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Chapter Ten – Somewhere Only We Know, Part II



Farrere stared at the thin, sun-tanned arms wrapped around his waist, but he didn't see them; nor did he hear the Enuin Genevieve murmured in his ear.
'Genny,' he said eventually, surfacing from his reverie.
'Oui, chere?' she rested her forehead against his shoulder blade.
'You know there's no point speaking that anymore, don't you?' he said listlessly, taking care to emphasise the slight British inflection they'd been taught in school.
Genevieve sighed.
'But it's our language. What right does a... a trend have to take it away from us?'
'None what-so-ever,' Farrere uttered bitterly, 'and if we're talking trends then it's little wonder we're not speaking Chinese.'
Genevieve sighed a second time, and Farrere began to lose himself to his thoughts once more. Even when he felt her arms tighten he chose not to acknowledge it.
'Je t'aime.' she whispered.
He held back a sigh of his own. 'Je t'aime aussi,' he told her quietly.




Day Three

Farrere was a woeful liar, and yet this lie had turned out just fine. Thus far, anyway.
Xeeva never needed to know one of the bedrooms had not actually been his, and that in reality he'd always slept in the loft with his cousins. She never needed to know he'd tactfully told her one of the bedrooms was his in the hope she would choose the other: his parent's room.
And no one needed to know how much it hurt Farrere to be faced with six more days of being trapped amidst a relentless swill of memories.
He'd suspected this might happen, but as per usual he'd done a comparatively brilliant job of lying to himself.
Well, he thought, attempting to be chipper, at least I've avoided the bedroom. Upon reflection he decided his ploy was a rather clever, because putting Xeeva in that room gave him a completely legitimate reason to avoid it at all costs.
He chose to ignore the fact he could swear this room also smelt of his mother's perfume, and that upon arrival the sheets of the bed had been folded in the exact way she used to arrange them. Farrere gazed mournfully at the ceiling, tugging his blankets up to his chin, seeking comfort. He couldn't remember when he'd last slept in; hadn't it been when he was fifteen? He'd woken up at midday with a particularly memorable hangover. Had that really been five years ago?  
It felt longer than that. Disregarding the fact five years was a quarter of his current lifetime, he suddenly realised the last five years had been full enough to put the fifteen preceding them to shame. Not that they had been filled with particularly good things.
Although, to be fair, things were going alright at the moment. Some things, anyway.
Farrere rolled onto his side, brushing his hair off his face and chewing his lip as he tried not to think of Genevieve... But he knew he'd rather think about her than his parents.
What else was there for him to worry about?
Why hadn't he woken up at five-forty-five like he normally did? Was he sick? He didn't feel sick. Yet. He'd been sick more times than usual this year. Hardly surprising, considering the stress he was under. Though it was a relief he hadn't caught what Iggy had. Poor Iggy. Poor strange, unmanageable, stubborn, hapless Iggy. When would it be prudent to ask him about growing herbs? How would he react? Farrere didn't expect anything other than having his head taken off, but it was something worth organising.
How long could he put off organising the transfer of that woman from the office in Nielle who could speak Mandarin? Considering the success of the American board it only made copious amounts of sense to engage China. Why couldn't the company deal with different worlds? What was so desirable about the fourth world's assets? Why not shoot for the stars and try the First World?
He'd only woken up fifteen minutes later than he usually did, but in the end it still bothered him. And it was nearly ten o'clock now. He'd lain in bed all morning, thinking through great arcing circles of stomach-turning issues. Even when he'd awoken five years ago at midday with the particularly-memorable-hangover he hadn't stayed in bed. So why had he remained in bed all morning?
'Ah,' Farrere told his pillow sagely, glad to have come to at least one conclusion, 'it's because when I was fifteen I had get up quite promptly to go throw up.'
He sighed. And, after several minutes, he gave in and sigh again.
He'd lost track of time once more when he heard a soft knock on his door. He sat up, looked down and was reminded he wasn't wearing anything, and then with great haste he lay down and wrenched the covers back over himself.
'Yeah?' he called, attempting to sound casual, and then wondered why he'd bothered.
'It's me. May I open the door?' came Cam's tentative voice.
'Um, yeah, yes.'
The door opened a fraction, and Cam peeked in. 'Hello,' she said, 'are you poorly?'
'No, I'm fine. Just sleeping in for once.'
'See, that's what I thought, but Harry made me check on you. Lack of routine freaks him out a bit.'
'I can hear you, Cam.'
Farrere chuckled at the sound of Harry's voice from the kitchen. 'You can tell him I'm fine. I'll get up.'
'Oh, don't mind us, we're just–' Cam's ears pricked and she looked over her shoulder. Farrere could hear the front door opening, followed by determined yet light footsteps proceeding towards them down the hall. 'Hi Xeeva,' Cam directed behind her, 'sure would have been nice of you to leave a note saying where you'd gone. We were beginning to fear you'd been eaten by cows.' Farrere didn't hear Xeeva respond, at least not verbally, the forceful shutting of her bedroom door seemed indicative enough. Cam turned back to Farrere, displaying a comedic expression of dismay. 'As I was saying,' she whispered, her voice barely audible, 'Harry and I were just having ourselves a little panic attack over the whereabouts of Ig and Xee, and also you're well-being. But they're back now and you're spiffy so I'll leave you to get up.'
'Ok, thanks. Were you wanting me to make you breakfast?' he offered, dearly hoping Cam's eyes weren't lingering on his bare shoulders like he thought were.
'No, no, I made my own. Didn't burn my eggs. Be amazed.'
Farrere chuckled, 'I am amazed. Think you'd be confident enough to try making toast, now?'
Cam's contented smile widened gradually into a beaming grin. 'You know... it's so nice when you're an asshole. Bye.' She retreated from the doorway, shutting it merrily.
Farrere lay there for a moment longer, enjoying the cheerful warmth he felt in the wake of Cam's unusual compliment.
Then he began to worry why he'd perceived it as a compliment, and whether or not she'd been sarcastic, and where Xeeva and Iggy had been, and–
And then he decided it was high time he got out of bed.

