Once again, Rhy was talking and Holland was not listening. "You didn't know, but you didn't want treatment," or something like that. "Were you planning to just die?"
Kell is in love with you circled around his head, as if unable to settle. Kell's in love with you.
"What happened to brotherly loyalty," Holland found himself saying, more to interrupt Rhy and get, for a moment, a clear mind so that he might be able to make more sense of his upside-down world.
Rhy did stop talking, but he still appeared concerned, even frustrated with Holland's lack of response. "He wasn't trying to hide it. He was going to wear a white rose tonight, did he?"
Holland wanted to take a seat. He felt lightheaded, faint. "He wasn't trying…?"
Rhy made a disgruntled sound. "He's scheduled treatment for two weeks from now, unless you cure him, whichever comes first."
"What?" Holland's thoughts scattered like petals on the wind; he snatched at one. "He's going to remove his…" Love. It was love. That was how Heart Sickness worked, but Holland couldn't make his mouth produce the sounds necessary.
"If he dies," Rhy started, and didn't finish the sentence.
Holland swallowed. "Right."
Holland thought about Kell over the past few weeks: the coughing fit Kell burst into in Calla's tent, the way Kell's eyes would linger on him and pull away, as if he felt the same overwhelming magnetism that Holland did whenever he caught sight of Kell. He thought of Kell finding him on the balcony, white roses pinned to his lapel, and saying very carefully, I made the flowers myself. Holland had just thought… he didn't know what he had thought. That Kell meant he had arranged them together? The two flowers?
Holland thought of Kell now, waiting for the two weeks to end, wondering what it might feel like to remove your feelings for someone like Holland had: would it be seamless, would it hurt, would it have memory effects?
Somehow, Holland had entirely neglected to consider that Kell could… it wasn't a choice between treatment or death anymore. Three options: treatment. Death.
And Kell.
If death was even an option anymore.
Holland turned to Rhy. "Are there any negative effects of treating the sickness?"
Rhy's eyes were searching, but whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it, because he answered a simple, "No. Why?"
"If Kell gets treatment, he'll be fine," Holland clarified. If there were negative effects of treatment, he wouldn't be able to die in good conscience; he couldn't force Kell into treatment knowing he could cure Kell instead if there were risks. He thought dully that it was ridiculous he was even thinking halfway rationally.
"He'll be fine," Rhy confirmed, still eyeing Holland warily. "What are you trying to get at."
So. Holland could die, if he wanted to, in good conscience.
Kell, blue eyed, black eyed Kell, who wore the same extremely handy coat everywhere he went, who used magic carelessly and was always warm to the touch. Kell. Kell, who returned to White London, found Holland leaning against a tree and dissolving into the world around him, and dragged him back home, taking care of him like a half-dead stray cat.
Holland breathed.
"Rhy," Holland turned away, heading for the stairs. "Help me find your brother."
They parted ways: Rhy to search Kell's favorite spots in the palace—balconies, kitchens, his room, the throne room. Holland watched Rhy leave for a moment. A king, host of this entire celebration, wandering the halls of the castle alone in search of his brother as if Kell could not wait another moment. Kell deserved him, a brother as dedicated and devoted as this.
Holland steeled himself and re-entered the party in the courtyard, looking for a sharply cut black bob of hair.
"The tables have turned," Lila sneered when he asked. She lowered her arm a knife fell smoothly into her hand; it must've been up her sleeve. She evidently didn't plan on using it, but wished to remind him that she had one at her disposal and that they weren't friends by any stretch. "I thought he was off fetching you a drink?"
"That was too long ago, he should have gotten it to me by now."
Lila's lip curled. Another familiar expression of her's; she was yet another example of someone only Kell could melt—well, Kell and the one man Holland had killed without much thought. "You're fucking awful. He's not your servant. Just because he's willing to serve you—"
"It's a drink."
"Oh? I thought he was feeding you." Lila feigned interest, as if she had overheard this and wasn't sure she had gotten the facts right, but Holland knew this must be pulled from the letters Kell apparently sent her regularly.
