Never doubt i love

Sam's personal RP blog! 

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart·:

we should have carpooled. morgan-inigo.

feroxanfei:

Stepping through the glass doors feels like entering an entirely new world. Can students help here? Inigo sure hopes so. Boyish grins lights up his face as he turns his head, desperate to capture the full effect of this palace.

Light pressure on his fingers brings him back down to earth. Morgan, who appears just as overwhelmed, squeaks out a plea for help. Oh, right. The scavenger hunt! Flower crowns don’t make themselves, after all. Inigo squeezes back with a nod. “Of course. You sure you don’t want to pick the flowers yourself? Though maybe they have some set aside specifically for students…”

Footsteps are silent so as not to disturb the tranquility of the greenhouse. Inigo likes to think he’s a man of depth—not only all brilliant smiles and endless flirtations. Mother kept a tiny flower garden in their backyard; he’s picked up more than dancing skills from her. Elves, half or no, are drawn to growing things. Gardening is more of a passing hobby instead of true passion, though he still has a deep love for flowers.

Rhythmic clicking catches his ear. “This way, Morushka,” Inigo murmurs, tugging his brother further among the leaves. A gardener stands in front of some gathered students, clipping the stems of a bouquet. “Found ‘em. This place…it’s incredible.” The wait for their turn isn’t long; Inigo really wasn’t paying that much attention anyway. Brown eyes snagged on a rare bare patch of soil, the empty space jarring when surrounded by overflowing plants. “Boys?” The gardener’s voice is slightly raised, as if he’s already tried to call them. “Sorry!” Inigo chirps. “Two bouquets, please. One purple, one white.” He adds. Gardner shears and hands them over without fuss.

Water runs a chilled line down from where his fingers meet the stems. “Last one to complete their crown buys tea?”

“Hello, boys.” Morgan hears the gardener the first time. Sees the kind smile, the one that falters when neither of them respond. Inigo’s attention is elsewhere; Morgan gently nudges his side. Pay attention, stupid. “Boys?” Inigo’s head snaps up and little dragon lets out a sigh of relief; thank the gods he doesn’t have to speak. He takes the purple bouquet quietly after giving the flowers a little sniff—it’s nice. Smells as flowery as his brother.

“Sounds like a plan.” It’s been a while since they’ve had a little contest like this; normally it revolved around stuff like who could clean up a certain area faster or who could run to a certain distance first, not something so detailed. Really, though, wasn’t this kinda stereotypical for an elf? Making flower crowns? 

(But he’s so happy to be doing it. Just spending time with his brother is a gift.)

They find some little spot to settle down in the courtyard. Other students mill about, doing their own thing; no one spares a second glance at the pair of boys with two beautiful flower bouquets that they’re currently taking apart. Each bloom is laid carefully in front of him in a neat line; he doesn’t want to accidentally hurt one of the flowers by being too rough with it. 

“Ready? Set? … Go!”

Memories of the same activity come rushing back. Years ago, toddlers sitting under the watchful gazes of their parents, deftly weaving together the dandelion stems into bracelets and crowns. The only difference now is the absence of their parents and the new bloom of a wide grin across the dragon’s lips instead of one of absolute focus. He’ll tell Inigo he remembered something later—for now, he has a contest to win. 

Elf is fast, but dragon is faster. Just seconds before Inigo does he holds up a completed crown, “haha! Done! I win! You’re paying for tea!” 

The crown is placed delicately on Inigo’s head. “There. Now you’re a real pretty boy!”

Inigo follows Morgan’s lead as they settle in the courtyard. Groups of their fellow students wander by, engrossed in their own conversations. The half-elf elegantly crosses his legs and gently rests his bouquet on the ground. It’s cute, how Morgan so carefully separates his own flowers, lining them in a neat row. Such an on-brand thing to do. With an affectionate grin, Inigo reaches over to ruffle Morgan’s hair right before he starts the countdown.

Fingers fly along the green stems. He used to make flower crowns all the time as a child. For mother, for himself. For Morgan. Flower petals in their hair, landing on their clothing. Stained fingertips and tiny pinpricks from uncut thorns. As he weaves another white bloom into place, he promises himself to create a flower crown for Mother next time they see each other. He can wear the matching bracelet!

Something pricks his thumb. Inigo hisses, sparing a glance for the tiny little incision from a wayward thorn. The seconds it takes for him to pluck it off the stem are precious once he can’t recover no matter how hard he tries. A triumphant Morgan holds his completed crown aloft. Inigo finishes the final twirl with a disappointed sigh. “A deal’s a deal!”

He can’t help the smile that grows once the crown rests atop his pink head. “Excuse you, I am always a pretty boy! Highlights the pointed ears, no? Your turn!” Delicate hands place the white flower crown on Morgan’s head, tilting it at a rakish angle. “The ladies are gonna pay more attention to you than me,” older brother teases, nudging the dragon’s shoulder.

Hand in hand, Inigo tugs Morgan along. “Come on, I know I saw a café around here somewhere.” As they wander the twisting halls, Inigo can’t help but thank Naga they’re able to spend time together like this.

“I wonder if they have lemon cake with chocolate frosting—hey, why are you smacking me!?”  

   --end

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

out of the element. morgan-inigo.

feroxanfei·:

“I’d never mock you,” Inigo replies softly. Tease, harass, and just be a general nuisance, yes, but outright mocking? He’s not the cruel. Gaze slides from the cursed (still red) apple to the mage. This is more his thing anyway; Inigo can hardly recite the difference between a blessing and a spell, much less their practical applications. Something to do with the subtleties of intent combined with purity. Maybe. Morgan’s explained all this before and while Inigo could eagerly listen to him excitedly go on about spells for hours—and he has—unfortunately few facts manage to stick.

Rolling his neck and cracking his knuckles, Inigo summons another smile. It’s the one spell/blessing that requires zero fumbling in the dark on his part. With a quirk of his lips he can sooth both his nerves and others, though the results tend to vary. Still, how comforting to know he does indeed possess a little bit of magic. Thanks, Mother.

Heh, Inigo has plenty of charm, thank you very much. “Oh, I don’t need a golden apple for that, Morushka,” Inigo laughs. A tiny part of him wants to give up, but…this is important to Morgan and therefore it’s important to him. Besides, winning a competition might help increase his standing with the ladies.