Double checking that his t-shirt wasn't resting too loosely on his collarbone, Farrere finally opened his door and left his room, tying back his hair as he ventured down the corridor. He could see Harry sitting with his back to him on one of the stools at the bench, but before he could greet him someone else caught his eye.
To his immediate left, Iggy was seated on the bathroom floor wearing an intensely disgusted expression, mopping blood from his ankle with several tissues.
'What happened?' Farrere asked, alarmed.
'Caught it on a rock.' Iggy answered flatly without looking up.
'There's bandaids in the–'
'Already found them.'
Farrere didn't move, watching Iggy mutely. When Iggy shifted his foot Farrere's eyes were drawn to the short, pale claws he had in the place of toenails.
'What?' Iggy snapped. Farrere's eyes rose guiltily to his face. 'Surprised my blood's not purple? '
Farrere registered something other than standard defensiveness in Iggy's voice, and the longer he went without answering the more desperate Iggy's expression became. His wide, amber eyes betrayed ill-concealed hurt, and Farrere knew it had nothing to do with his ankle.
'No,' he growled eventually. He wanted to know if Iggy had had a fight with Xeeva, but ultimately couldn't bring himself to ask. 'Tell me if it's hurting and you want aspirin or anything.'
He lingered in the doorway long enough to watch Iggy's expression change to genuine surprise, and then he continued on to the kitchen, his mood a little worsened.
'Good morning,' Harry welcomed him brightly.
'Oh,' Farrere said, caught off-guard by how readily the day suddenly seemed worthwhile again. 'Good morning. Nearly good afternoon. Where's Cam gone?'
'Outside. Sitting on the hill to draw before it gets too hot. Bless her.'
'What're you reading?'
'Revising.' Harry held up his worn, very-highlighted copy of Taming of the Shrew.
'Know all your lines?' Farrere crossed the room to the fridge, intent on making toast.
'Of course. Now it's just a matter of working on tone, which is harder than it sounds, especially with Lucentio. He's written like such a... I dunno. A pussy.' Harry decided, content with the word. Farrere chuckled in response, loading the toaster with bread but still watching Harry in his peripheral. 'Have you ever seen Ten Things I Hate About You?' Harry queried, concentrating on his script and scribbling notes in the margins.
'No, I haven't. Is that a film?'
'Yeah,' Harry adjusted his glasses and tucked a lock of his thick fringe behind his ear, 'it's fourth-world but it's quite clever. It's a modern appropriation of Taming of the Shrew. This actor, um, what's his name,' Harry nibbled on the end of his pen, flicking through pages till he came to one marked by a fluoro green sticky note. 'Joseph Gordon-Levitt, that's it, he plays Lucentio. He makes him seem less of a pussy, I guess, more of a hormone-driven teenager. He's cute,' Harry rested his chin on his hand, his eyes now skimming the marked page. 'Really cute,' he added distantly.
Farrere leant against the bench, waiting for his toast, thinking he was strangely glad Harry felt free to say such things to him. Now that he knew him better he found it hard to recall why'd he hadn't known right away Harry was gay, but when he removed himself from the knowledge it wasn't fantastically obvious, there was room for speculation. The way he dressed might just be eccentric, and he had no tell-tale inflection on his voice, he could merely be well-spoken, and it certainly wasn't as though he'd had any say in his genes. He was effeminate, Farrere decided, studying the delicate way Harry's fingers were curled against his cheek, but that wasn't his fault.
Farrere's toast popped and he turned away from Harry to butter it, beginning to worry once again. "Fault" was an interesting word to have thought, he realised anxiously, but he pressed on in his musings, coming to the tentative conclusion it would have been a shame if Harry wasn't gay, because it suited him.
'Surely the toast can't be that awful,' Harry giggled, and Farrere realised he was cringing. He relaxed, smiling shyly.
'It's not the toast, I'm a bit preoccupied.'
Harry's ears wavered and he ceased wiggling his pen between his thumb and forefinger. 'Are you alright?' he asked concernedly.
'I'm fine. I'm completely fine.' Farrere told him reassuringly, and Harry sighed sheepishly.
'Sorry. And sorry about making Cam check on you. I just... I worry,' he explained.
'Don't be sorry,' Farrere said, his tone becoming deeply grave, 'I know exactly what you mean.'
Harry looked at him quizzically, but then he nodded understandingly. 'I wouldn't say it's escaped my notice that you fret,' he said kindly.
Farrere emitted a humourless chuckle. 'If it can be referred to as mildly as that. You're a lot less selfish in your paranoia than I am, though,' Farrere continued to lean against the bench, eating his toast demurely off a plate held tucked against his stomach.
'I don't think that's true,' Harry said comfortingly, 'and if it is you've certainly done a good job of pretending to be selfless, what with you buying us a home and continuing to support us and taking us on a holiday.'
'Oh,' Farrere said, smiling at his toast. 'I don't really think of that as... well,' he stopped, searching for the right word.
'You weren't obligated. You're sweet. That's why you did it.'
Farrere looked up, surprised, but Harry was intent on his script. He considered thanking him, but ate his toast instead, feeling curiously struck. After awhile Harry shut the book, pocketed his pen and took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
'You've been coping very well without your coffee,' he commented wryly, eyeing Farrere's toast. 'And you don't normally butter your toast.'
Farrere shrugged, 'today felt like a buttered toast day,' he raised an eyebrow wanly, 'but I'm expecting the detox-headache to start any moment on the coffee front. I've got coffee ground but I don't know how to use this machine,' he slid along the bench, revealing a small, old-fashioned coffee machine tucked away in the corner. Farrere grinned guiltily at Harry's expression. 'I know, I'm useless. You'd think someone like me would know how to use a real machine, but I never learnt. I might just have to eat the grounds if I get really desperate.'
'It's not that, you're not useless,' Harry laughed, climbing off the stool. 'I know how to use that machine. I can make you coffee if you'd like.'
'Really? How do you know?' Farrere said excitedly.
'The bakery I worked at had a non-automatic machine. Here, let me plug it in, it'll have to heat up.'
Farrere stepped away from the bench entirely and watched closely as Harry plugged in the machine and filled its filter tank with water. He loaded in the handle and turned it on, inspecting the heated water that came through.
'It's perfectly clear,' he observed quietly. 'Whoever used this was careful to keep it clean.'
'Thierry.' Farrere said fondly. Harry looked at him questioningly. 'He was our chef. He... You would have seen him, that night at–'
'Le Clou?' Harry interjected, remembering.
'That's him. Sometimes my parents would put him up at the motel in town if they didn't want to cook while they were here,' Farrere hesitated, feeling the unsympathetic memories nagging at him, but Harry's face was attentive, calming. 'The best trip was when Roland came up with his wife and son, too. That was for my twelfth birthday. Mom and Dad could only come up for a few days, so they let me stay here with Roland, Mathilde and Thierry looking after us. Us being me and my cousins, and Jacques, Roland's son.'  
Harry let out a small sigh when Farrere had finished, looking at him avidly in a way that made Farrere expect him to say something like, "that sounds wonderful," but he remained silent, and Farrere smiled at him gratefully, wondering if he somehow knew how hard it was for him to talk about.
When the moment eased away Harry asked him kindly, 'what kind of coffee would you like?'
'Hm,' Farrere hummed thoughtfully. 'Can I be really annoying and ask for a triple-shot flat white?'
Harry snickered, 'if you were a customer I'd hate you on principle, but you're not so that's fine. Where's the coffee?'
Farrere stepped around him, opening the pantry, 'Just here,' he handed Harry the sealed foil package.  
Quite unexpectedly, Harry giggled again as he measured the coffee ground into the machine's handle.
'What?' Farrere said, smiling instinctively in response.
'I was just wondering if today feeling like a buttered toast day meant it was going to be good. Sorry, I only just registered what you said. That's kind of endearing, "buttered toast day",' he continued to chortle.
'I hope it's a good day.' Farrere said indolently.
'I know what you should do,' Harry said wisely, 'you should butter your toast every morning and trick the world into thinking's it's a good day everyday.' He finished extracting the coffee and turned the steamer on to heat the milk.
'You think that would work?' Farrere said doubtfully.
'Yes.' Harry replied definitely. He poured the milk into the coffee and handed Farrere the cup, his smile unmovable. 'I do.'



