Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s the light beneath the curtain that stirs him, the dawn chorus that wakes him. Birdsong, morning and a stressful dream, already forgotten by the time he gets around to thinking about it. All that lingers is a faint feeling of wrongness. He just breathes for a while, blinking at the curtains.

It’s alright, Ma’s voice says.

Caduceus rolls over in bed, onto his back, and rubs at his tired eyes. As usual, at least one part of his body hurts — being folded up in a slightly too small bed doesn’t do much good for already sore joints. Today his shoulder pops loudly as he moves and he freezes, waits for hot, hot pain. None comes, though… Good. That’s good.

He reaches his phone after a moment, finds it set on the windowsill, and clicks the screen on — three texts from Belle. 

01:11

i howled at the moon

01:11

its so big and im in the front garden right now with the moths

01:14

next time u are home howl at the moon with me !!

He smiles, warm beneath his ribs, and replies:

05:52

Of course I will :-)

Caduceus sets his phone down and sighs, exhales a whistle-y breath at the white ceiling. 

Today he’s going to take a proper shower, wash his hair (a little itchy) and everything. It’s really about time… and perhaps a little overdue. He’s starting to get a little funky-smelling. 

Showers take a lot of effort is the thing. Lots of energy and time to get dried off. It’s worth it, though, to be all silky and smell faintly of sandalwood glycerin soap. 

Tea comes first though. 

So, slowly he gets out of bed, in a way that feels a lot more like a series of steps instead of one smooth motion. But eventually he’s up and setting the kettle to reheat the water inside, searching for a nice green tea in the semidarkness. (Good for a slow waking-up.)

He makes his bed and rolls out his yoga mat. Leaves the tea to steep and drinks it as he sits in half-lotus, tail tucked around his knees. 

(Full-lotus is a little risky these days, even if he technically can do it. Better to be safe than sorry. Better be safe than… ending up in A&E.)

(Like when he’d partially dislocated his hip not long after moving in, and his flatmates hadn’t been too pleased about trying to pop his hip back into place when he couldn’t manage it alone. It worked but… that was a lot. That was… really embarrassing.)

He shakes his head to get rid of the thought. 

Focus on the earthiness of the tea, he reminds himself, on the wholeness of a cup cradled between palms, on the floor rising to meet him.

Ground… Ground… Ground.

Maybe he’ll just do a quick sequence, a gentle sun salutation. His spine makes a noise like a xylophone as he stands — pretty impressive. He laughs to himself, stretches.

—

The bathroom is cramped and cluttered with bottles and towels and toilet-roll tubes that haven’t been thrown in the recycling yet. He’d put a plant (lavender) on the windowsill once, but it was quickly knocked over so now it lives in his room, in it’s glued-together pot.

The shower isn’t tall enough. That’s fine, Caduceus supposes, eyeing at it again as he scrubs suds into his hair. At least it works. Even if he has to stoop low to properly rinse his hair. 

Sometimes he just sits down in the stall and feels like a sardine in a tin, sort of.

He’s humming and swaying and scrubbing behind his ears when there’s a horrible banging on the door. Caduceus startles, nearly losing his balance, catching himself against the tile. He doesn’t fall, thank the gods — that’d be… that would be really not good at all.

He stops the water and stands in the cold, fur dripping. “Yeah?” he calls.

“It’s six in the fucking morning,” a tired voice grumbles.

“Uh… I’m sorry,” Caduceus replies. He’s still all sudsy. “I’ll be done soon.”

There’s a sigh, footsteps and the slam of a door, further away. Caduceus waits a moment before huffing in annoyance and turning the water back on.

Oh dear.

He’s been testing their patience — not on purpose. Still, he is. He notices it in the sudden quiet, hears it in the sighs when he’s cooking and standing in the way of the cabinets. He’s not sure exactly why, or what he did to make it like that. 

Maybe he’ll offer to make dinner later. Or cinnamon biscuits, to try make it better. Maybe. 

Maybe they just aren’t getting enough sleep, with all the late-night drinking in the living-room. Maybe if he could remember their names…

Morgan is the one with brown skin and grey eyes, maybe. Jay is the half-orc… or… the half-elf with ginger hair dyed brown. Uh… then what is— 

His throats all tight. He scrubs his face until it isn’t.

—

Afterwards Caduceus sits in his room and listens to a talkative family of sparrows in the trees by the window. His fur’s still slightly damp in places so he waits on the edge of the bed, dressed in shorts and wrapped in a blanket, waits for water to boil for his porridge. 

Because he doesn’t want to be too loud he doesn’t use his hairdryer. Instead he drapes his towel around his shoulders and lets his hair drip and drip and drip.

He pours water over rolled oats and lets them sit, cooling as they do. 

While he waits he hums, the same tune over and over, and tries on a soft bralette, sewn by hand. It’s got barely any structure, just elastic around the ribs, which is good, is comfortable. The sage-green cotton is a little damp from touching his wet hair but he leaves it on because outside looks cold through the frosted window — sky wide open, mist still rising as the sun wakes up. 

Better to dress in layers. 

So he pulls on a white-ish t-shirt with long sleeves and two buttons down the front, and tucks it into his good loose trousers, the colour of pine needles. And then he’s forgotten his knee braces and leggings and socks so he has to take them off again. 

Maybe just focus on making breakfast… Yeah.

Caduceus eats his porridge with a wooden spoon, carved by Calliope, taught by Pa. He stirs in peanut butter and berries, cold after spending the night by the window, cracked open slightly. (Really nice.) He drinks more tea, reuses the teabag. 

He gets dressed, in the right order this time. And then it’s still only 07:22. No class for a while. And, now that he thinks about it, maybe it was a little early for breakfast. He was on autopilot though, meditating and showering and making tea and not checking the time, and everything. 

Now he’s not sure what to do.

—

8:30 comes quicker than Caduceus had expected. He’s sitting on the floor, adding another section of embroidery to his dragonfly silk when his alarm goes off — strange repetitive chimes, not-real sounding. 

He gets up with a groan, knees clicking and cracking. Not pleased… 

He folds the silk, sets it on the bed and runs his fingers along the messy embroidered lines, like veins, roots or rivers. 

“Alright,” he says to himself. “Time to go.” 

He picks up his bag, then the other —a canvas tote that sits on his shoulder, covered with painted bugs thanks to Clarabelle— that holds his sketchbook, and heads out.

He waves polite good-mornings to his flatmates as he goes. They wave back half-heartedly.

That’s okay.

Chapter Text

The morning goes as morning go. It’s quiet in the studio, and everyone's sleepy. 

Someone plays quiet folk-is music on their laptop as they weave on a hand-held loom set in their lap, which is nice. The radio hurts his ears sometimes.

Later, Caduceus tells another someone about the dragonfly wing embroidery he’s working on, and when she asks to see he realises he’s left it in his room.

“Another time,” he says, smiling apologetically. 

The someone, a sort-of-elvish woman named Elke, nods like she understands. “Well, I look forward to it,” she says. “It sounds very pretty.”

-

At the end of class, after screen-printed fabric samples are handed in, a new assignment brief is passed around. 

Caduceus takes a moment to read it, sat on one of the comfy computer chairs that don’t hurt his bones. He holds his tail against his chest, lets the fur on the end brush against his nose. 

(No chewing, dear, Auntie Corrin’s voice reminds him.) 

Caduceus pulls his tail away from his mouth.

The new assignment is to “explore ideas for an embroidered and/or printed fabric inspired my natural forms” and to “create a mind-map and identify sources for next class.”

Oh!! Oh, that’s exciting.

“Natural forms,” Caduceus mumbles to himself. He thinks of lichen and Amethyst-deceivers and slime mould, and decides to go to the library. For researching, for good books and pictures. The mind-map comes before researching he reminds himself, and writes it on his palm in blue biro.

It takes a moment, but he finds the building he’s searching for. The library is really big, old too. It’s the kind of big space that makes all his limbs feel separate. It’s kind of — wow. 

“Need help with anything?” says a someone at the front desk. They look to be a student — coffee cup in front of them, decked out lanyard, hair tied up messily (with a nice, neat undercut).

“Oh. Yes, please,” Caduceus replies. Now that you mention it. “Do you have books on mycology? Or, I guess, about moss or lichen? That too.”

The person at the counter gives him an amused look. “Yeah, sure,” they say. “That’ll probably be in natural sciences.” 

“Ah. Yeah.” Caduceus looks around at the vast room — the bookshelves, the ornate ceiling so high above. 

“Need help finding it?”

“I think so…” Caduceus says. “That’d be really nice. Thank you.”

The someone gets up and they’re dressed like they’re about to go to the gym. Or do hot-yoga, which is at the gym he supposes. 

“Don’t take too long, Beauregard,” the elven someone sat at the other desk chair says, typing very quickly on a keyboard, expression stern. 

“I won’t,” Beauregard replies. 

(In his head, Caduceus repeats the name a few times to commit it to memory, and wonders absently if that’s Miss Beauregard or Mister Beauregard or something-else Beauregard.)

“I’m being helpful and polite, Dairon,” Beauregard says as they step out from behind the desk.

Dairon cracks the smallest, knowing smile.

There’s a sinking in Caduceus’ stomach. “Oh. Oh, no. It’s alright, if it’s too much trouble.”

“Nah,” Beauregard waves him away. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone always needs help finding the natural sciences section. It’s basically hidden away.”

“Hidden?” Caduceus echoes.

Beauregard laughs, not unkindly. Their lanyard clicks and clacks with little cards, and there’s one made from green-blue paper, she/they written on it in marker. Now that’s a neat idea.

“That’s a neat idea,” Caduceus says, because he’s thinking it.
“Huh?” Beauregard follows his line of sight and holds up the lanyard. “Oh, yeah. My friend’s making pins but for now she just wrote it on paper.” 

“Cool.”

“Yeah…” Beauregard says, looking suddenly bashful. And then: “I’m Beau, by the way. She/they… She’s kinda easier though, for now.”

“I’m Caduceus. Caduceus Clay,” Caduceus replies, and realises he hasn’t thought about pronouns much, if ever. “Uh… I think any pronouns are okay.”

Beau nods, in a respectful way. “Cool cool cool.”

So Beau leads him through rows of shelves, around tables and, finally, behind one of the dark-wood stairwells. The whole place is maze-like, feels so easy to get lost in. (And also feels like ghosts live in an abandoned storage space somewhere.) Caduceus looks up at the balconies above, and then he’s all dizzy. 

“Here,” Beau announces. She gestures to a couple of bronze-y plaques affixed to the top shelf, reading Natural Sciences and then, further along Botany.

“Thank you,” Caduceus says.

“No problem.” Beau shrugs and crouches down, ghosting her fingers along book-spines until she comes to a stop. “Mushrooms and that kinda stuff’s here.” She pulls out an old book, pats the worn cover.

Caduceus takes it carefully as she hands it to him and leafs through it. There’s sparse photographs in black and white, lots of words, but also illustrations in the second half — inky diagrams, drawings of mycelia and universal veils and fruitbodies. His tail’s started wagging, he realises belatedly, brushing slowly against the old carpet beneath his feet. 

“That any good?” Beau asks.

It really is. So many things he could use for patterns. Good words too — skirts and striations and teeth. 

Oh.

“Yes,” Caduceus replies, a little too loudly for a library. He clears his through, tries again. “Yes, this is good. Really nice.” 

Beau smiles with one side of her mouth. She pulls another book off the shelf. “A whole bunch of people have taken this one out so… You’re lucky it’s actually here. Y’know, I looked through it, to see what the fuss was about. It’s got pretty fuckin’ dope pictures.” 

Caduceus sets the first book on a shelf and takes the new one in his hands. It’s heavy — newer, denser. Inside is filled with colour photos, macro shots and neat diagrams. Wow. 

“This is perfect,” he says, and pauses as footsteps and chattering descend the stairs above their heads. He listens carefully. 

(Quit eavesdropping, Calliope yells.) 

So he looks at the ceiling instead, at the intricate patterns all swirling together towards the lights that hang from the middle. Plants and filigree and tiny stars and the moon. All so pretty, and all so much.

Beau says something. 

Caduceus looks back down to her and his vision blurs, goes dark for a moment. Just like how it does when he — Oh… maybe try not to faint. He stares at the dark blue carpet instead, waits till he’s steady again.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. “You alright, man?” Beau asks, brow is all worried. 

“Mmh…” Caduceus nods, tries not to bed rude. It’s been a long day. “A little tired.”

“Out partying?” Beau asks.

Caduceus shakes his head, wondering if he looks like someone who spends all night out partying. “My flatmates… Uh.. They tend to have friends over and…” (Don’t be rude, he reminds himself.) “I like going to bed early, is the thing.”

“Ah.” Beau nods. She looks a little guilty, like she might be one of those folks who stays up, chatting loud. Hopefully her flatmates don’t mind. 

“Well,” she continues after a while, “if you want, I kinda run a housing cooperative with a bunch of people. Y’know, it’s queer and neurodivergent friendly, and we’re working on getting ramps installed so the ground floor’s fully accessible. It’s about a fifteen, twenty minute walk from here…” 

She shoves her hands into her hoodie pockets, rocks on her heels. “We've all moving in now, like, at the end of summer, while we finish renovating. But, we’re still looking for more people to fill rooms — I gotta put up fliers still…”

Caduceus smiles, nods. “That sounds nice,” he says, chest fluttery as he wonders if he’d be welcome. 

“I got a form in my bag. If you want,” Beau says. Then she walks away. Caduceus takes a moment to realise she’s expecting him to follow. 

They return to the front desk where a couple different folks are scanning books now. Beau grabs her backpack from a chair and starts rummaging through it. “We’ve got an online form you can fill out, if you want,” she says, “but… I printed a bunch out earlier so — take it anyway. You seem cool.”

She pulls a form, stapled at the corner, from a very neat folder and hands it to Caduceus. 

He looks it over to be polite, even though it’ll take a while for him to sit down and read it later, alone in his room. 

(Maybe he’ll read it while he waits for rice to cook. Or while he has tea to drink.) 

When he looks up Beau is watching him expectantly.

“Sorry, yeah,” Caduceus says, almost laughing at himself. “Thanks again.” He folds the form and slips it into his coat inside-pocket, where he won’t lose it. “And thank you for helping me with—” 

He’s left the old book on the shelf.

Silly.

So he returns to beneath the stairs, which takes a bit, and when he’s back Beau takes both books and scans them, scans his student card, and slides them back across the desk.

“Alright,” Beau says. “See you, man. Have a good one.”

A good one? Oh— “You too.”

He waves goodbye and leaves through the heavy doors, stepping out into crisp air that smells like smoke and earth and cold yet to come.

-

On the way home Caduceus stops by a small, familiar café, reminded by the smell of coffee that he hasn’t eaten lunch yet, despite it being mid-afternoon. 

(He checks his phone then, and realises it isn’t mid-afternoon at all — instead it’s very nearly 5 o’clock.)

The café is pleasantly warm inside, pleasantly quiet. Caduceus reads over the chalkboard menu a couple times and decides on carrot and corriander soup, and asks if it might be alright if it’s put in his thermos instead of a takeout cup. It is, thankfully. 

Calianna (nice name, he thinks, as he reads the tag on her apron. He likes C names…) nods and smiles as she takes the thermos from him. He says something vague about the weather and buys a falafel flatbread in a paper bag too, before tucking both things into his bag, cradled between books and a watercolour set. 

Don’t spill on the way home, please, he asks the soup as he leaves the café.

Maybe he’ll look at the form while he eats.

Then he’ll meditate. Some focus before he looks through his books would be good. Useful.

Selfishly he hopes no one will be home. Partly for the quiet and partly because he’s ashamed that he’s forgotten the names of two of his flatmates now. 

But mostly for the quiet. Because he’s sore and tired, wobbling all over the place. And then he realises — there’s the reason he’s felt strange and naked all day — he left his cane in his room. 

“Oh dear…” Caduceus sighs, smiling a little wryly. Leaving behind his cane is something he hasn’t done in a long time. He must’ve been really distracted earlier… by showers, by routines and porridge-making, by embroidery. By a lot. 

That and the missing lunch. No wonder, he thinks, having felt dizzy and off-balance all day. No wonder.

The backpack on his shoulders is getting heavy, sat solid against his back, books and soup-flask clunking. Things jangling. 

The sun’s reflecting off his eyelashes, orange and dim. Like candles. Like embers. 

His enamel mug, tied to the outside of his backpack, making a quiet clanking noise as he walks. He focuses on it until he’s home.

Chapter Text

It is not quiet when Caduceus gets home. Someone’s friends are over, watching television, chatting over books spread around the sofa and coffee table. 

Caduceus smiles politely as he steps on the heals of his shoes and kicks them off, ears already hurting from the everything. But before he can escape to his room Morgan (maybe…probably…) clears his throat. 

“Hey, uh…”

Caduceus stops where he is, waits expectantly.

“Uh…shit,” maybe-Morgan says, palm against his forehead. “Sorry, man. Forgot your name.”

Oh. Oh, right. Caduceus slips his bag off his shoulders to stop them hurting. “Caduceus. Clay,” he replies.

“Right. Yeah…” Maybe-Morgan nods. “You know anything about dual-organisms? You talk about lichen and stuff a lot. That or tea.”

There’s a tiny, surprised warmth in Caduceus’ chest, like a tealight. “Oh, uhm… maybe, yeah. A little bit.” 

Does he talk about lichen a lot? He’s not even sure he speaks enough anymore to talk about anything a lot.

Maybe-Morgan holds up a heavy book, open at a page filled with near-solid text, as Caduceus tries not to limp across to room — not all that successfully. He looks at the page and the words are too small and the television is too loud and there’s strangers watching expectantly. His shoulders ache as he bends to look closer, to read the first sentence over and over again.

“…I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know that— don’t know that…part.” 

It’s half of a lie Caduceus supposes, because he really isn’t very sure what he’s being asked about, even though he kind of, probably, does know something about the subject.

An I don’t know is just easier than Your TV show is hurting my ears and I can’t read that too-small typeface. Also, those words are too long.

Maybe-Morgan looks at him like he doesn’t really believe him. Not angry, just questioning. And Caduceus smiles, apologetic, and — Oh. He hopes his soup hasn’t gone cold in his bag. That’d be a shame… Then he’d have to reheat it. Or just eat it cold, which isn’t too much of a problem since it can’t have gotten completely cold yet, just lukewarm. The flask should keep it warm though, so…

“Sorry,” he says again. “Uhm. Maybe I can help some other time. It’s just— It’s been a long day.” 

He picks up his bag as Morgan (hopefully) says alright, or see ya, or something like that, and retreats to his room, shutting the door with a sigh.

“….That was weird,” someone says after a while. They’re right, Caduceus supposes, as he crouches to check beneath the bed. Sort of weird.

There’s a couple laughs from the living-room. Silence. More laughter.

That’s okay. 

Caduceus takes off his coat, then gloves, then trousers, leaving himself in his jumper, t-shirt, socks and thermal leggings, fabric bunched up above the braces on his knees. It looks kind of funny in the mirror on the back of his door. And he feels a lot like a little kid.

He hangs up his coat and puts away everything else in a series of after-this-you-can-sit-downs until, finally, with his bag in his lap, he sits against the headboard of his bed. 

First he finds the thermos of soup, sets it on the windowsill beside him, and searches for a spoon to eat it with. The flatbread is a bit squished inside it’s paper bag, from being trapped between books, but fine aside from that. (Good. That’s nice.) And then he has to get up again because the form Beauregard gave him is in his coat pocket still. 

He sighs again, low and grumbly. 

Finally, finally, finally, he sits down comfortably and begins to eat. 

(And tries not to sway side-to-side or rock slowly as he does — don’t want to get nauseous. Or spill anything.)

(He eyes the pink jam stain beside him on the sage-y bedsheets.)

Caduceus eats his soup slowly and doesn’t think about anything at all. Not until it’s very nearly done and he remembers the form, and unfolds it. 

Zadash Student Housing Co-Op Application  

It announces, and then continues:

The Zadash Student Housing Co-Op is a community run, anti-landlord housing initiative currently in progress of being set up. We have been raising funds and have been able to secure our first property, which we are currently renovating into our own space. 

Located fifteen minutes from the main Zadash University campus, House Nein aims to provide affordable, safe and inclusive housing for students.  

That’s lots of words to take in... Caduceus reads it over slowly once more, tracking each word with his finger until it makes sense. Beneath all the words is the simple form:

Name …………….  Age ………..

University, Year …………………..

Phone number …………………..

And then a little more that carries on to the next sheet of stapled paper, but it’s mostly just information about the building. 

The form seems easy enough, so Caduceus fills it in the best he can, and tries to keep the letters on the lines and has to check what his own phone number is and… Okay. Yeah. That’s alright for now. 

Caduceus sets the form on the bedside table (where it won’t be forgotten) and pulls one of the books from his bag. The chatter outside’s gotten louder again, though. Voices in layers. Laughing and shouting about something apparently very funny. He tries not to eavesdrop — Quit being so nosy, Calliope says — but he knows they’re not really studying together, just being loud. Too loud to concentrate on anything. Or meditate until he’s focused again. 

It doesn’t always work anyways.

It’s too loud to pray. Or to read books. 

So Caduceus finishes the very last half-spoonful of soup, gets redressed and takes the flatbread with him to eat wherever he ends up… 

Somewhere quieter, hopefully. Please. He holds onto his ears, rubbing the fur there.

He’s almost out the door when, this time, he remembers his cane. 

—

The sun is sinking low in the sky, turning the rooftops, trees and spires orange. 

Don’t take too long, Caduceus reminds himself. Get home before dark.

Before the ghosts get you, Calliope says, like when she’d grab his shoulders and shake him. Otherwise you’ll become one too.

Caduceus ends up, eventually, at the familiar gates of the nearby park. It’s a nice one, with an arboretum, which is doubly nice because of all the different sorts of trees — with lots of different bark to touch. Lots of names to read — Larix lyallii, Pinus strobus, Ginkgo biloba.

Lots of leaves to put in his pockets.

Caduceus finds a spot to sit and eat beneath an old willow. He uses a root for a seat, legs sprawled out long across the neat grass in front of him, cane rested across his thighs. Between bites of flatbread he rolls the beetle charm that hangs from it between his fingers, and doesn’t think of projects or deadlines. Instead he watches people as they pass by. He watches them and he watches dogs on leashes and birds in trees, but mostly people, some in more of a hurry than others. Some smile at him but mostly they seem busy. 

The flatbread is good, and Caduceus chews slowly, taking note of the cumin seeds in the bread, the smoked paprika in the hummus. There’s coriander and thinly sliced cucumber mixed in too, which are nice additions…

He hums when it’s all done and gets up with an ooh and an ouch, before wandering his way back through the park. As he goes he gets sidetracked (as usual) by friendly trees, and ends up pausing to say hello. He trails his fingers across bark — raggedy like old fabric (redwood), smooth and peeling (silver birch), and rough, fitted together like puzzle pieces (pine). 

A particularly mossy fellow catches his attention and he stops beside it, to watch the green fur that hangs from each branch as it shivers in the steady breeze. 

Caduceus shivers too, despite his layers and the orange sunlight.

“Impressive,” he says to the tree and it’s moss. “This is really great.” 

He presses his forehead to the trunk and listens close.

Wildmother? he asks inside his head, eyes closed. His hand that isn’t holding his cane finds moss beneath his fingers and strokes it gently, petting it smooth. It’s a lot like fur, but also not, drier in patches with lichen and twigs poking through.

Caduceus waits. 

Keeps his eyes closed.

Breathes.

Feels held. 

When he finally pulls back there’s a damp patch on his forehead and he rubs it with his sleeve, wondering if his own fur’s stained green. He opens his eyes and blinks in the darkening, blue dusk. He blinks again as little firefly lights float, dancing the corners of his vision.

Time to go home then. Just to be safe. 

Caduceus walks as quickly as he can manage back to the flat, and thinks about flatmates who are at once too much and not enough. He thinks about arms, wrapped tight around his back, and about himself, a bedroom ghost, sitting in a room that’s not entirely his and won’t ever be. 

He chews the inside of his cheek.

—

There are moths in his room when he gets back, and all the guests are gone, replaced by the disjointed rhythm of keyboard-typing behind a closed door. Caduceus takes the quiet to find meditation in the familiar ritual of making himself tea on the floor of his room. His legs aren’t pleased with him as he crouches, or as he brushes his teeth afterwards, wandering back and forth, but they’re less upset than they would’ve been without his cane.

—

It’s only once he’s half-asleep and rolling over to turn the bedside lamp off, that he notices Remember Mindmap smudged in blue across his pink palm. 

It’s late though, and he’s tired, tucked beneath a heavy blanket.

Tomorrow morning, Caduceus decides. It can wait until then.

Chapter Text

He collects cut flowers on the table, laid out in bundles, one of each kinda for every bouquet. 

The mourners are waiting outside so he searches for Ma or Pa or Auntie Corrin but can’t find them anywhere.

There’s grass growing between the floorboards, incense cone scorch marks in a line along the windowsill, and his parents’ room is empty.

Then he’s in class and can’t figure out how to use the loom. And Calliope is mad at him. 

—

As usual, Caduceus is first to wake. Not quite as early as yesterday, when it still felt a little like nighttime, but, still… There’s more room to breathe when he’s alone. Most of the time.

Before he moves there’s only stillness and rain, steadily pattering against the window. Its musical in a way, before it grows heavier, and then its just white noise, which is just as good. The only thing that breaks through the constant sound is the splashing of a leaking gutter a couple windows over. 

Caduceus opens his eyes, peering, and closes them again. He scrubs at his eyelids, where they feel so heavy, before committing, finally, to waking up.

He pushes himself upright slowly, shifting the curtain aside to peer through the gap between it and the windowpane. The old city sprawls below, the mountains in the distance disappearing into the grey-blue clouds as the rain covers them too. Like watery-indigo or Payne’s grey. 

Caduceus gets up, makes his bed, and dresses in the same clothes as yesterday, even though they’ve gotten crumpled from being on the floor all night.

Then he sits on a cushion on the floor to eat his porridge, and as he does he checks his phone. Today there are two texts. The first is from Ma, from yesterday evening:

20:46

Hello, honey. Belle said you’d visit soon. Call and we can check dates? Looking forward to seeing you again. Love and warm hugs x

Caduceus chews his cheek and quickly opens the second text, from five minutes ago:

06:21

hey did you know there’s fishes in the spring! 

It’s from Belle. Attached is a photo of the spring near their home, taken close up to show the tiny blurry fish-shadows beneath the duckweed and lily-pads.

Because he knows he should Caduceus rereads ma’s message. He reads it one more time and sighs, brow furrowed. Did he tell belle that? 

He can’t remember… Maybe he did, that one time last week when she convinced him to video call so she could show her all her new colours in her hair and a cool rock. 

Maybe she asked and he told her so she wouldn’t be upset. 

Silly, he scolds himself, shaking his head. What’s wrong with going home next break? 

Nothing at all. 

Still, his heart gets clenched-fist tight. 

And with strange-feeling paws he replies to Ma:

sure :-) hav to go somewere but can call this evening

Caduceus sighs, unfolding his legs one at a time (his ankles making terrible noises), and gets up off the floor. One knee hurts more than the other today — the more bothersome one on the right shoots pain up his thigh, white-hot, then turns to a duller ache. Not surprising…

As he fills his water bottle and gets his lunch from the fridge Caduceus thinks of Auntie Corrin and the crutches she walks with, and the wheelchair she uses when she’s too sore. He thinks and wonders if it might help, even if he does alright most of the time. 

As he pulls on his coat and shrugs his bag to sit better on his shoulders Caduceus eyes his own crutches propped up behind his bedroom door. Not yet, he tells himself, because crutches are for particularly bad days. 

Yeah… 

A cane is fine for today. 

He’ll take some paracetamol later if he needs it. Which, is kept somewhere… not in his bag. They’re… in the drawer beneath his bedside table. 

So he pulls the drawer open and fishes out the little cardboard box. And— Oh. Beside the bedside lamp is the form, from Beauregard. Which is the whole reason he’s leaving early in the first place. 

Silly…

He folds the form carefully, tucks it into his pocket. 

On the way out the flat Caduceus glances at the dirty dishes in the sink and the emptied cans on the table, and grumbles. He only washed his bowl, his spoon and mug earlier, feeling a little passive aggressive. But, as he locks the door behind him, guilt grows unsteadily in his stomach. 

May as well be helpful.

—

The walk to the library is drizzly most of the way, the rain having calmed for the twenty or so minutes it takes to get there. It’s a good thing he wore his old, worn-in chelsea boots, Caduceus reckons, stepping over a deeper puddle (and walking through a shallower one). If he’d kept on wearing his sandals his feet would be all wet. His socks too, because his paws get cold without them. 

Speaking of… He flicks his tail into view, to peer at the puddle-damp end. Should try pay attention to that.

—

It only occurs to Caduceus once he’s standing on the front steps of the library that its still really quite early, and Beauregard might not even be working today. Which, that’s okay. Silly of him to presume… but, that's alright, he can look for her tomorrow if she’s not there. Yeah. 

Luckily (thank the Mother) Caduceus spots her almost right away as he steps inside. She’s standing by the main desk, talking with a new someone who isn’t Dai.. Daira? Dairon. 

The door closes behind him and he holds onto his soggy tail just in case. And then he realises he has to figure out how to interrupt Beauregard’s conversation to give her the form. And that’s another thing. It’s — Hm.

He stands there instead, waits a moment, not wanting to be rude. Goes over throat-clearings and pardon-me’s in his head. As he’s figuring it out, still holding onto his tail, Beauregard looks up. 

“Oh. Hey,” she says, stepping back from her conversation.

“Oh. Hey. Uhm— Sorry to interrupt,” Caduceus says, his ears twitching, “I just… here’s the form, from yesterday. I filled it out last night.” 

The someone besides Beauregard has fiery ginger hair and a heavy-looking brown corduroy coat with a sheepskin collar. In his arms he holds a cat on a harness with a leash. 

Huh, Caduceus thinks, now that’s something new. Clever. 

The cat blinks at him as he takes in its striped fur and gold eyes, almost nodding. Caduceus blinks back.

“That was fast,” Beauregard says.

“Huh? — Oh. It was?” Caduceus smiles and hopes that’s okay. Was he meant to wait? He wonders. Maybe just for a little while? He can’t remember if Beauregard said anything about that… She just gave him the form and… He wants to live somewhere else and it just seemed right to get it done right away so… 

“You alright?” Beauregard asks.

“Yeah…” Caduceus replies. “I’m okay.”

“Cool. Hey, maybe while we’re here we can just interview.” Beauregard looks to the someone beside her who shrugs. “Unless you need to be somewhere.”

“Oh. Nah…” Caduceus shakes his head, no. “Now is fine.”

“Dope. It’s not really formal or anything. Don’t worry.”

So they sit at a table in the near empty library, Beauregard and the someone across from Caduceus, and he feels like he’s trying to get a job in the botanical garden’s cafe all over again. Except this time his palms aren’t sweating as much. Speaking of— the mindmap—

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Beauregard says. “This is Caleb by the way.” She gestures to the someone beside her, holding the cat in his lap.

“Hallo. I am Caleb Widogast,” says Caleb, in an accent Caduceus doesn’t entirely recognise. “I am living at and working with the housing co-operative too. I, currently, keep records of our finances.”

“Nice to meet you, Caleb,” Caduceus replies. “I’m Caduceus Clay.”

“Alright,” Beauregard interrupts, not unkindly. “I said it wasn’t formal.”

As the rain return Caduceus hands over his application form and waits as Beauregard reads it over, listening to the pattering on the tall library windows. 

“If it is alright, what are you studying?” Caleb asks while they wait. 

Beauregard rolls her eyes in an affectionate sort of way that reminds Caduceus of Calliope. 

“Textiles,” he replies. 

“Textiles?” Beauregard echoes. “Huh. Neat. I kinda thought you were a biology student or something.”

That’s interesting, Caduceus supposes. He isn’t sure why, so he just smiles.

And he must look confused because Beauregard adds: “Because of the books you were looking for.”

“Oh,” Caduceus replies after a moment, “they’re for a project... using… hm…shapes taken from natural forms to print on fabric. I like fungi and lichen a lot so, using those for inspiration.”

“Cool.” Beauregard’s face stays grumpy, even though she means it when she replies: “I like your trousers by the way. Did you make them?.”

Caduceus glances under the table at the swishing fabric, at the swirling pattern on dark green. “Yeah, I did. Thank you.”

When he looks up again Beauregard is waiting expectantly. And she has some agreement papers — agreements not to wreck the place, and rules too.

“You just had those with you?” Caleb asks.

“Yeah,” Beauregard replies, “and it turned out to be fuckin' useful.” She pushes the stapled papers across the table towards Caduceus and continues: “You don’t need to sign anything, like, right away though. It can wait till when you’re actually moving in and stuff, when all the official shit is happening.”

Caduceus nods, and hopes he’ll remember all the things he’s being told.

“And if you want,” Beauregard adds, “we can help with working out finances, Caleb especially.”

Caduceus nods again. “That’d— yeah, that’d be great,” he says, because he only has so much saved up, and although this will be cheaper than the flat he lives in now, it’s still hard to figure out. It’s still— a lot.

“Cool,” says Beauregard, in a final sort of way. “I’ll get back to you. Gotta talk stuff over with everyone else first, I think.” She looks to Caleb and he nods. “Thanks for doing this right now, though. That was fuckin’ efficient.”

“Efficient,” Caduceus echoes. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“No problem, man,” Beauregard says, getting up from the table. “I’ll email by this weekend.”

“Cool,” Caduceus replies, and slowly gets up from the table too, thinking of the paracetamol in his pocket.

And its good Beauregard mentioned the weekend, because work is on the weekend and he’d almost forgotten. 

This week seems to not be the greatest for remembering, Caduceus thinks, and smiles to himself. 

