Your red tresses, my little tower
Written in response to a prompt from a friend: "Is there no Latin word for Tea? Upon my soul, if I had known that I would have let the vulgar stuff alone." The title is taken from the 31 Days theme for September 29, 2007.
I'm well aware of the fact that Cain's never shown smoking opium in the manga, but let's face it: opium was, historically, an integral part of British society, and was especially prominent in the lives of the nobles and the rich. So here we go.
Rainy days in London and Cain's consistent record with the common cold meant house arrest, which often resulted in Riff having to find some way to occupy the increasingly antsy master of the Hargeaves House without compromising the young man's health (or Riff's own peace of mind). Arguments were not uncommon during such times, and, try as he might, not a rainy day passed without Riff finding himself banished from his master's chambers Until Further Notice. Riff was never particularly alarmed over what might transpire while he wasn't around to keep the young earl in check, but he did worry a bit about the amount of opium Cain liked to smoke during their cold wars.
It would be late in the evening by the time one of the other servants would inform Riff that the Earl had summoned him back to his rooms with instructions to bring him something to refresh himself with. Riff would set the novel he had been reading aside, go into the kitchen in order to prepare a pot of cherry rose sencha tea, and dutifully turn up at his master's chambers with the tea and some shortbread cookies ready. He would find Cain sprawled amidst his pillows, head lolling back, arms and legs akimbo: the pipe would be tangled within his fingertips, trickling ash unto the floor.
"You are aware that the only reason why I let you near me now is because you're the only one who knows how to brew tea properly in this house, are you not?"
"Of course."
It never ceased to amaze Riff, how Cain's voice, thickened by the poppy-induced high, could still sound so imperious. The manservant set the tray on the night table and moved to help Cain up. The young man slumped against him, a limp and drugged weight on his shoulder. His breath was sweet on Riff's cheek, rife with the smell of smoke and flowers. The low, muted light of the gas lamps made Cain look small and frail in Riff's arms.
"Perhaps you would like a bath, sir. It may help clear your head."
"Fuck baths. Let me go, I can help myself."
But Riff never moved away, and Cain never bothered to complain about it.