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Rowan wakes from a fitful sleep when his bed shifts under someone else’s weight. He’s curled on his side, holding his head, his face buried against his chest; he can’t see who it is, only feel the movement.
There are only two people it could be, and, well—practically, there is only one person it could be.
Confirming Rowan’s suspicions, Somerled says, “I destroyed my bed.” His voice is small.
Rowan groans, holds his head tighter to his chest, and mumbles, “That’s not my problem.”
He can hear Somerled breathing in the dark for a long moment before he speaks again. “I need somewhere to sleep, and Evander won’t, wouldn’t—”
“The couch,” Rowan says.
Somerled makes a weird little negating noise and shifts a little closer. “Just let me stay here, Rowan. I won’t do anything.” He sounds nearly as tired as Rowan feels.
It would be easier if Rowan only hated Somerled. It’s easy to hate someone like Somerled, who is brash and irritating and destructive, but Rowan has seen enough of him now to realize that Somerled is also pathetic. He has seen enough to start to pity him. Somerled is an attention-starved monster of a man, acting out like a spoiled child, and he hurts himself as much as or more than he hurts everyone else around him.
And he doesn’t even seem to understand that he’s doing it.
He’s so fucking oblivious that it makes Rowan angry. It makes him angry to think that anyone can be as maladapted for life as Somerled is, and it makes him angry that no one has ever done anything about it. Rowan knows that he did something wrong and that Evander should be upset with him, but Somerled doesn’t seem to get it, and it just feels cruel to punish someone who doesn’t know why it’s happening to him.
So Rowan grumbles, but he shifts closer to the edge of the bed, making more room for Somerled. He straightens out a little—stays curled around his head, but less so. “Just sleep,” he says, trying to sound commanding. “No voices. No biting.”
“No biting,” Somerled echoes.
Rowan is too tired to fight it. He hasn’t slept right for days, and he is worn down to absolutely nothing. He is too weary and sad to try to hurt Somerled.
Somerled wriggles closer until his chest is pressed against the back of Rowan’s head. He keeps his hands to himself, miraculously, but Rowan can feel him fidgeting, like he doesn’t know where to put them.
Rowan, barely awake, upset and exhausted and unsure, reaches out and finds one of Somerled’s hands. He takes it gently—he is too tired to be forceful—and brings it to his head. He moves Somerled’s hand against his own hair, sketching a rough stroke, and Somerled gets the idea.
Somerled pets Rowan’s head, heavy-handed as a child, and Rowan feels him begin to relax. He shifts closer slowly, moving in little jerks and stops, until he is nearly as curled around Rowan’s head as Rowan himself. He tucks his head in against Rowan’s shoulder, and he doesn’t even bite or threaten his neck. He just settles there, warm breath against Rowan’s skin and damp hair everywhere.
Rowan takes his hand from Somerled’s, hesitates for a moment, and then slings his arm over him, settling his hand flat on his back.
Somerled takes a deep, terrible, shaking breath, and then he goes boneless.
This is just going to make things worse in the morning, Rowan knows, but he’s so tired. He goes to sleep.
The first time Somerled wakes, it’s to a hand on his shoulder. He growls and rolls onto his belly, pulling the blankets tighter around himself. The hand withdraws before he is forced to bite it, and he falls back asleep quickly.
The second time he wakes, it’s to a much tighter hand on his shoulder, forcing him onto his back. He growls again and tries to twist away, and when he isn’t allowed that, he finally opens his eyes.
Rowan is leaning over the bed, his head sat on the edge where Somerled could easily reach out and push it off. He’s looking at Somerled with a weird expression, and he says, “It’s time to get up.”
Somerled tries to roll over, but Rowan holds him in place. He settles for pulling a blanket over his face instead. “I don’t wanna,” he says. “I’m tired.”
Somerled is always tired. He’s been tired forever (he’s been tired for the last month, which is close enough to forever in Somerled’s mind). More sleep doesn’t make it any better, but if he’s asleep, he can’t feel tired.
Rowan drags the blanket off Somerled’s face, and keeps pulling. Somerled is uncovered.
He groans and throws his hands over his face. “Fuck off.”
“No.” Rowan pulls one of Somerled’s hands away from his head. “It’s time to get up. You’re going to have breakfast, and you’re going to have a bath. Then you’re going to get fully dressed in clean clothes.”
Somerled wants to dig his way into the mattress and kick Rowan off him. He wants to fight and throw a fit and resist. Somehow, instead, he finds himself led into the dining room and set down in front of a variety of foods. The plates are already picked over—Evander and Rowan have eaten without him, and probably without each other—and most of it looks completely unappetizing. Rowan just stands there, head under his arm, staring at him, so Somerled grabs a sausage and tears it open on his plate.
Rowan makes the kind of incredulous noise he makes all the time and never seems to notice, and Somerled, defensive and confused about why he even cares, says, “I don’t like the casing.” He pops some of the meat, scraped out of the guts, into his mouth in demonstration. He chews and swallows, and Rowan’s weird expression goes weird in a different way. Somerled takes another bite of sausage and gives the dishes a second look. Cheese and bread, fruit and cream, oatcakes and porridge and the things that go on top of them. He spears another sausage, takes a piece of bread. Rowan is still just watching him, unspeaking, just watching and watching and watching, and it makes Somerled gesture broadly at the food and say, “I don’t like that stuff.” He does not feel hungry, but he takes a bite of bread.
