#camia

He didn’t want to be here. Not in Lucio’s room. It was too close to the plague. It was not safe enough. Him and Valerius could come in contact with it and bring it to the Palazzo. They could give it to anyone. They could get it themselves. 

Anatole couldn’t lose more people. Paris, though for different reasons than Plague was gone, Anzano was gone — and with them, part of Amparo’s joy — and while his parents were here, which was always a comfort, he constantly lived in fear his mother who had volunteered as a doctor would get it.

What if Valeriy got it? His chest constricted at the idea. Things with him were tense right then, but it was nothing Anatole could blame on any of them, because saying that they were going through a lot was a gross understatement. He wanted to take his uncle’s hand, something he would’ve done if they had been in the comfort of his office, but instead they were in Lucio’s fucking bedroom. What if he lost them too, because this, this, this, negligent imbecile with it’s negligent court still didn’t listen, still refused help. 

His tapping became louder. Probably, along with his aunt, the death which weighed him down the most was Alec’s. It didn’t feel just like losing her, but Ilya and Asra in the process, for their own different reasons. 

At times like this, he wished the band was here. 

“Hey, little Valerius, could you stop that tapping can’t you see it gives me a headache?”

Anatole tapped his quill one more time, on purpose. Lucio threw him a dirty look, but the Gods (whomever those were) knew Anatole couldn’t care less. 

“You’re not going to apologise?”

“Did I give you the headache? With my tapping, or didn’t you say you already had one when we came in?”

“Aelius,” Valerius warned him. He didn’t actually care how he spoke to Lucio, he knew that, but now was not the best time. 

Nadia arrived before things could escalate, excusing herself by saying she had taken longer with her cousin than she had thought she would take. Now, as a rule, Anatole never talked about his personal life when he was in Court duty. If he could pretend he didn’t have a personal life, the better. It was all out of professionalism, a defence mechanism and him being a naturally private person who wanted people who were not part of his circle to stay the fuck away from his personal business. He was good at redirecting personal questions he didn’t want to answer, and his own abilities allowed him to know beforehand when people had what he described as ‘icky interest’, unable to describe the leftover sensation his magic left him in any other way.

But it was late autumn, and he had seen so many Vesuvians die, his friend had died, his aunt had died, and for a moment his heart betrayed him, thinking that maybe, just maybe seeing Leon alive and well would be a comfort. 

Why? He couldn’t tell. They had nothing that was serious, but right then he would’ve given anything for the comfort of his laughter. For allowing himself, for one moment, to focus on anything other than the impotence of his position. 

Now, when Anatole got single minded, his ability to see consequences blurred a little, however, he had enough mind to change to Prakran when speaking to Nadia. “Was it Jamil? Is he alone?”

It was a way to loophole his own rule about no personal talk at work, and a way to keep Lucio at a distance. He would keep the Count at a distance no matter what. 

“Aelius,” Valerius said, standing close to him, his voice no longer the Consul’s, but his uncle’s, “I don’t think now is the time.”

For Valerius to be speaking to him like that in public, Anatole must’ve looked frazzled. Valerius was a peculiar man: Anatole couldn’t say he had met many more people, if anyone at all, who were two distinctively different people in private and in public and managed to come off as authentic on both occasions. The cues were there in either scenario, but it made sense why people who only knew Valerius publicly couldn’t understand why someone such as Anatole put up with him for any other reason than personal ambition. 

Right then, however, as Nadia replied that yes, it was Jamil and the Band, Anatole couldn’t listen to his uncle, but he pleaded to him silently — another of their nonverbal cues — when he passed on his quill and his papers to him. 

“I have to go.” 

“Aelius,” and, of course, the Consul was back. “Your duties.”

Anatole raised a single eyebrow at his uncle. He would rather get chewed back when they were home about this than staying; besides, what could he say? His Court performance was stellar. He cleared his throat. “Clean water sources, especially if we can get a way to pool the infected water back so we can study it are a priority, the chain supply for the flooded district completely broke, and you need to speak to the Guild of Merchants about it. A new group of nurses has been taken to the Lazaret this morning, and according to three different accounts we should get more court magicians to see whether or not this disease has a magical origin. Did I miss anything, Consul?”

Anatole didn’t wait for an answer. Bringing out a face covering from one of his pockets, he tied it with practice around his face, breaking into a race before anyone could stop him. 

His steps echoed through the halls of the Palace as he ran. Outside, the sure clacking sound against the cobblestones travelled with him as he made his way through the City as fast as he could. He felt his chest burn from exhaustion and a frantically beating heart, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t slow down until he was near the familiar street of Camia’s shop and dusk fell on the City. 

