Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Winters aren’t usually this harsh.

They try, at first, to behave themselves: soft mornings, clouded windows, a meek crispness that might even be called refreshing. But this year, the cold has teeth. It arrives early and without mercy, and now it lives in the cracks of the walls. The floorboards groan with it. Tea cools too quickly. The garden path no longer remembers softness underfoot.

Two Time doesn’t dislike winter for the cold itself, but for how insistently it demands layers. Wool sleeves cling stiffly to their arms, as though the fabric has taken sides.

Last winter, they’d gotten sick because they refused to give up short sleeves — still stubborn, still clinging to the illusion that they were untouchable. That showing skin meant something. That it made them feel more real.

They’d ended up in bed for three days with a fever that blurred the world into strange, shifting colours. Azure, the caring and exasperated friend they are, had come by each day with soup — frowning harder each time they found the windows still cracked open.

When the fever finally breaks and Two Time is upright again — pale, shivering, and still half-buried beneath the quilt — the scolding comes, firm and unrelenting. Something about common sense. Something about dressing for the weather. Something about not being so bloody stubborn just to prove a point.

“You might consider dressing like someone who intends to survive the season.”

It’s the sort of remark that ought to sound casual. It doesn’t.

Two Time remembers staring at them — at Azure, flushed from the wind, scarf slightly askew — and thinking how beautiful it was to be cared for so thoroughly. To be chided, even, with that much feeling. Not politely nor distantly. But with the kind of frustration that implied some part of you mattered.

They’d only nodded at the time, still too tired to argue. But a part of them, deep down, had promised to listen better next year. To be more careful with their body. To wear the damn sleeves.

And they’ve tried. Truly, they have.

…But Spawns, it’s vexing!

They have, for the most part, complied. Long sleeves, buttoned coats, socks thick enough to make their boots tight. The works.

Yet still, they chafe beneath it all. 

The never ending weight of wool, the constraint of collars — winter does not merely cover but seems to muffle them entirely. Each layer pushes them one step further from themselves: hands dulled in mittens, voice swallowed by scarves, thoughts slowed and heavy under cloth that never quite feels like theirs. 

Even the mirror offers no refuge. It does not show them — only someone buried, obscured beneath fabric and expectation, as though the season demands they vanish just to endure it.

But Azure is pleased.

That is, after all, the point.

Azure has made a study of winter precautions. They speak of thermal linings the way one might speak of scripture, with the occasional glance skyward when others defy them. They have an extraordinary ability to be warm without ever appearing bulky, wrapped in practicality as if born to it.

Two Time finds it unbearable. And endearing. But mostly unbearable.

They suppose this is what affection does: it wraps its hands around your foolishness and insists you stay alive anyway.

And even though they may sound like they come across that way: it is not, strictly speaking, Azure’s fault.

They do not nag. They do not gloat. They simply glance — appraisingly, occasionally — and remark with polite satisfaction that someone has finally decided not to tempt death by exposure this year. They never say I told you so. They do not need to.

Two Time bears it as best they can.

Surprisingly, Two Time is not sick this season despite the harsh of it all. It’s a small miracle from the Spawn — or perhaps simply the result of their recent reluctance to sleep near the vents, or their stubborn habit of drinking nothing but boiled water, or their quietly smug belief that they have finally outrun fate.

But that doesn’t mean they enjoy the weather. Spawns, the air is sharp enough to sting at their eyes.

Two Time pulls the new coat tighter around themselves as they make their way down. It isn’t exactly wise to wear something new in this weather, but the coat had been a gift from Amarah, and he’s waited long enough.

They  imagine the way Azure would look today: knee to the ground, brow pinched, the hem of their coat already dark from melted frost. They imagine it with an almost giddy fondness. 

But when they push open the greenhouse door, the warmth inside is accompanied not by that familiar voice, but by Jalen’s. Jalen — kind, capable, endlessly polite. Respected, even. They have no quarrel with Jalen.

But Jalen is not Azure.

He looks up with a grin, breath fogging the glass as he waves. “Ah! I thought I’d beat the frost,” he says, chuckling, cradling a sprig of basil like a newborn.

Two Time blinks once.

Twice.

Then, too cheerily, “Did Azure send you?”

Jalen shakes his head. “No, they said they weren’t feeling quite themselves this morning. I figured I’d step in and give them a bit of a rest.”

A break…

The word strikes strangely in the chest. Azure does not take breaks. Azure works through stomachaches, paper cuts, fatigue, and thunderstorms. They once organized the seed registry during a blackout with nothing but a match and… a lot of vulgar profanities. And never do they skip greenhouse mornings.

“Oh,” Two Time says, too softly for it to be an interruption, and too late for it to be a greeting.

Their eyes pass over the greenhouse like a hand brushing against velvet the wrong way. The windows are cracked open wider than usual — cold seeping in where warmth ought to be caught and kept. A row of terra cotta pots leans just like crooked teeth. The blue ones — Azure’s blue ones — have been tampered with. Not ruined, precisely, but they’re misused. Lettuce, where there should be herbs. The soil is too damp, almost swampy.

They make a sound, half-laugh and half-exhale. “Well,” they murmur. “That’s a sort of… botanical anarchy.”

Jalen chuckles, unaware of Two Time’s sarcasm. “I thought I’d sort them out once everything’s settled.”

Two Time nods — not to Jalen, not to the greenhouse — but only because it is out of habit. Their hand finds the door before their mind finishes the thought, and it closes behind them with a softness that feels accidental.

The warmth holds on for a second. Then it lets go.

They don’t take the usual path back. Their steps slowly curve away from purpose. The corridor yawns open ahead of them, all washed stone and echo. 

There had been dinner. A shared plate. Azure had passed them the salt and yet said nothing.

No cough. No ache in the voice. No visible tiredness around the eyes, though now — now Two Time wonders if they missed it, or if Azure had smoothed it out just in time. They’re like that. Their ability to disappear in plain sight is almost artistic.

Two Time exhales, barely.

When they’re finally in front of Azure’s doorstep, Two Time doesn’t knock. They never do, not when it’s Azure.

The door gives a reluctant creak as it opens, like it's been waiting too long. The air inside is still — not the quiet of peace, but of something paused halfway. 

“Azure?” they call, stepping in.

The day’s usual sermon had been cancelled — a rare thing, announced only the night before. The sky was expected to split open by mid-morning, and the Elders, already disgruntled by roof damage in the east wing, had deemed the meeting hall “unfit for divine gathering.”