Day Four

Farrere, very quietly, opened the front door to let himself inside the house. It was several weeks before the end of summer, and so the sun was still rising relatively early, but not quite as early as Farrere.
Happily, he'd woken up at five-forty-five this morning, been for his daily run and returned to stand in the kitchen amidst the first rays of morning light as he pondered whether he would have breakfast.
He ended up staring dolefully at the coffee machine. He'd watched Harry closely enough the morning before to think he could at least try using it, but he knew the steamer was too loud to keep his stealth. He flinched at the sound of rustling bed covers from the loft, and, not wanting to be caught wearing nothing but shorts and running shoes, he forwent breakfast for the time being and hurried to his room.
He continued to think about breakfast in the shower, but he'd already come to the same conclusion enough times to accept it was a question he needn't ask himself. He'd have buttered toast, and he'd have it in the cautiously kindled hope it would help with his plans for the day.


Iggy glowered at the textbook in his lap. He found it surprisingly hard to accept he would be swimming alone for the remainder of the week, even though he knew there was no other alternative. Xeeva had reconstructed her metaphysical wall of ice to be twice as thick, so now instead of picking every fight she could with him she was simply ignoring him completely.
He was furious with himself for hoping things might have turned out differently. Why did she have to make things so complicated? How could she possibly blame him for not understanding her? She was like a book without an ending, or a really unsatisfactory ending, or an unwritten sequel. Not that Iggy read many books, and the now long-forgotten text book in his lap confirmed this.
He forced out a discontented growl and stood up, avoiding Harry's eye from the bench.
'Where are you going?' Harry spoke up after him as he made his way to the front door.
'Dunno.' Was the extent of his answer. Picturing Harry's concerned expression in his mind as clearly as he would have seen it had he turned around, Iggy added in a mutter: 'Nowhere far. Be back soon.'  
He wanted to be outside. He felt so enraged about Xeeva he forgot to make a conscious effort to dull his senses as he stood against the balcony balustrade, and he jolted instinctively at the faint, sudden rustling several hundred metres to his left.
Farrere was kneeling amidst the sparse rows of grapevines, intent on the soil. Iggy ventured closer, frowning slightly, surprised that Farrere seemed to have no qualms about getting his jeans and hands covered in dirt.
Iggy knew Farrere was upset, so he hesitated in engaging him for that reason, forgetting in that moment it was his common practice to not engage Farrere at all.
'What are you doing?' Iggy called tonelessly, even though he already knew the answer.
Farrere looked up, his expression politely bemused. 'Weeding,' he said lightly, raising his eyebrows.
'You any good at it?'
Farrere smiled slowly, 'I don't know, how does one tell?'
Iggy pursed his lips, stepping over to the vineyard and looking down on Farrere, inspecting the pile of uprooted weeds he'd collected.
'That violet,' Iggy pointed to the splashes of purple amongst the dirty greens in the pile, 'it's non-invasive. They're a pest because they self-seed all over the place, but you don't really have to worry about pulling them up.'
'So... does that mean I'm no good at weeding?'
'No, you're just trying too hard.'
Farrere let out a low chuckle. 'Thus weeding becomes an all-powerful metaphor for life.'
'Dude,' Iggy muttered, wrinkling his nose disapprovingly.
Farrere shrugged, lowering his eyes to the ground and continuing the pull up the grass shoots surrounding the grape stems. Iggy sensed Farrere's confusion fading to be replaced by his former sobriety. He felt contemptuous of the fact he wanted to know what was wrong, not because he was concerned for Farrere, but because he knew it was something he should be able to guess.
Farrere sighed, looking up at him once more.
'Do you want to help?'
'No.' Iggy said flatly.
Farrere smiled, 'just as well, you had me worried.'
For a brief second Iggy hated him with every fibre of his being. How dare Farrere bring him here, put him amidst the disarming countryside, and then proceed to mask his own emotions with that mild-mannered front Iggy knew all too well. Sure, he wasn't hiding a sociopathic killer behind that facade, but Iggy knew he was hiding something, and his current mood was a symptom of it. He made Iggy feel so brutally aware of his faults, made him feel like his instincts were void; what use was it to inherently know things about people without the ability to understand them? And to twist the knife a fraction deeper, Iggy knew Farrere's problems were uncannily similar to his own. They made Farrere very easy to dislike, as Iggy had no desire to see himself in anyone.
'What?' Iggy mumbled, forcing his train of thought to desert him.
'Hm?' Farrere looked up, his eyes growing wary.
'What is it? You're all moody, and, no, it's not that I care, it's pissing me off,' Iggy snapped, his ears dropping until he consciously forced them upright again. Farrere stood, brushing off his hands without concentrating on them; Iggy's eyes strayed on them, on their perfect colour, their neat fingernails – he smothered a sneer; everyone's hands looked them same under the dirt.
'You can tell things about people really easily, can't you?' Farrere asked, quite civilly, as though eager to start a conversation.
'Yes.' Iggy replied, monosyllabic. He didn't add that Farrere was like an open book, and he was quite confident Harry and Cam would be catching onto his mood all too soon. 'Xeeva can't, though, I think it would be fair to say,' Farrere said mildly.
'I don't know if it's a Cynimpial thing or not, so don't ask. You've avoided my question, anyway.'
'I don't need an inquisition,' Farrere responded dryly.
Iggy nearly smiled; Farrere displaying attitude was so amusing on the rare occasions it happened. Unfortunately, Farrere sighed heavily, putting an immediate damper on things.
'It hurts to be here. I didn't think it would, but it does. I can't think why you'd want to know that.'
He'd become defensive, and yet Iggy knew he was telling the truth. Defensive of the truth. How utterly futile.
Iggy said nothing, apprehensive of what his face was revealing of his thoughts.
Farrere exhaled, and to Iggy's astonishment his eyes unveiled; whatever his thoughts had weighed on him, it had lifted, just like that. Had he even had to make a conscious effort? Iggy felt a painful stab of envy.
'There's not really anything I can do about it,' Farrere said dismissively, his voice clear. 'So I'll just have to deal with it.'
That was a lie – Iggy's envy retreated.  It wasn't the truth, but it had seemed that way because Farrere thought it was true. He wasn't going to deal with it, he was going to hide it away because he couldn't understand, either. Iggy grit his teeth furiously; why did they have so much in common?
'You're fucking infuriating,' Iggy seethed, his ears dropping.
Farrere was taken aback, but readily he felt as though the half a year he'd spent with Iggy had been leading up to this point–
'Why, thank you,' he said sharply, 'so are you.'
Iggy grinned widely, his eyes hard, and Farrere mirrored him. To the untrained eye it would have appeared they'd finally reached some form of understanding; in reality they had accepted that they were, in fact, never going to understand each other.
'Why are you outside, anyway?' Farrere asked brusquely.
'I like being outside. Surely that hasn't escaped your notice.'
'No, I've long since realised how much you love any form of flora,' Farrere didn't prey upon Iggy's indignant blush; though he was determined not to think of that decision as kindness. 'And speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask you something. If I bought herbs would you look after them?'
Iggy scowled. It was a challenge. 'Yes.' He said, rising to it.
'Really?'
Iggy was abruptly reminded of who he was talking to. Farrere was smiling genuinely now, surprised by Iggy's response, his ridiculous floppy fringe in his eyes, his knees dirty, his stance uneven and the sleeves of his flannel shirt obscuring his fingers in a way Iggy had always associated with girls.
'Yes,' Iggy repeated, put off by Farrere's enthusiasm. 'I'd do a better job than you would.'
'Exactly, that's why I asked,' Farrere said brightly.
'You're paying for them.'
'Naturally.' Farrere winked at him. Iggy's lip curled and he turned and stalked away in the direction of the river before the situation could deteriorate any further. 'Nice chatting with you,' Farrere sang out after him, undeniable smugness in his tone.
Iggy resisted the urge to assure him he may have won the battle, but he most certainly hadn't won the war.


