open his eyes again, lift his head from where it’d fallen back against a pillow. His neck throbs with the motion. He sees a pair of hands - familiar enough that the distortions between his sight now and his memories cannot help but unsettle him - moving steadily with needle and thread through a deep rent in his left calf.

Ah. That would explain that particular discomfort, then.

Viewing the sight on top of feeling the muted, distant sensation it evokes, gives him the perverse and contrarian instinct to kick out and abort the effort of cleaning him up as it’s only partway done - but he recognises well enough that it would be a waste, and even now he isn’t so far gone as that. And he doesn’t want his leg to remain ruined. And to repair it himself now would be… possible, but far more difficult.

All arguments he has to pull out in front of his mind’s eye, like a text one might recite, to convince himself not to protest this time; but he does hold himself still, does remain for the time being a silent, compliant patient.

(Not entirely still, he must admit: his eyes follow the tiny shifts in those hands, trying to reconcile the absence of both manicured care, and the unique pattern of callused ridges he had memorised once upon a time. And yet more important, more incorrect when compared to the state he is familiar with: Lan Xichen has never known how to sew.)

(And yet. And yet.)

He presses his lips together as Xichen approaches the completion of the task, drawing the words he resents needing to speak up like pitchers of water from a drying well. They crowd his tongue, sour the inside of his mouth.

"I take it you found me quickly this time, after your target was done with me?"

Lan Xichen starts when he hears his voice, head jumping up and eyes round. Jin Guangyao had not taken him to be so absorbed that he hadn't even noticed him waking, but -

(He should have, perhaps.)

Xichen's expression hardens into something resigned after that, the dam holding back a great dredged mass of displeasure. Pain and anger in a hundred or more shades, silt and loam and sand.

"You tore apart the gravesites of three prominent clans, scattering the bones, and then did the same with the bodies of their living families when they came to drive out the robbers who defiled their ancestors' remains. The entire village has been terrified since last night. The news was not difficult to follow."

Jin Guangyao resists the urge to close his eyes, staring down the spray of blood to his face with the same dispassion he once used to with regularity. He is out of practise, however: he can't stop the reflexive flinch in his mouth, or his one remaining hand. It curls stiffly in the blankets pushed to one side of the bed pallet.

It’s not that he hadn't expected something along these lines, from the moment he’d woken up and taken in his surroundings. He hadn’t particularly relished the anticipation of hearing it, and so allowed himself a few moments watching Lan Xichen work in silence before disturbing him, it’s true - but he regrets the pain and exhaustion on Xichen's face and in the set of his shoulders and limbs more than he cares to spend his sympathy on another (inevitable) group of dead strangers.

He glances down at the long column of stitches holding the greying flesh of his leg together around the bone, and wonders which hapless, doomed villager from this new feat of resentful destruction had managed to inflict the injury.

"So it didn't require all that much searching, then. Nobody was angry with you, stealing away with the corpse that had killed all those people instead of burning it?"

"Not enough to express it to me. I imagine it helped that I spent several hours in the interim helping right the disturbed graves, and set wards around several of the neighboring houses," Xichen replies. Stress still lines his eyes, flickering more prominent like a candle flame as he speaks. Reconstructing the sequence of events implied, Jin Guangyao feels a twinge of - something - surprise, or hurt? he can't quite say - that Xichen had apparently seen fit this time to seal him away and then leave him, presumably alone, for some significant time afterward, while he tended to the village. Even though it was presumably an effective distraction, not to mention well-deserved.

"I was intending on returning this afternoon, to add more wards to some of the other houses, and suppress any other spirits roused in the process,” Xichen adds. Half an afterthought, half an explanation.

The emotion, whatever it is, crystallizes into a spike of irritation. "Temporary wards aren't going to be enough to turn away a determined corpse-raiser of this strength if he has unfinished vendettas against anybody left there," replies Jin Guangyao, snappish.

Lan Xichen’s lips thin. "I would still prefer to comfort some of their fears, however unrealistically, in the time before the problem has been solved, than leave them with no help or explanation at all after such a loss."

Jin Guangyao knows this. Agrees with it, even; it had been one of many principles they shared in the nighthunts they used to investigate. If Lan Xichen is frustrated at having to reiterate such a thing to him specifically, rather than in general, it doesn't show amidst everything else on his face.

He does stand though, turning away from the bed, tucking the medical supplies he’d been using back into their pouch and going to check on an iron kettle perched over a fire.

“Where are we?” Jin Guangyao asks, preferring the abrupt change of subject to a continuation of the prior topic. Xichen glances back at him - not for long.

“The abandoned house of one of the walking corpses I suppressed a few months ago,” he replies. He pours hot water into a skin, tying it off, and then another steaming portion into a tea pot - drab by Gusu Lan standards, but still likely worth more than the entire roof they’re under. “Don’t get up on that leg yet; you’ll split it open.”

Silence clouds between them, as Jin Guangyao stops shifting his way toward the edge of the bed pallet and lets the leg stretch out in front of him, holding back his weight against his arm. His fingers itch.

He’s asked Lan Xichen before, how long he’s been living like this, although not in those terms; and Lan Xichen has responded only with obvious deflections, despite giving perfectly cogent answers to less savory questions, such as how he’s managed to take a room at an inn with a resentment-spilling corpse in tow. There are many people in need with no one else to turn to throughout the countryside. A simple glamour works well enough when neither the inkeep nor other patrons are cultivators. Spending nights at the house left abandoned after a prior nighthunt certainly sidesteps the minor inconveniences of the latter, but leaves him even less sanguine about the former.

Would you rather neither of you were here at all, and in all likelihood even more people were dead? his own mind poses snidely, while he sits and watches Lan Xichen putting the hot compress over his lower leg, manually drawing up the blood in his body toward the region. He sips the cup of medicinal brew pressed into his hands, despite strong doubt in its capacity to do anything now for him in particular.

When he can acutely feel the spiritual energy circulating through his through him - pushed by Xichen’s intent and core, urging tissue to repair itself in the same way it would in a living body - Jin Guangyao finally admits the need to push on the issue of what they both have surely understood by now.

“I need to come with when you leave,” he says. He doesn’t make it a suggestion.

Lan Xichen closes his eyes, and Jin Guangyao’s still heart seems to squeeze like a vise. Go back to Gusu! he wants to yell; fuck the villagers, and fuck whatever further bloody deaths he won’t be conscious enough to care about causing.

Lan Xichen only nods, like it pains him. “Yes. I suppose you do.”

[lovelikedestiny]

3. Copley: And our kingdom is gone

White glowing skin, touched by stars,

kissed by silver moonlight.

When Joe gets up and leaves the room with one last stroke of Nicky's head, just as Copley has entered the living room, Copley asks himself when the immortals started to trust him.

Andy and Nile are exercising in his backyard and Copley, hoping they don't destroy his amateur herb patch or his dahlias, has tried very hard to give them privacy. By that he means that he is not standing on the porch like a stalker and watching the two women attack each other without mercy and with deadly skill, faster than he has ever seen.

Astonished, he stops and stares at the door Joe has disappeared through before he realizes that he is not alone in the living room. Nicky nods slightly to him, one corner of his mouth curved into something like a half smile and Copley only realizes that because he has spent the last few days closely observing the immortal warriors and analyzing their behavior.

Copley has always considered himself to be a passable, if not a good judge of people - this skill was very helpful in his job and served him well. But Nicky's micro-expressions are on a completely different level. He seems perfectly at rest within himself and nothing in his face indicates what is going on inside him. Admittedly, Copley finds this just as intimidating as Andy's sharp presence, Joe's death look and Nile's powerful charisma. Nicky must be really good at playing poker, Copley thinks, and inwardly shakes his head because it's like wondering what Joe likes to do in his free time besides the obvious drawing, or what kind of ice cream Andy prefers to eat. And Copley isn't sure that the relationship between him and the ancient warriors can be considered as that familiar.

He fully understands their vigilant, suspicious attitude towards him and is determined to help them with their current problem, because he is complicit in the events that have happened and hopes to gain their forgiveness. Guilt and shame are still present in his heart for being blinded by the prospect of helping people with illnesses like the one that plagued his wife, even though all the signs of Merrick's sadistic play were right under his nose.

All the more, the fact that Joe left him alone with Nicky in a room, presumably to use the bathroom, feels like a minor victory, and Copley tries not to seem too baffled by it.

The minimal change in the bright mountain lakes that make up Nicky's eyes shows that he's not doing as good a job as he has hoped. In Nicky's eyes and the features around his mouth, the most emotions can be read, Copley noted, even if it will take him a lot of practice to see as much in Nicky's face as Joe. He will probably never reach this level, because he certainly does not have 900 years for a character study.

Nicky's minimal facial movements also make it harder for Copley to tell if he's in pain or to recognize the warning signs that precede any vomiting of blood - which is now occurring with terrible regularity.

Since he has found a tough nut to crack in Nicky, Copley has started to pay attention to Joe after Nicky's first blood break, in order to learn more about Nicky's behavior. With this tactic, Copley adds daily to his mental list of Nicky's signs of certain sensations, and to his chagrin, the signs of physical pain seem to be increasing in frequency.

Copley, one of those people who whine hard when they stub their little toe, admires the stoicism with which Nicky endures his rapidly deteriorating condition. Only his slow, sluggish movements and a barely noticeable frown are frequent indications of Nicky's discomfort, as well as a slight lowering of the corners of the mouth and the twitching of his jaw pointed out for Copley by Nile.

And of course the tremors from the chills going through Nicky's body at that moment. In addition to the thick hoodies, they pulled out all the stops with various blankets, socks, hot-water bottles and tea and Joe gives Nicky his body heat anyway, just like Andy and even Nile.

This deep, family bond between Andy, Joe and Nicky is met with great fascination by Copley and although Nile has only been an immortal for a few weeks, even Copley can see how easily the young woman has integrated into the team like a matching piece of a puzzle. It also shows him how much the emptiness of his house oppressed him after the death of his wife and that he finds himself wishing to be a part of this unusual family of extraordinary individuals.

With a quiet clearing of his throat, Copley de-freezes himself from where he has been standing for an alarmingly long number of seconds and turns the heat up. With the onset of autumn it is not a problem to heat so strongly because the nights are gradually getting colder. And Copley finds that he's already used to the high temperatures in the constantly heated living room. Sweating a little to keep Nicky from freezing as little as possible is probably the least Copley can do.

"Thank you, Mr. Copley," Nicky says, returning his attention to the open book in his lap, which Copley cannot identify as one of his. While he grimaces inwardly - whether that's because Nicky is the only one who continues to call him Mr. Copley, or because of how rough and strained his voice sounds, Copley can't tell - he sits down in the place where he is working. At least when he's not in his study. Actually, the professional atmosphere of his office always helps him to be more productive, but since Andy and her team moved in with him, Copley has gotten used to finding the presence of the others very pleasant.

When Joe returns, Copley is back to work retracing Meta Kozak's footsteps. She is currently moving from the western US towards New Mexico, but Copley doesn't know what her destination is or where she is keeping any evidence from Merrick's lab and that makes him angry at himself. He tracked Andromache the Scythian and her group of immortal warriors down so he shouldn't have any problems pinning Kozak down too. On the other hand, he had time to track down the immortals, and in this case it seems to be running like sand through his fingers.

Neither of the others is pushing him to hurry up or do better work, which Copley appreciates, but they all see Nicky's crumbling form every day.

Five minutes pass with no sound coming from the sofa, except for the occasional rustle of paper when Nicky turns a page or the sound of Joe's pen in his sketchbook, and Copley longs for a fifth cup of coffee.

"Copley?"

"Yes?" Even if Copley suspects what Joe wants from him, he takes his eyes off the irritatingly bright screen of his laptop to look at him.

Joe's dark, serious eyes are in such a strong contrast to the soft, warm expression of affection that they always take on when they come to rest on Nicky. "Is there-" Joe pauses to reconsider his choice of words, but Copley realizes in it the unrest that comes with Copley's own uneasiness. "- any news?"

To be honest, Copley prefers an angry, menacing Joe to the version whose tiny spark of hope Copley has to stifle over and over again, and he hates it. Still, he keeps his calm and shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry. I was able to locate her on the recordings of a hotel in Phoenix, Arizona, where she stayed for three nights. But I can't tell where she's going next. My guess is New Mexico, but she has changed direction several times in the past two days.” He sighs and shakes his head again. "She is very careful, which means that she expects you to search for her."

The pale, blurred face and cold, lifeless-looking eyes on his laptop cause a disgusted, hate-like feeling in his stomach. Copley wonders how he could ever expect from such an immoral doctor who sliced ​​people up for the Nobel Prize and took samples without letting herself be disturbed by their screams of pain to do something good for humanity.

Joe nods slowly and turns to his drawing with furrowed eyebrows, chewing on his lower lip and Copley looks at Nicky, only to notice that Nicky's focus has long been on his love. Copley thinks he sees something like concern in Nicky's eyes and then he reaches out his hand and squeezes Joe's, saying something in a lowered tone in that strange language and Joe snorts and grins slightly.

Copley has seen moments like this quite often lately. It's no secret that Nicky's condition weighs as heavily on Joe as a block of cement, and while Joe is definitely a smiler, there's nothing like it to be seen. Dry comments from Andy or deliberately silly jokes from Nile make him smile and, at best, even laugh a little. But only Nicky manages to ignite the humorous spark in his eyes and he does that as often as possible.

In the same language, Joe replies something, causing a low snort from Nicky about that Joe looks so happy, as if he had won the jackpot, before he seeks Copley's eye contact again. "Thank you, Copley."

Copley high fives himself in his head for the further progress he's made with the immortals and smiles. "Of course, I will keep you informed about further results."

"We really appreciate that," Nicky says, putting his book aside. He coughs heavily and Joe is immediately on alert, ready to jump up and grab the bucket they've positioned next to the sofa since the accumulating blood-vomiting, but Nicky pulls himself together. "Have you eaten anything today, Mr. Copley?" He asks hoarsely.

"I beg your pardon?" Copley blinks.

Up to this point he hasn't even given a thought to food and is amazed to realize that he has actually not eaten anything since last night because he was too busy following Kozak's trail. As if on command, his stomach growls softly and Copley is stunned that Nicky pays remarkable attention to who is eating what and when.

"Oh," Copley says, staring at his keyboard and then at Nicky, who is patiently waiting. "I'm afraid not, no."

He didn't even finish his sentence when Nicky gets up from the sofa - so slowly that it's painful to watch - and heads for the kitchen. "Do you like French omelettes?"

"Nicky-" Joe is hot on Nicky's heels, which is no wonder given Nicky's slow pace, every step taken so carefully, as if every move would hurt him. Because Nicky is supposed to take it easy and rest, Andy and Nile have thrown him out of the kitchen a few times because standing at the stove had exhausted him. And even if Copley doesn't know all the habits of the team by a long way, he can see how much Nicky loves to look after his family and that cooking and baking gives him great joy. This makes it all the more difficult for him not even be able to do that.

And the way Joe looks, he is more than aware of it. But instead of putting Nicky back on the sofa and advising him not to use the kitchen to make Copley a French omelette because it could harm his condition, Joe just says gently, "May I help you?"

It is not a statement that has been disguised in a question to avoid contradiction. It's a real question that Joe means wholeheartedly and leaves Nicky to decide whether he wants to work alone in the kitchen or to be helped. Joe didn't ask if he could cook, but asked Nicky's permission to help him cook and leave the main work to Nicky. And that Joe pays such careful attention to Nicky's feelings and wants to do something about it that he feels useless, moves Copley more than he would have expected.

Copley only catches a glimpse of the smile Nicky only saves for Joe. "Of course, hayati." Copley can't miss the underlying gratitude.

Continue reading on AO3 ;)

[kamosweasley]

Won’t you pull me through ? (Fred and George Weasley)

Description : Amber meet her friend Emily to take a tea and they talk about the war and the twins. It’s inspired by the song Trouble by Cage The Elephant.

Word count : 2.2K

Warning : angst, mention of death, torture, scars, death and mental illness.

Lyrics from Trouble by Cage The Elephant are in italics.

Tag list : @memekingofwwiii​ 

After knocking at the door, Emily entered with her brighter smile. It's been a while since she's had the opportunity to see her friend, the last few months have been a mess in the wizarding world with the death of Voldemort and the end of the war. She's doing her best but she's still overwhelmed, although the smile of Amber makes it all go away within a second. 

-Hey love. 

-Emily ! It's been a long time since the last time I saw you around ! How are you ?

-Pretty good, things are exhausting lately but we have to deal with it. We're in the middle of reconstruction, it's normal that things are moving fast. 

-This is a good thing, this terrible year is finally behind us. Do you know how well the reconstruction is progressing at Hogwarts? 

-McGonagall supervises, so it's efficient and almost done. She must be a great principal, she is what the students need after the trauma of war.

-I don't even want to imagine the condition that some people must be in, a whole year being tortured by sadistic deatheaters when they were only children …

The two friends sat down at a table to drink the tea Amber had prepared in advance. There is a silence following Amber's sentence, Emily looking at her with a hint of concern. Rare are the people who have not suffered from war and who do not continue to suffer from it today. Some have experienced more painful things than others, such as Amber who was imprisoned and tortured during the war at the Malfoy mansion. It was in the last month before the Battle of Hogwarts, she was able to escape thanks to Dobby, with Luna and Ollivander. Emily hadn't been able to see her before the Battle of Hogwarts a month later, she didn't seem to have experienced all the horrors she told her afterwards. On the battlefield she looked like a warrior determined to win, even at the risk of her life. She was unstoppable, and she survived. They both survived, not everyone was so lucky.

-Now all these assholes are either in jail or dead. My only regret is not being able to get revenge on Bellatrix before Molly killed her. That bitch left awful scars on me, and since they were made with black magic it can't be removed.

-You talk about it like it's nothing, so you feel better ?

-It was hard at first, the first few weeks after the battle I felt like I didn't recognize myself. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a stranger. But it's been getting better for a while, I feel good.

-I’m glad to hear it. You know that everyone is worried about you, you haven't had an easy time of it.

-There are some who have been through worse, I keep breathing and I have resumed a normal life. I think I’m doing well. Doesn't it look like it ? 

-You seem peaceful … After what happened 

-Can we talk about something else ? This war has already hurt us enough, don’t you think so ?

-Obviously.

A little annoyed, Amber finished her cup of tea, her hands slightly shaking. Nothing impressive, but Emily notices it, which awakens the worry inside her. She doesn't know what to do, maybe she should apologize for bringing it up. Obviously the blonde didn't want to talk too long about it. With a fleeting look in her eyes, Amber tucks a strand of her long hair behind her ear. The room suddenly seems to her empty and hostile, she loves Emily but talking about the war remains something that makes her uncomfortable. She much prefers to talk about the future and all the joyful things that await them. This is what helps her get better, telling herself tomorrow will be better and she always has the people she loves with her. She will be able to live that future with them. A smile appears on her face, speaking of joy she immediately thinks of them. Her two rays of sunshine.

-I have received the new catalog from George and Fred's store. Have you seen it ? It's still so colorful, it's good to see all these colors in this sad world. Wait, I'll show it to you, I think I put it over there.

The blonde leaves the table to rummage through the drawers of her dresser as Emily looks at her. We had talked to her about it but she wasn't expecting it, how is it possible ? 

-Oh Amber …

-What ? You already saw it ? You can tell me, I'm just trying to talk about my best friends. Maybe you went to the store not long ago, it's still fantastic isn’t it ? This place exudes a good mood, if I could I would spend all of my days there. 

-Did you go back ?

-Of course ! George and Fred wouldn't talk to me anymore if I wasn't their best customer. I love them so much, I'm glad the war doesn't change them. They are still funny and malicious, they always have been. You know, I think people don't realize how wonderful they are.

-I have never laughed so much as with them, they have always been very funny.

-You see ? That's what I said. I grew up with them, we did so many silly things together but we had so much fun ! 

-I know, you had few problems because of them. They always took you in their pranks, you were driving the professors crazy. They found you calm and studious, they didn't understand why you were doing this. 

-Do you know this song ? It says “trouble on my left, trouble on my right, I’ve been facing trouble almost all my life.” That’s on growing with George and Fred. You learn to like problems and to be clever enough to make it good. 

-I can imagine. Which song is it ?

-Trouble by Cage The Elephant. You should listen to it one day, it’s really great. It reminds me of my friendship with George and Fred. 

-Because they always put you in trouble ?

-Not only that, and to be honest I’ve always loved it. These are the best moments of my life, the three of us always had fun as kids. It's not really the same anymore … 

The silence remains, for a moment you can see a shadow on Amber's face, revealing suffering. The mask falls, she has not moved on as she claims, she is still haunted by what happened. We can not say that she is an exceptional case, it was war, but Amber is a special case. 

-I miss them, they don’t come often but they’re busy with their shop. Business is running for them, they deserve it. They work so hard for their shop.

-Amber, you know very well that their store has not reopened.

-What the hell are you talking about ? Of course it reopened ! I went there, I helped them put everything back in place. 

-It's not possible Amber. The store is still closed, and there is no new catalog.

-But I was there! I know it better than you do, I didn't imagine it ! Were you there to help them with the store ? I don't remember seeing you there, so how can you say it's impossible ? You didn't go back to Diagon Alley ? How can you say the store is closed ? It is not closed !

-Amber …

-IT’S NOT CLOSED ! Damn it, where is this damn catalog !

Now she’s crying, all her body is shaking. Her hands are clenched to the chest of drawers, the white knuckles, she’s so tense. It seems as if the slightest word or gesture could make her explode. Unsure of what to do, Emily gets up and starts walking towards her friend. She wants to comfort her, to tell her that everything will be okay, but that would be lying. It’s been a while now and it's not going to get any better visibly. Yet seeing her like this tears her heart out, she wishes there was something she could do to make her feel better. 

-I’m sorry Amber.

-Don’t … Don’t say this, you have nothing to be sorry about.

-We both know isn’t true.

-Why did you come ? I thought you wanted to talk like in the good old days, not that you wanted to bring up all the pain. The war has taken something from all of us, it's time to stop it and take it back.

-Unfortunately it doesn't work like that, we can't take back what it took from us. The dead cannot be brought back to life.

-No one should have died.

They can only agree on this point, this war should not have taken place and it should not have taken so many lives. Emily is standing in the middle of the room, Amber still in front of the dresser but she is almost shaking. The tears are already drying on her cheeks but she doesn't seem to care, she keeps scratching the inside of her right hand with her index. Worries fill Emily's thoughts, she feels like she's screwed up all over the place. She was hoping that she could make things better, make Amber feel better, but she's not worried that she's robbed her even more.

-Please leave, I need some quiet.

The blonde takes a cassette from one of the drawers of the chest of drawers, with red eyes she inserts it into a cassette player. The music begins as she leaves the room with a heavy heart. How did her friend get there ? After closing the door, Emily lets out a sigh. Things are worse than she expected, Amber is still in denial. The real version of the story is much sadder than Amber's version. She really escaped the Malfoy mansion in April after being tortured, she wasn’t that good but it’s the Battle of Hogwarts who makes her fall. She was on a fine line, fighting for her survival and to save her loved ones. She was fighting against her own sanity during the battle, every second, every move, every thought was a step forward. She was winning, seeing a glimmer of hope when Voldemort died. Her first reaction was to laugh at having a hard time breathing, it was over, they had won, she had won. So she ran through the castle to find her two best friends, she had seen them during the battle but was unable to join them at that time. They were finally going to be reunited, to be again the trio they always have been. No matter what they had gone through, they had survived and they will be able to rebuild themself together. 

Nobody can imagine the pain that hit her when she saw the two dead bodies on the ground. It was like the blast of an explosion, in less than a second her world collapsed. They were all she had, she has been an orphan for years, an only child, Fred and George were all that mattered to her. Thus broke the spirit of the young woman

-She hasn't progressed since May …

-It can take a long time before she may feel ready to accept the truth. She knows it but she needs to do it all again. 

-But how much longer ? She's not going to stay locked up here all her life !

-When she accepts reality and gets over it, she can return to live with her family.

-She has no family left, her parents died years ago and she had no one else. And the twins died too ... I'm afraid she has no family left.