Speaking of — the mind map. As he waves goodbye he glances at his palm, at the faint blue smudge that’s nearly gone.

He leaves out the automatic front doors, passing by a short woman with twin braids who shouts hello to Beauregard and Caleb, and is shushed by them both, despite their loud hellos in return.

—

On the way to class Caduceus checks his phone, wondering what time it is. Late he presumes because returning the form took longer than he thought it might, and also— Oh. Three new texts. They’re from Calliope this time — her contact name (worst sister) pops up on screen, alongside the red notification dot.

8:32

you better call ma soon. she called me to ask how you’re doing. also she’s worried you’ve started smoking 

as in cigarettes

8:33

if you have i’ll beat you up

Caduceus slips his phone back into his trouser pocket and goes to class. Which he is a little late for, it turns out. But he’s apologetic and the tutor isn’t particularly bothered. 

For the rest of the morning he learns about tapestries, and draws all over his notebook.

Then he eats lunch in an empty studio.

And afterwards he learns about woodblock printing, and starts to carve one. And he only catches his finger with the blade once, or twice, maybe, because he ends up needing two plasters.

—

As Caduceus is leaving, meandering through emptying corridors, he stops to peer through an open studio door at a half finished painting propped up on a desk. It’s odd.... A whole lot of strangely phallic shapes hidden in the elaborate patterns that cover the finely painted curtains. Caduceus blinks hard and wonders if the painter intended it to be that way, or if he’s imagining it.

He looks at it for a moment more, wondering where its owner is, and leaves.

—

Later, when he’s back at the flat and sitting on his bed, looking through progress shots of his prints, Caduceus’ phone chimes once, then twice.

Worst sister, his phone tells him. Again.

17:21

I’ll be home for midterm break. see you then?

17:22

miss you btw 

Chapter Text

The flat stays quiet for the rest of 4pm and then 5pm, with still no sign of anyone else returning. Caduceus kneels on the floor, bent like a broken branch against the bed as he flips through the library books. It’s not great for his bones, he knows, but he’d started swaying his tail back-and-forth while he was searching and hadn’t wanted to stop. The movement moves his body, a gentle rocking, side-to-side as he reads. It makes his eyelids heavy.

His knees are getting upset though, and his stomach is making hungry noises, so… So he should make dinner. And since no one’s back maybe he’ll be able to take his time. Hopefully.

Caduceus takes his wok to the kitchen (it’s too nice to be kept with everything else and scraped up by someone too lazy to wash a frying-pan), and sets up his pocket radio on the windowsill. It was a gift, the radio, from Colton, and it’s sort of crackly. It’s mostly great because its the colour of the blue-green beetles in the garden back home. 

Speaking of… home.

“Not yet,” Caduceus tells himself, starting to wash the dirty plate and breadknife that lie in the sink. (Best to clear up a bit. Be helpful.)

Then, once that’s done and the garlic and ginger are minced too, he falls into a slow rhythm, chopping onion, napa-cabbage and carrot into thin strips, and making sure the snow peas are nice and clean, with their strings pulled away. He dices the tofu, setting it near the stove, ready to be one of the first things in the wok, getting all crispy.

It’s a nice meditation, to be alone and in the quiet after a (comparatively) busy day. Even if he’s getting achey. The radio’s good company too — music that Caduceus doesn’t recognise turning to a steady background hum as the sizzling of minced garlic dropped into oil grows louder. It grows louder still, steam rising, as the onion and then the tofu are added a couple minutes apart.

Careful, says Ma, when Caduceus adds tamari and then almost knocks it off the counter, steadying the bottle just in time. 

Careful, she says again, when he nearly drops the chilli flakes, and then the drained rice-noodles too. 

He manages not to spill anything (except for a snow pea that lands on his foot and makes a snow-pea-shaped mark on his sock) and he eats stir fry for dinner. And has enough for 2 or 3 more meals after.

○

After, Caduceus showers quickly, because someone will probably be home soon, and because his knees are getting upset again. (Though he does spend a while staring at the patch of mould in the corner of the bathroom ceiling. It’s made a funny little rippling circle, which is pretty neat…)

He dries off and dresses in pyjamas — their slightly-too-short trousers are patterned with faded purplish mushrooms, and his shirt has three buttons down the front. Carefully, he lays back against his pillows, a towel around his shoulders to catch drips from his hair.

With a deep breath, he thinks of calliope’s texts, and calls Ma.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. Caduceus waits, thumb hovering over the button to hang up (maybe he should just leave a message), until there’s suddenly quiet, then a shuffling and clatter.

“Ma?” he asks.

There’s a shushing and then her voice, in soft songlike Sylvan: “Aw, Caduceus. It’s been quite a while.” 

“Yeah,” Caduceus replies, surprised how easily he slips back to a language he hasn’t spoken in months. “It has. I…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, dear… It’s just nice to hear from you,” Ma says. “How have you been?” 

Her voice is gentle like afternoons and candle smoke. Caduceus swallows down the lump in his throat. Pretends his eyes aren’t getting all hot. 

It’s just really nice to hear someone speaking Sylvan again, he decides. 

“Good. Yeah,” he replies eventually. “Uhh— Very busy.”

Ma laughs. “I’d imagine... Oh. Clarabelle’s here, wanting to say hi—”

“Good evening!” Belle’s voice yells, far from the phone.

Caduceus laughs too. “Hey, Belle,” he says, quiet as he leans toward the potted thyme he’s growing on the windowsill. He rubs a sprig between his fingers. Sniffs his paw. 

“Oh, there she goes,” Ma murmurs. 

“Belle?”

“Mhm. She’s been documenting the insects in that big old pine all day.”

Caduceus smiles, imagining Belle crouched by the tree, peering into bug-holes. He keeps on smiling, listening as Ma sighs and begins telling him about a funeral, about a very old woman and her family. They’d asked for her to be buried with all her wooden jewellery and a slice of cherry cake, baked from her own secret recipe. Once she was covered, her grave patted down, they planted a young cherry tree as her marker, her name engraved on a tag hung from it’s thin branches.

“We’ll take good care of it,” Ma says. “And hopefully the cherries will make good jam.”

“Yeah.” Caduceus nods, shifting on his bed, the smell of sugar and fruit stewing ghosting about his nose. 

Ma hums thoughtfully. “They’ll come back next year and we’ll see what we can harvest.”

“That’ll be nice,” says Caduceus. He rolls onto his side, and right onto Chamomile — stuck beneath his ribs, pinned under blankets. He pulls her out by the neck and holds her floppy-worn body as he mumbles an apology. Her smile, stitched and sleepy, feels like bedtime at home, so he presses his nose to her linen body like when he was a kid and breathes. 

In…out… 

In…

She smells like spit (on her chewed up ears, mostly) and old lavender. 

Caduceus closes his eyes and listens as Ma tells him about fixing up part of the house, where the roof had started to leak, and about the vegetable garden, with the beetroots that are growing well. And about how the Stones and Dusts are doing (they’ve built a new kiln, into the earth behind their house). She tells him everything. And he’s thankful to be able to just listen.

Pa’s still smoking, Ma tells him, in a mildly dismayed sort of way — both weed and tobacco. She shoo’s him out the house though, mostly whenever it’s tobacco, or when Belle’s around.

“Speaking of,” Ma says slowly, “have you started smoking? Your voice sounds different, just a bit.”

“No,” Caduceus replies. “Nothing…”

“As long as you’re being safe, and it’s not cigarettes.”

“Nah,” Caduceus says, getting up from the bed. “Cigarette smoke burns my nose... It’s probably just different through a phone. My voice, I mean.”

“That’s true,” Ma says. She sounds like she’s smiling. “Well. I’m glad your father sticks to his pipe at least.”

Caduceus makes an agreeing noise and decides not to mention that he doesn’t even know where he’d get weed anyways. The smell appears in his nose as he thinks of it, earthy and smokey and sickly-sweet, and then he’s home and sixteen, standing in the woods beside Calliope, tossing stones to the riverbed.
“So,” Ma says, the kettle whistling on her end. “Are you coming home this week coming up?”

“Oh.” Caduceus scratches his nose, brow furrowed.

Right. Yeah. Next break is the midterm break, of course. Silly. 

“Uh.. I don’t know— I— I forgot that was so soon…”

There’s quiet for a moment, except for the gentle sounds of a drawer being opened and a teaspoon being chosen. He can picture Ma’s sad smile when she says: “That’s alright, honey. I’m sure you’re very busy. It’d be lovely to have you home for the Winter’s Crest though.”

“Sure,” Caduceus replies before he can think about it. He’ll come home for the break. And he’ll help cook dinner. He’ll hang paper stars around the house, and peeled persimmons on the porch to dry and coat themselves in sugar.

Ma has a lot of ideas already, big plans now that Calliope isn’t always around either. She talks about rituals and winter cremations, for when most of the ground is far too frozen to dig. She’ll start planting the garden and flowers for next year too, so they’ve got time to grow, protected from the coming cold by the soil above them.

Caduceus stares at the window, listening until his feet feel bird-light as he steps across the dark blue carpet and peers out. It’s dark outside now —orange lamplight and blue-black sky— and he’s not sure if it scares him or not. He feels like maybe, if he’s not careful, he’ll disappear. And he doesn’t really recognise the someone staring back in the hazy reflection on the glass.

So he keeps on making listening noises, and answers questions on autopilot. Then it’s gotten late (says Ma) and everyone’s yawning, and Ma’s saying goodbye. Pa too.

Goodbye. (Don’t cry.)

See you soon.

Love you. (So much.)

Love you too, dear. Take care.

The phone beeps and Caduceus sets it on the bedside table. His fingernails are suddenly so clear, so detailed. He bites at them as he wanders around, wondering if maybe he should make tea. 

He’s cold, shivering, he realises slowly. 

Tea would help with that. Something nice with oat-flower and chamomile. 

But he just… he…

He’s cold and he wants to go to bed. 

So he goes to the bathroom.

Brushes his teeth. 

(Doesn’t brush his hair because untangling hurts his head.)
He slips beneath covers with the light out, trying to feel cocooned instead of alone.

With blankets over his head, Caduceus lies awake for what seems like forever, Ma’s voice circling between his ears, layered fragments of things she said all humming together, familiar but out of reach.

Half-asleep, Caduceus tastes dirt. And, maybe, he smells lilies too.

Chapter Text

When he wakes his body is ghostlike, rising up off the mattress, and he doesn’t feel cocooned. Only like he’s stuck elsewhere, like he’s still dreaming, floating in the dark. 

Slowly, he gets up and stumbles across the room, half-wondering if it’s too early or too late to not be sleeping. Without opened curtains it’s barely light enough to see — everything blurred and fuzzy. The light that finds its way in is the colour of forget-me-nots.

Caduceus scrubs at his eyes, knuckles digging in to the itchy-tired corners. He yawns big, like the cats that hang about the commune. He pushes open the curtains to let the low light in. Outside is overcast still, and drizzling, smelling of wet, wet soil.

Caduceus pulls his coat on overtop of his pyjamas. He hums as he remembers the amethyst Ma gave him, the familiar shape shining purple. 

He grabs the crystal from the windowsill, slips it into his pocket.

The song he sings sounds like someone else in the other room now, like Ma or Auntie Corrin or— or…The humming is nice, though. Sort of.

Caduceus stops. The song stays, keeps on going without him.

He doesn’t like that very much.

We’ll be back soon, Ma said. No more than two weeks.

Caduceus covers his ears, to keep the murmuring quiet. Waits.

He opens his door, after a moment of uneven breathing, and leaves the flat, wandering down the stairwell. Footsteps echo all around him as he goes, bouncing round and returning over and over. He presses his palms firmer over his ears. Keeps on walking.

He needs to move, to search for something. (He needs to get out.)

He’s not sure exactly what he’s looking for, but there’s a pull from somewhere beneath his ribs that leads him. Like a string is tied there, to the bone, tethering.

The streets are empty, the drizzle turned to rain. 

Caduceus lowers his hands cautiously, and smiles at the white noise of the sky opened up. He holds the amethyst in his pocket as he walks, thumb tracing the sharper edges, the smooth planes, the rough end like the root of a tooth pulled out.

And he keeps on walking. 

It’s the kind of weather that makes staying in bed so tempting. Curled up like creatures, with tea made in a pan on the stovetop — the kind Ma would make him, when he was little, or when he was sick. Two things he’s been a lot.

(Like the fever.)

(Ma remembers it sometimes, her mouth-corners creasing downward before she can stop them.)

(She cried when Caduceus was half awake but too tired to open his eyes,

and she fed him soup and tea with his favourite spoon.)

(It was raining then. Or… maybe it was snowing.)

Caduceus startles, flinches away from the sudden ghost-touch that grazes his ear. 

He turns and — Oh. 

Caduceus watches the red-orange leaf land beside him on the path… Path? 

He lifts his head and he’s back at the park, the arboretum.

Without searching he keeps on wandering, letting himself be guided, and finds the same tree from last time — the mossy-fellow. Then it’s pouring and he has to take shelter beneath a densely needled pine because the rain is getting inside his coat. It smells of sap, of damp. 

He sits in the sparse grass at its base, nestles himself among the roots that emerge from the pine-needle-y earth on one side. It’s a comfortable seat. Good for thinking, for searching.

Caduceus reaches for the dirt in front of him, gathering old pieces of pinecones, berries and flowers in his paws. He pulls his legs into a basket to rest his hands in, and leans back against the bark. 

Mother? he asks with closed eyes.

He waits

waits

waits 

He chews the inside of his cheek. Nothing. Not today.

The rain keeps on falling, working its way through the branches above, as Caduceus sways gently back and forth. Stray drops land on his ears, on his nose. They soak into his fur. And maybe, he thinks, he’s a sapling instead of a someone. (The thought makes him laugh, quietly.) 

He stays beneath the pine a while longer. 

Until he’s a little more okay. 

On the way home there are good puddles to look in, best viewed from the centre looking down.

That way he’s just a shadow, wobbling, lost in the thousands of raindrop bullseyes that ripple outward. He stares until that too is a bit much — his face all gone — and he looks away. 

The sky grows darker, the rain heavier again, as Caduceus walks back towards the flat. He shoves his hands deep inside his pockets and ducks his head to keep the cold cold water out his eyes. And… And… Oh dear… There’s no key in his pocket.

So he has to ring the buzzer with numb fingers, and wait for a voice to tell his name to, to be let in. Then it’s more stairs and another buzzer and more waiting as floorboards creak closer and closer. He stands back from the door when it opens; the noise is so sudden, so sharp.

And Not-Morgan is looking at him funny. 

“You okay?” he asks, brow creased.

“Yeah,” Caduceus replies. “Just was out walking.”

Not-Morgan shrugs, looking over his shoulder in a confused sort of way as Caduceus steps out of his boots, leaving them on the mat just inside. He slips past without saying good morning. He just… he really needs to dry off. (So you don’t catch a cold, Ma says.)

He shuts his door, strips off his clothes and goes to bed.

There’s noise down the hallway, one pair of trainers squeaking across the floor, and then clattering dishes.

“What’s up?” someone asks.

“Just Clay being weird again.”

“Ah...”

“Y’know. Staring...”

No reply. A half-hearted laugh. More footfalls.

“The hallways all wet.”

“Yeah, well, he was out in the rain.”

There’s a sigh and the sound of the kitchen tap running. Then the microwave whirring. The rest of the conversation disappears beneath the hum, and Caduceus goes back to sleep.

Later, Caduceus lies in bed with stuck-together eyelashes and sleep-sand in his eyes. There’s light dancing behind his eyelids, fireflies, reflections or embers. He blinks hard, opens them slow.

He feels kind of like he’s five years old and still sick.

He sits up eventually, a blanket for an outfit, and props his pillows behind his back as he asks his eyes to please stay open.

Should get out of bed, Caduceus tells himself, scratching his nose. Should… 

There are things that need doing.

“Alright,” he mutters, pushing himself up from the blankets. He’s blind for a moment, when he stumbles upright, which is… something… is…not great.

He waits until he can see again to pull on a worn-soft jumper and cotton trousers, and he fumbles his way to the kitchen, to make himself porridge on the stove, even though it’s almost noon. And no one’s around so no one asks what he’s putting in it. 

Cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, he tells himself. With some blueberries on top.

He eats it in his room, and wishes he could share it.

He makes tea from an old teabag, and works on his dragonfly silk until he’s dizzy.

He eats the last of his windowsill-chilled berries and doesn’t feel much better.

After, he has class things to work on — something about colour theory. So he makes more tea (a hedgerow blend from home, with hawthorn leaf and nettle) and he paints swatches on card in shades of sage, indigo and juniper. It all looks the same, blending, bleeding, so he paints over a cream colour, turns it bloody red, like the beak of the hawk when it ate his rabbit friend. He was seven then, and cried all afternoon.

Caduceus takes the swatches and rearranges them, cutting them into shapes and adding lichen-y patterns to them until they aren’t anything anymore.

Then it’s dark, Caduceus realises slowly, after a moment. He hums, rocking where he’s crouched. 

“That’s alright,” he says to himself, sighing. At least everything’s all done. 

Except… parts of his ankle needs clicking back into place, and his knees have gotten so unhappy. And he has to lean on the wall to stand, his whole body cracking like the forest in winter, frozen through.

Sorry, he tells his bones. I’m really sorry.

He makes tea

and he goes to bed.

Chapter Text

When Caduceus next wakes, his body is heavy. And getting dressed is hard work. 

Walking to class is more like wading through deeper and deeper soft earth than stepping one foot in front of the other. More like he hadn’t slept at all.

Once he’s there, the class itself washes over him, a stream that he lies under, his ears full of water.

It stays that way all afternoon, the half-asleep-half-awakeness, even as he walks back to the flat. It’s an unwelcome guest, a shadow at the front gate.

He wants to hide in the blanket-fort by the old larch.

Evening rolls in slow, and Caduceus makes tea slower.

He sits on his mattress with basket-folded legs and breathes. (Just breathe, he pleads.)

He breathes until he’s weightless instead of heavy, cradled by the bed beneath him. He allows himself some swaying, some side-to-side soothing. It makes him yawn. Then his breathing’s all out of rhythm so he starts again, and keeps on swaying. Swaying and Breathing.

Breathing…

Breathing…

Breathing

After a long while he opens his eyes, and the bedroom is pitch-black. 

Caduceus isn’t sure he likes it, but he can’t sleep with the proper light on either. A candle would be nice, would be really nice, but they aren’t allowed. Despite the rules he’d light one if he could, just for some light… Something (anything) to break up the dark that swallows him.

Caduceus turns his bed to a nest, covers pulled up to his chin, and pulled further up still. 

“Hello?” he whispers, into the void of his room.

No one says anything back. Caduceus isn’t sure if he’s thankful for that.

He pulls his duvet partway over his head — just enough to be protected, just enough to still breathe. He screws his eyes shut and presses his hands over his ears. Hums.

Eat your vegetables, ma says. I love you.

✳︎

Caduceus wakes to the radiator is burbling like the spring back home — clunking pipes and air rising. For a while he stares at the white ceiling, the off-white walls, wondering where he is. It comes together slowly: the strange ceiling lamp, the navy curtains, the empty-scary walls.

He has work today, according to the phone-chime reminder that yanks him from his wondering. And he’s going to be late if he doesn’t hurry. 

(That’s not great, especially on sore legs.)

So he dresses quick, in clean clothes this time (more work-appropriate), clean underwear especially — a vest and shorts beneath his black outfit, without labels to scratch him.

Caduceus goes to work and puts blueberry pancakes in paper bags. 

He tries to hold a conversation with Miss Reani when she stops by, on a break from a residency in the botanical gardens, but everything slips right through his head, like silt between fingers. And he can only manage the pleasantries. 

“You okay, Pinky?” Miss Reani asks. 

Caduceus nods, smiles soft as he watches the gold glitter shimmering in her hair. “Yeah.”

“You don’t seem okay.”

A too long pause. “I am.”

Miss Reani furrows her brow, pressing her lips together, and asks for a cinnamon-apple muffin and her usual vanilla coffee.

“Get well soon,” she says, instead of goodbye.

Caduceus isn’t sure what to say to that.

As the morning goes on his body grows misty, and then heavier again, until fetching a clean glass for fancy lemonade feels like wading through marshes. He waves his hands by his ears when the coffee machine gets loud, and he can’t remember what tea blend the older elven man wants so he has to ask three or four times. And that’s really not good— It's not. It’s— 

Not long afterward, his shift manager pulls him aside. 

You’re not looking so great, they tell him. 

I’m fine, Caduceus insists.

They don’t believe him. Probably because his voice has turned to a whisper, and sounds like someone else is speaking. It’s hard to make any noise at all.

So he goes back to the flat. And he’s not sure if he can go to work tomorrow either, if he can’t speak. And he might not have enough pay this week for all his food-shopping, with the moving that’s planned too. And speaking of — he can’t remember what he’s meant to pay, or how much he has left. And he’s not sure where anything is — Oh no. Oh...

Where…?

Maybe, Caduceus thinks, rubbing his ears between thumb and forefinger, maybe there’ll be more money once more bursary comes through. 

Yeah… It’ll be okay, he tells himself, even though he can’t remember when that is. Okay for now. He has stir-fry left, and porridge oats. And half a jar of jam, a sweet potato, a tin of chickpeas, half a carton of oat milk, rice.... Other things…He’s not sure what else. Something. Other things.

Not many greens, though. And no multivitamins left either, not for a while. He should do something about that, because, otherwise... 

Because... 

✳︎

Caduceus wakes up on the floor, flopped over a pillow, and the weekend is almost over. Cautiously, he sits up, and has to pop his hip back into its socket. It hurts so he prays to the Wildmother, and tries not to swear inside his head too much. 

His homework — fabric scraps and swatches and sketchbooks — is strewn around him, spread across the floorboards. He’s not sure how it got there. Beneath his foot is a halfway undone crochet circle, wonky, curling at the edges.

Caduceus stands after a time, so slowly, leaning on the bed with shaky arms as he steadies himself. He changes out of his work clothes and back into softer things with no scratchy things beneath. He pulls wool socks onto his cold paws.

Through the window, the sky is turning orange. Supper time then. 

So Caduceus leaves his room, peering out into the hallway filled with unplaceable noises — groaning, whispering, chatter beneath layers of water, the wind.

There’s two people in the kitchen. And he’s not sure if he recognises them. So he fills the kettle while he finds his food in the fridge, and he tries not to look anyone in the eye. Just in case they’re empty. 

Back in his room he steeps the tea in his pot. And he eats leftover stir-fry out the tub as he waits, the tofu turned soggy by the condensation collected inside.

He finishes it as the tea cools. 

He drinks the whole pot one cup after another.

It’s not hard to go back to sleep.

✳︎

He wakes up before dawn because he drank too much before bed. He can’t move though, because the flat is full of noises that whisper behind him. So he stays inside his cocoon until the darkness goes away.

✳︎

Caduceus wakes again and he’s not sure if he’s alive. He’s a ghost dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, with a faceless reflection in the bathroom mirror. He checks under his bed, packs his bag for class and leaves. Best not to worry anyone.

Hey, Ma

I’m sorry.

His hands are icy cold.

Sorry that I didn’t come home and now I don’t know if I can.

The breeze blows right through him, like he isn’t made of anything at all.

Can you… Can you bury me— If you can. If you— Can you bury me somewhere nice? With the rest of the family graves would be fine. But also near the pond, where the dragonflies are, and under the fir. That’d be nice, I’d—

I’d like that a lot.

I’m sorry. 

He walks past someone and they stare, and he’s not sure how they can see him.

I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Over and over.

There’s a bzz and Caduceus startles, hand reaching to brush at the fly that’s landed on him — maybe because he’s decomposing, in which case he should let it, because that’s the natural order of things after all… Except there isn’t a fly. And the buzzing is coming from him, his phone. He pats at his pockets, searching for the sound, and looks up. 

And. And he’s not dead at all. 

He’s in the arboretum again, instead of on his way to class, and he’s doesn’t know how he got there, just that his heart is beating loud and slow in his ears.

He checks his phone — he’s an hour late for class and there’s a text from Calliope. 

He doesn’t open it.

Caduceus floats his way to class on sore legs. He stops, almost there, because he needs to sit down. He doesn’t want to run out of paracetamol, so he only stops to take one, and keeps the rest for emergencies.

In class he takes notes from a presentation. It hurts his head. And he doesn’t remember making his mindmap when his tutor nods at it and says: 

Very nice, could do with a some more ideas, but very nice so far — lichens could lead to some very interesting shapes.

Caduceus looks at it for what feels like the first time, at the scribbly hand writing but nice ideas.

“Yeah. Thank you,” he replies. 

He boils water in the white, plastic kettle in the corner of the studio, makes tea in his enamel mug. And he adds more to the mindmap — texture-words, fungi names, and Moss with a question mark beside it.

He floats through the corridor, and almost walks into people (a few times). 

Oh, yeah, I’m fine, Caduceus says and smiles, wondering if he knows the person standing in front of him, asking if he’s alright. 

It’s just... it’s been a long day, he tells them.

He goes home and keeps on carving a woodblock for homework. 

The stir-fry has run out so he eats a handful of musli, circling his room over and over as he eats it, getting halfway through chewing or folding clothes or making tea before remembering something else forgotten and doing that instead, quick, before the thought disappears again.

He circles the too-small space until its barely a space anymore and he’s bumping his hip on the bookshelf.

It hurts. A lot. And he almost falls. He lifts his shirt to see the soft skin all red beneath his undershirt. It’ll turn into a bruise later, purple and alarming against the pale grey of his skin and fur. 

When he eventually sleeps Caduceus dreams of strange, stressful things.

Like lichen growing from his hip, covering the red. 

Like tiny snails everywhere, getting crunched when he tries to move.

Like trying to cut his hair and accidentally cutting a very straight line into his ear, which pours out sandy sawdust insides, like he’s Chamomile, full of dried flower sachets. No blood at all.

✳︎

Caduceus is startled awake by his laptop, left open on the floor, announcing something with a too-loud chime. Much too loud. 

He grumbles, scrubbing at his eyes, and at his bad-feeling, itchy fur. He hums through a clenched jaw as he reaches out from under the covers and drags the laptop nearer, lifting it up and onto the mattress beside his face.

It’s an email notification, he realises slowly, as he types in his passcode with one hand, the other tucked beneath his neck. 

Caduceus clicks on it, waits for it to load.

Beau Lionett: [email protected] 

To: Caduceus Clay: [email protected]

Hey. Just wanted to let you know that everything’s sorted here if you want to move in next week, during midterm. We have three spare rooms ready. Let me know what day, and I’ll free up some time. Also let me know if you need help figuring out payments. It’s not urgent but it’d be good to get figured out.

Also, if you know anyone else who’s looking to move please tell them, we’ve got a couple rooms left.

Thanks,

Beau

Caduceus reads it, reads it again. Blinks slow… Yawns... He doesn't know anyone else.

Slowly, he pushes himself upright, pulling the laptop onto his lap. It takes a while, but he replies:

Caduceus Clay: [email protected]

To: Beau Lionett: [email protected]

Hello. That would be nice thanks. Next week. Maybe on Mirisen? Becus soon would be good. Also help with figuring out payments would be good. Thank you.

Caduceus sighs, lets his eyes close again.

He doesn’t have class today. But he should get up, to do something useful.

So he makes tea. And he eats porridge.

And it tastes far away.

He goes on a walk, to talk to the trees, to touch their bark.

His fur feels bad when he gets back. So he scrubs at his face with his sleeve-end.

And forgets to shower.

He eats porridge for dinner.

He does the same the next day. And the day after.

And he sleeps with the light on.

Chapter Text

Caduceus wakes and feels steadier. And even though the room around him is still fuzzy, he’s not blending into it anymore. He has edges, an outline.

And he can feel, as he gets out of bed (like emergence, like unfurling), which joints hurt more than others. His body isn’t just a constant hazy, all-over pain anymore. He is naked and his knees hurt and the floor feels solid, almost heavy, beneath his feet. 

He has work again soon, according to the familiar chime of his phone, so he dresses in the same thing from last weekend (not too dirty, only crumpled) and spends a while patting creases straight. His leggings beneath knee braces beneath the wider-legged trousers are a little scratchy, in a needing-to-be-washed sort of way. He doesn’t have anything else, though, so they’ll have to do. 

Then his hair needs brushing, because it is so, so tangled at the back. And it could also do with a wash, but it’s too late now.

“Should have…” Caduceus mumbles to himself, pulling it back into a clumsy bun at the back of his head, “…gotten up earlier.” 

He’ll shower when he gets back, he decides as he leaves.

Caduceus walks to work and everything is less scary, even if its not quite right — the ghostshapes don’t stare, they just float on the breeze, dancing and dissipating like summer mist when he gets closer. They don’t swallow the light. They don’t reach for him.

He watches them shiver like wisps and knows they aren’t really there.

(Good… That’s good.)

He finds a conker beneath its mother-tree in the driveway of someone’s huge house (with a keypad gate and everything) and slips it into his pocket to hold, rolling it back and forth between his fingers as he stares at the leaves, more orange than he remembers.

He nods to passersby and they return the greeting. They usually do on weekend mornings, which is nice, so he smiles, and adds a quiet Good morning.

It’s a nice reminder that he exists.

He exists more at work, as he puts on his apron and wipes down the tables, and even more as the morning gets busier. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, but today he does alright, mostly because the other folks on the shift are kind, patient when he can’t remember something. And no one yells at him. (Maybe, he thinks, it’s because it’s sunny outside.) He feels more like he can breathe, head too full of tasks to be afraid.

Even if things get scarier around lunchtime, when he’s sitting on a bench round the side of the cafe. Alone, in the quiet. Caduceus looks at the sandwich held in it’s cardboard box and knows its full of rot. Full of infecting things.  

He’s gotten good at breathing though, at calming down, because stress makes it worse — stress is when he becomes a ghost too.

Caduceus breathes and holds the cardboard and reminds himself that no one else died when they ate one with coffee or cold tea in a shiny glass bottle. No one got infected.

He takes a shuddery breath, closes his eyes as he exhales, takes another breath, and eats. 

In the afternoon he checks his veins for darkness (there isn’t any) and checks his head for a fever (his fur just needs washed), and he gets on with moving the pastries from their trays to the display. Everything smells like blueberry and cinnamon and chocolate and butter all mixed together. It’s a lot, all swirled together like an old paint palette. 

Caduceus sniffs and just wants porridge.

“Oh. Hey,” someone says as he’s thinking about oats. 

Caduceus’ ears flick and he glances up, in the middle of fixing a fallen-over blueberry muffin. He looks again and it’s Beauregard, flashing a short wave from across the counter, stood besides a someone he doesn’t recognise. They’re short, blue, sort of frilly all over. Hair all fluffy.

“Oh. Hey,” Caduceus says back, even though it takes him a moment. “It’s nice to see you again. What can I get you?”

Beauregard looks kind of surprised, kind of confused, mostly amused. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to interrupt while you’re working. Just here to get some stuff.”

“That’s alright,” Caduceus replies. 

“You know each other?” the fluffy someone interrupts, sort of too loud. They pause for a moment, then gasp with hands pressed to their cheeks, like a cartoon. “Oh!! You’re Caduceus!”

Caduceus nods slowly, wondering how they know that. Then he looks down, at his name tag that makes an annoying noise when he walks. 

Oh… Right. Yeah. Yeah, that would be… That makes sense.

“I’m Jester,” Jester says. “She/her, please.” She reaches across the counter to shake hands, and Caduceus does, without thinking. And now he needs to change his gloves before setting out more pastries, which isn’t his favourite texture. It’ll be fine, though.. it’ll be.. yeah. 

“What about you?” Jester asks, freckly face all bright and round, like a plum.

Caduceus isn’t sure what she’s asking, so he retraces his steps, like searching for lost keys, until he realises.

“Oh,” he says, still thinking. “Uhh... Just anything, I think. I don’t mind.”

Jester grins. “That’s cool.” 

Beauregard smiles, fond and exasperated. “Alright. Jes, we gotta get back soon or Caleb’s going to be fuckin’ grumpy.”

Its then that Caduceus realises that the other person at the counter today (Sorry, he says to them inside his head, because he can’t remember their name or see their name-tag to learn it) is watching him as they wipe down the till, confused. 

He hums for a moment. 

“What can i get for you today?” he asks Beauregard.

She smiles, apologetic, and pulls out a list from the pocket of her old jean-jacket. “Can I get… three black coffees, a latte with just regular milk, and…” She looks toward Jester.

“And a berry smoothie, please,” she adds. “And also, like, some pastries.”

Caduceus nods, trying to keep the order in his head. “Sure. Which ones?” he asks, and gives up on his memory, beginning to note down the order instead.

“Well, what would you recommend?” Jester asks.

Oh… He usually just eats porridge out a cardboard cup or avocado and red-pepper hummus sandwiches. Or drinks tea… Mostly tea. 

“I.. I’m not sure. I haven’t really tried any of these,” he says, because that’s also true. 

“Aw. How many kinds are there?” 

Caduceus looks at the display, counts each pastry and cookie, counts again. “Nine.”

“One of each, then,” Jester says, so excited. She turns to Beauregard. “That way everyone has something to try, and, like, I can eat the rest, or the ones you guys don’t want. It’s my treat.” 

Beauregard just laughs, quiet below the always-noise.

“Okay,” Caduceus says. “Uh.. Just wait a bit and pay at the till when the coffee’s ready.”

He hands off the drinks order to someone better at using the coffee machine than he is and goes to find boxes for everything, returning with two the right size to hold a redcurrant tart, a cottage cheese tart and the two muffins (blueberry, chocolate) alongside the sesame ring and the little syrup cake. He slips the walnut, cinnamon and vanilla cookies into separate paper bags and sets them on top of the boxes.

“Hey, Caduceus?” Jester asks. “Are you moving in today?”

