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Orpheus was in pain. He was in horrible, bone-deep, and grisly pain.
He was covered in blood and blue bruises that formed a monochrome on his sides, thighs, and forearms. However, Orpheus was much less concerned about his bruises than the gaping hole that had replaced the left part of his chest.
He was coming back from a match that had gone particularly bad. For some reason, the Gamekeeper showed more cruelty than usual, downing his teammates in the bat of an eye, until Orpheus and Memory were the last two standing.
They could have made it out. If the novelist had not been so distracted, if he had decoded that last cipher quicker, they could have made it out together safe and sound. Instead, his sweat-covered fingers had slipped on one of the machine’s buttons, triggering a spark alongside their descent into hell.
He had been terribly stupid, but at least… Memory had been able to escape. Using his own body to protect her from the hook that had spun in their direction, Orpheus had yelled at her to run to the dungeon. Her visible hesitation as well as the tears in her eyes broke his heart, but she’d executed, leaving him to the mercy of a furious Gamekeeper.
Here he was now, limping his way to Miss Dyer’s room, which served as the manor's unofficial medical office. Orpheus was wracked with remorse every time he needed her expertise. He would be quite annoyed if the place he found peace in was constantly flooded with people who couldn't even take care of themselves.
But Emily, thoughtful Emily, had assured him that it really wasn’t a problem and that she became a doctor to always tend to her patients’ needs. “As long as you don’t throw up or bleed on my carpet”, she’d added, obviously as a joke. Or at least, Orpheus hoped it was a joke. With the amount of blood flowing out of his chest, it would be a miracle if he didn’t repaint her entire floor with crimson.
It would be an even greater miracle if he didn’t pass out before reaching Emily’s door.
Orpheus’ eyelids were fluttering with the unpleasant feeling that anvils had been attached to them. A terrible fever burned his forehead, his mouth was dry, and his steps were slowing down by the minute.
How weird.
Had the hallway leading to Emily's room always been this long?
He felt as if he’d been walking for hours, similarly to a tourist lost in a desert, who’d walk and walk and walk without ever being able to find his way back. And he wouldn’t be able to tell if he was more the tourist or the desert in this situation, as his body was burning inside. An erupting volcano was boiling in his chest, pooling viscous magma at his feet.
Without any warning, his legs gave up on him.
He collapsed to the ground. Orpheus knew he should’ve felt excruciating pain after falling down on a wooden floor like this. Nothing came. Actually, his bruises and his wounds no longer hurt — only slight numbness remained. Yet, blood kept pooling around him.
Oh. He was dying, wasn’t he? All the signs were there, even if his fever was still very much there and violent shivers were creeping down his spine. He was going to die here, lying on the shabby floor of a shabbier manor, bleeding out after getting physically assaulted by a murderous deer.
What a way to go.
The sensible part of Orpheus’ brain was begging him to keep his eyes open, but he felt so sleepy. He just wanted to rest his eyes, if only for a couple of seconds, then he’ll get up and make his way to Emily’s room…
“ORPHEUS!”
“Huh?” Orpheus wanted to answer. Instead, a feeble and inaudible groan came out. He couldn’t even recognize the voice, which seemed to be getting closer and closer. He tried to turn over to identify the voice’s owner, but his body didn’t obey him. It was too heavy. Too battered. Too broken.
He let out a strangled laugh.
The next second, his vision went black.
*
When he regained consciousness, it was in white sheets and an uncomfortable bed.
Orpheus blinked slowly. What had happened? He couldn't remember the events preceding his awakening. He had the vague memory of a match that had gone wrong but other than that, nothing. Groaning, he attempted to sit up on his bed… and immediately regretted his decision when a sharp pain stabbed the upper half of his body.
“Hm?”
Hearing the violent shuffling of the sheets, Emily turned over, mouth agape, having just noticed that he was awake. She instantly dropped the pile of laundry that she was holding to rush to her patient’s bedside and, without any warning, lifted his shirt and checked his bandages. She sighed in relief upon seeing they weren’t drenched in blood. The next moment, her hands were on her hips, and she had a frown on her face that reminded Orpheus of an angry mother.
“What were you thinking? Why didn’t you directly head to my office after your match ended?!”
“I didn’t want to risk Memory seeing me in such a pitiful state,” he answered, quick as a flash.
It wasn’t apparently the right answer. Emily’s complexion went as white as his sheets. She would have probably hit him in the face if he weren’t already injured.
“Ah, right, because taking the risk of exposing her to your dying body in the middle of the hallways was a much wiser choice! You could have died, do you even realize?”
