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theladyofdeath · 2 years

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The Viscount Who Loved Me {Epilogue}

TVWLM Masterlist

An A Court of Thorns and Roses fanfiction, inspired by the first 2 seasons of Bridgerton.

Written alongside @snelbz

Ships: Nesta x Cassian x Elain - Feyre x Rhysand - Elain x Azriel x Gwyn

Summary: (see TVWLM masterlist!)

A/N: The end!!!!!!!! Or is it? Thank you for reading! We hope you've enjoyed the story. We would love to know what you think! x

Feyre had never been so exhausted in her life.

She’d also never been as happy as she was and she knew those things went hand in hand as she leaned her head on Rhysand’s shoulder. Together, they gazed down at the tiny bundle in his arms, their sleeping child.

He was the spitting image of his father, with his dark hair and tanned skin. All but his gray-blue eyes. She loved it, loved the fact that every time she looked at her son, she was reminded of her husband.

“Everyone will be here soon,” Rhysand muttered with a yawn. “But I’m just so tired.” Feyre laughed quietly while her husband yawned again, looking down at his newborn son. “I can’t believe we created this little guy.”

Feyre had been pregnant when they had gotten married but she hadn’t known yet. They had told the ton that he had been born six weeks early when in reality he had been born just on time. The only person that knew the truth was their doctor, and she was sworn to secrecy. A fact that she delighted in.

“He’s perfect,” Feyre agreed, brushing back the tufts of black hair. “They say we should be sleeping when he’s sleeping. Does that mean we should be napping now?”

Rhysand looked down at their elegant attire. “We do have a luncheon to host.”

“Yes, but it’s just with our family,” Feyre muttered. “Would it truly be so bad to miss?”

Rhysand laughed quietly. “Am I horrible if I say no?”

She was just about to suggest they steal away to their room, kick off their boots, get rid of the stuffy jacket Rhys was wearing, and sleep just as soundly as their baby was when there was a knock on the door.

“That’ll be Nesta,” she sighed, looking at the clock on the mantle. Everyone was supposed to be there around eleven, but ever since she was a little girl, Nesta had her own inner clock. If you aren’t early, you’re late, Nesta had always told her, and she knew being married to Cassian had likely been pushing her inner clock closer and closer to everyone else’s.

Except for when one was meeting their nephew for the first time.

Rhysand carefully handed their son to her, tucking him into the crook of her arm. He pressed a kiss to his forehead, just beneath the tufts of dark hair, and then kissed his wife. “We’ll take a nap later,” he promised, helping her to her feet.

It had been a week since Nyx was born and while Feyre wouldn’t trade anything for their perfect baby in her arms, the birth had been…difficult. Almost a full day after her water broke, Nyx was finally born, and Rhysand had never been more awestruck, proud of, and in love with his wife than he had been after she’d given birth to their son.

The doorman’s voice carried to them, as well as other familiar voices. Voices Feyre and Rhysand had missed in these past three months.

“My lady, if you’d give me a moment, I’ll introduce you and—”

“She is my sister, there is no need for an introduction.”

“Nes…”

Nesta scoffed. “I don’t need an introduction and I am allowed to voice my piece.”

“He’s just doing his job,” Cassian muttered.

An exasperated doorman rounded the corner, followed by Nesta and Cassian.

“The Baron and Baroness,” he said, looking as if he could not leave quickly enough.

Nesta swept into the room, heading straight for the baby. Cassian smiled fondly after her before meeting Rhysand in a warm embrace.

“Fatherhood looks good on you,” Cassian smiled.

“I think you mean exhaustion,” Rhysand joked, “but thank you. How was the honeymoon?”

Cassian grinned. “Oh, it was—“

“He’s so beautiful,” Nesta interrupted, looking at Nyx with tears in her eyes. “He looks just like his daddy, yes, he does.”

Cassian lifted a brow as he watched Nesta, as Nesta’s voice rose an octave.

Nesta took Nyx into her arms and she bounced him, whispering soothing words to the infant as she walked back and forth in front of the settee.

Feyre took the opportunity to sit down, smiling sleepily at Cassian. “So you had a good time?”

He had crossed the room, taking a seat on one of the loveseats, and opened his mouth to respond.

“We did,” Nesta answered, carrying Nyx to sit next to her husband. She was still speaking to the baby it seemed, as she said, “But we would have been here no matter what to meet you, sweet one. Yes, sir.”

Cassian reached for Nyx and Nesta shifted out of his grip. He blinked at her. “Let me hold my nephew, woman.”

“I’m not done yet,” she replied, glaring at him. She was gently rocking Nyx as she flayed Cassian with just a look and he was back asleep in an instant. “Wait your turn.”

Rhysand couldn’t help but chuckle as he sat in the empty seat next to Feyre and took her fingers in his. Brushing his lips over the back of her hand, he intertwined their fingers and looked at their siblings. “I think the last letter I received, you two were visiting one of the smaller port cities in Summer.”

Cassian nodded, stretching his arm over the back of the couch, scooting in closer. Nesta smiled up at him, love and adoration in her eyes, despite the fact that she was still hogging their nephew. He pressed a kiss to her temple and leaned back in his seat. “Yes, we didn’t stay long though. Someone preferred the beaches of Adriata.”

“It smelled like fish everywhere you went,” Nesta defended, brushing her thumb along Nyx’s chubby little hand. “And not in an oh, we’re close to the sea way. In a someone needs to bathe way.”

Rolling his eyes, Cassian turned to Rhys, giving his brother his full attention. “But you’ll never guess who we ran into while we were sitting down to dinner on that little island, before we returned to Adriata.”

“Azriel and Gwyn,” Nesta finished for him.

Cassian gave his wife an exasperated sigh. “I told him to guess.”

Nesta shrugged. “It would have taken them ages. Surely we have more important things to discuss than guessing games.”