The lyrics of the song can be heard through the door, from what she hears, Emily understands how this music speaks so much to Amber. “My sweet love, won’t you pull me through ? Everywhere I look I catch a glimpse of you.” It must be horrible to lose your two best friends, even more when you think of them as your brothers, your last family. She really lost everything that day, even her sanity.

~~~~

“God don’t let me lose my mind.” She sings with this whole heart, eyes closed and serenity filling the room. She knows the lyrics by heart, it became her favorite song because it reminds her of them. When she opens her eyes she faces the twins, sitting at the table. They exchange a mischievous look before looking at her, it's like when they were young. A blink of an eye and they are three children facing each other, mischievous and innocent. Then teenagers, running through Hogwarts to escape Filch, out of breath but having fun. It's only onto the common room they can relax, out of danger. Fred told Amber that it's her turn to do it, so she takes his wand and puts it on the map. Surrounded by his two best friends, Amber open her eyes and as a tear falls, she whispers :

-Mischief managed.

[imaginaryelle]

Thanks to @morphia-writes​ for beta help, and to @miyuki4s for all the brainstorming help that went into this chapter!

An excerpt:

There are some things Lan Wangji cannot doubt: Wei Ying’s love for his sister, and her children. His affection for Jiang Wanyin, and the Wens. His dedication to ensuring that Lan Wangji himself does not succumb to the curse he carries.

Every evening, he creates a fresh talisman to replaces the one on Lan Wangji’s arm. He brews one of three different medicinal teas from Wen Qing, in sequence, and serves it, sometimes drinking a portion or two himself. He invites Lan Wangji to play Rest as a duet for the suppressed, resentful souls they carry, and then other, less spiritually charged music, and asks after his core, after their evening meditations.

Every morning, Lan Wangji takes longer than he needs to to comb his hair, and tie it up, and dress. Wei Ying looks younger in the diffused dawnlight inside the tent. Softer, sprawled carelessly under blankets with his sleep robe twisted out of place to reveal the hollow of his elbow and the line of his collar bones.

It’s an indulgence Lan Wangji shouldn’t permit himself. A few moments, watching Wei Ying breathe and concentrating on the steady warmth of the soulbond under his own skin.

Read on tumblr under the cut!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 |

*

It takes more than one day for a sect leader to prepare for the sort of journey they’re planning. Not because of the journey itself, Wei Ying is quick to point out, but because of all the things he has to make sure are done beforehand.

“Wen Qing is locking me in my study today,” he says over breakfast on the first day, “but Sizhui, Xiuying and Weixin are meeting with a tailor for new clothes and you should go.”

As he has been wearing borrowed or stolen clothes for several days now, Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to protest. He has no desire to wear extra infirmary underlayers while traveling, and the plain black outer layer Wen Qionglin had brought to his door was clearly intended to fit as many people as possible. Commissioning something new, or at least something altered to fit properly, is only reasonable.

Wei Ying insists that he’s already paid for the service, which Lan Wangji can only thank him for; he has no funds of his own, or reputation to call on.

“Get something you like,” Wei Ying tells him, even as Wen Qing looms over his shoulder. “Anything you want is fine.”

Lan Wangji assumes this event will take place within Yiling-Wei’s walls, as was generally the case in Cloud Recesses, but instead he finds himself following Wen Sizhui, Zhou Xiuying and Liu Weixin through a town that looks much more prosperous than the Yiling he visited thirteen years ago, and is almost certainly louder and more crowded than he remembers.

That impression may be influenced by his company. Certainly he had felt there were entirely too many people in the street when he was surrounded by onlookers with a toddler clutching at his leg, but if anything their small group draws even more attention now.

Everyone seems to know Wen Sizhui. There are street hawkers and shop owners who greet him by name, and press freshly steamed baozi and sticks of hawthorn candy into his hands, and it is clear from their comments that the townspeople of Yiling are close to their Sect in a way that is certainly not true of Cloud Recesses and Caiyi, or Jinlingtai and Lanling. One merchant is so insistent on thanking them for some past service that all four of them end up holding packages of lotus root, despite the fact that Lan Wangji can have had nothing to do with solving the woman’s problems.

The pattern continues inside the tailor’s shop—the young Wei cultivators are being fitted with new black outer yi and trousers designed to the Jiang Clan’s specifications for the upcoming archery tournament, but they are all clearly well-known to the staff. And Lan Wangji has come with the Sect Leader’s express instructions. And also the offer of his purse.

“Wei-zongzhu said you might prefer these,” one of the tailor’s assistants says, his hands full of fine-woven cream and blue fabrics, “but we do have other colors, of course.”

None of the fabrics on display are the shining, pure white of Gusu-Lan, but there is sun-bleached silk and cloud-white cotton and pale wool woven thinner than paper. It doesn’t seem to matter what he says, or how he responds: he is fussed over, and measured, and prodded. Silk and wool and brocade are draped over his shoulders and held up to his face for comparisons of shade and texture, and he leaves the shop—it is much later in the afternoon than he expected—with the black robe he arrived in newly altered and a sash of summerweight wool dyed the blue of a pale spring morning tied around his waist. Travel clothes, he is assured, will be delivered in the next few days.

He could not bring himself to commission a forehead ribbon, in any color; he is already quite certain these new robes will exceed any budget or social standing Liang Feihong could expect to claim. Wei Ying seems unconcerned.

“It’s a gift,” he insists after dinner. “Besides, you’re still a cultivator, and you’re traveling with a sect leader. It’d be weird if you looked like a fisherman.”

Lan Wangji is certain there are several measures of difference between the dress of a fisherman, a rogue cultivator, and the fabrics that were held before his face today.

“Look at this map with me,” Wei Ying says, the topic apparently closed. “I’m trying to figure out which roads are least likely to be blocked by mudslides. Wen Qing says if I get on a boat during the spring rains she’ll kill me now to save herself the trouble of burying me later.”

Lan Wangji may not have any formal responsibilities at Yiling-Wei, but Wen Qing makes it clear that she expects marked improvement in his spiritual power before he leaves her area of influence. He is given a list of meditation exercises and a schedule of daily training sessions for sword and unarmed work with her apprentices on hand to monitor his condition.

This is not a hardship. He had already planned to dedicate most of his time to this task, and the Wei cultivators have a unique style—not quite Yunmeng-Jiang, but not Qishan-Wen either. Wei Ying, of course, is the most practiced in it, and his version does not even involve a sword; Suibian is distinctly absent from their training sessions, but this does not seem to affect Wei Ying’s efficacy. Twice Lan Wangji is not fast enough to avoid the touch of a talisman to his shoulder, or his core.

He takes no actual damage from them—Wei Ying is careful in his craft, and these were written specifically for this purpose, but the failure drives him to train harder, even against other sparring opponents, until whatever apprentice is observing him steps in and orders a rest.

He spends this enforced downtime reading theory texts from Wen Qing’s library or at his guqin, picking out simple practice scores and more complex Lan melodies in the hope of re-training both his fingers and his core in the delicate language required for performing Inquiry. He works outside, in the scattered gardens, whenever the weather allows. A few hours spent alone in his shuttered room during a sudden storm proves detrimental to his focus, no matter how many handstands he does, or what other meditation techniques he tries. It is better to be out in the open air, where he can breathe more easily.

“Lan Zhan!” On the afternoon of the third day Wei Ying leans around the mulberry tree on the other side of a plot dedicated largely to cooking herbs. He looks around as if he thinks they’re being watched, and then all but runs over to crouch next to Lan Wangji. “I want to show you something,” he whispers. He tugs on Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “Come on, quick!”

“Something” turns out to be the paddock, where a 2-day-old foal is taking in the outside world for the first time under his mother’s watchful eyes. Wei Ying drapes himself over the fence and watches them both with a rapt expression Lan Wangji has never seen him wear before. Zhou Xiuying is also in attendance, alongside her wife—Feng Xinyi—who he learns is the one of the Wei Sect’s grooms.

“Xiaoying and Heitu are just one pasture over, if you wanted to meet them,” she says, which is how Lan Wangji learns that Wei Ying intends to travel by mule.

“Do you know how hard it is to feed a horse?” he says as they walk through tall grass flushed green with the rains. “Have you ever tried to train a horse for night hunting? In a Yunmeng summer? The heat is terrible for them. I think the only reason Jiang Cheng still has horses is his grandmother sent a whole caravan of grooms and breeding stock from Meishan when the war ended.” He produces two apples from his sleeve and holds one out to the nearest mule and the other to Lan Wangji. “Mules are better,” he says, his tone flippant as he pets Xiaoying’s long nose. “And almost as impressive.”

Xiaoying and Heitu are undeniably beautiful animals; good conformation, clearly healthy, and their dark bay coats shine red in the sunlight. And Lan Wangji knows that he will not be able to travel by sword for some time yet. Not alone. He cannot expect Wei Ying to transport them both, and walking will be too slow. Riding makes sense.

“Little Shadow?” he asks, of Wei Ying’s mount. “And … Black Rabbit?” They are hardly the sorts of names he is accustomed to hearing for a cultivator’s steed. There is little sense of speed, or power, or even luck in these names. Wei Ying shrugs.

“Xiaoying used to lie in the grass and pretend to be dead. Sizhui tripped over her all the time, and then she’d follow him for hours. And Heitu likes to jump, she hopped all over the place as a filly--ah! Lan Zhan!” He grins, gleeful, mischief in his face. “Do you remember the rabbits I gave you, all those years ago? And now I can give you another one! A bigger one!” Wei Ying laughs, just as he had laughed in Cloud Recesses, depositing two rabbits on the floor of the library, some sort of gift and joke and torment all in one, Lan Wangji had been sure.

Lan Wangji hadn’t known what to do then, with the boy who refused to leave him alone, who insisted on teasing him at every opportunity. Now, he stares at Wei Ying’s hands, at long sleeves pulled back to reveal his wrists, at his lips, and he knows what he wants to do.

He steps closer to Heitu, offers her his hands in a bowl instead of reaching out beyond her.

“I remember,” he says. It’s possible that his brother allowed his pets to stay, after his death.

Unlikely. But possible.

Heitu snuffles at his hands, all warm breath and soft nose in a way that is, in some small semblance, reminiscent of the soft warmth of his rabbits. She bears nothing like their fragility, but she takes the apple he offers delicately, and he keeps his fingers well clear of her teeth. Wei Ying strokes Xiaoying’s face and talks sweetly at her until she takes his sleeve in her mouth, at which point he switches over to annoyed admonishments. Lan Wangji has just stepped nearer to help him when Wen Qionglin appears at Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“Qing-jie wants to know if you finished that letter to Ouyang-zongzhu yet,” he says.

Wei Ying jerks, and there’s a sound of tearing cloth. He sighs.

“Feng-shimei told you to stop keeping food in your sleeves,” Wen Qionglin notes, even as he distracts Xiaoying with a hand on her neck. She drops Wei Ying’s sleeve and nudges her nose into Wen Qionglin’s chest. Both animals seem accustomed to his presence.

“I took it out as soon as we got here,” Wei Ying grumbles. “I wouldn’t have torn anything if I wasn’t surprised.” He sticks his fingers through the tear in his sleeve and wiggles them. The look on his face can only be described as a pout.

“I can fix it for you—” Wen Qionglin actually looks worried. Wei Ying just sighs and flaps his sleeve.

“I’ll fix it,” he says. “Why should you fix it? It’s fine.” He frowns at Xiaoying for a moment, then leans into Lan Wangji’s shoulder.

“I really can’t recommend becoming a sect leader,” he says, low-voiced, as if this will affect Wen Qionglin’s hearing. “The number of letters you have to respond to is too much work. I don’t think Ouyang-zongzhu even reads them, he just sends some new complaint every few weeks, as if I can control the weather, or the river, or how sleepy his cultivators get when they’re on tower duty.”

Lan Wangji has never heard his brother or his uncle make similar complaints, but they are Lans; they would not say such a thing even if it were true.

“Did you not choose the position?” he asks.

Wei Ying’s face scrunches up with displeasure. He shakes his head, though whether it is denial or dismissal is impossible to determine.

“I better get back to it,” he says instead of answering the question. “Before Wen Qing tells the kitchens to put radish in my food again.”

He sighs, and waves aside Lan Wangji’s bow. “I’ll see you both at dinner,” he says, and Wen Qionglin nods. Lan Wangji watches Wei Ying walk back up the hill towards the main compound until Heitu seems to take offense to his distraction and knocks her head against his shoulder, huffing at him.

“Does Liang-gongzi know how to ride?” Wen Qionglin asks. It’s a fair question: Lan Wangji does not actually know if Liang Feihong was trained in riding. He prevaricates. What is true for him is just as likely to be true for Liang Feihong as not.

“It has been a long time.”

“Would you like to practice?” Wen Qionglin asks, and Lan Wangji agrees without hesitation. Practice, and especially practice in caring for his mount without servants to help, can only improve the upcoming journey.

Wen Qionglin shows him to the tack room, and he manages to brush and saddle Heitu with a minimum of fuss. The main difference between outfitting a horse and a mule, he finds, is that Heitu’s tack includes two belly cinches, there is an extra strap that goes under her tail to stop the saddle moving too far forward, and he has to be especially gentle with her long ears while placing the bridle. Xiaoying is the more mischievous of the pair, Wen Qionglin tells him, and has to be watched carefully so she doesn’t puff out her stomach and make the cinches too loose.

Riding is initially awkward, but after a few slow circuits of the paddock he finds his seat and is able to push Heitu faster without losing his balance too badly. She takes direction well, has a steady, comfortable gait, and doesn’t startle as easily as some horses he’s ridden. He will almost certainly be sore later, especially without a dependable supply of spiritual power to speed healing, but the wind in his face and the simple pleasures of riding are more than worth that discomfort. He turns back toward the stables when they have both worked up a light sweat and sees Feng Xinyi speaking with Wen Qionglin. She smiles as he approaches, but doesn’t stay.

“I should get back to the little one,” she says. “But I’m glad to know Heitu will have a rider who knows what he’s doing.”

Wen Qionglin leads Heitu to a water trough and pets her cheek until Feng Xinyi is out of earshot.

“Wei-zongzhu trusts you,” he says. As if this is a fact.

Lan Wangji stares back at him. Wen Qionglin does not breathe, and he does not blink. He stands perfectly, unnaturally still, and waits. Apparently some response is required.

He settles on, “I trust him, also.”

Wen Qionglin watches him for a moment longer, and then nods. Then he says, “If he truly needs help, I will know. No matter where he is. And I am very fast.”

Oh.

This is probably intended as a threat.

Lan Wangji slides off Heitu’s back, so that they are eye to eye.

“I mean him no harm,” he says. In his current state of spiritual power it’s almost reassuring to know that someone else is concerned for Wei Ying's welfare. It should not be at all surprising, but he finds he is often surprised by Wen Qionglin, who has continued to move and talk and physically reside with his family for over a decade when everything Lan Wangji has been taught says he should not even exist.

Those same teachings would object to his own new existence as well; they are, both of them, supposed to be long dead.

“I will not let him come to harm,” he says, “if I can help it.”

He worries for a moment that this will be too revealing, but Wen Qionglin does not question him further. Perhaps he doesn’t need to. They are both well aware of the loyalty Wei Ying can inspire, under the right circumstances.

“I will show you where to find the saddle bags and travel rations,” Wen Qionglin decides, and he doesn’t speak of anything but Xiaoying and Heitu’s care and habits for the rest of the afternoon.

The evening before their planned departure, Wen Qing summons Lan Wangji once more to her study. Wei Ying arrives partway through her examination of his meridians and, surprisingly, sits quietly beside her desk until she’s finished. When she nods he joins them both behind the privacy screen and produces two cloth-wrapped packages—in one, two coiled lengths of red silk string, and in the other a pale jade carving of an endless panchang knot.

“Our hope is to give your spiritual power a new path through your meridians,” Wen Qing tells him as she inspects the strings. “One that minimizes the curse’s influence.” She blocks the meridians at his shoulder with her needles, and then ties one string to his arm, above the curse mark, and the other below it, each secured with a cloverleaf knot and sealed with a touch of spiritual power.

Wei Ying leans in close and presses two fingers to the talisman over the curse mark, but doesn’t touch either the silk or the jade. He keeps his silence. Lan Wangji watches his face and cannot read his thoughts.

“Just making sure this doesn’t interrupt us,” he says when he sees Lan Wangji watching. He holds up a second talisman in his other hand. “Wouldn’t want to have to start over in the middle.”

It’s a reasonable precaution: Tying the new charm is a long process, a progression of knots that covers most of his forearm. The jade panchang knot is tied in just above the curse mark, and another panchang knot of red silk tied below the wound. Wen Qing and Wei Ying both study it closely, and then she removes her needles and takes his wrist again, walking him through a slow meditation, cycling spiritual power through his body.

The flow of power is smoother, though it does perhaps take a little more time than he expects.

Wei Ying removes his fingers with a nod and a sigh. Wen Qing smiles, satisfied.

“The talisman will still need to be reapplied regularly,” she says, “but these charms together should be enough to minimize the curse’s effect on your meridians, so your core can begin to heal.”

It has already begun. He can feel the difference.

“Thank you.” The words seem inadequate, but he has little else to offer. Even this, she waves aside.

“I’m sure you don’t need my guidance for the proper exercises, but I do have many more theory texts, if you wish to read them.”

“We can bring some along,” Wei Ying promises. “Most of the best ones, we have more than one copy.”

Lan Wangji thinks of the library—of the many books that bear the same hand. Some copied by Wen Qing. Some by Wei Ying. Others in a clear, steady hand he doesn’t recognize. Of the single bound copy of the Lan Clan rules he’d found next to a copy of the Wen principles, and the books that he doubts his brother knows exist, copies of texts that were available to guest disciples studying at Cloud Recesses.

He wonders if his brother knew, when he was rebuilding the Library Pavilion, just how exact Wei Ying’s memory can be.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“Get some sleep,” Wen Qing says. “Both of you.” She stares hard at Wei Ying. “I’m not going to be the one dragging you out of your rooms in the morning. It’s no matter to me if you miss traveling during the coolest part of the day.”

Traveling with Wei Ying, and only with Wei Ying, is different from traveling alone, or with other Lan disciples, and different again from his memories of travel during the Sunshot Campaign. Then, Wei Ying had shifted through moods like ripples in water, sometimes predictable but more often not. A laugh like a clash of swords, a glare that pierced like needles. More than once Lan Wangji had found him alone but for the poor company the dead might provide, brooding under a shadow that seemed to cling to him even on the clearest of days. And then he would turn and ask if Lan Wangji knew this or that song, or if he wanted to spar, or if he’d eaten because surely it must be time for the next meal by now, and Lan Wangji would push aside his concern until hours later, when Wei Ying was just as likely to pull a prank as get in a fight with an ally. A fight with Lan Wangji himself, more often than not.

But that was the war. Decades ago, now, for everyone but Lan Wangji himself.

Now, Wei Ying laughs with more humor, and the cant of his eyes is merely sly rather than cutting. He grumbles through his breakfast and morning tea. He bickers with Xiaoying while saddling her and slouches through the morning hours until some unknown precondition is met, and then he begins talking aloud about whatever is on his mind at the moment: the weather, which continues to be wet, with cool mornings and steamy afternoons, or theories on their two investigations, or tales of past night hunts, which quickly shift into stories of Wen Sizhui, or Jiang Wanyin and Jin Rulan, and from there to the other members of Yiling-Wei, and Yunmeng-Jiang, and Lanling-Jin. Once, when they stop and take shelter under a half-repaired watchtower to wait out a storm, Wei Ying says, “Ah, Lan Zhan, do you remember that week we had rain every day, in Gusu?” and he speaks of Lan Xichen, and the Lan Sect, and what little he knows of its current status.

Cloud Recesses has been rebuilt, reportedly exactly as it was before the Wens attacked. Lan Qiren still teaches, and Lan Wangji feels a swell of relief to know his uncle still breathes. The Sect still hosts a year-long seminar for young disciples of any sect, every few years. Wen Sizhui, Liu Weixin and Zhou Xiuying have attended it, and returned with reports of young Lan cultivators who Wen Sizhui described as friendly, Liu Weixin called unbearably rigid, and Zhou Xiuying pronounced worthy sparring opponents. Lan Xichen has, unsurprisingly, built a widely-spoken reputation for even-mindedness that Lan Wangji knows he himself could never hope to match.

There is no bitterness to any of Wei Ying’s tales. No mention of hardship or enmity, over a span of more than a decade that Lan Wangji knows cannot have been easy, especially near its start. But then, Lan Wangji has long known that Wei Ying lies more easily than he tells the truth, omits more than he ever says openly. Even when he was living among the Mass Graves, quite obviously short on food, the only hardship Wei Ying would admit to was a lack of visitors, and news.

Still, there are some things he cannot doubt: Wei Ying’s love for his sister, and her children. His affection for Jiang Wanyin, and the Wens. His dedication to ensuring that Lan Wangji himself does not succumb to the curse he carries.

Every evening, he creates a fresh talisman to replaces the one on Lan Wangji’s arm. He brews one of three different medicinal teas from Wen Qing, in sequence, and serves it, sometimes drinking a portion or two himself. He invites Lan Wangji to play Rest as a duet for the suppressed, resentful souls they carry, and then other, less spiritually charged music, and asks after his core, after their evening meditations.

Every morning, Lan Wangji takes longer than he needs to to comb his hair, and tie it up, and dress. Wei Ying looks younger in the diffused dawnlight inside the tent. Softer, sprawled carelessly under blankets with his sleep robe twisted out of place to reveal the hollow of his elbow and the line of his collar bones.

It’s an indulgence Lan Wangji shouldn’t permit himself. A few moments, watching Wei Ying breathe and concentrating on the steady warmth of the soulbond under his own skin.

He turns away. Steps outside. Rekindles the fire for breakfast.

During the long afternoon of the fourth day, after they have shared a quick lunch beside a clear-flowing stream and are letting Xiaoying and Heitu forage their own meal, Wei Ying draws out Chenqing and plays songs that seem to be purely for personal entertainment; there is no spiritual power behind them at all. Some, Lan Wangji recognizes as common to drinking houses and inns. Others he doesn’t recognize at all. He is considering unwrapping the guqin when Wei Ying’s somewhat random little melodies turn suddenly familiar.

Not just familiar.

Every note is etched into Lan Wangji’s soul.

Wei Ying catches him staring. He’s not certain what expression his own face is making, but Wei Ying looks suddenly defensive. His hands drop to his lap, wrapping around Chenqing as if Lan Wangji will try to tear the flute away from him.

“What?”

“You remember.” Lan Wangji shouldn’t be surprised—Wei Ying has remembered enough of his brief time at Cloud Recesses to reproduce the Lan Sect’s rules and three different treatises, and that’s only what Lan Wangji found. But it had been only once, in the Xuanwu’s cave. That song has only ever had an audience of one.

Wei Ying frowns at him.

“What ...” his eyebrows rise high on his forehead, his mouth forming a perfect circle. “Lan Zhan.” He leans forward, suddenly eager. “Lan Zhan, you know this song?”

Of course he knows it. How could he not?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying continues. “No one knows this song. How do you know it? Is it a Lan Clan song? What’s its name?”

Words stick in Lan Wangji’s throat. Wei Ying doesn’t remember. Not really. He looks away. At the play of light on water. The swirl of shadowy fish, underneath.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, moving closer. “I can never remember where I heard it, and no one ever recognizes it. How do you know it?”

No one ever recognizes it, he says. Which means Wei Ying has been playing it. For other people. For thirteen years. And he doesn’t know.

Lan Wangji swallows back his foolish hopes. The words he might have said.

“I wrote it,” he admits, to the low rush of the spring and the whisper of reeds in the light breeze.

“What?”

When he risks a glance back, Wei Ying is staring. He looks utterly shocked.

“What do you mean, you wrote it?”

Lan Wangji does not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not if Wei Ying doesn’t remember something so important.

At least, it had been important to Lan Wangji.

“We should keep moving,” he says, and stands. Heitu is drinking from the stream, but she only flicks her ears when he touches her shoulder, and doesn’t offer any more protest than a shift of her weight as he unties her hobble and mounts.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying is frowning at him.

“We are wasting daylight,” Lan Wangji tells him. It’s true enough. This break is no shorter than any other.

Wei Ying grumbles. Retrieves his things.

“What’s its name?” he asks as he settles on Xiaoying.

I have already told you. Lan Wangji locks the words behind his teeth. Wei Ying does not speak of the soul bond, never broaches the topic of their battle with the Xuanwu or anything else from their lives that occurred after he left Cloud Recesses months before any other disciple, does not remember this, despite Lan Wangji telling him, despite his clear memory of the music itself and his perfect recall of texts long burnt to ashes.

“Think about it.” He says instead, and urges Heitu into a quicker pace, too fast for easy conversation.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying calls after him, but Lan Wangji does not look back.

When Wei Ying catches up he speaks of other things, and does not mention the song again.

Notes:        

For the curious, Xiaoying and Heitu are named as references to famous horses from Romance of the Three Kingdoms. 絶影 (sometimes translated as "Suppressing Shadow" or "Shadow Runner") was one of the horses of Cao Cao, head of the state of Wei. He famously kept running despite taking three arrows, and thus saved his rider from enemies. 赤兔 (Red Hare) was described as "the best of horses" and within the tale people considered him to be too good for his original master. After that master died he was given to a new, more virtuous hero (Guan Yu, sometimes described as an ideal incarnation of loyalty and righteousness), who he was extremely loyal to.

(on to part 11)

[tsipasce]

Same Difference ch. 15

A/N: this thing fluffier than mf pancakes

That first night Nanami was awoken by the sound of the front door and a heavy sigh from a familiar voice. She glanced at the clock to see it was 2:30 am, a feeling a bit of empathy as she remembered all the 12-hour shifts she pulled, only to return to an empty place and heat up leftovers from the night before. He was probably doing the opposite of ~*saving lives*~ during his long shifts, but the sentiment remained. She heard him walking into the kitchen as the steps on hardwood turned to tile and he opened the pantry then subsequently the microwave. By 3:15 am she heard his shower going as she fell back asleep, wondering how he kept up with this schedule, his consistent grumpy mood suddenly making more sense.

By morning Nanami’s alarm for 5:30 am began blaring and she hurriedly shut it off, knowing they were only a room apart, but not how heavy a sleeper he was. Hoping she hadn’t awoken him, she quietly went through her morning routine and slipped into her workout gear. Since her training, she’d gotten back into running, and morning jogs were the only ones she had the time or energy for. On paper, any kind of jogging sounded tedious, but she found a certain peace in being able to clear her mind and get the blood flowing before beginning her day. Grabbing her headphones and phone, she quietly opened the door to her room before gently closing it. She crept down the hallway, looking back to his room to find the door still closed. He must be asleep still. Better make this quick. She thought before continuing down the hall. The sun was streaming in, but the kitchen and living room lights were off, further strengthening her confidence. As she rounded the corner, she sa— “Aggh!” There he was with his back turned, leaning on the counter. He had on a baseball cap, dust mask, sweatshirt and gym shorts with compression tight underneath, all black.

Overhaul calmly turned his head at the sudden noise as though he’d been expecting it, “You didn’t really think I wouldn’t notice you leaving, did you?”

“Wha—no, way. I was just gonna…” his bored expression let her know that whatever half-baked explanation she planned on selling, he wasn’t buying it, “Ok, you caught me.”

“You cannot be outside alone. What part of ‘there’s a price on your head’ are you not getting?”

A defeated look crossed her features as she realized he was right. For at least a couple weeks, she needed to lay low. It wasn’t an unreasonable request, and she knew it. “You’re right…” She began as she turned to go back to her room.

“Where are you going?”

The question caught her off-guard as she turned, confused, “To change?”

“I had plans to go on a run myself. You can join, if you behave.” He said plainly, as he headed to the doorway to put on his shoes. In any other circumstance she’d complain about being treated like a child, but considering she’d literally just gotten caught trying to sneak out like a teenager, she thought it best to spare him the retort and herself the hypocrisy.

“…Fine. Lead the way~”

“And leave the earphones, you need to be alert.”

“Yes, sir.” She responded simply.

He stopped, quickly turning to her, a dark look in his eyes. Seemingly coming back from wherever his mind went in that moment, he cleared his throat before turning back and adjusting his hat to cover more of his now-flushed face. “Let’s… let’s just go.”

Note to self: The magic words are not ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, but ‘yes sir’. She gulped.

They walked out of the main door and past the courtyard to the street. Looking at his watch he set a timer and they began their jog. The sun was still rising, and the air was fresh as it filled her lungs. The neighborhood was quiet, and the streets were empty, the only sounds being the morning birds and her own breath as they began their third mile.

 Hold up, where is—she thought as she looked over to see him still there. She knew he had to be in better shape than her given the fact that he fought so frequently, but he was running as though they had just begun, not a shred of fatigue on what was visible of his face. It was slightly off-putting seeing someone she knew had a whopping 2 hours of sleep run a couple miles without breaking a sweat. She on the other hand was beginning to tire. Slowing down she breathed heavily as he raised a brow at her questioningly.

“You’re…” She breathed, her hands above her head as she continued, “you’re like an electric car or something… How?” She panted, trying to cool down.

“None of that made sense.” He deadpanned, still jogging in place.

“Ugh, I’m trying to say, how are you not tired yet? I haven’t heard a peep out of you this whole time.”

“Practice and overhaul. Get through 5 miles without being this winded and I’ll consider teaching you.”

“Nothing is ever easy with you, is it?”

“Says the woman who makes a game out of defying me.”

Gasping, she dramatically put her hand across her chest, “Just because it’s true, doesn’t mean you have to say it! Besides, you invite confrontation.”

“I what?” He asked incredulously.

Just as they were about to continue bickering, a voice cut them off. “It’s a bit early to be carrying on like this, isn’t it?”

Seeing the old man from the day before, Nanami immediately felt embarrassed, having shown the stranger a less-than-flattering side of herself twice in such a short span of time. “We’re so sorry for the noise, that was my fault.” She bowed trying to apologize. Just as she was about to check for Overhaul’s reaction, she saw him doing the same.

“My apologies. We won’t be a bother again.” There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm or irritation in his voice and it sounded almost foreign to her.

Well, he does have manners, so I guess it’s not that surprising… she reasoned to herself.

“That’s quite alright, for someone my age, it’s nice hearing you young folk being so spirited.” He looked between them before continuing, “How would you two like to have a morning cup of tea with me?”

Before Nanami could find a way to wiggle out of it, Overhaul responded, “Of course, we’d be delighted.”

They stood back up, the older man already turning to go inside. Nanami turned to him mouth “what the hell are you doing?” as she didn’t want to get the man involved, not knowing how misplaced her concern was. He simply sighed, seemingly resigned to this tea break as he motioned for her to go inside. She could tell he knew something she didn’t, but reluctantly went ahead as he followed close behind through the front gates of the house.

The courtyard was very similar to that of the front house used to enter the base, except it felt homier upon entering. It was quiet and serene, as the melodic clank of the deer scare echoed and a stream of water ran into a small pond, the morning birds sparing an odd note or chirp in the background. Now cooling down from their run, she could feel the fall air crisp in her lungs once again as she took a moment to appreciate the scene.  The wrap-around porch had cushions and a tea set laid out as though he was expecting guests. Nanami was suspicious of the coincidence but couldn’t bring herself to feel threatened with her partner being so calm. At the end of the day, she was confident she and Overhaul could handle an ambush between them, but this didn’t feel like an attack, at least not for her.