“I do know that,” he said, feeling a lot more guilty. “I apologize, Miss Dyer, but… Understand me. Memory is my top priority. I need to protect her. Physically and emotionally. If I have to get skewered everyday and lick my wounds in my room so she doesn’t see me… I’ll do it happily.”
“T-That’s not a reason! You can’t keep exposing your body to such atrocities! What if you died? Who would take care of Memory, huh?”
“Well, I don’t really want to die. That would traumatize her. But if I did, I already have a list of well-suited candidates. Miss Woods is good with children, Mr. Frank as well… You’d make an excellent caregiver too. In any case, it’s not like many people would miss me,” he chuckled, only half joking.
It didn’t seem to be the right answer either. Emily looked scandalized. It was as if Orpheus slapped her in the face — albeit she’d have preferred the slap.
“You’re crazy. You’re actually crazy. You're either insane or completely blind. A lot of people here care about you.”
“Like who? The prospector?”
Ignoring her interlocutor’s poor attempt at a joke, Emily continued, “I care about you, you git. And believe me, when I treat most of your teammates, they keep praising you. Telling me how hard you fight so everyone can make it out safely, and how they wish you were more approachable because they really want to get to know you.”
“I… ignored it.”
“Of course you did. You’re too self-centered. You think you live in a whole other world in which the only inhabitants are you and Memory. You should open up more to others, you know? And apologize to Mr. Kreiburg for what you put him through. Poor guy, I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”
Orpheus tried hard not to get upset at Emily’s crude choice of words. He failed.
“Okay, okay. I will try. But what are you talking about? What does Kreiburg have to do with all this?”
He was confused. Some snippets of his memory came back to him, and he remembered that they had been both assigned to the same match, but compared to Baden and him, the composer fared pretty well.
Thankfully, Emily seemed to sense his bewilderment.
“Wait. You don’t remember? Mr. Kreiburg was the one who discovered your body. After he got out of his match, he was smart enough — unlike a certain someone — to directly head over to my room. But he accidentally left his instrument behind, and when he came back for it… He found you on the way. He was panicking and wouldn’t stop repeating your name like a mantra as he was dragging you in there. I thought he was going to faint…”
Orpheus stared at Emily like she'd just killed his dog.
The composer? Kreiburg? Frederick Kreiburg, the composer, got worried sick over him? It seemed… unreal. They barely spoke. They tolerated each other enough to sometimes eat together at lunch and they had pretty good teamwork during matches, but it stopped there. Their bond wasn’t strong enough for Frederick to react like this.
“I see,” he muttered after a few seconds. “I’ll apologize to him as soon as I see him. I promise.”
For the first time since he woke up, Emily smiled, pleased.
She made sure nothing was broken and quickly berated him again for his recklessness before escorting him outside with a few pieces of advice on how to take care of his bandages. Orpheus thanked her profusely and, as soon as the door closed, started walking back to his room.
Lost in his thoughts on how he was going to apologize to Memory and Kreiburg, Orpheus didn’t notice the pair of eyes burning holes in his back.
*
When he woke up the next morning, Orpheus immediately noticed the letter lying underneath his door. Weird. He didn’t expect any mail, today.
Driven by curiosity, he stood up on shaky legs and bruised feet and grabbed the letter.
It was rather lovely and neat, and the envelope felt really smooth in his hands. A wax seal was securing the whole thing, teal like his jabot. There also was no signature. Weird.
He took hold of his letter opener, then ripped open the pretty envelope. Inside was a piece of paper, which had been sprayed with perfume. The scent of peaches and daffodils — what an odd yet surprisingly good mixture —, rose to his nostrils. But enough about the paper’s scent. Orpheus unfolded it... and immediately frowned.
“My dearest Orpheus
You’re blue eyes remind me of a ocean
And you’re monocle is like the moon
You’re beautiful and make me swoon.
When I see you for the first time in this manor
For the first time my organ (my heart) started beating more fast than usual
You are my little bird and my little heart”
Orpheus blinked. Multiple times. Slowly. Very slowly. A few seconds passed.
He placed the letter on his nightstand. Sat down on his bed… and laid his hands across his hands, sighing loudly. What the fuck. What in the world was this? The brown-haired man didn’t know where to begin. The spelling, the grammar, the obvious lack of flow, the appalling choice of words… He felt like he had just read a kindergarten student’s poem who didn’t know anything about poetry but still wanted to impress a girl. It was simply terrible. Orpheus was embarrassed.
… His eyes weren't even blue.
His cheeks were flushed, not only because he was embarrassed. He was also getting angry. After all, this letter was the biggest hoax he’d ever had the misfortune to lay his (brown, thank you very much) eyes on.