“You’re a thorn in my side,” Cassian muttered.

“I could say the same for you,” Nesta replied, but then she was leaning into him, finding solitude in his touch.

“I must say, I was surprised when Az said he was taking this woman on holiday with him,” Rhysand said, brows pinched together. “We’ve only ever met her that once, at the wedding.”

Cassian shrugged, his arm still around Nesta. “He claims they’re only just friends. She seems kind enough.”

“And quite lovely,” Nesta said, meeting Feyre’s eye. “Will she be joining us today?”

Feyre shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of, although she would be welcomed.”

“Azriel would take a woman who is only just a friend with him on holiday.” Rhysand chuckled. “As long as he can sketch her, he’s happy.”

“Your uncle Az is quite the fellow,” Cassian muttered, brushing his hand along Nyx’s cheek as he slept in Nesta’s arms. “I can’t say I’d find satisfaction in such simplicity.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, we know exactly how you find satisfaction.” A second passed before she added, “Or, at least I do.”

Cassian grinned before he reached for Nyx again. This time, Nesta gave him up and she melted at the sight of him in Cassian’s arms.

“That is far more information than I think we needed,” Feyre replied, fighting a yawn and losing.

“What’s life without a little over-share?” Nesta waved her off. “How’s he sleeping?”

“He’s great at it,” Rhysand sighed, and even though they could see how happy he was, they could see the exhaustion setting in. “For very short periods of time. Then he’s very good at waking us up.”

They decided to send most of the staff to their homes for a few months, to spend Nyx’s first few months as a family, with just Miryam and a few others. They had done it for some privacy and to enjoy their time together as unimpeded as possible.

Little did they know they’d be doing the staff a favor. No one in the manor house was getting much sleep, thanks to the mighty lungs on the tiny boy.

Footsteps approaching in the hall snagged everyone’s attention and suddenly Azriel appeared in the doorway.

“How did you get in without an introduction?” Nesta asked, tilting her head.

He shrugged a muscular shoulder. “I came in the back.”

Crossing the room, he first greeted Feyre with a kiss on the cheek and then embraced Rhysand as he stood. “Congratulations, brother.”

“Thank you,” he replied, patting Azriel’s back twice before pulling back to look at his face. “It’s good to have you home.”

“Mother’s tits, you’re tan.” Neither of them had heard Cassian even get off the couch, but there he was, Nyx still tucked into one arm. He tugged on Azriel’s collar, trying to look beneath his shirt. “Is it all of you?”

Azriel stepped back, swatting his hand away and rolling his eyes as Rhysand laughed quietly. “I shall not deign that question with an answer.” He stepped forward again to peer down at Nyx. “By the Cauldron…he looks just like you.”

Feyre sighed. “Yes, he looks just like his father which is ironic considering his father did very little in bringing him into this world.”

Rhysand grinned. “Perhaps not, but I did enjoy making—“

“If this is the way you speak when two ladies are in the room, I would hate to hear what the three of you speak like in private,” Feyre noted, purposefully cutting off Rhysand’s personal confession.

Cassian grinned as he passed his nephew to Azriel, who took him gently in his arms and bounced gently as he walked around the small space. Nyx immediately melted into his arms.

“Good evening!”

Elain came around the corner and Nesta threw her hands in the air. “How did you get in without an introduction?”

Elain shrugged. “I just smiled at the doorman and kept on walking. I passed Miryam, she said you all were in here. Poor woman looks like she hasn’t slept in ages.”

“None of us have,” Rhysand muttered, but then he looked longingly at his cradled son.

Elain followed his gaze where Azriel stood near a wall of books, swaying back and forth with the baby in his arms. She stilled as a look so pure and heartbreaking swept across her gestures.

Azriel was already watching her.

She cleared her throat, her shoulders settling back. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“We just returned yesterday evening,” he told her, though it was news to everyone in the room.

We.

Nothing had been the same between the two of them since the night of Rhys and Feyre’s wedding. There was a tension that had never been there between the two of them and it was palpable enough that Nesta cleared her throat.

“How have you enjoyed your time in Spring?”

The question had her tearing her eyes from him and instead focused on her sister. “Lovely. Prince Tamlin has been a gracious host and it’s gorgeous this time of year. I’m considering returning until the start of the social season.”

“Why come back for the social season if you intend to marry the prince?”

Elain’s eyes found Azriel’s again. There was something in his tone, in the way he asked that gave her pause. He was genuinely curious. Tearing her gaze away, she looked to the bundle he was holding. “May I hold my nephew, my lord?”

He didn’t speak as he nodded, meeting her in the center of the room. As he nestled the baby in her arms, his hand brushed against the exposed skin of her own. She was careful not to jerk away, but she did flinch. His eyes darkened at the reaction she had to him.

Just as he started to turn away, she softly said, “And for your information, I’m returning for the gardens. Not the prince.”

Azriel froze, his jaw locked, and the storm brewing in his eyes declared that he was not so sure. Everyone else in the room had gone silent. Neither Azriel nor Elain had explained any aspect of their relationship to their siblings, but they all knew something had happened, that something was going on.

If Elain or Azriel were being honest with themselves, they did not fully know what had gone on between them, what dwelled between them now. All they knew was what they felt, the chaos of emotions that enveloped them both when they thought of one another.

“I do hope the gardens are worthy of your presence,” he said.

She took in a deep breath as her eyes bore into his. She knew full well that he did not speak of the gardens.

Elain turned from him and walked towards the others, cradling Nyx in her arms. “He’s so beautiful. He looks just like—“

“His father,” Feyre interrupted, sighing. “I know.”

Yet she fell into Rhysand’s side and smiled fondly at him.

“Prince Tamlin, then,” Cassian started, his arm around Nesta. “Is he truly a gracious host? Every time I’ve been around him— oof.” Nesta had nudged him in the side, cutting off his words. He frowned at her. “What? Am I not allowed to speak freely?”

