Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Richard Claremont had never been one for self-preservation, Or self-destruction, but this was a new low, even for him.
He had made a critical miscalculation—he had underestimated the power of Royal Milk Tea.
And now, he was paying the price.

The stomach ache had come quickly, creeping up his spine and making his whole limbs weak. Then the fever slowly crawled over him, heating his body. Oh so heat...he felt as if he's sprawled near a furnace.
His usually impeccable composure had crumbled into a mess of shivers and dizziness, all because he had decided that chugging an obscene amount of Royal Milk Tea in a single day was somehow a good idea. The sugar crash had been immediate, the nausea and abdominal cramps unbearable, and now he was paying for it in the worst way possible.

Saul Ranasinghe Ali, who was alerted an hour ago about his resident pupil being sick, stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed–watching his protégé groan dramatically into a silk pillow. The doctor-turned-jeweler—turned doctor again (for now) had seen many a fool drink themselves into illness, but Richard was perhaps the first to do so with tea.

“How many cups?” Saul asked, voice carrying the dry amusement of a man who had long since given up on being surprised by Richard’s antics.

“...fourteen,” Richard mumbled. Then, after a pause, he amended, “Possibly sixteen.”

Saul sighed, pulling out his pocket watch as though to calculate just how much time he would waste tending to this self-inflicted catastrophe. “You have the constitution of an ox. You should have been dead halfway through.”

Richard, who had turned a sickly shade of green, did not seem reassured by this observation. He knew his gemstone appraiser mentor was also a UK-licensed doctor, which is why the househelp had summoned Saul instead of a random local physician. And at this moment, Saul was inquiring about his condition. Saul was assessing him with his usual keen scrutiny.

“Everything is spinning,” he muttered. “And my hands won’t stop shaking.”

“That would be the obscene amount of caffeine, tannin and lactic acid in your system.” Saul took a seat on the edge of the bed, pressing a cool hand to Richard’s forehead. “you, merely are an idiot, not a dying man, as my househelp thought, congratulations."

Richard scowled but lacked the strength to argue. It was infuriating how his mentor could so effortlessly reduce him to a fumbling teenager.

Saul, for all his exasperation, was not without mercy. He retrieved a small flask from his coat, pouring out a measured dose of something bitter-smelling. “Drink this.”

Richard eyed the liquid with deep suspicion. “What is it?”

“A remedy.”

“You made it sound like poison.”

Saul held firm. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have let the tea do it.”

With no counterargument and no dignity left, Richard swallowed the concoction in one go—then immediately gagged. “Tastes like boiled regret,” he choked out.

Saul patted his shoulder, the barest hint of fondness in the gesture. “Good. That means it'll work.”

As Richard lay back, exhaustion catching up to him, Saul settled into the chair beside the bed. "Take this paracetamol too."
Richard gratefully took it along with the glass of water.

"Sleep it off. And if you ever do this again, I will not be so kind.”

Richard, eyed him heavy-lidded. “You say that, but we both know you’d still take care of me.”

Saul huffed but did not deny it.
Richard, satisfied with his minor victory, let sleep claim him—content in the knowledge that even his worst mistakes had someone to catch him when he fell.

☕☕☕

Richard, the most handsome man in any room (not by his own admission), had somehow managed to get worse.

Saul Ranasinghe had not been overly concerned when Richard first started complaining about nausea and dizziness. Saul had been prepared for some theatrics. He had assumed, quite reasonably, that the younger man would suffer, recover, and learn a valuable lesson about excessive consumption of Royal Milk Tea.

But no. No such lesson was learned.
He had, of course, been foolishly optimistic.

Instead of learning a valuable lesson, Richard had spiraled into full-blown disaster mode. His fever was burning him up, his limbs were trembling, and worst of all—his dramatic tendencies had reached their peak—probably being mildly delirious already.

“I am fading,” Richard announced from the king sized bed, in elegant British English– Saul figured it was probably effortful for him to switch into Cantonese at the moment, as were their deal. Richard draped an arm over his forehead like a dying aristocrat. “This is how it ends for me.The tea has finally claimed me.”

Saul who had spent the last hour preparing an IV drip–to use if needed and injections to stabilize his idiotic pupil, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, you are dying,” he deadpanned. “And I am saving you. Now, hold out your arm and roll up your sleeve.”

Richard’s eyes widened in immediate, unfiltered betrayal. “Injection? You’re giving me shots?”

“Yes.” Saul tapped the syringe. “Two, in fact.”

Richard, who had faced danger and intrigue, and malicious customers without so much as flinching, visibly recoiled. “Surely there’s another way.”

“There isn’t.”

“I don’t do needles.”

“You also don’t do self-preservation, and yet here we are.”

Saul grabbed Richard’s wrist, ignoring the way the man flailed like a fish out of water. “Stop wriggling. You are a grown man.”

“I am a grown man, and that is exactly why I am refusing!” Richard tried to roll off the bed, but Saul was quicker, shoving him back down with an impressive amount of force for someone who spent most of his time crafting jewelry.

“Richard,” Saul said, voice carrying the weary patience of a man who had been forced to deal with nonsense far too often in his life, “you drank fifteen cups of Royal Milk Tea.Your body is currently punishing you for your hubris. This injection will fix that."
"Now. Hold. Still.” Saul ordered, already rolling up Richard’s sleeve.

Richard reluctantly held his arm out as though offering it for execution. “You are enjoying this.”

Saul smirked. “Only a little.”

He wiped and sterilized the crook of his elbow with a cotton dabbed in alcohol. Finding the right vein was no trouble—Richard was mostly muscle, after all.

The first injection went in, fast, with a sharp sting. Richard jolted, eyes wide. He froze. The sharp prick of the needle barely gave him time to react before a hot, stinging sensation spread through the crook of his elbow. As the contents of the syringe was pushed inside his vein, the burn deepened—like a concentrated ache blooming beneath his skin. His arm twitched involuntarily, his fingers curling at the sudden discomfort. It wasn’t just the sting of the needle—it was the way the liquid forced its way, thick and unrelenting for almost a minute. By the time the syringe was emptied and the needle withdrawn, a dull soreness had settled in, leaving behind a faint throbbing that lingered stubbornly. He yelped. “I hate this. This is the worst.”

"You'll live," Saul said dryly as he withdrew the needle, pressing cotton firmly over the tiny wound to stop bleeding.

Without missing a beat, he reached for the second syringe, uncapping the already-filled injection with practiced ease.

Richard, ever the performer, looked on the verge of tears as Saul prepared the second shot. “You absolute villian.”

“And yet, I am the one treating your self- inflicted illness due to over indulgence.”

The second shot followed. Richard squeezed his eyes shut as the second injection went in. As the injection pierced the same vein, a fresh sting flared through Richard’s arm, sharper this time against the already tender spot. The new dose mixed with the remnants of the first, sending another strange, painful, burning sensation coursing beneath his skin. His muscles tensed instinctively, as Saul-knows-what medicine settled in. His skin crawled and he shuddered despite trying his best to stay still– as there was no way Dr. Saul was leaving without giving the shots. His suffering, he was certain, was unmatched in all of history. This time, Richard unintentionally let out the tiniest, most pitiful noise—and to Saul’s genuine surprise, silent tears began spilling down his face

Saul, who had been about to pack up his supplies, sighed. “Oh, come on, Richard. It wasn’t that bad.”

Richard turned his head away, sniffling. "You're not the one on the receiving end of that dosage. My arm... It still stings."

Saul stared at him, then exhaled through his nose. Without a word, he fished into his pocket and tossed a piece of chocolate onto Richard’s chest.

Richard frowned. “What’s this?”

“A bribe.”

“…For?”

Saul gave him a flat look. “For not making me listen to your whining all night.”

Richard sniffed again but unwrapped the chocolate; he then lifted the caramel, staring at it in deep contemplation before popping it into his mouth. He chewed, then sighed. “I am still the most tragic man in the world.”

Saul shook his head, standing. “You are a tragedy, I’ll give you that.”

And despite his lingering complaints, Richard had to admit—he already felt a little better. He flopped back against the bed dramatically.

Saul thought to himself how unreserved and unpolished his pupil was acting today, being sick, and quietly chuckled at his expense.

Richard had endured many things in life—betrayal, rejection, and the ruthless judgment of high society. But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for the lingering sting of those infernal injections.

It was absurd, really. A 24 years old, grown man should not cry over a pair of simple shots. And yet—here he was.

Despite his best efforts, silent tears slipped down his cheeks, glistening like jewels in the dim candlelight. His body still ached, the fever left him weak, and the sting in his arm lingered—a dull, persistent throb that refused to be ignored.

Saul Ranasinghe had been halfway to the door when he caught the barely-audible hitch in Richard’s breath. He turned, expecting more dramatics—perhaps another declaration of impending death.

Instead, what he found again made him pause.

Richard, usually the embodiment of effortless charm and unshakable arrogance, sat still, eyes fixed downward, his expression tight with the effort of maintaining composure. But the tears betrayed him, slipping past his lashes, trailing down his cheeks in quiet defiance.

Saul sighed. He should have expected this. The fool had a tendency to act invincible until his body decided otherwise.

Without a word, he stepped back toward Richard, retrieving a box of tissues from the almirah.
He held it out. “Here.”

Richard, stubborn as always, did not take it. He merely scoffed, voice hoarse. “It’s fine.”

Saul gave him a look. “You are crying.”

Richard lifted his chin, attempting a smirk that fell flat. “It’s not crying. It’s—” He swallowed, blinking rapidly. “It’s just my body expressing itself in an inconvenient manner.”

Saul, unimpressed, flicked the tissue at him. “Then let your body express itself into this.”

Richard huffed but took the tissue anyway, dabbing at his eyes with all the grace of a man defeated. “It still stings,” he admitted, quieter this time.

Saul sighed, crouching slightly to examine the injection site. The skin was a little red, but nothing alarming. Still, he could see why it might linger—the sheer tension in Richard’s muscles alone was enough to make the pain last longer than necessary.

“Of course it stings,” Saul said. “You fought me like a wild animal instead of relaxing. Stiff as a wooden board. You brought this upon yourself. I presume the needle went deeper than it needed to.”

Richard sniffed, still dabbing at his face. “How cruel of you to state the truth at a time like this.”
Saul sat on the arm of the bed, watching as Richard took slow, steady breaths. “You’ll live.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The tension eased, the fever still loomed, but Richard was no longer trying to pretend he was untouchable.

Saul watched him for a moment longer before standing again. “Rest. I’ll make sure there’s something mild for you to drink when you wake.”

Richard hummed, already half-asleep.

As Saul turned to leave once more, he heard a mumbled, barely audible whisper.

“Thank you.”

Saul paused but didn’t turn back. Instead, he simply replied, “You’re welcome,” before stepping out, closing the door behind him.

The fool would be fine. And as exasperating as he was, Saul would make sure of it.

☕☕☕

Four hours after Poor Prince Richard had received his injections, he was humming.

This, in itself, was not unusual—except for the fact that it hadn’t stopped.

Saul, who had been out on business, received a message from his assistant. Apparently, his delicate, fever-stricken pupil had taken to singing. In multiple languages, being the polyglot he was.

Saul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Now he’s delirious too.

Upon returning, he found exactly what he had expected—a flushed, disheveled Richard sitting upright on his bed, swaying slightly, humming to himself like some tragic poet deep in his cups.

“Richard,” Saul called.

Richard didn’t even acknowledge him. He was too busy cycling through songs and half-remembered verses, slipping between languages as if his fever had burned away all his inhibitions.The tune was inconsistent, flowing from one melody into another like an unhinged medley.

First, French—something romantic, probably borrowed from a lost love letter. “Ah, Catherine, ma reine, je te salue…”

Then, British English—dramatic, melancholy. Something about a Deborah. “Oh, my dear Deborah… unrequited love, what a cruel mistress…it becomes..”

Then Spanish, “Ay, Jeffrey, por qué hiciste esto…”

then, Japanese—soft humming, something sorrowful.

Back to French again—Catherine, my queen, I bow to thee…

Then, in Hindi, "Mai tumhari yaadon mein dooba hua aashiq..Meri chahatein...pyaar.."

Then, suddenly—“Jeffrey, why did you do this?”

Shaul’s brow furrowed.
Who the hell is Jeffrey?

Then, silence. Saul crossed his arms, watching with a growing sense of amusement and concern.

Saul took the opportunity to interrupt before Richard could launch into yet another tragic ballad. He crossed the room in three strides, sat on the edge of the bed, and firmly pressed a hand against Richard’s forehead.

Richard blinked up at him, utterly unfocused, but still offended at the sudden touch.

“Saul Ranasinghe Ali,” Richard declared in perfect Cantonese, as if announcing him to a royal court.

Saul sighed. “You're English, Richard.”

Richard, undeterred, launched into an entire monologue in Cantonese, gesturing wildly as if giving a dramatic retelling of his mentor’s great and noble sacrifices.
Saul's brain translated bits & pieces –"My esteemed mentor, Doctor -Turned-Jeweller Saul Ranasinghe Ali.. middle-aged, grizzly bear, dignified, quintessential businessman and prone to lecturing.”

Saul snickered in amusement but, he didn’t have the patience for this.

With one smooth motion, he caught Richard’s shoulders and tucked him back under the blankets, strong brown hands handling this rough blue-eyed gem with practiced ease.

“Enough theatrics,” Saul muttered, adjusting the blanket.

Richard, ever stubborn, fought against the cocooning for exactly five seconds before settling, still humming faintly under his breath.

Saul watched him carefully, something calculating in his gaze.

Now, Saul was determined to get some answers.

He knew Richard was fleeing from his family—that much had been obvious.

But now, with names spilling from his fevered lips, with fragments of past lives slipping through the cracks—Saul knew there was far more to the story.

And it was time Richard explained.

Chapter Text

Richard woke up feeling as though he had been wrung out like an old rag.

His limbs were heavy, his mouth unbearably dry, and worst of all, his head spun the moment he tried to move. A dull, pounding ache throbbed at his temples, and his vision blurred as he blinked blearily at the dimly lit room.

Something was off.

He tried to push himself up, ignoring the way his muscles trembled in protest. His body felt unbearably light and yet leaden at the same time—a strange contradiction that sent a wave of nausea rolling through his gut.

Richard exhaled sharply.
Steady yourself.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand.

It was a mistake.

The moment he got to his feet, the room tilted. His vision darkened at the edges, and a sharp ringing filled his ears. His knees buckled, his balance betrayed him, and before he could react.

He staggered.
He stumbled.

And then he crashed unceremoniously to the floor.

A sharp thud echoed through the room as he hit the polished wood, his body too weak to properly break his fall. The shock of it jolted through his bones, but the dizziness left him unable to even curse his own misfortune.

For a long moment, he simply lay there, dazed, his cheek pressed against the cool floor. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, his pulse erratic, and his breath came in shallow gasps.

Hypotension, his sluggish mind supplied. The bane of his existence.
Low blood pressure, his condition, made worse by the absurd amount of caffeine and dehydration from the tea.

And now here he was—collapsed on the floor like an absolute fool.

The door creaked open.

His mentor, Saul Ranasinghe stepped inside, carrying again, a cup of what was probably something medicinal and deeply unpleasant. He took precisely two steps before pausing, his sharp gaze landing on the sight of his idiot pupil sprawled on the floor.

There was a beat of silence. Then.

“What, exactly, am I looking at?” Saul asked, tone unbearably dry.

Richard, still winded, groaned. “The floor. I am looking at the floor.”

Saul sighed. “And how is it?”

“Hard. Cold. Unforgiving.”

Saul exhaled through his nose, placing the cup down on the table before crouching beside him.
“You stood up too fast.”

“Brilliant deduction, Doctor.”

Saul pressed two fingers to Richard’s wrist, checking his pulse. His brows furrowed slightly, and Richard, despite his dizziness, noted the flicker of concern.

“You’re still too weak,” Saul muttered, more to himself than to Richard. “I should’ve expected this.”

“Should’ve tied me down,” Richard mumbled.

Saul snorted. “Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind.”

He shifted, moving to grip Richard under the arms before hoisting him up—not too gently, but not unkindly either. Richard groaned as the dizziness flared, but Saul’s steady hands kept him upright.

“Easy,” Saul murmured, guiding him back to the bed. “I swear, Richard, if I leave you alone for one hour, you manage to make things worse.”

Richard slumped back onto the cushions, his body drained of all energy.

Saul pressed a hand to Richard’s forehead—still warm, but not as feverish as before. "Stay put.”

Richard closed his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. “No promises.”

Saul pinched the bridge of his nose. “You will be the death of me.”

But despite his words, he reached for the cup he had brought, pressing it into Richard’s hands. “Drink. Slowly.”

Richard cracked an eye open. “Is it disgusting?”

Saul gave him a blank stare. “Yes.”

Richard sighed. “I'm not ingesting it."

Saul in a scolding tone that broached no argument, sternly said, "Richard."

Richard replied, "I don't think I can stomach anything right now. And, believe me, if I thought vomiting it all would make this–me, feel better, I'd have done it hours ago..my gag reflex is close to non-existent."

Now, that confession made Saul back off. So he sat down in the chair beside him, watching carefully, ever the vigilant doctor despite his complaints.
Richard, ever perceptive, noted that even when he was at his most insufferable, Saul remained. And in the haze of exhaustion, he found that oddly reassuring.

Saul asked, "How do you feel now?"

Richard blinked blearily, he rolled his shoulders, testing the weight of his own body. The dizziness had settled somewhat, and the crushing exhaustion had lessened—but he still felt like he’d been wrung out and left to dry.

He exhaled slowly. “Like I fought a war and lost.”

Saul raised a brow. “Accurate.”

Richard let his head fall back against the cushions. “The dizziness is better. The headache, not so much. And I feel like if I stand again, I might just collapse for the drama of it.”

Saul gave him a dry look. “At least you’re self-aware.”

Richard smirked weakly. “It’s my best quality.”

Saul scoffed but reached out to press the back of his hand against Richard’s forehead again. “Your fever’s still lingering. You need to rest properly this time. No theatrics, no staggering around, and no tea.”

Richard opened his mouth to give a befitting reply but his headache discouraged him. So he just nodded in agreement.

Richard picked up a book on gemology, flipping through the pages lazily as his body still felt too drained for anything else. The words blurred slightly, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment.

He didn’t know when he dozed off, but a gentle touch against his wrist stirred him.

His brows furrowed as his sluggish mind registered the sensation—cool fingers pressing firmly against his pulse point. The contact was familiar.

Saul sat beside him, his expression unreadable as he counted the beats under his fingers. His grip was steady, his focus sharp, and for a moment, Richard simply watched.

A few seconds later, Saul withdrew his hand, only to reach for the blood pressure monitor.

Richard groaned, already knowing what was coming. “Must we?”

“Yes.” Saul wrapped the cuff around Richard’s upper arm with practiced ease. “And don’t whine.”

“I never whine,” Richard grumbled—only to wince as the machine started squeezing.

He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. The pressure wasn’t unbearable, but it was unpleasant, a dull ache radiating through his arm as the cuff tightened.

Saul, ever observant, noticed. “You’re making that face again.”

Richard sighed. “Because my arm is being crushed.”

Saul rolled his eyes. “It’s barely a squeeze.”

"... perhaps, for a muscular man like you...You have the empathy of a rock.”

“And yet, I’m the one keeping you alive.”

Richard had no argument for that.

A soft beep signaled the reading. Saul studied the numbers, brow furrowing slightly.

“112,” he mused. “Still so low.”

Richard suspiciously kept his mouth shut.

Saul removed the cuff. “You’ll need more fluids and proper food. No caffeine, no skipping meals.” He paused. “And absolutely no falling on the floor.”

Richard stubbornly replied. “I make no promises.”

Saul exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You're being ridiculous.”

And yet, despite his exasperation, he reached for a glass of water, pressing it into Richard’s hands.

Richard accepted it.
---
Saul set the empty glass aside and folded his arms. “Are you willing to get another shot?”

Richard, without hesitation, replied, “Absolutely not.”

Saul narrowed his eyes. “It’ll help.”

"With what?" Richard asked, eyeing him warily.

"Your blood pressure is worryingly low. You’ve got a headache—don’t bother denying it, your face says it all. You still have a fever. And, just a few hours ago, you were delirious, mumbling—no, actually singing incoherently—something about unrequited love."
Saul was wise enough to not reveal all his cards at once–the names and specifics.

Richard feigned a thoughtful expression. “Will it help immediately? As in, will I be miraculously cured and dancing within the hour?”

Saul sighed. “It will help gradually—”

“Ah, see, that’s the problem,” Richard interjected smoothly, propping his chin on his hand. “Why suffer an immediate stab in the arm when I can recover at my own pace, comfortably and pain-free?”

Saul tilted his head, unimpressed. “Would you rather drag this misery out for days?”

Richard smiled. “If it means no needles, then yes.”

Saul exhaled sharply. “And what if you get worse?”

“I won’t.”

“You might.”

“I probably won’t.”

Saul pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your stubbornness is a medical marvel.”

Richard smirked. “Why, thank you.”

Saul dropped his hand, fixing him with the signature doctor glare—the one that had made lesser men confess their poor life choices.

But Richard was not lesser men.

He leaned back, perfectly at ease. “You can lecture me all you like, Doctor Saul, but I remain firm in my stance.”

Saul crossed his arms. “So you’re rejecting scientifically proven medical treatment because of a mild discomfort?”

Richard scoffed. "You already gave me two shots, and I’m still not fully recovered. So spare me the needle threats, will you?"

Saul let out a long-suffering sigh. “You are insufferable.”

Richard grinned. “And yet, you tolerate me.”

Saul muttered something under his breath, eyes sharp with frustration. But in the end, he relented.
“Fine. No shot.”

Richard beamed. “See? Negotiation skills.”

Saul shot him a warning look. “But if your condition worsens even slightly, I will stick you with a needle before you can blink.”

Richard hummed. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Saul sighed again, rubbing his temple.
Richard smiled, utterly unbothered.
------

"I need to use the bathroom," Richard said after a few minutes.

Saul helped him down the hall to the bathroom, two rooms away from Richard's. In Saul’s defense, this was a Sri Lankan house—things weren’t always laid out conventionally.

Richard went in. He did his business.

When he opened the door to leave, he took a step and froze. A sharp pain shot through his head. His breath came short and shallow. His chest felt strange—tight, wrong.

Outside, Saul stood in the corridor turned toward the garden, watching the birds. He heard the bathroom door open and turned just in time to see Richard collapse.

"Richard! Damn it!"

Saul lunged forward, catching him before he hit the floor. He tried to rouse him, shaking his shoulder, calling his name. Nothing.

At least he hadn’t passed out inside the bathroom.

🤒🤒🤒

When Richard opened his eyes again, the first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t in his room. The familiar warmth of his silk sheets was gone, replaced by the clinical sterility of Saul’s medical room –clinic. He was in Saul's locked room full of medical equipment.

The second thing he noticed was the dull ache in his arm—and when he turned his head slightly–he saw the IV needle taped in place. A thin tube ran from his hand to an IV drip beside the bed. A slow drip of fluids ran through the tube, disappearing into his vein. Multiple IV infusions were connected to that single line.

He could feel the fluids entering his body—just subtly. But seeing that setup, all those IV lines connected to him, while his brain was still groggy, foggy, hazy… a wave of panic hit him. Terror.

But he forced it down. Deep. Deeper than deep. As far down as it would go. Because he refused to be terrified.
I’ve been exactly here –in this room before, his brain supplied.
But not like this –Not this severe.
He needed to find out what was going on.

The third thing he noticed was that–
he was still wearing the same comfortable gray pants, but his peach shirt was gone, replaced by a plain white T-shirt. So Saul had taken off his shirt. He prayed to whatever god would listen that it wasn’t torn—he really liked that shirt. And as far as he knew, Armani stores weren’t exactly common in Sri Lanka.

The fourth thing he noticed was Saul, sitting in a comfortable chair, flipping through a thick medical textbook with the kind of focus he usually reserved for identifying microscopic flaws in gemstones.
His foggy brain struggled to piece things together.

“What..?” he croaked, his throat dry. His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. He swallowed, then tried again. “What happened?”

Across the room, Saul looked up from his notes.He gave him a look that was equal parts unimpressed and unsurprised, “You collapsed.”

Richard frowned, shifting slightly. “Collapsed?”

Saul set his pen down and crossed his arms. “Yes, collapsed. Due to hypotension. Or, to put it simply—your blood pressure dropped so low that your body decided it was safer for you to pass out than continue functioning like a normal human being.”

"You were seconds away from spiraling into full cardiac distress. Your heart rate was erratic, your blood pressure was dropped dangerously." Saul elaborated in a grave tone.

Richard groaned and rubbing his temples with his free hand, blurted. “And why, exactly, did that happen?”

Saul exhaled, slipping effortlessly into lecture mode—the same one he used when teaching Richard how to distinguish between high-quality gemstones and worthless imitations–his tone eerily similar to when he explained the differences between high-quality turquoise and cheap imitations.

“Well,” he began, “excessive caffeine consumption acts as a diuretic, meaning you lost an obscene amount of fluids. Dehydration leads to a decrease in blood volume, which in turn lowers your blood pressure. When it drops too much, your brain doesn’t receive enough oxygen, and—”
He snapped his fingers.
“Down you go.”

Richard blinked at him. “…Are you comparing my near-death experience to a basic chemistry lesson?”

“Yes,” Saul said, unbothered. “Just as one must recognize the signs of treated, low-quality turquoise—such as unnaturally bright color and an overly waxy texture—one must also recognize the signs of an impending hypotensive collapse. Dizziness, nausea, blurred vision, and in your case, a dramatic fainting spell.”

Richard blinked at him, still groggy. “That seems… excessive. Surely, I did not faint.. ?”

Shaul arched a brow.

Richard hesitated. “…Did I?”

“Oh, you did. But seems like you have no recollection of it; which is not surprising."
Saul leaned back against his desk. “You wilted like an over watered houseplant.”

Saul further said. “You drank enough Royal Milk Tea to flood a small country. Then, in your infinite wisdom, despite feeling unsteady on your feet, tried to stand without support."

Richard groaned, covering his face with his hands. “This is the third worst day of my life.”

Saul hummed, flipping through his notes. “Interesting. I would have thought that title belonged to the time you mistook dyed howlite for genuine turquoise and tried to convince me otherwise for a full hour.”

Richard peeked through his fingers, scowling. “Must you bring that up now? It was my fifth worst day."

“If it keeps you from doing stupidity like this? Absolutely.”

Richard sighed, sinking further into the pillows. He hated it when Saul was right-ish than himself.
“That’s hardly fair.”

“What’s hardly fair is me having to explain basic biology to a man who can distinguish Burmese rubies from Thai rubies at a glance but somehow doesn’t understand why the human body needs proper hydration and nutrients to function.”

Richard opened his mouth, then closed it. That was… difficult to argue with.
But he supposed now was as good time as any to inform Saul about his nuisance of a medical condition that he had simply omitted to mention.
And the fact that he felt terrified here–despite all his efforts to suppress it, which only meant one thing—he desperately wanted to get out of this room.

Saul exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Low blood pressure isn’t always dangerous, but when it drops suddenly—like in your case—it can cause dizziness, weakness, even shock. The IV is replenishing your fluids and stabilizing your system."
After a pause.
"Your body revolted, and now I have to deal with this. Congratulations.”

Saul observed Richard, who seemed lost in thought. Good, looks like the idiot is 'finally' regretting.

"Saul, I’d very much prefer if you disconnected this drip from me—"
He almost said it. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them down.

Because Richard had just connected the dots. Yes, he had been feeling awful—dizzy, nauseous, unbearably weak—but he was pretty sure he hadn't been on the verge of fainting at that time. Even now, his limbs felt heavier than before, and his stomach churned unpleasantly. Something was off.
Ah.

His eyes drifted to the empty cup on the side table. A memory surfaced—Saul had forced him to drink something before the shots. Some horrible concoction that had tasted like bitter herbs and regret.

“What did you give me before?” he rasped.

Saul raised a brow. “The injections?”

“Yes, those 'stings' also, but No, before that.” Richard glanced at the empty cup on the table, still wincing at the memory of its awful taste.

Saul hummed, still flipping pages. “A rehydration solution. With added herbal medicine to counteract the effects of the tea.”

Richard made a face. “That explains why it tasted like a crime.”

Saul smirked. “And yet, you’re still alive.”

“Debatable.” Richard shifted slightly, wincing as his body reminded him exactly how much it hated him right now. He wasn’t just weak—he felt off. Dizzy in a way that wasn’t normal.

“…Something you gave me didn’t sit right,” he muttered. “I felt bad before, but not like this.”

That got Saul’s full attention. His head snapped up, eyes sharp with instant analysis. “Describe it.”

Richard sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Like I was about to collapse, not actually going to. Then, suddenly—ah.” He exhaled sharply, realization dawning. “I did collapse, but only after your treatment.”

Shaul’s gaze darkened slightly. “That’s a bold accusation.”

Richard tilted his head, giving him a tired but pointed look. “Is it?”

"So, I’m arguing with Saul, huh? Richard thought. At least my fight-or-flight reaction is mostly buried now."

Saul stared at him for a moment, then sighed, rubbing his temple. "It was a basic electrolyte solution, mixed with some herbal medicine to counteract the tea’s effects. I’ll double-check the ingredients.”

Richard huffed, closing his eyes for a second. He didn’t need to be a doctor to know his body had not appreciated whatever mystery potion Saul had made him drink. But there was something else—something Saul hadn’t accounted for.

“My blood pressure’s always low,” he murmured.

Saul paused mid-page-turn. “What?”

Richard swallowed, his voice quieter than before. “I have chronic hypotension. It’s nothing serious. It just… happens sometimes.”

The book in Saul’s hands snapped shut. His expression shifted from mild frustration to something far more serious.

“You what?”

Richard sighed. “Chronic low blood pressure. It’s nothing new. It’s been like this for years.”

Saul’s stare was practically drilling holes into him. “And you didn’t think to tell me this before?”

Richard shrugged. “I usually manage fine.”

Saul's patience visibly thinned. “Richard.”

“I didn’t expect to end up in a medical hostage situation over a few cups of tea.”

“It was your body’s fault, aggravated by the tea.” Saul exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “Richard, you don’t just forget to mention a condition like this.”

Richard, to his credit, at least looked somewhat guilty. “It never seemed relevant.”

Saul let out a humorless laugh. “Not relevant?” He shook his head. “You know, come to think of it, I don’t know a single thing about your medical history.”

Richard opened his mouth to quip, but something in Saul’s tone stopped him.

It wasn’t just frustration—it was real, genuine concern.
That gave Richard pause.

“…It’s really not that bad,” he muttered, glancing away.

His mind conjured an image—one he didn’t like—
Trapped. Spooked. Uneasy.
That’s how he felt. And the urge to flee was only growing stronger.

Saul crossed his arms. “You’re going to tell me everything. Now.”

It was as if a part of his mind had disconnected, creating a split between what he felt and what he was supposed to do.
He tried to keep it under control, forcing himself to act as he should—as if he were fully present in the moment, even when he wasn’t.

So Richard groaned, covering his face. “Is this a medical interrogation?”

“Yes."

“Of course it is.” Richard repeated.

Saul tapped a finger against his arm impatiently. “Well?”

Richard sighed again, letting his hand drop. “Fine. I’ve always had lower blood pressure than normal. It’s not usually a problem, but sometimes I get lightheaded if I stand too fast or don’t eat enough.” He made a vague gesture. “Or, apparently, if I drink too much Royal Milk Tea and then get injected with God-knows- whatever you concocted.”

Saul did not look amused. “This could have been avoided if you had told me from the beginning.”

Richard shrugged. “Didn’t think I needed a full medical evaluation before drinking tea.”

Saul gave him a long, unblinking stare.
“…I am this close to smacking you,” he finally said.

Richard said weakly. “Violence is not the answer, Doctor.”

Saul exhaled through his nose. “Why do I bother? If you weren't my favorite idiot..”

Saul grumbled something under his breath, he reached for another cup of water and set it beside Richard. “Drink. Slowly. And no more tea for a week.”

Richard gasped. “A week?”

Saul arched a brow. “Do you want me to make it two?”

Richard grumbled but took the cup, sipping with great reluctance.

Saul, me, tea. Do I still want to flee?
He buried this thought deeper. Yes.
And with that, Richard felt like his mind was his own again. Only himself.
Good.

*______*

Chapter Text

Saul leaned back in his chair, still watching him carefully. Despite everything—despite Richard’s sheer inability to take care of himself—Saul knew, without a doubt, that as long as Richard was under his care–he’d always end up looking after him.

After a moment of silence, the conversation shifted back to the matter at hand—Richard’s questionable medical treatment.

“I demand to know exactly what I’ve been treated with,” Richard said, sitting up slightly despite the lingering dizziness.
"Begin from that concoction, in order," he further added.

Saul replied instantly. "A digestive aid to help your system process the absurd amount of caffeine and milk you flooded it with.”
"Injectable prescription opioid to bring down the fever and, a mild sedative to force your body to rest."

"And, right now." –
“An IV saline solution to stabilize your blood pressure and arrhythmia that is; erratic heartbeat, and an electrolyte mix to combat dehydration, another to help your digestive tract inside muscles relax” he finally glanced at Richard, completely unfazed by his glare.

Richard’s jaw tightened. “You drugged me this much?”

“I treated you as a licensed British doctor,” Saul corrected. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to still be lying on the floor, or in the bed looking like a damsel in agony."

Richard scowled but had no immediate rebuttal for that. Instead, he focused on how his body felt. His head was heavy, his limbs uncooperative, and a faint nausea still lurked beneath the surface. Even his heartbeat felt… off. A little too slow, a little too forceful.

“…What exactly is in that herbal medicine you forced me to drink?” he asked suspiciously.

Saul casually flipped his book open again. “A blend of valerian root, passionflower, and chamomile.”

Richard stared at him. “You gave me sedatives, twice?”

Saul turned a page. “Your nervous system needed calming.”

“My entire existence feels calmed to the point of near unconsciousness.”

Saul shrugged. “Then it’s working.”

Richard groaned, running a hand down his face. “I feel like a tranquilized horse.”

Saul hummed, utterly unbothered. “Good. That means you won’t do anything reckless for at least a few more hours.”

Richard flopped back against the pillows, exasperated but too exhausted to argue further. He still felt off—lightheaded, sluggish, as if his body wasn’t quite catching up to reality. The sensation wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was worse than usual.

“My heart literally feels weird,” he observed.

Saul immediately looked up, gaze sharp. “'Weird' how? Define.”

Richard exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against his chest. Then, he spoke in a loose shadow of his Jeweller voice. “Heavy. Slower than usual. Feels like it’s… thudding instead of beating.”

Saul was already moving, reaching for Richard’s wrist to check his pulse.
Saul was exasperated as he glanced again at the three heart monitor machines—each displaying the same mocking message: "Not Functioning."
"Damn it."
He knew he should have replaced them earlier. He had meant to buy a new one. Should have had a backup ready.
But now? Now, when he actually needed them, all three were useless.

His expression shifted into something far more serious as he counted the beats. For good measure, he donned his stethoscope and put its other end right over Richard's heart.

“…Bradycardia,” he muttered.

Richard squinted at him. “Which means?”

“Your heart rate’s too low.”

Richard stared at him. “You mistakenly
slowed my heart down?”

Saul sighed, rubbing his temple. “The meds may have interacted with your naturally low blood pressure. I’ll adjust your IV drip to counterbalance it.” He shot Richard a look. “This is exactly why you should have told me about your hypotension earlier.”

Richard sighed, waving a lazy hand. “Lesson learned, Mr. Doctor.”

Saul rolled his eyes but was already making the necessary adjustments, injecting the bottle with other things. Richard, who had never been a serious patient like this before, looked away.
He tried to let himself relax, feeling the subtle change as the new fluids entered his system.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d be slightly more forthcoming about his medical history next time. Just as he was thinking this –

The moment the new fluids flooded his system, Richard’s entire arm lit on fire. A violent, searing sensation spread through his veins, making his muscles twitch involuntarily. His breath hitched—then, with no warning, the pain spiked.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up. He shrieked—a raw, startled sound—and immediately tried to curl in on himself, desperate to pull his limbs closer, to make it stop.

The realization, accompanied with the whole arm stinging pain hit Richard like a bolt of lightning.
He had been drugged. Again.
Tricked. Like some unruly child or—worse—a misbehaving house cat.

He was about to grab the IV line, fully intending to rip the infernal thing out of his arm.

But before he could so much as flinch away from the IV, he found himself restrained—enveloped in a bear hug, by
a human grizzly bear, locked against a solid, immovable force.

Saul.

Saul had tightly gripped his free arm, and the IV-clad arm was also loosely but carefully restrained.

Richard sobbed, his body wracked with tremors. Tears spilled freely from his ocean-blue eyes, slipping down his fever-flushed cheeks. The fire in his veins refused to subside, and his mind was a blur of pain, exhaustion, and, why does it hurt so much...?

“Shh,” he heard, Saul’s voice firm yet strangely gentle.

He barely registered the weight of Saul’s hand rubbing slow, grounding circles against his back, or the way the man was holding him like he was something fragile—something that could break if not handled with care.

“I know,” Saul murmured, his voice lower now. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry, Richard. I’m so sorry.”

Richard sobbed harder, trembling in his grip.

“But bradycardia is dangerous,” Saul continued, still holding him tight. “I had to—” he exhaled, and Richard could hear the tension in his voice “—I had to counteract it. I added atropine sulfate to the IV to regulate your heart rate. Just 0.7 milligrams, carefully balanced with the rest of your treatment.”

That did not make it any better.

Richard gasped through the pain, his entire body still on edge. “T-Then why—” he choked out, voice cracking.

“I know,” Saul whispered. His grip never loosened. “I know, dear child.”

Richard felt himself being rocked, just slightly. Like Saul was trying to soothe him.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Saul murmured, his voice carrying the kind of exhaustion only a man who had been dealing with sick Richard for hours could have. “Relax, just relax. Breathe. It's going to be alright.”

Richard couldn’t think. Could barely breathe through the overwhelming sensation crawling beneath his skin. But Saul’s voice, steady and there, kept him from spiraling completely.

And slowly—very, very slowly—the fire in his veins dulled to a simmer. His sobs turned to shuddering breaths. His body stopped fighting the embrace keeping him grounded.

Still, he couldn’t stop the stray tears that slipped down his cheeks.

Saul didn’t let go.

“…You’re fine,” he murmured, so quiet that Richard almost missed it. “I’ve got you.”

Richard, exhausted beyond belief, said nothing.

Saul’s large hand moved gently over Richard’s forehead, his thumb pressing slow, steady circles against his temple. His other hand patted Richard’s back in a rhythmic, grounding motion.

Richard was still hiccuping, his breath catching on the remnants of sobs he hadn’t fully recovered from. His body was exhausted and aching, his nerves raw, but the pain had finally dulled into something bearable.

Still, his chest felt tight. A lingering weight of something he didn’t want to name.

“I’m scared,” he murmured, feebly, voice barely above a whisper.

Saul’s movements didn’t stop. His fingers never stilled, his warmth never wavered.

“Richard,” he said, low and steady. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Richard swallowed, his throat thick. “It...It felt—” He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I know,” Shaul murmured. “But you’re going to be just fine.” His voice was so sure, so certain, like the mere suggestion of any other outcome was absurd.

Richard wasn’t sure why that helped.
But it did.
For once, he let himself believe it.
-------

After what felt like an eternity—but was probably thirty-five minutes—Saul finally removed the IV. He pressed a cotton gauze pad firmly against the small puncture wound to stop the bleeding.

Richard winced, his arm twitching slightly at the fresh wound's sting.

Saul didn’t comment, just held the gauze in place for a few more seconds before taping it down. His movements were precise, practiced—effortlessly gentle in a way that Richard should have been used to by now.

“You need to sleep,” Saul said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Richard made a weak, noncommittal sound, but didn’t protest when Saul took his now IV-free arm and began massaging it, working slow, careful pressure into the tense muscles.

It was soothing. Frustratingly so.

His eyelids felt heavy. His body, despite everything, was finally settling.

“…You’re persistent,” Richard mumbled, his voice slurring slightly.

Saul huffed. “And you’re delicately exhausting”

Richard’s lips curled slightly at that. A tiny, fleeting smile.

Then, finally, he let himself drift.

Fifteen minutes after Richard had finally fallen into a deep, proper sleep, Saul carefully eased his hand away from the younger man's arm.

He lingered for a moment, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Richard’s chest. The worst of it had passed. His breathing was even, his body no longer trembling, and—most importantly—his heart rate had stabilized.

Still, Saul hesitated before leaving. He adjusted the blanket draped over Richard, making sure he was warm enough. Then, with one last glance, he quietly exited the medical room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Only once he was alone did he exhale, rubbing his temple.

Saul went to his room, setting alarms every 80 minutes to check on him.

"What an evening –and just as much,
what a night."

Chapter Text

The next morning, Saul pushed the door open, stepping into the room with his usual calm demeanor. Of course, he had checked on him multiple times at the night and thankfully, Richard had slept without any more complications.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the space. Richard was awake—barely.

He was sitting up, his hair a tousled mess, his expression groggy and unfocused. But the moment his eyes landed on Saul, his entire body went rigid.

Saul frowned.

Richard’s fingers curled around the blanket, his grip tight. His posture was tense, his breathing just a little too shallow. And his eyes—wide, guarded, the way an animal looked when backed into a corner.

“…What?” Saul asked, narrowing his gaze.

Richard didn’t answer immediately. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. Uncertain.

“You—” He stopped, then tried again. “You hurt me.”

Shaul’s frown deepened. “Richard—”

“You drugged me,” Richard blurted out, voice thin with something that was not his usual dramatics. He was still gripping the blanket, his knuckles pale. “You gave me—something, and then my whole body was on fire, and I—I couldn’t even move, I—”

Shaul’s stomach dropped.

Ah.

So that was it.

Richard wasn’t just being stubborn. He wasn’t sulking over last night’s ordeal.

He was afraid –of him.

Shaul exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm. “Richard,” he said, keeping his voice low, even.
“Look at me.”

Richard did—but only for a second before his gaze darted away, his hands gripping the sheets even tighter.

Shaul took a careful step closer. “I didn’t mean for it to hurt you like that.”

Richard let out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a shaky exhale. “It did.”

“I know.” Shaul softened his tone. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Richard’s jaw clenched, and he still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Felt like you were.”

Shaul sighed, rubbing his temple. “If I had left your heart rate that low, it could have been dangerous. The atropine was necessary. I measured the dose carefully, made sure it wouldn’t interact with anything else. But I… I miscalculated how your body would react.”

Richard stayed quiet.

Shaul took another slow step forward. “I’m not your enemy, Richard.”

Richard finally looked at him. And for a fraction of a second, something in his eyes shifted. Hesitation. Doubt.

But not fear. Not real fear.

Just uncertainty. Wariness. Like he didn’t quite know what to think.

Shaul exhaled, stepping back just a little, giving Richard space. “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

Richard’s fingers twitched, still gripping the sheets.

“…You won’t?”

“Not without your permission.”

A pause. Then, slowly, Richard’s grip loosened.

Shaul watched him carefully, waiting.

“…I still don’t trust you,” Richard muttered, but it lacked real bite.

Shaul smirked. “Understandable. You are my most difficult patient.”

Richard shot him a weak glare, but his shoulders had relaxed. Just a little.

Shaul sighed, leaning against the table. “Drink some water,” he said. “And eat something. Then we can discuss how much you hate me over breakfast.”

Richard hesitated—then, with an exaggerated sigh, reached for the water glass.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Richard’s fingers curled around the glass of water, but he didn’t lift it. He just stared at it, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His grip was too tight, his knuckles pale against the glass.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, but weighted with something deeper, something raw, he spoke.

“You drugged me…” His throat bobbed. “Like Jeffrey betrayed me, in London.
And then..” his voice trailed off.

Shaul’s breath hitched.

The words sank into the air, thick and suffocating.

Richard wasn’t looking at him anymore. His gaze had gone distant, his body unnaturally still—as if one wrong move would shatter him completely.

Saul’s stomach twisted.

Jeffrey. London. Betrayal.

He had known about it, of course. Had heard the pieces of the story through vague mentions, offhand comments that Richard always brushed past with his usual arrogance, his usual deflection. Richard needed to share his sorrow. But now was not the time.

Right now, Richard’s voice was not deflecting. It was hoarse, haunted.

Saul did that.

Unintentionally, unknowingly—but he did that.

He had pulled Richard’s body under with medication, made him helpless, left him vulnerable in a way that wasn’t just physical. And now Richard was looking at him like that—like Shaul was no longer his mentor, no longer the man who pulled him out of the messes he constantly walked into.

Like Shaul was just another betrayal.

Shaul felt sick.

He stepped forward—slowly, carefully. “Richard.”

Richard flinched. Actually flinched.

Shaul froze.

“I am not Jeffrey,” he said, and his own voice sounded wrong—too gentle, too soft, like he was trying to keep a wounded animal from bolting.

Richard let out a breath, sharp and unsteady. “You— You took control of my body. Without warning. Without asking. Just like he did.” His voice cracked at the end.

Shaul closed his eyes for half a second, forcing his own breathing to stay even. Then he opened them and met Richard’s gaze—stubborn, determined, filled with something too painful to name.

“Richard,” he said again, quieter now, “I swear to you—I only did it to help you.”

Richard’s jaw clenched, his fingers trembling against the glass. “That’s what 'he' tried to say.”

Shaul inhaled slowly. “Then let me say this plainly.”

Richard’s breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t move, didn’t look away.

Shaul placed both hands on the table between them—deliberately not reaching for Richard, not closing the space too much. “I will never drug you again without telling you. Ever.” His voice was firm. Unshakable. “If you tell me ‘no,’ I will listen. No tricks. No force. No decisions made behind your back.”

Richard’s throat bobbed again.

Shaul held his gaze. “But I need you to understand—I only did what I did because I was afraid of losing you.
Didn't I mention? Trust me, you looked minutes away from a cardiac arrest.”

Richard visibly stiffened.

Saul sighed, rubbing his temple. “You think I enjoyed seeing you like that? Crying in pain? Richard, I—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “I miscalculated. I hurt you. And I am so—so sorry.”

The words hung between them.

Richard’s fingers slowly loosened around the glass.

He looked at Shaul—really looked at him—and for the first time that morning, the fear in his eyes wasn’t so sharp.

He swallowed. “You swear?”

Shaul nodded. “On my life.”

Richard held his gaze a moment longer. Then, finally—finally—he slumped back against the pillows, exhaling shakily.

“…You’re a real bastard, Doctor.”

Shaul huffed, relief flickering over his face. “And you’re impossible, dear child.”

Richard closed his eyes.

A sharp crack shattered the tense silence.

Richard’s grip had been too tight, his hands too tense—and the fragile glass splintered in his grasp. The glass half filled with water had completely shattered.

For a second, he didn’t react. He just stared down, blinking at the thin red lines now blooming across his beautiful, slender fingers. Tiny shards of glass glittered against his pale skin, catching the morning light like fractured diamonds.

Then—pain.

Richard hissed, his fingers twitching, blood welling at the fresh cuts.

Shaul’s heart ached. He observed with dismay that Richard’s glass-embedded hand was the same arm that had taken the injections and IV last night.

He let out a frustrated sigh. "You absolute disaster of a human being..."

“Richard—” He moved instantly, reaching for him, but Richard flinched back on reflex, his breath coming too fast.

Shaul froze, his stomach twisting even more painfully than before.

Richard wasn’t afraid of the glass. Wasn’t afraid of the pain. He was really afraid of Shaul.

That realization hit harder than anything.

But Shaul forced himself to stay still—to keep his hands where Richard could see them. No sudden movements. No force.

“Richard,” he said carefully, softly, like coaxing a cornered animal. “Let me see your hand.”

Richard didn’t move. His fingers were still curled, trembling, his breath unsteady. His own blood was staining his skin, but he didn’t react to it—like he wasn’t sure what to do.

Like he wasn’t fully here.

Saul’s chest tightened.

“Please,” he added, voice quieter. “You’re hurt.”

Richard hesitated—then, slowly, so slowly, he loosened his grip, uncurling his fingers just enough for Shaul to see the damage.

That was enough.

Saul exhaled, gently reaching for Richard’s injured hand. This time, Richard didn’t flinch—not fully. He tensed, but he let him.

Carefully, so carefully, Shaul cradled Richard’s fingers in his own, avoiding the sharp glass fragments still embedded in his skin. The sight of red staining his delicate hands sent another pang through Shaul’s chest.

“…This is my fault,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Richard blinked at him, tired and wary.

Shaul sighed. “Let me fix it.”

Richard said nothing.
But he didn’t pull away, either.

Shaul’s stomach sank the moment he examined Richard’s hand properly. Two of the cuts were deep—too deep to just bandage up and ignore.

“They’ll need stitches,” he murmured, already reaching for his kit.

Richard didn’t react at first. He just stared at his own blood-streaked hands as if they weren’t even his. As if the sight was detached from reality.

Then—his breath hitched. His shoulders shook. And suddenly—

In Hindi, "Mere saath hi aisa kyun hota hai?” ("Why does fate have it out for me?") His voice cracked, raw with something too heavy to contain.

Shaul’s hands stilled.

Richard was breaking right in front of him.

Scarlet-stained fingers curled inward, as if trying to hold himself together, as his breath came out in uneven gasps. His entire body was trembling now.

“Maine kya bigada tha kisi ka?” In Hindi. ("What the hell did I ever do to anyone?")

His voice wavered, and then—tears.
Unstoppable. Silent at first, but then shaking sobs spilled from his lips, his face crumpling completely.

“I don’t know what to do anymore!” he choked out. His hands trembled violently, blood dripping onto the sheets, but he barely seemed to feel it—too lost in his own breaking point.

Shaul felt his own chest tighten painfully.

Without a second thought, he reached forward and pulled Richard in—ignoring the blood, mindful of the glass shards– to not further harm Richard –but
ignoring everything else.

He held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other keeping him steady.

“Shh,” he murmured, pressing his chin to Richard’s hair as the younger man sobbed into his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

"Main tumhare sath hun," he reassured him because Richard was using Hindi to communicate with his equally Polyglot mentor.

Richard didn’t fight it. He let himself be held.

Five minutes passed.

Five long, heavy minutes where the only sound was Richard’s uneven breathing and the quiet, steady beat of Shaul’s heart against his ear.

His sobs had slowed, reduced to occasional shuddering breaths. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away—but he also hadn’t spoken.

Shaul let him take his time.

Then, finally, he murmured, gentle but firm, “Now tell me, Richard—will you let me suture them?”

Richard stiffened slightly, but Shaul didn’t let go just yet.

“I’ll need to anesthetize them first,” Shaul continued, keeping his voice steady. “And it’s going to burn—I won’t lie to you.” His fingers squeezed just slightly over Richard’s uninjured arm, grounding him. “But this is your hand we’re talking about. You need it to work properly. To do the things you love.”

Richard still wasn’t looking at him. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching slightly against Shaul’s shirt.

Shaul sighed softly, loosening his hold just enough to meet Richard’s tear-streaked face.

“You’re very strong, Richard.” His voice never wavered. “But I need you to decide. Will you let me?” A pause. Then, quieter—more than a request, more than a plea—“Do you trust me enough?”

Richard swallowed hard.

For a moment, Shaul wasn’t sure if he would answer at all.

Then—slowly, hesitantly—Richard nodded.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Saul’s chest ached—but he gave a single, reassuring nod in return.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then let’s take care of you properly.”

"And please, get out of bed first. We can’t risk cutting ourselves on those broken glass shards, hmm?"
"Here, let me help."

Saul reached out slowly, his hands hovering near Richard’s shoulders—giving him plenty of time to bat them away if he wanted.

Richard, still unsteady on his feet from last night’s sedation and lingering weakness, didn’t protest. Saul guided him to the lavender-colored, velvet-stuffed chair opposite the clinic bed. Richard didn’t resist. He simply obeyed, his sock-clad feet brushing against the cold floor.

Saul moved with practiced efficiency –he still often took care of patients who came to his doorstep while in Sri Lanka. He began unboxing the necessary tools and laying them out neatly on the tray beside him.

•Sterile suturing kit – forceps, needle driver, and fine surgical scissors.

•Lidocaine ampoules – the local anesthetic.

•Syringes and needles – two of them, prepped for injection.

•Antiseptic solution and gauze – to clean the wound and control the bleeding.

•Sterile sutures – fine, absorbable stitches suited for delicate hand wounds.

•Gloves and surgical drape – to keep the area sterile.

Richard watched warily, then looked away, his posture tense but his breathing more even now. His left hand still trembled slightly, fresh blood pooling sluggishly along the deep cuts running through the middle of his palm. The wounds split through the flesh, dangerously close to the tendons.

Saul grabbed the first syringe, tapping the side to remove any air bubbles before filling it with lidocaine.

He glanced up. “Now, Richard—it’ll be better if you hold your fingers with your right hand. Yes, just like that,” he guided, watching as Richard hesitantly cupped his own fingers, keeping them steady. “Don’t curl them.”

Richard nodded tightly, gripping his own hand just enough to stop the shaking.

Saul exhaled, positioning the needle at the first injection site.

“This is going to sting,” he warned, soft but firm. “Ready?”

Richard’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t ready. Not at all. But still—he gave a single nod.

The moment the needle pierced his skin, Richard clenched his eyes shut, his breath catching in his throat.

The burning spread instantly, searing along the wound, sharp and relentless. It wasn’t just a sting—it was deep, raw, a sensation that gnawed at his nerves before beginning to dull.

Still, the tears came. Silent, unbidden.

Richard’s hands shook, his entire body rigid, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t flinch.

Saul, watching him closely, murmured, “You’re doing well.” His voice was calm, reassuring. “Remarkably well.”

Richard let out a shaky breath, his fingers twitching against his palm, but he said nothing.

Once Saul was sure the anesthetic had taken effect, he set the syringe aside and reached for the forceps.

“Alright,” he said, adjusting his grip. “I’m removing the glass now. If you feel anything sharp, let me know.”

Richard exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay still.

Saul worked carefully, his movements precise, his forceps glinting under the light as he pulled out the tiny, embedded shards. Some were shallow, easily dislodged—but others were deeper, buried in the raw, tender flesh.

One particularly stubborn fragment made Richard tense, his fingers twitching involuntarily. His breathing hitched—but there was no pain, just a strange, pulling pressure.

“Almost done,” Saul murmured, voice steady.

Richard forced himself to believe him. Feeling vulnerable, his mind wandered.
He’d gotten stitches in his leg three times before, thanks to nasty scrapes from playing in the meadows. But back then, Chieko had been there. Once, even Catherine. He actually missed their gentle, feminine touch.
As if the universe had actually heard him, they were interrupted by a feminine voice.

Just as Saul reached for the suturing needle, the door swung open.

“Richard!"

Said Maya Hamada, his fellow jeweller apprentice–while she was older than him, she came later, making Richard the seniormost apprentice of Saul. Her
voice was thick with concern as she hurried inside, eyes immediately locking onto him. Her gaze widened at the sight—Richard, pale, his left hand bloodied, his tear-streaked face turned slightly away, broken glass shards on the bed, and Saul seated beside him on a chair with surgical tools at the ready.

“What the hell happened?” she demanded in Japanese, her sharp light brown eyes flicking between them. “I leave for 3 days, and you’re already in some medical tragedy?”

Richard let out a weak, breathless laugh, though his shoulders still trembled. “Ah, Maya… you have so little faith in me.” he answered in Japanese too.

Maya huffed, marching closer, her brows furrowed. “I have exactly as much faith as you deserve. Which is none.”

Saul barely glanced up, adjusting his gloves. “He broke a glass in his hand.”

Maya winced, finally getting a proper look at the wound—deep, lined with thin streaks of red, but neatly prepped for suturing.

Her expression softened. “Richard…”

He didn’t meet her gaze. Just exhaled, his voice softer now. “It was an accident.”

Maya’s concern only deepened. The Richard she knew could be stubborn careless, and sometimes,too deep in thought, but she had not seen that look on his face before. He looked shaken, fragile and exhausted.

Saul, noticing the shift in mood, cleared his throat. “Maya, if you’re staying, keep him talking. I’m about to start the sutures.”

Richard stiffened immediately. His fingers curled slightly, but he caught himself before ruining Saul’s careful positioning.

Maya’s eyes flicked between them again. Then, nodding, she took a seat beside Richard on the padded arm of the chair and reached for his uninjured hand.

“Alright, Richard,” she said, voice lighter now, an attempt at normalcy. “Let’s get your mind off this. Tell me, what ridiculous nonsense did you do to end up here?”

Richard, despite everything, managed to put up a brave face.
“…How much time do you have?”

"Enough to hear it all." Maya didn’t hesitate. The moment Richard’s fingers twitched, instinctively trying to curl, she reached out and held his injured hand.

Her grip was firm but careful, her warmth pressing lightly over Saul’s steadying touch.

“Nope.” She shook her head. “Keep it still, Richard.” Sensing his tiredness, she had switched to her thickly Japanese- accented but fluent English.

Richard let out a shaky sigh, but he obeyed. His fingers remained straight, even as his whole body braced itself for what came next.

“Now,” Maya said, offering the barest hint of a smirk. “Distract yourself. Tell me—how, exactly, did you end up in this mess?”

Richard inhaled deeply, gathering himself. He could do this. He loved to talk anyway.

“Well,” he started, attempting a dramatic tone despite the situation, “I got fatally ill due to an utterly reasonable amount of Royal Milk Tea.”

Maya raised a sceptical brow. “Define ‘utterly reasonable.’”

“…Fifteen cups.”

Maya stared. “Richard.”

“In my defense, it was excellent tea.”

Maya sighed loudly. “You absolute imbecile.”

Saul, now threading the surgical needle, muttered, “You see what I deal with?”

Maya rolled her eyes, still keeping Richard’s hand steady. “Go on, tea addict.”

Richard swallowed, his breath hitching slightly as Saul positioned the needle near the first deep cut. He could feel the pressure—not pain, thanks to the lidocaine, but the odd, unpleasant sensation of something pulling at his skin. He observed the other cuts were already neatly bandaged.

His fingers twitched again, but Maya tightened her grip, grounding him.

Richard exhaled.

“…It got worse because I may have, neglected to tell our dear Doctor Saul here that I have chronic hypotension.”

Maya blinked. Then smacked his good arm.

“You forgot to mention that?”

Richard winced. “It never seemed important!”

Shaul let out a deep, pointed sigh as he carefully looped the first stitch. “Yes, because passing out unconscious is such a minor inconvenience.”

Maya groaned. “Richard, I swear—one day, your own recklessness is going to kill you.”

Richard smirked weakly, though his breath still wavered. “Which is why I have you two here, to prevent that, don’t I?”

Maya squeezed his hand again, and for a moment—just a moment—she and Shaul exchanged a rare look of agreement.

"Yes, Richard. You do." She softly agreed.

Richard wasn’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact that Maya, with whom he shared a relationship built entirely on mutual harassment, was actively trying to cheer him up… or the fact that Shaul was still here, stitching up his hand with calm, practiced care, as if last night hadn’t happened.

As if Richard hadn’t looked at him this morning and seen a monster in a doctor’s coat.

That realization—the sheer absurdity of it—made something in Richard’s chest ache.

He had been terrified of Shaul just a few minutes ago. Of the man who had trained him, tolerated his nonsense, guided him with the patience of someone who should have long since given up.

A man who was, in some unspoken way, a father figure to him.

How ridiculous.

How utterly absurd.

Because despite that fear, despite the panic that had burned through him like a fever, Richard wasn’t alone.

Not now. Not with Maya keeping him steady, throwing in just the right amount of teasing to keep him from spiraling. Not with Shaul still helping him, still here, despite everything.

That thought—that feeling—made his throat tighten in a way he didn’t like.

He swallowed hard, forcing a smirk. “Maya, I never knew you could be so kind.”

Maya snorted, but her grip didn’t waver. “Don’t get used to it.”

Saul let out a low sigh, still working on the stitches. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Richard huffed a soft laugh—and for the first time that morning, he didn’t feel so alone.

Richard let out a long, exhausted breath as Saul tied off the final stitch.

His fiasco of suffering—the pain, the fear, the sheer humiliation of being reduced to a sobbing mess—was finally over.

Saul carefully wrapped his hand in a clean bandage, securing it with precise efficiency before sitting back. “It’ll be sore and hurting for at least a week,” he warned. “No unnecessary strain. No getting it wet for too long. Make sure, I do not catch you, using this hand recklessly.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “Yes, Doctor.”

Maya snorted. “You’re going to ignore all that the second he leaves the room, aren’t you?”

Richard honestly replied, "No."

Shaul shot him a flat look, “At least pretend to listen.”

Richard expected the pain. Of course he did. He’d been stitched up before; he knew the dull, throbbing ache would linger for days.

But for the first time in hours—maybe even days—his heart wasn’t aching.

Not literally. Not physically.

And that was a huge improvement.

He flexed his fingers slightly, testing the stiffness of the bandage, then exhaled slowly.

The wound would heal.
He would heal.

Thankfully, it wasn’t his dominant hand—his right hand was still perfectly functional. Small mercies.

But, of course, Saul wasn’t done with him yet.

Without a word, he grabbed the blood pressure cuff and wrapped it around Richard’s good arm.

Richard grimaced instantly as the cuff tightened, squeezing his bicep in that uniquely unpleasant way.

“Ugh,” he groaned, tilting his head back. “Is this really necessary?”

Saul didn’t even look up. “After last night? Yes.”

Richard unintentionally whimpered as the cuff pressed harder. "I think it presses more when you have low readings."

