The dining hall of Blackwood Manor was still quiet in the early morning hush, as though the walls themselves were waiting for the day to truly begin. Sunlight spilled gently through the tall arched windows, glancing off polished wood and glimmering across the silver that adorned the long, dark table.
At the head of it sat August.
Alone.
A single porcelain cup rested between his fingers—delicate, bone-white, steaming faintly.
Warm milk.
He hadn't asked for much else.
The feast was still being arranged. Platters of fresh fruit, honey-glazed rolls, stewed figs, slices of soft cheese and herb-laced meats—an artist's dream of a morning table, half-finished by bustling maids who moved about quietly, sensing the Lord's mood.
But August barely saw them.
He sat in silence, hands curved neatly around the cup, as if the warmth might carry him elsewhere. His lips were untouched by food. His eyes were not drawn to the table's glimmering temptations.
Only to the window. Only to the stillness beyond.
He lifted the cup to his mouth and sipped—slowly, measured. Like a man tasting memory rather than drink. The milk left a faint shimmer on his lower lip, gone in a breath.
He did not speak.
And he did not glance up—not even when the tall oak doors behind him began to creak open.
---
Shift: Elias
Elsewhere in the manor, water fell like whispered thunder.
Elias stepped out from the steaming bath, his form shadowed in the golden mist that clung to the air like silk. Drops glided down his skin, trailing across his broad shoulders, tracing the faint lines of old scars and new beginnings.
He reached for the towel, ran it through his raven-black hair with careless ease, then wrapped it around his waist. A breath escaped him—not quite a sigh. Just something real. Something grounded.
The cold floor met his bare feet as he padded into his chamber.
Morning was here.
And so was the memory of last night.
He paused mid-step.
The kiss. The hush of August's breath. The way he hadn't pulled away.
Elias smirked faintly, shaking his head to himself. "He didn't slap me," he murmured under his breath, as if surprised. "Just ran."
Still, he knew better than to take that as a victory.
August ran—but not out of rejection.
Out of confusion.
Out of fear for what it meant to want something… or someone.
He dressed quickly, though the motions were precise. A dark emerald shirt lined with sable trim. A leather vest pulled snug over his chest. Black breeches and knee-high boots that clicked sharp on the marble floors. His hair was still damp when he raked his fingers through it, tying it back loosely.
He gave his reflection one last glance in the mirror.
"Try not to scare the poor beauty before he finishes his milk," he muttered dryly to himself.
And then he left.
---
Shift: Back to the Dining Hall
The doors parted with a quiet groan, and Elias stepped into the long, gold-touched hall.
And there he was.
August.
Back straight as an arrow. Fingers still curled around his porcelain cup. His face was turned slightly away, eyes focused on something far beyond the glass of the tall windows.
And he didn't look up.
Not even once.
Elias walked the length of the table at a slow, easy pace. His gaze wandered—not toward August, but toward the food. His stomach gave a low, traitorous rumble at the sight of the still-warm bread rolls and the bowl of rich cream drizzled with rose honey.
He reached out casually and plucked a fig from one of the platters, chewing it with deliberate grace, watching August from the corner of his eye.
Still no reaction.
The glass cup met the saucer again with a soft, porcelain clink. August exhaled gently, eyes lowering to the table—but never toward him.
Elias took the chair across from him.
Not directly.
Slightly askew.
Like two soldiers seated for peace, each cautious of the other's silence.
Only the warmth of the milk, the glint of silver, and the tension of everything unspoken filled the space between them.
Elias tilted his head, chewing thoughtfully on a bite of bread now soaked in cream.
"You didn't touch the feast," he said lightly, voice smooth as velvet.
August's fingers stilled on the handle of his cup.
"I wasn't hungry."
A pause.
Then Elias grinned, just faintly.
"Still punishing your lips?"
That earned a flicker—a tiny twitch of August's brows, though he still did not look up.
