Vacillation (1x1 Mamoru and Avery)

Avery

Tipple-Tossing Tatterdemalion
The garden had become something of a motley panoply of flora over the last ten years, the late Van Haver assured as much. In favor of a more eastern style, the flower beds were dug up and replaced with blossoming trees, rocks hauled in to make winnowing paths ‘round, and mirrors installed to engender capacious depth. All an illusion to give the enclosure a sense of yawning, tamed wilderness. Meditative, Edmund recalled, though he never felt as much there.

Despite efforts to thoroughly deracinate the western flora, some prevailed. The daffodils seemed especially tenacious, popping among feathery peonies and lazing in the wisteria shade. That was, when the wisteria was in bloom, they did. It was still too early in the spring to relish the weighty burden of their pulchritude. But not so for the magnolias, wintersweet, and merciful forsythia.

Every benediction and blessing to that yellow, riotous shrub. It allowed for a modicum of privacy in the northern corner, fortunately away from the late Van Haver’s “exotic” carrion flowers. Fat, leathery bastards thrumming with flies. Their fetid scent was almost forgivable compared to the company they attracted.

So, in that northern nook, beneath the dappled shade of a magnolia tree, Edmund began setting the table. Tea for one. For Oliver. A single cup juxtaposed by a tiered tray, surfeit with noon-time edibles. Edmund fingered them. For quality, of course.

The bread of the cucumber sandwiches felt stale, or was rustic bread in fashion now? The tartlet crust seemed a touch undercooked, too wet in the middle, as Edmund discovered, popping one in his mouth and rearranging the rest to hide the absence. The fig pastry, with honey and mascarpone, he didn’t even bother with.

The pantry had figs coming out the ass, and yet, in a few weeks, Peter would be out, paintbrush in hand, pollinating the fig trees for, what else- more figs. Bless Agnes for hiding them in everything so well.

Edmund checked the tea pot, wondering if she had the audacity to drop one in for good measure. She hadn’t and he helped himself to a cup. Fingers crabbed around the lip, he threw it back like plebeian liquor. No point savoring something one can’t taste the subtleties of. And never mind how much time he’d wasted.

Oliver would be ready soon. It was time Edmund went to him. He wiped down the cup, returned it to its saucer, and folded the napkin so as to hide the faint, damp spot. Everything was set, imperfect, but set. And… he tarried.

Something in his nerves, something ineffable between anxious and eager. Edmund scoffed it up to uncertainty. He was fumbling to follow through with his original plan, to propitiate the royal. Everything came to founder on a poignant desire to be genuine, the quixotic notion that maybe-

He needed to go. There wasn’t time. Edmund forced his mind present and left to wait for Oliver, to escort him to the garden. Vacillation be damned.
 
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Today was another day for the usual tea time Oliver set aside for himself during his now tiresome, stressful days. It was nice to have a break in between the constant thinking, doing, reading, and existing in general of his life. The tranquility it gave him out in the gardens, needing only to take solace in his butler, Edmund, and his presence. The sweet smells of the flowers and stillness of the gardens added to the effect.

Currently, he was in his study, reading through the pile of letters he had received over the past few days. Invitations to balls, letters of complaints, requests for this and that that were not his responsibility .... plus genuine letters from his royal guard about various matters and updates. He hated how much reading was involved in this. But all letters adressed personally to him must be read by him and him alone unless he stated otherwise. And for safety of his privacy and in case of any sensitive documents, even written in code, would have to stay for his eyes only.

Thus making his life harder, but perhaps safer. Wether or not this measure event amounted to anything, Oliver didn't know. But he was stuck with it anyways.

He opened one last letter, sealed with a wax emblem of one of the nobles, stuck inside an envelope of scarlet red. Slipping the crisp, light yellow paper and unfolding it, he read the letter, delightfully concise and straight to the point. A request to attend a daughter's wedding. He wasn't surprised he got this offer, but he didn't get it often. But the man who sent it was one he trusted a bit more than anyone else, and he seemed genuine in his efforts to befriend Oliver. The two had known each other since Oliver was younger, as well. This request wasn't surprising, coming from him.

