Stitched by the Hand
(Gale/Madge)
(Victorian Era, London)
A/N: I'm back bitches! It's been a hot minute since the last time I've written fic! Let's hope I can bust out a few more over break.
East London was the called the "darkest London" for a reason. Poverty raged everywhere one looked because of the increase in population in London since the Industrial Age begun and slums thrived off the poor. Smoke billows out of chimneys of sweatshops, black and dirty with grim and the smell of dirty sweat perspiring off the workers inside. A boy with short, black hair, long limbs, and handsome face works diligently with his right hand as he wipes the sea of sweat off his forehead. He makes neat stitches into the thick, glossy fabric of silk and pinches the fabric together with the other hand. He thanks god – if there is a god – that the fabric is dark and none of the rich posh Londoners would see the sweat stains lingering along the inseam. His stitches are precise and quick, every fourth stitch doubled. He's required to make 12 pairs of pants per hour, which gives him exactly five minutes per pair, two and half minutes per leg.
He wipes sweat from his hairline again and finds his forehead warmer than usual. Although sweatshop's temperatures run high with the bodies so closely packed together, his body feel weighted down and his face warmer than he'd like. Cholera is going around like wild fire through the slums and sweatshops, burning through people like crazy. He worries he's caught the disease. His stomach drops and his visions goes unsteady for a moment as furnace puffs out another wavy of hot air.
"Gale!" someone shouts across the room. He turns around in his seat to look at the man – the owner in his slim cut suit and newly polished shoes – waves him over. Gale's heart speeds up a little in his chest as he sets his fabric down on the crowded table, shoving the needle through the inseam so he doesn't lose it before getting up. He pushes passed people sitting on the floor sewing dresses, not even bothering to say excuse me, only watching carefully where he places his feet so he doesn't step on a dress. He hurries as fast as he can to the owner, who Gale didn't even bother learning his name, but the man's foot just taps faster and faster the longer it takes Gale to rush through the crowd. "This way," the man says once Gale has arrived by his side. He doesn't even offer a good morning or afternoon – Gale had no way of knowing what time it is because there isn't any clocks around – before pushing passed the doors that lead to the stairwell.
The stairwell of made of rusted metal and squeaked every time someone stepped foot on it. Gale tries his best to make his footsteps from sounding so harsh, but it was nearly impossible to do such a thing. His boss walks up the stairs, never once looking back to see if Gale was following him, tapping his cane twice on every step. It wasn't that the man needed the cane. He was physically fit and almost nearing middle aged. Gale believed that the man just liked the sound of noise he produced and why not add the sharp click of a cane on the ground. Also – although Gale had no proof of this – he could use it as a weapon against workers who didn't do what they were supposed to. That's why Gale's heart pounds now. He fears the man knows he's sick or is unhappy that Gale only produces 12 pairs of pants every hour instead of more. Although the pay is shit, Gale needs this job.
"Have a seat." The man says as they enter an office. One wooden stool sits in the middle of the room and velvet couches line the walls. Gale knows without asking that he should not sit on the velvet couches. Velvet is for rich people, not invisible people like himself. He sits down slowly on the stool, testing its durability. When it stays standing he places his full weight on the chair. He doesn't say anything and neither does his boss. He keeps his eyes downcast and listens to the only clock in the room tick, tick, tickthe seconds away. He holds his breath and counts off the seconds gone that pushes him further behind on his count of 12. If he spends 15 minutes in this office, he'll have three pairs of pants that need sown and sown well, done in nonexistent time. He's screwed. Especially since the rule was if you don't met quota, you don't get paid for a week. His family had already gone a week without food, they couldn't go another week. Damn it, he is so screwed.
A knock resonates through the room and Gale whips his head up to look at who it is. His stomach drops than tightens instantly when he sees a man in a white lab coat with a red bag in his hand. A medic. If Gale could run away, he'd do it down. But he can't.
"Gale, this is Dr. Melbourne, Dr. Melbourne, this is him." The boss introduces.