A frustrated sigh sets his pink bangs fluttering. Strands land awkwardly, tickling his nose. Inigo swipes a hand through the wayward hair. He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, partly from embarrassment, partly from dissatisfaction. Ugh, does Morgan have to lecture him now? Can’t it wait until after they’ve completed their tasks?

Gods, the kid always has a point, but Inigo is in no mood to hear it at the moment. “I think devoting myself to Seiros would make my ever ethereal Naga even angrier.” For the strangest second, Inigo has the feeling he’s been in a situation like this before. Caught between two gorgeous ladies, unsure of who to entrust his heart too. With a shake of his head, he tries to clear the thoughts. Maybe he could use that lecture after all. 

“Well, since I’m clearly useless, got any other ideas, O genius mage?” Inigo frowns at the apple once more. Serios…Naga…lend me your strength, please!

“Try… harder?” Great advice, o genius mage. “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean… well, let me put it this way: this is your first time trying to bless something, so it’ll take a few shots, right? The first time I tried any sort of magic, it probably took me a while, too.”

Probably, he says. He doesn’t remember, but Morgan was a natural with his first spell. One murmured incantation and a fireball burst to life in his palm. A few months later, he was able to strike lightning down with nothing more than a snap of his fingers. It certainly was not something he had to take a few shots at. 

“Just keep trying, okay? Imagine… I dunno, imagine Naga blessing you with her power, granting her wisdom unto you, and that power flowing from your fingertips into the apple.” Imagery might help, right? Maybe if he kept guiding Inigo’s thought process with flowery language, they could get some sort of result. 

The apple remains stubbornly red no matter how many times Inigo tries to bless it. The more time passes, the more fed up both brothers become—even Morgan’s infinite patience runs out. With a huff, he throws his arms up. 

“Alright! I don’t think it’s happening. But we have to get this item, Ini! … Let’s just paint it gold.” 

One trip to Hobby Lobby later and they were set. A cheap set of brushes and a tube of metallic golden paint sits before them; Morgan gestures lamely to the apple. 

“Have at it, then, dear brother.”

Inigo fixes Morgan with a derisive stare. He knows that all the memories of….before are gone, recovered with the memories of relearning everything. Magic, however, remains the one constant subject Morgan excelled at within the first five minutes. Inigo remembers his little brother’s amber eyes positively glowing with delight after he cast his first flame spell the afternoon he picked up a spell book.

Half-elf starts to feel a little useless. What kind of magical creature can’t use even the most basic of bless incarnations? Inigo appreciates the words of comfort, he really does, but he’s irritated and his head is starting to hurt from staring at a stubbornly red fruit. Nonetheless, he follows Morgan’s advice, trying every ridiculous thing he can think of. Curling his fingers. Uncurling them. Palm up, palm down, two hands up, one hand raised.

He’s long since stopped putting his heart into the motions by the time Morgan pushes away in exasperation. “That’s a genius idea. Hey, can we stop by the café and get something to drink?”

Armed with cheap brushes, flashy gold paint, and a white chocolate frappe, Inigo grins at his enemy. The fruit stares impassively back. “It would be my genuine pleasure, dear brother.” He takes an obnoxiously loud sip of his drink, slamming it down besides the source of all his woes.   Curling his wrists like he does as part of his stretching routine, he settles into the chair—

“Did you feel that?!” Something sparked underneath his skin. Or not sparked, more like…a warmth flooding his veins, rushing towards his fingertips. Inigo stares at his hands for a second, abruptly pushing away from the table. Chair clatters back as he stands. If this doesn’t work…”Don’t you dare laugh at me,” Inigo warns. He avoids looking at his brother, opting to take up first position.

And a one, and a two! A simple ball change leads into an elegant spin, ending with a flourish of his arms extended towards the apple. Nothing changes. Inigo is about to storm off in disgust (and embarrassment) when the stupid fruit ripples. “Wha—?” Gold slowly cascades down from the stem. Turning to Morgan with a disbelieving smile, Inigo can only laugh. “Always said my dancing was magical!” He looks down at his hands again. He casted magic! “…I did it.”

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

we should have carpooled. morgan-inigo.

feroxanfei·:

Flinching away from Morgan’s sharp elbow, Inigo’s face falls in mock hurt. All these years and his poor little brother still hasn’t seen the light. “Oh please, you and I both know—“ He freezes, dropping his arms back to his sides. Bites back I have no shame and starts again. “You know what? Not important.” As if a guy with no shame spends days moping and crying when getting turned down! Just because he acts like he’s over the crippling shyness of youth doesn’t mean there’s still an occasional flareup.

Of course Morgan already knows the general layout of the campus. All Inigo vaguely remembers from his own copy is the location of the dorms. But a greenhouse, eh? Place must be packed with flowers from all over the world! He’ll have to ask if it’s possible for students to garden as well, cultivate their own little patch of soil.

Instinctively his calloused fingers wrap securely around Morgan’s soft ones, the motion as natural as breathing. Follows the little dragon through a labyrinth of halls without a care in the world. The half-elf doesn’t miss the signs tastefully scattered around the grounds, which provide easy reassurance that he’ll find his way around in Morgan’s absence. “Well obviously. Lavender sprigs bring out your eyes. Now see, comments like that are what make me seek comfort in the—the—“ voice trials off as the greenhouse appears before them.

A glittering glass castle housing the most beautiful treasure of all stands next to an azure pond. Inigo steps forward on soft feet, drinking in every detail. The doors are open in invitation, showing glimpses of vibrant green leaves and a riot of colorful petals.

Now he understands how Morgan feels about the library.

“Lavender, huh? I suppose purple and yellow are opposite one another on the color wheel so they… compliment… one… another.”

Morgan was going to say that white flowers might compliment Inigo’s pink-toned hair best, with sprigs of darker shades of pink here and there, and how the green of the flower stems would do well to balance out the monochromatic color profile, but the words fall from his mind when he gazes up at the grand glass enclosure. Breath is stolen from his lips and Morgan feels smaller than he has in a long time.

Libraries didn’t quite make him feel this way. When entering a place as grand as the monastery’s library, it was like a map to a treasure; a new adventure waiting to be embarked upon. Now, as they step into the greenhouse and find themselves overwhelmed by warm air and the scent of thousands of different plants, he finds himself lost amidst a sea of colors.

“Right then,” voice attempts to rise but comes out no louder than a meek whisper. His hand squeezes Inigo’s, thin fingers’ trembling stilled by calloused ones’ relaxed grip. “Let’s… uh… can you ask—?”