Maya leaned against the desk, phone in hand. She started reading the exact response to Richard's observation.
"Yes, it can feel that way. When you have low blood pressure (hypotension), your blood vessels may be more relaxed, and your pulse might be weaker. This can make the cuff feel like it’s pressing harder because there's less resistance from your arteries. Additionally, if you're feeling dizzy or weak due to low BP, you might be more sensitive to the pressure of the cuff. However, the machine applies the same amount of pressure regardless of your blood pressure level. The sensation of increased pressure is mostly due to how your body is responding at that moment."

Richard gave Saul an I-told-you-so look.
"So I was right.'

"Okay, I concede defeat," Saul said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I didn’t know about this—I’m not a nurse. And, for the record, my patients never complained about it before... so."
"But..", he added.
"I apologize for earlier—I didn’t mean to belittle your pain."

The cuff finally deflated with a soft hiss, and Shaul checked the reading.

115/72.

He exhaled, visibly relieved. “Better than last night.”

Richard arched a brow. “Did you expect it to be worse?”

Shaul gave him a flat look. “Considering your talent for self-destruction? Yes.”

Richard huffed, flexing his good arm now that it was free again. “Well, there you have it, Doctor. I live to suffer another day.”

Maya snorted. “You’re impossible.”

Saul simply packed away the cuff. “At least you’re impossible with a more stable blood pressure now.”

Richard agreed, stretching carefully. “Progress.”

Shaul gave him a final, assessing look, as if double-checking that Richard wouldn’t suddenly keel over from some new disaster of his own making.

Satisfied—for now—he sighed and stood, stripping off his gloves. “You need rest. Actual rest, Richard. No unnecessary movement, no stress, and—” he shot him a pointed glare “—no tea.”

Richard gasped dramatically, clutching his heart with his good hand. “You wound me, Saul.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “You literally just got stitched up. I think you’ve been wounded enough.”

Richard huffed, crossing his arms as much as his sore body allowed. “What am I supposed to drink, then? Water? Like some common peasant?”

Shaul didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he grabbed a glass from the nearby tray, filled it with plain, ordinary water, and placed it directly in Richard’s hand.

“There,” Shaul said flatly. “Drink. Be a peasant.”

Richard grumbled under his breath but took a slow sip anyway—if only to prove a point.

Maya snorted, watching the exchange with mild amusement.

But despite the teasing, the exhaustion, and the lingering ache in his hand, Richard felt… lighter.

He survived this after all.
-----

Shaul sighed, rubbing his temple as he gathered his things. “Alright, you’re discharged from the clinic. Just let me pack up, and I’ll take you back to your room.”

Richard sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders carefully. The lingering soreness in his body was annoying, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

“I can manage,” he said, already swinging his legs.

Shaul admonished him. “Don’t be an idiot. Again.”

Richard huffed, but before he could argue further, Maya interrupted.

“I can take him,” she offered, arms crossed. “I’m sure I could.”

Shaul raised a brow. “Are you?”

Maya smirked. “He’s got one good hand, two functioning legs, and a terribly fragile ego. I think I’ll manage.”

Richard gasped, offended. “Maya!”

“Oh, now you’re shocked?” she teased.

Shaul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But if he so much as sways, call me.”

Maya saluted. “Yes, Doctor.”

Richard scowled as she grabbed his good arm and hoisted him up. “You know, I can walk perfectly fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Maya said, not letting go. “And yet, here we are.”

Then, "Shall I let him try?"

When Saul ignored her, Maya stepped aside.

Richard took five slow steps toward the bed—his vision swam. The room spun.
He blinked. Then blinked again. But it wouldn’t stop.

Discouraged—or maybe lesson learned—he sank onto the clean side of the bed, resting his head in his good hand.

A groan escaped him. "Urghhh… this headache. . Why won’t it just go away?"

Saul answered calmly, "Your digestive system–nutrient absorption—your blood sugar levels, electrolytes, overall hydration and a whole lot more are completely out of balance. So unsurprisingly, that headache isn’t going anywhere just yet."

By now Saul had finished packing. He handed Richard a pack of tablets for headache– with strict instructions to be consumed only after eating food.

Richard pursed his lips and pocketed them.

"Now, get out of my clinic, both of you."

Richard walked out of the room with Maya's support, his movements stiff, slow and slightly hunched.

He still looked dejected, his expression oddly distant. Not sulking. Not dramatic. Just… off.

Maya, ever the menace, nudged him lightly. “Come on, Richard, don’t look so miserable. You survived. No permanent damage. You still have your devastatingly good looks.”

Richard huffed a soft laugh. A smile gracing his face.

“Miss Hamada,” Saul said dryly, “You are thirty-eight years old, not a teenager. Please act accordingly.”

Maya smirked, entirely unrepentant. “And yet, he smiled.”

Then, she tightened her grip around Richard’s waist, steadying him as they stepped out of the clinic room.

“Alright, you melodramatic mess, one step at a time,” she said, keeping her pace slow to match his.

Richard let out a dramatic sigh, but didn’t argue. His body was still exhausted, his stitched-up hand aching, but at least he was out—no more needles, no more IVs, no more Saul looking at him like he was two steps away from disaster.

Saul, however, wasn’t done yet.

“Carefully, Maya,” he called after them, “And Richard, if you faint on her, I swear I’ll drag you right back in here.”

Richard quipped, tilting his head back.
"You talk like I fainted on purpose."

Then, in a more somber tone, he added, "Come to think of it, you sedated me back then—without informing me—
so what else did you expect? Of course, I’d be wobbly on my feet."

"And I’m sorry—I apologized, didn't I?"

"And, I am fine." Richard looked away.

Maya arched a brow. “You’re leaning on me.”

“…Minor inconvenience.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t push it. Instead, she adjusted her grip, making sure he wouldn’t trip over his own feet.

As they exited into the hall, Richard exhaled slowly. He still felt off, still felt like there were things he hadn’t processed yet.

"But now wasn’t the time for that."

Yeah, he pacified himself. He should just listen to old man Saul—for once—and give himself the rest he needed, both physically and mentally.

That would be the wise thing to do.

And maybe then, the person he had accepted as his mentor would finally stop calling him an idiot.

🙁🙄❤️‍🩹🫤

Back in his room, after managing a light breakfast under Maya’s watchful and borderline threatening eye, Richard sat by the window, his posture loose but his expression distant. Maya let him eat in silence. He took his meds–painkillers, antibiotic and pill.

He wasn’t sulking, or brooding but he looked... lost.

Maya noticed it .

“Something bothering you?” she asked, keeping her voice casual but firm—just enough to pull him back.

Richard blinked, as if realizing only now that she was still in the room.

When she was sure she had his attention and that he was listening, Maya started, speaking leaning against the edge of the table, just beside him.

“When I was young, whenever I was confused or upset, my dad used to walk me through my feelings. He called it a mind map—starting from the beginning, working through each step, all the way to the thought where I was stuck.”

Richard tilted his head slightly, looking at her properly.

Maya continued, “It really helps. Sorting things out. Digesting them bit by bit.”

Richard was silent for a long moment, his fingers absently tracing the bandages around his stitched-up palm.

Then quietly, almost cautiously –his voice low, he said, "from the beginning?”

His expression reminiscent, as if drifting back in time, watching the chirping birds outside the window, he began to speak..

"Yesterday morning, I was trying to figure out the exact way to add the ingredients—their composition, their amounts—to make the perfect tea I love.

Of course, I already know how to make it. Ever since I first drank it here and Saul showed me the process, I’ve understood the basics. But… unfortunately, I’ve inherited my mother’s abysmal cooking skills. I can’t make a single thing I actually enjoy eating. At least, not properly.

So every time I made tea, I took note of what was lacking. And well… I still drank it, told myself ‘better luck next time,’ and left it at that.

But yesterday morning, I set out to make the perfect Royal Milk Tea—carefully noting every step and the results I got.

By repeating the process throughout the day, I eliminated my mistakes. I wrote down exactly how to make the perfect Royal Milk Tea and memorized it.

Just—there was one downside. One little problem.

Through all my trials, I was already half-full. But when I finally made the perfect tea, I was so overcome with happiness that I drank it too.

And that… is how, I ended up overdosing on tea."

Maya stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. But she immediately schooled herself to look calm when Richard turned toward her.

On normal days, she would have said–
"So let me get this straight—you basically ran a full-scale tea experiment on yourself, drank way more than a reasonable amount, and that’s how you made yourself sick?"

Or,

"Richard, do you hear yourself? This isn’t some noble scientific pursuit. It’s tea. And you poisoned yourself with it. Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?
And don’t even try to argue, because no matter how much you dress it up, the bottom line is—you overdosed on milk tea like a complete idiot."

But today, Richard was not 'normal'. So she let a few moments pass, giving him space to breathe. Then, in a gentle voice, she said:

"So… you were trying to recreate something that brings you comfort. You wanted to get it just right, to make it your own. And in doing that, you pushed yourself too far."

She exhaled softly, as she regarded him.

"Richard, you’re always so careful with everything—so precise. I can see why this mattered to you. But you matter too."

She offered him a small, knowing smile.

"It’s okay to want things to be perfect. But not at the cost of your own well-being. Next time, maybe just... pace yourself?"

Her voice held no judgment, only quiet understanding.

Richard parted his lips, then closed them again, staring at her with wide eyes. Her unusually warm response—her rare perceptiveness—caught him completely off guard.

He had known her for about five months now, and in that time, she had thoroughly enjoyed gently harassing him. Not out of malice, of course, but with her sharp quips and quick rebuttals, always ready to spar like a tough competitor.

But today…
Today, she wasn’t challenging him.
She was simply empathizing.

Richard uttered softly. "I am now intimately aware of the hazards of overdosing on tea. Repeating that mistake would be the height of sheer stupidity."
"And despite Saul’s claims to the contrary, I’m not actually 'that' stupid."

Maya cleared her throat. "Then what happened next, Richard?" she prompted gently.

"You know what happened—I got sick and was treated by Dr. Saul Ranasinghe, Ali" Richard said, attempting to evade the conversation, trying to brush it off.

"Yes, but you know that's not what I mean," she insisted. "You overloaded yourself with tea—then what did you do next?"

Richard now sat back in his comfortable armchair, sinking into the plush cushions with a quiet sigh, facing her directly.

Richard gave her a deep, searching look, as if assessing her motives. Perhaps satisfied with what he found, he finally began to speak.

"I couldn't move—I was too full. So I just sat there for a long time, reviewing my notes in the kitchen. Then I went to piss and headed to my room.

"A while after that, the fever crept up. I tried to ignore it, but it kept rising. I started looking for ibuprofen, but my stock was missing—probably because Saul didn’t want me self-medicating again, like I did with sleeping pills when I first moved into his home.

"My body was trembling, shivering, shuddering. I tried to get back to bed, but I was so unsteady I ended up breaking a vase and a few ornamental pieces on the way.

"That’s when Raman, the househelp, peeked into my room. I was on the bed, knees drawn up to my chest—crouched but still seated. Then came the headaches. I buried my head in my hands. And let’s not forget the abdominal cramps. Huh."
He let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"So, you were suffering from milk tea overdosing—almost poisoning yourself, actually," she said matter-of-factly but with sympathy.

Richard sighed, rubbing his temple. "That’s... one way to put it."

"Are you tired already? Would you like to rest? Actually, you must rest—those pills must be kicking in," she said, studying his face.

Richard shook his head. "No, I’d better finish this conversation now. And… I do believe I need to process 'yesterday.'"

He started his story again.

"Raman came back, muttering in Tamil—something about ‘Chhote Baba’—young master not looking well, seeming sick. So he called ‘Bade Sahab’—Master Saul—and then cleaned up the broken pots and whatever else I had knocked over in the room."

"Then Saul arrived. He scolded me, I suppose," Richard said, running a hand through his hair.

"Saul made me swallow a concoction of ‘nerve-calming herbal sedatives,’ as he told me much later," Richard said, his tone so dry that she could practically hear the quotation marks in his voice.

"He told me to sleep it off after giving me paracetamol. But my condition worsened, so—without my express consent, but with my reluctant consent—he gave me two injection shots. They stung badly."

At this, Richard glanced at the crook of his inner elbow. She followed his gaze and saw two purple bruised puncture wounds, almost like a snake bite. It definitely looked painful—she cringed.

Ignoring her reaction, Richard closed his eyes and continued.

"What exactly I talked about with Saul then–I don’t remember. My memories are rather hazy." He let out a mirthless laugh. "Saul said he injected me with a sedative too—for good measure, apparently. So when I woke up in here–I was unsteady on my feet. I didn’t know at the time that I had been sedated, so I got out of bed and immediately fell—right there."

He motioned with his injured hand toward the floor. "Cold, hard, unforgiving floor."

He paused. When Maya offered nothing, he continued.

"Saul put me back on the bed, and I remember him asking me to drink something again... and whether I’d be amenable to another injection."

Richard opened his eyes. Maya was listening intently—he really did have good storytelling skills.

When she saw him looking at her for a response, she suddenly exclaimed, "Dear Lord Buddha! What was Saul thinking, offering you those again?"

Richard continued, "I must’ve refused both—because I don’t recall another injection bite or drinking anything else. Hmm… I must’ve given him some logical, reasonable argument."

"The next thing I remember is waking up in Saul’s clinical room."

"With, well… for lack of a better word, a rather sci-fi setup—at least, that’s how it looked to me. This was the first time I had been that critically hospitalized. Yeah, that’s exactly what it was—three IV infusions connected to a single line, all taped to the back of my hand."

He shuddered just recalling it, his fingers absently tapping the spot with his good hand.

"Oh, and the pain there? It’s a whole different kind of awful."

Maya, who had been listening closely, suddenly sat up straighter, looking genuinely disturbed.

"Richard, you’re giving me mad scientist vibes right now," she muttered.

Richard let out a soft, humorless laugh, tilting his head back slightly.

“I haven’t even reached the best—no, the worst part yet…” His voice was quiet, like he was still piecing it together himself.

Maya’s eyes narrowed with intrigue. She crossed her arms, leaning in slightly. “Of course. I have yet to hear how you ended up crushing the glass of water in your hand.”

She tilted her head. “Because, Richard, we do not willingly turn our hands into shard-clad messes.”

Richard’s fingers twitched against the bandages. He exhaled, staring down at them.

“…No. I suppose we don’t.”

Maya stayed quiet, waiting.
Waiting for him to walk 'himself' through it.

Richard kept his eyes open, wide and unblinking.

Then, suddenly, as if some invisible weight had crashed down on him, he lifted both hands and clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp.

His breathing turned sharp, ragged—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Again and again.

He looked utterly haunted.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, his entire body tensing, frozen in place.

His ocean-blue eyes looked utterly haunted

Maya’s breath caught. She had seen Richard in many states—annoyed, smug, exhausted, even genuinely upset—but this was different.

She leaned forward, heart pounding, voice laced with genuine concern.
It was the look of someone remembering 'something'..Something unsettling.

"Richard, what did you remember?" Maya asked, startled, her voice full of concern, her tone steady but urgent.

"Surely… nothing horrible could have happened under Saul’s watch, right?" she asked weakly, her voice uncertain.

"Terror. Absolute terror at being in that medical room.

"It was like my mind had split into two.

"One part screaming at me to get out—fight or flight kicking in, desperate to flee. The other? Casually conversing with Saul, as if nothing was wrong.

"Trapped. Spooked. Uneasy. The urge to run growing stronger by the second.

"My mind was completely out of sync—what I felt versus what I was supposed to do. And that… that terrified me beyond belief.

"So I made the stupidest decision—I buried it. Pushed it down as far as I could.

"And then… I felt like my mind was my own again. Just me. Only myself. And I—" he let out a dry, bitter laugh, "I smiled like a fool."

"Oh god. What the hell was that? I shouldn’t have bottled it up. I should have let it out. Surely, Saul would’ve known what to do—even in that situation. He’s been a field doctor, after all."

Richard exhaled shakily and grabbed his head with his good hand, gripping it tightly.

Maya had no idea what to say in a situation like this.

She felt a flicker of panic herself. She came from a family of high-end jewelry businessmen—medical crises were 'not' her area of expertise. Quite frankly, she was at her wits' end. So much so that she didn’t even dare to approach Richard, afraid of making things worse.

Thankfully for them both, Saul—standing by the door—had been listening.

He had come to check on Richard before leaving the house, of course, but their conversation had caught his attention. And instead of interrupting, he had simply 'stood' there, absorbing every word, listening far more carefully than either of them had realized.
Neither Richard nor Maya had noticed him at all.

He cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence like shattering glass.

Maya visibly relaxed at the sight of him. "Saul…" she began, almost uncertainly.

"I know," he said quietly. "I was listening by the door."

With a kind of deliberate gentleness, he crouched before Richard, leveling himself so he wasn’t towering over him, so Richard wouldn’t feel cornered.

With quiet care and warmth, Saul spoke, his voice steady and reassuring.

"Richard, son… dear, there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Really, I assure you—it’s a basic instinct. It happens."

He kept his tone soothing, deliberate. "When you find yourself in an unfamiliar, unexpected place—hooked up to medical paraphernalia without prior warning—before you even realise it–well…" he paused for a moment before continuing, "of course, your mind might react. It’s natural.

"And let’s be honest, one of the most common thoughts in that moment? The classic movie trope—waking up in a hospital, unaware, with sinister doctors looming over you."

Richard flinched, his feet moved.

He exhaled softly, tilting his head. "You should have told me, Richard. Right then and there."

Saul’s tone remained calm but firm. His voice never lost its kind patience, never turned into something reprimanding. "That said… thanks to Maya, it’s out now. It’s no longer buried inside you, locked away where it can fester."

Richard didn’t respond.
Didn’t move.

He was sitting tensed, still hiding his forehead and eyes, his shoulders locked tight.

Crouched before Richard, Saul gently pried Richard’s hand away—slowly, carefully—urging him to meet his eyes–to look at him.

Richard resisted for a moment, keeping his gaze averted. His fingers twitched under Saul’s grip, tense as if reluctant to let go of that last bit of control. Finally, Richard let out a slow breath and lifted his eyes. His expression was guarded, wary, but there was something else there too—exhaustion, uncertainty… and maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief.

And when their gazes finally met, Saul added, softly–“You’re safe.”

He settled back on his heels, still crouched before him. "Now, listen to me, Richard. That feeling you had? The fear, the panic—that wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t irrational either. Your body and mind were reacting to something unexpected, something that felt wrong to you in that moment. And that’s okay."

Richard swallowed, his throat dry. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing. He looked up as Saul exhaled and rose to his full height.

With open arms, Saul said simply, "Come here. You look like you really need a hug."

For a second, Richard didn’t move. His pride warred with his exhaustion, his instinct to retreat clashing with the warmth being offered so freely.

Then, hesitantly, he stepped forward.

The embrace started stiff, almost awkward—Richard held himself rigid, as if unsure how to be held. But Saul didn’t rush him. He simply stood there, arms firm, steady.

And slowly, slowly… Richard relaxed.

His head dipped slightly, shoulders losing their tension as he let himself lean—just a little.

Saul acknowledging the effort it took, said, "There you go. Good."

From a short distance away, Maya watched, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She pressed a hand to her mouth, overcome with emotion.She didn’t interrupt, didn’t tease, didn’t ruin the moment with a remark.
She just wiped at her damp lashes.

Saul gave his shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before stepping back. "Maya, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid while I’m gone."

Maya, still watching closely, spoke. "You didn’t have to deal with that alone, Richard." Her voice was softer now, stripped of her usual teasing edge. "You shouldn’t have."

Saul nodded in agreement. "Next time—if there ever is a next time—you tell me. No bottling it up, no forcing yourself to act ‘fine’ when you’re not. Got it?"

"Got it," he muttered.

But Saul wasn’t quite done. "Say it properly."

Richard met his gaze, tired but resigned. "I’ll tell you next time."

"Good." Saul patted Richard’s shoulder as if to ground him. "Now, do yourself a favor and rest. You’ve had enough excitement for one morning."

Saul checked his watch. 10:10 a.m.
"I have to go, but I’ll check in later. And Richard—" he paused at the door, eyes sharp but not unkind, "—if anything feels 'off', you call me. No waiting, no hesitation. Understood?"

Richard exhaled through his nose. "Understood."

Saul gave a satisfied nod before heading out. The room felt quieter without his presence, though not as stifling as before.

Maya folded her arms, studying Richard for a long moment.
"So… what now?"
She answered her own question. "Now, you 'rest'—like doctor’s orders."

"Shall I continue?..our conversation?" he asked, timidly.

Instead of answering with yes, no, or I’ve had enough of this dreadful conversation, Maya simply looked at him with quiet sympathy and asked,
"Do you want to?"

She gently suggested , "Perhaps not now, but later?"

But when he looked disappointed, she sighed and pushed herself up.
"Alright, fine. Let me get my green tea and some choco-filled cookies first."

When she returned with her tea and cookies, Richard was already fast asleep, his breathing steady, his expression peaceful.

Curled up in bed–probably to stay warm. Idiot, she thought fondly as she grabbed a blanket from the shelf and carefully draped it over him.

Then, with a sigh, she settled into the chair by his coffee table, sipping her lemon-flavored green tea.

What a rollercoaster of a morning.

And Richard… what a messed up, resilient and a truly remarkable gem of a person.

Chapter Text

Richard woke up in the evening. He glanced at the wall clock—6:06 PM.

He had slept through the entire afternoon. And two hours of the late morning.

With a slow exhale, he moved his arm, but it felt heavy—his injured arm. And when he looked down at it, he sharply inhaled.

Panic.

The back of his hand was swollen—twice its normal size—closer to thrice, actually.

The stitches on his palm on the other hand, no, that's not the phrase to use at the moment (what a pun, really) —one side decorated with cuts & stitches that seemed fine; the other inflamed. He gulped. But his chest tightened. He tried to push down the panic, to think, but then Saul’s words echoed in his mind:

"Call me. Tell me if anything feels off."

He grabbed his phone. First call—voicemail.
Second call—voicemail again.

His restlessness grew. His fingers drummed against his thigh.
Call him again.

Finally, on the third ring, Saul picked up.
"Hello Richard, everything's okay?"

No preamble. No hesitation.

"The IV wound on my hand—no, the entire back of my hand—it's swollen. Badly."

There was a brief pause on the line, and then Saul’s voice came through, calm but alert.

"How swollen are we talking, Richard? Any redness? Pain?"

Richard glanced at his hand again. "It’s… a lot. Twice the size, maybe more. It’s puffy, stiff, and yeah, it hurts. Feels tight."

"Any warmth? Are you feverish?" Saul pressed.

Richard hesitated, touching the back of his hand with his good fingers. The skin felt hot. "Yeah. It’s warm. Fever? I don't know, but I don't feel great either."

Saul exhaled through the receiver. "Sounds like localized inflammation. Possibly a reaction. Listen, elevate your hand, don’t put pressure on it, and—" he paused, then his tone firmed. "I’m coming over. Sit tight."

"Wait—" But the line had already gone dead.

Richard lowered the phone, staring at the screen before sighing. Hmph.

🤚🏻..🤚🏻...🤚🏻

Saul had asked him to come to the medical room, and when Richard stepped inside, Saul was already there, waiting.

Maya followed closely behind him, likely for support—though she said nothing, simply hovering at his side as if making sure he didn’t suddenly keel over again.

Without a word, Richard extended his swollen hand for examination. The moment Saul got a proper look, his expression darkened. His brows drawn together, he studied the angry redness creeping around the IV site.

A grim face. Never a good sign.

Saul exhaled, shifting into his I-mean-no-harm-but-you’re-not-going-to-like-this tone.

“It’s infected.”

Saul remarked, almost to himself, as his eyes landed on the crook of Richard’s elbow.
"The injection wounds… they look inflamed too."

He sighed and recalled , "Let's not deny it, they did look red and angry in the morning, but redness of any wound is considered normal, when it's not scabbed over and dried."

"Show me your palm."
He inspected the stitched wounds & cuts after removing the bandages. Then, he exhaled in relief. "Thankfully, it looks normal."

"Small mercies," Maya quipped.

"More like minute mercy," Richard stated.

Maya couldn't control herself and snorted behind him. “What a new level of self-inflicted injury.”

Saul continued, keeping his voice steady. “The IV was inside you for about five hours—normally, that shouldn’t have been a problem.”

Richard grimaced, already sensing a ‘but’ coming.

And sure enough—Saul continued, his explanation precise, clinical, but gentle.

"But the site got infected when lactic acid from all that milk you drank was absorbed into your bloodstream–and into your skin..

Richard blinked. "Wait—are you saying I got this because I overdosed on milk tea?"

Saul gave him a pointed look. "That’s exactly what I’m saying."
He continued in his lecture mode.
"I presume you understand basic biology and chemistry."

"Of course, I do." Richard agreed.

Saul gave Richard a pointed look. "Alright, since you clearly love making my job harder, let’s go over exactly why this happened."

He began, "You drank excessive amounts of Milk Tea like it was water—did you even stop to think about what was in it?"

Richard averted his eyes due to his mentor's reprimanding look, and answered.
"Tannic acid and caffeine in black tea leaves; Milk contains lactose but is said to be a complete food, so other components such as vitamins, mineral and protein–I used no fat milk; and sugar containing glucose, fructose, and galactose."

Saul remarked sarcastically. "Excellent."

"You've got one fact wrong", he began again, in Medical- Science- lecture mode.

"While tea is often referred to as *tannic*, it's important to remember that it doesn't contain tannic acid. It's a common misnomer.The astringency of tea comes from tannins not tannic acid."

"Let me educate you, then, what exactly happened in your case."

Still the ever-concerned and thoughtful man, he noticed Richard looking tired, shifting his weight between his legs, and said, “I got carried away. Sit. Just this morning, you couldn’t even walk on your own—please, sit.”

Richard gratefully sat on the comfortably padded chair. Maya took a seat on a plastic chair nearby.

Saul continued.

"First—Tannin Overload. Tannins—also known as tannic acid—are present in black tea in high amounts. Normally, it’s fine. But in excess? It irritates the stomach lining, reduces nutrient absorption, and constricts blood vessels. More importantly, tannins inhibit iron absorption and suppress immune function. And guess what? That means your body had a harder time healing—especially at injection sites."

Saul gave him a look that practically said ‘See where I’m going with this?’ before continuing.

"Second—Lactic Acid Overload and Sugar Fermentation. Milk contains lactic acid. Too much of it in your system can lead to mild lactic acidosis—basically, it messes with your metabolism. Now, if you were already dehydrated—and I know you were—then the high sugar content in that milk tea would have fermented in your gut, creating an acidic blood pH. And what does that do?"

He didn’t wait for an answer.

"It weakens your immunity, making it easier for bacterial infections to take hold—like at your IV sites."

Saul folded his arms. "So, to summarize—your *let's make the perfect Royal Milk Tea obsession* didn’t just make you sick, it actively sabotaged your body’s ability to fight back. That’s why you ended up in this mess."

Saul ran a tired hand through his hair, and for a brief moment, guilt flickered across his face.

“There’s one more thing.” His voice softened slightly. “The herbal sedative I gave you… might have made things worse.”

Richard’s eyebrows furrowed, but he remained silent.

“Valerian root and passionflower—both of them are vasodilators. That means they relax blood vessels, which sounds great in theory, but in your case? It caused extra swelling and irritation at the IV sites. If the mix I gave you was strong—and let’s be honest, it was—then it only worsened the inflammation where the needles went in, making those areas even more prone to infection.”

Saul exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “So let’s sum it up. Your tea overdose caused a tannin overload, leading to metabolic imbalance and mild lactic acidosis. The herbal mix I gave you caused vasodilation, worsening the swelling. And with your immune system already weakened, bacteria—probably from your own skin or the IV needle—caused abscesses at the injection sites.”

He let out a mirthless chuckle, shaking his head. “So really? You didn’t just poison yourself. We both contributed to this disaster.”

He looked at Richard with something between frustration and concern. “Final diagnosis? Tannin and acidic overload plus vasodilation—leading to weak immunity and infected IV sites.”

Saul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “So tell me, Richard—should I ban you from tea forever, or should I start treating this before your arm decides to wage war against you?”

Richard chose not to respond to the remark about being banned from tea.
Instead, he mumbled, turning his head slightly toward Saul.

"So, let me get this straight—
I poisoned myself with milk tea. Your herbal mix made it worse. I got shots –which included another sedative—making my blood pressure worse— I collapsed—was put on IV drug therapy to prevent cardiac failure— the IV sites got infected. And now, my left arm is basically a battlefield?"

Saul gave a tight-lipped nod. "That sums it up."

Richard asked. "So… what do we do now?"

Saul exhaled. "If you want to wait, we can try oral antibiotics and see if the swelling goes down. But…"

Richard’s eyes narrowed. "But?"

Saul met his gaze steadily. "But with everything that’s already been in your system, I think the best option is to drain the abscess, clean the site thoroughly, and inject anti-inflammatory drugs and antibiotics directly into the tissue."

He paused, then added, "Of course, I’ll anesthetize the area before doing anything." His tone was meant to reassure.

Richard, however, had spent enough time under Saul’s care to know there was always a catch. He arched a brow. "But?"

Saul sighed. "But anesthesia on swollen tissue like this is going to burn. Twice as much. Patients have reported that in situations like this, the anesthetic doesn’t always completely numb the pain receptors. Higher or more concentrated doses increase the risks."

"And if it isn’t drained?" Richard asked, already suspecting the answer.

Saul’s expression remained serious. "It could spread. Get worse—meaning more abscesses, more pain. And since that puncture is connected to a vein, it’s dangerous."

He glanced at Richard’s hand again before continuing. "Right now, the infection is limited to the tissue above the skin. The vein puncture hasn’t fully healed yet, but it’s not an open wound either. That’s the good news. The bad news? If we let this go unchecked, it won’t stay that way."

Richard swallowed, his good hand tightening into a fist. "So basically, either we deal with it now, or it deals with me later?"

Saul gave a curt nod. "That’s one way to put it."

Maya, who had been quiet so far, shifted uncomfortably. "And how bad are we talking if it spreads?"

Saul didn’t sugarcoat it. "If the infection gets deeper and enters the bloodstream, we’re looking at a much bigger problem—fever, systemic inflammation, possibly sepsis." He met Richard’s eyes. "Which, in case you need me to spell it out, is not something you want to mess with."

Richard let out a slow breath, staring down at his swollen hand. The skin looked tight, stretched unnaturally over the inflammation. The thought of Saul cutting into it didn’t sit well with him, but the alternative was worse.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let’s get this over with."

Saul studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Maya, stay if you want, but you might not like watching this."

Maya crossed her arms. "I’ll stay." Her voice was firm, but she looked queasy.

Saul didn’t argue. He pulled on a pair of gloves, gathering what he needed. "Richard, put your arm on the table over the folded fabric. And try to relax."

Richard gave him a dry look. "Sure, I’ll get right on that."

Saul sighed. "At least try not to flinch when the anesthetic burns."

Richard exhaled and placed his arm on the table, bracing himself. "No promises."

"You’re not cutting it, right? Just draining it?" Richard asked.

"Indeed," Saul agreed. "But without anesthesia, you’re going to feel everything."

Richard exhaled sharply. "I don’t want my skin stinging—burning from the anesthesia itself."

Saul studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. But just so you know, what’s coming out and what’s going in won’t be pleasant either."

"I can imagine," Richard muttered. Then, more firmly, "Just do it."

Saul didn’t argue. Instead, he adjusted his gloves and gave one final warning. "If you change your mind about the anesthesia, say so. No stubborn heroics."

Richard agreed. "Yes Sir."

Saul grabbed a bottle of iodine, poured a generous amount onto a gauze pad, and swiped it over the inflamed skin. The sharp scent filled the air.

Saul watched as Richard’s fingers twitched, slightly curling.

“Don’t curl them,” Saul urged.

Richard exhaled sharply. “I don’t think I’ll be able to keep them straight throughout.”

“Alright, then don’t curl them too hard,” Saul said. “Your palm cuts might bleed.”

Chapter Text

Saul worked in silence, his movements deliberate, almost surgical. The air was thick with the sterile scent of alcohol. On the tray before him, the instruments were laid out in a grim, clinical order—gauze, a pair of forceps, a scalpel if things got bad, and the syringes.

Not the kind meant for injecting. These were meant for drawing out. Thick-barreled, with long, hollow needles designed to pierce deep and pull fluid from swollen, angry flesh. He pulled one from its sterile pack, rolling it between his fingers, weighing the thing like a weapon. The plunger moved smoothly under his thumb as he tested it, a quiet, mechanical slide of pressure and release.

He reached for the bottle of antiseptic, poured a capful, and dropped the syringe tip-down into it. A necessary step, but it felt like a pause. A breath before something that couldn’t be undone.

Behind him, Richard sat stiff-backed, silent but watchful. His hands clenched into fists, the tension winding through him like a wire pulled too tight. He’d said no anesthetic. Claimed it would burn worse than the needle. Saul hadn’t argued, but the idea of pressing this steel into already inflamed skin, of forcing it deep to siphon out infection, sat heavy in his chest.

Still, he worked. He pulled the syringe from the antiseptic, tapped the excess liquid free, and brought it close to the light of table lamp—one last insurance against infection. The needle gleamed faintly.

"Last chance," he murmured, voice low, steady. A warning, a mercy.

Richard didn’t answer. Just exhaled, slow and measured, and rolled his shoulders back in something like acceptance.

Saul sighed through his nose and picked up the gauze. No way through it but forward.

He flexed his gloved fingers before gently gripping Richard’s swollen hand.
"Alright. Deep breath," Saul instructed.

Richard braced himself, inhaling sharply. He watched as Saul pressed down near the swollen area with his thumb, feeling for the point where the abscess had built up the most pressure. Saul’s fingers pressed lightly at first, then firmly, against the angry, swollen back of Richard’s hand. The skin was somewhat hot to the touch –stretched thin, inflamed and aching with the kind of deep, pulsing pain that made every little movement excruciating.

It didn’t matter how Saul pressed—gently, harshly, methodically—because every single point of pressure sent a sharp, searing pain radiating through Richard's hand. It was like pressing down on a blunt nail, each touch a fresh wave of agony.

The fluid trapped beneath the skin shifted with every movement, separating slightly from the swollen tissue, making the pain feel even worse—like something boiling and raw, shifting inside him.

The moment Saul applied real pressure, Richard’s body jerked instinctively–Richard jerked at the first press, his breath hitching sharply, and he bit back a curse.

At the second, his lips parted in a shaky, involuntary gasp, a ragged, breathless “hahh—!” slipping out.

At the third, he let out an outright choked whimper, his fingers twitching helplessly at the sensation.

And then—then the pain kept rising, spiraling, unbearable.

A cry tore from his throat. 'Aahh! '

"I told you this wouldn’t be pleasant," Saul muttered, unwavering as he continued.

Richard’s breath came out ragged. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder—ahh—could you just—nghh—get it over with?"

His entire arm trembled, his shoulders shook as if his body itself was trying to shrink away from the pain, to get away from it somehow, but there was no escape.

His body shuddered violently, his breath coming in quick, desperate gulps, hiccuping between the uncontrollable, shaking sobs that spilled from him.

Tears—unstoppable, overwhelming, hot and heavy—plastered his cheeks, his nose, his entire face, mixing with the slight dampness of his now fevered skin.

And Saul hadn’t even begun yet.

Richard's breath came in harsh, broken gasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to steady himself. Every inhale was strained, every exhale uneven, catching in his throat between the choked sobs he couldn’t suppress. His lips trembled, parted just enough for the faintest, shaky sounds of pain to escape.

Still, despite it all, he forced out words—his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I—I thought you were going to use a needle… not—” His throat closed up for a second, and his body twitched involuntarily as another deep, throbbing wave of pain coursed through his swollen hand. His eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears spilling over, as he forced the rest out between ragged breaths. “Not squeeze it out…”

Shaul paused, pressing his lips into a thin line, his hand finally lifting from Richard’s inflamed skin. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if to summon patience.

“Do you think I’m doing this out of sheer love and affection?” His voice was dry, but not unkind, there was no real bite behind it.

Then, more measured, as he reached for the syringe.

“Yes, I will use it.” His tone shifted, softer now. “Now that I’ve determined where to insert them in the first place.”

Richard barely processed the words. His body remained tense, his fingers curled weakly, his senses still drowning in pain. But deep inside the fog of discomfort and exhaustion, one thought settled in his mind.

The worst hadn't even started yet.

Saul, methodical as ever, worked quickly with precise efficiency, preparing the syringes for what was to come.

First, he reached for a large-gauge needle, the kind designed for aspiration rather than injection. He attached it to a sterile syringe, ensuring the connection was secure. Then, with a practiced flick of his fingers, he uncapped the needle and held it up to the light, checking for any imperfections before drawing in a small amount of saline solution—just enough to ensure smooth suction. He prepared 5 syringes, just in case, and of course, capped all the needles except one.

With careful hands, he pressed the plunger slightly, expelling any trapped air, watching as a tiny bead of liquid gathered at the tip. The needle was now ready—not to inject, but to pierce the swollen tissue and draw out the infected fluid trapped beneath Richard’s skin.

Richard’s eyes lingered on the sharp glint of metal, his somewhat calmed breathing growing unsteady again, his body subtly tensing despite himself.

Shaul met his gaze. When he looked at Richard, his gaze was steady but unreadable, his usual sharpness softened by something else. Not pity, not hesitation—just quiet observation.
“You’re already in so much pain,” he murmured, his voice low but clear. He held Richard’s gaze for a second longer. “Are you sure you want to skip the anesthetic?”

Richard shook his head in response—a small, tight movement.

There was no need to repeat himself. He had given his reasoning before. It hadn't changed. Besides, right now, he wasn’t even sure he could speak clearly when his thoughts felt scattered, when stringing words together seemed like an impossible task. His jaw felt locked, his throat tight, his body already bracing for what was to come.

Saul gave a small nod, accepting the decision.

Then, with steady hands, he positioned the needle over the swollen, throbbing skin and began.

The moment the needle pierced his swollen skin, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through Richard’s entire hand, radiating outward like a sudden electric shock.

It was nothing like a simple injection. This wasn’t just a pinprick—this was deep, invading the inflamed, over-sensitive tissue already screaming with pain.

And then it moved inside.

A slow, deliberate push—not cutting, but pressing, sinking further into the swollen, taut flesh, disturbing the pressure building underneath. The dull, aching burn immediately spiked into something worse, something unbearable.

Then, suddenly—a new kind of pain.

Shaul began drawing back the plunger, and the moment the trapped fluid began to suction out, the sensation turned from sharp to something even more twisting, unbearable—like something pulling from inside, like his flesh was caving inward, collapsing under its own pain.

The pressure shifted, but instead of relief, it felt like his skin was being dragged from the inside out. A burning, sucking pain, as if something deep beneath the surface was being forcefully extracted, torn from where it had settled.

His breath caught —it breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale nearly a whimper. His teeth clenched, his vision blurred with hot, involuntary tears, and his entire body shook uncontrollably.

He felt everything—the unnatural shift of the needle as it navigated through the overfilled tissue, the deep, gnawing sting of something foreign invading an already suffering wound.

The sound that escaped him wasn’t even a proper cry—just a broken, desperate gasp, raw and trembling, because he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Shaul’s voice barely registered in his ears, something low and steady—a presence through the pain, grounding but distant.

Richard didn’t care. He was too lost in it, too consumed by the slow, torturous removal of whatever had been festering inside him.

His fingers trembled violently, but he somehow kept them from jerking away.
The thick, infected fluid started filling the syringe. His eyes burned with tears. The pain wasn’t sharp—it was a slow, dragging, aching torment that settled deep in his nerves. His vision blurred, his throat tightening.

Tears slipped down his cheek. He hated this. Hated feeling helpless.

Saul continued working, switching to gauze as more fluid was drained, pressing down to force the rest out. The added pressure sent another wave of pain through Richard’s arm, and he gasped, his head dipping forward as his body tensed.

Maya, who had been watching silently, suddenly stood up.

"I—I can’t," she stammered, blinking rapidly. She wiped at her eyes, swallowing hard. "I’m sorry, but I’ve had my fair share of this today."

And before anyone could respond, she turned on her heel and quickly left the med room.

Saul barely glanced up. "Breathe through it, Richard. Almost done."

Richard barely heard him, his mind drowning in the raw, burning sensation crawling up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming out in shaky bursts. Tears slipped free. He didn’t bother wiping them away.
He just wanted this to be over.

The pain peaked—sharp, raw, and merciless—and before Richard could stop himself, a loud, broken cry tore from his throat.

“Aahh—!”

His body jerked involuntarily, his back arching as his fingers spasmed against the sheets. His whole arm shook violently, muscles tensing, trying—failing—to escape the agony coursing through his hand.

Tears spilled freely, streaking his flushed cheeks, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Each second felt endless, the sensation of the needle still buried inside, still pulling, still tearing the pain out of him drop by drop.

His lips quivered, his chest heaving, another strangled sob escaping before he could swallow it down.

Shaul stilled for a second, his grip tightening—not to restrain, but to steady.

“Richard,” he murmured, low, firm, present.

But Richard barely heard him. The pain was too much.

A fresh wave of hot, searing pressure surged through his hand as more of the trapped fluid was drawn out, and another cry—weaker, but just as desperate—ripped from his throat.

“S—Stop—!” His voice cracked, shaking, his body trembling uncontrollably. But even as he pleaded, he knew—it couldn’t stop yet.

Shaul didn’t answer immediately. He exhaled through his nose, his free hand pressing lightly but reassuringly against Richard’s wrist.

“Almost done,” he said—a reassurance, a lie.

But to Richard, it didn’t feel like it.

And really, Shaul’s words were empty promises—because just as Richard thought it was over, as the needle finally slid out, filled to the brim with the foul, infected fluid, Shaul discarded it and picked up another syringe.

This one, aimed at a new site, just near—but away—from the first, where the swelling was still tight, throbbing, unrelieved.

Richard barely had time to breathe, barely had time to process the last wave of agony before—

Another pierce. Another sharp, cruel invasion into his burning, over-sensitive skin.

A fresh, broken cry escaped him, louder than before, as more tears rolled freely down his face, soaking his cheeks, his lips, his trembling jaw.

“Uhh… hh…hhh…—hnnnn! Hhhmm—” His sobs came uncontrolled, unfiltered, his body wracked with pain, muscles twitching helplessly. His fingers curled inward, his whole arm shaking violently, unable to escape the sheer, gut-wrenching torment pulsing through his hand.

His head tilted back, his mouth parted in silent, gasping sobs between his cries, his breath uneven, each inhale a struggle against the pain clawing through him.

Shaul never stopped, his movements steady, methodical. He worked quickly, efficiently, even as Richard cried and trembled under his hands.

Because this wasn’t mercy.

This was necessary.

But for the love of—whichever god was responsible for health—oh yes–Asclepius, Apollo, Artemis, and, Aegle—why was this taking so damn long?

Richard’s breath hitched, his vision swimming with fresh tears. His eyes were already red—red from the ones he had shed, from the ones still unshed, from the ones continuing to fall against his will.

The pain was relentless, an unyielding, dragging torment that settled deep in his bones. It wasn’t just the sharp sting of the needle—it was the pressure, the pulling sensation as Saul worked to drain the infection. It felt like his hand was being hollowed out, like something thick and heavy was being forcibly squeezed from his flesh.

He wanted to be still. He wanted to bear it with dignity. But his body betrayed him. His fingers twitched. His muscles clenched, shoulders drawn so tight it hurt. His breath stuttered between sharp inhales and shaky exhales, coming out in uneven, pain-laced bursts.

His throat burned from trying to keep quiet, but occasional choked gasps still escaped. A sob threatened to climb up, but he swallowed it down, his chest rising and falling erratically.

His tears blurred everything. They clung to his lashes, slipping down his cheeks, soaking into his collar. His jaw trembled. His good hand gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles white, shaking.

And still, Saul hadn’t stopped.

Another wave of pain surged through his arm as the needle moved, and Richard whimpered, head dipping forward as his body instinctively curled inward, as if that would somehow lessen the agony. More tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable.

He hated this. The vulnerability. The loss of control. The sheer helplessness of sitting there, crying like a child, unable to do anything but endure.

He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lip so hard he nearly drew blood. But it didn’t stop the trembling. It didn’t stop the way his shoulders shook. It didn’t stop the quiet, involuntary gasps that broke past his defenses.

And for the love of whoever was listening—why was this taking so long?

“Abscess drained." Saul informed him, his voice level but firm, as he withdrew the third needle, another full syringe of infected fluid now set aside.

"That’s it," Saul declared, setting the syringe and gauze aside in the sharps container. But his tone wasn’t entirely relieved—because the procedure was far from done.

Richard barely reacted. His body was too wrung out, his breaths shaky and uneven, chest still rising and falling with the remnants of pain-wracked sobs. His left hand—the one Shaul had been working on—had curled into a fist, tight but limp, his fingers barely responding.

Shaul’s brows furrowed as he reached for it.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, cursing further in Sinhalese, gently but firmly prying Richard’s fingers open.

And then—damn. Blood. Fresh blood.

The glass cuts from earlier— stitched and bandaged—had reopened, fresh blood seeping through the gauze, staining the already worn bandages.

Shaul let out a heavy sigh, his frustration clear—but not at Richard. At the situation, at the damn inevitability of it all.

“Richard,” he exhaled, pressing down lightly to stop the bleeding. His voice wasn’t angry, wasn’t scolding—just exhausted, concerned.

Richard barely responded, his tear-streaked face pale, his breath still trembling, his body completely drained.

Shaul clenched his jaw.
He still wasn’t done.

And Richard’s face was a wreck—eyes red and swollen from all the crying, tear streaks drying against his pale skin. His jaw trembled slightly, his lips parted as he tried to steady his uneven breathing. His forehead was damp with sweat, strands of hair sticking to it, and his expression… exhausted. Worn down.

His hand throbbed. A deep, pulsing ache radiated from both the drained abscess and his palm, where the stitches had been pressed too hard. The skin around the IV wound was raw, stretched, and painfully sensitive. Every nerve in his hand felt like it was frayed, sending dull, aching signals straight to his brain.

Saul didn’t waste time. He pressed fresh gauze over the bleeding stitches, applying firm but careful pressure. "I'll need to clean this again and re-dress it. Just hold still." His voice was softer now, lacking his usual briskness.

Richard barely reacted, his body limp against the chair. His fingers twitched involuntarily at the pressure, but that was it. No complaints. No sarcasm. Just… silence.

Saul soaked another gauze pad with antiseptic. "This will sting, but you already know that."

Richard gave the slightest nod. He did know.

The moment the antiseptic touched his torn skin, a sharp burn spread through his palm. His body tensed, shoulders jerking slightly, but he didn’t make a sound. Not this time. He felt as if there was nothing left in him to cry or protest anymore.

Saul worked quickly, wiping away the fresh blood, checking the stitches carefully. "They’re still intact. Barely. I’ll reinforce them with another layer of dressing–with tapes that is, but you need to not move this hand unnecessarily.You’ll need antibiotics for both wounds. I’ll give you shots for that in a bit."

Richard simply blinked at that, still breathing unevenly, his head feeling light, his body drained. He didn’t argue.
He didn’t have the strength to.

Before anything else, Saul pressed two fingers gently around the drained area, feeling for any remaining tenderness. Then, he pointed directly at the raw, inflamed tissue. "Before the antibiotics, I need to administer small doses right near the drained skin."

At that, Richard looked up, repeating.
".... into the drained skin?"

Saul clarified, "I’m not injecting directly 'into' the drained tissue—that would be pointless and too painful. A subcutaneous injection, means the needle goes just under the skin, not deep into muscle or the abscess site itself. It’ll deliver a diluted antiseptic and a mild steroid near the infection, helping to control inflammation and stop it from worsening.”

"You’ll feel a sting when the needle goes in, but the real discomfort comes after. As I inject, the fluid will spread beneath the skin, creating a small, raised bump—like a blister forming beneath the surface. That’s normal. It means the medication is sitting in the right layer, slowly absorbing into the surrounding tissue."

"It will burn and then ache for a while, and you’ll probably feel a bit of tightness around the area. The bump will go down as your body absorbs the fluid, but until then, don’t press on it or try to rub it away." He cautioned.

Richard watched as Saul spoke, his stomach twisting with every word. A bump forming under his skin? A blister that burns and aches? His fingers curled into the armrest, tension coiling up his spine like a drawn bowstring.

His breath came shallow. “That—” His voice faltered. “That sounds bloody awful.”

Saul watching him closely, said, "But it’s better than letting the infection flare up again.”

Richard didn’t look convinced. His eyes darted to the syringe Saul was preparing, to Saul’s impassive expression, then back to his own swollen, tender skin.

Saul sighed, then crouched slightly to meet Richard’s weary gaze. His tone softened—not clinical, not instructive, but reassuring.

"Listen to me, Richard. You’ve already endured the worst of it. You sat through the pain, didn’t pull away, didn’t quit. That wasn’t easy, but you did it. And this? This is the last step. Just one more hurdle, and you’re done."

He placed a steady hand on Richard’s uninjured arm, grounding him. "You’re stronger than you think, and you don’t have to push through alone. I’m right here. You can do this."

Richard swallowed, his throat dry. The words didn’t erase the pain, didn’t make his hand throb any less, but…

They helped.
Even if just a little.

Slowly, he exhaled and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Saul gave a faint approving smile. "Good. Now, deep breath—this will sting, but only for a moment."

And with that, he prepared the first of the small injections, ready to finish what they had started.

The needle pierced just beneath the surface, a sharp sting followed almost instantly by the slow, creeping burn as Saul pressed the plunger. The same needle pierced a different site near it— connected to it, then other and another. Richard gritted his teeth, a strangled sound caught in his throat as the liquid pooled beneath his skin, stretching, pushing, forming that dreaded raised bump.

“It—” He sucked in a sharp breath, his free hand gripping the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “It burns.”

Saul remained unmoved. “That means it’s working.”

Richard clenched his jaw, his heart hammering against his ribs as the foreign sensation throbbed beneath his skin. He didn’t dare look down, half-afraid that if he saw it, he’d be sick.

“You’ll be fine” Saul added withdrawing the needle with practiced ease.

Richard, pale and clammy, wasn’t so sure. He glanced at his hand, five punctures in the same spot, forming a cluster.

And, Saul was preparing another injection.

When Saul turned back to him,watching Richard’s crumpled expression– tears, agony, he remembered something –and swore, loudly, in Sinhalese.

"You idiot, how foolish, stupid...so so stupid... Utter idiocy."
His tone suggested it wasn't meant for Richard.

His voice, though rough, held an unmistakable gentleness when he spoke again, putting away the syringe.

"Talking to you, I completely forgot. Or maybe…subconsciously I thought you’d feel betrayed again."

Richard barely responded, his body still racked with quiet, exhausted tremors.

"There’s still a *ton left to do," Saul admitted, glancing toward Richard’s forearm. His gaze dropped to the IV injection sites near the elbow. Swollen. Inflamed. Another mess that needed attention. And then, the cuts–he'd need to give mild-antiseptic shots there too.

He sighed, then met Richard’s damp, weary eyes. "Now, here’s the thing—I *forgot that if I had sedated you and then anesthetized everything, you wouldn’t have had to *feel 'any' of this."

“But sedation and anaesthetic—they burn too… don’t they?” Richard asked, his voice weak.

“Yes, Richard,” Saul replied, his tone matter-of-fact. “And I’ve gathered, you’re naturally sensitive, which means you’ll experience more intense burning, tingling, and aching than most.”

"... How many shots left?"

"Perhaps a dozen," Saul seriously replied.

Richard gulped and asked, "You gave me oral meds in the morning; and the IV last night. So why this now?”

That was a good line of questioning. Richard thought. His body needed antibiotics & anti inflammatory drugs. So why was Saul going to inject him— into his skin–subcutaneous shots or, muscle–intramuscular shots..now? He asked as much. Because that's why Saul was thinking about sedating and anaesthetizing him, right? About 12 shots. Then Richard peeked at his elbow. Intra-venous injection sites' skin. Oh..they look infected too.

Saul answered, “Because your body's in a different state now.” He said plainly, “The overdose is still running its course, but you’re metabolizing it—slowly. Your immune system and circulation are still weak, meaning an IV injection is unnecessary unless absolutely needed.”

“IM injections are ideal at this stage. The medication will absorb into your muscles and release gradually, instead of flooding your system all at once.”

Richard frowned. “And oral meds? You gave me those earlier.”

Saul nodded. “That was when your body could still handle it. Now, oral drugs aren’t the best option anymore. Your digestion’s sluggish—absorption would be slow and unpredictable. Worst case? You throw it up before it even does its job. And note this, however weak your gag reflex–if your stomach says it can't accept that thing at the moment, you vomit, or get diarrhoea.”

Richard swallowed. “So, I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Saul’s tone was steady, almost indifferent, as he laid out Richard’s choices.

“You can suffer through an injection of sedation and sleep through the rest of this procedure—or you can stay awake and endure it.” He paused, then listed it off with clinical detachment. “That means draining your now-swollen elbow, re-suturing your palm, and of course—more subcutaneous injections and perhaps two intramuscular ones as well.”

Richard stared at him, a cold weight settling in his gut. His fingers twitched as if debating escape. “That—” His throat felt dry. “That’s not much of a choice, is it?”

Saul raised a brow. “No, Richard. It isn’t.”

Saul’s voice softened, careful now. "So, do you consent? Now?"

There was a beat of silence. Then, in the faintest, weakest voice—

"…Yes."

Saul nodded once, without hesitation. He reached for another syringe, preparing a proper sedative.

He injected it into Richard’s upper arm—into the same battered, aching limb, because at this point, what did one more needle even matter?

Richard flinched. But his body surrendered to the exhaustion.Within moments, the sedative began to take hold, his breathing evening out, the tension in his muscles loosening.

Saul exhaled through his nose. "Finally. Now, rest, Richard."

Richard sat slumped in the chair, his arms sprawled over the table. The strong sedative took effect almost instantly. His low, ragged hiccups faded, his breath evening out. Within seconds, his head lolled to the side, resting against the back of the chair.

Saul watched for a moment, ensuring he was fully under. Then, with a quiet sigh, he stripped off his gloves and tossed them aside.

Saul exhaled, running a tired hand down his face as he looked at Richard’s unconscious form. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"What a mess I’ve made. I’m so sorry, Richard."

His gaze lingered on the bruises, the swollen injection sites, the fresh bandages wrapped around Richard’s battered hand and upper arm. The sheer damage his treatment had inflicted—necessary, but brutal.

A bitter chuckle escaped him. "I really should stop practicing medicine at this rate."

But he didn’t stop. Instead, he reached for his gloves again, because no matter how much it weighed on him—he had to see this through.

Just as Saul was about to lift sedated Richard into the freshly replaced clinic bed, a voice rang out—sharp, angry, and demanding.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

The sudden outburst cut through the sterile quiet of the room like a scalpel.

Chapter Text

In the Far, Far Away Land of London—20 Hours Ago…

The moment Jeffrey Claremont received the news that his cousin was gravely–fatally–ill in Sri Lanka, he wasted no time. Within hours, he had boarded the fastest available flight.

As for how he got this information… well, Jeffrey had his methods.

The latest, unsuspecting source?
Miss Hamada.

Of course, she had no idea she had passed this information along. But that hardly mattered. He had his ways.

Now, as he sat in the dimly lit first-class cabin, fingers clenched around his armrest, rage burned in his chest—not for Richard, but for the man who had supposedly been looking after him.

Saul Ranasinghe Ali.

"Why the bloody hell did he let Richie get hurt?!"
And,
"How the bloody hell did he manage to screw him over?!"
-----
Jeffrey was 'seconds' away from ordering an airlift to get Ricky out of there. He could have done it—would have done it—if not for his father, the Earl of Claremont.

"Get to the bottom of this first," the Earl had reminded him. "We don’t even have confirmation, do we? And more importantly—what does Richard want?"

That last question had given Jeffrey pause.

And so, instead of sending in a full-scale retrieval team, he had boarded a flight himself.

Just a few more hours, and he’d be at Mr. Ranasinghe’s doorstep.
-----
And, of course, his father had also reminded him—Mr. Ranasinghe Ali is quite the businessman—a renowned gemologist with a somewhat philanthropic reputation. Not someone to be trifled with.

"You'd do well not to make an enemy of him outright, Jeffrey," the Earl had cautioned. "Approach this with care."

Jeffrey had merely clenched his jaw.
He wasn’t coming to make an 'enemy'.
He was coming to 'take back' his cousin brother.
____
Of course, he himself had been the one to suggest Richie disappear from England for a while—at least until Henry recovered.

But he had never meant for Ricky to go completely off the radar.

And Sri Lanka, of all places?

Sri Lanka, in September 2011... A country still bleeding from the wounds of a war that barely ended two years ago–in May 2009. Still divided, still broken, still trying to stitch itself back together with hands that won’t stop shaking. And where does Richard plant himself? Right in the middle of it, of course. Because why not? Why settle for a safe, comfortable apprenticeship when you can throw yourself into a place still reeling from chaos? God forbid he ever does things the easy way.

What an irony, really.

May 2009 was when he had spiked Richard’s drink, drugged him, then marched to his fiancée’s home and shattered his own engagement.

Three months later, he had met Richard in Edinburgh, Scotland. They had barely exchanged words before Richie slammed his hotel door in Jeff’s face.

That was the last time Jeff had seen him in person—two years ago.

About half a year later, Richard had disappeared from their radar entirely. No news, no trace. As far as they knew, he had vanished. Of course, Catherine—Richie’s mother—had done a video call with him at his request, proof that he was still in the land of the living. He had the call traced to South Africa.
But that had been that.

And now, after all this time, he was finally going to see Richie again. Richie, who was unwell, currently.

That said, he knew, in Sri Lanka, the jewelry business practically thrived. .. And that, their Grandmother was Sri-lankan by birth and heart.

Jeffrey exhaled sharply, fingers drumming against his knee. Too many coincidences. A bunch of unanswered questions.

One way or another, he was getting to the bottom of this.
------
After landing at Bandaranaike International Airport in Colombo, Jeffrey Claremont had wasted no time. Instead of arranging for a private car, he opted for the quickest and most immersive route—Sri Lanka’s railway.

The train to Kandy was a marvel in itself. As the locomotive rumbled out of Colombo Fort Station, the cityscape of high-rises and bustling streets faded into a lush, verdant paradise. The ride was a mesmerizing transition from urban chaos to the serene beauty of the central highlands. Coconut groves and rice paddies stretched endlessly, the occasional white egret standing motionless in the shallows.

As the train ascended into the misty hills, the air grew cooler, and the landscape transformed into something out of a dream. Tea plantations rolled past in neatly terraced waves, their emerald sheen shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Villages with red-roofed houses dotted the hills, children waving at the passing train from the platforms of tiny, picturesque stations.

By the time he reached Kandy, the sun had begun its descent, casting golden light over the ancient city’s temples and colonial-era buildings. A car was waiting for him at the station—his final stretch of travel.

The road to Mr. Ranasinghe’s residence was another journey in itself. It wound through the outskirts of Kandy, past spice gardens and dense forests. Unlike the smooth efficiency of Colombo’s streets, these roads were more rugged, twisting around the mountainside with sharp bends and breathtaking views. Fireflies had begun to flicker in the gathering dusk as the car finally pulled into the secluded estate where Richard was staying.

Jeffrey took a deep breath. He had arrived. Now, it was time for answers.
_____
Ranasinghe’s house stood in quiet dignity, a remnant of another era nestled amidst Sri Lanka’s lush greenery. It was a colonial-style home, aged yet resilient, its high ceilings and wooden beams bearing witness to decades of history. The architecture spoke of British influence, but the spirit of the place was unmistakably Sri Lankan—wide verandas offering respite from the humid air, intricately carved wooden doors standing half-open to let in the fresh air.
Beyond the house, the garden thrived—tropical flowers in riotous color, a wide range of trees, edible plants–vegetable gardens, medicinal plants tucked in corners, tall trees swaying lazily in the breeze. He could hear birds chirping in the fading sunset, a rhythmic lull that made the world outside seem distant.

Jeffrey stood at the threshold, taking it all in. It wasn’t the kind of place he ever imagined Richard 'settling in', even temporarily. Yet, for some reason, this was where he had disappeared to. Still, for the love of God, Jeffrey couldn’t fathom why.

Jeff rang the doorbell, standing with his rolling aubergine suitcase and a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. The door was opened by a South Indian-looking man, clearly a member of the household staff.

Switching to his disused and broken Tamil, Jeffrey asked if the man spoke any other language—partly because he wanted to get as much information as he could before stepping inside.

The man admitted to knowing only broken English, and Jeffrey chuckled. Of course. In South India, these days, most people spoke passable English. So he switched to slow, measured American English—aware that a British accent could be harder to grasp for someone with limited fluency.

"I'm here to see my relative, Richard Claremont, and Mr. Ranasinghe," he said.

The man—Raman—tilted his head slightly, studying him. Then, in his halting English, he said, "You… look like Master Richard. He is poorly. In med room. With Bade Sahab."

Medical room, huh? Jeffrey echoed, his brows knitting together.

Raman nodded and then asked if he’d be staying in the house.

But Jeffrey barely registered the question, already lost in thought. Raman took his silence as agreement, taking his bags and setting them on and near the couch in the living room before gesturing for Jeffrey to follow.

Inside, the scent of old books and, herbs and spices–probably from whatever was being prepared for dinner, lingered in the air. Sturdy wooden furniture, worn smooth with time, stood in neatly arranged rooms, their shelves lined with texts on various subjects–in varied languages, and quite a massive collection of gemology references. The house wasn’t grand in the way of European estates, but it carried an understated elegance, the kind that didn’t need embellishment.

They had taken a left turn and barely started down the hall when Jeffrey heard it.

Crying. . Sobbing. . Hiccupping.

A man's voice, raw with anguish.

Something about it set his nerves alight.

Worried, Jeffrey quickened his pace, leaving Raman behind.

And when he stepped into the room filled with medical paraphernalia,
the sight before him turned his blood cold.

