glowing. || julian devorak

part three.

Julian had managed to stick to his strict regime of self-isolation for two whole weeks. Fifteen days, if you wanted to get specific. Fifteen days, hiding inside his small house, trying not to look at the ever-growing pile of petals spreading across his floors, his throat scratchy and eyes swollen.

Fifteen days, before Portia came banging on his door, basket on her hip, the sun barely over the horizon.

"Ilya!"

And, the fifteen days of peaceful, albeit lonely, quarantine had come to an end.

"Open this door, now!"

If Julian had been any more of a fool, he might have been able to convince himself that, if he just waited it out, Portia might leave him be. He ran brought the scenario in his head, and rationed that though Portia was tiny, she was also very capable of breaking down his door. So he dragged himself out of bed, clumsily kicking the petals under his bed (though the effort was pointless; dried flowers inhabited every square meter of his room) and stumbled to the front door. Hand on the knob, he allowed himself to listen to a few more earth-shaking knocks. Breathing deeply and trying to suppress whatever godforsaken flowers might try to make an appearance, he swung the door open.

Portia looked furious. Her cheeks were flushed scarlet, and Julian could hear her huff in frustration as she shoved past him into the entryway. Her red curls frizzed out on either side of her round face as she stared her brother down, arms crossed. "And where have you been?" Though her words were casual and her question was simple, she spoke through gritted teeth. Julian wanted to shrink back into the woodwork. "No one has seen you in weeks. James has been a wreck, you know. Do you happen to have an explanation for that?" Portia stood close enough to him, hands on her hips, that he had to look down his nose at her.

"Tea?" he asked, backing up with hurried footsteps, nearly tripping over the uneven floorboards. He made his way to the small kitchen, filling the kettle and ignoring his sister's stomping behind him.

"Can you talk to me? Stars, you always do this, Ilya! You can't just shut everyone out whenever you feel like it. What's going on? What happened with you and James?" Portia had to raise her voice to be heard over the clanking and clattering of the metal mugs that Julian was being intentionally indelicate with.

"Green or black?" he asked as the kettle began to whistle.

"Green." A deep line had formed between Portia's brows, and she didn't seem amused. "What happened when you visited James at the palace?"

"Not sure what you might mean. I visited her. At the palace. Me and James. Seems like you've got all the details down pat." He poured boiling water into two mugs, hands visibly shaking as he struggled to measure out the dried leaves. "Sugar? Cream?"

"Please," Portia answered shortly. "Would you like to tell me what you two talked about?"

A sharp crow of laugher left Julian's throat, scratchier than it should have been. "What else? The wedding, of course!" He handed Portia her mug, not looking her in the eye, and busied himself with sweeping the spilled leaves and sugar from the counter.

Portia cradled the hot mug in both hands, walking slowly to the small table in the corner. "What about the wedding, if I may ask? God, it's like pulling teeth."

Julian followed a few steps behind her, oddly hunched over as he folded himself in half to sit in a rickety dining chair. Though each question was phrased politely, he knew damn well she wouldn't be leaving with anything less than the whole story. "Nothing important." He gulped down a few sips of the scalding tea. His throat burned in protest, but he fought back the coughing fit. "Details about the ceremony. Apparently Asra's going to have Muriel stand up there with him. Terribly sentimental, if you ask me. Big guy must be dreading it."