Can you ask for help from one of the greenhouse staff? he means, knowing Inigo will understand without need for the full phrase. Morgan certainly wouldn’t be the one stepping forward for assistance.

“We just need a—well, two bouquets for the… the scavenger hunt.”

Stepping through the glass doors feels like entering an entirely new world. Can students help here? Inigo sure hopes so. Boyish grins lights up his face as he turns his head, desperate to capture the full effect of this palace.

Light pressure on his fingers brings him back down to earth. Morgan, who appears just as overwhelmed, squeaks out a plea for help. Oh, right. The scavenger hunt! Flower crowns don’t make themselves, after all. Inigo squeezes back with a nod. “Of course. You sure you don’t want to pick the flowers yourself? Though maybe they have some set aside specifically for students…”

Footsteps are silent so as not to disturb the tranquility of the greenhouse. Inigo likes to think he’s a man of depth—not only all brilliant smiles and endless flirtations. Mother kept a tiny flower garden in their backyard; he’s picked up more than dancing skills from her. Elves, half or no, are drawn to growing things. Gardening is more of a passing hobby instead of true passion, though he still has a deep love for flowers.

Rhythmic clicking catches his ear. “This way, Morushka,” Inigo murmurs, tugging his brother further among the leaves. A gardener stands in front of some gathered students, clipping the stems of a bouquet. “Found ‘em. This place…it’s incredible.” The wait for their turn isn’t long; Inigo really wasn’t paying that much attention anyway. Brown eyes snagged on a rare bare patch of soil, the empty space jarring when surrounded by overflowing plants. “Boys?” The gardener’s voice is slightly raised, as if he’s already tried to call them. “Sorry!” Inigo chirps. “Two bouquets, please. One purple, one white.” He adds. Gardner shears and hands them over without fuss.

Water runs a chilled line down from where his fingers meet the stems. “Last one to complete their crown buys tea?”

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

reminiscence in tears. morgan-inigo.

feroxanfei·:

Tiniest dip of the chin acknowledges the statement. Inigo bites his lower lip to keep from politely asking his aunt and uncle to leave. It’s a selfish, bitter thought. They have more right to be here than Inigo does. And yet, Morgan still chooses him. What had Mother said once? Something about gravitational pulls. “You two are planets revolving around each other.” Now, his fellow planet got pushed off course. Inigo will do whatever it takes to right the orbit.

“Morushka—“ he cries, right arm reaching for his brother on instinct. The agony on his soft features is so out of place. Gently, Inigo’s fingertips alight on Morgan’s forehead, brushing away sweat-soaked strands of hair. I’m sorry it hurts. “Don’t force yourself. I—we’re—right here, okay?” Inigo retracts his hand when amber peeks between Morgan’s eyelashes. Nods along with a watery smile, ignores the hurt look flashing across Aunt Robin’s features. Not like Morgan had a choice in keeping his memories or losing them all to a drunk driver.

Gaze darts to Bas and Robin. They all counted down the seconds Morgan hovered between life and death in this damned hospital. A response lies on the tip of Inigo’s tongue—thirty-four days, twelve hours, and six minutes. So the minute part might not be totally accurate, given how time stopped the moment Katerina informed him of the news. But Inigo knows it might freak Morgan out, scare him even further.

One shoulder raised in a half shrug. Like the time Morgan was out doesn’t matter when clearly the only thing that does is he’s awake. Alive. “Four weeks.” Tone remains measured. There’s something in the air here, tension and sadness and an awkwardness he’s doesn’t want to name. Brightening just a bit, he tilts his head at the empty bedside table. “Would you like some water?”

Something to make Morgan—Morushka—feel more like a human and less like a lab rat. Dancer’s son shifts, sheets rustling beneath him. He’ll go talk to Katerina, ask for a pitcher and maybe some snacks for the rest of them.

This is a familiar touch. Though simple it and of itself, the action is calming. Instinct guides him to ever-so-slightly press into Inigo’s touch. We’re right here, he says, and Morgan knows he’s safe.

“Four weeks?” Niceties drop dead. A month of his life—longer—gone with a snap. What had he missed? How many tasks had he forgotten to the wind, never to be remembered? What about school, how was he to ever catch up? What about his friends—did he have friends? He had Inigo…

How was his life supposed to go back to normal, after this? 

Amber gaze turns back to the couple that has moved to stand at his side. The man hangs back, but the bird, sweet mother, raises elegant fingers (the same as his own, he realizes, the same ink-stained skin of a scholar—is he a scholar?) to trace over his cheek. A smile tugs at his lips, bittersweet. It hurts, mother. I’m sorry.

“Water would be nice,” he croaks out eventually. Something normal, until a small cup is pressed into his hands and he finds he doesn’t have the strength to bring it to his lips. (It’s harder to hold back the tears, then, this time out of shame than any guilt or sadness. Rivulets only run down his cheeks when the little bird gently tips the cup against his mouth so that he can drink.)

He’s being selfish. What he really wants are a few minutes to himself—to cry his eyes out, to absorb the fact that his little brother isn’t the same as he was four weeks ago, to call mother. Inigo swallows past the lump of guilt in his throat. It’s apparent Morgan feels slightly more at ease when Inigo is there. He’ll settle for sending Mother a quick text.

Thumbs tap rapidly on the phone’s touchscreen. It’s rarely out of his hands these days; if he’d just had it on him back then, could he have been there in time? (Logic tells him no, nothing would have changed but logic has never ruled his brain). Inigo assures Mother he’ll call her once he leaves the hospital before slipping the phone in his back pocket. Katerina sits at the nurse’s station, talking animatedly with a fellow nurse.

“Excuse my interruption, ladies! I’m simply in search of some water.” Inigo summons a smile, though it lacks his usual cheer. Ever kind, patient Katerina nods. “Just a second, Inigo.” Usually, he’d offer some flirtatious comment, tell her not to rush. Mustering up the energy is too much of an effort right now. Tears prick at the back of his eyes until he can’t hold it in anymore. Elbows prop against the counter, head falling into his hands. How can anything be normal again? Recovery is going to be a long, long road, one Inigo will follow Morgan down without hesitation. Still, fear claws at his heart. What if they can’t come back from this? What happens if Morgan never recovers his memories? What if—

An arm wraps around his shoulders. Inigo starts, furiously wiping at his face as Katerina hands him a tissue. “Thanks, darling,” he dabs at his eyes. She slides a stack of paper cups and a water pitcher across the counter. “He’s a strong kid. Give him time.”