“What do you like?” Rowan asks, and he’s still watching.
Somerled wants to claw Rowan’s eyes out. Instead, he says, “I don’t know.” Watching, watching. “Pork. Roasts. That thing with the hare in its blood.”
“Jugged hare,” Rowan provides.
Somerled shrugs. “I’ll even eat the vegetables in that one, if you wanna keep being weird and stare at me while I eat a carrot.”
Maybe Rowan didn’t realize he was staring, because he looks away when Somerled says that, and his face goes red. Somerled thinks it would be prettier if it were red with blood, if he smashed it into something.
Rowan says, “I’m going to draw your bath while you eat,” and turns on his heel and leaves the room. Somerled keeps nibbling at his sausage.
Eventually, Rowan comes back in to let him know the bath is ready, and Somerled is freed from having to pick at his half eaten food any longer.
Rowan leaves Somerled in the bath, trusting an aquatic creature to not find a way to drown himself, and takes the quickest route he knows to the kitchens, already busy with the day’s work. He dodges common servants who readily make space for an Oake, and works his way to the end of the hall, where the mistress of the kitchen—Elowen Oake—reserves a high shelf for her head from which she watches her domain. He passes her body on the way, where she is demonstrating something with pastry to a young girl, and touches her elbow briefly to be sure she notices him coming towards her.
He places his head next to hers and settles his body into a corner, out of the way, while they whisper their greetings under the din of her staff.
“Is it a favor or gossip you’re looking for?” Elowen asks, gruff but not unhappy.
“A favor,” Rowan answers. “I know you’ll already have your dinner menu planned—”
Elowen snorts. “But that’s not going to stop you asking, is it? What is it you want for your little lord?”
Rowan would protest that Evander is not a lord, but he knows Elowen isn’t speaking literally. He also knows that he has protested before, and it has never done anything except make her laugh at him. He could, but will not, protest that he’s asking for Somerled, not Evander. Evander is tolerated well by the servants, and Somerled is not, even if it weren’t something of a secret that he is currently living out of Evander’s apartment. It will be easier by far to leave his name out entirely.
“Jugged hare.”
Elowen shoots him a sideways look. “That’s easy. What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Rowan says. “I’d just appreciate it if you could see we get served some at dinner.”
Across the room, something goes crashing to the floor, and Elowen shouts, “Callum! Careful or I’ll be taking that out of your hide!” She tuts, lowers her voice back to their private conversation. “I’ll see you get it. I’ve got hare hanging; this is easier than most of the fool things you come to me for, child.” She side eyes him again. “You owe me one, of course.”
“Of course,” Rowan agrees. “I know how this works.” He steps away from the corner, back around to the shelf where their heads are sitting. “Let me know what I can do.” His hands are on his head to take it down when a thought occurs. “Let me take some of the vegetables that need cut. Not as repayment,” he hurries to add, because it would be a poor deal, “but I’ll get them back to you.”
Elowen raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t ask what Rowan’s planning. He appreciates that. “Take what you like, as long as most of it finds its way back.”
And so on his way out Rowan gathers up a bag of vegetables—carrots, onions, turnips—and a large bowl to bring back with him.
When Rowan comes back in, Somerled is sunk down into the bath up to his nose. He’s gone under a few times, but it’s harder to breathe water when he’s shaped like this, and he’s out of practice still from having had to heal up.
Most of the time when Somerled is in water, it’s cold and muddy and full of plants and fish. He has to admit, there is something nice about it being warm and empty except for him.
Rowan has a bag of something, and he goes somewhere and puts it down—Somerled does not care—before coming over to the tub. He looks at Somerled, and his eyes don’t linger anywhere in particular, but they don’t linger in that way that says they’d really like to linger. Somerled likes that, and maybe he stretches, arches, a little, just because.
“You should wash your hair,” Rowan says.
In response, Somerled groans and darts totally under, splashing water onto the floor. When he comes back up, Rowan is just giving him a look. Somerled rolls his eyes and says, “Why don’t you just do it for me?”
He means for it to be something ridiculous, to get Rowan to leave him alone. He does not expect Rowan setting his own head down. He does not expect Rowan pushing up his sleeves and dropping to his knees at the head of the tub. He does not expect Rowan’s hands in his hair.
“Tilt your head back,” Rowan says, and Somerled does, so his hair is in the water and his face is out. He can see Rowan’s neck a little, upside down and behind him.
Rowan works his way through Somerled’s hair, digs his nails into Somerled’s scalp. Somerled doesn’t bother trying to hold back the little sounds that come out of him. It’s a good feeling, and not one that he’s used to. The closest thing he can remember is Evander’s hands in his hair and the cool sensation of magic cleaning him up, and it’s different.
It’s nice. It’s really nice. Somerled just lays there and lets Rowan do it, and he doesn’t even do anything to mess with him, like make the mud seep up from inside his head and ruin all of Rowan’s work.
After what seems like forever, Rowan declares it done and takes his hands away and stands up, and Somerled makes a few protesting noises as he sinks back under the water entirely.
When he surfaces again—after several lungfuls of water, forced by spite and magic to keep him alive—Rowan has gone and come back with clothes and a towel.