The heat of the mid-afternoon sun drove Farrere back inside, but as he was determined to finish his self-appointed task he dutifully ventured out once the heat abated. He acquired two helpers in the process, Cam and Harry followed him, but it only took twenty minutes of weeding before they retired to the thick grass beside the vineyard, endeavouring unsuccessfully to make daisy chains from clover.  They continued to chat to Farrere, though, and he found it overwhelmingly comforting.
There was no doubt in anyone's mind Xeeva hadn't budged out from in front of her laptop on her bed, intent on several essays, and Iggy was pacing through the river in his boxers with a bizarre deliberation he explained when hollered at by Cam: he was going to catch a fish. Harry had fetched his camera to make a permanent record of Iggy's attempts, but it was soon clear Iggy had more patience for his fishing methods than Harry had for making fun of them.  
Miraculously, at four-thirty when Farrere was pulling up the final weeds, Iggy's voice rang out triumphantly from amidst the thick willows of the riverbank.
'Hah! I did it!' he marched into view, holding a large, struggling fish above his head. 'Screw you, Harry!'
Harry stood up, scattering clover fragments, 'I don't believe you! You must've been hiding that somewhere,' he laughed loudly, starting towards the river, 'it's just one you've prepared earlier!'
Farrere dropped the weeds he was holding. 'Hey, Iggy,' he called excitedly, jogging after Harry, who froze in much the same fashion as Iggy and Cam did, all three of them astounded. 'Don't let that go!'
Farrere had nearly reached the water's edge by the time Harry and Cam realised they could ogle at his spontaneous enthusiasm and walk at the same time. They hastened to catch up with him, both quite sure Iggy was moments from tossing the fish back in the water out of spite.
'That's a decent sized trout,' Farrere explained elatedly, 'we can eat that.'
Iggy lowered the fish, but instead of dropping it he pinned it against his chest. 'Alright,' he said, smiling and starting to wade to the bank, trailing weeds and flicking water out of his tail.
'Wait,' Farrere said regretfully. 'Iggy, could... could you please kill it? No point making it suffer.'
'How?' Iggy looked around himself for a means, and before Farrere could make a suggestion he'd hefted the fish into one arm and used the other to reach into the water. He picked up a large stone and dashed it quickly against the fish's skull. The fish went limp and Iggy slipped his hand around its tail, holding it out for Farrere.
'Have you done that before?' Farrere asked, impressed, accepting the fish.
'Nope. I saw it on TV once.'
'It's very heavy, must be well fed,' Farrere muttered as he looked the fish over, hooking a finger in its gill so as to hold it more easily. He glanced up, smiling good-naturedly at Iggy, 'do you know what it is?'
'Rainbow trout, isn't it?'
Farrere nodded and Iggy couldn't help looking pleased with himself. 'There's brown trout in there, too. And they're feeding on mayfly nymphs just there,' Iggy indicated a deep section of the river sheltered against the opposite bank. 'Look, you can see them rising now. I just had to sneak in and grab one.'
'Just grab one?' Harry paraphrased dubiously. 'It only took you an hour and a half.'
'Let's see you do it,' Iggy shrugged, a hand on his hip, dutifully inspecting the fish with Farrere.
'I should gut it right now and get a fire going,' Farrere said, 'nothing better than fresh fish, it won't even need seasoning. Although lemon and pepper would be nice. Oh, unless you want to gut it, Iggy? You sound like you know what you're doing, maybe I should stop condemning television.'
Iggy held up his hands, taking a step away from Farrere, 'I've never filleted anything in my life, so you can knock yourself out. Do we even have firewood?'
Farrere looked less enthused. 'Darn,' he mumbled, 'no. I'll have to chop some.'
Iggy's ears pricked. 'Where's the axe?'
'Have you seen the old shed behind the house?'
'Yep. Kay, I'll get the wood,' Iggy started up the bank, adding in an audible stage whisper as he went, 'probably safer to keep Farrere away from axes.'
Cam and Harry felt even that comment would not excuse Iggy from his blatant enjoyment in Farrere's approval moments earlier, and they told him this quite pointedly with their raised eyebrows. He looked away determinedly, his ears sinking as he went.
'What was that supposed to mean?' Farrere said, still holding the fish up level with his shoulder.
'In all honesty, I wouldn't trust you with an axe, either,' Harry said, chuckling.
'I'm not sure I trust Iggy with an axe, myself,' Farrere mumbled, 'but I suppose he can't be any worse than Franck.' Farrere's gaze fell on the fish, and slowly all hints of amusement in his countenance faded away. 'I thought he was going to throw it back in.' he said absently.
'So did I.' Cam and Harry said in unison, and then they exchanged a withering glance.
'I'm glad he didn't, but... Why didn't he?' Farrere asked gently, finally letting his arm relax so that he held the fish level with his hip.
'The thing about Iggy is,' Harry began contemplatively, 'is that he... he likes to feel he's done something right.'
'So does everyone.' Farrere said carefully.
'It's different for him,' Cam said, a hint of reproach in her voice despite Farrere's intentions. 'It's no understatement to say he's spent half his life thinking he couldn't do right anything at all.'
'I know.' Farrere responded comfortingly.
And he did know; personal experience had made sure of that.



