Chill of the Ashworth stone settled deeper into Lysander’s bones, a familiar weight. Not merely the physical cold of the ancient walls, but the encroaching frost of responsibility. He was Alistair’s custodian now, a title unspoken yet undeniable. It chafed, like a collar too tight, yet he bore it.
Nights bled into days, the academy's relentless demands warring with his vigilance. Mornings saw him navigating the gilded halls, an intricate dance of influence and veiled threats. Evenings drew him to the restricted infirmary wing, a quiet desperation in his steps.
Scholarly pursuits had suffered. Thoughts of Alistair, cloistered and vulnerable, gnawed at the edges of his concentration.
A heavy heart led Lysander to the infirmary door. It parted silently, revealing Alistair, restless and agitated, pacing like a caged griffin. A flicker of something — anticipation, perhaps — crossed Alistair’s face.
Almost immediately, Alistair launched into a torrent of grievances. "Another round of these insipid tinctures. My stomach churns just from the smell. They insist it’s for my ‘constitution,’ but it tastes like pulverized Ashworth moss. And the solitude, Lysander! It’s a gilded cage, nothing more. Cassian's 'attentions' are a suffocating privilege, not a reprieve."
Expression, a blend of frustration and misery, stripped away the usual Ashworth veneer, leaving only the raw boy.
Slowly, Lysander exhaled, reaching into his satchel. An aroma, subtly sweet and forbidden, wafted out. He wrinkled his nose. Faint scent of candied ginger and spiced pears clung to the fine leather, an unwelcome indulgence.
"What is that?" Alistair’s voice dropped, curiosity eclipsing his discontent. He paused his pacing, a shadow falling over his pale features.
A small, intricately carved wooden box emerged. It contained a selection of confectioneries, a rarity within Ashworth’s strict regimen. "A small diversion. They indicated your constitution could tolerate a minor indulgence."
"A diversion?" Alistair's gaze lingered on the box, a flicker of genuine hunger in his eyes.
"No grand pronouncements. A confectioner’s stall near the South Gate supplied them." Lysander’s voice was clipped, precise. He would not reveal the careful reconnaissance, the discreet inquiries for items both palatable and genuinely sustaining, items free from the subtle poisons of Ashworth's social machinations.
Only a simple act of human consideration, nothing more. Yet, even that seemed to loosen a coil in Alistair. His good hand, unmarred by Cassian’s earlier 'lessons', absently traced the scar tissue on his left forearm. A faint blush crept across his cheeks.
Lysander’s eyes drifted to the twisted line of Alistair’s fingers, the faint discoloration where sinews had been stretched, then mended imperfectly. A faint tremor disturbed Lysander’s composure. Why did that particular wound always draw his attention? Why could he not look away? A cold knot tightened in his chest.
"…Thank you, Lysander." Words were hushed, a rare vulnerability.
Alistair glanced up, their eyes meeting. A startled flinch, a hurried movement to open the box, as if caught in a private moment. Perhaps a pretense of being startled, a shielding of true emotion.
Alistair devoured the sweets with an almost desperate urgency, a crude ballet of indulgence. Fine sugar dusted his chin.
Against the infirmary’s austere couch, Lysander leaned, exhaustion pressing down. It was an unrefined sight, this messy consumption. Yet, he found himself moving, his hand gently taking a candied pear from Alistair.
"More of these?"
Alistair simply nodded, mouth full, a hint of a smile in his eyes.
"The candied quince, then?"
Lysander felt an unsettling certainty in his actions. He had a duty to acknowledge Alistair's hurts, to believe in the reality of them, even if Alistair tried to hide them beneath bravado.
Lips smeared with sugar, Alistair chewed, a slight bow of his head, a faint, private smile playing across his face. Lysander could not fathom it. How could this individual, marked by such calculated cruelty, his body still bearing the evidence of a dark lesson, find cause for such contentment? It defied logic. Lysander would have raged, broken.
He selected a piece of crystallised violet and offered it. Alistair accepted it, chewing with robust satisfaction. This boy, Alistair Thorne, always managed to disorient Lysander.
---
Reasons for this diversion rooted deeper, in an unwelcome detour.
A year ago, Alistair’s wounds had been fresh, his isolation even more acute. Lysander still carried the tacit permission to enter the Thorne family’s private quarters within Ashworth, a relic from a time before Cassian’s full focus shifted.
Alistair’s family he had encountered rarely. His aunt, Alistair's mother, a fleeting presence, offering saccharine praise for Lysander's supposed 'kindness', a convenient delegation of responsibility. Alistair, then, had merely watched his mother’s retreating back, a vacant look in his eyes.
Lysander had merely sought to retrieve a few volumes, some instruments, anything to alleviate Alistair’s acute boredom in confinement. He understood the suffocating ennui of such isolation. He had experienced it himself. This was not sympathy. Not affection. Only pragmatic consideration.
That evening, rather than returning to his own dormitory, Lysander had made his way to the Thorne family wing.
Seraphina Thorne, Alistair’s elder sister, greeted him with a sharp, assessing gaze. She leaned against the lintel of Alistair’s study, a cynical twist to her lips.
"Still trailing after Alistair, Lysander?"
A prickle of irritation, like flint against his skin, made Lysander’s jaw clench. Seraphina rarely visited her brother in the infirmary, never sought him out when he was most vulnerable. His own ingrained sense of propriety judged her. He hadn’t consciously chosen to, but the judgment was there, sharp and immediate. He zipped shut his satchel, filled with Alistair's texts.
"He requires certain materials."
"He truly fixated on you, didn't he? Our darling brother. Utterly consumed." Her voice, a low murmur, carried a venomous edge.