Elain chuckled. “You are most welcome to speak freely. And he has been a gracious host, truly. He has been kind and welcoming, showing me all spring has to offer.”

The room was quiet for a moment, Elain gazing down at her sleeping nephew and Azriel stalking to the windowsill to sit down, which left Rhys, Feyre, Nesta and Cassian to glance between each other. It was Feyre that asked, “But?”

Her eyes found Feyre’s before she’d even finished asking. Then she found four other sets of eyes on her, including a penetrating gaze by the window.

“But…I do not find myself happy there,” she admitted. “It is beautiful, I cannot deny that. There are more types of flowers there than I could ever imagine and I’ve enjoyed learning new customs and traditions. The prince would be a wonderful match.” She cleared her throat, looking down at the babe in her arms. “But I’m afraid he is not the match for me. I need to be close to what matters most.”

Nesta’s voice was hesitant, but gentle as she asked, “And what is that?”

Elain’s voice was clear, confident, as she brushed a thumb over Nyx’s soft cheek. “Family.”

Feyre’s slim rested in Elain’s knee and she smiled at her. “We’ve missed you.”

Elain leaned into Feyre as she said, “I have missed you, too.”

The three gentlemen huddled together, giving the sisters room to discuss their feelings.

Rhysand offered them each a glass of his finest whiskey which they humbly accepted. They would be a fool not to.

Once they each had a glass, they sat down and faced one another as the women, across the room, ogled over Nyx.

“What’s it like being a father?” Cassian asked.

Rhysand sighed, contently. “Unexplainable. It’s amazing. You simply have to see for yourself.”

“And will you be seeing for yourself?” Azriel chimed, sipping from his glass of amber liquid.

Cassian shrugged. “Nes and I have talked about having kids. We’re going to start trying soon but we’ve enjoyed the time we’ve had to ourselves.” He looked across the room at Nesta, where she stared lovingly at the baby in Elain’s arms. “Although, after today I think she’s going to be pushing it.”

Rhysand snorted. “It’s going to happen when it’s supposed to. That’s what we told ourselves when we found out that Feyre was with child. When it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.” Cassian smiled as he took a drink and Rhysand redirected his eyes to Azriel. “No Gwyn today?”

Azriels shoulders tensed but he shook his head. “She has yet to see her own family, she is spending her day with them.”

His words seemed wooden, and both of his brothers frowned.

“Do you truly expect us to believe that you traveled together for three months and you’ve only remained just friends?” Cassian asked.

His distant eyes hardened. “I expect you to understand that there are things about her past that she’s only just divulged to me and I won’t betray her trust by discussing our relationship with others when the two of us don’t even have a clue of what’s going on.”

The two blinked at him, Azriel only realizing his voice had been loud enough to carry when he noticed how silent the room had become.

Nesta cleared her throat, dragging the attention back to her. “Lunch should be just about ready, don’t you think, Feyre?”

She nodded, standing stiffly. Groaning quietly, she said, “Yes, it’ll be waiting for us in the dining room—”

The tiniest cry filled the room, cutting Feyre’s words off as all six sets of eyes fell on Nyx. He had woken up, each time just as jarring as the one before. Elain tried to soothe him, but ultimately she handed him off to his mother.

“He’s likely hungry,” Feyre said, swaying with him in her arms as she headed for the door and to his nursery beyond. “We’ll be a few minutes, but please go ahead and eat.”

“Nonsense.” Nesta stood and followed her. “I’ll help you upstairs and the boys can wait. They’ve got their bourbon anyways, they’ll be fine.”

They exited the room, leaving Elain on the sofa by herself. It was only a moment before her eyes met Azriel’s and she stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall…help as well.”

With what exactly she’d be helping, Elain wasn’t sure, but she bolted from the room.

Once her footsteps faded down the hall, Cassian and Rhysand turned on their brother. Rhys spoke first.

“We did not mean any offense to Gwyn,” he explained. “We do not know her as well as you do, but we would like to. And three months is a long time. You can see why we’d assume…”

Releasing a sigh, Azriel nodded. “I get it, don’t worry. Gwyn is not a fan of the society, but that is something about myself I cannot remove.”

Cassian was rubbing his hand across his jaw. He pointed from his brother to the vacated seat Elain had just been in. “And what exactly is going on there?”

“Nothing.”

The word was nothing more than a snap.

“Let me rephrase.” Rhysand leaned forward and refilled each of their glasses. “What happened between you two?”

Azriel stared at his glass, mouth grimly set in a straight line. It was a difficult question to answer because he honestly did not know the answer. One moment he was falling in love with the woman and the next she had left his brother at the altar and was being courted by Tamlin. All the while, it has felt as if she did not like Gwyn which only made him angry. Elain had no reason not to like her.

He and Elain had not spoken to one another since the night of the wedding.

“I am unsure,” Azriel answered and took a drink before carefully setting his glass back down. “We have not spoken since your wedding night and I hardly remember what we had spoken of then. Perhaps I said something wrong.”

It was a lie. He remembered that last conversation perfectly well.

“Perhaps you should speak with her,” Cassian suggested. “It’s clear there’s tension between you. Every one of us just witnessed that.”

“She does not wish to speak to me,” Azriel replied, quietly.

“I disagree,” Rhysand replied, settling back into his chair, signaling that they would indeed be waiting for the ladies and wouldn’t be going anywhere until he’d talked about this with them. “And despite what your outward appearance tells us, I’m pretty damn sure you would like to speak with her.”

“Do not presume to know what I’m feeling, Rhysand—”

“I don’t have to presume, it’s written all over your face.” His glass hung between his fingers, even as he pointed a finger at Azriel.

“Fortunately for us but unfortunately for you, we are married to her sisters, so despite whether or not you wish to speak to her, you will likely be seeing her quite often if you plan to see us.” Cassian leaned down so his elbows rested on his knees, clasping his hands together. “And we plan to see you, so you better figure it out.”