Richard lay slumped in a velvet-padded chair, his eyes closed and head lolled to the side, his left arm sprawled over a surgical cloth on the table before him. Blood seeped through the white bandages wrapped over his palm, marred by multiple cuts. The crook of his elbow was unnaturally swollen. A telltale bump from a subcutaneous shot visible on the back of his hand, which looked off, unnatural... somehow wrong. As if that wasn't disturbing enough.

But what unsettled him the most was the sheer number of syringes–used, unused, and prepped—scattered across the table alongside multiple vials. And there, standing over Richard, was Saul Ranasinghe, clad in medical gloves, his expression obscured from this angle.

Just what the hell was going on!? He demanded as much.
----

"What the 'hell' is going on here?!" The owner of the voice, resembling Richard demanded, sharp, angry, and...
concerned.

The middle-aged brown man turned toward him.

"Shut up, 'Jeffrey'."
He was silenced in the same vein.

"If he hadn’t been terrified of me this morning because of 'your betrayal', I would have sedated him first thing. The poor guy wouldn’t have had to endure so much pain."
Saul’s voice was firm, edged with frustration, but there was a flicker of regret beneath it. His gloved hands hovered over the mess of medical supplies, his gaze briefly flicking to Richard’s unconscious form. His patient—his pupil—his responsibility—had suffered far more than necessary.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Jeffrey asked baffled and bewildered.

"Keep your voice down. I've just sedated him. I need to finish treating my patient. We’ll talk afterward," Saul said firmly.

"Treatment? For what?" Jeff questioned, his brow furrowing. "And wait... I thought he was your pupil? Aren't you Mr. Ranasinghe?"

"And Dr. Saul Ranasinghe Ali, MD, as well," he corrected, pointing at the framed certificate on the wall.

As Jeffrey stepped closer and finally took a proper look at Richard, his eyes widened in alarm.

"Jesus, what happened to his arm?" he exclaimed, his voice laced with worry.

"It's a long story," Saul said, his tone firm yet controlled. "As I said, I'll tell you after I finish treating Richard."

Then, with a pointed look, he added, "Now, either keep quiet or get out of my clinic."

Carefully, Saul leaned down, sliding an arm beneath Richard’s back and the other under his knees. He lifted him effortlessly, cradling his completely limp body against his chest. Richard didn’t stir—not even a twitch. The sedation had done its job. With practiced ease, Saul carried him over to the clinic bed and laid him down gently, adjusting his position for comfort.

"There," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Now, let’s finish this properly this time, without the pain."

Jeffrey wisely, kept his mouth shut.
Since he wasn’t getting any answers anytime soon, and after seeing the genuine care and concern in Saul’s actions, Jeffrey let out a quiet sigh. His initial frustration simmered down, replaced by reluctant patience.
For now, he would wait.

Jeffrey watched in silence as Saul tended to Richard with practiced efficiency. He winced in sympathy when Saul administered two subcutaneous injections into Richard’s palm after carefully cleaning and restitching the cuts—thankfully, with anesthesia.

“That’s gonna scar,” Jeffrey muttered under his breath.

Saul ignored him, focused on his task. Another injection followed, this time on the other side of the hand.

Next, he moved to Richard’s swollen elbow, methodically draining the abscess before covering it with antiseptic. A small anti-inflammatory injection went into the muscle there, ensuring the swelling wouldn’t worsen.

Finally, Saul applied ointment over the injection sites and fresh bandages over the cuts. Once done, he peeled off his gloves, discarded them, and washed his hands thoroughly and stepped out of the clinic–into the adjoining room—the washroom—to relieve himself.

Meanwhile, Jeffrey, as if on instinct, reached out and gently brushed a few strands of hair away from Richard’s face.

Saul re-entered a moment later, a bottle of water in hand. Without missing a beat, he held it out toward Jeffrey.

“Do you need to cool down further?” he asked dryly.

Jeffrey took the bottle in one hand, letting out a faint, good-natured smile. Extending his other hand for a handshake.
“Pardon my earlier reaction. Jeffrey Claremont, as you already seem to know.”

They shook hands—Saul’s grip was firm, his hands large, calloused, and slightly meaty, a testament to years of steady, precise work. In contrast, Jeffrey’s were long, slender, and smooth, the hands of someone more accustomed to pens and papers than surgical instruments.

For a brief moment, their eyes met—Saul’s, sharp and assessing, Jeffrey’s, slightly wary but laced with reluctant trust. Then, the handshake ended, and the tension in the air settled, if only slightly.

"Truce settled," Saul remarked, fastening the oximeter to Richard’s uninjured forefinger with practiced ease. His tone was calm but firm, his focus never straying far from his patient.

"I’d suggest moving to the living room, but Richard needs close monitoring—he’s already had more complications than I’d like." His gaze flicked briefly to Jeffrey, silently gauging his understanding. He said matter-of-fact, but the underlying concern was unmistakable.

Saul gestured toward the settee, armchairs, and coffee table. "Let’s sit and talk like civilized beings," he said, motioning for Jeffrey to take a seat.

Raman, the house help, entered quietly and began clearing the some medical instrument spread on the coffee table.

"What would you like for refreshments?" Saul asked.

"Coffee. Just milk, no sugar," Jeffrey replied.

"And my usual spiced tea, Raman," Saul ordered before settling into his chair.

A brief silence stretched between them before Jeffrey finally spoke.

"My first question," he said, leveling Saul with a look. "Why didn’t you take Richie to a hospital when he got sick?"

Saul leaned back in his chair, resting his forearms on the armrests as he regarded Jeffrey with a calm but firm expression.The question was inevitable, but he still exhaled slowly before answering.

. “Because, Claremont,” he began, “this isn’t London, or Colombo. We’re in Kandy. The nearest hospital with facilities even close to what he needed is miles away, and even then, I wouldn’t trust them with Richard in his condition.”

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an old frustration. “Overcrowded wards, overworked doctors, and a system that prioritizes the most critical cases first—he wouldn’t have gotten the care he needed in time. Here, under my watch, I could ensure he was treated properly, without delay, without red tape. He needed someone who knew what they were doing, not to be left in a corridor waiting for a doctor who'd just put him on a saline drip and hope for the best."

Saul’s voice lowered slightly, laced with an edge of protectiveness. “And given his state of mind when he fell ill, do you honestly think he’d have coped well waking up in a strange hospital, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, drugged up and disoriented?”

He let the question hang between them for a moment before concluding, “No. Keeping him here was the best option.”

His eyes flicked toward Richard’s sleeping form, then back to Jeffrey. "And frankly, I trust my hands more than any overworked intern at General Hospital."

A petite, dark brown-skinned maid, barely five feet tall, arrived with their refreshments. She moved efficiently, setting down Jeffrey’s coffee and Saul’s spiced tea with practiced ease before stepping back respectfully.

"Thank you for looking after Richie," Jeff thanked him, sincerely.

Saul acknowledged this with a slight nod before taking a sip of his tea.

Jeff followed suit, taking a sip of his coffee.
----
Jeff leaned forward, his grip tightening around the coffee cup. "What exactly happened to him?" he asked, the question burning in his mind ever since he’d heard that Richard was unwell.

Saul sighed, setting his teacup down with deliberate care. "Right," he said, rubbing his temple as if bracing himself. "Here begins the story of the idiot who made himself sick by drinking too much Royal Milk Tea—yes, you heard me right. He overdosed on tea."

Jeff blinked. "You're joking."

Saul exhaled through his nose. "I wish I were. But no, this fool managed to wreck himself with nothing more than excessive caffeine, dehydration, and sheer stubbornness. Now, let me tell you everything that’s happened—from the first sign of trouble to the moment you barged in demanding answers."

And with that, Saul began his account, leaving nothing out.
------
"So, he was scared of me," Saul said, his tone measured. "Because I sedated him without his knowledge—just as you drugged him unconscious–which led to him crushing the glass in his hand" He leaned back slightly, eyes sharp with meaning. "That’s what I meant when I said that if it weren’t for your betrayal, I would have sedated my idiot in the first place, sparing him all this suffering."

He reiterated the point, making sure Jeffrey fully grasped the weight of it. The story had now been told in its entirety, every detail laid bare.

By now, their cups sat empty on the table, the conversation having drained both their drinks and, perhaps, a little of their energy.

The air between them still charged with the echoes of everything that had been said.

Jeff let out a heavy, sorrowful exhale, running a hand through his hair. Guilt settled deep in his chest as he processed Saul’s words. His fingers tightened around the empty cup in his hand before he finally set it down with a quiet clink.

“I never meant for it to go this way,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret. “I just… thought I was doing what was best at the time.”

Jeffrey and Saul studied each other in the dim evening light, the weight of unspoken questions thick in the air.

"How did he end up in Sri Lanka?" Jeffrey finally asked, his voice even but edged with frustration.

Saul exhaled, crossing his arms. "That, I don't know. You'll have to ask Richard himself."

Jeffrey narrowed his eyes but nodded. "Fine. Then tell me this—how did he become your apprentice?"

Saul didn't flinch, but he was careful with his words. He wasn’t about to lay bare every secret Richard had entrusted him with—the false identity, the desperate attempts to be a jeweller..selling the wrong stones, the weight of whatever he was running from.

Instead, he said smoothly, "He was living in one of my rental properties—troubled, but making his way, selling gems and jewels. But Sri Lanka’s gemstone trade is fiercely competitive. I saw potential in him, so I took him under my wing. One thing led to another, and now he’s here, living at my estate as my apprentice."

It was a carefully measured truth, one that gave just enough—yet concealed just as much.

Jeff regarded Saul carefully, sensing there was more to the story than what was being shared. He knew Richard well enough to suspect that his journey to becoming an apprentice under a seasoned gemologist like Saul hadn’t been entirely straightforward.

“That’s it?” Jeff asked, raising an eyebrow. “You just saw potential and took him in?”

Saul gave a small, knowing smile over the rim of his teacup. “More or less. He needed guidance, and I provided it. Isn’t that what a mentor does?”

Jeff hummed, clearly unconvinced but choosing not to push further.

"When is he going to wake up?"He glanced at Richard, deeply sedated, sleeping.

Saul looked at the wall clock—8:50 PM.
"Sometime around 1 AM," he said.

Jeff let out a slow breath, nodding. "Alright. That gives me some time to think."

Saul arched a brow. "Think about what?"

Jeff ran a hand through his hair. "How to talk to him without getting my head bitten off."

Saul smirked slightly, picking up his empty teacup. "Good luck with that."

"Now, Mr Claremont," Saul began, "I’ve shared my story with you—it’s only fair that you return the favour."

"Right. And please, call me Jeffrey."

"Saul it is, then."

"How much do you know?" Jeffrey asked.

Saul leaned back slightly. "Richard is an only child. His parents are divorced, and he’s estranged from his family. He’s a British aristocrat, originally from England—Richard Claremont. And you, his cousin" Saul paused meaningfully, "somehow ended his engagement, which seemingly led to his departure from London. I assume heartbreak played a role."

Jeffrey exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "So, you’re unaware of the inheritance debacle?"

"Inheritance issues?" Saul raised an eyebrow. "No, that’s news to me."

Jeffrey exhaled, folding his hands as he began.

"The inheritance revolves around the Claremont Diamond. The Seventh Earl—our great grandfather—rewrote the inheritance terms and conditions to heavily favour his direct line. Only those of legitimate birth, with a predominantly European lineage, could qualify. Specifically, a French or English mother was required. In other cases, the property will be seized by the crown or donated to the National Trust."

"That disqualified Henry and me—our mother was American. But Richard, with his French mother, remained the only eligible heir.

"When this came to light, Richard was caught in the middle of a power struggle. The inheritance wasn’t just wealth; it was legacy, control, and expectation. He never sought it, but he couldn’t avoid it either."

"And then, there was the engagement." Jeffrey hesitated. "I broke it... I broke it by inviting him to a café for a chat and spiking his drink—rendering him unconscious and unavailable while I was at his fiancée’s home, destroying their relationship."

Saul’s expression sharpened.

"Henry was in a fragile state—clinically depressed. The inheritance dispute was tearing him apart. If Richard married, it would cement his claim, leaving Henry with nothing. The pressure was unbearable for him. I saw what it was doing to him."

"So I made sure the engagement ended. The Claremont estate would only remain with the family if Richard, the eligible heir, would marry a proper English woman, not of any other race or color."

"I called his fiancée a gold-digger, a social climber. She wasn’t—but I needed to make it believable. I chose to be hated by Richard to keep my elder brother Henry alive. I did it to save Henry–I became the villian for Richard. I asked him to leave Britain for a while. But he disappeared altogether. I have only managed to find him here a few months ago."

A moment of silence. Then.

"That's the gist of it." Jeff remarked.

"That's quite a story, indeed. What an utter inheritance mess," Saul agreed, then looked at Jeff–staring Saul with wide eyes, as if to say—That's it?

"Sorry, were you hoping for a different reaction? I didn't sleep well last night, and I'm spent—truly exhausted."
A pause. Saul yawned.Then,
"I'm tired and would like to have dinner. Raman will keep an eye on Richard until then."

He turned to Jeff. "What are your plans?"

"My initial plan was to meet Richard, persuade him to come back with me–airlift him to London if he was unwell—or, well, be sent packing by him instead," Jeff said.

"And now?" Saul asked.

Jeff exhaled, running a hand through his hair, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. "Now, I'd probably check into a hotel somewhere and wait for him to wake up so we can talk," he said, his voice carrying the weight of uncertainty.

"Be my guest for the night.You arrived uninvited, but you’re not unwelcome." Saul offered.

"Thanks for having me. I appreciate the hospitality."

"What will you even talk about?" Saul asked, his tone measured yet pointed—the kind that slipped through the cracks of one's resolve with unsettling precision. He leaned back, arms crossed, watching Jeff with an unreadable expression.

Jeff shifted in his seat, momentarily uncomfortable under Saul’s scrutiny. "To convince him to come back," he admitted at last. "To London, England. Where he belongs. Where his life is."

Saul exhaled quietly, tilting his head as if weighing the word. "Belongs?" he echoed. "A man in his state—physically wrecked, emotionally drained—and you expect him to make a decision now? To return to London?" His gaze sharpened. "Or are you afraid that if you wait, his decision won’t be in your favour?"

Jeff’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Saul had a way of stripping things down to their raw truth, and right now, it was thoroughly uncomfortable. He looked away for a moment before meeting Saul’s gaze again. "I just need to talk to him."

Saul sighed, rubbing his temple. "Tell me, Jeffrey Claremont," he said slowly, deliberately. "If Richard woke up now, drained, exhausted, barely conscious from the painkillers and other meds… would you still be so eager to have this conversation?"

Jeff didn’t answer immediately. Because, truthfully, he wasn’t sure.

Saul leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he spoke. "Think about it. What do you even want from Richard, aside from the fact that you're sacrificing a good, bright man for the sake of an already depressed Henry?" His voice was steady, but there was a bite to it, laced with quiet disapproval. "Forcing him into marriage with some random English girl just to fix your inheritance mess—it's utterly unfair." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "No wonder he's running from his own family."

Jeff’s grip on his empty coffee cup tightened, his fingers going white at the knuckles. He looked at Saul, his expression darkening. “You think I don’t know it’s unfair?” His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it. “That I haven’t thought about that a hundred times over?”

Saul merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And yet, you’re here, trying to drag him back into it. Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

Jeff let out a slow breath, setting his cup down with deliberate care. “Henry isn’t well. You don’t know him—”

“I don’t need to,” Saul cut in smoothly. “I know Richard. And I know that forcing him into a life he doesn’t want, to patch up someone else’s failings, is a bloody terrible idea.” He leaned forward, his tone sharpening. “Tell me, Jeffrey, If you were in his place—if it were your life being bartered away like a chess piece—would you go back?”

Jeff’s jaw clenched. He looked away, staring at the darkened window as if the answer might be written there. The truth was uncomfortable, suffocating even. He had spent years doing what was expected, sacrificing pieces of himself for duty. But Richard… Richard had always fought back.

“You don’t understand,” Jeff said at last, his voice quieter now. “It’s complicated.”

Saul snorted. “No, it’s simple. You just don’t like the answer.”

Saul tilted his head, watching Jeff with a knowing look. “That Richard would rather disappear halfway across the world than be shackled to a life he never wanted. That he chose exile over the mess you lot left for him.” He let the words settle, his voice unrelenting but calm. “And that maybe, just maybe, you already know the right thing to do, but you’re too bloody stubborn to admit it.”

Jeff inhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers drumming against his thigh in restless frustration. “You act like I have a choice,” he muttered.

Saul scoffed. “Everyone has a choice.”

Jeff looked back at him then, searching Saul’s face for something—what, he wasn’t sure. Understanding? Justification? Permission to let go of the duty that had been drilled into him since childhood? But Saul wasn’t offering any of that. Just the truth, laid bare and inconvenient.

A heavy silence stretched between them before Jeff exhaled and raked a hand through his hair. “If I let him stay here, if I go back without him… my family—” He hesitated, his voice strained. “They’ll never forgive me.”

Saul studied him for a moment, then leaned back again, folding his arms. “Then I suppose the question is… what matters more? Their forgiveness, or Richard’s freedom?”

Jeff swallowed, his throat tight. He had spent his life walking the path carved out for him, never daring to stray. But Richard had always been different. Richard had always run or fought.

And for the first time, Jeff wondered if his cousin had been right all along.

But–"My mother and the rest of the older family members… If—if the Claremont estate is seized by the Crown after the death of the current Earl, my father, who’s already struggling with health issues in his old age… The will applies to Richard, it doesn't allow him to renounce the title–the claim,
and in the case, he abandoned his title, more than half of the family fortune currently would go to the National Trust."

"Ah, so that's the issue?" Saul said.
"Sacrificing Richard—for the luxurious lifestyles of the entire extended Claremont family."

Jeff remarked, "Henry would have willingly married a woman out of duty. If she wasn’t pleasant, he would have tolerated her, perhaps even fathered an heir, and then divorced her—both going their separate ways."

"Do you even realise how that sounds? How vile and selfish that is?" Saul tutted in disapproval.

"I will not allow you to forcibly drag Richard back into a life he has deliberately left behind." Saul's tone was unwavering.

"Now, back to the question at hand—what do you actually want from him? Or rather, why are you here if not for what you've just admitted?" He pressed Jeffrey further.

Jeff's voice faltered slightly. "I... I was deeply worried when I learned he was seriously ill."

Saul studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he asked, "And yet, you came with a plan to take him back. Was that out of worry too, or was it just convenient?"

“No!” Jeff shot back, his voice raw with emotion. “As you already said, Sri Lanka isn’t exactly a developed country with state-of-the-art healthcare facilities. And I… I can’t let anything happen to him. He’s always been my little brother.” His throat tightened, and he exhaled shakily. “Not before I’ve had a chance to say sorry… not that I expect forgiveness. I don’t. But God—” He ran a hand over his face. “The last thing I ever want is to see him in a casket.”

"I love him, Saul. I always have," Jeff admitted, his voice quieter now, yet firm.

"I’m not here to beg for forgiveness—I know I don’t deserve it. But I want back what we had, even if it’s just a fraction of it. In any form, as long as he’ll let me stay in his life."

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "That’s what I’ll tell Richie when he wakes up. That’s why I’m here."

He loved Richard.
And that love, however flawed, was why he was here. He wanted to mend things between them—not to ask for forgiveness, because he knew he didn’t deserve it—but to reclaim even a fraction of the bond they once had. In any form, as long as they were connected again.

That’s what he wanted to tell Richard when he woke up.
And that's what he told Saul now.

Saul regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, he said, “Well, at least that’s honest.”

Jeff let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “I don’t expect him to forgive me,” he admitted again. “I know I’ve lost that right. But…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I just want him back in my life. However he’ll have me.”

Saul’s gaze softened just a fraction. “Then talk to him. Not as some bloody envoy of your family, not with expectations or obligations hanging over his head. Just as yourself.” He glanced towards the closed door where Richard was still asleep. “It’s up to him if he wants to let you in. But if you make it about duty again, Jeffrey, you’ll lose him for good.”

Jeff swallowed, nodding slowly. “I know.”

“Good,” Saul said simply, finishing the last sip of his tea. Then, with a small smirk, he added, “Now, get some food in you before you pass out. You look like hell.”

Jeff huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don't feel like it though. I rested on the plane."

Saul nodded and pushed himself up from his chair. “Come on, then. Let’s eat.”

"As it is, there'll be plenty of leftovers," Saul remarked. "Maya’s not coming home tonight, and dinner’s already been made for her too."

Jeff let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “So, I’m eating her share then?” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Raman led Jeffrey to his guest room, where he took the chance to change into fresh clothes and wash up. By the time he returned, Saul was already seated at the dining table, and they quietly settled in for dinner.

Just as they were finishing their meal, the front door opened, and Maya stepped in. Her voice carried a weight of guilt, as if she hadn't yet forgiven herself for leaving Richard in pain earlier.

From her angle, Jeffrey's face was hidden in the dim light, and in her distress, she mistook him for Richard. Without hesitation, she stepped closer, her voice unsteady.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured, her words rushed, raw. "I should have been there. I should have stayed with you instead of running off when you needed a friend the most."

Then she looked up, meeting his eyes properly—and froze.

Not Richard.

Her breath caught, mortification washing over her face as the realization hit. The dim lighting, the exhaustion clouding her mind—she had spoken without thinking.

Jeff blinked, taken aback for a second, then let out a small, awkward cough. "Well, that’s a first," he said, lips twitching. "Can’t say I’ve ever been mistaken for Richard before."

Maya’s face turned red. "I—I thought—" She shut her eyes briefly, exhaling sharply. "Forget it."

Saul, watching the exchange with mild amusement, leaned back in his chair. "If you're done apologizing to the wrong person, Maya, maybe you should eat something more, before you faint from all that unnecessary guilt."

Maya shot him a glare, but she did pull out a chair, sighing as she sat down. She picked up a glass of water, taking a sip to compose herself.

"Who are you?," she said after a beat, her voice quieter now.

Jeff tilted his head slightly, studying her. "You don’t know who I am?"

Maya frowned, shaking her head. "Should I?"

Saul smirked, clearly entertained. "Jeffrey Claremont. Richard’s cousin. The very one he’s been running from."

Maya’s eyes widened slightly before narrowing again as she looked back at Jeff. "So you’re that cousin."

Jeff sighed, setting down his fork. "I take it he’s been talking about me, then?"

Maya crossed her arms. "Not really. He just… doesn’t talk about his family much at all. But from what little I’ve gathered, you must be someone important enough for him to avoid."

Jeff exhaled through his nose, glancing briefly at Saul before looking back at her. "I suppose that’s fair. But I didn’t come here to drag him back against his will, if that’s what you’re thinking."

Maya leaned forward, skeptical. "Then why are you here?"

Jeff hesitated, fingers brushing against the rim of his empty coffee cup. "To check on him. To make sure he’s alright." A pause. "And… maybe to try and fix things between us."

Maya studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then she sat back in her chair, still wary but no longer outright hostile. "We’ll see," she said simply, reaching for her plate. "But if you do anything to upset him, you’ll regret it."

Saul chuckled, eyeing Jeff with amusement. "Well, you’ve certainly got your work cut out for you. Good luck with that."
_____

As they finished dinner, Jeffrey leaned back, rolling his shoulders before turning to Saul. “Do you need any medical supplies? Big things, small things—anything at all. I can have them fast-tracked from Colombo.”

Saul raised an eyebrow. “You offering out of generosity or guilt?”

Jeff exhaled sharply. “Don’t push it. Just tell me what you need.”

Saul held his gaze for a moment, then stood up. “Come with me.”

Jeff followed him down the hall to a room lined with shelves—Saul’s medical supply storage. Saul pulled open a few drawers, checking labels, making quick mental calculations. “Some things turned faulty or ran out,” he muttered. “Alright. I need fresh IV lines, a full set of sutures, broad-spectrum antibiotics—preferably imported, not the local stuff. Also, anesthetic spray, anesthetic gel, and cream. A few other essential drugs, too.”

He grabbed a notepad from the counter and jotted everything down before handing it to Jeff. “This should cover it.”

Jeff scanned the list and immediately started typing into his phone. “Anything else?”

Saul tapped a finger against a half-broken monitor. “Two new heart monitors, a pulse oximeter—mine’s on its last legs—and some diagnostic tools. Some of this equipment is either faulty or completely out of stock.”

Jeff finished typing and hit send. “Done. They’ll be here in two hours.”

Saul let out a low whistle. “Well, aren’t you efficient?”

Jeff smirked. “I try.”
___
Saul stretched his arms, letting out a tired sigh. “Alright, as agreed, Raman will keep an eye on Richard. If anything seems off, he’s to fetch me immediately.”

Raman, standing nearby, nodded firmly. “Understood, sir.”

Saul glanced at Jeffrey. “And of course, since you’re now a ‘concerned party,’ you’re free to hover as much as you like.”

Jeff crossed his arms. “Damn right, I am.”

Saul shook his head with a smirk. “Anyway, we both need rest. It’s ten now. We’ll take two hours. At midnight, I’ll give Richard his next dose of tramadol.”

Jeff straightened. “I’ll join you then.”

Saul eyed him for a second. “Suit yourself.”

With that, they both headed to their rooms, the tension between them set aside through conversation.

Chapter Text

"Ugh," Richard groaned. "This is the ugliest way to wake someone up." He turned his head slightly to the left, his gaze landing on Saul. The bed was positioned squarely in the middle of the medical room.

"In my defence, I expected you to sleep for at least another hour," Saul remarked.

Richard's eyes shifted abruptly to his right. His brows furrowed.

"I must be delirious," he muttered.

"And why’s that?" Saul asked.

"Because I’m seeing a ghost. Right here."

He pointed at Jeffrey, who stood silently at his bedside.

Saul, meanwhile, had just withdrawn the syringe from Richard’s bicep. Ever perceptive, Richard frowned.

"That… didn’t hurt. I felt the bite, but it didn’t sting. Why?"

"Anaesthetic spray," Saul replied. "Your cousin had it fast-tracked from Colombo along with other medical supplies—I’d run out."

Then, with a dry glance, he added, "And I wasn’t particularly keen on watching you cry buckets again."

Richard exhaled through his nose, adjusting slightly against the pillow. "What time is it?"

"Quarter past twelve," Jeffrey answered, speaking for the first time.

Richard attempted to sit up, using his injured arm for support, but the moment his palm pressed against the mattress, a sharp pain shot through him. His face twisted in discomfort.

"Allow me to assist you," Jeffrey offered.

But Richard brushed him off with a wave of his right hand and sat up regardless, jaw clenched.

Jeffrey accepted this in silence, giving a small nod before folding his arms neatly behind his back.

Saul, still wearing his gloves, extended a plastic water bottle with a straw towards Richard. "Sip slowly," he instructed.

Then, at his workstation, Saul began arranging a tray, carefully setting down hypodermic syringes and vials of medication.

Richard’s eyes widened at the sight. A flicker of distress crossed his face—he looked truly anguished.

“Breathe easy,” Saul reassured him. “These aren’t for now. They’ll be administered at intervals through the night—every two hours.”

He then stifled a yawn. “I’ve had a long day. And last night, I was checking on you every two hours as well.” He exhaled wearily. “But your treatment regimen is necessary—we can’t risk another infection.”

There was a pause.

“If only there were someone nearby with basic medical training…” Saul mused.

Jeffrey, standing at ease, asked, “There’s no other doctor around?”

Saul shook his head. “Nearby? Just one. But he’s deeply prejudiced against white people, so he’s out of the question.”

"And then there's another option—a Hindu woman doctor who prefers treating female patients," Saul continued. "She would come if well-paid, but she lives seventy minutes away and wouldn't take kindly to being called in the middle of the night for a non-emergency."

Jeffrey cleared his throat. "I volunteer for the job."

"What?" Mentor and pupil spoke in unison.

Richard frowned. "Last I checked, you worked in finance and banking, not healthcare."

Jeffrey nodded. "You're right. But I 'do' have medical training."

Richard scoffed, crossing his arms. "Oh, sure. A half-forgotten course you took because it was mandatory for all corporate officers and employees?"

Jeffrey’s expression shifted, his tone quiet. "No, Richard. I learned for Henry."

Richard’s sarcasm faded.

Jeffrey continued, voice steady but tinged with something heavy. "He was refusing to see anyone but me. Not even doctors, not even for his antidepressants. And when they forced them on him, it only made things worse. So I had to step in. Learn what I could–and I did–for about 6 months. Thankfully, he’s been switched to oral medication now, and he’s more willing to take them."

Richard pressed his lips into a thin line. "I'm 'not' comfortable with this idea."

Jeffrey remained composed. "I've administered intramuscular shots more times than I can 'count'. Intravenous ones a few times too."

Richard's jaw tightened. "Still no."

Saul exhaled through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "Oh, but I'm 'very' comfortable with the idea. Please, Richard, no dramatics. Let Mr Claremont handle it."

"...But—"

"I'm too sleep-deprived to argue."

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Saul turned to Jeffrey, beckoning him toward the worktop. "Mr Claremont."

The use of his surname wasn’t lost on Richard. He narrowed his eyes. "Oh, so we're keeping up the charade, then? Acting like you two are strictly professional?"

Saul didn't miss a beat. "Perception matters. I'd rather not have you thinking I've been bribed into your cousin’s camp as well."

Jeffrey, arms still folded behind his back, gave a small, knowing smile. "Perish the thought."

Saul methodically explained Richard’s medication schedule to Jeffrey, keeping his voice low. Whether it was to deliberately keep Richard in the dark or because he couldn’t quite control the look on his face when he first spotted those syringes—well, that was up for debate.

They stood a good distance away, speaking in hushed tones, while Richard remained on the bed. He wasn’t well enough to focus on their words, not with his head heavy and his body aching. But even without hearing them properly, he knew exactly what awaited him.

Appointments with needles.

A shiver ran down his spine before he could suppress it.

He turned his head away, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. Think of something else. Anything else.

So he did what he always did when he needed to steady himself. He reached into the depths of his mind and pulled out poetry—fragments of verses meant to soothe, to steel his resolve.

“Courage, dear heart..."
____

The dim glow of the lamp lights and over head lights flickered against the walls, casting long shadows across the room. Richard sat upright on the bed, half wrapped in a blanket. He had just received an IM shot in his bicep, the dull ache settling in, turning it sore.

Across from him, Saul stood at the worktop, sorting through the vials and medical supplies with exhausted precision. His shoulders were tense, his movements slower than usual, like a man running on pure willpower. He hadn’t slept properly in over a day.

Jeffrey, on the other hand, stood, fresh and alert despite the long flight. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable as he watched Saul work.

After a short silence, Saul exhaled sharply and turned to Jeffrey. "Alright. I need rest. You’ll be taking over the next round of injections."

Jeffrey's gaze flickered briefly to Richard, then back to Saul. "Alright. What am I giving him, and when?"

Saul rubbed a hand over his face before reaching for a vial. "We’re spacing the doses to avoid overwhelming his system. Next injection of Diclofenac–another pain reliever, is scheduled for 1 AM in his good hand--the bicep muscle."

Jeff accepted that without comment.

Saul picked up another vial, holding it between two fingers as he spoke. "Next, Dexamethasone for inflammation. That goes in the 'right thigh'. It'll help with the swelling, especially around the IV sites. We need to keep everything under control so nothing flares up again. To be given at 2 AM."

"Okay," Jeffrey confirmed.

"At 4 AM–Ketorolac for pain relief—same dose as what he just got—NSAID, strong enough to dull the worst of it but not enough to make him loopy.You’ll give it in his left thigh."

Jeff nodded slightly, absorbing the information. His voice was quieter than usual when he asked, "How long does it last?"

Saul glanced at him, then back at the vial. "Six to seven hours. He should be comfortable enough until morning."

Jeffrey nodded once. "Understood. And the antibiotic?"

Saul set the anti-inflammatory vial down and picked up the last one.
"Ceftriaxone. That’s your antibiotic—broad spectrum, the most important one—keeps the infection from getting worse."

He glanced at Jeffrey. "That one’s scheduled for 6 AM, in his glute. Deep injection. No rushing it. Take your time—it’s not a quick jab, and don’t jab it like a goddamn spear."

Jeffrey sighed. "So, four injections? He’s gonna love that. His thighs will be sore, and his butt.. Henry complained they ache for days."

Saul dryly countered. "Better sore muscles than draining abscesses again or worse, such as a full-blown septic shock."

Then, Saul smirked as if letting Jeff on a secret. "It's five injections, actually. I'm saving the wrist shot for 8 AM in the morning—in his right hand."
He added, "I should have woken up by then. If not, you are to give him that shot too."

Jeffrey grimaced, "Jesus.. An IV shot in the wrist too. If I'd do that, he'll hate me even more."

"It's necessary." Saul said matter-of-factly, as he checked his notes. "On the bright side, if he shows no signs of complications, he’ll be injection-free for the next 12 to 15 hours. After that, only two more shots left for later."

Jeffrey nodded, rolling his shoulders.
"Good.This is to prevent further infection, right?"
He didn’t love the idea of multiple injections, but he also knew there was no avoiding them for Richie, tonight.

Saul gave a tired nod. "Yes. His immune system took a hit, and we’re not taking any chances."

"I’ll take care of it," Jeffrey said simply.

Saul studied him for a moment, as if making sure he was serious, then nodded. "Good. Use the anesthetic spray, and give the meds on schedule."

With a weary sigh and a parting “Good night to me,” Saul left the med room–his clinic, shutting the door behind him.
Saul, finally allowing himself to step back, let out a slow breath and ran a hand through his hair after exiting. For now, everything was under control.

The moment he was gone, Richard—who had been sitting cross-legged on the bed—unceremoniously got up. In a surprisingly swift motion, he closed the distance between them, standing nose to nose with Jeffrey.

His voice was low, but the steel in it was unmistakable.
“I’m not getting any shots from you, you backstabber.”

Jeffrey didn’t flinch. Instead, he regarded Richard with a quiet, knowing look. Then, with a hint of something almost too gentle for this conversation, he asked,

“Richard, are you scared?”

Richard’s jaw tensed. His fingers curled slightly at his sides. Then, with a quiet exhale, he answered,

“It’d be worthless to be… at this point.”

Then, resigned, he sat down again.

It was 12:50 a.m.

Jeffrey didn’t need any further instruction. He reached for the vials and began preparing the kit for the next injection.

Since Saul had given up the battle against sleep, leaving Jeff solely in charge of the night’s medications.

The irony burned.

Jeffrey—who had spiked his coffee, who had taken away his life in England with a single betrayal—was now the one responsible for keeping him upright.

Richard didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice to stay even.

Jeffrey, as always, broke the silence first.

"Alright, Rich. Four shots. We’re spacing them out, so you don’t start hating me more than you already do." His voice was casual, but there was something too measured in the way he said it. "Starting with Diclofenac.Pain relief. Left arm. Shouldn’t hurt—since, you know, our good friend the anesthetic spray here."

Richard simply held out his arm.

Jeffery took it, his grip steady, fingers pressing into his skin as he worked quickly. The needle went in smoothly, just a sting, barely a biting sensation.

Richard exhaled. One down.

Jeffrey pulled the syringe away, pressing a small piece of gauze to the injection site. His voice was softer when he spoke again.

"See? That wasn’t bad."

Richard exhaled slowly. "You sound just like Saul."

Jeffrey smirked. "Must be the residual jet lag.Give me a few more hours, and I’ll start swearing in Sinhalese too."

Richard didn’t bite. He didn't respond.

Jeffrey sighed, rolling his shoulders.
---
After Jeffrey had removed his gloves and washed his hands, he turned back to find Richard now settled on the sofa.
Still dressed in a lime-green half-sleeved shirt—practical, given his biceps were the chosen site for injections—and burnt ochre trousers that, amusingly, matched Jeffrey’s hair color, Richard looked at ease. A gemology magazine rested in his hands, its glossy pages catching the dim light.

If not for the subtle tension still clinging to the edges of his posture, one might have thought he had entirely dismissed the events of the night.

Jeffrey sat in the chair before him.

Richard fixed Jeff with a sharp stare.
“Why are you here, really?” His voice was steady, but there was a hard edge to it. “Weren’t you the one who unashamedly asked me to disappear from England?”

Jeff didn’t flinch. “I got news that you were fatally ill.”

Richard frowned. “And how did you know? I never mentioned your contacts to Saul."

Jeff’s lips curled slightly. “I have my methods. Which are better left unsaid at the moment.”

Richard let out a dry harrumph. “Espionage, you mean.”

Jeff tilted his head but didn’t deny it.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “I ask you again. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”

Jeff sighed. “Alright, honestly? I was looking for you. You completely went off the radar after Jordan.”

Richard’s grip on the magazine in his lap tightened for the briefest second. That was when he had started using his Edward Baxter identity.

Jeff continued, “Then, about three months ago, Father heard from the president of Hamada Jewelleries about an utterly handsome, blonde haired, blue-eyed, young jeweller, apprenticing alongside his heiress daughter in Sri Lanka. He even showed him a picture.”

Richard exhaled sharply.

Jeff smirked. “It was taken at Maya’s 38th birthday gathering.”

Richard shut his eyes for a moment, muttering under his breath, “Maya… you wench.”

Jeff chuckled. “See? I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

After that, there was a few minutes of quiet.

Jeff sat back, pulling out his phone, his fingers scrolling effortlessly. He was probably checking work emails or something equally mundane.

Richard, meanwhile, drummed his fingers against the magazine cover, his mind clearly elsewhere. The silence between them wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but it carried a weight—like a conversation left unfinished.

So he asked Jeff again, “You didn’t actually answer my question properly, did you? I didn’t ask how you found me here. I asked why you’re here—as in, in this room...”

He trailed off, sensing that he hadn’t worded it quite right—that it didn’t come off the way he intended.

Jeff looked up from his phone. “I’m giving you your shots tonight, remember?”

"Don't you dare play dumb! I demand to know what you want from me—again. Wasn't me fleeing Britain enough?"

Jeff’s expression darkened. "You cut off all contact, Richard. That’s not what family does."

Then he bit his lip, remembering Saul’s words—not to make it about family, but to express what he truly felt.

"I was looking for you because I wanted to be in touch again. You’re my cousin, yes, but more than that—you’re still my little brother, Richie."

"I’m not your brother," Richard deadpanned. "Oh, and I’m dear Richie again? Not the grand King Ricky?"

"I'm not about to go play Lord or Master of the Manor back in England—that's not my role. I'm training to be a certified gemologist—I’ve already completed two years of study."

Then, his voice rose with anger. "Don't meddle and wreck my life again!"
Richard was breathing harshly, his face pale.

“Rich, calm down,” Jeff said softly.

He didn’t dare hand him a glass of water, remembering how Richard had crushed one earlier that day.

Richard stared at Jeff for several long, tense minutes before abruptly standing up. It was a marvel he didn’t stagger—clearly, the medication was working well enough. He paid no mind to the magazine slipping from his lap and landing forgotten on the floor. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room.

“Richie—” Jeff called after him, immediately following, concern tightening his chest.

He caught up in an instant and instinctively reached out, grabbing Richard’s arm—to his horror, the injured one.

Richard’s sharp, pained yelp cut through the dimly lit hallway. Jeff’s hand recoiled as if burned, his heart plummeting.

Shocked and guilty, he let him go.

Richard didn’t stop. He walked straight to his room, his movements stiff but determined, cradling his wounded arm close to his body. The moment he was inside, he headed straight for the punching bag hanging in the corner.

Jeff watched from the doorway as Richard clenched his good fist and struck the bag, hard. Then again. And again.

One. Two. Three. Four—each punch landing with force, his breath ragged, his posture rigid with unspent frustration.

His expression was unreadable, but the raw emotion in every movement spoke volumes. He wasn’t fine. Not even close.

And yet, he kept going.

After counting eight, Jeff finally stepped forward, entering the room.

"Richard, that's enough," he said firmly.

Richard didn't respond. His fist, trembling slightly, reared back for another punch.

Jeff closed the distance and caught his wrist mid-air. "Stop," he insisted, his grip strong but careful, mindful not to hurt him further.

Richard's breathing was ragged, his shoulders rising and falling with exertion. His gaze flickered to Jeff's hand on his wrist, then up to his face—his eyes were dark with barely restrained emotion.

For a second, Jeff thought Richard might shake him off and keep going.

Then, suddenly, the fight drained out of him.

Richard's fingers uncurled. His arm fell limply to his side. His head tipped forward slightly, his damp fringe shadowing his eyes.

Jeff loosened his hold but didn’t step away. "You need to take it easy," he said, softer this time. "You’re still recovering."

A scoff, barely above a whisper. "Like I could forget."

Jeff exhaled. "I didn’t come here to fight you, Richard. And I sure as hell didn’t come to watch you destroy yourself."

Richard let out a dry laugh, but it lacked any real humor. He turned away, rubbing his sore knuckles absently. "You should've stayed in London, then."

Jeff clenched his jaw. "Maybe. But I didn’t."

Silence settled between them.

Finally, Richard exhaled slowly and walked past Jeff toward his bed. He sat on the edge, looking down at his hands. "You interrupted at eight," he muttered.

Jeff blinked. "What?"

"I always stop at ten," Richard said, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling. "But you stopped me at eight."

Jeff crossed his arms. "Eight was more than enough."

Richard hummed noncommittally. "Debatable."

But he didn’t get up to resume.
Jeff took that as a win.

Richard sat on the couch, his heart still pounding in his chest. Across from him, Jeff settled into the wooden chair by the desk.

A few minutes passed in silence before Jeff finally spoke. "Are you hungry?"

Richard glanced at him, his expression unreadable.

"Saul said eggs and ORS should be fine for you," Jeff continued.

"ORS..." Richard murmured, his brows drawing together. "I've read about that before, but I can't quite place it."

Jeff gave a small nod. "Yeah, it's something they teach in primary schools. But for me, I only read about it a year ago, during my nursing crash course."

Richard’s gaze sharpened. "Nursing crash course?"

Jeff leaned back slightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose before explaining. "Oral Rehydration Solution. It’s a simple mix of clean water, salt, and sugar—used to prevent dehydration, especially in cases of severe fluid loss. Saves lives in cholera outbreaks, food poisoning cases, post-surgery recovery… even after a bad fever."

Richard gave a thoughtful hum. "Basic, but effective."

Jeff nodded. "More effective than people realize. It was one of the first things they drilled into us during training. The WHO and UNICEF both advocate for it because it’s cheap and accessible."

Richard smirked slightly. "Look at you. Banking to medical trivia in one breath."

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Comes with the territory."

"So," Jeff continued, standing up. "How many eggs would you like?"

Richard considered for a moment. "Two. Soft-boiled."

Jeff raised an eyebrow. "Picky as ever."

Richard shot him a dry look. "I just overdosed, got poked with more needles than I care to count, and nearly punched my stitches open. Let me have my damn eggs the way I want them."

A quiet beat passed before Richard finally sighed. "Fine. I’ll have the eggs. And the damn ORS."

Jeff hid his relief behind a smirk of his own. "Good choice."

"But then," Richard said, narrowing his eyes. "Wait. It's not one of Saul's concoctions, is it?"

Jeff let out a short laugh. "Of course not. Pharmacy-based product, I promise."

Richard relaxed slightly.

Jeff held up his hands in surrender. "Two soft-boiled eggs, coming right up." Then, as he walked to the door, he glanced back. "And drink the ORS. No arguments."

Richard groaned but didn’t protest.

__🥚🥚__

Richard sat on the couch in the living room, the warm glow of the lamp casting a soft light around him. On the coffee table in front of him sat a plate with two perfectly soft-boiled eggs and a mug of ORS.

Jeff sat across from him, arms crossed, quietly watching as Richard methodically peeled the shell off his first egg. The silence was calm, almost companionable.

Richard took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Not bad,” he admitted.

Jeff smirked. “I do know how to boil an egg, you know.”

Richard hummed in response, then picked up the mug of ORS. He took a careful sip and nodded. “Tastes fine.”

Jeff tilted his head. “You expected something terrible?”

Richard shrugged. “I had to make sure it wasn’t one of Saul’s experiments.”

Jeff chuckled. “Fair enough. But no, this is the real thing.”

Richard took another sip, then returned to his eggs, eating without further complaint. Jeff simply sat back, satisfied that Richard was getting the nutrition he needed.

At 1:45 AM, Jeff glanced at his phone and then at Richard. “Time for your next dose. Let’s head to the mini-hospital.”

Richard exhaled quietly. “Of course,” he murmured, his voice subdued. But then, in a different tone, he added, “Why are you doing this?”

Jeff frowned slightly. “Doing what?”

“This... being a caregiver?”

Jeff met his gaze evenly. “Because you need care right now. And I’m available, aren’t I?”

Richard didn’t respond immediately, just looked away.

As they were about to leave the room, Jeff stood first while Richard remained seated. “Injection number two and three—both go in your thigh,” Jeff informed him casually. “So, I’d suggest changing into shorts unless, of course, you’d rather stay in your underpants. I won’t mind.” His tone was teasing, but the humor fell flat.

Richard’s face paled. “Thighs…?
Why does the dexamethasone have to go into my thigh? Couldn’t you pick somewhere less painful?"

Jeff sighed, already anticipating resistance. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through Saul’s messages, reading the exact reason aloud.
"Thigh’s got a big muscle—the vastus lateralis. Best spot for an intramuscular injection. Absorbs fast, less risk of hitting a nerve or a blood vessel. Trust me, you’d hate it more if I aimed for your arm or backside."

"...Hard to believe when my legs are going to be stabbed."

But he got up anyway.

After a brief stop in the bathroom and in Richard's room where he changed into light lavendar coloured shorts, they moved to Saul’s clinic, where Jeff began prepping the next dose.

Richard wasn’t in pain. Not yet. Not at this moment. But he knew it was coming.

He sat rigidly on the sofa settee, shoulders squared, waiting, his heart pounding.

"Dexamethasone. Anti-inflammatory. Right thigh." Jeff informed him again.

Richard visibly 'tensed'.
He knew what was coming.

Jeff's fingers were surprisingly gentle as he alcohol-cotton-swabbed his thigh–then he pressed the anaesthetic
spray to Richard’s skin, waiting for it to numb him before proceeding.

Except it didn’t.

Richard knew it the moment Jeffrey lined up the needle. The moment the sharp, searing pain tore through his thigh muscle like a blade.

He sucked in a sharp breath—then another.

His chest tightened. His vision blurred. Oh, god.

His fingers curled into his sides, as he tried to breathe through it, but it was too much. The deep, burning throb coiled through his limb like fire, spreading up to his hip, wrapping around his bones. His lungs stuttered, his throat closed—

And then the first hiccupping sob burst out.

Jeffrey froze.

For a split second, neither of them moved.

Then Richard broke completely.

Tears spilled hot and fast down his cheeks. His body curled forward instinctively, half-collapsing into himself. His breath came in ragged, gasping shudders, and no matter how much he tried to rein it in, to suppress it, he couldn’t stop.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

"Jesus—hey, hey, shh." Jeffrey’s hands were on him instantly, one on his shoulder, the other pressing against his chest, steadying him. "Breathe, Rich. Breathe, I’ve got you."

But Richard couldn’t. He was hiccupping too hard, tears soaking into the fabric of his sleeve as he fought to pull in air.

Jeffrey muttered something under his breath—cursing himself, cursing the situation, maybe both. Then, with zero hesitation, he shifted forward onto the settee and pulled Richard into his arms.

Not tentatively. Not awkwardly.

A full, firm, unyielding grip.

Richard tried to fight it. He hated this—hated himself for breaking, hated Jeffrey for seeing him like this, hated the way his body had betrayed him again and again and again.

But Jeffrey wasn’t letting go.

"I’ve got you," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of Richard’s head, his other arm wrapped tight around his shoulders. "I know, I know—fuck, I know it hurts."

Richard’s hands clenched into Jeffrey’s shirt. He hated that he was holding onto him, of all people. But at the same time—

At the same time.

His body ached. His chest heaved. He couldn’t seem to stop crying.
And Jeffrey didn’t pull away.
He just sat there, holding him, rubbing slow circles against his back. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Lower.
"You should come home, Rich."

Richard stiffened.

Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes bloodshot and wet, meeting Jeffrey’s gaze head-on.

"You made me leave," he rasped. "You drugged me and—" His voice broke. He swallowed, shaking his head. "You made me leave."

Jeffrey didn’t deny it. Didn’t excuse it. Didn’t try to explain.

He just exhaled, eyes dark and unreadable. "I know."

Richard’s breath stuttered. His fingers unclenched. The room was too quiet, too heavy.

Jeffrey shifted, adjusting his grip, but he didn’t let go completely.

After about 15 minutes, Richard finally wriggled out of the hug, his hiccups slowing. He refused to meet Jeff’s eyes, his face turned slightly away.

Sensing the need for space, Jeff silently stood from the settee. Without a word, he moved to the side, carefully placing the used needle on the tray into the designated sharps disposal container.

Perhaps it was the pain—dulling his resistance, loosening his lips—but Richard’s voice was different when he spoke again.

"Bloody hell, Jeff! Why don’t you just use that anesthetic gel and numb the damn area? My thigh feels like it’s on fire." He was still crying, tears streaming down his face.

Jeff sighed. "Sorry, mate. Can’t use it on broken skin—it could cause irritation or mess with absorption."

Richard groaned, "That’s the stupidest rule I’ve ever heard. So I just suffer?"

Jeff chuckled half-heartedly. "Not quite. Hold still." He rubbed Richard’s thigh gently, trying to ease the tension.

". ..That’s hardly helping…"

"Patience. Do it yourself"
He stepped away, returning with an ice pack. Here—this’ll do the trick. Cold numbs pain better than any gel right now."

Richard grabbed the ice pack, pressing it against his thigh, muttering in French.
"Enfin, un peu de pitié."
( Finally, some mercy).

"Certes" (Indeed), Jeffrey agreed.

After a while, as the burning pain gradually eased, Richard, almost as if lost in nostalgia, asked,
“Jeff… what does Henry say about thigh shots?”

Jeff’s expression remained unreadable and passive, as he replied.
“He endures them—only because I insist. He keeps crying every time...all the time—I just wish he’d smile more, or at least look something other than… broken.”

Richard didn’t respond.

Jeff kept talking, his voice steady but weighed down, as he spoke about Henry—his struggles, his silent battles, the way he barely held himself together. He recounted the nights spent coaxing him to take his medication, the times Henry refused to leave his room for days, and the moments when even a forced smile felt like a rare victory.

Richard listened in silence, his fingers clenching slightly against the settee.

But eventually, he’d had enough.
"Jeff," he cut in, his voice firm but quiet. "Stop."

Jeff blinked, startled. "What—"

"I don’t want to hear any more." Richard’s gaze was unreadable, his tone bordering on exhausted. "Not right now."

Richard let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his shorts. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter, yet raw—like something that had been buried too long, now clawing its way to the surface.

"Yes, 'Henry' drowned in depression and became actively suicidal. I deeply sympathize," he said, his tone laced with something bitter—something close to anger, but not quite. "But do you think I had it 'easy'? Hmm?" His voice sharpened as he looked up at Jeff, eyes flashing. "Do you think I had no days like that?"

"Ricky—"

"There were days," Richard continued, unrelenting, "when I wished I hadn't been born. And—" he exhaled sharply, as if trying to steady himself, but the words were already spilling out now, unstoppable. "And then there were days when I wished... if... if it would just be better if I gave up."

Jeff's whole body tensed. "Richie, no—"

"Maybe actually drown myself," Richard went on, ignoring the way Jeff leaned in as if he could physically stop the words from coming out. "Down in the Mediterranean Sea. Or the Pacific. Or maybe right here—the Indian Ocean, in Sri Lanka."

"Rich—no." Jeff's voice was urgent now, breaking with something close to panic. He moved forward, but Richard held up a hand, stopping him.

For the first time since he started speaking, Richard hesitated, his breathing shallow. His fingers trembled slightly before he curled them into fists.

Jeff swallowed, his throat tight. "Richard," he said carefully—no nickname, no softening. Just his name. "Look at me."

Richard didn’t. His gaze was fixed somewhere distant, somewhere past the walls of the room, past the present moment.

Jeff tried again, softer this time. "Richard, please."

Slowly, reluctantly, Richard’s eyes met his.

"You’re here," Jeff said, his voice low but firm. "You’re still here."

Something flickered across Richard’s face—something fragile, something wounded. But he didn’t argue.
And for now, that had to be enough.

As if shaking off the weight of his own admission—suicidal thoughts, not recently, perhaps, but certainly in the past—Richard let out a hollow laugh. It wasn’t amused, not even close. It was empty, brittle, the kind of laugh that held more pain than mirth.

"You don’t have time to think about me, Jeff," he said, his voice light but cutting. "Go worry about your 'real' brother."

Jeff flinched.

Richard didn’t stop. "Because my mentor drilled this into me—" he took a breath, straightening his posture, as if reciting something he had memorized long ago.

"The waves of grief will try to drown you, pull you under, toss you like you’re nothing. But you must learn to swim, if not, you sink."

Jeff’s jaw tightened. "You’re not drowning, Richard."

Richard tilted his head, a humorless smirk on his lips. "Aren’t I?"

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then, quieter, Richard murmured, "Drowning in the ocean of grief, of loss, of sorrow—of things that were never mine to begin with." His fingers curled around his own arms, holding himself together. "It doesn’t matter how strong you are. Some tides are too strong. Some waves are too high."

Jeff inhaled sharply. "But you didn’t drown."

Richard finally looked at him. His expression was unreadable.

"No," he said simply. "I didn't."

He stood up, slowly, as if trying to shake the conversation off like salt water clinging to his skin. "But that doesn’t mean I have learnt how to swim."

Jeff opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn’t sure—but Richard was already walking, no, limping away.

"I haven't learned to swim like a pro…" Richard muttered, pausing at the door. His hand rested on the frame as if grounding himself. "I’m still learning."

Jeff exhaled, watching him carefully. "That’s… good," he said, cautiously. "Learning is good."

Richard gave a half-shrug, his back still turned. "Depends on who you ask. Some people think I should’ve already mastered it by now." His fingers tapped against the wood. "That I should’ve come out of it unscathed. Stronger. That grief and loss are just obstacles to overcome—like a test you pass or fail."

Jeff swallowed. "That’s not how it works, Richard."

"No," Richard agreed, finally turning his head slightly. "It’s not."

Richard shifted his weight, steadying himself with one hand on the dark chocolate-brown wooden door. Then, after a brief pause, he said, "Saul helped me… but what truly opened my eyes—what astonished and inspired me even more—was Manika. She’s like a surrogate daughter to him."

He shifted again, exhaling softly. "She was seventeen when I met her. Her husband's family attacked her with acid." His voice dipped slightly, controlled but heavy. "And yet, she never gave up on life. She still believes the world is beautiful, that hope isn’t foolish, even with half her face—" he hesitated, fingers tightening on the wood, "—distorted, melted away."

A shadow of something unreadable flickered across his expression before he continued. "She was spirited. Empathetic. To me, of all people. And,.." His lips parted as if to say more, but then he simply sighed. "Well, that's a story for another time."

Jeffrey's lips parted slightly, but no words came. He let the silence settle between them, heavy yet oddly unspoken, as Richard’s voice trailed off. The dim hallway light cast a shadow over his face, obscuring his expression as he shifted against the doorframe.

"She sounds remarkable," Jeffrey finally said, his voice quieter than before.

Richard nodded. "She is. Resilient in a way I couldn't understand at first. I remember thinking—how does someone go through that and still find it in themselves to keep smiling? To keep going?" His fingers curled into the wood. "And then I realized, it's not about ignoring the pain. It's about carrying it differently."

Jeff leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. "So she helped you... see things in a new light?"

Richard huffed a soft, mirthless laugh. "You could say that. She made me realize that suffering alone doesn’t make someone strong. It's what you do with it."

A pause.Then he sighed, shaking his head as if physically dismissing the thoughts. "Anyway, are 'we' done here?"

Jeff hesitated. "Are you?"

Richard let out a breath, one that sounded suspiciously close to a bitter chuckle. "You ask that like I have a choice."

Jeff stood, taking a careful step toward him. "You do."

Richard turned fully now, facing him. His expression was tired but searching. "Then why does it feel like I don’t?"

Jeff didn’t have an answer to that. Not one that would fix anything.

So instead, he just said, "Because learning takes time."

Jeffrey ran his hands through his hair, gripping at his scalp as he let out a heavy breath.

Two suicidal brothers. TWO.
What the hell am I supposed to do?

Henry’s bitterness had started after the inheritance debacle—after the family’s entire world had been upturned. He had turned cold, resentful, pushing Richard away as if cutting him out would somehow undo the curse of their bloodline. And Jeff, caught in the middle, had let it happen. He had stood by, doing nothing, letting that rift grow wider. And in the last attempt to save Henry, thinking, that maybe Richard should stay gone.

But now—now all he felt was guilt. And terror.

Because if he withdrew again, if he let Richard slip through his fingers the way he had before...if he withdrew the warmth and care he had just started to show, if he abandoned him the way he had before—what would be left of him?He knew exactly what would happen.

Richard had spoken of drowning. Of giving up, of slipping beneath the waves of grief, loss, and loneliness. If he sinks again—
And the way he had said it—too casual, too familiar—Jeff knew those weren’t just empty words.

If he walked away now, if he left Richard to fend for himself again, he wouldn’t make it.

Jeff squeezed his eyes shut.
I won’t let it happen.
Not again.

Jeff clenched his jaw, staring at the empty doorway where Richard had just limped away.

Not again.

Jeffrey took a deep breath, steadying himself before checking his watch—3:39 AM. Time for the next shot, soon.

He left the clinic and made his way to Richard’s room, stopping in the doorway.

Richard sat curled on his bed, a carnation pink blanket draped over his shoulders, his expression distant. Scattered around him were crumpled paper balls, torn-out pages from an empty notebook. Some were neatly rolled, some harshly squashed, others shredded into thin strips. His fingers moved absently, tearing another page down the middle before rolling one half between his palms.

Jeff exhaled softly. Is this how he’s keeping himself together?

“Rich.”

Richard stilled, his fingers pausing on the paper. He didn’t look up.

Jeff took a step closer. “It’s time.”

Richard let out a slow breath, then, with deliberate movements, threw the half-rolled paper on the chair beside him. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands before finally meeting Jeff’s gaze.

There was no fight left in his eyes this time. Just quiet exhaustion.

Wordlessly, he pulled the pink blanket tighter around himself and shifted, pointing Jeff to sit.

Jeffrey sat down the chair beside him, glancing at the mess of paper balls and shredded scraps scattered around.

"You've made quite a mess," he remarked lightly. "Raman’s workload just got bigger."

Richard let out a short, humorless breath—too dry to be a laugh. He picked up one of the crumpled balls, rolling it between his fingers before tossing it aside.

"He won't mind," Richard muttered. "Raman likes keeping busy."

Jeff tilted his head. "And you? What exactly are you keeping 'busy' with?" He gestured at the mess.

Richard shrugged, staring at his hands. "Dunno. Just needed to 'do' something." His fingers twitched, as if they weren’t quite ready to stop.

Jeff watched him for a moment before reaching out, picking up a torn piece, and smoothing it flat against his knee.

"Any particular reason you chose destruction over, I don’t know, actually reading a damn book?"

Richard shot him a sideways glance. "Not much of a reader right now."

Jeff hummed. "Right. Not much of a sleeper either."

Silence settled between them, heavier this time.

Then, in a quieter voice, Jeff asked, "Are you ready?"

Richard tensed for a fraction of a second before exhaling, his shoulders slumping slightly. He didn’t answer.

Jeffrey picked up one of the torn paper scraps and turned it between his fingers. "Destruction is easier than creation, huh?"

Richard exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. "Yeah. Tearing things apart takes less effort than building something worthwhile."

Jeff nodded, smoothing a page against his knee. "But in the end, you’re left with nothing but scraps. No structure, no meaning—just a mess someone else has to clean up."

Richard tilted his head slightly. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe some things 'should' be torn down. Some things aren't worth keeping."

Jeff arched an eyebrow. "And how do you decide what’s worth keeping?"

Richard didn’t answer right away. He just picked up another scrap, rolling it between his fingers, before tossing it aside again.

Jeff sighed. "You know, there’s something to be said for rebuilding. Even if it takes time, even if it’s painful. Otherwise, you just stay stuck in the ruins."

Richard’s expression flickered for a moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then he muttered, almost to himself, "Ruins are familiar."

Jeff let that settle between them. He wasn’t going to push. Not now.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, observing Richard’s posture, the way he was curling in on himself. "Are you cold?"

Richard blinked, as if only now noticing the way his fingers had started trembling slightly. "...I dunno."

Jeff reached out, pressing the back of his hand against Richard’s forehead. "Hmm.You are not feverish."

Jeffrey considered the situation. If Richard had a fever, he would have understood it as the body's natural defence mechanism—raising its temperature to fight infection. Fever helped white blood cells work more effectively, increased interferon production, and slowed down bacterial and viral replication. Unless dangerously high, it was better left untreated to let the immune system do its job.

His internal monologue was interrupted by Richard’s subdued voice.

"I 'am' feeling cold... I really do feel cold," he murmured, as if only just registering the sensation himself.

Jeffrey's breath hitched. "Hypothermia.'

"What did you just say?" Richard asked, brows furrowed.

Jeff glanced at his phone. 3:50 AM.

"Richie, why don’t we relocate to the med bay first, yeah? Let’s go." He reached out to guide him, but Richard insisted he could manage on his own.

Not wanting to waste time arguing, Jeffrey relented. "Alright."

Richard pushed himself up with heavy limbs, still wrapped in the carnation-coloured blanket. As he stepped forward, he favoured his uninjured leg, the other unsteady from the injection. Yet, he managed to move away from the bed, his blanket draped over him entirely, covering his head down to his bare feet.

"Mmm… my feet are cold too," he muttered, almost to himself. "Need to find socks... long socks."

Jeffrey nodded. "Alright. You find your socks and wait here. I’m going to set up some warm water for you to drink, okay?"