“Please, have a seat.” The man smiled warmly as they obliged. Nanami was still unsettled at seeing her lab partner so placid and cooperative with another person. Must be trying to keep up a cover or something… I’ll have to be a barrier to make sure Mr.NoseyNeighbor doesn’t dig too deep and get himself in trouble with bird brain over here. This sweet old man has no idea what he’s gotten into…She thought to herself. The man poured them their cups and she clasped it with both hands, savoring the warmth as she sipped. “So, do you spend this much time with all of your patients or just the ones that are ‘particularly needy’?”

Nanami almost choked, registering the question and possible insinuation. Ok, what the fuck. Not-so sweet, after all... She used the cup as a shield, drinking as she regained her composure to answer, “I’m not sure what you mean, but I take care of all my patients equally based on what their condition demands.”

“Ah, I see. I wish I had a doctor as involved as you. Tell me, what hospital did you say you worked for again, Dr. Watanabe?” He asked innocently sipping his tea, but maintained eye contact.

“I didn’t. It’s funny, I also didn’t mention my name either. People in this neighborhood usually keep to themselves from what I’ve seen.”

“And I assume you’ve seen a lot.”

“No more than someone of your tenure has, I’m sure.” She smiled easily, determined not to lose this quasi-confrontation. She could feel her grip on the teacup tightening until Overhaul cut in.

“I think that’s enough, Pops.” He said, a tinge of exasperation in his voice.

Her head snapped to look over at Overhaul, wide-eyed. “POPS”??

The older man’s stern face and calculating smile were replaced with one of genuine amusement and a hardy chuckle. “Oh, I just wanted to test her mettle a bit. I’ve heard so much about her, but we’ve never had the chance to formally meet.”

“POPS” LIKE A DAD? LIKE HIS WHOLE ASS FATHER??

“Well, here we are. Boss, Dr. Nanami Watanabe. Dr. Watanabe, Boss.” He motioned between them. Her heart still finding time to skip a beat at the sound of him saying her given name for the first time.

Wait, Boss too? I’m… it’s too early for this. She lamented inwardly at her growing confusion before gathering her face, trying to seem unsurprised and unbothered by the introduction, though she was still hesitant. Is this another manipulation tactic?

“It’s alright, please relax, doctor.” He assured, seeing the skepticism on her face, ”I’m fully aware of your involvement in our organization. Though I do appreciate your caution. It puts me at ease knowing your prudence when discussing the Shie Hassakai extends even to me.” He chuckled.

“Oh, my apologies. It’s a pleasure to meet you sir,” she replied, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she realized there wasn’t a crisis to be averted, at least not the one she thought.

“No need to apologize, I’m just grateful to have you over. Chisaki speaks so highly of you, it’s nice to be able to put an in-person face to the name.” At this she cautioned a glance only to see him very preoccupied with watching the deer scare. “Chisaki” huh…

“Oh, does he now? He’s usually so quiet when we’re working together.”

“Except for the occasional smart remark, I’m sure.”

She tried to stifle a giggle, “You really are his father then. If it’s not that, there’s certainly a ‘can’t you be serious for one second?’ thrown in there if I even attempt a joke myself.” She said in her best Overhaul impersonation voice.

The Boss let out a hardy laugh, “Well, we’re not related by blood,” at this a look of surprise crossed her face. “But that does indeed sound like my son.”

Realizing her expression had been misread, she clarified, “Oh no, I didn’t— what I mean to say is that my parents adopted me too, so I understand what you mean.” She smiled sincerely, though there was a fragment of sadness in her features Overhaul noted as he glanced over at her when she wasn’t looking. Wanting desperately to change the subject, she looked around the courtyard, “Anyway, you have a lovely home. I’m impressed your hydrangeas are so lush during this time of year, I’m having a real hard time with mine.”

He perked up, more than happy to explain the ins-and-outs of his gardening techniques. He rose to show her around, the both of them crouching and inspecting the plants in the courtyard as pops gave her the life story and history of each plant. It was odd to think that she was having a casual conversation with The Boss himself, but figured it was best to play it cool and keep things light and genuine. She made sure to maintain a healthy level of respect while addressing him, but the interaction flowed easily. For a moment she was able to forget her situation and just enjoy a morning tea while listening intently as he spoke about all matters horticultural.

Still on the porch, observing the pair, there was a warmth creeping into Chisaki’s chest. Bloodshed, murder, brutality—those were familiar, but this… was different. Not in the mood for self-reflection, he pulled his mask down and sipped the tea, enjoying the view without questioning it. Her hands gently grazed the petals, her gaze soft as the rising sun illuminated her features, a warm smile across her face. He cleared his throat, careful not to articulate the thoughts that crossed his mind. Careful not to acknowledge just how nice it would be to become used to this visage. He made a mental note to create a garden of his own to help facilitate this new wish, but for now, there was work to be done. Like clockwork, his phone rang, stirring him from his thoughts and he knew it was time to go.

After a brief call, he pocketed the device, standing up and walking over to them. Pops noticed and took the cue, “Well, it looks like duty calls. It was lovely to finally meet you, Dr. Watanabe.”

“The feeling is definitely mutual. Thank you for the tea and gardening tips, I’ll be sure to update you on the progress of my green thumb, whenever it shows up.” She gave a small laugh as she rubbed the back of her neck, a bit embarrassed at telling him how many plants had gone to die at her place.

“I look forward to it, and to seeing more of you around here. I know others feel the same.” He glanced over to Overhaul who averted his gaze like a reticent child at the remark.

They gave courteous bows before leaving, heading back in the direction of his house. There was a marked silence between them as they jogged this time. She had a million questions but couldn’t bring herself to ask even one as they arrived and entered the house. Lost in thought, she continued walking until she almost bumped into him as he stopped in the hallway. Looking over his shoulder, he addressed her “You know, there’s no turning back now.”

“I think we crossed that bridge a while ago,” she tittered before looking up to see his gaze soft and almost anxious to hear her response.  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She assured, referring only partly to her commitment to keep a low profile until the bounty could be resolved. If she was being completely honest with herself, there was an insinuation she hoped he wouldn’t miss; that he wouldn’t reject. Both exhaling a long-held breath, he nodded, heading down the hallway to his room, a faint smile forming behind his mask.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #369

“so close, no matter how far  /  couldn’t be much more from the heart  /  forever trusting who we are  /  and nothing else matters”

What are three emotions you experience regularly? Sadness, shame, and stress. Is there someone right now whom you really wish would care for you? -___- Does your job allow visible tattoos? I don’t have a job, but quite honestly, I probably wouldn't take a job that didn't. I just love tattoos a lot and plan on having many, and ignorance and old-fashioned bullshit isn't gonna stop me. Do you know anyone that’s transgender? Yes. Do you think dress codes are unfair? In some places, like schools, yes. Are in a relationship? Tell me about it. I'm not. How is your road rage? I don't have road rage. By god does my sister, though. Favorite cosmetic brands? I don't wear makeup nearly enough to have a preference. The beach or the pool? The pool. I hate the feeling of sand, plus the salty wind and heat. Manga or anime? Anime. Favorites for manga? I've never read any. It's tempting to read Deadman Wonderland since it continues off the very short anime, but I just don't want to. Manga isn't my style. Favorites for anime? Fullmetal Alchemist (including Brotherhood), Ginga Densetsu Weed, and Deadman Wonderland. Favorite academic subject? English. A card game that you’re good at? I'm not exceptionally good at any. Do you eat breakfast? Pretty much always. A popular book you haven’t read yet? To Kill A Mockingbird, to name one I feel like everyone had to read in school. Do you like sweaters? I'm an oversized hoodie person, really. I don't like the look of zippers. Do you like sushi? Never tried it, never will. Do you wear prescription glasses? Yes. I badly need a new pair, because I can't see for shit. Generally, are you more likely to blame others or yourself for problems you experience? Myself. What is one thing about your life that you don’t ever see changing, even if you might wish it would? I have a feeling I'll always have some degree of social anxiety. I'm sure there are other things just not coming to me. At what point in your life have you been the most social or had the most friendships? And at which point have you been the least social? I had the most friends in my childhood years, probably. Or high school when I actually had a friend group. I'm sure I was most social as a kid in elementary school, not dealing with my social anxiety. I've been the least social like... now, honestly. I go essentially nowhere and have very few friends. Do you prefer to have a few close friends or a bunch of random acquaintances? Which would describe what you have now? I want close friends. I have like... two or so close friends and a handful of acquaintances. I don't know which I have "more" of when you consider the actual level of friendship/"quality" I guess. Do you journal? Generally, what do you write about? Do you find it helpful to get your thoughts out that way, or do you prefer another form of self-expression? I don't actually journal, but you could consider these surveys my "journal." I guess it's kinda why I do them so frequently? Like it lets me get stuff that's going on out, so I find it kinda therapeutic versus keeping all my thoughts jumbled up in my head. Have you ever been somewhere and REALLY didn't like a food that you were expected to eat? How did you deal with this? Are you someone who is likely to suck it up and be polite or refuse and save your taste buds? To start off, I am VERY bad at sucking it up and eating something I don't like. My gag reflex is very strong, and I'm also extremely sensitive to textures I don't like, so my reactions are just very involuntary. I can try to subdue my expression when I dislike something, buuut that's extremely difficult. But anyway, yes, I've been to places where I definitely disliked the food, especially this one occasion where we went to a local Southern cooking restaurant that literally ASSUMED you want the staple foods and sweet tea, none of which I enjoy. While everyone else was eating, I just very awkwardly sat there doing nothing and pretty much panicking over looking rude. Thank god, Ashley's father-in-law noticed and called over the waiter for me to actually order something, the way it should be. I was very thankful but still felt bad. What is one way in which you compare yourself to others? In this comparison, do you regard yourself as better or worse off than the people to whom you usually do the comparing? I am very bad and comparing successes with others, but only in ways that demeans me. Like I look at others and am just like, "Why aren't I there yet?" It always leads to anger and disgust of myself. What is something you’ve been particularly grateful for lately? I've thought a lot lately about how thankful I am to have my mom. She does so very much for me, and I don't think I could absolutely ever repay her in full. I wish I could. She's a damn superhero. What kind of change or opportunity would be the biggest help in your life right now? I was initially going to say getting a job, but thinking about it, getting to my goal weight might be an even greater help. It would help my leg pain, not having to carry as much around, I'm sure my hyperhidrosis wouldn't be as bad (I hope), and it would MASSIVELY affect my happiness. Like I cannot tell you how negatively my weight has damaged my self-esteem, confidence, and peace with myself. Is there one emotion that you experience more often than any other? Is there an emotion you rarely ever experience? I'd say I experience stress more than anything. I'm always thinking of something that's causing a ruckus in my life. A rare emotion for me is uhhhh jealousy, even though I've dealt with it more lately. What is one illness you are afraid of having? Do you know anyone who has faced this illness? The disease that I think scares me more than any is Alzheimer's/dementia. I just... cannot possibly imagine. How do you tend to behave when you’re sick? What kinds of things do you like people to do for you, if anything, to help you feel better? I'm very mopey and tired, and I can be a bit more irritable. I really, really appreciate help with things like chores when I'm not feeling well. When was the last time you did something you were proud of? Were other people proud of you as well? Does it matter to you whether or not other people care about your accomplishments, or is your own satisfaction enough? It's a very small thing, but I weaned down from having two cans of soda a day to just one. Mom is proud of me for it, which I appreciate a lot. Admittedly, it does kinda matter to me that those who know it's a big deal to me see and care about my accomplishments. I'm bad about needing external validation. What is your least favorite thing about the season you’re currently experiencing? Are you okay with most types of weather, or are you only happy under certain conditions? Ugh, the heat. Spring and summer are miserable to me because I veeery much love the chilly weather and no damn humidity. Have you made any changes to your style or “look” lately? How often do you change your appearance, hairstyle, fashion, etc? Or is it a pretty constant thing? No; my style is pretty constant. What was the last thing you felt hopeful about? Do you think there’s a good chance of whatever-it-is working out in your favor, or not so much? Getting a job at the tattoo parlor. I'm fearful that they won't be open to the position I'd like, so I'm trying to not get my hopes up too high. We'll find out in two days. Have you ever “recovered” from anything? What does “recovery” mean or look like to you? Yes, a traumatic breakup. I'd say recovery is just healing as much as possible from something, be it physical or emotional. What are some ways your childhood differed from those of others around you? Do you think this difference was harmful or advantageous in the long run? My dad was an alcoholic, if that qualifies. That definitely isn't a *normal* thing for someone's childhood. I think it was harmful, honestly, especially because I've had more than a few nightmares about my dad drunk. When was the last time you did something out in nature? Do you notice a dip in your mood when you don’t get enough of the Great Outdoors? Oh jeez... Probably not since Sara and I went catfishing with my dad. I wandered around with her some as she ventured for toads, haha. I don't really notice a dip in my mood, just because I'm so used to being indoors. I do prefer getting some time with nature, it's just hard and uncomfortable with how easy I sweat, and my knees sure do cuss me the fuck out in the form of a billion cracks if I walk much (by my standards...). What did you dream about last night? I had two dreams, but I only remember one, in which a giant green tree python was eating me backwards so I was conscious through it all. No hard feelings, I still want one as a pet, haha. They're GORGEOUS snakes and no, absolutely cannot eat you even if it tried its damnedest. What were your childhood dreams? To be a paleontologist, then a vet. What are your dreams now? If we're talking career-wise, to be a nature and wildlife photographer that gets to travel a lot. What are some Halloween costumes you would like to wear in the future? I've mentioned that #1 on my list is Ms. Oogie Boogie, then uhhhh... wow, I'm surprised I'm blanking, because I know there are lots I've thought of. Were you born with hair on your head? Yes. Would you rather have a home birth or hospital birth? I'm not having kids, but holy mother of fuck I'd have my baby at a hospital with a goddamn epidural. I do NOT know how some people can do it naturally, bigass props to them. Do you currently live in the house you grew up in? No. If not, what do you miss about it?^ It was just in general a nice house, the best one we've lived in. We had a pretty big yard too, so lots of room to play around as kids. What’s your favorite type of yogurt? I'm not a big yogurt person, really. What were your high school’s team colors? Red and white. Who were your best friends in high school? Hannia, Girt, Maria, Megan, Dennis, Dakota... What would be the best surprise you could receive right now? A tarantula. *puppy eyes emoji* Were there any subjects in school that were really easy for you? If so, what? English courses were very easy for me, and I was pretty good with science. Did you ever skip a grade or get held back a grade? Not like, a whole grade, but I surpassed Writing I in my last college endeavor and started out in Writing II instead. What’s your favorite rock band? Oh brother, you can't ask me this. Who’s your favorite country singer? I consistently like Tim McGraw a bit. How many drawers does your dresser have? My dresser is unnecessarily big. There's like five or six. Have you ever taken a picture at the perfect moment? Yes. One of my favorite pictures I've taken was at Ashley's gender reveal for Emerson; even she didn't know. When her husband pulled the fog thing and it was pink, her expression was just priceless. Was your first car used or new? I haven't had my first personal car. How did you discover your favorite band? By going through my mom's CDs when I was getting into rock music. Ozzy was the first truly metal and not rock band that I ventured into. What was the last big decision you made? BIG decision... I don't know. Probably dropping out of college. What is your favorite thing to go shopping for? I love window shopping for pets online, haha. What was the last thing you changed your mind about? A political stance. Who was the last friend you saw, and what did you do together? Oh yikes, it's been more than a while... It may have been Girt? In which case we probably watched TV or played board games together. Who tends to show up in your dreams? Do you ever wonder if you appear in anyone else’s dreams? Jason just loves to show up in my dreams more than anyone else. I don't really wonder that, no. What is something you wish you could say to someone who is no longer in your life, or something you wish they could know? I wish I could tell Bryar (Jason's friend I got in a fight with) I misunderstood something he said to me ("martyr" has two different definitions, and I somehow didn't know the modern one at the time) that made me seem like an absolute, attention-seeking bitch. It's so fucking embarrassing to look back on, because I agreed with him because I thought he meant it as I would die for my beliefs, which is true. What worries you most about your future? Whether or not I'll ever be in the physical shape I want to be in again. Or if I'll have a stable job. What is something you do to feel better when you’re scared? Find distractions, like funny YouTube videos. I also engage in deep breathing and grounding methods. What is the strangest book you have ever read? How did you find out about it? Oh my god, in elementary school, we read a book where everything a boy touched turned to chocolate. Weird book. Do you prefer to watch movies or tv alone or with other people? Is there anything you refuse to watch alone? Other people, definitely. I like having someone to talk to and comment on what we're watching. There's nothing I won't watch alone. What was the subject of the last video you watched? It was a let's play.

[hms-chill]

RWRB Study Guide: Chapter 10

Hi y’all! I’m going through Casey McQuiston’s Red, White & Royal Blue and defining/explaining references! Feel free to follow along, or block the tag #rwrbStudyGuide if you’re not interested!

Earl Grey (267): Earl Grey tea is an incredibly common caffeinated tea. It is the base of a London fog.

Hamilton to Laurens, “you should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent” (267): This quote is from an April 1779 letter and is immediately followed by “But, as you have done it, and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on one condition; that for my sake, of not your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me”. Essentially, “you were rude to me, but I love you so much I forgive you as long as you look after yourself”. Just before it, Hamilton’s like “you taught me what it means to love”. (You can find it here)

Pyramus and Thisbe (268): The pair of lovers whose story inspired Romeo and Juliet, they were separated and could only talk through a wall between their houses (I’ve written a very in-depth analysis of this myth, which you can find here).

Dulles International to Heathrow (268): Dulles International is the airport in Washington, DC, and Heathrow is the classy airport in London.

John Cusack (270): An American actor largely known for his roles in the 1980s. This line in particular likely references Say Anything..., a romantic comedy known in part for a scene where Cusack’s character stands outside a girl’s window and plays music from a boombox.

Y’all had to marry your cousins (270): A reference to the royal tradition of only marrying other royals, which led to a whole lot of inbreeding.

Consummation (275): To consummate a marriage is to have sex for the first time, therefore making it “official”. 

Wilde’s complete works (276): Oscar Wilde is an Irish author famous for writing satires and also defining gay culture in the late 1800s. 

Fit of pique (277): If someone does something in a fit of pique, they do it spontaneously and out of anger at being wronged.

Mr. Darcy brooding at Pemberley (278): In Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (spoilers, though it’s been out for 207 years), after Elizabeth rejects Darcy’s first marriage proposal (which is essentially “your family sucks but you’re hot; marry me”), he goes back to the house his family owns and thinks about it and misses her.

Anmer Hall (278): A house owned by the Crown in Norfolk, England; it is currently home to Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.

Mel and Sue (280): A comedy duo and hosts of The Great British Bake Off. Sue was outed in 2002, but claims that “being a lesbian is only about the 47th most interesting thing about me”.

South Kensington (284): A district of West London known for its high density of museums and cultural landmarks.

Prince Consort Road (284): Prince Consort Road is a street in London named after Prince Albert, consort to Queen Victoria. A consort is a royal’s spouse or partner (hence Alex laughing at the idea of his being a prince’s consort)

Ferris Bueller/ Sloane (284-285): Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is a popular movie from the 1980s about Ferris, who skips school for a day of wild shenanigans in Chicago. Sloane is his girlfriend who’s roped in for the ride. 

Victoria and Albert Museum* (285): The Victoria and Albert Museum, often abbreviated “V&A”, is the world’s largest museum of applied and decorative art and design. (you can explore their collections here)

Renaissance City (285): Room 50a of the V&A is full of Renaissance sculptures. (photo here) 

Seated Buddha in black stone (285): The V&A has a bunch of Buddha sculptures, but this one is the only one I saw that’s in black stone.

John the Baptist nude and in bronze (285): Possibly this piece from 1881 by French sculptor Auguste Rodin and is in the V&A’s collection.

Tipu’s Tiger (285): A nearly life-sized semi-automaton that shows a tiger mauling a man in European clothes. The tiger makes growling sounds and the man screams and waves his hand when a handle on the side is turned; it also contains a small pipe organ on the inside and was created to show the power that the Tipu Sultan of India held over invading Brits. The “give it back” that Catherine argues for is officially called repatriation, it would mean that (Western) museums have to give back stolen objects; British museums are famously bad at doing this. (see Tipu’s Tiger here)

Westminster (286): Westminster Abbey, a church in London where royals are crowned and buried. It is covered with intricate carvings and beautiful stained glass.

The Great Bed of Ware (286): A bed made by Hans Vredeman de Vries from the 1590s; it is ten feet wide and made of oak. (see it here)

Twelfth Night (286): A Shakespeare comedy full of chaos that includes a woman cross-dressing, then her twin brother being mistaken for her. 

Epocoene (286): A 1609 play that includes a boy dressing as a woman to dupe a man into giving his son an acceptable inheritance. 

Don Juan (286): A Spanish figure known for his powers for wooing women; the first text published about him was in the 1630s.

Florence (287): Florence is a city known for its art; it was the cultural center of the Italian renaissance. 

Gothic choir screen in the V&A’s Renaissance City (287): This Roodloft, or choir screen, carved by Coenraed van Norenberch is in the back of the Renaissance City in the V&A. It’s a stunning piece; the link above has great pictures and a more in-depth description than I could give.

Zephyr statue by Francavilla (287): You can see this statue here; it was one of thirteen statues commissioned for the garden of a villa near Florence. According to Greek mythology, Zephyr (the west wind) was married to Chloris, goddess of flowers.

Narcissus (by Cioli) (287): This statue may have once been the centerpiece to a fountain with Narcissus looking into an actual pool; it depicts him in the moment he sees and is mesmerised by his reflection.

Pluto stealing Proserpina (287): Likely the statue “The Rape of Proserpina” by Vincenzo de' Rossi. I couldn’t find it on the V&A’s site, but there’s more info here.

Jason with the Golden Fleece (287): This is a sculpture of a very naked Jason, the Greek hero who stole the golden fleece. He was helped by its owner’s daughter, who was in love with him, but whom he later abandoned. You can see the statue here.

Samson Slaying a Philistine (287): You can see this statue here. Henry does a pretty good job of explaining the incredible history behind it; all I have to add from my (limited) research is that it is remarkable in part for the fact that there is no one point on it that draws the eye-- it demands to be looked at completely or not at all.

Victoria and sodomy laws (288): Queen Victoria famously instituted a whole lot of anti-sodomy laws.

Viau on James/George (288): A 1623 poem by Théophile de Viau:

“Apollo with his songs

Debauched young Hyacinthus

Just as Corydon fucked Amyntas,

So Caesar did not spurn boys.

One man fucks Monsieur le Grand de Bellegarde [a friend of Viau],

Another fucks the Comte de Tonnerre.

And it is well known that the King of England

Fucks the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Christ had John, and I have George” (288): This is an actual thing that James I/VI said to the heads of the church. Here’s the full quote, from wikipedia (emphasis is my own): “I, James, am neither a god nor an angel, but a man like any other. Therefore I act like a man and confess to loving those dear to me more than other men. You may be sure that I love the Earl of Buckingham more than anyone else, and more than you who are here, assembled. I wish to speak in my own behalf and not to have it thought to be a defect, for Jesus Christ did the same, and therefore I cannot be blamed. Christ had John, and I have George.”

George iii (289): George III was the king against whom the American colonies revolted. He was deeply religious and instituted laws declaring that royals could not marry without the approval of the court.

Convent church of Santa Chiara in Florence (290): This church is no longer a church, but the altar chapel is in an alcove in the V&A. It is the only Italian Renaissance chapel outside of Italy. (you can see photos of it here and here)

Santa Chiara and Saint Francis of Assisi (290): Saint Francis of Assisi founded a few different monastic orders and is one of the most celebrated saints; Saint Clare of Assisi founded a women’s monastic order and wrote the first set of monastic guidelines by a woman. 

Blessed Mother (290): Mary, the mother of Jesus, one of the holiest figures in Catholicism. 

“Come, hijo mío, de la miel, porque es Buena, and the honeycomb sweet to thy taste”** (290): “My son, eat thou honey, because it is good; and the honeycomb, which is sweet to thy taste. So shall the knowledge of wisdom be unto thy soul: when thou hast found it, then there shall be a reward, and thy expectation shall not be cut off” -- Proverbs 24:13-14, King James Version (yes, that King James. He translated the Bible to make the church stop hating him). 

David and Jonathan (290): An aggressively gay couple from the Bible who have been presented as friends for centuries. Jonathan was a prince and David a shepherd, but God promised that David would be king one day. Rather than argue this or hate David for it, Jonathan welcomed David into his household and loved him despite the prophecy that he would one day usurp him. Following Jonathan’s death, David took in Jonathan’s son and looked after him. 

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, amen (291): Many Christian prayers end with “in the name of the Father, the son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen”. It’s a way of celebrating the god who gives you all of the good things in your life while also giving up control to them. 

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A fill in from chapter 1, as requested by someone on AO3: 

Deputy Chief of Staff (Zahra’s position, 23): The Deputy Chief of Staff is the top aide to the president’s top aide, and is responsible for ensuring that everything runs smoothly within the bureaucracy of the White House. 

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*This museum puts out books called “maker’s guides” that teach you how to make pieces based on things in their collections; they’re super duper cool.

**I’m not a theologian, but I am a pastor’s kid, and just... this gets me. This whole bit, but this Proverb especially. Like obviously there’s the “oh we’re kissing and I’m thinking about honey tasting sweet”, but verse 14 coming in with the “when you’ve found what’s right, you will be rewarded with the confidence of that rightness and you will have hope”? Just kill me outright next time. Don’t make me google my own murder weapon.

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If there’s anything I missed or that you’d like more on, please let me know! And if you’d like to/are able, please consider buying me a ko-fi? I know not everyone can, and that’s fine, but these things take a lot of time/work and I’d really appreciate it!

—–-

Chapter 1 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 11 

[akitokihojo]

Enchanted - Part 5

Please read this before going on to this chapter!

Because from this point on, all I have to say is, yeah sorry guys...

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"Go inside," Inuyasha said politely, ignoring the visible puff of breath in front of his face. "And be careful in case there's ice. I'll put her away."

"But, sir." The caretaker opposed, shaking his beanie-clad head.

"It's too cold out, just go get warm." The prince insisted, guiding his mare by the reigns. Miroku and Sango climbed down from their own horses just behind, their boots sloshing in the melting snow. The caretaker gave a grateful bow, rubbing his reddened hands together for friction as he turned away, hunched over to bundle into his own coat as he headed for the side entrance to the servant chambers. 

Inuyasha entered the opened stable house, the area maintained and warmed for the horses, opening the gate to his individual stable and allowing his steed to step through. His aides remained quiet as they did the same. They were reaching the end of winter, but this was about the average time where the worst storms hit. The town was sullen and quiet as they'd traveled through, trees bare and so weathered they seem to lose their own natural color. People were falling ill, whatever life walked through the streets seeming pale and tired, dark circles around their eyes communicating just how ready they were for the cold and wet season to pass. They'd stopped and offered help to anyone they saw, whether that be assisting to carry their heavy logs for the fire or insisting to cover the payment for their bread as money was tight while it was too cold to work, but they could only do so much when the real difficulty lied in Mother Nature's cruel temperament. 

As he unsaddled his mare, the prince caught a familiar scent nearby, pulling him out of the small gate and toward the last one at the back wall. Inside, his niece slowly stroked the thick fur of a smaller, white and grey horse, her body blanketed within a long, wool-lined, pink cloak.  She seemed to not notice him, even though the small horse had fidgeted slightly at his presence. Even beneath the fluff of her cloak, Inuyasha noticed the quick pace of her chest rising, small huffs leaving her nose.

"Rin," Inuyasha opened the gate to the stable, his concern increasing ten fold as she glanced up at him and quickly pulled her hood over her head, ducking her face as she moved toward the other side of the animal to continue petting. "What are you doing out here? It's too cold, you know better."

"I came outside to play," She spoke, and he could tell the amount of effort she was putting in to make her words come out as steady as possible. There was no hiding the shallow breaths she had to take between words, though, her voice feeble. "I hope papa lets me keep this horse. He's so cute."

He crossed around the animal, his niece flinching at the haste of his movements, backing away before he could grab her.

"No!" She shouted, tone wavering. She was agitated, defensive as she continued away from him. "I want to play!"

The hood fell back with her fervency, and he could see the paleness riddling her face, her skin clammy and unhealthy. His stomach sank disturbingly as his suspicions became rooted, fear causing his breath to shudder as the little girl furrowed her brows and wrinkled her nose at him. 

"How about we go inside and warm up for a little while? We can come out to play together later." He carefully offered, kneeling down and extending a hand out for her to take.

"I don't -" She stopped for a short breath, her body giving a quake. "Want to."

"Rin, please. You're sick."

"I'm not."

"You're sick." He repeated more directly.

"I'm fine."

Inuyasha reached for her, snagging her cloak and pulling her into his chest. Her fever burned his skin as she meagerly struggled against him, heat seeping through his own thick clothing as the chills she tried so hard to hide became more and more evident.

"No! I don't want to be sick! I don't -" She was quickly wearing herself out, crying and gasping for air as she sunk into her uncle's chest, clinging to him. He held her firmly, his arms around her, and his heart broke painfully as he glanced up over the gate at his onlooking and worried guards. 

"I'm sorry, Rin."

"I don't want to be sick again!"

"I'm sorry.”

“Please,” She whimpered. “I don’t want to be sick.”

He couldn’t speak that time, her sobs wounding sharply.

"Mama and papa don't like when I'm sick. Please, don't tell them."

"I have to, baby." Inuyasha grasped her closer, tucking her further against his body as he held her firmly at his waist, rising to stand. Rin's arm's circled his neck as she wept, turning her head away from his shoulder as she gave into a brief fit of coughs.

At a quick pace, he made his way toward the main entrance of the castle, rubbing his niece's back to soothe her shallow breathing and the pain she was most definitely in. "Sango, go alert her parents. Miroku, get Kaede."

"Where's Totosai?"

"He's out making rounds through the forts. Kaede. Now."