Caduceus finishes scooting the takeaway boxes towards the till and shakes his head, no. “On Mirisen, I think,” he replies, and looks toward Beauregard, to check if that’s correct.

She gives him a thumbs up. 

“I’ll email you,” she says, as Jester pays for everything with a very shiny card. “Or text you. Yeah. I’ll text.” 

Caduceus nods, not sure if Beauregard texting him is something that already happens. He doesn’t remember it… doesn’t remember… 

Then they’re leaving, and he can’t figure out how to ask.

“I like your hair!” Jester calls as she carries her smoothie and stack of boxes out the door.

“Yours too,” Caduceus replies, too quiet for her to really hear. 

Beauregard waves, almost rolling her eyes, and then they’re gone.

Caduceus smiles and sighs, and feels sort of like a whirlwind just passed through, flapping his hands beneath the counter. 

That was… A lot. 

He shrugs to his coworker, smile apologetic, and leaves to change his bad-texture gloves with pressed-back ears and a scrunched-up nose. 

✳︎

Later, in his room, Caduceus sits on his bed and tries to meditate. It’s sort of hard, though, with thoughts are tripping over each other — Beauregard and Jester’s voices playing over and over, him telling them Mirisen, confirming it. 

Something about saying it out loud makes it real and he realises he needs to do something. 

And that a week passed without him.

He flaps his hands. Not good.

You were somewhere else, Calliope says.

Caduceus showers first, because no one else is home (because it’s been a while). And he takes his time, letting the bathroom get steam-blurry. He washes his hair, rubbing his scalp in the way that feels like Ma used to. (In the way that makes him sleepy.) He washes all of himself twice over and gets out to sit in a towel on his bed. 

While he’s drying he salvages whats left of his horrible, bitten finger nails, smoothing down the ragged parts until they don’t catch on his jumper anymore. And he rubs sandalwood oil into his wrists, even though he’s not going anywhere. 

After, he rummages through his drawers and realises he really needs to do laundry, because hardly anything is clean. So he puts on mushroom pyjamas and his old-soft jumper and sandals, and takes his clothes down to the washing machines. He chooses the gentle setting, worried for his old, old things, and waits. 

Waits. 

Dances his hands. 

Rocks a little, making the bench beneath him creak. 

And he wonders if maybe he could just leave for a while and hope everything will be fine inside the machine. 

He keeps on waiting for a couple more minutes until he spots a torn-up notepad lying on the floor under the bench, and writes a note, sticking it to the machine, asking for people to not mess with it, please — he’ll collect it soon. 

Back in the flat he washes delicate, handmade things in a basin on the floor, scrubbing his skirts and his handmade vests while his ankles click. 

Sorry, he tells them, and leaves his clothes to soak, hands all sore. 

We’ll get you some gloves, Ma says, and kisses the top of his head, because he’s small and his paws are stingy.

“Not a bad idea,” Caduceus agrees.

He returns for his laundry and finds it already finished. Some things go in the dryer, left with a note on it again, and some are hauled upstairs in his basket, to be hung on the clotheshorse in his room. 

(Caduceus stares at it and wonders, absently, why it’s called that if it doesn’t even particularly look like a horse. Maybe it’s because it bites his fingers like hungry ponies when he’s not careful folding it up.) 

(The feeling of a horses soft nose appears beneath his fingers, and is gone again.)

Caduceus waits some more, fetches his clothes from the dryer, and hangs the damp-ish things to air out a little more. 

Then he’s tired, so he makes tea, and he goes to bed. 

✳︎

When Caduceus next wakes it’s dark outside, and there are texts from Beauregard, from after he fell asleep. Which, now that he thinks about it, might’ve been very early… He’s not entirely sure.

He’s very hungry though. And can’t remember if he ate dinner the night before.

So he makes himself a lot of porridge without berries, because there aren’t any left, not even a few for flavour. 

He wishes he had gone shopping, even though it’d be a hassle to move more things when — Oh.

Caduceus sits on his bedroom floor with his lots of breakfast and opens the texts from Beauregard.

22:02

hey, Caduceus. just wanted to check again that you’re ok for mirisen? do you want help moving stuff? 

also sorry about distracting you at work. didn’t know you worked there lol

Caduceus replies between slow chewing:

07:02

Hello. Help would be good, thank you :-) 

07:03

Also, that’s alright 

He finishes his breakfast and gets ready for work again. 

The day passes not slowly, not quickly. His head gets foggy, full of too loud coffee machines. He manages though, and eats butternut soup for lunch. 

The fog follows him home. It blurs his eyes while he does homework, sitting on his bed. Words are difficult already, but paragraphs on dyeing techniques on a weird-bright laptop screen bleed together so much that he has to squint to read them. 

He’s taking notes on avocado skins that turn linen blush-pink when Beauregard texts again.

17:32

cool. where and what time do you want to meet?

im going to be in the library until 12 but pretty much free after

Huh… Caduceus hums to himself, not sure. He hadn’t thought of a time.

It’s not like he has much to pack, so he replies:

17:36

I think around 1 would be good. I don’t have many things. Thank you :-)

Beauregard replies not long after:

17:37

ok cool. see you tomorrow 

Caduceus hums some more and decides he probably doesn’t need to say See you back. It’s a strange phrase anyway and he’s not sure he likes it, so instead of thinking he heaves his heavy suitcase out from under his bed and gets to work packing things into it. He folds clothes, gathers his sketchbooks, and his sewing basket, and arranges them inside. It’s an old one, the suitcase, belonging to Corrin once, and it’s travelled further than he ever has. 

It smells… kind of like home. Kind of a lot.

It smells like he’s seven and up past bedtime, and dreaming, maybe.

He keeps on packing even if his hands feel unfamiliar. It’s not too difficult anyways — it’s mostly clothes, and towels for now.

So he hums, and he bundles socks together.

And he stops to eat a leftover sandwich for dinner before getting right back to it.

Humming and humming and humming.

✳︎

He’s wrapping his teapot in a cardigan, fingertips gliding over ceramic and old wool, when he blinks (blinks again) and doesn’t feel like he’s dreaming anymore. 

Caduceus breathes deep, paying attention to his expanding ribs as he taps the teapot’s side, listening for the hollow sound. 

Keep it this way, he begs his floating thoughts. 

He unwraps the teapot again, and leaves it out for morning tea.

Chapter Text

Calliope is mad at him again, cheeks all red and almost-crying. She’s yells something about betrayal and throwing cutlery from the drawer. 

Even though he’s pretty sure he started it Caduceus walks calmly to the door, and tries not to look at the fork stuck in his shoulder. It’s old, misshapen from digging in the garden.

As he lifts the rusty latch he remembers his things, left in his room, all tied together with yarn beneath his bed. He wants to get them but Ma’s looking worried and he doesn’t want to upset her.

Then he’s in the flat, and his flatmates won’t clean the oven even if it’s dripping something black and viscous, like inkcaps after a day or so. For a moment he’s upset because now he can’t make pulla, but then it’s alright because he just doesn’t care anymore — he’s had enough. 

So he takes his lavender plant that jingle-jangles like bells, and leaves.

The sound of the dream-door slamming startles him awake.

So he stares at the ceiling, waits for his alarm to go off. 

✳︎

Caduceus spends the morning packing the rest of his things with the radio playing. He turns it up louder than usual, to let it drown out the background sounds — there’s someone clattering about the kitchen, there’s someone in the shower. There’s stranger noises beneath those (whispers… a song, always a song) but he tries his best not to listen and folds his bedsheets, pyjamas and heavy quilt now that he won’t be using them. 

Then there’s the clothes he didn’t pack the night before — he dresses in layers so his suitcase won’t be so full and he folds what’s left. He’s warm, sort of sweaty, as he collapses his crutches and fits them in besides his sandals. (For sore days, his head reminds him, sore days.)

The phrase keeps on going as the suitcase fills and runs out of room, keeps on and on as he kneels on the lid and zips and buckles it closed with a grunt. 

(Anything left will fit just fine into his backpack or a worn out tote bag.)

Yeah… (Sore days)…Yeah. 

“Just fine,” Caduceus tells himself, nodding decisively.

He rubs the ends of his ears between his fingers and thumbs for a moment, thinking. Trying to remember. 

His backpack fits his library books, pencil-cases, incense-boxes (from home and unopened, not allowed), and a toiletry bag too. Lastly is Chamomile, carefully squeezed on top. 

Caduceus zips up the backpack, slipping a few nice branches into side pockets before gathering fabrics and his dragonfly silk (folded so gently), bundling them into a linen-y bag.

It’s a good thing, he thinks, getting to his feet with a grumble — it’s a good thing that he hasn’t really had the time to collect much more things before now. Otherwise he’d need an extra bag for little rocks or animal bones, and, well, he supposes he could manage it, but that’s not the problem really, because he doesn’t have those… uhm…

He doesn’t have those things. 

After a little more ear-rubbing and walking in circles he realises what’s missing: he needs to go get money, to pay his rent.

So Caduceus goes looking for the nearest ATM he vaguely remembers seeing. It’s where he thought it was, just round the corner, but because he’s him it turns to a wander and a stopping to watch a snail. 

He returns to the flat with not much left in his bank account and only one other person home. They’re in their room though, talking on the phone. Laughing a lot.

That’s nice, Caduceus supposes.
He makes lunch, which turns out to be the last of the granola so he can wash the jar and pack it alongside fabric scraps. He’d like tea to wash it down but the pot and cups are all wrapped up in his cardigan, protected inside his suitcase, so instead he drinks straight from the bathroom tap. (It tastes like bathroom-tap water, and it hurts his back to lean over so far.)

After, Caduceus sits on his naked bed and chews the end of his tail, chews the fine fur on the end, turned sort of scraggly and knotted. Not time to go yet.

Not yet.

(No chewing, little deer, Auntie Corrin says.)

So Caduceus stops, and flattens the tangled fur against his thigh. 

(He’s not sure where his comb is.)

(His fingers will do.)

At half-past-12-ish Caduceus puts on his coat and takes his thyme and lavender downstairs first, to sit on the front step. He sets them down carefully and hopes no one’s rude enough to kick them as they pass. 

He returns upstairs and wrestles his backpack onto his shoulders, his wok and one small pan, tied to the outside, clank together — an almost bad song, flattening Caduceus’ ears against his head. He lugs his suitcase into the kitchen, where he leaves an envelope on the counter, with rent money and his key sealed inside. On the front he writes:

rent for tHis Month 

And key too

- Clay 

He lifts his suitcase again, half-way listening to the chatter somewhere else, half-glancing around at the messy sofa, at the bin that needs emptying. There’s no one to say a proper Goodbye to so Caduceus nods at the dying basil by the toaster and wanders past the messy shoe-rack in the hallway.

He opens the front door with a shaky hand and waits, listening, before closing the door behind him, to trap the whispering, the dirty dishes, the loneliness, inside.

Chapter Text

And he waits outside for Beauregard, sat on a bench with his bags and unharmed plants. He sits and watches something shimmery on the leaf-flecked ground by his feet. Its like glass, reflecting rainbows, half-transparent among the rusty red and orange. 

Caduceus watches it for a while and knows it’s probably not really there.

(Which is good... That’s good.) 

His paws are kind of cold.

After a while of waiting, of swaying and staring, the familiar shape of Beauregard appears down the street, crossing the road and heading up the slight hill. She’s far away still, all shades of blurry indigos and browns. All fuzzy.

Caduceus blinks to clear his eyes.

And waits.. waits.. tapping the pad of his thumb with each of his fingernails in turn.

Eventually Beauregard gets close enough to make eye contact, to exchange small waves. 

“Hey, man,” she says as she stops in front of him. 

“Hey,” Caduceus replies. His voice is croaky, unused and quiet. He clear his throat. Ehem. 

“Sorry I’m kinda late,” Beauregard says, a twinge of worry furrowing her brow. A single line. “Something came up.” 

“That’s alright.” Caduceus gets to his feet slowly, trying to ignore the ache in his wrists, the sharp stab in his knees. 

“Want me to get that?” Beauregard asks as he does, gesturing towards the suitcase.

“If you’re sure,” Caduceus replies. He hoists the backpack onto his back with a grumble, shifting it around until the weight settles better on his shoulders. He hadn’t realised how sore they’d gotten just sitting. Too much bending, not enough arms stretched above heads.

So he stretches now, which is tricky with a backpack, and Beauregard laughs.

“I literally came here to help you out,” she says. “Of course I’m fuckin’ sure.” 

And with that she takes the suitcase and the thyme, and gestures for Caduceus to follow.  

They walk besides each other and Caduceus listens to one of the Mother’s song in his head, imagining each verse and guitar string pluck until it’s just right, coming all together. He hums to accompany it, catching his breath in between because Beauregard walks very fast. And he raises his head to the sky, cold and bright and open. So bright, enough to make him squint through his eyelashes, all reflecting. 

Its okay — (its okay) — though, because he can look at the paving stones beneath his feet instead. Which, isn’t a bad idea actually, especially when they’re sometimes cobbled. 

Don’t want to trip... 

Don’t want to fall. 

That’d be... not very good. And something would get hurt — the lavender or his bad knee again, probably. Yeah. 

Probably his knee.

(Watch where you step, Auntie Corrin says.) 

(Watch out for adders, in the long grass.)

“In the long grass,” Caduceus mumbles. 

“Huh?” Beauregard is looking at him funny. 

“Oh.” Caduceus can feel his cheeks heating up, like the hot water pipe round the back of the house. The one with tiny lizards on it sometimes. He smiles, apologetic. “Ah, I didn’t mean to say that out — out loud.”

“That’s okay, man,” Beauregard says. “You alright?” 

“Mh-hm.” 

She raises her eyebrows a little. “You just looked kind of out of it.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine,” Caduceus assures her. (It’s just a thing that happens sometimes.) 

And speaking of, Beauregard keeps on staring out at the horizon, past the city around them, brow all furrowed again. 

Caduceus can feel it, coming off her like smoke — the something-wrong and sadness, the worrying about someone. So he asks, politely: “How are you?”

Beauregard looks at him quick, and just as quickly she looks back to the thyme she carries. 

“I’m good,” she says, shrugging. 

Caduceus nods, and doesn’t pry because he and Beauregard are barely not-strangers, even though he wants to so badly. Because something is wrong, and his hands itch to reach out and fix it. Just because.. Because —

(Mind your business, Colton snaps.)

So he does, for now, and listens to Beauregard as she begins to explain something about the kitchens at the housing co-op, something about the garden, and something about Jester, the blue someone who bought so many pastries.

“She ate like, half of those the same day,” Beauregard tells him.

Caduceus smiles, a little concerned. “That’s impressive.”

“Right,” Beauregard agrees. “Jes is like, ninety percent sugar.” 

“Wow.” Caduceus isn’t sure how else to say — If he ate that many pastries his teeth would feel so fuzzy beneath his tongue, and his head would spin. And his stomach would probably hurt too, just to join in on the bad-feelings. 

They fall into comfortable quiet again, as they keep on walking, meandering through twisting backstreets, away from main roads. 

A quicker way, Beauregard says. 

Caduceus decides to believe her because after some time of ups and downs and hills and lanes he’s gotten sore, heavy bags not helping at all. And he’s leaning more on his cane then he really should be. 

He tries to keep on going, though, to get it over with… He tries.

But he finds himself slowing down, falling behind as Beauregard makes quick work of an old stone stairway. Caduceus stops half-way however, just to steady himself. 

(Because his knees are upset.) 

(Because his head is spinning. Like too much sugar. Like forgetting to eat.)

Beauregard stops at the bottom, turns, and before Caduceus can say anything she’s jogging back up the steps to meet him.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.

Caduceus nods. “Yeah. Yeah. Just… tired. More tired than I thought, I guess.”

Beauregard nods. “Here,” she says, and holds out her hand.

Caduceus lets her take a bag from his shoulder, the one with the jar inside, and thanks her the whole time.

She shrugs stays besides him. No problem.

They make it down the steps after a moment more of waiting, and turn down a side street, between older buildings with backs of tenements on one side, their interesting gardens lining the alley — just hidden enough behind fences and old walls that Caduceus has to crane his neck to peer inside. 

There’s a birdbath balanced on one crumbling ivy-coated wall, a magpie chattering besides it.

“Hello,” Caduceus greets it.

It just keeps on chattering.

“Here we are,” Beauregard announces eventually, gesturing to a big old house as they turn a corner, it’s darkened sandstone and so many different window-shapes falling back into the shadow of the surrounding tenements and a large tree, a conifer of some kind — a larch.

“We got it kinda cheap, because it was kinda busted, with some help from Jester’s mum,” Beauregard explains, “but now it’s been, like, a year and we’re funding it all ourselves. Its pretty great, not having to go by halls rules. Or have a landlord. Like, Caleb’s got his cat, Frumpkin, and Jes is trying to get a weasel. And we’ve got a garden space - ”

“Garden?” Caduceus echoes.

“Yeah, you like gardening?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“That’s good,” Beauregard says, and leads Caduceus round the side of the building, towards a door smaller than the grand one at the front. “I don’t think anyone else knows how. Fjord planted some things a while back and they just died…He’s trying to make a pond now.”

“Fjord?” Caduceus repeats.

Beauregard nods and jogs up a small staircase. She unlocks the door at the top and holds it open for them both. “He lives there too,” she says. “He’s chill.”

Caduceus smiles and follows her inside, and at first it’s all dark, after the late-autumn brightness of the walk. So he blinks hard and waits. Blinks again to see the blue-shadowed mudroom they’re standing in, chipped tile floor beneath their feet.

“Pretty sure everyone else is out right now,” Beauregard says, hauling the suitcase up and over a small step. “Except Caleb. He’s busy, though.”

Caduceus nods and bends to slip off his boots, even though Beauregard’s saying something about him not needing to, not right now. 

“That’s okay,” he replies — he doesn’t mind carrying his shoes. 

“Okay,” Beauregard says. “I’ll show you around real quick. Not like, everything — I don’t want to overwhelm you, and…” She opens a second door and nods towards the empty hallway behind it. “I’m sure Jester will want to do the full tour later.”

Caduceus hums and follows her further inside.

“Also, I meant to ask—” Beauregard stops again, at the bottom of a staircase. “Do you want a downstairs room? We’ve been saving a couple, just in case anyone needs them. Y’know, for accessibility… Just because…” She gestures awkwardly at Caduceus’ cane. 

He looks at it too, and presses his lips together, thinking for a moment as he rocks back on his feet, cold floorboards beneath his socks. “I… I think i’ll be fine upstairs too. I can manage.” (Most of the time.)

(He sort of just wants to have the view to look out over.)

(He sort of wants to be out the way.)

“Cool.” Beauregard nods. “Let me just get some stuff.” 

She’s gone before Caduceus can say anything, leaving him by the stairs that wind up around the corner above him, disappearing with the long window that lights them.

Caduceus waits and he wonders, in the quiet, with his own breath so loud, why he didn’t even think to come look beforehand. He wonders if maybe it was offered and he turned it down, while he was elsewhere — not thinking straight. He did look at the photos on the form, and the website, he remembers vaguely. So… Maybe. 

So. 

So it’s fine.

Caduceus swallows down the brief swell of fear, of wrongness, of making the wrong decision.

(He wants to go home.)

(He really doesn’t at all.)

Beauregard returns after a while or no time at all with papers, fire safety information, and room keys attached to lanyards. 

The house is still a work in progress, she explains as she and Caduceus set down all his things at the bottom of the stairs, but thats alright, all the major stuff is done.

She shows him one of two kitchens — the upstairs one not quite as big, she tells him, less appliances, but still functional. They’ve kind of separated the whole place into upstairs and downstairs, but not formally — just in case it ever was formal. But mostly, Beauregard tells him, everyone hangs out downstairs together in the shared areas they’ve made, especially the one she shows him, poking their heads through the door to look at the sofas and television, and out the sliding doors into the garden.

“There’s a basement too,” Beauregard adds, waving towards a door. “We haven’t really done anything with it though. It’s kinda cramped and freaky… Want to look upstairs now?”

Caduceus nods. “Sure.” 

So he lifts his bags back onto his shoulders and his lavender back into his arms and follows Beauregard round the corners, past a tall window painted in every jewel tone — swirling feathers and stars and waning moons, colours shining through the glass and scattering across the dark stairs.

Caduceus pauses, wondering at the single card that sits on the windowsill, corners folded and worn, before carrying on.

“Are you okay for the first payment?” Beauregard asks, as he catches up with her. 

“Oh. Yeah,” Caduceus replies. “I saved some just to make sure.”

“Cool.” Beauregard nods. “We’re kind of aiming to do a pay-what-you-can sort of thing. But I’m not sure how possible that is yet, maybe as things even out… Like, in a while.”

“That’d be nice,” Caduceus says. “Helpful.”

Beauregard gets to the first room at the top of the stairs and glances over her shoulder. “Exactly. We try keep money for emergencies though, for now. Like, collectively.”

“That’s good.” Caduceus smiles, and he hopes that he’ll be able to help out too. 

From there Beauregard continues on a quick (and very concise, maybe rehearsed) tour of the upstairs, gesturing to already-taken rooms, to the empty two, to the bathrooms on either ends of the halls — two of them, one with a bath. Which would be good, Caduceus thinks, as he realises one is across from the better room Beauregard offers him — good for sore days.

So he chooses that room, with its windows that overlooks the garden, and he’s given the key and a whole booklet of information and all his things are moved in, just like that. 

Just like that. 

Like that.

Caduceus is running his finger over the fur on his nose, wondering what that might be when Beauregard huffs a breath, setting his suitcase onto the floor.

“Need anymore help?” She asks.

“Oh, nah.” Caduceus shakes his head, no. “That’s alright. Just carrying things was a... a struggle. Difficult alone, I think. I think putting everything away will be easy.. Yeah. Thank you.” 

Maybe not the duvet and cover with sore hands. 

When he looks up Beauregard is looking at him, brow furrowed.

“You’re fuckin’ weird,” she says, in a way that isn’t rude, even though it sounds it.

Caduceus laughs. “Thanks?”

“No problem. I’ll leave you to it,” Beauregard replies, and pats him sort of too hard on the arm, adding as she leaves: “Just shout if you need any help. I’ll go find a spare duvet.”

“Okay.” Caduceus says, to the already empty doorway.

He smiles to himself, rubbing his very slightly sore arm.

It’s familiar, the touch, the roughness. It sort of reminds him of Calliope.

(Don’t cry.)

Caduceus scrubs at his face with his sleeve and shrugs his backpack off and onto the bare bed. He keeps his coat on as he looks around his room, wandering, listening to the floorboards underfoot. 

It’s about the same size as before, a little bigger if anything, or just more interesting, with higher ceilings and bigger windows — less of a shoebox. There’s an old sink in the corner, which works when he twists the metal taps. Cold water between his fingers. And there’s also a loft hatch, which doesn’t open when he reaches up over his head and pulls at it. 

It’s… it’s a good place for ghosts.

Or.. something nice, like spiders. Or birds’ nests. 

Caduceus flaps his hands, shakes his head to clear it, and looks out the window instead, at the garden thats halfway empty and overgrown in patches. He pulls the pale curtains a little further open and smiles small, just to himself. He thinks of new soil, compost, and seeds hidden beneath it all, waiting to turn upright and happen. 

Chapter Text

The windowsill beneath his paws is good and wide, Caduceus realises, fingers tracing the woodgrain — there’s more than enough space for his lavender and his thyme and anyone else who might join them later. So he sets the plants carefully down on it, and gives them a drink from his water-bottle as a sorry for the rocky journey. He hums as he does so, and when he’s done he walks in a little circle around the room, threading fingers through the air as he goes. 

He touches the sink again, touches the bed and the bare desk. A soft graze of pink fingertips on new textures. He touches the cupboard built into the wall with its wooden door, worn smooth at the edges despite some sanding. It opens with a creak that sounds a little like whining and Caduceus laughs. 

“Will you eat my clothes when I’m not looking?” he asks the dusty shelves.

They don’t reply, so Caduceus decides to dust them later, and he decides to keep his shoes by the door, on a little mat if he can find one. For now he sets his boots on the floorboards, even though he’ll need to sweep, even though he doesn’t have a broom, and — Well, he supposes, he might as well unpack. 

It sort of feels like daydreaming as he pulls blankets and sandals and jumpers from his suitcase. There’s his teapot, unharmed. Pillowcases and socks. Towels and crutches. 

If you’re really sore, he reminds himself, and props the crutches behind the door. He opens and closes it a few times, to test that they won’t get knocked over or broken.

He hums to himself, satisfied.

He watches a small rainbow, a tiny ghost-thing move across the floor and disappear into the wall, the same shimmer as before, but gone, before he can get a good look.

Caduceus looks up at the attic hatch again.

(It’d be nice to get some new plants, he thinks instead, to go on the windowsill. 

Oxalis and maidenhair and spiderwort, maybe.)

(Except the maidenhair fern will have to go somewhere else if the sunlight is direct. It’s so delicate, is the thing… So. Not in the window. It scorched so easily.)

“It scorches so easily,” Caduceus echoes to himself, chewing on his sleeve. 

Chewing some more, thinking of shimmery light and new sounds and whispering.

He looks at the hatch again.

(It’ll be just fine, Pa says.)

And he goes to find Beauregard. 

He finds her almost immediately, just arrived at the top of the stairs, new duvet bundled in her arms.

“Hey,” she calls when she sees him.

Caduceus hurries over to help her with it, taking it from her arms even though she says something like I got it. Just because.. because she’s helped out enough today.

But Beauregard follows him to his door anyway. 

“By the way,” she says, “everyone’s going to be back soon. Just, y’know, a warning.”

Caduceus nods, wondering why he might need a warning. He opens his mouth to protest, and closes it again, because his mind’s tired, his thoughts too heavy. It takes a while to gather a sentence, to remember what he wanted to ask — it takes until Beauregard is turning to leave.

“Beauregard?” he asks, maybe too sharp. 

She turns slow, smiling quizzically. “Uh-huh?” 

Caduceus steps back into his room a little, looking up at the hatch, shrugging towards it. “What’s up there?”

Beauregard leans on the doorframe, glancing up at the ceiling. “Just an attic space,” she explains. “It’s got a little door that goes to a widows walk too but it’s kinda janky. The railings are kinda fucked up ’n stuff. So, yeah. Sorta dangerous to go on right now. It’s cool though, not gonna let water in or anything, don’t worry.”

Caduceus nods, smiles. “Ah. Alright.” 

Beauregard offers a thumbs up as she leaves, calling a quick “See you later” over her shoulder.

Caduceus shuts the door behind her and stands for a moment, just breathing. He’s not sure if his lungs always filled so much, or if his breathing was always so loud, or if he just never noticed. Maybe it’s the space… new and… New and echoing without tapestries on the walls or siblings that kick you in the head sometimes.

After a long moment Caduceus gets back to unpacking, deciding to tackle the bedding first because he’s still holding the duvet Beauregard gave him. He winces as he tosses it onto the bare mattress. 

Then he remembers — his clothes, dusting, a cloth, and he finds one in his suitcase and gets to work cleaning dust from the corners of the cupboard, folding clothes and setting them inside. 

He lines up the rest of his shoes besides his boots, tucks his slippers halfway beneath his bed.

He hangs his coat up on the back of the door.

He looks out the window some more.

And then he needs to pee so he goes to the bathroom, which has old green tiles, a shiny lock, and smells like the fancy candle on the windowsill above the shower-bath. Caduceus squints at the cursive font on the label for a moment. Sandalwood and…. unreadable squiggles. Caduceus leans over the tub and sniffs. Mostly it smells of sandalwood, and something like rose.

There’s also a questionably happy looking fern hanging by the shower and instructions on the back of the door in big font on how to use the shower, which, is very useful, because the last flat’s shower was very silly and too complicated. 

Caduceus looks up and there’s no mould circling in the ceiling corner. 

He sort of misses the spirally shape.

He washes his hands and the soap makes him smell like pretend blueberry. He wipes his hands on his jumper to try get rid of it, nose all scrunched. 

Caduceus goes back to his room and he makes his bed with his hands that smell like candies. He manages to get the sheet on the mattress, the pillows in their cases, and the duvet inside the cover despite protesting elbows, and takes a moment to test it out, lying this way and that, rolling onto his back. He stretches his legs long and turns to face the window again, fingers tracing the ledge. And suddenly his limbs are heavier than before, like mid afternoon with not enough sleep, which he supposes isn’t too far off. Except the afternoon is not quite middling yet. But the bed is comfortable all the same, and the birds are singing outside, so... 

Chattering.

A distant burst of laughter.

Caduceus peers through his eyelashes at an unfamiliar room, an open cupboard and a half-empty suitcase. His ears flick up, turning toward the unfamiliar burbling noises, the happy voices. 

It takes a moment but he remembers — he’s somewhere new and everyone else is home, like Beauregard said.

Caduceus pushes himself upright on clicking wrists. He stumbles across the room with a dry, dry mouth and finds his phone in his coat pocket. 

16:02 it tells him.

(12 new Messages.) 

Caduceus drinks down the rest of his water-bottle. And he sits on his bed, sits in his room. Looks at his socks, a thread loose on one side. He leans down to tug on it and when he sits up again his head spins, vision darkening for just a second. So he digs out a kind of old granola bar from his other coat pocket, all broken up from being there for a while, and begins to open it. But first he really needs a drink — tea would be nice. Something like green, or ginger.

He steps into his slippers and gathers his teapot and heads downstairs. 

The talking is louder downstairs, clearer and coming from the kitchen. It’s less of a muddled noise, voices distinguishable. Which, is nice. Makes it easier to… 

It’s easier to tell things apart when he knows who is (or isn’t) talking.

Caduceus stops at the kitchen doorway, lingering, hoping he’s not interrupting as he peers in. Waiting. He doesn’t wait long though because a familiar round face glances up from across the table, lighting up.

“Oh my gosh. Hi, Caduceus!!” Jester greets him.

Beauregard, sat besides her, waves quick and short, while Caleb (he’s pretty sure) nods, acknowledging without taking his eyes off whatever he’s reading. Besides him is the short someone from the library before, with brown hair in two braids and a dress the colour of honey.

"Hello," she says.

The last someone in the room is halfway-finished unpacking something from a box onto the counter, a blender, like the kind Calliope bought at one point.

"Afternoon," they say, a warm drawl. Their skin is sort of like a pond back home, with all the green things in it — splotches. 

"Good afternoon" Caduceus replies.

Jester practically hops from where she’s leant against the table and runs across the room, dragging the new someone with her. 

"This is Fjord, Caduceus!” she announces. “He's so cool and he was a fisherman before."

Fjord scratches the back of his head. “Thanks, Jes," he says, and holds out his hand to shake. After a beat, or two, Caduceus does, smiling and looking at the white streak in his hair.
"Nice to meet you."

"You too," Caduceus replies. "Everyone. Nice to meet everyone.”

Fjord raises his eyebrows sort of. (One is cut in half by a scar running through it.) 

“Okay okay okay,” Jester continues. “Who have you met before?”
Caduceus looks around, sort of still figuring out the room, still sort of dizzy. And, suddenly, he realises, readjusting his teapot in his hands, he hadn’t looked in a mirror before coming downstairs after being so very asleep. He hopes, prays, that he doesn’t look too terrible. “Uh… I’ve met Beauregard and you, Jester. And also…”
“What about Caleb and Veth?”

Caduceus hums. “Yeah. I talked to Caleb. I’ve seen Veth before, with Caleb at the library…” He turns to her. “Didn’t know your name before. Hey, Veth.”

“Hey,” she replies, looking amused.

“And.. now I’ve met Fjord,” Caduceus continues. “So, yeah. Everyone. Everyone here, at least —”

“Hey. Cad,” Beauregard cuts in.

He turns to her, ears flicking.

“Just Beau is fine. Like, call me Beau.”

“Oh.” Caduceus nods. “Sure. Sorry.”

And like that the conversation flows back to whatever it was before, and Caduceus figures out how to boil the kettle (after asking whoever it might belong to if it’s alright first) and has water for tea.

The talk at the table seems to be something about dinner, something about wanting Xhorhasian food, and Caduceus hurries upstairs with his teapot in both hands because he can feel the hollow in his stomach now, can feel the swimming thoughts. He sets ginger tea to steep, takes a bite of granola bar and decides to make porridge instead. Or, just oats, because he’s too tired to go downstairs again right now. So Caduceus takes his favourite wooden bowl from his backpack and his oats, cinnamon and the last of the oat milk from a canvas bag and mixes them, leaving them to sit as he pours tea, pouring a little into the oats for the sake of warmth and added ginger.  

He waits.

Drinks his tea careful, and eats slow.

He doesn’t think of anything, except that his behind is getting sore from sitting on the floor, and that he should probably get a pillow to sit on. He doesn’t though, just eats a lot of oats.

And, eventually, after another cup of tea, he heads back downstairs to wash his dishes.

The kitchen seems to have quietened a little, everyone gathered around the table.

“So tomorrow night?” Fjord is asking as Caduceus ambles across the tile.

“Yeah,” Beau replies. “Dairon’s helping organise now so I’m going anyway, but… When was the last time we all actually got wasted?”

“A loooong time ago,” Jester chimes in.

Caduceus sniffs where he stands by the sink, to let them know he’s there, just in case the conversations private. He scrubs his itchy nose with his sleeves and, only after asking if it’s alright to use the dish soap, he washes his dishes. 

The conversation continues as he does, turning to fuzz as the tap grows louder, as Caduceus pays attention to not plashing water on his trousers.

“So we’re going clubbing on Grissen? Not even the weekend?” Fjord’s voice says, between dishwashing and plate clattering. 

“Okay, old man,” Veth replies.

There’s laughter beneath dishes splashing, and Fjord protesting — Okay, okay. Fine.

“It will be fun, ah,” Caleb says, almost laughing. 

There’s a grunt like someone being elbowed and not appreciating it. “Sure.”