But that was alright. Knowing Kell was in love with him dissolved nearly all of Holland's animosity towards Lila, though evidently the reverse was not true. Holland ignored her. "You don't know where he is, then."
"I didn't say that," Lila replied, a smirk playing at her lips. She was being deliberately difficult, but Holland hazarded a guess that she was bluffing; if she had truly known where Kell was, she would have told Holland for the singular purpose of flaunting her closeness with Kell.
Holland wondered if Lila knew about Kell's Heart Sickness. It didn't seem likely; she would have made some cutting remark about it by now if she did.
"Well, I'll leave you to think on whether you know," Holland returned dryly, and turned, eager to extract himself from the party. He hated it here: the crowds, the chatter, drunken laughter and increasingly inappropriate jokes the farther the attendees got into their drinks. Rhy might tease him for being allergic to fun, but Holland had always been able to retreat from the busy swarm of people with Kell after Kell had made an acceptable number of rounds.
Holland could tell when Kell needed a break from politically polite conversation, and when he caught sight of Kell's slightly pinched mouth, he'd hover at Kell's elbow, two plates in his hands, and offer one to Kell, inviting Kell to eat with him.
Together, they'd go…
Rhy emerged from the palace, Alucard beside him, and his eyes locked immediately on Holland, who was weaving his way through the people circling the dance floor.
"No luck," Rhy said apologetically when Holland came within earshot.
"That's alright. I think I know where to find him." Holland began to turn, and then he paused. He wanted to say thank you for Kell, but he knew the sentence made no sense. "Thank you for looking."
"Have fun with that uptight bastard," Alucard said before Rhy could respond. Rhy jabbed Alucard in the side, and Alucard shot Rhy a wounded look before continuing, "Maybe you can pull the sticks out of each other's asses."
Rhy jabbed Alucard again, and said, "Be careful with him. I can make the Dane twins look like the best time of your life."
Holland gave him a disbelieving look. "No, you can't."
"I can't die," Rhy said. "Ergo, I cannot lose."
Holland shook his head. The stomach-churning was happening again: hot, cold, his heart pounding so forcefully, he could feel it in his head. He turned and went to find Kell.
Kell was in the rose garden.
Holland had known he would find Kell here, and he spotted Kell's bright red hair immediately. The sight of him stopped the breath in Holland's throat. His feet stalled.
Kell was standing, his shoulders slumped just a little, the way he always stood when he thought no one was around, when he had no one to maintain his perfect posture for. On late nights with Holland, past dinner, with a couple drinks in his system, Kell had slouched a little in Holland's chairs and it was like opening a new window into Kell. As Holland watched, Kell shook out a handkerchief and white blossoms tumbled out of it, disappearing before they could touch the grass at Kell's feet. Then Kell folded the handkerchief, methodical and precise, as if he had gone through the very same motions a million times before, and slipped the handkerchief back in his pocket. Holland was suddenly highly aware of the handkerchief in his own pocket. He was familiar with the routine, too, so much so that when the back of his throat tickled or ached, he sometimes reflexively moved to reach into his pocket, before realizing he would have to wait until he was alone to let the flowers come up. If he hadn't had magic to clean it, how many blood stains would that handkerchief have?
Kell put both his hands in his pockets when he was done, and stood looking at the roses. The ground beneath the bushes was scattered with fallen rose petals, curled thinly in the sun, looking from a distance like a layer of pink snow. Each flower left behind a round, shining rose hip, looking incongruous at the end of a rose stem. The roses that hadn't fallen yet were fully bloomed and bigger than an open hand.
With the idle air of someone mildly bored, Kell reached out and sliced one of them about a foot below the blossom—he must have used magic—and held it by the stalk with his thumb and forefinger with one hand. With the other, he gently pulled the thorns off, one by one.
"Are you going to join me, or are you going to stand there staring?" Kell asked.
Holland jolted.
Kell turned and cocked his head slightly to one side. Blue. Black. A hint of a smirk, leaving Holland with that buzzing sensation again, terrifying and thrilling, an adrenaline rush. "Sorry about that drink."
"No, don't." Holland made his way down the garden path towards Kell, glad the shakiness he felt didn't make its way into his movements. His knees felt as though they shouldn't be able to hold his weight, but they did. "Are you alright?"