"Okay," Richard agreed softly.

___🧦___

Jeff went to heat water in a steel pot over the stove. Once warm, he transferred it into a bottle from the fridge—first emptying and rinsing out the cold water.

As the water heated, he frowned, thinking about how unusual it was for someone to develop hypothermia in 30°C weather. He checked his phone again—it was early October in Sri Lanka, a tropical island with a typically hot and humid climate. Unlike the cold, damp air of London, Kandy’s nighttime temperature was steadily dropping, averaging around 29°C during the day and 21°C at night.

The clock ticked past 4 a.m. Jeff quickly poured out the water, ensuring it was warm but not scalding. Remembering Saul’s earlier approach, he grabbed a plastic cup and straw. With everything in hand, he headed toward the med bay.

But just as he reached the doorstep, he was met by an angry Maya Hamada, standing with her hands on her hips. Her red and blue floral nightgown was slightly crumpled, and her sleep-tousled hair framed her sharp, accusing glare.

"You’re supposed to be looking after him," she snapped. "So why did I just find Richard, dropped on the floor with a blanket, huh?"

Jeffrey barely managed to register Maya’s words before he instinctively tried to step past her into the room.

“What?! Richie—” He moved forward, but Maya blocked his way, arms crossed, expression furious.

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re not stepping inside before you explain yourself. You’re supposed to be looking after him, so why the hell did I just find him collapsed on the floor wrapped in a blanket?”

Jeff’s pulse spiked with panic, but Richard’s tired voice floated from behind her.

“She’s not letting me utter a word,” he murmured, sitting on the bed with his legs pulled up in front of him, his head resting on his knees at an angle, watching them both.

Jeff exhaled sharply, gripping the warm water bottle tighter. “Maya, move. Now.”

Maya backed off, perhaps taken aback by the genuine worry, concern, and astonishment on Jeff’s face. Without another word, she stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

He hurried in, setting the bottle and other items on the coffee table by the sofa before going straight to Richard.

“Richie, I asked you to wait,” he said, his voice filled only with concern. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you? Did you faint?”

Richard admitted, his voice quiet, "I faltered and slipped."

Jeff exhaled sharply, kneeling beside him. "Damn it, Richie. You should've called me." His eyes scanned Richard’s face, searching for any sign of injury. "Did you hit your head? Are you feeling dizzy?"

"Just cold and weakness," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jeff let out a breath, then searched around the room, muttering under his breath as he rifled through the drawers and cabinets. "Where the hell is that damn thermometer?" His movements were quick, sharp with urgency.

Maya, still standing by the doorway, her arms crossed, watched him with a critical eye. "You should keep it in one place if you're going to be playing doctor," she remarked dryly.

"Yeah, thanks for the advice," Jeff shot back, finally pulling the thermometer from a side drawer. Without wasting another second, he knelt beside Richard, switching it on. "Alright, Richie, open up," he instructed.

Richard parted his lips just enough to allow Jeff to slip the device under his tongue. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, as Jeff waited for the reading.

A few moments later, the thermometer beeped. Jeff pulled it out, glanced at the number, and instantly frowned.
"35° Celsius."

His jaw tightened. "Damn it, Richie."

Richard gave a tired shrug and asked, "How did I get this cold..? I was feverish only the previous morning."
His voice was quiet, distant.

Jeff exhaled sharply. "This isn't normal. Your body temperature shouldn’t be this low, even if you were feeling a little chilly. You’re on the edge of hypothermia."

He glanced at Maya, who had also stiffened at the number.
She sighed, shaking her head. "I told you something was wrong."

Jeff ignored her for now, focusing on Richard. "Alright, no more messing around. You need to warm up now."

He exhaled before reaching for the warm water bottle.
"Let's get you warmed up properly." He handed it over. "Hold this against your chest for now."

Richard accepted it without argument, his fingers trembling slightly as he wrapped them around the bottle. Jeff watched, noting the way Richard’s shoulders hunched as he curled into himself.

"And drink some. . . here," he handed him the straw. "Slowly," Jeff reminded.
-----

While Richard was slowly sipping the water as told, Jeffrey was prepping the next syringe. He glanced at the wall clock. 4:11 AM. They were behind the schedule already, but he worked with precision. Then he remembered Richie's question.
Jeff (preparing the next injection): "Alright, listen up, Richard. Your temperature drop? There’s a science-backed reason for that."

"First off, some painkillers—especially opioids—cause vasoconstriction, meaning your blood vessels narrow. Less blood flow to your skin and limbs? That equals lower body temperature.

Then there’s the dexamethasone. Steroids like that mess with metabolism and can even affect the hypothalamus—the part of your brain that regulates temperature. Sometimes, that leads to a drop.

And finally, your own body might be working against you. The injection itself could’ve triggered a stress response—your system going into overdrive, maybe even causing shivering, which ironically cools you down even more."

Jeff glanced at Richard, "You following, or are you too busy freezing to death to care?"

Richard shivered. "You’re being so clinical… doctorly… And you actually remember all that? From your course?"

Jeff smirked. "I remember the basics. Besides, Saul gave me some warnings about you—told me what to watch out for."

Richard grumbled. "Of course, he did. Bet he made me sound like a bloody ticking time bomb."

Jeff chuckled quietly. "More like a high-maintenance patient with a knack for making things interesting. Now put the water bottle away—this one's going in—to your left thigh."

Richard obeyed but looking at that brownish-yellow liquid in the injection, a cold wave of fear bubbled inside him. He shivered–stressed, scared, afraid, frightened–Again.

Both his biceps—his upper arms—ached from the earlier shots. His right thigh throbbed, red and sore, while his left hand was an aching mess.
Hurting, yes. But not screamingly
unbearable, the rational side of his mind countered.

He tried, desperately, to relax—for once. But his fingers still curled tightly around the edge of the blanket.

Perhaps noticing the faint tremor in his form, Jeff pressed his lips together. Still, he pulled the blanket away, exposing Richard’s legs—his left thigh this time. The next injection site. The next source of pain.

"Two more, Rich. You're so brave." Jeff’s voice was soft. "Just hold onto me. It'll be over soon."

Richard didn’t fight him this time. He simply submitted to the cold swipe of alcohol against his skin.

Didn’t argue when Jeff guided him back down, one arm still around him, steadying him—bracing him for the next shot.

And when the pain hit—deep and brutal, tearing through his muscle—he barely noticed the second, ragged sob that tore from his throat.

Because Jeff was still there. Holding him up. Steadying him through it.

And even though Richard hated him, he didn’t feel alone.

Not this time.

Before he even registered it, Jeff had already pulled the needle free. Had already set it aside. And then—pressure. Sharp, unrelenting, forcing down on the fresh wound.

Richard screamed. His body jerked violently, his stomach clenching with each sob. He didn’t want to be like this, didn’t want to cry like this, but his body betrayed him. His chest shuddered, his throat constricted—there was no stopping it.

Jeff watched, his heart aching at the sight. In an instant, he pressed the bandage over the wound, securing it with quick, practiced movements.

And then, without hesitation, he pulled Richard into his arms. Cradling him. Holding him close.
His baby brother.

"Shh… Rich… I've got you. Please, please don't cry your eyes out."

Jeff ran his now ungloved fingers through Richard's hair, holding him close. His other hand rubbed slow, comforting circles into his back as he rocked him gently, grounding him, soothing him.

"Hnn..nhm. .muhh..huhm..hh…" Richard sobbed into his shoulder, the sound raw and broken.

Jeff didn't stop. He kept holding, comforting, steadying—until Richard finally sagged against him, breath hitching through the aftershocks of crying. Until he gave in.

And when Jeff sensed the worst had passed—that Richard's body had released what it needed to—he carefully pulled back, just enough to see his face.

Richard didn’t turn away. He let Jeff see him like this. Vulnerable. Open.

Jeff exhaled, rubbing a hand over his own face, before attempting—weakly—to lighten the mood. "With all this fluid loss, I feel drenched in your tears, you know."

He glanced toward the water bottle nearby—then frowned. "Oh, but it’s almost empty."

"I'll heat some water and bring a huge supply in thermos flasks."

Jeff blinked. He had completely forgotten about Maya.

Her voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. And as he turned, he realized—she had been crying too.

Richard, however, had ignored her entirely. He hadn’t even turned his head in her direction.

4:50 AM.

Richard lay on the bed, eyes closed. Silent.

But Jeff knew he wasn’t asleep.

Maya had long since delivered the water and left them, murmuring a quiet get well soon to Richard and patting Jeff’s shoulder before slipping away.

Still, Richard hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even touched the water—now for the fifth time.

A knot of worry tightened in Jeff’s chest.

"Hey, Richie, you’re not in shock, right?" He leaned in, searching Richard’s face. "Hey, look at me—please. Say something."

For a moment, nothing. Then, finally—

"I just had the worst crying fit of my life, and I’m totally knackered," Richard muttered, voice hoarse. His breath hitched slightly, but he pushed through it. "Even when Taro died, I hadn’t cried like this…"

He yawned, rubbing his face sluggishly. "Now my eyes hurt too."

Jeff exhaled, relief washing over him. Richard was finally coming back from that 'spell-like trance' he’d been stuck in.

Richard blinked drowsily, his gaze finally landing on his leg—the ice pack on his thigh.

"I need to use the loo," he mumbled, shifting slightly before wincing. "But my legs are throbbing." He let out a weak, humorless laugh. "Seems like I only have one good limb left now."

"Would you like to piss in a jar?" Jeff quipped, darkly amused.

Richard shot him a glare.

Then, as if shifting gears entirely, he pushed himself up in bed, propping up on the pillows.

"Come to think of it," he muttered, voice laced with suspicion, "Dr. Saul hasn’t drawn my blood. Not even 'once'. Before giving me all this—" He let out a sharp breath, then spat, "—shit."

Jeff sighed, rubbing his temples before meeting Richard’s wary gaze.

"Oh, but he 'did'. When you were out cold–collapsed and hooked up to the IV last night, Saul took a blood sample. You were barely conscious, so you wouldn’t have felt it. And… well, I guess he forgot to tell you."

Richard frowned but didn’t interrupt, so Jeff continued.

"Look, testing isn’t done just for the sake of it. The blood work from last night was enough to assess the major concerns—electrolytes, infection markers, organ function. If anything had been dangerously off, Saul would’ve acted on it immediately. But this morning… when you broke that glass in your hand?" Jeff paused, watching Richard’s expression shift. "You were in bad shape emotionally, barely holding it together, and you didn’t trust Saul one bit. Taking more blood or a urine sample would’ve only made you more distressed. So instead, he let you sleep. That was the priority."

Richard swallowed but said nothing.

"And by the time you woke up—when the infection had already developed…" Jeff hesitated just a second before saying it plainly, "when you had pus—" Richard flinched, and Jeff felt a twinge of regret for being so blunt. He softened his tone. "Yeah. By then, Saul didn’t need any more tests. The treatment path was obvious. No need to poke and prod you further when the solution was already clear."

Jeff leaned back slightly, watching for Richard’s reaction. "So no, he wasn’t being careless. He just didn’t see the point in putting you through more than necessary."

Richard felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest—guilt, regret. He had been so afraid of Saul at first, recoiling from him, questioning his every move. And later, when he was more lucid, he had laughed off his own fear, calling it absurd. But now… now he could see how much strain he must have put the middle-aged man through. Saul had been nothing but patient, treating him despite his resistance, making decisions that prioritized his well-being rather than pushing unnecessary procedures on him.

Richard exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. He had to make it up to Saul somehow—not with empty words, but with action. From now on, he would put in real effort, push himself to be the ideal gemology pupil Saul had hoped to train. It was the least he could do.

Richard limped to the washroom, leaning heavily on Jeff, who carried most of his weight. Every step was a strain, but Jeff kept steady, guiding him there and back to the med bay.

Once inside, Richard made a beeline for the sofa.

Jeff, however, was quicker. “No. Lie down.” His tone left little room for argument. “Better blood circulation that way.”

Richard hesitated. Stubborn, as always.

Jeff sighed, nudging him again. “Your cause of pain—the drug just given to you—is still spreading. But slowly. It’s still pooled in one place. The sooner it disperses, the lighter and less sore you’ll feel. Even the most harmless human-protein-imitating materials are still foreign to our cells—they need time to process, to metabolize.”

Richard groaned. “Yes, yes. Assist me up.” He waved a weak hand at Jeff. “As if ‘less pain’ wasn’t reason enough.”

Once Richard was settled back in bed, he let out a weary sigh. "At this rate, you should start working in the hospitality industry instead of corporate."

Jeff snorted. "I wouldn’t have the patience for this—day in and day out—for people I don’t 'care' about."

Richard tilted his head, watching him. A slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "And oh, Jeff—your honesty is chivalrous. That’s one of the reasons *I love you."

They both stared at each other in silence, the weight of years—two years of estrangement and bitterness—suddenly melting away. All of it swept aside in a single night spent together, being honest, sentimental, and kind with each other.

For a moment, it felt as though time had stretched, then snapped back into place.

Tears pricked at Jeff’s eyes, his voice quiet and raw when he spoke. “I love you also, Rich.”

Then, without a word, he pulled a plastic chair closer to Richard's bed, settling in beside him.

Richard mumbled, his voice softer than usual, “But I haven’t forgiven you yet. At least, not for the thing with Deborah... I won’t, not until I find another romantic partner.”

Jeff’s gaze didn’t waver, though his jaw tightened slightly. He took a breath, then responded, his tone steady and unwavering. “Fair enough. I’m not doing this to atone for my sins. I’m doing what I’ve always done. Looking after 'my brother' in need.”

Richard didn’t reply immediately. He only watched Jeff, the tension between them still there, but somehow, lighter.

Jeffrey glanced at his wristwatch—5:16 AM already. Two shots still left.

He sighed, knowing the situation. “Well, if Saul doesn’t wake up…” he muttered to himself, but quickly discarded the thought. It seemed very likely, considering how tired the man was, and the fact that Saul had only gone to bed at 2 AM.

Up until now, Jeffrey had carefully avoided talking about the looming 'needle appointments'—those dreaded shots that Richie had been dreading. He didn’t want to make him panic or flee again, as Richie had done before. And true to form, Richie had fled at first, but… he had returned.

This time, however, Richie couldn’t flee even if he wanted to. He was 70% immobilized by the pain—barely able to move.

Jeffrey noticed the subtle shift in the air. Richie’s body language screamed discomfort, and the silence between them thickened. In an attempt to ease the tension and avoid cornering Richie with his own thoughts, Jeffrey decided to bring it up again. This time, he tried to normalize it, to make the impending shot seem less daunting.

“So…” Jeffrey began, his voice lighter than it felt, “we’re down to the last two. After these, you’ll get a break for the next 12 hours.” He glanced over at Richie, then at the syringes nearby.

“Two more?” Richard repeated in disbelief, his voice edged with frustration. “I thought it was four. You said it was four shots!” He shot Jeff an accusing look. “I’ve already gotten three from you, and goodness knows how much from Saul, just yesterday!”

Jeff calmly met his gaze, not flinching. “Richard, you’re a patient. Please keep patience.” His tone was measured, even, though there was a quiet firmness behind it. “Technically, I was going to give you four shots. But that plus one was always 'on the horizon' for you, from Saul again. The old man needs his sleep, though. So, your 8 AM shot is now my responsibility as well.”

He paused for a moment, giving Richard a chance to process that, then leaned forward slightly, his voice softening. “But let's talk about the glute muscle shot first.”

“You’re being so technical, I hate it!” Richard dramatically flailed his hands, his voice carrying a mixture of feigned annoyance and genuine unease. He tried to rein it in, but there was no mistaking the underlying tension. “Well, not fear exactly… I didn’t run, did I? I know I need the shot, but still…” His hands waved helplessly in the air as if trying to ward off the inevitable.

Jeff immediately caught Richard’s arm, his grip firm but gentle. “Careful, please. Don’t harm yourself.”

For a brief moment, there was a flicker of amusement in Jeff’s eyes, and he couldn’t resist. “You didn’t like it when I said 'pus' instead of abscess, did you?”

Richard made a face, clearly not thrilled by the reminder. “No, but…” He paused, his expression shifting into one of playful annoyance. “Using jargon and not giving an explanation? You’re just indirectly prompting me to ask more questions, aren’t you? Is that your catch? Or are you just showing off your newfound knowledge to a poor patient with only high school medical science knowledge?”

Jeff raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, you 'caught' me. It’s the former.”

Richard couldn’t help but smile back, his expression softening as he caught the infectious grin on Jeffrey’s face.

Then, with a playful glint in his eyes, he turned back to the question. “Alright, then. Where is the glute muscle?”

Jeff, still casual and colloquial, answered without hesitation. “Your arse —buttocks, upper waist specifically.” He paused for a second before adding with a grin, “It’s where all the magic happens.”

Richard’s frustration bubbled over. “And why can’t you prick my arm again? Dammit, why the hell’s that anaesthetic spray not working in my lower body parts!”

His hands fisted the blankets, eyes narrowing in irritation as the pain from earlier seemed to settle deep in his muscles. The mix of the shot’s aftereffects and his growing annoyance was pushing him to the edge.

Jeff gave him a steady, calm look, his expression soft but firm. “I know, Rich, I know it sucks. But the injection needs to go in the muscle for maximum effect. And trust me, your arm just wouldn’t cut it for this one.” He shifted closer, voice quieter but still steady. “As for the anaesthetic, it’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it just doesn’t work as well on certain areas, and we need to be extra cautious. But it’s working, just not as much as we want it to.”

He gently placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder, trying to ground him. “I’m here, okay? You’ll be alright.”

Jeff sighed softly, running a hand through his hair as he tried to explain. “Yeah, an injection can still hurt even after using an anesthetic spray, especially if you’re particularly sensitive to pain. The spray works by numbing the surface of your skin, but it doesn’t block the deeper pain from the needle actually going into your muscle or vein and the medicine actually mixing into your bloodstream.”

He paused for a moment, looking at Richard with an understanding expression. “On top of that, things like anxiety, muscle tension, or just how sensitive you are can make it feel worse. Sometimes even with the numbing, you could still feel that sharp or stinging sensation when the needle goes in —injecting chemicals that is medicine into you.”

He gave Richard a reassuring look, trying to offer some comfort. “I know it’s tough, but I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. Just breathe through it, okay?”

“Easier said than done,” Richard mumbled, not looking at Jeff, his voice thick with frustration.

Jeff didn’t try to push it, simply nodding in acknowledgment. “I know. I understand.” He said it quietly, a soft concession that acknowledged Richard’s pain without needing to say more. Sometimes, words weren’t enough, but he hoped his presence would be.

Jeff observed the time—5:50 AM—and made a mental note. Last time, the shot had been at 4:15, so this was already 6:15 AM for the next one. He felt the weight of time pressing in.

He stood up, preparing the syringe, then turned to Richard. “Don’t look at the injection, and try not to think about it,” Jeff advised, his tone soft yet firm. “I’d play calming music if I were confident enough not to, you know, mess up the shot while it's running, but please, Richie. I know if I were you, I’d 'refuse too'. But you’ve tolerated so much already—held up so well under the circumstances. Just two more times. Please, I need you to be brave.”

Richard let out a dry chuckle, his eyes still heavy with the anticipation of the pain. “I cried before. How’s that for bravery?” His voice was thick with both sarcasm and exhaustion, his mind already bracing for what was to come.

Jeff's expression softened as he moved closer. “Well, it’s something Henry’s psychologist told him once... that crying is just a natural release of emotions. Have you ever heard that tears are made up of 1% water and 99% emotions?” He paused, watching Richard’s tired eyes. “While that’s not technically true, it’s accurate in saying that the chemicals in tears—those hormones—are what make us feel so emotional. They get released and, well, we cry.”

Jeff continued, his voice steady, “So what I’m trying to say is, bravery is about being afraid and doing it anyway. It’s not about not being afraid.”

Jeff was still prepping that dreaded shot on the worktop, the soft clinking of glass against metal filling the otherwise silent med bay.

Richard’s panic grew. His chest felt tight, his breath shallower despite his efforts to control it. He turned his gaze away from Jeff, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the syringe being filled behind him. His hands curled into fists against the sheets.

He was still sitting on the bed, but no longer in the middle. Instinct made him want to inch away, but the moment he shifted, sharp pain radiated from his thighs, effectively rooting him to the spot. His legs were stretched out, knees bent just slightly, his back propped up on the pillows. He was shaking—tension rippling through him, anticipation worse than anything else.

It wasn’t even the bite of the needle that scared him anymore. It was what followed—the deep, stinging burn, the way the pain settled and lingered, a throbbing ache blooming where the medication spread. Like a wasp sting. Or worse—a snake bite, a scorpion bite. Not that he had ever experienced any of those, thankfully, but the dread he felt now might as well be the same.

Jeff had gone quiet. Maybe he had noticed Richard had stopped talking too.

Richard swallowed, forcing himself to think, to distract himself. "Worrying, feeling tense, dreading, and stressing over something, results in you suffering the same thing twice."
He had read that somewhere.

A bitter laugh almost escaped him. Huh..Well, that doesn’t apply to me.

Because what he was dreading wasn’t just a trick of the mind.

It was 'happening'.
Not once, not twice, but thrice.

He had already suffered three times.
But two more rounds of suffering remained—
And they were going to be the *worst yet.

Chapter Text

Jeffrey knew this was going to be the worst one. And one was still left..

He could feel it in the way Richard's body had tensed again, every muscle locked tight, his breathing uneven and shallow. The tears weren't falling, yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Jeffrey took a slow, steadying breath. The second last one.

Ceftriaxone. The antibiotic. Glute muscle. The butt shot. Shit.

The worst one.

Not because of the pain. Not because the anesthetic spray had failed every time before.

But because Richard had already been 'wrecked'.

Jeffrey wanted to tell him to take a break, breathe, let his body recover–but they couldn't. They were working on a schedule.

Jeffrey rolled his shoulders, glancing down at the syringe in his hand. His fingers flexed around it, as if somehow, that would make this easier.
It didn't.

Across from him, Richard was vibrating with tremors. He said in a quiet, hoarse voice — "No."

Jeffrey sighed. Here we go.

Richard felt it coming before Jeff even said it. He was still propped up on the pillow, draped in the pink blanket.

Before he even reached for the alcohol swab, Richard panicked.

"No." The word ripped out of him like a wounded animal. He pushed away, struggling back against the bed.
"No—no, I'm done, I'm not—"

Jeffrey caught his right shoulder immediately.

"Rich." His voice was sharp, but not unkind. "We have to. It's an antibiotic. You’ll—"

"I don’t care!" Richard’s voice cracked—high and desperate. "You already gave me three! I'm not doing another! I— I can't—!"

He hated the way his own voice broke apart. Hated the way his breath skipped, snagged, quivered, snagged as dread curled in his chest; the way his shoulders shook, shuddered—the way his entire body felt like it was falling apart.

But Jeffrey didn’t let go of his uninjured arm.

Instead, his grip tightened, grounding. Firm, unyielding. "Richard."

"Rich, you know how this works. The upper glute is the best site for this. If I inject it anywhere else, you're gonna be in even 'more' pain."

Richard's lips pressed into a hard, thin line. His fists clenched into the blanket, his nails digging in so hard they might've ripped through it.

"No."

Jeffrey sighed.

Richard shook his head wildly. "Jeff, please." He hated himself for pleading. For looking up with red-rimmed eyes, breathless and shaking, already broken from the last three shots. "I can't—please. Not there."

Jeff exhaled, long and slow, his gaze dragging over Richard’s crumpled form,
his bandaged palm, already marked with cuts, clenched into a fist once more. Thankfully, Jeff had wrapped it in enough gauze to prevent further damage.

"Richard–"

"No, Jeff." His voice was sharp, shaking, a barely controlled edge of panic. "I already let you–God, I already let you give me one in both my thighs-" His breath stuttered.

"You're not-"
His voice broke completely.

Jeffrey clenched his jaw. He didn't like this. Didn't like the way Richard's voice cracked, didn't like the way he was looking at him now-as if this was some kind of ultimate violation, like it was the last shred of dignity he had left and Jeffrey was about to rip it away.

But they had to do it.
And Richard knew that too.
For a long, heavy moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, low and trembling-
"Just... give me a minute."

Jeffrey exhaled, setting the cotton swab down for now. "Take your time."

Richard didn't move.
Just sat there, hunched over himself, shoulders tight, jaw locked. His breath was too fast. too shallow.

Jeffrey watched, waiting.
Hating himself—Hating that he had to be the one to do this.

Richard's entire body looked like he was one deep breath away from shattering all over again.

And then—to Richard’s absolute horror—he sat down– right beside him.

Their shoulders brushed.

Richard stiffened.

Jeffrey sighed, letting his arms rest on his knees. "Okay. I'm not going to force you."

Richard froze. What.

Jeff reached forward, gripping Richard’s forearm lightly. "We can wait. If you need more time—or postpone it ... I.. I'll talk—apologize to Saul for messing up the schedule."

Richard's throat closed. He gulped.

That—that was worse.

That was so much worse.
–Because now Jeffrey was being kind. Now he was giving him a choice.

And that made Richard feel so, so much smaller.

He swallowed hard, fingers twisting into the blanket, hating how weak he felt.

A deep, unsteady inhale. A slow, shuddering exhale. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper—
"Just get it over with."

".. Rich.."

Richard made a small, broken sound. "I hate you."

Jeffrey nodded once. "I know."
He got up from the bed.

Richard's throat bobbed. He turned his face away.

And then carefully, Jeff reached, helping Richard turn forward, enough to give Jeffrey full access.

Richard’s hands dug into the pillows. He pressed his burning face against them, breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

Jeffrey's hands were gentle but quick. He pushed the blanket aside, pulled the waistband of Richard's pants down just enough, rolling up the thin fabric of Richard’s shirt, sterilizing the area and
pressing the anesthetic spray to the skin of his butt.

One breath.
Two.
Three.

He lined up the syringe.

Richard's fingers dug into the sheets.
And then–

The second the needle sank in, Richard jolted violently, a strangled cry tearing from his throat.

Richard’s body tensed the moment the needle pierced his skin, a sharp stab that shot straight through his muscle. The cold of the needle and the pressure of the injection site seemed to fuse, both burning, searing, sweltering, and flaring up at once.

"Shh, shh—almost done—" Jeffrey's voice was low, urgent. He gripped Richard's waist with his free hand, keeping him steady. "Breathe, Rich, I’ve got you—"

Richard couldn’t breathe.

As the syringe continued to push the fluid inside, it felt like molten lava spreading through the tight muscle. The pain wasn’t just localized to where the needle was; it radiated outwards, deeper into his flesh, like his entire glute was being consumed by heat and pressure, his body fighting to reject the foreign substance being forced into it. His muscles spasmed involuntarily. His body instinctively, desperate to get away from it.

But Jeffrey held him firm in place.

"I know, I know—"

The needle was still buried deep. Shifting inside his muscle.
The medication was still pushing through.

Richard let out a choked, hiccupping sob, tears spilling through his eyes.

His fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles white. His entire body trembled violently, face hot and wet and burning with shame.

It was too much.
Richard panted, sputtered, struggled for air.

And then-impossibly–his body 'bucked'.

A single, sharp, choked sob.

Jeffrey grabbed his waist naturally, holding him steady.

Richard tried to pull away. "Jeff-fuck, Jeff, stop- - -it hurts- -pains so much-"

But he couldn't.

Jeffrey's grip tightened. "It's almost done, just stay still-"

The burn started to spread, deeper now, like a searing line of fire working its way through him, growing with each passing second. It wasn’t just pain—it was a suffocating kind of discomfort, as though something was tearing through him, yet not quite enough to break him. It was a lingering ache, a weight, a deep pull in his body, and every pulse of the syringe injected more of it into him.

Richard gasped, "-stop-.. Please... "
feeling the fluid settle, the sting thickening, his eyes watering like a fountain from the intensity of it. The pain wasn’t fading—if anything, it was growing, becoming a hot, unrelenting ache, as though the muscles themselves were protesting, swelling against the intrusion. He squeezed his eyes shut, doing everything he could to keep from jerking away, but the sensation was unbearable. His body was betraying him, locking him in place, forcing him to endure it until the last drop of the medicine was inside.

Every second felt like an eternity.

And then—*finally, finally—Jeffrey pulled the syringe out.

As the syringe was finally pulled out, Richard heaved for breath, his chest rising and falling in short, quick bursts.

Jeff pressed a piece of gauze to the injection site. And started massaging the area.

The pressure on his glute didn’t help the pain; it only seemed to amplify it. Jeffrey's hands were firm against his sore muscle, pressing and massaging—not too gently, but not cruelly either—trying to force the medicine to spread, to disperse into the tissue, but all Richard felt was the aftershock of the deep, burning pain.

Richard couldn’t stop the sobs that broke from him, each one more desperate than the last. The tears streamed down his face, his throat constricting as he gasped for air, unable to form words. His body shook under the pressure, a combination of muscle spasms and the uncontrollable sobbing wracking his frame.

“Jeff— Jeff, please— it bloody hurts!” His voice cracked on the last word, a plea, a raw cry filled with vulnerability and distress. Every breath he took burned in his chest, his limbs stiff, rigid from the pain.

His hands, still gripping the edge of the bed, shook violently as the pressure against his muscle continued. “I can’t—I can’t take it,” he muttered through gritted teeth, voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t just the pain—it was the burning sensation that wouldn’t fade, the ache that spread through him like fire under his skin. His body trembled harder with every second, the ache turning into a deep, throbbing pulse that felt like it was marking every nerve in his body.

The massaging pressure felt like it was pressing his very muscles into a bruise, a deep, crushing ache that added another layer to the agony. “Please, stop, please…” Richard’s cries turned into incoherent murmurs, his chest heaving with every sob. He tried to move, to escape the unbearable feeling, but the pain trapped him, rooted him to the bed. His hands twisted in the sheets, pulling at them as if they might rip free of the agony.

Jeffrey didn’t stop. He kept his hand firm, massaging, pressing the fluid in, but it felt like an eternity.

Richard’s cries were punctuated by short, strained breaths, his body still jerking every so often as the heat spread through him. The pain in his glute hadn’t subsided—it was like it was digging in deeper, making him feel like he was suffocating from the pressure.

Richard sobbed, his voice trembling as his whole body quivered. The pain, the humiliation, everything just built up in him, and it all broke open in the form of helpless, wrenching sobs. “Suffering..It never ends, the pain.. It never ends...”

Jeffrey’s hands finally fell away, the pressure lifted, but the burn in Richard’s glute remained, a lingering, searing pain that radiated through him. Richard stayed frozen, his breath ragged, eyes squeezed shut as if willing the feeling to leave his body. His legs were still trembling, and his fists were balled tight against the sheets. Every inch of him felt raw and exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. His body didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or just curl into itself and disappear.

He was still lying there, butt exposed, his entire body tense as if waiting for something more. His mind was spinning, his body still trying to catch up with what had just happened. A part of him just wanted to curl into himself, to retreat from the pain and the flood of emotions. But another part, deep down, wanted to face it, wanted to finally let go of everything he had been holding back.

Jeffrey barely had time to register the sound—Richard's ragged, gasping sobs—as something inside him twisted violently. His hands, still shaking from the tension, hastily put the used syringe away, fumbling with the tray. The moment the needle was out of sight, his attention snapped back to Richard.

Richard was still breaking. Shattering. His entire body trembled, the weight of everything—pain, exhaustion, raw emotion—collapsing in on itself. He was curling inward, arms gripping his own chest, face contorted in misery. His breath came in heaving, stuttering gulps, as if his body was trying to claw its way out of the agony. His thighs twitched from the pain, his hips stiff, his back arching slightly like he wanted to recoil from himself—from everything.

Jeffrey felt his heart crack, guilt slicing through him like a blade. He had seen Richard in pain before, had seen him cry, but not like this. Not this kind of breaking. This was something else—something deeper, something raw and irreversible.

"Shit—Rich—" Jeffrey's voice was hoarse as he moved fast, quicker than thought. He grabbed Richard’s pants, pulling them gently back in place, trying to restore some dignity before the shame could settle in. But there was no time to let Richard fall apart on his own. No time to let him slip further into this spiral.

So he climbed onto the bed beside him.

Without hesitation, Jeffrey slipped his arms around him and pulled Richard into his lap, his own body curling protectively around him. One arm locked around Richard’s back, his other hand cradling the back of his head, holding him together, as if sheer force could stop him from unraveling any further.

Richard resisted at first, stiff, shaking, his chest rising and falling too quickly. His hands scrabbled weakly at Jeffrey’s shirt as though unsure whether to push him away or cling to him. But then Jeffrey tightened his hold, tucking Richard’s head beneath his chin, pressing his palm against the curve of Richard’s back, and suddenly—suddenly Richard collapsed completely.

Richard didn’t fight it. He let himself be held, be comforted, be taken care of.

A wretched sob tore out of him as he buried his face into Jeffrey’s chest. His hands clenched into fists, gripping Jeff’s shirt with a desperate, almost painful force. His body wracked with tremors, shudders running through him like aftershocks of a violent storm. His breath hitched, caught, and then came out in broken gasps.

Jeffrey swallowed hard, his own throat burning, his own guilt unbearable. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, pressing his lips against Richard’s hair, voice thick. “I’m so sorry, Rich.”

Richard didn’t answer. He just shook, his sobs muffled against Jeffrey’s chest. His fingers dug harder into fabric, clinging like he would drown otherwise.

Jeffrey squeezed his eyes shut, his own breath unsteady. His arms tightened, his grip unyielding, holding Richard as close as physically possible. As if he could shield him from all of it— from the pain, the exhaustion, the sheer helplessness.

“It’s okay,” Jeffrey murmured, voice raw, desperate. “Let it out, Rich. Just—just breathe. I got you. I swear to God, I got you.”

But Richard wasn’t breathing right. He was gasping, struggling, his body still rigid with the intensity of his sobs. Jeffrey could feel it—the sharp, unsteady rhythm of his chest, the way his muscles kept locking up, like his body was on the edge of pure panic.

“Hey, hey, no, breathe, Rich. You’re gonna make yourself sick—as in Nervous Breakdown” Jeffrey loosened one hand, cupping the back of Richard’s head, pressing his cheek against his own shoulder. “You’re safe. It’s just me. Just me. You can cry all you want, but you gotta 'breathe', okay?”

Richard let out another choked, pitiful sound, but his breath sputtered again, ragged and shallow.

Jeffrey rocked him slightly, slow, steady, instinctively. “I got you,” he repeated, softer this time. “You’re not alone. You’re never alone. I’ve got you.
So please, try to relax.”

Richard closed his eyes, his chest heaving with a deep sigh. The words, though comforting, couldn’t erase the exhaustion weighing on him. The pain was fading, but the emotional weight of the night—of the shots, the fear, the tears, the physical reminder of his brokenness—was still there.

But Jeffrey just held him—Held him through the worst of it.Through the exhaustion. Through the 'complete unraveling' of everything Richard had been trying to hold together.
And it helped to ease the emotional pain.

Minutes passed like that. Long, agonizing minutes of Richard’s body convulsing with tears, of Jeffrey holding him, murmuring reassurances, pressing his lips against his hair every so often. His hand rubbed slow circles against Richard’s back, grounding him, keeping him tethered.

Eventually, slowly, Richard’s gasping sobs faded into quieter ones. His grip loosened just a fraction, his breathing still labored but a little steadier, his body slowly—so slowly—relaxing into Jeffrey’s embrace.

Because even though he hated Jeffrey, even though he resented him, even though his entire body screamed against it—
Right now, he needed him.
And Jeffrey, despite everything—wasn’t letting go.

Richard sagged, his body just collapsed, wrecked, exhausted, destroyed— but Jeffrey's arms were
wrapped around him preventing him from spiraling further into the abyss of worthless thoughts– preventing him from thinking about the emotional weight of the night—the dread, the fear, the exhaustion–everything.

Jeffrey didn’t let go. Wouldn’t let go. Not until Richard was ready. And even then, he doubted he’d be able to.
He had seen his brother endure so much tonight, watched him fight the pain and hold on through the worst of it.

Until, finally–
Richard's breaths slowed. His fingers loosened. And his body went limp.

Neither of them spoke.
The room was too quiet, too heavy. Then, so soft Jeffrey almost didn't hear it– "I hate you."

Jeffrey's throat tightened. He let out a shaky breath. "I know. But, I love you. And–You better not forget that."

They finally broke the embrace. Jeff gently removed himself from the bed.

Jeffrey finished putting his things away, his own exhaustion written across his face. His body sagged as he finally straightened up, his back aching from the tension of the night. He glanced at Richard, whose tear-streaked face was turned toward the ceiling, eyes unfocused and glazed.

Richard's voice, raw and weak, cut through the quiet. “Is it over?” His words trembled, but there was more beneath them, a question of not just the physical pain, but of the emotional burden he was carrying.

Jeffrey nodded gently, his tone calm but with an edge of weariness. “For now, yeah. It’s over for now, Rich.” He checked the time, the dim light casting shadows across his tired face. “It’s 6:48 AM already... next wrist shot at 9 AM.”

Richard’s gaze flickered down to the side, his hand clutching the bedsheet. He stayed quiet, but the pain in his chest wasn’t just from the shots anymore. It was something deeper. A wave of emotion, too large to contain, broke through again, and the tears began to fall anew.

“God…” Richard whispered hoarsely, voice cracking. “I just… I just wanted it to end.” His hands trembled, and he wiped his eyes frantically, trying to stop the tears. “I hate being this weak. I… hate needing you like this.”

Jeffrey knelt by the bed again, his heart heavy with the weight of Richard’s words, his brother’s pain. “You’re not weak, Rich. You’re human. You’ve been through hell tonight. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to need someone.”

But Richard just shook his head, tears streaming down his face. His body was wracked with sobs, and despite his best efforts, the emotion wouldn’t stop coming. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke again, “I don’t know what to do with myself… I can’t stop... I hate that I can’t stop crying.”

Jeffrey reached out, his hand settling gently on Richard's arm, giving him the comfort he could in this moment. “You need to calm, Rich. But you don’t have to fight it. Just let it out. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Richard’s face twisted in frustration, but he managed to pull himself together, he felt the intensity of the tears lessening. Because Jeffrey
didn’t rush to fix it or tell him to stop like others—Catherine had done when he was little, "be on your best behavior."
Uncle Godfrey, saying, "maintain your composure," even Saul on occasion saying, "Tears are precious jewels made of raw human emotions. They shouldn’t be wasted on fleeting emotions or things unworthy of them."

But Jeffrey–he simply sat there, holding Richard’s gaze, offering nothing but his presence and reassurance that everything will be okay.

And there, in the quiet aftermath of the pain, Richard felt it—the understanding, the unconditional care that he hadn’t realized he *yearned for* until now. The words didn’t have to be spoken. Jeffrey’s silent presence was enough. It was all he needed.

He finally let his body relax, but not fully, as if half of him still wanted to pull away, to fight the lingering tenderness of what had just passed. “I just want to sleep,” he murmured and closed his eyes.

Jeffrey didn’t press him for more. He simply nodded and, with a soft chuckle, said, “Rest, Rich. You’ve earned it.”
___
Jeffrey sat beside Richard, still holding his good hand, his grip firm but gentle. He had barely let go since the injection, as if afraid Richard might slip away somehow—emotionally, if not physically. The worst of the breakdown had passed, but Richard was still sniffling, his body wracked with exhaustion, the occasional shudder betraying how much he had endured.

Richard barely lifted his head, his voice a tired mumble. “Need to use the washroom.”

Jeffrey’s eyes flickered over his face, scanning for any sign that Richard was strong enough to stand. He looked wrung out, like he had nothing left in him.

“Can you walk?” Jeff asked, though he already knew the answer.

Richard let out a weak breath. “Don’t feel so.”

Jeff sighed, squeezing his hand before letting go. “Well then, just don’t wriggle and make me fall,” he muttered, shifting forward and bracing himself.

Before Richard could protest, Jeff hooked an arm under his knees and another around his back, lifting him effortlessly. Richard gave a small, breathy grunt of surprise but didn’t resist. His arm instinctively curled around Jeff’s shoulder, and for a moment, his cheek brushed against Jeff’s collarbone.

Jeff carried him with steady, careful steps, the warmth of Richard’s body pressing against his own. When they reached the adjoining bathroom, the sharp scent of disinfectant and soap filled the air.

He set Richard down gently onto the toilet seat, making sure he was steady before pulling back slightly. His hands hovered near Richard’s arms, ready to catch him if he wobbled.

“Need me to stay?” Jeff asked, voice softer now, no teasing—just quiet concern.

Richard, though still groggy, managed the ghost of a smirk. “What, you offering to hold my hand through it?”

Jeff scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Just don’t fall over and crack your skull, genius.” He hesitated for a beat, then added, quieter, “Call if you need me.”

Richard gave a small nod, and Jeff stepped back, just enough to give him privacy—but not enough to be out of reach.

Business done, Jeff helped Richard clean up and steady himself. He was about to scoop him up again and carry him back to the clinic bed when Richard weakly tugged at his sleeve.

“I just want to sleep in my own room,” Richard mumbled, barely lifting his head.

Jeff hesitated. “But, Richard, there’s the wrist shot—”

“No.” Richard’s voice was sharp, edged with something dangerously close to horror. His fingers clutched at Jeff’s shirt, his breathing suddenly unsteady.

Jeff sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He couldn’t put Richard through another breakdown, not when he was barely holding himself together. For a moment, he thought about insisting—but then he shook his head.

“Fine,” he said. “A change of scenery it is.”

Instead of the clinic bed or Richard’s room, he took him to the living room. The couch was wide enough, comfortable enough, and maybe—just maybe—the familiar space would help ground him.

Jeff eased him down onto the cushions, making sure he was settled before grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over him. He sat on the chair beside the couch, resting his arms on the edge, watching Richard’s face carefully.

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “We’ll deal with the rest later.”
---
A few minutes later, Richard lay awake, unable to sleep. His mind was restless, unsettled.
".. My mind is disturbed, and-" slowly, he said, unsure, weakly.

Richard’s face was pale, his lips slightly parted as he struggled for breath, for words. His eyes were wet, unfocused, staring past Jeff like he wasn’t really here, like he was somewhere far worse.

"And?" Jeff prompted when Richard trailed off.
But Richard simply shut his eyes and looked away.

"Richie…" Jeff pressed gently.

Tears spilled down Richard’s face again, silent but unrelenting.
Jeff's mind had made the connection to his own horror. Before Richard even said, in a barely audible whisper—
"I feel frightened… to. ..'almost death'."

Jeff's breath caught. Oh God.
God..What have I 'done'?

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut—this wasn’t just pain anymore. This was *trauma.
He’s deeply traumatized by it all.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he let go of Richard’s hand—only to slide an arm under his shoulders, carefully pulling him into his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, resting his chin against Richard’s temple. “I should’ve— I didn’t mean for it to—”

Richard let out a shaky breath, his body tense, like he didn’t know whether to resist or collapse.

“I hate feeling like this,” he choked out. “So weak. So— so helpless—”

Jeff exhaled sharply, pressing his lips together. “You’re not weak,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “You’re hurting. That’s different.”

Richard shuddered, his fingers digging into Jeff’s shirt. His breathing was ragged, uneven.

Jeff tightened his hold. “I’ve got you, Richie. You’re safe. No more needles. No more pain. No more shots. Just breathe, okay?”

For a moment, Richard stayed stiff in his arms. But then—gradually, hesitantly—he melted against him, forehead pressing into Jeff’s collarbone, his silent crying turning into muffled, broken sobs.

Richard’s entire body was tense—then, all at once, it wasn’t. He slumped against Jeff, his fingers curling into his shirt, his breath coming out in uneven gasps against his shoulder.

Jeff exhaled, resting his cheek against Richard’s temple. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I swear.”

Richard didn’t reply. He just held on tighter.

And Jeff just held him, heart heavy with guilt, with regret, but most of all—with the fierce, unshakable determination to make this right.

"Okay, Rich, bro, are you listening to me?" Jeff asked urgently.

"Yes... but..."

"But what?" Jeff pressed.

"You never call me 'bro,'" Richard replied, his voice quiet but firm. "That's reserved for Henry."

"Do you like it?" Jeff asked, a small, teasing glint in his eyes.

Richard shook his head. "No."

"Okay, Richard, listen to me very carefully," Jeff said, his voice steady but firm. "Do not, for one second, relive what happened last night. Don’t replay those scenes in your head—the shots, the pain. Alright? Don’t let yourself dwell on it, even for a moment."

Richard mumbled, "Hard to do that when I’m still hurting all over from those... shots," and he flinched again, his hands digging into Jeffrey’s back.

"Ah," Jeff groaned, though it was intentional, his voice strained with a touch of discomfort.

Richard pulled away from the hug, concern flashing across his face. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, Rich, I’m fine," Jeff reassured him.

"But you did feel the need to make me feel better, right? When you thought I was hurt," Jeff pressed gently.

"Yes," Richard replied quietly.

"That’s what we did. And you see, if those meds hadn’t kicked in soon enough, your hands..." Jeff trailed off, carefully holding Richard's injured hand. "They had a 70% chance of getting worse again. That’s why you had to go through that last night."

Richard’s eyes softened as Jeff continued, "And let me tell you, you did so well. I’m proud of you. So please, I beg you—don’t hurt yourself emotionally now by dreading what you’ve already faced. Got it?"

"I’m trying not to," Richard answered quietly, his voice thick with the weight of his emotions.

"I know," Jeff said softly, his grip on Richard's hand tightening slightly in a reassuring gesture. "I know you are."

Richard let out a shaky breath, his grip still tight on Jeff’s shirt. His body was trembling—not violently, but just enough for Jeff to feel the suppressed panic beneath his skin.

“I know,” Jeff said, keeping his voice steady. “I know it’s hard. But listen to me—don’t go back there. Don’t think about it. You’re here. Right now. With me.”

Richard swallowed, his breathing uneven. “I c-can’t stop seeing it. The pain. The needle. The way it—” He broke off, shuddering.

Jeff’s hands tightened around him, grounding. “No,” he said firmly. “You are not going to relive it. That’s not happening. Not again.”

Richard gave a short, humorless laugh, but it was broken—shattered. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one—”

“I know I wasn’t,” Jeff cut in, his voice urgent. “But right now, I need you to focus on something else. 'Anything else'.”

“Tell me something,” Jeff pushed, his tone commanding but not unkind. “Something that has nothing to do with last night. Anything, Richard.”

Richard blinked rapidly, clearly struggling.

Jeff’s voice softened, but his urgency remained. “What’s the first thing that comes to your mind? Just say it.”

Richard licked his lips. Swallowed. Then, in a barely-there whisper, he mumbled, “…Royal Milk Tea.”

Jeff stilled.
Then, after a moment, he let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Are you serious?”

Richard sniffled. “I don’t know. I just—I remembered it. I—I liked it, okay?” His voice wavered. “Before all this.”

Jeff adjusted his hold on him, his hand pressing against the back of Richard’s head in quiet reassurance. “Alright,” he said. “Then let’s talk about Royal Milk Tea. What did you like about it?”

Richard hesitated, still tense, still struggling. But—his breathing was slowing. Just a little. His grip loosening ever so slightly.

“Tell me,” Jeff urged again.

And finally—Richard did.
Richard's voice was soft, almost distant as he began. “I—I liked how it made me feel… calm, y'know? Like, after a long, stressful day, I'd sit down with a cup of it. The warmth, the smell... it always made everything feel a little better. Like everything else could wait.” He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling as his mind tried to focus on something other than the raw, unsettling memories that kept creeping back.

Jeff didn’t interrupt. He just kept his hand on Richard’s head, gently stroking his hair, encouraging him to keep talking.

“Yeah,” Richard continued, his voice gaining a slight steadiness. “It was like... it was just me, the tea, and nothing else. No pressure. No expectations.” His lips trembled as he spoke the last part, but he didn’t stop. “I liked how it made me feel like I could just be. Just be, without all the stuff I had to do or think about. For once, it was just... a little bit of peace.”

Jeff nodded, his thumb brushing the back of Richard’s neck, the touch grounding, soothing. "You deserve that peace, Rich. You deserve to have those moments. And right now, I need you to remember that you’re still here. We’re still here."

Richard didn’t say anything at first. He just closed his eyes, but the tears still clung to his lashes, the remnants of the raw vulnerability he’d shown earlier. Slowly, though, he nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if trying to accept the weight of Jeff’s words.

“I don’t know how to stop... how to stop feeling like I’m about to fall apart,” Richard whispered, barely audible, a deep ache in his voice.

As Jeff spoke, his voice steady yet full of concern, he kept his focus on Richard, willing every word to sink in. "The key to not feeling pessimistic or depressed, in my opinion, is not dwelling on what brings you down. Richie, I’m not comparing you to Henry, but for God’s sake, if he had stopped telling himself he was hopeless and worthless at the right time, maybe he wouldn’t have sunk deeper or drowned in that mindset. I swear. So please—please listen to me—you’re not critical, and you’re going to get better soon. No more shots. I’ll talk to Saul, alright?"

Richard hesitated for a moment, still processing, but finally, he nodded, letting out a shaky breath. "Okay," he agreed, slowly pulling away from the comfort of Jeff’s arms. "Okay."

"Now, do you need to use the washroom again?" Jeff asked, his voice soft but concerned.

Richard shook his head. "No."

Jeff paused for a moment, then gently suggested, "Hmm, but I think you should wash your face again. And then let me get eye drops for you. Your eyes are so red."

Richard hesitated but nodded. "Alright," he muttered, feeling a bit tired but willing to follow through.

With a quiet, caring gesture, Jeff helped Richard get to the washroom. He didn't rush, just steadying him when needed, making sure the process was as easy as possible. Once Richard had washed his face, Jeff guided him back to his own bed, making sure he was comfortable. As he settled him in, Jeff made a quick trip to get the eye drops, then returned to gently apply them to Richard's tired eyes.

When everything was done, Richard felt a little less tense, a little more human again, and he leaned back into the pillow with a soft sigh of relief. "Thanks, Jeff," he mumbled, though his voice was still a bit hoarse.

Jeff gave a reassuring smile. "Anytime, Richie." He stayed by Richard’s side for a moment longer, making sure everything was okay, before taking a step back and letting Richard rest.

Jeff noticed Richard’s restlessness, his breathing uneven as if he was still caught in the aftermath of everything. Seeing that sleep was eluding him, Jeff gently started humming the lullaby that Chieko used to sing to them when they were children.

The soft melody filled the room, a delicate blend of memories from a time long gone, yet somehow still comforting. His voice, low and soothing, carried the warmth of that old familiarity, as if reaching back to those simpler moments when they felt safe.

Richard’s eyelids fluttered, the sound wrapping around him like a soft blanket, comforting him despite the storm of emotions inside. It wasn’t long before he found his body starting to relax, the tension easing from his limbs as Jeff continued to sing.

Jeff didn’t stop, not even when Richard’s breathing began to slow, and his body finally succumbed to sleep. It was as if the lullaby itself had become a bridge, a way to reconnect them through their shared past, something they had both longed for without even realizing it.

When Jeff finally stopped singing, Richard was asleep, his face soft and calm in contrast to the chaos of earlier. Jeff sat there for a moment, watching him, making sure he was at peace. He was still by Richard's side, but now, it felt like everything might be okay for a little while.

♪ ♪♪♪♪ ♪♪♪♪ The song that Jeffrey sang~
[The theme song of The Case Files of Jeweler Richard anime by Nagi Yanagi. Here’s a translation of the lyrics in English:]
---
"The Night When Jewels Are Born"
(Housekies no Umareru Yoru)

The fleeting radiance of jewels,
Each carrying a story untold,
Gently reflecting in your eyes,
A secret waiting to unfold.

Even if time wears away our days,
And memories start to fade,
The brilliance of that single moment
Will never be erased.

If I could embrace your sorrow,
Would the pain turn into light?
Like a gemstone born from pressure,
Shining through the night.

As long as our hands are entwined,
No darkness can swallow the glow,
For deep within the silent night,
A precious bond will always grow.

__*★* another translation below *★*__

Verse 1
Drifting in time, a story untold,
Shining so bright, yet left in the cold.
Like jewels asleep beneath the deep,
Waiting for hands to bring them to light.

Pre-Chorus
Every whisper, every tear,
Softly calls, but who will hear?
Through the dark, the light remains,
Guiding hearts through loss and pain.

Chorus
When a jewel is born, it carries a dream,
A hidden glow in a world unseen.
Through the storm, through the rain,
It will shine once again,
Brighter than the past it leaves behind.

♪★♪♪★★♪♪♪♪ ♪♪♪♪★★♪♪♪♪ ♪♪♪★★♪ ♪♪

Chapter Text

8:40 AM.
Jeff had just finished singing the lullaby that Chieko used to sing to Richard to help him sleep—and sometimes to Jeffrey as well, on nights when his American mother was absent. Seated on a chair pulled close to Richard's bed, he watched as his brother’s breathing grew steady, his expression finally at peace.

Now that Richard was sleeping soundly, Jeffrey rose to his feet, quietly left the room, and gently closed the door behind him. He then made his way to his own guest room, exhaustion settling over him.

He sat on the lounger in his room and buried his head in his hands, finally allowing himself to feel everything he had pushed aside in front of Richard. Richard had been breaking apart before him, consumed by pain and the weight of their uneasy doctor-patient dynamic that had defined the night.

Now he understood why doctors and surgeons generally refrained from treating their own family members. But he wasn’t a doctor, nor a surgeon—just someone with medical training. And if it hadn’t been for the dire circumstances, he would never have taken on that role.

Seeing Richard suffer—seeing that extreme torment etched onto his face—broke Jeffrey’s heart over and over again.

Richard had admitted to being depressed after everything that had happened. He had confessed to being suicidal in the recent past. And despite all of it—despite everything—he had still said, 'I love you.'

Richie… you’re such a good person, Jeffrey thought bitterly. And me… I betrayed you, I hurt you, and now, when you were sick and vulnerable, I barged in and gave you necessary but painful injections.

Richard had even admitted, voice trembling, that the intramuscular butt shot had terrified him to death.

For all the things he had told Richard about not replaying and reliving those moments, Jeffrey himself, for the life of him, couldn’t erase that tormented, haunted look on Richard’s face from his mind's eye. His suffering was seared into Jeffrey’s mind.

Tonight, he had played Lucifer—the Devil himself.

For all the ways he had frightened delicate Richie to death, he might as well have been the harbinger of death too.

Oh God. Richie’s words haunted him, pierced his heart, carved wounds deep into his soul.

They echoed in his head, relentless, merciless.
"I love you, Jeff."
"I hate feeling like this."
"So weak. So, so helpless—"
"Will it ever stop... hurting?"
"I don’t know how to stop... how to stop feeling like I’m about to fall apart."
"I’m trying not to be afraid."
"Please stop, it hurts so much."
"I hate you."
Jeffrey couldn’t take it anymore.

“Aaaaargh!” He shrieked, the sound ripping from his throat like a wounded animal.

Letting it all out.

His vision blurred, his breath ragged. Droplets fell from his eyes, trailing hot down his face. His eyes—his eyes were wet.

"I did what needed to be done, even if it meant being the villain... being the tormentor."

Besides, if not me, Saul would have treated him anyway. The treatment regime was inevitable—the inflammation, the infection, the illness from an overdose. Tea. Of all things, tea'.

Jeffrey let out a hollow, bitter laugh. A broken sound, half-choked between disbelief and exhaustion.

"Hahaha... huhuhhh..."

The absurdity of it all crushed him.

Who would have thought—the investor, the business tycoon, Jeffrey Claremont would be reduced to playing nurse for the beautiful jeweler, Richard?

Yet, Richard was still unwell.

And while Saul had provided logical, reasonable explanations for the treatment plan, Jeffrey couldn't shake the feeling that a second opinion was necessary. After all, 'better' medical professionals existed—actual doctors, than a doctor-turned-gemologist -turned-medic, again.

Because this wasn’t just about following protocol. This was Richie’s well-being they were dealing with.

So he logged into his laptop and dialed Diana Claremont—an accomplished 31-year-old cardiologist.

Technically, she was their father’s distant cousin, making her their aunt by relation. But growing up, she had always felt more like an older cousin—someone familiar, yet authoritative, but friendly. Someone they—he could trust.

The first call went unanswered. She picked up on the second.

Professionally known as Dr. Diana, she was often likened to her namesake, the late Princess Diana—a resemblance that went beyond just the name. With her effortlessly styled deep brown curls, cut short in a manner reminiscent of the beloved princess, and her striking blue eyes, she was an enchanting presence.

Her alabaster-white skin and deep sky blue eyes bore the unmistakable mark of Claremont genes, while her dark hair and average height—5'7"—came from her half-Scottish, half-English mother. Though not particularly tall, she carried herself with a grace that made her seem effortlessly commanding.

While Jeffrey had grown up and gotten accustomed to calling her by her name or nickname, Richard still insisted on calling her ‘Aunt’—much to her annoyance.

When Diana picked up her phone and then reconnected to her laptop, she was standing near an armchair, a cappuccino in hand. She was dressed in a sleeveless V-neck crop top and high-waisted flared trousers, but it was clear her exercise routine had just been interrupted. Her hair, slightly damp, was swept back, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to her forehead.

Annoyed, she spoke before Jeff could get a word in. "You do realise I'm on my 'Asia Health Aid Tour' with the UNO
since September, right? So you better have a damn good reason for calling me at 9 AM here."

"Relax, Di, you're my favourite. No one else knows," Jeff said, attempting to lighten the mood.

But then, his tone turned serious. "Richie’s in a bad state. He’s sick."

Diana exhaled sharply, already dreading what she was about to hear. "Don't tell me you found him in some godforsaken place, half-dead."

"I found him sedated."

Her grip tightened around the cup. "Where is he?" she asked, concern overriding her earlier irritation.

"I'm with him, actually. In Kandy, Sri Lanka."

"Sri Lanka," Diana repeated, scoffing. "That country that’s sent us in the West more refugees than any other in the past decade."

"Yes, yes, Sri Lanka," Jeff agreed, unfazed.

Her tone shifted to concern. "What’s he down with?"

"Tea overdose," Jeff deadpanned.

A pause. "You’ve got to be kidding," she said, disbelief evident in her voice.

"No," he stated flatly.

Diana frowned. "What, was he dared or something? People do foolish things to prove how ‘daring’ they are. Or... did someone force him?"

"No, nothing like that, Di," Jeff clarified. "He was trying to perfect his favourite tea recipe and ended up consuming too much."

Diana sighed, almost tsking. "That foolish boy… Richard."

"Actually, I called you for your professional opinion," Jeff said calmly.

Diana’s expression sharpened. "What do you mean? Is he critical? Severe?" Concern laced her voice.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she ordered, "Tell me everything you know from the very beginning—leave nothing out. His symptoms, his treatment—every detail. I need the full picture before I can assess his situation properly. 'Leave nothing' out."

•The day before Yesterday, on 29th September :

••Richard overdosed on Royal Milk Tea. Insane amounts. It triggered metabolic imbalance, restlessness, arrhythmia.

••Then, herbal tea. A concoction of valerian root, passionflower, chamomile—calming, yes, but also lowered BP dangerously when stacked with the rest.

••Two injections: One to reduce fever (injectable paracetamol), another a sedative.

•••The same evening Nighttime Crash, :

••Richard collapsed. Hypotension from the sedative, erratic heartbeat.

•Three rounds of IV:

••Saline infusion for BP.

••Digestive aid and muscle relaxant for gut cramping.

••Antiarrhythmic to get his heart rate steady.

••Antibiotic to counter any infection risk.

••Then Atropine sulfate when he woke up. Worked—but burned his damn arm up. Richard nearly lost it.

• In the morning :
••Oral meds: Paracetamol, ibuprofen, another pain reliever.

••Yesterday on 30th Sept :

•Abscess drainage. Without anesthesia, he insisted, a hell of a lot of pain. Then deep sedation, further drainage with anaesthesia. Then, antibiotics & anti-inflammatory.

•Last night or early morning October 1:
••Intramuscular injections—four rounds. Painkillers, steroids, antibiotics.

•••And now this.

Jeff took a breath, chest tight.

Diana listened intently, not interrupting as Jeff laid out Richard’s entire medical ordeal. When he finally finished, chest tight, she exhaled audibly.

"And now what? What's he like right now?" she asked.

Jeff ran a hand through his hair. "He’s fragile, Di. After the butt shot, he was completely shaken. And there’s still another ketorolac shot left—either in his wrist or another IM injection. I presume Saul has more lined up for him too. I just—" he hesitated, frustration creeping in. "I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. I’m at my wit’s end. He was so disturbed… hurting."

Jeff exhaled sharply before continuing. "Physically, he’s getting better, but slowly. I do think he needs more meds, but his digestive system is still in chaos—we can’t give him orals. And Saul, bloody Saul, has left me in charge. I bet he’s not wasting his gemstone business time anymore now that I’m here to deal with this." His voice carried an edge of resentment.

He paused before admitting, "I wanted to airlift him, get him out of here, but now I think it’ll only unsettle him more. So what should I do, Di?"

Diana sighed, rubbing her temple. "Alright, Jeff, first things first—you're not wrong to be concerned. Richard’s body has been through hell, and from what you’ve told me, he’s still in a delicate state, physically and emotionally. The last thing he needs is unnecessary distress. But from a medical standpoint, Saul’s approach isn’t entirely off-base. Injections are the safest bet for now since his gut isn’t ready for orals. However, the frequency needs to be reassessed. His system is already overloaded."

She took a sip of her cappuccino, then continued. "As for the airlift—you made the right call not pushing it. Moving him prematurely could set him back. What he needs right now is stability, not another round of physical and emotional upheaval. But Jeff, you’re not a doctor. You’ve done your best, but you shouldn’t be the one carrying all this on your shoulders."

Jeff exhaled, relieved that she understood his dilemma.