Inigo sniffs in response, grabbing the water and cups before returning to Morgan’s room. Robin helps her son take a tiny sip. Inigo, who knows his brother better than himself, darts into the attached bathroom, emerging with a wad of toilet paper. He silently begins to wipe away the tears on Morgan’s cheeks. Just like Morgan used to do when they were kids.

“You know, I think I hold the world record for crying.” It’s an attempt at a joke, one that rings a little flat to his own ears. Inigo gently removes his hand, glancing at his aunt and uncle. “I, uh, should probably get going…”

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

out of the element. morgan-inigo.

feroxanfei·:

A frown pulls handsome features down. “Exactly that. I spent my life learning how to love, not chanting spells.” Truthfully, Inigo absolutely no idea what they’re supposed to do here. Turning an apple into solid gold sounds a lot like alchemy, and well, no one really believes in that kinda thing.

Bills crinkle in his hand as he places the change from their purchase in his wallet. Good things apples are so cheap around campus. A man’s gotta have money for tea dates, you know! Speaking of tea…stomach releases a little growl. Morgan had dragged him out right before lunch, and now a perfectly delicious sandwich lay uneaten back in his dorm.

The things he does for love.

Arms cross in front of his chest. “Half-elf,” he corrects automatically. Irritation turns into humor, lopsided grin overtaking pursed lips. One hand subconsciously rises to an ear, fingertips playing with the small silver hoop pierced through the lobe.

“What do we even need these for again?” Free hand hovers above one of their test subjects. As much as he scoffs and complains, he’ll always humor his little brother in the end. “Sure I can’t just ask her for tea?” Inigo teases with a wink before sobering up.

This feels ridiculous. Brown eyes shut in concentration. He focuses on the apple, imagining the red slowly bleeding into gold, soft fruit becoming solid. After a few quiet moments, he opens one eye.

The apple remains stubbornly red.

It’s not as though Morgan is exactly one to talk. He’s supposed to be a dragon, and yet the poor thing has never transformed; gods know even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to take flight. Imagine that: a dragon scared of heights. How pathetic! But it is very much in line with Inigo’s situation, a fae unable to perform a “simple” blessing. Oh, the woes of having human blood.

“Chanting spells? What, are you mocking me, now?” though his tone drips with disdain, amber eyes sparkle with amusement. “And it’s not a spell. It’s a blessing, Ini.”

Although he teases, Morgan genuinely hopes that Inigo can accomplish the task at hand. Not only would it boost his brother’s ego, but it would check another item off their list, and while Morgan wasn’t the most competitive person in the world… he did like prizes.

“It’s for the scavenger hunt, remember? Even if we weren’t doing this hunt, I hear that golden apples are supposed to make you more… charming, as it were.”

Increase your charm. That’s what a professor had told him, and while it seemed a little far-fetched, Morgan wouldn’t dismiss it until he saw a golden apple’s effects personally. Of course, for that, he first needed to get his hands on an apple. 

“And I don’t think asking a goddess that isn’t your own out for tea would exactly make Naga happy,” he adds a bit under his breath, though the comment is quickly cast aside once Inigo takes his stance. With how focused the other look, Morgan genuinely believed it was going to work. 

Until it doesn’t. 

“… Maybe the goddess is refusing to aid you in this because you’re a skirt-chaser,” he says bluntly. “Perhaps you should stop being such a lecher and devote yourself more to… what was her name? Seiros? To Seiros.” 

“I’d never mock you,” Inigo replies softly. Tease, harass, and just be a general nuisance, yes, but outright mocking? He’s not the cruel. Gaze slides from the cursed (still red) apple to the mage. This is more his thing anyway; Inigo can hardly recite the difference between a blessing and a spell, much less their practical applications. Something to do with the subtleties of intent combined with purity. Maybe. Morgan’s explained all this before and while Inigo could eagerly listen to him excitedly go on about spells for hours—and he has—unfortunately few facts manage to stick.

Rolling his neck and cracking his knuckles, Inigo summons another smile. It’s the one spell/blessing that requires zero fumbling in the dark on his part. With a quirk of his lips he can sooth both his nerves and others, though the results tend to vary. Still, how comforting to know he does indeed possess a little bit of magic. Thanks, Mother.

Heh, Inigo has plenty of charm, thank you very much. “Oh, I don’t need a golden apple for that, Morushka,” Inigo laughs. A tiny part of him wants to give up, but…this is important to Morgan and therefore it’s important to him. Besides, winning a competition might help increase his standing with the ladies.

A frustrated sigh sets his pink bangs fluttering. Strands land awkwardly, tickling his nose. Inigo swipes a hand through the wayward hair. He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, partly from embarrassment, partly from dissatisfaction. Ugh, does Morgan have to lecture him now? Can’t it wait until after they’ve completed their tasks?

Gods, the kid always has a point, but Inigo is in no mood to hear it at the moment. “I think devoting myself to Seiros would make my ever ethereal Naga even angrier.” For the strangest second, Inigo has the feeling he’s been in a situation like this before. Caught between two gorgeous ladies, unsure of who to entrust his heart too. With a shake of his head, he tries to clear the thoughts. Maybe he could use that lecture after all. “Well, since I’m clearly useless, got any other ideas, O genius mage?” Inigo frowns at the apple once more. Serios…Naga…lend me your strength, please!

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

we should have carpooled. morgan-inigo.

feroxanfei·:

They all knew why Aunt Robin insisted on a carpool. Faster drive time was a flimsy excuse for a woman as brilliant as her. Inigo quietly slipped in a few dollars for gas money in her bag before climbing into the backseat with his little brother.

Even she can’t plan for drunk drivers, but Inigo refrained from saying so aloud. Morgan undoubtedly felt the subtle tension in the air. So what else does a protective older brother do but ease the anxiety? (That same anxiety pumping through his own veins.) Offers to play card games, or listen to facts about their new college.

It’s enough for both of them to last the car ride without any emotional outbursts. Now, after waving goodbye to Robin and Bas, they’re finally, blessedly, on their own. Inigo tilts his head, staring down at the paper in his hand. Fancy font scrawled across the top, detailing a freshman get to know one another game. Easy enough. College campuses are full of pretty girls, right? Part of him itches to wander the sprawling grounds. But he promised basically everyone—Mother, Father, Aunt Robin, and Uncle Basilio—he wouldn’t leave Morgan’s side until he’s sure the little dragon is comfortable.

