abernafhy

[abernafhy]

I mean this is pure fanfic for a mediocre book

it IS fanfic idk what u expected coming to my page if u find the book mediocre 😭

[abernafhy]

the two of them with that "pretending to be a toxic couple in ikea" post

God you're so right I can imagine Henry indulging in it I'M SOBBING he's slamming drawers open and shut in the kitchen setups...! No expression. Just pure rage testing.

Meanwhile Francis jabs and slams the tables to test their 'stability' and endurance. He even counts how many steps would it take to grab the knives on the far corner of the counter over there in the middle of their fake argument.

They test the mattress firmness by Francis launching himself onto them from a running start while yelling things like “I DESERVE COMFORT!” Henry picks up and throw pillows and critiques their density out loud like he’s reviewing fine cheeses. Just children in their playground!

[abernafhy]

So picture this: Francis decides his guest bedroom at the country house looks "uninhabitable and vaguely fascist" and insists on a complete makeover. Henry, for god knows what reason (maybe boredom, maybe he lost a bet, maybe Francis guilted him with something like "you owe me for the pig's blood incident"), agrees to come with him to IKEA.

Francis, naturally, treats IKEA like a theatrical set. He's drifting through fake living rooms like he's auditioning for Les Mis, flopping dramatically onto sofas, muttering things like "This entire color palette is a hate crime" and "If I see one more fake fern I’m committing arson."

Henry is horrifyingly competent. He’s pushing the cart in eerie silence, reading product codes with military precision. He reads the Swedish names out loud and pronounces them flawlessly. Francis is unsettled. “Why do you know how to say ‘SKOGSTA’ with such confidence?”

Henry: “It means ‘forest.’”

Francis tries to sneak six packs of novelty cocktail straws into the cart. Henry removes them silently. This happens five times. It becomes a battle of wills. Francis eventually hides them inside a box of tealights. Henry later pays for the entire cart and leaves them in the IKEA parking lot with a subtle: "Happy now?"

When it comes time to assemble the furniture, they almost fistfight over the instructions. Francis insists on winging it. Henry, who has never not followed a manual in his life, physically rips the Allen wrench from Francis’s hand at one point.

At some point, the bookshelf collapses in slow motion and pins Francis’s arm to the ground. He moans, “Tell Richard I died with taste,” while Henry just sighs and lifts it off with one hand.

They finish at 3AM. Francis is wine-drunk and lying on the new rug like it’s a fainting couch. Henry sits on the arm of the newly-assembled loveseat, flipping through a Greek dictionary. Neither speaks for twenty minutes.

The room does, in fact, look stunning.

[abernafhy]

just letting you know if no one's told you today. you're so good at spreading the winternathy agenda i read like one post of yours weeks ago and they've been on my mind since. they're so underrated but so sweet 🥹 lowkey may have to binge your posts

this is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me and it means a lot to know that my agenda is spreading like a virus!! i hope they never leave your mind!!!<3

[abernafhy]

francis when henry said he found gucci “grand”

[abernafhy]

i wrote winternathy based on my headcanons!

henry driving francis when he's sick: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64395484

francis & henry gardening on the countryside: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64398142

GIVE THEM SOME LOVEEE

[abernafhy]

Francis visits Henry’s grave every year. Alone.

No one else does — no one else wants to. Charles avoids the topic entirely. Camilla sends Francis clipped replies when he brings it up. Richard pretends he never gets the messages. But Francis marks the day like a liturgy. Like a holy feast. Like penance.

He books the same suite in a faceless hotel. Wears the same black coat. Packs the same silver lighter — an old one Henry once admired in passing. It’s all performative, of course. But what is Catholicism if not grief wrapped in ritual? He fasts before the visit. Doesn't drink the night before. He makes the trip feel like confession.

The grave is unmarked, just a patch of earth in a neglected corner of a rural cemetery, the kind no one visits on purpose. Francis had to dig to find out where Henry was buried. Had to call someone’s widow and lie. But now he knows, and he treats it like a secret shrine.

He kneels every year. Gets the dirt on his trousers, on his coat, lets the damp seep into his bones because suffering feels closer to prayer when it’s physical. And he talks.

Not to Henry. Not really. To God. To himself. To something between the two.

"You ruined everything, you know," he says once. "And so did I."

He breaks off. Lights a cigarette. Doesn’t smoke it. Leaves it burning at the grave like incense. The first year he did this, he left a bottle of scotch. Last year, he left a page torn out of a Latin prayer book. This year, he doesn’t bring anything. He just sits.

