The Garden's End (MLM)

CHAPTER TWENTY.

                Robert had been awake for a while.

He clung to his pillow as he stared out his dark window, the sky dark due to the storm clouds. Tonight was the night of the ball. The first time he would be surrounded and spoken to by so many people. He turned his face into his pillow. He would endure, as he always did.

And Philip will be there.

Such was the thought that visited Robert every now and then since mention of this damned ball, and it brought him a comfort that had his grip on his blankets loosening ever so slightly.

Robert remembered Philip's rough, warm hands on his face, holding him securely. He had been unable to stay away, unwilling to be any further from Philip as he was then, and he'd rested their foreheads together. It had helped him beyond anything he could've expected. No one had ever known what to say to him, how to act around him.

But Philip had remained calm, and gentle, and kind, and firm. And his faint scent of sugar and earth had been extraordinary . . .

Robert groaned into his pillow, silencing the thought. It wasn't as though he thought Philip would be able to do as he'd done in the shop, not at a ball with everyone and his siblings watching, but having him there would help immensely, he was certain.

To have someone to talk to who would actually amuse him, someone to take comfort in. And Philip had a way of smiling that was always comforting—

Robert groaned louder.

"Practicing your singing, are you?" asked Oliver. Robert sat up at once. "What a romantic."

"When did you come in?" he said. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Your door was open."

"No, it wasn't!"

"It was," said Oliver. "You must have left it awake after another one of your midnight strolls."

It was only as he neared did Robert notice the half-empty whiskey bottle in his hands. His shoulders fell.

"Oh, Oliver," he sighed.

"What?" Oliver defended. "Oh"—he held up the bottle—"this? Am I not allowed to partake in an evening drink?"

Robert put his pillows up against the headboard. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "It's dawn, Oliver."

"Is it?" he said, disinterested. "Hm."

He wouldn't sit on Robert's bed. Instead, he looked around as if searching for something.

"What're you doing?" he yawned.

"Me? Nothing?" he twirled on the spot, and went to search Robert's closet.

"Oh, don't," he groaned. "I don't want my clothes reeking of alcohol."

"I'm not drunk, Robbie," said Oliver, his words slurring. "I'm just . . . curious."

Robert hummed, reaching for the book he'd left on his nightstand. "For what?"

"Where'd you and Pip go yesterday?" said Oliver. "I want to know."

Robert looked up. He wondered if Oliver realized he'd let his tongue slip, for he had called Philip 'Pip' as easily as though he'd always done it.

Robert slowly opened his book, glancing at Oliver who was poorly feigning indifference, staring blatantly at him as he swung the closet door open and closed again.