Caduceus’ back aches from stooping low over the sink, so he stretches as he stands, rolling his poor shoulders as he stares into the dark outside the kitchen window. It’s cold-looking out there, clear and indigo. And the birds have a lot to say this evening.

When he finally turns around everyone seems to be ordering food at the kitchen table. It sounds like a lot of trouble, everyone wanting different things, and Caduceus wonders, a little judgmentally, why they don’t just cook things. He always wondered the same with Not-Morgan and… Morgan… and… 

Before. 

He did just eat oats for all three meals, though, so he can’t say much. So he doesn’t say anything. Because maybe they’re busy, or tired like he is. So he goes back upstairs and sits on his bed, rocking a little. 

He puts away a few more things after a while — folds his clothes and arranges layers of blankets on his bed, on top of his new duvet, nice and heavy. He lays his dragonfly silk out on the desk in the corner, to flatten its wrinkles from being folded into his bag. 

After a while a distant doorbell rings, and there’s laughing downstairs, and Caduceus isn’t sure if he’s welcome or not. It's alright, though, he thinks, searching for his pyjamas and toiletries bag, because he’s tired, and he really sort of just wants to go to bed soon anyway. 

So he takes his time showering while everyone’s busy eating downstairs. 

(After forgetting for so long, two days in a row with a shower is pretty good.)

(Better than weeks passing without one. Obviously.)

Caduceus sits down in the bath, because it’s easier, and because he’s thankful to be able to stretch out his legs just a little more. At least he’s not a sardine in this shower, even if he still has to stoop when he stands again. Mostly he just sits, letting the water bounce off his ears. He closes his eyes and pretends its raining.

After, when he’s dried off and dressed in pyjamas, he paces around some more, flapping his hands by his chest until he realises that, Oh, he’d like more tea before bed. 

Chamomile, maybe. Or, oat straw and lavender.

Caduceus stands in the middle of his room, realising slowly that his favourite cup is gone, left downstairs on the drying rack, probably. He goes looking for it, remembering his teapot on the way, and finds it easily, right where he left it on the drying rack, in the kitchen thats still bright, smelling like spices and so many different things jumbled together. He boils water, yawns, and heads back upstairs, winding the dark staircase. An early-ish night should do him some good, he thinks absently, because he has to hold onto the bannister the whole way up. 

He has his cup though, and boiled water, so it’s okay. 

As he reaches the landing he furrows his brow because there’s whispering, dancing on the in-between of definitely-real and questionably-there. His ears flick as he listens harder. His brow furrows. It sounds different than usual, a less familiar cadence, and he realises slowly, standing still outside his door, that it’s only Beau and Jester. 

A couple rooms up, light falls across the hallway in a thin line — a door cracked open. Whispering. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Beau is asking.

Jester replies, quieter, after a moment: “I just really miss Yasha.” 

“I know…” there’s a floorboard creak, a long sigh. “Me too. Did you text her?”

“Yeah, and she said she was nearly there, but, its just—“

Caduceus shakes his head, shakes himself out of the stillness he’s stuck in. He shouldn’t listen.  Really, really shouldn’t. 

(Mind your business, Calliope grumbles.) 

(Colton shoves him out his bedroom and he hurts his tail when he hits the floor.)

So he stops, pressing his free hand over an ear, and closes his door behind him.

He brews chamomile tea and drinks it sitting on his bed, idly stroking a thumb over soft-toy Chamomile’s ear. 

“Chamomile and Chamomile,” he mumbles, smiling to himself. Both good things. 

He falls asleep with soft-toy Chamomile pressed to his cheek and petals in his teeth. His head sinks into the pillow and he’s too tired to even dream. 

Chapter Text

Caduceus is woken by sounds so loud, right inside his head. A song, right inside his ear (the one not pressed to the pillow, at least). He lies still with his eyes closed, half-awake and trying so hard to figure out the noises, brow furrowed. And he does, after a while that feels like seconds and forever — birdsong.

Strange.. There aren’t usually birds here, he thinks. 

So close to the window, especially.

So... 

He cracks open an eye, realising that the singing sounds like wrens and doves and chaffinches all together. He opens the other eye and has no idea where he is as he blinks at the floor, with its hardwood instead of scritchy carpet and things scattered about on it. Shapes in the nearly-dark.

Caduceus sniffs and his nose is full of snot. 

The walls around him are cast in half-light, turned blue, blurry through tired eyes. And, he realises slowly, they contain his new room, his socks on the ground.

The dawn chorus continues as Caduceus rolls onto his back and stretches his legs long, feet passing over the bed-end and into the cold air. He lets the muscles slacken, after a while, stretching his arms above his head instead, pushing against the headboard, and pushing his feet further off the bed until he bends his legs, tenting the blankets across his knees. He stretches some more and listens to all of his shoulders’ good-horrible noises. 

A clunk for each socket. (A click for each elbow, each wrist.)

(Careful, he reminds himself.)

So he gets up slow, in a series of steps rather than a single easy movement, and rolls out his yoga mat. He stretches properly there, gentle with his joints, cautious as he tries a forwards bend and reaches toward the ceiling again. His fingertips only just graze it, air on his stomach as his shirt lifts. Before, in the old flat, he would press his palms flat, feeling boxed in and crazy.

He feels open in his new room, airy, so Caduceus meanders through an easy routine, and finds that everything seems to be alright, body-wise, less sharp, less wobbly. Not painless, but certainly easier…

Easier to manage.

He breathes slow and sits, and meditates until he’s cold. 

He gets dressed after, with his knee-braces over leggings and under floaty trousers, and then its time to make breakfast so he heads to the downstair kitchen, mostly to see if someone will be there. He hopes so, so he might be able to tell them about his ideas for when he has more food — a spice mix in a small jar maybe, or porridge with hazelnuts and berries, or new teas. 

His hands are all excited-shaky. So he pauses to stand halfway down the stairs, his teapot steady and familiar between fingers and palms, just to feel less… Less. Less of a lot. 

The stained-glass window besides him shines with the first rays of the rising sun, casting purple glimmers down the old, almost-black stairs. Caduceus hums and dances one jittery hand in the light, painting his fingers all lilac. 

(Kind of like… 

Like dragonfly wings.)

He waits a little longer. 

Less of a lot, he thinks again, wondering if maybe he’s just really hungry instead of scared, and heads downstairs.

In the kitchen Caduceus finds Beau and Fjord blending drinks that look like smoothies, but a lot less colourful. (Which must mean they’re very serious.) He peers inside for a moment and waits outside the door, waits for the too-loud blender to stop, trying not to pull on his ears.

It does stop eventually, with a few final angry pulses, and Caduceus steps into the kitchen, offering a pleasant “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” Fjord replies.

Beau glances over her shoulder, pouring out the beige-ish drinks. “Hey.”

And even though Caduceus doesn’t ask he must look confused because suddenly Fjord’s making a show of stretching his arms. He sighs, twisting this way and that. “Just going out for a run. Got protein shakes ready for when we get back ’n everything.” 

“Oh. Huh.” Caduceus says. “Good luck.”

Beau, who’s in the middle of putting both drinks in the fridge, just cackles, and Caduceus isn’t sure why. He doesn’t get the chance to ask, though, because a very flustered Fjord is already being dragged out the room by a still-laughing Beau.

“See you later, Cad,” she calls as they leave.

“Oh.” For a moment Caduceus just stands there, teapot between his palms. “See you,” he replies, even though the side-door has already slammed shut. 

(Keep up, Calliope says.)

He nods to himself, thinking of conversations that are over before he can figure them out, and gets to making porridge with cinnamon and nothing much else.

Which means it's really about time he goes shopping.

He shakes the bag of oats after pouring out enough and they’re almost done too, which is very important, very urgent. 

Can’t… Hm. Can’t skip breakfast, or snacks. Or lunch or dinner, as it seems to be lately.

So he decides to go shopping after breakfast as he’s boiling water for tea, and he returns to his room with his bowl and his teapot to sit on the floor and write a list while he eats.

(While he finds out that porridge made from water is a little sad. And without peanut butter too, he realises, glancing around the room as if it might be sitting behind him. He realises (again) that the the jar was left behind, still in the cupboard in the flat with Not-Morgan.)

“Hmm…” Caduceus hums to himself, thinking of the maybe spoonful or two left. 

Well. Someone might enjoy it.

So he eats his kind of sad oats with green tea warming his insides, and he writes a list:

Oats, he begins. And oat milk too. 

berrys 

greens + brocoli 

rice 

peas 

bread? 

chickpeas

cabage

peanut butter

He runs his pen across his lips, scratches his nose with it, wipes it on his trouser-leg.

soap

tooth-paist

pain-killers

snacks

“Dried fruit or something,” he mumbles to himself. “Oh.”

tofu

pasta 

tin tomatos 

spices — chilli cinnamon cumin fivespice  

flour? 

honey

sugar?? 

All that might be too heavy to carry, with just his backpack and wobbly legs, so Caduceus scores out the flour and the sugar. Honey will be just fine, nice especially if it's local. He can go looking for it. Somewhere.

Caduceus finishes his breakfast after a time, washing his dishes in the upstairs kitchen instead of downstairs, which is exciting, and returns to empty out the last few things in his backpack onto his bed. He slips into his coat and shrugs the too-light empty bag onto his shoulders. He remembers his list, his wallet and his phone, all three things in his pocket, jangling with a lip balm tin he’d forgotten about. 

He’s downstairs, thinking about how he’s not sure exactly what supermarket he’ll go to now that he’s somewhere different, when a familiar shiny blue someone appears besides him. Almost colliding.

“Woah. Sorry, Caduceus,” Jester says, trying not to drop her phone. “I was texting my Mama.” 

Caduceus tries not to drop his boots, held between two fingers on one hand, to not track mud inside. “That’s alright. I wasn’t really paying attention either.”

Jester giggles. “Ha, yeah.” She slips her phone into a little bag on her shoulder, shaped like a fancy little biscuit, the kind the café he works at serves with tea. And, now that Caduceus is looking, Jester is dressed to go somewhere too, shoes on indoors and a big cardigan over her dress. 

“Are… Are you off somewhere?” he asks. 

“Just, like, the store.” Jester replies, nodding. “What are you doing?”

“Ah.” Caduceus returns her nod, following her towards the side-door. “Just the store too.” 

“Oh!! We can go together, if you want,” Jester replies. 

She stops at the door, spinning around to wait as Caduceus slips his boots on, kicking the toes against the floor to make them feel more correct. 

“Sure.”

“Okay okay okay.” Jester grins, suddenly so excited. She links her arm in Caduceus’ as they walk down the steps together, and there’s bright, bright energy coming off her. 

She leads Caduceus to a store about ten minutes away, through winding streets, cobbled and uneven enough to have to watch your footing. The store itself is on a main-road and familiar enough, despite being altogether unfamiliar. Jester hurries through the isles as Caduceus wanders, holding tight to his list because otherwise he’ll forget something, or everything. 

It takes a while of back and forth, but he finds what he needs — paracetamol and broccoli and oat milk — and gets flour even though it’ll be heavy, because what if he wants to make bread. And also because Jester is so impressed that he knows how that he ends up promising to show her. She also has an extra tote bag to carry it inside, alongside her grape juice and a box of pain au chocolat and some chewy candies that she offers Caduceus on their way home.

He unwraps it slow as they wait to cross a road, doing his best to get all the paper off despite his uncooperative fingers. 

It tastes like blackberry times a million.

Jester giggles as Caduceus scrunches his nose, blinking because it is so much, all stuck to his teeth.

“What?” she asks. “Did you never eat candy before?”

Caduceus shrugs, shaking his head and flapping his free hand like it might make it better. He holds the candy against the roof of his mouth, swallowing after a moment — it goes down like a lump.

“I have,” he replies, a little offended. Cough. “Just…That one was a lot.”

“Oops,” Jester says. She pops another one in her mouth, pink this time, and chews thoughtfully. “You know, tonight we’re all going out to party, like everyone back at the co-op, and Veth, if you want to come too.”

“Party?” Caduceus echoes, imagining the solstice, the bonfire and the elderflower wine, even though it’s almost certainly not what Jester’s talking about.

“Like, clubbing,” she clarifies, linking her arm through Caduceus’ as he Oooh’s. 

“I’ve never done that before.”

“Wow,” Jester exclaims. “Well, then you have to.” 

“I do?”

“Ya! Oh my gosh. We can dance together. It’ll be so fun.” She sort of dances as she talks, as if to demonstrate, dancing Caduceus too. She sways them both, and she does it the rest of the way home. 

When they get back everyone’s chatting in the living-room-shared-space downstairs. Except Veth, who’s not, for a reason Caduceus isn’t sure if he should know. But it doesn’t matter because Jester’s running down the hall and into the room. 

“You guys ready to party?” she asks, loud and laughing. 

Caduceus follows her slowly, carrying his boots again.

“Hell yeah,” Beau replies.

Besides her, Fjord is slumped on the sofa, looking like he didn’t enjoy running very much, a towel draped over his shoulders. “My legs hurt,” he grumbles.

Beau finishes hugging Jester and turns to grin Fjord, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” 

He grumbles quieter. “Nah, nah, I’ll go. Just... gotta take a nap.”

Beau throws a tiny piece of cushion fuzz at him. “Okay, Grandpa.”

“I could do with a drink,” Caleb chimes in from the other sofa, petting the cat curled up on his lap. 

“Same,” Beau agrees.

Caduceus just nods along, wondering if he should take his backpack off or not. It’s getting heavy again — full of rice and chickpeas cans and a cabbage.

“Guess what,” Jester says, flopping down on the sofa besides Beau, “Caduceus says he’ll go too.”

Fjord sits up at that. “For real?” he asks, seeming genuinely surprised.

Caduceus shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You sure?” Beau asks. “I mean— You’re welcome to come with. A hundred percent.”

“Sure.” Caduceus replies. “Why not?”

Beau shrugs, scratching her jaw. “I don’t know. I didn’t think that was your vibe.”

“Well, I haven’t done it before so I don’t really know.”

“Ex-zactly,” Jester says. “You should try everything once, basically.”

Caduceus adjusts his his weight as he leans into his cane, brow furrowed. He’s not sure that’s true. He already knows that he doesn’t want to go on a jet ski or have sex and he hasn’t tried any of those things. So… Maybe some things are just fine being tried zero times.

(He also didn’t want to eat an ant that one time Calliope tricked him into it, but that was another thing. And he got revenge, with lots of mud in her bed and everything else. Worms and —”

Jester makes a funny squeal of a noise, bouncing on her toes as she hops up from the sofa. “I’m going to get so many mocktails, like, strawberry flavour,” she announces, looking a little impish. “Hey, Caduceus, have you ever got drunk before?” 

Caduceus shakes his head. “I haven’t had alcohol before.”

“What?” Beau exclaims. 

“Ohhhoho, shit,” Fjord laughs.

Jester grins, eyes all bright. “Oh my gosh. You can have mocktails with me. Or actual alcohol. Whatever. It tastes gross. I’ll buy you something tasty though.” 

Caduceus just smiles with his face all warm, because he’s not sure what else to do. 

“You got an ID?” Beau asks.

“Mmhm,” he replies, even though he’s not sure. "My student ID?”

“Yeah.” Beau nods. “You look like…15 and 30 at the same time.”

“Oh.” Caduceus isn’t sure what to say to that. 

But it doesn’t matter because Jester is cheering and dancing across the room to hug him again, wrapping strong arms around his middle as she tells him all about her favourite blue-purple drinks. 

Chapter Text

It turns out that getting ready to go out takes a while. Especially if your name is Jester, and choosing the right outfit is very important. She draped a shimmery sheer dress over a dark matching set with billowy sleeves, and got to work painting different shimmery colours around her eyes — pink dots in the corners, periwinkle shimmering across her eyelids. 

Caduceus sits in her room, messy and full of sketchbooks, and watches while he waits. In his lap is a plush toy unicorn, one of many creatures from a pile on Jester’s bed. He sits and he holds it and he waits around in one of his nicer shirts he’s made, with long sleeves and three nice wooden buttons. Around the collar spirals his own clumsy embroidery. He keeps his leggings and his trousers on, knee-braces between. He’ll just wear his boots again because it’s not like there’s many options. Besides, they’re comfortable, worn-in properly.

“Hey… Caduceus,” Jester says, sounding all funny because her mouth is open as she brushes mascara onto her eyelashes. She pauses, peering at herself, tilting her head this way and that.

“Mh-hm?”

She spins around, satisfied. “Want me to do some makeup for you?”

“Oh.” Caduceus realises he’s rocking a lot, for something to do, and stops, humming as he considers it. “Okay,” he replies eventually. “Sure.” 

Jester grins. “I don’t really know what to do because you have, like, fur on your face, but maybe something on your eyes or something?” She roots around her desk and pulls a palette from a jumbled drawer. “I think maybe something from here, to match your clothes.” 

She opens it and shows him the colours inside, all blues and greens like the lake deep down, and like his trousers, he supposes. There’s a green, darkish but shimmering like big beetles crossing the forest path, the ones he kept in jars as pets. (As friends.)

“I like that one,” Caduceus says, pointing to it.

“Okay-okay-okay,” Jester replies, gathering fancy brushes in her hands. “I’m going to put circles on the outside corners — I think that’d look so cool— and then, maybe, a teeny dot of this one,” she gestures to a pale shimmering green, like sea foam, “on the inner corners. What do you think?”

Caduceus shrugs, offers a smile. “Okay.” 

Jester grins. “Okay, good.”

She stands in front of him with his head tilted up and eyes closed, jaw rested on her hand to keep him steady as she paints careful circles.

“Your eyelashes are so long by the way,” she tells him, dusting more shimmery ticklish stuff onto his eyes. “I didn’t really notice before ‘cause they’re white, but, they really are, like, basically you are so pretty.”

“Oh.” Caduceus opens his eyes, surprised, and closes them just as fast, narrowly avoiding a brush to the iris. “Oops — Aw. Thank you.”

“No problem! It’s true.”

“You are too. I like your hair, and your dress. It’s all shimmery.”

Jester giggles, which, she does a lot. “I like your hair too. I kinda wish my hair was pink now. Maybe you can teach me how to get it the same colour or something… hm…” She pauses a moment, hums like she’s focusing until she finally announces: “Okay, all done. Just something simple.”

Caduceus opens his eyes slow and peers into the mirror over Jester’s shoulder. He bends forward still, to look closer at the shiny green on his face. The dots are strange by his eyes, makes them a little alien and unrecognisable for a moment, but then its alright, just beetle-like minimal face paint, a lot different from the spirals painted on foreheads for solstice. 

“You like it?” Jester asks.

Caduceus nods. “I do, yeah. Thanks so much.”

She grins, dancing almost, as if her body’s full of uncontainable energy. Caduceus thinks it might be. He’s almost certain there’s not quite enough room in her 5ft frame. You should’ve been taller, he tells her inside his head.

“Okay! Let's go,” Jester announces, bag shaped like a biscuit thrown onto her shoulder. She bends to pull on boots that match her set beneath her sheer dress. Said boots have heels and grow Jester a little taller, to about halfway up his ribcage.

Before heading downstairs Caduceus returns to his room, to put his coat on, and to slip his amethyst into pocket. He slips his hand in with it, holds it there as he sways, just a little. It’s… it comforts some. 

When he returns to the landing he finds, judging by the quick hoof-sound of heels descending, that Jester’s already downstairs, so he follows slowly after, holding the bannister, cane tucked under his armpit. 

Careful, honey, Ma says.

He nods, takes his time. 

And when he reaches the bottom of the stairs Caduceus peers down the hallway, ears flicking at the distant-close laughter, the conversation towards the old-tiled entryway.

“Fjooord,” Jester is groaning. “Thats not even a going-out outfit.”

Fjord is standing there, besides Beau, and looking down at himself, at his jeans and flannel over a t-shirt.

“This is a totally normal outfit,” he replies. 

“Exactly! You wear that, like, everyday. And it’s totally cute and great but… You know.”

“It’s going to be pretty chill, Jes,” Beau says, hands in her jacket pockets, before turning to Fjord. “I admire your commitment to dressing like the most average guy on the planet.” 

Fjord gives up, pressing a palm to his face despite the small smile there.

“Everyone ready?” Caleb asks from behind Caduceus, who steps out the way, ears flicking as he tries to figure out the sudden noise beside him. “We’re taking the train, ja?” 

There’s a series of nods and a twist of worry in Caduceus’ stomach.

“I don’t… I don’t have a pass or anything,” he says.

“That’s alright,” Beau replies. “We’re only going, like, two stops, probably won’t see any conductors. And if we do, whatever, you got money on you?” 

Caduceus nods, unsure. Beau seems to know what she’s doing though, much more than he does, which isn’t saying a lot. There’s something about her bluntness that Caduceus trusts.

“Alright, everyone ready?” she asks.

Caleb holds up a finger, wait, as he checks his phone. “Veth will meet us at the station, ah — Pentamarket South.”

Beau replies with a thumbs up.

“Okay, let’s gooo,” Jester groans, shoving through, opening the side-door into the black night. 

✳︎

It turns out that the train ride is five minutes and twenty seven seconds, according to Caleb, without even checking the watch on his wrist. Caduceus thinks it’s longer without checking at all — it feels it at least, all the lights passing, the one stop at a station, go on forever and for no time at all. 

He spends the whole time watching out the window, everyone excited and chatting around him. 

Veth is waiting on the platform for them, just like Caleb said she would be. She puts her hand in the inner pocket of her buttoned/pinned/embroidered denim jacket and pulls out a flask, raises it at everyone as they meet. Beau takes it when she’s offered and sniffs, nose scrunching. 

“Is this straight vodka?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

Veth smiles. “There’s a little lemonade.”

Beau shrugs and takes a swig. She winces as she hands it back, eyes looking a little watery in the dark yellow light. “Fuck,” she coughs.

“But, it’s mostly vodka,” Veth admits, drinking some herself before tucking the flask away again.

✳︎

It turns out, Caduceus finds, worry sparking beneath his ribs, that nightclubs are loud even from outside. They’re animal-alive, their vibrant, pulsing light seeping out into the dark.

“Lets get a table,” Caleb says, by way of reassurance as they wait to get in.

Caduceus just wonders what his face was doing.

“Get our table,” Beau corrects. “I gotta go find Dairon. You guys get drinks. Caleb, you’re in charge of mine.”

“Oh, ja,” he replies, chuckling to himself. 

“Don’t fuckin’ let Veth choose,” Beau adds. “I want something drinkable.”

“Noted.”

Veth grins like she knows exactly what she’s done.

✳︎

Inside is louder still, a space disjointed from everywhere else by layers of red-violet and blue light and the roar of conversations. Caduceus isn’t sure he’s heard so many at once before, and, wow, its a lot and so alive. Steady bass thrums in his chest, like a heartbeat drowning out his own. 

The space is a bar, with tight-packed tables that get less-so further back, giving way to an open floor, slowly filling with people standing around, holding drinks. They look like they’re waiting for the real thing to start. 

On the walls are flags, striped in various patterns. It takes a moment before Caduceus realises they’re pride flags and searches for his own, the three Calliope showed him a couple years ago, but the colours are lost in the dark lighting, all kinda the same apart from the arrangement of the stripes. The rest of the walls are plastered with posters belonging to musicians and drag shows. They’re hand printed for the most part, some with small drawings — faces and stars and plants, a tiny inky dragonfly beneath unreadable text.

There’s a flit inside Caduceus’ chest, as he wonders if its really there. 

(Count five things, someone starts to say.)

He can’t wonder long though, because Jester is guiding him by the sleeve to a table that they crowd, all sitting in spaces like they own them. Caduceus sits carefully beside Jester, because she’s still holding onto him. The table in front of her has all sorts of things carved into it — some names, and an awful lot of penises. 

“My greatest work,” Jester shout-says. “Do you like them?”

Caduceus smiles, unsure but laughing anyway. “Sure.” 

It’s hard to tell if he’s speaking loud enough, hard to hear himself, and he thinks Jester probably just read his lips because she grins, after a beat or two.

“This one’s my favourite.” She traces her fingers over a particularly large carving.

“It’s impressive,” Caduceus replies, bending to peer at it. “Uh… Big.”

Jester nods, clearly pleased with herself. “Ex-zactly.” 

Veth clears her throat besides them. Eh-hem. “Who’s watching the table while we get drinks?” she asks.

Caduceus looks up and everyone else is waiting, halfway to leaving the table. 

“I’ll stay,” he says. 

His knees could do with a rest anyways, so he stays sitting as everyone goes their separate ways, for hellos and bathrooms and towards the bar. He props his cane up against the wall, beneath the table, and just waits. It’s okay, sort of nice despite the loudness and the ever-changing colours, because listening is fun, observing is too. But... also, so is tracing the names carved into the tabletop, so he mostly sticks to that, nail scratching the the worn wood, the so-many ridges.

Jes, he finds first, and thinks it must be Jester but given up on, or, maybe just a nickname.

Besides it is a heart, initials held inside: V + Y

Underneath: nott the brave!!, underlined so many times and exclamation pointed.

T e a l e a f, curls towards the table edge, running out of space on the way. Caduceus traces the letters carefully, the remnants of paint embedded in them. He’s back to tracing the big initialed heart when he hears familiar giggling besides him.

“We’re back!” Jester announces, with a clatter as she sets glasses onto the table. “Got you something like I said. No alcohol or anything.” She pushes a glass towards him, dark, shimmery red with a slice of lime inside, ice-cubes jangling around berries. “It’s really good."

“Oh, thank you,” Caduceus replies, ears flicking as he takes the cold glass between his hands, having forgotten about drinks entirely. “What is it?”

“A virgin Xhorhasian. Virgin like, no alcohol.” Jester can’t seem stop herself from giggling about it. Caduceus isn’t sure why it’s so funny.

“Why’s it Xhorhasian?” he asks, then asks again when no one hears him the first time. 

“My guess,” Caleb replies, sitting opposite him, Veth by his side, “is that is where the cranberry juice is from. Or, at least the cranberries.”

“Oh. Yeah.” That makes sense, Caduceus supposes. “Huh.”

(Once or maybe twice, when he was still a kid, Aunt Corrin travelled in Xhorhas, to meet with someone, to perform burial rituals when their dead couldn’t make it to the Grove. She came back with silky fabric, yunfaalyu and, for the children, spiced cranberry jam. It was tart, sweet and warm. Caduceus ate it on porridge, spices dancing on his tongue.)

He wonders then, if the drink he’s been given will be a little like that, and takes a small sip as Jester watches, smile expectant. Takes another. 

It’s not so spices, mostly very sweet, so he swallows it quick and waits for the fizz and sugar to dissipate into familiar bitterness and something else he cant place, humming to himself. As he’s contemplating it Beau appears by the table, scooting in besides Fjord, elbowing him on purpose. Caleb slides her a glass bottle as he takes a slow drink of something dark amber.

“This better not taste like ass,” she says, opening the cap on the table-edge.

Caleb gives her a knowing look as she brings the bottle to her lips, testing it. Her suspicious eyebrow raise melts away and she nods approvingly.

“I got Caduceus a virgin Xhorhasian,” Jester tells her, bouncing in her seat. She sips her own pastel drink through a shiny straw and turns to him. “What do you think?”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Caduceus replies, nodding since he can barely hear his own voice now, just the vibration in his chest. 

“I can't tell if that means he likes it or fuckin’ hates it,” Fjord speak-shouts to Beau. 

She laughs, drinking her own drink.

Caduceus laughs too, just because, and then stops, because Veth is sliding a smaller glass towards him.

“Take a shot with me,” she says. It’s sort of a question, more like a suggestion.

“What is it?” Caduceus asks, lifting the glass in front of him. 

“What?”

“What is it?” he asks again, louder.

“Whiskey.”

“Fuckin’ whiskey.” Fjord laughs.

“Come on,” Veth says. “Drink with me. Shots — the whole thing at once.”

Caduceus raises the small drink to sniff, and just as quickly draws back, wrinkling his nose. “It smells strong.”

Veth just smiles, raising her own glass. “I’m only suggesting.”

Oh, well, Caduceus thinks, since he’s trying almost everything once.

“Alright,” he says, and drinks it down in one go, right as Veth does, and — Ohh, it’s awful, burning all the way down. It scrunches his face and he has to hide behind his sleeve as he coughs and coughs.

“Wow,” he manages to say, after a while. Cough. “Wow, that’s terrible.” 

Jester offers a sympathetic pat on the back, rubbing circles over spasming ribs.

“You’re so mean, Veth,” she tells her.

“Its an important life experience,” Veth replies, not even flinching as she drinks down another shot. “The earth is calling you to her.”

Caduceus scrubs at his watering eyes, coughs again, and resigns himself to sipping his purple-red drink. It’s better at least, less... burning, even if it makes his teeth feel fuzzy and— Ohh, they really don’t mix well. He flaps his hands until the burning, the bitter, has eased.

“That was a big fuckin’ shot,” Fjord states.  

Veth shrugs. “Maybe they were a little fuller than usual.” She gestures toward Caduceus. “He’s tall, he’ll be fine.”

Beau doesn’t look so sure. “You okay, man?” she asks, half-smiling like she’s trying not to laugh, in a fond way. 

(Like Calliope helping him out an old rabbit burrow.)

Caduceus just grumbles.

And he sits, and he drinks more of his syrupy drink to wash away the burn, listening best he can. 

There’s more drinking, there’s lights that shimmer and scatter themselves across the table, and there’s loud laughter until a change in the music — something loud and swelling. 

The mood around the table goes the opposite way, quiet instead. 

Jester sighs, eyes shiny. Beau leans her chin on her hand, and she says, just loud enough to hear: “Molly fucking loved this song.”

There’s a suspension, a held silence, before everyone solemnly nods. Except for Caleb, who sits up straight instead of bowing his head.

“Well, then,” he announces, raising his glass, light shining through it. He clears his throat, speaks loud and clear: “To the purple devil himself, Mollymauk Tealeaf.”

Without a word drinks are raised, all together, clinking as they meet. At a nearby table a couple of someones whoop, raising their own glasses. Caleb nods to them, knowing.

“To that queer motherfucker,” Beau agrees.

Caduceus raises his glass too, if a little lower, aware of overstepping. He isn’t sure why Mollymauk Tealeaf is a motherfucker, but the weight of his name sits heavy and warm in his chest, like they’re a someone who meant a lot. 

(It’s the weight of a name of someone lost.)

“And,” Caleb continues, gesturing to Caduceus with his almost-empty glass, “to new friends.” Which starts a chant of Caddy! Caddy! Caddy! from Jester, and then the whole table in turn, all grinning.

Embarrassed, Caduceus raises his glass for everyone else’s as they take turns clinking theirs off of his. He covers an ear with his free hand, the noise is sharp, and he finds himself grinning despite it, all gapped teeth and a too-wide mouth. 

“Shall we?” Veth asks, already getting up from her seat. 

“Madam?” Fjord offers his hand to her, which she swiftly returns with a middle finger.

“Caduceus?” Jester asks, leaning against his shoulder. “Want to come dance?” 

Caduceus chuckles, shaking his head. “I really.. I’m pretty terrible at it. Also, I can’t leave my cane.” 

“You can bring it with you. I’ll just hold your free hand, if you want.”

He pauses a moment, watching as the others leave for the dance floor, before nodding, and taking Jester’s hand as she helps him to his feet.

The lights are purpler now, shades of turquoise and indigo shimmering through, pulsing as Jester leads him deeper into the moving bodies, into music that trembles his feet and moves upwards, until it’s deep inside his chest. She leads them to a space where they find Fjord again, and then Veth and Caleb too. 

Between them they make messy dancers, taking turns to spin each other, to link hands and just sway. Which... swaying’s nice, feels a little like floating.

Jester spends a lot of time hopping up and down, hair bouncing. After several songs it’s sticking to her forehead, and Caduceus isn’t sure he’s every been so sweaty. He pulls at his gloves and smiles breathlessly at the people around him, letting himself be turned this way and that, nudged from all sides. 

(The lights glow purple.)

His tail being almost stepped on draws a line, and he decides to just hold it with the same hand that holds his cane. 

It keeps slipping from his grip though, fur brushing across the floor. 

(The lights fade and turn green, sparkling.)

He’s sort of fuzzy feeling, sort of sore in the temples.

Jester spins them around and he stumbles. The songs, the blue lights, wash over him like waves.

(Like rivers, fast-moving currents.)

(Or the spring.)

(His head feels almost the same.)

“Caduceus?” Jester’s shouting. “Heyyy! Caduceus?”

He tries to look at her, and can’t quite manage it in the dark, ever-changing light. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Mh-hm,” Caduceus replies, head suddenly spinning, then, without thinking: “Feel a bit sick.”

Then he’s being guided through the crowd and to the bathroom and Jester is holding his hair back as he kneels and he’s not sure if its really necessary but then — 

Yep. 

Okay. 

Yeah. It is. 

After, they stand at the sinks for a while, only moving to let others wash their hands as Jester fixes her own hair. Caduceus leans against the wall, dizzy and sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor by the pipes, cold tile against his cheek. It’s maybe the best thing ever, since the rest of him is so warm. He’s sweaty through his clothes, and then he’s thinking of the heat generated in beehives, by all the bees buzzing, bodies moving together. It makes his head spin, again.

He’s so tired. Yawning.

“Here.” Jester hands him a wet something, a cold paper towel. “For wiping your mouth,” she tells him. 

He does as he’s told before holding the cool thing to his forehead, eyes closed because the dim, greenish light is too much.

“Do you want something to drink?” Jester asks. “I can get you just, like, water, if you want.”

Caduceus just shrugs and stays leaning against the wall, pulling his legs closer in as someone steps over his ankles. He stays there as Jester runs off to get water, only opening an eye when people ask if he’s okay.

(Yes, he tells them, just tired.)

When Jester returns he follows her back into the noise with his paper cup of water, to sit at a table and sway a little, tail held between soothing fingers. When she leaves again, to find the others, he presses his hands over his ears, eyes closed as he rises from his body, like smoke at night.