The bluntness that only Cassian could dole out cracked the shell of Azriel’s anger.

“I’ve done just fine without my father for twenty-seven years, I do not need you two stepping in acting like him now.” The smirk that grew on his lips shoved away the tension in the air and he sighed as he dragged a hand through his hair. “I will speak to her, if she will allow me to. Not today though, today is not about me or her. It’s about you.”

He nodded to Rhys, who smiled in return and took a drink. “Actually, it’s about Nyx but I had a pretty crucial part in making him—”

“The girls are right, we can be quite crass,” Cassian jumped in.

“But, back to you, Az.” Rhys set down his glass. “If you have feelings for one, you cannot have the other, no matter what their own feelings are. That isn’t fair to Elain, or Gwyn.”

Azriel frowned. “You truly think I’d be so cruel?”

Rhysand lifted a brow. “Not intentionally, no.”

He waited for Rhysand to go on but he did not. Instead of replying, he took a much longer drink of his whiskey. He should talk to Elain. If anything just to get everything out on the table. Whether he was ready to admit it or not, something had been going on between them. Which was ironic, considering it was all he had wanted since the moment they met, for something to be going on between them.

But life happened. Elain was to marry Cassian and when she did not, suitors had lined up at her door. She could marry any of them, could have a perfect life with any of them.

She was being courted by a prince, for the Mother’s sake.

Elain was not the safe choice, was not the easy choice, but he truly did care for her more than he was willing to admit.

He cared for Gwyn, too, even though they were simply just friends. Although that friendship has bloomed into something special over the months they spent together…

It would be easy to create a life with Gwyn, but she did not fit in with the ton, with no intention to, and Azriel had a responsibility to his title, to the life that his mother had created and lived before him. He would not disrespect her by walking away from it all, no matter how much he loathed it sometimes.

Thinking of the women had him pensively swirling his drink. He feared with the gain of one he would lose the other, and that simply would not do. Not when he really did care for each of them in his own way.

There was a time not so long ago that he could never see himself as a married man.

Now he could.

He just didn’t know with whom he wished to share that life.

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@mariamuses @photofeesh @the-regal-warrior @gracie-rosee @irisofink @strawberries-and-reveries @zeppelin-and-unicorns @live-the-fangirl-life @cassianscool @clacings @argentumstella @cuppamelia @chillspritecranberry @emilyrose111294 @awesomelena555 @gengen64 @dontbenddontbreak @blueunoias @liliput2203 @sleeping-and-books @kindofawalkingpoem @thebitchydonutcollector @shedoessoshedoes @cretaceous-therapod @emily-gsh @annie-laur @impossiblehistoryofquotes @midnightrose-reader @beanl1 @shniya-hiiragi @towhateverend87 @deezrmuhsheeple @pintas3107 @sarcasm-is-the-best-insult @santkazoya @lady-winter-sunrise @themoonthestarsthesuriel @story-scribbler @swankii-art-teacher @lordof-bloodshed @sv0430 @dreammoutlouddd @katlady13 @lokisllama @mrspettyferr @missannieshay @live-the-fangirl-life @headinclouds48 @secretlycressdarnel @awesomethreedragons @lokisllama @littlehoneyybee @vicioux @cest-la-vieve @lokisllama @thewinterroza @aching-for-distance

#THE END #fanfic #acotar #fanfiction #nessian #acowar #acomaf #feysand #elriel #sjm #bridgerton au #period au #19th century au #1800s au #shacmc collab #acosf

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silvfyre-writings · 10 months

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The Boy with Emerald Eyes Pt. 1 (BSD Fanfic)

Welcome, welcome, to one of the idk how many ranpoe AUs I have. This one is one I lovingly call the 'paperboy AU' and you'll see what I mean by that haha.

Now for those of you who read my last ranpoe AU, I promise you, this one has a happy ending!

It was January 16th, three days before his twenty-second birthday, and the middle of winter in the dead of the night. A gentle breeze was blowing, bringing with it a chill that made the night feel even colder than it actually was. It was this cold weather, with falling snow and icy roads, that had forced people to remain indoors; only those stupid enough to venture outside, much like himself, were outside in this weather. Not that he really cared—not for the cold, nor for the people that could probably see him. It was just him in his own little world; him, the alcohol bottle in his hand, and the bridge that he was standing on. There was no one else. Just the way he wanted it.

For tonight was the night that he, Edgar Allan Poe, had decided to take matters into his own hands and end his life.

The plan was to throw himself off the bridge, but his plan had been thwarted by the cold weather. The river that he’d hoped to drown himself in was frozen solid, and although a fall from this height would still certainly kill him, it wouldn’t be as nearly a peaceful death as he wanted. So, he stood there, staring down at the river, contemplating whether he actually wanted to continue his plan, or come back another night—a hard decision apparently. Edgar brought the bottle to his lips, downing the rest of the bottle and relishing in the burn as the warm liquid slid down his throat. It was the only warm thing about this night.

Alcohol was his only friend in this depressing world he’d found himself living in; it didn’t matter if it was whiskey or bourbon, and it also didn’t matter if it was vodka or cognac, it was all his friend. The alcohol allowed him to feel warm instead of cold, and it allowed him to forget what his life had become, and how it had ended up that way. Some would say that Edgar had an addiction, and he would have to agree with them. These days, he spent more days in the bottle than out of it, which probably didn’t help his situation, but he didn’t care. It helped him and that was what mattered. Someone had once dared to tell Edgar that his drinking habits would destroy his mind, and he’d thrown the bottle at them in response. His mind was already destroyed, not from the alcohol, but from itself, so who cared if he drank so much he blacked out.

Edgar was a broken human being, and in this world, this society, broken humans either died or… died.

