The wind outside clawed at the trees like it mourned something already lost. Shadows galloped past the carriage, blurring into streaks of ink and silver as Elias held August close against him. But this time, it wasn't fever that seared through the boy's body.
It was the drug. And it was worse.
August's skin burned beneath Elias's hands—not with illness, but with something crueler. Every breath he took was shallow, tremulous, like it tried to chase something just out of reach. His pulse thudded wildly, mouth parted, lashes fluttering as if caught in dreamlight. Whatever that draught had been, it was dragging him under—pleasure twisted into poison, need distorted into ache.
He kept whispering Elias's name like it was a prayer or a curse. Sometimes reaching for him blindly, his fingers brushing along Elias's throat, his chest, before recoiling—ashamed even in delirium.
Elias didn't move. Didn't take advantage. Didn't breathe too loud.
He gritted his teeth and sat there, keeping August wrapped in his coat, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. This wasn't August. This was what Everin had tried to make of him. A doll of longing. A puppet made of heat and sighs.
"August," he said softly, brushing silver hair from the boy's temple. "You're safe now."
But August only pressed closer, eyes glassy. "it it hurts there help me...?"
Elias's heart cracked open. His fingers twitched.
Because it wouldn't be real.
Because the moment he said yes to this, he'd be saying yes to what they'd done to him.
The carriage wheels turned like haunted clocks as Blackwood Manor rose from the mist—its silhouette pale and monolithic beneath the weight of a waning moon. The night held its breath as Elias carried August up the stone steps, every heartbeat in his chest pulsing like a war drum.
He did not wait for greetings. Did not ask for comfort.
"Prepare the east bath," Elias commanded, his voice flint against frost. "Cold. Now."
The servants, sensing urgency in his tone, vanished like smoke.
August writhed faintly in his arms—his breath shallow, skin flushed and damp from the drug coursing through him like molten sugar. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came, only the soft hum of feverless delirium. His body trembled, but not from illness. It was wanting, twisted unnaturally. A flame lit by foreign hands.
Elias clenched his jaw. He would not let this devour him.
They entered the chamber, warm candlelight spilling across black tile and pale stone. Steam had no place here—only the glisten of cold water being poured into a wide, sunken tub that gleamed like a basin of moonlight.
He set August down upon the padded bench beside the bath.
The boy whimpered softly, head lolling. His limbs felt weightless, boneless, yet each breath still ached with residual yearning.
Elias undid the buttons of August's shirt—slowly, reverently. Not as a lover, but as a guardian handling something sacred and wounded. One button. Then the next. The linen fell away like a wilted petal, revealing skin too warm, too alive. He removed the rest in silence, layer by layer, until August sat before him in nothing but the vulnerability they'd tried to carve into him.
The tub was ready.
Elias stepped in first, fully clothed, boots forgotten, trousers soaking as he sank into the ice-kissed water. A hiss left his lips—but he did not flinch.
Then he pulled August gently into his arms and lowered him into the bath.
The moment the cold touched August's skin, he gasped—a sudden, sharp sound, his back arching, limbs twitching in protest. His hands clutched at Elias's soaked shirt, nails biting into fabric.
"cold too cold" he breathed, shaking.
"I know," Elias murmured against his hair. "I know. But it will pass. Hold on."
August buried his face against Elias's neck, shivering uncontrollably, lips brushing skin as though in search of warmth not found in temperature but in presence. His whole body trembled in Elias's grip, but Elias held fast, anchoring him through the storm.
The water licked up to August's ribs, then his shoulders. Ice against fire. A purging.
Minutes passed.
The drug screamed in silence, thrashing inside him like a demon denied, but Elias would not let it win. He kept him close, rocking gently, even as his own skin burned with cold. Even as August's breath ghosted hot across his throat, as his voice fractured against his chest in fragmented pleas that weren't truly his.
And then—quiet.
A stillness, fragile and breathless, bloomed in August's frame.
His lashes fluttered. His grip eased. The heat within him dimmed like the last ember of a dying flame.
Elias looked down.
August had gone quiet. Still dazed, still trembling—but his eyes held less haze now. Less hunger. Just weariness. And grief.