Then Diana said, "Listen, I’m in Mumbai right now. I was supposed to pack up for the Philippines, but—change of plans. I’ll be heading to Colombo instead. I can’t leave immediately, but expect me sometime this evening."

Jeff sat up straighter. "You’re coming here?"

"Of course, I am," she said matter-of-factly. "You need a proper doctor on the ground, and Richard needs someone who knows what they’re doing. So hang in there, keep him stable, and I’ll see you in a few hours."

Jeff worried, "He's sleeping right now—after I sang him a bloody lullaby. What do I do if he wakes up in pain again, Di? I bet the swelling won’t go down anytime soon, and now his thighs will be red and sore too…"

Diana sighed, setting her coffee down. "Jeff, first of all—breathe. You’re doing everything you can."

She leaned back against the armchair, thinking for a moment. "Alright, if he wakes up in pain again, you need to assess how bad it is. If it’s just discomfort, try repositioning him, using warm compresses, and massaging around—but not on—the injection sites to help with absorption. If it’s serious, then you’ll have to go ahead with the ketorolac shot. I know he’s shaken up after that last one, but pain management is non-negotiable."

She paused, then added, "The swelling isn’t going down overnight, Jeff. The best you can do is keep him comfortable, hydrated, and calm. As for the soreness in his thighs? Yeah, it’s going to hurt like hell. Alternate warm and cool compresses, and if he’s okay with it, help him stretch his legs a little so they don’t stiffen up."

Diana’s voice softened. "And Jeff… singing him a bloody lullaby? You’re doing more for him than you realize. Just keep being there. I’ll take over once I land."

"Thanks, Di..Wait, you want me to give him another IM shot? He’d bloody cry himself into a nervous breakdown—I can’t do that!" Jeff said, shaking his head.

Diana exhaled sharply. "Jeff, I get it. You don’t want to put him through more pain. But if his pain gets unbearable, what choice do you have? Oral meds are still not an option, and IV pain relief isn’t set up anymore. The intramuscular shot is the most effective option you have right now."

She softened her tone. "That said, I’m not saying jab him the second he stirs. If he can tolerate the pain, don’t push it. Try comfort measures first—distraction, massage, changing positions. But if he’s in agony, you need to act, even if he hates it. If you hesitate and let the pain spiral, it’ll only make things worse for him emotionally."

There was a pause before she continued. "Look, you’re his safe person right now, Jeff. If you explain things gently, if you stay calm, he’ll hold on. And if it comes down to it, I’ll be there by this evening. I’m in Mumbai now—I was supposed to head to the Philippines next, but screw that, I’m changing course for Colombo. I’ll be there as soon as I can."

"I'll try to make it there in the afternoon, alright? It's 9:35 right now—same time there, right?" Diana tried to assure him.

"Yeah, my laptop shows the same IST for Sri Lanka," Jeff confirmed.

"Good. Expect me around 4 PM," she said firmly. "Just hold things together till then, Jeff. You're doing well, even if it doesn't feel like it."

"I'll believe it because it's you who's saying so. Besides, Richie would be far more amenable to listening and following your orders—a proper doctor. No, better than that, a damn good cardiac surgeon."

Diana exhaled, her voice softer now. "I strive to be," she accepted.

"Thank you, Di. Truly, you're a lifesaver."

She scoffed lightly. "I'd say 'no trouble' if my idiot cousin hadn't made me change my plans. But don't worry about it. I've been doing this philanthropic work with WHO and UNICEF in partnership with local governments for five years now. I'm sure they'll at least pretend to be sympathetic to my ‘family emergency.’"

Then, her tone warmed. "That said, I'm really happy you've reconnected with Richard. We'll make sure he's back on his feet soon—to shoulder his responsibilities, and maybe even to stop making reckless decisions with tea."

"About that," Jeff muttered.

"What? Something else you need to spill?" Diana prompted, sensing there was more.

Jeff sighed. "Saul made me realize that forcing Richard into marriage just to solve the inheritance mess is a terrible idea."

Diana didn’t even hesitate. "Ruining someone’s relationship for your own ulterior motives—however noble—is never a good idea, Jeffrey."

She paused before adding, "That said, maybe, once Richard is properly on board with us in the near future, we can tackle this so-called inheritance curse together. He’s such a knowledgeable man... when he’s not preoccupied with things of little importance."

Jeff smirked. "Such as?"

Diana scoffed. "Such as perfecting his own goddamn tea—which, by the way, he could just hire someone to do with that family fortune he’s so undutifully abandoned to rot in the safes."

That made both of them laugh, sharing a moment of lighthearted relief.

Then, Diana glanced at the clock. "I know you’re doing your best. Just hold on for a few more hours. See you soon."

"Yeah. Thanks again, Di. Love you. Bye for now."

After hanging up, Jeffrey stared at his laptop screen, then let out a deep sigh of relief. Calling Diana had been the right decision. Now, he wasn’t second-guessing himself. Richard was physically ill—seriously sick—like this, as far as Jeff knew, for the first time in his life. So, of course, he’d find the agony of injections unbearable.

Unlike Henry, who had gradually come to accept them as inevitable—resigned, but at least complacent—Richard was still fighting it, resisting every step. Henry at least found comfort in the aftercare Jeff gave him. Richard, on the other hand, just saw Jeff as the harbinger of pain while nursing him.

Jeffrey only hoped he wouldn’t have to give Richard the Ketorolac shot after all.

And then, there was Saul. He was still the supervising doctor until Diana arrived, which meant Jeff had to debrief him, too.

He had asked Raman, the house help, to keep an eye on Richard. Hell, he’d even offered the man a generous tip, which Raman had outright refused. "Bade Sahab—Master Saul—has done so much for me and my family," Raman had said. "He looked after my daughters when they were in need, helped my mother when she broke her leg, and even gave me this job, running errands for his main bungalow. Keeping an eye on Master Richard is the least I can do."

Jeff had just nodded, feeling a quiet sense of reassurance. At least someone in this house wasn’t doing it for money, guilt, or obligation.

Not that he fell into either category—he wasn’t doing this out of guilt or obligation. He loved Richard. That was all. He was doing this out of familial love.

Now that the urgent matters were handled, exhaustion hit him like a wave. Spent, drained, he made his way to the kitchen. He checked the bottle of juice in the fridge, found it fresh, and drank straight from it. Just as he was about to finally get some rest—

Saul appeared in the living room. The kitchen was along the same path, so their encounter was inevitable.

Saul raised an eyebrow, silently inviting him in. It was time for the report.

"Just to be sure, do you need the medication regimen reports or the full report from last night—me with Richie?"

Saul exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “Both,” he said. “If I’m still the supervising doctor here, I need the full picture. No missing details.”

Jeffrey sighed, rubbing his temple. “Right. Let’s get this over with.” He pulled out a chair and sat across from Saul, ready to debrief him on everything—Richard’s reactions, his emotional state, the medications, and the lingering dilemma of the ketorolac shot.

Jeffrey leaned back in his chair. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Richie took the first one okay, but the second broke him. By the time we got to the last one, he was downright trembling, crying, begging. He tried to hold it together, but you could see it—he was scared out of his mind. When I say he was disturbed, Saul, I mean it."

He ran a hand through his hair, "And then there’s the other part—the non-medical part. He’s shaken, emotionally fragile. He told me he hates feeling this weak, this helpless. That he doesn't know how to stop feeling like he's about to fall apart. And I—" Jeff's voice caught for a split second, but he forced himself to keep going. "I sang him a bloody lullaby, Saul. A lullaby, like we were kids again. That’s how bad it got."

He looked up at Saul, eyes sharp. "So tell me, are we really gonna go ahead with another shot? You’re the doctor. You tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do."

Saul exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. He wasn’t stupid—he could tell Jeff was testing him, pushing to see if he’d waver after running to Dr.Diana first. Not that he blamed him. After last night, after everything Richard had gone through, Jeff wanted certainty. Wanted to hear the same answer twice before committing to another round of hell.

Saul leaned against the counter. “You already know the answer, Jeff.” His voice was steady, unreadable. “You just heard it from Dr.Diana. The treatment plan stays. You don’t like it, I don’t like it, but Richard’s not stable enough for oral meds, and we can’t risk letting the inflammation get worse. Ketorolac is the best option we have for pain management right now. You want to sit around and hope he toughs it out? That’s your call.”

Jeff let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Just like it was my call last night to let him suffer through every damn injection, to watch him cry, to—” He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face.

"Why can't you give it?" Jeff asked, crossing his arms. "And hey, how did you even know about Diana? Were you eavesdropping or something?"

Saul chuckled. "Oh, Raman overheard you. He got a little suspicious about the way you were talking about me—thought you weren’t exactly confident in my expertise." He shrugged. "Not that I blame you. You had every right to doubt. Maybe if I hadn’t given him that homemade sedative syrup, he wouldn’t have collapsed like that. But I had no idea he had hypotension."

Jeff exhaled, rubbing his face.

Saul smirked. "And as for why I won’t give him the shot? Well, 'you' volunteered so 'wholeheartedly' last night, didn’t you?"

Jeff groaned. "Right. Fine. Just tell Raman to wake me up if Richie stirs before I do."

Saul gave a mock salute. “Will do, Doctor.”

Jeff shot him a glare, but Saul only grinned. Then Jeff asked. "Did you expect him to get this bad over a 'damn' butt shot?"

That villainous smirk returned. "Of course I did. He was being so dramatic over two IV shots, like a baby. And you know how kids are when they get injections in the butt—They make a huge ruckus, turning the whole room upside down. So, yeah, I figured a butt shot would send him into orbit. Kids do the same."

After a moment, Jeff’s expression grew serious. “Did you actually expect Richard to break down like that? I mean… you knew he’d struggle, but did you think it’d be that bad?”

Saul’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful.He hesitated, then admitted, “I didn’t expect him to be that affected. Not just upset—shaken, haunted.” His voice dropped slightly. “That part wasn’t good, Jeff. Feeling like pain has no end… that’s a dangerous place to be.”

Jeff swallowed. He already knew that, but hearing Saul say it only made it feel heavier.

Saul clapped him on the shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You did the right thing, skipping the wrist shot last night. His mental state needed more care than his body at that moment.”

Jeff stayed silent, absorbing Saul’s words. For all his teasing, the man had a damn good read on people. Richard had chosen a solid mentor.

Saul continued, more casually now. "Oh, and I do know about Dr. Diana Claremont. I’ve heard of her. Renowned cardiologist, highly commended for her humanitarian work with the UN. Quite the impressive woman."

Jeff let out a dry laugh. "Yeah, well, she’s also the only person Richard actually listens to with minimum arguing and complaint."

Saul grinned. “Then I suppose we’re in luck.”

With that Jeff thought the conversation was over, but Saul continued his tone even but firm. "I’ve got important meetings for my gemstone business today, so you’re in charge. Give him the ketorolac when you think it’s best. I’ll be in my room handling online meetings—only call me if it’s truly urgent."

Jeff nodded, taking in Saul’s words. The man was as pragmatic as ever—focused, reliable, and not one to let personal matters interfere with his work.

Later, it hit him—he'd forgotten to tell Saul that Diana was coming today. Oh well, it’d be a pleasant surprise. Saul probably assumed they’d just consult her over the phone.

9:36 AM. God, I really need to sleep. It had been a hell of a long day. Or night Or day, again? His sense of time was completely shot. Now that the adrenaline of dealing with Richard, with everything had settled, exhaustion crashed over him. He needed sleep.

And so, he did.
💤💤💤

Richard woke up feeling heavy, groggy, and sore all over. As he shifted his legs, thighs, and hands, a sharp pain shot through him. He examined his hand. They were still red and swollen. Richard winced as he shifted his legs, the pain from his thighs and the lingering soreness throughout his body making everything feel heavy. He groaned softly, trying to adjust to the discomfort.

Then he pushed aside the carnation-colored blanket to check his thighs—still clad in shorts.

Damn. They looked bad almost like a wasp sting or bee sting, but worse.
“Oh my God,” he muttered, his fingers hovering near the sore spots but not daring to touch. The deep ache pulsed through his legs, making even the slightest movement unbearable. He’d seen injuries like this before, back in boarding school, on classmates who had received painful injections—well that's what happened to me too, didn't it.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to sit up. The pain was intense. He had never been in such rough physical shape before—not even when it came to needles. Sure, he’d had vaccinations, but they were quick jabs, taken alongside Jeffrey or his schoolmates. He had always put on a brave face, brushing off the pain. There hadn’t been time to dwell on it, not with assignments and maintaining his public image.

Once or twice, he had cried—but that only made the girls fawn over him more, saying how sweet and cute he was, which was absolutely unbearable. He had spent three years in an all-boys school, from Standard 6 to 8, before transferring to a co-ed institution.

Why am I even thinking about this right now?

He took stock of his body. He felt grimy. I need a bath. But in this damn house, the bathroom was never conveniently placed near the bedrooms.

He wanted to curse the architect—again.

Bracing himself, he reached for the bed’s headrest to push himself up.

Big mistake.

Searing pain shot through his body, overwhelming him. Before he could stop himself, tears spilled down his cheeks. Damn it. He hated feeling this weak, this helpless.

Instinctively, he yanked the blanket over his head, hiding his face in frustration and embarrassment.

And that was exactly how Jeffrey found him when he walked into the room at 2:43 p.m., after being alerted that Richard was awake.

Jeffrey entered the room, knocking lightly before pushing the door open.

"Richard—" he started, then paused, taking in the sight before him.

A tightly wrapped cocoon of blankets sat in the middle of the bed.

Jeff couldn’t help but smile despite himself. Hiding? That’s new. Richard had always been a blanket baby, but this… this was different, almost funny if not for the situation they were stuck in.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Richie, hey… you slept well?"

Gently, he reached out and touched the top of the cocoon—right where Richard’s head should be.

On closer inspection, Jeffrey heard it—soft sniffling, barely there but unmistakable.

He’s crying. Oh God, not again.

His heart clenched. "Hey, Richie…" he murmured, keeping his tone light but firm.

"You shouldn’t cover your face like this, you might suffocate."

He reached out, hands gentle but persistent, coaxing Richard to loosen his grip on the blanket. "Come on now… let’s see what we’ve got here."

“Richie,” he called, keeping his voice gentle. No response.

Jeff sat down at the edge of the bed, placing a careful hand on what he assumed was Richard’s shoulder. “I know you're awake.”

Another muffled sniff came from under the blanket. Jeff exhaled. “You feeling any better?”

Silence.

Jeff tilted his head, listening closely. He could hear the uneven breaths, the swallowed-down hitching of someone trying and failing to keep it together. His grip firmed slightly in reassurance. “Rich, come on. Talk to me.”

Nothing.

Jeffrey leaned back slightly, thinking. “Alright. If you want to stay under there, fine. But at least tell me—do you need anything? Water? A painkiller? A way to the shower?”

That did it. The blanket shifted slightly, a quiet, hoarse voice emerging. “…Shower.”

Jeff smirked. “Figured.”

Now, how to get him there without making it worse?

Jeff weighed the options. Richard was in no state to walk on his own, but forcing him would just make things worse. And yet, there was no way in hell Jeff was letting him struggle there alone.

"Alright, here’s the deal," Jeff said. "I’ll help you up, but you’ve got to work with me, okay?"

The blanket shifted again, and then, finally, Richard peeked out, his eyes red-rimmed and reluctant. "I hate this."

"I know, man," Jeff said, his voice softer now. "But you’ll feel better after a shower. Just let me help."

Richard swallowed hard, then gave the tiniest nod.

Jeff moved to his side, slipping an arm around his back. "Slowly," he warned as he helped Richard sit up. Immediately, Richard winced, his whole body stiff and aching. His breath unsteady when he tried to swing his legs off the bed.

"Shit," he muttered, gripping Jeff’s arm tighter than he probably intended.

"Yeah, I figured that’d suck," Jeff said, adjusting his grip. "You sure about this?"

Richard clenched his jaw. "Yes."

Jeff let him try. Let him push through, one foot on the floor, then another. He let him take two agonizing steps, gripping onto Jeff for dear life, breath unsteady and shuddering, before Jeff sighed.

“Alright, that’s enough of that.” Before Richard could argue, Jeff shifted, ducked, and in one smooth motion, lifted him up.

“Jeff—” Richard’s hands clenched in his shirt, half-protest, half-instinct.

“Yeah, yeah, bite me. Just shut up and let me do this.” Jeff carried him with steady steps, Richard’s weight barely a burden compared to the exhaustion on his face. By the time they reached the bathroom, Richard had gone quiet again, jaw tight as if he hated every second of this, but too drained to fight it.

Jeff set him down gently on the stool near the sink. "Alright. Take a second. Catch your breath. And use the toilet if you need to, 'cause I am not carrying your sorry ass out of here twice."

Richard huffed a weak laugh, half-exhausted, half-miserable. Jeff counted that as a win.

Turning, he ran the bath, checking the temperature, letting the steam start to fill the space. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure Richard wasn’t about to keel over.

"I’ll be right outside," Jeff said, leaning against the doorframe. "Yell if you need me."

Richard didn’t answer immediately, just staring at the water like it was some impossible task. But then he nodded, just once.

Jeff took that as a sign to go. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he stepped out, rolling his shoulders. His muscles protested from the long night, but hell, Richard had it worse. And that was enough motivation to keep him going.

After the shower and a trip to the toilet, Jeff carried towel wrapped Richie back to his room. He waited outside while Richard got dressed in a long-sleeved, fleur-de-lis-colored shirt adorned with small black tulips and a pair of soft, light blue trousers. Taking his time, Richard combed his hair just the way he liked it.

Despite the lingering pain, he managed three slow, aching steps to the newly beige-draped armchair and sank into it with a sigh.

Jeff’s voice came from outside. “You dressed?”

“Yes. Come in.”

Jeff watched him carefully. “How’s the pain now?”

Richard didn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on his nails. “Still everywhere,” he mumbled.

“Alright, let’s be honest about it. Here’s the pain scale—1 to 3 is just discomfort, 4 to 6 is aching but tolerable, and 7 to 10 is full-on throbbing pain. Now, Richie, where does your hand fall?”

“…Eight,” Richard admitted quietly.

“And your thighs?”

“Seven and a half.”

“The rest?”

“Six.”

Jeff exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, that’s not gonna cut it. We can’t just leave it like this.” He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Are you up for the ketorolac?”

Richard tensed instantly. “No.”

Jeff studied him, then nodded. “Okay.” He didn’t push. “But you need to eat something. Eggs and toast again, with a glucose drink this time. Just bear with it today. If all goes well, you’ll have something better later.”

"I need pain relief," Richard admitted, his voice tight, like he was barely holding back tears.

Jeff looked at him, waiting.

"But no shots," Richard added quickly, his grip tightening on the armrest. "I mean it."

Jeff sighed, but his tone stayed even. "Alright. No shots. And that means pills or syrup which you cannot handle."

"You 'know' your stomach, liver, and the rest of your digestive system are still messed up," Jeff reminded him gently but firmly. "We can't risk something worse, like a stomach ulcer or liver damage, if the pills or syrup end up irritating your insides. So no oral meds. I'm sorry, Richie."

Richard clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into the fabric of the chair. He knew Jeff was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. His whole body 'hurt', and the idea of just enduring it felt unbearable.

Jeff wasn’t happy seeing Richie suffer, and he hadn’t forgotten what Diana had suggested—cold and warm compresses. So he’d asked Raman to fetch them, and soon enough, Raman popped in, handing them over.

"Here, apply these," Jeff said, setting them beside Richard. "Sorry, but you'll need to change into shorts again."

Richard sighed but didn’t argue. He was already pressing the warm compress against his swollen arm when Jeff asked, "How would you like your eggs today?"

"French toast. Poor Knights," Richard mumbled, adjusting the compress.

"Right, then. I’ll let the cook know."

Richard hesitated before asking, "Are you leaving?" His voice had that slight, reluctant pleading to it.

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Of course not, you idiot. I need to shower too and change out of this sleepwear."

Just then, a head popped into the room, cheerful and speaking in rapid Japanese.

“Hello, Richard-san, you look less pale today,” Maya Hamada greeted, stepping in with a bag slung over her shoulder. She reached inside and pulled out handfuls of rubies—deep crimson, fiery red, some dark as wine, others glowing like embers.

Richard, the gemology apprentice, was mesmerized.

Jeff smirked, seeing the way Richard’s eyes locked onto the stones. "Well then, Maya, keep him company. I’ll see you after a while."

And with that, Jeff stepped out, leaving Richard momentarily distracted by the shimmering rubies in Maya’s hands.

Later, after showering and changing into a crisp butterscotch cream-colored shirt and dark blue trousers, Jeffrey had a light lunch—tomato and Schezwan pasta. Feeling refreshed, he headed back to check on Richie.

Richard sat with a book on rubies resting on his lap, but his face was tense, his brows slightly furrowed—clearly struggling with the lingering aches and pain. His fingers absently traced a picture of a deep crimson gem, but his focus wasn’t on the page.

Jeffrey sighed, stepping closer. “How’s it going?”

Richard blinked up at him, then exhaled. “Could be better.”

Jeff frowned, noticing the subtle stiffness in the way Richard held himself. “Compresses helping at all?”

“A little,” Richard admitted, shifting slightly. “But it still sucks.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” Jeff said, sitting down across from him. “You need anything? More compresses? A distraction?”

Richard hesitated, then, with a small voice, said, “Just… stay.”

Jeff nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I can do that.”
------
Despite the pain, Richard noticed something different about Jeffrey today. There was an ease in his posture, a quiet confidence in the way he moved. He looked… relaxed. Richard couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

He considered asking but decided against it. For all intents and purposes, he already felt like a clingy child, relying on Jeff for everything. Not that he could help it. If Jeff hadn’t been here, he would have clung to Saul or Maya just the same.

So he kept quiet. Maybe Jeff was just happy to be needed. Maybe he liked knowing Richard had already forgiven and accepted him—without either of them having to say it outright. Or maybe, being the steady pillar of support was just something Jeffrey naturally thrived on. Either way, he looked comfortable in the role, and Richard wasn’t about to question it.

Jeff could feel Richie’s gaze on him, quiet but persistent. Even as he worked—reading, reviewing documents, going over things that still needed his attention despite being on leave—he could sense it.

Maybe Richie was just taking him in, reacquainting himself after so long. Noticing the small changes, the subtle shifts in his demeanor. Or maybe, after everything, he was just grounding himself in the simple fact that Jeff was here. Present. Reliable.

Jeff didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t call him out on it. He just let him look.

Richie broke the quiet, meeting Jeff's gaze. "I don't know how you've stayed so calm... with everything that's been happening. You've been a rock, Jeff."

Jeff gave a small smile."I'm just glad I could help, Richie. You don't need to thank me for that."

Richard wasn't sure how to respond. So he said nothing.

Jeff stayed with him, quietly watching as time passed. Half an hour later, he glanced up from his laptop to see Richard staring at his notebook, silent tears slipping down his face.

“Hey,” Jeff prompted gently.

Richard sniffed, his voice unsteady. “My body hurts… it hurts. Those damn injections—my thighs are throbbing, aching.”

Jeff exhaled, closing his laptop. “I know,” he said simply. “So, do you want the ketorolac? It’s a quick pain reliever and anti-inflammatory. It’ll help the swelling go down and ease the pain.”

Richard didn’t respond right away.

Jeff continued, “It can be given IM or IV—whichever works best.”

Richard frowned. “Which means?”

“On your back—your butt—”

“No! Not there!” Richard refused immediately, panic flashing across his face.

Jeff conceded. “Alright, wrist shot it is. The cephalic vein is the safest and quickest spot.”
He asked, keeping his tone even, measured. “Do you want me to bring it here, or shall I take you to the med room?”

Richard didn’t answer right away. He hesitated. “You’re bringing it here?” The thought unsettled him. His pulse was loud in his ears, his body aching, mind sluggish. The last thing he wanted was to move, but the idea of waiting in bed, anticipating the shot coming to him, didn’t sit well either. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want to walk?”

“…Med room,” he mumbled eventually. His voice was small, reluctant, but it was a decision.

Jeff nodded, relieved. “Alright.”

Richard swallowed hard, then squared his shoulders. “I’ll walk. Like a proud warrior.”

Jeff chuckled. “Well then, my wounded warrior, lean on me, I know you want to.”

Richard braced himself as Jeff helped him up, every movement reminding him just how sore he was. He hissed softly, but he let himself be led. At least this time, it wouldn’t be his thighs or back.
He didn’t know yet how much a wrist injection would hurt, but huh, he’d find out soon enough.

"Let's go into battle.” Jeff declared.

"Battle, huh..?"

Jeff smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Better than calling it what it actually is.”

Slowly, with Richard leaning heavily against him, they made their way back to the med bay.

Chapter Text

Jeff had just deposited Richie on the bed. Richie sat on the edge of the clinic bed, moving his aching thighs—legs dangling below—trying to quench the fear bubbling inside him, trying very hard not to look at Jeff prepping a damn injection again.

But he questioned, "Why the wrist?"

And Jeff, still prepping, calmly answered, "The cephalic vein or median antebrachial vein on the wrist is often used for quick injections when avoiding long-term IV placement."

"Why don’t you just sedate me again?" Richard croaked, staring at the syringe in Jeff’s hand.

Jeff let out a sharp breath, looking tired. “Because it's a big no-no.”

Richard just blinked. Waiting.

Jeff rolled his shoulders back, reluctantly explaining, “Look, when a patient has already been sedated once, doing it again soon can seriously mess with their system. You woke up from sedation, just some twelve hours ago. Your body is still processing everything—the overdose, the metabolic imbalance, the stress. Knocking you out again would risk respiratory depression, prolonged unconsciousness, and an even slower recovery.”

He paused, meeting Richard’s wary gaze. “It’s not just about knocking you out—it’s about whether your body can handle waking up after.”

Richard swallowed. He didn’t like the answer, but it made sense.

Jeff shifted, rubbing a hand down his face before adding, “We had two options—either leave an IV in you for hours, risking infection and inflammation, or… this. Shorter, direct injections to minimize risks but still get the drugs into your system." He sighed. "Yeah, normally, people don’t get this many shots in one night. Like you did. But you weren’t normal. Your body needed these meds then, and they do now; and leaving an IV inside you for too long after what happened? That would be a whole other disaster. And I've already explained why no oral meds.”

Richard exhaled through his nose. He kept quiet. His hands were trembling. Whether from exhaustion, lingering pain, or pure fucking dread, he didn’t want to know.

He sat with his pulse a slow, pounding thing in his ears. His left wrist lay bare on the pillow beside him. Vulnerable. Jeff gripped his hand—firm, steady. Too steady.

Jeff lifted his wrist, fingers pressing just over his veins, measuring, calculating. Jeff rubbed the alcohol dipped cotton and sprayed the useless spray.

Richard’s breath caught. A sharp, primal fear spiked in his chest. He should have been used to this by now. He was not.

“Jeff, wait—”

The sting was instant, sharper than the others—because fuck, it was his wrist, the skin too thin, the veins too exposed –he should have thought about this. He jolted, muscles tensing, instinct screaming at him to yank his arm away.

Jeff didn’t let go. His grip tightened, trapping him still.

“Jesus fucking Christ—” Richard gasped, his other hand grabbing uselessly at the sheets, knuckles white. The needle slid in, deep, precise. His vision blurred.

Jeff was saying something. He couldn’t hear him.

His pulse hammered, blood surging to his ears, drowning out every sound. His lungs forgot how to work. It was like his body was constricting inward, crushing him from the inside out.

A broken, wrecked sound tore from his throat.

And Jeff was still talking. His voice was there, somewhere, in the haze of pain and panic and breathlessness.

"—Richard, focus. It’s almost done. Breathe, idiot—"

A sharp squeeze to his hand. The first thing that grounded him.

Richard’s ribs ached from how hard he had been holding his breath. He forced himself to let it out in a shaking exhale, but his whole fucking arm was burning. And his breathing was getting labored again.

His fingers twitched, spasming involuntarily.

Jeff noticed. His grip loosened.

Richard whimpered. A tiny, broken noise that he immediately hated himself for.

And Jeff—Jeff just let out this low breath, rubbing his thumb along the inside of Richard’s wrist, just above the needle. Soothing. Reassuring.

It was almost worse than the pain.

The needle slid in, a fraction further, sharp and merciless, and Richard barely had time to react before the pain started spreading like wildfire.

The thin skin of his wrist was too raw, too exposed. He felt it all—the pinch, the pressure, the deep, invasive ache that coiled up his arm like it was trying to burrow into his bones.

"Jesus fu—" Richard’s voice broke off.

His vision tilted. Something in his chest locked up, seizing, suffocating.

His heart skipped. Then stumbled.

Too fast. Too hard.

Jeff’s voice barely cut through the sudden ringing in his ears—"Breathe through it, Richard. Focus."

But he couldn’t. The pain was too much, his ribs clamped down like a vice, and suddenly, he was drowning on dry land.

He tried—God, he tried—to pull in air, but his chest wouldn’t move. His throat wouldn’t work. The pressure was building, pressing, closing in until—

His head tipped forward.

His body slumped. And he was out.

"—Richard?"

Jeff’s breath stalled.

Richard’s entire weight dropped against him, his forehead hitting Jeff’s shoulder with a thud.

Deadweight.

Unresponsive.

"Shit."

Jeff’s fingers tightened around Richard’s wrist, searching, panicked. The pulse was still there—rapid and fluttering, but there.

He gripped Richard’s face next, tilting it up, slapping his cheek lightly.

"Richie, Richard, hey, hey—wake the fuck up."

Nothing.

Jeff cursed, hard. His hands moved instinctively, shifting Richard’s body, trying to pull him into a better position, but he wasn’t exactly light.

His breath raced. The needle was out, but his skin was still clammy, his face too pale under the dim light. His ribs were barely moving, his breaths too shallow.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The sheer wrongness of it gripped Jeff’s throat like a fist.
---
Saul and Di had said the shots wouldn’t be too much. That Richard’s system could handle it.

"Then why the fuck is he limp in Jeff’s arms right now?"

Jeff’s heart hammered against his ribs, his fingers pressing at Richard’s throat, counting beats. Too fast. Too light.

"Damn it, Richard—" His voice cracked.

He shifted, pulling Richard closer, gripping the back of his neck, his fingers sinking into his hair. He’d *never felt him like this before—not trembling, not tense, not smiling, not scowling. Just... slack. Fragile. Limp. Gone.

Jeff hated it.

"You 'are not dying on me', you hear me?" His voice a low, feral thing. "You are not—".

A sharp inhale—Richard’s chest jerked.

Jeff stilled.

Then—another breath. Deeper this time.

Jeff exhaled all at once, like he’d been holding it in for years.

"Fucking finally," he muttered, voice shaking.

Thank God, the next moment, Richard stirred, a slow, painful drag back to consciousness. His lashes fluttered, his forehead still pressed against Jeff’s shoulder.

A quiet whimper.

Jeff heard it too well.

"If you pass out on me one more time, I swear to fucking God—"

Richard groaned, too weak to move.

"I—" his voice scraped out, ruined.

Jeff didn’t let go.

"You had one job, Richard. One job. And that was to stay the fuck awake."

Richard shuddered. He’s still caught in the haze of pain, exhaustion, a full-body ache that won’t let go.

"Couldn’t—help it," he mumbled, barely there.

"Yeah, no shit," Jeff snapped, but it doesn’t have any bite. His fingers were still gripping Richard’s neck, holding him steady.

Keeping him here.

He didn't’t say it. But he didn't have to.

Richard, somehow, understood anyway.
He understood Jeff's anger—after everything Jeff had done to care for him through the night, he had still passed out on him. But it wasn’t like he wanted to. He hadn't meant to. His body had simply given out, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The Battle for Richard’s Consciousness

"I’m… having trouble… breathing," Richard choked out, voice weak, barely more than a rasp.

Jeff didn’t hesitate. His hands move fast, snatching the oxygen mask, fixing it over Richard’s nose and mouth. The elastic snapped into place, sealing in the flow of air.

Not enough.

Jeff swore. "Stay the fuck awake. You are not closing your eyes, you hear me?" His voice, sharp, commanding—but beneath it, there’s a strain, a fracture of something deeper. "Jesus fucking Christ—what would I even say to Catherine? To your father? That you died in my hands?"

His throat tightened. His fingers—steady, but desperate—reach for the cardiac monitor.

His hands were already at Richard’s damn shirt—unbuttoning the half-sleeved thing he was wearing. One button, two—fucking hell, too slow.

"Screw this."

Jeff grabbed the scissors, slicing clean through the fabric, and tore it away. Exposed skin—pale, clammy, warm.

He didn’t stop. Electrodes—fastened. Wires—secured. The monitor beeped, flickering to life.

Irregular rhythm. Unstable vitals.

Not enough.

Then—damn it.

Richard’s eyes started slipping shut again.

Jeff’s hand clamped down, hard, on the puncture wound at Richard’s wrist.

A sharp gasp.

Richard’s body jerked. His other hand flew up, feebly trying to fend Jeff off.

"Nghh—!"

Jeff didn’t let go.

He gripped Richard’s forearm, steady, firm. "Come on. You’re here. Stay here." A demand. A plea.

Richard’s breath sputtered. His fingers twitched—then, slowly, curl around Jeff’s.

And—*finally, finally—*he looked at him.

Not past him. Not through him. At him.

Their gazes lock. Hold.

Jeff watched the numbers on the monitor, his breath still caught in his throat. Miraculously, Richard’s vitals were stabilizing. The erratic spikes smoothed out, settling into something more even. Not perfect, but not catastrophic either.

"Fucking hell," Jeff breathed. His grip on Richard’s forearm loosened just a fraction.

Then—Richard tried to speak again.

Jeff immediately shook his head. He wasn’t taking that damn oxygen mask off. Not after what had just happened.

But Richard looked at him—and there was something in his dark, fevered gaze that made Jeff hesitate. Not panic, not desperation. Something quieter. More resolute.

Fine.

Jeff shifted the mask, just enough to uncover Richard’s mouth, but still held it steady over his nose.

"I don’t feel alright…" Richard muttered, his voice raw. His breath shuddered over Jeff’s fingers.

"No shit," Jeff muttered back.

Richard’s eyelids fluttered. He swallowed, his throat working.

"This is worse than the last time."

Jeff’s jaw tightened. Of course, Richard would compare. His cousin had been through plenty. Too much. But this—this was new.

"You’ll live," Jeff said, half a reassurance, half a damn order.

Richard made a low, weary sound.

Now, Jeff needed enforcement. He was not a bloody doctor, and this was serious. He had no idea if Saul was even home. So he grabbed his phone, out if his trousers already fast dialing Dr. Diana Claremont. At the same time, he fired a text for good measure.

••"Urgent. Richard’s unstable. Need you on the line NOW."

The call connected almost instantly.

Diana's concerned voice echoed, sharp with focus."What's wrong? Speak, fast."

Jeff moved fast. He propped up the phone up against a stack of books on the bedside table, putting the call on video. The grainy feed flickered to life.

Diana informed him, "I've already landed in Sri Lanka and navigating the roads of Kandy." She then asked her driver and told Jeff, "I'd be there in half an hour."

Jeff gestured at Richie, half conscious, mask pressed to his face deathly pale.

"He crashed. Chest constriction, near syncope. Oxygen sat dropped. Almost lost consciousness."

"Vitals now?"

Jeff rattled off the numbers from the monitor. "They aren’t great. Not horrible either."

"Did he seize?" She asked.

"No. Just labored breathing and hypotension."

"Okay. First, you need a STAT EKG," Diana ordered. "You need to see if the arrhythmia is persisting."

"Jeffrey, listen, he needs fluids again. Carefully titrated. If his BP is dropping, start a slow IV infusion of normal saline."

"And get an ampule of hydrocortisone," Diana adds. "The dexamethasone may have worn off. You need to push it IV, not IM this time."

Jeff cursed under his breath, scrambling to grab supplies. But he needed another set of hands.

"Raman call Saul!" he yelled as he saw him lingering near the door.

The old man bursted in within seconds, one look at Richard’s state, and he's fully alert.

"What the hell happened?"

"No time—He crashed and Dr. Diana Claremont is on call. We need to set up an IV line, now."

Saul didn’t argue. He moved, fast and steady. They worked together, following the surgeon's instructions:

Jeff prepped Richard’s left arm, finding a suitable vein.

Saul inserted the IV catheter, smooth and practiced. He secured it.

Jeff hooked up the saline, starting a slow drip to stabilize BP.

Saul drew up hydrocortisone and pushed it into the IV port.

Jeff set up the EKG machine, fixing the leads to Richard’s bare chest.

The monitor beeped. The rhythm was irregular, but not immediately fatal.

"What next?" Jeff demanded.

"Monitor him. If his BP holds, let the fluids run. If the EKG worsens, you might need IV magnesium sulfate," Diana instructed.

"And keep oxygen on," She reminded.

Richard stirred, eyes fluttering open, dazed but aware.

"You’re going to be fine," Jeff said.

And for once, Richard didn’t argue.

Jeff had never been more grateful for his half-assed pharmacist degree.

Yeah, he wasn’t a damn doctor. Never studied diseases, never diagnosed anyone. But chemistry, biology, pharmacology—practical shit? That, he knew. Basic nursing? He was certified for giving Henry his shots, for prepping IVs, for calculating safe dosages. Never in his wildest fucking nightmares did he think he’d use that knowledge to stop Richard from completely crashing.

And yet, here he was.

Richard was barely holding on, breath shaky under the oxygen mask. Jeff’s hands weren’t shaking, but his chest was tight, and he didn’t trust this moment of calm.

"BP?" Diana asked.

Jeff glanced at the monitor—91/58. Shit. "Still too low."

"Titrate the saline up by another 20 mL per hour," She instructed. "If it dips below 90, we’ll have to consider vasopressors."

"Not yet," Jeff muttered, adjusting the IV rate. He wasn't about to start Richard on dopamine or norepinephrine unless it was absolutely necessary. That was hospital-grade intervention. "Give the saline and steroids time to work."

Saul hovered close, eyes narrowed. "He's stabilizing. But if his heart rate keeps dipping—"

"I know."

They both watched the monitor like a goddamn time bomb ticking down.

Then Richard stirred. A slight turn of his head, a sluggish blink, but it was enough to have Jeff snapping his fingers in front of his face.

"Richie, talk to me."

Nothing at first. Then Richard made a low, miserable sound and weakly pushed at the oxygen mask.

"No," Jeff snapped, pressing it back down.

Richard made a frustrated noise, his hand clumsily tugging at Jeff’s wrist. His eyes—barely open but sharp with meaning.

He wanted to say something.

Jeff exhaled hard through his nose and, reluctantly, shifted the mask slightly—just enough to uncover his mouth but not his nose.

Richard licked his lips, voice rough and wrecked.

"I don’t feel alright…"

No shit. Jeff resisted the urge to snort. "Yeah, no kidding, Ricky. You’re an absolute fucking mess."

Richard blinked up at him. Something tired, something almost defeated in his gaze. Then—soft, barely audible:

"But I’m alive, aren’t I?"

Jeff swallowed hard.

He shifted the mask back into place and muttered, "Yeah, you are. Don’t make me regret it."

Then, without another word, he turned back to the monitor—because God help him, he couldn’t look at Richard’s eyes any longer.

"Fucking hell," Jeff whispered under his breath. If he’d just fucking airlifted Richard from the start, none of this would be happening.

"Jeff—right thigh," Diana cut in, her voice sharp. "Another catheter for blood pressure support. We can’t keep overloading his veins."

"Got it."

"What is it now?" Richard whimpered, voice raw, guttural, and wrecked through the oxygen mask.

"Just another line, Richie," Jeff muttered.

Richard flinched violently. His body was so damn sensitive. The saline, the steroids, the atropine—everything was catching up to him. Nerves frayed raw, skin hypersensitive, body just barely holding itself together.

"And we need a urinary catheter," Diana added. "His bladder function might be compromised. He’s been retaining fluids too long."

Jeff froze. Fuck.

Richard had been spiraling in and out of consciousness, but he was very much awake now. He tensed like a live wire. His fingers weakly curled around Jeff’s wrist, pleading, trembling.

"N-No," Richard choked out, voice breaking.

Jeff exhaled sharply, fingers pressing against his temple. "Richie—"

"No, no, no, please," Richard hiccupped, body shuddering.

Saul, fully attentive and at the bedside, took one look at Richard and sighed. "I’ll do it."

Jeff didn’t argue. He just gritted his teeth and held Richard still.

The anesthetic wasn’t working.
Or—it was, but only barely.

Jeff could see it in Richard’s eyes—the panic, the sheer humiliation of it all. His body tried to curl in on itself, but he was too weak, too exhausted. His thighs trembled under Saul’s hands.

Saul let out a quiet sigh as he reached for a fresh pair of sterile gloves, snapping them on with precision. The room was thick with tension—Richard was pale, sweat clinging to his temples, his body still trembling from exhaustion, pain, and the sheer emotional turmoil of the last few hours.

“This is necessary,” Saul said firmly but not unkindly. His voice was steady, professional. “Your body is dehydrated, your system is shutting down fluids instead of processing them properly. We need to catheterize you to monitor urine output and prevent further complications.”

Richard swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He wasn’t fighting it—he was too exhausted for that—but he was bracing himself. His fingers curled into the sheets as he lay there, rigid, every muscle drawn tight as if he could will himself out of this moment.

Jeff was by his side, one hand on Richard’s shoulder. “I know,” he murmured, voice softer now, lacking its usual sharpness. “Just get through this. Don’t think about it. It’ll be over soon.”

Saul pulled the blanket down, then carefully maneuvered Richard’s loose-fitting shorts and underwear down his thighs. The cold air hit his bare skin, and Richard clenched his jaw, eyes squeezing shut. His fingers twitched in a desperate, useless attempt to hold onto some shred of control, but there was none to be had.

Saul worked swiftly, methodically. He cleansed the area with antiseptic, the coolness only adding to the discomfort. Richard made a sharp, broken sound in the back of his throat but bit it down, his breathing turning shallow.

“Deep breaths, Richard,” Saul instructed, picking up the sterile catheter with practiced hands. “I need you to relax as much as you can.”

Relax? Easy to say when it wasn’t his body being handled, when it wasn’t his last scrap of dignity being stripped away. A violent shudder ran through him as Saul positioned the catheter at the urethral opening. Richard knew what was coming, and knowing only made it worse.

Then—pressure. A foreign, invasive sensation that sent every nerve in his body into revolt.and then—

Agony.

Richard screamed.

A broken, desperate sob tore from his throat, loud, ugly, unrestrained. His back arched, his hands jerked violently against Jeff’s hold. It hurt. It hurt so fucking much.

"I know, I know," Jeff gritted out, gripping Richard’s wrist, trying to steady him. "Just hold on, it’s almost over."

"I c-can’t—Jeff—"

"Yes, you can."

Richard’s chest convulsing. His eyes—wet, glassy, lost— locked onto Jeff’s.

Jeff swallowed hard. His throat felt tight.

"It’s okay," he murmured, low, steady. "I got you, Richie. I got you."

His legs trembled, his hips instinctively trying to jerk away, but Jeff was already there, holding him steady with a firm but gentle grip.

“Easy. You’re okay,” Jeff said quickly, gripping Richard’s forearm as the younger man let out a strained whimper, his body betraying him in every way possible.

Saul didn’t pause—he couldn’t. Hesitation would only make it worse. The catheter slid in, inch by excruciating inch. Richard’s back arched, another strangled cry ripping out of his throat as pure, undiluted agony bloomed deep inside him. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, his entire body trembling violently.

“It’s almost done,” Saul said, his voice calm but firm, reassuring in a way that barely reached Richard through the haze of burning, tearing discomfort.

Jeff’s grip on Richard’s forearm tightened. “I know, I know. Just hold on.” His voice was raw, strained, and Richard could feel his cousin’s fingers digging into his skin, grounding him.

Richard’s hands fisted into the sheets as tears welled in his eyes, slipping down his flushed cheeks unchecked, unacknowledged. He wasn’t sobbing—he refused to—but he couldn’t stop his body from betraying him in every possible way. His pride, his strength, his control—all of it was being stripped away, leaving him raw, exposed.

Then—finally, finally—Saul finished securing the catheter, and the worst of the pain ebbed into a dull, lingering ache. Richard lay there, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his body trembling with the aftershocks of pain and humiliation.

Jeff exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face, before glancing at Saul. “He okay?” His voice was low, tight, carrying something dangerously close to anger—not at Richard, but at the whole damn situation.

Saul nodded, peeling off his gloves. “It’s done. He’ll be uncomfortable, but he’s stable.”

Jeff turned back to Richard, whose breath was still uneven, his body still coiled tight like a wounded animal. Jeff reached out, wiping the damp hair off his cousin’s forehead. “It’s over.”

Richard blinked slowly, his gaze glassy, unfocused. Then, in a voice so raw it barely counted as sound, he rasped, “I hate this.”

Jeff huffed out a breath, something bitter and pained in his expression. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”

Got it! Here’s the continuation from the catheter scene with the same high-stakes tension, Jeff’s desperation, and Richard’s exhaustion.
---
Jeff exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair, sweat sticking at his nape.

“Catheter’s in. Now what?”

He kept his voice steady, but inside, he was barely holding it together.

Diana spoke, “Check urine output immediately. We need to know if his kidneys are still functioning normally after all this stress.”

Jeff nodded and glanced down. Saul had already secured the collection bag, but—fuck. Barely anything was coming out.

“Dribbling,” Jeff muttered. “It’s slow.”

Her jaw tightened. “That’s bad. He’s dehydrated as hell. If we don’t correct this, he’s at risk of acute kidney injury.”

“Fuck. What do I do?”

Diana leaned forward. “Increase his fluid intake—but gradually. 500 ml saline over the next hour. If his urine flow doesn’t improve, we’ll consider a diuretic, but we can’t push his heart too hard yet.”

Jeff moved immediately, adjusting the IV rate. “And pain? He’s—he’s barely handling it.”

They could all see it—Richard, trembling, face pinched with silent agony.

“We’re already pushing the limit of safe analgesia,” She warned. “But if he can’t take it, we can try a low-dose lidocaine infusion.”

Jeff didn’t hesitate. “Do it.”

Saul prepped it while Jeff kept Richard grounded, one hand firm on his arm.

Richard tried to Speak.
A slow, sluggish turn of the head.

Jeff immediately noticed. Richard wanted to say something.

His lips moved under the oxygen mask, but it was muffled.

Jeff hesitated, then carefully shifted the mask just enough to uncover his mouth. Still holding it over his nose.

Richard’s voice was a whisper.
“…pain...all over.”

Jeff’s heart clenched. He already knew that. He could see it.
“I know,” Jeff murmured. “But you’re here. You’re still here, Richie.”

He swallowed, then—“…fuck Saul.”

Jeff snorted, tension cracking for half a second. “Yeah, yeah, fuck Saul, we got it.”

Saul scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re welcome, kid.”

But the relief was short-lived.

Diana’s voice was sharp. “Jeff, focus. Check for abnormal fluid retention. Any swelling in his legs or arms?”

Jeff’s eyes flickered down—and his stomach dropped.

A New Problem.
“Shit.”

His fingers pressed against Richard’s right ankle—the skin was taut, pitting under pressure.

Saul & Di caught on immediately. “Fluid buildup. We need to get ahead of this—he’s tipping into overload.”

“But you said he was dehydrated—” Jeff started, frustration rising.

“His kidneys aren’t filtering properly,” Diana cut in. “It’s pooling in his extremities instead of cycling out.”

“So what do we do?”

She instructed, “Start furosemide—IV, 10 mg. It’ll force his kidneys to flush.But monitor his BP. If it drops too much, we’re in deep shit.”

Jeff grabbed the vial and syringe. No hesitation.

Saul secured the line, Jeff injected the med—and then they waited.

Waiting. Watching. Hoping.

Richard was barely responsive now.
His breathing was shallow but steady. Jeff’s hand never left his arm.

Minutes passed.

Then—finally.

The urine bag started filling.

Jeff exhaled. Diana nodded. A win. A small one, but a win.

But Jeff knew—this wasn’t over.

Not until Richard woke up properly. Not until he was out of the woods.
And Jeff wasn’t moving until then.

A rasping voice cut through the room.

“…You’re…so…loud…”

Jeff whipped around.

Richard’s eyes were half-open.

Jeff swore. Then, before he could stop himself, he grabbed Richard’s wrist and squeezed. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Richard’s lips curled weakly.

Jeff shook his head, exhaling hard.

Then—Richard’s expression twisted. A faint wince.

The pain was still there.

Di on video, immediately spoke.

“Jeff, check his BP. We need to be sure he’s not dropping again.”

Jeff grabbed the cuff, wrapped it around Richard’s arm, and pumped.

118/72.

He let out a breath.

Diana nodded. “Better. Not perfect, but better.”

Saul, still standing nearby, folded his arms. “He’s stabilizing.”

Jeff ran a hand over his face.
Thank God.

5 min Later

Jeff had been staring at the monitor for what felt like an eternity. Richard had been stable—until he wasn’t.

The alarms blared suddenly, making Jeff’s stomach drop.

Heart rate: 46 bpm.
Blood pressure: dropping.
Breathing: shallow.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

Jeff practically leapt forward, adjusting the oxygen mask.

“Richard, hey, HEY! Open your goddamn eyes!”

Richard’s lashes fluttered, but he was slipping again, body going limp.

Saul was already at his side, pressing fingers to Richard’s pulse. His lips thinned. “Bradycardia again.”

Jeff didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the syringe, pulling out the atropine as Matthew had instructed. 0.5 mg.

“Hold him steady.”

Saul braced Richard as Jeff injected straight into the IV line.

Seconds stretched. Jeff could feel his own pulse hammering as he watched the monitor.

48 bpm… 50… 52…

Richard’s chest rose sharply as his breathing deepened, his fingers twitching. His face was still ashen,
but— He was there.
He was coming back.

Jeff sagged back in his chair, raking a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Fucking hell.”

Saul exhaled. “That was close.”

Jeff just shook his head, still trying to steady his own hands. “Too fucking close.”
____
Ten minutes later, Jeff sat in the chair beside Richie, slowly drinking from a water bottle, his gaze distant. Saul remained standing, arms crossed, quietly observing the room. The atmosphere was heavy, the weight of the past hour still lingering.

Then Diana’s voice cut through the quiet, clear and composed. “Hey, I’m just outside your house.”

The wheels of the car screeched as it halted in front of the estate's gate.

Raman, who had just brought them water, barely hesitated before hurrying off to let her in.

Jeff exhaled, tapping his fingers against the bottle before finally ending the video call.

A moment later, Diana stepped in.

She carried herself with effortless confidence, dressed in a crisp, white flared pantsuit that accentuated her tall frame. The coat rested elegantly over her shoulders, left open to reveal a sleek black sweetheart-neck crop top, subtly showcasing her gym-toned waist. She held a neatly folded handkerchief in one hand, fingers curled lightly around the fabric.

From the looks of it, her luggage had already been taken to a guest room—efficient, just like everything about her.

Oh well, Jeff thought he was going to greet her. He really did. As he saw her approaching—her low-heeled stilettos clicking against the tiled floor, her composed presence unmistakable—he expected to stand, say something, maybe even manage a half-decent smile.

But the moment she stepped closer, walking toward Richard—toward Saul’s clinic, or the med bay as he had started calling it—a sudden wave of nausea hit him like a punch to the gut.

Richard. The way he’d found him—pale, trembling, barely conscious, suffering since the moment Jeff had arrived—was too much. His stomach twisted violently, his body rebelling against everything it had held in.

Instead of greeting dear Di, he barely made it to the bathroom beside the med room in time. His knees hit the cold floor as he retched, emptying his stomach of the pasta he had eaten just a few hours ago. The acidic burn, the sheer force of it—it was disgusting. He wouldn’t be touching pasta again anytime soon.

Somewhere beyond the bathroom door, he vaguely registered Diana’s voice. Concerned, steady.

“Jeffrey, are you okay?”

He coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, just—ugh!” Another wave hit, and he gagged again, cursing under his breath.

“Jeff, breathe easy,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “I’m here now.”

He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut before managing, “Yeah. Don’t worry about me. Go see Rich.”

And with that, he slumped against the wall, exhausted, waiting for the nausea to pass.
----
In the med bay, Saul greeted Diana with a gloveless hand—an unusual gesture for him in this room, but fitting for the moment.

She accepted the handshake firmly. “Diana, please,” she said with a nod.

“Saul,” he replied simply.

Saul didn’t waste time. “He just had another bradycardic episode—atropine brought him back.

Diana’s expression hardened. “Then let’s not waste another second.”

They moved fast.

The moment Diana stepped in, her gaze assessed everything in a single sweep.

Richard was awake—but barely. His eyes found her, and despite everything, his lips parted weakly. Richard stirred on the bed, still conscious, though his eyes were heavy and his breathing ragged through the mask. He shifted slightly, eyes scanning the room until they landed on her silhouette.

“Aunt Di… is that you?” he mumbled, voice muffled and thin but full of wonder.

Without a second’s hesitation, Diana crossed the space between them, bent down, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Yes, darling,” she said, her voice warm and soft, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I’m here.”
----
Jeffrey cleaned himself up quickly, though he still felt a bit queasy. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to miss Diana’s first prognosis upon seeing Richard’s state in person. So, he washed his face, threw on his fresh shirt and clad in his trousers, joined them.

Diana immediately took charge. She simply nodded and began demanding what was necessary from him.

She snapped on gloves, already pulling out a stethoscope. “Vitals, Jeff.”

Jeff rattled them off as she listened to Richard’s chest. “Heart rate’s stabilizing at 52 bpm now. BP still low, 85/50. Oxygen saturation holding at 92%.”

Diana’s frown deepened as she pressed her fingers against Richard’s swollen abdomen, then over his ribs.

“He’s still developing complications,” she muttered. “Jeff, we need to monitor for potential pericarditis. Saul, how’s urine output?”

Saul grimaced. “Not much. Might be heading toward acute kidney distress.”

Diana’s jaw clenched. “We’ll need to adjust fluids—too much and we risk overload, too little and his kidneys suffer.” She turned to Jeff. “What’s his latest fluid intake?”

Jeff flipped through the notes. “IV’s running at 80mL/hr, but his urine output’s barely 20mL in the last two hours.”

Diana muttered a curse under her breath.

“Okay. Reduce IV rate to 60mL/hr. Start furosemide—5mg IV push. We need to get his kidneys working again before they shut down completely.”

Jeff nodded, already reaching for the diuretic.

Richard, who had been listening weakly, let out a breath. “You sound bossy.”

Diana barely glanced at him. “And you sound like a dying man. Keep quiet.”

Jeff smirked despite himself. “Told you she’s terrifying.”

Diana ignored him. “Saul, what about his pain management?”

Saul hesitated.“We gave him Ketorolac, Paracetamol and Ibuprofen, and non- opioids earlier, but he’s still—”

Richard let out a sharp breath as Diana pressed on his abdomen again. His fingers curled into the sheets, his face twisting.

Pain. Still too much pain.

Diana’s expression darkened. “Alright. We need a stronger analgesic.”

Jeff blinked. “You mean—”

“Morphine. 2mg IV push. Now.”

Jeff hesitated for only a fraction of a second before nodding. No more half-measures.

He prepped the syringe, found the IV line, and pushed the medication in.

Seconds later, Richard’s tensed muscles slackened, his breathing slowing as the pain dulled, just enough.

For the first time in hours, he looked like he wasn’t drowning in agony.

Diana finally pulled off her gloves, exhaling. “That should hold him for now.”

Jeff met her gaze. “What’s the next step?”

Diana’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Now, we keep him stable and wait for his body to start recovering. If it doesn’t—” she exhaled, “then we move to the worst-case scenario.”

Jeff’s stomach tightened. “Which is?”

Diana met his eyes. “Emergency surgery.”

Silence.

Jeff swallowed. “Yeah. Let’s not get there.”

Diana nodded. “Agreed.”

They turned back to Richard—his face finally peaceful, his breathing steady, his pulse stronger than before.
---
Richard lay on the bed, sweat beading his forehead. His limbs twitched restlessly, body arching slightly every now and then. The monitors beeped erratically—no longer rhythmic. His heart rate was spiking, crashing, spiking again.

Then came the trembling. His arms jerked, his legs kicked the sheet off, and his chest rose and fell in uneven bursts.

"He's going into arrhythmia," Saul said sharply, already moving toward the emergency trolley.

"Give him morphine—now," Diana ordered, her voice cool but urgent. "He's in agony, Saul. Give him Amiodarone for arrhythmia."

“IV beta blockers. . Maybe more lidocaine if it worsens. But I’m going for amiodarone first,” Saul muttered, drawing up the drug with steady hands.

Richard thrashed again, a choked noise escaping his throat. His fingers clawed weakly at the blanket. Tears began to slide from the corners of his eyes.

Diana was beside him in a heartbeat. She climbed onto the edge of the bed, carefully but firmly pinning down one of his arms with hers and pressing her free hand to his chest.

“Shhh, sweetheart, I know, I know,” she murmured in a low, musical voice. “You’re safe. I’m here. You’re safe, Richie.”

He whimpered, his head tossing weakly side to side.

“It hurts,” he whispered, barely audible through the mask with clenched teeth.

“I know it does,” she whispered back, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “Help’s already in your veins.”

Saul administered everything with practiced ease– muscle memory, even though he didn't do these things regularly nowadays.The morphine first, then the antiarrhythmic. Slowly, Richard’s spasms began to soften—though he continued to cry silently, his breath catching like a child’s.

Diana didn’t flinch. She simply stayed where she was, holding him, her cheek pressed lightly to his temple.
“Breathe, love. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Richard wasn’t calming. Though the violent spasms had slowed, his body remained tense, his breath coming in rapid, shallow bursts. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, darted around as though trapped in some waking nightmare.

Jeff reentered, looking pale but steady now. “Richie, please—try to calm down,” he pleaded, his voice tight with worry.

“He needs a sedative,” Diana said, already pulling on gloves. She moved quickly, drawing up Valium and pushing it into the IV line.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Richard jerked violently, thrashing harder than before, his limbs striking out in uncontrolled panic.

“Hold him,” Diana commanded.

Saul was already securing one side, his grip firm but careful. Jeff moved on instinct, grabbing Richard’s arm, feeling his muscles twitching under his grip.

Thirty more seconds of struggle. Then, finally, Richard’s body sagged. His eyes fluttered closed. His chest rose and fell in deep, drugged breaths.

Diana exhaled, glancing at the monitors. The erratic beeping had slowed. Morphine dulled the pain. Valium forced his body to rest.

“Finally,” she murmured. Then she reached out, brushing damp strands of hair from Richard’s forehead. “Sleep, love. Just sleep.”
🤒🤕😷
Jeff let out a deep breath, the tension in his chest finally easing. Richard was stable. Just sleeping it off.

For hours, Jeff had been worrying—had the wrist shot been too much? Had it been the catalyst that pushed him over the edge? But both Diana and Saul had reassured him: if Richard had been on the verge of crashing, it would’ve happened sooner or later. The shot only sped up what was inevitable. If he had given it IM instead, the reaction would’ve just been delayed, not prevented.

And as for Richie suffering? Well, he shouldn’t have drowned himself in that much tea to begin with.

If they were talking hypotheticals, what if Saul had just let him "tough it out" with no intervention? Eventually, Richard’s body would’ve reached its limit. And then? Jeff shuddered at the thought. The worst-case scenario—his heart giving out—was simply unacceptable. Unimaginable.

So they did what they had to do. To keep him alive.

Even when Diana made the tough call to give him lorazepam—just enough to calm him down—it had been necessary. He had been spiraling, his anxiety dangerously high. The drug had knocked him out, sure, but only after a terrifying moment where he’d crashed hard before settling into much-needed rest.

Now, though, he was completely out of the woods. For now.

Fuck. Di should not have said "for now" at the end. The thought that his Richie still could get worse...

Di shouldn’t have mentioned that.

Jeff ran to the bathroom again, this time mostly dry heaving, clutching his abdomen. "Oh god, it really hurts," he muttered to himself—not physically, but the wrenching was disgusting.

He let out a humorless laugh. Maybe he’d caught Richard’s tea bug by osmosis. But no, he knew the truth. He was heaving from stress.

"Urgh... not again."

But it happened again. And again.

Someone—yeah, Di—knocked on the door.

"Jeff, are you alright?"

"Di, it's not locked ugh!... Oof! "

She took it as *permission & entered.

Di rushed in the moment Jeff managed to choke out the words.

She took one look at him—slumped against the sink, panting, eyes blown wide with panic, a streak of red staining his chin—and swore under her breath.

"Fuck."

Jeff's chest heaved. His fingers were trembling where they gripped the porcelain. His mind was racing too fast, trying to make sense of what just happened.

"Di," his voice came out hoarse, shaky. "What the fuck—"

"Shut up," she snapped, already kneeling beside him, eyes sharp, assessing. "How long? Have you thrown up blood before?"

"No," he rasped, shaking his head. "No, I—just now—"

"Shit." Her hands were already on him, one pressing against his clammy forehead, the other gripping his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

She rattled off possibilities, half to herself, half to him. Why the hell would a man vomit blood from stress?

"Acute gastritis, maybe. Your stomach lining could be inflamed from too much acid buildup—high stress, no food, and I bet you’ve been running on nothing but caffeine."

Jeff groaned, tilting his head back against the mirror. That... tracked.

"Or," she continued, voice tight, "esophageal tears from dry heaving too much, too hard."

Jeff swallowed, wincing. His throat did burn like hell.

"Could also be a stress-induced ulcer," she added, eyes scanning him for more signs. "Did you feel pain before this? Any sharp burning in your stomach or chest?"

Jeff hesitated, then gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Yeah. But I thought—" He cut himself off, exhaling shakily. "Fuck."

Di’s expression darkened. "That’s not nothing, Jeff."

He groaned again, dragging a hand over his face, feeling the smear of blood he hadn’t wiped away. His stomach twisted at the sight of it on his fingers.