Sango ran ahead of him, climbing the stairs and disappearing around a corner. Miroku abruptly turned around, running back toward the stable house to grab his horse. 

The prince hated the way the little girl's fingers trembled against his skin at the back of his neck, tiny hands unable to grasp him through the shuddering of her chills. She sniffled and coughed, resting fully against him now as he hiked the staircase toward her room.

Kagome gently dabbed the forehead of a pale, sleeping man - one of the several resting on a cot in Kaede’s temporarily shop-turned-hospice. Fevers were slowly breaking, sweat dotting every ill person's forehead while both she and the apothecary swiped it all away with a damp cloth. The flames in the fireplace popped and seethed, filling the silent, stiff air with a soothing melody. From the side, she could hear Kaede stand, the ruffling of her skirt giving her movements away as she crossed toward the stove, her soft voice calling for Kagome's attention. She turned to see the elderly woman preparing some herbal tea, beckoning her over for her own glass. 

"Another?" Kagome asked, accepting the mug from the herbalist's hands.

"You can never have too much. It'll hopefully prevent us both from catching whichever of the many viruses are floating about town."

She nodded, trusting the woman's knowledge as she sipped the hot, murky liquid, tasting mostly like dirt than any other tea she’s ever had. There was a brisk knock on the front door just before it was opened, and Kagome half-expected another townsperson requesting medicine for a sick family member. Instead, Inuyasha's aide, someone who'd quickly become a friend to her over the passing weeks, entered, shutting the door behind him to seal out the cold while looking at them unnervingly. His indigo eyes landed on Kaede, his jaw tensing as he sucked in a loud and shaky breath through his nostrils.

"What's happened?" Kaede asked, her powerful tone hiding the unmasked panic in her eyes.

"It's the princess." He answered.

"Symptoms?"

"From what I saw, she was coughing and having difficulty breathing."

Without an ounce of hesitation, Kaede moved toward the counter with all the herbs and prepared medicines, snatching a pouch from beneath as she shifted through the containers. One-by-one, she packed everything necessary and in abundance, knowing the castle was too far from her shop to have to return if something was left behind. When she felt everything essential was within, she pulled the drawstrings to the pouch shut, leaving it on the counter as she spun around, grabbing Kagome by a wrist and yanking her into a private room while gesturing for Miroku to join them.

"With the state of the people in this town, I cannot leave." She stated firmly, holding up a finger before Miroku could interject. "Just listen. Kagome, you will have to go for me."

"What?" She couldn't bite back the shock.

"I have to be here to make the medicine. You know very well how to administer it. The princess has a very poor immune system due to the time she lived in an orphanage. The place was, evidently, not maintained while overly crowded. We don't know what her exact condition is, but due to it she often falls with severe cases of influenza or pneumonia. You're familiar with both."

Kagome nodded, still slightly unsure of Kaede's decision. 

"If it's something you don't recognize, send someone for me and we'll swap places. If it's something you know you can handle, I fully trust you with it. Stay by Rin's side until she's stabilized." She said. “Additionally, Rin has a tendency to pretend her symptoms aren't that bad when her parents are around. You can imagine how much harder that'll make your job. They know to leave, but you may have to push them."

"Kaede, are you sure?"

"There's no time for second-guessing, child. I have plenty of remedies to get on, and you've got your work put out for you as well. The entire town is in shambles, and you and I are just gonna have to keep it together until the wet season passes. Young Knight, you tell them I permitted Kagome to go in my place."

He nodded, heaving a sigh as he and Kagome followed Kaede back out into the common area. He already knew there'd be resistance at a stranger tending to Rin, but the apothecary knew what was best for the child's sake. If she trusted her assistant, hopefully the king and queen would too.

The herbalist grabbed the pouch and placed it in Kagome's grasp, ushering for them to leave as she opened drawers for the dried herbs she kept, getting to work on grinding them down in a bowl. Miroku guided her outside, and as the freezing air hit her face, she pulled the hood of her long-sleeve, beige dress over her head. The knight climbed onto his horse first, securing himself on the saddle before reaching down for Kagome's hand, aiding her up to sit behind him. She gripped his waist tight, the loop of the drawstrings around her forearm to keep the pouch safe. 

Dread knotted in Inuyasha's chest as minutes felt like hours, ember eyes glued to the already-opened gates as he waited for his aide to return. He couldn't get the weak wheezing from his nieces chest out of his ears, almost bringing him to miss the oncoming sound of hooves clapping the ground. Miroku quickly approached, light-colored sleeves bound around his sides, and as his steed passed him and slowed, the prince couldn't help the confusion at seeing a slender lady on his back as opposed to a smaller, hunched, greyed and aged woman. Immediately, though his face was twisted in perplexity, he caught her scent and followed them over to where the horse finally stopped. He tapped Kagome's thigh so that she'd notice him, holding his hands out to grasp her waist as she bent towards him, helping her down from the horse and keeping her at his side.

As Miroku climbed down, they locked eyes, his aide reading the question as if it were asked aloud. "Kaede has her hands full. She couldn't leave, so she sent Kagome."

Though he was nervous, wishing for some sort of immediate relief during this terrifying ordeal, he swallowed the thick lump forming in his throat. He had no reason not to believe Kagome was suitable for the job, and he wouldn't be the one to dwindle whatever confidence she was working to maintain. He could tell, from the slight tremble in her fingers that he felt brushing against his thigh, that she was apprehensive about the entire thing. But he knew she was capable. She was intuitive. She knew what she was doing, and she had to go into it boldly. Inuyasha pulled back the hood of her dress, gently kissing the top of her head.

"Thank you for coming." He whispered, her smile curving upward minutely.

They lead her through the large doors, her brown eyes glued to the dark blue cloak along Inuyasha's back, watching her step as they climbed the stairs. Curving along the hall of the second floor, a tall, chiseled man somewhat resembling her own companion stepped out of an open door, his silver hair parting in the center of his forehead to reveal a crescent moon mark he'd inherited from his own mother. He held himself powerfully though his body and neck were visibly tense, lips curved downward in an emotion Kagome couldn't quite decipher.

"Where is Kaede?" He spoke, voice deep and straight.

"She can't be here, sire." Miroku stated, almost apologetically.

"She's sent me in her stead." Kagome stepped forward, breathing out whatever uncertainty she had before. Now was the most important time not to show any trace of it. Balanced and poised, she gave a small curtesy, bowing her head to show respect.

"No." The king said abruptly. "Go back and get her. Remind her it is her responsibility."

"Your Majesty, I've been well-trained by the apothecary, herself. I can help." She insisted, minding her tone.

"I said no. Go get -"

"Excuse me, sir," Kagome interrupted, this time more steadfast. Even Inuyasha's surprised attention fell on her while the king raised his chin indignantly. "I don't mean to be blunt, but the entire town has fallen sick with the season being what it is. She's doing whatever she can to provide for everyone, and she's sent me in her place. Why would you waste time sending for her again when I am here to help now?"

"Who are you?" Sesshomaru asked, looking down on her with his golden eyes.

"My name is Kagome."

Instantly, his glare shot over to the prince, his brother’s expression even. "You brought me your girlfriend!?"

"My relationship with Inuyasha has nothing to do with my work!" Kagome shot audaciously and resentfully just as Inuyasha's mouth had opened to speak. "I know what I'm doing! Believe me, I understand that you want someone you trust to take care of your daughter, but given the circumstances, you're better off dropping the guard and learning to trust me! If you don't she never will, and her comfort is what's most important here! Not yours! So, if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to see what we’re dealing with here!”

There was a moment, a silent and unsettling moment, where the king seemed so enraged that she thought she may have incidentally overstepped all boundaries and gotten herself into trouble. Her chest heaved beneath the warm dress she donned, but still, she held firm in her stance. A small, meager cough broke through the palpable walls that had formed to enclose the king and her in, his ember eyes shutting as his chest deflated defeatedly. She could see the pain he tried to hide in his expression, allowing anger to be the dominant curve in his brow instead of fear, but at the wheeze of her small cough, Kagome caught a glimpse of the dread. Even the prince winced, his anguish more evident, shying his head to the side.

"Please." She tried once more, much softer as her resolve melted away.

Breathing out, the huff clenched in his throat, Sesshomaru turned back toward the room, never waving her off, so presumably leading her in. Kagome stepped forward, feeling the presence of her prince sticking by her side, and as difficult as it was to do, she turned to him, her hand held out cautiously. This was already hard enough as it was. The last thing she needed was Inuyasha hovering close by as a member of her scrupulous audience. If he stuck by her, watched her, stayed close, she was afraid she'd only be seen as his person by the king and queen. Not the skilled individual she’d just presented herself as a moment ago.

"Stay." She pleaded. And she saw the disturbance in his eyes. Of all people, though, he was the most important to back her up, and that was what she needed right now. "Just trust me."

Inuyasha held his breath for a moment, clenching his fists as his entire body went rigid, nails biting into his palms as the woman's firm gaze stayed on him. When she was nearby, no matter the circumstance, he was most comfortable at her side. Now, when he felt absolutely helpless and Kagome was unexpectedly mere feet away, he was being told he couldn't have her.

He had to force himself to remember the reason she was there. She was working. She was tending to his niece’s health. Reluctantly, he released his breath, giving a curt nod as he said, "Go."

Kagome walked through the doorway of the large bedroom, brown eyes seeking out the frail girl blanketed on the bed, a woman with neatly-tied hair sitting beside her and stroking the bangs from her face. The king cleared his throat to gather his wife's currently-undivided attention, red irises flying toward him then landing on Kagome.

"This is Kagome. She's here in place of Kaede." He spoke unwaveringly, and Kagome guessed that if he showed minimal hesitation to the obviously uncomfortable situation, the queen wouldn't be tipped off to fight the predicament too. Likely, it was his way of reassuring his wife, as subtle as it may be.

Still, there wasn't a large amount of certainty in the queen's eyes, which Kagome understood. This was their little girl, and she was only a stranger. That didn't change the fact that she was there to help, and she knew the only way for them to relax, even an ounce, was for her to show them she was capable. Respectfully, Kagome gave a graceful curtsey, then set to work. Even from her place across the room, she could hear the little girl's difficult and shallow breaths. Her skin was pale, though there was a slight pink flushing her cheeks. Kagome crossed the room, setting the pouch from Kaede on a nearby desk as she came closer to the princess, approaching as carefully as she would any other sick and scared child.

"Hi," Kagome started, smiling kindly. Rin spared a weak smile, waving with a twiddle of her fingers. The queen held her spot next to her daughter, watching her every move, and she accepted the caution behind her expression - much like a lioness with her cub. "My name's Kagome. What’s yours?”

“Rin.” The little girl whispered.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rin. I heard you're not feeling too well."

Rin shook her head, mouth open as she continued to struggle to breathe properly.

"Is it your chest?" Kagome asked, tapping her own chest above her dress with an open palm. "Does it hurt?"

Apprehensively, the princess's eyes glanced over to her mother, then back to Kagome, shaking her head. She was lying. This was what Kaede had warned her about, she doesn't like to worry her parents.

Looking to the queen, Kagome kept her soft smile, her empathy for their discomfort on display. "Would you please help me sit her up?" 

"Sit her up?" Kagura echoed.

"Yes, it may help her breath and cough just a little easier."

As the mother supported the little girl to sit, Kagome adjusted the pillows behind her, making sure they propped her comfortably. Gently, she tested Rin's temperature with the back of her hand, running it over her forehead, cheeks, and even her neck. She was burning up. Dangerously.

"It can't be comfortable to have your hair sticking to your neck." She mentioned. "Would you like it put up so it won't bother you anymore?"

The little girl gave a smile, nodding, and Kagome turned back to Kagura, silently asking if she'd like to do it. She figured the more comfort she was able to provide her daughter herself, the less helpless she'd feel in the long run. 

The queen gave a fleeting smile, pulling the tie from Rin's half-ponytail down. Using her nails, she scooped up the thick, brown hair of her daughter's, making sure to peel the loose strands that clung to her skin away, and securing it all in an untidy bun, her fingers delicately pushing the bangs from her forehead once more on their way down.

"Better?" The mother compassionately asked her daughter.

"Thank you." The princess beamed as brightly as she could in the moment, her smile being transferred to her father near the door.

"May I have a word with you?" Kagome asked Kagura, and the queen only hesitated to give her daughter a quick kiss on the head, following her over to where Sesshomaru stood. "I know you both are justifiably worried, but Kaede's warned me that Rin will mask how she's really feeling if you're around."

"You expect us to leave?" Sesshomaru asked forwardly.

"I do." Kagome nodded, unfazed.

"Well, what do you think it is? Is it pneumonia again?" Kagura questioned, fighting the instinct to look back at Rin.

"It looks like it. I'd like to listen to her breathe a bit more before giving positive confirmation, but the obvious symptoms are there."

"How bad is it?" The queen shook.

"I can't say yet." She wavered. "But I can tell you that it still looks like she's getting enough oxygen; her lips aren't blue, and that's usually the tell-tale sign she isn't. What's important right now is getting her fever down. May I request a few things?"

With a sturdy nod from the king, Kagome finally felt like she was making way with him. 

"I need a bowl of cool water and a few rags, a kettle of hot water for tea, a glass of water for drinking, and not now but soon we'll need some soup brought up - preferably nothing too heavy. Broth and vegetables would do. Has she eaten today?"

"Not much." Kagura answered.

"Okay, then I'll definitely work with her to eat it little-by-little. Has she complained about her stomach?"

"No, she's hardly said a thing."

Kagome worried her bottom lip, giving a slow nod of comprehension as she mouthed the word, "Okay." Darting her gaze to meet the stare of Inuyasha's older brother, she raised her brows, silently challenging him to give her the same respect he'd grant Kaede. 

Another stiff moment between them, and a part of her felt like he was testing her; to see if she'd slight or shy away. When she held her ground, her own lips curving downward in impatience, the king stepped around his wife, his boots stomping heavily along the wooden floor, the sound dulled when he walked over the circular carpet that rested beneath the princess's bed.

"You know what to do if you need anything." He said, his hand landing on the top of her head. His fingers flinched from the heat of her fever, and he worked to play it off by rubbing along her scalp in a meager massage. His little girl looked up at him, her cheeks unpleasantly pink but smile as sweet as ever. He took that as his confirmation, giving a small ruffle of her bangs with his palm before turning around to leave. Rin gave a happy wave to her mother just as the king's arm wrapped around her shoulders to guide her out.

"Please take care of her." She mentioned in passing.

"I will." Kagome curtseyed, and she remained where she was until the door to the bedroom shut. As soon as she was alone to do her work, she turned back to the ill princess, understanding that there had to be a good amount of disconcert riddling her from being left with a stranger. To the left of the room was a large assortment of stuffed animals, neatly bunched as if they served as an audience. Sauntering to it, she looked them over, noticing the more worn ones from the newer-looking toys.

"You know, when I was little and I had come down with any sort of cold or flu that had me bed-ridden, my mother would always make sure I had my favorite stuffed animal nearby to help me through it. Do you have a favorite, princess? One that helps you get through things when you're a little down?"

Rin's dark eyes slowly traveled over her, seemingly unsure. The corners of her lips gave a small, upward twitch, and she pointed toward the main heap of the spectators. "The dragon."

"With two heads?" Kagome asked, even though it was the only dragon in the pile. The princess hummed a positive affirmation between short breaths and held her arms out for it as Kagome brought the toy over.

"Papa got it for me,” She beamed. "A few years ago when he went on a long trip."

Kagome tried to keep her expression straight as she noticed the increasing struggle with Rin's breathing. Gently, Kagome sat along the edge of her mattress. "It must mean a lot to you."

"Dragons are big and strong just like papa. They protect."

"Just like your papa protects you?” Kagome smiled. Rin nodded, hugging the two-headed dragon closer. "Princess, do you mind if I listen to your chest for a moment? I'd like to hear how everything sounds as you breathe.” When the little girl seemed hesitant, large eyes shying downward, Kagome felt herself growing impossibly softer.

“It’s okay to be scared. It’s perfectly normal. The sooner we work together, though, the sooner we can have you feeling better.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Rin sourly admitted, tucking one of the dragon’s heads beneath her chin. “I always get sick again. I don’t like it. I don’t like to make everyone worry.”

“That just means they love you. So much.”

A pout formed on the girl’s face, her bottom lip giving a heart-breaking quiver. “What if I never get better? Like, actually get better?”

Kagome reached out, taking one of Rin’s hands to clasp between both of hers, the palm tiny and hot. "No, don't say that. You can. Think of it this way: baby dragons can't always spit fire like bigger dragons can. Some are born with the ability, yes, but others have to grow and adapt until their little lungs can handle that sort of thing." The princess shoved her fingers further into Kagome's hold, gripping at the heel of her hand. "Nothing in the world has the right to tell them they can't do it, not even themselves. But sometimes it's hard. They try and try and still haven't created a spark, and then they begin to question if they ever will. It's in those moments that they have to be their strongest, though. The bigger dragons show them how it's done so that they can practice, but the little dragons have to be brave enough to ask for that help first. But if they doubt themselves and give up, they'll never see the flames they can eventually make because they stopped believing they could. You, princess - you're just like a baby dragon. In order to spit fire one day, you’ve gotta be honest and tell us when and if you don't feel well so we can give you the exact help you need. Your immune system can get stronger with time and medicine. I, personally, refuse to believe otherwise, so why should you?"

Rin's eyes grew doe-like, glossy and brimming as hope began to brighten the color. "But I heard - I heard them saying that I might be sick for the rest of my life."

Kagome cocked her head, rubbing the back of Rin’s hand smoothly, her lips curving auspiciously. "The word "might" has never been a sure thing. There's always potential for a change of plans."

With a beautiful and bright smile, the princess moved the stuffed dragon away from her chest, opening up to allow Kagome to listen to her breathing. She released Rin's hand, scooting a little closer to lean her ear to the girl's chest. There was the expected wheezing as she inhaled, but what stood out was the muffled crackling behind it all. Sitting up and keeping her expression level, she pushed the bangs from Rin's head to prevent them from sticking with the sweat. Thankfully, she was donned in light pajamas so it wouldn't contribute to her overheating. 

"Does your chest hurt anywhere?"

Rin pointed to her left side. "Here. Only when I cough."

"Good, it's not constant."

Getting up and crossing toward the desk, she opened the pouch Kaede had packed, sorting the bottles out before her to see what she had to help. To the side, she set the packaged herbs for the tea. It was the sort that helped ease coughs and fevers, but made the person drowsy. She wanted to make sure Rin ate before that, so it would be one of the last things she did.

"I like your dress." The princess spoke, kindly filling the silence. Kagome peeked over at her, a smile returning to her face.

"Thank you." She said, turning back to scout which container held the white horehound she was looking for. It was something the herbalist never came here without, so she knew it was somewhere within the several contents she'd packed. "It's one of the warmest ones I've got."

"And it has a hood!"

"Yes," Kagome laughed. "It's very handy! No cloak necessary."

"And the color is really pretty!"

"How about I send a letter home to my mother and ask if she can make one for you?" Kagome queried, finally finding the syrup. There was a small spoon conveniently added to the bag, and she silently thanked Kaede for thinking ahead.

"No way! Your mama made that?" Rin beamed.

"Sure did!" She replied, equally as enthusiastic, opening the container and sitting on the edge of the mattress once more. 

"Do you really think she'd make one for me?"

"Well, after I tell her all the compliments you've given, how could she possibly resist? Open up."

The princess scrunched her nose in disgust as she swallowed the spoonful, quivering as if a chill had run down her spine. She recovered without a single complaint, clicking her tongue to run the taste off her mouth. A brief rasp on the door broke through the air, a caretaker entering with a tray of the things Kagome had requested. Gratefully, she got up and met her halfway, taking the tray from the caretaker.

"The soup is being prepared and will be up shortly, madam." She bowed her head and Kagome was a little taken aback, never having received that treatment before. "If you need anything else, there will be someone just outside the door."

Before she could thank her, Rin lurched forward as coughs racked through her chest, the sound wet and raspy. Quickly, trying not to spill anything, Kagome set the tray down beside the medicines she'd laid out, traveling over to the princess to rub her back in a soothing effect until her fit subsided. The caretaker looked on worriedly, and with a hand outstretched, Kagome silently gestured for her to bring the glass of water, mouthing a "thank you" as the cup met her fingers.

"Sip only." Kagome said, handing the glass to Rin. The princess did as she was told, settling back against her pillows in exhaustion. Giving a brisk nod to kindly excuse the caretaker, Kagome got up and grabbed the bowl of cold water and a rag, setting it up on the bedside table along her bed as the door to the bedroom shut. Before she sat, Kagome went back to the medicines, grabbing a container of balm to ease the potential congestion in Rin's chest. Along with that, a small dosage of powdered herbs that would dissolve under the tongue to help break the fever quicker. At the sight of the powder, the little girl scrunched her nose once more, the look on her face telling Kagome she knew exactly how horrible it tasted. She couldn't even hold back her own laugh at the girl's aversion. "I know, it's the best isn't it?"

"Do I have to?"

"If your fever keeps up like this, you literally will be spitting fire, little dragon." Kagome poked, placing the container of balm on the bedside table as she readied the small amount of powder. "I'll give you some water when it finishes dissolving."

Rin opened her mouth, lifting her tongue so Kagome could pour it in, her lips closing and curving down in revulsion. Swapping out for the balm, Kagome took a small scoop with her fingers, rubbing it into the scorching flesh of Rin's chest. The little girl made grabby-hands when the powder had properly vanished, requesting some water to wash the rest of the taste away.

The soup came as Kagome continuously dabbed a cool, wet rag along Rin's head and cheeks, occasionally drifting down to her neck to wash the beads of sweat away. The entirety of her cheeks were flushed bright pink, an indication, Kagome had learned, that the medicine she'd given was beginning to work.

"Do you think you can eat a little?" She asked, smiling thankfully at the attendant that delivered the food.

"I'm not really hungry." Rin meagerly admitted.

"I can imagine." She sympathized. "But it'll help keep your strength up. Just a little."

The tray was propped over Rin's lap, and she slurped a few spoonfuls of broth while Kagome prepared the tea, giggling as the girl cringed about the chopped celery in the stew. Though she was sick and had every justification in the book to be crabby, she still joked and laughed and smiled as if nothing was wrong. She was a happy girl, and Kagome wondered how much of a handful she was on days where she felt bright.

The princess managed to eat half of her serving of soup before calling it quits, and by then the water in the kettle had cooled enough for her to comfortably drink, the herbs steeped and the liquid a deep shade of amber. It was yet another thing thats taste was unfavorable, but despite her crinkled grimace, she drank every drop up. 

"How are you feeling, princess?" Kagome asked, dragging the damp rag behind her neck after taking the empty mug from her small hands.

"Tired." Was all she replied. Her breaths were, expectedly, just as shallow as before, though signs remained positive that she was still receiving enough oxygen. The effects of the tea would kick in soon enough and she'd hopefully sleep for more than a few hours at a time, though when your lungs ached for full and deep breaths of air, it was hard to remain comfortable. As of right now, Kagome couldn't do anything more. Rin needed rest, and time needed to pass before her next dosage of medicine.

She adjusted the girl's pillows a bit so she wasn't completely sitting up, her head supported at the perfect angle where it wouldn't fall to the side if she nodded off. When she relaxed into the mess of fluff, Kagome took the opportunity to clean up the mess she'd created, moving trays away while keeping a few things neatly arranged at the bedside table. Kaede had packed more medicines than necessary, and she figured it was more for precaution than anything. Had it been the flu instead of pneumonia, she would have been equally as prepared.

Pushing her hair behind her ear, Kagome glanced back over toward the princess. The little girl was hugging her dragon close, the fingers of one hand lazily dancing over the the thread that detailed the nose of one head.

"Would you like to say goodnight to your parents?" She offered, noticing how sleepy she was getting. Half-lidded, brown eyes bounced over to her, a trying smile forming on her face as she nodded.

Without hesitation, Kagome left to find them, jumping slightly when she'd forgotten someone was posted just outside the doors. 

"Is there something I can get for you, miss?"

"Oh, no thank you." She declined, waving her hands dismissively. "I was actually looking for the king and queen."

"This way." He turned stiffly on his heel, guiding her down the hall.

She couldn't help her eyes from gliding over the marble walls and arched ceilings as they curved into a larger area, the floors expanding and providing ample room for even a carriage to stroll through. Just the outside of the castle was intimidatingly gorgeous to her, but never had she imagined to be so at a loss for words inside as well.

The attendant opened the white door to the side, eyes flickering in to gesture for her to go through. Out of nervous reaction, she smoothed the front of her dress quickly before walking in, slanted, ember eyes landing on her from his place next to the tall window across the room. She hadn't realized that the sun was setting, or that it wasn't nearly as late as it felt. A creak in a chair caught Kagome's attention and she saw the queen leaning forward, wearing a smooth and slim dress so crimson it rivaled the depth of her eyes.

"Her Grace," She slowly began, feeling a little trepidatious and fighting her own common tick to fidget her fingers or stumble over her words. "Um - well her pneumonia’s returned. Her fever's dropped a little. She ate half a bowl of the soup that was sent up, which was more than I expected. If it's alright, I'd like to stay overnight to monitor her breathing, and then stick by her side tomorrow to see if I can break her fever entirely."

"Of course." Kagura swiftly agreed. "Can we send someone to get anything you might need from your place?"

"No, thank you. I've got everything necessary. I appreciate you allowing me to stay." Kagome bowed her head an inch. “With all that said and done, the medicine has made her sleepy and she'd like to say goodnight to you."

She'd hardly finished her sentence before Sesshomaru passed by, strands of her hair fluttering slightly with his silent fervency. Even his long, white cloak brushed the sleeve of her dress, but she stayed perfectly still, only turning to watch the concerned parents path out of the doors. She couldn't hold the king's coldness against him. She'd heard several times from Inuyasha that communication wasn't his strong suit if it wasn't business-related. That, and she could clearly see just how deeply his daughter's illness stabbed him, despite the flesh-colored mask he wore.

Kagome set to follow them, leaving plenty of space between so as not to interrupt their time, catching movement along the wall in the corner of her eye. The prince stood there, watching her with eyes a half a shade darker than his brother's. There was a slight downward curve to his lips, tension in his jaw, and his arms were crossed over his chest - almost as if he disapproved of something she'd done but wasn't expressing it as grumpily as he would on any average day. Nonetheless, just the mere sight of him helped soften the bundled nerves in her chest, and she sighed out and smiled in relief. He was so many feet away, but having him there was just as equivalent as having him standing at her side to physically support whatever movement she made.

He shouldn't have stayed behind, though. She knew he was just as worried about his niece. He should be with her, even if it was just for a brief moment.

"Go say goodnight." Kagome said softly, gesturing toward the door with a flick of her brows.

"You've been working a lot with all the orders for medicine lately." He stated, unmoving. "Have you gotten any real rest in the past couple of days?"

"Of course, I have." She lied convincingly. "Now go say goodnight, Your Highness."

With an exhale, Inuyasha dropped his hands to his side, heading out the door and down the hall toward Rin's room. 

—

It was just barely breaking three in the morning, and Rin had woken up twice; once in a fit of painful coughs and another because her fever had spiked again and she was incredibly uncomfortable. The princess's tears were heartbreaking and Rin had admittedly muffled her cries so her family wouldn't hear. There was a point where Kagome's fingers trembled so badly and she wondered if she was doing half as well as Kaede would have in this situation. When the little girl had calmed enough, she was able to give her a little more of the powder and tea, though the water had chilled to a temped temperature which accentuated the bitterness of the flavor. It was more important for the soothing effects to be in her system than waiting for hot water to be brought up, though.

After Rin had fallen back asleep, Kagome shook in her stool next to the bed, watching the girl's chest rise and fall unsteadily, her hands fidgeting and sweating in her lap. She willed herself to breathe deeply instead of mimicking the princess's pace in her agitated state. No matter how high strung her nerves seemed to be, her eyes kept closing, her head feeling heavy on her neck. She couldn't fall asleep. She needed to keep an eye on Rin. She needed to make sure complications didn’t suddenly arise. Her body was too weighted, too stressed, too tense, but no matter how many times she got up and paced the room in an effort to wake her muscles, the fatigue swung through her rapidly and overwhelmingly, bringing her to succumb and rest her head along the edge of the comforter-covered mattress.

Kagome felt a series of gentle rakes through her hair, fingers skimming through so softly, nails gliding along her scalp soothingly. Over and over, along her temple and just above her ear, she felt the massage progressively becoming more evident as consciousness flooded back to her.

She'd fallen asleep.

Gasping tremulously, Kagome quickly sat up, her eyes swiftly scouring over the sleeping child. She studied her chest which continued to rise and fall, and then her cheeks which weren't as pink as before but still remained flush, and her bangs that stuck and curled due to the sweat on her forehead. Her lips were normal-colored, and parted slightly for the air she breathed, her fingers twitched as she dreamt, and she was still okay.

"It's just me." A husky voice whispered behind her, grasping her attention as efficiently as if she'd been yelled at. Kagome turned to see the prince kneeling at her side, the dim, yellow light of the room shadowing his silver hair. 

"What are you doing in here?" She asked, running her fingers through her hair as she tried anything to wake herself up further.

"I need you to eat something." He said, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb his niece. He smoothed down her bangs that she'd just ruffled in her half-asleep state, unwilling to resist touching her further and running his fingers down her cheek, over her jaw, and softly gripping around the back of her neck, his thumb continuing to caress.

"I'm not hungry." Kagome shook her head, speaking even lower than he. Inuyasha pushed the plate with the crust-less sandwich she hadn't yet noticed forward, stopping when it sat on the blanket directly in front of her.

"I don't care. You've been here for almost twelve hours and haven't had any food or water. I won't have that."

"Inuya-"

"No. Eat and I'll leave." He insisted, lips curving in the slightest knowing smile that told her he understood why she needed to do this without him around. Caving, and thoroughly appreciating his tender care, she sighed and dropped her head, giving him a defeated smile.

"I'm thirsty." Kagome feebly admitted. Inuyasha immediately twisted where he kneeled, grabbing a glass of chilled water he'd brought for her from the desk. She felt the liquid wash down into her empty stomach, taking sips at a time until half the cup was empty. She was almost embarrassed that he waited while she ate the peanut butter and jelly, his hand rubbing up and down her back as his ember eyes rested on the sleeping princess, though the feeling was washed away with the reminder of her immense adoration for the man. She wondered how many people were lucky enough to know the huge heart he had beneath the invisible shield he obligatorily wore to protect himself. He was deep, attentive, compassionate, and paid close attention no matter how many snarky jokes he made in response; she remembers telling him only once and months ago that she could live without crust and preferred a little more peanut butter than jelly instead of the fifty-fifty ration.

