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Wriothesley does not hesitate when he hears the window creak and fall open. His Vision thrums with power at his side as icicles, razor sharp, erupt from the ground. Within a heartbeat, Wriothesley has the intruder pinned against the wall. They're wearing a thick, dark coat with a hood that hangs low over their face.
Not low enough. Not enough to hide a familiar tattoo along the intruder's cheek. Not enough to cover the soft wisp of blonde bangs.
“What are you doing here?” Wriothesley asks, perhaps with far less anger and surprise than he should. He looks a little closer, sees the blood on Lyney's skin, the bruise over his cheekbone. “You're hurt.”
“Shut up and let go of me,” Lyney says. Wriothesley realizes he is still holding Lyney off the ground, fists bunched in his coat collar. He sets Lyney down, gently—he still crumples to the floor as if thrown. Lyney leans against the wall, head thrown back.
Wriothesley likes to think he's on amicable terms with Lyney. At first, Lyney begrudgingly accepted his offers of tea, if only to discuss business matters. Somewhere in-between, he began to visit with more enthusiasm. Wriothesley has begun to order double his usual amount of tea—fruity, Lynette's favourite.
Apparently, that means their relationship has evolved to this point—whatever this is.
“How bad are you hurt?” Wriothesley tries again.
Lyney slaps away his hand, standing up himself on unsteady feet, one hand along the wall. He trudges off towards Wriothesley's bathroom, letting out a snippy, “I can take care of myself,” when Wriothesley tries to stop him.
The door slams shut. Drawers open and slam shut and really, the audacity of it all. He should be more offended of Lyney's disrespect in his house. He's more impressed, and the slightest bit proud, that Lyney is here, moving through this space like it's his own.
Wriothesley prepares a cup of tea. The kettle screeches; his heart thumps. A loud crash from the bathroom has him running to the door.
He knocks once, twice. With no answer, Wriothesley tries the doorknob. It's unlocked.
Lyney is on the ground, curled up. His coat and shirt are haphazardly thrown over the shower rod; there is blood everywhere. A roll of bandages and gauze lay on the countertop, stained pink. Lyney opens his mouth and slams it shut just as fast. There's no point in saying I'm fine, after all, when Wriothesley has long since learned to see through Lyney's lies.
That, and Wriothesley can clearly see the superficial slashes and bruises along Lyney's bare chest. Those won't kill him. The stab wound in his abdomen just might.
Wriothesley opens a cupboard, pulls out surgical thread and a needle. Alcohol and painkillers.
“It doesn't look deep,” Wriothesley says. Lyney shifts so that he's sitting up, somewhat.
“I'll survive,” he says.
Wriothesley dips the needle into Lyney's skin, over and over again. Lyney stares at the shower faucet the entire time. It's leaking—Wriothesley's been meaning to fix it for the longest time. Lyney seems to flinch with every drop of noise more than the does with the sting of the needle.
He's holding his breath, though, with shaking hands. Still, he does not make a noise. Whatever Arlecchino does to them makes them tough, Wriothesley muses. Perhaps it's simply the cost of living the life Lyney's had.
The stitches aren't even, but they work. Carefully, tenderly, Wriothesley wraps the roll of bandages around Lyney's abdomen. His arms go around Lyney's back—their chests are close; Wriothesley feels Lyney's breath on his lips.
“Do I need to ask?” Wriothesley says, just as soft.
“Bad altercation,” Lyney says. Hearth shit, Wriothesley thinks.
“Are they dead?” Are you safe?
“If I told you yes, I killed someone,” Lyney asks, “what will you do?”
Wriothesley busies himself tying off the bandage. He thinks of his parents, how warm their blood was. He thinks of the white-hot anger that pumped through his veins. He thinks of the relief in Lyney's eyes, when he realized his siblings were safe.
He stands, grabs a washcloth hanging on the wall and wets it under the sink.
“You're welcome to stay.” Wriothesley says, handing it to Lyney. “Use this to clean yourself up. I'll give you some space.”
The kettle has quieted by now. When Lyney comes out of the bathroom, there's a hot cup waiting for him. He's dressed in a spare inmate shirt Wriothesley keeps around. It's oversized, and hangs just above his knees. Lyney curls up on the couch, cup in hand, feeling its warmth more than tasting it.
Wriothesley sits at his desk. The mound of paperwork seems larger than it was before Lyney arrived. He scribbles, paying half attention, eyes focused on Lyney—combing through his hair with his fingers, picking up and flipping through a book Wriothesley had beside the couch.
When the candle's almost gone out, Lyney sighs.
“There's blood in your bathmat,” he says. “I couldn't get it out.”
“I suppose I'm due for a new one, then.”
Wriothesley gets through two more lines.
“That's why I didn't want to go back,” Lyney says. “If I bled everywhere, they'd—they'd freak out. I didn't want them to see me like this.”
“Stay, then,” Wriothesley says, “until you feel ready to go back.”
Lyney does.
He wakes, in late morning. There's a weight that keeps him pressed into the couch. Not oppressive; comforting. It's Wriothesley's coat.
Lyney breathes it in. Folds it. Lays it neatly on the couch. Wriothesley is gone, and there is no note behind, but a box of wrapped pastries lay next to him—they smell fresh.
Lynette is more forgiving of Lyney's tardiness once she tastes the pastries. She's lost, for a moment, in their flavour. Then she makes a face. Lyney thinks it's the taste but she leans closer, sniffs his collar.
“Alright, alright, I can take a hint. I'll shower,” he says, chasing her away. Lynette hums and she gives him that look, the one that's startlingly similar to Father's.
“It's not that you smell bad,” Lynette replies. A quick flip of her wrist, and she's snatched the remaining pastry out of Lyney's hand, already chewing it as she leaves, just like that. Lyney raises the collar of his shirt and gives it a sniff.
It smells like Wriothesley's cologne. It smells like warmth.