Present
Holland clenched his hand tight for a second, letting the sharp pain fade into a dull throb, before standing smoothly. He flicked his hand idly and watched the soil fade and dissolve before his eyes, until his clothes held no trace of this little episode.
His episodes were increasing in frequency lately. He thought disinterestedly as he strode back to the palace that this was not a good sign. Neither was the fact that the thorns had climbed their way halfway up his throat.
Someone was stepping out into the gardens "Hello."
If Holland, sallow and draped in white, was antithetical to Red London, brimming with life and color, Kell Maresh was the—well, Holland supposed, the thesis. The brilliant, imposing castle, full of life and power, cut an angular shape of red and white against the rich blue sky.
Kell Maresh had the same effect in miniature. His red coat and hair and his pale skin made him stand out against the browns and greens of the royal gardens as he came wandering toward Holland. Kell looked bright-eyed and solemn-mouthed as ever, if a little tired.
Holland, now standing, clasped his hands behind his back so he couldn't follow through on the urge to reach out and smooth a stray curl that fell over Kell's forehead—not because it looked bad (it didn't), but because—
Holland cleared his throat once, tasting blood. When he spoke, his voice still scraped against his throat, rasping. "Kell." He watched Kell approach with what he hoped was an off-putting stare.
"Good morning," Kell said, with a dry sort of tone that invited Holland to participate in some self-deprecating joke Holland hadn't quite grasped. He suspected it was related to Holland's evident disinterest in engaging with Kell.
Rhy had once made a passing jest about Holland's "perpetual sullen scowl." Kell's continued social engagement with Holland, then, had become a sort of in-joke Holland was supposed to be privy to.
"Morning." Holland blinked expressionlessly at Kell, and looked away, towards the castle, as if losing interest in the conversation. Pretending to be internally preoccupied with something else could sometimes be effective with Kell, because Kell had little desire to be the less powerful player in a social game. He didn't like to compete for someone else's attention; he preferred someone else trying to get his.
Unfortunately for Kell, Holland was not a good place to seek this out. Mostly, Holland just wanted Kell to leave him alone.
"You're not wearing that to the festivities tonight?" One half of Kell's mouth twisted up, a friendly, incredulous question. Again, Kell didn't mean You're not wearing that to the festivities tonight? He knew the answer was no, of course Holland was not going to wear his simple, everyday white pants and white button-down to the biggest celebration held since—since everything. Kell meant come on, talk with me.
Kell turned slightly, back towards the castle, but didn't start walking. His gaze rested on Holland's face, entirely undisturbed by Holland's lack of engagement, expectant.
With an internal sigh of defeat, Holland fell into step with Kell.
Behind his back, he twisted his fingers together.
Mostly, Holland wanted to want Kell to leave him alone.
Past"How are you?" Kell, coming to sit by Holland on Holland's bed with a breakfast tray.
Holland sighs, partly because he feels like sighing, but partly for Kell's benefit. Some part of him wonders how aggressively he has to show he doesn't want Kell hanging around him until Kell gives up on him. He also thinks that he will give up before Kell does. He wonders if it's worth trying, just so he can tell himself he tried.
Without meaning to, Holland assesses his own appearance as best he can remember it without a mirror: he's gotten dressed in his usual whites, he's shaved, his hair has been straightened out. He wonders if Kell can smell the aftershave on him, if the front of his shirt is wrinkled. He straightens as he accepts the tray and then keeps his posture straight.
"Don't you have servants to cart around food?" Holland asks pointedly.
He picks up his metal fork and tries to feel hungry. It's palace food, and it looks good, it smells good. Some spiced cider-like drink, steaming in a mug and two moist slices of bread speckled inside with nuts and golden fruit, a pat of butter. A boiled egg in a cup, a dish of what seems to be savory breakfast pudding.
He's not hungry, though. Kell knows this. Kell has been bringing all his meals personally, no matter how many times Holland hints that Kell's getting nowhere.