As soon as she was done, he held true to his word, taking the plate from before her but leaving the water behind for her to finish. Just before he stood to leave, Inuyasha pushed aside Kagome's bangs to place a lingering kiss to her forehead.

"I'm so proud of you." He whispered against her skin, respectfully leaving her to her work.

—

Relieved and exhausted, Kagome trailed close behind the servant, following a different direction than she was taken the night before. Passing a few windows, she took the opportunity to gaze out at the forest and grounds they overlooked, the clouds in the sky nonthreatening of another downpour and brighter as the sun peeked through thin pieces of the veil, bringing the melting snow on the floor to sparkle in the muted afternoon light. The man guiding her opened a glossy, wooden door, giving a small bow of his head as she smiled gratefully, smoothed out her dress, and stepped through.

The king bent over a table at the opposite side of the room, softly mumbling to the prince as they studied a large map. The queen watched on at one of the corners, but her mouth remained closed as if she had nothing to contribute to their conversation. Even before Kagome had fully entered, Inuyasha's eyes flew up, alert, his body following his gaze and straightening in attention. The king, though equally as observant of her presence, looked over to her less enthusiastically, expression as pressed as ever, though his eyes flickered from her, to his news-awaiting wife who had completely shifted round toward the door, and then back to her.

"Her Highness's fever broke late this morning, and it's consistently stayed gone. She hasn't had any chills or shown signs of it returning." Kagome smiled as she could visibly see Kagura's chest deflate of alleviation. "Her breathing is a bit steadier, but that's something that will take a little time to completely return to normal, as I'm sure you know. The same for her cough."

"What can we do from here?" Sesshomaru asked, finally lengthening the curve in his back to stand up straight. She hadn't noticed before since she hadn't seen the two right next to each other, but the elder of the brothers was half a head taller.

"She needs as much rest as she can get. Often, when she coughs, it hurts her left side." She pointed to the side of her ribcage which was about the area Rin would clutch when she doubled over and wheezed. "It'll go away as the infection leaves her lungs. I've left behind the herbs for the tea, a balm to soothe her airway, and some white horehound for her breathing. She needs to take the syrup once in the morning and once before bed. The balm can be used as much as you'd like - just rub it onto her chest. The tea will make her drowsy and help calm her cough as well, so definitely give it to her before bed, but if she seems like she needs it throughout the day, don't be afraid to give her glass."

"Thank you. So much." The queen said, her smile small but her gratitude evident in her tone.

"Of course. She's asleep at the moment, but is there anything else I can do right now to make you all more comfortable with this?"

"You've done enough." The king nodded levelly. "I'll have you compensated on your way out."

"Please, no. The princess was wonderful company. That's payment enough." Kagome smiled. "If you run low on medicine or her temperature spikes even a little, please don't hesitate to come get me or Kaede."

As Sesshomaru nodded, Kagome responded with a proper curtesy, making sure to give no fuel to Inuyasha's nerve to make fun of her like the first one she'd given to him.

"I'd like to make sure she gets home safely." Inuyasha said, his own way of requesting to do it himself. Though his expression hardly changed, he could see the hardening in his brother's eyes.

"We have work to do. You may have one of your men take her, instead."

When his golden eyes went back to the map and Kagome rose from her bow to the queen, he rounded the table, nodding toward the door for her to follow him out. So badly, he wanted to grab her hand, hold her waist, bring her close, personally thank her for all the work she'd put in. Exceptionally more so did he want to push her against the wall in one of the curtain-shielded nooks and kiss her so hard he starved for air and heard that whimper she gave that caused his fingers to tremble every time. It had been a grueling event just sitting there helplessly. There were constant uncertainties plaguing his mind as the night dragged on, and he'd made the mistake of walking past his niece's room in a fit of agitated nerves only to hear her crying, increasing his pain and the rip in his heart. All he wanted was a fucking moment of peace; something he felt he could easily get from three minutes of solitude with Kagome. But within the boundaries of his castle he was confined to act proper and professional. He refused to have her be the butt of every servant's conversations and gossip if they were seen. His guards, his brother, and his sister-in-law were aware of their relationship, but there hadn't been any sort of announcement that respectfully declared it, putting the rest of the household - and kingdom - in the know. Personally, Inuyasha found those annoying and intrusive as all hell, but being who he was, and in the family he was, the measures he took until they were ready was what was necessary to guard them both at the moment.

Kagome didn't do anything to push the boundaries, either. Even though a gravitational pull forced his knuckles to graze against her own, she didn't push the limits no matter how quickly he would have folded if she did. She respected his position, his responsibilities, him. And, god, was it frustrating to have to call Koga over to take her home when the least he deserved was to do it himself after the extraordinary amount of self control he exerted in the last twenty-five hours.

Sesshomaru bore him directly with his typical, slanted gaze as he returned to the study to continue their work. He read the expression thoroughly, at first interpreting it as resentment, but then understanding the hint of regret in the curve of his eyebrows. It was so subtle, something he could really only know from being around him since childhood, that he wasn't even sure his own wife knew what that manner looked like on him.

"We need to talk."

"About?"

"An alliance I've agreed to." Sesshomaru said, raising his chin a thin hair. Kagura's head turned slowly toward her husbands, disconcertment marring her features, seemingly as if this was the first she was hearing this news as well.

Inuyasha felt a bubbling begin to expand in his abdomen, a disturbance rising in him. Something didn't seem right.

"The Kingdom of Naraku has a formidable army."

"As do we." Inuyasha skeptically added.

"You and I both know how powerful they are. And ours is being tested. It would be stupid of us to stand by idly without taking some sort of action to prevent it from happening again. I've been in contact with their King, Onigumo, and he's taken interest.” There was tightness in his voice, but his eyes held steady on the prince. The bubbling was shifting, growing, climbing through his esophagus and into Inuyasha's throat. He didn't like the look on Sesshomaru's face, he didn't like that the queen wasn't consulted beforehand, and he definitely didn't like the opened envelope his brother pulled from the pocket within his coat. As he opened his mouth to speak, probably to dance around the details of the subject in his classic, steady fashion, Inuyasha cut him off, his tone sharp and abrupt.

"What's the catch?"

The king tensed, sealing his lips and clenching his jaw momentarily, the muscles in his face contracting with the motion. There was a small click from his tongue as he finally spoke. "He wants a marriage to his daughter to be the ties of our alliance. I've accepted for you."

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Int. | Part 6 | Part 7 | Final |

[cooperfmarchive]

𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐  𝒊𝒕'𝒔  𝒎𝒆  again  !  lenny  back  at  it  with  another  long  ass  intro  ,  are  we  surprised  ?  below  the  cut  ,  you  can  learn  all  about  my  emo  boy  cooper  !  just  like  with  val’s  ,  give  this  post  a  LIKE  and  i’ll  slide  into  ur  dms  to  plot  !

also  ,  just  an  fyi  :  i'll  probably  be  a  little  bit  on  and  off  for  the  next  day  or  so  ,  but  i'm  always  available  to  reach  via  dms  because  i'm  unhealthily  attached  to  my  phone  !

(  tw  :  mention  of  drugs  ,  addiction  )

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠  here  and  do  i  have  the  tea  for  you  .  𝑪𝑶𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹  is  back  on  campus  ,  which  is  surprising  considering  the  threatening  note  i  left  them  .  yes  ,  i  know  all  about  𝑯𝑰𝑺  𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑹𝑻  -  𝑳𝑰𝑽𝑬𝑫  𝑺𝑶𝑩𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑻𝒀  because  of  their  𝑮𝑳𝑼𝑻𝑻𝑶𝑵𝒀  .  imagine  the  tabloids  and  how  the  𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑵𝑨  family  would  feel  for  such  information  to  come  out  ,  not  to  mention  the  reputation  of  𝑺𝑰𝑮𝑴𝑨  because  of  their  actions  .  at  this  rate  ,  he  is  better  off  staying  put  in  𝑩𝑬𝑳  𝑨𝑰𝑹  ,  𝑪𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑨  and  living  off  that  1.2𝑩  family  net  worth  .  what’s  the  point  in  studying  𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑰𝑪 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑫𝑼𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵  with  plans  to  𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑳  &  𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑴  𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑳𝑫𝑾𝑰𝑫𝑬  ,  is  it  worth  it  with  what  i  know  ?  anyways  ,  they  may  want  to  continue  to  be  𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑮  &  𝑫𝑬𝑿𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑺  because  the  𝑨𝑫𝑫𝑰𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑽𝑬  &  𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑰𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻  attributes  make  me  want  to  spill  .  (  austin butler  ,  lenny  ,  mst  )  .

*  /  ———  𝑻𝑯𝑬  𝑩𝑨𝑺𝑰𝑪𝑺  :

full  name  :  cooper johnathon averna

nicknames  :  coop , cj

age  /  birthdate  :  twenty3 / june 15th , 1996

gender  :  cis male / he , him

sexuality  :  pansexual

hometown  :  bel air , california

major  :  music production

*  /  ———  𝑻𝑯𝑬  𝑩𝑨𝑪𝑲𝑮𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫  :

ok so funny story !!! i started writing this out , and then i kept writing ... and writing ... and writing ... and then my “ intro ” turned into a whole ass “ biography ” for my boy cooper so !! you can find that Novel right here ( the end is still a work in progress tho ) . below will be my attempt at the spark notes version of it all , although i can almost guarantee it will still get out of hand because i , like our lord and saviour jenna marbles , cannot control my too much gene !!!!

so our boy cooper is the older brother to our fav twins , summer and wynter averna ! together , the three of them are the youngest generation of the averna family . powerful , renowned , and manipulative — the avernas are made up of a long line of successful politicians . currently , daddy johnathan averna is the governor of california , and this heavy legacy has weighed upon cooper’s shoulders for the majority of his life .

in short , cooper is best described as the black sheep of the averna family . while his other family members are power - hungry , manipulative , and thick - skinned , cooper could be described as weak - willed , personable , and charming . this was a major disappointment to his father , john , because he’d been hoping for a son that would follow in his footsteps and grow up to make incredible moves in politics , but cooper couldn’t have been further from what a politician should be , and this caused for a severe lack of affection and validation from his parents on cooper’s part .

at school , however , cooper filled these holes with the popularity he gained within the halls of his private school . everyone wanted to be his friend and the affection and compassion that he lacked at home was made up for by his large circle of friends . but unfortunately , things were not as picture - perfect as they seemed , and in his sophomore year of high school , cooper discovered that his girlfriend had been hooking up with his best friend and in an extreme domino effect , cooper learned that the “ friends ” he’d surrounded himself with were just as power - hungry and manipulative as his own family and were using him for the sole purpose of gaining popularity and getting a taste of the prestige cooper’s surname promised . 

but cooper here is far too soft and desperate for affection , and his fear of loneliness far outweighed his desire to have meaningful relationships so he couldn’t bare to actually cut those who’d been using him out of his life . so instead , cooper found himself diving deep into bel air’s party scene , the adrenaline and excitement of it distracting him from the fact that everyone around him didn’t really give two shits about him .

cooper’s partying kind of snowballed from there . long story short , his parents literally never noticed that cooper had even an inkling of a problem , which further distanced him from his family . and as soon as cooper was eighteen , he booked a one - way ticket to europe to do what he does best : run away from his issues and drown them out with alcohol and drugs . 

he really just wanted to escape the weight of his surname and putting as much distance between himself and the spotlight that followed him constantly seemed like his best bet . and for about a year , it really worked for him . he bounced around europe , discovered its beauty and culture , and partied day in and day out , all while forgetting the legacy he’d left behind and finding what he wanted to : music — but we’ll get to that later .

but just short of a year , cooper got caught up in a drunken brawl in amsterdam that left him with a concussion and broken hand . luckily , daddy came to the rescue after a phone call from cooper and john paid off everyone involved in order to keep the story under wraps , but under one condition : cooper return home to bel air and attend university to hopefully clean up his act and get a degree .

cooper started at hollingsworth as a business major , but that didn’t work out as easily as he’d been hoping and he was just barely scraping by at the end of his sophomore year . however , when he was home for the summer , cooper rediscovered his love for music upon finding the belongings of his that had been shoved away by his parents two years prior , and he made the switch to majoring in music production when he returned to hollingsworth for his junior year .

his parents still do not know about his change in major , for cooper knows they wouldn’t believe it’s a viable career path for him to take and he also has an innate fear of disappointing them . he’s got some severe daddy issues , having always desperately craved the validation of his father but always lacking it because his dad only believed in only one possible future for his son : carrying on the averna legacy in politics . cooper realizes that it’s ridiculous , and that he is more than free to do what he wants and brush off his parents’ judgements , but that is a lot easier said than done unfortunately .

to briefly touch on his music : cooper’s voiceclaim is sir sly — edgy , emo , electronic alternative music . he’s incredibly passionate about his music , often spending many late nights in hollingsworth’s recording studios . he taught himself to play guitar while in europe , but upon enrolling in hworth’s music program has learned how to play the drums , keyboard , and properly project his vocals . he’s also gained experience in mixing and producing music , of which he mostly does himself with his own music . currently , he has one released album ( you haunt me ) , but is working on his next one ( don’t you worry , honey ) already .

*  /  ———  𝑻𝑯𝑬  𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹  :

label(s)  :  the muso , the maverick , the enigma , the black sheep

muso ( a person who is musically talented )

maverick ( an unorthodox or independent - minded person )

enigma ( a person or thing that is mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand )

black sheep ( regarded as a disgrace to a family )

notable traits  :  charming , reckless , dexterous , addictive , reticent , truculent , intelligent , compassionate , adventurous

aesthetics  :  a sharpened pencil scratching against paper , ringed fingers plucking guitar strings , a piercing gaze , pursed lips , cigarette smoke curling in evening air , soft t - shirts and black jeans , shiny silver and gold jewelry , masculine cologne 

in  a  nutshell  :  basically , cooper’s an enigma at first glance . he has a mysterious aura to him : his gaze is shielded , his voice quiet , and his posture reclusive . he often prefers to keep to himself in unfamiliar situations at first until he gets a feel for the atmosphere , and the way he’s usually hunkered over a journal definitely screams “ leave me alone . ” the walls he built around himself in high school remain strong , because he knows he’s far too soft - hearted for his own good . overly eager to protect everyone he meets and show others the love and compassion he desperately craves for himself , he’s a walking contradiction in the way that he puts distance between himself and others , fearful of letting them too close , lest it be revealed that they’re only using him for his elite legacy and his heart be broken once again , but his need for attention and companionship has made him incredibly skilled at making you feel like there’s little to no distance separating him from you , distracting you from realizing that you actually know very little about him with his infectious smile and exciting presence . everyone’s a friend of cooper’s , at least on the outside . but if you’re lucky enough to actually wiggle through a crack in his walls , you’ll find a heart far larger than expected , a passion for music that he’s eager to share with others , and a protectiveness for his loved ones that is reminiscent of the brother you always wanted .

*  /  ———  𝑻𝑯𝑬  𝑺𝑬𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑻  :

it’s no secret that cooper loves to party — he’s all over hworth’s party scene , often one of the first to call for a round of shots on a night out — but what is a secret is cooper’s addiction to drugs , specifically but not limited to cocaine . 

upon his return to bel air , one of the promises he’d made to his family was that he’d stop using and beat the addiction that had haunted him . the news of cooper’s addiction was the last thing his father wanted to get leaked to the public , fearful for his own reputation as a clean , respected public figure if his own son had fallen prey to drugs . and for a while , cooper was able to bury his addiction and avoid his kryptonite while at parties — but as school became more stressful he found it increasingly difficult to continue to do so , and one night someone offered a line to cooper after a particularly stressful exam and he gave in , and the flood gates opened .

when he was younger and first entering the party scene , cooper had almost openly flaunted his drug use , probably as a cry for help to his seemingly clueless parents , but since relapsing he’s learned how to keep it behind closed doors . only a fair few know of his drug use and cooper will go to any length to keep it that way .

*  /  ———  𝑻𝑯𝑬  𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑪𝑬𝑳𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑬𝑶𝑼𝑺  :

wanted plots .

pinterest .

spotify .

also !!! i feel like i need to address the topic of cooper’s hair , because many of the resources that i will be using of austin have him with blond with long and shaggy hair , but cooper’s hair is actually what austin’s is right now : dark and cut short . but to kinda explain the photos of blond!austin , cooper actually bleached his hair and grew it out whilst travelling in europe as another act of defiance towards his family and to distance himself from his past self . over the past summer , though , he cut it short and dyed it back to his natural brunet , purely an impulse decision TBH , but also probably a weird metaphor for how he initially went blond to distance himself from his legacy , but now that he’s pursuing a career that really distances him from it , he went back to brunet as his own fucked up way of still trying to appease his parents’ fucked up expectations .

[putschki1969]

My thoughts regarding the latest news

While writing my reply to @chibalein‘s post I realised my text was getting way too long so I decided to make a separate post with some of my thoughts.

Here goes nothing. This is gonna get long so grab yourself some cookies and a cup of tea. I have a LOT to say. I would really appreciate if people took the time to read through all of this because I am seeing a lot of fans making accusations, judging decisions, etc without being properly informed.

I am having trouble organising my thoughts so please bear with me, I will try to keep this as structured as possible. There are a few things I would like to address.

To start with, I would like to shortly throw in my thoughts regarding yesterday’s statement from Space Craft because I am seeing many people once again accusing the agency of malicious intent. I personally do not think that people should attach too much weight or importance to it. It’s a mere formality that proves they are finally getting their act together. It took them long enough to deal with the situation. They purposefully left Kalafina in a sort of limbo state because it was the easiest thing to do. But they couldn’t have gotten away with that forever. From an agency’s point of view they really had no other choice than to finally make an announcement if they wanted to appear like a serious company again. With this statement they created a clear turning point, they provided something fans have been asking for in the past year…. Closure. Also, a clear separation between Kalafina’s and Wakana’s activities. They gave fans what they wanted and yet, fans are complaining. I actually salute them for having the guts to describe it as “disbandment” instead of “hiatus”. Even YK seemed to have been surprised by the use of such a “strong” word. But honestly, while it is common in Japanese to use blandishing obscuration tactics to make everyone feel better, for Space Craft to use the word “hiatus” would have just extended the “limbo state” of Kalafina. There is really no point for Space Craft to sweet talk the matter, I do not see any chances for Kalafina to reunite again under Space Craft so why make anyone believe otherwise? [More on that later] However, Space Craft announcing the “disbandment” of Kalafina does in no way shape or form stop the girls from getting back together. Maybe it cannot be under the name “Kalafina” [I do believe Space Craft owns major rights to that – hence Keiko’s failure to claim the registered trademark] but there are many other options out there. YK also alluded to them coming together again if the fates allowed it. So really, this announcement does not change anything. One day we will see them together again, I am sure of it. Fans keep asking why Hikaru and Keiko have not joined YK’s agency already but tell me, what would be the point of doing that? Unlike the other artist that have recently become a part of YK’s company, the members of Kalafina have never had the chance to do their own thing. It’s about time they get a bit of independence. So for the time being, the focus is on the individual careers of each member so we shouldn’t hold our breath for a reunion. Following your own dreams takes time, it is not done within a few months or even a year. Once they have achieved what they set out to do, they will surely be more than happy to come together again.

Regarding the responses by Keiko/Hikaru/YK: I am actually surprised that such a big deal is made out of all of this. Yes, people are happy and relieved to hear from Keiko again but really, we are only hearing from her via proxy and that’s no different from the other times we got news about her (mostly through Hikaru). We already knew that Keiko was alive and doing well and Hikaru has confirmed multiple times that she is still in contact with Keiko and Wakana. I know there are many fans who like to entertain the idea of Keiko being miserable and forced into hibernation but really, there is no indication whatsoever that this was anything but her own choice. Also, I do not really understand why them going their separate ways is treated asv”breaking news”. Everyone acts as if the members of Kalafina had never talked about following their individual dreams before. Actually, this is not a new announcement at all. Yes, I will admit, there has never been a big post about it on the blog but they did most definitely mention it in a couple of their final interviews (e.g. this interview here) so it was certainly no secret. This is why I do not believe there was any sort of contractual ban that stopped them from talking about the matter. They literally do not say anything here that hasn’t been said before. The way they are saying it is just a bit more frank and straightforward I guess but that’s to be expected after such a frank announcement by Space Craft.

Regarding Kalafina under Space Craft: I promised I would elaborate on this topic so here is why I think Kalafina has no chance under Space Craft and why announcing the disbandment was the right thing to do for the agency. This part is based on speculation since we do not know what went on behind the scenes. I apologise, I usually do not like to speculate but this time, there is no way around it. As mentioned before, Space Craft most likely owns major rights to Kalafina as “institution”. When YK left the agency she couldn’t just bring the group along with her. In the same interview I previously linked to (CLICK ME) Keiko alluded to the fact that music that wasn’t as genuine as YK’s works was not really worth being pursued. I am assuming this is why she was the first to leave. She probably couldn’t imagine Kalafina without YK. I think this might also be the reason why she was so adamant about getting those trademark rights. With the rights, Kalafina could have simply transitioned to YK’s company and things would have stayed the same. But that obviously wasn’t meant to be and I actually doubt it’s something they all wholeheartedly wanted. If YK and the girls had united their efforts to get the trademark rights, a small company like Space Craft wouldn’t have stood a single chance. But for whatever reason they chose not to do that. I believe they all ended up agreeing that it was about time to go separate ways. After ten years of working together, it is a natural progression after all. It might not have happened as intended due to various circumstances but at the end of the day it is something that would have happened eventually anyways. Space Craft is claiming to have tried their best to have Kalafina resume their activities and I am inclined to believe them. They have no reason to lie about it and it would have been in their best interest because Kalafina has always been their main source of income. But it seems like neither Keiko nor Hikaru were very happy with the conditions offered by the agency or else they wouldn’t have left. Space Craft hired people like Satoshi Takebe and Shusui, composers who are now working together with Wakana. Those very people would most likely have been involved with Kalafina’s future work and I guess that wasn’t something the girls necessarily wanted for “Kalafina”. Instead of completely changing the image of Kalafina, they opted to try new things. To be honest, I don’t really see Keiko trying her luck as a full-time solo artist (but she certainly will not stop singing), simply because she has always said that unlike Wakana and Hikaru she has never wanted to become a singer. I guess she chose a different path (but we won’t know for sure until she decides to tell us - IF she decides to open up about it). Hikaru on the other hand is very passionate about being a singer so she is definitely continuing to pursue a music career. As a small company, Space Craft hadn’t much to offer to Hikaru, there probably weren’t a lot of attractive opportunities for someone like Hikaru. Chances are high that she would have been shoe-horned into a formulaic/mainstream image so in order to avoid that she chose to leave. As for Wakana, there were apparently few good opportunities offered to her and she decided to make use of them. With the help of Space Craft she has seamlessly transitioned into a solo artist but of course, she is now being marketed as a very mainstream pop singer. Not that that is anything bad. Wakana obviously does not mind and really, there is no shame in being a mainstream pop-singer. Especially since she now gets the chance to express herself more, something she wasn’t able to do before. But yeah, there are many fans who are not liking it but I guess that’s a small price to pay for this new-found freedom. I completely understand why Wakana chose to stay with Space Craft, she clearly didn’t want to leave the familiar territory. She gets to experiment but at the same time she has a safety net to rely on, I think Wakana is the type of person that really needs something like that whereas Hikaru and Keiko are more independent and stubborn. Having said all that, I don’t see why Kalafina should reunite under Space Craft, that wouldn’t make any sense to me. If they couldn’t make it work before, they won’t make it work in the future. So yeah, announcing the disbandment was the right way to go in my opinion.

Regarding accusations against Wakana: With Space Craft’s announcement and today’s responses from YK, Hikaru and Keiko I have started to notice an increasing amount of hate towards Wakana which is absolutely baffling to me. People are seriously turning against Wakana. How can you have so little respect? The accusations are all baseless of course, people are literally just out there trying to cause drama but really, do you have no shame?! How dare you!! People seem to think that just because Wakana chose to stay with Space Craft this somehow implies that she was the cause for everything that has happened, for the “disbandment”. Think again…Life is not a soap opera. First Space Craft was the big baddie, now both Wakana and Space Craft are the enemy. Why does there need to be an evil guy? It’s like people HAVE to find someone to hate. Yes, mistakes have been made, unfortunate circumstances came together, shit piled up but honestly, I do not believe that any of the involved parties are inherently evil or wanted things to go down the drain. Sometimes things just don’t work out and you have to deal with it. Also, Wakana is accused of being inconsiderate for tweeting nonchalantly while all of this information is being published. Please enlighten me, what exactly is she supposed to do or say? YK, Keiko and Hikaru apparently felt the need to address the issue because they have all been more or less quiet on the matter but Wakana has been super vocal about all of this from the get-go. In countless interviews she has talked about how much her time in Kalafina means to her, how much the songs mean to her, how much she respects YK, how she now wants to venture into new directions to pursue her dreams. Why would she say all of this again just because of a formal announcement that literally has no bearing on anything? With her solo album and tour coming up, Wakana is on a very busy schedule so she doesn’t need this sort of drama. And yes, I am sure the agency would prefer for Wakana not to get too tangled up in this especially now that there is such a backlash against her. Lastly, I am sure that both Keiko and Hikaru are happy to see Wakana take this step into a new direction. it might not be possible for them to show it openly but that doesn’t mean they are not supportive of Wakana’s activities. So fans should do the same.

[hurt-care]

His Lordship’s Gardener - Part 1

This (exceptionally LONG) fic was co-written with @salamanderskin, with her writing the part of Cartwright and myself writing for Lord Elder. 

This is an allergy sneeze-fic that is set during the end of the 1800s/start of the 1900s. Please be advised that later sections do become 18+. There is a follow-up to this story called “His Lordship’s Visit” which I’ll also post later :) Enjoy!

---

The sun is climbing towards the middle of hot June day. The countryside here is rolling and green, the lanes so thickly hedged that it is almost impossible to make out the pony and trap which moves ponderously along them. It moves in and out of dappled sunlight, setting a course for the most, indeed the only, notable building in the immediate area- a handsome stately home set in acres of untouched parkland.

The trap makes its ponderous way up a long drive, through the bars of shadow cast by the even rows of lime trees which flank the road, and comes to a halt at last with a crunch of wheels on gravel. It's occupant emerges stiffly and stands blinking in the sudden light, casting a critical eye over the imposing building ahead of him. He self-consciously checks his appearance as reflected in the window of the coach, and sees only a slender young man, tall, fair of complexion with a head of chestnut hair which refuses to cease falling into his eyes no matter how often he sweeps it back. He pauses to brush the dust of travel from his jacket, which is in the modern London style though growing threadbare, the shirt underneath it thin but well-laundered. Long fingers tweak the cravat at his throat, which must be stifling in this high weather. He gives a nervous swallow as he approaches the heavy oak front door. Then he squares his shoulders and gives the bell-pull a good yank, his greeting already on his lips;

“Isaiah Cartwright, of London. Your master should be expecting me; he wrote for a landscape gardener.”

An imposing figure in formal service attire stands in the doorway of the ornate entryway. He's in his sixties, with a shock of white hair slicked back with great precision.

“Do come in, Mr. Cartwright; His Lordship has been expecting you,” the butler says. “I am Mister Bishop. Miss Smith will show you into the study.”

He steps back to reveal a young woman waiting patiently to escort the guest. She curtsies and leads the way down a wood paneled hallway with huge urns sitting atop pilasters and several heavy drapes swagged around gilded-frame paintings.

Mr. Bishop disappears into a dark hallway in the opposite direction, in search of his Master.

The Master in question is Lord Jacob Elder, the only son of a long line of nobility in control of the estate at Woodhaven. He was married once, to a young woman of equal social standing, but she’d died of consumption with no heir, and the Lord Elder never remarried.

There was still time for such things, of course. Lord Elder is barely twenty-eight, far from past prime, and is much admired in social circles for his looks and intelligence. He has no intention, however, of remarrying. His attention is much more devoted to his studies and a passion for science and invention than it is to wooing the fairer sex.

In the eastern wing of Woodhaven in a row of rooms on the upper floor, Lord Elder maintains a second study of sorts wherein he conducts his academic experiments and studies. It is there that Mr. Bishop finds his Lordship slumped over a notebook, scribbling furiously.

“Lord Elder?” he asks. “Mr. Cartwright has arrived from London to serve as his Lordship’s gardener.”

Jacob looks up at the interruption, his thin spectacles sliding off his narrow, long nose. It’s past noon but he’s still in his silk dressing gown, feet bare and raven hair all askew. Sweat is beaded on his forehead and dark locks stick there in curled tendrils.

“Is he?” Jacob asks.

“He’s in the study. I can serve him lunch in the servant’s quarters and let him know that his Lordship will receive him later.”

“That won’t be necessary, Bishop,’ Jacob says, shutting his notebook and smoothing back his hair, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. “Bring up some lemonade. I cannot bear hot tea in this weather.”