Like a ghost. 

Like in his bedroom.

But then Jester’s back with Fjord and all their coats, and they can both see him.

“Okay,” she says, hands on his shoulders in a sort-of-hug. “Ready to go?” 

Caduceus nods, once.

“Same,” Fjord says. “Let’s get outta here.”

Jester helps as Caduceus gets to his feet, leaning heavy on his cane. “Ya,” she agrees. “Caleb and Veth are going to stay a bit more, though. Like half an hour.”

“What about Beau?” Caduceus asks, as they step outside, into the cold air. He’s so warm, a furnace inside, but already shivering. His teeth keep chattering.

“Oh. She’s going back with Keg,” Jester replies, smirking, an eyebrow raising. 

Caduceus doesn’t know who that is, or why a smirk goes with their name. “Oh. Cool,” he says, and bundles himself inside his coat.

✳︎

The train ride home is longer and shorter than the way there, not that Caduceus is counting. He can barely keep his eyes open, head getting bumped against the window. 

Imprints of bright lights flit across his eyelids. He blinks once, twice, to try get rid of them. They’re gone when he tries to look right at them. 

And his limbs are loose, falling asleep sitting up. There’s a thrum in his joints, most of them, his knees most of all. He’s not sure if they’re sore or not. And then the train’s at their stop before he can figure it out.

His teeth chatter the whole way home.

(And cobbled streets are hard to walk on wobbling legs.)

“Did he drink that much?” Fjord asks at some point.

“I don’t think so,” Jester replies.

Caduceus sighs and watches his breath billow out beneath a streetlamp. 

“I’m just… I’m really tired,” he tells them both, and yawns.

At some point they reach the vaguely familiar shortcuts, the lanes between flats.

The backs of people’s gardens — no lights on.

Caduceus stumbles through the side-door. 

And somehow makes it up the dark stairs.

And, after mumbling so many goodnights, he finds his way to bed.

Chapter Text

For a moment he’s staring out into a dark space, no edges, only blurred and not-quite-black. It’s night-cold, unfamiliar. He doesn’t get scared though — his head’s so full of sleep that there isn’t room for it. No room for even dreams.

The dark staring moment doesn’t last long. It fades slowly when his eyes close again, like how it started in the first place. Blurred.

✳︎

The room’s only slightly lighter when Caduceus coughs himself awake, the bass of tens of songs still pounding against his temples. Theres a pain like static that turns to thunder, and there’s a ringing in his ears. There’s his own hair in his mouth, stuck to his cheek, glued by dried spit. Face sunk into the pillow, it surrounds him, knotted and itchy whenever he moves his head. 

Caduceus opens his eyes slow and blinks once, twice, as he figures out the nothing facing him — a blank grey wall, like snowstorms pressed to his nose.

(He is kind of cold, he supposes.)

Oh. 

Yeah. He’s sort of aware of being awake.

So he yawns and finds his mouth dry and stuck together, tongue pasted to the roof of it. There isn’t ceramic cup of water on the windowsill here, so he stays lying, unsticking it with what little spit he has. It doesn’t really work, sort of hurts, and also, he really needs to wash away the horrible fermented bile-y taste. Different from good fermentation, unlike jars in the backyard and cold remedies, it’s only the sweet-bitter taste of his insides filled with terrible drinks. 

So slow, he rolls over, off of his stomach and onto his side, to push himself up, and — Ohh, no. No.

He can’t manage it. All his joints are soft and protesting, and they slump him flat again. All of them aching — some white-hot, every one of them weak.

His head swims too, sloshes, as it drops like a deadweight back onto the pillow. And, because that’s not enough, his stomach complains too, uneasy and fiery and upset with him. 

He really needs water, or a soothing tea, would be… That would be ideal. Something. But his hands are too heavy to lift above the quilt tossed over his body, still fully dressed. Too heavy, just like his eyelids he cant keep open.

✳︎

Caduceus wakes again and somehow feels worse, head spinning lying down. He’s facing the other way, sort of on his belly again, thigh sitting in his hip in a familiar, wrong, way. Too loose and stuck all the same. Hurting when he tries to move. 

Caduceus huffs out a wobbly breath, staring hard at his new room, tangled in his trousers. 

He feels so sick, even lying still, but moving is…

(Ma always helped get his bad hip right again.)

(He wept the whole time, freaked out and quiet as Ma shushed.) 

Caduceus attempts a scoot towards the bed edge and his head spins, sending him retching. Its sudden, too quick to stop the gagging over the edge of the bed, coughing up whats left of last nights’ drinks onto the floorboards. The mess just misses his bedsheets, burning his throat like its been sitting for days, mixing with the acid inside. Too too sweet and so horrible. 

He doesn’t feel much better. 

Head still underwater, he stays where he is, even though he needs to clean up. Needs to pee. Needs water, so badly. Or tea.

(Ginger, for nausea.)

Or something.

✳︎

Thump thump. 

Thump thump.

Caduceus' un-pillowed ear flicks quick toward the sound, unsure and afraid. Half-dreaming, the sound thumps again, loud.

Thump thump. 

Blinking, he realises, figures it out — Knocking, with almost-patient waits between. A sigh outside the door, the creaking of someone moving back and forth.

“Cad?” Beau’s voice calls after a moment. 

Oh…

Caduceus opens his eyes again and his eyelashes all stuck together. He scrubs the itchy, sleep-sandy corners with the hand connected to the arm pinned beneath him, squinting into the bright daylight of his room.

“Yeah?” he croaks, eventually.

“Can I come in?”

“Uh.” He coughs. Coughs again and clears his throat. “Sure.” 

The door cracks open, enough for Beau to poke her head in, peering around. “Y’alright?” she asks, and then wrinkles her nose. “Eugh..” 

Caduceus just watches her, confused, before remembering the horrible taste of his mouth, the head-spinning. He follows her grimacing gaze best he can, to the floor by his bed. Which is… 

Yeah.

(That’s not great…)

He must look a mess, and Beau must realise, because suddenly she looks a whole lot less grumpy and a lot more worried. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, slower this time.

Caduceus nods, despite the everything. “Yeah,” he tells her. “Yeah, I just… Sorry about that. I can’t move, right now. I’ll be fine in — In a moment. Just, right now my hip’s messed up and I need to roll over but its sore, so…” He gives up halfway through the sentence, the ramblings, letting out a defeated sigh instead. Face all hot.

“Do you want me to help?” Beau asks. She’s opened the door all the way now, to stand in the gap with the dark wood hallway behind her. 

“You know, sometimes it just gets like this — stuck,” Caduceus tells her slowly, by way of an answer. “I can usually... With a bit of time, I…” 

Beau’s raised an eyebrow, and she looks an awful lot like Calliope. Not her features, not really anything except her expression — an older sister, concerned. 

“Yes. Sitting up would be nice,” Caduceus admits. 

So Beau stands by the bedside and does as she’s told, helping to roll him over somewhat, enough to be able to wiggle his leg a bit, until it corrects itself, except this time his hip slots back into place mid-roll, with a thunk, loud through his body. Beau cringes, face all scrunched. 

Caduceus tries not to shout.

“Shit,” Beau curses, stepping back as Caduceus sits up. “Man, you sure you’re okay?”

“Mhm,” he replies, leaning back against the pillows. Not quite ready to sit up fully.

Beau nods. “Jes said you threw up last night, and well…” She gestures generally, to him, and to the spit-up on the floor. “Want me to get that?”

Caduceus shakes his head, scrubbing at his sore eyes. “Nah.. I’ll do it, just — Where is, uh, cleaning things?” 

Beau disappears from the room, footfalls moving quick down the hallway, over creaky old floorboards, and comes back just as quickly with a spray bottle and kitchen roll in hand.

“They’re usually in each kitchen, under the sink,” she tells him, handing them over. “You’re one-hundred-percent fucking sure you’re okay?” 

Caduceus takes the cleaning things, still slumped sore on the bed. “Yeah… Just, need a moment.”

“Alright. Let me know if I can get you anything else.” Beau shrugs, hesitant. “Its kinda late.” 

Her words are sort of soupy, all just mixing together. Caduceus nods though, processing what she says a sentence or so behind. They’re hard to keep hold of, sand-slipping. 

Anything else. 

Late.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Like, noon.”

“Oh...” That is late. Late like last night and the train ride home, except not at all the same because it’s well past breakfast, almost passed lunch. 

“Who’s Keg?” Caduceus asks, and he’s not sure why.

Beau almost-laughs, in a bemused way. “Just a friend.”

“Cool.”

“Why?”

Caduceus tries his best to shrug like Beau does, and feels awkward anyway. “I don’t know.” 

✳︎

The first thing Caduceus does, once Beau’s gone, is go to the bathroom, where his head spins more. He leans on the wall with his legs trembling after, arms heavy as he brushes away the sugar-fuzz from his teeth. Splashes water on the face and recoils at the cold, hands flapping. With his towel he scrubs away the remnants of beetle-green from the edges of his eyes. It takes a long time.

Takes a long time to return to his room, to kneel on the floorboards and clean the pinkish puddle up, spraying it with cleaner so strong he can taste it. Something that’s supposed to be plant-like.

It takes a long time to take off his sweaty clothes, to sit on his bed naked, just to breathe and feel cold air and his hurting spine. It’s a thud thud thud pain, all through his body, loudest in his ears. 

With no clothes he can see the bruise from before — a brown-purple on his hip, dark against his pale fur and skin. He’s not sure how long it’s been healing for.

Maybe, Caduceus thinks, his body is falling apart.

It takes a longer time to dress, to get clothes on —  socks and leggings beneath knee braces beneath trousers, and a henley shirt, mostly like usual. 

It all feels sort of wrong, like there’s too much fabric restricting him. It’s no different from any other day, but, still.. its. It’s a lot. He can't really walk around in just leggings though, not outside his room. 

(He feels like a little kid with just leggings.) 

And he needs more cover. (More warmth, rather than more modesty.) 

After dressing he has to sit down, then lie down again, because standing is too much. So he lies, thumb stroking the fur down the bridge of his nose, and he watches a reflected patch of light tremble as it moves slowly across the wall. He wonders what it’s coming from, considers checking, but can’t find the energy, so he closes his eyes again.

Thinks about the trembling light.

Thinks about his dry mouth until his stomach starts to grumble — entirely empty, and still burning. 

He really does need a proper drink, (cupped hands from the bathroom tap unstuck his tongue at least), and porridge to settle everything. Ginger tea too.

(For nausea, Aunt Corrin says.)

After a while of thinking about it, Caduceus sits up again, feeling like he’s woken from an unplanned nap. His hair is a mess so he ties it back, not wanting to risk the bad-texture pulling of brushing it. Not now.

It takes a shorter time, but he goes to get breakfast, or… lunch, now that it’s the afternoon. 

Yeah. Lunch, he supposes.

And the stairs are a little tricky, requiring heavy leaning against the wall, teapot in his free hand. It’s precarious. Halfway down he stops by the stained glass and its candle, to sit and wait for the stars to stop flitting at the edges of his vision. To make sure he’s alright. 

Downstairs is quieter than Caduceus thought it might be, but there are people in the kitchen, making their own lunch — Fjord and Jester. The former slicing brown bread on a wooden board, the latter sitting on the counter, legs swinging. She gasps when she looks up. 

“Oh no! Are you okay?” Jester asks. “You’re limping, Caduceus.”

Caduceus smiles easily. “Oh, yeah. Just, uh…” he pauses, thinks a moment, figuring out how to explain without worrying anyone, without worrying eyes on him, “…tired old bones.”

“You don’t look old,” Jester replies, playful.

Caduceus laughs quietly and makes his way to the kettle.

“Oh, shit,” Fjord says, finally looking up from his bread. “Did you get hurt last night?” 

Caduceus makes a noncommittal noise, filling the kettle at the sink and setting it to boil before pulling his oats from the cupboard. “Ehh, no.. Just a thing that happens from time to time. Got, uh, finicky joints. They’re not pleased with me.”

“Aw,” Fjord says, like he’s not sure what else to say. “Well, hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you.” 

Caduceus doesn’t feel like telling him that, yeah, they might feel better soon, but they also always hurt, just… usually not so much. Usually, they aren’t so unstable. Usually, they’re manageable.

After not long his porridge is ready, topped with a handful of berries and some almond butter, and the kettle is boiled, poured into his teapot. Caduceus takes both upstairs, which, is even trickier. You can’t lean on the wall so easily with full hands.

In his room he sets a ginger teabag inside his pot, bobbing it, to help a little as he sits on his bed, bowl in his lap. It turns out though, that today even porridge and tea are hard work — berries too sharp, tea too tiring — and he only just manages to finish them both.

He rinses the bowl in the weird old sink in the corner and needs to lie down again, the rest of the tea emptied into his cup, getting cold. 

✳︎

Bzzt.

Caduceus blinks himself awake and feels like fevers.

Bzzt.

“Oh…” he grumbles to himself.

He finds phone in his bedding, hidden under blankets, beneath his legs. He pulls it free and clicks the screen on, squinting at the sudden bright. 

18 new messages, says the lock screen. 1 missed call, from Worst Sister. 

Hesitant, thumb hovering, he presses the home button, unlocking the phone and opening his messages — 6 from Calliope, 12 from Belle. None from Ma or Pa or Aunt Corrin or Colton. None of them text — Ma and Corrin because they both prefer to call, and Pa because he doesn’t know how. Colton, because, well … they don’t really talk.

Chewing the scarred inside of his cheek, Caduceus opens the new messages from Belle, scrolls to the oldest first:

14:32, 1 week ago

found more bones on a walk with calli. probably deer or something do you want me to keep them for you? i took them home anyway and im going to wash them and stuff 

14:33

maybe you can have some as a gift ! its ribs and vertebrae all mossy

also there was one vertebrae with a snail inside the hole so i just left it lol

Attached is a photo, a small brown snail curled inside its shell, inside a vertebrae held in Belle’s hand. The bone is mossy green and dry, the bottom-half damp, caked in dark, peaty mud. The same dark mud is in crescents beneath Belle’s fingernails. 

Caduceus blinks at the screen, head hurting, staring at the blurry snail-bone photo. 

1 week ago, it tells him. And it’s a few days more than that, but not yet rounded up to 2 weeks. Caduceus checks the timestamps again, again, and each time the numbers don’t stick in his head.

Has he really forgotten to check for that long?

He pets his thumb over the softer fur by his ear, and realises he isn’t sure what was happening then. It’s an empty gap, a missing page. It unnerves him some, even though he should really be used to it. Time has a habit of slipping away from him, leaving him behind as it rushes on. Sort of like Calliope and Colton, abandoning him in the garden because he couldn’t keep up.

(Instead he hid beneath the ferns and chewed his tail.) 

06:21, 1 week ago

there’s a woodlouse in my room he’s my friend :D 

miss u caddy im going to pu t he woodlouse in ur bed lololol 

06:22

that’s all ok good morning byeee 

05:54, 6 days ago

what the heck its early the sun is sneaking at the horizon

i can see it through the trees out the window… sneaking sneak sneak

12:45, 4 days ago

wish u came here too for break since calliope’s here and colton and there ok but ur fun and like bugs more :((( 

18:34, 3 days ago

calliope left now

i made frog bath in the mixing bowl also did maths do you know 56 divided by 32 it has extra bits called remainders 1.75… .. bet u didnt know that :p

20:45

beep beep

There aren’t any more texts from her after that. And she’s right, Caduceus really didn’t know that about 56 and 32, mostly because maths gets jumbled in his head until its nothing at all, pieces too tiny to figure out. Clarabelle's clever though, and when she isn’t running around in her underwear she tears through workbooks, sat at the kitchen table eating dried apple. 

Throat tight and guilty, Caduceus replies to her: peep peep, because it’s like the birds in the garden and it’ll make Belle smile. And because he can’t find the words for replying to the rest. 

It’s just.. It’s a lot. 

It’s… 

He deletes the beginnings of unplanned words and switches off his phone, tosses it away from him before reaching for it again, remembering the other notifications — Worst Sister, 6 new messages, a missed call.

09:32, 1 week ago

Just got home. Ma told me you weren’t going to be here. She’s sad about it but like, idk. ik you’re busy but please just promise to come back for winter’s crest? Belle misses you btw 

and aunt corrin too

11:45

helping with a burial this afternoon so maybe call ma after? will be done at 3 for sure

16:42

hello??

19:24, 3 days ago

hope you’re doing ok

There’s a missed call too, but no message, and Caduceus imagines Calliope in the garden, pacing behind the house while the mourners cry to their mother, phone in her hand, brow furrowed and angry. The Calliope in his mind sighs as she listens to the phone ring. She hangs up without waiting for his rambling voicemail message and returns to the grave, to help shovel dirt. The dark earth is black against the linen shroud, the flowers tossed in with it. 

7 minutes ago

hey Cad just checking in. hope you're ok again. Ma wants to talk to you, check youre ok too

Caduceus bites through the cheek-scarring, tastes iron so faint. He leans quick over the side of the bed and sets his phone on the floor, halfway beneath the bed, like hiding it. 

And then he just lies there. For kind of a while.

Brow knitted, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

Stressed because of no morning, no meditation. Because of feeling weird and sick and… like a ghost, again. Because of missed calls. He’s not sure, can’t grasp it. 

But he should do something.

So he forces himself up (one, two… three) and gathers his homework (a woodblock, blades and sketches) and sits at his desk for the first time. He lays everything out, to just look at it, and sips his lukewarm tea, and — there’s a noise, a faint something. 

Talking, but non-organic, not a conversation — a radio, or television maybe. 

It grates, indistinct and implacable. Flitting in and out.

There’s a sinking in his chest, too, because how does he know the sound’s there at all?

How…

(Mumbling.)

Caduceus wants desperately to check, and doesn’t want to even more, so he sits at the desk, feet tapping the floorboards, legs crammed in as always, and he grinds his teeth. He lets the canines scrape back and forth, concentrating on the terrible sound instead of the downward trembling corners of his mouth. Instead of the intangible mumbling.

He wants his ears to stop flicking, searching for a solid word to hold onto. 

There aren’t any, just the steady unsteady sound, so quiet he can barely hear it.

He stops grinding his teeth and starts humming, to drown it out.

Keeps on humming as he sets out his panel for block printing, taking the carving tools and finding where he left off, digging the blade into the wood and scraping out spiral peelings. The shapes, like water or rippling grass round windfall are hard with shaky hands, meant to be done in a single motion. The blade keeps on slipping halfway through lines, keeps making them jagged. 

And then it gets stuck, dug too deep. 

Caduceus grinds his teeth again.

Hands shaky, he frees it and digs in almost-too-deep this time. So he shimmies the tool to unstick it, presses a little harder at an upwards angle, and — Caduceus gasps, a sharp inhale, despite the no pain at all. He stares at his fingertip as a curved red line turns to a fat droplet, curving down his finger and finally dripping onto the plywood. Splot.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t do anything. It takes a while to start hurting, and, to realise he dropped the tool. It rolls off the desk, landing with a too-loud clatter on the floorboards.

Caduceus picks it up quick, with his not-bleeding hand. The other hovers over the desk, still dripping. Splot. He’s really not sure where a plaster would be. Nothing’s sorted yet. Nothing has a home.

(Heal it, someone says.)

But he can’t, so he wraps his finger in a tissue while he keeps on looking for a plaster, buried somewhere in a tiny first aid kit Ma made him bring. He doesn’t know where that is, though. And the blood has bloomed through the flimsy tissue.

His finger throbs and his knees scream at him as he crouches, digging inside his rucksack. His eyes are hot and he’s just so tired and he can’t find the first aid kit. And the horrible staticky ghost of a noise downstairs won’t stop. Won’t be quiet while he’s trying to think. Trying to find a plaster.

It won’t shut up. (Shut up, Calliope snaps.) Won’t fucking stop. 

Chapter Text

On the floor, his bones dig in. And the sound is a jagged hum through ceiling and floorboard. 

Caduceus blinks hard at his rucksack, inner pockets half-searched through, even though they’re too small for first aid kits. It doesn’t matter, because his head hurts. His stomach too. Both of them rushing over him, like an awful nausea that… that…

Just to make everything worse.

Caduceus scrubs at his eyes and stops searching.

He sits with his them closed for a while. And he rocks, digging his nails into his palms, paws trembling as they lower to his chest. His knees are prickly, feet numb. He rocks until, suddenly, he remembers —

Oh. 

He turns (his spine making a horrible noise, a crack) and reaches beneath his bed, to the small box he’d accidentally kicked there earlier, while unpacking, and meant to move. It’s forest-y green, light metal between his hands, sort of rusty at the hinges. Inside are the plasters he’s looking for.

It takes a careful moment, slow as he gets to his feet, leant heavy on the bed frame and then the mattress as he turns and sits. He unwraps his finger from its bloody tissue, staring through the smeared, half-congealed blood, knowing he should clean it. Not wanting to get up at all. 

He sits for a while longer, before finally forcing himself over to the sink where he rinses away the red, sending dilute pink swirling into the unwashed bowl there. The cut itself is long but not deep, odd and open beneath the running cold water. Caduceus dries it on his trousers and fumbles a plaster on quick as the red line reappears, turning to a dark bead again. 

After he just sits again, a jumble of limbs on the floor. Surrounded by scattered things —  an A3 sketchbook, slippers, a pencil and a hair tie — he doesn’t even bother with the bed. It’s sort of… everything’s a lot. His bed is a mess, unmade. (His ears keep flicking.)

He sits with his legs out long, feet cold. If there was a rug, then maybe it’d be warmer... That’d stop the heat escaping, would block draughts somewhat. Yeah.

Yeah. That’s a good idea.

Caduceus thinks vaguely about rugs, about the texture of the one in his bedroom at home, ridges of weaved together fabric, until he’s too cold and shivering. He stands again, a pressure in his temples, and he’s not sure why until he figures out the vaguely painful emptiness of his stomach. Hunger, he supposes, distantly. 

But he only just...? 

Maybe it really is dinner time. 

Caduceus looks around and the room is dusk-dim. He kind of just wants more tea — something different from ginger or green, something with oat milk. But he should have food too, because he’s hungry.

Caduceus staggers downstairs and remembers the horrible noise, forgotten in the fuzz. There’s more now, though, louder — the radio and multiple someones in the kitchen with all the bright-white lights on. Fjord again, Caleb too, stood at the counter, pulling packets from cupboards. He pours it out into a big black coffeemaker, presses it on, and it’s joins the roar of everything else. And it doesn’t stop. In fact it gets louder. 

So Caduceus stays in the hallway, in the dark before the door. He holds a bowl and his teacup, and wants to ask him to stop for just a moment, wants to get food. Porridge, again.

But he can’t. 

Because they’re both in the middle of something, busy with their own food. 

(Because that’d be rude.)

And Caduceus can’t even step inside. His ears flick, pressing back against his head, and he holds his teacup tighter. He turns round to leave, hesitates, teeth grinding, (if he could just wait—), turns again and heads for the stairs. 

(Wait and it’ll be quieter.) 

He sort of doesn’t care anymore — just wants to get away from it. 

Beau and Jester are sitting at the bottom of staircase now, on their phones, and Caduceus isn’t sure how long he was standing in the hallway. They look up as he walks towards them, smiling then worried. 

Caduceus doesn’t wan’t them to look at all.

He hurries to step around where they sit, despite his knees, leaning hard on the bannister just to 

get. 

back. 

upstairs. 

and away from the everything.

Caduceus can barely breathe. 

His stomach’s in knots, sick-feeling, and he’s not sure if its the being hungry or the same complaining from before getting worse. 

Shouldn’t have had that horrible drink.. 

(Should’ve… known this would happen.)

He makes it to his room and sets down his teacup, his bowl, down on the desk before he can break them. He shuts the door quick, backing up against it, like before, when Morgan wouldn’t turn the television off. He’d pull his ears and stay in his room and pulls his ears even more as he curled back into the corner, between bed and wardrobe, rocking against the wall there. Humming and humming and humming. Teary face. Mouth full of mucus. Hands in his hair, fists pressed so hard against his temples, forehead pressed to the floor. Rocking and rocking until the noise went away.

Caduceus holds his breath now, listens for the whir, the murmuring. 

(Caduceus, Ma’s voice calls, like its started raining and the washing needs brining inside.)

Ungraspable conversation.

It’s. It’s too much. Too much

Dishes clattering. Jagged.

Too much

Too much

Too — 

Caduceus presses his paws over his ears again, flattening them against his head as he paces. He sits at his desk, on his bed, gets up just as quickly, legs shaky and loose, screaming at him. His hands leave his hair and grasp at his clothes instead, searching for something to hold — good-shaped buttons, a worn-smooth wooden bead, a chewed necklace, his amethyst. His amethyst that’s not on the windowsill, or by his bed. There’s a stumble and a sinking, cold beneath Caduceus’ ribcage. He can’t find the crystal on the shelf or in the whiny-door dusty cupboard or in any of his bags. 

He stands in the middle of the room and wants to hold it against his forehead.

But he doesn’t know where it is, and the pretend conversation hum is still going, and he just — clatter — he just wants it to stop.

And he’s cold, too. Really cold despite sweaty armpits. Shivering. But putting on another layer would be.

Would…

be too much.

He doesn’t want anything to touch his ears like that. He doesn’t like any of the clothes touching him as is, so he keeps on pacing, still covering his ears, and sits on the edge of his bed again, rocks there, on the mattress. Flaps his hands, tucked inside their sleeves, frantic by his ears because he can’t take a deep breath. He gasps and gasps and can’t fill his lungs.

Which, hasn’t happened for a while. Since. 

Since. 

For a long time. For a. 

For a long time.

And he’s cold. And he’s itchy under his leggings, his braces and trousers, too many layers, despite his shaky paws. It takes a long eyes-hot moment of fumbling fingers and hard-to-untie knots, but he wrestles his way free from the twisting fabric, kicking his trousers onto the floor and curling up on the duvet. He rocks more, easier on his side, less stress on his back. It soothes some, helps his half-breaths to slow. Less stress, he mouths, over and over. It helps to not just start crying and shouting. Shouting would be.. Not great. Would. Would cause a fuss. Would.

He chews his sleeve instead, because it’s better than a clenched jaw, and he mumbles between. Over and over — Less stress. 

Be quiet

Less stress. Less stress.

Be quiet

Be quiet 

Be quiet

Be quiet

✳︎

“Cad?”

“Caduceus?”

Listening, he stops rocking, uncovering his ears only slightly, just enough to recognise Beau’s voice first, then Jester’s, calling his name through the door. 

Ghost-hands back over his ears, he curls up smaller.

(Please go away.) His chest gets tight.

(Please don’t.) His scrunched eyes squeeze out tears.

“You okay, Cad?” Beau asks again. 

There’re no sound in Caduceus’ throat to reply with, only an emptiness. Only trying to breathe.

There’s more knocking and the unlocked door clicks as Jester peers through the gap, opening it slow and gentle, with barely any creaks at all. She steps slowly across the room towards him, leaving Beau leaning against doorframe, arms folded, thumb worried-rubbing over her bicep, and  stops at the edge of the bed. 

“Hello,” she tries quietly, bending down, peering at him. She looks so worried. “Caduceus?”

He makes an acknowledging noise at her thats a little more of a whine then he’d like it to be. And he kicks his feet. Kicks the rumpled blanket that keeps touching him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jester says. “Do you want me to stay with you?” 

It takes a long time of trying words, half-formed sounds, before Caduceus just nods, shirt sleeve still between teeth. Breath still gone.

“Okay.” Jester carefully sits down besides him. When he doesn’t protest she scoots closer, cautiously rubbing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Her hand moves in small circles, spirals on skin.

Like...

Slow, she reaches down the end of the bed and comes back with his old heavy quilt, unfolding it and laying it on top of him, tucking him in.

Sort of like.... 

It’s sort of nice.

Caduceus wipes his eyes and peers up at Jester, who’s watching him with a single worried crease between her eyebrows, asking her why. 

“You’re shaking so much,” she answers. 

And, so he is. Worse than he thought — knees knocking beneath the quilt.

“Is the blanket okay?”

Quilt. He just nods, no energy for correcting.

Jester smiles small. “Do you want a hug maybe?”

Caduceus shrugs, meaning yes, and then nods because shrugs don’t mean anything.
“Behind,” he manages to say, barely a whisper.

“Behind you?” Jester repeats. “Oh, like spooning?”

“For the pressure, maybe,” Beau says, stepping closer and sitting on the edge of the bed.

Caduceus nods, glad someone knows, because he’s not sure how else he would’ve described it. He wants to be pulled against a warm body, wants to be held there, ribs to ribs. 

“Oh, sure,” Jester says, clambering over him and lying down at his back, pulling the quilt over them both. He leans back as she holds him, arms warm, hands clammy.

Beau stays perched on the bed edge. “Did something happen?” she asks.

Lots of sound. Mumbling, maybe-there. Lots of… 

Sore hand. Sore and feeling sick, and cold. Mostly the sound.

“Uh…” Caduceus stops still, listens, and it’s gone. Which, is good, but also… Now he’s not sure if it was ever there at all. “I…I…” 

“It’s okay,” Beau assures. “You don’t have to tell us. Or, if you want to, you can write it or, maybe sign if that’s easier. Do you know Common signing?” 

Caduceus shakes his head, no. Not very well. 

Sylvan, he signs in Common, because it’s one of the few things he does know.

Beau ooh’s and sighs, looking guilty as she chews the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know any Sylvan Sign… Sorry, Cad.”

He nods as if to say That’s alright.

Not many people do.

“I…” Caduceus tries again, but Jester presses her palms to his sternum, and stops him in his tracks. He closes his eyes just to focus on her hands, his heartbeat rabbit-fast against them, and the steady-breathing pressure against his back.

(Maybe he’s at home, maybe he’s in his parents’ bed.)

It doesn’t smell like it, not like smoke or earth or milk or pine. 

It smells like an unfamiliar blanket, and his quilt, losing its incense-smoke, but keeping the spit, and it’s old lavender. Like Chamomile.

“Caduceus?” Jester’s voice whispers eventually.

He flicks an ear back, makes a sort-of acknowledging noise, almost a word. Mmh?

“Want Beau to turn on the light?”

Caduceus opens his eyes and the room’s dark. How long has it been? His paws aren’t shaking so badly anymore. 

“Okay,” he replies, barely audible. 

He shields his eyes with a sleeve, bracing for the too-brightness, squeezes them shut for good measure. 

When he opens them again Beau is looking down at him. 

“You feeling any better?” she asks.

“Yah,” Jester agrees. “That was lots of shaking, Caduceus.”

“I…” He rolls his spit-damp sleeve up, to get the feeling off his skin. “I…I’m alright.”

Behind him, Jester’s sitting up, making a grumbly noise as she stretches, the mattress shifting. It shifts some more, dips, as she scoots back, sitting against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Caduceus stays lying down and feels sort of like Ma’s going to rest her hand on his forehead, and shake her head when it’s too warm. She’ll return with a cold cloth. 

His back’s all cold now.

“Yeah, that wasn’t just like, a small thing,” Beau says, stilted. 

Caduceus shakes his head, tries to breathe. “I just…I don’t know if this was a bad idea or — I don’t. I don’t—” he says, words suddenly tumbling out, stumbling as they trip over themselves. “Moving, and — I don’t know if this was a bad idea.” 

Because now he’s here in a room that isn’t his and its loud and he didn’t think any of it through and everything’s new and wrong and scary and he hates the way the blender sounds.

“Do you miss the people you used to live with?” asks Jester.

“No,” Caduceus replies, more forceful than he means it to be. He shakes his head, suddenly kind of dizzy and breathless again. “I just. I. It's a lot,” he continues, catching his breath. Catching it again. “This a lot. Being here suddenly. Really is — A lot — At once —” And he can’t say the rest because his breath is all gone, and his hands are all jumpy. He gasps for air, gasps more because its not enough. 

(See you soon, Ma says.)

(See you in two weeks.)

Can’t breathe.

And his amethyst’s gone.

(Maybe, he thinks, he’s dying.)

(He’s used to the feeling.)

(It doesn’t mean it isn’t terrifying.)

With trembling arms Caduceus pushes himself upright, shoving back the suffocating quilt. He hunches forward, hands in his hair. Rocking and rocking more. Head spinning. Worse.

(See you soon.)

“See you,” he echoes, only a rasp.

A firm hand on his back startles him, pressing into his spine, his shoulder-blade, as Jester moves to sit besides him.

“Caduceus. Breathe,” she tells him. “Breathe with me.”

Caduceus’ heartbeat is loud in his ears, like the music in the bar — the thundering of it. Without the laughter or the steadiness. 

“Breathe,” Jester tells him. 

Caduceus tries, heaving in shallow breaths that leave too quickly. They don’t touch the edges, don’t reach the bottom, or even the middle. He takes another, stuttering. In two-three-four parts. 

Another. Surface-shallow. 

Maybe… he could disappear. 

“Here. Watch me.” Jester’s hand presses firmer still against his back, and suddenly he’s solid again. Her hand pats, asking him to look at her. He turns, watching as she takes a big, deep, slow breath, and holds it (nodding as she counts to herself) before blowing out again. 

“Okay?” Jester says, and starts again.

Caduceus mimics her, copying the big breath in through his nose, trying to ignore the snot, the salt in his mouth. He scrubs it away with the back of his wrist. It takes two or three or four tries but he gets a half-full breath, and then something closer to full. He holds it there. Waits. Blows out when Jester does, a trembling, too-quick exhale. 

“There you go,” Jester says. “That was a proper breath.”

Together, they do it again. Several times over until Caduceus is leaning into Jester’s hand more, relaxing against her side as his heartbeat slows. On the next breath out she makes a humming sound, on purpose, and Caduceus smiles despite the lingering pressure in his temples. Again, he copies her, humming too, and laughing just a little.