"Okay," Di said, shifting into doctor mode. "We need to get you off your feet. Can you stand, or am I calling for help?"

"No, I can." He stood up.

But said then, "Please Di get out, I need to use the toilet and bath before anything else."

Di gave him a long, assessing look, clearly debating whether to argue. But Jeff was already pulling himself together, straightening despite the lingering shake in his limbs.

"Fine," she said at last, stepping back. "But if you start coughing up more blood, you're the one explaining it to Saul."

Jeff let out a breathy, humorless laugh. "Noted."

She turned to leave, only for Jeff to groan, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Jesus," he muttered. "I'm never playing doctor again."

Di smirked but didn’t comment.

"And—" he added, voice rough, "ask Raman to get me some fresh clothes."

Di shot him a look over her shoulder. "Don’t bleed on those too."

Then she was gone, leaving Jeff to sigh and brace himself against the sink. He needed a minute. Maybe several.

Then he’d deal with whatever fresh hell came next.

"Fuck uhh!",he coughed up blood.

Di turned back instantly, her sharp eyes locking onto him as he swayed slightly in the doorway.

"Jeff—" She was at his side in a second, steadying him with a firm grip on his arm. "Sit down. Now."

He barely resisted as she guided him to the nearest chair. His breath was uneven, his throat raw. When he wiped his mouth, the smear of red on his wrist made his stomach churn.

"What’s wrong with me, Di?" His voice was hoarse, bitter. "It’s just stress, right? Just— fuck." He clenched his jaw, forcing down another cough.

Di didn’t answer immediately. She was watching him too closely, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Vomiting blood isn’t just stress, Jeff," she said at last, low and serious. "It could be a stress ulcer, esophageal tear—" She stopped, shook her head. "We need Saul to check you out. Now."

Jeff gave a short, breathy laugh that turned into another painful cough. "Great. First Richard, now me. We should start a fucking patient rotation."

Di didn’t laugh. Instead, she squeezed his shoulder, grounding. "Come on," she said. "No arguments. We’re getting you looked at."

Jeff exhaled, exhausted. "Fine," he muttered. "But if Saul gives me a lecture, you’re the one dealing with him."
🤢🤮😷🤕
Saul worked fast, his hands steady as he checked Jeff’s vitals, pressed against his abdomen, and studied the numbers on the portable monitor. The EKG readout showed a slightly elevated heart rate, but nothing alarming. His oxygen levels were stable. No fever.

"How bad is the pain?" Saul asked, shining a light into Jeff’s eyes before checking his throat.

Jeff exhaled through his nose. "Not excruciating, just… like a raw, burning feeling in my throat and gut."

Saul nodded. "You’ve got hematemesis—vomiting blood. Given the stress you’ve been under, my first guess is a stress-induced gastric erosion or a minor esophageal tear. Nothing catastrophic, but it needs to be addressed."

Jeff closed his eyes briefly. "Just stress, then?"

"More like stress triggering something physical," Saul corrected. "Your stomach acid’s been eating at your gut lining, and with the way you’ve been running yourself ragged, it probably worsened."

Di frowned, arms crossed. "So? What’s the fix?"

Saul sighed. "Nothing drastic. I’ll give you a proton pump inhibitor injection—probably pantoprazole or esomeprazole—to stop further acid production. You’ll also need a dose of an antiemetic like ondansetron to keep your stomach from convulsing again. Plus, a mucosal protectant to help your esophagus and stomach lining heal. But the real fix? You need rest, Jeff."

Jeff groaned, slumping back against the sofa. "Great. More needles. Just what I needed."

Saul rolled his eyes. "Would you rather puke blood again?"

"Fine," Jeff muttered. "Stick me."

Di smirked. "See? That wasn’t so hard."

Jeff let out a breath, shaking his head. “Great. Now I’m sick too. Just what we needed.”

Saul hummed in agreement as he prepped a syringe. “I’ll draw some blood to confirm, just in case.”

Jeff winced slightly as the needle slid into his arm, but he didn’t protest. No point and he wasn't afraid of needles or burning pain inside him like Richard. Of course it'd hurt, but if your body needed it to go on, what's the point of protesting?

Meanwhile, Saul loaded up the antiemetic—ondansetron. He found a vein in Jeff’s other arm and pushed the injection in slowly. The relief wasn’t instant, but after a few moments, the nausea that had been clawing at Jeff’s gut started to ease.

“Better?” Saul asked, watching him closely.

Jeff exhaled. “Tolerable.”

“Good. Now for the pantoprazole,” Saul muttered, uncapping another syringe. He injected it into Jeff’s upper arm intramuscularly, the sharp sting making Jeff grunt. The burning in his gut didn’t vanish, but the discomfort started to dull, the acid production slowing.

As soon as Saul was done, Jeff slumped back against the sofa, breathing hard. His limbs felt heavy, exhaustion weighing him down.

Di watched him, arms still crossed. “Next time, maybe don’t try to out-stress Richard?”

Jeff huffed a tired laugh. “Yeah, well… guess we’re matching now.”

Saul prepped the next injection—a mucosal protectant to coat and shield Jeff’s raw stomach lining. He found the vein in Jeff’s arm again, pushing the medication in with slow, practiced precision.

The burn hit almost immediately.

Jeff sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers curling into the sofa cushion. “Ah—fuck—” The pain was sharper than he expected, a searing heat spreading through his vein. Despite himself, a low, guttural sound escaped his throat. His jaw clenched, but he couldn’t stop a tear or two from slipping down the corners of his eyes.

Di was there in an instant, hand firm on his shoulder. “I know, I know,” she murmured, voice steady, reassuring. “Just breathe through it. It’ll pass.”

Jeff let out a shuddering exhale, eyes fluttering shut as he rode it out.

Saul withdrew the syringe once the dose was in, rubbing at the injection site with his thumb. “That should help. Just give it a minute.”

Jeff swallowed hard, his breath still uneven. “Yeah. Sure. A minute.”

Di didn’t let go of his shoulder. She just stayed there, grounding him, until the worst of it faded.

Jeff let out a bitter, bemused laugh, shaking his head. “Well, now I can tell Richie I completely sympathize with him—physically, too.”

Di shot him a sharp look. “Don’t make such brash, rude jokes.” Her tone was firm, but there was an undercurrent of concern beneath it.

Jeff just huffed, tilting his head back against the sofa. “Not a joke,” he muttered. “Just… reality hitting a little too close.”

Chapter Text

Jeff wiped a shaky hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. "Please ask Raman to bring my laptop," he said, voice hoarse. "I need to talk to Henry… It's been about fifty hours since I last did."

Diana hesitated for a moment but nodded, stepping away to make the request.

Minutes later, Jeff had the laptop open, headset on. He was about to call Henry but he saw he had left a video message for him. The moment the video connected—the moment he saw Henry’s face and heard his voice—his breath laboured.

Jeff barely had time to brace himself before pressing play. The moment Henry’s voice crackled through his headset, the world around him faded into the background.

"It’ll be too long for you to help me by the time you get this…

Jeff’s stomach twisted.

"I heard you were out helping dear Ricky—from Dad, of all people. Why, Jeffrey? I thought you were on my side. That’s why you asked him to leave England, right?"

Jeff’s breath caught. No. No, Henry, that’s not—

"I never thought you’d do this to me. Running after Richard—that cousin. If he wasn’t born, I would be the designated, rightful heir. My life would have been different. Not filled with depression."

Henry's voice wavered, but the bitterness laced through his words was unmistakable.

"So, this is my last note. Enjoy your life. Thank you for being by my side when everyone else left me. But I have no wish to live like I’m *nothing to everyone anymore."

Jeff’s pulse pounded in his ears.

"Live your life happily, merrily. You still have one brother—Richard."

"Maybe I’ll see you in hell someday."

Then, on the screen—Henry, face pale and hollowed out, tipped back a bottle of pills. Not one. Not two. At least ten.

The video cut out.

"No!" Jeffrey’s scream tore through the room.

Behind him, Diana gasped. But Jeff barely registered it—his breath came in ragged sobs, his fingers clutching the edges of his laptop as if he could somehow reach through the screen, as if he could stop it—change it—undo it.

But it was too late.

The dam broke. Silent at first, but soon shaking with the force of it, Jeff cried hard.

Jeffrey couldn't stop crying.

"Henry, why!? Why, why, why?" he shrieked. "After everything I did to save you—hurting Richie so much when he was never at fault—why!?"

He sat on the sofa, his head bowed against the coffee table, shoulders shaking.

Diana, teary-eyed herself, wrapped her arms around him tightly.

"Shhh, Jeff," she murmured, using the name she always did. "Shhh, don't make yourself sicker."

He calmed, bit by bit, after sixteen long minutes. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he said,

"Di… give me the strongest, burning sedative you have. I need to be out cold right now. Jesus, otherwise…" He exhaled sharply. "I don’t want to lose my mind."

She hesitated for only a moment—then nodded and obeyed.

Diana hesitated for only a second before nodding. If there was ever a time Jeff needed forced oblivion, it was now.

She retrieved a vial from her kit, drawing the sedative into the syringe with practiced ease. Something strong, something that would burn going in—just like he asked. Maybe the sting would distract him from the deeper pain clawing at his insides.Diana prepared the sedative swiftly, her hands steady despite the turmoil in her chest. She filled the syringe, tapped it once, then turned back to Jeffrey, who sat slumped against the sofa, eyes red-rimmed and distant.

"This is going to burn," she warned softly.

"Good," Jeffrey muttered.

"Roll up your sleeve," she murmured. She exhaled and knelt beside him, finding a vein in his forearm. Jeff obeyed wordlessly, his movements sluggish, as if grief had sapped the strength from his limbs. Diana swabbed his arm, then—

The needle slid in smoothly.

And as she pushed the medication into his bloodstream, his fingers twitched against his thigh. A slow, searing heat spread through his arm, creeping up to his shoulder like wildfire.

He gritted his teeth but didn't pull away.

And the burn—God, the burn—spread like wildfire through his veins. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t make a sound. Just breathed through his nose, fists tightening against his thighs.

"You're gonna be out in minutes," Diana said softly, withdrawing the needle. She capped it, set it aside.

Jeff gave a weak, humorless laugh. "Good."

Then, true to her word, his body started to slump. Jeffrey blinked sluggishly, his vision already hazy. His body felt heavy, his mind slipping into fog.

"Stay…" he muttered, barely audible.

"I'm here," Diana assured him, her fingers brushing his knuckles.

His last thought before darkness swallowed him whole was Henry’s voice, echoing in his head—
'Maybe see you in hell someday.'

And then, silence.

His eyelids fluttered, heavy. His breathing slowed. And finally, blessedly—Jeffrey surrendered to the dark nothingness of sleep.
😭 😫 😭

Diana sat back on her heels, staring at Jeffrey’s slackened form. His chest rose and fell steadily now, the sedative doing its job, but her own breath hitched. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand.

God. What a disaster.

She swallowed hard, eyes burning. The weight of it all pressed down on her—the pain, the loss, the helplessness. Henry was gone. Richard was still barely holding on. And now Jeffrey, breaking right in front of her. She had always known him as the composed one, the one who bore everything without cracking. But tonight, he had shattered.

A quiet shuffle of footsteps behind her made her turn. Saul stood there, arms crossed, watching her. His sharp gaze softened just a fraction when he saw her face.

"You need to breathe too, Diana," he said gently.

She let out a broken exhale, wiping at her eyes. "How the hell do we come back from this?" she whispered. "Henry—he’s gone, Saul. Jeffrey is barely holding it together, and Richard—" Her voice caught. "How do we fix this?"

Saul walked over, lowering himself onto the edge of the coffee table. "One step at a time," he said simply. "You hold on, you do what you can, and you keep going. For them."

Diana sniffled, forcing herself to nod. She wasn’t the one who got to fall apart. Not now.

"Jeff will need you when he wakes up," Saul continued. "And Richard—he’ll need all of us."

She exhaled sharply, steeling herself. "Yeah. Yeah, you’re right."

Saul gave her a small nod before leaning back. "Get some rest while you can. It’s going to be a long road."

Diana glanced at Jeffrey again, his face finally peaceful in sleep.

A long road indeed. But she wasn’t going to let them walk it alone.
________

Richard's eyelids fluttered, heavy with the remnants of sedation. The room was dim, but familiar.The weight of something against his face registered first—no full oxygen mask, just the soft prongs of a nasal cannula feeding him air.

He swallowed, his throat dry. His limbs felt oddly light, but when he tried to move his hands, they wouldn’t budge. A sharp tug at his wrists. Restrained.

Panic flared instantly. His breath hitched. The steady beeping of the monitor beside him spiked.

His chest rose and fell too fast. He tried again—his fingers curled, wrists flexed, but the ties held firm. His heart pounded. The beeping turned erratic.

No. No, no, no—why was he tied?

His breath came in gasps, his chest tightening. The walls of the room blurred, his vision swam. He jerked his arms harder.

The beeping turned frantic.

Diana’s head snapped toward the monitor. The erratic beeping sent a cold wave of urgency through her. “Oh, God—he’s throwing himself into arrhythmia again!”

Saul was already moving. “More diazepam—got it.” He grabbed the vial and syringe, his hands steady as he quickly measured the dose.

Diana, without hesitation, reached for the antiarrhythmic medication. “I'm pushing Amiodarone!” she declared, her voice calm but firm as she injected it into the IV port.

Richard’s body trembled, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Richie, sweetheart,” Diana murmured, pressing a hand to his damp forehead. “You’re safe. Breathe. Just breathe.”

The seconds stretched, agonizing. Then, slowly, the monitor’s frantic beeping started to steady. Richard’s erratic breaths evened out. His hands stilled.

Diana exhaled softly, brushing stray hair from Richard’s forehead. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Just rest now, darling.”

But he was still awake for a few minutes. He said, "Saul, 'm..thirsty."

Saul glanced at Diana, who nodded. "Small sips," she murmured, already reaching for the water jug on the tray.

She poured some into a glass, then took a straw and brought it to Richard’s lips. "Here, love. Just a little."

Richard's lips barely parted as he took a sip, his throat working slowly. After a moment, he exhaled, voice rasping. "More..."

Diana gently pulled the glass away. "Not yet, sweetheart. Too much too fast, and you'll get sick."

His fingers twitched against the restraints. "Hands… why?"

Diana set the glass down and smoothed his damp hair with careful fingers. "You were thrashing, love. We had to keep you safe."

Richard's brows furrowed, his sluggish mind struggling to catch up. "Not... dangerous," he mumbled.

Diana gave him a soft, fond smile. "I know. But I wasn't about to let you hurt yourself."

Richard’s lashes fluttered, exhaustion tugging at him again. He sighed, the IV monitor beeping steadily now. “You… stayed,” he whispered.

Diana leaned closer, pressing a light kiss to his temple. "Of course, darling. Always."

Diana didn’t hesitate. She slipped her hand into his, warm and steady, her fingers wrapping gently around his.

“I’m here,” she said softly.

Richard’s grip was weak, but he held on as if anchoring himself to her presence. His breathing was uneven, his eyelids heavy. “Feels strange…” he mumbled.

“I know, love,” Diana murmured, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. “You’re on a lot of meds. Just rest, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”

His lashes fluttered. “Promise?”

She squeezed his hand lightly. “Promise.”

Richard sighed, his body finally relaxing as he drifted back into a medicated sleep. Diana sat there, still holding his hand, watching over him as the machines beeped softly in the dim light.
--------

Richard stirred 8 and half hours later, blinking groggily against the dim lighting. His mind felt clearer this time, though his body still ached. He swallowed, shifting slightly before frowning.

“The cannula,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “Feels awful.”

Diana, who had been watching him closely, leaned forward. “You want it out?”

He gave a small nod, and she carefully removed the nasal cannula. Richard took a slow breath, then another—no difficulty.

“No breathing issues?” she asked, studying him intently.

He shook his head. “Better without it.”

She smiled. “Good.”

Richard glanced at the IV in his injured hand, wincing. “needles,” he murmured, his voice thick with discomfort.

“It’s nothing to worry about, dear,” Diana assured him. She kissed his hand softly before placing it back on the bed.

Saul approached, adjusting the IV drip. “I’m giving you a small dose of atropine—to keep your blood pressure stable.”

Almost immediately, Richard flinched. “Burns,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut.

Diana wiped away the tear that slipped down his cheek. “Just a bit, love. It'll pass soon.” She ran a soothing hand through his hair, her voice low and calming. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart.”

Richard sighed, still grimacing slightly, but he relaxed under her touch. The pain dulled, leaving behind only exhaustion.
___

"You should rest more, dear."

"Mmm bored resting."
"Where's Jeff?"

She smoothly said, "he's resting too Richie."

"Oh. I wanted to hear his... Lullaby."

Diana smiled, brushing her thumb across his knuckles. “He’ll be here when he wakes, sweetheart.”

Richard turned his head slightly on the pillow, eyes half-lidded. “He always sang off-key…”

“I remember,” she said with a quiet laugh. “But you always fell asleep faster when he did.”

He hummed in response, a small, tired sound. “Tell him… I asked, okay?”

“I will.”

There was a pause, soft and still, broken only by the quiet beeping of the monitors.

“Do you think he’s mad at me?” Richard asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“No, love,” she said firmly, leaning in to kiss his temple. “He’s scared. That’s not the same.”

Richard didn’t say anything after that. Just held her hand a little tighter.

Then he turned his face toward her, lips slightly pouting, voice still scratchy but clearer than before. “I want something sweet…”

Diana chuckled softly, brushing his hair back. “Sorry, love. You can’t—not just now.”

“But I’ve been good,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut again, a faint, mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

She leaned in, her voice low and affectionate. “You’ve been 'brave', not good. And for that, you’ll get a kiss—not chocolate.”

He huffed lightly, “Not fair.”

“Life rarely is, darling,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. “Sleep now. Dream of cakes and lullabies.”
_____

He stirred again a couple of hours later, restless but clearer. Diana was right there, sensing his unease even before he spoke.

“I want a song,” he whispered, eyes barely open.

Diana blinked, surprised. “A song?”

He nodded slowly. “Something soft… something old.”

She hesitated, then her voice, rich and steady, filled the quiet med bay. It was an old lullaby her mother used to hum—hauntingly gentle, wrapped in warmth. Richard closed his eyes, the rhythm washing over him like a tide.

“You sing well,” he murmured, drifting back into sleep.
_______

A few hours later.

The IVs had been removed, the nasal cannula was gone. Richard had no trouble breathing on his own. He looked almost peaceful. But as Saul approached with a small syringe for a wrist injection—routine, precautionary—Richard flinched hard.

“No—please, no—”

“It’s alright,” Diana said quickly, moving to his side, but he was already breaking down, tears spilling fast as if the last thread had snapped.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cried, choking on the words, “I just—can’t—”

Diana gently cradled his head to her chest, holding him close as he wept. “It’s okay, my love. You don’t have to be brave now. Just let it out. I’ve got you.”

She rocked him slightly, murmuring to him, her hand stroking his hair, as his sobs slowly faded into quiet hiccups, then stillness. Basically, he cried himself to sleep, all the while, Diana comforted him.

💉 💉 💉

When he woke up again. He was listening to his favorite songs for about 2 hours after Saul had told him Di was on a WHO meeting. Saul himself was doing business work quietly on his laptop.Then Di came back and kissed his cheek. Said something to Saul and Saul.... he was prepping a syringe again.

Richard had been calm for a while—too calm, Diana suspected. The quiet that follows a storm but not the end of one.

Saul approached the bed, rolling up the sleeve of Richard’s hospital gown. “Just a small shot, Richard,” he said gently. “Routine. You’ll barely feel it.”

But Richard caught sight of the syringe—a thin needle glinting in the overhead light—and something inside him snapped.

“No—no, please, don’t—” he jerked his arm, his voice rising to panic. “Don’t do it!”

“Richard, stop!” Diana said sharply, moving fast to his side as Saul held steady. Richard flailed, nearly knocking the syringe from Saul’s hand.

“Please—don’t—I’ll be good—I’m fine—don’t sedate me again!” he was crying now, raw, breathless, twisting against the mattress.

“We’re not sedating you,” Diana said firmly, catching his wrist and pinning it down. “Richard, listen to me, love. It’s just a wrist shot. I need you to be brave for me. We can’t sedate you again—not so soon.”

He kept struggling, tears streaking his pale cheeks, his voice shaking. “It burns—it always burns—”

“I know,” she whispered, restraining his arm tighter now, her own fingers trembling just slightly. “I know. But we have to keep your heart rate and blood pressure steady, alright? That’s all this is. It’ll sting, but I’m right here.”

He whimpered, his body stiff, sweat beading on his forehead as Saul found the vein, swabbed it, and inserted the needle in a clean, practiced motion.

Richard screamed—not from the pain alone, but from everything. From fear. From being touched. From having no control. His whole body arched, his free hand gripping the sheet until his knuckles turned white.

“Shhh,” Diana murmured, bending low, pressing her forehead to his. “It’s done. It’s done, my darling. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

She kept holding his arm firmly, even after the needle was withdrawn, her breath syncing with his until the ragged sobs slowed.

“You were brave,” she said softly, kissing the corner of his eye. “So brave, Richard.”

He didn’t answer—his mouth quivered, his eyes squeezed shut. But he leaned into her touch as if it was the only thing tethering him to this world.

_____🧤__

[Scene: Afternoon light spills into the room. Richard is finally IV-free except the one in his thigh, propped up on pillows, a little pale but alert. Saul is at the foot of the bed, gloves on, preparing to remove the urinary catheter. There’s a loaded silence before Saul begins to speak.]

Saul: sighs “You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Richard Ranasinha.”

Richard: groans slightly “Save the scolding, Doctor. I feel like I’ve already been chewed out by the Grim Reaper.”

Saul: “Too bad. Because I’m not the Reaper—I’m the guy who just spent forty-eight hours making sure you didn’t meet him.”

Richard: winces “Touché.”

Saul: pulls the blanket back a bit, efficiently prepping the area “I’m removing the catheter now. Try not to flinch.”

Richard: “Easy for you to say—ugh!” jerks slightly as the tube comes out

Saul: dryly “Huha. There. That’s what you get for overdosing on goddamn Royal Tea like it was some kind of cure-all.”

Richard: grits his teeth, exhaling “It wasn’t the tea. It was the silence. I didn’t want to think too much and the tea helped...well, until it poisoned me.”

Saul: “You’re lucky your kidneys didn’t shut down. Or your heart. Or your brain—although I’m still not convinced it’s fully functional.”

Richard: manages a weak smile “Did I ever thank you for being this charming?”

Saul: “No. And don’t bother. Save your breath for drinking actual water.”

Richard: sighs “So, how bad was it?”

Saul: meets his gaze, finally a little softer “Bad enough that another hour or two might’ve meant no return. And Jeffrey… he nearly got himself sick worrying about you.”

Richard: quietly “He’s still here?”

Saul: “He never left.”

There’s a long pause. Richard nods faintly, guilt flickering across his features.

Saul: “You want to thank someone? Start by never putting him—or yourself—through this again.”

Richard: softly “Noted, Doctor.”

Saul: removing his gloves “Good. Now rest. And don’t you dare ask for tea.”
_________

[Scene: Richard is sitting up in bed, the room calm, the late afternoon sunlight stretching across the floor. Di walks in quietly with a fresh set of vitals to check. Her short dark hair bouncing, face calm but tired. Richard watches her for a moment, and finally speaks.]

Richard: “You know… I always had a crush on you.”

Diana: raises a brow, half-smiling “That so?”

Richard: “Mhm. Back when you used to show up at the Claremont Manor
with those oversized medical textbooks and round glasses and, with thoughtful, considerate and benevolent attitude.The dark-haired Claremont beauty.”

Diana: soft chuckle as she checks his pulse “And here I thought you were just scared of me.”

Richard: “Terrified,” he smirks faintly “But also completely in awe. You were so—brilliant. And fierce. And… kind.”

Diana: gentle “And then you fell for Deborah?”

Richard: nods, gaze distant “Because she reminded me of you. At least the version of you I’d conjured up in my teenage daydreams. She was smart, stubborn, and had your smile, and compassion.”

Diana: pauses, taking in his words, then sits on the edge of the bed “That’s a heavy comparison to live under. Poor Deborah.”

Richard: a soft laugh “Yeah. I know now. I was a fool. But you… Di, I can’t believe you left everything just to take care of me.”

Diana: looks at him, eyes suddenly glimmering with something unspoken “You’re family, Richard. That means something to me. It always has; even when I'm not that particularly close to my own family...but the Earl's family– he's been a father figure to me.”

Richard: quietly “I don’t think I deserve that.”

Diana: firmly “Tough. You’re getting it anyway.”

[They sit in silence for a few moments. The kind where hearts speak louder than words. And Richard doesn’t try to fill it with wit or charm. He just lets it be.]

Diana: half-joking, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear “What, are the drugs still in your system making you confess your deep secrets or something? Or, are you flirting with your Doctor cousin?"

Richard: smirks weakly “Maybe. Or maybe I just nearly died and decided honesty was cheaper than therapy.”

Diana: mock gasp “Richard Ranasinha actually believes in therapy? My stars.”

Richard: laughs softly, then winces at the soreness “Easy, I didn’t say I’d go. Just… that maybe I get it now. Why people need it.”

Diana: gazes at him, a bit more serious now “You scared the hell out of everyone, you know. Especially Jeff.”

Richard: quietly “I know. I didn’t mean to. I was just so… tired, Di.”

Diana: nods slowly, then gently adjusts his blanket “Well, too bad. We’re not letting you go anywhere.”

Richard: watches her hands, then her face “You’re really staying?”

Diana: smiles, soft and sure “I’m here until you’re strong enough to sass Saul without needing a breather after.”

Richard: grinning faintly “Cruel woman.”

Diana: with a wink as she stands “And proud of it. Now rest. Or I’m bringing Saul back with another catheter.”

Richard: groans “You really are evil.”

Diana: laughs as she walks out “Takes one to know one, Richie.”

Diana paused at the door, turning halfway back with a softer look.

Diana: “Jeff’s in his guest room. Finally sleeping, I think. Poor guy didn’t leave your side for nearly two days.”

Richard: his brows furrow “He really… stayed?”

Diana: nods gently “Like a sentry. Or a very anxious mother hen. Even puked blood out of stress, if you can believe it.”

Richard: visibly shaken “He what—?”

Diana: raises a hand “He’s fine now. We ran tests, treated him. He got sick from all the tension and guilt.”

Richard: softly “Guilt… for me?”

Diana: steps back toward the bed, her voice kind but firm “You both have this ridiculous habit of blaming yourselves for things outside your control. But yes, Richie. For you.”

Richard: quietly, eyes glassy “Can I see him?”

Diana: smiles “Tomorrow morning. Let him sleep. For now, you just focus on getting better.”

She gently pulled the blanket higher over him before leaving the room, the door closing with a soft click.

Chapter Text

Jeffrey woke up. He wasn't with Richard in med bay. It was his own guest room. But that comfort was nothing to ease the ache in his heart. He went to the living room, sat there besides Saul, drinking water.

A few minutes later, Diana approached him carefully, her voice soft yet weighted. "The Earl—Uncle Godfrey—he found Henry still alive," she said, then hurriedly added.
"But… he’s brain dead now, in the Royal London Hospital. He’s waiting for your permission to..." Her voice faltered. "To take him off life support."

She hesitated before adding, "His organs will be donated, just as he wished."

Jeffrey let out a hollow chuckle, his voice rough. "You mean I get to decide his exact time of death? What a favor, Henry," he muttered bitterly.

He exhaled sharply, then shook his head. "Please, tell the Earl to do as he sees fit. I’m not leaving Richie here."

Diana hesitated, watching him carefully. "They can wait for the funeral, Jeff. Or..." she trailed off, uncertain.

"Or they can do it without me," he finished for her. His laugh was humorless, brittle. "I don’t care. I have only one brother left now. I'm not flying back to London for a... corpse I couldn't save."

Diana bit her lip and searched his face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

She nodded, though the weight of the moment sat heavy between them. "I'll tell him."

"And," he added quietly, voice low and resolute, "don’t breathe a word of this to Richie. Not until he’s completely out of the woods."

He looked at both Diana and Saul, who was already sitting in the living room's couch before Jeff joined him, eyes rimmed red but steady.

"I beg you."

Diana nodded solemnly, her throat tight. “Of course, Jeff. We won’t say a thing.”

Saul placed a reassuring hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder. “He doesn’t need another shock right now. Let him heal first. We’ll protect him from it, I promise.”

Jeffrey gave a small nod, then looked toward the hallway, where Richard still lay resting in the guest room. His expression softened slightly, a tired ache in his gaze.

“I can’t lose him too,” he murmured. “Not when I finally started doing things right.”

Diana reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. “You’re here. You’re fighting for him. That’s what matters.”

He didn’t answer—just exhaled shakily, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “I’m gonna sit with him. When he wakes up… I want him to see me first.”

“No, don’t do that—he’ll instantly pick up on your grief,” Saul warned, his voice firm but kind. “You know how sensitive he is to you.”

Jeffrey blinked, caught off guard. “He always was a damn bloodhound for emotions…”

“Exactly,” Saul said. “Let him rest without absorbing more pain. And you—”

He turned, already prepping a fresh kit from the medical bag on the table.

“—we need to run a few more tests. The earlier results point to stomach ulcers, but I want to be certain. So, blood draw—now.”

Jeffrey didn’t protest. He just rolled up his sleeve, jaw tight, nodding once. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
_____
Thankfully, his recent blood tests —this batch– came back clear—no alarming markers, no signs of further internal distress. He hadn’t coughed up anything since, nor had he vomited. Physically, he was stable again.

“You're okay now,” Diana declared, her voice laced with cautious relief as she removed the stethoscope from his chest. “At least physically.”

~~~~~~

Setting: A quiet video call. Ageing Earl Godfrey sits in his stately home’s private study, a warm-toned room lined with bookshelves and oil paintings. He wears his usual composed expression, dignified even through the screen. Jeffrey, in contrast, looks worn—pale, unshaven, dressed in a simple shirt. His eyes carry the weight of sleepless nights and too many tears.
---

Godfrey: [Gently] Jeffrey.

Jeffrey: Don’t ask me to come, Father. I can’t. I won’t. I’m not flying to see a corpse I couldn’t save.

Godfrey: I understand. You’ve been through enough.

Jeffrey: Just… handle it. As per his will. Donate the organs. Cremate him. Or bury him, I don’t care. But don’t expect me to say goodbye to a body. I already did that, in my own way.

Godfrey: Very well. I will take care of everything. His wishes will be honored in full.

Jeffrey: [Tense pause] Thank you.

Godfrey: You needn’t thank me. This—this was never meant to be your burden.

Jeffrey: I was the last one he trusted. And I failed him, Father.

Godfrey: You were also the only one who never abandoned him. Sometimes, Jeffrey, even that isn’t enough. Grief has no fairness in its arithmetic.

Jeffrey: [Quietly] You’re too kind, Father.

Godfrey: Not kind. Just clear-headed. Like you—when you allow yourself to be.

Jeffrey: Then keep it clear for both of us, please. Do what needs to be done. I’m staying here. With Richard. He’s all I have left.

Godfrey: I will. But, Jeffrey…

Jeffrey: [Looks up] Yes?

Godfrey: Don’t let this hollow you out entirely. Grief... it carves space, but it can also make room—for meaning, when you're ready.

Jeffrey: [Softly] Noted.

Godfrey: Good. Then I’ll let you be, Son.
I’ll inform you once it’s done.

Jeffrey: Alright. Goodbye, sir.

Godfrey: Not goodbye. Just… rest, Jeffrey. Rest while you can.

The call ends. Silence returns.
~~~~~

A while later, Diana quietly stepped into the guest room he’d been given. The soft creak of the door was the only sound before she approached and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You’re not to blame, Jeffrey," she said, her voice firm yet tender. "Not even for a moment. I insist."

He didn’t argue. Just leaned into her touch, tears filling his eyes again. She sat beside him, letting him crumble a little.

"Henry was mentally ill," she added, her tone unwavering. "You are not responsible for his actions."

He cried, silent at first, then deeper. And when the words finally came, they were raw, hoarse.

"Thank you for saying that," he whispered, pressing his face against her shoulder. "I really needed to hear it."

They sat like that for a while, in the quiet.

Then, after a few moments:
"Di... don’t tell anyone Richard got sick from tea. Please."

Diana stiffened slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him squarely.
"What do you take me for, huh?" she snapped softly. "I never reveal my patients' private information. Not even to family—unless they give consent."

He blinked, startled, but then offered a faint smile through the tears.

"Thanks," he murmured anyway.

"You're welcome," she replied, a bit softer now. "But don’t insult me like that again."

🍵 🍵 🍵 🍵

The lights were dimmed. Jeff sat on the edge of the old but resplendent recliner, elbows on knees, hands running through his hair. His face was tired, older somehow. Saul poured himself a cup of herbal tea, then handed one to Jeff—who took it but didn’t drink..

“You’re not going to help him like this,” Saul said flatly.

Jeff looked up, eyes bloodshot. “How am I supposed to pretend like everything’s fine? Henry's—”

“Dead,” Saul cut in. “Yes. And you being a broken record about it won’t change that.”

Jeff’s jaw tensed.

“I watched him fall apart, Saul. I tried—”

“You tried,” Saul said, not unkindly. "Now what? You want Richard to carry both of your ghosts?”

Jeff’s throat bobbed, but he said nothing.

Saul continued, voice calm but cutting, “Henry made his choice. Don’t punish Richard with it. He’s got a damn good chance to survive—if you don’t sink him with your grief or neglect.”

There was a long silence before Jeff finally whispered, “I’m scared. Of saying the wrong thing. Of being too much or too late.”

“You’re not late. Yet,” Saul said, walking past him toward the med bay. “So go in there soon. And just be his brother. That’s all he’s ever wished for.”

“I don’t think I can go in like this,” Jeff muttered. “He’ll read it off my damn face.”

Saul spoke low, firm. “Then fix your face.”

Jeff looked up, startled.

Saul softened slightly, but didn’t back down. “You’re not here to grieve. You’re here for him. You think you’re hiding something earth-shattering? Maybe. But the second you walk in there and start falling apart, you’ll lose him. Again.”

Jeff swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lie to him. But I have to, even if he'd resent me for it.”

“You’re not lying,” Saul said. “You’re protecting him. That’s different. He would understand, if you'll make him understand it.”

Jeff nodded slowly, steeling himself. While Jeff didn't know how Richard was like the past two years exactly, Saul knew. And if he was saying Richie would understand, then he will.

Saul placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got this. Just be his brother. That’s all he needs.”

🥹 ❤️‍🩹 🫶 💙 😷

Richard was lying quietly, eyes half-lidded. The nasal cannula was gone, and his breathing was slow but steady. A faint IV still remained in his thigh. He turned his head slightly as Jeff walked in.

“Jeff,” he murmured, voice rasping but warm.

Jeff smiled faintly, pulling up a chair beside him.

“Hey, sick baby,” Jeff said, sitting down. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

Richard smirked weakly. “I’ll try to schedule my near-death experiences better next time.”

Jeff chuckled through the tension in his throat. “You better.”

There was a pause.

Richard blinked, trying to focus. “Why are you here in Sri Lanka?”

Jeff blinked at him, caught off-guard.

Richard continued, softer, “I didn’t think you’d ever come... not like this.”

Jeff looked away for half a second, then back. “Because I couldn’t not be here, Rich. You matter to me. No matter how badly I messed things up.”

Richard studied his face.

“You’re not telling me something,” he said, not accusing—just curious.

Jeff took his hand gently. “I’m just tired, Rich. But I’m here. And I’m not leaving.”

Richard nodded slowly, accepting that.

“I’m glad,” he whispered.

Jeff’s grip tightened just a little.

“You’ll see me tomorrow too. And the day after. Get used to it.”
“How’re you feeling?”

“Drugged. Tired. Sore. Alive, somehow.” Richie answered.

Jeff chuckled lightly, but his eyes shimmered. “That’s good. Alive is good.”

Richard smiled faintly, eyes fluttering closed again.

“Good,” he whispered.

Jeff exhaled. Held his brother’s hand. And said nothing else.
___
The moment Jeff stepped out of the med room—out of Richard’s line of sight—his smile vanished. His shoulders sagged like the weight of Henry’s death had been suspended only by force of will, for Richie’s sake.

He exhaled shakily, rubbing at the tension blooming between his brows. If it had just been death, maybe he could’ve accepted it with time. But it wasn’t just death. It was Henry’s final, twisted act—leaving behind a storm of confusion and blame. Not outright, no—but enough insinuation to sting. Enough to suggest that Richie’s existence, or absence, or involvement, or something had pushed him toward that cliff.

Jeff pressed his fingers to his temples. The beginnings of a headache prickled there, dull and persistent. Still, he walked to the living room anyway. He didn’t want to stew in his thoughts, not when the air inside his skull already felt suffocating.

He sank onto a comfortable chair,
opened his laptop, and tried—really tried—to focus on his work emails.

But his inbox was flooded.

“We’re so sorry for your loss, Jeffrey.”
“I can’t believe what happened to Henry. You must be devastated.”
“Thoughts and prayers.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“It’s such a tragedy. If only he’d had someone to talk to.”

Jeff’s jaw clenched. All these words—empty, rehearsed, fake. Condolences from colleagues he barely spoke to, acquaintances who didn’t even know Henry, and family members who had done nothing to prevent the spiral but were now eager to play mourners.

He shut the laptop with a snap. Leaned back. Let his eyes roam across the quiet interior of Saul’s house. The antique shelves. The pale curtains fluttering just slightly with the breeze. The soft, distant ticking of a vintage clock. It was all calm. It was all normal. It was all wrong.

Across from him, Maya Hamada slid into a chair at the oval table, pulling it out with the quiet scrape of wood on tile. She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him, her fingers lacing together on the table’s edge. Raman served her green tea.

She knew that look on his face.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” she said softly. “Even if you’re also sad. Even if you’re confused. You’re allowed all of it.”

Jeff didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

But a muscle ticked in his jaw.

And Maya didn’t push. She just sat there with him, in the silence, so he wouldn’t have to carry it alone.

“You hardly know me,” he said quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. “We just met yesterday.”

“Of course,” Maya nodded, her tone gentle. “But Richard… he’s told me things. Not directly. Just… bits and pieces. Little fragments when he talked about his childhood, his family—when he couldn’t help it, even though he was bitter.”

She paused, watching Jeff’s expression closely.

“And when someone you care about is in pain, even the unspoken things start to matter. That’s how I know enough to sit here.”

Jeffrey sat curled into the armrest of the wide leather chair, staring at nothing. His hands were clasped, knuckles white with tension. The air was still. Too still.

Maya was calm but deliberate, not tiptoeing around his pain, just walking beside it. She set another cup gently on the low table before him.

Maya:
“Richard told me once... that when you were twelve, you threw a chessboard out a window because your tutor called you ‘unstrategic.’”

Jeffrey blinked, startled. He glanced up at her, hollow and red-eyed.

Jeffrey:
“That old man was a menace. I threatened to shut down the whole school.”

Maya:
“And Richard said once, you stormed through the geology lab like a whirlwind in a suit, demanding reports, giving lectures like fate could be manhandled into cooperation.”
Her lips quirked slightly. “He sounded almost fond of it. Even when he was mad at you.”

Jeffrey exhaled, the faintest ghost of a laugh escaping him.

Maya:
“We all have our ways of grounding each other. Pouring citrine dust in your coat pocket. Hiding your cufflinks. Talking back when no one else would.
It’s not weakness to grieve, Jeff. And it’s not betrayal to survive.”

Jeffrey’s jaw tightened. His voice cracked when he finally spoke.

Jeffrey:
“I wasn’t there. I chose Richard… and now I get to decide when Henry dies. What kind of symmetry is that?”

Maya:
“You saved Richard’s life.”

Jeffrey:
“And Henry blamed him for it. He thought I abandoned him. I chose, and that choice broke him.”

Maya leaned forward, her voice low, calm, certain.

Maya:
“Henry was spiraling long before this moment. You’re not a god, Jeff. You can’t tether two breaking stars and expect to come out whole. You’re just one person.”

Jeffrey finally looked at her, eyes glistening.

Jeffrey:
“Why does it hurt like this, Maya? It’s like… everything inside me’s been scraped out.”

Maya reached across the table, resting a hand gently on his knee.

Maya:
“Because your heart isn’t made of marble, no matter how hard you pretend. It’s clay—shaped by love, cracked by grief, but still… still something you can rebuild.”

Jeffrey:
Softly, almost disbelieving—
“Did you just call me soft?”

Maya:
Dryly, but with affection—
“No. I called you human. Which is slightly better. Most days.”

She nudged the tea closer to him. He didn’t drink, but he wrapped his hands around the cup. Warmth bled into his fingers, chasing the numbness. And maybe, just maybe, it helped him hold on a little longer.

💉💉💉

LATE NIGHT
Richard lay on his side, blanket draped around his waist. All the IV drips were long gone.The tension in his body said it all—he knew what was coming. Saul stood to the side, prepping the injection with calm precision.

Jeff stood near his head, Diana beside him, a hand on Richard’s shoulder.

“Routine shot,” Saul said. “Just a muscle relaxant and a mild steroid mix.”

“In the butt, right?” Richard said through clenched teeth, eyes wide.

“I’m afraid so,” Diana confirmed gently. “It’s quick, darling. Just breathe.”

Richard tensed, clutching at the blanket. “No, no, I can’t—I just calmed down—don’t poke me again—”

“Hey,” Jeff said quickly, leaning closer, brushing a hand through Richard’s damp hair. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s me and Di. We got you.”

“I hate this,” Richard mumbled, voice breaking. “Hate being helpless like this.”

Diana slid her fingers into his, squeezing. “You’re not helpless. You’re healing. And you’re being so brave, love. Just a few seconds.”

Saul, needle ready, nodded toward Diana.

She nodded back, then leaned to Richard’s ear. “Look at me, okay? Deep breath. One, two—”

Richard yelped as the needle went in. His legs kicked slightly, but Jeff held him from above, pressing his free hand to Richard’s back while Diana kept whispering.

“It’s alright, it’s done, it’s over, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Richard was crying again—quiet, stifled sobs into the pillow.

Jeff didn’t say a word. He just kept his hand on his brother’s back, steady and warm.

Diana gently wiped his cheeks. “No more shots for today, I promise.”

Saul gave a silent nod and left them alone.

Jeff leaned in closer, forehead against Richard’s temple. “You did great, Rich. You really did.”

Richard closed his eyes. “You’re still here.”

“Always,” Jeff said.

Diana tucked the blanket back over him, smoothing his hair.
____________

Again, Jeffrey couldn't help it... His thoughts drifted to Henry, his elder sibling who was alive the last time he saw him... And he never thought it would become the very last time he would see him in person.

Jeff sank into the sofa in the small reading lounge down the hall from the guest rooms staring at the ceiling and walls, lost in thoughts of Henry.

Maya quietly came and sat beside him.
Her presence didn’t intrude—it offered anchor.

Maya:
“Richard told me a story once. About a vase. One of those ancient ones from the west wing. He was eleven, tripped while sneaking sweets, and knocked it over.”
She smiled faintly, studying Jeff’s drawn face.
“He panicked. But before anyone could find out, you showed up, told the housekeeper it was your fault, and took the punishment without blinking.”

Jeffrey:
His voice was a rasp. “Of course I did. I had better control of the narrative back then.”

Maya:
“Well, according to Richard, the earl had already seen what happened from the garden terrace. He knew the truth. Said nothing. Just... let it play out.
Richard carried that guilt for years. He thought you were protecting him… but also teaching him something.”

Jeffrey blinked slowly, the edge of a frown forming.
Jeffrey:
“What could that possibly have taught him?”

Maya:
“That love doesn’t need grand gestures. Sometimes it’s just stepping forward and shouldering the blame. Even when no one asks you to.”

She let the words sit for a moment, soft and quiet.

Maya:
“Jeff, I suppose you’ve always tried to carry everyone—Richard, Henry, even the family name. But you’re still human. And humans break under too much weight.”

Jeffrey:
His voice trembled. “I chose Richard. And Henry… Henry thought that meant I gave up on him.”

Maya:
“He was already slipping away. You tried to hold both ends of a fraying rope. That doesn’t make you a villain. It makes you… exhausted.”

Jeffrey:
His eyes finally met hers, raw and damp. “It still feels like failure.”

Maya:
“It feels like heartbreak. That’s different. One you can come back from.”

She reached out, fingers brushing his knee in a grounding gesture.

Maya:
“Your heart isn’t stone, Jeffrey. It’s clay—scarred, shaped, maybe even fragile. But it’s yours. And it still works.”

Jeffrey:
Softly, a hint of disbelief, “Are you calling me soft again?”

Maya:
Deadpan, “No. I’m calling you human. Which is messier, more resilient, and honestly harder to fix.”

This time he held onto her words.
And that was enough. For now.

__••••••__________••••••••_______

The next day.
Everyone had told him it wasn’t his fault—Diana, Saul, Maya, even his father. And slowly, piece by piece, Jeffrey had started to believe it. Not because it suddenly made perfect sense, but because he wanted to.

So he told himself, quietly at first, then with more certainty:

“Henry ended his life. That was his choice. I tried to save him and I failed—but I accept that now. I don’t want to fail Richard. So Henry, I hope you're in peace, wherever you are. And yes, I’ll meet you in hell someday—when I die of old age, or some disease, or whatever God decides. But for now… I have Richie to care for. And maybe—just maybe—my own life beyond this mess.”

“So rest in peace, Henry. You chose this. No one forced your hand but your own mind. And that’s the end of it.”

He said it aloud, even as he scribbled it onto a piece of paper. His handwriting was uneven, the ink smudged at the edges where his fingers trembled. When he finished, he stared at the words for a moment… then crumpled the page into a tight ball and tossed it into the bin.

And something—finally—lifted.

A weight that had wrapped itself around his chest since the moment he’d watched that video. That terrible, irreversible moment. He still couldn’t bring himself to delete it. Not yet. Those were Henry’s last seconds. The last time his voice would exist in this world. So Jeffrey locked it away in a folder protected by a complex password only he would remember. It was for safekeeping, not sentiment. Or so he told himself.

He’d forwarded a copy to his father—because it was necessary. Cold, administrative necessity.

He wondered briefly what his mother, off somewhere between her wildlife sanctuaries and gala dinners, was feeling right now. But the thought soured quickly. She’d abandoned Henry long before the rest of them. Chose her animals, her social appearances, over simply sitting with her son on the days he was crumbling.

Jeffrey sighed.

Maybe that’s why Richard never wants to go back to England, he thought.
And maybe… I don’t either.

Selfish relationships. Choking responsibilities. Two-faced people.

The thoughts swarmed him like flies, bitter and insistent, and he almost let them win. Almost. Then he shouted—out loud, into the silence around him:

“No! No, don’t go there. Don’t think like that.”

He pressed his palms to his temples, breathing hard. Because that… that is life. Everywhere. That’s how society works.

He was a Claremont, after all. And with Richard, they were the senior-most now—not by age, but by direct lineage. That meant the family’s name, its standing, its legacy… all of it rested on their shoulders.

That’s how it goes. No room for escape. No real choice.

“Never mind,” he muttered under his breath.

Even here, on this island paradise—Sri Lanka, with its golden shores and humming trees—there had been civil war. And the scars still lingered, quiet and invisible but always present. He’d seen them. Felt them.

Britain has lasted this long only because of its system, he told himself. And I’m supposed to be part of that system. Sitting in the House of Lords someday, like Father. And Richard—well, he already had the title to inherit.
The burden.

Jeffrey sighed deeply.

Let’s not think about it.

Right now, Richard was in pain. Still healing. Still so far from the man he used to be. And he—Jeffrey—was here to help. That mattered more than duty or titles or the weight of broken legacies.

Yeah, helping Richie. Giving him those injections he hated. He always pouted or turned his face away like a child, but he never completely refused them. Never really fled. He knew he needed them. That’s why he stayed.

Jeff smiled faintly, remembering his brother’s antics—grumbling through the pain, making sarcastic remarks, silently suffering, tolerating, throwing pillows once when he was a kid just to be dramatic.

A long way to go, Jeff thought. Before Richie is back to full health. Before he’s himself again.

Not the hurting, tearful version. But the brilliant, infuriating, relentless Richard.

And Jeffrey would be right here—every step of the way.

🛋️ 🛋️ 🛋️

Richard stirred under the sheets. His brows furrowed with determination. “I want to get out of bed.”

Jeffrey looked up from the tablet in his hand. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Richard said firmly. “Help me up?”

Jeff stood immediately, reaching out—but Richard raised a hand. “No. I mean, just… stay close. Don’t hold me. I want to do it myself.”

Jeff hesitated but nodded. “Alright. I’ll hover.”

With an exhausted grunt, Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed, body trembling slightly from the effort. His arms pushed against the mattress, shoulders taut, jaw clenched as he rose shakily to his feet. His legs wobbled, stiff and sore from disuse, but he didn't ask for help.

Step by step—each one more agonizing than the last—he crossed the small space and finally sank into the cushioned sofa. He exhaled sharply, sinking back like he'd just run a marathon.

“Dear God,” he groaned. “My legs felt like prehistoric iron… like rusted metal refusing to budge.”

Jeffrey winced in sympathy and muttered before he could stop himself, “Well, they were so swollen four days ago. Fluid buildup. Your kidneys weren’t filtering properly so it just—”

He bit his lip, shutting himself up.

Richard glanced at him—not angry, not even annoyed. Just thoughtful. Then, calmly:

“I don’t want to talk about anything medical right now. Okay?”

Jeff nodded quickly. “Okay. As you say.”

Richard stared at the curtain-shielded window for a few moments, lost in the light filtering through. Then he said quietly, “Saul told me you were curious about why I came to Sri Lanka.”

Jeff’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yeah. I mean… it felt out of nowhere. You just vanished and showed up here months later. I didn’t even know you had ties to this place.”

“I do,” Richard said, voice distant but tinged with something gentler than usual. “Our grandmother—Leah Claremont. She wasn’t born in England. She was Sri Lankan, born in Ratnapura—the City of Gems.”

Jeff blinked. “Seriously? You think I don't know that. If she hadn't married grand father, we wouldn't be in this inheritance mess”

Richard nodded. “I know but I'm not talking about that. Just listen. She lived most of her life here. Met Grandpa in Kandy, married him young, followed him to England, but her heart always remained in the soil and stones of this island.”

Jeff sat down in the chair opposite him, listening quietly as his brother continued.

“I spent nearly every summer vacation here as a child till she was alive. The family estate still exists—half-jungle, half-rubble now. But she’d take me into the gem markets of Ratnapura. Let me hold uncut stones in my palm, tell me their stories, their names, like they were alive.”

A small smile ghosted across Richard’s lips. “That’s where it started. My obsession. Not just with pretty things—but with knowing them. Identifying, grading, understanding them. So when I turned nineteen, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted a degree in gemology. And one day, to become one of the best in the world at appraisal and jewelry authentication.”

Jeff let out a breath. “You always were intense about it. But I thought it was just… another Richard phase.”

Richard chuckled softly. “No. This one stuck.”

They fell into a quiet pause. The air between them no longer felt heavy, just quietly shared.

“You should’ve told me all this sooner,” Jeff said, not accusing, just honest.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” Richard replied simply.

Jeff gave him a long look. “I do. I always did. I just… didn’t know how to show it properly back then.”

Richard glanced at him, eyes a little softer than before. “Well, you’re doing alright now.”

Jeff gave him a wry smile. “Yeah. I mean, between injecting you and forcing you to eat mashed peas, I think I’m proving myself.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “You’re still a menace.”

“And you’re still a dramatic pain in the ass,” Jeff replied easily.

But in the space between their words—there was something real. A closeness reforged. A brotherhood that refused to rust.

Jeff watched him quietly for a while, as Richard leaned back into the sofa, eyelids fluttering like he might drift off mid-conversation. The sunlight caught in the curve of his cheekbone, casting shadows across a face that had once looked far too gaunt and pale. There was still fragility there—but also a stubborn flicker of life returning.

And Jeff thought, My dear brother is still the same. Just wounded.

But wounds heal. They always did. Maybe they left scars—some thick, some invisible—but healing was still healing.

Richard would get better.

He 'was' getting better.

Jeffrey let the silence sit a little longer, unhurried. No need to rush it. Richie was here. Awake. Talking. Choosing to tell stories again.

Jeff let the silence settle like dust on old memories. No need to fill it. No need to fix everything all at once.
Richie was here. Awake. Breathing. Choosing to stay.

And for now, that was more than enough. It was everything.

Chapter Text

It had been seven days since Richard fell ill. Both he and Jeffrey were conspicuously absent from the funeral of Henry, the Earl’s eldest son. Even Ashcroft and Catherine—Richard’s long-divorced parents—were in attendance. But Richard was gravely ill, and Jeffrey had stayed behind to care for him. That’s why they couldn’t be there.

Catherine hadn’t planned to make a scene, but when the words “gravely ill” left Godfrey’s lips during the eulogy, something cracked inside her chest. Her baby—her Richie—was sick. Not just a cold or one of his childhood fevers, but seriously ill. And she hadn’t even known.

She tried to catch Ashcroft’s eye from across the somber gathering. When he finally noticed her and gave a polite nod, she walked straight over and pulled him aside, her hand lightly gripping his sleeve.

“Where’s Richard?” she asked, her voice tight but trembling with urgency. “How is he? I want to see him.”

Ashcroft looked vaguely annoyed by the intrusion. “I heard Jeffrey’s in Sri Lanka, so I assume Richard is there. Sick.”

Her jaw tightened. “Your son is badly sick and that’s all you can manage? You heard?”

He sighed, clearly uncomfortable as a few people glanced toward them. “Catherine, not here—”

But she wasn’t done. “Why not? Why not here? It’s not like we were invited to this funeral as a united front either, were we? Richard didn’t come because he couldn’t. And you’re acting like he wouldn’t.”

A nerve twitched in Ashcroft’s brow. Still she went on, eyes blazing. “I know you don’t show concern like I do, but he’s your son too, Ash. Don’t you want to be there for him?”

He looked at her then—really looked. She wasn’t putting on a performance. No theatrics. No melodrama. This wasn’t stage-Catherine. This was a mother, heart clawed open by guilt and distance, demanding her right to care.

So he gave in.

“Alright. I’ll ask Godfrey for the address and give it to you.”

“Just give it to me?” she snapped. “You’re not coming?”

Ashcroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. We’ll go together. I’ll call Jeffrey in advance.”

She exhaled, a flicker of relief in her eyes. “Thank you.”

What neither of them admitted aloud was this: neither had seen Richard in two years. Not since his engagement broke off, and the family fractured once more.
Maybe it was time to put old regrets aside. At least long enough to show up.
______

It was early evening when the car pulled up to Saul’s house in Kandy, Sri Lanka. The fading golden light glinted off the tiled roof. The air was warm and humid.

Jeffrey opened the door himself, visibly tired but collected. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, and he wore the look of someone who hadn’t been sleeping soundly.

“Uncle Ash,” he nodded. “Aunt Catherine. You came.”

Catherine stepped out first, her eyes scanning everything, but mostly—searching. “Where is he?” she asked immediately, not bothering with pleasantries.

Jeff gave a small, worn-out smile. “Inside. He’s better than he was. Still recovering, though. Walk carefully, he’s resting in the med room.”

She followed Jeffrey in with Ashcroft close behind, who gave a slight nod to Saul, sitting quietly with a book on the veranda.

Inside, the house was cool and calm. Richard was curled on the long couch, a book on his lap, a blanket draped over his legs, hair messier than usual, but his eyes—half-lidded and thoughtful—lit up with confusion at first… then disbelief… then something softer.

“Mama?” he rasped, sitting up straighter.

Catherine rushed to him before he could stand. “No, no, don’t move! God, look at you—” She cupped his face gently, tears already swimming in her eyes. “You’re thinner. And your skin—oh Richie.”

He smiled, faintly. “Nice to see you too.”

Ashcroft stepped in more hesitantly. “You do look like you’ve been run over by a truck,” he said, the closest he could come to concern.

Richard gave a breathy laugh. “Flattering as always, Father.”

Jeff watched the scene from the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable. But when Richard caught his eye, he gave a grateful nod.

“I’m sorry we weren’t here sooner,” Catherine said, brushing a strand of his hair back. “But we’re here now. And we’re staying as long as you need.”

Richard closed his eyes, leaned back, and whispered, “It’s fine. You’re here now.”

Ashcroft cleared his throat. “You’ll recover fully?”

Jeff spoke up then. “He’s recovering well, still weak, appetite slowly returning. But he’s safe.”

“And in good hands,” Catherine added, turning to Jeff with sudden warmth. “Thank you for being with him.”

Jeffrey nodded, trying not to show how much those words meant.

Outside, the sky blushed with twilight. The Claremont family—fragmented for years—sat under one roof again, tentative and imperfect. But together.
____

It had only been a few hours, but tensions simmered like a volcano under the polished floors of Saul’s island home.

Catherine had made a remark—one of those careless, soft-spoken ones that hit like a knife.

"Darling, if you hadn’t pushed yourself so hard all the time… maybe your body wouldn’t have broken down like this."

Richard stiffened immediately, the IV needle in his arm trembling slightly. Diana, steadied it – she was giving him an IV shot. She caught the flicker of pain not just in his veins, but in his eyes.

“Catherine,” he said, tearful, low and cold, “please.”

Catherine blinked, confused, her tone defensive. “I only meant—”

“No, you meant well, but you don’t know, and I don’t want you pretending you do.”

Diana kept her focus on the injection, but her jaw was tight.

When she stepped away and Catherine tried to touch Richard’s shoulder again, she said—sharp as glass, “Don’t. You weren’t there when he collapsed. You weren’t there when he was hurting.
So maybe sit this one out, Catherine.”

Catherine reeled like she’d been slapped. “I’m his mother.”

“You’re late,” Diana replied. “And that costs something.”

Catherine looked like she’d cry, but left the room instead.

Ashcroft, meanwhile, had wandered out to the estate gardens, more interested in photographing and catching Sri Lankan butterflies than his son’s condition. He made offhanded remarks about the lush biodiversity—completely ignoring the real crisis inside.

When he came back in and commented on how “peaceful” the place was, Catherine exploded.

“Peaceful? Your only son is half-dead in that room!”

“And what do you expect me to do, Catherine?” he retorted. “He has two doctors and a houseful of helpers! I’m not going to weep at his bedside just to soothe your guilt.”

Their voices climbed. It was always like this—twenty years of bitterness pouring out the moment they were in the same room.

Jeffrey finally had enough.

“Enough,” he said sharply, stepping in between them. “If the only thing you’re going to do here is revive your divorce drama, then please, both of you—leave. This is Richard’s recovery, not your stage.”

Ashcroft scoffed, grabbed his bag, and said, “Fine. Good riddance. My best to the invalid.”

He was out the door in minutes.

Catherine stayed.

She found Diana in the kitchen later, softly rinsing Richard’s used tea mug.

“Diana,” she said, voice almost breaking. “How… how did he even get this sick? My Richard. He was always strong.”

Diana didn’t look up. “Ask someone else.”

“Please,” Catherine whispered.

Jeff was about to step in, shake his head—but Saul, listening from his corner armchair, looked up.

His voice was mild. “It was the tea, I think.”

Catherine frowned. “Tea?”

“Royal Milk Tea,” Saul said. “He drank too much of it. A lot. More than anyone should. The blend is potent, dangerous in high doses. His arm got infected and
he collapsed from hypotension, slow heart raye, arrhythmia–you name it–
his kidneys and lungs took the worst hit. It nearly killed him.”

Silence.

Jeff’s face darkened. Diana froze mid-motion.

Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth. “But why… why would he do that?”

Jeff and Di answered at once—quiet, resigned.

“He was trying to perfect the recipe.”

“For the Royal Milk Tea,” Di added. “He didn’t realise how much strain it was putting on his system.”

“He worked himself to the edge,” Jeffrey muttered. “Because he always does. Especially when he’s hurting.”

Catherine looked bewildered. “Hurting? From what?”

But no one answered.

Because pain like Richard’s didn’t come from one thing. It built up—quietly, endlessly—until it broke him.
______

Later, in Richard’s room

Catherine sat by his bedside, her posture stiff, fingers clasped tightly in her lap. Richard lay propped against pillows, tired but alert.

“Mama,” he said softly.

Catherine looked up, startled. “Yes, darling?”

He didn’t speak for a while. Then, “I’m sorry I made you cry.”

She smiled faintly. “You didn’t. Diana did.”

“No,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “I did. With how I’ve become. How I let things get to this point.”

Catherine reached for his hand, hesitated, then held it gently. “You’re still my son. I only want you better.”

He gave a small, humourless laugh. “You say that now, but three years ago, I could barely get a reply from you. After the engagement was called off, you didn’t even ask why.”

Catherine’s lips trembled. “I didn’t know how. I thought… you needed space.”

“I needed someone to tell me I wasn’t a failure,” Richard said.

Silence. A long one.

Then Jeffrey, standing quietly at the door, finally spoke.

“Catherine,” he said gently, but firmly. “If it hurts you too much to see him like this… maybe you should go.”

Catherine looked up, stunned. “Jeffrey—”

“For both your sakes,” he said. “Say goodbye. While it’s still on good terms. Let him recover without guilt. And come back when he’s strong again.”

Richard didn’t argue. He looked away.

Catherine stood, blinking back tears.

She leaned forward and kissed her son’s forehead, lingering a moment.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered. “When you’re ready for me.”

He nodded, eyes shut. "See you later."

And she left without another word.

Chapter Text

If you’re wondering why Saul—a British doctor turned jeweler—Diana, a world-renowned cardiologist, and Jeffrey, a corporate finance professional with basic nursing training, have all become full-time caretakers to one Richard Claremont (or Ranasinghe de Vulpian, as he preferred), the answer lies in what happened when they initially hired outside help.