He folded the letter back up and slipped it into its envelope home. Then it, and all other letters he opened and read today, were slipped into a drawer of his desk and hidden under a wooden box filled with caligraphy tools. It was about time to close up shop, at least temporarily. It would be nice getting fresh air again, to smell the flowers. Plus the calming presence of Edmund. Recently, he and his butler had been getting friendlier in comparison to what is the norm. Oliver assumed it was because he set up and started these 'private' meetings between them. But even so if was supposed to be a little out the norm, maybe...

No. That train of thought could spiral out of control later. He didn't want to leave Edmund waiting.

Oliver recalled the letters and decided he could respond to the letters later. At least after his tea time, he would continue his duties. He stood and walked around his desk, walking to the door of his study to begin walking to his room where he assumed Edmund would be waiting, before a knock, sharp and with two clicks, sounded. Already on his way to the door, he made it there fast and opened it just as quickly. Edmund stood in the doorway. He gave him a small, polite smile.

"Was just about to find you, Edmund." Oliver greeted. Edmund stepped aside, and Oliver exited the room, closing the door behind him. The two then went on their way to the gardens.

"Edmund, tell me. Any new gossip among the maids and servants you've happened to overhear recently?" Oliver inquired, giving him a sideways glance.
 
Like a pet upon hearing their master return, a child upon learning a confection had cooled, or a lover on seeing their soldier home... or... or nothing at all. Just fiction spun in the beat between greetings. Their meeting was scheduled and Oliver punctual. Edmund tacitly reproached himself for thinking, for even a moment, that it were otherwise. And for exaggerating it, flagrantly.

With an imperceptible bow of his head, Edmund returned the smile with his own, naturally terse and derisive. He made to keep pace slightly ahead of Oliver as they walked. Subtly leading, subtly apart. Enough to keep their eyes from meeting in full.

"As you know my lord, a gentleman doesn't engage in such drivel or eavesdrop." His lip quirked in conspiratorial delight. "Lucky for us, I'm a man of flexible integrity. Marta, the head maid, is a nettlesome quidnunc, and asks frequently what transpires while I alone attend to you. Naturally, having your privacy in mind, I tell her you're still in a phase of laconic mourning. The gratuitous security around here is more problematic.

"As you know, we lesser beings, lacking the probity and erudition of our noble betters, are prone to canard. The most recent being that your father's passing was in direct relation to foul play. This has not only stung the pride of some of your dutiful bodyguards, but has also stirred them to question why you spend time alone with but a butler and not a bodyguard. So I thought to point out the I provide service, while they stand about like dullards." Edmund's lips pressed to a thin line in remembrance. "Didn't go too well that."

With a flourish, he opened the door through which Oliver could pass into the garden.
 
Oliver raised an inquisitive eyebrow. The gossip Edmund passed onto him went a turn he didn't expect, and his slight smile of enjoyment flickered a bit at the mention of his late father. He was glad for the short amount of distance between them, making this falter perhaps go unnoticed by Edmund. Oliver cleared his throat as he walked through the door, murmuring a soft 'thank you' to him for doing so. There was no way Oliver could've missed the flourish Edmund added to the simple act of opening a door. Perhaps he was showing off? The ends of his lips moved upward a bit more at noticing that little thing.

"Good to know you have no fear in showing whose boss among all the other servants and maids," Oliver replied. "Though I should warn you not too get too cocky. I know Marta is prone to trying and sabotage those she doesn't like. I saw her spit into a younger maid's soup because the poor girl simply caught my attention more than she could," Oliver mused, a soft chuckle following his words. "If you taste something a bit... watery in your food, know it was Marta."

The two followed the lightly winding stone path that lead to the entrance of the gardens, Edmund still slightly ahead of Oliver, leading the way. Oliver clasped his hands behind his back, looking Edmund over out of mere interest. A small piece of hair was sticking up in the back of his head.