And what better way to try to humiliate a writer than to send him a poorly written letter on purpose? Nothing else than a childish and ridiculous joke that children at his orphanage would already pull on him when he was no older than eight years old. To think adults would do the same thing at their ripe old age…
Furious, Orpheus tore the paper into small pieces, which he threw in the trash.
His heart ached a bit. He chose to ignore it.
*
The second time it happened, Orpheus was having a lovely conversation with Memory.
They were just coming back from a match against the Bloody Queen, who’d surprisingly gone friendly. She claimed she was too tired to hunt them properly, and decided to let them decode peacefully while she rested in one of the hospital’s rooms.
“Madam Mary is so nice! And she’s so pretty! Orphy, when we’ll get out of here, do you think I could get a dress like hers? I would like my dress to be as red as hers! Or maybe white would be a nicer color…”
Memory was practically bouncing off the walls. Orpheus smiled. Her happiness was contagious. He didn’t have the heart to tell her the true reason why the Bloody Queen’s dress was red.
Hand in hand, the two were heading over to the elder’s room, but...
They abruptly stopped.
One with curiosity, the other with anger.
“Orphy? What is this?”
Memory let go of his hand. Orpheus tried to catch her arm, but she was faster: in less than a second, she'd already grabbed the bouquet leaning against the door to his room. She realized with great surprise that it was a beautiful bouquet, made of an assortment of colorful and sweet-smelling flowers. She could recognize daffodils, poppies, tulips, and a lone red rose whose color was rich and mesmerizing. Fascinated, the little girl turned the bouquet in her hands to take a closer look, when…
Plop!
A small piece of paper fell to the ground.
Orpheus quickly bent down, pretending to tie his shoelaces so he could grab the paper before the young girl could notice it. He had just slipped it into his pocket when she looked up, a bright smile on her face.
“It’s so beautiful, Orphy! Who sent it?”
“Huh… I have no idea. Probably a secret admirer.”
What was supposed to be a mere joke made Memory’s eyes shine. A thousand stars sparkled in her irises.
“That’s wonderful! Do you have any idea who it could be? Oh, I’m sure it’s Madam Emily, she spends her time worrying about you! Or Madam Tracy! She’s always blushing when she’s with you!
“Or maybe it’s the gardener? These flowers come from her garden, after all.” She suddenly gasped loudly. “I know! It has to be Mr. Campbell! It must be why you two are always fighting, to get each other's attent—”
“Wow, wow, wow. Wow! Apologies, but I’m not sure I like how that conversation is going, Memory.”
“But… Why?”
“First of all, you’re speaking too loud, for crying out loud. Then, that annoying prospector sending me flowers is an actual nightmare fuel. And, last but not least, because it’s an obvious joke. Who on earth would send me flowers unless they wanted to play a joke on me?”
“I… don’t understand your reasoning, Orphy.”
“It’s logical. I am a recluse, and many people do not like me. They think I’m too arrogant, too sensitive, and the list goes on. So someone sent me flowers to make me feel wanted so they can end up destroying my hopes by revealing it was a joke so they can make fun of me for thinking that someone on earth could actually love me. It’s simple, really.”
An awkward silence fell between the two. Orpheus’ face looked serious. Memory’s face looked concerned. For goodness's sake, what had they done to him in the orphanage?
“Orphy… Are you sure you’re not being a little paranoid?”
“... Maybe.”
*
Once Memory was fed, bathed, and tucked in her bed, Orpheus took shelter in his room. It was only in the comfort of his bed that he took the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, in a much more careful way than he’d liked to admit.
Inside was another “poem”. Obviously.
“Hello again, my little bird
Here is new gift
Flowers, and they can’t outweitgh you’re beauty
You are my lovely prince
Like this daffodil, you shine like the sun
Like this tulips, you are very colorful
And
That rose is the symbol of my love for you
I like you (a lot)”
Huh. The first thing that came to Orpheus’ mind was that this letter was miles better than the previous one. A few mistakes remained, but Orpheus knew how to recognize an effort when there was one. That led him to his second thought: Memory was maybe right.
Maybe he really was paranoid. Maybe he had been too busy moping about the past to admit someone actually fancied him. The neatly trimmed flowers, the aromatic and handwritten letters with what seemed to be expensive ink… Someone who wanted to play a joke on him wouldn't go that far, would they?
The novelist started having doubts about his secret admirer’s true intentions. But one thing was for sure.
He needed to see the gardener.
*
“I-I swear! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Emma looked like she was on the verge of tears.