"Ah, he's the one you were talking about." His boss nods, "Well, son, strip down."
"What?" Gale squeaks out. His voice doesn't even sound like his own, it sounds like a long distance voice that could belong to a female, not himself. Definitively not himself.
"Strip down, like naked." The doctor says, looking amused. The doctor waves Gale's boss out of the room and gestures for Gale to begin stripping. He closes the door behind him and sets his bag down on the desk. Gale folds his clothes neatly at his feet and waits as Dr. Melbourne examines him and moves his limbs different ways. A fine line of sweat beads form on his forehead again. Dr. Melbourne offers him a handkerchief. Gale accepts it and dabs at his forehead.
"Well," Dr. Melbourne speaks as he picks up Gale's raggedly thin clothes and hands them back to him, "You don't have measles or mumps, but I'm going to have to take your temperature. Please get dressed and sit on the stool." Gale does as he's told and sits patiently as Dr. Melbourne goes through his bag. He places a tool Gale has no idea the name of against his chest, over his heart and listens. "Are you nervous, or does your heart always pound this hard." Gale says nothing, his tongue is too thick in his mouth. Dr. Melbourne pulls back and looks Gale deeply in his eyes. The doctor's blue eyes remind Gale of ocean water, and Gale's eyes remind the doctor of the dirty water floating through the Thames River, "That's a serious question…Gale." He says as he reads the name off Gale's report.
"Nerves," Gale whispers out.
Melbourne nods and marks something on the paper. "There's nothing to be afraid of." Oh, but there is. Gale has no idea why he's here and what will come of it, but if the doctor finds anything at all, Gale's done for. He can't pay any sort of bill, let alone a hospital bill, and he can't lose his job because he's already behind in payments on everything.
"Have you been experiencing diarrhea or dehydration?" Gale shakes his head no, but he's lying. He knows those are symptoms of cholera. "Well, you have a fever and I know you're lying."
"I'm fine, sir." Gale croaks out.
"Oh you wish you were fine!" the doctor says. "If this isn't treated, Gale, you could infect the whole business, or worse…it could kill you."
"I'm fine." Gale says again. He can't lose his job. He can't lose his job.
The man jabs a finger into Gale's abdomen lightly and Gale tries not to wince, but he can't. It hurts badly. Another symptom: abdominal pain.
"You have cholera."
"No I don't." Gale says, but the doctor only pushes harder against Gale's stomach. His entire body stiffens and the seconds later a metal trashcan in placed between his knees, seconds before the vomit comes up.
"Yes. You do," the doctor says, and Gale can't do anything about it. A fourth symptom: vomiting. Gale continues to puke into the bucket as the doctor leaves. Tears spring to his eyes because he knows exactly what this means…they have to fire him. He sobs into the bucket and vomits every few minutes. He finds he's been doing this a lot lately…puking. Once he starts, he doesn't stop for a while.
His boss comes in and places a hand on Gale's shoulders, mindful not to touch the skin where the large shirt moved off his shoulder. "I'm going to have to let you go, Hawthorne. Best of luck. You can stay as long as you need the trashcan for" Then he leaves. Gale wishes he never had to leave this trashcan.
"Treatment options include –" But Gale doesn't let him finish.
"I don't have money. Can't you tell?"
"Then I can't help you if you can't spare a dime."
"I'd buy food faster than medical care."
"Best of luck to you; you're going to need it." And then he leaves too. And Gale let's go and cries and pukes into a trash for an hour. He's so damn screwed.
…
Madge's mother, Victoria's, booming voice commanded the hallway outside of Madge's door. The Prime Minister is in for a short visit, something Madge would usually listen in on, but not today. All Madge can focus on is the dirty, awful smell wafting in through the air vents. Madge's mother may be the Queen of England during what is considered one of England's greatest eras, but even she can't get control the way the city smells. It's horrible and it's constantly being filtered through every home and business, and the country can't escape the smell of death and gross, trashy smell.