"Before you knocked on my door," Oliver began, pausing for a short moment as his eyes caught sight of the daffodils still stubbornly growing like a weed in one part of the garden. "I read a letter from one of the dearest nobles, Johannsen. He requested I go to his daughter's wedding, and should I go, you should be aware that you will be attending with me. I trust you, and you're less suspicious than a body guard. Don't want Johannsen thinking he might ambush me at his daughter's wedding." Oliver avoided slipping in the fact that he felt extremely more comfortable around Edmund's presence; his numerous bodyguards were too stiff in nature, never wanting to engage in interesting conversation like Edmund did.
 
Were there not such a disparity between their statuses, Edmund may have corrected Oliver. May have put his abject nature center stage. Even if Oliver was teasing in badinage, the temptation was there. Edmund wasn't anyone's boss. He was a carping, abasing shit who wanted everyone to be just a little more miserable. Like he was. Maybe that was why he didn't mind the thought of Marta adding flavor to a dish, even if it were his own. Vulgar as it was, he could sympathize with it. Never mind that his sense of taste was all but dead from astringent libations.

As Oliver slipped from Edmund's periphery, he turned on his heel to keep eye. What he heard nearly left him nonplus. "You want me to be your retainer for a wedding?" he asked rhetorically, incredulous. "It's an honor, yes. Those in my position are rarely granted leave from the estate but you must... certainly you-" Edmund couldn't grasp why, couldn't understand an intent that wasn't malicious. He faltered. "If I may speak colloquially, the staff'll fuck me over for such. They abhor favoritism. And the guards already hate me because-"

I trust you.
Edmund halted as the delay finally hit him. Trust. That was auspicious, in his favor, an in spite of all the wrong he'd done Oliver. From things as petty as drinking from his cup to out right theft. But what sort and degree of trust? What would Oliver do for him if asked? And that was if Oliver was being honest. Shit. He could protect Edmund from the repercussions of attending the wedding, but only if the trust were true. He needed to know. And perhaps more importantly, he wanted to know. If he could garner some insurance...

"My apologies. Know that any cavil I utter is out of self-preservation." Edmund smiled ruefully. "Your word is law here. Pardon my rudeness. Tea?" he gestured deeper into the garden. "Before it gets cold."
 
Oliver couldn't miss the two times Edmund faltered in his responses to him. Maybe he did so as he realized how inappropriate his tone was, or something else entirely, it certainly was hard to miss the hesitation in his voice. Oliver raised an eyebrow, but decided not to press the matter. He didn't want to excersize his power in order to get information he was curious about. He wanted everyone working under him to have some sort of freedom to their own thoughts and opinions. It felt wrong to him to have things be as if he were a dictator to everyone in his own home.

"I just want a simple yes or no, Edmund. I'm not forcing you to attend because I merely want and asked you to. And if the hatred of the staff is too much for you to handle, don't come with me to the wedding," Oliver simply replied, heading farther into the garden. He was now partially leading the way, used to where Edmund chose to set up the tea set for this meetings. It was in a secluded corner of the garden that few rarely would ever go by. Oliver was aware that the gardeners didn't work today, too, so there wasn't a need to be more quiet than usual. Caution still needed to be practiced, however.

Oliver found the tea set, set up as it usually was. He sat down with the practiced grace of a ruler, waiting for Edmund to follow suit in taking a seat before picking up his tea cup and taking a short sip.

"Do not hesitate to speak your mind about matters, either. We're in private, so you don't need to keep up formality if you do not wish to," Oliver added after his sip. It was indeed a bit too lukewarm for his liking, but it was more than likely due to the slow pace they took getting to the gardens.
 
"Where are we without our formalities?" Edmund huffed rhetorically, dropping into a chair opposite. Despite wanting to speak with candor, it was easier to play a role, to just be the butler. And an impersonable one at that. If he were genuine, he would, in all likelihood, lose favor with Oliver. Edmund's relations with the staff substantiated as much. Affable he wasn't. But... perhaps that was what took Oliver's interest. Someone a touch acerbic and cruelly honest to contrast the suffocating adulation he received by nature of his position.

