The weight of responsibility for Julian felt like a crown of thorns, sharp and ill-fitting upon Lysander’s brow. Every mention of his cousin’s convalescence, every hushed word from the estate physician, hammered home the uncomfortable truth: he was now irrevocably tied to this burden.
Adulthood was a poorly tailored coat, scratching at his skin. It had demanded his presence at the Royal Academy by day, then summoned him to the Devereaux estate by dusk. His finely honed artistic hand, once a refuge, now trembled with exhaustion.
He had missed lectures, neglected his studies. His charcoal smudges seemed to mimic the dark circles beneath his eyes. Duty, an unwelcome companion, tethered him.
Each evening, a heavy dread settled in his stomach as his carriage rattled towards the Devereaux manse. Julian, much like a neglected hound anticipating its master, would invariably appear at the sickroom door the moment Lysander’s foot touched the threshold.
And then the torrent began. Julian, raw and unrestrained, would spill forth his day’s grievances.
“The physician prattled on about another surgery. Blast it all, my leg will be nothing but scar tissue, like some butcher’s block. And the broth they serve! A starving pauper would turn his nose up. My stomach is perfectly robust, Cousin, why must I suffer such tasteless slop?”
Julian’s face, contorted in genuine misery, held the petulant charm of a spoiled child. He was two-and-twenty, Lysander reminded himself, not some Nursery-bound boy. Yet, he acted it.
Lysander exhaled slowly, a silent tremor passing through him. He reached into his satchel, a faint odor of spiced meats already clinging to the expensive leather.
It offended his fastidious senses. His lip curled instinctively.
Still, carrying it unwrapped through the Academy grounds would have been infinitely worse.
“What now?” Julian asked, his voice laced with an eager anticipation that grated on Lysander’s nerves.
He suppressed an urge to recoil. The image of a panting, thick-furred creature, a deplorable canine, flashed in his mind. *Disgusting.* The thought made his stomach clench.
Lysander pulled forth a small, carefully packed repast. A silver cloche shimmered, concealing its contents.
Julian’s gloom lifted, replaced by a wide-eyed curiosity that Lysander found both unsettling and faintly pathetic.
“For me?”
“A… luncheon. The physician confirmed you are still far from your next procedure, so a proper meal would not be remiss.” Lysander’s voice was clipped, betraying nothing of the effort.
“A luncheon?” Julian repeated, a tremor in his voice.
“Do not invest it with undue sentiment. I merely purchased it from a nearby establishment.”
The denial was automatic, a shield against his own inconvenient tenderness. He would never confess to seeking out the discreet caterer, known for their restorative, yet palatable, dishes suitable for invalids. He had spent a full morning navigating the labyrinthine alleys of the market, a task that, for Lysander, was akin to navigating a viper’s nest.
He just wished to appear as a gentleman performing a bare minimum of his social obligation, nothing more. Yet, even that scant offering seemed to be enough for Julian.
Julian rubbed his earlobe with his uninjured right hand, a nervous habit. The skin, Lysander noted with a jolt, was flushed a startling crimson. His gaze drifted lower, to Julian’s left hand, resting on the bedclothes. The ring, middle, and little fingers remained curled, fixed in an unnatural, distorted grip. A scar, white and puckered, snaked across the back of his hand. From the skirmish at the docks. The one Lysander still blamed himself for.
Lysander’s face tightened. Why did his eyes always snag on those ruined fingers? Why could he not look away? A cold knot tightened in his chest, a peculiar blend of pity and repulsion.
“……Th-thank you,” Julian whispered, his voice oddly subdued.
Julian risked a glance at Lysander. When their eyes met, Julian flinched, fumbling with the cloche. Or was the startled reaction an affectation? As if being caught observing Lysander was an indiscretion.
As if he didn’t wish Lysander to notice.
Watching Julian devour the food, heedless of his manners, Lysander leaned his weary frame against a damask-covered chair. The sight was, frankly, grotesque.
Food crumbs scattered across the bed, a streak of gravy clinging to Julian’s chin. The rigid, unbending fingers on his left hand made handling the fork awkward.