Insufferable smile spreads across his face. “We spend too much time together,” Inigo teases, following Morgan’s lead. Pen scratches along the paper. “Damn, I was going to put you dislike the most delicious cake in existence.” It’s too much fun messing with him.

Inigo counts the remaining slots on the page. Seven left? They can do this—Scavenger hunt? Oh, right, that other orientation mixer. Pen and paper slide into the front pocket of his jacket. Arms stretch above his head, shoulders popping faintly. “Lead on, Morushka. I’m always happy to pick flowers. Maybe I’ll even make you a flower crown.”

The most disgusted eugh bubbles up from his throat. “You should put that down, actually, since that cake is horrendous, Ini. Seriously, you should be ashamed.” Mage’s elbow nudges his brother’s side, a playful gesture with no malice actually intended. (Even if he was right. The cake is gross.)

“If I recall correctly, there’s a greenhouse near the southeastern corner of campus. If we ask nicely, maybe they’ll help us arrange something.” 

As he speaks, Morgan takes Inigo’s hand and starts to lead him along through the myriads of halls and passageways of the academy. It was too far-fetched for Morgan to have already memorized the map of the monastery (though that would absolutely happen within the next few days), but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find his way around thanks to the conveniently-placed signs. 

“I’ll only wear a flower crown if I get to make you one as well. We have to match, after all,” he hums, a smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t want you to feel left out.”

Flinching away from Morgan’s sharp elbow, Inigo’s face falls in mock hurt. All these years and his poor little brother still hasn’t seen the light. “Oh please, you and I both know—“ He freezes, dropping his arms back to his sides. Bites back I have no shame and starts again. “You know what? Not important.” As if a guy with no shame spends days moping and crying when getting turned down! Just because he acts like he’s over the crippling shyness of youth doesn’t mean there’s still an occasional flareup.

Of course Morgan already knows the general layout of the campus. All Inigo vaguely remembers from his own copy is the location of the dorms. But a greenhouse, eh? Place must be packed with flowers from all over the world! He’ll have to ask if it’s possible for students to garden as well, cultivate their own little patch of soil.

Instinctively his calloused fingers wrap securely around Morgan’s soft ones, the motion as natural as breathing. Follows the little dragon through a labyrinth of halls without a care in the world. The half-elf doesn’t miss the signs tastefully scattered around the grounds, which provide easy reassurance that he’ll find his way around in Morgan’s absence. “Well obviously. Lavender sprigs bring out your eyes. Now see, comments like that are what make me seek comfort in the—the—“ voice trials off as the greenhouse appears before them.

A glittering glass castle housing the most beautiful treasure of all stands next to an azure pond. Inigo steps forward on soft feet, drinking in every detail. The doors are open in invitation, showing glimpses of vibrant green leaves and a riot of colorful petals.

Now he understands how Morgan feels about the library.

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

reminiscence in tears. morgan-inigo.

feroxanfei·:

Amber eyes are clouded. No excited spark turning them molten, pain and emptiness rendering them dull. Any number of things in this room—IV’s and beeping and tear streaked faces—are enough to upset him, though nothing spears his heart more than seeing Morgan’s eyes so dim.

Mouth moves. Inigo strains to hear the whispers, unsure of what he’s hoping to discover. A sudden recovery, maybe? Morgan hesitates on the names, the barest hitch in his breath as he repeats the information. Inigo hides the (expected, yet no less potent) burst of disappointment by gently wiping salty cheeks. Vision remains a little blurred about the edges.

Heart stops. Gold flares for the briefest of moments as Morgan says his name. The ashes of a forge struggling back to life. Or perhaps he’s been reading too much Shakespeare and it’s nothing more than a trick of the blinding hospital lights. A gentle nod in response. He’s afraid that if he speaks now his voice will crack under the strain. Words, for once, escape Inigo. It’s probably best for Morgan to ramble anyway, lest he slips in response and somehow makes everything worse.

(Uncle Basilio remains a solid presence behind him, Aunt Robin’s sobs turning softer. Inigo wants to hand her a tissue, though he finds he can’t move.)

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly. Hides a sympathetic wince as the plaster casts drops heavily onto the bed. Oh gods above, how he’d happily trade positions with Morgan, give him some sense of relief. Pain ripples along his features. Isn’t there anything the nurses can do? (The idea of seeing Morgan doped up on painkillers is extremely unappealing.) Instinct drives Inigo to hold his brother’s hand, curl up beside him, offering reassurance.

Fingers tighten on the papery bedsheets. Gaze drops as he blinks away tears, swallows past a growing lump. Pale imitation of the usual infectious laugh escapes a ragged throat. “Ha, yeah, I rem—“ can you think before you speak for once in your life “—I thought reading might be a good way to pass the time. And Shakespeare is meant to be read aloud, really.”

Huh? Brown snaps back to amber. Hearing goes funny; machines replaced with a high pitched whine. Mouth parts. How did he—does some part of him—Inigo had resigned himself to never hearing that name for some time.

Inigo closes his mouth, licks his dry lips. (Robin lets out a muffled cry.) A thousand replies dart through his head. What’s the right thing to say here? Is there a correct response?

“Uh…perhaps we should…wait for the doctor…” Morgan remembered the one nickname no one else (besides Mother) calls him.

Swallows once more. “There was a car accident, Morgan.”

“I was in a car accident.” It’s more of a statement than a question. There’s movement in the corner of his eyes—the pale bird shifting to wipe her tears, a hand raised as if to stop him from speaking, while the muscular gentleman at her side pulls her back down, lips reading let them speak—but Morgan keeps his focus trained on the boy now sitting at his side. 

Eyes flutter shut as he tries to remember. When he thinks back, there is… nothing. Mind blank, lost to the void of black, save for hints of the sweetest blue—a dancer’s voice, it’s not exactly fit for reading aloud, but it isn’t quite bad, either. Inigo is there, filling in the emptiness with color, with sound, a smile, a laugh, a—

“—Nng! My head!” 

Once more does a casted arm try to raise but to no avail. A searing pain throbs behind his eyes, unreachable. Although he had been sitting up straight once before, Morgan now collapses back against the pristine white hospital sheets, face scrunched in agony. 