The moon slid out from behind a cloud, the snow easing off enough for the surrounding area to become visible again—for the river to show it’s frozen face to him again. Only this time, instead of anger and frustration, there was acceptance as he made up his mind. Tonight was the night he would die, no other night would be acceptable. So what if the river was frozen? It just meant that if he landed right, his skull would cave in and his face would become unrecognizable, and that would be the best case scenario since it meant that his mother and father would not be dragged down with him when it was discovered what he intended to do. Can’t drag the family reputation down when no one knows who you are, after all.

Edgar threw a leg over the railing of the bridge, or at least, attempted to, but he’d drunk so much that he didn’t lift it nearly high enough, and just wound up faceplanting the sidewalk, getting a mouthful of snow instead of the sweet release of death. He groaned. And groaned again. And then just closed his eyes. It was cold enough that he’d freeze to death anyway once the alcohol wore off. He didn’t have a coat after all, just his shirt and pants. He didn’t even have shoes, hadn’t even thought of putting them on when he’d left the house, much more focused on his plan.

He was regretting it now, but only a little. A sigh fell from between his lips as he turned his head to stare at the road beside him. An old, beaten down carriage drove past him, the first he’d seen that night, but didn’t stop as it headed into the city. The people inside had probably seen him and thought him already dead. Which was fine, because he didn’t really want to inconvenience people with his death, which was why he’d planned to throw himself into the river and drown. But you’ll become an inconvenience by lying here. Edgar’s mind threw at him unhelpfully, and he buried his face into the snow to stifle another groan as his drunken self registered what that meant. It looked like his plan to die tonight would in fact, have to be put on hold; that was, if he truly wanted to die and not be found or recognized.

Another sigh and Edgar somehow managed to get his arms under him to push himself into a sitting position, but that was as far as he could get because he immediately slumped to the other side, folded in a way that was quickly becoming painful. And cold, because he was cold now. He wasn’t shivering, having long since passed that stage of cold, and he started to wish that he’d brought his coat, just so he could stop being cold. Which was stupid really, since he’d planned on throwing himself into the ice cold river, but Edgar’s drunken plans had seldom made sense, especially to him, and he’d been the one to make them in the first place.

“Hey! You!” An unfamiliar voice called out, and Edgar opened eyes he hadn’t even realized he’d closed in the first place to see a stranger crouched in front of him. He couldn’t decipher the expression that the stranger was wearing on account of his vision fading in and out, but from what he could see, it wasn’t an impressed one. “You’re going to die if you stay there.”

“That’s the point.” Edgar said, at least, that’s what he thought he said, because whatever it was that had come out of his mouth, he hadn’t understood. He closed his eyes again and curled into a ball, ignoring the way the snow stuck to his skin and clung to his hair. “Just go away…”

“No way. You think people want to start their day seeing a corpse?” There are hands that grab at his shirt and tug him into a sitting position, but Edgar is nothing more than deadweight, his limbs refusing to cooperate at all. He can hear the stranger wheezing as he tries to get him to stand, and Edgar somehow managed to get one leg underneath him, but only for a second before it gives out on him and he’s sent sprawling back onto the footpath, the stranger being dragged down with him.

It's then that Edgar’s body decided to remind him that he had, in fact, drunk an entire bottle of alcohol on his way here, and he barely has enough time to shove the stranger off him before he’s throwing up. He’s colder now, as the alcohol vacated itself from his system and splattered him and the stranger. It’s mostly liquid since he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, but it still burns all the same. There’s a groan from beside him, and hands smaller than his own shove at his back until he rolls onto his side.

“Gross.” The stranger complained, disgust in his voice. “How drunk even are you?”

Edgar didn’t want to answer this person who had decided to ruin his night and turned his head away, hoping that would be enough of a hint. It wasn’t, because a second later there was a face inches away from his own with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen in his life staring at him. Really, they were as green as the trees when new leaves bloomed during spring. He groaned, shoving that thought away before he let it consume him. “Just leave me here.”

“No way. You’ll die and wind up in the papers and that’s the last thing I want on my conscious. If you wanted to die you should’ve chosen a different river. You know, one that wasn’t frozen over.”

Hands hook themselves under his armpits, and Edgar felt himself being dragged. It was painful and uncomfortable, but all he could do was let it happen, head dropping to rest against his chest; his limbs were numb from the cold—and probably the alcohol—and his head was clouded and wispy, which was definitely because of the alcohol. He doesn’t know where he’s being taken by this stranger, nor does he understand why this person is so determined to interfere with his plan to die. If he’d come across someone wanting to die, he’d probably just let them as morbid as that sounded. That’s what Edgar told himself anyway, but he knew that deep down, he too, would be unable to turn a blind eye towards someone in need of help.

He just didn’t know when he became that person.

While he’s being dragged, Edgar let his mind drift away, tuning out the world and its surroundings, only allowing the most basic of information to register in his brain; the feeling of wet snow drenching the back of his pants, the fingers that are tightly gripped against him along with the coughing from his saviour, and the footsteps that hurry towards them.

Wait, footsteps?

Edgar tried to open his eyes, only to find he couldn’t. It felt like they’d been stapled shut, but he still tried, wanting to know who it was that had joined the stranger in helping him. But before he can ponder over it even more, Edgar found himself being lifted easily into someone’s arms—certainly not the first stranger, since he’d only been strong enough to drag Edgar around, so it could be only the second. There’s quiet chatter between the two strangers in a tongue that Edgar doesn’t recognize in his current state, but he can still tell that it’s foreign, and that it’s beautiful to listen to. Where English sounds like a flock of geese mindlessly honking at each other, this language sounds like a piano being played in the theatre, smooth and lilting.

It's with geese and pianos on his mind, that everything finally catches up with Edgar as his consciousness faded into nothing.