Edmund crossed his arms thoughtfully. "My attending the wedding isn't quite simple. Yes, I'd like to, but no I wouldn't like to be snuffed in my sleep upon return. It's not the staff's odium that leaves me hesitant. It's what that hate would compel them to do. As you know, the servants' quarters are shared. If I could perhaps..." he gestured vaguely, drawing out the thought. "Say, have my own quarters so as to assure myself safety and privacy for sleep and ablutions. Why, then I don't see how I could tell you no!" He grinned, raising his brows in exaggerated affect. He knew it was an outrageous request and so kept his tone and expression in that of jest.

But what if Oliver really did grant the request? Just how deep could Edmund probe his generosity before getting bit.
 
Oliver took another sip of his tea, getting used to the lack of warmth it gave him. It at least gave him incentive to try and down it quickly than take his time with it, as he usually would.

The request sounded outlandish and it was because it damn well was. Oliver's eyes widened a bit, looking up from his tea to make eye contact with Edmund. Giving Edmund his own quarters would certainly end the tense relationships he seemed to have with the other staff members of the castle, and would make him more readily available... And it would guarantee Edmund accompanying him to the wedding. Oliver looked back down to the tea cup, thinking it over. There was a possibility Edmund was just being jovial and was merely joking around, not seeking to actually have his own private quarters. This was supported by the fact that he was literally requesting it in such a joking manner. Oliver narrowed his eyes slightly and he put the teacup down.

"I must say, it is tempting to follow through with that request, especially if it fixes the problems you seem to be having with the staff, but..." Oliver made eye contact once more. "There must be some other way. Should I grant you your own room, I'd think that relations would end up worse, and it would make the staff suspicious that we are something... more. I'm sure you can understand my hesitations,"
 
"Temptation is the soul without restraint. Our purest self. You'd deny us both in rejecting it." Edmund teased. He held Oliver's gaze, half smiling, a cat-playful crease to his eyes. The air between them felt thick as honey and just as sweet. Edmund's nerves were electric, waiting, anticipating. The swell in his chest nearly caught his breath. He looked aside.

Edmund's smile faded, more rueful now, self-reproving. "You're not wrong in predicting the fuss it would make." he sighed sharply. "They would suspect something and doubtless interrogate me about it. My newly implied importance may spare me some physical abuses, as they wouldn't want to risk your ire. Wouldn't net me any friends either." he laughed tersely, before adding, "Not that I need any. The one at greater risk, should you choose to provide me quarters, is you, Oliver. My safety is negligible compared to your reputation. If granting me concessions puts you at risk of being traduced, well-" Edmund smiled bitterly, "I suppose we'll forgo them."

But where did that leave them about attending the wedding? Knowing he was in a position to gain something, Edmund didn't want to assent empty handed. He needed to think, yet his mind was torpid. Oliver was too closer, the table not enough distance. Or was it too much? Edmund felt too present to plan far enough ahead and truly avail the opportunity he had before him. This was no longer vacillation. One desire was now actively impeding the other.

Fuck.
 
Once more the shifts in Edmund's reactions and replies never went unnoticed. Oliver found it a bit odd, how perceptive he grew to be with Edmund. With even his father, he wasn't so openly able to tell when things disappointed him, or when things were interesting and so on and so fourth. But with Edmund, it seemed that he somewhat wore his heart on his sleeve, or Oliver was just so used to how Edmund projected himself to be. Oliver was hesitant this time around on if he should comment on it. If Oliver trusts him, they should be able to talk openly about their feelings, right?

...But should Oliver do that, he might create a relationship that he wants to avoid rumors being created about. But at this point, Oliver had to ask: was he trying to stop the rumors for the sake of his public image or was he stopping himself from furthering he and Edmund's relationship out of protecting himself?

Oliver cleared his throat softly. He wasn't sure how to reply. It was clear that Edmund was still insistent upon keeping Oliver's opinion over all, as his word was law after all, but it still felt wrong excersizing that stupid power. He just wanted Edmund to tell him what he wanted out of all of this. He wants to attend the wedding with Oliver, but it was up to Oliver on if he should go and that stupid living quarters bullshit.

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. "Be honest with me. No formalities, no putting my opinion and thoughts above else, Edmund." He closed his eyes for a brief second before meeting Edmund's eyes once more. "Do you think I should throw caution to the wind, let the rumors be created, just so you can attend the wedding with me? Just so you can be close to me as you have been for a while?"
 