After a while of inhaling, counting, and exhaling, he coughs, clears his throat. “I don't know where.. I have this amethyst — it’s small, and I don’t know where it's gone. I don’t know..”

“Oh. Hm.” Jester’s eyes light up with recognition, and then worry. “Didn't you bring it with you last night? Like, in your coat.”

…Oh. 

Oh, he did. Oh. 

Caduceus staggers to his feet and limps across the room to his coat hung on the back of the door. Inside its cold pocket is his amethyst, icy and smooth-jagged as ever. Familiar. He thinks maybe he could cry, holding the sharp-cool thing against his forehead. Instead he closes his eyes.

And when he opens them, turning around, Beau’s standing by his desk. He almost walks right into her, but stops, following her staring gaze to the half-carved block, the dried blood on it.

“You stab yourself?” Beau asks.

Caduceus half-shrugs, keeps the amethyst against his cheek. “I didn't mean to.”

“What? I know .. just, ouch,” Beau replies.  “You okay?” 

“Yeah... I got a plaster.” Caduceus holds out his hand to show her.

She just nods.

“You know, Caduceus,” Jester begins, when he sits down on the bed again. “Maybe… that was too many things at once.”

“Yeah, Cad,” Beau adds. “Sorry about, like, if you felt pressured into any of that… Drinking especially. And, uh, I didn’t realise how much pain you were in. I should’ve helped clean up earlier.” 

“Oh, no. It’s usually fine, just…” Caduceus pauses, shrugs again because he doesn’t really have an answer. “I have painkillers and…” He reaches further up the bed and sets the amethyst down on the windowsill, between plants and a nice old stick. “Stuff… Y’know. It’s alright.”

When he looks up Beau’s brow is furrowed, like she doesn’t believe him, like she has more to say. She keeps on chewing the inside of her lip. Until finally she asks:

“Do you need to go to the doctor or A&E or anything?” 

It takes Caduceus a moment to figure out what she’s asking, much less why. So he asks back: “Why?”

“Because you had a panic attack and you’re really limping and stuff,” Beau replies. “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life but that seems like a problem.”

“Oh.” Caduceus stares at his hands. “That’s… It’s just been a day. I have crutches for bad days, but uh… Yeah. I don’t need a doctor.” 

“What’s a bad day like?” Beau asks, raising her eyebrows like she’s used to offering tough, awkward love.

Caduceus picks at his fingernails, because a bad day is… an awful lot like today. All of today, so hard to get up. So tired. 

A bad day is half an hour to get to the bathroom across the hall. 

“Today, I guess,” he admits.

“Oh, Caduceus,” Jester says, in a sad kind of way. She hugs him carefully, like she’s afraid of snapping him, like dried-out twigs. (His bones make appropriate noises.)

“I just.. I like my cane,” Caduceus tells them, glancing at it across the room, propped against the wall with its ribbons and beads and handle with purple botchy flowers painted on. 

“Is it easier to use?” Jester asks.

Caduceus chews his lip this time. “I don’t know… It’s painted and has ribbons and things.”

“You could decorate your crutches too,” Jester suggests. “Like, put ribbons or things on them, but so they’re still comfy to use. Maybe padding on the handles.”

Caduceus glances from his cane to his crutches, plain black and troublesome on the hands. “I suppose so.”

“After dinner maybe, if you feel like it.” A wide yawn. “I have so much stuff for decorating.” 

Caduceus is suddenly very aware of time passing, of not keeping up, of routines all messed up. 

(He takes a deep breath.)

“What time is it?” he asks.

Beau pulls her phone from her back pocket, glancing at it quick. “Seven.” 

Oh. Passed dinner, by a bit, at least in his routine here.

“Want me to make you something?” Jester offers, sitting besides him before hopping up from the bed. 

Caduceus thinks of her hot chocolate with extra sugar and shakes his head politely. “That's alright. I can manage if I’m careful. I like cooking. I’d like some tea.”

“Well, you know what?” Jester grins and her eyes are maybe still a little shiny.

“Mhm?”

“If you want, we can bring things upstairs, if that’d be easier — your things specifically. And the kettle? We can get a new one tomorrow so there’s one upstairs and downstairs. I think hat’d be good to do anyway.”

Caduceus nods. “Okay. That’d be nice.”

“Want me to bring everything or just some things?” Jester asks, hands in the pockets of her long cardigan, swaying back and forth. “Like, what do you want to eat?”

Caduceus hums, thinking. Right then, he mostly just wants to eat a boiled egg, broken up with a fork on a slice of homemade bread. But his stomach is still sore, still sick-feeling, and there’s no hens here like at home, so he replies: “All my things would be good. Yeah. But, uh, stuff for porridge — oats and berries and oat milk — is most important. I can’t think of anything else..Oh. The kettle’s a good idea.”

“Sure!” Jester replies.

“Is that alright?” Caduceus asks, looking from her to Beau, standing at the door with the smallest smile, because they’ve both just done an awful lot for him. Beau especially, for a long time now. 

“Obviously!” Jester replies. She runs out the door before Caduceus can promise to himself that he’ll pay them both back. He’ll help them out too, somehow. And he knows Jester loves cakes. 

Beau lingers a moment, as if she might say something, before leaving too. 

Alone, Caduceus pulls on a jumper and meanders his way down the hall, with crutches this time. Their handholds aren’t the best, but that’s alright because it’s easier with more help — better balance, too. Less stress. 

He sighs, relieved, and flips the kitchen light-switch on. The room he finds himself in is a little smaller than the one downstairs, a little less polished, but just as functional. 

Rough around the edges, Aunt Corrin says fondly.

The light is warm, an old bulb, and doesn’t hurt so bad. Instead it holds him in the dark. 

He’s thinking about how close and far the dark outside feels (and how maybe he’s inside a doll’s house) when Jester’s footsteps return, loud down the hall, an almost skip. She comes up behind him with a cardboard takeaway crate in her hands, filled with his poorly-labelled things and the downstairs-kettle. 

In comfortable quiet, they make their breakfast-dinners. Caduceus makes chai for them both, sleepily stirring it in a pan on the stove, and watches as Jester dumps several huge spoonfuls of sugar into her own cup. He pretends not to be horrified. 

He’s clearly not great at pretending because Jester looks up and giggles. “What?” 

“You’re going to rot your teeth,” he says, actually a little worried. 

Jester grins, impish. “I brush them.”

Caduceus gives her an unsure smile and gets back to eating his porridge, slow and careful. It tastes pretty good, despite the distance. He feels sort of like he’s had a terrible nap, or hasn’t slept at all. He feels sort of half-there, without the scary things. 

Maybe he’s just too tired. 

“Hey, Caduceus. You want some?” Jester asks, getting up for more toast. 

He nods, because the fancy bread she’s been eating with jam does look good, even though lots of bread sometimes makes his stomach sort of swollen and round. He gets himself the last of the chai (a little gritty from the spices settles on the bottom), and he eats the raspberry-jam-toast Jester sets in front of him. And in that moment it’s maybe the best thing he’s ever eaten.

“Do you want to decorate your crutches?” Jester asks, while they’re cleaning up. “Tonight?”

Caduceus hums. He mostly wants to go to bed. And have a wash, sweaty and itchy-feeling from everything earlier. “Uh… I don’t know. I need a shower, but.. Ohh, I’m tired.”

“Tomorrow then?” Jester grins. “And you can have a bath, you know. It works totally okay! And it’d be more comfy. And you’d sleep like a baby.” 

Caduceus scrubs at his tear-track itchy face, his heavy eyes, smiling behind his sleeve. “I’d really like to have a bath.”

✳︎

And so he does, brushing his teeth as he watches the water splash into the old bath, listening to the pipes gurgle. And he almost falls asleep, held in the hot water. (Manages not to. Just.)

And he goes to bed with damp hair and silky fur and armpits that don’t make him wrinkle his nose when he sniffs them. 

It takes a while to get to sleep, a lot of shifting, trying to get comfortable. It takes getting up for water and a couple paracetamol. It takes rearranging blankets and pillows. It takes breathing, takes Chamomile pressed to his cheek. It takes a lot, but he manages. 

Chapter Text

By the weekend Caduceus feels better, bones less tired. (Everything less tired.) Though it takes a lot of resting, takes slow slipper-shuffling to the kitchen down the hall, and it takes using his crutches, like he’s supposed to.

A lot of tea too. Because that always helps. 

And staring out the window.

Yeah.   

✳︎

He wakes up the day after all the fuss (after a lot, after not being able to breathe and Jester teaching him how to) and wow, he’s worn himself out. His arms lie heavy by his sides like lead. Unmovable more than hurting. The rest of him is a different story — a dull rumbling inside his head, a sharpness through each knee and shoulder. His shoulders especially are complaining loudly. So’s his back, down the spine and spreading out across shoulder blades and ribs.

Must be… Must be from all the curling up tight. 

All that rocking against the wall. 

It takes time, but he boils water, filling his hot-water-bottle from the kettle on the floor, and presses it against cold fur and tender skin. Keeps it moving from sore spot to sore spot. 

He sort of wants to roll out his muscles, Caduceus thinks absently, lying on his back as he stares at the ceiling. Sort of… 

Like Aunt Corrin would do for herself before kneading her knuckles into his own fur, massaging the strained muscles there. She’d lie him longways on a bolster to open his chest, his shoulders, wide. And she’d guide his breaths with her own and light incense, working the tension from his joints, still there despite the floppiness.

(Unstable joints, Aunt Corrin explained with a wise-quiet voice, put a lot of stress on the muscles to hold them in place. The connective tissues aren’t… Gently, she pressed her thumbs into his thigh, right above the knee. They aren’t doing their share of the work.)
(Not washing their dishes? Caduceus asked.)

(Aunt Corrin laughed at that. Not even helping to hang out the laundry.)

Turns out… Caduceus readjusts the hot-water-bottle, again. Turns out it’s tiring to have to work to stop your body from bending too far.

“Who would’ve thought,” he mutters to himself, and yawns. 

Instead of a bolster or stronger hands to massage he pulls his quilt further up, to cover all of him, because the slight extra pressure is nice. It’s not like his real quilt at home, old and musty and chewed at every corner, rich with hand-sewn stories, but it’s good and it’s solid. 

Before, in the flat-share, he hadn’t unfolded the quilt at all. He’d arranged it neatly on the end of the bed, too scared of the wrongness in the room and the barely-there people around him. 

(Too scared that the smell would disappear, his last piece of home dissipated and melded with the terrible blue accent-wall and dusty built-ins.) 

But Jester had unfolded it here and tucked him in, and it’s scent, old and cedar-y like the cupboard back home, is one he feels held by, so he lets it comfort and warm and… Yeah.

Oh — A realisation: The room that surrounds him now holds, rather than suffocates. 

A small laugh: Maybe it’s because the windows open more than two inches. 

Or maybe it’s the for-now quiet. 

Or the funny-odd folks moving from room to room, chattering on the stairs.

(Maybe he’s just really tired.)

Maybe, Caduceus thinks slowly, he can ask someone for help getting the knots out from his back, their thumbs digging between the shoulder-blades, and his thighs too, exhausted on both ends from supporting wobbly hips and knees. He’ll soften the crease between his thigh and hip himself, though, for dignity’s sake. But not right now. Because he’s barely awake, hot water bottle on his still-sore abdomen, sort-of bloated. And also he has a thank you cake to think about. Thank you for yesterday, without saying that directly. Something nice — autumnal, with cardamom or pears or both.

Yeah. Something like that.

✳︎

Towards the end of a long, half-there morning of sleeping, waking, then sleeping again, waking, only partially, and sleeping some more, there’s a knocking at the door. Knock Knock-knock Knock.

“Yeah?” Caduceus calls, sleep-slurred. “Door’s…” a yawn, “…unlocked.”

There’s a creaking and Jester’s rosy-plum face peaking through the opening.  

“Hiii. You should probably lock your door by the way.” She grins, then cringes and whispers: “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you were still snoozing.”

“Oh.” Caduceus scrubs at his eyes. “That’s okay. I should get up anyway.”

“Maybe…” Jester replies. “Being in bed is good, though."

Caduceus is inclined to agree, tucked in and drowsy. He nods wearily, adjusting the cooled hot-water-bottle still held against his abdomen, tucked into the waistband of his pyjama trousers. He pulls it free and tosses it on top of the blankets, quiet-laughing because it’s sort of like a magic trick.

Jester laughs too and says: “I was wondering if you maybe want to decorate your crutches today? They don’t have to be, like, super fancy or anything. And it doesn’t have to be today either. I just wanted to check since we talked about it, you know.”

“Oh, huh.” Caduceus hums, considering it, thinking about softer hand-holds beneath his achy palms. “Sure.”

Jester does a tiny celebratory dance.

Half an hour later Caduceus returns from the bathroom with a washed face and clean teeth, tap water sitting cold in his stomach, to Jester setting down a shoebox on his bed. She lifts the beat-up lid with a Ta-daa! and inside is ribbons and yarn and more stickers than he’s seen in his whole life, which is saying something, because Belle covered their whole bunkbed in stickers, and then the doorframe too — 3D butterfly stickers everywhere, mushrooms too. Until there were none left.  

(She’d decorate faerie houses, frames made from sticks in the garden, to sell at the farmers market, and spend all she made at the craft shop in town.) 

(She would… Belle would love this.)

Caduceus shakes his head and busies himself with filling the kettle.

While they both sip their tea and Caduceus eats his porridge they tie floppy bows to arm-supports, and stick mushroom stickers all down both crutches. Jester eats boiled candies from her pocket while they begin on the crocheted hand-hold covers, and Caduceus finds out that she adores a book called Tusk Love (so, so much) and can sing without moving her mouth at all, all muffled and very impressive. 

(Shining shining little moon, how I wonder how you bloom… she demonstrates, over and over.)

(He also finds out that he can’t, despite trying.)

He just hums along instead, until they’re done, and his hands are tired. 

His crutches are much comfier now though, and good colours, so he supposes it evens out. 

Jester sticks around after, to hang out some more in his room with him. And she helps pile cushions behind his back so she can sit at his desk and he can sit in bed and they can do homework together. Or, try to, because Caduceus’ eyes don’t seem to want to stay open. 

Jester hums the whole time, faster than Caduceus can manage, and sings under her breath too. Energy fizzing from the inside out. 

Maybe it’s all the sweets.

(Caduceus also finds out that Jester doesn’t ever sit still.) 

And at the same time he spends sleepy-forever clicking through printmaking research, giving himself a headache from squinting at the laptop screen, feet gone numb from being crossed in a basket so long. He untangles them slowly, one at a time, wincing as the pins and needles stab at them. 

“Wh-oof,” he sighs, like Jester does. “Ow…” 

And when he finally looks up she’s turned towards him on the desk chair, sketchbook propped up in her lap.

“Aw, you moved,” she says, looking up from her paper. 

Caduceus’ ears flick-up at that, and he raises his eyebrows at her. “Are you drawing me?”

Jester giggles. “Yep. Want to see?”

“Yeah.” Caduceus sets his laptop aside and scoots down the bed towards her, paws still prickly. Jester flips the sketchbook round to face him as he does, peering at it when he gets close enough, and, sure enough, there he is, in pencil but alive, leant back in bed with his laptop balanced on a pillow in his lap. His brow is furrowed as he looks down, eyelashes long and covering his dark circles. His hand, his real hand, presses into the flesh beside his mouth, thumb brushing over the thicker fur on his jaw. 

“What do you think?” Jester asks.

“I look sort of grumpy,” Caduceus replies.

“Ha! Well, you did.”

“Huh. Well — Wow. It’s very impressive,” Caduceus says, stumbling a bit. “That’s really just… Wow. It’s like a photo but better, in a way. More alive.” 

Jester beams, a smile that lights up the entire room, like the sun in the afternoon. “Aww! Thank you, Caduceus.” 

He smiles back, not quite as big. Too tired for beaming. “No problem.”

✳︎

The next day is spent getting a little more work done, but mostly resting. Mostly half-asleep.

Caduceus checks his timetable in the morning, folded and torn from being inside his coat pocket, and realises he’s meant to be handing in something for a painting class —“Oh… That’s not great,” he mutters to himself — and, also, that figure drawing starts soon.

“Might.. be fun,” he wonders aloud, because he hasn’t done it before. He doesn’t know all too much about drawing figures, and he’s not sure how much use it’ll be when it comes to what he is making, but first year is for foundational things so everyone does it. So he supposes he’ll try his best with it, even if he’s not good at faces. At least drawing on newsprint is nice — big and easy on the hands — and charcoals are nice too. Good for smearing and smudging and listening to the scrape (except for when they squeak). 

(The squeak makes him cover his ears, hands pressed tight.) 

He just hopes he won’t always have to stand… Maybe he can sit on the floor instead, and get pins-and-needles again. Caduceus smiles to himself and uses his crutches to cross the hallway.

(Through the wobbly old glass in the bathroom the sky darkens, sends it to dusk time.) 

(And for the rest of the afternoon rain hammers on the windows.) 

Caduceus gets distracted by droplets racing down glass, by the sound of overflown gutters and full plant-pots. He finds himself in bed again, and it sends him back to sleep. 

Some time later he rouses from deep intangible dreaming with a cloudy head, and makes himself tea. Green, for a little energy. And also so that he can cradle something warm and solid between paws as he sits for a careful meditation on a blanket folded on his mat, rolled out for the first time since moving.

A breath in, a holding, a release not quite as long as he’d like.

Another breath, another holding, and a longer breath out.

Caduceus almost-closes his eyes, softening his gaze on the spot space where the wall meets the floor. He pays attention to his eyelashes touching his violet-dark circles, like in Jester’s drawing, and his breath too — steadier inhales and longer exhales every time, until it’s right. 

He finds the rhythm, and floats after.

Until things clear up.

After a peanut-butter-toast-and-salad-and-handful-of-berries lunch Caduceus makes more tea and sits down to work on homework, staring at the bloodstained woodblock. He sips hot nettle and he finishes the carving, a sort of artificial spore-print. Like he’s a mushroom, but not really — an imitator, with sore hands.

In the evening he paints, experimenting, mixing ink and watercolour, black blooms in the pale greens. He does it until it’s too dark and he’s squinting. He’s not even sure what project its for, but he’ll fit it in somehow.

After some time of not-really-thinking, he gets up with a grumble and turns on the light. He looks down and his fingertips are stained black, like after plucking deliquesced inkcaps, already too decayed to eat. 

✳︎

The rain keeps on coming down, and the day that follows is quiet, heavy and still. A lumbering ghost. A stubborn fog. And Zadash has disappeared into the dark, low sky outside the window again. 

Caduceus wanders slowly downstairs with clothes for washing, and, halfway down, he stops, because Beau’s in the way. She’s stood at the stained glass window, lighting an incense cone, and setting it on a little dish on the sill.

“Oh,” she says when she notices Caduceus watching, swaying. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Caduceus echoes. 

“Want me to get out your way?” Beau asks, nudging the dish into its place by a sun-faded purple candle. 

“Uh… Sort of, I suppose,” Caduceus replies. “I’m just taking washing downstairs…”

Beau stares at the wall behind him as he speaks, her jaw set. Though, her eyes are softer than all the other times he’s seen her — not entirely lost their sharpness, just sad-softened. Just thinking. 

She glances at the incense smoke as it grows thicker, swirling lavender, and disappears. 

“How are you today?” Caduceus asks.

“Fine.” Beau draws her sleeve across her nose, sniffs. “Yeah. Good.” 

Caduceus nods even though Beau’s brow is all troubled.

Not now, he tells himself, even though he wants to reach in further, to touch the something-wrong inside and pull it out. Or, at least uproot some of it. 

(That’s what Ma always said about sadness anyways… It’s the uprooting, first of all, then the everything else.)

Instead he chews the inside of his cheek, readjusts his clothes basket in his arms. “I have different kinds of incense, from home… if you want to use any,” he offers, because at least that’s something, a connection. 

Beau forehead creases, confused, as she looks up at him, high above on the stairs. 

“Maybe.” She shrugs half-casually, just a little forced.

Caduceus smiles small as she steps aside to let him pass by her, and he continues down one step at a time. He glances to the side as he goes and there’s more on the windowsill now, somethings like cards and letters, covered in stickers and words he can’t read that quickly. 

The house doesn’t lighten, doesn’t grow much louder, as the sun rises higher. And the sky doesn’t clear either. Caduceus makes porridge upstairs and eats it at the table, rocking just for something to do. Through the windows the sky is dark, heavy and ready to burst again. 

(Sort of inky, Caduceus thinks. Sort of like payne’s grey.)

And then he has to flap his hands for a while, jumper sleeves pulled over them, because the scratch of a dip-pen appears in his ears. They twitch, and so does his neck, over and over, trying to get rid of it. Trying. He presses his paws to his ears to think better — Beau with sad eyes, cards, a lit candle, or, no — an incense cone. 

An anniversary, maybe. 

That or he’s missed something. Which, he seems to be really good at recently. He knows mourning though, if anything,  and ritual and death, enough to be able to smell them on the morning air like woodsmoke. There’s a heaviness too. And it’s the same as the families standing in his own family’s temple for the wake, or saying goodbye in the woodland that surrounds it.

(The smell of linen shrouds and damp wicker appears in his nose.)

(It lingers a while.)

Later, Caduceus finds himself wandering the half-barren half-overgrown back garden. Sort of cold, he wraps his arms around himself as he potters around, despite having things to do.

“Should’ve... put on another layer,” he mumbles to himself, and can’t remember exactly what the things he’s meant to do are. Something written… Maybe. The trickiest work. 

He stops still to lift an empty plant-pot with his cane, and then apologises when a snail comes dislodged from the inside, rattling around before landing on the paving stones. 

He stares at the single rain-rotted bench and sort of wishes there was a better one. 

(That’d be nice…)

It would be nice to sit, nice to watch the birds — And that’s another thing: a bird table would be nice too, or bird bath, something for the magpies and sparrows that hang around. The crows too, with their scratchy caws. 

(Ca-caw, ca-caw.)

Yeah.

Behind him is a creaking, a whine of an old door opening. Caduceus’ ears flick up and he turns to see Caleb stepping out onto the old patio. His brow is furrowed, eyes to the wet ground. He looks tired and sort-of-sad like always, and very focused on something. 

He looks up eventually, and turns surprised instead.

“Ah. Hallo,” he says. “You are very quiet out here.” 

Caduceus isn’t sure what to say to that. He didn’t mean to be quiet, or to surprise him, so he just replies: “Good afternoon.” It comes out wonky, not loud enough, as he watches Caleb pull a match-box from his pocket that he slips open. From inside he takes a cigarette and then a match. 

“I will move a little away from you if this bothers you,” Caleb says, already stepping down uneven stairs in old slippers to cross to the other side of the garden. 

Caduceus just watches him, and then realises he’s staring. 

(You look haunted, Calliope tells him.)

“Does it bother you?” Caleb asks, stopping beneath an apricot tree with half its leaves left.

Caduceus shrugs. “I’m not sure…” He considers it a moment. “My father didn’t smoke cigarettes, only from a pipe. So, I suppose I don’t really know.” 

Caleb nods as he grazes the match against the side of the box — one swift motion — and holds the flame to the cigarette end until its glowing in his cupped hands. He throws the match to the ground, puffing out a cloud of smoke, clear in the dark sky, before stooping to sit on a low stone ledge by the far wall, beside an old composter. He breathes again and billows like a campfire. 

Caduceus leaves him to it, keeping on wandering around. (Careful on wobbly legs and mossy stone.) 

(Careful not to step on any snails — Crunch.)

(Caduceus looks down at the crushed shell, hidden under dandelion leaf, and grumbles.)

The garden, it turns out, is bigger than he first thought. Though shrunk by ivy-swallowed walls and damp-dead overgrown things, if it were cleared, there’d be plenty of space for things to grow. Maybe even a raised-bed or two, or a small greenhouse. 

Caduceus bends to break a seed pod from where it grows and it’s soft in his fingers, the stem slipping from the earth along with it. He splits it open to look at the black seeds before letting it drop into a puddle. It floats, ripples growing outward. Ring after ring after ring.

“Caduceus?”

He almost startles, turning to Caleb. He was somewhere else, like everyone at home says.  

“Yeah?”

Caleb’s scratching his thin beard, thinking. “Did Beauregard tell you about Mollymauk?” 

Caduceus shakes his head, no. He shakes his head again because he can’t help it, and tries not to wrinkle his nose because the vague scent cigarette smoke is sharp in the back of his throat.  

“Ah..” Caleb pauses, throwing the cigarette butt to the ground and squashing it under his shoe. He nods to himself as if he’s thinking. “Mollymauk, our friend, died last year.” A deeper breath, a long silence. “He was found this same day one year ago today. That is why everyone is… quiet today.”

Caduceus nods too, because today feels like mourning, like being too young to entirely understand but the family outside is crying into the arms of his father. (He wants to give the family berries he found, but he’s not allowed.)

Caleb sighs smoke, continuing: “We didn’t know him very long, for the most part, only a few months, but… he was a good friend to us. This place was his idea, the beginning of it at least.” 

Caduceus chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, considering the stained glass and the candles and the song Mollymauk loved at the nightclub, all his friends dancing for him.

“That’s good,” he replies, after some time. “That’s… I think that’s really great — He made something nice and you all kept it going.” 

Caleb looks up from the puddle in front of him, smiling a small smile. It’s a little unsure, but it’s genuine, with sad eyes. “That is a good thing, ja.”

Caduceus returns inside with a spark of something between his ribs. It’s a knowing that he can help with this, he can be helpful. And helping usually starts with a warm drink, so he brews tea — something comforting and warm, with ginger — and wonders again about the Thank you cake as it becomes a comfort, a bringing-together, too. 

✳︎

(At night he hugs Jester when she finds him in the kitchen, making tea before bed, and then for them both when her lip trembles. It’s mirror of before, them both sat at the table in the warm light, but with chamomile instead of chai. They eat toast again and Jester wipes her nose with her sleeve. They stand by the sink as she holds on tight and, quietly, trying her best not to, she cries and cries and cries.)

(In the lull she apologises and Caduceus tells her its okay.) 

(Trying to keep it all inside doesn’t help anyone at all.)

(Jester nods and thanks him for tea, hugging him again. And she goes to bed eventually.)

✳︎

The day after Caduceus’ head is heavy, but he manages a shower after porridge. It leaves him sort of dizzy, sort of shaky, but scrubbed clean all the same. (And it’s nothing a little sitting down for more tea won’t fix.)

Get the washing in, Ma says as he waits for the looseleaf to steep, because it’s drizzling again. 

Caduceus almost hurries, before remembering that his washing is hung up inside already, on the bite-y clotheshorse, sat in front of the radiator below the window. 

He blinks at it for a moment. Bite-y. 

“Bite-y,” he says to himself, and rubs his thumbs over his fingertips like they’ve been pinched by the plastic joints. 

Still, despite the inside-drying he watches the sky for heavier rain. It’s good to keep in mind for walks anyway, he supposes, and hums. Hums and hums and hums. 

Maybe later, he thinks, staring, eyes unfocused, at another rain-dark morning. 

Should probably get dressed… 

So he does get dressed, pulling on thicker trousers and bulky wool socks and several layers on his top-half. They’re covered lastly by a big old cardigan with wooden (and chewed) buttons.

After that, all dry except for damp hair, Caduceus moves onto the floor with a pillow beneath him and goes through his library books, searching for inspiration for embroidery or a repeat pattern. It’s an assignment he sort of forgot about. Sort of… slipped his mind, he supposes. It blended with other things and got all mixed up. 

So he finds good pages and spends most of the day sketching in watercolour and ink and smeary pencils, turning the side of his hand grey. 

And he takes notes, writing things down even though the sentences are unruly and wild, crawling off the edge of the page in diagonals. Because it’s important. (Because he’s really not been doing that enough so far.)

(When he stands for a snack and more tea his spine makes terrible noises.)

(And he tells it to shush, smiling wryly.)

Early in the evening, after a porridge dinner (again), there’s a knocking on the door, which turns out to be Beau, who tells him that the group co-op meeting is in an hour.

“Oh,” is all Caduceus replies. He’s not even sure he knew it was today. 

“There’s important announcements,” Beau adds, “about work being done and role assignments ’n stuff.”

Caduceus looks at the messy open-face of his sketchbook, terrible handwriting bleeding into the still-very-wet watercolour. “Okay. Yeah,” He replies. “Give me just a moment.”

“It’s in an hour,” Beau repeats, quick, like she’s got somewhere to be.

“Oh.” Caduceus rubs his ears between thumb and forefinger just for something to do. “Yeah.” 

“See you there.” 

Then Beau’s gone, the door shutting behind her. 

An hour later Caduceus is sitting in the big shared living room with a mug between his palms, balanced on his knees. He sways back-and-forth as everyone else gets settled, waiting. 

(Patience, Aunt Corrin says, has never been one of your sister’s strong suits.)

Caduceus stops rocking and smiles soft as a happier-looking Jester sits besides him, Fjord besides her, the three of them on the longest sofa, sinking into the blanket draped over it. Beau’s stood by the smaller sofa, sorting through a folder while half-watches half-reads a book. They’re all joined eventually by Veth, coming in from outside, shrugging off her coat and draping it on the back of a chair. Jester gives her a big, big, grinning hug. 

Caduceus offers each one of them ginger tea from his pot on the coffee table as they sit down, hoping it’ll be enough. All of them take their small cups, all of them looking sort of bemused. 

(That’s okay.) 

Caduceus smiles in reply anyway, because tea is something nice. Really nice.  

Beau drinks her cup quick, nods her approval, and clears her throat after. “Alright,” she announces. “Caleb? You want to do announcements tonight?” 

She looks to Caleb who shakes his head, replying: “Nein… Nein.” He barely looks up from his book, too busy underlining something. 

“Sweet,” Beau says, lifting a sheet of paper to read from. “So, to discuss: Further job assignments, fire safety checks, and, also, hand-holds are to be added in the bathrooms for accessibility, for example: ease of using both the baths and toilets. We’ll figure out when after buying them, but, that’s on the table.” She pauses, checks something a moment. “Also, next week, on Folsen, a wheelchair ramp is being installed at the front door, so, just a warning if you want to avoid it. It’ll probably be loud. Not for long, but just in case.”

Caduceus nods along, tired and slumping back into the sofa, picking at fuzz on his soft trousers. 

It’s almost time for bed, he supposes, as the announcements and then chatter slip by him. Something about cleaning quotas, something about rotational jobs versus fixed ones, schedules, and something about washing dishes and not leaving dirty bowls in the sink.

Caduceus doesn’t mind washing dishes, except for when his shoulders are hurting. 

But he doesn’t like vacuuming — too loud. And then there’s the sore back from stooping low, too. Sweeping at least is quiet, so he doesn’t mind that, comparatively, even if it bothers his wrists… so… so. So.

There’s a tap on his shoulder, then Jester patting it again. “Caduceus?”

“Huh?” Caduceus looks up and, clearly, someone was trying to talk to him. “Oh. Sorry. What?”

“What jobs do you think you’ll you be able to help with?” Beau asks.

“Jobs?” Caduceus echoes.

“So, like…” Beau reads from one of the many sheets of stapled papers she holds. “Me and Caleb are in charge of finances, even though we decide stuff as a group, we keep track of the actual documents for the co-op. Fjord keeps track of health and safety… We sort of need more people to keep track of cleanliness in the upstairs kitchen for when inspections happen, and between too obviously. And there’s also garden maintenance that needs doing, and also, vacuuming stairways and halls are sort of rotational at the moment.” 

Caduceus picks at more fuzz on his trousers, thinking this time. (Rocking as he thinks.)

“I can take care of the garden, help clean it up,” he tells Beau, because vacuuming is terrible. “And help with… help make sure the kitchens are clean too. I don’t mind doing that.”

“Cool,” Beau says. She sits back on the sofa besides Caleb “Anyone else got any other thoughts or anything?” 

“Oh! Yes!” Jester begins, bouncing in her seat, “Beau, you know the suggestion box idea, I think we should make that and, like, put it in over there or something.” She points to a corner of the room, atop the wide windowsill. “Also, we should totally do another bake sale, just, like, for fun. Also to pay for some of the railings too maybe.”

“Sure.” Beau notes it down, nodding. “Definitely the suggestion box for now.”

“I’m going to paint the outside, make it so pretty,” Jester says, looking pleased with herself.

Fjord sighs, affectionate. “It’s going to be pink.”

“You got a problem with that?” Veth snaps at him. “Something wrong with a pink suggestion box, Fjord?”

Fjord throws up his hands in defeat, and Jester cackles as Veth grins. 

Caduceus smiles along, because, wow, but then, Oh! he does have an idea, so he raises his hand a little, just to his shoulder, because then maybe the joke-fighting that’s started up will pause for just a moment. 

“Cad? You have something to say?” Beau asks, sort of laughing too, especially at him, with his hand up. Not unkind, just smile-twitching about it. 

“Yeah. Uh…” And then he’s not sure how to word it, so he thinks some more. “I think… I think it’d be nice, a good idea, to clear the garden, together maybe, so it’s easier. And then I could plant some stuff to grow. Veg and stuff… Maybe a small fruit tree.” And that’s about the end of the thought, so he trails off with a: “Yeah. Yeah, that’s all. ” 

There’s a pause, the room considering it, and then Jester says: “Aw, that’s a nice idea, Caduceus.” 

“Thank you,” he replies.

“Hell yeah,” Beau mumbles, writing it down. “Garden clean-up.” She straightens where she’s perched on the armrest, going back to announcing-mode, voice all loud and clear again. “Okay, so, if there’s nothing else, that’s all. Next meeting will probably be the same time next week, so, yeah. That’s it. I’ll let you know. It’ll be on the bulletin board in the downstairs kitchen.” 

Jester applauds like it was a show, hooting and clapping, and Beau covers her face with one hand. Caduceus quietly claps along too, just because it’s kind of funny. 