Birdsong echoes in his ears. He can see a woman’s face. Mother, his lips form, but a different word escapes him. 

“Morgan. … Morgan? Yes, that’s,” a slow breath, eyes open just a crack. I hate the lights here, he decides. “that’s it. My name is Morgan. I was involved in a car accident.”

Head turns slightly to the side, amber finds itself reflected in a mirror image. “You’re… mother. My mother. But I don’t remember you,” he says, gaze flickering to the man at the little bird’s side. 

(Both parents weep; one out of happiness that at least he can remember this much, the other lamenting how can my son look upon my face and see nothing but a stranger?)

Finally, he turns back to Inigo. “This accident—how long ago was it? Have I been unconscious for… for a while?” 

Tiniest dip of the chin acknowledges the statement. Inigo bites his lower lip to keep from politely asking his aunt and uncle to leave. It’s a selfish, bitter thought. They have more right to be here than Inigo does. And yet, Morgan still chooses him. What had Mother said once? Something about gravitational pulls. “You two are planets revolving around each other.” Now, his fellow planet got pushed off course. Inigo will do whatever it takes to right the orbit.

“Morushka—“ he cries, right arm reaching for his brother on instinct. The agony on his soft features is so out of place. Gently, Inigo’s fingertips alight on Morgan’s forehead, brushing away sweat-soaked strands of hair. I’m sorry it hurts. “Don’t force yourself. I—we’re—right here, okay?” Inigo retracts his hand when amber peeks between Morgan’s eyelashes. Nods along with a watery smile, ignores the hurt look flashing across Aunt Robin’s features. Not like Morgan had a choice in keeping his memories or losing them all to a drunk driver.

Gaze darts to Bas and Robin. They all counted down the seconds Morgan hovered between life and death in this damned hospital. A response lies on the tip of Inigo’s tongue—thirty-four days, twelve hours, and six minutes. So the minute part might not be totally accurate, given how time stopped the moment Katerina informed him of the news. But Inigo knows it might freak Morgan out, scare him even further.

One shoulder raised in a half shrug. Like the time Morgan was out doesn’t matter when clearly the only thing that does is he’s awake. Alive. “Two weeks.” Tone remains measured. There’s something in the air here, tension and sadness and an awkwardness he’s doesn’t want to name. Brightening just a bit, he tilts his head at the empty bedside table. “Would you like some water?”

Something to make Morgan—Morushka—feel more like a human and less like a lab rat. Dancer’s son shifts, sheets rustling beneath him. He’ll go talk to Katerina, ask for a pitcher and maybe some snacks for the rest of them.

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

we should have carpooled. morgan-inigo.

Seriously. Just imagine how much money they could have saved if they’d just carpooled from home to their new school. 

Robin insisted on driving Morgan up; Basilio didn’t argue with his wife. Neither party wanted to just let their baby boy go and both were just a little bit too involved when it came to the initial tour of the school after Morgan had moved in. The entire time, they stayed with Inigo and his parents—it was like nothing had changed at all from their childhood days.

But that time was over. Their parents left, and the two were on their own, now standing side-by-side at orientation. Amber eyes glance down at the paper in his hand: a get-to-know-you event, it looked. Talk to others and find out a few likes and dislikes. Without looking up, Morgan jots down Inigo’s name. 

“Alright, so, likes and dislikes. Let’s see—you don’t like cats, just like me, and you like women… and… lemon cake with chocolate frosting.” A small grin tossed to the side; he and Inigo knew one another inside and out. 

“For my dislike, you can put cats, and for my likes… put books and solitude. Accurate, right?”

The paper is folded neatly and tucked into his back pocket. He’ll deal with the rest later. Three people from his house, and five from outside of his house? Jeez, they really want him to talk to the entire freshman class, don’t they?

“Might as well get started on this scavenger hunt, eh, Ichenka? What say you and I,” a glance down at the scavenger hunt list, before folding that and tucking it away as well, “find the nearest flower patch and make two little bouquets? Sound good?” 

@feroxanfei​

They all knew why Aunt Robin insisted on a carpool. Faster drive time was a flimsy excuse for a woman as brilliant as her. Inigo quietly slipped in a few dollars for gas money in her bag before climbing into the backseat with his little brother.

Even she can’t plan for drunk drivers, but Inigo refrained from saying so aloud. Morgan undoubtedly felt the subtle tension in the air. So what else does a protective older brother do but ease the anxiety? (That same anxiety pumping through his own veins.) Offers to play card games, or listen to facts about their new college.

It’s enough for both of them to last the car ride without any emotional outbursts. Now, after waving goodbye to Robin and Bas, they’re finally, blessedly, on their own. Inigo tilts his head, staring down at the paper in his hand. Fancy font scrawled across the top, detailing a freshman get to know one another game. Easy enough. College campuses are full of pretty girls, right? Part of him itches to wander the sprawling grounds. But he promised basically everyone—Mother, Father, Aunt Robin, and Uncle Basilio—he wouldn’t leave Morgan’s side until he’s sure the little dragon is comfortable.

Insufferable smile spreads across his face. “We spend too much time together,” Inigo teases, following Morgan’s lead. Pen scratches along the paper. “Damn, I was going to put you dislike the most delicious cake in existence.” It’s too much fun messing with him.

Inigo counts the remaining slots on the page. Seven left? They can do this—Scavenger hunt? Oh, right, that other orientation mixer. Pen and paper slide into the front pocket of his jacket. Arms stretch above his head, shoulders popping faintly. “Lead on, Morushka. I’m always happy to pick flowers. Maybe I’ll even make you a flower crown.”

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

out of the element. morgan-inigo.

“What do you mean you don’t know how to bless an object?” 

Before them sat two beautiful, fresh apples, picked just earlier that day. Their campus was in a perfect location where fruit stands were a-plenty; getting the apples was the easy part. Making them golden was the hard part. 

“You’re an elf, aren’t you? Can’t you just, y’know,” he wiggles his fingers towards the apples, a clear mockery of blessing them, “make ‘em golden?”

A soft huff escapes his lips. “The only other way to get a golden apple is to have it blessed by the goddess herself, and we can’t exactly just ring her up for a favor. Come on, Ini, just try!” 

@feroxanfei​

A frown pulls handsome features down. “Exactly that. I spent my life learning how to love, not chanting spells.” Truthfully, Inigo absolutely no idea what they’re supposed to do here. Turning an apple into solid gold sounds a lot like alchemy, and well, no one really believes in that kinda thing.

