𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐕: 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭

The distant booms of fireworks had long since died out, leaving the lakefront in a fragile state of unnerving tranquility. Your guardian sat you upright when he reappeared with your tea sometime later. Niccolo waited anxiously on your favorite floral chair as you twitched with the cooling drink wrapped in unsteady fingers.

But during those mostly-quiet minutes, you shakily sipped warm tea and wondered how you reached this moment. Of course, you knew that Niccolo had shouldered you home after a bout of hysteria, but you wondered how your life became what it now was: a silent, sad ending.

Because that was all your life ever had been, and after tonight, it was all your life would be. For you; for the ones you feared to love; for everything you dared to touch–a series of silent, sad endings.

The grandfather clock ticked away with its usual persistence, but you were secretly glad that Time was a noisy mistress. Without her constant clicking, you would have assumed you went deaf with the lack of conversation. Niccolo had promised to speak about your apologies but had kept mum on that oath thus far.

You could not blame him for his recent reticence, as your mind may be loud, but your voice was tired, too.

Connie and Armin did not arrive for another hour after you returned. The traveler was the first to burst through the door, bragging about how magical his firework show was. The paper-wrapped present your painter had brought to the party was now tied to Connie's back, and he carried a small, wooden crate filled with ice. Armin shuffled in from behind with apparent exhaustion painting his under eyes more blue than usual. In his slackening arms, the blond cradled your sweet, sleepy kitten.

Upon seeing your fidgeting figure and Niccolo's stiff one, Connie lowered his voice to a playful whisper, "We've come bearing gifts for the sweet baby Jesus on the sofa and the not-so-virgin Mary."

"Bring it here," Niccolo ordered, and your guardian was quick to steal some ice for your wounded wrist. "Take the rest to the icebox in the cellar."

Connie discarded Niccolo's wrapped gift on the coffee table before he disappeared. He tripped somewhere in the kitchen and muttered a curse through the darkness. Despite your troubled thoughts, the accident forced some humor to your lips.

"Do your bones still ache?" Armin questioned over Niccolo's nursing shoulders. The Londoner placed Lucy into your lap for you to pet with your unbusied hand.

"It already feels much better," you answered. "This minor injury shouldn't even be considered a sprain—more of a jam. I hope to be better by dawn."

"Wonderful. Well, I'll be off to bed, then. I'm sure you don't need another room full of bug-eyed deer staring you down. Goodnight to you both. Give Constance my regards." The author shuffled back outside from where he came, and you were alone with Niccolo yet again.

Ice bled through the bandages until you were cold and wet. The sensation soothed the burning muscles, and you sank deeper into the cushions.

"Do I still need to sleep with ice if the pain has mostly subsided?" you asked.

"We'll ice again in the morning if it still bothers you," Niccolo answered.

Connie reappeared, this time with a slight limp and a bottle of whiskey from the cellar. He complained, "You gotta light more candles when you come home, Nicco! Now, I've gone and stubbed my toe! The house is turning into an infirmary too quick for my liking." Hazel eyes darted around the room in search of something or someone. "Wait... Where'd the Brit go?"

"To bed. He's leaving for the city tomorrow."

"Really? That's a shame. The true fun's only just begun, and blondie's already tapping out? No wonder they lost the war." Connie threw himself beside you, stuck the bottle between his thighs, kicked his muddy shoes on the carpet, and propped his busted foot on the table. "Think you can break me off a piece of that ice?"