As the Industrial Age further booms, the Thames' clean water diminishes to sewage backup. The streets are littered with garbage and sickly homeless people who haven't had a clean shower in weeks. They smell like the river does, because that's the source of water big enough for them to wash themselves off in, only they're washing themselves in contaminated water. Madge's mother tells her to stay away from the slums because of cholera and she does as much as possible.
Madge wrinkles her nose and tries to block out the smell as she applies makeup onto her neck and chest. The skin colored powder dusts her skin lightly and covers the series of freckles littering her chest. She makes the mistakes of taking a deep breath, instantly regretting it.
A knock clicks harshly into her bedroom and in walks her brother, elegant as ever. He's wearing a dark blue suit with brown leather shoes and a striped tie. He looks dashing, but he always does. It's something that Madge as always envied of her brother. He is complete perfection with his chiseled cheekbones and jaw, slender but strong frame, ocean blue eyes, and his porcelain skin. Madge is slender like him, but she appears just small; and her eyes are ordinary blue, and her skin is littered with sparely scattered freckles.
"Walk with me, sister?" he asks in his deep London accent. She nods and gathers her things.
They walk aimlessly towards nowhere, but Madge knows exactly where this "nowhere" will lead. The slums. There's a girl with glossy black hair and gray eyes that her brother is infatuated with as of recently and every time they go for a "walk" it's just to see her, even if she doesn't notice them. Her brother, Daine, insists that the girl notices them, but poor old Daine doesn't realize it's just because Royals are walking around the other side of town. It definitely isn't because the girl is infatuated with her brother. But it isn't Madge's job to break his spirit; the universe would do that soon enough.
"There she is!" he whispers loudly. He points excitedly toward her. She glances their way, worry blazing in her eyes, before she returns to the conversation she's having with a girl a few years younger than her. Madge nods and pushes her brother a little further away from the pair to give the girl space, but she doesn't look away. Especially when a boy with bright red cheeks and the back of his hand pressed firmly against his forehead stops at the command of the girl's hand. They share a glance at the Royals before the grow deep into a conversation that the boy seems to want nothing to do with. He tugs lightly against the restraint provided by the girl's arms.
"Maybe you should go talk to her?" Madge suggests the second the boy disappears behind a building. She doesn't look at her brother when she says it, but he follows her line of sight.
"Oh, Madgie, do you have a crush on the boy?" he smiles wickedly.
"No!"
"Maybe you should get involved with him, they are quite lovely people once you get to know them."
"Mom told us to stay away from them, remember? We aren't even supposed to be here."
"Go." He whispers in her ear as he pushes her toward the building the boy disappeared behind. Once Madge's feet start going they don't stop until she finds him. He's farther up the alley, leaning – more like sagging like a wilted flower – against the wall. His breathing is heavy and from his body she can tell he's distressed.
She lightly touches his tricep and is surprised to find it lined with hard, beautiful muscle. He jumps back, his eyes wide. "I didn't steal anything, I swear!" Immediately, it springs off his lips.
"I know you didn't." she says softly, lifting her own hands to her face. "Are you alright?"
"Am Ialright?" his expression is nothing short of bewilderment. And when she nods, he looks utterly shocked and taken aback. "No," he says simply and harshly, no elaboration or explanation, but a sharp no. She waits a few moments for him to say something. Most people don't say no unless they want to continue. His expression hardens like molten lava, "Do you really think I'd tell you?"
"You don't have too." She's trying to be kind, but curiosity burns in her veins. Her mother always told her that was one of her downfalls.
"But you expect me too."
"You don't have too," she says again.
He sags against the wall and leans his head down pitifully. "I'm dead."
Madge huffs out air, "You don't look very dead."
"I might as well be." He grumbles. He grips his head in that moment, a moment full of pure distress. Despite the dirty ground, Madge kneels beside him.
"Let me help you."
"You can't!" he nearly yells. His eyes check both sides of the street again before looking back at her. She notices the boy's eyes are a wonderful shade of gray and it nearly takes her breath away looking at them.