Bills crinkle in his hand as he places the change from their purchase in his wallet. Good things apples are so cheap around campus. A man’s gotta have money for tea dates, you know! Speaking of tea…stomach releases a little growl. Morgan had dragged him out right before lunch, and now a perfectly delicious sandwich lay uneaten back in his dorm.

The things he does for love.

Arms cross in front of his chest. “Half-elf,” he corrects automatically. Irritation turns into humor, lopsided grin overtaking pursed lips. One hand subconsciously rises to an ear, fingertips playing with the small silver hoop pierced through the lobe.

“What do we even need these for again?” Free hand hovers above one of their test subjects. As much as he scoffs and complains, he’ll always humor his little brother in the end. “Sure I can’t just ask her for tea?” Inigo teases with a wink before sobering up.

This feels ridiculous. Brown eyes shut in concentration. He focuses on the apple, imagining the red slowly bleeding into gold, soft fruit becoming solid. After a few quiet moments, he opens one eye.

The apple remains stubbornly red.

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart​:

reminiscence in tears. morgan-inigo.

feroxanfei‌:

Teaching kindergarteners how to dance was certainly one way to spend his Thursday afternoons.

Inigo loved it, seeing the same passion he felt for the craft ignite in their wide eyes. Granted, some only attended class because parents needed a break from them for an afternoon. Still. If even one of the little scoundrels found a genuine love for dancing, he’d considered himself successful.

“Alright, that’s if for today! Great job, маленькие!” Inigo called over the music still playing through the speakers. The kids broke out into relieved giggles as he clicked the stereo off. “Don’t forget your bags! Okay, got everything? Lines….and we’re off!” He lead them from his studio to the front of the building, where parents waited to take their little darlings home. Inigo winked at the pretty receptionist monitoring the chaos. “Afternoon, my sweet.” He crossed his ankles, bracing one elbow against her counter. “Did you cut your hair recently?”

She flushed a charming shade of pink and curled a piece of shorter brown hair behind her ear. “I-Inigo. There are children present.” Inigo twirled away with a grin. “Later, then.”

He’d left his phone back in the studio anyway. Morgan was supposed to stop by the house tonight. Humming, he bounced to the absolute mess of a cabinet that held his belongings. Fingers wrapped around the phone, popping out his bright blue and silver PopSocket before turning it on.

The song died on his lips.

So much happened at once. 

Gods, his head hurts. Every soft, muffled sob from the pale bird is like an arrow right through his head; seeing the tears of the man next to her hurts even worse. And then, the cherry to top it off, this new man—the one he felt that he knew—speaking as though not a thing were wrong in the world, yet his handsome face was marred by the tears that streak it. 

Ah, names. Basilio. Robin. Morgan tests them on his tongue, murmuring softly, but it feels strange to speak such words; as if he is not meant to say such things. 

“Inigo.”

That feels right, and yet—

( There’s something at the tip of his tongue. A word, a name. It’s familiar, but he can’t remember. He can’t remember. He can’t remember. )

“You were… saying something to me, I think.” He tries to lift a hand to touch at his head, instinct guiding him to rub the headache in his temples away, but the moment he lifts the limb, pain rips through his arm; it drops back to his side after not raising even an inch from the bed, plaster cast weighing it down. His expression falls. ( It hurts. )

“I heard you. It was like… a story.”

A short pause. 

“Hamlet?”

( What on earth is a Hamlet? Why did it make Inigo cry? Why did Inigo cry differently then, compared to how he is now? Why did words about noble princes and angel song wrack his body with sobs, yet now he smiles through the pain? )

“You talked to me a lot. About… Hamlet.”

( Who else would bother speaking to the dead? )

“… What happened to me, Ichenka?” ( Sad is the heart that cannot recognize his own brother. )

Amber eyes are clouded. No excited spark turning them molten, pain and emptiness rendering them dull. Any number of things in this room—IV’s and beeping and tear streaked faces—are enough to upset him, though nothing spears his heart more than seeing Morgan’s eyes so dim.

Mouth moves. Inigo strains to hear the whispers, unsure of what he’s hoping to discover. A sudden recovery, maybe? Morgan hesitates on the names, the barest hitch in his breath as he repeats the information. Inigo hides the (expected, yet no less potent) burst of disappointment by gently wiping salty cheeks. Vision remains a little blurred about the edges.

Heart stops. Gold flares for the briefest of moments as Morgan says his name. The ashes of a forge struggling back to life. Or perhaps he’s been reading too much Shakespeare and it’s nothing more than a trick of the blinding hospital lights. A gentle nod in response. He’s afraid that if he speaks now his voice will crack under the strain. Words, for once, escape Inigo. It’s probably best for Morgan to ramble anyway, lest he slips in response and somehow makes everything worse.

(Uncle Basilio remains a solid presence behind him, Aunt Robin’s sobs turning softer. Inigo wants to hand her a tissue, though he finds he can’t move.)

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly. Hides a sympathetic wince as the plaster casts drops heavily onto the bed. Oh gods above, how he’d happily trade positions with Morgan, give him some sense of relief. Pain ripples along his features. Isn’t there anything the nurses can do? (The idea of seeing Morgan doped up on painkillers is extremely unappealing.) Instinct drives Inigo to hold his brother’s hand, curl up beside him, offering reassurance.

Fingers tighten on the papery bedsheets. Gaze drops as he blinks away tears, swallows past a growing lump. Pale imitation of the usual infectious laugh escapes a ragged throat. “Ha, yeah, I rem—“ can you think before you speak for once in your life “—I thought reading might be a good way to pass the time. And Shakespeare is meant to be read aloud, really.”

Huh? Brown snaps back to amber. Hearing goes funny; machines replaced with a high pitched whine. Mouth parts. How did he—does some part of him—Inigo had resigned himself to never hearing that name for some time.

Inigo closes his mouth, licks his dry lips. (Robin lets out a muffled cry.) A thousand replies dart through his head. What’s the right thing to say here? Is there a correct response?

“Uh…perhaps we should…wait for the doctor…” Morgan remembered the one nickname no one else (besides Mother) calls him.

Swallows once more. “There was a car accident, Morgan.”

[fell-heart]

reminiscence in tears. morgan-inigo.

[feroxanfei]

fell-heart‌:

Morgan wasn’t a hasty driver. 