Elias pressed his forehead to August's temple, exhaling slow and deep. The ice bit into him, but he didn't care.
He had August. Still whole. Still his.
And tonight, that was enough.
Elias did not move.
Not when the first hour passed.
Not when his own body began to lose feeling in the water.
Not even when the candles guttered, burning low, their shadows trembling on the stone walls like old memories.
He remained still—anchored by duty, driven by something more dangerous: devotion.
August was quieter now.
Still feverless, still flushed, but the wild tension had bled from his limbs. The fight had drained from his fingers. He no longer grasped Elias in panic—he only rested there, barely conscious, cradled in the frozen haven of Elias's arms as though he had known them all his life.
Outside, night stretched itself thin.
Rain tapped lightly at the stained-glass windows of the manor. Somewhere, a wind-chime stirred, lonely in the corridor. Inside the bath chamber, all was hushed save the soft sound of chilled water lapping against bare skin—bodies submerged like offerings.
August's head lay tucked into the crook of Elias's neck. The rhythm of his breathing slowed, deepened. No longer panting. No longer gasping for something just out of reach.
Just… breathing.
Elias dared a glance down. Platinum curls clung damp to August's pale brow, and beneath his lashes, the faintest hint of furrow remained. But it was fading. The last trace of torment unraveling into sleep.
"You're safe," Elias whispered, though he knew August could not hear.
But the words were not for him—they were for Elias himself. A quiet promise made in the cold.
Time moved differently in that room.
The stars turned above, hidden behind velvet cloud. The water, though still biting, felt distant now—like something far away from the center of this moment. His own limbs had gone numb long ago, but he didn't care. This was the cost. He would pay it again and again.
And then—
Light.
It was faint at first. A thin breath of gold brushing the edge of the stained glass. It grew slow and patient, curling into the corners like honey spilled across a dark floor.
Morning had come.
Elias blinked as warmth touched his face, but he did not stir. He remained in the water, arms coiled around the sleeping boy in his lap. The storm had passed—not fully, but enough.
August shifted slightly, a small sigh leaving his lips.
His body no longer burned.
Elias exhaled, his breath catching at the edge of a quiet, invisible relief.
The drug's grip had loosened its teeth. Not vanquished. But broken—for now.
The water had done its work.
And so had he.
He leaned his cheek against August's forehead, letting his eyes close for the first time in hours.
Just for a moment.
Just to feel him breathing.
The silence between them was vast stretching farther than the walls of Blackwood Manor, colder than the bathwater wrapping August's frail form.
His breath was still uneven. Droplets slid from his chin, trailing down the elegant line of his neck and disappearing beneath the edge of the soaked towel. His long, silver-white curls clung to his back and collarbone like vines trying to tether him to the moment.
And Elias—half-drenched, kneeling beside him in the cold—remained still. Waiting. Watching. His dark lashes were heavy with water, and his hand hovered near the rim of the tub, uncertain now.
August's grey eyes lifted. They were no longer fogged by poison or confusion. They were lucid—and sharp.
You" what are you doing
"Get out."
The words fell like ice on stone.
Elias blinked, startled. He leaned forward slightly, concern etched across his brow, lips parted to speak—but August cut him with a single glance.
"Leave," he said again. Quietly. Sharply. "Now."
A muscle in Elias's jaw twitched. He didn't move right away. But August's arms curled inward, shoulders slanting as though his own bones betrayed him.
"Don't look at me," he whispered.
There was no tremble in his voice. Just a quiet restraint, wrapped in layers of dignity worn thin.
"I said… get out."
This time, Elias obeyed.
He stood, the wet fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin. He turned without a word and walked toward the chamber doors, footsteps echoing faintly in the hush of early dawn. Only when he reached the threshold did he pause, hand resting briefly on the frame.
But he didn't speak.
He simply closed the door behind him—softly. No slam. No parting remark.
Just the hush of wood on wood.
And August was left alone.
Steam curled above the chilled water. A single droplet traced its way from his temple, down to his cheekbone, then vanished into the cold.
The silence settled again, deep and hollow. And for a long time, August didn't move.
His arms stayed wrapped around his chest, protecting what little pride remained.