Orpheus didn’t blame her. He would panic too if someone he barely knew and who was a head taller than him crowded him into the back of a greenhouse. But he desperately needed answers.
“Oh, please. Don’t play dumb with me. I received a bouquet of which all the flowers, surprisingly, can be found in your garden.”
“Then they were stolen! I've never sent you a bouquet!”
“If one of your flowers had really been stolen, you wouldn’t be acting like this. I know how important they are to you. You’d be upset. That leaves us with two possibilities: either you were the one who sent me the bouquet, or you helped out a friend of yours.”
Emma opened her mouth to protest, but the way her face paled was revealing enough. Bullseye.
“Miss Woods. Please tell me. I deserve to know who has been sending me such gifts.”
“I can’t… I really can’t… He made me promise that…”
Orpheus went as stiff as a statue. Emma did the same after realizing her slip-up. He.
He.
His secret admirer was a man.
A man fancied him. A man was sending him flowers because he fancied him.
A man liked him.
Orpheus’ head started to spin. He had to lean down on the glass behind him so as not to fall. Emma seized the opportunity and ran away.
He made no move to catch her.
The novelist had nothing against such people. He knew it was taboo and contrary to current morals, but he didn’t really care. All he wanted was a peaceful life with Memory and his books. So whether men kissed each other or women married each other, it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t one of those fools who’d beat up or report someone for such a trivial reason.
But… Orpheus wasn’t like these people. He was flattered that someone liked him like that, but he liked women. Not men. He liked soft curves and pudgy hips. Not muscles and square jaws.
His flushed face, the fluttering sensation in his chest as well as the fuzzy feeling in his stomach when he thought back to the two letters must be the manifestation of his discomfort. Either that, or his injuries had worsened and he was actually going to die in three days.
He hoped it was the second option.
*
The discovery plagued Orpheus’ mind for days. It haunted his dreams, he couldn’t write a single word without being reminded of languid poems, and about the ciphers’ decoding…
“Hey! Watch out!”
… It was worse. He couldn’t focus enough to properly decode ciphers. William and Murro now seemed like excellent decoders compared to him. It was utterly humiliating.
Others quickly noticed his struggling. Fortunately, he got the easy way out: they had just assumed his predicament was due to the fact that he was still recovering from his injuries, and that it’ll eventually pass. Unfortunately, it meant that they were more or less forcing him to always pair up with someone else to decode faster.
The lucky one today was Frederick, who didn't seem very happy to put up with him. Tapping the cipher’s buttons with his lithe fingers, the composer was staring straight into his teammate’s eyes.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. If you want to go for a rest, just say it.”
“It won’t be necessary, but thanks.”
Kreiburg raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, before turning his attention back to their shared cipher. Orpheus sighed and mirrored him. It was a bit awkward.
Soon, a dead silence fell between the two men, only interrupted by the annoying beeping of the cipher.
It was really awkward.
In a desperate attempt to break the silence, Orpheus cleared his throat and spoke up, “By the way… I wanted to thank you. For bringing me to Emily’s room last day. Had you not been there, I would have probably lost my li—”
“Don’t say such things. And don’t mention it. I only did what I had to do.”
You’re looking a bit too humble for someone who freaked out after seeing my unconscious body, thought Orpheus nastily. Obviously, he didn’t voice it. Instead, he gave Frederick a small smile. The composer immediately turned away. How rude.
Offended, Orpheus didn’t notice that Kreiburg’s face had taken on the same color as his coat.
*
Two weeks passed. Winter was approaching.
Orpheus’ injuries were healing well. It made him happy, of course, but not as much as the pile of letters that had formed on his desk.
Sometimes, the letters were accompanied by flowers. At other times, by small pieces of sea glass. He even received a box of chocolates once. How his secret admirer had gotten his hands on a box of chocolates, Orpheus had no idea, but one thing was for sure: the chocolates were pretty damn good, melting pleasantly on his tongue.
The novelist should’ve felt disgusted. But, even though he knew his (one-sided) pen-friend was a male… He realized it didn’t really bother him.
Quite the opposite, actually. He looked forward to each letter. He opened them with great care, cooed over the endearing spelling mistakes, and kept the flowers and the pieces of sea glass on his desk. After particularly bad days, Orpheus will lock himself up in his room, curl up under his sheets, and find comfort in the fragrance of his favorite letter:
“I like see you smile
It is so precious that my heart
Feel like I have run a mile
It is more pretty than Renaissance art.
I lack the words to write nice
I think I sound weird too
But I hope they will suffice
To make you understand: I love you”
It was cliche, childish, and ridiculous. That didn’t stop him from blushing like a little child every time he read it.
