As The Roses Bloom

can you hear me?

Last chapter!

Present Day

Once again, Rhy was talking and Holland was not listening. "You didn't know, but you didn't want treatment," or something like that. "Were you planning to just die?"

Kell is in love with you circled around his head, as if unable to settle. Kell's in love with you.

"What happened to brotherly loyalty," Holland found himself saying, more to interrupt Rhy and get, for a moment, a clear mind so that he might be able to make more sense of his upside-down world.

Rhy did stop talking, but he still appeared concerned, even frustrated with Holland's lack of response. "He wasn't trying to hide it. He was going to wear a white rose tonight, did he?"

Holland wanted to take a seat. He felt lightheaded, faint. "He wasn't trying...?"

Rhy made a disgruntled sound. "He's scheduled treatment for two weeks from now, unless you cure him, whichever comes first."

"What?" Holland's thoughts scattered like petals on the wind; he snatched at one. "He's going to remove his..." Love. It was love. That was how Heart Sickness worked, but Holland couldn't make his mouth produce the sounds necessary.

"If he dies," Rhy started, and didn't finish the sentence.

Holland swallowed. "Right."

Holland thought about Kell over the past few weeks: the coughing fit Kell burst into in Calla's tent, the way Kell's eyes would linger on him and pull away, as if he felt the same overwhelming magnetism that Holland did whenever he caught sight of Kell. He thought of Kell finding him on the balcony, white roses pinned to his lapel, and saying very carefully, I made the flowers myself. Holland had just thought... he didn't know what he had thought. That Kell meant he had arranged them together? The two flowers?

Holland thought of Kell now, waiting for the two weeks to end, wondering what it might feel like to remove your feelings for someone like Holland had: would it be seamless, would it hurt, would it have memory effects?

Somehow, Holland had entirely neglected to consider that Kell could... it wasn't a choice between treatment or death anymore. Three options: treatment. Death.

And Kell.

If death was even an option anymore.

Holland turned to Rhy. "Are there any negative effects of treating the sickness?"

Rhy's eyes were searching, but whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it, because he answered a simple, "No. Why?"

"If Kell gets treatment, he'll be fine," Holland clarified. If there were negative effects of treatment, he wouldn't be able to die in good conscience; he couldn't force Kell into treatment knowing he could cure Kell instead if there were risks. He thought dully that it was ridiculous he was even thinking halfway rationally.

"He'll be fine," Rhy confirmed, still eyeing Holland warily. "What are you trying to get at."

So. Holland could die, if he wanted to, in good conscience.

Kell, blue eyed, black eyed Kell, who wore the same extremely handy coat everywhere he went, who used magic carelessly and was always warm to the touch. Kell. Kell, who returned to White London, found Holland leaning against a tree and dissolving into the world around him, and dragged him back home, taking care of him like a half-dead stray cat.

Holland breathed.

"Rhy," Holland turned away, heading for the stairs. "Help me find your brother."

They parted ways: Rhy to search Kell's favorite spots in the palace—balconies, kitchens, his room, the throne room. Holland watched Rhy leave for a moment. A king, host of this entire celebration, wandering the halls of the castle alone in search of his brother as if Kell could not wait another moment. Kell deserved him, a brother as dedicated and devoted as this.