Lysander wasn't sure if the display was entirely genuine, or if a subtle performance was at play. He shifted closer, an unwelcome compulsion guiding him, and gently took the fork from Julian’s grasp.
“What do you prefer?” Lysander asked, his voice strained.
Julian paused, chewing, eyes wide. “……”
“The capon?”
At the very least, Lysander felt a solemn, inescapable responsibility to acknowledge Julian’s wounds, to alleviate his suffering, however minor. Julian, lips smeared, chewed slowly, then dipped his head, a faint, disconcerting smile playing upon his mouth. Lysander could not fathom it. This wretch, whose fingers might never truly straighten, whose thigh and back bore hideous scars from the incident that still haunted Lysander’s waking thoughts, how could he smile like that? Lysander truly had no conception.
He could not bear to look at Julian’s bright, almost luminous face. What was so amusing about such a wretched predicament? If it were Lysander, he would wish for utter oblivion.
Lysander selected a morsel of capon and offered it to Julian. Julian chewed with gusto, the smile still fixed. The boy always managed to make Lysander deeply uncomfortable.
Truthfully, the reason for the special meal dated back to earlier that day, before his visit to the estate infirmary—when he had briefly stopped at Julian’s own smaller, less ostentatious residence on the outskirts of the Devereaux grounds.
---
It had been the second time since Julian’s injuries. Lysander, quite against his better judgment, still possessed the family’s old guest pass. He had encountered Julian’s immediate family a mere three times in the infirmary. Once, Julian’s distant father, Lord Devereaux, had made a brief, almost perfunctory appearance. Twice, his mother had graced the sickroom with her presence, acting with an exaggerated sweetness towards Lysander, as if to commend him for dutifully taking up the responsibilities she had evidently shed.
Julian had simply rested his chin in his hand, eyes following his mother’s retreating back with an unreadable expression.
Lysander had only intended to retrieve a few more books, some sketching supplies, to alleviate Julian’s tedium in confinement. That was all. He knew, better than anyone, the crushing monotony of being trapped within four walls. He had experienced it himself, years ago, and so he understood the need for distraction. He had convinced himself it was not sympathy. Or affection.
That day, instead of returning directly to his Academy chambers, Lysander had diverted his carriage to Julian’s small, secluded dwelling.
The modest manor, nestled amongst ancient oaks, had welcomed him with a familiar silence. But Lady Elara, Julian’s elder cousin, had not.
Elara had leaned against the heavy oak doorframe of Julian’s study, her expression as cool and detached as a winter morning. “You still linger about Julian, do you not, Cousin?” she asked, her voice dry as parchment.
To be honest, Lysander held little warmth for Elara either. How could she neglect visiting the infirmary, not even once? Her own kin lay injured. That primal, visceral sense of decency made him judge her, though he hadn’t meant to. He merely observed. The moment he realized the implication, he clamped his mouth shut and continued to pack Julian’s effects into his satchel.
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice curt.
“He truly has done it, then. That impetuous wretch… he’s quite obsessed with you.”
Lysander’s hand froze mid-air. He turned, as if pulled by an invisible string.
“……Obsessed with me?”
“Pray tell, does that news delight you?” Elara’s tone was laced with barely veiled disdain.
“No. I merely inquired.”
“None merely inquire, Lysander. You wished to know, so you asked.”
*Disgusting.* Elara muttered something under her breath, a low murmur Lysander chose to ignore. She stepped closer, however, disregarding his obvious discomfort. This family, it seemed, shared a talent for willful blindness. Elara, Julian, even their patriarch, Lord Devereaux.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after the Season?”
“After graduation, you mean.”
“Indeed. The entire ton must know by now. Not that I sought the information, mind you. But Julian… he threw a veritable fit over it. That boy, who never once set foot in a chapel, suddenly took to praying, then raging. Not long after, he tore apart the gilded rosary his father had gifted him, screaming profanities at the Heavens themselves.”
“A rosary?” Lysander felt a chill.
“Yes, that bauble. He treasured it, you know. Claimed it was his only true inheritance from Lord Devereaux. He called the Almighty a faithless cur, or some such vulgarity. Then he sealed himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our house finally knew some peace, for once. He doesn’t even comprehend who the true demon is. Foolish boy.”