A few muttered that it was just an excuse to patch up the beams and repaint the stone due to the harsh snow. Either way, no one had been called in.

Which meant no communal check-ins. No inspections. No passing glimpses in the courtyard. And no one had noticed that Azure hadn’t shown up all day.

Two Time’s eyes catch the familiar shape resting atop the table — their favorite Grayshade hat, folded just so, as if laid down with care rather than tossed aside. The sight unsettles them more than it should. 

Their fingers curl tightly around the edge.

They think back to last night. They shared dinner, laughed quietly over simple things. Then when they’d return to their quarters, the weather turned — a sharp gust howled through, and the lights flickered out, surrendering the room to darkness. 

Two Time remembers pulling their blanket closer, breath slowing to a measured rhythm, and eventually, they fell asleep. But what of Azure? 

No, they shake their head firmly. Azure is strong. Indomitable. They have never witnessed Azure falter, never caught a glimpse of weakness — not a cough, not a tired eye, not even sickness. A blessing from the Spawn, that.

At least, not until a shape stirs beneath the heavy folds of the blankets catches their eye. 

Two Time’s fingers hesitate, then as gently they could, they slightly lift the edge just enough to reveal a familiar face — Azure. Quietly asleep, yet the complexion is softer than usual, tinged with a faint, unnatural pallor. 

When Two Time’s hand moves forward, brushing Azure’s forehead with careful tenderness, a flush of warmth greets their touch.

Two Time’s fingers rest then lightly on Azure’s shoulder, the warmth there is like a faint pulse beneath the fabric. It is too quiet in the room even though the wind outside beats against the windows like a restless tide. They stay frozen, afraid to break the silence but aching to speak.

Azure is always so strong, they think, the kind of person that never cracks. So why does this feel like a secret they’re hiding? The thought makes the skin along their spine prickle.

But they swallow hard, they’re unprepared for vulnerability. To witness Azure like this — so unguarded, so alone like this — stirs something unfamiliar inside them. 

A fierce protectiveness, perhaps, mixed with an unexpected tenderness. They realize how rare, how precious this moment is: the one time they see past the armor, and into something profoundly human.

It sends a rush through their veins. 

After all, no one — no living soul — has seen Azure like this before. Not even up until the Elders in the community. And that’s exactly why it feels like something only they’re meant to witness.

To anyone else, Azure might look almost unfamiliar without their hat — like a piece of their usual self has slipped away, leaving something rather raw and exposed. 

But to Two Time, it feels like a fracture only they can see, a secret wound they alone are meant to tend to.

Two Time is not, by any means, considered a gentle person. They are opinionated, acerbic, frequently irritable, and often wrong — though never in ways they will admit aloud. But they are also a person of habit, and more dangerously, a person of feeling. Their affections, once formed, have the unfortunate tendency to deepen into permanence, often without their consent.

And so, it is perhaps not so surprising — though it remains deeply inconvenient — that they find themselves seated at Azure’s bedside long after any reasonable excuse has expired.

Two Time thinks to themselves: what would Azure do in this situation? 

They do not fidget. That would be too obvious. But their eyes linger too long on the uneven fold of the blanket, on the small dip in Azure’s brow, on the quiet of the room that grows less peaceful by the minute.

Their hands twitch. Twice.

And then, with all the resolve of a martyr, Two Time rises.

The kettle is old. Ornery. The handle squeaks in protest as they fill it. The flame stutters. And they — they stand there, arms crossed, staring down a tin of loose leaf tea like it might give them instructions if properly intimidated.

They think again, harder this time.

What would Azure do?

They’d measure. Patiently. With that little spoon they keep in the drawer with the stained handle and bent neck — the one Two Time once tried to throw out, not knowing it was apparently special. They’d hum, maybe, something that doesn’t quite count as music but still makes the room feel lived in.

Two Time does not like to hum while making tea. 

They do, however, locate the spoon. It’s wedged behind a chipped mug that says “Property of No One” in peeling letters — Azure’s, obviously. It’s evidence of Azure’s particular affection for things both dramatic and unfixable. 

As for the rest of the kitchen: it too belongs to them, in the same quiet, possessive way a cat claims a windowsill. Even the crooked clock above the pantry door, which ticks with an audibly inconsistent beat, seems to persist here only because Azure allows it.

Two Time measures the tea with the same confidence they apply to most domestic tasks: inconsistent and ultimately misplaced. First too much, then too little, then too much again. They shake it out into the strainer with the vague hope that intention might outweigh technique. 

It doesn’t work out. As expected. 

Still, the scent rises: earthy, sharp, the kind Azure claims is best for a “stubborn” throat. (Two Time had, at the time, taken mild offense at the phrasing.)

The kettle, meanwhile, has not deigned to boil. It grumbles in its corner like an elderly relative who disapproves of the company.

Two Time stares at it with the particular intensity of someone considering an act of violence against an inanimate object. 

They don’t like the sounds it makes.

It would be so very easy to lift the lid and reprimand it with a clang — to vent their own restlessness under the guise of releasing steam.

But Azure would never stoop to such things. Azure would wait. With grace. With patience. Possibly with that maddening, fond little smile they wear when someone else is doing something wrong.

So Two Time settles back against the counter instead, arms crossed as if to barricade themselves against further introspection. They do not pace — though the idea presents itself temptingly, and must be dismissed more than once before it finally retreats.

No, Azure would not pace. Azure would wait. Perhaps humming something under their breath. Perhaps standing exactly where the light falls in through the window, like a painting no one dares to adjust.

The kettle whistles at last — shrill and triumphant, as if taking credit for its own delay. Two Time pours the water slowly, as though this, at least, might be done properly. The leaves shudder and darken beneath the steam. The smell shifts. It softens. It settles.

Something in them clenches.

The tea steeps.

They do not set a timer. Azure never needs one. They simply know — when the water is ready, when the tea is done, when someone is about to speak but cannot find the words. They always seem to know when something has become what it was meant to be. 

Two Time watches the tea, as if it might offer instruction. There is, undeniably, a kind of ceremony in the waiting. Then they wonder if Azure is awake yet.  

It seems impossible to imagine them still asleep at this time — and yet, more impossible still to imagine them not asleep, and simply lying there, conscious and quiet, waiting for the day to begin without them. That is not like Azure. Azure begins the day whether or not it wants beginning. Azure is the beginning — of tasks, of bustle, of small chaos. To imagine them stilled is to imagine the sun hesitating to rise.