He wasn’t sure he liked the implications of this.
*
“Hmm. Your bruises are fading, and your chest seems to be healing nicely. You’ll be completely healed within a month or two if you don’t exert yourself.”
“It’s awesome, Orphy! Thanks a lot, Madam Emily!”
Emily smiled at the little girl, stroking her long golden hair. Orpheus almost felt like he was interrupting something, in spite of the fact they were at his check-up.
Emily had (forcefully) summoned him to her office, and Memory begged him to let her tag along. The novelist was capable of many things, but he was powerless against a child in tears. So they came together, hand in hand. Their fingers stayed intertwined while Emily palmed his naked torso with a bit more force than necessary (her patient suspected a vendetta because of what had happened with Emma).
As the two girls were happily chatting, Orpheus was thinking.
Many questions came to his mind. Who was his secret admirer? Why did he start to gift him things after he almost died? Why would he fall in love with a person who hardly spoke with anyone other than Memory?
And most importantly…
Why did the letters give him goosebumps in the best way possible even though his secret admirer was a man, just like him?
The answer was obvious, painfully so. But Orpheus didn’t want — no, he couldn’t admit it. Because he wasn’t someone like that. He was a normal guy, your average Joe.
He wasn’t…
He wasn’t…
He couldn’t be…
“Orphy?”
“What’s happening, Orpheus? Your breathing sounds odd.”
Orpheus shook his head, trying to chase the thoughts away. He took a few seconds to collect himself and gave the two girls a weary smile.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah, no. I’m not falling for that again. The last time you told me you were fine, you ended up unconscious on my floor. I advise you to spill it out already.”
“Madam Emily is right! You don’t need to bottle up your feelings! We’re here for you, Orphy!”
“Huh. It’d take too long to explain, anyways. I fear this is an issue regarding my own heart.”
“I have time. I don’t have any matches today, and I heard you two have a free schedule too. I’m not letting you leave this room until you tell me what’s wrong. Did you know that heartbreaks increase the risk of cardiovascular accidents by 300%? Do you want to die before reaching your thirties?”
“What? That’s just wrong.”
Emily glared at him. Orpheus sighed. Guess he had no way out unless he wanted to get stabbed with a scalpel in his sleep. Resigned, he lowered his head and started speaking.
“Let’s just say… I have a friend. He always thought he was part of the norm. For example… He’d always liked women. When, as a small child, he was asked to project himself twenty years into the future, he always thought of a cozy life with a wife, three children, and a dog. You know, the usual.
“But… Recently, my friend is getting flirted with by another man, and… It doesn’t really bother him. No, scratch that — he likes it. A lot. When he falls asleep at night, he no longer dreams of a wife and their three children but of a future alongside a faceless man. It scares him. He doesn't want people to think that he's a freak, that he should be sent to an asylum.” His voice trembled. “What should I do, doctor…”
Emily stared at him for a few seconds. Then, without a word, she sat down next to him, grabbed his hand, and squeezed it hard. Meanwhile, Memory grabbed his other hand — the scarred one. The young girl caressed it with her thumb with infinite tenderness.
Orpheus wanted to cry.
“Orpheus. Please tell your friend that there’s no cure for feelings. Whether he likes women, men, both at the same time or neither of them, it does not change anything to his constitution or the person he is. Either way, he’ll always be this rude, arrogant and reckless character you can’t be mad at for too long. If he likes the man who’s seducing him, he just has to follow his heart.”
“Madam Emily is right! We’ll always love you!”
Orpheus didn’t answer.
He couldn’t answer, his throat and his eyes and his chest and his heart were burning hot and...
He burst out crying.
Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. He cried, and cried, and cried, because he could finally name what he was feeling. He was “someone like that” like he used to foolishly say, a homosexual, or at least someone who liked men.
The novelist tried to thank Emily and Memory between two sobs, but he lost his tongue. How ironic, for someone whose words are his speciality.
Thankfully, the two girls seemed to understand, and pulled him in for a hug.
Orpheus cried harder.
*
Orpheus had a plan.
He managed to solve his inner turmoil. Now, he wanted to find out the mysterious identity of his secret admirer.
“Mind telling me about your plan again?” inquired Emily between two bites of her brownie.
He checked his watch. 11 PM. Perfect.
“It’s simple, really. I’ve spent the whole week checking whether or not my secret admirer had a pattern or not. Turns out he has a strict modus operandi. When he sends me letters only, it’s during nighttime, while I’m sleeping.