Day Five

Cam cursed as she set her bare foot in the ashes that remained from yesterday's fire.
She spared a thought to whether she would ever eat fish that good again, and then dedicated her attention entirely to her mission at hand.
She lunged forwards, grabbing Farrere's wrist, already laughing as realisation spread across his face. Before he could react further Harry was pulling just as firmly on his other arm.
'Cam, no, come on,' Farrere said quickly, digging his feet into the ground, pulling away from them. He soon realised they meant business and commenced struggling in earnest, and Cam began to lose hope; he was every bit as strong as he looked. Such a shame, as they'd almost gotten him to the edge of the riverbank.
'Seriously,' Farrere smiled shakily, his eyes wide and disbelieving, 'Camille, stop. Harry, please,'
Cam saw Harry falter, his smile shrinking– and then, quite suddenly, a pair of purple arms appeared around Farrere's waist and the next thing she knew all three of them had been pushed backwards into the river.
When Cam's head broke the surface of the water her ears were met with a sound she hadn't heard in a long while. Iggy was laughing, intensely pleased with himself.
'That's incredible!' Farrere was sitting up, drenched, leaning back on his hands. 'You picked me up, Iggy,' he continued, amazed. 'I'm a head taller than you and you just... That's really something,' he pushed his sopping hair from his face.
'Aw, how come you're not furious?' Iggy whined, put out.
'I dunno,' Farrere replied, 'I'll live.'
'Waste of my skills, then,' Iggy huffed, still chuckling as he turned away and headed up the bank. 'I'm going to fetch the camera. This needs to be documented.'
Harry clambered to his feet first, holding out a hand to Farrere,
'Sorry about that,' he said, grinning, but his ears were lowered.
'S'ok,' Farrere took his hand, and with measured strength pulled on Harry's arm hard enough to unbalance him and send him back into the water. Harry righted himself, astonished and dripping. 'Now we're even,' Farrere announced delightedly.
Harry didn't reply, only laughed quietly, running a hand through his fringe to get it off his face.
'Oh,' Farrere's tone became forlorn, 'it'll take forever to dry out my shoes,' he brought in his knees, sitting cross-legged, and pulled off the offending sneakers, throwing them onto the bank. Then he sat forward, pulling off his flannel shirt.
'Heavens above,' Cam gasped sarcastically, 'Farrere, you do have arms. Will you take your t-shirt off so I can check to see if you've a stomach as well?'
'Nice try, Cam,' Farrere snickered, wringing out his flannel shirt. Not that it made much difference, his soaked grey t-shirt was clinging to his torso all too obviously.
'It's nice and cool here,' he said absently, laying his shirt around his neck to keep it out of the water.
'Hence the basis of its appeal.' Cam said astutely.
'Are we just going to sit here?' Harry asked softly.
'You haven't gotten me all wet just to leave me here, have you?' Farrere said reproachfully.
Harry began to reply, but the words:  'That's what she said,' we're out of Cam's mouth as soon as she'd thought of them.
'Camille,' Harry groaned, shutting his eyes in horror.
'What?' Farrere said quickly. 'What does that mean?'
Cam giggled, and then shuffled closer to Farrere, her limbs heavy with her sodden clothes. She reached up, patting his shoulder, 'I'll tell you when you're older,' she said contentedly.
Farrere sighed heavily, 'I wonder how I miss these things,' he marvelled glumly.
In truth, Farrere didn't mind at all he was out of the loop, because over the last few days the loop had only extended to pop-culture references and dissention amongst idioms.
He was beginning to suspect his present company didn't mind having him around, and in gratitude he was quite content to sit in the water until they got cold.



Day Six

While Farrere was a firm believer in the law, "what goes up, must come down," he hadn't expected it to enforce itself quite so quickly.
He stared quizzically over the top of his mug of tea at an unfamiliar wicker box Cam was holding in his direction.
'I'm sorry,' she said, and his stomach dropped at her tone. 'I was looking for another pillow, and I found this up the top of the cupboard.'
'What is it?' Farrere asked.
'I think it's your mother's.'
There was a moment before Farrere could accept it from her, despite her near pleading expression. The lid of the box was covered with thick, faded-pink cloth and embroidered with purple cross-stitch to form the words, "Ribbons and Bows", in Enuin.
He knew without lifting the lid that title would bear no relevance to its contents.


He looked at the photos first, then at the beads, the little cloth doll with the checked dress, the agate arrowhead, the small, wooden ship missing mast, the dried oak leaves and several red hearts made from folded paper.
He saved the journal till last, but once he read it he had to read it again.
He was afraid to touch the pages anywhere but the edges, not wanting to smudge his mother's handwriting; she'd written everything in pencil. Her script changed over the course of the faintly-lined pages, growing more cursive and neat, more like his own. Her entries were steady to begin with, and then became increasingly infrequent, sometimes with years between them; but she'd kept returning.
Farrere wasn't surprised by the little truths he uncovered as he read, their graves had been so shallow; even when they bled together to form a reality that closed on his heart like a vice it wasn't unbearable.
But he did wish he'd known.
He opened the journal a third time, letting his eyes pass over the words, translating them to English in his mind; it worked like a filter, were he to leave it in Enuin he would have heard her voice in his head, murmuring her story and the beginnings of his own.

Août 15th

What a beautiful baby boy! I've been so busy with him. He looks just like Regis, but he has Vianne's eyes. It doesn't matter, he makes them his own.
He's doing all the wonderful things I've seen babies do: curling his hand around my finger while I feed him, hiccoughing when he's full. He doesn't cry much, he just likes to watch us. And Regis likes watching him in return. I doubt he'd ever stop gazing at him if I wasn't there to remind him he has to work and sleep.
I won the name argument, although not entirely. I said Farrere, and Regis eventually agreed, but we'll add Baptiste on, too, after Regis' father, and Manech as his middle name after my father.
I bet even my father would be happy with you, Farrere. I sent him a letter the day after you were born, but I don't think he'll come meet you. It's not your fault, your mother made her choice.
She would choose you over anything.


He shut the journal, not wanting the rest. He stashed it in the drawer of the bedside table, and then decided he didn't want it there, he didn't want it near him when he slept. He placed it back inside its box instead, and put the box in his bag, zipping it away, sliding the bag as far into the corner as he could.
He crossed the room to the bathroom, keeping his eyes from his face in the mirror, and took a quick shower. Drying his face with a towel he caught the reflection he'd tried to avoid; he looked tired, but not half as sick as he felt.
He didn't want the others to worry for him. He felt so guilty when people worried for him, that was his responsibility and he did it well.
He forced the journal to the back of his mind in much the same fashion he'd forced it into the corner of the room, but it was too late; the wound had finally been reopened.