Two Time picks up the mug by its handle, tests the weight like it might suddenly grow teeth and bite them. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. It’s warm, steady. (They hate that word, but it fits here, somehow. Not because the tea is anything remarkable — but because it’s for them . And that makes it different.)

The community does not allow medicine. It is written, and it is known. Illness is the body’s reckoning — a passage to be endured, not circumvented. Roots, leaves, whispered blessings — these are permitted. These are sacred. But nothing foreign. Nothing fast. 

They carry it back into the room like something fragile, like a bird that might take off mid-step.

Azure has not moved.

Their hair clings damply to their skin, a few strands pressed across the hollow of their cheek. The rest is swept back haphazardly, as if by a worried hand. Their breathing is shallow but rhythmical, the sound of it soft. 

The fever remains. It does not rage — no, it rules. Their cheeks are flushed with the wrong kind of colour: too red, too restless, as if even the blood in their body disagrees with this stillness.

Two Time sinks into the chair beside the bed. It creaks beneath them, accusatory, too loud in this space. They place the mug on the table, careful not to let porcelain touch wood with too much force.

It feels almost ceremonial. Together, they look like laying down an offering. Not gifts, not tokens. Here, says the gesture. Here is warmth, in the only form I know how to offer it.

“Azure,” they murmur, voice softened at the edges.

Nothing.

Their gaze drifts. The fever has drawn sweat to Azure’s brow, a gleam like morning dew, but too hot. Wrong. Their hands move before they think — reaching again, not to check, but to pretend. To pretend they are capable. That they are doing something. That they are not helpless.

They smooth a strand of hair away from Azure’s temple, the gesture gentle, almost reverent. Their fingers linger longer than they should.

Their chest tightens with the weight of it all.

Last year, it had been them — crumpled under their own fever, stubborn and unwilling to admit they needed care. And Azure had come every day. Without complaint. Without hesitation. Not for thanks. Just… because it was them.

They hadn’t even asked for it.

“It’s a test of endurance for the Spawn,” they’d told them at the time, with their voice rough and cracking. “Do not worry for me.”

And Azure had just tilted their head, unimpressed. “Then endure while I change the cloth.”

And now — this.

“Spawn,” they mutter, not as a prayer, but as an exhale — a shape to fill the air. Their own hands hover again at Azure’s forehead, not to test the heat — they already know it’s too much — but for the illusion of control. Of doing something. Of trying.

“If you’re trying to make a point,” they murmur, with the faintest hint of a smile that doesn’t reach their eyes, “it’s a bit dramatic. Even for you.”

But even so, they hope Azure will pass and recover.

They rise slowly, knees stiff from too long in one place. The chair complains beneath them as they stand, the sound loud in the hush of the room. They hesitate only a moment before tucking the blanket more firmly around Azure’s shoulders. It’s a small gesture, probably unnecessary — and still, they do it.

Calla will know what to bring. She always does. Her knowledge of healing is as natural to her as Azure’s knowledge of plants. She keeps bundles of dried roots hanging above her windowsill, and her fingers always smell faintly of them. She doesn’t ask questions unless they matter.

Two Time makes it halfway across the room, hand already grazing the edge of the doorframe, when the sound comes — a low, soft breath that falters into something almost like a gasp. They turn at once. 

Azure’s hand is reaching toward them, fingers trembling with the effort, catching lightly at their wrist before they can pull away.

It is not a strong grip. It hardly qualifies as a grip at all. But it holds them still.

Azure’s eyes are open, though only barely, the fever still clinging to their lashes. Their gaze is unfocused, lost somewhere between waking and whatever dream-sick realm the fever has dragged them into. There is no recognition in it — not yet — but there is a kind of helpless urgency that makes Two Time feel, all at once, very small.

They lower themselves back beside the bed, one knee to the floor, as if compelled by something older and deeper than instinct. They speak softly, afraid that anything louder might hurt. “I’m only going to Calla,” they murmur, voice careful, gentler than they have ever used with anyone. “She’ll bring what you need. I won’t be long.”

But Azure’s fingers tighten — faintly, just enough to stop them.

And when they try to speak, no real sound emerges. Only the shape of it, barely formed. It is not a plea, not quite. It is simply want. And perhaps fear.

Two Time bows their head, unable to look away from the way Azure’s fingers press into their skin. The air in the room feels thick, clotted with heat and something far more suffocating — the kind of fear that grows in silence, in unanswered prayers, in the knowledge that the Spawn will not bring fever down simply because they are asked.

“I’ll stay,” they say at last — not because it is wise, nor safe, nor even sensible. Only because the thought of leaving feels unthinkable.

Azure does not move. Their hand remains where it has fallen: warm, unsteady, and clinging just enough to betray the truth. It is not a plea. It is not permission. But it is something. And Two Time understands it, wordlessly.

So they stay.

They do not rise, nor shift, nor speak again. Their knees being bitten by the worn floorboards, and the world around them fades. Not in a dramatic and cinematic way, but in the way steam disappears against glass: quietly, gradually, as if it was never truly solid to begin with.

They will send for Calla later — they will think of the proper thing to do, the responsible names to call, the urgent steps to follow. But not now.

Now, there is only this: the warmth of Azure’s skin against their own. The pulse that jumps faintly beneath their fingers. The weight of what has not been said, hanging between them like a breath no one dares exhale.

They remain there, not as a hero or healer, not as anything extraordinary — only as someone who refuses to go. Because they cannot. Because something in them bends, helpless and hollow, when Azure grips their hand like that.

And though nothing has been asked, and no answer spoken, Two Time knows. They are exactly where they are meant to be.

Azure does not think of winter as cruel, not at first. It arrives shyly this year, cloaking the place in a hush that they think feels more like reverence than warning. The cold creeps in through the floorboards, curls beneath the blankets, fogs the corners of the glass panes — but it does not bite yet. It merely rests its chin on the window sill and watches.

They take this as a sign that there is time. Time enough to breathe, to walk the gardens one more time before frost stiffens the soil, to work with their hands before it becomes too bitter to hold a needle with balance. 

The others are harvesting and preserving what they can, drawing broths and powders and bitter-smelling oils from root and bark, but Azure has always been poor at hurrying. And besides — it is their leisure season. There are no seeds to press into dirt, no vines to coax, no leaves to read. Only the luxury of time, and a quiet desire to make something for someone else.