Edmund scoffed, incredulous. He looked off into the garden, past it, empty. "Now who's writing rumors." he chided softly. Be close to me as you have been for awhile... Edmund knew what Oliver was mentioning, but he'd thought their affinity was factitious, too one sided to be true. Which side though. Edmund thought himself the mendacious half, but was hesitant to trust or exploit Oliver. An inopportune time to discover he was conscionable, at the very least.

"You have awful diction by the way." Edmund sighed good-naturedly, turning back to face Oliver. "Just so you" he echoed, punctuating it with a bark of laughter. "We know I'm a selfish bastard. Needn't rub it in any." He tired to smile, but it thinned. His expression blank, distant. Edmund looked absently at the tartlets. "If I were a caring, loyal citizen and servant of this country, I'd exhort you to drop this nonsense all together... But I'm not." he plucked a confection, and, held between forefinger and thumb, began to tilt it like a gem, watching the sun glint over its wet sweetness. "In fact, I don't give a damn beyond my self interest. And when I give it thought, I have little to lose. The staff can treat me little worse, and if I end up fired or executed I say it'd be a long time coming. So, if you want my honest opinion, well... Then, I think you should give me a room and take advantage of any libations dear Johannsen has to offer with me."

Edmund punctuated his statement by tossing the tartlet in his mouth, and snapping the excess sugar from his fingers. He felt he'd made himself clear. Oliver would still have the final say, whether to make reality of Edmund's wishes or not. That was his burden. Oliver represented more than a person. His reputation was more than his name, but the names of many others as well. If he wanted to risk it, Edmund was accomplice.
 
Oliver's mouth was a thin line, the ends tilted downward just enough to be considered a small frown. It's not like the reply he received wasn't one he expected, it was more of it not meeting his expectations. Perhaps that's simply just how Edmund was -- he never wanted to break what previous interactions proved to be true. Everything was left to Oliver's choice once more. He realized that it was silly to think that it'd end up any other way, really. He was the one in control of a stupid room at this point. Oliver let out a short huff.

Oliver toyed with the idea of denying the room and thus denying Edmund's presence at the wedding with him, just out of pure spite, to see if that would surprise Edmund. But at this point, Oliver didn't know what he wanted to do or should do. He had no council but his own to deliberate to. Oliver looked back at his forgotten tea, no doubt cold and stale in taste at this point.

"Nice to know my trust lies in a selfish bastard, as you so eloquently put it. I'll tell you my answer to this whole mess of a situation tomorrow." Oliver finalized, knowing the extra time to mull things over would be best. He didn't want his emotions and affection toward Edmund to cloud his better judgement.

"Are the tartlets any good? You put on quite a show eating one just now," Oliver teased softly.
 
That Oliver delayed his answer was vexing. All the fuss and teeth-pulling culminating to tomorrow. Though Edmund couldn't fault him for it, was only pragmatic after all. He felt a bit cheated for having to supply his own answer so immediately upon hearing of the wedding, but in hindsight, Edmund supposed he walked into it. Beneath it all, in the dregs, an acidic precipitant of their talk, Edmund felt a vein of fear wriggling awake. Oliver's delay may be a result of offense. Edmund could have crossed the line and given umbrage, made a request too strong before having tested the waters. If only their topic had been lighter. For all his show, Edmund still doubted Oliver would spoil him.

"The tartlets are palatable." he reviewed tepidly. "The second's no better than the first." A comment he instantly regretted, his face wincing marginally as he noted the unintentional confession. "Wanted to test everything before you indulged yourself. For poison, of course." Edmund jested. "Wouldn't want you dropping dead in my care. Think of the stories then."
 
"Hm? And when exactly did you become a royal food tester?" Oliver joked, sitting back in his seat, arms crossed across his chest. The sudden tone shift was a nice change in the atmosphere that had been culminating. "If anything, at this point, you're the royal 'selfish bastard'." Oliver added with a small chuckle.