Elias leaned back, resting an elbow against the polished armrest. "You know, if you plan to ignore me, you should've sat farther away. This close… I might try something."
August lifted his cup again, but his hands weren't quite steady. The silence pressed against them like an untamed wind between mountains.
One warm and reckless.
The other—quiet and cold.
But even the coldest marble feels the fire eventually.
Elias leaned forward now, bracing his elbows on the edge of the table, his fingers laced together in that lazy, too-casual way that always meant trouble.
"So…" he drawled, eyes gleaming with amusement. "How was the milk?"
August didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
The faint pink blooming across his cheekbones betrayed him, subtle as a dawn tide. He lifted his chin a touch, as if composure might shield him, and turned his face slightly away—too regal, too practiced.
But Elias saw.
Oh, he saw.
"Still hot?" Elias asked innocently, voice low and lilting.
August glanced at him from the corner of his eye—just once, sharp and cutting.
"I mean the milk," Elias added quickly, all wide-eyed innocence, though his smirk told another story.
August's fingers tightened minutely around the handle of his cup. "You're insufferable."
"I try my best."
He rested his chin on one hand, studying him with that wolfish look—hungry, but not unkind. "You always look so proper in the mornings. All pale and pressed and composed."
August didn't respond. He took another sip of milk, slowly—elegantly.
Elias's eyes followed the movement of the cup, the delicate curve of August's mouth, the faint shimmer left behind.
"Bit unfair, really," Elias went on. "Looking like that before the sun's properly up. Some of us are still recovering from the sight of you in silk last night."
August nearly choked.
He covered it well—just a brief, slight pause in his sip—but Elias caught it. And smiled.
"A shame you left so quickly," Elias murmured, almost idly. "I was going to offer to tuck you in."
August set the cup down with perhaps a bit more force than intended. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" Elias tilted his head. "Because I recall you blushing so hard, I thought your skin might catch fire."
"I was not blushing."
"You looked like a rose about to wilt."
August shot him a look. "You're—"
"—charming?" Elias offered.
"I was about to say unbearable."
Elias leaned closer, his voice lowering, warming. "Tell me the truth, August. If I kissed you again right now… would you still taste like milk?"
August stared at him.
Absolutely stared.
And then—he blinked, hard, and looked away, color blooming again across his cheekbones like soft brushstrokes of sunset. "You're impossible."
Elias grinned, leaning back triumphantly.
"But not denied."
A long silence.
August reached for the milk again—but his hand was trembling now, only slightly, like wind through leaves.
Elias noticed.
He didn't mention it.
Instead, he lifted another piece of fruit and bit into it slowly, eyes fixed on August with the kind of gaze that could turn tea into wine and words into sins.
"If you're going to keep looking at the window like that," Elias said softly, "I'll start to think you're waiting for someone more interesting."
August's reply came cool, clipped. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Not flattery. Just hoping you're not trying to make me jealous."
August set his cup down again.
"It's a window."
Elias grinned. "So are your eyes."
That one did it.
August stood abruptly, silk robe shifting around him like whispered moonlight. "I'm going to the library."
"Need a book to understand your feelings?"
August paused.
Looked back over his shoulder.
And, to Elias's immense satisfaction, smiled.
Just barely.
Just for a heartbeat.
But it was there.
Then he turned and walked away, the hem of his robe skimming the floor, that fragile dignity wrapped around him like armor forged of stars and stubbornness.
Elias watched him go, lips quirking.
"Unbearable, am I?" he murmured. "We'll see how long you'll last."
Elias remained seated long after August left, the taste of the morning lingering—not just in his mouth, but in his mind. The blush, the glare, the milk—he could replay every detail like a favorite scene in a book.
He reached lazily for a piece of honeyed bread and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully.
"he calls me impossible," he muttered to himself, eyes on the door August had vanished through. "And yet he blushes like a bride in bloom…"
He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Gods help me—I might be falling for a porcelain dagger."