They are so close together that Madge barely breathes, "Why not?" she asks and she swears she can feel his hot breath spread across her lips.
"It can't be fixed."
"Nothing is ever truly broken."
"No," he says, "but sometimes it cannot be used again."
She looks at him then, reallylooks at him. His cheeks are rosy and his gray eyes – despite beautiful – are dull and lifeless. His body sags against the wall and his hands rest uncomfortably against his stomach. It's like a pregnant woman holding her stomach, but he holds it like it hurts. Then it clicks, he's sick. He has cholera.
"You are sick."
"Thanks for stating the obvious."
"Come with me," she whispers, her lace gloved hand briefly touches his wrist.
He whips his head around so fast she fears she'll get whiplash from just watching it. "Trust me or I'll make it an executive order."
He follows, even though his mind screams no. His heart…his heart, maybe just a little, says yes.
…
"Madge! You cannot be serious!" her brother nearly screeches at her in the back room of the kitchen. "You brought him here!"
"Yes! Now will you quiet down a little before the chefs hear you! I cannothave mom finding out!"
Her brother's eyes bulge out of his head and he gives her the have-you-lost-your-mindlook. "Please!" she nearly begs him, "Just…Just keep it quiet! It's just for a few days!"
"Madge!" he says again.
"Daine!" she takes his arms in his hands, "You told me to interact with them."
He shakes his head, "I didn't mean bring them home with you! What's next, you going to invite him into your bed?"
She glares so hard at her brother, "Don't be silly. What do you think I am? A prostitute?" He says nothing and that's more hurtful than if he just said yes. Tear spring to her eyes and shakes her head. "I can't believe you, I just cannot believeyou." She says.
"Madge, you know I didn't mean it." He tries to mend his angry notion, "Your secret's safe with me."
"If it's not, don't think mom won't know about your black haired beauty within minutes."
…
"You'll be staying here, for the time being. I'm sorry it's not the best place, but it's the only place I know the palace staff won't go."
If they were going off Gale's opinion, his room is a palace within the palace. It is sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a small dresser, a washing bucket, and chair. The bed doesn't even have sheets on it yet. The stone walls emit a cool air that chills his fevered body to the bone. A chill runs up his back. They both pretend they don't see it.
"I will go get you bedding and clothing and be down as soon as possible."
It's silent for a long while. Gale stares at her. Her dress has crystals sown into the silk fabric, and it was clearly sown by a machine, not by worn out hands like Gale's. She stares at the ground and smoothens out her dress, and he feels like he should say something, but the words won't reach his tongue.
"Well I should go before mother starts questioning Daine about my whereabouts."
He nods and watches her walk out. He tries to force any word from his mouth but nothing comes. It isn't until she's probably forgotten him that he whispers, "Thank you."
…
Madge grips her hair as she sits on her bedroom floor, her dress fanned out around her. What does she have that a boy could plausible wear? And she sure as hell knows Daine won't let her borrow any of his clothes.
"Think, Madge, think."
"M'am?" her servant, Primrose, says as she enters the room, "Are you alright? Should I fetch a royal doctor?"
Madge drops her hands. "Oh goodness, no. I'm quite alright. I'm just at a loss of ideas."
"Anything I can help with, m'am?"
"Unless you can find me a pair of trousers and loose shirt, I don't believe you can." she laughs under her breath.
Prim stands there in silence for a moment, studying the frenzied princess. She kneels before the princess. "I could always borrow clothes from my sister's best friend and bring them to you."
Madge snaps her head up, "You would do that?"
"Anything for you, your highness." They stare at each other for a moment. "Are you planning on going out in disguise as a boy?"
"Something like that." Madge winks. "I can't involve you too much."
…
Gale takes a deep breath. If he can keep the vomit done, it will save him a lot of time and energy. He's already puked more than he wanted to today and the wash basin is already three-fourths of the way full from just this afternoon. He holds his stomach tightly as sweat rolls off his whole body into the thin mattress.