He sat outside to catch his breath for a moment, something twisting inside him when he realised what he had done: he had almost snapped at the Count (again), he had barged the Countess with questions, and he had deflected a meeting he had to attend. Sure, his notes had all the information they needed, so Valerius could literally read them aloud and it’ll be just as if he was there, but he had been working in the Court for three years now. He should know better than shoving his sense of duty into someone else’s hands because he wanted—

What did he want? He felt the words freezing at his throat, a knot threatening to make all words escape him, forever, as he hanged on the cliff’s edge, refusing to look down because looking down meant admitting to himself too many things he didn’t want to admit. That he couldn’t admit. 

He was there anyway, so he knocked on the door. 

As soon as he stepped inside, he felt like coming here was a mistake, but once again, he couldn’t turn back. Out of stubbornness or true caring, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Pulling through his impulsive decision was better than allowing the skin crawling sensation that he wasn’t wanted there win. No, he’d push down under a rug, and deal with it when he was alone. It wasn’t Camia, however, who made him feel that way. Camia had given him a half-hug, half-shoulder grab that was all the same full of affection that he was happy to retrieve as she asked about him, and he allowed himself to finally answer a personal question, and he asked about her and how she was doing, if there anything he could do.

It was Leon. 

The source of the skin crawling sensation grew just a little bigger, threatening to snap his gut in two. 

“You too? I didn’t realise we were hosting a pity party.” 

He had never been more thankful for Leon not to be able to see his face, and never more embarrassed that Camia could. He exhaled, letting a practiced neutrality settle on his own features. 

“Right. Anyway—”

“What’s your excuse that you didn’t know and you were so very busy following the Consul around.”

“Leon,” Camia said, “Nana, I’m sorry.”

He gritted his teeth as he replied. “I did know Alec died,” saying it was more difficult that he wanted to acknowledge, “I knew almost immediately. I have ways to keep tabs on the Lazaret, or rather, I have to overview the death lists, if you wanted to know how I knew, Leon. There’s no need to apologise Cami, I just didn’t know you were still in the City. Asra mentioned talking to you, but him and I aren’t precisely on speaking terms at the moment.”

He took a deep breath, letting out a sigh. “But I didn’t come to bore you with my accommodated Court position troubles, of course, I came because grieving is a bitch, life doesn’t stop for it, and I’m sure you all need a hand.”

As he tried to make his way to the kitchen, telling Camia an inventory of things he was happy to help with, insisted to help with, Leon stood between him and his way. For the first time since he had arrived, and for the first time in what it felt like too long, Anatole allowed himself to look at Leon. He wasn’t going to lie to himself: Leon’s face had crept onto his memories too often, sitting too comfortably in the back of his mind as a source of ongoing, mental conversation between him and what he thought Leon would bicker about when he was tired of the Courtiers being terrible, or other people who worked in it being just as exhausting as them. 

That Leon and this Leon didn’t look anything alike. He was thinner, his hair looked messier, he looked sad. He looked incommensurably sad. It made Anatole want to reach out and pull him close. 

Leon wouldn’t want that, and even if Anatole gave into wishful thinking, his words were enough to cut that thread: “What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s called helping you, I mean your friends. So if you please let me go to the kitchen to make a list.”

“But why? Is it guilt, Anatole?”

He shouldn’t have come here. “I do not dignify stupid questions with answers, Leon. No matter who they come from.” 

He stepped to the side, walking past Leon and making his way through the shop for pen and paper. He hadn’t been there too many times, but he had been there enough times to have a vague idea of where they were. He settled in the kitchen area to make a list of things he could get for them right then, and things he could help them procure regularly. If anyone came to ask about his own grieving, he already had an answer prepared as using his extensive, notoriously tightly knit family was always a good excuse. Two of his friends had come live with them, because it was safer. He had people. 

They didn’t need to know how much he spoke of or he let himself feel around them. He would’ve liked to talk with them about Alec, talking helped him process things, but he thought it was unfair to ask, so he didn’t. He didn’t ask, and wrote his list instead, pretending he couldn’t hear Leon and Camia bicker about him somewhere else in the shop. 

He left through the back door to go into the market, came back through it. Brewed tea for everyone, and cooked dinner bringing Jamil a tray with food when it was done. 

“It’s been a while since I had to use a kitchen, but I want to think I haven’t turned completely useless,” he told an unresponsive Jamil as he squeezed his shoulder. “If you want me to tell Valeriy you’re here, I would be happy to help with that too, just let me know, will you?” 

Jamil didn’t say anything, but Anatole didn’t expect him to. 

Camia told him off for not asking for help with dinner and he shrugged, making nothing out of it. “It’s the least I could do.” 

Leon spoke before Camia could reply. His tone was less hostile, but still far removed. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“You always do that thing where you do more than people usually would, and then call it nothing.” 