They begin with the orchid. Calla had once said she admired the slender kind, the ghostly pale ones that bloom like snow suspended in air. It is not difficult to coax one into blossom — a few late nights in the glasshouse, a tincture made from crushed saltbloom and boiled marrow-root — and it opens on the fourth day, trembling but beautiful. A gift for luck, for warmth, for no reason at all.

Two Time’s is harder.

Azure tells themself this is just how gifting goes — that some people are simply easier to make things for. Calla, for instance, has always made it easy. Her presence is light, her smile clear, her appreciation so generous it almost feels like praise. The orchid they chose for her is not a struggle. Pale and careful, with a ribbon wrapped loosely around the pot, it sits now by the window, collecting the last slant of light. It looks like something that belongs to her.

But Two Time — no, Two Time is not easy. Azure spends three full days pretending to deliberate, but they know from the first moment that they want to make gloves. They pretend to consider other things: a scarf, maybe, or a carved charm of some sort, or even one of their teas, something to help them sleep. But none of it fits. It isn’t that those things are bad gifts — it’s that Azure can already feel how Two Time would hold them. How their hands would hover too gently. How they’d murmur thanks, soft and quick, and set it down like something too delicate to touch again. It isn’t rejection, not exactly. But Azure would feel it in their chest all the same, like something hollow pressed too thin.

So: gloves.

Black, fingerless. Like the pair Azure always wears when they work before the sun’s fully up. Two Time borrows their extras often enough — always without asking, always grumbling afterward that Azure’s hands are far too small — and yet they wear them anyway, with that familiar, half-annoyed shrug that never quite hides the fact that they kept them on longer than they needed.

Yes, gloves will do.

And still, Azure starts over three times. They pick the wrong thread the first time, then stitch too tight the second, and then undo everything by candlelight just because they don’t like how the thumb sits. The cloth is good this time — soft, but thick enough for early frost — and the lining is nettle thread, something they harvested in autumn. It’ll help hold in the warmth. They think about embroidering something — their initial, maybe — but the idea makes their stomach lurch. That would be too obvious. That would feel like saying it aloud.

They’re careful with it. Not just the sewing, but everything. The folding. The way they smooth the seams out flat. The way they don’t let their hands tremble, even when they start to feel the ache deep in their knuckles. It’s nothing, probably. Overwork. The kind that comes from too many hours bent forward, eyes strained, shoulders drawn high. Their head has been aching more than usual lately — that dull pressure just behind the eyes — and their throat is always dry in the mornings. Yesterday they coughed hard enough to make their chest seize, but that was probably just the firewood. It’s dusty, this time of year. It settles in the walls.

They do not stop working.

Because it matters. That’s the truth of it — that Two Time’s opinion matters too much. That Azure cannot bear the thought of their work being left untouched on a shelf somewhere, mistaken for something polite. It has to be used. It has to be worn. Even once would be enough.

By the time they finish, the light outside has gone soft and cold. Dusk settles into the corners of the house. The orchid is already asleep — its petals curled faintly inward, as if drawing breath. The gloves sit beside it, plain and undecorated.

Azure doesn’t move for a while. Their fingers feel clumsy now. The tips burn, and they cannot tell if it’s from the needle or something else. They close their eyes. Their temples pulse slow and dull, like a bruise beginning somewhere deep inside.

They are just tired.

That is all.

They will rest tonight. Tomorrow, they’ll deliver the gifts. There is no rush. No reason to worry.

There is still time.

They are not certain when they first begin to drift — only that time starts behaving differently. The hours do not pass so much as seep through the walls, curling around them like fog. Their breath is no longer smooth. There is a heat gathering beneath the sternum, not exactly sharp like fever, but clinging and persistent, as if the smoke from last week’s hearth never truly cleared and has taken residence behind their ribs.

Their limbs feel too full — not with strength, but with that strange, slow heaviness that no amount of rest seems to ease. Even sleep does not want them; it gives only fragments. They wake to the sound of their own breathing and cannot tell if it is morning. It is difficult to lift their arms. Difficult, even, to care that the blanket has fallen off again.

They wonder if this is what it means to fall ill — not a sudden collapse, but a quiet surrender, piece by piece, until the simplest movements feel distant. 

They cannot recall the last time they drank something warm. They meant to boil water yesterday, or perhaps the day before, but the thought keeps slipping away before they can act on it. 

And still, somewhere beneath the slow unraveling, a more stubborn thread persists: they must not be sick. They cannot be. There are things left to give.

They haven’t been sick in a long time. Not like this.

The last time, they were somewhere else entirely — younger, alone, and not yet anyone worth missing. They remember curling up beneath a leaking roof, counting raindrops like a clock. No one had noticed then. There’d been no knock at the door, no one checking in with a quiet meal or warm cloth.

This is different. It has to be. 

They’re not that person anymore. Here, they matter. They tend the garden. They sit in on meetings. They know the names of everyone’s children, and people smile when they walk past. If they were to disappear now — just for a day, even — someone would notice.

That thought should bring comfort, but it doesn’t. It presses against them in a different way. The knowledge that this body, suddenly so unreliable, is still needed. That to falter now would mean disappointing someone. And not just someone.

Two Time.

Azure closes their eyes, feeling again the heat that won’t leave, the ache of a hundred small muscles that seem to rebel against movement. Their breath scratches faintly on the inhale.

Not now, they think.

Not when there's still so much to do.

Their eyelids stick when they try to open them.

The pillow’s too warm under one cheek, and when they shift — slowly, groggy — it feels like their bones creak under the weight of their own skin. Their breath comes out thick. It scratches at their throat on the way up, and for a second they don’t recognize the sound they make — a weak, rattling cough that doesn’t even echo properly.

Something’s off.

Not just the ache behind the eyes or the heat pulsing behind the nose, but the quiet. They know the room isn’t empty.

They don’t look, not yet. They reach up to touch their own face first. Their fingers are dry. Forehead, temple, the bridge of their nose — too warm. That wrong kind of warmth that doesn’t come from blankets or the sun. Something feverish. Something clinging.

Then they hear it: a voice. Familiar. Not his.

“Ah,” says Calla softly. “I thought something had happened.”

Azure turns toward the sound. Her shape is there beside the bed — blurred at the edges, backlit by the light coming through the curtain. Her voice doesn’t match the sharpness of their memory. She sounds more relieved than scolding.

“…How did you know?” Their voice catches. They hate how it sounds. Like someone else’s.