If he wasn't in so much pain, he would have left the palace already. He doesn't know what he was thinking in the first place! He has a familyat home that must be wondering where he is! And he lost out on another week's pay. How was his family supposed to survive? How were they going to buy food to feed the children? His mother's seamstress work wasn't very fruitful right now and they really relied on Gale's measly paycheck to pay rent and buy a few days rations.
His vision blurs as his stomach rolls again. His heart races in his chest to the point of being painful. He feels like he's been cast out to sea in the middle of the rainstorm. The waters are so turbulent they roll viciously through the open space, and the rain is so heavy that nothing is visibly, and he's soaking wet and cold.
He rolls to his side and releases the turbulent waves from his stomach, not even checking to see if he made it in the bucket. His body racks as his dispels the disease from his body. His vision is nearly black, with heavy spots moving before his eyes. He feels like his soul is leaving his body.
His stomach collapses in on itself, nothing left but phlegm and stomach acid to throw up. Every muscle in his body seizes with vigor. His can hear his labored breath heavy in his ears but he can't feel his body heaving for air. And he feels a weight settle first in his chest, slowing spreading throughout his whole body until it feels like hot stones sitting on him. He eyelids are like iron, dropping shut and so very heavy to open again. The coals burn his skin even more and the paths the sweat beats leave on his skin ignites a firework of pain.
And he still can't see.
And every moment the blackness consume him even more.
And every second that passes his wishes to see the Princess' full lips and almond shaped eyes framed with the longest lashes he had ever seen again.
…
"Stay here," Madge orders Prim. Madge had changed out of her dress into a simple loose white nightgown while Prim hurried back to the Seam to gather her sister's friend's clothes. "I'll be back. If anyone asks for me, tell them I'm bathing and must not be disturb."
"Yes, m'am. Would you like help changing?"
"No."
Madge slips through the nearest service staircase, hidden by secret doors all over the palace. She races down the stairs, her bare feet slapping on the pavement like raindrops on the cobblestone in a rainstorm. She slips through the corridors with ease, her feet remembering every twist and turn from all the times her and Daine played hide-and-seek as children.
One last corner and her hands slam against the door. The wooden door break practically rattles out it's weak frame, shaking open. She slips in and closes it softly behind her.
"I'm ba–" she stops short. Hanging half off of the bed in a puddle of his own vomit was the boy. He was mumbling under his breath some nonsense and his pupils, she could see as she approached him, are dilated. The black pupil almost completely covering the gray.
Her knees slam against the stone floor, not even feeling the cold seeping into her bones.
Against her better judgement, her grabs his sweaty face, pulling his delusional eyes toward her.
"Hey, hey, are you okay?" God, why is she even asking him that?
He moans a response.
Her heart beats rapidly in her chest. She can't move. All she can do is stare into his soulless eyes and cry. Her heart sinking in her chest.
What was she supposed to do now?
She was all alone with a sick boy she didn't know how to save.
…
White and gold swims in front of his eyes and a sweet melodic voice sings in his ear. His knows it's her voice, even though his vision is still blurry. This time his heart beats faster for other reasons than the cholera raging in his body. Her fingers are smooth against his rough skin. They feel like silk.
He can't hear what she's saying, but he tries to tell her, but only a moan slips passed his lips. He tries to focus on her face, but his eyes are miles and miles away from where his body lies.
Raindrops touch his skin, soft and slow at first, until it turns into a drizzle. How amazing is it that it rains inside the palace.
It isn't until one splashes against his lips and he tastes the salt that he realizes sometimes raindrops can be tears falling from someone else's clouds.
…
She drags his body back on the bed. His slick skin almost slipping pass her hands several times. She feels like time is an empty thing. It only fills the void when there's nothing else. It only runs out of sand too quickly when time is the most precious.
Time is indiscriminate.
Time does not care if there is a boy dying in the basement of the palace in the Princess' arms.
Time does not care if he lives or dies, or whether her heart breaks in two or not.
Time only gives you an unknown amount of seconds to do somethings with.
And Madge's allotted time to save him is so miniscule she could blink and it would have slipped between her fingers.