"I wanted to check up on you." Kell's answer never changes. He's predictable, comfortingly so.
He's wearing his same well-loved coat, his lapels smoothed, his white shirt pressed crisply underneath, tucked into the waistband of black pants. Just like always.
Holland doesn't feel the need to say what's really running through his mind whenever Kell knocks on his door with his elbow and steps in with a tray full of food. That the moment when he was almost dead in the barren grove of trees in White London, with no one laying claim to his mind, his heart, his time, his life, filled him with relief more than sadness. That being devoid of a future felt… freeing.
Instead, he always says something else.
"How well do you expect me to be doing, with hardly a drop of magic in my veins," Holland responds, his tone not entirely kind.
Kell's eyes fix on his face for a moment longer than is comfortable, his gaze even. The tray is still between them on the bed, the fork uselessly resting in Holland's hand. He presses his lips together, thinking about something.
Holland doesn't want to know what it is, if it means Kell is appraising him like this. "What," he says flatly.
Kell responds by grasping Holland's hand in his own, firmly, and before Holland even has the time to draw a breath, Kell is unleashing another torrent of power into Holland's palms. Holland reveles in the sweet taste of a surplus of magic, the electric feel of it running through his body. He suppresses a noise in his throat, but can't stop the hitch in his breath or the tightening of his hands around Kell's. When he catches Kell's eyes, fiercely blue and black, his whole body feels tight. His heart pulses in his throat.
For a moment.
Then he lets go and presses Kell's hands against Kell's chest, shaken.
"Don't make me your pet project," he says. "Your next 'do good' mission."
The fun thing about Kell is that when struck, he strikes back. Unfailably. He has a streak of self-righteousness, and dragging it out gives Holland some sick sort of pleasure.
There it is: the flash in Kell's eyes. The lift of his chin. The hardening of his expression. "Sorry about that," he says bitingly, "I thought you might appreciate being treated kindly for once in your life. If you'd rather I treat you like the Danes treated you, all you had to do was ask."
Another bout of morbid curiosity spawns a dark imagining: blood oaths carved into Holland's skin, binding him in servitude again, to Kell this time. Pain pulling his magic like puppet strings, Kell cupping his chin, forcing him to look up, but Kell's nails are sharp and his smile is cruel. Holland shaking, forcing himself to stop, Holland bursting into White London with a clean knife and leaving with a bloody one.
And then he imagines the grove again, bare branches scraping gently against each other overhead. The overwhelming feeling of letting go, of being done, of knowing he will never have to suffer again.
"Leave," Holland manages.
"Shall I just leave the breakfast here, then?" Kell says this with a mocking, ironic tone. Underneath it, Holland can tell Kell is slightly sorry, vaguely aware he's crossed a line.
Yes. Holland is actually hungry, for once. The magic has given life to a ravenous appetite. "I don't want it."
Kell turns and leaves without shutting the door.
Holland lies back on the bed, fully dressed, and stares at the ceiling, wondering if Kell is going to stop bringing Holland meals. A small feeling of victory creeps up on him at that idea, but tangled with it is another feeling, hard to identify. It's bitter, it's anxious, curling in knots in his stomach like an invasive vine.
What if Kell actually doesn't come back? What if Kell actually stays away? Kell is hard to win over once he's decided he has a grudge, and Holland doesn't know if he has it in him to win Kell over.
It hits him suddenly, like a blow, that he'll miss Kell. He'll miss Kell… a lot.
He's aware, to some degree, that he's being dramatic and it's not certain that Kell is even permanently offended. He's even sure Kell was sorry, himself, some significant amount.
But Holland would miss Kell, he'd miss him.
The anxious, bitter vine in his stomach seems to curl tighter, climbs up his chest inside him.
Later that night, clutching his stomach and the side of the sink, he coughs up a rose the exact shade of Kell's peculiar coat.