Work Text:
September is closing in: the birds grew more distant in the dew-soaked mornings, having flown away in favour of a warmer locale. A separation between the glass and windowpane creates a harsh whistling noise, piercing the ears of any in the room. A beating of wind and branches at the window, followed by the beating of delicate knuckles against the door.
Today means something, and it is special to everyone - but what it is evades you, just out of reach of the tendrils of consciousness, on some high up unreachable ledge in your mind. Whatever the day means provokes an early awakening from the servants. As requested, they never actually enter the room while you're in it. You asked more for your benefit than theirs: having them dote and dither around you feels reprehensible. This gives you extra time in the mornings that otherwise would have been stolen away by meaningless small talk. Curtains still drawn, you can see it out there: the Polyhedron, blossoming with promise of a flourishing society. With how thick the fog is, you can scarcely make out the jagged edges of the impossible structure.
Shifting to finally leave bed, a sharp rise of pain searing through your side pushes you back down. It was a late night. The damage needs to be assessed soon, and you weren't sure if you would make it to the Menkhu's house. Lifting your shirt, much to your relief, you see that the wound is already bandaged. This will need changing soon, thick clods of blotchy reds and browns drying against the gauze, your skin feeling sticky beneath. Wear black, you think, to at least hide the damage and avoid questions.
By the time you emerge, breakfast has been served. A sorrowful sight to see: your father, uncles and sister, dressed in black much like you. Today is a day of mourning, you tell yourself. Uncle Simon looks at you with particularly piteous eyes, lips spread into that thin sort of half-smile that meant he felt sorry for you. Nobody else looks up, not fully. Uncle Georgiy, Simon's crueller twin, glances. Neither Maria, your sister, nor your father look. Somehow that feels easier. Without the weight of their stares dragging you down, you take your seat. Food today is less lavish, consisting of buttered breads and smoked meats.
"Good morning, Caspar." Uncle Simon sits next to you, whispering in his gentle voice. This is the only place you will find kindness at the table. "You look well - I hope you rested fine?"
He shoots a knowing look. It isn't shocking, since this man somehow knows near everything. Somewhere, a few hours earlier, an elderly man welcomes another into his home, the latter carrying an injured boy. The image is partially blotted in black, but you remember small pieces surfacing from beyond the pain. Mostly the only thing you can remember is the pain, though.
"I'm glad to see you remembered to wear black this year." Father speaks, placing his cutlery at either side of his still full plate. Grief supersedes his natural senses, so he made more of a show of eating than actually working to consume it. If you didn't know any better, you would say he thrives on this grief.
But since you do know better, you don't say this.
You're fifteen now. About three years ago, when you were twelve years old, (and your father wasn't deep in bereavement), you woke in the morning and dressed in blue. This wasn't the correct colour to wear. Father has not forgotten this affront to memory and tradition since. Each year your father has waded deeper into the depths of such things. Now he drips with it. Now each of his words and looks are soaked with it. If he knew the seams of your sides were near splitting, maybe his tone would be different. The comfort you once knew from him might have even made a return. Or maybe he would be furious, knowing it was another betrayal of the order of his days. This is a day of the past. Nothing present must interfere.
You know better than to say that you only wore black today to hide a secret. Father shouldn't be privy to such going-ons.
The Kain family leave the manor together, the August sun barely having risen above the pink mists lining the Steppe. Down in the street, a group of on-lookers also adorned in black gather. Amongst them are some faces familiar, the same sickening pity painted on them. How much of it is genuine, you wonder?
Father steps forward to give a speech: "People of the Gorkhon, we thank you for joining us today in our day of mourning. On this day, eight years ago, we lost a beloved wife and mother. Nina Kaina came to Gorkhon at my side twenty-nine years ago, and in those years of her reign as Scarlet Mistress, she ushered in many beauties and impossibilities into our society. Without her will, this spot in the Steppe would be very different, indeed. And without her, we wouldn't be blessed with many of the wonders that we have so come to adore. On this day we mourn her loss, yes, but we also celebrate the life of something greater - and that we were graced with the presence of it."
People nod and clap with faces painted thick with a sullen expression.
Today is the day your mother died, many years ago. How many of them had spawned this tradition? You weren't even sure how old you were when she passed, and you can't even put your finger on exactly how. All that remains is a blurry visage, a spitting image of your elder sister, and the feeling of her cradling you.
Everyone gathers at the Cape, the tomb of your mother and another. The rest is nothing - you don't remember much of it apart from the drawl voices and the fog, always the fog. None of your friends are here, none of them really knew your mother. You are alone.
A man claps his hand on your shoulder, pulling you slightly back and away from your family. The further away you get, the easier it becomes to breathe. Looking at the man, parts of last night return to you. This is Andrey Stamatin, the architect of the Tower you so love. He was also a dear friend of your mother's. The man glances his eyes down at your side, subtly, brows furrowed and expression tight.
"It's fine. Bandaged." You whisper as quietly as you can to him, the words fighting against the beat of the harsh August winds.
