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Autumn was the time for dying. Winter was the time for death. Paldea hovered on the cusp between them, in need of a psychopomp to light the way. Life and death and liminality. Purgatory. It made Brassius shiver beneath the weight of Hassel's sweater, and clutched the tea Hassel had made him a little closer, and sigh beneath the melody Hassel played at the piano. All this love, freely given, easily taken, and he was still so cold. So morbid.
Outside, the rain beat the last of the dying leaves off the great beech tree whose branches scratched at Brassius' window on windy days. Behind it, the barren landscape stretched out toward the horizon, empty, empty, empty. And the wind pushed, somehow straight through the window, chilling Brassius down to the marrow.
He sipped his tea. Going tepid. How long had he had it? How long had he been sitting here, only half-listening to the meandering impressionist melodies coaxed out by Hassel's fingers?
Brassius sighed again.
"What's the matter?" Hassel asked, transitioning seamlessly to a cascade of arpeggios which flowed from his fingertips as easily as the rain ran down the windowpane.
"Nothing," Brassius replied, all melancholy, as the water streaked silver down the glass.
Hassel played a few ornaments, half-turning on the piano bench. "You don't sigh like that when's nothing's wrong, Brassie dear."
Caught out. Brassius sighed again and nestled himself down, trying to disappear into the warmth of Hassel's sweater. Dying things, chilling things. How was anyone supposed to recover when even nature herself tread an inexorable path toward death?
"I don't like the weather," Brassius said at last.
Hassel stopped playing, turning properly and swinging his legs over the piano bench, which creaked. "It's just the weather?"
"There is a pall of death over this house," Brassius said.
Silence.
Hassel turned pale and came to the couch, landing on his knees at Brassius' side. "Don't say that. Brassius, don't say that." As if without meaning to, Hassel raised his hands and began to fuss, tugging up the blankets and brushing Brassius' hair out of his forehead, straightening his sweater and adjusting the pillows.
"I'm sorry." Brassius stared into dark depths of his teacup, where rhe bag bobbed, pale and alien. He'd let it oversteep. "But Hass, it's true." He nodded toward the window, at the brown leaves driven from the beech tree and beaten by the rain. At the clouds smothering the life-giving sun. And he shivered, all the heat running out of him.
"You're cold," Hassel said, pure heartbreak. "Come here, Brassie." He set the teacup on the windowsill and scooped Brassius into his arms, blankets, pillows, and all.
Hassel was strong, but it still took him an effort to stand under the addition of Brassius' weight, his knees popping. Brassius lowered his chin. Yes, the pall of death, that great thief, who stole and stole and would never be satisfied. The pall of the clouds, jealously blocking the sun's light. Keeping it all for themselves without even benefiting from it. Death— selfishness: Brassius.
"I can still feel that fever," Hassel said, his gait somehow gentle despite the thud of his footfalls. "I know you have chills, but it might be better if I didn't bundle you up."
"Do as you will, Hass," Brassius mumbled into his chest.
They crossed into the bedroom. Hassel set him gently on the bed and helped him under the covers, his lower lip tucked between his teeth. "You know I hate it when you talk like that."
"It's just a fever," Brassius said with an apologetic look. "It will pass."
"I can tell something's bothering you," Hassel insisted, resting the back of his hand on Brassius' cheek.
"It's death," Brassius said. "Nothing grows. There's no sun. And I'm selfish."
"Selfish indeed, taking what I freely offer," Hassel said, because he had to have grown familiar with this line of reasoning, at least, by now. "You know, Brassie, it's not like you to be naïve."
"Naïve?"
"You've grown forgetful," Hassel said, and straightened up. "In fact, I'm going out."
"Where?" Brassius asked, widening his eyes.
"To remind you," Hassel said, and winked.
The nothing that followed was not particularly long, nor was it particulalry torturous. Brassius had long grown used to the sensation of being a bit unwell, of wanting something undefined, of a melancholy that filled the room like ether. Dolliv came to sit beside him, and the sight of her silvery leaves was something of a comfort. Some things were evergreen, it was true.
Hassel's arrival stirred Brassius out of a doze. The fever was still on him; he still shivered fiercely, but the rain had stopped and the whole room felt a little warmer for it.
Hassel was damp, and he had a leaf in his hair and dirt on his face and plastic plant pots in his arms. Blooming flowers nearly obscured his face.
Flowers?
Brassius sat up, his heart pounding. Flowers! "This is the reminder, Hass?"
Hassel grinned from behind the blooms. "'Death, death, death,' he says." He set the plant pots on the dresser at the foot of the bed, spilling dirt and leaves and petals over its expanse. "'A pall of death,' he says!"
Brassius swallowed, but a smile kept tugging at the corners of his mouth. Such lovely flowers! Camellia, crocus, viola, primrose. Winter blooms. He had forgotten, indeed.
"We'll get them pots when you're feeling better," Hassel said, running his finger across the rim of one of the plastic nursery pots. "They'll endure."
"Oh, Hass." It was all Brassius could manage. "Hass."
"There, now." Hassel came around to sit on the edge of the bed, leaving his wet coat in a heap on the floor and pulling Brassius into a warm embrace. "You see? You'd forgotten."
"I had forgotten," Brassius agreed, pressing his face to Hassel's chest. "Thank you for reminding me, my dear. I owe you— I owe you everything."
"Nothing but a smile," Hassel said, and pressed a slow kiss to the top of Brassius' head. "And to look after the flowers when you're feeling better."
"You're too good to me," Brassius whispered, and inhaled the spice of Hassel's cologne, and his detergent, and the lingering smell of earth. "Too good to me."
"Only because I love you, dear."
They sat for a moment, warm and still in each other's arms. And when the rain began once more to patter against the windowpane, Brassius minded it less.