Kell dropped the last thorn into the grass and thumbed the little indent where the thorn grew out of, then, nonchalant, offered Holland the rose. It was so casual, it seemed less like an offering and more like he was simply passing the rose off to Holland. Then, he slipped his hands into his pockets again. And he said, "I'm fine. I had a little coughing episode, so I stepped away."
It appeared that Rhy was right; Kell was making no effort to conceal his sickness. Holland would have noticed if he had considered it would be in the realm of possibility for Kell to get Heart Sick, but Kell seemed impervious. He was too full of life.
Holland turned the rose twice. It was in full bloom, one of its outermost petals creased. It carried with it a very familiar scent. On impulse, he cut the stem shorter and tucked it into his chest pocket so the blossom nearly mirrored Kell's. He could feel Kell's gaze on him as he did this, and expected to look up to see Kell's eyes following the movements of his hands, but when he looked up, Kell's eyes were fixed on his face.
"Not bad," Kell said. "The red is a good match."
For a moment, Holland just drank Kell in—the intent focus in his mismatched eyes and the way his curls were falling just a little out of place from how he'd attempted to fix them for this event. He could see faint smile lines, and he knew where Kell was going to have creases from worried frowning, around his mouth and between his brows. Kell matched his stare as if it was a challenge, one eyebrow raising the slightest bit.
Holland tracked the faint rise and fall of Kell's chest and remembered to breathe. Then he said, "Would it kill you to say what you mean, just once?"
"Oh?" Again, the expression of gratification. Kell had been expecting this, or something along these lines—perhaps it wasn't even much of a stretch to suppose Kell may have been waiting for something along these lines. "Would it kill you to tell me what you're really thinking, just once?"
Oh, Sanct, Holland had forgotten the exhilaration that came with conversing with Kell when he was feeling clever. Holland let his breath out, shaky. "I'm thinking about talking to you about—this."
Kell's eyes widened a fraction, but so did his pleased smirk. "Are you?" he asked, mock-polite. "Please, by all means."
"Kell." Holland stepped closer, even though there was hardly any space between them to close. "Will you just, for once, say—"
"Holland. What do you want me to say?" Kell's smirk softened into something more like a smile. The mirth in his expression had melted, too, into something more like what Holland felt: hopeful. Uncertain. When he spoke, it was gentle. "I think you've already figured out what I mean."
Almost like an afterthought, Kell lifted his hands out of his pockets. They were close enough that when Kell brushed his fingers lightly against Holland's waist, his elbows stayed bent, nearly a right angle. Close enough that Kell had to look up, slightly, to meet Holland's gaze.
Sanct.
Holland swallowed. His throat hurt, but tellingly, there were no thorns digging into his flesh, or petals pressing up against the back of his mouth.
"What are you thinking about, then," Kell asked. His eyes were on Holland's. And then they flicked down, and back up again.
I'm wondering whether you knew I was sick for you this whole time, Holland thought. He said, "I'm wondering whether you knew I was sick for you this whole time."
Kell's face was closer. His hands were heavier on Holland's waist, more solid.
"That depends on how long it's been." Kell's wide smile spilled into his voice, unrestrained. Holland understood that look Kell sometimes gave him, the one of slightly stunned wonder.
Close enough now that Holland could feel Kell's breath.
"Alright," Holland said, to get Kell to stop talking.
Kell was murmuring, his hands curling into the fabric of Holland's suit jacket and pulling him. "I certainly knew it when we were getting fitted for these brilliant outfits."
"Kell," Holland said.
"But you know, I started to suspect when you found me in this garden. When I was eating dinner." Whispering, now, against Holland's jaw.
"Will you let me kiss you?"
That silenced Kell immediately. Holland could feel Kell's breath tremble. His own breath wasn't any better, and his hands were shaking, and he could feel his heartbeat pulsing in the tips of his fingers. There wasn't anything between Kell and Holland, hardly even air.
Kell's voice was uneven. "You're practically there already."
"Just fucking say what you actually—"
"Yes," said Kell.
So Holland drew Kell in the remaining centimeter and kissed him.