She can't blind. Not now. Not when she risked so much to bring him here, to save him.
She pushes his body against the wall and rushes from the room. She runs into the walls and falls up the stairs in her attempt to make it to anyone, to someone who could help. She knows she can't say anything, but she doesn't have a choice. She can't let him slip through her fingers.
"Prim!" she screams, "Prim!"
Her bedroom door opens before she's even halfway down the hallway. Prim's eyes are wide with fear and alarm, her hair tangled like she fell asleep.
"Prim, I need your help!"
Daine's door open across from Prim. He stumbles out, rubbing his eyes. "What is happening?"
"Come! Come! He's dying!"
Prim starts, her face slackening in despair, "Who?"
"Oh the sick boy from the slums she decided to bring home." Daine grumbles as they follow Madge down the hallway.
"He's not infected with cholera, is he?" Daine shoots her a look, "Oh dear," she whispers, "Let me grab supplies."
…
In and out. His vision wanes on blackness so dark his body shivers in fear.
In and out.
In and out. He can hear his exaggerated breathing shallow in his ears.
In and out.
He feels death approaching. The blackness is starting to take over his body. His skin feels cold, his tongue dry as a bone, his mind dull and void of thought, and the weight of his own bones are becoming too much.
In and out.
In and out.
…
"Oh dear," Dane whispers the second Madge pushes open the door. "Oh dear, god."
Tears stream down Madge's face. "Daine…" she whispers, "Daine…how do we save him?"
She watches him stare at the dying boy in the corner of the room. "I don't know if we can."
Madge creeps over to the bed and sits on it, gently reaching out for the boy's hand. Her thumbs rubs softly against his hand. She hopes he can feel her skin against his. If they really cannot save him, she wants him to know he did not pass alone, that he will not pass unknown like so many others who died in alleyways and river beds.
"What is his name? Did you ever find out?" Daine whispers, still hovering on the threshold, his hand covering his mouth.
"Gale," Prim says as she enters the room. "Oh my god, Gale," she whales.
She drops the medical supplies and bedding on the ground and rushes over to him. Her hands instantly go to his face, sliding down to his chest where she grips his soaking wet shirt. Her body bows over his. Seconds later, her body racks with sobs.
Madge and Daine look at each other.
"Gale?" Madge whispers, her hand tangling in Prim's locks.
Prims shifts to lean against Madge. She wipes at her eyes and nose before mustering up the finest of whispers, "I went to get his clothes from my sister tonight. She had said he didn't come home tonight. She never mentioned that he's infected," she sniffles, "What will his family do without him? They won't survive."
Madge's heart sinks in her chest. Here laid a boy that meant his family's survival. And he was dying.
The world was unfair.
Madge swallowed hard. "What do we do to cure him."
Prim sobbed harder. "This is no cure. Rarely do they live after the infection sets in."
"He's too far gone, isn't he?" Daine whispers? His skin is so ghostly white, he appears as if he might faint.
"More than likely, yes."
"No! No!" Everyone looks at Madge, "No, we must try. He cannot die."
"Madge…" Daine starts.
"Water…" Prim cuts him off, "Cholera rapidly dehydrates the body to the point of shock. Our only change is to rehydrate him as fast as possible. I also stole the antibiotics from the medical ward."
"Do you think it will work?"
"No," she sniffles, "But we must try."
Daine leaves the room to get pails of water and a glass. Prim goes with him to help, which leaves Madge to undress him and change his clothes.
For a lady of her standing, she is slightly scandalized to be removing a boy's clothes, especially in such a state. What if he does not want her to see his naked body? What if she had impure thoughts upon seeing his body? This was so unladylike.
He won't live if you don't, Madge.
So she tenderly went to work at his clothing, starting with his shirt. She slowly undoes the threading at the time to make neck wider and easier to pull over his head. Next she tugs at the bottom of the shirt, near his start of his pants, to untuck it from his trousers. Slowly, his skin begins to appear. His skin is darker than hers, tan as far as tan goes in London's cloudy atmosphere. Oh goodness, he has faint tan lines!