“It gets trickier for big gifts such as chocolates or anything that can’t be slipped under my door. But I’ve made my research with the people in the same floor as me, and it’s safe to assume that he strikes between 6 PM and 8 PM while Memory and I are in the dining hall. I checked earlier, no gift in sight. So he’ll come tonight. And I’ll be waiting for him.”
Emily raised her eyebrows, not looking very impressed.
“Wow. If you spent as much energy making plans as taking care of your health, maybe you wouldn’t spend half your time in my room.”
Orpheus rolled his eyes.
*
Orpheus’ eyelids were getting heavier by the minute.
It was almost three in the morning, but his secret admirer still hadn’t shown up yet. Orpheus started to wonder if he’d really show up. After all, the other sometimes didn't make an appearance for days, usually coming back at the end of the week with a really nice gift.
“Goddamn it.”
He shoved his head into his hands, trying to chase the sleepiness away. He’d thought he wouldn’t get sleepy with the awful position he’d found himself in: he was crouched in a corner of the hallway, somewhere dark enough to conceal his presence but close enough so he could have a direct view of his door. If he fell asleep right now, he’d probably become the manor’s laughingstock until his death. And he didn’t even want to think about the terrible back pain he’ll have in the morning.
His eyelids were starting to twitch when he saw a silhouette approaching his door. With eyes like saucers, he straightened up so fast it gave him whiplash.
No way… That’s….
Without any doubt, that silhouette belonged to Frederick.
The latter wasn’t wearing his iconic red coat, wearing a crisp nightgown instead. But the long bright hair and the tuning fork in his left hand could only be his.
However… It didn’t make any sense. The composer wasn’t fond of him. His face always had that anxious frown whenever they were together, even though he seemed rather aloof with others. It was simply illogical.
Orpheus’ jaw dropped.
Frederick stopped in front of his door, dug into his pocket and after making sure nobody was roaming in the hallways, dropped something to the ground.
A letter with a wax seal applied to it, teal like his jabot.
Emily’s words rang in his head. “He was panicking and wouldn’t stop repeating your name like a mantra as he was dragging you in there. I thought he was going to faint…” she’d said.
Everything made sense now. Frederick’s constant frown wasn’t because he disliked the novelist.
Orpheus’ presence made him shy.
The haughty and esteemed Frederick Kreiburg got shy whenever he found himself near Orpheus, just like a little schoolboy with a crush.
Ah.
It came back to him.
Someone had yelled his name as he fell unconscious, the other day. So that person was…
“Frederick.”
Frederick froze. His tuning fork fell off his hand, plummeting to the ground in a clunking noise.
Five seconds passed in the world. For the two men, minutes and hours and months and years and eternity passed. Then, slowly, very slowly and very stiffly, Frederick turned his head in Orpheus' direction.
He looked terrified.
His face was as pale as a ghost. Large drops of sweat were streaming down his forehead. His hazelnut eyes were wide open. His whole frame was furiously shaking, as if he just plunged head first into a frozen lake.
Without a word, Orpheus walked towards him.
Frederick remained frozen in his spot, probably expecting the other to throw insults at him or even worse, but nothing of that sort happened.
Orpheus grabbed his shoulder.
He wanted to kneel down at his feet, beg him to forgive him for all the ridiculous letters, but the novelist opened his mouth first.
“You really suck at poetry, you know?”
Frederick felt the five stages of grief coursing through his body at once and not exactly in the right order. In a beautiful show of eloquence, he answered, "Hey, um. You... I… No."
He felt like a complete moron when Orpheus raised his eyebrows at him in confusion.
He sighed, “I'm… I'm sorry. I would have liked to write you better poems, but… I don't speak English really well,” he coughed, clearly embarrassed.
“I thought you were British.”
“Um, what? My name is literally Frederick Kreiburg. I'm from Vienna. My tutors were pretty harsh with phonetics, so I don't have that much of an accent, but I still struggle sometimes. Especially—" he coughed again, "with written English.”
Oh. That explained a lot of things. The brunet suddenly felt bad for doubting the letters' authenticity despite the fact that Frederick was actually trying his best. The poor man was even struggling to talk as his embarrassment gnawed at him. His face and neck were flushed.
“Alright. I believe you. But why me? Why would you waste paper and all these gifts on me?”
“It is no waste!” Frederick exclaimed, in a searing tone of voice that took Orpheus by surprise. “I… I've always liked you, okay? Since the day I arrived in this manor. You looked so… so noble, just like a prince, dressed in white and blue, and… I suppose I just fell in love at first sight. So, when I heard you saying nobody would care if you died…”
“What?! You heard that?”
