Sunlight filtered through the ivy-draped arches of Blackwood's south garden, the soft rustle of lavender leaves brushing against the breeze. Elias sat on the wrought-iron bench beneath the old linden tree, the weight of a ridiculous little book in his hands—How to Take Care of a Stubborn Noblewoman.
He hadn't meant to actually read it. He'd taken it as a joke, a passing curiosity from the manor's more eccentric library wing. But here he was, flipping through the thin pages, squinting at its hand-inked lessons like a confused student.
"If she's angry," it read in looping cursive, "buy her the sweet confections she likes most. But never too much, or she'll think you're trying to bribe her affection."
Elias frowned.
"Or, if she refuses to eat and keeps saying food makes her nauseous, do not be deceived. This is often the first sign of expecting."
He blinked. Then blinked again.
"No," he muttered. "That can't be right."
He flipped back a page. Forward again.
Expecting? His brow twitched.
He looked up at the garden hedge as if it might explain anything. "But… August's a man."
The absurdity of the thought spiraled around him. Still, the signs… they were there, weren't they? Refusing food. Nausea. Pale lips. The way his hand lingered over his stomach once, fleeting and unsure. And Elias had…
His whole body went still.
"No," he said again, louder. "No way. It was me—"
He shot up from the bench so fast the book dropped to the stone path with a thump. His thoughts tumbled like stones. He marched back to the manor, boots stomping through pebbles and spring grass, the open doors of the study wing already in view.
He didn't knock.
The door swung open with a rush.
And there, in the golden light of morning, sat August, curled near the chair by the window—trembling. His hair had slipped fully from its braid, cascading in tangled ribbons down his back. His knees were pulled close, hands clutching the edge of the velvet seat like an anchor, and his eyes—
Those glistening smoke-grey eyes—
They were shining with pain.
"August?"
Elias was by his side in a heartbeat.
"What's wrong now?" he breathed, half-worried, half-exasperated. He crouched beside him and—without thinking—placed a cautious hand on August's belly, as if confirming something ludicrous his mind still clung to.
August's eyes widened.
Then his hand lashed out.
Smack.
A clean slap across Elias's cheek.
Elias reeled back slightly, blinking, dazed. "Wh-What?"
August's breath was shallow. "What on earth are you doing, Elias?"
"I was just—" Elias started, his voice painfully sincere, "I read—there's this book and it said nausea and refusing food can mean someone's—"
Before he could finish, August smacked him again.
Harder.
Elias staggered backward onto his heels, both hands up now in confused defense. "I'm just trying to help!"
August's voice trembled, but it was sharp enough to cut steel. "Fool. Do you think I'm a woman?"
Elias hesitated. "Well, I mean—no. Obviously. I just—"
"Can't you clearly see that I'm a man?"
"I can, August, I just—"
August's hands trembled again, but this time from sheer rage. His cheeks were flushed, his chest rising and falling too quickly, too unsteadily. "Get out."
"But—"
"Out."
Elias froze.
Then, slowly, he rose to his feet. His expression was caught between apology and disbelief, still trying to make sense of what just happened.
He backed away from the chair.
And August, still trembling, still wrapped in the haze of weakness and fury, turned his face toward the window, the light painting ghostly glows along his pale jaw.
Elias reached the door.
Paused.
He looked back. Then left quietly, closing it behind him.
The ribbon lay on the floor.
And August did not move.
The pain was growing again — curling like a thorned vine deep in August's side, blooming with heat and pressure. He leaned back against the study chair, breath shallow. His lashes quivered. He had slapped Elias. Twice. And still, that idiot stood there blinking, clutching his book like it contained holy scripture.
"How—how dare he," August whispered, voice low, trembling with restraint.
The fire crackled softly. A window sighed open under a passing breeze. The manor was quiet. Too quiet for the roaring in his mind.
Elias had not only burst in with the expression of a betrayed lover but had stormed across the study like a knight convinced of his own delusion. Then — then — he had reached out and touched August's stomach, as if he, of all people, could decipher whatever mystery he thought lay hidden in August's body.
"Fool," August hissed under his breath. "Utter, blistering fool."
He gritted his teeth and turned from the hearth. Every inch of him hurt. Not from Elias's hand — no, that had been brief — but from the weight of days spent ill, from the lingering nausea, from the frustration of being seen, again and again, not as he truly was but as someone else's fantasy.
Did Elias truly think—?
August flushed. His cheeks turned a bloom of rose, not from embarrassment alone, but from fury.
He pressed his palm to his abdomen, where Elias had laid his hand. The touch lingered, not warm, but real, like a curse etched into him.
What nonsense had that blasted book taught him?
"If she is nauseous, she might be expecting…"
He wanted to scream. But his voice, always composed, always cold, refused to betray him. He would not give in to that chaos.
Instead, he stood.
The world swayed. He gripped the back of the chair, his fingers white on the carved wood.
He hated this weakness. Hated the tremor in his knees. Hated that, despite everything, he was still thinking of Elias — not just the touch, but the worry in his voice, the innocence in his eyes, the way he had stood there, dumb and determined, trying to understand something far too complicated for him.
"He's a child," August muttered. "A damned, beautiful, bull-headed child."
The pain stabbed sharper in his side, and he clutched his abdomen. He took slow, shallow breaths, steadying himself against the bookshelf. His braid was falling again, strands slipping from the ribbon. He reached for it, but his hands wouldn't hold.