Oliver decided to give a tartlet a taste. He leaned forward and gingerly picked one up, making an elegant show of eating one as delicately as humanly possible, feeling like he was being an obnoxious show off even by his own standards. He even wiped the corners of his mouth clean of non-existent crumbs with his handkerchief and with flourish, folded it back up and put it on the table, smoothing out any creases that may have formed.

"Yes. Palatable indeed."
 
Such display of haughty grace, it stirred a feeling of visceral obligation, to vitiate, bind and lust-bruise. A pauper's discipline for being too clean. The peccant bringing the impeccable to level. To evoke something base and human. Feel their skin cling, sweat-tacky and searing. Edmund smirked inwardly at himself. Depraved or deprived, he felt perhaps both. To be taken with someone so socially untouchable, fate was cruel, but richly imaginative.

"I suppose one could euphemistically call me pragmatic." Edmund suggested, "Though it doesn't quite have the vernacular charm of selfish bastard." It was, however, still infinitely better than the epithets his coworkers used for him. Looking from Oliver to his neglected tea, Edmund confessed, "My taste isn't that of a gourmand, in fact I'd call my taste poor, but that would diminish my liking of you." He half-smiled.

A breeze stirred the forsythia, their susurrous like a gentle warning. Edmund looked to Oliver. "Best we not dally."

* * *​
Sleep had been elusive for Edmund, not that his had even been sound. The servant's quarters had that effect. Cramped and communal, they slept like dogs. All bones and angles, knees and elbows, backs curling in fruitless effort to steal precious space. Never mind Harry's snoring, so resonant it could rival a cow's bellow. And the ubiquitous smell of someone.

Those aspects became tolerable over the years. It was thought that dogged Edmund's sleep. Or dare he say, quixotic hopes that were more attainable than he gave credence. There was chance he could better his living. And he felt he had royally fucked it. Worse yet, Edmund hated how hopeful he was, felt he was about to be let down hard, strung along as a lark for some stultifying crescendo... And yet he had his hopes up.

Edmund huffed, nearly extinguishing his candle. The waiting was absolutely sadistic. He hadn't felt such impatience since he was a child, and even then it hadn't the poignant undertow of just hurt me and get it over with. Neither did it interfere with his work as it did now, not that his present task required meticulous focus.

Linens had been misplaced. As the warmer weather became steady, wools were exchanged for lighter fabrics, another season of ceaseless ironing in swing. Marta had insisted that blues were in fashion, congruous to the discovery of some exotic flora. Never mind that the sets she had in mind were not in the linen closet, but instead mis-stored elsewhere. We couldn't just order new ones, or say, settle for a differing shade. No, no. Edmund could spend his lunch searching the western storage for it.

So, with the sun wincing through narrow windows and the night's cold still at home in that stygian, stone basement, Edmund went roughly searching through chests. The chapped lines of his hands became traced in dust, and boxes, lifted and moved, left imprints against his clothes. No one visited the western storage. Things were left to molder and sleep there. Antiquated linens included.

And in that ossuary quiet, Edmund had only his thoughts to keep attention.
 
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That night, Oliver had his thoughts to occupy him more than his sleep did. The contradictory nature of either decision left him feeling like there was no true answer to this that left Oliver with what he wanted and no negative consequences to his actions. This irrefutable fact of being a royal royally sucked ass. Oliver was left with trying to chose the lesser of two evils, to set his own feelings aside to think about what was best for his kingdom, his people, and his reputation, but not his own sanity. His morality did not dictate his choices any longer, as now he had the morals of quite possibly everyone else to have to account for and his own to be pushed aside. It was at times like this that Oliver wished his dear father were still alive; the many lessons he had to now learn on his own felt like impossible feats.

As morning came, the sun bright and glaring, Oliver finally came to a decision. All that was left was to inform Edmund about it, and then go through with the necessary preparations for his choice. As he ate his morning breakfast, he tried to think about the duties he had to fulfill today. He recalled having to personally talk to the royal guard today for some matters regarding the small town closest to the castle, using that as an excuse to stop mulling over the stupid wedding.