“Very good, sir,” Bishop says, and departs for the kitchens. He isn’t surprised that his Lordship intends to receive the guest in only his dressing gown and pajamas, but it never ceases to make the butler feel very embarrassed indeed.

Lord Elder ties the sash of his dressing gown and goes down to his library. The room is one of his favorites in the house, besides his east quarters, and the numerous shelves are stacked up to the ceilings with old volumes of academia. Some of the upper ones are novels and inherited tomes that haven’t been touched in ages. Only the occasional cleaning keeps those from gathering too much dust.

“Mr. Cartwright?” Lord Elder asks, entering the room and circling to stand beside his favorite armchair.

“My Lord. An absolute pleasure to see you in the flesh.”

He offers a quick but firm handshake. If Mr. Cartwright is surprised by his Lordship's informality of dress he does not express it, except perhaps by an amused twist to his mouth.

“I apologise for my late reply to your letter, I was detained briefly in the Americas. You will be pleased to know that my admission to the Royal Horticultural Society has finally been completed, and so I find myself completely at your disposal. It is pleasing to find a man with an interest in the science of horitculture as much as in the fads of design.”

He speaks with quiet intensity, holding Lord Elder's gaze almost to the point of discomfort. Even in the low light of the library his eyes show an unusually pale green, flecked with hazel like those of a cat.

“I am rather interested in the science of it, yes,” Lord Elder says, taking a seat in the armchair and indicating for his guest to do the same. Slim fingers extract a cigarette case from the pocket of his robe and he reaches for a match from a nearby box, lighting one with a quick strike. He takes a long drag and continues. “I have extensive grounds here at Woodhaven and little use for them in terms of sport or entertaining. Previously, I had a labourer plant the lime trees out front and a small garden in back, but I have much interest in cultivating a more prodigious garden of herbs and other plants for use both medicinally and for scientific research.”

Bishop enters with the lemonade and offers a glass to each man before setting the silver tray and pitcher on a nearby sideboard.

“Thank you, Bishop,” Jacob says. “I’ll ring if I require you further.”

“Very good, sir.”

He leaves, shutting the door behind him.

“Did you enjoy the Americas?” Lord Elder asks, turning his attention back to his guest as he flicks a bit of ash from his cigarette into the nearby standing ashtray. “I have not been; not since I was a small boy and the sea voyage was enough to scare me off for a good deal longer. I must admit I have a weak constitution when it comes to sailing. I have done a great deal of reading about the rain-forests of the south, though, and I should like to see them someday.”

Cartwright pinches nervously at the tip of his nose, but replies with enthusiasm.

“I can recommend it if your Lordship ever has the opportunity. The extent of must be seen to be believed. I spent a little time in the rain-forests, though frankly it was not pleasant- the humidity was quite insufferable and there are more species of venomous insect than I had believed possible. Indeed, I have come to conclusion that the only civilised way to study the species found there is back on our native soil. It is truly remarkable is how well many of the species can thrive on our continent, given the correct conditions, and they are becoming easier and easier to replicate as technology advances.”

His reserve of conversation runs dry around the same time as his cup of lemonade, which he sets aside with a decisive movement.

“If your Lordship is ready perhaps you could show me the grounds, give me a better idea of what I am working with.”

His eyes narrow fractionally as they register Lord Elder's state of dress and he struggles for diplomacy, “Unless you- that is, if you quite are ready to do so?”

“I do doubt if the humidity could ever rival that of a summer spent in London, but I’ll trust you know what you’re talking about,” Lord Elder quips, draining his glass and extinguishing his cigarette. “I will happily show you the grounds if you’ll be kind enough to wait until after I’ve had my lunch. If you are hungry, I am happy to have Bishop set you up with some food in the servant’s hall.”

He’s slightly conflicted about where to rank the young man in the hierarchy of the house. A university education puts Cartwright well above the other employees, but under his Lordship or other visiting persons of the upper class. Jacob decided previously that he’d house the new gardener in one of the guest quarters rather than with the footmen and livery, but dining was a slightly more difficult matter.

“I’m going to ring the bell for Bishop to come clear the drinks away, and if you want to eat, he’ll show you where to go. I’ll meet you in the front foyer in forty minutes.”

He stands, tightening the sash on his dressing gown.

“I look forward to it, Mr. Cartwright,” he says, nodding his head to the young man before he turns and heads upstairs, yanking the pull for the servant’s bell as he leaves the study.

His own chambers are not far from his rooms in the eastern wing. He takes lunch every day at twelve-thirty in his sitting room unless he’s working in which case he takes it in his private study. The dishes are already laid and a footman waits by the table. Lord Elder eats to his satisfaction while he has his valet lay out a linen suit in the dressing room. Lunch finished, he dresses and has his valet trim his moustache before heading downstairs to meet Mr. Cartwright.

By the time they have both eaten the sun is high in the sky. A little wind has arisen, bringing some relief from the heat as it ruffles the tops of the trees. The air holds a hazy, golden quality and the sweet, clean scent of summer grass.

Isaiah Cartwright waits by the door, which is open, allowing him gaze out over the grounds. The sunlight forces him to squint a little, but he stands straight and gracefully despite his height. He has shed his suit jacket and stands in only his shirt and waistcoat, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms for practicality. The exposed skin is tanned a light, golden brown. As Lord Elder had observed, being neither as pale as a scholar nor ruddy as a farmer he occupies that peculiar place somewhere between a labourer and gentleman. Now he holds a notebook open to a clean page, the previous one being already filled with a rough pencil sketch of grounds and some annotations.

Despite his watchful waiting, the very moment at which Lord Elder arrives is one in which Isaiah is momentarily distracted by removing his handkerchief from his pocket. Upon seeing his host approaching he returns it quickly as he turns around.

“Good afternoon, your Lordship. I hope you dined well. I was able to acquaint myself my staff and

have made some preparatory sketches curtesy of your excellent head gardener. He was surprisingly helpful, although I fancy he senses I am about to make his job a good deal more difficult.”

He offers Elder a fleeting, nervous smile, before averting his gaze and pinching at his nose in what is becoming a characteristic gesture.

“Wonderful,” Elder says, heading out into the sunshine. “I’m eager to see what you think you can do with the place.”

As they walk, he shrugs off his jacket, hooking it on a finger as he slings it across his shoulder. The light breeze ruffles his thick curly hair and he squints as the sun glares off his glasses.

The pair make their way down the front lawn, pausing as they get to the wide expanse of land to the left of the property where a huge willow tree dips its branches to the earth. In the distance, a young man paces the far south lawn pushing a grass trimmer.

“It’s a lovely old tree,” Lord Elder says. “I’d quite like it to be trimmed properly. I can’t bear to have the hired man just hack it up willy-nilly. I’m sure you can recommend to him the best way.”

The tree is a favorite of the Lord’s, providing shade and a place for reflection on spring afternoons. Occasionally, he brings his studies outside and stretches out on a blanket with his books.

“The boy there is one of the hired hands,” he adds, pointing to the young man pushing the clipper. “Good lad. He’ll be of service to you, I’m sure of it.”

Cartwright tilts his head at the tree admiringly. “It is magnificent. I'm sure I can certainly-”

Here he pauses, his aspect gone slightly vague. Quick fingers retrieve his handkerchief out of his pocket and he just has time to murmur a distracted “Please excuse me, I-” before he must cup it to his face to catch a sudden sneeze.

“--idtssh!”

It is a slight, convulsive movement, so swift an observer might fancy he had imagined it.

He gives his nose a firm, decisive rub and returns his attention to Elder.

“I'm sorry, what were you saying?”

“Bless you,” Elder says, a brief look of concern flashing across his face. “I was saying that the young man trimming the lawn is one of the hired hands who will be of great assistance to you, I’m sure. He’s a good lad.”

The find themselves at a bend in the path that leads back around the house to the rear lawn. The lush grass is freshly mown and sticks slightly to their shoes as Lord Elder leads on towards a bench overlooking the back of the property. He indicates for Cartwright to sit and takes a seat himself.

“It’s a good plot,” he comments, scanning the wide expanse of land. “Ideally, I’d have a proper walled garden, if you think it would work here. I’ll trust your expertise, but I would rather like to have an area for herbs and then an area for some more exotic ornamentals. Perhaps you can suggest some that will survive in this climate.”

Cartwright makes a note of this in his book and pushes his hair back from his brow in a thoughtful gesture.

“That's quite possible. I see you already have an excellent formal rose-garden. There is space for a walled garden beside it, I think. There, where the land is flatter. Perhaps with some steps leading down. You could have raised beds with box-hedges- they are very fashionable at the moment, but more to the point they help to keep rare species separate from each other.”

His nose is evidently bothering him, and on the pretense of bending down to fasten his shoe he gives a single, very discreet sniffle. It is still audible, however, and has an unpleasantly dampness which seems to have come from nowhere.

“That said, if you are truly interested in exotics you might consider a glass-house. Perhaps you have visited the magnificent example at Kew?”

Before he can say more, his eyelids flutter shut. His long, golden eyelashes rest again his cheek for a moment as he takes an unsteady breath, and then he is overtaken by an emphatic fit of sneezing,

“--idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!”

He cups his handkerchief over his face and his head snaps away from Lord Elder with each one. Although they are not loud the sound has an insistent, ticklish quality. Isaiah blows his nose as politely as he can muster. His expression shifts from started to wary, as though he is beginning to suspect something. He says nothing of it, however, beyond a quiet. “Please excuse me your Lordship. I don't know what's come over m- eh-”

Then it overtakes him again, another series of three which is an exact, clockwork repetition of the previous fit.

“hh- hhih -- --idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!”

He recovers with a slight, surprised shake of his head.

“Goodness,” Lord Elder exclaims, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket and extracting a fine linen handkerchief with an embroidered monogram. “Bless you. Do let me know if I can offer you my own.”

Cartwright waves away his Lordship's offer, hoping to God it won't be necessary- his cheeks are already flushed enough at his unintended impropriety- though he fears he may be overtaken sooner rather later.

Elder keeps the handkerchief close at hand in case the other man requires it but continues their discussion, not wishing to embarrass Cartwright. He’s quite taken with the young man already and is eager to begin work with him, imagining happy hours spent tending to exotic buds and collecting herbs.

“I have been to Kew,” he said. “I went not long after they opened the bamboo garden a few years back and I had the great pleasure of touring the Palm House and the Temperate House. I have a great fondness for some of the orchids they have there; really breathtaking things. I think a glasshouse would be a grand idea.”

Despite his outburst, Isaiah's nose remains so decidedly ticklish that he cannot help but appear a little distracted as he leafs through his notebook to show Lord Elder some sketches in his own hand.

“These are some glasshouses I designed during my apprenticeship. We would need to hire in a builder and perhaps an architect to work on the finer aspects of my plans, but here is an idea of what is possible. There is that initial expense, but there's never been a better moment to go ahead, now that there is no longer the glass tax to contend with. The best site would be an east or southeast plot, unless your Lordship has any other preference? Perhaps we could walk around that way and take a look?”

One finger rubs at the corner of his eyes, which feel unpleasantly gritty, and he hopes he does not appear uninterested in his Lordship's company when quite the reverse is true. His nose is running again, and he sniffs it back as quietly as he can.

“These are lovely,” Elder says, looking at the sketches in the notebook with admiration. “I do wish I had more skill with a pencil. My sketches are fair, but these are really fine work. Perhaps this more tradition looking one would work best with the style of the main house?”

He points to a lovely framed building that Isaiah has drawn with beautiful spires on either end that seem to reflect the peaks of the manor house’s roof. Standing with the notebook in hand, he begins to wander to across the lawn again.

Isaiah waves away Elder's compliment with a certain quiet pleasure, and rises obediently to follow his Lordship around to the southeast side of the house. They skirt the rose garden and he pauses to demonstrate where he would add a walled garden, adding a further rough outline to his plan of the house.

“I think this bit of the lawn would be ideal. I often find myself in this direction during my morning walks, and I should like to visit my garden frequently when it’s complete.”

He pauses, glancing back at his companion. Cartwright’s wide eyes look redder and rheumy compared to their earlier appearance and Elder observes the slight sheen of moisture around the man’s nose. Casually, he checks that his handkerchief is still close at hand so it is ready in case he need offer it again.

The two men have managed to overtake Elder's hired hand, so the grass is longer here and the stems whisper about their ankles as they walk across the space Elder had mentioned. Isaiah examines it approvingly, crossing it in brisk strides to get an idea of the dimensions before returning to his host's side. Though his demeanour is cheerful and focused, he is forced to give a soft blow into his already-damp handkerchief before speaking. Apparently it does little to clear the tickle in his nose for his voice is already wavering as he speaks.

“This will be ideal, it gets the full sun first thing- ih” His voice cracks, his eyelids flickering shut, but he soldiers on. “in 'idTSsh! -excuse me- in the morning- 'idttsh!... 'idttsh!”

The three sudden sneezes force their way from in, completely overtaking his ability to speak. He paces away from Elder and turns his back before doubling over again. He is trying is utmost to stifle the sound, but he cannot control the frequency.

"hh- 'gtsch!... 'gtsch!...h'gitssch!”

With time the sneezes come slower and more forcefully, allowing him to at least catch a breath a few breaths before he is doubled over again. His expression is mortified, the handkerchief clamped firmly around his nose and mouth. His eyes well with irritated tears, and he looks blearily up at Lord Elder with a mixture of shame and confusion.

“Please forgive me, my- 'gtissch!- my lord,” he manages. “I cannot seem to- to- TSSchuh!- seem to -TTSsch!- stop.”

For a moment, Lord Elder is transfixed by the display. He’s never seen anyone sneeze so rapidly in all his life, and from a purely scientific perspective, it is fascinating. The way the young man’s body convulses with each uncontrolled spasm…he finds himself thinking it is much like the male sexual response, which in turn finds a blush crossing his scholarly face as well as a warm tingling in his limbs.

The last two desperate sneezes shake him from his reverie and he fumbles in his pocket for the fresh handkerchief, putting a firm hand on Cartwright’s back and pressing the cloth insistently towards the young man’s raised hands so that he might grab in between fits.

“My dear Mr. Cartwright,” he says, voice low in concern. “We may continue this later. I fear you must have caught a chill on the journey to Woodhaven. Please allow me to show you to your rooms so you might rest and recover. There is no apology or forgiveness necessary. I’m a scientific man, I remind you, Mr. Cartwright, and I know these sorts of things are beyond our control, even in the company of others.”

Isaiah accepts the handkerchief and gives a soft, grateful blow which seems to halt the urge to sneeze, at least for now. A more generous response he could not wish for and yet Elder's surmise does not quite ring true to him.

“Thank you... you're very kind. Please do not be overly concerned; I have a very sensitive nose although not usually this sensitive, I admit. I feel quite well apart from- ” he leans very slightly on Elder for support as he sneezes again, curiously conscious of the weight of the man's hand on his back as his shoulders shudder with the effort of repressing it into a tight, restrained, “-knxt! -knxt! Hih-knxt!”

He shakes his head a little to clear it. “- well, apart from the obvious. Still you must be correct, perhaps the journey was harder on me than I realised. I think I will go to my rooms if I may, at least until this eases a little. Do lead on.”

“Of course,” Lord Elder says sympathetically. He’s slightly distracted by the feel of Cartwright’s back under his hand and the muscles there tensing as the man continues to sneeze. “Please, come with me.”

They make it back to the house with a quick pace and Jacob leads the way to a series of bright rooms not far from his own. The graciously appointed bedroom is not too grand as to befit a more honored, temporary guest, but it is still quite lovely.

Cartwright’s luggage has been brought up by a footman and his things are waiting by the bed. Lord Elder crosses the room and closes the heavy velvet curtains, darkening the room.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he tells Isaiah. “Can I have anything sent up to you? Or fetch anything myself?”

“You're very kind. Perhaps a glass of water, but beyond that I -snf- I already feel much better.” Isaiah says.

He has seated himself on the bed in the shadow of the drapes, and his eyes are large in the dark. They are so reddened now that he looks as though he has been crying but this only emphasises their vivid green. More than that they have swelled so that they are half shut, and he looks at Elder from under heavy lids with an expression of sleepy discomfort. He rubs at them tentatively, afraid to irritate them further. His voice is interrupted with damp sniffles and gives the impression that he might break into further fits of sneezes at any moment, despite this he continues quietly;

“I do not feel I need to rest. You needn't-” he hesitates, unsure what he is permitted to ask of his host, yet torn with the desire to continue in Elder's company. Though he feels well enough now, he imagines that the frustrating symptoms will soon intensify without his Lordship's intriguing presence to distract him. “You needn't leave, if you wish to continue our conversation indoors. I should tell you that I have been taken this way before and in my experience it -snf- passes quickly.”

“We shall have plenty of time to become better acquainted and to discuss the plans for my lands,” Lord Elder says. “There is no need to burden yourself with it. Please, relax and take the afternoon to acquaint yourself with your chambers and the rest of the house if you wish. I’ll have Bishop send up some water and your dinner when it comes time for that.”

He hesitates, wondering if it is out of his place in society to ask what he is considering, but then decides he will anyhow. After all, he is the master of the house and has no other relations to answer to.

“Or, if you prefer, you may join me in my chambers for dinner. I take the meal at five and you’ll hear the bell ring when it is time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to my study to finish a few things. Please, don’t hesitate to ring for Bishop if you require anything further before dinner.”

With a nod, he shuts the door and hurries down the hall and up a flight of stairs to his private study. A thought has taken hold in his mind and he is eager to investigate. The reddened eyes, the sneezing…he’d read about this condition in a journal a few months back…the realization had hit him suddenly when he’d seen Isaiah’s swollen eyelids in the dim bedroom. He moves to the large case of scientific periodicals he keeps in a corner and begins flipping through books, spectacles sliding to the end of his nose as he searches page after page.

Finally, he discovers the passage and sinks into his desk chair with a smirk of triumph. Summer catarrh, or the rose cold…symptoms brought about by exposure to various flowers and ragweed, and for which there is no definitive cure.

If this is indeed what if afflicting his new gardener, then he will certainly have to do something about it. After all, the boy is talented and Elder is eager for the improvements to the land, but it will be impossible if his gardens keep poor Cartwright in paroxysms of sneezing. Perhaps a bit of a scientific experiment is in order.

He continues to read the periodical, gathering as much information as he can before he heads back out into the south yard to collect some cuttings, arranging the flowers and pollen-heavy weeds into an arrangement which he deposits on a sideboard in the dining room before returning to his study to wait until dinner time.

Between managing the still-frequent fits of sneezing and exploring his temporary lodgings, Isaiah too has plenty to amuse him between Elder's departure and the ringing of the dinner bell. His Lordship's invitation has taken him off-guard, but pleasantly so, suggesting as it does that his Lordship does not think him entirely unpleasant company, despite his previous display. As the clock creeps toward five, he begins to think about making himself ready. After some deliberation he adds to his ensemble a dove grey frock coat and ties a green ascot at his neck. As his fingers are adding a little pomade to his hair the fluttering tickle which has been every-present at the back of his nose suddenly flares to a desperate, itching need. His breath hitches unevenly, unsure if he is trying to stave off the release or bring it on.

Now that he is alone he does not repress the sounds, but allows them to bend him at the waist with a satisfying forcefulness which would be quite inappropriate for company.

“hiih...! IGTsssh!-IGHTssshh!-ii'HGktSSchuh!... ah.”

For a moment his reflection in the gilt mirror looks every bit as snifflingly miserable as he feels. Then he masters himself, splashes his face with cold water and rearranges the soft waves of his hair where the sneezing has shaken them loose. He smiles nervously at himself in the mirror, tucks two clean handkerchiefs into his trouser pocket just in case, and when the ring of the bell comes he makes his way to Elder's dining room with only a little concern for the state of his health.

Cartwright meets Elder in the dining room and greets him with a fleeting smile. His usually graceful movement is somewhat hampered by his self-consciousness in evening dress, yet the change flatters him- the suit making him appear as lean as a hare, his shoulders strong and slender.

“Good evening my Lord. It is very good of you to have me.”

“Of course,” Elder replies. “Please, sit down.”

There remains a hoarse edge to Cartwright's voice, and he clears his throat with a soft cough. Yet however much he attempts to focus upon Elder's reply, his attention is drawn inward by the return of that insistent itchiness which last assailed him when out in the grounds. It is as though the moment he enters the room his formerly clear nose wells both with liquid and with fluttering, intangible tickles which make him pinch unconsciously at the tip of his nose. He makes an effort to breathe steadily through his mouth lest the feeling should wax, but this is difficult when he is equally drawn to sniffle wetly. He fervently hopes that Elder does not notice as he remains standing, wavering on the verge of an explosion.

Then as Bishop offers him some wine, his efforts are distracted and one singular sneeze escapes him.

“h'knxt!”

It is a slight, almost silent motion which represents monumental self-restraint. For a moment he is foolish enough to assume he has escaped with just the one, but he manages a pause of only a minute or two before the urge overtakes him again. “'knxt! Id'Knxt!”

“I beg your pardon,” he says, eyes cast downward. “I rather hoped I had finished with that for the day.”

“Had your condition improved until you entered this room?” Lord Elder asks, intrigued. He feels positively awful for subjecting the kind young man to this nasal torture, but he’s sure there is a way to help him if he can only figure out exactly what causes the fits.

“And since coming out here to my estate, have you spent any time during the summer months in this region?” he adds, eyes glancing over at the large spray of flowers on the sideboard. He knows that several are very populous in this part of the country and are less common elsewhere.

Isaiah considers this, his face expressing confusion although he is game to answer any question Elder throws at him.

“I was feeling much better, or I would not have burdened you with my company. But it seems to be worsening ah- again- idtssh!- oh. I was the county before, but only the once. Why do you ask? As I remember, I was taken with a shocking cold at that time, too.” He sniffs wetly. “It is a very strange coincidence, I- hah- idtssh! Idtssh Ih'tssch-uh!”

This time, the man's irritated sinuses are not content to stop with just three. He manages a wavering, “excuse me-” before taking a few urgent paces away from Lord Elder so that he might turn his back completely. He is not entirely fast enough, and so treats Elder to a perfect view of his pre-sneeze face; eyes narrowed, eyebrows arching and nostrils delicately flared like an animal taking a scent. The next moment his face is hidden in his steepled fingers as his body rocks with sneezes.

���Ih'TSSh! ITSShh! Id'TSSh! ah-” He hovers for a moment, breath panting, before sneezing again with almost painful force. “Ah-ITtsh-uh! ii'HGktSSchuh!”

The needling itch in his nose abates at last, if only because he is growing too congested to feel it.

Isaiah gives Elder a fleeting look over the handkerchief, eyes damp with tears and cheeks flushed with effort and shame. He says softly, “At least one of us ought to enjoy this meal. Perhaps I should leave...”

The raw power and severity of the sneezes is so overwhelming that Lord Elder finds himself growing hot in the cheeks as a strange sense of arousal rises in him. Though he has two intimate friendships with other men who come to Woodhaven when they are visiting nearby, he has not felt this sudden lust for another since he first met Lord Tennan, a handsome blond fellow from Highgate. Of course, he loved his late wife with all the husbandly duties required, but he’s always had relations with men, finding he prefers the sharp lines of a male body over the curves of the female.

Swallowing hard, he pulls himself together and shakes his head, offering an apology.

“My dear Mr. Cartwright, I assure you, I know what is causing your suffering. There’s no need for you to be embarrassed. We will take dinner in my sitting room; I’ve had Bishop set an extra table in the likely event that this would happen. Please, come with me and I will explain all.”

He begins to lead the way out of the room, wanting to relieve Isaiah of the company of the offending plants. His sitting room is not far down the hall and he opens the door, ushering the sniffling man inside.

“Sit and make yourself quite comfortable. There’s a stack of spare handkerchiefs in the table drawer there. Now, tell me, Mr. Cartwright, have you heard of the modern affliction known as the Rose Cold, or Summer Catarrh?”

Isaiah settles himself, expression nonplussed. He does, however, help himself to a fresh handkerchief and blows his nose wetly to clear his voice.

“I have never heard of it. Medicine was never my area of expertise.” He gestures for Elder to go on, but then pauses, catching something in His Lordship's face. He has been watching his host with such closeness that the intensity of the man's gaze, and the deliberate way in which he steels himself, can hardly go unnoticed. “Are you quite all right? I do hope this isn't catching.”

This is said with another quick volley of stifled sneezes, but he recovers quickly with a little shake of his head.

I most certainly am,” Elder says, affecting the detached air of a man of science instead of a man who is genuinely worried about Cartwright. “I do not believe what is afflicting you is catching at all. I cannot say that medicine is my area of expertise either, but I am interested in all aspects of science and do keep up with medical journals. And from one of these journals I have deduced what is causing your nasal irritation.”

He reaches for a book he left on a side table earlier and flips through to the article about summer catarrh.

“The rose cold, or summer catarrh, is a relatively modern ailment that is caused by a great sensitivity to the reproductive products of plants and flowers, pollen, as well as dust, smoke, and other natural irritants,” he reads.

“That would certainly be an explanation,” Cartwright says slowly. He rubs tiredly at his temples as he takes the information in. The young man has a quick mind but in this case it is blunted by both a combination wilful denial and a brewing headache. “Still, steady on, your Lordship. This may be purely academic to you, but if you're right it will certainly change the path of my career. Please do not be so quick to extrapolate a summer cold and a fanciful article into a diagnosis.”

“It is unfortunate, my dear Mr. Cartwright, that a man who is such an expert in plant life seems to have such a debilitating reaction to our more common northern flowers and weeds,” he adds with a wry smile. “Woodhaven is home to a great many wild plants and I can only surmise that one of them must cause this sneezing. I took a cutting of some of the more populous ones and arranged them in the vase in the dining room as a bit of an experiment. Judging by your subsequent reaction, I think we both can safely say that you are quite sensitive to at least one of them. I do hope you’ll forgive me for invoking further misery on your part.”

After a moment the other implications of Elder's diagnosis dawn on him.

“Do you mean to tell me that I have been an unwitting part in some kind of scientific game? It hardly seems fair- to- ii'GSSChuuh!” Another sneeze comes on suddenly, keeping him from completing his point.

“Bless you,” Lord Elder replies distractedly. “And I do apologize for subjecting you to what you call a ‘game’, but I was genuinely concerned for your welfare and when I saw the adverse effect the sneezing had on you, I had only hoped to help you avoid the culprit.”

But, perhaps he is rushing into things again. He’s never been a terribly organized man and sometimes his passions overtake logic.

“And I may have been impertinent in my diagnosis,” he admits, feeling a hot flush in his cheeks. He has not intended to offend his new friend. “You are correct that it may be a summer cold, but if it is not, there is no reason to change your career, as you have shown your considerable talents just in the short time I’ve known you. There are many suggested treatments to this ailment, if it should prove a continued nuisance, and I am more than obliged to assist you in seeking these treatments.”

Bishop enters with the first course, setting it down on the small tea table between the two men.

“I suggest that we take dinner and you take a day’s rest to recover from whatever it is that ails you,” Elder says to Cartwright. “Once you’re sufficiently well, perhaps we might take a trip to visit Kew Gardens and look upon some of the glasshouses you spoke of so that I might get a better idea of the type I want for my own estate.”

“And,” he adds, taking in the sight of the man’s reddened nose and watering eyes. “If you wish to take you dinner alone in your rooms so you might retire to bed, I will not be offended. Please remember I care only for your health and have little regard for rules of polite society, being just a bachelor here at Woodhaven and not accustomed to following them regularly.”

At Elder's apology, Mister Cartwright visibly relaxes. He leans back in his chair and momentarily covers his eyes with one hand, giving a soft, congested groan, yet his expression is somewhat softened and he smiles at Elder.

“I did not mean to speak to quickly against your wisdom... I am not feeling my best. A visit to Kew would be an excellent next step, regardless of my own condition, though I dearly hope that this nonsense will pass in a few days. It must be a great nuisance to you- hh-”

Once again that vague, ticklish expression crosses his face and he turns away from Elder abruptly. He gives a few audibly panting breaths, raises the handkerchief to his face- and then lowers it, frustrated. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, and gives a little shake of his head to indicate that the urge has, for now, retreated.

“I think then that I will go to my rooms, and trouble you no further. I assure you I will be quite alright. Above anything else, I would not have you think me frail.”

He rises and straightens his ascot, not taking his eyes off of Elder as he murmurs softly,

“Good night, your Lordship.”

His composure is not so great that Elder cannot hear him stifling an extended fit of sneezes in the hallway, the sound diminishing as the man walks away.

Elder does not think Cartwright frail in the least; in fact, as he listens to the fit of sneezes echoing down the hall, he’s struck by the sheer strength of the outbursts and the masculine, throaty sneezes of his new gardener. The aroused feeling is stirred in him again as he’s left alone with his dinner. It’s a few moments before he’s comfortable enough to ring the bell and request that Bishop send up a tray to Cartwright’s room.

Over the next day the high weather breaks in quick, summer showers which liberally douse the grounds of Woodhaven and provide an excuse for Isaiah to keep to his rooms. Despite the weather, or unbeknownst to him because of it, he found himself much improved. He is still prone to fittish sneezes which come upon him in sets of six or more, and the congestion in his head has him keep a handkerchief nearby at all time, but other than that he is quite his usual self. His mind is sharp and busy with drawings and calculations, and with reading widely from Elder's ample library. Through these preparations he is more than ready to accompany Lord Elder to Kew upon the designated date.

Elder keeps himself occupied over the next few days, avoiding Cartwright somewhat as he continues to read about the summer catarrh and its treatment. And there are several more projects he has in the works; various inventions and ideas for research. The few times he’s emerged from his study in his customary dressing gown and bare feet, he’s caught glimpses of the handsome young man with his nose buried in a book instead of a handkerchief, and he’s both relieved and a little disappointed at the sight. There was something terribly endearing about seeing the man so afflicted with the sneezing fits.

When the morning of their trip comes round, Elder dresses in a new suit with a straw boater for their journey to Kew. It’s not a terribly long trip; only a few hours by motorcar. He has Bishop pack a small lunch for travel and he plans for them to take tea in the garden’s tearoom.

Carefully waxing his moustache and grooming his hair, he preens in the mirror for a little longer than usual, observing the reflection of his own thin, dark-haired figure. Spectacles tucked in his shirt pocket, he grabs an observation notebook for making his own jottings at Kew and goes to the foyer to await Cartwright, a small pit of anticipation building in his stomach.