He hated that Elias had touched him.
He hated more that, for a moment — just a moment — it had felt like safety.
August slid down to the study floor, pulling his knees close. His vision blurred. He would not cry. He refused to cry.
But in the quiet of the manor, with firelight flickering and shadows curling around the books and velvet drapes, he let his forehead rest against his arm, and whispered:
"How could he even think such a thing? I can't just believe it I'm not…"
The words wouldn't finish. They dissolved into silence.
Outside the study window, the wind picked up — soft and restless. Somewhere beyond the corridor, servants moved lightly, whispering to one another about the young master's stubbornness, about the strange accident in the dinning hall earlier. They had no idea the storm of emotion echoing in the heart of Blackwood Manor's most private room.
The garden was quiet again. The roses, drenched in gold by the morning light, swayed gently as if laughing at him. Elias sat stiffly beneath the trellis, the same book splayed open across his lap — its tattered spine creaking each time he turned to that page again.
He stared.
Then blinked.
Then squinted harder.
He'd read it. Again.
"If your wife refuses to eat, complains of nausea, or becomes easily angered, there is a high chance she is carrying a child. These symptoms should not be ignored, as they are early signs of pregnancy."
"…No. No, that can't be right," Elias said aloud, the wind catching in his hair like punctuation. "He's a man. A man! I— I saw him with my own eyes—"
He stopped himself before his thoughts grew too wild, or worse, graphic.
Still, the line between logic and emotion blurred.
August was ill. He was fainting, throwing up, not eating. He was moody — more than usual, even for August. And yes, his face was flushed, his body trembling. His eyes had glistened just now when Elias placed his hand over his stomach, even before the slap.
The slap.
Elias winced and rubbed his cheek, which still tingled with the phantom sting.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, flicking through more pages like a madman. "Maybe it's not that. Maybe he's just sick. Very sick. Or maybe… maybe he doesn't know?"
He froze.
A worse idea bloomed.
"What if he doesn't know?"
The book fell off his lap, smacking the grass as Elias leapt to his feet. His thoughts were no longer thoughts. They were chaotic war drums. He paced in a tight circle by the rosebushes, hands on his hips, muttering half-sentences.
"But how could he not know? He's not—he's not… he's not a girl. That's the whole point. He's a man. He wears trousers. His voice is deeper than mine when he's angry. And he—he hit me. That's not womanly."
Still. The book's answers didn't change, no matter how he tried to reinterpret them. It was like the damned thing was smirking at him.
Elias bent down, picked it up again, flipped to the dog-eared page, and jabbed at the paragraph accusingly.
"If wife is angry and refuses to eat, try giving her something she likes."
"If wife suffers from morning sickness, it is likely she is—"
"Enough!"
He slammed the book shut.
"August is not a wife. August is a very sharp, very sick, very complicated nobleman who wants nothing to do with anyone, let alone me."
But his own words didn't sit right. Not after what he'd seen in August's eyes. Not after how soft his body had felt under Elias's grip. Not after—
Elias's face burned.
He threw the book back on the bench like it had betrayed him and marched toward the manor. His boots crunched over the gravel with each urgent step. Servants passed, bowing politely, pretending not to hear his muttering. They'd learned, by now, that the young black-haired boy was not altogether sane when it came to Lord August.
And maybe he wasn't. Because the moment he reached the double doors, his heart pounded like he was about to confess a crime.
He hurried up the stairs.
Through the east hall.
To the study.
He didn't knock.
He opened the door.
And stopped.
There, on the floor, curled near the hearth like a wilting lily, was August — head bowed, arm across his knees, trembling in silence.
A book had fallen from his fingers. His braid was unraveling. His ribbon had come loose.
He hadn't noticed Elias yet.
"August—" Elias said, breath stolen.
The figure flinched.
Slowly, August lifted his head.
His smoke-grey eyes were glassy. His cheeks flushed, but not from embarrassment this time — from sheer, burning fatigue.
Elias dropped to his knees beside him.
"What… what happened now? Why didn't you call someone? Why didn't you call me?"
He reached out on instinct — not to touch his belly this time, but to press the back of his hand gently against August's forehead. Still warm. Too warm.
August didn't pull away. He didn't have the strength.
"I'm fine," he whispered, hoarse and small.
"You are not fine."
There was silence between them for a moment. Elias didn't know if it was the pain that made his voice gentler, or the guilt.
"I'm sorry I… said what I said. Did what I did. I thought…"
August turned his face away, lashes lowering.
"You thought I was a woman?" he muttered.
Elias opened his mouth to deny it, but his honesty got the better of him. "I… didn't think so, but the book—"
August groaned. A hand covered his eyes.
"That damned book."
"I burned page thirty-two," Elias said sheepishly.
August huffed. Was that a laugh? Or a gasp of rage? It was hard to tell.
"You're an idiot," August muttered.
"I know."
"You're also warm."
"What?"
"…Your hand. It's warm."
Elias blinked. "Should I move it?"
"…No. Just stop talking."
They sat there, silent again, while firelight flickered and the manor held its breath. August's head tilted slightly toward Elias's shoulder, just barely. He didn't lean in, but he no longer leaned away.
And Elias stayed.
As motionless as the books, as gentle as the light.
Because this, too, was part of the answer. Not from the book. But from something quieter. Older.
Something like love — even if neither of them dared name it yet.