“Of course. The door was wide open. I wanted to check on you, and… Anyways. I felt angry. I couldn't believe you'd say something like that, after I cried and choked and begged every god to keep you alive when I saw you bleeding out in the hallways. I thought… I thought you were dead, Orpheus.”
“Frederick…”
“I'm not done. When I heard you, I knew I had to do something. I had to make you understand that people really cared about you. That I cared about you. And since you're a man of letters…”
“You decided to send me poems.”
“Exactly. To be fair, it wasn't an easy fit. Fortunately, Emma was here to help me out. She lent me some of her romance novels so I could have something to work with, and she was the one to send the bouquets on my behalf.”
It was Orpheus' turn to be speechless.
No pun intended, he'd have never thought Frederick (or anyone for that matter) would orchestrate such a plan just to show him affection.
The composer seemed awfully smug about the fact Orpheus was now the one who couldn't utter a word.
“Do you understand now? People care about you. The little thing that follows you everywhere cares about you. Miss Dyer cares about you. And, not to sound pretentious or anything…”
Frederick took hold of Orpheus' hand… and kissed the swelling of his scar.
“I think I'm the one who cares about you the most.”
Orpheus died.
He was dead, gone, deceased, six feet under. The Gamekeeper killed him, and he was now in heaven — or hell, depending on your point of view.
There couldn't be a reality where Frederick Kreiburg was flirting with him in the middle of the hallways of a cursed manor after sending him bad poetry whose structure had been plagiarized from romance novels. He refused to believe it.
“Orpheus?”
Frederick was starting to squirm, taking the other's lack of answer as a silent rejection.
“Did I misunderstand the signs?” asked the composer, losing all his bravado. “I thought… you liked the attention.”
Orpheus liked the attention. Very much so. He loved smelling the aromatic letters, devouring the chocolates and piling the gleaming pieces of sea glass on his desk, but… Faced with his secret admirer, he didn't know what to do.
Frederick knew what he wanted. Orpheus did not.
The composer clearly wanted something concrete and Orpheus didn't know if he could give it to him. He figured out his sexuality like three days ago, he was gloomy all the time and his mental stability abandoned him years ago. His last (and only) relationship didn't end really well to say the least, and… He didn't consider himself ready for a new relationship.
Or maybe that "not deserving" served as a better term.
Kreiburg deserved better than an orphan and a freak with severe mental and self-esteem issues, who had so little control on his life that he couldn't figure out if he was real or some character in one of his novels.
Really, Frederick deserved better.
Yet…
Yet…
“You didn't misunderstand anything.”
The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. Not that he would've wanted to stop them: after all, the novelist had always been a little selfish deep inside. His brain told him it was a bad idea. But his heart wanted Frederick. His heart wanted to accept everything the other man could give gim, his heart wanted to give him a chance, even if it failed so that he could at least say they had tried together.
And Orpheus wanted to listen to his heart, for once.
He crouched down. Grabbed the letter that Frederick left in front of his door… and gave it back to him.
For someone who had compared him to "Renaissance art", Kreiburg's face contorted with an array of emotions that could rival Gustave Courbet's works. Hope, confusion and despair ran successively across his beautiful face.
“Wha…”
“You don't need to send me letters anymore.”
“But… You've said…”
“I know what I've just said,” he said, face a little pink, trying to regain his composure, “But no more questionable plans. Now… I want you to directly come to me if you want to serenade me. Preferably with music, this time.”
“Wait. You mean…”
“Yes. I accept your advances, dearest Frederick. I hope you won't make me regret your decision.”
The composer's face lit up instantly. Orpheus decided that he would much rather see him with that happy expression than that constant frown of his.
“Pft. Don't worry about that. After all, I am known for satisfying men and women alike,” answered Frederick, though the blinding smile on his face watered down his cheeky demeanor.
“Men and women, huh? I didn't know Frederick Kreiburg was such a playboy.”
“Jealous much?”
Lacking a rebuttal, Orpheus settled with rolling down his eyes with a playful smile that matched the blonde's one.
They remained in a comfortable silence for a couple of seconds, gazing into each other's eyes. Feeling particularly bold, Orpheus opened his door, stepped inside his room, then turned around and held out his hand to Frederick. A silent invitation.
Frederick took it.
Together, they disappeared into the gloom.
*
“They make me sick.”
“What do you mean?”
Leaning her back against the wall of the little common room, Emma curiously scrutinized Emily, who was glaring at the two lovebirds in front of them.
They were both sitting in the same ottoman, squeezed together to the point their shoulders were touching. Because of the cold temperature, they'd decided to wrap themselves with a warm blanket covered in garish stripes: teal like one's jabot and red like the other's coat — courtesy of Violetta, who'd graciously hand-sewn the blanket.