He gets up after, as everyone begins to disperse and the conversation carries on, grumbling as he does. And once he’s on his feet he adjusts his cane in his hand, steadying himself as he sways, vision gone a little dark and starry.

“You okay?” Veth asks, as he’s waiting is out.

“Oh, yeah,” he replies. “Stood up too fast.” Which, technically is true.

“Ah…” Veth nods, fiddling with a button on the front of her shirt-dress. “Well, I just wanted to say I’m sorry if you felt pressured into drinking while we were out. Jester said you got sick, I think, so… I’m sorry.”

Caduceus blinks a moment. He’d forgotten about that. Somehow. 

All the other things, he supposes. No room in his head for burn-y stomachs.

“Huh,” he mumbles to himself. Then replies: “That’s alright. It was all a lot. My body does weird things, sometimes. It’s sensitive.”

“Oh dear,” Veth says.

Caduceus blinks more and, Oh, wow, his eyes are really tired, and he really doesn’t have anything else left to add.

Neither does Veth, because then she’s calling to the space behind him: “Caleb, see you in five?”

There’s a pause, a grin, and Caleb must nod or something because Veth gives two thumbs-ups and hurries off down the hall. 

“Oh,” Caduceus says to himself, because suddenly everyone’s leaving or gone, and he’s still standing there, alone aside from Caleb and Beau, still chatting and waving books around on their sofa.

He leaves them alone, wandering down in the hall on fawn-wobbly legs. 

(It won’t do to be rude.) 

(Quit eavesdropping, Calliope scolds.)

The wall he leans against is smooth beneath his hand, rough when he reaches for the old wood panelling at the bottom. He lets his knuckles trail along the grain, just standing for a moment. Gentle. At the bottom of the stairs.

“Do you want to come with me to the archives tomorrow?” Caleb’s voice asks, far away.

Beau’s replies a moment after: “Ehh… I can’t, got behind on something helping Caduceus out.” A pause. “It’s not, like, a big thing. I just want to get it over with, y’know?”

Caleb replies and Caduceus doesn’t hear him because he’s covered an ear with his free hand and started up the stairs. It’d be no good to eavesdrop. 

That would be impolite, for sure.

And now he should definitely decide on what to make for that thank you cake. So when he gets to his room he sits on his bed and notes down ingredients for it right away — something simple, a chai loaf, gently spiced, should be universal enough. Should be nice.

Because he’s indebted, he knows, having took up Beau’s time, held her up on her work, but… Caduceus stops, hums. Hopefully a cake is a start.

✳︎

By the weekend Caduceus feels better. His body moves easier, and has work to go to in the morning, before the sun rises fully. He meanders his way there, watching the sky because it’s clearer than its been all week. The rain’s left a freshness, a cold clean feeling. And the leaves are all orange and plastered to the pavements. Caduceus watches his feet and where he sets his crutches, careful not to slip.

(And he eats porridge in a cardboard cup before the cafe opens.)

The work that follows goes slow, and it goes alright — not so busy for whatever reason. Not like the morning-time when he works on a weekday, too fast to keep up. Instead it’s a steady stream. And he has a stool to rest on, if he needs, and his foldable cane in his bag. (He’s tall enough to reach most things on the counter anyway.)

He spends the morning passing people their herbal teas and coffees and flapjacks and granola pots, and spends the early afternoon handing people their wraps and sandwiches and more coffees too. And its not loud and its not quiet, just normal, and he has two leftover sandwiches to take home. 

He leaves with his crutches to steady him, thinking about cooking again. A curry, maybe. 

Yeah.

That’d be nice. Enough to share, especially. (Like at home.)

Oh! And the cake. The cake, too.

He nods to himself, to keep the memory in his head, and stops on the way home to buy ingredients for a loaf cake and also cauliflower, potato and pea curry. The turmeric jar jangles inside his bag the whole way back, reminding him of the smell, stuck in his nose. And reminding him that he hasn’t eaten a full meal in a while. Only porridge and toast and things. Not like at home.

Not like…

He lets the thought trail off.

And he watches his feet stepping until he’s back at the co-op, slow-moving. 

There’s nothing wrong with going slow, he knows, as he takes his time on the stairs. There’s nothing wrong with it at all, because how else would he see so many snails and cats sitting on walls and neatly arranged windowsills? 

(Exactly, he thinks. Exactly.)

He hums to himself until he’s upstairs and blinking right at a someone he doesn’t recognise, stood sort of near his door.

“Hello,” Caduceus says.

The someone just stares at him, one pale eye (and one darker) almost glaring from behind dark hair, white towards the end. They’re all dressed up like they’ve been outside and far away, deep in the mountains. Old parka like charcoal not even taken off, all dirt and rain spattered.

“This could’ve been Molly’s room,” they say, almost too quiet to hear. 

“Oh,” Caduceus replies, because he’s still not sure who Molly exactly was, only that they’re gone. Only that everyone is hurting, and Jester misses him so much. “I’m sorry.” 

The someone just shrugs.

Caduceus isn’t sure what means. So he tries: “Do you live here?” 

A single nod, hesitant.

Caduceus smiles in a worried-but-easy way, and would really like to sit down. “That’s nice. It’s nice to meet you, by the way…” 

“Nice to meet you,” the someone replies, before they’re gone, hauling a rucksack from the floor and leaving down the hallway, slamming a door behind themself as they disappear. 

Okay, Caduceus thinks, nodding to himself. Okay. He wanders into his room, shrugging his bag off and onto his bed, propping his crutches against the wall. 

He sits down heavy, leant back against the wall, and sighs a big sigh.

That’s okay. 

Chapter Text

The way to the arboretum is different than before. It’s winding, between houses and down a steepish close, steps uneven. (Careful, Ma says, mind your paws, as he hops down from the front porch, only five, and falls onto all fours.) The way is winding, but it’s simple enough, after Caduceus spends a long time standing still, tapping each finger against his thumb over and over. (After getting almost-lost.) And it leads to a different entrance entirely.

Caduceus steps cautiously down the backwards-different path, discomfort easing in gentle increments as it all grows more and more familiar. The same — just backward, just upside down, just… out-of-sorts? Except he’s not sure that means what he wants it to. 

It’s a good string of words though, turned over and over in his head.

Out-of-sorts. 

(Except not.) 

Out

of

sorts.

He walks his usual loop the wrong way round, careful, with his crutches, and it feels brand new, in a head-spinning way. Still with beech husks all over the path by the stream, still with acer leaves the colour of red clay on the dark grey path. And still with his moss-furred friend to one side (the opposite this time), bent over, bowing their thinning canopy in the rain-wet air. (Like shower-soaked hair, heavy and dripping.)

Caduceus stops, like always, to touch the tree, to run his fingers down its moss and find that this time its sodden beneath fingertips, totally saturated with rain. 

(The air is too, he supposes, a mist that sticks to his eyelashes in tiny beads.)

(Which, is nice.. Is sort of like home. Except not really, because there’s no pools or willows, and because — )

Bzzt, his phone buzzes, and then again: Bzzt. 

Its the group-chat that Jester added him to, probably, buzzing away again. 

(Like bees, he thinks, and smiles.) 

(Or like flies, whirring, getting stuck on the sundews hidden in the sphagnum. Or in his room, chasing them and chasing them, trying so hard to catch them. Eventually smacking them dead, but never getting the sound out his ears.)

Caduceus shakes his head to clear it as he pulls his phone from his coat pocket, and there’s so many messages. So many more than he he’s used to. He’s not sure he’s even meant to reply — it’s just Jester talking to Beau, and then Jester sending photos of so many things. Earrings, and dogs in outfits, and a stoat she thinks is a weasel. Pillows, and colourful socks on her blue legs, and pastries from cafés. There’s lots of bright sticker-y things too, that move sometimes, and hurt Caduceus’ head. And then there’s Caleb’s very long or very short replies. And, depending on the day, Veth says she’ll come over soon, she just has to help a someone named Yeza with something.

Suuuuure, Beau’s last reply says.

Hehehehe, Jester had added, and Caduceus still isn’t sure why its funny, but Veth told them both to shut up and Jester told her to have fun anyway. Which, well… It’s just confusing. Brow-furrowing. 

Caduceus wriggles himself out from his thinking, staring blankly at his phone, getting dripped on by his mossy friend, and, so slowly, like nothing at all, he realises he should probably reply to Calliope. Or, probably reply to Belle too, (She’d replied to his Peep peep with her own Eep Peep), and he should call Ma. Or text. Or something. 

(Maybe he should send a socks photo like Jester.)

(Belle would laugh at that, and send her rainbow socks back.)

He peers down at his socks peeking out from the tops of his boots and they don’t even match. 

Scatter brains… He shakes his head side to side for a while, to clean it out.

And he keeps on walking a while more, until he finds a familiar gnarled oak, old and twisting, and sits sheltered and nested between roots. Hundreds of acorns underfoot crunch and dig in beneath his thighs as he lowers himself to the dirt, all their little caps coming off. He holds a hat-less nut between fingers as he unlocks his phone, skimming the old ends of Calliope’s messages again. (He bites the inside of his cheek, holds it between canines.) They still make him feel sort of bad.  

(2 weeks ago

hope you’re doing ok)

He moves onto Ma’s sparse texts instead. An empty moorland, dotted with Hope you’re getting enough sleep’s and Remember to wrap up, its cold’s like lingonberry patches.

(He tastes them then. Sour and soft on his tongue.)

Caduceus stares at his phone, at the last Sleep well, and he’s not sure how to word a proper reply, so he types out: Call sometime soon? And he hits send before he can reconsider the clunky way his words tumble out. 

(It seems to have turned to a constant in his existence these days, clunkiness — always stumbling, with shaking hands and scrawling handwriting, diagonal and running off the page. More so than usual, which is really saying a lot. Really saying something.)

(He picked up his underwear to get dressed this morning and immediately dropped his vest onto the floor. And then he walked into the doorframe on the way to the bathroom. And then almost caught his tail in the door.)

(Avoided it, just.)

Ma must’ve already been looking at her phone because as he’s thinking she replies:

09:21, today

That’d be lovely, honey. It’s been a long while since last we spoke. It’d be lovely to hear your voice again 

Another message comes through as Caduceus is busy trying to type a response — a loud noise that flicks his ears back.

09:22, today

This evening?

He backspaces the jumbled sentence he’d began and replies instead:

09:24, today

Yes, that would be good. see you soon 

(Hear you soon, he thinks, and smiles small to himself.)

And, after, he sits a moment. Just there, just breathing. Unclenching paws that’ve gotten themselves sweaty, and wiping them dry on his knees. 

He stands after a while, slowly, with a very damp behind and a dew-soaked tail end. It’s time to head back, he supposes… Time for breakfast. 

On the way back to the co-op though, he ends up somewhere different without realising. (Again.) Somewhere he’s sure was the way he came, but mustn’t be. Unless… Hm.

No, it’s unfamiliar, and a little dizzying, so Caduceus holds tight to his crochet-softened crutches, and pauses to stuff a hand in his pocket, to trace the edges of the amethyst, and he goes back to where he started. Tries again.

And it works, after a time. (Long enough to get hungry.)

He gets there eventually — back to familiar streets that’ve woken up a little more now. People are wandering around, in a morning way, half asleep with somewhere to be. And then there’s a someone with grey-black hair, and that’s sort of like Yasha, but less wild… So it’s not really her at all. 

And, speaking of — he’s at the end of the lane again, the co-op tall and old at the end of it. Round the side, as Caduceus wanders to the door there, is an old van, sturdy and weather-faded from black to storm-clouds, with sleeping bags in the backseat. He peers closer (Don’t be so nosy, Calliope grumbles), and leans away again. Because it’s Yasha’s, probably. Must be… That’d make sense, and, well, its shown up at the same time as her, so… 

Yeah. Yeah. (He nods to himself.)

And, speaking of — he hasn’t spoken to her since first meeting her. Or, he’s tried — a Good morning in the small kitchen, a little too loud or too sudden, even for his own ears. She’d just stared, then looked away. And said nothing at all.

That’s okay, Caduceus supposes (reminds himself), even if he can feel the mourning coming off her like heavy fog. He’s trying not to overstep. Trying to leave things be. Even if it means clenching his fists and burying them deep in his pockets.

Sometimes, plants — orchids and mosses and sundews and things — do much better without any fussing. 

✳︎

worst sister 

10:32, today

thats good ur finally calling ma. talk sometime? or just text idk 

✳︎

caddy

11:02, today

just text

✳︎

Caduceus sits back on his heals, at the edge of the cotton sheet laid out on the floor. He’ll trim it a little, once he’s finished stamping block-print spore-prints on it. So that maybe it’ll look less of a mess.

If he’s honest, and he mostly is, he’s not entirely sure where he’s going with it.

So he just keeps on going.

And eats lunch after a time, because his head’s gotten all fuzzy — leftovers that aren’t quite hot enough. The fresh rice is nice though, because it always is, and so is a nice bowl to eat it from, with a good-shaped spoon in hand. Caduceus balances it in his hand and bobs it up and down, to feel the just-right weight. 

He likes spoons an awful lot, he decides right then. 

So useful, such fun shapes. Except ones with plastic handles, like in the flat before. 

(He shivers, and has to flap his hands to get rid of the horrible texture-ghost.)

Then he checks his phone because the screen lights up, showing him an update on the weather (rainy) and a text from Calliope that he hadn’t seen:

worst sister

11:14, today

alright. but like try to

Guess he got distracted… And he doesn’t mean to not. It’s just tricky sometimes and he’s not really sure why but he freezes up, and then he tucks his phone under his bed to get rid of the tensing, and forgets about it until his alarm goes off the next morning. 

Maybe he should write text!!! on his palm in huge biro-blue letters, to remember better. But then he’d wake up with it printed on his face, probably, like that one time before. Because of course.

So he replies right now instead, between mouthfuls:

13:21, today

I will, it’s hard to remember sometimes. Busy…

He sets the phone down and gets back to work.

✳︎

In his room, with the dim light on in the dark, his phone rings until he finds it again, crawling around on the floor only for it to be on the bed-tray he’s made his bedside table. He picks it up and there’s a scuffling, a staticky sound, and a sudden clarity before a: 

“Dear?”

“Hi,” Caduceus replies, suddenly needing to catch his breath. He sits down on his bed with an oof. 

“Oh, it’s so good to hear from you,” Ma says. “I was a little worried.” 

“Oh,” Caduceus echoes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you… Just been…busy, and… Yeah.” He trails off, and he can hear the smile on her words when Ma replies: 

“That’s alright. I know, dear. So much to be done.” A pause, a sigh. “It’s difficult not to worry when the fledglings start leaving the nest.”

“Yeah.” A nod, an ache in his chest. 

“How’ve you been?”

There’s a sudden emptiness in his head, a nothing-at-all, as Caduceus stares at his socks that don’t match and struggles through the so many things. The so many ways he’s been — drunk, and panicking-crying, and laughing so much, eating toast with Jester. And then there’s a new room too, with all his things arranged differently, and Oh, wow, he never mentioned that to anyone at all. 

So he says: “Uh. I moved somewhere different.” 

“You did?” Ma asks, surprised in a way that makes Caduceus cringe. 

“Yeah,” he scratches his nose. “Yeah, it… Just. Uhh. That flat-share wasn’t working, and I found somewhere else good, also students — a housing co-op. It’s good… Uhm. Friendlier people.”

“Good,” Ma replies with a sigh like she’s relieved. “That’s good. I was going to ask anyway if you’d moved. We all sent you something, but it was returned, with ‘doesn’t live here anymore’ written on the parcel. Thought it was a little strange.”

Caduceus stops rubbing his thumb over his upper-lip. “Wh — What was it?” Why didn’t you say something? he almost asks, but then Ma’s answering the first question.

“Oh, just a little tofu press, and…” she trails off and Caduceus imagines her looking around the kitchen, thumb rested on her jaw like when she’s thinking, “dried chanterelles, and dried cherries and apricots, I think — Oh, yes. A letter from Clarabelle too. Who knows what’s in there.” She pauses a moment more. “Yes. Yes, that’s it.” 

“Oh,” is all Caduceus replies. Suddenly his chest is tight, suddenly he’s sore-stomached. 

“I’ll send it again. Don’t worry, honey.” Ma’s voice is warm, understanding. “Send a text with the address, written down so I can copy it…” 

As she keeps talking, wondering something about postage, Caduceus finds his leaflets from Beau, knelt on his bed-end, digging around his desk. He sets them down on his quilt besides him, to copy the address from afterwards — somewhere he won’t forget. 

“Honey?”

He pauses his slow-rocking, blank-staring. “Mhm?” 

There’s a soft, soft laugh, so quiet. Almost just a smile. “We all miss you very much. Let me know when the package arrives, alright?”

“I will.”

“And don’t worry about postage.”

Caduceus smiles in a tired, sorry way, even though she can’t see. “Yeah.. I should’ve said I’d moved. I guess I forgot.” 

(Guess I didn’t really think about it.)

“Never mind,” Ma says. “Nothing to be done now except to send it again.”

So, all muddled, he tells Ma the new address despite agreeing to send a text already. And Ma hums as she notes something down anyway. There’s a hum, and a quiet clunk as she sets a pencil down — light-wood on an old table.

“Well then… I don’t want to keep you up too late,” she says eventually.

Caduceus hums an agreement — after teeth-brushing and face-washing, and maybe a quick meditation, he’ll be yawning and tired-eyed for sure. 

“That’s alright,” he says. “It’s not too late yet.”

“I know, I know. Only want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, honey.”

Caduceus smiles, almost laughs. “I try.”

“I know,” Ma says, so softly. Then, clearer: “Call again soon, alright? If you want — Whenever you feel like a chat. I’m sure Belle would love to call.”

“Yeah.” Caduceus can’t stop himself from grinning, imagining Belle talking a hundred miles an hour, about everything ever. “She really really would.”

“She said she wanted to do a video-call. I have no idea how to set that up, though.”

“Colton will know,” Caduceus replies, because it’ll annoy Colton.

“One of them will,” Ma says. 

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Ma’s voice is soft and smiling. “Goodnight, dear. I love you very much.”

Caduceus’ eyes get all hot behind, his nose too, at the end of it. “Love you, too.”

He hangs up first, and in the silence that follows the end of the phone-static Caduceus is sure he hears the string-plucked song of Ma out on the porch. (She scoots aside to make room for him to sit beside her at the top of the steps, a lap-harp on her knees. Old, it never stays tuned. Only five, he places his hand on the instrument as Ma sings, listening intently and saying nothing at all.)

✳︎

After mediation, sat atop the quilt, Caduceus burrows beneath it. He lies there, huffs a big exhale, and is all floppy. He hums with eyes closed, and — Oh. Oh! He forgot — today’s afternoon was meant to be for chai-loaf-cake making. Instead he’d been busy printing on the floor all day, writing down the process as he went, cutting up swatches and sewing them together again in a good-bad wonky way.

Oh dear. 

He sits up again with a grumble and reaches onto his desk for a pen, noting down a reminder on his paw in biro. Laid back down, he tucks the inky hand beneath his pillow, so he won’t wake up with blue smudges on his face. 

Chapter Text

Getting out of bed in the morning feels a lot like emerging from a quilted cave — the outside so cold, the inside body-hot. Breath-hot, sort of stinky. Caduceus would really like to brush his teeth. But that means getting up, and getting up means stripping out of pyjamas and being briefly freezing cold, while he washes his armpits, before wriggling into todays clothes. 

If there wasn’t things to do (breakfast to be eaten and classes to go to) he might’ve just stayed there. Wrapped up and nesting — like the bears, fat in their hibernation dens. Except he’s got ribs that show and needs to remember to eat more. 

(Eat up! Calliope yells, and throws a thick slice of bread right at him.)

(He doesn’t catch it. It lands in his lap and gets tiny seeds everywhere.)

Maybe he’ll have some toast after his porridge this morning, if there’s time. (If there’s room.)

It takes some convincing, staring at the glowing gap between the wall and the curtain, letting in the faintest blue dawn light, but he gets up eventually. Sniffs himself and decides it’s probably alright to just dress in thermals, followed by layers and layers, and no cold-washing. Tights under trousers and socks on too — It’s the order he always does it (everything tucked in or left loose as it should be) except, today, more bundled. Wrapped up tight. 

No numb toes.

Ma would be pleased. And she’d have tea ready for when he gets back inside, sore from slipping on the icy fallen leaves, frozen together in sheets across the stone.

(Oh dear, she says, somewhere distant.)

Caduceus opens the curtains, after realising he hadn’t, and smiles to himself despite the squinting, blinking and blinking in the still-dim light. 

Eventually he peers out, fingers tracing the old wood pane. 

It’s icy-cold outside, the inside of the window cold and condensation-y with all his warm existing. The exterior windowsill wears a thick crystalline coat, frost shimmering as the sun rises. Caduceus undoes the latch and creaks open the window, to stick his head out and sniff the air. He sighs out a huge cloud and inhales again — the air smells like ice, and faintly of a wood burning fire. Smells like the night was so clear and cold. He exhales again, like a dragon, like in the storybooks, into the cold blue air and latches the window closed. 

This time, back home, it’s still dark, probably.

Speaking of — He wanders around the room before realising his phone was right where he’d been standing, laying beneath the window on his makeshift bedside table. He picks it up and sits back down on his bed, clicking the screen on. It’s Cuersaar now, it tells him, and Caduceus hadn’t realised. Already a day in, and almost officially winter. It’s also 07:23, so time for breakfast too. 

After porridge there’s a quick meditation, while he waits for it to be time to leave, then a quicker brushing of teeth and face-washing (almost forgotten). The time just slips away sometimes, and sometimes it lasts forever. 

Caduceus pulls on his boots and wraps his coat around himself, fingerless gloves on his paws, with fingers that’ve already turned purple-pink at the ends.

✳︎

Its a shivery walk to class, stomach and bag heavy with porridge, in a tupperwear for lunch later. (And that’s two porridges in one day, but that’s alright — it hasn’t stopped him before.) His shoulders are complaining though, bothered by the weight of his backpack on them.

Not too bad, but, still. It’s probably the cold’s fault too. It often is. 

So he takes it slow, with his crutches to be extra safe, and Jester walking beside him the whole way, sometimes tapping on her phone, but also chatting and chatting. It’s impressive to have so much to say so early (and at all the other times too), Caduceus thinks. 

The ground beneath their feet is frozen, frost-coated, a white trim on the edges of the paving stones. The grass crackles underfoot, and, when Jester stomps on a red rhododendron leaf, it crunches in a way thats so good and clean that Caduceus has to shake his head about it. 

Jester steps slowly on another one and says: “Who even needs drugs or orgasms when there’s crunchy leaves…” 

Caduceus laughs quiet. The question’s rhetorical, he guesses. Though he’s not sure he needs either of those things anyways… even if he likes the smell of the smoke from Pa’s pipe. He’d be very sad if there were no crunchy leaves, though. 

And he kind of wishes something attached to his crutches made a good noise too. Not a crunch, that’d be alarming, but a tiny bell maybe. Though that also has potential for being very annoying, for him and other folks. Might cause a lot of staring… Not that he’s invisible anyway. 

(Not today, at least.) 

(That’s good.)

“What are you thinking about?” 

Caduceus shakes his head as he realises he was just staring and staring. He blinks his eyes a few times to focus them again, glancing down at Jester. “Huh? Oh. About bells.”

“Bells?” she asks. “For something?”

Caduceus pauses and sways one crutch back and forth, with its no-noise. “It might get annoying if there were bells on here, even if the noise was good at first.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess it would,” Jester replies. “Also loud in classes.”

Caduceus makes an agreeing noise. That’s settled then — no bells. He spends the rest of the walk trying to think of something else, holding onto the thread between slippery thoughts, and doesn’t find anything worth keeping in his head. 

In the entranceway of the main building he parts ways with Jester, when she hurries upstairs. And he stands a moment, just rubbing his numb hands together, before going to class where everyone asks if he’s alright before he’s even sat down. 

“Yes,” he tells them. “Nothing’s broken. It’s just… It’s. It’s…” He can’t put it into words, and it’s not their business anyway, but to be polite settles on: Everything’s just a little more sore today, and sits down slow, with a big sigh.

Then, opposite him is Elke, with her pointy ears and olive skin, and he didn’t even realise.

“Morning,” she says, picking pieces from a muffin. “Did you have a nice break?” 

He did, he thinks, though it’s a little muddy, so he tells her a Yeah, thank you, but not about changing where he lives or about phone-calls or crying. Just that it was nice, good to relax, and that, wow, it’s definitely colder now. 

Elke agrees, shivering, and tells him how she just did homework and sat in bed and watched TV shows on her laptop, adding afterwards: “Oh, yeah — Did you do more work on that silk you were making? The… dragonfly? silk?”

“Oh,” Caduceus replies. “A little, yeah.”

Elke looks as if she expects something else, like he should say something extra, but he’s not sure… he’s… oh

… hm. 

Oh —

“Oh! Oh, I was going to bring it, wasn’t I?” Caduceus asks.

Elke nods, smiling like she’s kind of amused.

“I forgot,” he says, as if it’s not clear. “Maybe I should take a photo instead, that might be easier. Then it’ll just be there, on my phone and I won’t forget.” (Unless he forgets his phone, which isn’t entirely unlikely.)

“Yeah. Don’t want it to get damaged either,” Elke says. 

And as Caduceus is searching in his pockets and then his bag for his phone Elke’s friend sits down besides her and starts to talk too. Caduceus is about to ask their name — forgotten, barely even in his head at all — but, then the tutor has his presentation set up, so he just smiles apologetically and tucks his cold paws inside his sleeves. 

It turns out, halfway through the presentation, that an essay is due before Winterscrest, by the end of the semester, which is worrying. Especially because the tutor talks about it as if he’s mentioned it before. Caduceus bites the inside of his cheek as he listens, tears through with canines as the tutor finishes telling the class about it. Tastes iron as he wonders how he’ll get everything done — Ow. 

He chews his sleeve to stop himself.

Then, after, when he’s leant forward on one elbow and trying to read through the brief, muttering it to himself, finger tracing each line, there’s movement behind him and the tutor is there.

(Caduceus wishes he remembered their name even slightly. But they’re a Mister something, so he supposes they can be Mister Tutor in his head, even if they’re just meant to call them by their first name.)

Mister Tutor sits down besides him with a brow that’s furrowed like they’re worried about him.

“I wanted to check in — to make that everything’s alright with the essay,” they say. 
Caduceus isn’t sure why they’re worried, but he wants it to be fixed. Quick. 

“I think so.” It’s an automatic reply, because, really, he’s not sure how he’ll find thousands of words to talk about the history of textiles, despite the tangle of stories to unravel. He might find enough clear thoughts for sheep’s wool though, even if his family only ever had two goats. The only familiar option is something to do with hand-dyeing, only because Ma taught him how, with all the leaves soaking in steaming water.

“Good, good.” Mister Tutor hasn’t finished talking, instead they're searching for how to ask the next thing. Caduceus waits patiently, and they find it after a moment: “I thought I’d check, based on the notes for your additional support needs… Have you been to learning support?"
“No…?” Caduceus rolls his sleeve up, to stop the chewed-wet cuff touching his wrist. He said he was fine.

“Might be worth seeing if there’s support you can access, specifically for essay writing.”

“Oh,” Caduceus replies. “Yeah.. Might be useful.” 

Mister Tutor smiles. “You don’t have to, it’s just a suggestion. The folks there are very helpful.”

Caduceus nods, and smiles back so that it’ll be alright, because he’s not why they think he needs more convincing — his letters are backwards and everything takes so long to write down… so. 

So. 

Caduceus writes a note on his palm to remember better.

He’s not sure why people think it's funny that he does that.

✳︎

It’s a colder walk back to the co-op in the afternoon, with breathing that billows like a dragon’s. It’s a slow walk too, stomach queasy because apparently porridge is heavy wether its in a bag or a belly. He could’ve stayed longer, could’ve let things settle a little more as he reorganised his sketchbook, but it’s nice to move, and he’d rather just work in his room instead of the studio. Especially when a room down the hall keeps on playing music, too quiet to understand any words but just loud enough to itch. 

And because he didn’t entirely realise everything was so jumbled — classwork unfinished, written-work missing, homework marked down for the wrong classes in his notes. It’s alright, he supposes (tamping down a tightness in his chest), now that Mister Tutor helped him go over it all. He wrote it for him, slow and clear, and handed him a list with the letters all big: 

• COLOUR THEORY TASK — FINISH SWATCHES, CUT THEM UP AND ARRANGE THEM INTO PALETTES 
• WOODBLOCK — PRINT ON PAPER/MORE FABRIC, TRY EMBROIDERING THEM
• PRINTMAKING RESEARCH (SEE HAND-OUT)
• PAINTING HOMEWORK — NOT FOR THIS CLASS, FOR PAINTING CLASS (ON FOLSEN)
• ESSAY PREP + RESEARCH

(“You like to use fungi and lichens a lot in your work,” Mister Tutor had says as Caduceus folds his timetable and put it back in his bag, in the front pocket so he can definitely find it.

All his work from his sketchbook laid out across the desk seems to agree. So, yeah, he supposes so, and replies, with a shrug: “Sure.”

“Thats alright,” Mister Tutor replies. (Caduceus didn’t think it wasn’t.) “I just want you to make sure you’re trying out different things too, finding different inspirations.” 

“Branching out?” Caduceus asks.)

Which makes him laugh to himself, remembering as he waits to cross the road, because now he’s thinking about trees and roots and the mycelium in the earth between. All branching out.

(“Yeah, yeah.” Mister Tutor agrees. “Branching out is good. Doesn’t mean you can’t go back to what you’re interested in — experimentation with sources and materials’ll help you hone in on stronger ideas for final pieces. And, of course, there’ll be new ideas to pick up, too. It’s a win-win.”)

Caduceus still isn’t sure exactly what win-win means. He just wants to repeat it over and over, and maybe he mumbles it as he traces his fingertips along a wrought iron gate. He supposes it’s good if it’s winning twice. 

(“Alright.” Mister Tutor gets up from the chair besides him and itches their chin. “That all sorted?”

Caduceus nods even though he’s not all-the-way sure.

“Remember — branching out, like plants.”)

And then he was gone before Caduceus could tell him that fungi aren’t plants, in fact they’re an in-between. Neither plants nor animals. Which, is something to think about… 

Something, vaguely. 

Branches, branching out.

✳︎

In the darkening afternoon Caduceus stands in the kitchen, the stove light on — a warm glow. He arranges his curry-making ingredients, lines them up in the right order to keep it organised. (And so nothing’s forgotten). Off to the side he sets cake-making ingredients too, for when the curry is simmering. 

The house is quiet. It’s not empty though, which is good, is… 

Yeah.

Caduceus, pinches his ears between his thumb and forefinger. Rubs the thin skin between. 

He huffs out a breath, a self-soothing. Okay.

Caleb is somewhere downstairs, tapping so quickly on a laptop keyboard, and maybe Veth’s downstairs too, because occasionally someone else comments on something, muffled but definitely a different voice. Beau’s at the gym with Fjord, Caleb told him when he got back and peaked into the living room. And Jester went out for lunch, and is in a class that is soooo boring now, according to her lots of group-chat messages.

Caduceus left his phone in his room with its noise and notifications. 

Now he gets to cooking, for the familiar ritual of it. For the comforting sound of vegetables cut on a wooden board — it drowns out any sounds waiting in the silence, the unwelcome whispering that flicks his ears. Cooking leaves only the crackle of cumin seeds and onion added to a pan, and Aunt Corrin’s songs hummed quietly.

Caduceus hums some more as he adds the potato first, because it takes the longest, then gets to cutting the cauliflower into small florets. (And maybe eating one because it fell on the floor and while he doesn’t mind, it’d be rude to give to others.) 

(Six second rule! Belle yells, and eats up a handful of almonds from the carpet.)

(He sneaks one, even if it needs brushing off first. It’s sweet and oven-warm. Belle laughs when she notices, laughs harder when he tells her it wasn’t an almond, it was a spider instead.)

He blinks, stopped still and blurry, blank-staring at the bowl with the wooden spoon in his paws. No, he tells himself. Focus. 

Ground. 

Focus on right now — cooking’s not the time to get foggy. 

Eventually, after a time, everything’s in the biggest pan he could find, simmering away, building flavour. He tastes it, just in case, and the fragrant heat of the spices dance across his tongue, comfort-warm, like an orange candle glow. And then there’s some washing up to be done, but that can wait for when the loaf-cake’s baking. May as well wash it all together anyway.

(The nice thing is that a chai cake is easy enough. It only needs Ma’s recipe, the way that it’s stored inside his head… Maybe a little different here and there. But that’s alright. It’ll taste just fine.)

“Should be nice,” he mumbles to himself, and stirs the ground up chai spices into oat milk.

And it’s not long before that’s done too, poured into a loaf tin and set inside the oven. The uncooked mixture on the spoon tastes pretty good, at least. He hums to himself as he makes his way to the sink, rolling up his sleeves so he can start on the washing up. But then — His ears flick back, listening.

There’s a creak of a floorboard, and then Yasha in the doorway, looking surprised and frozen because someone else is there — him, a kitchen ghost. 

(He hums away the ghost-part.)

“You can come in,” Caduceus says, deciding to check on the curry, fragrant steam dampening his face as he lifts the heavy lid. 

Yasha does come in, slowly, crossing the room to the sink where she rinses a glass and refills it. She drinks down the water and pauses, watching warily as Caduceus stands there, suddenly very much aware that he might need to sit down soon.

“I don’t know that I like you,” Yasha says, after a moment or two.

Caduceus doesn’t stop himself from smiling, despite the ache right between his shoulder blades. “Well…” he replies as he sits down slow at the little table. “That’s alright. I like your hair.”

“Thanks,” Yasha says so-quiet, and fills the kettle. 