She could only imagine him in his backyard, wearing nothing from a skimpy undershirt. She could only imagine his looking up to the sun and wiping his brow as his skin soaked up the rays from the sunshine.
She gulps and eases the shirt over his head, using one arm to hug his body to her chest so his shoulders and head wouldn't get caught around the shirt. His head lolled back against her wrist, and she watches as his eyelashes brush against his cheekbones.
Next she undoes his shoes, throwing them careless onto the floor. She's surprised to find that he does adorn socks. And next his trousers. Her face heats as her fingers flick open the button. She moves quickly to his ankles, trying to tug them off as far away from his hips as possible, but it's all in vain. She has to roll his trousers down over his hips and around his butt before she can easily tug them off.
She stops short of pulling off his underwear. The white cotton is almost clear with sweat. Madge looks over to the pile of clothing Prim gave her earlier, on top laid a pair of underwear.
She takes a deep breath, clothes her eyes and tugs them off, she stares at his ankles as she rolls the new ones on. She lets out the breath she held and looks at the door. Oh how unladylike that just was. A Princess undressing a semiconscious man.
He groans and she nearly jumps from her spot on the bed.
Prim and Daine comes back with pails of water moments later and slowly but surely they pour water into his mouth. At first he throws up everything for hours and Madge's heart sinks in her chest. Eventually, he begins to hold it down, and Madge's finally starts slowing.
…
It seems like the solid black covering his eyes slowly turns to a dusting of gray spots blinding him. He feels the thin mattress under his body again and the coldness of the room seeping into his warm body. And he can hear the faint voices of three different whispers.
He opens his eyes to a dim, candle lit room. It takes a moment for his eyes to settle and when they do they land on the Princess. Her hand lays on his bare chest, but she's not looking at him. He grunts as he moves to sit up and she startles, a deep rose blush painting her cheeks.
"Oh goodness, I'm so sorry." She whispers.
Gale doesn't say anything. He just stares at her. Her blonde waves are flat against her face, and her dull blue eyes look even duller with exhaustion. But what surprises him the most is her attire. She wears a simple white shirt and a pair of dark brown trousers with something off about them.
She looks simple and poor in her outfit. It is built for someone like him, not someone as important as her. Yet, she wears the clothing like she shouldn't be in anythingbut that.
She sits down hurriedly when he reaches for his face. Her fingertips absentmindedly touching his cheeks, featherlight. Her blue eyes bore into his. "Are you alright? Are you feeling any better?"
He's too afraid to speak in fear that she'll remove her hands from his face. His skin tingles gloriously underneath her light touch. Eventually, he nods.
Her shoulders release their tension in relief and her hands drop to his collarbones. "I didn't think you would make it," she whispers.
She moves her hands to her lap, her fingers running over each other. He can feel her gaze on him, but he keeps his on her hands. She had long pianist hands that small marks like papercuts littering them. She wore a small silver ring in the shape of a star on her middle finger. His eyes trail up her arm, following the stitches in the trousers as he went.
That's when he spots it. The double stitch on every fourth stitch.
"I made those pants." He looks up at her. Her nose wrinkles slightly as her hands spread along the stitching.
"What?" she whispers.
He grabs her hand and traces her fingers along the stitching, pausing at every fourth stitch.
"The stitching is mine. The fourth stitch identified me. It's how they knew my count at the end of the day."
How did his pants end up in the royal household?
"I guess you were just supposed to be a part of my story, stitched together by the hand of fate."
He looks up, his hand still in hers. He feels her intertwine their hands together.
"Maybe so," he whispers, their faces so close together that their noses almost touch.
And there, in the basement of Buckingham Palace, two fates intertwine once and for all.
A/N: This started as a something I started a long time ago and found again and decided to finish! I'm pretty proud of it, if i do say so myself.
Leave a comment! I'd love to hear your thoughts about my first piece since April 2017! Phew! It's been far too long!
Enjoy!