“It was a hunch,” Calla says, tilting her head a little. “You didn’t come by yesterday. Or this morning. That’s not like you. I’m aware it’s your leisure time, but you usually spend it with Two Time, or out in the garden. And this time… you weren’t in either place.”

They close their eyes briefly. Try to remember how long it’s been since they last stood outside, or made tea, or swept the dust off the windowsill. All the days have slipped into one again.

“I told Jalen you asked me for a break,” Calla adds. “I didn’t want you getting scolded by the Elders or anyone. You’re always working yourself to the bone.”

That lands heavier than it should. They wish it didn’t. 

“…Thanks,” they murmur. The word feels too small for how grateful they are.

Calla doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t ask permission or hesitate like others might; she simply reaches forward and lifts the grayshade hat from Azure’s head. 

Her fingers move carefully, knowing, like someone folding back a curtain to let light in, not to intrude, only to see more clearly. The fabric gives easily beneath her touch, limp with use and warmth, and she smooths it once before placing it down on the table beside them with a kind of intentional softness.

Azure watches the motion unfold but doesn’t move to stop it, though on another day, in another hour, they might have bristled at the touch. They’re aware of how their boundaries fray when they’re sick, how everything feels a little too close and not close enough at once, but there’s no energy in them now to pull back or to speak, and so they let the hat go without protest, eyes fluttering once, slow and tired.

Calla settles back with that same quiet ease, and though her scarf hides most of her face, Azure feels the shape of her smile anyway, a smile not wide or eager but calm, like sunlight filtered through a window — warm without asking for anything particular in return.

“I’ll pray for your wellness,” she says, and the words don’t come dressed in pity or ceremony, only in the same soft steadiness she’s carried with her since she joined the community. “Surely the Spawn will be merciful.”

Azure nods, just barely — a small, tired tilt of the head that Calla seems to accept without needing more. The door clicks softly behind her a moment later, and then it’s quiet again. Quiet in a way that settles into the bones.

Left alone, they sink a little deeper into the blankets, eyes half-closed, the silence around them thick with a silence that makes a person notice their own breathing. The breathing that leaves too much space for thought.

They were meant to go out today. But the day has passed them by.

They let out a slow breath, although not quite a sigh.

Tomorrow, maybe.

Or the day after that.

They don’t remember falling asleep again, but the thick, woozy drag of their limbs tells them they’ve been gone for a while. Something pulses just above their temple — a dull, rhythmic throb that doesn’t scream, but insists. It curls low behind the eyes, patient and nagging, like one of the younger ones tugging at a sleeve. 

They shift slightly, and the pillow’s warmth has turned clammy beneath their cheek. The air tastes stale.

They want to sleep again — not because they need to, but because they don’t want to move. It’s lazy, and they know it. They want to slack off, curl deeper into the warmth of their blankets and let the world move without them for once. Just today. They’ll apologize later.

They know the warnings. That idleness is dangerous. That it opens the door to selfishness, to indulgence, to the kind of rot the Spawn despises. But they can’t bring themselves to care, not right now.

They’ve worked hard — harder than anyone asked them to. The irrigation trench is holding. The compost bins are turning. The garden’s stronger for what they’ve done. Isn’t that enough?

Maybe not forever. But maybe, for today.

The sound drags them up from sleep — not gently, but with a kind of insistence that seeps into their skull. At first, they don’t know what they’re hearing. It blurs in with the throb behind their temple, a dull and heavy pressure like a bruise that hasn’t bloomed yet.

Then it sharpens: wind.

Loud, restless wind, battering the outer walls like it’s trying to get in. Azure blinks slowly, vision swimming as they stare toward the window. For a moment they wonder if they’re dreaming again. The cold is real, though. It sinks in through the blanket, settles at their toes and wrist bones, hangs in the air like mist.

They hadn’t expected it to be like this.

It was supposed to be a mild season — that’s what they’d thought. They’d even laughed about it with Two Time, saying the wind this year felt soft, almost too soft, like the earth had forgotten how to be cruel. But now, it groans in the corners of the house. It whistles through unseen cracks.

Azure swallows, careful in the way one does when their throat aches and every movement feels like sandpaper. The sound that follows — an abrupt rattle from outside — makes them flinch. Maybe it’s a loose pot, or the old chime by the garden arch. Whatever it is, it reminds them how small the room is, how thin the walls feel, how loud the silence becomes once the noise is gone.

They weren’t ready for this kind of winter.

Then they hear it — the door creaking open with the kind of caution that only someone suspicious or guilt-ridden uses. Azure peeks through one eye, fully expecting the soft footfalls and pleasant hum of Calla. But no. It's them.

Two Time.

Oh no.

They do not want to see them at this time.

Azure shuts their eyes immediately, like a child who thinks being still enough can reverse time. They bury themselves under the blanket with the speed of someone evading divine punishment, limbs tucking in, heart pounding like a guilty drum. If they don’t move, if they don’t breathe too loud, maybe they’ll think they’re asleep. Or dead. Either is preferable to being perceived right now — hair a mess, mouth dry, cheeks flushed in the worst way.

They try not to think about how obvious the act is. The sudden silence. The dramatic cocooning. The fact that their blanket just rustled like a tarp in a storm.

Please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me.

“Azure?” they call out — careful, tentative, like someone checking for ghosts rather than greeting a friend. Perhaps it’s the tone. Or it’s just Two Time’s way of trying not to spook anyone, though they’re usually the spookiest one in the room. 

Azure does not respond. Obviously. The dead don’t speak, and neither do mortified and embarrassed botanists who’ve just woken up with pillow lines on their cheek and a mild case of spiritual guilt. 

They pull the blanket over their head in one motion, like a magician’s final trick. Ta-da. No one here.

They tighten the blanket around them like a shroud and will their pulse to slow down. if they stay perfectly still, they’ll get bored and leave. Go water their weird mushrooms. Go ruin Amarah’s morning.

They squeeze their eyes shut and concentrate very hard on the concept of disappearance.

But the footsteps don’t retreat.

Of course not. 

A soft creak of floorboards. Then another.

Azure, still firmly in blanket exile, contemplates the likelihood of spontaneous combustion. It’s never happened in recorded history, but today might be the day. They imagine it in vivid detail: their entire body just poofing into a fine mist of embarrassment in front of a confused and upset Two Time.

Instead, what actually happens is worse.

They feel the blanket shift. Not a lot — just the faintest tug, testing the edge.