Elara’s voice, which had been mocking, softened imperceptibly, likely noticing the flush creeping up Lysander’s neck.
“What troubles you? Your face is quite crimson.”
“It is not.”
“Impossible. Do you truly harbor affection for him? Do you desire him, Lysander?”
“I told you, no.” Lysander’s voice was sharp.
“……Good Heavens,” Elara gasped, covering her mouth with a gloved hand, as if confronted by a monstrous revelation. “You truly are quite mad. Utterly so.”
Why did she persist in such accusations, when he had explicitly denied it? Annoyed, Lysander yanked his satchel’s clasp shut. He wanted to lash out, to critique her own coldness.
“Why did you impart such a tale to me? Your father stated Julian was his second son. A matter of duty.”
“What on earth are you speaking of?”
A stark contradiction. Lysander knew it. Lord Kaelen, his most infuriating rival, had once observed that Lysander, despite his intentions, invariably performed acts of unexpected kindness. No matter his protestations.
But now, he possessed an undeniable excuse. The angry, brown scars that marred Julian’s back. Just as Julian could not meet Lysander’s gaze for long, Lysander could not bear to look upon that disfigured skin.
“Lysander?” Julian’s voice, hoarse with unshed emotion, drew closer.
“Yes?” Lysander feigned indifference, but every nerve ending prickled. He listened, rapt.
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?”
“What ridiculous notion is this?” Lysander managed.
“I will not… *desire* you.”
In that single, brutal instant, Lysander’s heart plummeted to the floor. His stomach churned. A vise tightened around his chest. He nearly spoke—without thought.
*Why not?*
The words almost escaped. The hidden, vile truth of his own thoughts had nearly seen the light of day. *Lysander Thorne, you are an utter fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the admission, the raw shame burning his throat.
Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I will place my belief in you,” Julian declared. His voice, a strange blend of sorrow and jubilation, held a quality Lysander struggled to define. Like a zealot receiving a divine revelation. Was there any other way to describe him?
Lysander did not comprehend Julian’s words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. Did not flee. The suffocating weight on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it twisted, a dull, aching blade.
“I am an atheist now. Truly, you are far more instrumental to my life than that distant, capricious deity.”
“Silence, boy.”
This impertinent cousin…
“You utter blasphemies with every breath.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devoted adherent, you know!” Julian insisted, shaking his head frantically, as if his very life depended on Lysander’s belief. If Lysander didn’t credit him, Julian might very well weep.
Caught off guard, Lysander found himself speechless.
Then, as if a profound decision had been made, Julian abruptly slid from the couch and dropped to his knees.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Julian, what in the blazes are you doing?” Lysander exclaimed, startled. A large, uninjured hand reached out, closing around Lysander’s left ankle. Lysander had been seated with one leg casually propped upon the settee. He slid forward, barely clinging to the edge. His foot, suspended, was held captive by Julian’s grasp.
Julian’s gaze fell upon a faint, almost imperceptible scar just above Lysander’s ankle, a pale mark from a childhood fall, long forgotten. Julian’s brow furrowed. And, to Lysander’s utter disbelief, Julian’s eyes welled with tears.
Lysander jerked back in shock, attempting to withdraw his foot. Before he could escape, Julian lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Julian’s cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s skin. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. *What madness is this boy enacting?*
Lysander tried to yank his foot free, but his strength utterly abandoned him. Julian looked up at him once, his face utterly devoid of disgust, or even common regard. Like a devout believer touching a holy relic, Julian pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. Julian’s fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a feather-light touch that sent shivers through him. The gentle press of his lips rubbed against the base of Lysander’s toes.
“S-stop it…” Lysander whispered, throwing an arm over his face. Julian’s right hand tightened its grip on Lysander’s ankle. And in that moment—Lysander stopped resisting. Three weak, unbending fingers held him fast. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Divine moments before, now traced a path up his calf. And Lysander did nothing to halt him.
That was when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of his suffocating existence at eight-and-twenty—still wasn’t over.