Hands froze on the clasp. Lysander turned, unease rippling through him. "Consumed by me?"
"Does that thought please you?" Her eyebrows arched, a faint sneer.
"A simple inquiry." Voice cool, controlled, Lysander replied.
"Nobody makes a 'simple inquiry' about such matters. You desired to know. You asked." She scoffed, a soft, derisive sound.
Unpleasant, her bluntness. Lysander pretended not to hear the underlying malice. Yet, she stepped closer, ignoring his composure. Thorne family had a particular knack for overlooking inconvenient truths, for dissecting others with chilling precision.
"Lysander, where did you disappear to after the… incident?"
"My studies called." A half-truth, but sufficient.
"The entire Hall whispered. Alistair, though… he erupted. Boy who scorned all Ashworth traditions suddenly invoked the Ancients, raged against his fate. He tore the House sigil, the one their father held so sacred, from his chamber wall, screaming obscenities about the 'Divine Edict.'"
Mind caught on a single detail. "The sigil?"
"The stylized griffon, yes. Said it was a gift from our father. Called the Ancients 'deaf, blind mutts.' Then locked himself away for weeks. For a time, our family wing knew peace. He never grasped who the true fools were." Her voice, which had dripped with mockery, sharpened, her eyes narrowing.
"Your face is flushed, Lysander."
"It is not." He dismissed her.
"No, it decidedly is. Do you truly harbor affection for him? For Alistair?" Her voice was laced with disbelief.
"I do not." A denial, sharp and instant.
"…Gods above." She pressed a hand to her mouth, a dramatic gesture of horror. "You are utterly deranged."
Why did she insist, despite his clear rejection? Annoyance pricked him. Satchel snapped shut, leather-on-metal a sharp sound. He wanted to lash out, to pierce her self-satisfied composure.
"Why do you speak such slander? Your father, my uncle, spoke of Alistair as his second son, his beloved."
"What in the blazes are you speaking of?" Seraphina's composure cracked, a raw edge entering her voice.
---
Blatant contradiction, Lysander knew it. Silas Vance, with his unnerving insight, had once quipped that Lysander, despite his meticulously constructed persona, invariably performed acts of genuine kindness. Regardless of his true intent.
But now, he had a tangible justification. Faint, brown-tinged scars stretching across Alistair’s back, visible when the infirmary tunic shifted. Just as Alistair struggled to meet his gaze, Lysander found he could not look directly at those marks.
"Lysander." Alistair's voice was a rough whisper, close.
"Yes."
"Then… may I place my trust in you?"
His words, thick with a fragile hope, seemed to cling to the air. Impassive, Lysander remained. Yet, he listened.
"What do you mean?"
"I will not—I will not seek your affection."
In that instant, a tremor ran through Lysander. His stomach clenched. A suffocating pressure built in his chest. A question almost escaped—unbidden, raw. *Why not?*
Words nearly left his lips. He recognized them, understood the forbidden thought they carried, the true, hidden desire almost laid bare. *Lysander Thorne, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the impulse, forcing it down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
"Then instead, I will place my trust in you."
Alistair’s voice shifted, a strange blend of sorrow and nascent joy. Like a supplicant receiving a profound revelation. No other description seemed to fit. Words, Lysander did not comprehend. And yet, he did not withdraw his hand, which Alistair had instinctively reached for. Did not retreat. Suffocating weight in his chest now felt less like a squeeze, more like a sharp, insistent pang.
"I have foresworn the Ancients. Honestly, your counsel holds more utility for my life than their archaic edicts."
"Silence, Alistair." Words were sharp, an automatic reprimand.
"You speak blasphemy."
"No! Truly, I was raised a devoted adherent, you know!" Alistair protested, a frantic gesture of his good hand.
"Then what was that declaration?"
Alistair flailed, a desperate, almost tearful expression on his face. If Lysander did not believe him, Alistair might actually weep. Lysander, caught off guard, found himself momentarily speechless.
Then, as if a sudden resolve seized him, Alistair slid from the couch. He knelt.
"Alistair. What are you doing?"
A large hand, his good one, captured Lysander’s wrist. Arm resting on the armrest, Lysander felt it captured, suspended slightly, held by Alistair’s grip. Alistair’s gaze fell upon a faint, almost imperceptible scar on the inside of Lysander’s wrist—a childhood incident with a splinter, long forgotten.
His brow furrowed. Unbelievably, his eyes glistened. Shock made Lysander recoil, a sharp tug to pull his arm free. Before he could fully withdraw, Alistair lowered his head.
"What in the—"
"By the grace of the Thorne lineage, and the Ashworth spirit." Alistair’s cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s pulse point. A sudden, sharp ache shot up Lysander’s arm, deep into his gut. What aberration was this? He tried to yank his hand away, but his strength seemed to desert him.
Alistair looked up once, his eyes burning with an unsettling intensity. Then, with an expression devoid of even a hint of revulsion—like a fervent acolyte touching a sacred relic—
"I acknowledge your counsel."
He pressed his lips to the small, faded scar on Lysander’s wrist. His fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s skin, a feather-light touch. Gentle pressure of his lips lingered against the delicate skin.
"S-Stop this, Alistair…" Head turned, Lysander cast his gaze to the ceiling.
Alistair’s good hand tightened around Lysander’s wrist. And in that moment—Lysander ceased resisting.
Three fingers, marred and weakened, still held him. A delicate, fragile grip, a soft, insistent tapping against his skin. Lips that had just renounced the sacred traditions of Ashworth now traced a path upwards, towards his forearm.
Nothing, Lysander did to stop him. That was when he truly understood. This relentless, inescapable disease—this nightmare of Ashworth, and of Alistair—it was far from over.