He meant for it to be soft and short, experimental. That was how it started, Kell's mouth soft against his own, his hands still shaking and wrapped loosely around Kell's biceps. He kissed Kell.
And then he kissed Kell some more, Kell's nose pressing into his cheek and his mouth tasting like blood and flowers and faintly of that sweet drink Holland had had one of earlier that evening.
And then he kissed Kell some more, his hands tightening around Kell's arms, Kell's chest pressed against his own and the roses on their suits unceremoniously crushed between them.
And then he kissed Kell some more, breathing heavily in between and going weak-kneed at the ease with which he breathed. His throat had cleared, and his lungs felt empty again, free, his chest light. He kissed Kell with his eyes closed and with his hands moving up to hold Kell's face in his palms and kiss him harder and then he kissed Kell some more.
And when he finally pulled away, Kell stared at him, flushed, and let go of Holland's suit jacket slowly, like he wasn't in full control of his fingers, or like he didn't really want to let Holland go, and said, "Well, I guess you've been saving that up for a while."
Holland smiled. And then he laughed.
When Rhy found them, just as the last of the guests were going home, giggling drunkenly in their sparkling clothes, he looked considerably peeved. The sky was a fully black, speckled with a scattering of bright stars, and it was undoubtedly past midnight. Even Rhy and Alucard seemed a bit tired, though Alucard was generally not the man to show it and Rhy appeared to genuinely never tire of parties.
"I almost regret accidentally saving your life," Rhy told Holland as Alucard and Kell stared each other down. "You understand that Kell has responsibilities?"
"Rhy," Kell chided. "Come on."
"Oh he speaks," Alucard said. "Now that everyone's gone home."
"Leave him, will you?" Rhy elbowed Alucard. "We're happy for him."
"We?"
Kell's brow had furrowed, and he interrupted this exchange to ask Rhy, "What do you mean, accidentally saving his life?"
Rhy looked at Holland. Holland looked at Rhy. Then he looked at Kell.
"Nothing," he said, "doesn't matter anymore." And then to Rhy, "I don't think you did, actually. I would have."
Rhy gave him a nod, and Holland returned it.
"I'll tell you another time," Holland promised Kell. "Perhaps if you join me for dinner tomorrow?"
Kell's face split into another of those world-stopping smiles. "I always do."
"Okay," Alucard said, looking disturbed. "We don't need to be here, Rhy."
"No, you don't really," Kell agreed.
Alucard turned pointedly to Holland. "The stick has not been removed from up his ass."
"Sorry about that," Kell said pleasantly, "There's plenty of time."
"Please stop." Rhy's expression was rapidly becoming disturbed as well. "I came by to tell you it's over, you can leave now—although evidently you effectively have—and that you're welcome to look at the agreement Arnes has written with the Queen of Makt."
Holland drew in a breath. "Where?"
"The map room." Rhy eyed them both, and then added with amusement, "And if you'd pitch in with the clean up, it would be appreciated, seeing as you are the two most powerful magicians in all the worlds."
Holland looked at Rhy because he couldn't look at Kell and continue on competently, but when Rhy and Alucard retired a moment later, he had nowhere else to look. Kell was already looking at him, his blue eye bright.
"Shall we go see?" Kell's head tipped to the side. It struck Holland, the way he knew instantly what Holland wanted, and how seamlessly he had used we.
He imagined Kell beside him, bent over the agreement that Rhy had drawn up with his Queen, recalling Rhy's passing comment about "working on" rejuvenating White London's magic and found he wasn't afraid for his world. The world wasn't going to come alive in the blink of an eye, and Red London had to look out for her own interests as well, but Holland knew Rhy to be a generous person and Kell to be a righteous force and his Queen to be a ruthless negotiator.
He nodded at Kell.
As if reading his mind, Kell said, "I expect it to be good."
Holland must not have noticed the gradual change of Kell's voice, but now it was evident: it had gotten raspier, scratchier, over the past handful of months, as if thorns had been slowly shredding his throat. He noticed only now, when Kell's voice came smooth and clear.
Holland placed a hand on his chest and breathed in. It was as easy as magic.