'Oh,' Harry said quietly, his ears shifting, 'it's raining.'
He had one hand pressed gently against the sliding glass door, the heat from his fingers causing little patches of condensation to spread across the cold surface. Sure enough, the faintest pattering of rain on the roof started up and steadily grew louder.
Farrere leaned away from the bench, his hands slipping limply to his lap, his shoulders lowering slowly. His previously blank expression began to turn to one of quiet pain.
'Farrere,' Cam said, intending on her tone being a sharp warning, but it was weak. Harry turned at her voice. Farrere looked over at her on the couch, his eyes leeched of colour. Then he looked to Harry, who gave him a tiny, nervous smile.
'I'm sorry,' Farrere murmured, returning Harry's smile and rubbing a hand over his eyes. 'It was difficult even before I read the journal, but now I don't think I'm going to be much fun to be around,' he let out a short sigh, his smile widening grimly, 'you know, because I'm just the best of company under regular circumstances,' he added sardonically.
'You are good company,' Harry spoke up frankly, 'and we're so grateful you've brought us here. I'm... I'm sorry it didn't occur to us this would be hard for you.'
'That was very diplomatic,' Farrere murmured, and Harry's cheeks took on a flush of indignant pink despite the warmth of Farrere's tone.
'I mean it,' Harry said defensively, and Cam smothered an ill-timed giggle as Farrere visibly cottoned on to Harry having taken offence. His eyes lit up apologetically.
'I know– it's just... Sorry. I know.' He returned his gaze to the bench. 'My mother used to talk like that. I used to find it interesting that– God,' he stopped, letting out a hollow chuckle.
'What? What was interesting?' Cam enquired softly. Farrere kept his eyes lowered.
'It was interesting that even though the words she picked were so correct and stoic, I never... felt as comforted as when she talked me down. She was very upfront, but genuine. Something I wish I...' he trailed off, sighing again, angry with himself. He stood, his defeated stance making it seem like he gained no height by doing so. 'I should go to bed,' he said offhandedly.
'No,' Cam said, getting up, too. 'Stay up with us,' she requested seriously.
'Why?' Farrere cautiously drew his hands to his stomach.
'I don't want to make you talk, not about that, not if you don't want to. Just... stay up with us. I want you to feel better. I don't want you to be on your own.'
Farrere opened his mouth to protest, but Cam cut him off. 'No excuses,' she continued forcibly, 'come join us, you've spent half the year ostracising yourself by hiding in whichever kitchen was available to you at the time, don't you fancy a change of scene?'


'So,' Cam began, settling down cautiously on the dust-free shagpile rug. She gazed demurely at Farrere, who had his legs crossed, now looking bemused. Cam figured at least this was an improvement on his prior melancholy. 'Farrere. In general, perhaps disregarding this afternoon... How's life?'
Farrere blinked at her. 'Disregarding this afternoon? Life is ok, I guess. Actually... it's a bit difficult at the moment. Yourself?'
'My life is blah. Very blah. Harry?'
'It's crap.' He said glumly, and Cam was surprised to realise his response was not unexpected. He'd grown quiet over the last couple of days, and she wanted to ask him what was wrong, but knew his lost expression well enough to conclude he wouldn't be able to answer.
'Why crap?' Farrere said concernedly, and sure enough Harry's countenance changed rapidly to that of confused discomfort.
'Nothing in particular,' he said without looking at Farrere. 'Just things mounting up, you know?'
'Yes.' Farrere sighed. 'I do know.'
'Chocolate time.' Cam announced frankly, clambering to her feet and crossing the room to the pantry.
'You brought chocolate?' Farrere said, his eyes finally a little brighter.
'Technically it's yours. Why did you think keeping all your chocolate on the top shelf of the pantry at home would stop me getting a chair to reach?'
'Ah,' Farrere chuckled, accepting the familiar packet Cam handed to him before she sat back down again, 'I've been thwarted.'
'Wasn't hard. Now,' she clapped her hands together softly. 'What's something nice and fluffy for us to talk about? Oh, I know, let's talk about boys,' she giggled, but her smile shrunk as she eyed Farrere. 'And girls. Or not, because I know you don't like talking about Genevieve,' Cam bit her lip, and then finished in a mutter, 'I don't think I should be the conversation co-ordinator anymore.'
Harry leaned over, extending his elbow to her ribs, giving her a gentle dig. 'Brett Masters.' He said quietly, grinning in spite of himself. Cam scoffed, pushing him away.
'Shut up, we're not talking about boys.'
'Brett Masters.' Harry repeated gleefully.
'Do you have a boyfriend, Cam?' Farrere asked dubiously.
'Hah! No,' Cam sniggered, dolefully digging her hands into her pockets, 'no, one man would never be enough for me. I'm a right old whore, I am.'
'Really?' Farrere's eyebrows sunk ever closer to his eyes, knitted with incredulousness. Cam watched him tenderly.
'No, dear.' She said pityingly. 'Brett Masters was the first boy I kissed, in grade nine, at a school dance, naturally. Afterwards he went and made out with one of my friends. I gave him my cold, though,' Cam raised a double thumbs-up, 'and I gave it to her, too, incidentally. Fun times. And now four years and two more kisses later you have the extent of my sexual history.'
'Not much of a whore at all,' Farrere said, his smile lengthening, self-conscious yet amused.
'You would know,' Cam quipped. 'Just how many girlfriends have you had?'
Farrere's hand went to his fringe, but he continued to smile, becoming sheepish as he recited under his breath, 'well, there was Monique, Giselle, Jess, Emily, Claire, Tiff and Renee, so that's... seven. I've had seven.'
'Oh,' Cam said disappointedly, 'Phil said seventeen.'
'He lied.' Farrere stated, deadpan. 'And he has no room to talk.'
'So was Monique your first kiss?' Harry enquired quietly.
Farrere nodded regretfully, 'it was horrific. I went to kiss her goodbye at the end of our first date, and I was aiming for her cheek, but she had other plans. Cam,' Farrere looked to her determinedly, an illusive glimmer in his eyes, 'do girls honestly think kissing is just about tongue?'
'Are you serious?' Cam's eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hair. 'I think you need to try kissing some guys and then see how your little generalisation holds up. Granted, I've only kissed three guys, but they were all the same, all they wanted to do was see how far they could get their tongues inside my mouth, and how long they'd have to endure just doing that before they tried sticking their hands down my pants.'
'I sense bitterness,' Farrere mumbled, cocking his head slightly like his sister.
'Cam doesn't really trust boys,' Harry offered tentatively, smiling apologetically at Cam.