She makes herself coffee in silence. Caduceus doesn’t press any further. Just grumbles as he stands up again, because some tea would be nice…

Might ease things a little. (It’s always good to stay hydrated.)

…He’s not sure he’s had anything to drink for a while.

As he reaches for the kettle Yasha is leaving. She turns back with her black coffee in hand, to so quietly tell him: “There’s enough water in there for you if you want.” 

And then she’s gone again, a kitchen ghost too. 

✳︎

It’s dark by dinner time, and everyone gathers chairs around the upstairs kitchen table, packed in tight, because it’s easier than hauling things downstairs. Easier and cosier and smiling-crowded, like at home. And Caduceus is smiling softer because even Yasha has shown up, standing cautiously behind Jester like she isn’t so much taller. 

“Damn, Cad,” Beau says, peering into the pot as he stirs it again. 

“It’s a thank-you, I suppose,” Caduceus explains, when she looks up at him, as if she’s asking why he’s gone to so much trouble. “For your — everyone’s— help and things. And I like to cook anyway… so… Yeah. It was nice to cook. I really like it.”

“It smells sooo tasty, Caduceus,” Jester calls from across the room. 

Caduceus grins and nods and says thank-you accidentally too quiet, and he spoons rice first, then curry, onto each persons plate or bowl as they hand them to him. 

Yasha nods when he passes her’s back, and she doesn’t say anything else, just smiles so small as they eat and Jester tells everyone about getting pierogis with Calianna (Caduceus wonders if that might be the same Calianna as at the shop with the soup). And she has chai cake too, when its offered afterwards, cooled enough to be gently cut. She almost-laughs, too, with a hand over her face, as Beau takes a bite and exclaims: “This is fucking delicious, Cad. Holy fucking shit!”

Caduceus laughs too, and hopes that Yasha’s maybe feeling a little better than before, though he knows it’s not that simple — he knows how heavily losing someone sits on your shoulders. He’s seen it, a lot. But it’s nice to have spoken to her at least, to make things a little warmer. And maybe, with more good meals round small tables they’ll all feel a little better. Less heavy. 

Less foggy. Including him. 

He’d like that a lot.

Chapter Text

There’s a settling-in in the following weeks — a root-growth, a den dug, (a mycelium, maybe), and Caduceus welcomes it. Wraps himself up in it.

Between classes, in the morning, he wanders his new-old route to visit his favourite trees, to touch their bark and moss, and tell them about how scratchy underwear are, because they have no idea.

(And so, are very lucky.)

He cooks in the evenings after class, and on days off after work, because it’s useful, because it’s calming. (Helping to un-rattle the rattles left from studios full of sounds. Or from passing folks their drinks all morning and afternoon.)

When he can, he ends up cooking for everyone too, because then its even better — so nice to keep everyone fed. And to hear chatter, to have company. Like Jester sitting on the tabletop, talking endlessly instead of doing her homework, or sometimes, less often, Yasha lingers and helps cut a butternut squash when Caduceus’ wrists just won’t have it.

(Its nice to be not-lonely.)

He makes other things too, of course — mumbling made-up prayers into the fabric and the scribbly drawings. And he stares at the walls scattered with rainbow sun-catcher light when its sunny. (Which, he supposes, is far less often now, with the quickly approaching Winter.) It’s different from the frightened staring before. It’s half-asleep-staring, worn out and so comfortable in bed, listening to the soft honks of geese flying over the roof, high above — heading southward. And then it’s time to get up, get ready for class.

Where he sets up a frame loom like a ritual, or gets charcoal all over his nose, hands and clothes. All in his fur. Despite trying not to make too much of a mess, wonky drawings of naked folks are scattered on the floor about his easel. 

(He doesn’t find out till he’s home about the black smudges on his face.) 

(And he’s only a little grumpy that no one told him.)

He does his homework, and doesn’t go to learning support yet, because he’s doing alright — less jumbled with the list from Mister Tutor. And with help from Jester when they have special research evenings together, sat in her bed until he falls asleep by accident and wakes up to Jester giggling and balancing a plush toy cloud on his head.

(The small tapestry he’s weaving is turning out pretty good.)

His worse hip decides to act up, after too much weird-sitting in beds and hard chairs. So he wears his brace for it, odd-feeling and tight, with horrible velcro sounds that flatten his ears back, but it’s steadier, keeping joints from slipping around — less loose, meaning less sore.

And he tries to remember to call home… Tries. 

Sometimes calliope texts him, (sometimes it feels like a very pointed reminder).

And sometimes he hides his phone instead of replying, deep inside the cupboard all day.

But he replies, after a time. 

He tries most of all to reply to Belle, her early morning texts, before he’s even awake enough to feel funny about home. Often its something like:

beep beep

t here is snow AND million spiders in the bathroom

So he sends her a photo in return, of the spider in the bathroom across the hall, standing on the pump of the new soap like an acrobat. It smells like every rose ever and not chemical blueberries this time.

✳︎

Caduceus slowly circles his room, folding clothes, hanging others up to dry (or just to air out a little more) on the bite-y clotheshorse. There’s a lot that needs just a little more drying, so he hangs socks on the old sink and vests on the curtain rod. He’s surrounded by things drying, damp shapes hanging —  underwear mostly, because this time of year it’s too cold without thermals. And even two wears without washing is pushing it a little.

Tired out, he sits heavy on the bed and lifts the package, having finally made its way to him, before setting it down on his thighs. Ma’s handwriting, swirly and slightly neater than usual, is on the address label. The entire box smells faintly of home, even before opening it.

And the smell is almost overwhelming, leaving his chest all fluttery, when he does open it — cedar and pine and patchouli incense lingering on everything inside.

And what is inside, taking up most of the space, is the tofu press, wrapped in a tea-stained tea towel to protect it. It’s simple, with smooth light wood, really nice. Caduceus lifts the lid, peers inside and Oh, that’s smart and kind of like a surprise — inside are little folded paper bags filled with tea blends from home. 

He sniffs them each in turn, recognising the nighttime blend — chamomile, lavender and valerian, a hedgerow blend — nettle, hawthorn flower and blackcurrant leaf, and also willow bark for pain relief. (And to be careful with.)

(Small doses, Aunt Corrin says.)

His chest aches, just a little. So he empties out the rest of the package and there’s the small bags of dried cherries and apricots like Ma said. And then another for the dried chanterelles, too. He could smell them from a mile away, except not really (that’s a little excessive), but their earthy apricot scent is strong and so familiar when he sticks his nose in. He closes his eyes, inhales again, and for a moment he smells the wet, peaty earth so vividly, too. He sees himself, small, watching as Pa carefully cuts through the base of each mushroom, leaving the mycelium intact. 

(So they keep on growing, Pa says, and blows on the undersides to help spread the spores.)

Caduceus blinks and blinks as he arranges each small bag in a row on the quilt besides him. Chewing the inside of his cheek, all funny-feeling. All that’s left in the package is an enveloped letter, scrawled with Belle’s handwriting:

CAddY  

So carefully he tears it open, the hand-made envelope falling apart and dropping bits of dried plants and muddy moss into his lap. He unfolds the letter and it turns out to be three pages, decorated with so many 3D butterfly stickers and coloured pencil drawings. Thankfully, Belle writes big.

Deer CaddY,

At home we miss you so mucH! So mUch ! so much. I even miss eating a bit of dirt on the floor with you. No1 else wants to eat dirt or leafs. exsept for cabbage for supper lololol

Questions !

1. Is art colege fun?
2. How many thing did U make?
3. what do U eat for suppertime ?
4. What insects are in the garden? (remember in before you left there was Adscita Statices in the garden? So pretty And shiny like the big flower beetles kinda same colour)
5. Is your hair pink still? light pink or dark? bright or quiet? 

ok that’s all. remember to answer all questions in a letter not text mesige ! 

Caduceus carefully sets the questions page aside, and the second page is some sort of colouring-in game, hand-drawn. It has a guide on one side, numbers in each section of the long insect, firbolg-faced creature, to show which colour goes where. He was never very good at those kinds of colouring books when he was a kid. All the numbers just got mixed up inside his head. Still, its Belle’s version so its really, really nice, definitely worth attempting, and —  and then his face is all hot like trying very hard not to cry

(Don’t be sad, Belle says, hugging him tight.)

The third page is a drawing of them both, half-animal. Belle has insect wings and two tails. He has a huge dragonfly on his head and a t-shirt with COOL written big on it.

Both their feet are muddy up to the ankle and there’s colourful crayon bugs everywhere.

Caduceus smiles small to himself and it hurts. He makes sure to keep smiling as he organises everything on his desk, searching for something to stick Belle’s drawing to the wall. By the time he finds his masking tape he’s wiping his eyes.

(He wants to lie on his belly in the dirt.)

He tears off two sections of tape, securing the drawing above his bed.

(He wants to go home.)

Belle’s big-toothed, coloured-pencil grin smiles back at him, and there’s a rising swell in his chest as he wonders why on earth he’s even in this room, in this city, right now. Here.

A moment more, a tightening knot in his chest. 

( Go get the washing in , Ma says.

Before it starts raining. ) 

But it dissipates in tiny increments, because he breathes deep. (Deeper, though it’s tricky.) And because the bed he sits down on is soft, and the folded quilt besides him would be good for a lying down meditation. 

He takes the panic that lingers and shoves it down. 

He takes the dark cloud and folds it up tiny, burying it in the back of the dusty old cupboard, a chair against the door to keep it inside. 

Not now.

He keeps on breathing, purposeful and slow, as he traces each stitch along the edge of his quilt. Then he sighs, and decides to light incense, because it’s allowed here — thank goodness. He situates himself on his yoga mat with the quilt for pressure, and watches the blue smoke spiral toward the ceiling.

Soft-gazed. Laid down. 

With two pairs of socks on.

Half awake, half asleep. Somewhere between, drawing a glow around the outline of his body.

He stays there, breathing until he get’s cold, humming a prayer in his head over and over, mouthing it. And then when he sits up, it’s out loud, a mumble as he bows his head, forehead on his mat. With a long humming breath, he’s done. 

When he gets up he’s dizzy, with the mind-prayer stuck repeating. So he bends at the waist and smiles wryly at himself, forgiving the wonkiness of it all as he waits for the blood to find his brain again. 

Then plants on the windowsill need watering, so he does that, from a glass that drips on the floor in a mildly irritating way. That’s alright, he decides, after sighing at the droplets — he wipes them up with his foot without thinking and then his socks are kind of damp. 

To make up for it he pinches the lavender’s soft needle-leaves between his fingers, rubbing between, and sniffs them as he breathes. It’s a smell like sleep and Chamomile pressed to his nose as a kid. (Lavender and chamomile, he supposes, both inside her.) 

As he draws his hand away from his face the half-moon, healing scar from when he stuck himself with the carving tool changes from white to soft purple — lavender, too, in the light. 

Huh.

He’s glad it’s healing now, at least.

Then it’s time to water himself too, with a pot of tea. (He laughs at that). 

Its smoky black tea, two cupfuls brewed in his teapot — not bad for a tea bought at the supermarket. Though he’s not sure anything compares to his family’s teas really. Honestly, it’s unfair to compare them.

✳︎

Not long later it’s time for dinner — leftover tofu fried rice in a bowl. And Caduceus waves hello to Jester and Yasha, sat at the little table, as he retrieves it from the fridge. They wave back, Jester singsonging a Hiii, Caduceus! while Yasha mumbles a quiet Hello, keeping her eyes on the sketchbooks and cardboard oil pastel boxes open in front of them both.

(That’s good.)

(That’s nice, that they’re drawing together. Looks like flowers.) 

Caduceus sort of wishes he had some miso to go with everything, to warm him up some more. And also more greens.. Uh. More broccoli or something.

Then… hm —

“Oh,” he exclaims, suddenly remembering, as he waits for the microwave to finish whirring. “I think this weekend would be a good time to clean up the garden.”

“Ooh, yeah,” Jester agrees. Then she turns to Yasha. “Do you want to help? With your big strong muscles?”

Yasha nods. “Okay,” she says, smiling so slightly.

“I’ll tell everyone else,” Jester tells Caduceus. “Like, put it on the noticeboard or something.”

“That’s great,” he replies, filling a glass with water. “Thank you.”

And then the microwave timer goes off, and it’s jagged and loud like always. And Caduceus takes his dinner back to his room, to sit on his bed by the window as rain patters down on the darkening, half-frozen garden. 

This weekend, then… 

Good, good. He nods to himself.

He peers out and down, at the icy overgrown ivy and sad dead shrubs being swallowed up by everything else. And the bird-feeder, fallen down again.

It’ll be good to clean everything up before it’s too cold to do anything at all.

Chapter Text

worst sister

today, 08:29

first proper snow here. belle’s already out and running around in her pyjamas

how is it in Zadash? snowing yet?

caddy  

today, 09:07

thats nice have fun belle

it snowed sort of a bit but not enough to stay it just gets rained on after. and it’s mostly melted today

𓆱

Belle

today, 09:32

snowing!!! Nsow!!!! 

I made snowman! 

Attached is a photo, sort-of-blurred, of a wonky snowman, decorated with all sorts of fabric scraps and berries and red-brown bracken fronds. It’s nose is a pine bark scale, it’s eyes are plum-pits.

𓆱

There’s a beam of low sunlight cutting across the garden, through the cold, clear air. Caduceus shields his eyes with a gloved hand and squints at the gap between buildings — where it streams from. 

“That’s about all the sun it gets down here this time of year,” he muses, to no one in particular.

Fjord, stopping besides him, replies: “There’s plenty in summer.” 

Caduceus nods. “I’d presume so.” 

Out of the corner of his eye Fjord raises his eyebrows in a bemused sort of way, which is… Hm. Something… No matter how hard he tries he can’t remember the tone of what he just said. 

Soon enough everyone else is gathered in the overgrown garden. Everyone, in their coats and gloves and hats. Caduceus has his hair braided down his back, all wispy at the front, sticking out from under his felted pine-green hat. He wears his fleece-lined trousers with a thick wool jumper, warm enough without a coat. They’ll all be sweating in their big jackets after a little hard-working anyway. 

And Caduceus has a plan, drawn out in dark pencil on A6 lined paper, so he hands out the tools they’d bought, offering everyone tasks based on earlier conversations and his own assumptions. (Though you’re welcome to swap, he says. Whichever you’d prefer.) He hands Yasha the biggest garden shears because she’s strong, and because he saw Veth pick them up earlier, grinning and snipping menacingly them at Fjord. 

It’s a joke, Caduceus knows, but it’s also a safety hazard.

“Oh-kay,” Beau says, huffing as she hauls a step ladder behind her. “That all, Cad?”

He nods. “I think, probably, we can get clean-up done today if we’re focused about it… shouldn’t be too terribly hard…” He pauses, flapping his hands in front of his chest, to help remember, and then wonders aloud: “Then maybe some planting later or tomorrow? Just a few bulbs. Before the ground freezes.” 

(Before the snow that the radio says will happen soon.)

(Though it’s a little late, it’s worth a shot. And any other seeds or bulbs can be sewn inside, in propagators and trays kept on windowsills.)

Hm.

Yeah.

He nods to himself, slipping his folded-up plan into his back pocket, and they get to work.

First things first, is the ivy, swallowing everything up. It wouldn’t be very wise to just tear it from the walls — it’s probably holding the old stone together — so, while Fjord shovels dead plant-matter from the paths and Caleb digs the paving stones out from under dirt, Yasha reaches up over her head and slices through the thick hanging masses. Caduceus guides where to cut, untangling the branches of a swallowed tree, and lifts the ivy down when it’s been loosened. Eventually the wall is neatly trimmed, and a short, twisting hazel stands uncovered before them, at the opposite edge of the garden from the apricot tree, naked without its strangling coat.

“Huh. Doesn’t look too damaged,” Caduceus thinks aloud. “Hopefully it’ll be alright.”

Yasha nods and leaves to help Jester with lifting heavy tubs of muck and mushy old foxgloves Fjord has pulled up. 

Caduceus decides to clear the old raised beds next, shovelling the dirt, pulling out the tangled weeds, the  couple of decayed plastic packets and old wet things caught in it. It’s a little lifeless, been sitting there for a long time. But hopefully turning it, getting some new compost and life in it, will turn things around.

So he keeps on digging.

“You’re used to garden-work, ah?” Caleb asks, suddenly opposite him. 

“Oh.” He’d been humming, not listening — just focusing. He doesn’t look up from the black soil. “It’s what my family does… a lot. Taking care of gardens and — huh…” He uncovers an old shard of deep blue glass and scoops it to one of the big tubs with his spade. “And graves, too.”

He glances at Caleb, with Frumpkin on his shoulders, wearing her tiny harness. His eyebrows are raised in a questioning, interested way. “Graves?” he echoes.

Caduceus hums a confirmation. “Oh, yes. We have a graveyard… My family, uh —” He steps out of the dirt and carefully onto the mossy stone. (Might be a good idea to clean that before anyone slips, as much as he likes moss.) “My family perform eco-burials as work and a form of worship to the Wildmother. All the grounds are holy, so, I suppose tending to them is a sort of ritual for ourselves and others… Our temple is in the centre of the grounds, part of a commune.” 

Caleb nods like he’s thinking. “Interesting,” he says after a moment, scratching Frumpkin’s neck. “I cannot say I am a religious man myself.” 

Caduceus isn’t sure what he’d do without the ritual of worship. He tries to imagine himself going to bed without a prayer beforehand, without incense or a candle or a sachet of herbs by his bed, but all that’s there is a void. Emptiness. 

He’s not sure he likes it.

So he says: “I was raised with it. All my family has been — All our people.”

“Traditional, then?” Caleb asks.

Caduceus crouches down carefully, to start to scrape old slippery moss off the paving stones, and is thankful to not be making eye-contact. He’s not sure what expression he would’ve made. And he’s not sure what exactly Caleb means, just that his meaning behind traditional is one that isn’t what his family is. Caleb’s traditional sounds rigid.

Which, is… hm. 

His family’s traditions are hand-dyed clothes and a huge fire for midsummer, tossing branches in.

“I’m not sure…” Caduceus answers eventually. “Not like the Empire is, at least.”

Caleb nods to himself and leaves it at that. 

The sun dips below the houses midway through the afternoon, not long after a break for soup. It casts the garden in a cold grey gloaming as the windows of surrounding flats slowly turn on, one by one — warm rectangular glows.

Caduceus sighs and stands up straight to stretch. He rolls his wrists, wincing at the horrible click-clunking sounds they make.

“Ewww,” Jester laughs. “Caduceus, your bones.” 

He kneels back down (knees clicking, too, despite braces) besides her and Fjord and Yasha — the last of them left — digging small holes in old plant pots to press bulbs into. Everyone else is done, or washing up, or taking things round to the garden-waste bins. 

“Sorry,” he replies. “Just… crunchy.”

“Yeah! Crunchy and creaky,” Jester exclaims. She covers a trio of tulip bulbs with dark compost and presses it flat with her fingers. “I hope these guys grow and are pink and so pretty.”

“What colour was on the packet?” Fjord asks.

“A mix,” Yasha answers quietly. She sets a pot down, alongside the others — if Caduceus remembers correctly there’s hellebore bulbs inside. It’d be nice if they grew, come late winter. And if the snow-drops Jester mentioned came back too, in the corners, under the apricot tree.

Yasha had nodded when she mentioned them, mumbled something about liking them a lot.

(They’re pale and drooping, head hung, sort of like her. Only she’s definitely not so small.)

“We should make this place totally so pretty like the botanical gardens,” Jester says. “The whole space, I mean. Like in the glasshouses. But also we should get a cute picnic table or something.”

“I don’t think it’s hot enough outside for all the plants in there to grow here,” Fjord replies. 

“I didn’t mean literally, Fjord,” Jester says, grinning. “Just, like, nice flowers.”

Caduceus didn’t even know there were glasshouses or botanical gardens.

“Where are they?” he asks.

“The botanical gardens?” Fjord stands with a grumble. He itches his nose with his muddy glove, getting a smudge on it. “They’re like… see, if you go down — it’s kinda wiggly — if you head toward the university campuses, there’s that bit with the trees you go to, it’s through there if you keep on walking. On the other side of it.”

“The arboretum?”

“Thats the one.” Fjord grunts as he helps Jester to her feet. “It’s kind of connected.”

“Oh.” Caduceus didn’t realise there was more to it. He didn’t think to check. He just likes his route, the feel of his mossy friend beneath his fingertips… “I like the arboretum.” 

“The glasshouses are cool. Got some stuff from the coast.”

“Wow,” Caduceus replies as Jester helps him stand in turn, and then he helps Yasha. “I haven’t been. To the coast, or the glasshouses.”

Jester and Fjord exclaim No way! and What!? at the same time. He smiles because it’s funny, because he’s not sure what else to do except shrug about it.

“They’re very beautiful,” Yasha tells him as they head inside.

𓆱

After dinner, belly full of more soup, Caduceus wonders down a winding road to the nearest post-office, to  send a reply-letter to Belle. Inside is his own colouring sheet, deer-folk drawn just for her, and pressed leaves, different yarn and beads, and the letter itself, so that Ma can read it to her while she jumps on her mini trampoline in her underwear.

(He wrote an awful lot about the slugs in the garden, hiding under everything.)

(She’ll like that.)

When he gets back to the co-op he doesn’t go in the side-door as usual, he keeps walking and pushes through the narrow metal gate. It creaks and whines as he opens it, flattening his ears against his head, scrunching his face up at the no-good bad-textured noise. But, anyway, he wants to check on the garden before heading back upstairs. 

So here he is, standing in the nighttime dark, street-lamps and house-lights reflecting off the blue leaves and his cold breaths. He shivers in his coat, inhales, and, oh — Beau’s standing by the kitchen door and the air smells like weed, foggy and rot-sweet in the cold.

(Want some? Calliope asks, offering a wonky joint.)

So he clears his throat, to try not to frighten anyone, and says: “Hey.”

“Fuck, man,” Beau replies, followed by a big, coughing, exhale. “Hey."

Caduceus waits for her to catch her breath and asks: “What’re you smoking?” as he steps up onto the slippy decking besides her. He misses the woozy, sleepy feeling of the kind Pa grows, the smell of pipe smoke in the garden.   

“Hybrid,” Beau replies after an amused smile. “Its pretty fuckin’ chill though. You want some?” She holds out a blunt to him in a very casual way, almost shrugging. 

Caduceus pauses a moment, because he hasn’t been high for a while.

(Not since…)

He hasn’t ever had anything not home grown either, now that he thinks about it.. but he takes the blunt with a little thank-you nod and rests it between his lips.

Inhales slow.

And holds his breath a moment. Holds the familiar, warm burn inside.

(It’s alright, not the best weed, different from a pipe or a wonky small joint.)

He exhales after a handful of seconds — a good, billowing cloud, silver in the dark.

“Impressive,” Beau says. “I knew you were a stoner.”

Caduceus raises his eyebrows, sort of furrowed, as he passes the blunt back. “Huh. I’m not really.” 

“Uh-huh,” Beau replies, in a way that’s probably sarcastic.

He plays along, because why not? He probably does know a little more than most — has been a little higher. “I can do a smoke trick… make hoops.”

“Fuck yeah. Teach me?”

“Sure. My sister taught me.” He takes the blunt as Beau passes it and inhales, holds it, exhales, slowly pushing out the breath with his tongue. A sequence of rings float out, blue smoke into the dark clouds. They turn golden and then dark again as they pass through the low light from the kitchen door.

“Cool-c-cool-cool,” Beau says. 

And the rest of the time that the blunt lasts she tries to blow smoke rings with Caduceus explaining it to her. And eventually she manages it, with a pleased “Fuck yes.”

Followed quickly by a startled silence as a brighter big-light turns on inside. There’s a beat, two, before she breathes again, because it’s just Fjord, downing a glass of water at the sink.

Then Beau’s laughing again, opening the door to go back inside. Fjord sputters when he sees them, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, blinking a lot. He looks embarrassed. And then quizzical, sniffing the air.

“Chill out. We were smoking,” Beau says, as he opens his mouth to ask.

“I figured,” Fjord replies.

“Smoking weed,” Caduceus clarifies, but judging by their raised-eyebrow smiles he guesses he didn’t need to. Oh well.

Oh well oh well oh well.

He’s just ready for bed now. Awfully sleepy.

“I’m ready for bed, I think,” he tells no one in particular.

Beau nods though, agreeing and muttering something about how she’s already got all her work done for today, and how maybe she’ll watch a movie on her laptop.

(Sometimes Caduceus watches gardening videos on his laptop that the university gave him. He didn’t have one before. Couldn’t afford it.)

(Not that they really have reliable internet at home anyway.)

(Or a television. Just Colton and Calliope’s tiny portable DVD player.)

“Are you off somewhere?” Caduceus asks without really thinking about it, because Fjord has his outdoor shoes on indoors, and his coat on, like them. Maybe he want to do more gardening…

Beau grins. “He’s got a booty call. With —”

“Shut the fuck up,” Fjord interrupts.

“Booty call?” Caduceus echoes. “What’s…?”

“Don’t you dare say another thing,” Fjord says, pointing at Beau, who’s pressing her lips together, holding back laughter so hard that her shoulders shake. “We’re just hanging out. With other friends.” 

“Sure,” Beau manages to say. She clears her throat and straightens, faux-serious. “Sure-sure-sure.”

“Shut up…” Fjord groans.

He runs off not long after, with a quick “I’m outta here”. The side-door clunks shut behind him as he leaves and it locks itself.

Caduceus stands there for a moment, just leaning against the cold wall, still in his coat. And then he’s walking with Beau up the stairs, half-listening to her rant about whoever it is that Fjord’s off to see. Something about it being toxic and there being crazy sex and other things that are too slippery for his sleepy head to hold onto. Mostly it all seems very unhealthy.

“It’s too much shit to get into,” Beau says, as they get to Caduceus’ door, “but she fuckin’ sucks so much.”

𓆱

When its dark-dark, many hours before sunrise, Caduceus blinks and blinks and realises he drank too much tea before bed again. So he’s awake, and there’s no going back to sleep until he does something about it. Despite the grogginess he pushes himself upright, trying to wake up as little as possible as he crosses the hallway to the bathroom.

It happens more often than not — he wakes up and sometimes has to just lie there a while before he sleeps again. Sometimes he’s all sore. Sometimes he’s so dizzy despite lying down. Usually he ends up going to the bathroom and the effort of leaving his bed in the middle of the night sends him back to sleep soon enough.

It’s funny how, in the dark and night-quiet, the toilet flushing and the tap running is so loud.

He flattens his ears against his head, cringing. (Sorry…)

He’s crossing the hallway back to his room, drying his hands on his pyjamas when theres a noise, a creaking, downstairs, and a cold runs through him. He pauses, listening, ears flicking as he stares at the glowing line beneath someone’s door up the hall. The sounds aren’t scary though, and, clearly, folks are still awake despite the muffled nighttime. So he grumbles, with his dizzy head, and peaks down the stairs.

Oh.

Its only Fjord, who yelps, just as quickly covering his mouth.

“Shit,” he whisper-shouts. “Don’t fuckin’ do that!”

Caduceus just breathes, slow. “What?”

“Just, appear. You look like a ghost.”

“Sorry,” Caduceus says, wishing he didn’t, because ghosts are weird in his head, pressing against his back in his bedroom at home. “I was using the bathroom and there was a noise and I thought I ought to check everything was alright… So.”

Fjord is busy straightening his flannel shirt, collar all rumpled and undone, heavy jean jacket in his arms. All of him is messy in the low entranceway light. Disheveled and sort of flushed.

So caduceus says: “That’s silly to go see your ex.” Because it’s true. 

“I— wh—” Fjord stammers, patting himself down. “Alright,” he squeaks, and hurries off down the hall. 

Caduceus leaves him to it, returning to his bed, even though it’s something worth discussing, and it is silly. The ex-girlfriend Beau described didn’t care much for how people felt, including Fjord, and, well, that’s just unkind. A terrible way of going about things. 

Caduceus sinks into his bed, pulls the quilt up to his chin and sleeps soon after.

Chapter Text

Caduceus sits at the upstairs kitchen table and presses seeds into cardboard trays of moist black earth. He digs the hole with his thumb, covers it over with three fingers.

He’s wrapped up in a wool jumper, with woad-dyed leggings beneath a long, uneven, class-project skirt he’s trying on. Thick knitted socks make it so his slippers are snug on his paws. (He’s kicked them half-off, beneath the table, anyway.) It’s cold, a draught through the floorboards, old radiators burbling.

His tail rests in his lap, and his shoulders are aching, in a dull, constant way. Besides him is a half-finished cup of tea that isn’t really steaming anymore. More like bathwater-warm. And it has seedling soil all over the handle.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting, because tucking seeds into dirt-beds is a sort of meditation. It’s a prayer, in a way, complete with humming and muttering beneath his breath. It’s a prayer and an offering to the Mother in the way that tending the garden and graves back home is. He follows Aunt Corrin from old stone to old stone, helping weed the overgrown things and tend to the fragile, opening flowers— to garden, she says as he crouches with his paws full of sticky-willow, is to believe in the future.

So he supposes he believes in a future here, putting down roots in plant pots. He’d like to, even if it makes his head spin, because it feels an awful lot like he’s growing roots where he sits, rocking slowly. (And he feels like he needs a pillow under his bony behind, but that’s besides the point.)

Yeah. Hm.

He hums thoughtfully, instead of subconsciously. And he continues until the seedling tray is done, pushing it aside to water and cover with a lid later, moving onto the small pots for the sorry-looking herbs he’d bought from the supermarket. Mint and thyme, rosemary and coriander, for now. It’d be nice to grow ginger too, but he’ll need to buy some first, to break it up and begin new growth from the knobbly rhizomes.

(All the ginger in our garden, in our greenhouses, has grown from one root our ancestors propagated many centuries ago, Aunt Corrin told him once, in the kitchen as she chopped the fragrant root and revealed it’s yellow insides. It’s a special kind, little deer, not at all like the ginger from the market.)

(He didn’t speak yet, so he signed: It’s better? And Aunt Corrin nodded, laughing.)

For now he’s fashioned a series of salad-leaf planters out of oat milk cartons. And maybe he’ll try regrowing spring onions (leftover from stir fries) in jars, like at home.

Such a lively green, Aunt Corrin says. And beneath: the hum of a dragonfly’s wings, like the big whirring ones around the mossy-edged pools in the garden.

When he turns his head to look there’s nothing. Not even a fly.

And speaking of — a pond, or even a birdbath, would be nice. Maybe he’ll drag a basin out to the damp garden and fill it. With waterlilies in pots at the bottom, blooming white and blush when it’s warm again —

(Their smell appears and is gone.)

He hums some more to clear it further.

His ritual, his slow rocking, is cut-through by gradually approaching footsteps behind him, creaking the old floorboards. His ears flick back as they pause and a throat clears. Ehem.

Sounds like Fjord.

“Afternoon,” Caduceus says and begins arranging the empty seed packets into a neat stack.

“Hey there,” Fjord replies. He lingers like he wants to talk. Caduceus is busy though, arranging his packets and transferring sad-supermarket-coriander from its too-small pot into a nice new one. Good and roomy and not water-logged.

Fjord slides into the seat opposite him anyway. “So… Uh.”

“So?” Caduceus echoes without looking up — these roots need tucked in.

“Can I talk to you about, uh… the other night?”

Caduceus nods, replying: “Sure.” Though he’s not entirely sure what happened — mostly he’s been doing homework and sleeping… He looks up from his black-tipped fingers to Fjord, who’s grinding his teeth and embarrassed, bouncing his leg beneath the table.

Oh. Yes.

He nods slowly, as if to say go on. “About your ex-girlfriend?”

Fjord cringes and clears his throat. “So, yeah. About that. She isn’t… wasn’t. Is not. We were never together like that — Beau let it slip that she told you something.”

Caduceus raises his eyebrows, bobbing his head a little, because, yes, she did tell him something, but also he was very sleepy (and a little high) when she did.

“She did,” he says. “To be honest I don’t really remember… Just that whoever it was seemed not-great. At least Beau didn’t seem to think so.”

“Right.” Fjord leans back in his chair and leans forward again, picking up an empty seed packet to fidget with. “So, the thing is — she’s not great. That’s —Yeah. But she’s also kinda fun, in a way. It’s complicated.”

Caduceus makes an acknowledging noise. Mhm.

“It’s pretty stupid,” Fjord adds.

“Maybe,” Caduceus replies, shrugging. “I admit, I don’t really understand it myself, but y’know…” He trails off because he doesn’t have much more to say. (It’s silly, to him, yes, but Fjord’s also an adult, so… he supposes he’s fully capable of deciding if he’ll do silly things or not.) Instead he pushes his chair back and gets to slowly standing, careful, with a hand on the tabletop in case he needs to steady himself.

“Hey, Deucy,” Fjord says, as he’s starting to move the herbs to the windowsill above the sink. “You think we can keep this just between us? Like, you seeing me sneaking in ’n shit. And Beau I guess. Just, I mean don’t go telling the others.”

When he turns around Fjord is waiting expectantly.

He smiles and half-laughs without meaning to. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Okay, good. Good.” Fjord gives him a thumbs up. And as he’s leaving: “Nice herbs, by the way. They're lookin' real nice.”

Caduceus grins and shakes his head to himself, arranging the pots in a row.

𓆱

Later, it’s time to get back to class work. Homework and other confusing things. He’s maybe been neglecting it a little the past week — sketches and samples for loom weaving, essay plans and dyeing yarn for crochet using gathered alder cones and leftover red cabbage. More printing. More hunching over desks, aching his shoulders. Research, as always.

Between it all he keeps on gardening, and soon it’s filling all his unfilled time, with everything that needs doing. Between showers and getting dressed he’s checking on seedlings, fingers dirty again. Beneath each nail is a crescent of their black soil.

He’s not sure its good for his back — or his knees — but it feels like home.