Edgar woke up to yet another stranger standing over him and checking his pulse, in a bed underneath an unfamiliar ceiling. It wasn’t the ceiling that came with the usual hospital someone of his class would find themselves in, which meant that he could be literally anywhere in the city. His eyes drifted from the ceiling to stare at the person—a doctor from the looks of him—that was standing beside his bed, taking note of the focused expression. The man was shorter than Edgar, but well dressed and serious; he could hear the doctor muttering under his breath in a voice he didn’t recognize as either of the two from the river, which meant that this was a third stranger that’d been dragged into this situation.

The guilt crashed through Edgar like a tsunami.

“Oh, you’re awake.” The doctor blinked at him, seemingly surprised that Edgar actually was awake. To be honest, Edgar too, was surprised; he didn’t usually wake up so quick after drinking so much, but that would explain why the world was still fuzzy at the edges, and the brick being smashed against his skull repeatedly. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Drinking.”

The doctor rolled his eyes, an amused look on his face. “Obviously. And quite a lot from the state of you when you were brought to me. Considering how much it was, you’re lucky to have even survived with just a hangover.”

Great. Just what I didn’t want. Edgar can’t help but scowl, and turned his head away. “When can I leave?”

“When I say you can.” The doctor said, unbothered by Edgar’s cold tone. He moved from where he stood over Edgar down to the foot of the bed and picked up a clipboard, flicking through the pages on it. “You need more rest to recover from your little adventure, and I’m not in the habit of letting my patients go when they aren’t a hundred percent. Or when they are at risk of throwing themselves into rivers.”

Edgar’s scowl grew even more. “What so you’ll just keep me here against my will?”

“I intend to. At least until the alcohol has left your system, and then you may do as you please.” The doctor smiles at him in a way that showed he intended to do exactly that, and that is enough for Edgar to become cautious of the man standing above him. There was just something about that look that he couldn’t quite pinpoint, and it made him uncomfortable. He knew that if he wasn’t still under the influence, he’d be able to decipher just what that look meant, but for now, his thoughts were uselessly napping at the back of his mind.

“Fine.” Edgar grumbled and sunk into the bed as much as he was able to. As much as he didn’t want to stay here, he didn’t know where he was or who this person was—he didn’t even know if the other man actually was a doctor! But if all it took to please him was to lay in this bed until the room stopping spinning and he could walk out of there, then he’d do it, and continue with his plan another day at a different river, away from the prying eyes of foreign strangers roaming the streets at night. “I’ll stay here, wherever this is. With whoever you are.”

“Doctor Ougai Mori. Call me Doctor or Mori. And I must say I’m surprised to see someone of your calibre in my clinic of all places.” Mori said as Edgar opened his mouth to ask what the doctor meant, he promptly snapped it shut at Mori’s next words. “Edgar Allan Poe, son—adopted that is—of Lord and Lady Allan, and famous author who in recent years, has disappeared from society and become a total recluse with no one seeming to know why, although considering your current state, I can now see why. Depression that’s resulted in an alcohol addiction. Quite the killer you’ve landed yourself with.”

“You’ve done your research, Doctor.” Edgar spat. He was annoyed, angry even, that some doctor he’d never met before, knew so much about him when Edgar had no doubt spent his entire time here lying comatose on the bed. He wasn’t fond of people finding out who he was, especially since he, well, didn’t exactly want to live anymore, and had taken great care to erase himself from societies eyes, but apparently, even some no-name doctor he’d never heard of, knew who he was. Just great.

“Actually, I didn’t.” Mori raised an eyebrow, seemingly unbothered by Edgar’s sudden animosity. He replaced the clipboard at the foot of the bed before taking residence in the chair beside it. “It was the boy that found and brought you to my clinic that shared that information. Couldn’t help himself, really, once he recognized you.”

Edgar glared at the man sitting by his bedside, becoming even more agitated when he noticed the smirk on Mori’s face. A memory of green eyes peering into his own lifeless ones flashed before his eyes that he squashed down immediately. “Are you quite done?”

“Not at all, but you’ve still got a few days of recovery, so I’d tone down that anger before it gets you into trouble. Unless, you want to cause a problem?” Suddenly it feels as if a chill has washed over the room as Mori stares down at Edgar with un unreadable look, and considering studying people and the expressions they make is what his job is, Edgar is more than uncomfortable; he’s the first to break eye contact. A chuckle. “That’s what I thought.”

Edgar fights the urge to throw his pillow at Mori as the doctor leaves the room, but instead settled for turning over and punching it just once, cursing at how much of a failure he was that he couldn’t even end his life properly, and that he’d wound up in some clinic that he still didn’t know the location of, with a doctor he only knew the name of and nothing else.

Yeah, if he had to rate these past few days, he’d put them at the top of his list of worst days of his life.

The next day, Edgar is awoken by the sound of the door to his room opening and he looks over to see a man that isn’t Mori entering with a tray of food in hand. The man appears to be older than Mori, silver haired with obvious age lines, but he’s equally as mysterious, and unlike Mori, he’s dressed in clothing that must be traditional to the land he had come from. This is not the stranger that had attempted to drag him—this man’s eyes are blue, not green—and Edgar felt intimidated as this stranger’s eyes fell upon him, almost as if he was being seen right through to his core.

“How are you feeling this morning?” The man asks, placing the tray on the bedside table before taking a seat in the chair next to his bed, and Edgar wished in that moment that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Because, as drunk as he was, he still recognized the man’s voice; this was the one that had picked him up like he weighed nothing and carried him to this clinic when he hadn’t been able to stand.

And rather than answer the strangers question, Edgar just faced away from him instead. “You were there. At the bridge.”

“I was.”

“Why?”

“Why did we interfere in your attempt to throw yourself off a bridge? Or why we were even there in the first place?” Edgar glanced over his shoulder to see the man raising an eyebrow at him. “If your question is the second one, then that is the route we take to get home and we’d just been out in the country visiting one of the villages. It was mere coincidence that we passed by you. However, if you are asking about the first one, well, we are not the kind of people who would just leave someone to die.”