And he waits. For something. A sign. An answer. Forgiveness.

But Henry is silent. Always was. Even now, dead and buried, he’s still the one with the upper hand.

And Francis — Francis goes back to the hotel, vomits in the sink, lights another cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn’t cry. Not anymore. It’s been years. But his hands won’t stop trembling.

That night, he goes to mass. Sits in the very back. Doesn't take communion.

He knows better.

[abernafhy]

Francis spends the entire morning dramatically insisting he’s dying. He paces around the house in his robe, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like some tragic poet on his deathbed, sighing theatrically as he lists off his symptoms: fatigue, dizziness, an undeniable tightness in his chest. Henry, unimpressed, ignores him for as long as possible before finally getting tired of the performance and dragging Francis into the car.

The drive is, as expected, a disaster. Henry speeds down the winding roads like he has no regard for human life, one hand on the wheel, the other flipping through the radio stations with infuriating nonchalance. Francis clutches the door handle, knuckles white, already feeling ten times worse than before. Every sharp turn sends him lurching against the seatbelt, and by the time Henry runs a red light without blinking, Francis is gasping, convinced this is it. This is actually the end.

His chest tightens. It’s not dramatic this time. It’s real. He struggles to catch his breath, hand grasping weakly at Henry’s arm. At first, Henry doesn’t react, assuming it’s another one of Francis’s attention-seeking theatrics. Until Francis actually slumps forward, his breathing erratic, body seizing up.

For once, Henry panics. His usual cold detachment is shattered in an instant as he pulls the car over, yanking Francis upright, pressing two fingers to his pulse. He’s still breathing, but barely. Henry doesn’t hesitate; he shoves the car into gear and speeds off toward the hospital, suddenly driving with the kind of precision that would make any racing professional jealous.

Francis wakes up hours later, disoriented, hooked up to monitors, Henry seated stiffly at his bedside, staring blankly ahead. He doesn’t even look up when Francis groggily murmurs his name. But his fingers tighten slightly around the armrest, a dead giveaway.

Turns out, Francis was actually dying this time. But he would rather go through cardiac arrest again than admit that Henry might have been right about something.

[abernafhy]

and when he spits. like a loud ass HAAAAWWWWKKK CHOO

oh, you just know bunny yells so loud when he sneezes

[abernafhy]

revived btw

found tsh roleplayers on twitter from 2014 on a random night. i felt like discovering a treasure chest...

this is my favorite one so far. i still think about this tweet every day.

[abernafhy]

My favorite Charles quote ˚.🎀༘⋆

" Don't say 'fuck' anymore, " said Henry, in a quiet but ominous voice. " Fuck? What's the matter, Henry? You never heard that word before? isn't that what you do to my sister every night?"

now Charles you know damn well...

[abernafhy]

exactly my vision thank you

henry tells francis to help him tend to the garden in the country and this is how he steps out

[abernafhy]

me, nearing tears: richard...richard please...please just tell me the fucking story

richard, dreamy eyed: today henry winter's shoulders looked especially sloping as his startling blue eyes scanned his homework with the concentration of a monk, though to me he is more like the god they serve. francis' coat billowed behind him, making him look like a student prince, and i admired the way the sun hit his hair, turning the red strands the colour of honey. i love camilla's boyishness and the way her features mirror her brother's so perfectly, framed by her short hair and masculine clothes borrowed from charles. i'm so heterosexual.

drying my eyes: nevermind gayboy, who cares about the murder

[abernafhy]

The moment I clocked Winterpapen in TSH.

  'Henry?' I said at last, my voice scarcely more than a whisper.

  He let the cigarette fall from his fingers and took a step towards me. It really was him – damp, ruddy cheeks, snow on the shoulders of his overcoat. 'Good God, Richard,' he said, 'what's happened to you?’

  It was as much surprise as I ever saw him show. I stood where I was, staring, unbalanced. Things had got too bright. I reached for the door frame, and the next thing I knew I was falling, and Henry had jumped forward to catch me.

He eased me onto the floor and took off his coat and spread it over me like a blanket. I squinted up at him and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

[abernafhy]

found tsh roleplayers on twitter from 2014 on a random night. i felt like discovering a treasure chest...

this is my favorite one so far. i still think about this tweet every day.

[abernafhy]

Charles doing this little thing

[abernafhy]

personally i Am judy poovey

can’t even compare myself to any secret history characters. they’re all bad in their own way sigh