Sometimes he turned a little too fast around corners. Sometimes he went five, ten, even fifteen over the speed limit. Sometimes he passed others without a care in the world. But he wasn’t hasty, wasn’t uncareful. Morgan was meticulous, worrisome, always at the ready should something happen that could put him in danger. He accounted for everything.

But he couldn’t account for drunk drivers.

It didn’t register at first. One moment he was cruising, fingers tapping along to the beat of the music from his stereo, and the next, he was flipped upside down with half of his car crashing into his body. 

He couldn’t see the bone that pierced through his skin. He barely felt the blood that dripped down his forehead into his eyes. 

Hand reaches for his phone. He only manages to open up to a certain contact, and then his world flares red-hot with excruciating pain. It only lasts a moment. And then there’s nothing. 

( The word Брат decorates the phone screen until the body is pulled from the wreck, finger hovering over dial. ) 

—

There’s a voice.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

It becomes familiar, as time passes.

“Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.”

The sound of paper passing over paper, page over page. 

“One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”

The story turns from stranger to friend.

“Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

Over and over again.

“My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.”

It’s as though this has happened before.

“This above all: to thine own self be true.” 

Words move like a dance.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.”

Words over paper, paper over love.

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Brother.

—

Amber eyes flutter. It’s bright. Everything hurts.

A gasp from off to the side. Head turns, he locks gazes with a woman, her white hair flowing down her shoulders like clouds. Beside her sits a strong-looking man, his dark skin and robust features a stark contrast to the pale bird beside him. 

“Сын?”

The man speaks. He trembles, unable to hold back his grin. Tears drip from the woman’s eyes. She smiles, she grins; she is like light itself. 

He opens his mouth. 

“Who are you?”

And the smiles fall. 

—

“Могу ли я увидеть его? Он в порядке? Он не спит?”

Another stranger enters, and yet… not. Amber hues blink. He is afraid; chest is already tight, wrought with pain at the sound of the pale bird’s cries.

“I know you.”

Never doubt I love, a voice whispers.

“Can you… tell me something?”

Never doubt I love.

“Who are they?”

Never doubt I love.

“Who are you?” 

@feroxanfei

Teaching kindergarteners how to dance was certainly one way to spend his Thursday afternoons.

Inigo loved it, seeing the same passion he felt for the craft ignite in their wide eyes. Granted, some only attended class because parents needed a break from them for an afternoon. Still. If even one of the little scoundrels found a genuine love for dancing, he’d considered himself successful.

“Alright, that’s if for today! Great job, маленькие!” Inigo called over the music still playing through the speakers. The kids broke out into relieved giggles as he clicked the stereo off. “Don’t forget your bags! Okay, got everything? Lines….and we’re off!” He lead them from his studio to the front of the building, where parents waited to take their little darlings home. Inigo winked at the pretty receptionist monitoring the chaos. “Afternoon, my sweet.” He crossed his ankles, bracing one elbow against her counter. “Did you cut your hair recently?”

She flushed a charming shade of pink and curled a piece of shorter brown hair behind her ear. “I-Inigo. There are children present.” Inigo twirled away with a grin. “Later, then.”

He’d left his phone back in the studio anyway. Morgan was supposed to stop by the house tonight. Humming, he bounced to the absolute mess of a cabinet that held his belongings. Fingers wrapped around the phone, popping out his bright blue and silver PopSocket before turning it on.

The song died on his lips.

—————————

One moment he’s at the studio staring at his phone in horror and the next he’s being held back by Uncle Basilio. The intervening moments come back in fragments.

Rushing out of the studio, shouting frantic goodbyes to Mother. Kids looking at him with concern. Mister Inigo?

Knuckles turning whiter and whiter on the drive to the hospital. Red light after red light. Skidding into the first available parking spot and nearly clipping a curb.

Heart pounding fear, flying up to the no nonsense looking nurse behind the desk.

“My brother—Morgan Abank. Where is he—?”

A hand descending on his shoulder. Uncle Basilio’s voice, saying something like “surgery” and “can’t see him yet.”

“Let me go! Get off! That’s my brother!” But Basilio’s grip was too strong for him to break out of. He guided Inigo to an empty seat. Robin patted his hand comfortingly. Nothing registered past the roaring in his ears and the hollow in his chest.

—————————

Morgan didn’t wake up in post-op. Inigo cancelled his Thursday classes in favor of spending time by his brother’s bedside. At first, he simply sat next to him, watching the parade of nurses and doctors coming to perform check-ups.

“We’re trying everything we can,” a young nurse told him quietly.

“Try harder.” Inigo snapped back. He winced inwardly, but dammit, isn’t there more they can do?

After that, though, he started getting to know the medical staff. Grinning widely at the receptionists, bringing in flowers for the nurses, listening intently to the doctors. They slowly warm up to him as well.

Inigo sometimes caught that young nurse—Katerina—listening in as he read to Morgan. He tried bringing in books he thought the little dragon would like. Tales of adventure, biographies, a couple classic novels he abandoned after a few chapters.

He’s not sure what makes him pick up Hamlet. The last time he’d even looked at the play was in English class.

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” Noble hearts weren’t the only thing that cracked. His voice shattered along with the rest of his resolve. Paper fluttered to the ground, head dropping into his hands. Shoulders shake with the force of his silent sobs. Morushka, please wake up.

—————————

“Good morning, Gospodin Tanestov.” “Hel-lo Katerina! I’m a lucky man indeed to be greeted with such a stunning smile.” Inigo winked, hands shoved casually in his pockets.

“Oh, didn’t you hear? Your brother woke up! But I should warn you—“

He’s off like a rabbit, yelling apologies to bewildered medical staff. He doesn’t hear anything past your brother.

Teary eyed with relief, with hope, he bursted into the room. (“Могу ли я увидеть его? Он в порядке? Он не спит?”) to see Uncle Bas and Aunt Robin already there, crestfallen looks on their faces. He only had eyes for his baby brother who stared at them with a confused expression.

No. No. NO. Inigo pulled up short. That familiar hollow in his chest widened as the question rattled around his head. Mouth opened, closed, opened again. Brown eyes flick to his aunt and uncle for direction. Even unshakable Uncle Bas looked lost.

Summoning a gentle smile, Inigo returned his gaze to Morgan. “Introductions. Okay. That’s your d—Basilio, and his wife, Robin. My name is Inigo.”

Even he can’t prevent the tears from streaming down his face.