Despite doing his absolute best to ignore it, Edgar’s curiosity took over and he couldn’t help but return to face the stranger. Just who were these people that had saved him and why had they gone out of their way to help him in the first place? “And who is we?”

“Yukichi Fukuzawa. Fukuzawa is just fine though.” Fukuzawa introduced himself, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his… jacket? “I help Mori out with his patients.”

“So, you’re a nurse?” It was Edgar’s turn to raise an eyebrow. For some reason, Fukuzawa didn’t really strike him as the type of person to be a nurse; he just had this feeling about the man that told him being a nurse was the last kind of job he would do.

Fukuzawa shook his head. “I am not. I simply keep things clean in the clinic and provide food to patients.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very fun job.”

“It’s a job.” Fukuzawa narrowed his eyes in a way that had Edgar feel like he was being scolded even though nothing had even been said to him yet. But Edgar was a writer, a well-known one, and if there was one thing a writer was good at, it was reading between the lines of what people said and did, and that was exactly what he did. Don’t judge people you don’t know.

Edgar sighed and sat up in the bed, reaching over to grab a piece of the sandwich that was on the tray that Fukuzawa had brought him. It was a simple sandwich, with just chicken and lettuce, yet somehow it tasted better than anything Edgar had eaten before in his life, and considering his status meant he could eat whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, that was saying something. He stared at the sandwich and took another bite, and a memory crossed his mind, the same one that kept returning to him when he didn’t want it to.

A memory of green eyes.

“Who’s that boy that found me?” Edgar asked, and when Fukuzawa stared at him with an unreadable expression, he pressed onwards. “The one with green eyes?”

“My ward.” Fukuzawa answered after Edgar had begun to believe he’d never get an answer. He detected the protective note in Fukuzawa’s tone and knows that he will not be told any more than that if he tried to even ask. The man’s word choice is interesting though; ward, not son, which means that the boy is not biologically his child, yet he still protects him as if he is. Even more interesting is his desire to protect him from Edgar of all people, but he figured he shouldn’t be surprised really, not when he’d do the same—has done the same in fact, hence his isolation from society.

Edgar leaned against the headboard of the bed, uncomfortable in the silence that has fallen over the room. It wasn’t that the silence itself was uncomfortable, it was that Edgar just didn’t know what to say. Unlike with Mori, who had spent more time riling him up than anything else, Fukuzawa appeared standoffish and only seemed to say what was needed when it was needed, nothing more, nothing less. Meanwhile Edgar was the kind of person that needed the silence filled, even if it was just with mindless chatter, because it was what he had been raised with, and no matter how introverted he was, he had never been able to overcome the social skills that had been drilled into him ever since he was a child.

He was about to break the silence, drawing on every socially correct question he could think of when the door creaked open. Both Edgar and Fukuzawa turned towards the noise and Edgar’s breath caught in his throat when he caught sight of those green eyes he kept remembering, staring at him through the crack in the door. Now that he wasn’t drunk out of his mind, he could actually see what his rescuer looked like, and he really shouldn’t have been surprised to see that it was a child that had rescued him. Children often liked to stick their noses into business that wasn’t theirs to begin with, and it didn’t matter whether it was something harmless, or if it was trying to stop someone from killing themselves, they would get involved if they deemed it important for them to do so.

“I told you not to come here, Ranpo.” Fukuzawa stood from his chair and gave a slight bow towards Edgar. “My apologies, but I must leave you now. Mori will be by to check on you this afternoon and I will bring dinner for you tonight.”

The boy—Ranpo as Edgar had just learnt—whined, and the door opened just that little bit wider, but Fukuzawa was quick to block Ranpo from view before Edgar could see anymore of the boy. “But Fukuzawa! I want to meet him!”

“No, he is a patient right now and he needs to rest. Besides you have chores to do.” Fukuzawa left the room, the door gently closing behind him, cutting off whatever else the older man had been saying and leaving Edgar alone in the room. Again.

Edgar blinked, just a little stunned at what he’d just witnessed.

Apparently, he’d wound up in the care of some really strange people that right now, he only knew the names of.

Edgar was woken from his sleep when he felt something poke his cheek. He grunted and swatted away whatever it was that was poking him, fully prepared to go right back to sleep, only to be poked several more times, each harder than the other until finally, Edgar’s eyes flew open and he snapped. “What the hell is your problem?”

“Wow, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine. And after I saved your life too.” The boy, who’s green eyes Edgar had not been able to erase from his mind since first seeing them, grinned at him from the chair that’d been empty for hours.

Edgar blinked, eyes falling to the candle that was working hard to provide what little light there was within the room. A quick glance to the window showed that it was dark outside, and despite there not being a visible moon that night, Edgar was still able to estimate that it was roughly the middle of the night. After all, it was the perfect time to make a sneaky visit to a patient that one’s guardian didn’t want you interacting with. And Edgar would rather not get on the bad side of an overly protective old man, so he turned away from Ranpo and grumbled. “Your old man doesn’t want you interacting with me, so just go away.”

“But that’s no fun.” Ranpo whined, hands tugging at the blankets that covered Edgar. “Come on, talk to me! I’m bored, and you’re interesting.”

“Why? Because I tried to kill myself and failed? Is that what’s so interesting to you?” Edgar snapped, pulling the blankets free of Ranpo’s grip, and holding them tight so that this—this annoying child couldn’t grab them again. He really didn’t understand why this boy was so interested in him in the first place; he could put it down to the boy having read his works, but the stories he wrote were most certainly not the kind that a child should be reading. Not any sane child at least.

Ranpo huffed and sat back down in the chair. “No. That’s not why at all. Well, I lie, I am interested in why you want to kill yourself—I could figure it out anyway—but you’re not interesting because of that.”

