Allergy
It smelt like Lavender, which meant Robert was home.
"Gross," Johnny muttered, wrinkling his face as he strode past countless suits of armor and countless switches all over the floor and walls that he knew to avoid. Walking through Robert's house, you had to skip a step now and then. Had to trip on nothing to avoid decapitation.
Fucking lavender, Johnny thought, slamming open the big study doors, face like a raisin as the smell got strongest, billowing around Robert's desk, a cloud of putrefying flora. Billowing around Robert and Oliver and Enrique, around all the Barthez kids.
Fuck, Johnny thought, bracing against the tangible steam from seven cups of aromatic tea. "God, gross!"
Johnny thought he could have prevented it, if he'd noticed the smell earlier. Noticed when it turned from one cup to two, two to three. Before the four Barthez kids had been sucked into this orgy of stupid.
They peered at him. Sipping. Sipping. Exhaling into the steam. Blowing it into his face.
"Are you okay?" Miguel asked mildly, maybe worried.
"Don't mind him," Robert answered, as Johnny opened his mouth (and then quickly shut it around a nauseating mouthful of lavender), "Culture makes him prune."