Cartwright descends the stairs with a light step. Though he too thought it best to allow his host some thinking space, he has missed the man's company more than he lets on, and upon seeing the familiar, slight figure he offers Elder a genuine and very charming smile. He wears his other suit, a light one in pale tan which makes his skin appear golden even in the half-light of indoors. His habit of pinching at the tip of his nose has become so frequent that his nostrils are a permanent, light pink, but otherwise, the man glows. One might say on first sight that the country air suited him, though of course they would be mistaken.

He politely admires the motor before seating himself beside Elder. They are forced into unusual though not unwelcome proximity by the arrangement of the seats, and he takes a quiet, muted pleasure in being close enough to smell the man's cologne. The only disadvantage is that when he taken by a sudden fit of sneezes- a characteristic set of three released into his wrist with a ticklish “'idttsh!-iddtssh!-h'ittsh!”- he is uncomfortably aware that must be Elder able to feel the tremors running through his body where their thighs touch on the seat. “Excuse me,” he murmurs. “It will be a relief to get into the temperate house at Kew. At least I know those plants never troubled me when I was abroad.”

“Bless you,” Lord Elder replies, though his gaze is outward at the passing scenery and not at the man so close to his side, for fear of a blush. The sneezes were indeed felt, as translated by their touching legs, and Lord Elder feels the familiar flush growing around his collar. He tugs at his cravat uncomfortably in an effort to remain cool and collected.

“The temperate house is lovely,” Elder agrees as the car breezes down the country road towards the gardens. “I am a great admirer of the palm varieties. I saw Lord Portsmouth’s arboretum last May and he has the most splendid collection of palms there in his atrium. It’s remarkable how tropical it felt inside while outside, we had the most dreadful rain showers.”

They eat a small meal of sandwiches during the few hours of the journey before they arrive at the gates of the magnificent botanical gardens. Lord Elder’s drive helps them out of the automobile at the entrance and Elder tells him to take his lunch and then remain nearby should they choose to alter their time of departure.

Elder loosens his cravat in the hot summer air and gestures for Cartwright to follow, beginning the stroll down the long gravel path towards the main glass houses. The grounds are replete with graceful trees, their branches both dipped to the earth and up to the heavens. Here and there, couples dot the lawns, picnicking and observing the plant life.

When they’re about halfway down the entry path, Lord Elder spots a familiar face and tenses. Strolling in the opposite direction is Lord Lenley, a casual friend and relation of Lord Elder’s. He’s a flashy young gentleman, with thick blond hair and looks that cause many a female to swoon. But he, unbeknownst to the ladies, rarely beds females.

“Jacob!” Lenley cries upon spotting the pair. “What a lovely surprise. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Elder replies coolly.

“And who might this handsome gentleman be?” Lenley asks, extending his graceful hand to Cartwright. “Your cousin?”

“My landscape architect, actually,” Elder mutters. “We are here to gather some ideas for the grounds.”

“Well, that will be just lovely. I’ll have to come spend the weekend when they are complete. A pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Albert Lenley. I’m an old school mate of Jacob's."

“Isaiah Cartwright.” The architect says simply, taking Lenley's hand in a light grip. He offers a pleasant smile, but the next moment the corner of his mouth twitches and his expression takes on an expression of fleeting dread. Isaiah breathes a shallow gasp before turning away and- to his great horror- sneezing a quick fit over his shoulder.

“'gtsh!-'gttsh!-'gttssh!!”

He shakes his head with a soft, self-conscious laugh as though hardly concerned, but his green eyes dart to Jacob both in apology and begging to be reprieved from the pressures of company. Sneezing in front of one Lord is bad enough, but in front of a pair of them it hardly bears thinking about.

“...please, do excuse me.”

Lord Elder’s hand travels to Cartwright’s back, giving it a surreptitious pat of reassurance.

“Yes, please pardon Mr. Cartwright,” he says to Lenley. “His health is not entirely well at the moment, so I beg our leave so we go observe the glasshouses and then return to Woodhaven. It was a pleasure to see you, Albert.”

“And you, as always, Jacob,” Lenley says with an unctuous smile, his hand lingering slightly too long in Elder’s as they shake. “Do come and visit me soon. I’ve missed your company.”

Elder gives no specific reply, simply nodding and turning to walk past Lenley, a little embarrassed by the man’s rather overt display of their relationship. He fiddles with his spectacles nervously, keeping close to Cartwright’s side as they continue their walk down the main path, nearing the ornate structures of timber and glass.

“Thank you.” Isaiah murmurs to him as they make their escape. They have crossed much of the lawn before he turns his astute, perceptive gaze on Elder. “Lord Lenley is a close friend of yours?”

It is more statement than question, and he does not expect much of an answer as the great temperate house rears ahead of them like a vision from the future. Though the building is open it is by no means complete, for the larger second wing stands as a skeleton of wooden struts and metal piping. “It has been under construction since 1860,” Isaiah tells his employer. “I promise you Woodhaven's more modest version will not take so long.”

“Not terribly close,” Elder says, equally distracted by the stunning display of exotic plants as they enter the glasshouse. “We’ve spent some time at each other’s estates, yes. He’s…rather a social creature, one might say.”

He leaves the subject at that. Lenley is a notorious flirt and rather well-known among a certain circle of both British men and women.

The two men enter the glass house. They are assaulted not by a shock but by a gradual creep of humidity. It is not so startling as the palm house, but still warm enough that Isaiah's hands move immediately to loosen his collar. A moment later he pinches reflexively at his nose and an uneasy expression paints his face. It passes quickly and he turns to Elder with an undisguised smile. Here at least he is in his element. They are surrounded on all sides by greenery. Fruit trees and palms tower overhead. Vines cling limpidly to the glass on the southside to press their leaves towards the sun, lending the light a mellow, dappled quality, whilst the narrow paths are skirted by blooms of every colour. Other visitors move to and fro inside, their voices hushed as though in a library or museum.

Elder's attention is now on Cartwright, who is flush with the excitement of the beautiful plants. Jacob keeps his pace a few steps behind, watching the young man as he admires a fruit tree, his graceful hands toying with his handkerchief.

Isaiah moves instinctively towards the wall of branching citrus trees which are familiar to him from his travels. “Feel free to wander, and let me know what catches your interest.”

He absentmindedly draws out the handkerchief and touches it under his nose, but his attention is entirely elsewhere.

“I think these are magnificent,” Elder says after a moment, siding up to Cartwright. “Do you have a favorite? The idea of having my own fruit trees is a thrilling one, I must say, and I don’t think Missus Harrison, the cook, would mind either.”

He takes out his small notebook and jots down the names of a few of the trees so he can read more about them later. The two men wander a bit farther down and Elder branches off towards a display of beautiful exotic flowers. There are several he’s never seen before, even in books, and their loveliness is so exquisite that he takes a few moments to make amateur sketches of each. They are nothing compared to Cartwright’s, but feels they are at least a good effort.

“These, here,” he calls to Cartwright, who is at a slight distance. “These flowers. Do you think any of them would be possible? I quite like this variety of orchid, actually.”

At his host's summons, the man returns immediately to Elder's side and joins him in squatting down that they might examine the blooms more closely. He lifts one of the blossoms with a delicate, almost reverent touch, and as he does so his arm brushes against a flowering bush which grows behind him. The air is filled with a sweet, heady scent. In the beams of summer sunlight it is possible to make out a cloud of yellowish pollen drifting through space where Isaiah's clumsiness has dislodged.

Isaiah's hand flies instantly to his nose, and then to his eyes. He stands abruptly and his expression is at once surprised and desperately ticklish. The mild, disconcerting running of his nose which had troubled him only a little upon entering temperate house is overtaken by a high, needling itch as though something tangible is caught deep in the back of his nose. With slowly dawning dread he pinches his flaring nostrils closed, for though it does nothing to ease him it may at least buy him a little time- he is seized by the certainty that when he begins sneezing he will be quite unable to stop.

Against his will, Isaiah's breath comes in low, hitching gasps. “hh- hheh--”

He attracts his companion's attention with a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“L-Lord -heh- Elder-” He manages.

“Goodness,” Lord Elder sputters, his cheeks flushed. “Quickly…out of this glasshouse. You need cleaner air.”

He takes Cartwright with a hand firmly around his shoulders, guiding the trembling architect to the nearest door and out of the temperate glasshouse. It’s a different door than the one in which they entered and it leads to a screened-in hallway that is connected to another glasshouse. This one is new, having just been completed the previous season, and it houses native species, allowing the Kew horticulturalists to grow British plants year round.

“Here,” he said, pushing the door opening with his hip as his other hand searched his coat pocket for another handkerchief. “At least these are familiar to you and perhaps won’t irritate your nose.”

He desperately hopes that whatever grew in his own lands isn’t cultivated in this garden. There’s a low stone barrier alongside several shrubs and Elder presses Cartwright down with a supportive hand so he’s sitting on the wall.

“Here,” he says, guiding his linen hankie into Cartwright’s grasp. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I think we’re alone here anyhow. It’s a medical affliction, that is all, so don’t keep up airs for me.”

Isaiah gives an odd little shrug, perhaps suggesting that he could not keep up airs if he wished to. He turns his face away from Elder as he draws a series of hovering, panting breaths and then-

“hheh—idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!-- h'iddtsh!-'idtsshuh!--h'idtsshuuh!”

The sound is soft and only slightly percussive, each release followed by a momentary sigh of relief and then another hiccuping gasp for air. He manages a very wet, gurgling blow and a tear-dampened look up at Elder before he is overtaken again.

“--'idtsh-ittsh-idtsh--idttssh!-idttsshuh! ihk'gtsssh!”

Isaiah sits with his elbows resting on his knees and the handkerchief cupped in his steepled hands, shielding his nose and mouth. The motion of his head into his hands is sharp but delicate, such that a distant observer might almost think the man was crying, though Elder is close enough to see that the man's shoulders shake with far more violence than that- the muscles and sinew in his slender neck clench with each sneeze. They come in runs of six, between which he is only able to wipe his nose and wait for the next fit, keeping his face averted. After a while one of his hands goes to his diaphragm, pressing to ease the burden on his seizing muscles.

With time his sneezes change from quick, irritated bursts to become heavier and more forceful, at least allowing him to draw a few breaths between them. Now he must wait between each one, his breath scissoring as the tickle waxes and wanes, never quite leaving him.

“hh.. heh... ii'HGktSSchuh!-GSSHuuh! ...ugh” He breathes a tired, congested sigh as the sneezing finally begins to relieve him, and fumbles in his pocket for a clean handkerchief with which he begins to mop his face. He wipes gingerly under his eyes, but finds himself unable to ease them- his eyelids are so thickly swollen that he can scarcely see, yet they still itch like the devil.

“Forgive my- hh-GTSSChuh!-- my Lord. I'm afraid my eyes are...” Isaiah pauses, thinking he might begin sneezing again, but no matter. The sorry state of him is quite clearly evident.

At first, all Lord Elder can do is watch in astonishment. The familiar flush of his own arousal grows in a hot burning of his neck and cheeks as the gardener at his side succumbs to the violent fits. The bursts are so rapid and physical that Elder can barely distinguish where one sneeze ends and the next begins. The poor man’s face quickly becomes red, wet, and swollen with the mix of congestion, sweat, and allergic tears.

The severity of the attack eventually rouses Elder from his state of shock and he wracks his brain for a memory of some of the suggested cures for rose colds. It is clear that the native species greenhouse isn’t helping matters; in fact, he’s sure he’s made things worse. Suddenly everywhere he looks, he sees the criminal evidence; yellow dust covering leaves and clinging to the edges of the glass window panes.

He cannot think of anything to ease any significant suffering on Cartwright’s part, but he does have another spare handkerchief and he leaves Cartwright’s side for a moment, finding water flowing from a valve nearby. He soaks the cloth and quickly returns to his friend’s side, sitting alongside the allergy-ridden man and guiding the cloth to Isaiah’s face.

He cannot do much for the man’s nose here in the glasshouse. He knows he’ll require an eyedropper and some tinctures he has back at Woodhaven. Instead, he focuses on making the man as comfortable as possible until he can get him safely home.

“Please,” he says softly, a hand pressed to Cartwright’s seizing back. “I’m going to wipe off your eyes and then I’ll help you walk back to the auto. We’ll get you home straight away, okay?”

Carefully, he sponges Isaiah’s swollen eyelids, clearing away sticky residue as the man’s head bobs in rhythm with ticklish sneezes.

“Stand and I’ll guide you back,” he says, curling a hand around Cartwright’s torso.

The feel of the man thrusting and shaking at his side sends a shiver through Elder as the hot arousal returns in full force. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the feverish feeling in his limbs.

“C’mon then. We’ll walk quickly.”

Isaiah gulps and sniffs wetly but closes his eyes and allows Elder to tend to his irritated lids without a whimper beyond a hoarse “Thank you” when the soothing cloth touches him. The man is so very gentle- that would take Isaiah by surprise if he had any energy with which to register it. The arm about him is also a surprise and he stands obediently.

The walk back across the lawns is excruciating but thankfully brief. With Elder's arm about him he is able to steer a straight line despite only being able to see a tiny sliver of the path ahead of him: his eyes sting as though he has been cutting onions and it only worsens when he opens them more than a crack. He is aware that he is making a spectacle of himself as he is forced to halt several times to double at the waist with further fits of sneezes, and besides which his suit is crumpled and his hair disheveled and damp with sweat. Frankly he feels too uncomfortable to care.

Otherwise he reaches the motor without incident and leans an arm on the bonnet for support. From there Cartwright makes an attempt at chivalry. “We don't have to leave, my – ih-gtssh!- my Lord. If you have more to do, I'm happy to wait here and- iih- 'gtssh! 'gtsshuh!... oh hell.” He finishes with a heartfelt curse and a thoroughly congested sniffle.

“Now you’re being completely daft,” Elder says, helping Cartwright into the vehicle and climbing onto the seat beside him. The poor gardener sounds exhausted and the sneezes are quickly becoming breathier and less violent, though certainly as frequent.

With a nod to the driver, Elder signals for the car to start up and the engine sputters loudly as they begin the drive back to Woodhaven.

The dampened handkerchief is still in Elder’s possession as the car turns onto the main road. He thinks back to his research on the hay fever condition and what he might be able to do to ease Cartwright’s suffering.

“I can imagine you’re exhausted,” he says softly to the man. “My readings tell me that these sorts of attacks can be helped by rest, especially when they come on with this severity. You’ll have a chance to do that back at Woodhaven, but if you’d like to lie down across the seat, you could put this cold cloth over your eyes. It would likely reduce the swelling and allow you to recover some of your energy.”

He removes his jacket and folds it into a small bundle on his lap, forming a makeshift pillow with which to prop up Isaiah’s head. Placing the jacket across his thighs, he pats it, suggesting that Cartwright make himself comfortable.

“I’ll tell you again, there is little need to maintain airs. You are unwell and I wish for you to recover, not to keep up manners for my sake.”

Cartwright hesitates. He wants to believe the man's assertions but years of polite society and restraining himself in the company of his betters has made him nervous. Still, the congestion and brewing headache are powerful enough that he simply settles himself with a quiet groan, and as he lays his head down into Elder's lap he realises that there is nothing he needs more that this. Beyond the chance to rest, Elder's presence is supremely soothing to him; the supportive, non-judgemental touch is as healing as the cool fabric across his eyes. The jolting of the motor muffled by Elder's body cradling his own is intensely relaxing and he falls into a light sleep.

For the rest of the journey home, Mr. Cartwright scarcely stirs. Just once his features shift from slack to ticklish and he turns his head towards Elder's stomach to give vent to a soft, ticklish “'iptssh!” He seems only vaguely aware of it, enough to rub at his itchy nose with the heel of his hand, but it does not wake him and he simply settles deeper into sleep.

The weight and warmth of Isaiah’s head on his lap sends an imperceptible shiver through Jacob and he’s grateful for his bundled-up jacket separating them, even more so when Cartwright sneezes directly towards him, his head bouncing slightly against Elder’s thighs.

He observes the gardener, who looks even younger and gentler in sleep. The poor man’s nose is scarlet now, turned red from its earlier more permanent pink hue. He’s breathing through his mouth, shutting it every so often when he sniffles in his sleep. With a gentle touch, Elder adjusts the cloth over the man’s swollen eyes and smoothes back his thick brown hair, exposing ivory skin where fringe usually shaded from sun.

The grounds of Woodhaven rise into sight as the auto sputters down the last stretch of road. Bishop meets the car at the front drive, his expression one of slight surprise upon seeing the sleeping man on his lordship’s lap. Of course, he’s aware of the close male friends Lord Elder has kept over the years, but he didn’t expect the gardener to be one of them.

“Did he faint, your lordship?” Bishop asks in a hushed voice. “It’s certainly warm enough out in the sun.”

“No, but he’s taken sick with hay fever,” Elder explains. “I’ll need his room prepared, straight away. Make sure all the curtains are drawn, the bed turned down, and you have Miss Smith bring up a basin of water, some clean cloths, and a pitcher of drinking water with glasses. Do stay nearby once I’ve got him settled; there are a few things I’ll need you to fetch from my study.”

Bishop bows and departs to ready the rooms while Jacob turns his attentions to Isaiah.

“Mr. Cartwright?” he says tentatively, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Wake up; we’re back. I’ve just sent Bishop to turn down the bed for you.”

A light summer breeze is blowing, fragrant with the fresh grasses of Woodhaven’s vast yard. Elder is eager to get Cartwright safe and settled inside, away from the irritants both in the air and coating the shiny black automobile.

The sleeping man stirs under Elder's touch, opening his eyes a crack. He rises stiffly and climbs out of the car, blinking in the bright light. The sudden exposure to sunlight coaxes the localised itchiness throughout his nose into a sudden focused need and he sneezes a sudden, damp “-iptssh! -ptssh! Ih'ptssh! followed by an unconscious groan- the force makes his head pound. He had not meant to sleep for so long, and feels more than a little disorientated as he obediently follows Elder into the house.

The walk to Cartwright’s chambers isn’t terribly long, but it suddenly feels very far to Jacob. The gardener seems a little unsteady on his feet, so he plants a firm hand on the man’s shoulder as they walk down the long hallway.

Isaiah’s chambers are dark and his bed is turned down when they arrive. Steering the exhausted man to the bed, Jacob presses him down to sit and tips his head up, assessing the man’s still-swollen eyes.

Isaiah gives himself over to Lord Elder's grip, tilting his head obediently.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Elder says after a moment, releasing his grip on the man. “I recommend you remove your suit and put something else on; the thing that affects you could cling to your clothing and make your condition worse. I am going to fetch some things from my study and I will return, if you will accept my assistance?”

“Please do not worry yourself over me.” Isaiah says, observing his host's agitation. “Though of course I will accept your assistance. Anything that will stop this blasted sneezing would be appreciated. The action may have eased for now, but I can assure you the desire is still quite present in- in-”

As though the need was summoned by his words he wrenches forward over his lap in another fit of sneezes. They are no longer the soft, muffled releases of earlier in the attack but seem to take a lot out of him, tearing an irritated groan from him as he doubles over. “-GSSHuuh! --ii'KSShhuh! -h'iGGSHuuh! ...ugh.”

He looks up from the handkerchief with newly damp eyes as he says thoughtfully. “It seems I am in your Lordship's hands... if you will have me.”

“ I think I might have something that will bring down the severity of the irritation in your nasal passages, at least according to my research.”

Elder's voice is quick and anxious, and he pushes up his spectacles in a nervous reflex. The flush he feels all over he knows must be registering in his cheeks. Suddenly, he feels very like a school girl stammering and blushing. He rushes out towards his study with the air of a flittering bird.

When Lord Elder has absented the room, Cartwright hesitates and then dresses himself in his pyjamas. They are the blue-and-white striped kind, very much of the fashion and just smart enough for him to feel decent. He just cannot muster the energy to dress in more formal-wear, but given Elder's apparent penchant for dressing-gowns he doubts the man will mind.

Elder returns to the bedroom carrying a tray with small bottles and several instruments balanced on it. He’s managed to improvise with some of the required tools, collecting similar items from his varied scientific materials. Setting the tray on the bedside table, he draws back the blankets and has Cartwright sit in bed, propped up against the headboard.

The poor gardener looks dreadful with his watering eyes and dripping nose. Elder offers him a sympathetic smile as he goes about preparing the nasal solution, dispensing a small bit of quinine into a bowl and dipping in a fine camel brush.

“We’ll try quinine first, as it’s a relatively common cure-all. If it fails, I have a sodium bicarbonate rinse for your sinuses that involves slightly more discomfort, so we’ll wait to try that until we know if the quinine isn’t suitable.”

“But first,” he adds. “To help your eyes.”

He dunks a clean towel into a bowl of cold water sent up from the kitchens and wrings the cloth out until it’s just damp. Carefully, he wipes a bit of crust from around the man’s red eyes before he presses the washcloth to Isaiah’s eyelids, holding it there with a steady, calming hand.

“Let it lie there and try to relax,” he says, releasing the pressure on the cloth. “Tilt your head back and I’m going to apply the solution. I’ll work quickly. My readings say that it shouldn’t cause any irritation, but do let me know if something contrary happens.”

He cups Cartwright’s soft chin, feeling the slight stubble beneath his fingertips, and tilts the handsome face back, slipping the brush up a reddened nostril. With deliberate strokes, he paints on the tincture.

The moment the brush enters his nose, the young man starts in surprise. His nostrils twitch and immediately redden further but he sets his face stoically and allows Elder to continue. Then the brush touches the inside rim of one nostril, and he gives a tiny, irritated groan.

Isaiah tries to keep his breath steady. If nothing else the act of concentrating upon it might distract him from the intense tickle. He counts in his head as his chest rises and falls. It is no good, of course. Each breath inwards coaxes the irritated sensation higher into his sinuses, and entirely against his will he draws a ragged gasp.

“My Lord-” He manages. The act of speaking tilts Elder's hand slightly, only plunging the brush deeper into his nose. The reaction is immediate.

“hih'KKSSHT!”

It is a sudden, reflexive sneeze, out before he has time to draw a full breath. It's force bends him away from Elder and he moves gratefully with the motion, slipping down on the bed and averting his face into the pillow for a moment as he gets his breath. His nose, however will not let him rest for long. In response to the extra irritation it is dripping freely and he is quickly forced to rise, one hand cupped over his nose to provide a modicum of propriety.

“My Lord, please...” he looks up at Elder with appealing eyes, “go easy on me. And in the mean time may I -snf- -snf- may I have a handkerchief again?”

His mouth twists in amused apology. At least he is able to retain a sense of humour about his situation. “This remedy is all very well, if one can get the quinine to stay -snf- where it is intended. I'm afraid most of it is now on your pillow.”

A smile flits across Elder’s lips at the gardener’s plight and he gives a sympathetic nod.

“Apologies,” he says, gathering a fresh handkerchief from the stack provided by his maid. “I will try to be gentle. And don’t worry a bit about the pillow case. I employ the best laundress in the village.”

He unfolds the handkerchief with deft hands and reaches forward to cup it around Cartwright’s inflamed nose, drawing it down over his nostrils with a slight pinch, clearing a stream of congestion. He folds the cloth to a clean edge and cups it there again, his free hand pushing some of Cartwright’s fringe away from the man’s reddened eyes.

“Blow,” he instructs.

Cartwright's eyes widen but he does as he is asked and blows thickly, his eyes narrowed with effort.

The feeling of the delicate nostrils through the cloth is incredibly intimate, Elder finds himself thinking. The very action in itself is intimate and it’s too late to remove his hand. He feels a blush spread across his cheeks instead.

“Forgive me,” he says, pinching Cartwright’s nose gently to help clear it. “I just want to ease your suffering.”

“It's been a very long time since someone's done that for me... it's less painful when you do it. Perhaps you should have been a physician. Still, do you mind if I rest for moment? I don't think my nose is ready for another dose just yet.”

In the moments that follow, as Elder draws the handkerchief away from his face, Isaiah simply allows himself to relax and slip down on the bed so that he is lying flat with his knees bent. His pyjamas have slipped open at the neck to reveal a sliver of pale collarbone, and his hair falls back off his face in a halo of chestnut curls. His eyes mark the flush in Elder's cheek, and the back of his fingers find the man's face in a tender yet teasing gesture.

“Ah, you're warm. So there's more to you than science and booklearning, after all. Don't be embarrassed, my Lord. You're not the one who's been making a shameful display of himself, and I'm -snf- quite over my pride so you may as well be, too.”

The fingers on his cheek make Elder flush all the more and he twines his fingers through Cartwright’s, holding them near his face for a moment before releasing them away from his cheek.

“Rest as long as you like,” he says simply, depositing the used handkerchief on the floor by the bed for the maid to collect later. “I’d’ve liked the idea of being a physician, but it was not my father’s opinion that a man of my standing hold a practical job. My studies were in Latin and French and all sorts of classics and mathematics. Training to be a physician was never an option, I’m afraid. I think it’s why I’m so fond of science now; I never did get the chance to pursue that passion as a boy.”

The flush in his cheeks is fading. He feels at ease with the young architect, as if he’s known him much longer than a few short weeks. The attraction he feels his strong, yes, but he is also keenly aware of a kinship growing between them aside from his own desire for the man.

Isaiah’s upper lip is slick with congestion and Elder gathers a fresh handkerchief, reaching out to dab it away.

“You’re dripping a bit,” he says as the soft cloth cleans up the rheumy edges of Cartwright’s sensitive nose. “Perhaps you should just rest for now and we can resume treatments later, when you are not so fatigued. A cool cloth should bring down the rest of the swelling in your eyes, and I can check in on you later.”

Isaiah Cartwright listens carefully to Elder's story, nodding his head thoughtfully without anything to add. He sniffles softly under the man's touch.

“I- I didn't mean that you were to leave. I'd quite appreciate the company, if I'm not too- knxt!-knxt!-hi'knxt!-” He seizes with a quick fit of soft, itchy sneezes. Rather than bend into the handkerchief Elder is holding he turns his head and represses them to tight painful swallows then winces, clearly regretting it.

“-excuse me- if I'm not too unbearable.” He finishes, and gives Elder a tentative smile. “Would you stay? It's miserable to be ailing and alone.”

Taken aback by the request, Elder stammers nervously for a moment before he can reply coherently.

“Why, yes, I mean, yes of course,” he says. “You’re not unbearable at all. In fact, I’ve very much enjoyed your company these past few weeks and have been meaning to tell you such.”

He wrings out a clean washtowel in the basin of water and drapes it over Cartwright’s eyes, smoothing back his fringe. His hand lingers a moment in the soft chestnut hair, gathering it in his fingertips and brushing it away from Isaiah’s face.

“There,” he says soothingly. “Now rest, and I’ll gladly stay. And no more holding in your sneezes. There's plenty of handkerchiefs here and it isn't healthy to do that. You've got to get the irritants out.”

There isn’t a chair in the bedroom, only in the adjoining sitting room, so rather than drag one in, Elder sits on the far side of the bed, opposite the resting gardener. He kicks off his shoes and tucks his legs up, leaning back against the headboard.

“Yes, your Lordship.” Cartwright says meekly, but with obvious pleasure that Elder responded well to his request.

With his eyes covered, when he feels Elder join him on the bed he makes a little startled sound, which he tries to pass of as a cough. He finds his handkerchief and brings it to his nose for a long, wet blow he hopes will clear his voice somewhat before he speaks, resuming their conversation from earlier.

“You seem free enough to pursue your passions now... your father- he passed away?"

“Yes, several years ago,” Elder says. “Not long after my wife, actually. I’m still not entirely used to the idea that it’s just me here. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the solitude, though.”

It’s dark and quiet in the room, save for Cartwright’s congested breathing, and Elder feels more at ease sharing these sorts of things. It’s a bit like the confessional at church, though Elder rarely goes there any more. He’s afraid he’s gained a reputation in the village as an eccentric and a sinner, and he’s not keen to fuel that fire by appearing at church. He worships God in his own way, by appreciating the natural beauty and intricacy of all the sciences of the world.

“I don’t think I could be a physician even if I was still totally keen on it,” Elder confesses. “I have the sole responsibility of maintaining this estate; a job I was given by birth and the status of only male heir. I could not leave to join a university for study, and I’m too old now anyhow. I’m content here with my books and articles.”

He leaves the sentiment of his loneliness unspoken.

A soft knock sounds at the door and Elder looks up, startled by the interruption. Swinging his feet out of bed, he goes to answer it, opening the door only a crack as to not disturb Isaiah.

Bishop is standing outside, looking impatient.

“You’ve had a telephone call from Lord Andrew Sussex. He’s inquiring about paying a visit this next weekend to stay.”

The sole telephone is in the front foyer of the house and rarely used. Few other estates have one, but occasionally he receives calls from friends and infrequent lovers.

“Tell him I’m not available,” Elder replies quietly, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the prone form of Cartwright. “In fact, I’m not receiving visitors until further notice, and please inform any gentleman who calls of this fact.”

He pushes his spectacles up with his usual nervous tic and nods to Bishop.

“I’ll pass along the message, sir,” Bishop says drolly. He’s well aware of Elder’s occasional consorts with the various Lords and Gentlemen who come to call at Woodhaven.

“Thank you,” he replies, shutting the door softly as Bishop retreats.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Isaiah, climbing back onto the far side of the bed. “He really shouldn’t be interrupting your rest. I’ll speak to him later.”

Isaiah tilts his head thoughtfully. He thinks he may be putting together more of the pieces which represent his lordship's intimate life, but refrains from commenting on that for now. Much as he tries to lie still and quiet there is an enduring sense of irritation lingering in his nose. He cannot help but feel that he is due another fit of sneezing, but cannot be sure precisely when. He pinches hesitantly at his nose, then shakes his head and responds to Elder's words.

“I shouldn't be monopolising your time.” He says, then “It is quite the burden to be the eldest son. Thankfully I have an older brother who is serving the family well as an accountant, leaving me free to pursue a- hah-”

The last word comes out in a cracked and hurried gasp as the itching in his nose becomes a sudden, insistent need. Isaiah feels his features go slack as he draws a series of mounting breaths and he raises his hands nervously to his face. Then just as rapidly the sensation retreats and he gives at irritated little sigh.

“-snf- I'm sorry, what was I saying?” He sits up slightly, taking a moment to readjust the cloth where his almost- sneeze has dislodged it. He looks at Elder from beneath it, shyly.

“It must be a -snf-rather a soliatry existence for you here my Lord, though very conducive to study.”

“Yes, and I like it that way, I suppose,” Jacob replies once he’s certain Isaiah has recovered from the almost-sneeze. “Though I entertain occasional visitors when the time presents itself to do so.”

He’s settled on the bed again, watching the dim figure at his side with a slightly wistful look.

“But I must confess, I do enjoy having someone else in the house besides the usual help,” he adds. “I hope you’ve found Woodhaven to be suitable and enjoyable, despite this little hiccup with your health. You are not monopolizing my time at all. In fact, I count you amoung friends now and I hope you do the same for me.”

With a small smile, he puts a tentative hand over Isaiah’s where it rests on the bed and gives it a slight squeeze before releasing it.