Breakfast ended just as soon as it began, and now Oliver was left to hunt down his royal selfish bastard. He started with the servants quarters, inquiring as to his whereabouts and getting vague responses in return, until he spoke to Marta. She informed him that he was down searching for blue bed sheets or something, down in the stone basements of the castle. To avoid Marta's horrendous attempts at keeping Oliver's attention to more inappropriate matters, he bid a quick adieu and headed down to the basement.

He hadn't been here in years, perhaps at least a decade, when he was a young child and found it fun to run about everywhere in the castle. The stale air of the basement left Oliver coughing, perhaps already giving away his position as his coughs echoed throughout the dim basement. He easily found Edmund, on his knees digging through various chests and wooden boxes for Marta's ridiculous request.

"Edmund, is that you?" Oliver called out, just to make sure it was him and not some other poor soul in this stale, dusty place.
 
The sudden coughing felt like an exorcism. Edmund's body violently arrested in consternation, shrinking, pulling to a center in his chest. Preoccupied and unexpectant of company, he was thoroughly caught off guard. Whoever on the staff that had been persuaded to finally help him was fucking dead. They were about to receive an excoriating welcome to the west wing antiques-dungeon.

That was until Oliver spoke. Edmund could pick his voice from any crowd, like an element of a cocktail that didn't quite mix. It was salient by memory, by meaning and worth. Edmund took a calming breath and regained his equanimity, his ire but a ghost in muscle memory.

"Yes, it's me." He spoke aloud. "Who else would they send on such a fool's errand?" With a sigh, Edmund stood, trying in vain to rub the dust from his knees. It only blurred, a pastel smudge on faded black. It was as Oliver approached closer that the anomalous nature of their encounter crossed Edmund's mind. "This isn't any place for you. You'll get white lung or worse if you linger." Collecting his candle, he made to usher Oliver out, sighing softly. "Gods above, what are you even doing down here?"
 
Oliver rolled his eyes at Edmund as he pushed him up the stairs and out of the basement, holding back another cough that was threatening to spill out once more. God, did it smell terrible down here. It felt like Oliver was breathing in pure ash from the burning end of a cigar. He didn't know how blessed he was with fresh air until he came to this disgusting place.

Despite his disgust at the basement, Oliver found Edmund's insistence on leaving ridiculous. "One encounter with whatever hell sent dust of the basement will not kill me," Oliver retorted.

"I came here to tell you of my decision. Don't tell me you forgot about our conversation yesterday, especially when it ended on such a tense note," Oliver teased lightly, looking back at Edmund as he walked up the stairs ahead of Edmund.
 
Edmund would have jest that nobility were more delicate compared to the working class who thrived in disease, but, once again, Oliver surprised him. No, Edmund hadn't forgotten about their previous conversation. He couldn't. It had arguably consumed his thoughts ever since it happened. The matter was, he hadn't expected Oliver to come to him personally about the decision. That was...

A swelling sense of levity in his chest, Edmund both hoped and dreaded what news Oliver had. He tried to keep his expectations low, the worst. That would be the karmic equivalent of his efforts after all. A cycle of hurt. He caused it, he could accept it. Just don't keep me waiting.

"I hadn't forgotten." he said, soft, more solemn than intended. "It's only that I expected you'd tell me at tea. Not... well not in the basement, surely." he laughed, gesturing behind himself. "That you'd follow me in there..." Edmund's voice trailed, fading to a whisper. "Must be half mad."
 
Oliver continued to lead the way out of the basement, finally ending up in one of the many wide and long corridors of the castle. Instantly, the less dusty and fresher air entered Oliver's lungs forcefully, making him finally cough out the remnants of dust still within him. He murmured a soft excuse me afterwards, wiping his mouth clean with his handkerchief. Oliver paused his steps to wait for Edmund to finish ascending up the stairs.

"I figured you didn't want to be forced to wait for a full 24 hours. I have a heart, Edmund." Oliver chided lightly with a small smile. He gazed out one of the long, tall windows that lined the right side of the corridor, bright light spilling in and cascading onto the tile floor.

"Since you expected the news sooner, maybe you'd like to hear it later, hm?" Oliver teased, giving Edmund a sideways glance. "I certainly have my own duties to attend to before tea,"
 
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