"Yes, yes - Simon let us in and cleaned you up. I promised him today that we would go to Isidor Burakh to get it dressed proper." The man hunches down, near to your height. Twyrine and smoke odours emitted from him, bringing back more memories. But still, not much - just pain.
"We can't leave, not now. Father would never forgive me." This is a truth. Father was forgiving of very little.
"This isn't your father's day, but your mother's. She would want me to take care of you, so that's what I'm to do. We'll see Burakh and I'll not hear you argue more." He releases his grasp on your elbow, disintegrating himself from the crowd. He commands, "Come."
***
This house smells. Earth - the side of the town you weren't typically permitted to venture. Crime was more rampant closer to this part of town, and not long ago a terrible disease had ravaged an entire district. This house belonged to the doctor that condemned the sufferers to die in quarantine.
Isidor Burakh, magnificent as he was terrifying with his severe expression. Wisdom was abundant in his presence, in a similar comforting sense to Uncle Simon, but not entirely. Bony fingers prodded at the skin pulled tight around your wound, stabbed fresh.
"Whoever did this committed a terrible sin, carving your flesh," he says with something close to disgust, eyes flitting up to meet yours, a deep muddy brown that reminded you of his connection to the soil you walk. Andrey clears his throat, always staring straight into your eyes. Now is the time to choose between a lie and half-truth. "I'm assuming that being accompanied by none other than Mr Stamatin means something quite..."
"While I appreciate your concern, sir," you start, refusing to falter under the gaze of the two men, "I don't think it's any of your business to know just how I got this injury. Your business is more along the lines of treatment."
"But someone did this to you, correct?"
An arched brow, lip corners angling upward slightly. You cannot lie.
"Yes," you nearly choke but compose yourself into a man of respect. Keep it in.
The wise man cleans your wound, dabbing foul-smelling liquids against the tissue barely concealing layers of muscle and bone. Stitches are required, each pull of the needle and drag of thread feels like a badge of honour the more you grit your teeth. Once the bandage is wrapped tightly round your chest, and you have redressed yourself, Burakh helps you off his table.
"Master Kain, you are now free to leave. Please see Rubin on your way out to collect some tinctures for your pain and to prevent infection." He raises his arm as if corralling you toward the door. "I have something to discuss with our friend Andrey."
You barely hear it, but Andrey sharply inhales, holding the air in his lungs.
You speak before you think. "What?"
"Excuse me?"
"What is it that you have to discuss with my family's patron?"
The Menkhu lets out a breathy laugh, face softening into a smile as he places his hand on Andrey's shoulder. The man was trapped in the situation the same way he had trapped you earlier.
"Nothing important. Now," you follow Burakh's eyes to the door. "Take care."
When the door closes, you try to listen in on the conversation to no avail - whatever secrets the house wanted to keep it would protect stingily. Now, you must leave.
Without seeing the good doctor's assistant, you step outside. September is rapidly approaching, and with it the scent and heady feeling of Twyre in bloom. Your lungs ache from the intrusion, and exhaustion falls upon your body. How much time had passed that the sun was now resolute in the sky?
Father would wonder where you were, and Maria would surely want to discuss why you had hastily left with one of her dear friends. Quicker than your legs can carry you with the pain in your side thrumming, you attempt a journey back.
You're in the Spleen district, nearing the bridge back to the Stone Yard, when you hear a voice yell, "Oi!"
And there he was, auburn hair alight red in the sun's glow, arms waving with such purpose. Notkin. Of the many people you had met and spoken to in your life, not many were as different to you than him. An urchin, no parents or family name to speak of, and such a crass way of speaking. This is why it works.
"Well well, if it isn't Caspar Caspar the idiot master." He jaunts as though it's a song, the melody known only to him, as he struts over to you now frozen at the foot of the bridge. Only when you notice the mischievous glint in his eye do alarm bells begin to chime in your mind. You're wounded and on his territory - the hunting grounds of his gang, Soul-and-a-Halves. And you're the bleeding Chief of the Doghead gang, ready to snarl and bear your teeth.
But no further antagonism follows - his eyes soften.
"Nutshell?"
***
The bastard, he beats you to it, taking up the red throne at the very top of the steps in the Nutshell. All smug grins and eyes full of daring, Notkin reaches behind the chair, presenting the tribute owed: a bottle of Twyrine.
"Peace offering for the day." He quips, lazily throwing it your way. Catching it, you study it closely. The brown bottle and it's hazey liquid like gold in your hands, you uncork it, taking in the smell. Just as bad as the Twyre outside, if not worse.
"Where did you get this?" You ask, as if the answer isn't obvious.
"Swiped it from Andrey Stamatin last night." He answers predictably. Like a lazy cat, he drapes himself over the arms of the chair, legs dangling off the edge and head thrown back. "Help yourself."
No further invitation needed. Throwing your head back, you go straight for it: a big, long swig. Only after a few moments did you realise your mistake. The liquid burns your throat, tasting and feeling exactly how it smells. "This," you choke out, "is disgusting." Met with a cherubic sort of laughter, Notkin grabs the bottle from your hands and takes a sip of his own before passing it back.
"Yep."