'Do you trust me?' Farrere asked her dryly.
'You're different. Besides, you've got a girlfriend, someone to vent your male lust on.'
'Woah,' Farrere breathed, surprised. 'A lot of bitterness. If you'll admit not all men are lustful rogues, then I'll admit not all women kiss like fish.'
'Whatever,' Cam shrugged, tugging at the fibres of the rug. 'Ever think maybe it's you who sucks at kissing and not all your poor ex-girlfriends?'
'They were hardly poor,' Farrere's voice was warm now, encouraging Cam to look up at him and let her frustration go. 'And I'm Enuin. I couldn't suck at kissing even if I tried.'
Cam let out a snort and Harry giggled. 'Really?' he said in mock admiration.
'I don't know,' Farrere shrugged, giving into bashfulness. 'I'm yet to be dumped over bad kissing technique, so I think I'm in the clear. And what about you? Who was your first kiss?'
Farrere observed, confused, as Harry's good humour vanished. Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pursed his lips, his ears lowered.
'I've never been kissed.' He murmured, looking sidelong at Cam, his eyes poignant, apologetic.
'It's ok,' she said, patting his hand lightly with her own to give the air of it being only a mild issue. 'Plenty of nice boys out there who'd jump at the chance.' She tried not to put significant emphasis on "nice" and gave Harry's hand a stealthy squeeze.
'Yeah,' Farrere agreed, and something in the comforting strength of his tone revealed he knew Harry's small smile was the one he displayed when he was hurt. For Harry's sake, Cam hoped Farrere didn't think anything more of it, because Harry clearly didn't want him to know about Simon. That struck her as odd, because she was sure Harry trusted Farrere – but he also trusted Sylvie and he'd never told her. She wondered distantly if he would ever have told anyone if they hadn't found him.
'I wish you more luck than I've had,' Farrere continued, sighing, 'although I don't think it would be difficult to get luckier than me in the relationship department.'
Cam gave him a look of intense doubt, thinking she would turn to Harry and find him doing the same considering his circumstances, but he was wincing.
'Were all your ex-girlfriends bad?' he asked Farrere sympathetically. Cam felt quite sure Harry's single ex-boyfriend would surpass anything Farrere's ex-girlfriends were accountable for.
'Some were worse than others,' Farrere paused, counting quickly under his breath, 'five of them cheated on me. Well, six, if you count Genny.'
'What?' Cam breathed, affronted. Harry had assumed a similar state of muted shock.
'Sorry,' Farrere looked away, uncomfortable. 'I shouldn't have... There's a lot more to it than that. I'm working things out with her. Needless to say she isn't too happy I'm here, instead of taking my holiday in Enoir.'
'When did she cheat on you?' Harry murmured.
'It was awhile back now, with an obligatory friend of mine, actually. He's the son of my grandmother's friend. He's a lawyer, so I don't know why I didn't see it coming. Especially considering he also slept with Tiffany and nearly got there with Renee while I was with them, too.'
'Oh my God,' Cam said, stunned. It took her a moment before she could continue, 'I've just learned that kind of thing isn't funny outside soap-operas.'
'Phil would disagree with you,' Farrere laughed softly.
Cam regarded Farrere sadly. 'How can you forgive her?'
Farrere wouldn't meet her eye yet again. 'Things happen,' he said, giving a tiny shrug. 'Wierdly enough I was more upset when she told Gran about Xeeva. I suppose I should have a think about that, the fact that I seem to be getting used to women cheating on me.'
'Yeah,' Harry said strongly. 'I wouldn't discourage you from forgiving her, but it's not healthy if you're not even recognising she's done something wrong.'
In that instant Cam very nearly came down on Harry with an accusation of severe hypocrisy, but she held her tongue, fuming in silence. Then something fell into place, and she rounded on Farrere before he could gather himself past his surprise at Harry's tenacity.
'So it was Genevieve who told Vianne about us,' she said moodily, 'I'm sorry, Farrere, but if I'm being honest... I'm not your girlfriend's biggest fan. Harry would agree with me, but he doesn't believe in dislike.'
'Cam,' Harry mumbled uneasily.
'It's ok,' Farrere said placatingly. 'Your counsel is a lot more polite than Phil's, so that's a nice change. But... but if it's all the same to you, may we talk about something else? I don't think the current topic is "nice and fluffy" by any stretch of the imagination.'
Cam was caught off-guard by the formal inflection in Farrere's tone. He still came across as charmingly victimised like he usually did, but there was a smoothed air of finesse to his choice of words. No wonder Phil had warned her it was completely useless trying to talk to him about his relationships.
'Fine,' she conceded. 'Let's talk about puppies, clothes and hair.' In spite of herself, Cam let out a giggle, 'which reminds me, I've always wanted to ask you why you have long hair. I mean, I'm well used to it now, but the first time I saw you I thought you looked like a particularly well-groomed hippy.'
'Ouch,' Farrere said, his polished manner guiding him seamlessly onto the new topic with only the faintest spark of relief in his eyes. 'I don't know, I've always wanted long hair. My hair looks so thin and boring, otherwise, except for these infuriating cowlicks,' he flicked his fringe off his forehead.
'I think they're sweet,' Harry said, smiling in the way that raised little creases on his nose. 'Maybe you should embrace them.'
Farrere began to reply with great scepticism, but Cam drowned him out with a yawn, stretching her arms over her head. 'Sorry,' she sighed, 'it's nearly twelve.'
'Bedtime, then?' Farrere enquired simply.
'No! More chocolate, more talking,' Cam thrust the chocolate at Farrere, adjusting her jumper and leaning sleepily against Harry.
As their conversation progressed, growing increasingly nonsensical, they worked themselves lower and lower to the floor in search of positions to accommodate their weariness. An hour later Farrere had long since switched the lights off, and amidst the darkness he and Cam had been having a whispered argument about the conventions of post-modern art when Farrere suddenly stopped mid-sentence.
'What?' Cam hissed, rolling onto her back because the floor was making her hip ache. 'Pop art counts, don't ignore me.'  
'Shh,' Farrere murmured, and Cam could tell by the sound that he was smiling. 'Is Harry asleep?'
Cam looked beside her to find Harry had curled up, his fingers in loose fists against his chest. 'Yes,' Cam chuckled softly.
Farrere sat up, reaching over to retrieve Harry's glasses from the floor where they'd slipped from his pocket. He set them carefully on the coffee table and then lay back down.
'Now,' he said, 'how in the world do you plan to justify that pop art counts?'