No. No, no, no...!!!

The silence, at first, feels like a small triumph. Azure remains curled beneath the blanket, heart caught somewhere between panic and hope. Two Time has not spoken again. Has not tapped their shoulder. Has not, with their usual dramatic flair, insisted they rise at once or explain themselves. 

It is strange.

Too strange.

Azure listens closely, each sound in the room now impossibly loud. The faint creak of floorboards, deliberate and soft-footed. A pause — and then a shuffle near the corner where the herbs are kept. A tin is opened. Something is poured. The kettle hums to life with a sigh.

They peek, just barely, one eye slipping open beneath the fold of the blanket.

Two Time is standing? Leaning? — no, resting — against the counter. They are still. Not pacing, not muttering, not fidgeting with the laces on their coat or the hem of their sleeves. They are simply waiting, arms crossed, gaze distant. They’re lost in thought.

 It looks almost… gentle.

There’s something strange about seeing them like this — patient and domestic.

The scent of herbs rises slowly, earthy and sharp, a comfort Azure doesn’t feel they deserve.

They shut their eyes again.

When the kettle begins to whistle, it is almost a relief. The noise breaks whatever spell had settled, and with it comes movement: the scrape of a mug being placed down, the soft clink of a spoon. Two Time moves with unexpected quiet, like they’re still trying not to wake anyone.

“Azure,” they say at last.

Soft. Uncertain.

Azure does not answer. No, they simply cannot.

Not without giving something away — not without lifting their head, meeting Two Time’s eyes, and admitting to this entire miserable performance.

That they had heard them the whole time.

That they had felt a bloom of warmth, then shame, then dread, just from the sound of their name said gently.

That they had waited, heart pounding and breath shallow, for the moment Two Time would come over and demand an explanation — and then been confused, almost disappointed, when they didn’t.

To answer would be to unravel all of that. To confess to how much of their silence was just stubbornness, and how much was fear.

It would mean letting Two Time see how fragile they really felt — how all the bravado and cool indifference was a paper-thin shield stretched over something raw.

And they couldn’t do that.

So they keep still. Keep quiet. Pretend their breath is deeper, more even, like they’ve finally fallen asleep. They dig their nails into the corner of the blanket, just enough to anchor themselves in the act.

Because if they speak now — if they let even a single sound slip out — they aren’t sure they’ll be able to keep the rest of it from following.

There’s a pause. Then something mumbled, too low to catch. And then, more clearly:

“If you’re trying to make a point, it’s a bit dramatic. Even for you.”

Azure flinches. They squeeze their eyes shut and will themselves to sink into the mattress.

They don’t want to talk. They don’t want to explain the way they feel, or why they had slept so late, or why they still feel so heavy in their chest, like something unnamed is curling just beneath the surface.

They want to sleep.

But it’s difficult to rest with Two Time in the room.

There’s always been a strange alertness that coils in them when Two Time is near — not quite fear, but something tangled and hot and sharp-edged, like a warning bell that never stops ringing.

Eventually, the footsteps retreat.

Azure opens their eyes fully this time, slowly, guiltily.

They catch a glimpse of Two Time’s back — the unmistakable slope of their shoulders. They turn toward the door. Almost about to leave.

…They don’t want that.

Something about the sight jolts them — a sharp pull in the chest, as if their ribs are trying to reach out on their behalf. They don’t think. They barely even breathe.

Their body moves first.

A hand reaches out from beneath the covers, catching Two Time’s fingers — awkwardly, almost clumsily, like they hadn’t meant to grab so hard.

They don’t know what to say.

Their throat still feels thick, and their voice — if it even exists right now — would be small and pitiful. A croak. Something undignified. So they say nothing. 

They can’t, really. Not with the way their chest aches with every breath. Even now, Two Time’s voice still feels too far off, like it’s being filtered through layers of fog. Azure can’t make out the words — just the sound of them, warm and quiet and full of something they don’t have the strength to name.

But they look.

They look at Two Time with everything they’ve got left — their eyes are wide and heavy, still rimmed red from whatever cold or fever this is. There’s no eloquence in it. Just a kind of quiet pleading, like: Please stay. I don’t want to be alone.

And somehow, somehow, Two Time gets it.

They don’t turn back toward the door. They don’t sigh, don’t say anything clever or cruel, don’t even give that exasperated shake of the head Azure has come to expect by now. Instead, they stay — simply and wordlessly — as if the act of remaining here costs them nothing at all.

Azure doesn’t say thank you. They can’t. Not with their throat still raw and their pride still stinging, not with everything too tender to touch. But when they close their eyes again, the ache in their chest eases just enough to let in something quieter, something gentler. Relief, maybe. Or the fragile feeling of being understood without having to speak at all.

The air feels warmer somehow, though the blanket hasn’t shifted. The silence no longer feels so hollow. And even if they drift off again in a haze, some part of them stays just aware enough to know: they’re not alone. Not right now.

There have been times when Azure was tired — worn out from long hours in the sun or too many sleepless nights hovering over books and plant pots. Two Time knows those versions of tired. They have a routine for them: tea, a fun comment, maybe a nudge toward the nearest chair. It usually works.

But this… this is different.

The moment they stepped into the room and saw that lump of blanket curled up on the cot with the grayshade on the table — Two Time knew something was off. Not just exhaustion, not just one of Azure’s rare sulks.

They watch as Azure lifts the mug with both hands, fingers curled delicately around the ceramic, like it might slip if they’re not careful. Each sip is slow — hesitant, almost, as though they’re unsure whether the warmth will help or betray them. 

“You added a lot,” Azure murmurs at last, their voice barely louder than the steam still rising from the cup. It sounds wrong. Not just hoarse, but thinner somehow — like something frayed at the edges, unspooling slowly. 

Two Time raises an eyebrow. “Of the good stuff.”

Two Time doesn’t push. They don’t mention the way Azure keeps shivering, even with the tea cupped close to their mouth, or how their shoulders droop a little more with every breath like the heaviness of the weather is still pressing down on them.

They don’t talk much after that. There isn’t really a need to.

By the time the mug is empty and the color’s slightly come back just barely to Azure’s cheeks, Two Time gathers it up and brushes past with nothing more than a nod.

They’ll come back. That much, Azure finally believes.

Chapter Text

The snow doesn’t fall so much as it gathers — coats the sills, presses down on roofs, pools grey at the base of boots left too long outside. It clings to the inside of sleeves, soaked through by the time Two Time shrugs off his coat and lets it slump over the peg by the door.