In the Nutshell, the no man's land for the gangs, there's nearly an entire history. Scribbles on the walls and floor in bright chalks and paints, initial accounts and re-tellings of tales. The Albino, the Shabnak-Adyr, the Invisible Cat, The Polyhedron. And mostly, the Soul-and-a-Halves versus the Dogheads. The wind beating against the building creaks in a sad sort of sorrowful way, as if it were mourning something greater. Notkin passes back the bottle. You take another swig.
"Why not steal Twyrine from Bad Grief? Must be easier, you're both in the warehouses."
"Khan, my friend, you would not know the difference between good and bad Twyre if it shot you in the eye. Grief's brew is all wrong, must be rotten herbs. But Stamatin knows his business, and taking from him means far less people out for my blood."
You laugh, a sort of laugh you thought you were incapable of now. Not a sarcastic, dry huff of air. But an actual laugh.
"Andrey will hunt with ten times the ferocity of all of Grief's men together. Careful with that." You advise, as if Notkin was ever prone to listen to anything but his heart. He quirks a brow and tilts his head like some sort of curious cat, before his eyes flit down to your ribs.
"I saw what happened," Notkin is near whisper, smile faded, "you got caught up between them, I guess. Surprised a buttoned-up snob like you was kicking about with thugs, but then again, you always did like to think yourself an adult. Getting stabbed by them now, too."
"Thanks," you spit out with as much venom you can muster, "but I don't need your pity nor your worry."
With those words, Notkin's eyes gleaned over with a sort of sadness. Kicked-cat eyes, your mother called them, when she would let him into the home. Silence smothers you for a minute or two.
"I wasn't caught in-between," you decide to justify your actions for some reason, "Andrey has been teaching me to defend myself and others."
"Well," Notkin snorts, "he's doing a shit job."
Caressing your sides, feeling the hollows between your ribs and the tenderness of the flesh where you had been split open, you laugh. Air leaving your lungs during the laughter makes you ache, an abrupt kind of ache, prompting you to feel the knife connecting to your body again.
He rearranges his body on the chair, squashing himself into a corner and nodding his head. This is the prompt to take a seat with him. You cram yourself between Notkin and the arm of the chair, snuggly fitting. Wriggling around, you both eventually find a seating arrangement that feels comfortable - he's draped his legs off the edge of the chair and placed his head on your feet, as you sit on the other arm of the chair, leaning against the back. He kicks his feet, rhythmically shaking the chair, threatening you off your perch. Passing the bottle back and forth, you sit in silence.
"Why are you doing all this?" You ask, not as a trick for once, the kindness of Notkin's actions feeling slightly removed from threatening. Usually you're at each other's throats, like two proud animals fighting over the same hunting grounds. He looks up at you, eyes wide.
"Your mum."
He said it like it was almost a punchline to a joke, and you supposed it was really. Mother was gentle, at least to you, and it felt as though she was the only one who loved you in the family. Father sees you as a nuisance, not fit to become a patriarch of the Kains one day; Uncle Simon loves everyone the same way, and in that way it feels impersonal, as though you're just another student; Uncle Georgiy loves no one but his twin brother, his studies and the Polyhedron; and your dear sister Maria loves you in a way you don't understand. In one breath she will feed you, tuck you into bed, in a way that feels like mother - in another, she gives stinging looks and sharp words. The punchline is that the only person who loved you is gone.
Shit - your eyes begin to sting, tears fighting their ways out. Repeatedly, you wipe your wrist and the balls of your hands against your eyes to hold back, but it comes out anyway and you are helpless to stop it. You're sitting there, drunk and possibly high, crying. With the leader of a rival gang.
"What are you doing?" Notkin sits up lightly, propping his body up with his arm. Brows furrowed and jaw clenched, he looks as though he just saw someone vomit in front of him. All you can muster in response is a shrug of your shoulders.
"I'm allergic to Twyre I guess."
"No one's allergic to Twyre!"
"Whatever!" You snap back automatically, your body leaving you little time for your brain to respond properly. Thrusting yourself off the chair, you stumble, pain tearing itself from your ribs upward. Your black jacket long abandoned, the white shirt you wear begins to seep through red.
As you begin to falter, you feel hands steady you, pulling you upright. "Khan," Notkin's voice disapprovingly yelps, "you idiot. Look what you've done!"
"Why are you even here? Why the Twyrine? We're not friends anymore."
"Like I said, your mum. I liked her too, she would let me stay over. Feed me. Let me clean up. I didn't have one myself so it was nice even having yours, I guess. And she's gone, so I thought you would be upset."
"Oh."
You sniff, rubbing your nose.
Arms suddenly wrap around you. It feels intrusive and wrong, but at the same time, you don't want it to stop. It's at this point that it strikes you: no one has hugged you since your mother passed. Everyone in your family was so consumed with their own grief (or, in Georgiy's case, studies) to even think about you. You were young, too young to be left like that. You think about how Notkin must have felt when his parents died - you're not sure when it happened, but it was long before your mother passed.
Now the floodgates are well and truly open. Notkin's hand rests on the back of your head, nestling it onto his shoulder, forehead tucked against his neck. Of course he is your friend. He's your best friend.