Day Seven

Harry sat up, breathing out a little moan. After rubbing his eyes ruefully in an attempt to sharpen his vision he noticed his glasses on the edge of the coffee table. He supposed Cam must have picked them up for him; his eyes were tired so he slipped them on, hoping they would help. He was only mildly short-sighted, but if he was weary everything began to look blurry, not just whatever he was trying to read. Out of habit his right hand went to his hair, trying to flatten it, while his left hand tugged at his clothes; he knew there'd been a reason he didn't regularly sleep on the floor: his shoulders ached and his hoodie had twisted through the night, trussing him up like a straightjacket.
Disgruntled, exhausted and sensing the onset of general moodiness, Harry finally dragged himself to his feet and turned around to face the windows.
In retrospect, there wasn't anything that would have prepared him for the sight that met his still slightly-unfocused gaze.
Farrere was standing on the outer-side of the balcony balustrade, his bare feet tucked through the rungs and his head and arms out of sight as he held onto the roof. Whatever he was doing, and Harry couldn't even begin to guess, he was doing it in nothing but jeans. The morning sun lit up the rich colour of his skin brilliantly, but Harry wasn't remotely interested in observing him. He marched forwards and slid open the glass door.
'Farrere, I'm slightly concerned as to what the hell you're doing?' he said shortly, and then wondered why he felt so angry. It's too early for this, he thought vehemently, but a quieter, more patient voice within him told him that wasn't the reason.
At the sound of Harry's voice, Farrere bit his lip. He'd known he should have put a shirt on.
'Cleaning the gutters.' He answered, and then wondered why he felt so guilty.
'Right. At seven a.m.?'
'Yes?' Farrere cringed.
Harry leant against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. 'So... you got up and decided that the first thing you were going to do today was climb onto a twelve foot high balcony and clean gutters?'
'Uh. Yes.' Farrere said. He'd already come to the conclusion it wasn't really relevant that he'd gone for a run first and he'd showered when he'd got back, put his jeans on, looked out the bathroom window to see rotting leaf matter hanging out of the gutter and felt sure that he'd have at least an hour before everyone woke up and that was why he'd–
'Why are you cleaning the gutters?'
Farrere couldn't admit his obsessive-compulsive cleanliness was that bad. 'Well, seeing as it's fire season I thought I'd... help the house along, just in case.' He said lamely.
Harry nodded mutely, then remembered Farrere couldn't see him. He felt too tired to voice he accepted the reason; as far as Farrere and reason went it seemed legitimate– Harry's thoughts stalled. That had been a cruel thing to think. He felt his annoyance seeping away to be replaced by hollow sadness. It wasn't Farrere's fault he was so apt at over-reacting whenever he witnessed people in potentially dangerous situations.
By now he'd had ample time to be sure Farrere had a good grip on the roof and he wasn't going to plummet to his death any time soon; but still... Harry felt distinctly uneasy watching him.
'Do you want coffee?' he asked, eager to end the suspense by tearing his eyes away. 'I'll make you your triple-shot flat white.'
'That would be perfect, thank you, Harry.' Farrere replied gratefully, realising now that Harry had offered coffee was just what he needed.
Harry had every intention of moving back inside, but he stayed still. His eyes lingered on Farrere, on the way the muscles of his stomach tensed and relaxed in time with his movements, and his ribcage shifted with his breathing; an unexpected sense of peace settled on Harry as he continued to watch him. He wondered what it must feel like to look so thoroughly alive. He closed a hand around his wrist, felt how thin it was, and forced back a sigh. What would it be like to be so far from inadequacy?
Harry had no concept of how long he'd been staring, but he was forced from his trance when Farrere let out a sharp gasp.
'Ow!' Farrere hissed, and his head and arms appeared as he carefully lowered himself to sit on the balustrade, one hand still clutching the gutter, the other in front of his eyes as he watched it stain red.
'What'd you do?' Harry was beside him without realising he'd taken a step, his heart shooting to his throat.
'There was a puncture in the gutter, I cut myself on its edge,' Farrere looked to Harry, 'I can't remember the last time I had a tetanus shot,' he informed him grimly.
'Sh,' Harry muttered, grabbing Farrere's wrist and studying his hand. The cut ran along the base of his thumb to the heel of his palm, but Harry couldn't discern its depth through all the blood and muddy pieces of leaves. He closed his hand over Farrere's, coaxing Farrere's fingers to press down on the cut. Farrere inhaled, wincing in pain, but he didn't protest.
'Come on,' Harry led him through the doorway and across the room to the kitchen sink. 'You wash it off, I'll get a cloth.'
'If I need stitches I'll have to drive. That will be a pleasant experience,' Farrere chuckled, turning on the tap.
Harry barely heard him, already halfway to the bathroom, his heart thudding nauseatingly and his hand wet with Farrere's blood. He felt faint as he knelt down to inspect the contents of the bathroom cupboard.
'Stupid,' he mumbled, cursing himself. He drew two deep breaths, grabbed a small towel, and stood even though his head was starting to spin slowly, spurred by the rapid pace of his heartbeat. He returned hastily to the kitchen.
'It's not too bad,' Farrere said when he saw him. 'Hands bleed a lot. I don't think I need stitches. I'll put pressure on it for ten minutes, then bandage it. That ought to do it.'
Harry didn't reply, just clutched the towel, dimly confused by how blurry Farrere's face was growing even though he was wearing his glasses. Farrere moved forward suddenly, but he faded away; the colours of the room were smearing together into a sickening, smothering fog–
'Harry, sit down,' Farrere's voice cut through the haze. 'Now.' The towel was pulled from Harry's hands, and strong fingers wrapped around his arm, holding him up, helping him to the floor. 'Put your head between your knees,' Farrere eased Harry forwards, his hand now spread on his shoulder. 'Ok, just breathe until you feel better.'
Harry did as he was told, and slowly his head began to stop spinning. 'Sorry,' he murmured when he could, 'I... sometimes I'm not good with blood.'
'That's ok, don't be sorry,' Farrere said warmly, 'you know, statistically more men faint at the sight of blood than women.'
'I'm usually alright with it,' Harry said, his face still in his hands.
'Have you had breakfast?'
'No.'
'That never helps. A little bit of sugar and you'll be fine.'
Harry looked up to see Farrere smiling kindly, but at the sight of Harry's face his smile vanished.
'What?' Harry asked, panicked.
Without answering Farrere stood quickly, running the free edge of the towel he'd now wrapped around his hand under the tap. He crouched back down once he'd done so and, after a moment's hesitation, he reached forwards with his uninjured hand and gently wiped Harry's cheek with the damp cloth.
'You had blood on your hand, so when you...  Yeah, sorry.' He muttered, embarrassed. He then wiped the blood from Harry's fingers, and Harry watched, captivated by the contrast between Farrere's hand and his. The colour of Farrere's skin seemed almost to be on another spectrum compared to Harry's, and his hand was at least two times as big. Harry was suddenly gripped with the urge to ask Farrere if he'd ever played the piano, because his hands were so suited to it; Harry had tried to play when he was fifteen, he had a good ear for music, but although his fingers were aptly nimble and slender, his hands were just too small for the difficult chords. Curled up on the floor next to the likes of Farrere, Harry was sadly reminded of how he'd always felt trapped by his stature. His opinion of himself was reflected by his opinion of his slim, pale fingers– and yet Farrere wasn't treating them like Harry felt they deserved, he was being infinitely careful, precise, doing a better job of cleaning away the blood than Harry thought he would have done himself.
Every so often Farrere's fingertips would slip from the cover of the towel and brush Harry's hand; and now that Harry had finished musing over his self-esteem he was becoming increasingly aware of the fact. He was overcome with the need to look up, to meet Farrere's eye, and his heart began to sink when he realised he couldn't force his gaze from their hands.
Harry swallowed hard, drew half a breath, and then felt an insurmountably powerful force come crashing down on him much like a hammer driving the final nail into a coffin: he'd become aware that he was blushing.
'Do you need me to get the bandages?' he asked, the words rolling off his tongue without him even considering them; he looked up now, determined not to think anything of Farrere's face he hadn't thought before.
'No, it's ok, I'll get them,' Farrere smiled at him, withdrawing the towel and tightening it around his injured hand. 'Can you wait ten minutes for breakfast?'
'What?' Harry frowned, barely listening, acutely aware of the heat in his face spreading to his neck.
'I'll have my hand sorted in ten minutes then I'll make you breakfast. Any protests to an omelette?' Harry didn't answer, and Farrere's smile widened, 'I didn't think so. I'd get started now, but even I can't cook with one hand,' he chuckled, standing, offering his uninjured hand to Harry to help him up. Harry didn't want to accept it, but he knew he was obligated to; he watched long enough to see his hand obscured completely in Farrere's, then he looked away and did his best to ignore Farrere's comforting warmth, letting himself be pulled to his feet.
'Thanks,' he murmured automatically.
'Don't mention it, making you breakfast is the least I can do after giving you such a great start to the day,' Farrere said apologetically. Harry found it too difficult to return his eyes to his face, and half a second later he realised focusing on the general area of Farrere's chest instead wasn't any easier. 'Kind of a rude awakening,' Farrere mumbled, turning away, opening the fridge and continuing on to say something else... but Harry didn't hear.
A rude awakening?
Yes, Harry thought, feeling hollow and numb. That's exactly what it was.