They were currently occupying the piano in the center of the room — well, Frederick was playing a song while Orpheus stared in awe.
“Just look at them. It's like we don't even exist anymore. They might as well start snogging while we're still in there.”
“Isn't that a good thing? It means that they trust us enough not to hide their relationship from us! And it's not like they often have the opportunity to have quality time together with the amount of matches we have everyday.”
Emily's only answer was a displeased groan.
Nevertheless, it never reached Orpheus' ears. He was busy giving his full attention to his lover, who had just finished playing. The composer noticed his amazed expression with great pride.
“I suppose you've liked my little performance?”
“Don't get too cocky, Kreiburg,” chided Orpheus. “Sounds different from your other compositions, but it still sounds really nice, as usual.”
“Thanks. And you're right. This composition wasn't made by me, but by a certain Franz Liszt. It's called Liebesträume.”
“What does that mean?”
“Literally, dream of love. Pretty fitting, isn't it?”
Orpheus deadpanned, “Oh my God. Had I known that my secret admirer, despite his utter inability to write good poems, was such a smooth talker, I would have probably started laughing until my stitches burst.”
“Shut up! Good or not, you still kept them all!”
“It'd be such a waste to throw them away. Perhaps I can sell them for a very high price—”
“That's rich coming from someone who doesn't even know how to play the birthday song on the piano. I'd like to see you play me love songs without it being a musical massacre!”
Believing an argument was about to start, Emma and Emily quickly retreated out of the room — not without a last comment on men and their ego.
However, the argument never started. Instead, Orpheus and Frederick burst out laughing. Surely the other survivors were going to chastise them in the morning for disrupting their sleep by laughing like two hyenas, but they found themselves not caring. They couldn't stop, anyways.
They kept laughing at their own antics for several minutes, to the point where Orpheus had to remove his monocle to wipe out the tears forming in his eyes. Frederick was staring at him, lovestruck.
Happiness was a good look on him.
*
Outside, the wind was so strong that it whistled and banged against the windows. Winter was on its full swing, to Frederick's dismay.
For some reason, the voices that plagued his mind were always louder when winter came around. His doctor pinned it on the fact the lack of sunlight made neurotic patients feel worse. His dad pinned it on the fact he was a fucking wimp.
No need to remain stuck in the past, thought Frederick with bitterness. Even if winter was the worst season ever, it still had its advantages. Like cuddling Orpheus in bed for more warmth.
Their legs were intertwined, and the novelist wrapped his arms around his partner's waist, dozing off. Cute.
“Stop looking at me like that. You're scaring me.”
“Oops. Sorry, it's just… I would have never guessed I'd witness the great and haughty novelist being so domestic.”
“Shut up.”
Frederick snorted. Still, he patted Orpheus' head as an apology.
“May I ask you something?”
“Hm?”
“It might sound ridiculous.”
“I'm sure it doesn't.”
The blonde sighed, “Alright then. I know you were joking earlier about the letters, but did you… Did you really hate them? I'd understand if it were the case.”
“Not at all. I like teasing you, but… It was touching. You know, I still have them on my nightstand. Then, when I have a particularly bad day, I read them all over, one by one. It helps. A lot.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
“My biggest regret is throwing away the first letter. I thought it was a big joke, at first. I spent all my childhood in an orphanage where kids kept pulling that kind of thing on me, and… I'm really sorry.”
“You have no reason to apologize. I understand.”
No answer came. For a moment, Frederick assumed Orpheus had fallen asleep.
He realized it wasn't the case when a soft pair of lips pressed against his.
The kiss was chaste, almost shy, nothing but a gentle pressure of their lips. Yet — and he felt glad the lights were off —, Frederick thought his face and his heart and his body were going to explode until he turned into a puddle.
A murmur, “Thank you, Frederick.”
“Always for you, Orpheus.”
And it was true. If Orpheus allowed him, Frederick would always be by his side. Day and night, through eclipses and sunsets. They'd wake up everyday in the same bed, reading the writer's favorite novels and listening to the musician's favorite songs. They'd pretend to be good old pals in front of others but steal each other kisses when nobody was looking.
He'd tell the other man about the ghosts constantly plaguing his mind.
Frederick would take care of Memory. He would spoil her rotten. He'd braid her hair and secretly slip her chocolate chip cookies and sweets. He'd give her the happiest childhood to make up for all the years his own parents had neglected him.
They would — no, will be happy together.
Frederick didn't take long to fall asleep, pressed against Orpheus' body, where his rightful place was.