They had only needed a nurse, yet complications arose with each of the shortlisted candidates brought in to administer medication and injections or provide post-crisis care following Richard’s near-death experience. Technically, there was another option too—a local lady doctor who primarily treated women and was willing to come for a decent fee.

But after that, they decided Richard's recovery would be better entrusted to them alone—Saul, Jeff, and Di—who then took full responsibility for his medical care.
💊__💊 ____💊_____

The first candidate—a Latino-American man in his late thirties, of average height—was hired by Jeffrey, who had to briefly return to Britain to sign some important work documents. He figured that in his absence, someone needed to be there to help them, and if the nurse proved competent, they’d keep him on until Richard no longer required regular shots.

But the arrangement fell apart almost immediately.

On his very first day, the nurse showed up an hour late, citing trouble navigating the rural roads. When he did arrive, he had a thick cologne that clashed terribly with the antiseptic calm of the house, and worse, he tried to flirt—poorly—with Diana, completely unaware of who she was. Saul was civil but tight-lipped the entire time, while Richard, half-drowsy from medication, called the man “the cologne ghost” and insisted he stay at least six feet away at all times.

Then came the real fiasco.

The man, perhaps overconfident or simply careless, misread the dosage on Richard’s chart and nearly administered twice the prescribed amount. It was Saul who caught the mistake just in time, snatching the syringe from his hand with a barely contained glare and a clipped, “Do you even read labels, or just guess your way through medicine?”

That evening, Diana calmly—but firmly—asked him to pack up and leave before dinner. Jeff, upon returning, needed only one look at Richard’s unimpressed face and the tension lingering in the hallway to know: candidate one was a firm and final no.
______

The second candidate was an Irish nurse in her mid-forties, short in stature with a fiery red mane and a brisk, no-nonsense manner. She came highly recommended by Diana’s father—someone Di trusted without question—so Diana herself took charge of hiring her. After all, she reasoned, an extra pair of capable hands wouldn’t hurt, especially when they were all juggling rotations of care, work, and Richard’s moods.

Her first impression was solid: polite, efficient, and confident. She unpacked her kit with precision, asked all the right medical questions, and even complimented the house’s layout—“Spacious yet intimate, like a posh retreat ward.” Diana felt relieved. Finally, someone who might lighten the load.

Then came the afternoon injection.

It was supposed to be a quick gluteal shot—routine, by then. Saul was out for a walk, and Diana had stepped into a call. The nurse prepped the area professionally, talking Richard through it with that steady Irish lilt… but when she administered the injection, her hand lingered a little too long—and not where it should’ve been.

Richard, already tired, sore, distressed and weepy, stiffened immediately. When her fingertips brushed too familiarly along his lower back, he didn’t wait to ask questions. Clutching the back of the clinic gown with one hand and muttering curses under his breath, he made a swift hobbling dash down the hall, straight to Jeff, who was reading in the drawing room.

Jeff looked up, startled, as Richard appeared—teary-eyed, flushed, upset, barefoot, and furious.

“I knew something was off about that one,” Richard wailed, yanking the gown tighter. “Tell Di if her father sends another ‘helpful suggestion’, I’m switching to self-medication and drug- administration and beer maybe.”

Needless to say, the Irish nurse was dismissed within the hour, and Diana didn’t protest. She just sighed, muttered something about trust being overrated, and pulled out the disinfectant.
_____
The third disaster came in the form of yet another nurse hired by Diana—this time, a white British male in his early thirties, tall, with a charming smile and a confidence that bordered on smug. His credentials were impeccable, his demeanour polished, and he was referred by a reputable agency Diana occasionally used for hospital staff.

But Richard had already grown wary of “professionals” by this point. Still, he allowed the man to stay—mostly because Diana promised to supervise.

On the second day, while Diana stepped out to take a call, the nurse was tasked with administering a hip injection. Richard, already sore from the previous attempts and emotionally worn thin, turned his face to the wall and gritted his teeth, hoping for a swift, clinical procedure.

Instead, the nurse made unnecessary small talk, leaned in far too close, and then, much like the previous nightmare, let his hand wander—slow, deliberate, and nowhere near a professional touch.

That was it.

With a sharp hiss of pain, a flash of fury, and blubbing from the embarrassment, Richard shoved the man’s hand away and stumbled off the bed, dragging the half-tied clinic gown with him as he stormed down the corridor. He found Diana in the sunroom, her phone still to her ear.

He didn’t wait for her to finish the call.

“Tell your bloody agency,” he snapped, teary, his face red with a mix of humiliation and rage, “if one more amateur Casanova touches me, I’ll throw the next syringe straight through his eye.”

Diana blinked. Ended the call. And sighed like a woman who had seen enough for one lifetime.

“Alright,” she said grimly. “No more outsiders.”

And that was how Saul, Jeffrey, and Diana became the sole medical team for Richard Claremont—reluctant, overqualified, and fiercely protective.
______

The fourth candidate came at the insistence of the Earl himself—Jeffrey’s father. He had grown increasingly restless hearing about the revolving door of caretakers and insisted on “bringing in someone reliable, someone seasoned.” The man he recommended was in his mid-fifties, with decades of experience, calm manners, and a spotless professional record.

He arrived dressed in a tweed jacket rather than scrubs, introduced himself with a bow, and spoke in clipped, old-fashioned tones that immediately earned him the nickname “the butler nurse” from Richard.

At first, things went unusually smoothly. The man was punctual, quiet, and highly methodical—measuring everything twice, noting vitals in elegant handwriting, and insisting on calling Richard “my lord,” much to Richard’s horror.

But the real issue unfolded quietly over a few days. Richard began noticing that his morning water tasted slightly off. Subtly sweet. Then unusually bitter. One evening, he found the nurse in the study, rifling through a locked drawer in Saul’s cabinet. The man claimed he was “looking for spare gauze,” but his startled expression and hurried exit said otherwise.

It was Diana who finally caught him slipping something into Richard’s glass of water. It turned out to be a mild sedative—unauthorised and unprescribed.

“You said he was difficult,” the nurse explained to the Earl, when confronted. “I simply thought a calmer patient would heal quicker.”

The Earl was mortified. Jeffrey, still in London, however, was livid.

“You drugged him to make your job easier?” he said coldly. “He’s not a stubborn old hound; he’s my cousin brother.”

The man was dismissed before sundown, and the Earl never again interfered in Richard’s care.

From then on, it was an unspoken rule: no more strangers, no more outside help. The only ones allowed near Richard’s medicines or meals were Saul, Diana, or Jeffrey—and they preferred it that way.
______

But one day, none of the three—Saul, Diana, or Jeffrey—were available. All had unavoidable business pulling them in different directions: Saul had an urgent consignment issue at his jewellery workshop, Diana was due to deliver a keynote speech at a medical conference, and Jeffrey was locked into a high-stakes board meeting he couldn’t defer.

After much deliberation—and with heavy reluctance—they called in the final fallback: the local Hindu lady doctor. She was known in the area for her skill and discretion, though her practice primarily catered to women and children. She had once remarked, half-jokingly, that she only made house calls if the pay was "worth the petrol" and 'the headache'.

That day, it was.

She arrived in a modest car, sari impeccably pleated, hair pinned back with practiced neatness. Her voice was firm, her instructions clear, and she didn’t indulge in unnecessary pleasantries. Richard eyed her warily at first, but her brisk professionalism left no room for discomfort—or missteps.

She administered the shot cleanly, checked his vitals, and was gone within thirty minutes, leaving behind a written update for Diana and a faint trace of sandalwood in the air.

When Saul returned later that evening and asked how it went, Richard simply shrugged and said, “She was fine. Didn’t touch me where she shouldn’t, didn’t call me ‘my lord,’ and didn’t drug my tea. By our standards, that’s practically a miracle.”

They laughed, but none of them called her again.

Not because she wasn’t good—she was excellent—but because by then, Richard’s care had become something deeply personal. And no matter how competent the outsider, the bond between the patient and his three overly-invested, in-house guardians couldn’t be replaced.
______

But fate, as ever, wasn’t done testing their patience.

Another such instance cropped up a fortnight later—one of those rare days when all three guardians were pulled away again. Diana was on a meeting with a Swiss medical board, Jeffrey had a court appearance on behalf of a client, and Saul was stuck at the customs office, sorting out a delayed international shipment of sapphires.

In a pinch, Saul rang the same local Hindu doctor, hoping lightning wouldn’t strike twice. But she, unfortunately, was attending to a woman in labour and couldn’t leave.

“I can’t come,” she told Saul plainly over the phone, “but I have a colleague—very experienced, reliable. Tamil. She can be there at the scheduled time.”

Desperate, Saul agreed.

The colleague arrived exactly on time: a Tamil woman in her early forties, dark brown skin, sharp features, and a steel-rimmed stare that didn’t warm even when Richard attempted a polite nod. She carried a neat little medical kit and spoke sparingly, all business.

But it didn’t take long to realise something was… off.

She seemed rushed, unsettled, muttering in clipped Tamil under her breath. She didn’t greet Richard or explain the procedure. She barely glanced at the chart Diana had left with careful instructions.

And then came the injection.

Without warning, without checking his posture or preparing him, she jabbed the syringe straight into Richard’s lower abdomen with a force that made him yelp audibly. The angle was wrong, the depth too much. He recoiled in pain, clutching his side, breath shallow.

“What the—?! That was not the right spot!” Richard gasped.

Instead of apologising or even acknowledging him, the doctor dropped the syringe into her kit and turned away, eyes brimming suddenly with tears. She began mumbling—about long shifts, no time to eat, being overworked, underpaid, and now this—a rude man yelling at her for doing her job.

Richard, still in pain and half-sitting up, looked utterly baffled.

Fortunately, Diana had returned home early. She walked into the room just as the woman was near-sobbing, half-scolding Richard in an accent he didn’t understand.

“Alright, stop,” Diana said sharply, stepping between them. “You’re clearly not in the right state to be here. Thank you for trying, but we’ll take it from here.”

The woman gathered her things, muttering apologies more to herself than anyone else, and left in a flurry of embarrassed tears.

Diana turned to Richard, already grabbing antiseptic and checking the jab site. “You alright?”

Richard snivelled. “Why do they always cry, flirt, or drug me? What happened to a simple bloody injection?”

Diana didn’t laugh. But she did roll her eyes with something suspiciously close to affection.

__ 😷 💉___

It was supposed to be a manageable day.

Saul had stepped out for a meeting with a rare gem dealer. Jeff had crashed on the couch after a grueling seventy-two-hour cycle. Diana’s flight from Geneva was delayed by fog. And so the responsibility of Richard’s care had, once again, fallen into the hands of the Hindu Doctor —the last resort. But as luck would have it, she was unavailable and sent her senior most student –Doctor Geeta.

Richard was stable enough, sure, but still needed his twice-a-day course of antibiotics—and today, they were switching to subcutaneous shots. To the belly.

Unfortunately, the only doctor available was Geeta.

She came in with clipped efficiency, no warning, just latex gloves snapping and the tray of syringes set down like a metal threat.

“Lift your gown,” she said.

Richard blinked. “What? No. Wait—this wasn’t discussed—”

“You were informed,” she said coolly. “This is the new site. Arms are compromised.”

He looked desperately at Maya, who stood frozen in the corner, eyes wide, powerless.

“I don’t—I’ve never had it there—”

But Geeta was already dabbing his lower belly with alcohol, fingers unceremoniously pulling up the hospital shirt. The cold burned. So did the stab that followed.

“AHHHH—!” he shrieked, back arching from the sting that bloomed deep into his abdomen. “Oh my God—it—”

Blood welled instantly, too fast, too much.

“What the hell?!” Maya gasped, rushing forward just as Richard clutched at the sheets, shaking. “You pierced something!”

Geeta clicked her tongue. “It’s subcutaneous. It bleeds. Calm down.”

He was crying, full-on now, face flushed with agony and humiliation. “You—you butchered me!”

He’d barely recovered from the sting of the atropine when Geeta returned, prepping another injection. This time, it was for the crook of his elbow—the same arm still tender from last week’s constant trauma.

“No—wait, that arm’s—” Richard tried to pull away, voice rising.

Before Maya could react, Geeta was already prepping the second shot. “This one goes in the elbow.”

“No—no, wait! That arm—Jeff said not the left—”

“It’s the only viable site now,” she snapped, and without waiting, jabbed the needle into the tender crook of his arm.

This time, the pain was blinding. Richard jerked, crying out again. “God—fuck, that’s too deep! What the hell—”

“It went deeper because you twitched. Maybe try staying still for once,” she said, gauze pressed carelessly as blood began to trickle down his forearm.

“I was still!” he cried. “You jabbed like you were mining for oil!”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” he shot back, breathing fast. “Jeff’s hands never shook like that. Di’s shots never made me bleed down my arm!”

And he was right—because now, crimson was trailing down from the puncture site, soaking into the corner of the sheet. Geeta sighed, pressing gauze like she was done with his complaining.

“I’ve treated patients three times your size and half your self-control.”

“I don’t care if you’ve treated elephants, you don’t get to butcher my arm!”

The door opened. Saul stepped in, his jeweler’s bag slung over one shoulder, halting mid-step as he took in the sight: Richard’s tear-streaked face, the angry welt rising on his inner elbow, the slow trickle of blood.

“Out,” he said quietly, to Geeta.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice was steel. “He’s not a soldier, he’s a patient. You don’t jab him like he’s livestock and blame him when it hurts.”

“He—”

“I said out, Doctor Geeta.”

She hesitated, long enough to scowl at Richard and drop the bloody gauze on the tray. But she was still standing there.

Saul stepped forward, gently cupping the bleeding elbow with a cloth. “You alright?”

“No,” Richard choked, sobbing and whimpering.

“She won’t touch you again,” Saul said softly. “I swear it.”

And then—
“She already did.”
Diana’s voice.

She stood in the doorway, her coat still flapping open, a travel duffel half-zipped in one hand, sunglasses perched atop her head. She looked like she hadn’t even stopped to breathe before stepping into the room. Her eyes scanned the room—Richard’s pain, & the blood—Saul’s grim focus— Dr Geeta— And they blazed.

“Why is she still here ?” Diana demanded.

Saul said. “I asked her to leave.”

“Not enough.”

“Doctor—” Geeta started, stiffening.

“I said OUT.” Di was already at Richard’s side, hands reaching to assess the wound with gentler, practiced ease. “What part of never touch him again did you not understand?”

“He’s overreacting—”

“You made him bleed from a belly shot.” Her voice was quiet now, terrifyingly so. “He’s on blood thinners. You didn’t even check that, did you?”

“He—”

“I’ve read your chart on Richard. They’re lazy. Your technique is sloppier than a student’s. You’re not just incompetent, you’re dangerous. Consider this your final day. You don’t go near him. You don’t go near my patient. Now get the hell out before I report you to every board from Colombo to Delhi.”

Geeta fled.

But Diana stormed past them, ignoring Saul’s attempts to explain, and marched down the hallway. They heard her voice rise in the next room, sharp and cutting.

“You are done. You touch another patient in this county and I will personally file the malpractice report. Try me.” And Diana really did file a complaint against her.

Ten minutes later, she was back, visibly shaking with fury.

She went to Richard immediately, kneeling beside Saul, her tone softening as she brushed the hair off his clammy forehead.

“Richie, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I should’ve been here.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Saul said.

“Yes, I should have,” Diana muttered. “She’s incompetent and she hurt him. Twice.”

Richard sniffled. “You’re here now…”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. “And I’m doing the rest. No one else.”

He didn’t protest when she gently cleaned the blood, her hands steady but so careful. She re-administered the muscle relaxant, whispering soft reassurances the whole time.

“You’ll bruise. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care,” he whispered. “You’re not her."

Di let out a tight breath, then looked down at Richard, who was still sobbing softly.

“Richie, baby—” She brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. “I’ve got you now.”

Still trembling, he nodded weakly.

“I need to give you the second one,” she said, quieter, kneeling. “But I promise, it’ll be different.”

And it was. Her hands were warm. Her warning was clear. Her voice never left him.

He cried still, but not out of fear. Only pain—and something else. Relief.

Chapter Text

Maya sat down after the shot was done, watching him finally ease into soft breaths.

And five minutes later, she was crying too.

Jeff found her like that, when he entered the room quietly after he was woken up by shouts from the med bay—holding Richard’s hand in both of hers while Di quietly wrote notes on the chart.

“Gonna need a sedative in that crook,” Di muttered dryly.

Maya was still there, wide-eyed and visibly shaken. Diana handed Jeff—who had entered quietly—a vial of mild sedative.

“Her,” she said, pointing at Maya. “Half a dose. She’s not built for this.”

Jeff nodded, taking in the scene—the tears down Maya’s face, her death grip on Richard’s hand, and Di giving him a look. “Your turn,” she murmured.

Richard, eyes half-closed, murmured, “Is she okay?”

“She will be,” Diana whispered. “She’s just not used to watching people she cares about suffer.”

His lips curved faintly, eyes fluttering closed.

And that was the last time anyone but the three of them ever touched Richard again.
-------

Jeff crouched beside Maya gently, brushing her hair back. “Hey, hey, come here,” he said, voice like warm honey.

“I didn’t—I couldn’t stop her—” she whispered, trembling. “He was bleeding and screaming and—”

“I know,” Jeff said softly. “You did your best, Maya. You stayed. He saw that.”

She shook her head. “But I—I can’t stop shaking, Jeff—what’s wrong with me—”

“Nothing,” he said, reaching for the vial Di had left on the tray. “You just need something to settle you down, okay?”

Her eyes widened when he took out the syringe. “No, no—not there—not like his—”

“Not your belly,” Jeff said, squeezing her arm with a small smile. “Bicep. Your brave, sturdy bicep. Just like Richie prefers.”

At that, Maya let out a half-laugh, half-sob.

Jeff rolled up her sleeve gently, his other hand settling over her trembling fingers. “You want to hug me?”

“What?”

“I think you need to.”

She didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging tight as he counted down softly.

“Three… two…”

The needle went in smooth. No sting, no flare of pain. Just a calming ease.

When he pulled away, she was still holding him.

“It’s okay now,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to cry, Maya. Just like he is.”

“I’m not as strong as him,” she whispered back.

Jeff looked over at the now-sleeping Richard, faint smears of tear tracks still drying on his cheeks.

“No one is,” he said. “But you’re strong in your own way. And today, you were exactly what he needed.”
______

The hallway was dim now. The tension had lifted—Geeta was gone, Richard was sleeping – his much needed afternoon rest, and the chaos had finally ebbed into stillness. Jeff had gone to grab tea for Saul, who remained by Richard’s bedside. Diana stepped out quietly, finding Maya on a bench in Saul's verdant garden, legs pulled up, eyes puffy but dry.

She sat down beside her without a word.

For a while, neither spoke. The wind outside rustled a loose curtain. The antiseptic scent in the corridor faded into something softer—calmer.

Then Maya whispered, without looking at her, "You ignore me most of the time.”

Diana blinked.

“You do,” Maya said again, eyes fixed on some distant point. “Because I’m not… I’m not looking after Richard. I’m not doing anything important. I’m just Saul’s apprentice. So why are you here now? Comforting me?”

There was no accusation in her voice. Just quiet curiosity. Like she didn’t expect an answer, but needed one anyway.

Diana sighed and leaned back, fingers interlacing in her lap.

“I’m not ignoring you,” she said eventually. “I’m watching you.”

Maya frowned faintly.

“You’re the quiet one, in the middle of a storm” Diana continued. “The one who doesn’t ask for praise or attention. You let the rest of us take center stage. That doesn’t mean I don’t see you.”

Maya’s shoulders curled inward a little. “But you never talk to me.”

“Because you never looked like you needed me,” Diana said. “Until today.”

She turned now, gently brushing Maya’s hair behind her ear, something maternal in the motion. “Today, you stood in the middle of a storm for someone else’s pain. And then you broke. Of course I’m going to be here.”

“But I didn’t do anything useful,” Maya muttered.

“You stayed,” Diana said softly. “You stood your ground when it hurt to watch. You stayed when he needed someone. That is useful.”

Maya blinked, tears rising again without warning.

“And besides,” Diana added with a small, fond smile, “you’re not just Saul’s apprentice. You’re our friend. You’ve been ours for a while.”

Maya let out a watery laugh, trying to brush away the tears. “You don’t even like me.”

“I like quiet people,” Diana said. “They’re the ones who never stop listening. The ones who remember everything. Who never hurt anyone on purpose.”

Maya looked down, fingers twisting in the hem of her sleeve.

“You’ve got kindness in you,” Diana said. “That’s rare. You’re allowed to feel shaken when someone you care about gets hurt.”

They sat in silence again, but this time it was warmer.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed,” Maya murmured.

“You always were.”

Diana didn’t say anything when Maya leaned against her shoulder. She didn’t move, didn’t shift—just sat quietly, her presence steady.

Maya exhaled slowly.

“When I was fourteen,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “my mother got typhoid. Real bad. Month-long kind. High fever, hallucinations, vomiting… everything.”

Diana glanced at her, but didn’t interrupt.

“She was always the soft one,” Maya continued. “The one who kissed my forehead, told me bedtime stories. But she was delirious, weak. Couldn’t even look at me some days. And my father…” Her voice faltered.

Diana waited.

“My Japanese father’s traditional to the core. Stoic. Disciplined. Emotion was… inconvenient. Weakness was shameful. He told me not to cry. Not to shake. Not to fidget when I watched her sleep like she might stop breathing.”

Her jaw tightened.

“He said, you’re the daughter of a family of brave samurais, not a sparrow. I didn’t even know what that meant to be at the time. But I obeyed.”

Diana slowly reached over and covered Maya’s hand with hers.

“So I just… learned to hide it all. My fear. My worry. My panic. I became sarcastic, teasing. Sharp-tongued, because it was easier than being soft. It worked. I made people laugh. I could poke fun at anything.”

She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hurt.

“That’s why Richard and I… we had this thing. Mutual harassment. He’d sass me, I’d roll my eyes and call him a wet paper towel. I liked it. I liked how quick-witted he was. How he didn’t back down, even when I goaded him.”

She paused, eyes distant. “But then he got sick.”

Her voice cracked, just once.

“These past ten days, watching him like this—helpless, hurting, scared—it’s been killing me. And I’m thirty-eight. I’ve seen people bleed, scream, beg. But this… this is different.”

Her fingers curled unconsciously around Diana’s. “He’s a lovely young man. You know that. All charm and clumsy ego and eyes that go soft when no one’s watching.”

Diana smiled, quiet.

“I tease him,” Maya said. “But I came to care for him like an older sister would. And when I saw Geeta jab him like that, and he cried like a child—Di, I wanted to rip her arm off.”

Diana let out a breath of agreement.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to fall apart. Because no one ever let me do that. Not ever.”

“You’re allowed now,” Diana said softly. “With us. With me.”

Maya wiped her face, embarrassed again. “God, I must look like a mess.”

“No,” Diana murmured. “You look like someone who’s finally letting herself feel something she has long denied.”

Silence settled again, heavier but calmer. Then Maya asked, tentative:
“Will he be okay?”

Diana looked toward Richard’s room.
“Yes,” she said, firm. “Because we’ll make sure of it.”
______

The room had quieted down. Moonlight filtered in through the curtains, painting silver streaks across the tiled floor. Richard was half-asleep, curled slightly to the side, his face pale but calm.

Jeff came in quietly, tray in hand. Two preloaded syringes. One antibiotic. One anti-inflammatory. Both intraperitoneal.

He sighed.

“Richie,” he murmured, brushing back damp hair from the boy’s forehead. “Time again, love.”

Richard blinked, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Belly again?”

Jeff nodded. “Yeah. Both.”

A soft groan escaped Richard’s lips. “Tell me you’ve gotten better at it.”

“I have,” Jeff whispered, with a crooked smile. “I swear. I don’t want to hurt you more than I need to.”

With practiced hands, he lifted Richard’s hospital gown just enough to expose the lower abdomen. The skin was already bruised from past injections. Jeff pressed a cool antiseptic swab across the left side first. “This one’s the antibiotic, okay? Deep breath, Richie.”

Richard grabbed a fistful of the sheet and did as told. The needle sank in cleanly, but even with Jeff’s care, his body flinched and a soft sob escaped him.

“Shh, shh, I know,” Jeff soothed, rubbing his side as he withdrew the syringe. “That’s one.”

“Feels like fire,” Richard muttered shakily.

“I know,” Jeff said again, switching to the second one. “Other side now. This one’s faster.”

“Doesn’t mean it hurts less,” Richard whispered. But he didn’t resist.

Another wipe. Another breath. Another plunge.

Richard cried this time. Just a little, high and soft, curling his fingers tight.

Jeff didn’t say anything for a moment. He just leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to Richard’s. “You’re so damn strong,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

Richard swallowed hard, still shivering. “You… you’re doing your best.”

Jeff tucked the gown back over his belly and sat there for a long while, one hand resting warm and steady over Richard’s side.

“You want anything?” he asked softly.

Richard sniffled. “Just... stay till I fall asleep.”

“Always,” Jeff said, settling beside him on the edge of the bed.
______

The afternoon sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds, casting warm, soft slats of light across the clinic bed. Richard sat up slowly, gown folded down at the shoulder, exposing the lean muscle of his upper arm, his eyes were clear. Watchful.

Di knelt beside him, syringe in hand, swabbing his bicep with practiced care.

“This one’s going to sting a little,” she said quietly, her voice even. “Not as bad as the belly, but sharp.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just nodded once.

Maya stood by the counter, arms folded but relaxed, observing. No teasing today. Just quiet support.

“Ready?” Di asked.

Richard nodded again. “Yeah.”

The needle went in. He inhaled sharply—his arm tensed—but no sound came. No tears. Just that stiff jaw, those eyes blinking rapidly.

When it was done, Di pressed gauze with gentle fingers. “All done.”

He nodded again, this time exhaling.

Then his voice came, a bit rough but steady. “I’m supposed to stay. Even when it hurts.”

Both women paused.

Di’s hand stilled on his arm, the warmth of her palm replacing the chill of the alcohol. Maya blinked hard, a flicker of emotion running across her face.

“That’s what you told me,” Richard continued, glancing at Di. “When you helped me through the last one. You said I had to stay. That there were people who wanted me to.”

“There are,” she said, her voice catching just slightly.

“I didn’t cry this time,” he added, quieter now. “I wanted to. But I didn’t.”

Maya finally moved closer, brushing a knuckle gently against his uninjured shoulder. “It’s not about not crying, Richie,” she murmured. “It’s about staying anyway.”

He looked up at her. She smiled, watery but real.

“Doesn’t make you any less brave.”

“I know,” he whispered.

Di wrapped the gauze with a bit of medical tape, soft and precise. “Good job, soldier,” she said, voice low. “You did perfect.”

Richard leaned back against the pillow, eyes fluttering half-shut. He was tired. But still here. Still staying.

And for the first time in days, it didn’t feel like defeat.

It felt like courage.
_______

Di had just stepped out, her phone buzzing insistently. The clinic room fell into a companionable silence, broken only by the soft hum of machines and the muted clink of Maya rearranging a tray.

Richard sat propped up, still a little flushed from the bicep shot, a faint smile playing at his lips.

“You ever had a crush on someone so far out of your league it felt like a fever dream?” he asked, voice low.

Maya blinked, glancing over her shoulder with a raised brow. “Uh-oh. That sounds loaded.”

He chuckled softly. “Yeah. After everything went wrong with the tea, and I passed out—I woke up half-delirious and saw Di standing over me.”

Maya tilted her head, curious now. “And?”

“I thought I’d died,” he said simply. “I really did. She had this halo thing going on—backlit from the window. Her coat was off, stethoscope around her neck, hair a bit messy. I couldn’t even see properly, but I remember thinking, ‘God’s got red lipstick.’”

Maya snorted. “You did not.”

“I did,” he grinned. “And I told her. Right there. Said something like, ‘You’re so beautiful, are you heaven?’ She blinked, did that eyebrow thing she does when she’s unimpressed, and said, ‘You’ve lost a lot of fluids. Don’t flirt with your doctor cousin.’”

Maya laughed properly now. “That sounds exactly like her.”

“Then she gave me morphine, and I think I told her I loved her.”

“Oh, Richie—”

“But she brushed it off,” he added, quieter. “Said I was loopy. That I’d forget.”

Maya’s smile faded into something gentler. “Did you?”

He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers once. “No"

Maya moved closer, perched on the edge of the bed. “I get it,” she said, softly.

“Yeah.” He exhaled. “She saved me.”

They sat in silence a moment longer. Then Maya nudged him playfully. “So… if she had said yes, what was the plan? Get strong and whisk her off her feet?”

“Absolutely,” Richard said with mock pride. “Sweep her into a sunset in Saul's Jaguar.”

She burst out laughing. “You are so doomed.”

“I know.”

And they both smiled—tired, but brighter than they’d been all day.
______

"Well, you're anaemic," Di announced casually, flipping through the report as Richard blinked groggily on the hospital bed. “Hemoglobin’s at 9.2. Not catastrophic. But you’re running light.”

“It happens,” she added with a shrug, seeing his panicked glance. “You’ve lost fluids, fought infection, been on antibiotics. The bone marrow’s been busy, but not that busy.”

“So... iron pills?” he ventured.

“We’ll try oral first,” she said. “Five days. If you tolerate it.”

He tried.

He really did.

But by Day 3, Richard was a pale, cranky mess who hadn’t pooped in 46 hours, and who had declared, voice breaking with equal parts desperation and fury, “If one more iron pill enters my body, I will implode from the inside out.”

Saul sighed, rubbing his brow. “Alright then. How do you feel?”

“Dizzy. Breathless. Cold feet. I look like a haunted painting.”

“Classic blood deficiency,” Maya chimed from the corner.

Di nodded. “We could push another few days, but quickest fix is a transfusion. Just one unit.”

“I’m getting someone else’s blood?” he asked, blanching.

“Not someone. Mine.”

That made everyone pause.

“Wait, what?” Richard blinked. “Don’t we—have bags for this?”

“You’re A+,” Di said, already rolling up her sleeve. “So am I. Jeff’s is, too, but he was vomiting blood days ago, remember?”

“Ah. Yes. Fair point.”

“You okay with this?” Maya asked Di quietly.

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s one bottle. I’ve donated before.”

She sat calmly as Saul prepared the equipment, rolling her sleeve higher and watching Richard out of the corner of her eye like a hawk.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, fidgeting.

“Not really. Just discomfort. Like a tiny vacuum is attached to your vein.”

“Well that’s a cursed sentence.”

“Too late.”

The blood began to flow into the pouch—a rich, dark red. Di was entirely composed. Meanwhile, Richard looked like he might burst into either song or tears.

Soon enough, the transfusion began on his end. The tube snaked into his vein, and he watched the crimson life-liquid—her life-liquid—seep into him like something out of a vampire novel.

“Hey,” Maya said after ten minutes. “Your cheeks have color again. You look... alive.”

He blinked, then touched his cheek self-consciously.

“It’s her blood,” he murmured. “She’s inside me now.”

“Okay, weird phrasing,” Maya deadpanned.

But Richard didn’t laugh. In fact, he was starting to look distressed.

“Hey, hey—Richie.” Di was on her feet in an instant, one hand gripping his wrist to keep him from flailing. “What’s going on?”

“It’s your blood,” he blurted. “You’re—you’re brilliant and powerful and beautiful and you swear in Latin when angry and now you’re literally circulating inside my arteries! What if I do something stupid? What if I faint dramatically or vomit and it wastes all that effort? What if my body rejects you?!”

Di stared at him for one long moment.

Then she leaned in, dropped her voice, and said, “Richard Ranasinha, don’t you dare waste a drop of my blood.”

He froze.

“That is premium-grade Claremont blood, do you understand? The same blood that's distantly related to you.” she went on. “It’s seen top universities, three wars, dated difficult men and a regrettable kiss with an ambassador’s son. It will not be wasted on your dramatics.”

He gulped. “Okay.”

“Good.”

And she gently tapped his cheek. “Breathe.”

He did. A little too fast. But he did.

After a long silence, he glanced up and said, very quietly, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, pulling the blanket over him again.

“And I think… I think it tingles a little.”

“That’s probably psychological,” Maya offered helpfully.

“Or maybe she’s just a lot to handle,” Richard whispered. “Even on a cellular level.”