I’m going to regret this. Edgar thought before he rolled over to give Ranpo his attention. “Then why am I so interesting to you?”

“Because you’re you.” Ranpo said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. And from how genuine he looked saying that, it was clear that that was what Ranpo believed.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does!” Ranpo leaned over to rest his arms on the bed, his face suddenly much closer to Edgar’s than Edgar was comfortable with. “But I can see why you don’t believe me, considering how much you hate yourself right now.”

Edgar sputtered. “I do not—”

“Yes you do, otherwise you wouldn’t have isolated yourself from society, and you wouldn’t be lying here in Mori-sen—Dr Mori’s clinic after drinking yourself half to death and trying to throw yourself off a bridge. People who do things like that tend to hate themselves. A lot, actually.” Ranpo leaned in closer which forced Edgar to move back lest their faces touched. Apparently no concept of personal space was also something that Ranpo suffered from on top of absolutely no social skills. Because that was the one thing Edgar had taken away from this short time conversing, and it was beginning to tire him out more than he already was.

“Please move away from me.” Edgar pushed at Ranpo’s head with one hand, glad when the boy actually listened for a change and sat back upright in the chair. Once Ranpo was a respectable distance away he moved back to how he’d been laying before and sighed. “Look, kid—”

“I’m not a kid.” Ranpo interrupted.

“What?” Edgar paused at this new, quite sudden information. What do you mean you aren’t a kid? You literally look like a teenager?

“I’m only two years younger than you, Mr Poe. At least, if I am correct about you being twenty-two—which I know I’m right about—and I’m only twenty. So, yeah, two years difference.” Ranpo explained, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Edgar had, up until now, thought he’d been rescued by a random child, and that he was currently staring at Ranpo in open shock.

“I’ll hope you know that you look fourteen.” Edgar muttered, face burning in embarrassment at his most recent error. He was still struggling to believe that Ranpo was actually twenty years old, almost still unable to believe it, not when Ranpo looked as tiny and scrawny as he did.

Ranpo’s cheeks puffed out and he waved his arms about wildly; exactly like a child would when throwing a tantrum. “Rude! I do not look that young!”

“You do! And even if you didn’t, you act that young! Don’t you have any pride?” Edgar argued, and then turned to face away from Ranpo again, making it clear that he was done talking to him. Really, he should’ve stopped talking long before now, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from responding to Ranpo; he would like to say that it was because Ranpo was too annoying to ignore, but it wasn’t that at all.

It was the unpredictability of what came out of Ranpo’s mouth that made him so interested.

“Pride’s a little overrated, don’t ya think?” And of course, instead of taking the hints that Edgar had been dropping, Ranpo continued to be unpredictable. “I don’t know what how it is for people like you, who have money, but for people like me, there’s not a lot of pride to have when we have to constantly worry when our next meal is.”

Edgar looked over his shoulder to see Ranpo frowning, knees drawn to his chest and that always there smile, gone.

“Sure, I could take pride in myself, but what’ll that get me, really? Kicked to the ground by people who have even more pride? That’s so boring, and not to mention, painful.” Ranpo grinned widely, although Edgar could see that it was strained; he’d touched a nerve apparently. “It’s better to live your life the way you want to, without caring so much about what others think. Once you start caring about other’s opinions, that’s when you start to really fall apart and lose your pride.”

Silence fell between them for the first time since their first proper meeting, and Edgar returned to staring at the wall in front of him. He could hear Ranpo shuffling in his seat, clearly waiting for Edgar to say something, but honestly? Edgar didn’t know what to say. His view on the world was so dark and twisted that anything he dared to say could do more harm than good, especially to a boy like Ranpo who’s view had been tainted by his own experiences, but not shattered like Edgar’s already had been.

There was still hope for Ranpo, was the point that Edgar was trying to make, and he wasn’t going to be the one who took that hope from him.

He may not like Ranpo, and he may hate himself, but Edgar wasn’t a cruel person, not really.

“Sometimes—" Edgar began to say and swallowed, licking his lips when they suddenly went dry. Just shut up, Edgar! “—sometimes you can’t help but lose yourself in the opinions of others.”

There was a hum from behind him, and Edgar thought he could feel the weight of a hand on his shoulder, but it disappears just as fast as it appeared, and the door to his room creaks open once again. More light fills the person enters the room, carrying a lantern from the sounds of it, and Edgar finds he recognizes those footsteps.

“Ranpo…” Fukuzawa sighed, before beginning to scold Ranpo for sneaking into Edgar’s room. At least, that was what it sounded like Fukuzawa was doing, for aside from Ranpo’s name, he couldn’t understand anything that was being said. And when Ranpo cut the older man off and responded in the same tongue, he couldn’t understand those words either. But he did recognize the sound of the words being similar to the words spoken when Ranpo and Fukuzawa had rescued him. It must be their first language.

The bickering went on for several minutes, and Edgar continued to lay there, not at all bothered by the fact that the two were conversing in a language that he couldn’t begin to hope to understand or even try to decipher; it certainly wasn’t any kind of European language. Edgar knew the basics of most of those languages, his family having focused heavily on international relations, and apparently those went better when you knew the hosts home language.

Not that Edgar knew anything about relations in the first place, having none of his own anyway.

“Poe-kun, is that the reason why you tried to die?” Edgar turned over to see Fukuzawa with his hand on Ranpo’s shoulder, trying to guide the boy towards the door despite Ranpo’s best efforts to stay in the room long enough to hear his answer. Ranpo was looking at him, those green eyes of his focused intensely on him, and if Edgar looked closely enough, he could see sadness hidden deep within them.

And despite there having been a whole other conversation happening just before, Edgar knew exactly what Ranpo was talking about, what exactly it was that he was referring to, and he returned to staring at the wall, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Deduce it.”

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