Two Time does not speak as they prepare to leave. They move through the small room, setting each object in its place as though tidiness might ward off dread. The fire is quiet now, its breath shallow. The basin has been emptied. The mug has been rinsed and turned upside down on the shelf.

They do not check whether Azure sleeps. If Azure stirs, they do not call out.

And especially no farewell. That sort of thing would imply something final.

When Two Time opens the door, the cold receives them with its usual indifference. They step out into the muffled world, boots vanishing ankle-deep with each movement. The air carries no scent. The colour has been drawn from the trees, the sky, the road ahead — leaving everything a singular grey, as if the day has forgotten how to be itself.

They walk without ceremony. One foot, then the next. They pass fences buried nearly to the top rail, paths that have not been trod in days, the smoke of other homes curling listlessly upward. Calla lives near the east grove, past the old mill, in the house with the crooked stair. They know the way.

They do not hurry. They have never liked to hurry.

Besides — they do not expect comfort. Only an answer. Or failing that, the smallest certainty. Something they might take back with them, folded in a pocket, and offer to Azure without saying a word.

The walk is long, but not unfamiliar.

They have made it before to her house with Calla, though not in this weather, and not with this particular silence accompanying them. The snow does not part for them; it yields with resistance, slow and grudging, clinging to their hems and soaking into the wool. The cold is no longer sharp. It has dulled itself into something worse, something patient. A waiting thing.

The trees thin near the grove, their limbs bare, brittle-looking, not quite skeletal. Beneath them, the path narrows into a kind of memory. No marks, no recent prints, only the faintest dip where footsteps once passed and snow now fills in. They follow it anyway. Habit is stronger than sight.

Calla’s house appears without preamble. It does not emerge from the trees so much as it asserts itself between them — a low, slanted roof, a crooked stair, windows curtained in waxed cloth and not much light. Smoke escapes the chimney in a line so thin it nearly vanishes. The door is closed. The stoop swept clear.

They pause at the bottom step, then they lift a hand and knock — twice, then once more, softer.

At first, nothing.

Then, the sound of a latch, and the door opens inward with a creak that suggests no one has troubled to oil the hinges in some time. Calla stands just beyond, beautifully wrapped in a shawl that has seen better seasons, her hair pulled back. Her expression does not shift upon seeing them.

“You came,” she says.

Two Time nods once.

Calla steps back, enough to allow entry, and they pass through the doorway into a room that feels the same as it always has. There are no unnecessary things here. No clutter. No warmth, except the kind one earns. It’s fitting for a person as gentle as her.

Calla gestures to a bench near the stove. “You may take your boots off here.”

They do. As slowly, precisely. The laces have stiffened from wet, and their fingers do not move easily. They set the boots side by side on the mat and do not speak until they are seated, hands resting against their knees, eyes on the knotted floorboards.

Calla moves to the stove, lifts the lid of the kettle, and tilts her head as if listening to its contents. “You’ll have tea,” she says, and it is not a question. She reaches for a jar on the shelf, tapping a small measure of leaves into a cup before setting the kettle to pour. The steam curls upward, carrying a faint scent of something floral, something faintly sweet.

They do not thank her aloud, but their shoulders ease, just slightly, at the sound of liquid meeting cup.

Calla sets the tea in front of them and takes her own seat across the table, folding her hands around her knees. She does not hurry them. Her gaze is steady, her manner patient, as though she has already decided they will speak when they are ready, and not before.

She’s always so calculated.. even if she’s no longer as shy as she was when she first joined the community.

“You’ve walked a long way,” she says at last. “And not for the sake of a visit.”

Two Time keeps their eyes on the cup, watching the leaves sway in the pale gold water. They nod once.

“Tell me. Is this of Azure?”

Two Time nods, a bit embarrassed that she’s already known. When they explain — though not everything, the words come unevenly, halting when they feel too close to confession. They speak of Azure’s illness, the fever that lingers, the remedies they have tried. They tell of how the air in the room feels heavier, how they wake at sounds that are not quite calls for help but not far from it.

When they stop, Calla’s expression softens, her hands folding more loosely in her lap. “You’ve done well,” she says. “Better than most.”

Two Time looks up at that. “Then why… how can I ease him other than prayers? I am aware it’s a test from the Spawn, but—”

Calla shakes her head gently, as though smoothing the question away. “Illness doesn’t always answer to skill. Or to care. But there are things that might ease the strain — for you both.”

She stands, moving to a low cupboard, and begins to sort through its contents: jars of dried roots, bundles of herbs tied in twine, small paper packets with handwritten labels. Her hands are careful.

When she returns, she places a small cloth bundle on the table between them. “For the fever. And for rest. Brew it with water just off the boil. Twice a day.”

Her eyes meet theirs, warm and certain. “And when you give it to them, stay. Even if you think you should be doing something else. Sit there. Let them know you are there.”

Two Time draws the bundle toward them, the fabric cool beneath their fingertips. They nod once, not trusting their voice, and fold it neatly into their coat pocket.

Calla does not press them for thanks. She only rises again to refill her own cup, then leans her hip against the edge of the table, watching them without judgement. “You’ll be tired by the time you’re home,” she says. “As always, take your time on the road back. The weather so far has no need of you rushing.”

They nod again, but this time it carries more of agreement rather than mere acknowledgement.

When they stand, Calla moves ahead of them to the door, sweeping the stoop clear with the toe of her boot before they step out. “If there’s trouble,” she says quietly, “send word. Even if it’s only a scrap of paper through a neighbour’s hands.”

The cold meets them once more as the door closes behind. The snow is deeper than when they arrived, fine powder drifting across the old path they had made, erasing it with a steady persistence.

They walk without ceremony, as before. One foot, then the next. But the bundle in their pocket feels heavier than it should — not a burden, exactly, but a thing that insists on its presence.

The world is no less grey, the air no less silent, but there is something almost companionable in the quiet now, as though the cold itself understands they carry something worth protecting.

They do not hurry. They have never liked to hurry.

But this time, they find themselves wishing the road were shorter.

They come back and cross the small room, the cloth bundle safe in their grasp, and let the word escape them like a promise rather than a call.

“Azure.” 

There’s a rustle from the bed. Azure blinks slowly, eyelids heavy, and turns their head just enough to see.

“You’re back.” The words are quiet, a little frayed at the edges, as if they’ve been left out in the cold too long.