“If you want to file a complaint, the booth is open from monday to thursday, from 11 am to 3 pm, and it’s well past that hour, so I don’t think I’m taking criticism at the moment. Look, I know you’re going to tell me that was my own decision, but I almost snapped at the Count and ditched a meeting to be here. I came as soon as I knew, and before you say anything else, Leon, I am well aware you are all more than capable than taking care of yourselves, and that you are capable of being responsible for once—”

“What’s that supposed to mean—”

“I think you’ve interrupted me enough. I’m not Nadia. I’m not someone you can chew because it’s easier to process what you’re feeling that way. It hu— it’s not fair.”

To his surprise, Leon didn’t fight back. Instead, he asked Camia if he could excuse him and Anatole for a moment. Leon surprised him again by apologising. 

“I… what?”

“Take it or leave it,” Leon said, trying his best to emulate their playful bickering, but Anatole could tell in his words that he was far, far away. His mind was somewhere else, and he couldn’t do anything but respect that.

“You don’t have to entertain me, you know? I really didn’t come because I would get something out of it, other than lending a hand to people I care about. I believe I told you already what I believe about affection.”

They stood together in silence, Anatole wanting to reach out and hug Leon. All he allowed himself to do instead was run his finger over Leon’s forearm twice. Exactly twice. 

“Leon, do you know that if you, you specifically, ever needed anything I would help you, right? If you let me be there for you, I’d be happy to do it.” 

Leon put his hand on Anatole’s arm. Anatole, for a second, allowed himself to believe in every possible, positive outcome of the interaction. Thousands of Leon’s existed in that moment, as many as crossroads existed right then. Some thanked him, a heartfelt thank you he could feel through his words, his magic absorbing the warmth of it. Some hugged him, for long minutes until Camia came to retrieve them, and they knew they could all be sad together, but they would be together nonetheless. Others kissed him, kissed him like Anatole desperately wanted to, his treacherous heart screaming for Leon to turn to him at the worst possible time to ask for such a selfish thing that Leon couldn’t possibly want, but it didn’t matter. Because in that moment he allowed himself to hope for once in months and—

“Could you keep an eye on Asra?”

What he wanted to reply was who kept an eye on Leon, he could keep an eye on Leon. What he said was: “Is something the matter?”

“You both work at the palace, you see him more than we do and I’m worried about him. I’m afraid he’s looking into things he can’t control.”

Anatole stepped back, straightening invisible wrinkles from his coat, clearing his throat. “I will, but I need you to promise not to stretch yourself too thin… actually, I will anyway, I’m sure you don’t need me bossing around.”

Leon’s smile was weak, but sincere. “Will you take care?”

“Leon, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“You said you almost snapped at Lucio.”

“He wanted me to stop tapping a quill, it was nothing, he never means it when I’m bouncing stuff against things. Not that I’m making excuses for him, I have better things to do with my time.”

“I know he’s sick but—”

“Leon, I don’t want to talk about my insufferable boss.”

Anatole wanted to take a Gondola back home, he didn’t want to walk. He wanted to sit down on one of the boats and see the stars reflected in the water, swirling as the gondolier moved, and make inconsequential chatter with them, but he had never been very good at lying to himself. 

Miriyam laughed as she leaned in, pressing a kiss that she intended to be chaste to Camia’s lips, but clearly she had plans of her own as she pulled Miriyam back in when she leaned back slightly to whisper a ‘good morning’. 

They met in an easy dance of tongues and lips and teeth, familiar enough to make Miriyam pull away with a laugh despite Camia’s disgruntled expression. “So this is what you woke me up for, hm?”

Camia gave her a cocky sort of smile in answer, gripping Miriyam’s hips and pulling her so she could straddle Camia’s bare thigh instead of simply lying beside her before she threw her own words back in her face. 

“Maybe, but is that really so bad?”

Miriyam grinned and managed to shake her head before Camia pulled her in again, her lips tasting like the coffee she had near every morning - so she had been out of bed - but finding herself quickly distracted when those lips broke away from her own and traveled down her throat. A hand on her hip squeezed a little more firmly to get her to move atop her thigh, and Miriyam’s started to roll slightly, Camia’s lips pulling her back in for a much more heated kiss that already made her want to burst -  

Until the door creaked open, and a familiar face peeked through it to look at them both.

“Hey, Cami, what do you want for - never mind, you seem to have breakfast covered. I was going to suggest pancakes -”

Camia reached up and grabbed the pillow Miriyam had previously been laying on, whipping it toward the door and toward Alec’s cheeky face. She narrowly dodged it, slamming the door shut behind her as she crowed her amusement at the predicament they’d been caught in to Jamil and Leon who were (presumably) still in the kitchen.

Miriyam chuckled as Camia groaned, dragging a hand down her face and shaking her head as Alec’s laughter faded down the hall at their predicament. 

“I’ve been telling you this would happen…”

“Yes, yes...now hush and kiss me again, I’ll deal with them later.”