“Enough of my affairs,” he says, taking off his glasses and polishing them on a shirttail in feigned distraction. “Your brother is an accountant? Have you other siblings, or parents still around? They should be quite proud of your accomplishments, I imagine.”

Though Isaiah's face is obscured, it is possible to see his face flicker in surprised pleasure at Elder's touch, though at the comment about his family he gives a soft little half-laugh. “Something like that.” He plucks at the cloth over his eyes. “Can I take this thing off? I- want to look at you.”

In fact he does not wait for permission, but peels it off gingerly and looks at Elder with eyes that are puffy but much better than they had been. He rises to a half-sitting position, looking up at his host.

“I lost my father some years ago, but I also have three sisters, two of whom live with my mother in Tunbridge Wells. My career is neither here nor there. My mother thinks it a little impractical, what with it being so modern.” He smiles shyly and shrugs. “I'm afraid I'm very much the baby of the family- if I became the prime minister they would still think it was a charming little hobby. I- hah'KSSSH!”

Isaiah barely has time to press his wrist over his mouth before he doubles with a wrenching sneeze. He looks up, startled, to find that he has unconsciously steadied himself with one hand braced on the nearest available surface- Lord Elder's thigh. Though he sniffles and pinches nervously at his nose, he does not remove it but gives Elder another sheepish smile.

Elder is startled by Cartwright’s desire to look upon him, but he is happy to see the man’s bright eyes one more and fights off a blush. As Isaiah’s hand grasps his thigh, he feels the strength of the sneezes wracking the man’s body and he cannot help but to shiver in a kind of strange pleasure. A twist in his stomach wrenches his insides with a feeling somewhere between pity for the man’s ailment and a desire for further displays of the man’s spectacular sneezing.

“By the way, I appreciate what you said- that you count me a friend. I take it as a -snf- great compliment,” Cartwright adds.

The next moment, two more sneezes overtake him and he dips his head into his shoulder rather than break contact. “KSShuh! Hah'KSSH-uh! … excuse me.”

“Bless you,” Elder barely manages to get out. His neck and ears are glowing hot and he feels the palms of his hands begin to dampen with sweat as his heartbeat doubles.

“I can hardly imagine they count your career as trivial,” he adds, trying to give off a sense of composure despite the thundering in his chest. The handsome young man is so near him now and so….well, vulnerable. He once more feels the part of a giggling school girl.

“Your condition doesn’t seem to be improving,” he says after a moment; his hand hovering close to Isaiah’s where it still rests on his thigh. The fingers settle first, then the palm, enveloping the strong hand beneath his more delicate scholar’s one. “We can try another treatment, if you’re feeling up for it, or I can leave and let you rest. I can’t promise a different method will bring you relief, but if you wish to try, there’s no harm in trials.”

Isaiah shifts his fingers slightly under the touch, and rasps his his thumb thoughtfully against the edge of the other man's knuckle, exploring the contours.

“You may try anything you wish, My Lord. I am... in your hands,” He says again, with a wry smile.

A flush is creeping over Isaiah's face too and he keeps his eyes averted, concentrating his gaze on their interlocking fingers- pale on tan- and trying to pretend that he does not desperately need to blow his nose again.

The very words send goosebumps up Jacob’s arms. For a moment, he’s afraid to move because his body has betrayed him and he’s sure that the other man will take notice. But there is a familiar look in Isaiah’s eyes and they are so very close…

Elder reaches over the younger man for a fresh handkerchief and carefully curls it around the gardener’s nose, careful not to touch the irritated edges too harshly.

“Blow,” he instructs, untangling his other hand from Cartwright’s in order to smooth back the man’s dampened hair. “You’ll feel better.”

He’s shifted so that they’re laying face to face, their legs inches apart.

Isaiah's mouth twists slightly but he obeys and blows his nose, features scrunching with effort. It takes him several long minutes to get his nose clear, and even then the congestion in his head is apparent as he touches briefly at his temple with fleeting dizziness. Elder's touch is supremely soothing and he moves toward it, close enough to feel the other man's breath tickle his cheek.

His eyes close, and Elder is close enough to see the delicate tracery of pink veins running through them, where they are still vividly pink. A long moment passes, filled only with the sounds of their quick breathing.

Then Isaiah kisses him.

It is only a chaste, tentative touch of lips to lips, and it lasts only for a lingering moment before Isaiah's realises what it is he is doing and pulls back. For a moment he opens his eyes, and his pupils are small with shock, then he quickly closes them as though to pretend that he is not there. Though he lies still enough, his pulse is violent enough to be visible as a point of flickering tension at the base of his throat.

For a brief second, Elder’s heart stops in surprise before regaining its quickened pace. The gentle touch of lips is so very intimate, so very sweet, that he barely can think.

As Cartwright lies prone, eyes closed, Elder observes the straining of the man’s neck and the blush creeping up the tanned neck of the young gardener.

Scholar’s hands curl around the gardener’s neck, tilting his head back as Elder leans in, kissing Isaiah deeply. Their noses brush briefly in the act and Elder can feel the slight dampness of the other man’s nostrils. He pulls away, running his hands down the gardener’s broad chest, where he lets them rest for a moment.

“I…I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says, flustered. His spectacles have slipped from his face and are lost in the sheets now. “I only meant to care for you in your infirmity…but if you feel…if it is okay….I…”

He’s unable to choose the right words to express the sentiment, but he hopes the pounding of Cartwright’s heart under his hands means that the other man understands.

Apparently, it does, because Cartwright nods and his hands joins Elder's on his chest, encouraging.

His cheeks are flush and his eyes bright. He looks stunned- as though something inconceivable has happened- but happily stunned.

“It's okay.” He says, and then he leans forward to meet the other man.

They kiss again. Cartwright arches his back in Elder's arms, his body going as soft and pliable as toffee and as sweet, as he opens his mouth to the other man's more confident explorations. This time his eyes are open and fixed on Elder's own with a kind of drunken wonder. He rolls slightly to one side, snaking a hand around the small of Elder's back and pulling him closer.

Then he pauses, and draws his face away with an expression of dismay. Perhaps some pollen is caught on Elder's clothing or perhaps it is merely lingering irritation, but that expression of ticklish desperation creeps over his face as his nostrils flicker and flare with the need to sneeze. His mouth turns up at one corner and his eyebrows tilt inexorably upwards in an expression of quiet dread.

“I- hh- I just- hh-”

He tries to warn the other man but it comes out as an inarticulate gasp and the next moment his body shudders as he wrenches his head down into the mattress, as far from Elder's face as he can muster, sneezing hard;

“hh- tdSSshuh!-- T'SSCHuh!-- hih-”

He hovers for a brief moment, diaphragm kicking so hard with desperate breaths that Elder can feel it, before it overtakes him again with a spraying- “hk'IISSHuuh!”

Isaiah looks up guiltily, belatedly raising a hand to his damp nose.

“I am so sorry...” He says in a low voice.

The thrust of Cartwright’s body against Elder’s as the sneezes tear out with such incredible force makes Elder tense in surprise and pleasure. The throaty growl of Isaiah’s irritated sneeze makes his toes curl in delight and he darts his head forward, kissing the vulnerable skin of Isaiah’s neck.

“No need,” he murmurs between caresses. His fingers curl under the cuff of his shirtsleeve and he reaches up, tenderly clearly the gardener’s runny nose. What he cannot express in the gesture is how Cartwright’s sneezes affect him. Perhaps it is because the spells brought them together, or perhaps, as he theorized before, that the spasms remind him of a more sexual form of release. Whatever it is, he is enchanted by the man and his reddened, rose-cold afflicted nose.

His lips find Cartwright’s once more and he kisses him deeply again before pulling back, holding the man close to his chest and tucking Cartwright’s head against his breast.

“We can’t exert you,” he says, stroking the man’s thick hair. “My pamphlets say the best remedy is quiet rest until the episode passes, and judging from that recent display, it has not.”

“I-”

Isaiah thinks to protest that he is not at all against this form of exertion, but he is taken by another fit of sneezing. Now at last he truly believes that Elder is not troubled by his affliction, and so does not trouble to wrench away from the embrace; he merely turns his head and muffles them against Elder's sturdy frame. The sound is almost nothing, though the muscles in his back clench and his head bobs under the comforting weight of his Lordship's hand.

In the aftermath his whole body relaxes and he finds his eyelids drifing closed. It is a strange sensation- he feel spectacularly tired, weight with more exhaustion than he mere sneezing out to provoke, yet at the same time it is as though Elder's presence has woken him up and every cell of him is hyper-aware of the other man's body, of the scent of him and bass thud of his heart under Isaiah's ear. He hovers between the two states, deciding not to say a word lest he provoke the other man to retreat from the embrace.

Elder’s hand pauses, tangled in Cartwright’s thick hair, as the man sneezes and sneezes. Jacob is grateful for the dim room and the man’s distraction, as he is sure his face is glowing with flushed delight. When the poor man finally goes limp against him, he resumes stroking the man’s head, torn between his desire to care for the man by letting him rest and his desire to explore full landscape of the young gardener’s body.

There will be time for that later. He gently extracts a hand from around the prone man and wedges a pillow by Isaiah’s head, making it easier for the congested man to breathe.

“Rest,” he assures the man. “It’s near evening and you’ve had a long day. In the morning, all will be brighter, I’m sure of it.”

His lips brush the top of Isaiah’s head gently.

“I’ll tarry a little longer, if you like, but I must see to Bishop and the rest of the staff before evening falls so they know the schedule for tomorrow’s activities. The rose-cold should lessen at nighttime any how. I do hope you can have a bit of relief.

The other man simply nods, nuzzling his itchy nose into the pillow like a child. He sniffs wetly. “You can go.” He murmurs. Though it's the last thing he truly wants, he is suddenly, coldly aware of Elder's status over him, his own very small place in the clockwork running of this house. When Elder leaves him the kiss on his forehead seems to burn, as though he were truly fevered and not merely sniffling.

Isaiah fears that in this state- agitated by both his nose and the fluttering feeling of arousal which flits through his limbs whenever he remembers what has recently transpired- that he will hardly be able to sleep. Yet sleep claims him suddenly, as though it is a rug which has been pulled out from under him, and he knows nothing more until the fingers of morning sunlight are creeping through the heavy drapes.

CONTINUE TO PART 2

[daddyslittlejuliet]

The Best Dog Food for Itchy Skin

The post The Best Dog Food for Itchy Skin by Elizabeth Anderson Lopez appeared first on Dogster. Copying over entire articles infringes on copyright laws. You may not be aware of it, but all of these articles were assigned, contracted and paid for, so they aren’t considered public domain. However, we appreciate that you like the article and would love it if you continued sharing just the first paragraph of an article, then linking out to the rest of the piece on Dogster.com.

You’re watching TV and hear it again — scratch, scratch, chew, chew. Yes, that sound can be annoying, but that’s nothing compared to how your dog feels trying to get relief from itchy skin or related ailments. So, how do you relieve itchy skin on dogs? One of the best ways to do it is through diet. Let’s look at the best dog food for itchy skin.

First, why do dogs get itchy skin?

Why do dogs get itchy skin in the first place? Photography ©Christian Buch | Getty Images.

Before we break down the best dog food for itchy skin, let’s look at why dogs get itchy. Just like when people get an itch, there are multiple possible reasons for dogs — a major one being allergies. But how to tell? Signs of allergies include itching, rash and hair loss, according to Doug Knueven, DVM, a holistic vet with Beaver Animal Clinic in Beaver, Pennsylvania.

Jean Dodds, DVM, founder of Hemopet, based in Garden Grove, California, says crusty sores with intermittent healing and acute breakouts can be signs of chronic skin infections.

“The most common cause of itchiness and skin self-trauma are allergic reactions to flea bites, environmental allergens and food allergy,” adds Sean J. Delaney, DVM, MS, DACVN (board certified Veterinary Nutritionist of the American College of Veterinary Nutrition), who operates Davis Veterinary Medical Consulting in Davis, California. “Collectively, these allergens work together to cause pruritus, the fancy word used for itchiness, in allergic dogs. Often eliminating or controlling even one of these allergens can lead to a reduction or elimination of signs.”

Dr. Dodds also cites Malassezia yeast infections, dry flaky skin and dandruff as causes of chronic itching, as well as chewing and licking feet.

Whether your dog has all-over itching or hot spots, which Dr. Knueven defines as “just an area of intensely itchy skin,” not treating the cause of your dog’s itching can make things worse, including pyoderma — another fancy word, this time for skin infections.

“Ignoring frequent or aggressive scratching can lead to inflammation and self-trauma and subsequent infection with bacteria and yeast present on the body or in the environment that normally is kept at bay by intact and healthy skin,” Dr. Delaney says.

And those problems can go beyond the physical: “Painful sores can lead to serious stress and behavioral issues with the constant skin irritation and itching,” Dr. Dodds says.

The best dog food for itchy skin

What is the best dog food for itchy skin? Photography ©ra3rn | Getty Images

While topical treatments may provide relief (or even a toy to get your dog’s mind temporarily focused elsewhere), don’t overlook the benefits that come from the inside-out approach. Namely, using food and supplements to help heal the skin while nourishing the body.

“Typically once flea bite preventive strategies are used (e.g., topical flea adulticide), one will try and see if addressing any underlying food allergies will help reduce scratching,” Dr. Delaney says. “This is done — as environmental allergens often cannot be completely avoided — and treatment is more challenging.”

But where to begin when it comes to the best dog food for itchy skin? Veterinarians describe multiple approaches. “Grain- and gluten- free foods are wise to start with, plus limiting meats and fowl to grass-fed rather than grain-fed,” according to Dr. Dodds.

“If skin issues are just a poor-quality coat or skin flakiness, a change to another commercial food slightly richer in essential nutrients that support skin health may be indicated,” Dr. Delaney says. “Key essential nutrients supporting skin health include protein, amino acids (especially an often limiting one, methionine), linoleic acid (the essential fatty acid), vitamin A, some B vitamins and trace minerals like zinc.”

When it comes to foods used to heal that itch, a discussion with your vet about your dog is likely in order because there is clearly no one answer — or cause. “It is important to realize that the protein from animal meats, poultry and fish, as well as from plants such as legumes, tubers and grains can all cause an allergic reaction,” Dr. Delaney says.

And finding what works may not be a case of one and done. “Rotate food sources every four to six weeks but not more often than every two weeks to help induce immune tolerance,” recommends Dr. Dodds.

How to switch your dog to find the best dog food for itchy skin

What is the best way to switch your dog’s diet? Photography ©mediaphotos | Getty Images.

When you change your dog’s diet in order to find the best dog food for itchy skin, avoid going cold turkey. “A switch to a raw diet, or any food change, should be done gradually,” Dr. Knueven says. “Start by adding ¼ the amount of the recommended daily amount of the new food and ¾ of the current diet. After a week, increase it to 50/50. After another week, go to ¾ new food and ¼ previous food. After a week, give just the new food.”

Dr. Delaney has another tip for transitioning to the best dog food for itchy skin. “The effects on the GI tract of a sudden diet change can be minimized by ensuring the new food truly is novel for the pet, and the fat, fiber and moisture levels are kept somewhat similar to the previous diet.”

What not to feed a dog with itchy skin

What should you avoid feeding a dog with itchy skin? Photography © GlobalP | iStock / Getty Images Plus.

Then there’s the flip side of determining what to feed a dog plagued by dermatological issues — what not to feed. Again, this can vary. Dr. Dodds recommends an Eastern medicine approach. “Avoid pro-inflammatory ‘hot’ foods in Chinese medicine like chicken and venison, plus related fats, oils and flavorings. Calming foods are turkey and white-colored fish. Avoid shellfish generally.”

Dr. Delaney recommends the above-mentioned novel approach when it comes to determining what food types to avoid. “Even if feeding an uncommonly fed allergen like venison works in many dogs, if a specific allergic dog has always been fed venison, a diet that uses a common food like chicken may be a better choice if the chicken is ‘novel’ or new to them.

“A food that has never been fed to a dog or that is novel to them is often fed in a limited-ingredient diet when food allergy is suspected or needs to be treated,” Dr. Delaney adds. “The ingredients are limited to reduce the potential number of allergens the dog is exposed to.

Finally, Dr. Knueven likes the DIY approach, preferring a balanced raw diet. “I think the benefit is especially apparent for dogs with allergies,” he says.

Should you supplement?

Will supplements help your dog’s itchy skin? Photography ©alphaspirit | Getty Images.

Along with changing the diet, you can also look into supplements that may help. “Fish oil supplementation can help decrease the inflammation of allergies, and probiotics can help rebalance the immune system,” Dr. Knueven says.

However, Dr. Delaney says, “At times, fatty acid supplements may be suggested, but it is best to select a food that already has an appropriate fatty acid profile than try to supplement a food that doesn’t.”

Dr. Dodds suggests oral supplements, as well as a topical one to help Scooby stop scratching. “Dogs must have plenty of omega-3 fatty acids plus some omega-6 fatty acids; coconut oil in moderation (as it’s high in fat) and apple cider vinegar in the food.” Topically, Dr. Dodds recommends green tea on sores and for foot soaks.

Dr. Delaney cautions that some human foods intended to help might actually hurt. “It is important to remember that any enjoyed treats should be cautiously used in case they introduce food allergens that are not novel or tolerated in a food-allergic dog.”

When to expect results

How soon after switching to a diet to combat itchy skin should you expect to see results? Photography ©ThamKC | Getty Images

Just as people want to see pounds lost on the scale the second day of a diet, when it comes to the best dog food for itchy skin, we often want immediate results after making a change in diet or adding a supplement. Veterinarians cited as little as a few days up to several months, depending on your dog’s condition.

“If there is an underlying food allergy, then response can take up to 12 weeks in some cases, with 8 weeks being more common,” Dr. Delaney says. “If the skin issue is solely related to poor skin or coat quality due to a diet that isn’t meeting a pet’s specific needs for an essential nutrient like a fatty acid, improvement may be noticed in as early as several weeks.”

Hopefully, this information serves as food for thought when it comes to giving your furry friend some relief. It might just result in the only scratching is you scratching his belly or behind his ears.

Is your dog susceptible to itchy skin?

Dogs with white or lighter coats are more susceptible to skin issues. Photography ©GlobalP | Getty Images

Veterinarians point out that any breed or dog can have allergies, but some may be more prone to skin issues. There are a couple different forms of “skin deep” traits that may boost allergy propensity.

“Dogs with white or lighter coat colors can be more susceptible because of the effects of sunlight exposure,” says W. Jean Dodds, DVM.

Sean J. Delaney, DVM, MS, DACVN, Board Certified Veterinary Nutritionist of the American College of Veterinary Nutrition, cited breeds with extra skin folds as more likely to have skin diseases or issues. “If a pet lover is considering a specific pure breed as a new family member, it is best to discuss this concern, as well as any others that may be more prevalent, with their veterinarian.”

Dr. Dodds adds that some underlying diseases can make some dogs more prone to skin issues, with the following as just some examples:

Endocrinological — Hypothyroidism and thyroiditis

Hyperactive adrenal function — Cushing’s disease

Systemic autoimmune diseases — Discoid lupus, systemic lupus, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and Sjögren (or Sjögren’s) syndrome

Fleas or food — which is the foe?

While either cause is painful, a trip to the vet is the first step in determining whether your dog’s itching and scratching is caused by fleas or food.

“Both can lead to self-trauma and infection,” says Sean J. Delaney, DVM, MS, DACVN, Board Certified Veterinary Nutritionist from the American College of Veterinary Nutrition. “The veterinarian will then treat any infection as well as address the root cause that led to the infection.”

Doug Knueven, DVM, a holistic veterinarian, starts with the “what’s most likely” approach.

“Flea allergy is the most common skin allergy,” Dr. Knueven says. “If an animal has fleas and is itching, I consider it a flea allergy until proven otherwise. The best way to rule out a food allergy is to switch the dog to a novel diet for eight weeks. If the skin clears, then he was allergic to something in the previous diet.”

Your dog can also be tested to pinpoint any allergens. W. Jean Dodds, DVM, describes the two types: “Serum-based environmental allergy screening (trees, weeds, grasses, pollens, fungi, molds, dust, fleas, etc.) and saliva-based (not serum-based) food-sensitivity testing.”

Tell us: What is the best dog food for itchy skin? What helped your dog stop itching?

Thumbnail: Photography by cmannphoto/istock.

About the author

Elizabeth Anderson Lopez is an award-winning writer based in Lake Forest, California. She and her husband have many pets, including two English Bull Terrier rescues named Dexter and Maybelene. You can contact her at fromconcepttocontent.com.

Editor’s note: This article appeared in Dogster magazine. Have you seen the new Dogster print magazine in stores? Or in the waiting room of your vet’s office? Subscribe now to get Dogster magazine delivered straight to you! 

Read more about dog food on Dogster.com:

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Dog Digestive System Basics — How Long Does it Take for a Dog to Digest Food?

The post The Best Dog Food for Itchy Skin by Elizabeth Anderson Lopez appeared first on Dogster. Copying over entire articles infringes on copyright laws. You may not be aware of it, but all of these articles were assigned, contracted and paid for, so they aren’t considered public domain. However, we appreciate that you like the article and would love it if you continued sharing just the first paragraph of an article, then linking out to the rest of the piece on Dogster.com.

[jinkisbelly]

A Simple Request 2/?

So this is the Second part of my Fae au~ Warnings: mpreg and brief conversation about the possiblity of death

Pairing: Jongyu

Rating: pg

w/c:2.1kk First part [x] Can read on AFF too [x]

Summary: The Fae King is under a lot of pressure to conceive an heir, while given a deadline by the Council he turns to his personal guard and best friend to help him with it.

The Council room was more like a large chamber. Around the walls were nooks, meant for each of the species and lands apart of the Kingdom. For those who could fly, it was an easy flutter up to their nook, but for those who did not have that ability, there were stairs that curved in the hallways just outside the domed ceiling. Jinki was walking on the main floor, glancing around at the in-session Council meeting. Jonghyun was flying in the center of the room, hands folded in the sleeves of his robe, as he twisted to listen to whoever was speaking at the time. While Jonghyun as King had immense power, the Council was put into place to allow the other people to not feel as if they weren’t represented by a Fairy as the monarch. The subject on hand was about the upcoming harvest and how the Centaurs were being requested to open up another field of their wheat. The motion was brought up by Kibum of the Elven Kingdom. He was standing in his nook, the vines that held each moving to bring him closer to the middle to be heard. To his left was Youngguk of the Centaurs. His attention was fully on Jonghyun, “I beseech you, My King, to understand the location they are proposing is sacred to my people. To use it for crops would... Hurt our people greatly.”

Jonghyun’s expression was blank, the regal one Jinki remembers seeing him practice as children. “Why have you suggested that particular plot of land, Councillor Kibum?”

“It has the best conditions for a greater yield, Your Majesty.”

“I have been to their Lilac ceremony. To the Centaur people, it’s a right of passage, a tradition brought through their history almost from the beginning. I cannot condone uprooting such a sacred practice for a small percentage more wheat yield.” Jonghyun hummed, gesturing with his right hand toward the Elven representative. “However, I agree that we do not have enough wheat to feed everyone’s needs. While the Centaur lands are where most of our wheat comes from, because of their rolling plains, there are other locations in the Kingdom in which such a crop could grow. Such as the Oat fields kept by the land tribe of the Sprites.”

Murmurs traveled through the room as Jonghyun’s attention fell on said representative, who’s nook was moving from it’s position. The small woman, Minyoung, with light green skin, leaves scattered over her features, bowed at the waist. “Your Majesty.”

“What do you say to my suggestion, Councillor Minyoung?”

“We do have a field that we’ve needed to cycle in. This harvest I can advise for the planting of wheat in that field, Your Majesty.”

“Well, then it would seem this topic is closed unless anyone has disagreements with the conclusion founded.” Jonghyun smiled softly, more out of relief this topic was almost over more than anything. Kibum bowed his head in acceptance, followed shortly by Youngguk. “Marvelous. Is there any other motion that needs to be brought into the light?”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” Jonghyun turned toward the deep voice, finding the Councillor of the Fairies stepping into the light of the sunlight pouring from the glass of the ceiling. “The Council wishes to know what actions you’ve done to address the need for an heir.”

Jinki noticed a flicker in his blank expression, barely there as he regained composure. “What do you mean, Councillor Ryeowook? How I conceive an heir is my own business. I understand the Council’s investment in such a topic. This is something that I will not digress to you all. While an heir is for the betterment of the Kingdom, the conception and the pregnancy is my own. I wish to keep that to myself as any of you are allowed to do if you so chose to reproduce. With that, I conclude this meeting. May the Moon watch over you all.”

As he lowered, his face fell, blank expression was gone as soon as the dimness of the floor below descended over him. He flashed a little smile when he saw Jinki, waiting with his thick cloak over his arm, knowing full well he was always cold after a Council meeting. “Are you okay, Jonghyun?”

“I will be.” Jonghyun’s feet gracefully landed on the grass below, wings slowly become transparent as the phased through his clothes. Jinki laid the cloak over his shoulders, and he breathed in the man’s scent without thinking about it. “Come. I wish to go into my office.”

“Of course Your Majesty.”

----

The room was small in circumference, but the ceiling was high, covered in waterfalls and lush green life. There was a glass table on the little bit of stone floor, along with a chair, but with the way Jonghyun acted when he was in emotional turmoil, Jinki was currently residing in the chair. He was leaning back in it, hands clasped on his lap, as he followed the fluttering Fairy around the room. In his hand was a letter from his sister. He usually was full of happiness hearing from Sodam, but Jinki knew the Council meeting had shaken him. He was questioning everything around him. “Your Majesty?”

Jonghyun hummed absentmindedly, as he flew slowly back and forth. “Yes?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing.” He said flippantly, waving his hand as he shook his head.

“If you were on the grass you’d have made a bare spot with that pacing,” Jinki commented with a small smile. “Tell me, why did you ask me?”

Jonghyun paused, fluttering down until his feet landed flat on the ground, “What do you mean?”

“To.. help you conceive an heir.” Jinki ran his tongue quickly over his lips, hands twisting over each other in his lap, as his eyes found Jonghyun. “You could have anyone in this Kingdom and yet you turn to me. Why?”

“Oh, it was an easy decision really.” Jonghyun walked over to lay the folded letter on the desk. “If something happens to me, you’ll protect them. I knew that even if you did not want to be in their life as their father, you’d protect them in a way... Others wouldn’t. In the end, you’d give them the love of a Father if I wasn’t there to do so.”  

“Do you really believe something would happen to you?”

“Anything is possible, my dear.” Jonghyun shook his head, pursing his lips a little. “Do you agree with my decision to keep this all a secret?”

“You may be getting pregnant now for the Council, but it’s your body, your baby. You don’t have to share what you don’t want to.” Jinki rose from the chair, smiling as he stepped around the desk to run his fingers through the soft waterfall behind him. “Besides, I’m quite sure there’s some regulation against the Keeper of Light fathering the King’s child.”

“Oh?” Jonghyun cocked his head slightly. “And if there is, you still agreed.”

“Of course I did.” He smelled a little of brimstone as he walked passed Jonghyun, toward the door. “I’m quite famished. Would you accompany me for lunch, Your Majesty?”

“Yes. Please.” The topic of possible consequences for Jinki dropped completely.

----

It was over evening tea that they spoke about what this agreement really meant. Jonghyun was holding his spoon delicately, swirling the sugar around the almost fragile teacup. “When it comes to your relationship to any child we may have, have you thought about it?”

Jinki almost choked on the tea he was drinking but quickly recovered. “Right to it I see.” He mumbled. He laid his cup on the dish provided and gazed over at Jonghyun. He was warm and soft around the edges, the pressures of the crown nowhere to be seen. “I am unsure of how it would work, how we would explain it to the child or to those who ask, but I do wish to be a part of their lives as their father. This may be my only chance at having a child Jonghyun. I’ll admit that if you only wanted me to be a guard and nothing more to them, I probably would have refused to help you.”

“You want to be that involved?”

“You sound surprised.” Jinki rolled a grape between his fingers, eyebrows raised in question.

“That’d be because I am.” Jonghyun’s nails tapped against the table as he moved his fingers softly. “I cannot quite picture you in the middle of the night changing a babe’s diaper.”

“Speaking of that,” Jinki bit his lower lip for a moment before continuing. “I wish to request that the use of servants in the care of the child be limited.”

“Limited, you say?” Intrigued, Jonghyun’s lip curved up. “Why? Wouldn’t doing so increase the burden on yourself and me?”

“It is hard to develop a deep connection to someone when surrounded by many. While I understand at times it cannot be helped, I still wish to go about this as any two people would with their child. Very few in our world have the servants at the tip of their finger when they wish. I don’t want my child to know a nursemaid's face better than my own.”

“I agree.”

Jinki let out a deep breath of relief, almost sagging in his chair. “How long do you wish to try?”

“As long as it takes.”

“And how frequently are you expecting me to,” Jinki cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed. “Perform?”

“As often as our bodies and circumstances allow.” Jonghyun gazed at him over the rim of his cup. “If that is quite alright with you, Jinki.”

“I’ll do my best to rise to your expectations of me, Jonghyun.”

The silence that fell was a comfortable one. The wards along the long windows were already up, the sun long ago set, and soon Jonghyun would retire to bed. A clink of a spoon against the rim of a glass was heard before Jonghyun spoke again. “Certain things need to be discussed pertaining to if the end of this isn’t ideal.”

“Jonghyun?”

“It’s not often that our species can reproduce between two men. We’ve evolved in a way that made it a very rare, mutation, of sorts. While I have faith that this will end with me holding a beautiful baby we’ve made, I cannot ignore the high possibility that it may end with.. My death.”

“I really do not wish to speak of this.”

“Neither do I, but we must.” Jonghyun leaned back in his chair, legs being brought up next to him. He looked almost, small, curled up like that. “As much as I love my Kingdom, if I am not here to lead them, mentor them in the ways of our world, I do not wish my child to become the ruler of this Kingdom. If I should perish in the birth of my child, I must ask you to take them away from this, raise them as your own.”

“Jonghyun... Please.”

“I meant what I said last night when I told you that you were the only person I trusted to help me with this. With everyone else, I question their motives, alternative personal endeavors to push their agenda. I know that any child of mine would be shaped to be their pawn. I cannot allow that.” Jonghyun took a deep breath, eyes almost glossy. “Please promise me you’ll protect them.”

“Of course I will, Jonghyun.” The urge to protect, to comfort, rose in Jinki’s chest looking at how vulnerable the other man was before him. “But I also promise to not allow this to take you from,” He stopped himself, knowing the next word was going to be Me, before continuing, “Raising your child.”

“Thank you.” His hand was running up and down his calf, nervously. “I would presume that after such dreadful talks you are not exactly in the mood to perform, hmm?”

“I would say so, Jonghyun.” Jinki snorted softly. He cleared his throat as he pushed the dish the cup was resting on further from the edge, finished. “Besides, I need to prepare for it.”

“Am I not attractive enough for you, Jinki?”

Jinki sputters, cheeks getting pink, almost matching the color of his hair. “That’s not it Jonghyun. Not it at all I just-”

“You’re very cute when you’re flustered.” Jonghyun interrupts, voice level and blunt. It very well probably short-circuited Jinki. “But just as well. Perhaps we could begin tomorrow night, then?”

“Yeah.” Jinki swallowed thickly before nodding, raising his voice a little from the soft, almost weak, tone of before. “Tomorrow night it is, Jonghyun.”

“Splendid.”

----