Of course, their condition worries Two Time. 

Two Time kneels by the low table, setting the bundle down with care. “I went to Calla.”

Azure hums, an almost-smile tugging faintly before falling away. “Far walk… in this weather.”

Two Time busies themself with the kettle, not answering right away. They untie the cloth, tip its contents into a cup, and pour the water just off the boil. The steam curls upward, filling the space between them with a scent that might be floral, might be something older.

“She said it’s for the fever,” they say at last. “And… for rest.”

Azure watches them over the rumpled line of the blanket. “You didn’t have to.”

Two Time glances over — enough to hold their gaze. “Yes, I did. Like you said, even if it is a test of endurance from the Spawn, a little bit of encouragement and help aren’t discouraged.”

When it’s ready, they bring it over, pressing the cup gently into Azure’s hands, lingering just long enough to feel the faint tremor in their grip. 

“...Stay,” Azure says, as though it’s a request, but the space in their voice makes it something closer to a certainty.

Two Time doesn’t bother with a reply. They pull a chair close to the bed and sit, elbows on their knees, watching as Azure sips.

“This is my first time seeing you like this,” they eventually say.

Azure’s brow furrows, not in offense but in faint puzzlement. “Like what?”

Two Time leans back slightly, their gaze wandering over the pale cast of Azure’s skin, the way their hair clings at the temples. “Still,” they answer. “Letting someone else do the work.”

A weak huff leaves Azure — almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “Doesn’t suit me, does it?”

“It suits me less,” Two Time says. “Seeing it.”

Azure studies them for a moment longer before looking away, eyes half-lidding again. “Then don’t look so hard.”

But Two Time doesn’t.

“No.” A slow grin tugs at their mouth. “I like seeing you messy like this — letting me fuss over you.”

A small flush blooms slowly across Azure’s cheeks, faint at first but deepening, the colour settling high on the cheekbones. Whether it’s from the tea, the fever, or the words, they don’t say.

Two Time leans in, the faint scent of the herbal brew lingering in the air between them, and presses the back of their hand to Azure’s forehead. The skin is damp, heat seeping into their palm. “Still warm,” they murmur. “Is it just me, or are you warmer than earlier?”

“It’s the tea,” Azure says — too quickly, their voice catching slightly on the first word.

“Figured.” Two Time’s lashes lower for a moment, and they blink as though weighing the truth of it. “It must be working then. Your heart’s racing, too.”

Azure tilts their head, the smallest of smirks forming. “Is that so? How can you tell?”

Two Time doesn’t pull their hand away. “A hunch.”

Azure’s eyes land briefly to where their hand still rests, then back up. “It is not advisable to always trust a ‘hunch’, Two Time.”

Two Time’s mouth twitches. “Sometimes they’re all I’ve got.”

They draw their hand away, slow enough that the loss of warmth feels deliberate, and reach for the cup again. The steam curls between them, fragrant and faintly sweet, as they guide it back to Azure’s lips.

“Drink the rest,” they say, softer now, almost like an order dressed as a favour.

Azure takes another sip, gaze never leaving theirs. “And if I do, what is your next hunch?”

Two Time sits back in the chair, the corner of their mouth lifting. “That you will start feeling better. And that you will hate admitting it.”

The smile Azure gives in return is tired, but not weak.

Two Time’s grin tilts. “Think of it as a boost. Endure the cold test of the Spawn for me like I have for you.”

Azure lets out a faint hum, somewhere between amusement and weariness. “You make it sound like a vow.”

Two Time blinks before turning their head slightly away from them. “Perhaps.”

Azure’s smirk is faint but knowing. 

“When I am able to replenish, I have a surprise for you, Two Time,” Azure says, their manner composed though their frame still rests against the pillows.

Two Time, who has never been fond of surprises, raises a brow. “Do you intend to tell me now, or must I bear the torment of anticipation?”

Azure’s lips curve, faint and almost mischievous. “It would not be a surprise if I were to tell you.”

“Then I shall consider myself forewarned,” Two Time replies. “And I will hold you to it.”

The cup sits empty now, turned sideways in Azure’s hands as though it might hold more if they angle it just so. Two Time reaches to take it, fingers brushing against theirs — the skin there cooler than their face, but not by much. 

They set the cup on the table, close enough to refill later if needed, and lean back into the chair. The fire mutters in the corner, more ember than flame, its glow cutting a faint gold line along Azure’s jaw.

Azure’s eyes have softened, not from sleep but from that in-between place where thought comes slowly and truth even slower. “You never were good at staying still,” they murmur, not quite looking at them.

“I know.” 

“That’s okay with me.” Their lashes lower, a hint of a smile playing in the curve of their mouth. “I like knowing you are moving around me. It means you are here.”

Chapter Text

A few days pass before Azure is well enough to keep their word.

Two Time finds them at their table in the early hours, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the pale skin of their forearms touched by the fire’s low gold. The kettle whispers over the coals, sending up faint curls of steam that carry the scent of last night’s tea leaves.

“Come. Sit,” Azure says, without turning. Not even a single noise made and Azure can still detect their presence.

Two Time eyes them warily, but obeys.

Azure sets something on the table — a narrow bundle wrapped in linen, tied with dark thread.

“For you.”

Two Time hesitantly draws the bundle closer, the cloth faintly warm from Azure’s hands. The knot resists for a moment before loosening, and the linen parts to reveal a pair of fingerless gloves. The cuffs are stitched through with black thread, the wool smelling faintly of the cedar chest it must have been kept in. The work is tidy but not flawless — the seams bear the faint tremor of recent effort.

“They’re not much,” Azure says, still watching the kettle. “But you always borrow my pair and your hands are always cold when you come back.”

Two Time slides one on. The material clings snug around the base of the thumb, the fingers free but already catching the fire’s heat. They flex their fingers. “You measured these in my sleep, didn’t you?”

Azure’s mouth curves — almost a smirk. “Perhaps.”

Two Time leans back, flexing their fingers, the gloves already carrying their own warmth. “Then I will wear them until they fall apart. And after that, I’ll make you replace them.”

“Fair enough,” Azure says, finally meeting their eyes — and holding them.

The kettle exhales in a long and slow sigh, and Azure reaches for the teacups. Frost crowds the window, bending the early light into dull silver shapes. Beyond it, the garden waits under its sheet of snow.

“When we’re done,” they say, setting the cups down with a muted clink, “let’s tend to the community garden together.”