Chapter Text
“So… what do we do with him now that he’s like this?” Bronte asked, plopping onto his chair. He had told the other councillors about Fintan’s little situation only an hour ago and during the time that he left to go tell them, Fintan somehow found a way to carve a (somewhat impressive) drawing of him, with a bunch of mine’s and a heart around his face, into the wall of his ice prison; and it became awfully apparent that it wasn’t fit for him to stay there when he’s like this. They already had to find out what to do with him while doctors and scientists find a cure for this.
He watched as they shared unsure glances before turning to him, Emery deciding to be the one to tell him, “Well… we think he should stay in your castle.”
“WHAT… could possibly make you guys think that that would be a good idea?!" Fintan? Stay in his castle, his home?! The mere thought seemed outrageous!
“You’re the main person he’ll acknowledge even exists; and we don’t think he would be a threat to you for as long as he’s sick with whatever this is!" He reasoned back, and, much to Bronte’s dismay, he posed a fair point.
“...Fine, but if he does anything, I’m inflicting on him.”
…Insert however long it took to move Fintan…
They had put Fintan in a room at the opposite end of the hall to Bronte's, though it was so he didn’t have to walk that far to check on him, Bronte insisted; though… some part of his mind was screaming that it was a lie, that there was a different reason that Bronte’s subconscious wasn’t quite letting him know. It was probably a bad idea to have a war criminal stay at his house while diseased and even less so to purposefully place him so close to his own room, but something in him wasn’t letting him let go of this opportunity, whatever it even was.
Now, he made his way to where Fintan now resides. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.
Fintan turned as he heard it open, letting out a soft gasp when he saw who opened it, before smiling at the sight. “Bronte!” He seemed to have forgotten he was in handcuffs, as he had tried (and failed) to get up, for Bronte could only guess what, and got stopped by that little fact. He continued struggling against them until he finally got the message that he wasn’t getting up and stopped trying.
When that little scene stopped, Bronte took a few steps toward the sick prisoner, never breaking eye contact. “Don’t get excited, you’re only staying here because your ice prison isn’t fit with you being in this state," he stated sternly, trying to deflect the loving stare Fintan was giving him.
“Well, it’s a bit hard not to be happy when the love of your life walks into the room,” Fintan responded with a cheeky smile. Bronte had to force himself to ignore the butterflies now swarming around in his stomach at that comment and look.
“Was that supposed to be a flirting attempt?” He retorted back, rolling his eyes.
Fintan’s smile left momentarily before coming back as he asked with a hopeful look in his eyes. “Did it at least work a little?”
“No,” he lied, right before wishing he hadn’t said it so quickly. Fintan didn’t need to know the correct answer to such a question.
Fintan’s shoulders fell as his smile dropped. “Are you sure?” He asked in a tone Bronte could only describe as desperate. Desperate. It wasn’t a word that usually fits with a murderer, but Fintan was always a… special case.
Bronte groaned and walked the rest of the way to him before kneeling to be face to face with the thin blond, it was hard to ignore the way he slightly leaned closer to the councillor. “What do you think?” he snarkily shot back.
“So… is that a yes?” Fintan teased, even throwing in that stupid smirk.
“You wish, you delusional lunatic.” He spat before getting up and leaving, never once feeling Fintan’s gaze truly peel off of him.
Looks like it’s going to be a long while… he thought as he made it to his bedroom.