Di smirked. “You’ll adjust.”

~~~~_________~~~~~____________

Maya hadn’t intended to stay. She’d only come in to check on Richard, really—to chat for a moment, see how he was holding up before his next round of meds. He looked pale but aware, propped against the pillows with a tired smile.

“You’re still here?” Richard asked hoarsely, voice raspy from the sedative. “Thought I scared you off with all this drama.”

“You wish,” she said, folding her arms. “Besides, I figured I’d wait till Saul showed up and gave you your next shot. I like the drama.”

Just then, as if on cue, Saul entered, gloves on, calm and practical as always. “Speaking of drama,” he muttered, walking in with a loaded syringe.

Richard let out a low groan. “Oh no. Don’t tell me it’s that one.”

Saul only raised a brow. “The gluteal one? Yes. You know the drill. Roll over, Richard.”

Maya instantly made a move to step back, but her feet hesitated. She shouldn’t be here for this, should leave and let the poor guy have some dignity. But for some reason, she remained rooted in place.

“I can—uh—leave,” she offered awkwardly, glancing at Richard, expecting him to wave her off. He gave her a weak smirk instead.

“Up to you. I’m not exactly doing a striptease here. Just a jab in the backside.”

And sure enough, he carefully turned, wincing, the patient gown shifting as Saul pulled it up just enough to expose one side. Maya turned slightly, trying not to be rude, but still caught the briefest glimpse of the pale, bruised skin before Saul covered most of it with a sterile cloth.

“This one’s going to burn,” Saul warned gently, steadying the flesh with practiced hands. “Deep muscle injection.”

Richard grit his teeth, fists clenched at his sides. Maya watched his jaw tighten, breath hitch as the needle pierced the muscle. No scream, no real sound—just a soft hiss, the twitch of a leg, the way his fingers curled into the sheets. Her heart clenched unexpectedly.

Saul finished swiftly, pressing cotton over the site. “Done.”

Maya let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“You okay?” Richard asked, twisting his neck to glance at her.

“I should be asking you that,” she replied, stepping closer again. “That… looked awful.”

“It was,” he muttered. “But I’ve had worse this week and this time I didn't feel like tearing up.”

She shook her head slowly, a touch of awe in her eyes. “You’re braver than I thought.”

Richard didn’t respond, just gave a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. But Maya meant it. She’d seen the rawness, the quiet endurance. And she respected him more for it.
_____

Diana was calm, composed as always. She’d prepped the injection —small dose, quick-delivering, meant to soothe the rising tide of agitation and pain. She wasn’t going to hand this one off. Not this time.

Richard lay sideways on the bed, jaw tight, body tense. The gown was already loosened in the back, the sheet folded halfway down. He knew what was coming. But his fingers still clawed at the bedding, arms curled inward like he could disappear inside himself.

“You ready?” she asked softly, kneeling beside the bed.

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Not really.”

“I know,” she said. “It’ll be fast. Deep breath, Richard.”

But even as he braced, even before the sting, the tears welled up—silent, glistening at the corners of his eyes. When the needle went in, he jerked slightly with a broken little gasp, then squeezed his eyes shut, a single sob slipping free.

She pressed the cotton gently afterward, not moving immediately. She didn’t look away from his face.

“I’ve seen you take worse,” she said, not unkindly. “Talk to me. Is it the sting? The pain? Or is it something else?”

Richard wiped his face with the back of his hand but didn’t speak for a few seconds.

“When I was five,” he finally said, voice thick, “I had pneumonia. They gave me shots in my backside for days. I—I was screaming all the time. Nobody explained anything. They just held me down and did it. Since then…”

Diana’s eyes softened.

“…I hate needles. But those? Those are the worst. It’s not just the pain, Di. Not really. It’s like I’m five again, powerless, emotionally wrecked..Humiliated. It always… always feels like that.”

Diana didn’t answer right away. She just sat there, warm palm resting gently on his upper back.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said eventually. “And I promise, next time I’ll make sure it’s not like that again.”

He nodded once, still sniffling.

“It’s okay to cry,” she added gently. “You’ve been through hell and back. You get to cry, Richie. Doesn’t make you weaker.”

That name, said that way—like a hug wrapped in memory—brought on a new wave of quiet tears. But this time, they weren’t out of fear.They were relief.
______

Another Shot, Another Sigh.

Jeffrey had sworn to himself he wouldn't play doctor again. Never. Not after everything they'd just been through. He wasn't cut out for this constant edge-of-collapse intensity. He was the brother, not the medic. Not the one who should be holding syringes and gauze.

Butt—that was the problem.

Saul was out on gem business for the day. Di was in Indonesia attending a specialist summit, wouldn’t be back until late tomorrow morning. And Richie—well, Richie needed his scheduled intramuscular injection now, not later.

So it was just Jeff. Again.

He stood at the threshold of Richie’s room, holding the damn syringe, and cursed under his breath.

“You awake?” he asked, voice low, a little more tired than he wanted it to sound.

Richie shifted under the blankets, blinking at him blearily, already understanding what was coming. “No,” he mumbled, voice muffled in the pillow. “I’m asleep.”

Jeff almost laughed. “Well, sleepyhead, bad news. It’s your least favorite time of day.”

Richie groaned like a dying man. “You promised, Jeff.”

“I also promised you’d stay alive. Pick one.”

Reluctantly, Richie rolled onto his side, muttering something like a prayer and a curse all at once. He tugged down his pajama bottoms just enough, baring one side of his butt cheek, already tensing.

Jeff sighed, knelt down beside the bed. “You always do this thing where you make it ten times worse by clenching up.”

“You always say that right before stabbing me!”

“Because I am about to stab you,” Jeff muttered, disinfecting the site with clinical precision. “But I’ll be gentle. Scout’s honor.”

Richie didn’t answer. He just gripped the sheets tighter, burying his face. His whole body was trembling a little, either from pain, embarrassment, or the leftover trauma that clung to him like a second skin.

“Alright, here it comes. Deep breath, Richie.”

The needle slid in, and Richie whimpered—helpless, raw.

A second later, a low sob escaped him.

Jeff didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease. He just stayed there, gently rubbing the injection site with cotton, watching Richie crumble from the inside.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his free hand pressing gently between Richie’s shoulder blades. “You’re okay, Richie. It’s over.”

But Richie couldn’t stop the tears. They streamed silently, his pride not strong enough to battle this pain anymore.

Jeff let him cry.

And when it was done, when Richie had turned his face away in shame, Jeff said quietly, “Di owes me so much cake for this.”

Richie didn’t laugh. But he didn’t cry again, either.
----

Just when Richie thought the ordeal was over, Jeff straightened up and reached for the second syringe.

“No,” Richard mumbled into the pillow, voice hoarse, still sniffly. “No more.”

Jeff glanced at the clock. “Afraid so, Rich. Other side now. You know the drill.”

Richard let out a pitiful noise, already bracing himself to turn. His body was still trembling, one side of his ass raw and freshly injected. Slowly, he rolled, burying his face again, teeth clenched.

Just as Jeff uncapped the second syringe, the door creaked open.

“Richard? I brought those gemstones
you—oh!”

Maya froze at the doorway, eyes locking with Jeff’s for a second. Then they dropped to the bed.

To Richard.

To his half-exposed, trembling form, cheeks tear-streaked, his other cheek barely covered by the sheet. His bare back, his humiliated stillness.

Richard flinched but didn’t turn. Couldn’t. His body was already heat and shame and fire.

Jeff looked up. “Maya.”

“I—I’ll come back—” Her voice cracked.

“No,” came a soft voice from the pillow.

Maya paused.

“Stay,” Richard whispered, without lifting his head. “Please.”

Jeff blinked, surprised.

Maya swallowed hard, walked in slowly and closed the door behind her. Her hands were trembling. She didn’t sit. She just stood by the side of the bed, watching Richard with a storm of emotion in her face—conflicted, maternal, helpless.

Jeff gently smoothed the alcohol swab over Richard’s other cheek. “It’s going to sting more on this side. It’s already a bit inflamed.”

Richard gave no response—just a slight nod, jaw locked.

Jeff pressed in the needle.

Richard jolted, bit the pillow. A muffled sob escaped him.

Maya gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

He was crying again.
He couldn’t not cry.
And still, he hadn’t asked her to leave.

When it was done, Jeff pressed cotton to the site and pulled the blanket over him with care. “All done, Richie. All done.”

Richard just lay there, shoulders trembling.

Maya knelt slowly by the bed, right beside him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. I’m so—so sorry.”

He didn’t answer.

She placed a careful hand on his back. “You’re… so brave, Richie. You are. I’ve never seen anyone bear this kind of pain with… this much quiet strength.”

Still no reply.

“I’ll stay. Until you fall asleep. Even after, if you want.”

Jeff stepped back, let her take over, standing by the window, watching the sky darken, clouds moving together to rain. Later, when Richard was finally asleep, curled up tightly, Jeff brought Maya a glass of water.

She was crying now too.

He handed it to her silently, then sat beside her on the low couch.

“I thought I could handle this,” she said hoarsely. “I didn’t know seeing him like that would—God, Jeff.”

Jeff just leaned his head back, closed his eyes,and whispered, “Join the club.”
____

Richard hissed softly as the cuff inflated on his upper arm, squeezing far tighter than it had any right to.

“Damn thing feels like it’s trying to amputate me,” he muttered under his breath, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tense.

Maya stood to the side, clutching the folded blanket she’d brought in earlier. “It’s just measuring pressure, Richie. It’ll be over in a second.”

“Feels like it’s trying to pop my arteries.”

The machine beeped. The elegant Hindu doctor Saul had recruited—sharp eyes rimmed with a maroon bindi, long braid tucked into her collar—looked up from the chart.

“Still low. But better than earlier,” she said, voice calm, composed, with an accent softened by years abroad. “Though I don’t like how long your pulse keeps dipping. We’ll give atropine again.”

At the sound of that name, Richard’s breath caught. His wrist curled instinctively toward his chest.

“No,” he said. Just that. Quiet. Flat.

Maya looked at him, then at the Dr.

“Wrist,” the doctor clarified. “It has to be intradermal. Other veins aren’t taking it well. I’ll make it quick.”

Richard flinched even before she approached.

Dr. came to the bedside, already snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. “Don’t fight it, Mr. Ranasinghe. We’ll go slow.”

Maya leaned closer, hesitant. “Want me to hold your hand?”

He nodded just once.

Maya took his hand carefully, gently wrapping both of hers around his fingers. His grip was damp, cold.

The Dr. worked in silence—sanitizing, measuring, prepping the vile ampule of atropine.

When the needle pierced his wrist, Richard bit back a cry—but his body arched, a sharp jolt like fire shooting through his veins. His entire forearm spasmed involuntarily.

“Sorry,” the lady Dr. murmured. “It burns. It always does.”

Richard didn’t reply—just breathed in hard through his nose, eyes glassy.

Maya felt him shiver through the hold of his hand.

“I hate this,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I hate this so much.”

“I know,” Maya whispered. “But it’s working. You’re still here, Richie.”

Another beat passed before he closed his eyes. “Just keep talking.”

So she did.
She talked about the wind today. About the soft drizzle outside. About a dumb student at her uni who thought Shakespeare invented sarcasm. About her brother texting her a picture of a cat dressed as a samurai.

And he didn’t say anything, but his hand held hers tighter.

Chapter Text

“I’m never gonna drink tea again,” Richard mumbled, frowning at his sweater sleeve as he tried to tug it over the faint tape-mark on his wrist. His voice was scratchy, but stubborn, like a child vowing off the thing that nearly destroyed them.

He was curled up on the couch in the recovery lounge, not in a hospital gown—he hated those. The moment the injections or checkups were done, he’d insist on changing back into his own clothes. Right now, it was soft joggers and a loose thermal shirt, a bit too big for him, the collar dipping slightly.

Jeff gave a quiet chuckle from where he was wiping a counter. “You said that last week. Then you smelled Diana’s rose blend and went misty-eyed.”

“Exactly!” Richard shot back, glancing toward her. “It smelled good. But now it’s like—I want to, but I can’t. What if it happens again? What if it wasn’t the brand, or the kind, but tea itself? Or my body? What if—”

“Okay, okay,” Diana interrupted gently, setting her tablet aside. “Let’s stop living in the what if spiral.”

She stood and crossed over, her long braid swinging down one shoulder. “We’re doing an allergy test. Properly. No guesses, no paranoia. You don’t have to live in fear of chamomile.”

Richard blinked up at her. “We can test that?”

“We will,” she said with a firm nod. “I’ll prep a micro-dose patch, and Jeff’ll help with exposure monitoring. Saul?” She looked over.

He was organizing a tray but nodded. “Give me two minutes. I’ll get the clean kit.”

Maya sat curled up on the corner seat, arms wrapped around her knees, just observing. She hadn’t said much since morning, only nodding or helping where needed. But now her brows pinched with worry.

“You sure it won’t hurt?” Richard asked.

“Not like the other stuff,” Diana said. “It’s a small dose, topically. You may get some itching, maybe a rash at worst. But we’ll be right here.”

Saul passed the kit to Diana and excused himself quietly. “You lot have this,” he said, dropping beside Maya with a quiet sigh. “Tell me if it gets dramatic. I’ll pretend I’m not emotionally invested.”

Maya didn’t respond at first. Then she whispered, “I hope it’s not tea. He really loved it.”

Saul tilted his head, watching the way Richard stretched his arm out for Jeff to prep. “Then let’s hope the universe cuts him a break today.”

Back at the center of the room, Diana carefully marked tiny squares on Richard’s inner arm and dabbed the micro-solutions—green, brown, gold. A patch here. A tape there.

“I feel like a bloody guinea pig,” Richard muttered.

“You’re a very loved guinea pig,” Jeff said lightly, watching the timer. “Ten minutes. No scratching.”

“And then?”

“Then,” Diana said, “we know. One way or another.”

The room quieted, save for the ticking timer. Saul’s hand brushed lightly against Maya’s, and she didn’t pull away.
----

At minute six, the itching began. By minute eight, his breathing had gone shallow.

“Di—” Richard’s voice cracked as he looked at the patch test spots. Red. Angry. Inflamed.

Jeff was already grabbing the antihistamines. “It’s coming up fast.”

But it wasn’t just the rash. Richard gripped the collar of his thermal shirt, tugging at it as if it were choking him. “Can’t—breathe—”

“Throat’s closing,” Diana snapped. “Jeff, get the auto-injector!”

Maya had stood up without realizing it, hand over her mouth. Saul held her wrist and gently pulled her down again. “Let them work.”

Jeff slid to his knees beside Richard, yanked up the jogger pants just enough, and jabbed the first epinephrine dose into his thigh. Richard jolted with a grunt.

“Give it thirty seconds,” Diana murmured, supporting Richard’s weight as he slumped into her.

It wasn’t enough.

His breathing stayed ragged, chest heaving as he clawed at her arm. His eyes watered—not from tears, but panic.

Diana didn't hesitate. “Second one. Full dose.”

Jeff’s hands were already moving. Another jab, this time on the opposite thigh. Richard whimpered, unable to help it. His body jerked again before curling toward her, fists clenching in the folds of her blouse.

“Shhh. I’ve got you. I've got you, Richie.” Diana's voice was low, steady, as she cradled him like he was seven years old again.

Jeff uncapped the antiseptic bottle and crouched near Richard’s hands, which were red and scratched from clawing at the irritation. “Hold still, mate. Just cleaning it up.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Richard mumbled, still barely breathing right, voice muffled against Diana’s shoulder. “I really—I thought maybe—”

“Shhh. It’s not your fault. We had to know,” she soothed, rocking him slightly.

Behind them, Maya had tears running silently down her face. Saul passed her a handkerchief without a word.

Ten minutes later, Richard’s breathing was finally settling, but his face was pale and blotchy, the patches on his arm still angry red. Jeff looked over at Diana and shook his head.

“No more tea,” she whispered. “Not ever again.”
---

He seemed in shock—staring straight ahead, chest rising in shallow, uneven rhythm, lips parted but barely moving. Diana kept murmuring to him, brushing his curls back, but he wasn’t answering.

Jeff whispered, “Should we give the steroid too? For shock?”

Saul was already reaching for the box. “Low dose.”

That’s when Richard blinked twice and rasped, “My nostrils are blocked.”

Everyone stilled.

Jeff let out a short laugh of pure relief. “Well, that’s good. Means your airway’s open enough for you to complain.”

Richard frowned weakly. “I wasn’t complaining. Just—letting you know.”

Diana almost cried and kissed his damp forehead. “Thank you for the update, darling. We were on the verge of jabbing you again.”

“Would’ve screamed,” he muttered, voice still hoarse. “Nothing left to poke.”

“You’d be surprised,” Saul replied dryly, checking his vitals. “There’s always somewhere left to stab.”

That actually earned a groggy little smirk from Richard.

Maya, watching all this with a hand still over her chest, finally breathed. “He’s back.”
_____

“Now for the nostrils… let me check,” Diana said, donning gloves and angling a soft light toward his face.

Richard flinched as she gently lifted the tip of his nose. “Hold still, sweetheart. I know it’s uncomfortable.”

He whimpered quietly but obeyed. She peered inside, frowning. “Uhh—very inflamed. Tissue’s swollen tight, almost no airflow.”

Jeff sighed. “We can try the decongestant spray again—”

“We did, twice,” Diana said sharply. “It wears off too quick. His body’s reacting badly.”

She turned to Saul, who had just walked in. “We need to go deeper. Topical corticosteroids through endonasal irrigation. He won’t like it.”

“Wait,” Richard mumbled, eyeing the strange nozzle-tipped bottle Saul was preparing. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a rinse. Steroids and saline, but we have to push it in with pressure. It’ll burn for a bit. Better than you choking on your own blocked nose.”

“No,” Richard said weakly. “No more things in places.”

“You want to breathe?” Saul said flatly.

“…Fine,” he grunted. “I hate you.”

They pinned his head still—not hard, but firm—and slowly inserted the tip of the nozzle into one nostril.

“Deep breath,” Diana instructed gently.

He tried—but the pressure hit him first. The fluid surged up his nasal cavity, stinging like acid. Richard let out a strangled gasp, back arching. Tears welled in his eyes as he thrashed once, then stilled under Jeff’s reassuring hand on his chest.

“It’s burning—it’s—”

“Almost done, Richie,” Diana cooed, voice tight.

The second nostril was worse. It seared all the way to his throat, gagging him with bitterness. He coughed, eyes red, lips trembling.

When it was over, he curled into himself, panting, face wet.

“You’re okay,” Jeff whispered, wiping his cheeks.

“That wasn’t okay,” Richard croaked.

Saul handed him a soft cloth. “That was survivable. Improvement in five minutes.”

And sure enough—his breathing cleared. But he refused to speak for ten minutes after, only blinking slowly as Maya hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re doing amazing,” she whispered.

Richard didn’t answer, but he didn’t shake her off either.
_____

Richard didn’t talk.

Didn’t want to eat. Didn’t ask for water. Just curled into himself—knees drawn, head turned to the wall, fists clenched under his chin like a child lost at sea.

His breaths were quieter now, at least, no longer rasping through blocked airways or punctuated by painful shudders. But the tears hadn’t stopped. Not loud, not even sobs. Just the kind that slipped out stubbornly, silently, refusing to dry. They streaked the pillow, soaked his collar, made his lashes glisten in the pale room light.

Diana stood by the door a long while, arms folded. Jeff looked to her, concerned.

“Should we… do something?”

“No,” she said, firm but kind. “Let him be. He’s earned this space.”

Jeff nodded slowly, stepping back. Saul joined them too, saying nothing.

Maya lingered near his bed for a bit, then quietly placed a soft new blanket at the edge and tiptoed out, rubbing her own eyes.

The room went quiet. A respectful, heavy kind of quiet.

Just before Diana left, she stepped closer to Richard. He didn’t react.

She crouched slightly, leaned in, and said very softly near his ear:

“Use this time wisely, Richie. Think through everything. All of it. You're not broken. But healing... isn’t just physical.”

She brushed a few strands of damp hair back from his forehead, then left the room without waiting for acknowledgment.

He didn’t move for another four hours. Not even when Saul quietly placed a bottle of water and a wrapped protein bar by the nightstand.

He just lay there. Not asleep. Not awake. But breathing.
____

Later, while they were all dining together, Richard declared, “I don’t want to be poked or prodded for the next 25 hours.”
Everyone agreed with a stiffled laugh and respected his request.

They next gathered again in Saul’s lush garden, seated on rattan chairs under the fading sun.

During that time apart, each had immersed themselves in their work.
Jeffrey had caught up on his financial office tasks, Saul focused on his gemstone business, and Maya worked on new jewelry designs. Dr. Diana flew to Kolkata, India for a cardiac surgery case and returned the next day. Meanwhile, Richard had spent peaceful hours appraising exquisite stones—turquoise, quartz, ruby, and many more.

💎 💎 🌱 🌱

By the time the 25-hour truce had passed, the sun was sinking low over Saul’s lush, immaculately tended garden. The breeze carried the scent of flowers, green bushes, tea plants, and damp earth as birds chirped their evening songs, and the group gathered like clockwork—around the wicker table with rattan chairs placed beneath a canopy of flowering creepers.

Richard sat slouched, legs stretched out, hair a little too neatly combed for someone recovering from near-collapse. He was in loose linen and light cotton, but he looked pale under the garden lights—quiet, even with a smirk playing on his lips.

Maya, still in casuals from a lazy day spent sketching jewelry designs, leaned against her chair with one knee up, sipping her lemonade.

“Good to see you up and dressed,” she said, nudging him with the toe of her sandal.

“I’m not up,” Richard muttered, “I’m just... reclined at an angle.”

Jeff looked up from a tablet he’d brought out, stylus tucked between his fingers. “You look like shit, Richie.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Thanks, Jeff. You missed your true calling in motivational speaking.”

“I’m serious,” Jeff said flatly, setting the tablet down and leaning forward. “You’re squirming like a damned hedgehog on a barbecue skewer."

Richard exhaled, slow and shaky, like he was about to step off a cliff.

Maya, noticing the slight tremble in his fingers, silently passed her leather-bound notebook to Diana. Saul took the pen from the notebook's loop and clicked it open with a soft snap. Di positioned it on her lap, eyes on Richard.

“All right,” she said gently. “Start from the top.”

He hesitated.

“I’m not going to jab you,” Di added with a small smile.

That got a weak huff out of him. “Okay.”

“My back,” Richard began, then gestured loosely. “My legs. The base of my neck. My arms. The ribs. I feel like... like someone wrung me out like laundry and left me in the sun.”

“You're aching all over?” Di asked, now freshly returned from Kolkata, still smelling faintly of hospital antiseptic and long flights, despite her cologne."

He nodded. “Even my damn jaw feels like it took a punch. And I didn’t even do anything.”

Jeff narrowed his eyes. “You sure there’s no fever?”

“No,” Richard said, almost sheepish now. “No fever. I checked before coming down.”

“Any inflammation?” Di added, not alarmed yet—but watchful.

He hesitated. “...Yeah. Some. A bit red on the thighs. The side too. Maybe the muscles are just... tired of being pincushioned.”

That made them all quiet.

Jeff sighed first, shaking his head. “You could’ve said this earlier.”

“I *did* say I didn’t want to be poked at for 25 hours,” Richard said, attempting levity. “You all agreed.”

“Yes, but the agreement didn’t include hiding symptoms,” Di replied gently but firmly.

Saul was already rising. “Let me get you a blanket.”

“I don’t want—”

“Relax,” Diana said, cutting in. “We’ll just document. No needles. Not tonight. But if it gets worse…”

“It won’t,” Richard muttered, leaning back with a wince.

“Good,” Jeff said, taking the tablet again. “Then sit still and talk. Honestly.”

The wind rustled through the leaves above them, petals falling near Richard’s feet. It was peaceful, sure.

He glanced away, then back. “Persistent ache in the thighs, both sides. Intermittent spasms too.”

Di noted it down.

“Lower back—dull pressure. Worse when I sit longer than twenty minutes. Neck... tight, and occasionally stabbing. Wrists feel heavy. Jaw too. Random stings—like internal paper cuts—near my ribs.”

Maya raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet.

“Swallowing’s harder than it should be,” Richard went on. “Feels like... not sore, exactly, just inflamed. Tight. Nose’s a mess, blocked in bursts. Eyes hurt if I turn them too fast.”

“Breathing?” Di asked, writing faster now.

“Sometimes shallow,” he admitted. “Not panicked, just... like I’m out of breath after just existing.”

Jeff muttered a curse under his breath.

Richard gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I didn’t want to alarm anyone.”

“You’re not a burden,” Saul said simply. “You’re recovering. Not hiding in the trenches.”

Richard went quiet at that.

Di finished scribbling, tapped the pen against the side of the notebook. “Richard... you’ve done a major setback physically because of your mental state... your body’s bearing the brunt now.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“But,” Di added firmly, “it’s not permanent. It’s treatable. And it’s okay. You’re not failing.”

Saul leaned forward. “Yes, keep calm. We’ve spoken with specialists. Everyone agrees—you’ll be through the worst by next Monday.”

“That’s six days,” Maya said, glancing at her phone calendar. “You *can* do six days.”

“Six days of what, though?” Richard asked, more weary than angry.

Jeff replied evenly, “Targeted muscle relaxants. Anti-inflammatory rotations. Full hydration plan. Chest physiotherapy. Possibly one sedated night to let your body really rest.”

Richard’s eyes widened slightly at that last one.

“And topical patches for the spasms,” Di added. “Plus, warm compresses every six hours.”

“Injectables?” he asked warily.

“We’ll go gentle,” Di promised. "Injectables only if other options prove to be not appropriately effective."

"But gentle healing must be 'consistent'. No more emotional skipping. You rest, you eat, you cooperate. That’s your part.”

Richard let out a long sigh. “All right.”

“Good boy,” Saul said softly.

That got a faint smile from Richard.

For a moment, it was just the rustle of leaves again. And a shared understanding. Six days might still be hell—but they were his way out. He just had to stay the course.

🟢 🟢 🟢

The next morning was dedicated to "gentle healing." Di had insisted. No pokes, no pricks. Just warmth, care, and slow restoration.

They set up a quiet room overlooking the rose vines outside—Saul had arranged fresh eucalyptus oils and Jeff had pre-warmed all the compress packs. Maya flitted in and out, adjusting the pillows just right, bringing in chamomile tea even though Richard only sniffed at it with suspicion.

He was wrapped in two soft blankets, leaning against a padded recliner, his wrists resting on cushioned bolsters. They took turns reading to him—nothing too loud, nothing too dramatic. Just familiar voices and steady hands. It was good.

Until the physiotherapist arrived.

Dr. Ashwin Parekh, in his thirties, had a calm face and even calmer voice. He came recommended, and Di made sure he understood the delicacy of the case.

Ashwin bowed slightly to Richard. “We’ll take it minute by minute, all right?”

Richard nodded, albeit warily.

The therapist started with stretches—gentle ones, at first, barely more than prolonged positioning. Di observed the entire session, seated right behind Richard. Saul remained in the room, watching for any signs of discomfort. Maya stayed away. Jeff busied himself with some papers in the next room but kept the door cracked open.

At first, things seemed fine.

But ten minutes in, Richard flinched at a shoulder rotation. His breath hitched.

“Is it the stretch?” Ashwin asked, pausing immediately.

“No,” Richard replied quickly. “Just... caught me off guard.”

But five minutes later, during a guided neck support movement, his breathing changed. Shallower. Quicker.

“Let’s stop here,” Ashwin said.

Di walked over to him but Richard waved her away, trying to push through. “It’s okay. I can do—”

A sharp spasm seized his lower back. His knees jerked. And then—tears, just trailing silently at first.

“No no no, Richard,” Di said quickly, kneeling by his side.

He shook his head, voice cracking. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t. It hurts. I tried—”

Ashwin immediately backed off. “He’s not tolerating it. Even these modified stretches are triggering flare-ups.”

Richard buried his face in his hands, trembling.

Di motioned for Ashwin to step aside and then guided Richard into her arms like a child. “Shhh... You don’t have to apologize for pain.”

Jeff walked in a moment later and froze at the sight.

Saul leaned in quietly. “It wasn’t rough. I swear it. Our boy’s just too brittle still.”

Richard sniffled, “I know you were gentle. I know. It’s me. I’m—”

“Not cut out for this right now,” Di said, finishing for him gently. “That’s all it means.”

They sat there on the floor with him, two on either side. Saul fetched a soft cooling balm and gently rubbed it along his spine, barely brushing the skin. Jeff set down a cup of water and took a quiet breath.

“We’ll try again,” Di whispered. “Not today. Not like this. But later. When you’re ready.”

Richard nodded through his tears.

No one said much else that day. They just let the silence speak—and the fact that he was held, and understood.
_______

That evening, Di brewed a mild sedative drink—chamomile steeped with valerian root and a hint of honey. It was meant to help him relax after the failed physio attempt, soothe the raw edges of his nerves. She stirred it herself, adjusted the ingredients for his tolerance level, made sure it wasn’t too hot, and brought it to him where he lay reclined in a cushioned armchair.

“Here,” she said softly, crouching beside him, offering the cup with both hands. “Just sip. Slowly.”

He took it obediently. Tired. Fragile. His eyes were pink-rimmed from the tears earlier. He sipped once, twice. His fingers trembled slightly as they held the ceramic.

Jeff watched quietly from across the room, his brow furrowed.

Richard finished barely half of it before pushing the cup away. “Tastes... weird,” he muttered.

“I know,” Di said. “It’s bitter. But it’ll calm you down.”

He nodded. Closed his eyes.

Five minutes later, he groaned.

“Mnh... my stomach...”

Saul was by his side in an instant. “Is it cramping?”

Richard didn’t answer. He leaned forward, body tensing. Then lurched to the side.

Di and Jeff caught him just in time—Jeff grabbing a small basin from the table. Richard retched violently, his shoulders shaking with every spasm, bringing up the drink and what little else he had in him. The dry heaving followed—long, harsh, cruel.

“Easy, Richie—breathe, just breathe,” Di murmured, holding a cold cloth to the back of his neck.

Maya ran in with water, but Jeff gently waved her to wait. “Not yet.”

When it was over, Richard slumped back in the chair, pale and damp with sweat. His breathing ragged, lips parted, throat sore.

“I’m miserable,” he croaked, tears welling again. “I hate this...”

“You’re allowed to hate it,” Saul said, brushing the damp hair off his forehead.

“You’re still healing,” Di whispered, wiping his chin. “This happens.”

“Can we just...” Richard trailed off, voice small. “No more drinks tonight. Or anything. Please.”

“No more,” Jeff promised, settling beside him. “We’ll let you be.”

Maya silently reached over and placed a folded blanket over his legs. He didn’t open his eyes, but his hand briefly reached out and rested over hers. Just for a second. Just enough.
________

It was past midnight when he stirred again.

The room was dim, lit only by a low amber lamp in the far corner. Rain tapped faintly on the windows, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and something herbal. He blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented, his throat dry.

Then he noticed her.

Maya, sitting quietly at the edge of the other chair, legs tucked beneath her, arms folded, notebook untouched for once. Her eyes were on him, soft and thoughtful.

“You’re awake,” she said gently, adjusting the blanket over his legs.

“Mm,” he croaked. “You’re still here.”

“I am.”

A beat of silence.

He licked his lips, hesitant. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

She tilted her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

He looked at her then, gaze heavy, half-lidded but sharp. “You and Di. And Saul. Even Jeff. You’re hiding something from me. Since day one.”

“Richie...” Maya started, but he cut in.

“It’s something to do with Jeff, isn’t it?” he said, voice cracking at the edges. “He’s... he’s sick or something? Something happened? You all avoid talking about him too long. Every time I ask something, someone changes the subject.”

Maya blinked slowly.

He watched her expression shift—guilt, then restraint, then a quiet ache.

“You know it too?” he whispered, the realization landing on him like a stone. “*You* know what it is.”

She reached for his hand, squeezing it once, firm but gentle.

“Listen,” she said softly. “He is fine. I promise you that much.”

His brows furrowed. “Then why—”

“You’re not well yet. You’re not ready,” she said. “Ask when you’re better. And they’ll tell you. All of it.”

He lay back, swallowing, lips trembling just slightly. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she said, offering a faint, tired smile. “But Richard... get through this first. That’s what he’d want. One thing at a time.”

He exhaled shakily, eyes welling. “Okay. Okay...”

She brushed his knuckles with her thumb, letting silence settle again.
----
He didn’t say anything for a long time after that.

Just stared up at the ceiling, his fingers still curled loosely around Maya’s.

Then, almost inaudibly, he murmured to himself, “Keep patience, patient.”

Maya’s eyes flickered to his face, her expression softening.

“You’re learning,” she said quietly.

He gave a faint, humorless huff. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“No one does,” she agreed. “But you’re doing it anyway.”

He nodded, eyes fluttering shut again.

A few seconds later, he added in a low mutter, “I still hate not knowing.”

“Of course you do,” she whispered. “But for now… just rest.”

_____ ☕️ ☕️ ☕️

While Richard still needed injectable meds for the lingering, stubborn illness that had all but derailed his life recently, he wasn’t under full-time bedrest anymore. His mobility was improving, though slowly, and today he was comfortably settled on the living room couch—legs stretched out, a light blanket over his lap. Around him, the atmosphere was oddly domestic. Saul was typing away on his laptop, deeply focused on whatever gem-trade meeting he was silently attending; Maya sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, sketching something that looked vaguely architectural; Diana was scrolling through medical emails on her tablet, and Jeff was nursing his second glass of mango juice, lounging on the adjacent couch.

It was quiet. Warm. Familiar.

Richard glanced around at them all, then cleared his throat. “I want to do a caffeine allergy test.”

Four heads turned to him at once.

Diana blinked. “Are you sure?” Her voice was calm but concerned. “Rich, you were 'on your way to death' four days ago from a tea allergy test. Did you forget the whole throat-closing, sinus-flaring, epinephrine-required nightmare?”

“I do remember” Richard said dryly. “Very vividly. I hardly need reminding of how it felt to breathe through what felt like a sponge shoved up my nose while my throat tried to murder me.” He sat up a little straighter. “But that was tea. Tea has tannins and caffeine. I want to know if it was the tannins, the caffeine, or both.”

Jeff looked up from his juice, eyebrows raised. “You really want to put yourself through that again?”

“I’d like to know,” Richard emphasized. “If I’m allergic to caffeine, that’s one thing. But if I’m not—I can at least enjoy coffee.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Jeff nodded slowly. “Well then, if you’re so set on it—” he stood up, setting the juice aside, “—Di, let’s move with him to the med bay.”

Diana sighed but stood too, motioning to Maya to keep her sketchbook nearby. “Alright. But we’re taking all precautions. Anti-allergy meds, an EpiPen, and the good Lord’s blessing.”

Richard grinned despite himself, though there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “I’d settle for just the coffee.”

—

Ten minutes later, the three of them were in the med bay. Diana had prepared the micro-dose of caffeine under controlled conditions, ready to introduce it via sublingual drop. Richard sat on the reclined chair, heart pacing a little faster than he cared to admit.

Jeff stood behind him, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp but calm. Diana held the dropper, her expression all business. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

The drop touched under his tongue.

They waited. One minute. Two. Five.

Richard blinked, sniffed. His throat felt fine. His nose? Clear. No itching. No redness. No wheezing.

Jeff leaned forward. “How do you feel?”

“…Perfectly fine,” Richard said slowly, in disbelief. “I can breathe. I can breathe.”

Diana smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. You are not allergic to caffeine, then.”

“Thank God,” Richard whispered. “I can finally enjoy some beverage again.”

Jeff patted his shoulder. “Welcome back to the land of the living—and the heavily caffeinated.”

Richard laughed, light and relieved.

But Diana, ever the responsible one, crossed her arms. “Don’t overdo it just yet. Your system’s still recovering. No more than five cups of coffee a day at any rate—and that’s generous.”

Richard threw her a mock glare. “You’re stern.”

“I'm practical,” she replied, smirking. “But feel free to treat your first mug like a victory toast.”

And Richard intended to—though for now, even just knowing coffee was back on the table was comfort enough.

Chapter Text

It started innocently enough.

Richard was half-dozing in a rattan chair under the sun when Saul walked by, cradling a small velvet box.

“Fresh from Myanmar,” Saul announced proudly. “One-of-a-kind, uncut—still has the extraction compound clinging to it. Dangerous, gorgeous, and very illegal to export raw.”

“Dangerous?” Richard opened one eye. “Define dangerous.”

“Like… don’t touch it without gloves,” Saul said with a shrug. “Mines coat them in antifungal arsenic variants sometimes. It's fine now—sealed.”

So naturally, Richard touched it.

He didn’t just touch it. He lifted it out of the box with both bare hands, turning it in the sun like a crow with a shiny thing.

“RICHARD RANASINHA!” came two simultaneous screams—Di, and Saul.

Jeff just sprinted forward like a football tackle and swatted it out of his hands. Richard recoiled in shock, the gem clinking harmlessly onto the grass.

“I DIDN’T KNOW!” Richard wailed, now examining the faint burn pattern spreading along his palms.

“That’s because you don’t LISTEN!” Di barked, already dragging a med kit across the patio.

“Why was it open if it’s POISONED?!” Richard yelled back, voice cracking with betrayal.

“Because you weren’t supposed to be up yet!” Saul groaned.

Jeff was already drawing up an antihistamine sedative. “Hold still.”

“No! Not again! Not another jab—!”

“It’s this or we let the neurotoxin travel to your elbow!” Di snapped.

Richard made a noise of genuine despair as Jeff pinned his wrist and Saul held his shoulder.

“I just wanted to see the shiny thing!” he wailed as the needle sank in.

Maya turned away so he wouldn’t see her laughing. Then choked on it and started coughing.

💀 💀 💀

The House at Noon.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

Richard had been left unsupervised for fifteen hours—long enough to discover the half-open door to Saul’s storeroom. Inside: old documents, gem displays… and a life-sized anatomical skeleton model propped eerily against the far wall.

Richard walked in.

The skeleton leaned ever so slightly to the side. The curtain near it fluttered.

Richard screamed.

“GHOST! DOCTOR GHOST!”

Within seconds, Di, Jeff, and Maya were there—Di with a blood pressure monitor, Jeff holding a slipper like it was a weapon, and Maya stumbling behind them with her sketchbook still in hand.

They found Richard backed into a corner, pale and shaking, pointing at the skeleton.

*“It moved. I swear it moved! It looked at me!”*

Jeff raised an eyebrow. “With what, its eye sockets?”

“I know what I saw!” Richard wailed. “Don’t gaslight me!”

Saul arrived late, panting. “What happened?”

“Doctor bones tried to kill me,” Richard whispered, eyes huge.

Jeff was already checking his pulse. “Your heart rate is 140. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m sane! It twitched!”

“Okay, okay,” Di said gently, approaching. “Deep breaths, Richie. I think the anti-nausea pill mixed with the antibiotic too fast. That can make things… a little spinny.”

“Why is this house full of haunted artifacts?!”

Jeff, trying not to laugh, handed the sedative tablet to Di.

Richard saw it and froze. “No.”

“You don’t have to take it,” Di said calmly. “But Richie, you’re shaking. You look like you’ve seen death. We can just bring your system down gently. Oral med. No shot. No sleep. Just peace.”

Richard was biting his lower lip. “Will it make the skeleton stop whispering?”

Jeff: “It’s not whispering.”

Richard turned to Di. “Promise me it won’t knock me out.”

“I promise. Just calmer. You’re safe. We’re all here.”

A moment passed.

Then he held out his hand. “...Fine. But someone better burn that thing.”

He took the tablet, swallowed, and sagged into the chair like a man twice his age. Di sat beside him.

“See?” she murmured, smoothing his hair back. “Nothing scary here. Not anymore.”

“...Except you all left me alone with that corpse.”

“Plastic,” Jeff corrected.

“Corpse.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

It all began with the yoga mat.

Jeff had brought it over in what he claimed was a peace offering. "Gentle stretches," he said. "No touching. No jabbing. No medicinal drinks. Just your body and the mat."

Richard eyed it like it might explode. "What's the trick?"

"No trick," Jeff said, rolling it out. "Look-Saul's doing it."

Saul was not doing it. Saul was standing five feet away holding an espresso, pretending to read an email while inching toward the shade.

But Maya was enthusiastic. "C'mon, Richard! Just lie down and breathe!"

So he lay down.

Immediately, a bee landed on his exposed stomach.

He sat up violently, slapped his own torso, rolled sideways, screamed, and accidentally flung himself down the three garden steps like a ragdoll in a yoga outfit.

By the time he hit the grass, he was gasping, "It stung me. I'm dying. Am I dying. Did you see it? I felt the venom."

"It was tiny!" Maya yelled, already sprinting with an ice pack.

"It was ARMOURED!" Richard croaked, halfway sobbing.

Di appeared out of nowhere holding what looked suspiciously like an EpiPen.

"I don't need that!" he panicked, flailing.

"I'm afraid you do" Diana calmly replied.

"You didn't need the yoga mat either," Jeff muttered. "And yet, here we are."

"THIS IS A TRAP!" Richard shouted.

The EpiPen went to his thigh, thankfully not deep.

Two minutes later, he was seated on the patio daybed, ice pack strapped to his side, softly muttering, "The mat betrayed me..." as Saul stood over him sipping espresso.

"I knew yoga was a cult," Saul said.

🌱🌱🌱🌱

Day 16. Late Morning.
Saul’s Gem Room – Saul’s east-side workroom with overhead skylight, display shelves, and very poor decisions waiting to happen.

Richard had been advised—firmly—not to touch anything unsupervised.

Naturally, he ignored this the moment Maya left to fetch her charger.

The gem sparkled like the inside of a magician’s sleeve: deep crimson core, flecks of gold that shifted as it caught the light. It sat alone on a velvet pad, glowing just enough to look deeply, deeply important.

“Oho,” Richard murmured, fingers hovering. “What’s your story, hm? Are you a ruby? A spinel? A misidentified pink diamond with a grudge?”

He picked it up.

And instantly—

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A sound erupted so sharp and high-pitched it could probably be heard from space.
It was like a fire alarm and a demonic violin had a baby and gave it a megaphone.

Richard froze. “Oh no.”
The gem screamed louder. The velvet pad blinked red. Somewhere, a parrot squawked in horror.
SCREEEEEEEE—

“Oh no no no!” He clutched the gem like it was a bomb. “Shh! Shut up! People are sleeping! I'm recovering! YOU’RE RUINING MY ARC!”

He panicked.

Ran in small, panicked loops.

Tripped over Saul’s floor mat.
Kicked the gem into the air—
Caught it with his chest.
Then, as a last resort, yeeted it into the nearest potted plant.

The sound cut off instantly.
The plant glowed faintly red.
Smoke curled from its leaves.

Enter Jeff, toast in one hand, coffee in the other. He stared at Richard, who was breathing like he’d just fought a dragon.

Jeff blinked. Took a bite of toast. Chewed.

“Why does it sound like a banshee in labor?”

Richard pointed at the smoking ficus. “That wasn’t me.”
Jeff sipped his coffee. “I didn’t say it was.”
“I was appreciating Saul’s collection!”
“You set off a scream gem, Richie.”
“A what now?”
Jeff wandered toward the ficus, lifted the gem out with a spoon. “Security piece. Anti-theft enchantment. Only deactivates when placed near chlorophyll.”

“So… the plant saved me?”
“It spared the house,” Jeff corrected. “You owe it an apology.”

Saul arrived then, saw the blinking alarm, the scorched leaves, and Richard’s panicked face.

He sighed.

“That’s a prototype. Why do you people never listen to signs that say DO NOT TOUCH?”

“There was no sign,” Richard mumbled.

“Then *you* are the sign from now on.”
----

Fifteen minutes later, the house was oddly quiet.

Richard sat sulking on the floor, wrapped in a towel because, for some reason, the gem alarm had also triggered the mist sprayers in the greenhouse across the hall.

The ficus sat in the center of the room, now placed lovingly in a decorative pot. Di had tied a little bow around its stalk. Maya had labeled it “Hero Plant.”

Saul was on a speaker call with someone in Hong Kong, gesturing wildly with one hand and massaging his forehead with the other.
“Yes, no, it was a false trigger. No, we’re not under attack. Yes, the gemstone did scream, but that was the system doing its job. No, there’s no breach. It was just—”

He glanced at Richard.

“—my apprentice. The human version of an inquisitive raccoon.”

Richard looked offended. “That’s rude. I’m way more charming than a raccoon.”

Jeff: “You’re exactly like a raccoon. You knock things over, rummage where you shouldn’t, and you hiss when cornered.”

“I was scared!” Richard yelled. “It screeched like a death opera!”

“It’s designed to,” Saul snapped. “That gem is a one-of-a-kind alert crystal. If someone tries to steal it, it screams, pings all connected phones, triggers a lockdown protocol, and alerts our international suppliers.”

“…International?” Richard whispered.

The main house phone rang.

Saul picked it up.
“Hello? Yes, yes, he’s fine. No, no need for armed response, he’s not a burglar, just…” He glanced at Richard again. “Chronically curious.”

Richard slumped in the corner, hiding behind the ficus.

Maya patted him on the head. “You okay now?”

“I bonded with the plant in a time of crisis.”

Di: “You also nearly gave Jeff a heart attack.”

Jeff: “I’m putting a shock collar on him next.”

Richard groaned. “At least don’t let Saul use this against me forever.”

Saul, already scribbling on a sticky note, didn’t even look up. “New rule: Do not touch anything that sparkles unless you're bleeding and need it to cauterize a wound.”

Richard buried his face in the towel. “I should’ve stayed in bed today.”

_____🍚 🍚 🍚________

Day 18, Kitchen Calamity

It began with pure, innocent intent.

“I just want to contribute,” Richard had said, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m feeling better today. Let me make lunch.”

Saul blinked. “You… want to cook?”

Jeff leaned in from the doorway. “Should I call the fire department before or after you start?”

“I’ll be fine!” Richard huffed. “It’s just rice. How hard can it be?”

Twenty minutes later, the house smelled… wrong.

Not burnt. Not spoiled. Just… aggressively unappetizing.

Jeff was the first to investigate. He walked into the kitchen and stopped dead.

A pot of violently foaming rice sat on the stove like an erupting volcano. The lid had launched and wedged itself into the ceiling plaster. The backsplash was splattered with frothy white bubbles. The counter was flooded.

And Maya’s open sketchbook, which she’d specifically told everyone not to touch, now looked like a cereal bar.

Richard stood in the middle of the chaos, holding a spoon like a torchbearer of doom.

“I have made a culinary tragedy,” he declared solemnly.

Di arrived next. “What in God’s name—”

“Salt,” Richard said quietly. “I added salt.”

Jeff picked up the label from the counter. “This is washing soda.”

Richard blinked. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, Richard. One seasons food. The other cleans toilets.”

A wet plop sounded as a clump of mutant rice slid off the edge of the counter and landed on Maya’s notebook.

A pause.

Then Maya walked in, took one look, and screamed.

“My Sketchbook!”

“I tried to cook!” Richard wailed.

“You chemically assaulted my art!”

“I WANTED TO HELP!”

“YOU COOKED A VOLCANO!”

Richard backed into the corner. “I’m not touching anything ever again!”

Di pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Deep breaths. Jeff, please shut off the stove. Maya, I’ll see what I can salvage with a hairdryer. And you—” she turned to Richard, “—you are banned from kitchen duty until further notice.”

Saul wandered in, spotted the ceiling, and just sighed. “Is that the saucepan lid?”

Richard nodded. “It achieved liftoff.”

Jeff climbed onto a stool and retrieved it, rice fused to its surface like lunar crust.

“Congratulations,” he muttered. “You’ve broken the sound barrier. With carbohydrates.”

Maya wiped a speck of glop off her sketchbook. “If this thing grows legs tonight and kills us, I’m blaming him.”

Richard lowered the spoon. “I just wanted to do something normal.”

Di, softening, patted his shoulder. “This is your normal, Richie. You never *did* cook well.”
____________

Day 18, Afternoon. Richard’s Room.

The room was quiet. A soft breeze stirred the curtains, sunlight pooling on the floor like spilled gold.

Richard sat cross-legged on the bed, a thick gemology textbook open in his lap. From the outside, it looked like a calm, productive afternoon. For once, he wasn’t being poked or medicated or startled by skeletons.

He was just reading.

But internally… the storm hadn’t quieted.

*When will I get better?*
The thought whispered, unwelcome but persistent.
**Why am I just sitting here… doing nothing? Just waiting…?**

He turned a page but didn’t read it. His eyes stared blankly at the diagrams of ruby inclusions, but his mind was far away.

Everyone’s doing something. They have roles. Saul’s in the workshop. Jeff’s on calls. Maya’s sketching. Di’s saving me again and again.

*And me?*
**I’m just… here. Taking up space. Being nursed like a fragile ornament.**

He swallowed hard, the weight of helplessness pressing heavier on his chest.

**I hate this. I hate being the patient. I hate waiting for permission from my own body to live again.**

He looked down at the page. The words swam.

**You know gemstones, Richard. You know pressure makes diamonds. But how much longer can I hold?**

The page turned again. He wasn’t reading.

He was just hoping—desperately—that this chapter of his life would end soon.

______________

Afternoon. The Sitting Room.

Sunlight filtered through the glass windows of Saul’s sitting room, illuminating the ornate rug and the quiet tension in the air.

Maya, Di, Jeff, and Saul sat in a loose semicircle, cups of tea balanced precariously on side tables, papers and a medical report open between them.

Jeff was the first to speak. “He’s improving, yes. But he’s getting quieter. That… Richard quiet. The dangerous kind.”

Maya nodded, rubbing her temple. “He hides it under sarcasm or silence. Right now, it’s the silence phase.”

“Is he still holed up?” Jeff asked.

Di nodded. “Didn’t come down for lunch. Said he was reading.”

“Reading or overthinking?” Maya murmured.

They all exchanged a look.

“He’s spiraling again,” Di said quietly. “Wants to get better, but he’s started measuring his recovery like a productivity chart.”

Jeff sighed. “The guy’s been through the wringer. You can’t blame him.”

“No,” Saul said slowly, “but you can distract him.”
Everyone looked at him.

Di added, “I saw him rereading the same page for ten minutes this morning. He’s going stir-crazy, but trying to act fine.”

Saul sighed, leaning back. “We need to distract him. Get him back into something that feels normal—not caretaking, not healing. Useful.”

Jeff raised an eyebrow. “You want to give the gremlin a job?”

“Yes,” Saul said simply, standing. “And I have just the perfect excuse.”

“But careful,” Di added. “He still needs rest.”

“Always,” Saul said, already rising. “I’ll go ask.”

Maya grinned. “You mean the one sulking upstairs pretending to study?”

“I mean the one who has opinions on tourmaline color grading at midnight,” Saul replied.

Jeff leaned back. “This could work. You get him moving.

___________

Richard’s Room. A Few Minutes Later.

Richard was still on the bed, textbook forgotten, eyes staring into nowhere. The internal loop hadn’t stopped.

“They’re probably discussing me right now. Planning another smoothie, or worse, another injection.”

There was a gentle knock. Not Di’s soft knock, or Maya’s polite tap. This was Saul’s knock—firm, slightly theatrical.

“Come in,” Richard said hoarsely.

Saul entered, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. “Busy?”

Richard looked at the book in his lap. “Yes. I’m pretending to read.”

“Perfect,” Saul said, already walking to the shelf. “I need you.”

Richard blinked. “...For what? Emotional support? Morbid decoration?”

“For work.”

Now Richard sat up straighter, suspicious. “Define work.”

“I’m cataloging a new batch of gems. Rare ones. Delicate sorting. The apprentice I hired to help bailed after seeing the size of the ledger.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “And Maya?”

“Busy with a bridal order sketch." Saul gave a shrug. “So. That leaves you.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

Richard was off the bed.

No groaning, no dramatic sighs. He actually looked… eager.

“I need a chair with back support, good lighting, and no talking for the first ten minutes,” he said like a professional consultant returning from sabbatical. “And a cup of strawberry shake. The real one. Not the herbal betrayal Di made me drink.”

Saul smiled softly. “Done.”

As Richard followed him out of the room, he didn’t say it aloud—but inside, something had shifted.

He felt… needed.

And that, more than any medicine, was the real balm.

_________ ♦💎 💎 💎 ♦______

Evening. The Gem Room.

The gem room had the quiet intensity of a laboratory—bright white lighting, rows of labeled trays, velvet-lined boxes open like treasure chests. The air was filled with the metallic scent of mineral dust and faint traces of polish.

The gem room was quiet except for the faint clinks of tweezers and the slow scrape of gloved hands across velvet-lined trays. White light bathed the workspace, casting sharp glints off faceted stones and scattering fractured rainbows onto the walls.

Richard sat at the center table, elbows steady, shoulders hunched in focus. His eyes were fixed on the gem held between his fingers—a pale blue oval with subtle inclusions like clouds suspended in glass.

“Talk to me,” Saul said from across the table, voice low and even. He was sorting trays but his attention was fully on Richard. “What do you see?”

“Low birefringence,” Richard murmured. “Labradorite? No. The play of color’s not strong enough. Might be aquamarine—low-iron variety.”

He rotated the gem under the light, watching the refractions scatter.

“Surface drag’s minimal. Clean fracture lines. Brazilian?”

Saul leaned forward slightly, expression unreadable. “Mozambican. But I’ll give you points for technique.”

Richard’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. He set the gem aside and reached for the next. This one was deep red, irregularly cut.

“Garnet,” he said with more confidence. “Pyrope, maybe. Too dark for almandine. High refractive index. Good polish.”

“Correct,” Saul confirmed, jotting something down. “You’re sharper today.”

“Fever fog’s clearing,” Richard muttered. “I think my brain’s rebooting via minerals.”

They worked in a quiet rhythm, the kind shared by two people who didn’t need small talk. Richard kept moving—stone to loupe, loupe to note, note to tray. His fingers were steady, his eyes clear. For once, his mind wasn’t spiraling into thoughts of failure or delay—it was full of lustrous reds and blues, dense greens, translucent yellows. Familiar territory. Safe terrain.

The door clicked open.

“I brought coffee,” Maya said, stepping in with two paper cups balanced in one hand, a stylus tucked behind her ear.

She wore her apron haphazardly, evidence of recent work—gold dust on her sleeves, a delicate tracing stencil peeking from her back pocket. She placed the cups on the edge of the table and gave Richard a half-smile.

“I was working on the bridal set from Singapore,” she said, brushing hair from her cheek. “But figured I’d help classify the cushion-cuts for a bit.”

“Go ahead,” Saul said without looking up.

Richard gave a slight nod of greeting, still focused on a lemon-hued crystal in his palm. “Citrine. Heated. Probably originally amethyst.”

Maya blinked, impressed. “Didn’t even use the spectroscope.”

“I’m feeling lucky,” he said dryly.

They fell into a three-way routine. Saul sorting and checking ledger entries, Maya bringing out trays and noting Richard’s observations, occasionally offering thoughts of her own. It wasn’t boisterous—it wasn’t even particularly talkative—but the silence felt companionable. Steady.

Maya slid a pinkish gem toward him. “Want to guess this one?”

He looked through the loupe. “Kunzite. Strong pleochroism. Could use a better cut.”

“Apprentice-level mistake,” she admitted. “My bad.”

“You’re learning,” he said softly. “Everyone starts somewhere.”

She paused, just briefly, watching him.

“You’re... more here today,” she said.

He looked at her, and for the first time in days, really held eye contact.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think the gems are rewiring me.”

Saul let out a quiet chuckle, not looking up. “Told you they had power.”

Maya grinned, tapping her pen against her notebook. “Guess we’ll keep throwing gemstones at your trauma then.”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “Please do.”

And with that, he turned back to the tray, picking up another glittering shard. The room returned to its steady, comforting pace—stone after stone, soft murmurs, and the slow return of someone finding their footing again, one cut and color at a time.
-----

A little later.

Most of the trays had been catalogued. Saul had stepped out briefly to take a call, leaving Richard and Maya at the table under the white lamp. The air was still warm from the overhead lights, and the scent of metal polish lingered.

Richard had gone quiet again—loupe close to his eye, utterly focused on a velvety blue gem. He tilted it, squinted, made a small hmm noise to himself.

Maya watched for a beat, then smirked. “You’ve been staring at that sapphire for ten minutes.”

He didn’t look up. “It’s not a sapphire.”

“Oh?”

“Blue spinel. Slight doubling under the loupe. Inclusion pattern’s wrong for corundum.”

She leaned over his shoulder slightly, peering. “You sure you’re not just hypnotized?”

He set the gem down, finally glancing at her. “What, by spinel?”

“No,” she said, grinning. “By being back in control.”

That made him pause. His fingers brushed over the velvet tray slowly, then stilled.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Feels like... everything else disappears when I’m doing this.”

“Good,” she said, voice softer now. “You needed something to make the world shut up.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “And here I thought you were the noisy one.”

She laughed under her breath, pushing a loose tray toward him. “Go on then, Mr. Clarity and Cut. Identify that one.”

Richard glanced down, picked up the small teardrop-shaped stone. The blue was soft—almost milky.

“Chalcedony,” he said. “Dyed.”

“Correct,” she said. “We’re getting boringly in sync.”

“Dangerous,” he replied, but there was a note of dry amusement in his tone now.

The door creaked as Saul returned, carrying a folder. “Did he overwork himself again?”

“No,” Maya said, standing up and dusting off her apron. “Just rewired half his brain with blue gemstones and sarcasm.”

Saul grunted approvingly. “Sounds about right.”

Maya gave Richard a nod as she backed toward the door. “Alright, I’m going back to the bridal set before the client has a meltdown. But if you get stuck on anything, you can call me.”

“I won’t,” Richard said.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome anyway.”

She slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her. Richard turned back to the spinel. Held it once more. And this time, as he worked, he didn’t notice the quiet—because it felt like the kind he liked.
______

Late Evening. The Gem Room.

Richard stretched his back, hearing it pop like an old drawer. The gemstone trays were spread before him, neat rows of tagged and catalogued pieces. Fluorites, peridots, zircons. He’d been at it for five hours and twenty-five minutes — the longest he’d focused on anything since falling ill.

The desk lamp cast a warm, buttery glow over the table. A tiny pile of misclassified stones still waited to be sorted. Maybe three hours of work left. Doable.

He sat back, arms aching, eyes dry. And oddly… fulfilled.

Then the door creaked open.

“Alright, Professor Rana,” came Diana’s voice, light but edged with concern, “hands off the fluorite and step away from the tray.”

He blinked at her. “I was on a roll.”

“Five and a half hours, Richie. Without food. Or a break.”

“I had water.”

“That’s not food. Or rest.”

She walked in, arms crossed, the glint in her eyes equal parts fondness and exasperation. She glanced at the tray.

“You’ve catalogued… 198 stones.”

“199,” he corrected proudly, pointing to a little yellow crystal tucked in tissue. “That citrine was pretending to be topaz.”

Diana shook her head, smiling despite herself. “And how’s your head?”

He hesitated. “Clearer than it’s been in days.”

“But your body?”

Richard flexed his shoulders, winced slightly. “Wants to sue me.”

“Exactly.” She walked behind him and gently pressed her palm to his nape. “Still a bit warm. Not alarming. But it’s enough.”

“I just wanted to feel… like myself,” he murmured.

“You do. But yourself needs to rest too.”

He let out a quiet breath, leaning back into her touch. She was warm. Steady.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Just… let me finish the green tray.”

“Nope.” She crouched beside him, meeting his eyes. “You’ll finish it tomorrow. And maybe let someone bring you food in the meantime?”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “Sandwich?”

“Already in the kitchen.”

He finally stood, wincing, but there was pride in his posture — not defiance. Just quiet triumph.

“Thanks, Di.”

“Always.”

She glanced back at the tray, then at him.

“You’re healing. One gemstone at a time.”
______

Night. Saul’s Veranda Dining Table, Overlooking the Garden.

The night was warm but breezy, and the long dining table had been laid out under the fairy lights Saul kept strung from the terrace’s awning. Plates clinked, laughter drifted, and something smelled suspiciously like burnt curry.

“Not it,” Maya declared as Diana looked around for the culprit.

Richard leaned back in his chair, nursing a mango soda. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower after his long gem-sorting shift, and the fatigue had settled into his limbs like soft clay. But his mind felt alive — lighter than it had in weeks.

Jeff stabbed a piece of roast with suspicious precision.

“You’ve got the posture of someone who just discovered a new spinal ache,” he remarked toward Richard.

“Better than your posture,” Richard shot back. “You sit like taxes are physically weighing on your shoulders.”

“They are, actually,” Jeff said solemnly. “Two weeks of it — taxes, tariffs and trade wars.You’ve been unconscious for the worst fiscal quarters, you lucky brat.”

Richard smirked. “Then maybe you’ll show me your ledgers. Or are they too encrypted for my dazzling common sense?”

“They’re too encrypted for Maya’s common sense,” Jeff grinned.

“I don’t want to make sense of your mess,” Maya muttered through a mouthful of daal.

The table chuckled. Even Saul gave a low, approving hum as he poured more chutney.

______

The dinner had been good. Too good. Which, in Richard’s world these days,
usually meant a curveball was coming.

Jeff was nursing his third helping of curry rice — relaxed, unusually kind, and… oddly nostalgic. It wasn’t that Richard didn’t appreciate it. He did. But he knew Jeff too well.

So when the laughter over Maya’s failed attempt at lighting the mosquito coil died down, Richard leaned forward slightly, voice just above casual.

“You know, Jeff,” he began, “you’ve been… nice.”

Jeff looked up mid-bite, squinting. “I always am.”

Richard smirked. “No, I mean suspiciously nice. Like you’ve rewritten the last two years in your head.”

Jeff set down his spoon, chewing slower now.“That’s… suspicious?”

“No,” Richard said with a soft smile. “Just… unexpected.”

The breeze rustled the leaves above.

“It’s like the past two years never happened,” Richard continued. “Like everything’s back to being easy. Like before the inheritance & engagement mess.”

Richard’s tone softened. “And these past nineteen days. You’ve stayed. You’ve helped. .”

Diana glanced up from her plate.

Richard tilted his head, more thoughtful now. “But there’s one thing that’s been on my mind.”

Jeff exhaled slowly but said nothing.

“You haven’t mentioned Henry,” Richard said quietly. “Not once. Not since I woke up.”

A heavy silence followed — not loud, just present.

Jeff didn’t meet his eyes. He reached for his glass, took a sip of water, and said simply, “Later.”

Diana glanced at Maya, who immediately looked down. Even Saul’s hands paused mid-serve.

“I don’t need the whole story” Richard said gently. “Just… are you okay?”

Jeff looked away, his jaw working, like he was chewing on words too sharp to swallow.

Then he said quietly, “You almost died. I didn’t want to taint your recovery with ghosts.”

Richard watched Jeff for a moment but didn’t press. Not here. Not yet.

And Diana, sensing the shift, jumped in lightly, “Maya found some board games in the upstairs cabinet.”

Richard blinked, moment broken.

“Old ones, some antique looking” Diana continued smoothly, picking up the thread like it was always meant to be there. “Dusty, but interesting. We thought maybe we could play them tomorrow? If your gemstone marathon doesn’t kill you first.”

Richard let out a soft huff of amusement, sitting back. “Board games, huh? I hope it’s not Monopoly. Jeff's always been best at it.”

And just like that, the conversation shifted — from things unsaid to dice rolls and battleship strategies.

But Richard didn’t forget the pause. Or the way Jeff said “later” like it meant more than just not now.

______

Chapter Text

The Garden, next morning.

The soft sun filtered through the swaying branches, birds chirping somewhere overhead. A blanket had been spread over the grass, but the promised "board games" were nowhere in sight.

Richard squinted around, eyebrows raised. “So… what games do we have?”

He glanced at everyone expectantly. “And come to think of it, why didn’t anyone suggest board games earlier?”

“Because, genius,” Maya said, popping a grape into her mouth without looking up from her sketchbook, “you weren’t physically up for pushing a carrom goti, or mentally up for strategizing anything beyond ‘should I faint dramatically now or later.’”

Richard opened his mouth to object—then shut it. Fair point.

Just then, Saul entered from the house, followed by Raman, who was pushing a supermarket-style trolley cart filled with old, stacked boxes. The entire setup wobbled like a Jenga tower on wheels.

“We come bearing entertainment,” Saul announced. “And dust particles that refused to budge even after dusting.”

Diana and Jeff were already seated under the canopy with Richard and Maya, the former inspecting his nails, the latter sketching… something that looked suspiciously like Richard mid-faint.

“Alright,” Saul declared, digging into the cart like a showman, “First game’s Carrom. My personal favourite. Prepare to lose.”

“Second is Monopoly, obviously,” Jeff said, stretching out. “My best game. I don’t just win—I economically crush you.”

“That’s not how healing works, Jeff,” Diana muttered, amused.

“Third,” Saul continued, pulling out a clunky box with squeaky plastic parts, “Operation. Di’s profession. I heard
she's obsessed with this one.”

“It builds precision!” Di defended. “And patience!”

“And then we cry about failing at both,” Jeff muttered.

Maya looked up now, eyes gleaming. “Actually, my favourite board game is this storytelling card game from Japan—” she held up a delicate pastel box, “—where you narrate magical mishaps based on the cards you draw. Lots of chaos. Lots of potential murder. It’s beautiful.”

Everyone blinked.

“I call that the most Maya sentence ever,” Richard said.

Then Maya turned to him, grinning. “Okay, your turn. What’s your favorite, Richard? Is it chess?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You assume it’s chess.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Because you’re dramatic, overly intellectual, and love cornering people.”

“Only metaphorically.”

“Nope, I bet you’ve memorized the Sicilian Defence.”

“I also play Snakes and Ladders, thank you very much,” Richard sniffed. “Very symbolic. Fall, rise, repeat.”

“You're a metaphor addict,” Jeff said.

Richard shrugged with a little smirk. “It’s part of my charm.”

________

Carrom board set. Players ready.

The carrom board had been dusted, flicked, and placed on a low table in the center. Saul had removed his slippers like it was a dojo mat, cracked his knuckles like a champion about to defend his title, and sat cross-legged.

“Teams?” he asked, with the gravitas of a battle announcer.

“Let’s keep it simple,” Maya said, already sitting beside him. “Me and Saul. Versus the Brits.”

“I object to being generalized,” Richard said, settling across from them.

“That’s fair,” Diana said, taking a seat beside Richard. “But you’re both still about to lose.”

Jeff stretched. “Let the record show: I’ve never lost at Carrom.”

“Liar,” Maya shot back.

Saul reached into the coin pouch like a gambler touching fate and started placing the white and black pieces, centering the red queen like it was royalty.

“Alright. Maya, you strike first,” he said with a wink.

Maya leaned in, hair falling over one eye as she positioned the striker with precision—and then completely missed the coins.

“Okay that was practice,” she said, already snickering.

Jeff took his turn and managed to knock a white coin into a corner pocket.

“Wow,” Richard whispered to Diana, mock-serious. “He is a threat.”

Saul leaned forward, aiming with narrowed eyes. Then crack!—he pocketed two coins in a single move, followed by a triumphant snap of fingers. “This is how you reclaim your legacy.”

“Relax, gladiator,” Richard said, taking his turn. His finger flicked out—and the striker hit the queen cleanly, sending it straight to the pocket. Everyone gasped.

“That was lucky,” Saul grumbled.

“That,” Richard said smugly, “was talent dipped in drama.”

Diana added under her breath, “He practiced in the mirror last night.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “I heard the sound of striker flicks from his room. Thought it was a ghost.”

“Focused ghost,” Richard replied.

The game devolved from that point into fierce banter, Saul leaning forward like a sniper with every move, Jeff giving commentary in a faux sports announcer voice, Diana keeping score with ruthless accuracy, and Maya inventing a rule halfway through just to troll Jeff.

It ended with Richard dramatically missing his final coin and Saul whooping like he’d won Olympic gold.

“That,” Saul said, “is why I’m banned from local tournaments. Too intense.”

“I need a juice break,” Jeff muttered.

________

A short juice-and-biscuit break later. Monopoly board now spread out. Jeff’s sleeves are rolled up. Trouble is brewing.

“This,” Jeff said, holding up the silver top hat token, “is my arena.”

“God, he has a monologue for every board game,” Maya whispered to Diana.

Richard picked the dog piece without ceremony. “Can we just play before the real estate bubble bursts?”

“Rules are simple,” Jeff continued like a TED speaker. “Buy cheap. Build fast. Destroy friendships.”

“Just like America,” Saul muttered.

Everyone took their places. Dice rolled. Properties were claimed. And soon, Jeff had his first hotel on Boardwalk, his grin growing larger with every acquisition.

“Jeffrey,” Richard announced with mock awe, “has become the tycoon our economy warns us about.”

“He’s impossible to stop,” Diana groaned as she landed on his Pennsylvania Avenue and handed over half her money.

Saul was already bankrupt.

“I blame my early childhood,” he said, tossing his Chance card like a dramatic resignation letter.

But then... Maya.

She’d quietly built an empire of mid-tier properties—orange, red, and yellow. While everyone feared Jeff’s blues, she had been collecting souls with every rent.

“Oh no,” Jeff said when he landed on her Illinois Avenue hotel.

“Rent,” she said sweetly.

“How much?”

She showed him the card. “Nine hundred.”

Jeff choked. “That’s criminal.”

“Capitalism,” she replied with a wink.

Within two turns, Maya had forced Jeff to mortgage four properties, sell a hotel, and start sweating.

“You planned this,” Jeff muttered. “You let me feel powerful—then struck like a shark in Chanel.”

“Why thank you,” Maya said, pretending to adjust invisible sunglasses.

Richard was howling with laughter. “You’ve been checkmated by a sugar biscuit.”

Diana added, “To be fair, she is the one who reads finance books for fun, unlike you 'for work'.”

Finally, Jeff landed on Maya’s red hotel and slammed down his last bit of cash.

“I demand a rematch,” he declared.

“Tomorrow,” Maya said, patting his shoulder. “Now go hydrate, mogul.”

________

Post-Monopoly laughter was still buzzing. New board. New chaos. Operation.

Di unboxed Operation with glee, her eyes sparkling.

“I haven’t played this in years,” she said, already positioning the tweezers. “Let’s see if I still have the touch.”

“I call next!” Maya shouted.

“Please, it’s a game of precision,” Jeff scoffed. “Let the people with real hand control go first.”

“You’re the one who just paid Maya a thousand in pretend money,” Richard snorted.

They laughed, everyone crowding around the low table in the shade of the Grand Verdant garden. Saul was reading the manual out loud with exaggerated seriousness like it was a surgical protocol. Raman, now comfortably involved, brought cold drinks.

And Di? Di was in her zone.

Buzz!
“Oh shoot, missed the funny bone!” she laughed.

Jeff leaned in. “Step aside, Doctor. I’m here to claim this patient's liver.”

The group dissolved into playfulness—Maya made a beeping noise every time someone failed, Saul kept a fake score tally on a napkin, and Di jokingly accused them of malpractice.

Richard smiled at first, enjoying the silliness… but slowly, the noises—the buzz, the sudden laughter, the surgical jokes—began to twist inside his chest.

Buzz!

“Whoops, he’s bleeding out!” Jeff cried dramatically.

Richard flinched. His smile faded.

Buzz!

“Oh no, cardiac arrest!”

“Don’t kill him, Doctor Di!”

That one did it.

The word cardiac hit him like a slap. His own body remembered. The ECG wires. The blur. The tubes.The oxygen mask. That cold helplessness. Dying.

Richard’s breath hitched. He stood abruptly, stumbling back a step.

“I—I’m going inside.”

Everyone turned. His face was pale. Eyes too wide.

“Richie?” Di asked, already rising.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice thin. “Just—just the heat.”

He walked off too fast, shoulders stiff. His glass of juice tipped over but no one noticed.

There was a silence. Then Maya quietly said, “I think we went too far.”

Saul nodded, folding the napkin. “Too much stimulation. Too soon.”

Diana picked up the fallen glass and whispered, “I’ll check on him.”

Jeff just sat there, stunned. He’d been the loudest.

“I didn’t mean to—” he began, then stopped.

They didn’t say it out loud, but it hung in the air:

He’s healing. But not all wounds are visible.

________

The House in Motion

Diana was in the east hallways when
Jeff caught up to her.

“He’s not in his room,” he said, voice tight. “Not in the sitting room either. Or the library.”

“I checked the gem room,” she said quickly. “Nothing.”

Jeff’s heartbeat was pounding. “What if he fainted again?”

“Or got disoriented—”

They split up, scouring every corner of the house. The veranda. The back courtyard. Even the little storeroom near the kitchen. No Richard.

The light mood from the board games was long gone. Maya had gone silent. Saul was checking every door.

“Wait,” Jeff said, freezing mid-step in the hallway. “The terrace.”

He took the stairs two at a time. Pushed open the heavy metal door—
And there he was.

Richard sat on the cool stone floor of the terrace, knees loosely folded, arms around them. Beside him sat Raman, quietly offering presence, not conversation.

The view from up there stretched into the distance—rolling Sri Lankan hills, warm late-afternoon sun, and sky fading from bright gold to the edges of dusk.

Jeff exhaled like he hadn’t in ten minutes. Relief washed over him in a single, crashing wave.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Richard looked over his shoulder. His expression wasn’t blank or distraught—it was just... tired. Like someone who’d hit their limit and needed silence more than noise.

Diana stepped onto the terrace a beat later, visibly breathless. She saw him—and her face softened instantly.

“You scared the crap out of us,” she said gently, coming closer and crouching beside him. “We thought you’d… well…”

“I know,” Richard muttered, not quite meeting their eyes. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t breathe down there.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Jeff said, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t thinking. The jokes—”

“It wasn’t the jokes,” Richard interrupted, voice calm but small. “Just… the words. The buzzing. It reminded me of —you know what. Everything felt too loud. Like I was back there. And I knew it wasn’t real, but it didn’t matter.”

There was a silence. Only the breeze moved now, brushing across their faces.

Raman stood slowly, giving them space. “Master Richard is okay,” he said quietly to Diana. “I stayed. Just in case.”

She gave him a grateful nod.

“Can I sit?” Jeff asked, suddenly unsure of his place.

Richard nodded once.

Jeff folded down next to him, a bit awkward, and said nothing for a while.

Then, in a voice barely louder than the wind:
“I'm glad you came up here instead of pushing yourself till you broke.”

Richard gave a tiny, tired smile.

“I’m learning,” he said. “Not fast. But... I’m learning.”
------

Diana didn’t wait. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around Richard from the side, pulling Jeff into the embrace too. For a moment, none of them spoke.

It wasn’t dramatic or tearful—it was quiet and necessary.

Richard closed his eyes. He let himself lean into it. Into them.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Diana pressed a light kiss to his temple. “Anytime.”

After a while, Jeff said, “Alright, I propose we declare a ceasefire on board game wars for today.”

“Seconded,” Diana said immediately.

“I didn’t even vote,” Richard said weakly.

“You were outvoted the moment you ghosted with Raman,” Jeff teased, bumping his shoulder gently.

Richard chuckled. Just once. But it was real.

Downstairs, Maya peeked up the staircase, saw Diana flash a thumbs-up, and let out a relieved sigh. She turned to Saul and nodded. “He’s okay. They found him.”

Saul exhaled. “Good. No more games today.”

Maya nodded. “Yeah. Let’s just… make tea. Something warm.”

Raman returned quietly, gave them a confirming glance, then went to the kitchen.

Up on the terrace, the breeze carried the scent of evening blooms. Diana sat with her back against the railing. Jeff stretched his legs. Richard stayed between them, calmer now, his head leaning slightly against Diana’s shoulder.

He didn’t say it out loud, but in that quiet terrace moment—with nothing to prove and no pressure to smile—he finally felt like he could just be.

Safe. Held. Human.
_________

Later that evening, long after the board games had been packed away and the others had drifted off to their rooms, Saul found Richard alone in the gem room. The lights were low, the velvet trays half-organized. Richard wasn’t working—just sitting at the table, a stray garnet turning slowly between his fingers.

Saul leaned against the doorframe for a moment before stepping inside.

"You know," he said casually, "the Richard I took under my wing wouldn’t let a little game skirmish rattle him."

Richard didn’t look up. “I guess you got the knockoff version this time.”

“Hmph.” Saul walked over, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat down. “I don’t buy knockoffs.”

Silence hung for a beat.

Saul reached out and plucked the garnet from Richard’s fingers. He examined it, tossed it gently from one hand to the other.

“I’ve seen you handle Burmese sapphires under pressure. I’ve seen you talk down clients who could buy the moon if it were for sale. You’ve appraised stones worth millions with steadier hands than surgeons.”

He set the garnet down carefully.

"So what happened today? Because it wasn’t about a game."

Richard’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. It just… spiraled. I felt like I was slipping again.”

Saul nodded slowly. Then leaned back in his chair.

“You want me to treat you like porcelain? Or like the jeweler I know you are?”

Richard looked up at him. “The jeweler.”

“Then I’ll say this once,” Saul said, voice cool and precise. “You had a rough moment. So what? You regroup, recalibrate, and move on. That’s what professionals do. That’s what you do.”

Richard exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing.

“I’m not saying don’t feel things,” Saul added. “I’m saying—don’t let them run the damn shop.”

Richard chuckled softly. “Got it.”

Saul stood up, smooth and unhurried. He paused at the door.

“Get some rest, Richard. Tomorrow we’re logging the Burmese collection, and I want that sharp-eyed bastard I hired back on the floor.”

Richard gave a tired but genuine smile. “Yes, sir.”

Saul didn’t turn around. “Goodnight.”
__________
---

Two days later, another morning rolled in quietly—hushed sunlight spilling over the lush greenery of the garden still damp with dew.

Everyone had cleared their schedules again. Jeff’s phone buzzed incessantly from the edge of a bench, unanswered. Di had turned down two calls from her hospital's Singapore branch. And Maya had even cancelled her teleconsult with a client in Bangkok.

Because today was sacred. Reserved. For Richard.

Their favorite person.

No one said it aloud, but there was an unspoken rule hanging over the house:
No Operation—the memory of the last game's unraveling still fresh in their minds.
No Monopoly either, despite Jeff’s insistence that he had a new unbeatable strategy.
Not even Carrom, Saul’s beloved pick, had made it out of its wooden case.

It was chess. Plain and quiet and focused.

The garden was set. Two boards had been laid out under the shade of The Grand Verdant Hall’s side pergola. The air smelled faintly of fresh croissants and tea—Raman’s doing.

“Alright,” Maya clapped her hands. “I call dibs on playing Saul first. He's the only one who won't gloat if I lose.”

“Excuse you,” Jeff said, taking a sip of his coffee, “I gloat tastefully.”

Di chuckled. “You gloat like it’s a sport.”

Richard, seated on a low cushioned bench with a lap blanket thrown over his knees, just smiled.

He hadn’t said much yet—but his eyes tracked the chess pieces on both boards like a hawk. Not just the moves—he was watching the way everyone moved.

Saul caught his gaze and tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “You’re playing the winner of this match, Mr. Ranasinha.”

“Looking forward to it,” Richard said quietly.

_________

The final games were set after much arguing, rearranging of cushions, and a passionate debate over whether Maya and Jeff’s draw was even “official.”

Left-hand board: Saul vs. Diana.
A slow, cerebral battle. Di played bold openings, but Saul, ever the patient strategist, countered like a steady tide. In the end, he outmaneuvered her with a gentle smile and a soft “Checkmate.”

Right-hand board: Maya vs. Jeff.
A match filled with banter, exaggerated sighs, and a suspiciously long pause where Jeff claimed he was “calculating probabilities.”
It ended in a draw, both of them staring at the board like they’d been cheated by fate.

“We go again,” Maya declared.

“Nope,” Saul interrupted firmly, sipping his tea. “New matchups. Diana vs. Maya. Jeff—you’re with me.”

Jeff blinked. “Wait, I thought I’d earned a break—”

“You talked through half your game,” Saul replied dryly. “I was tortured.”

So the matches restarted.

Maya tried to avenge her earlier draw but fell to Diana’s aggressive queen-side assault.
Meanwhile, Jeff found out—yet again—that Saul was not to be underestimated.
“Is there a secret grandmaster certificate hidden in your drawer somewhere?” Jeff groaned.

Then came a pause. Richard stretched slightly and murmured, “I’m bored watching.”

Everyone turned.

“You want to play?” Saul asked.

Richard nodded. “With you. First.”

So the board was cleared again. The garden fell silent.

Richard vs. Saul.

The match was… intense. Quiet. Focused. Each move calculated with purpose.
Saul played with a glint of fond surprise—Richard was sharp.

It ended in a draw.

Di gave him a mock salute. “Now me. I want a turn.”

Richard shrugged. “Okay. Let’s see if your queen’s still aggressive.”

Di snorted. “She always is.”

This time, Richard won.

“Wha—?” Di leaned back dramatically. “He beat me? Just like that?”

Maya laughed. “You’re really good, Richie. And you were saying chess isn’t your favorite?”

“It’s not,” Richard said, smiling with quiet mischief. “I want to play Ludo now. That’s my favorite.”

Everyone groaned at once.

Di sighed, “Should’ve known. Of course the man who just wiped the board with us wants to roll dice and yell at people for sending him back to start.”

Richard, already pulling out the Ludo board: “Exactly.”

________

The Ludo board was set in the center of the garden table, its colorful layout gleaming under the soft morning sun. Maya brought out the dice with a dramatic flourish.

Richard picked yellow.
Maya grabbed red.
Jeff, green.
Di, blue.
Saul abstained, watching with tea in hand, smirking like an amused umpire.

“Let the real war begin,” Maya announced, cracking her knuckles.

First few rounds: mostly uneventful. Dice rolled. Tokens hesitated in their homes. Occasional “Six!”s earned cheers.

Then Richard sent Maya’s token home.
“You didn’t,” she whispered.

“I did,” he replied serenely, adjusting his posture like a nobleman finishing a duel.

“Oh it’s on,” she growled.

Di rolled next. Six. Moved.
Another six.
Another.

“Witchcraft,” Jeff muttered.

“Stop her!” Richard yelled. “She’s ascending!”

Then Jeff sent Richard home.

“You traitor!” Richard gasped.

“You started it,” Jeff said with a wink. “Never forget Sri Lanka Day 4, when you stole my grapes.”

“That was ten days ago!”

“I hold grudges like heirlooms.”

Di got sent home by Maya. Maya was then sent back by Richard, who was sent back again by Jeff, and at one point, all four of them had no tokens on the board.

“Is this Ludo or generational revenge?” Saul murmured.

Di banged the table when Maya blocked her from getting a piece into the safe zone.
“This is personal now.”

By mid-match, the garden echoed with declarations of vengeance, groans of despair, and dramatic wails whenever someone rolled a one.

Richard was two steps away from winning when Maya rolled a perfect number to land directly on his lead token.

She looked him dead in the eyes.
“Checkmate.”

“That’s not even the right game!” he cried.

She knocked his token off the board.

“I hate this game,” Richard declared, standing up.

“You said it was your favorite,” Jeff reminded sweetly.

“I was wrong. I want to play Snakes and Ladders now.”

“Nooo,” everyone groaned.
____

Blue had taken the lead long ago, but now with a final, victorious roll, Diana nudged her last token into the safety of the home triangle.

“The Queen wins,” Saul declared with ceremonial pride, clapping once. “Long may she reign over the land of colored tokens.”

Diana smirked, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulder. “As it should be.”

Then, with steady calculation and just the right luck, Richard brought in his final yellow token.

“The healing knight shines,” Saul announced, his voice unusually soft but proud. “Well played, Richie.”

Richard grinned—genuinely—tipping his head toward Saul like he’d just been knighted. “Finally. I have avenged my earlier monopoly humiliation.”

Maya wasn’t far behind. She swept in with her last red token, triumphant despite being third. Saul leaned back and said with theatrical flair, “My lady pupil didn’t disappoint. Strategic and spiteful—just how I trained her.”

“Aw, thanks, Master Oogway,” Maya replied, bowing dramatically.

That left one.

Jeff stared at the board, only one green token halfway around, doomed.

He threw his hands up. “Fourth again?! This is a conspiracy. You kicked me in Monopoly too!” He pointed accusingly at Maya. “You’re all ganging up on me. I feel targeted.”

“You are targeted,” Maya said sweetly.

Richard couldn’t hold it in any longer.
He burst out laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a snort.
A full-on, uncontrollable laugh—the kind that shook his shoulders and brought tears to his eyes.
He laughed like his lungs had been waiting for this exact moment. Like the heaviness he’d been carrying cracked for just a second under the sheer absurdity of Jeff's despair.

Everyone froze for a second—not from alarm, but wonder.

Diana’s eyes went soft.
Maya slowly leaned back, a proud smile blooming.
Jeff tilted his head and said quietly, “Well, if losing means I get to see that again, I’ll roll ones forever.”

Saul didn’t say anything. He just smiled. A calm, fulfilled kind of smile. One he rarely gave.

And for a few heartbeats, under the dappled sun and surrounded by old trees and clattering dice, there was no weight of trauma or deadlines or the past.

Just peace.

And a laughing Richard Ranasinha.

Chapter Text

Day 21.

Di had just taken two blood samples from Richard. He didn’t cry—just a quick prick.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. Jeff was sitting nearby.

Richard smiled. “More like myself.”

“Any weakness?”

“Yes, but it’s easing up.”

“That’s great,” Jeff said.

“Wonderful,” Di added.

Today, they’d all be out—work, business, whatever. Back by evening.

Richard was cleared to go out on his own too. So he did.

He couldn’t drive yet, so he walked—slow, careful, soaking it all in. The October air was warm, laced with spice, smoke, and jackfruit. Kandy was buzzing—tourists everywhere, snapping photos, bartering badly, sweat clinging to their shirts. Plenty gave him second looks. 'Ah', he thought, 'still unbelievably beautiful and handsome'. He chuckled to himself.

Vendors called out in broken English and flawless Sinhala. Tuk-tuks honked, weaving past stalls stacked with textiles, knockoff watches, fake spices, and—of course—gemstones.

Sri Lanka. Gemstone country.

Eventually, he flagged a taxi. No way he was walking all the way to Ranasinghe’s shop.

The old man let him work—fifty minutes. Enough to touch a few sapphires, test a ruby with his loupe, smell the polish, lose himself in the stones. Then Saul shooed him off like a stray cat.

On his way back, Richard spotted them.

Three Japanese kids—early twenties, maybe uni students on autumn break. The tall one had the stance of someone who used to do martial arts but hadn’t in a while. The girl had short, bouncy hair, and that crisp, clear-skinned beauty you couldn’t fake. The third, carrying a guitar case, was shorter than the others—still taller than most—but quiet, eyes everywhere.

Their heights dropped one after the other: tall karate kid, bright, dark-eyed girl, then guitar boy.

They wandered the market like it was a theme park. Stopped for coconut water, drank it straight from the shell. Then wandered right into a gemstone shop—clearly fake stones, Richard could tell from across the street.

He watched from behind a thick green hedge outside a flower shop. Not hiding, exactly. Just... lurking with intent.

They were intriguing. Probably because he’d been locked up in Saul’s estate too long. Except for the few mini-breaks, it had mostly been blood tests, meds, books, and quiet.

Now the world was moving again—and he was in it.

---

Richard debated with himself—only briefly—about whether it was a good idea.

Interrupting someone’s business wasn’t exactly polite. Especially not "Kaliya Pandey", as the sign above the shop read in bold gold lettering.

Truth be told, Richard didn’t know much about the shops in this part of Kandy. Before he got sick, he’d been busy—really busy—hauling gems across Sri Lanka and a few neighboring countries with Saul. And before that, during his first year as an apprentice, he’d lived with Saul in the Ratanpura house.

Now, this was year three of his apprenticeship, freshly begun in July. Technically year three. The illness had messed with timelines, but they all pretended like it hadn’t.

"Kaliya Pandey Gems". The shop looked legitimate at a glance—glass counters, dim lights, velvet trays—but the sparkle wasn’t right. Too sharp. Too bright. Synthetic glint.

Inside, the Japanese kids were hovering like they’d stumbled into Narnia. Eyes wide. That same trio: tall ex-karate guy, guitar case boy, and the girl with bouncy hair. She was trying on a ring now, a stone glowing pale green under the display lights.

Tourmaline. Fake, obviously. And overpriced to hell.

Mr. Pandey—Kaliya himself, presumably—was selling hard. Smooth voice, poetic adjectives, a little too much hand-waving.

Richard snorted softly. “Quite a small stone,” he murmured to himself, “for such a ridiculous price.”

She was already pulling out her purse. Definitely moneyed. Possibly clueless. Claremont-level, or at least adjacent.

But it was the tall boy who caught Richard’s eye.

He stood just a bit shorter than Richard—fit, upright, with that calm, centered energy you didn’t fake. A black belt kind of posture. Eyes steady, watching the transaction like someone who wasn’t entirely buying it.

Something about him—his stillness, his silent attention—put Richard on alert. Not in a bad way. Just enough to make him lean forward slightly. Not to interrupt, but… maybe to see what happened next.

Richard decided to watch a little longer.

But this time, he paid attention—not just to the scene, but to the words. He edged closer, leaned into the soundscape of the market: clinking metal, a distant temple bell, tourists laughing too loud—and then, their voices.

The tall boy had gently pulled the girl aside, just out of the shopkeeper’s earshot.

“Tanimoto,” he said quietly, “are you sure you want to gift this to your mom? I mean... there are a lot of shops. A lot of things to look for. We could see more, and if you still want this one, we can come back.”

The girl—Tanimoto—pouted slightly. “But we’ll be late, Nakata. The carnival in… what was the place? Ah—Ambalangoda.”

Nakata—so that was the name—shook his head, patient but firm. “Arriving a bit late won’t be trouble, Shimomura. But her buying something she’ll regret later? That might be.”

Shimomura, the one with the guitar case, gave a lazy shrug and a half-smile, clearly content to follow along with whatever was decided.

Richard smiled to himself.

So. Karate kid’s the voice of reason.

Nakata carried himself like someone used to leading, but never loud about it. Clear gaze, still body, words chosen with care. Black belt type, alright.

Richard’s brain translated their Japanese automatically—not perfect, but enough. The training with Saul covered more than stones. Languages, people, patterns. All of it mattered in this business.

Inside the shop, Mr. Pandey looked mildly frustrated as his almost-sale slipped away. The girl was tucking her purse back in her bag.

Richard stepped back behind the hedge, thoughtful now.

Not just silly tourists, then.

There was something steady about the tall one—Nakata. Enough that Richard filed the name away. Just in case.

---

He turned to go. Decision made. Let them handle it. Not his business.

But then he heard it—the faint zip of a purse opening again. He glanced back.

Tanimoto.

She was at the counter. Purse out, card in hand, smiling politely as Mr. Pandey held out the little fake tourmaline in its cheap velvet box like it was the Hope Diamond.

Damn it.

Richard didn’t think. Didn’t plan. He was already moving.

In four strides he was at the shop entrance. He stepped inside, cool as glass, voice steady:

“Excuse me,” he said, not looking at Mr. Pandey. “You’re about to sell her a synthetic tourmaline. Glass-filled. Not worth a tenth of what you’re charging.”

Everything stopped.

The girl froze. Shimomura blinked. Nakata’s eyes narrowed, just slightly—not hostile, but alert.

Mr. Pandey’s smile twitched. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think this concerns you—”

“It does now,” Richard cut in, stepping closer to the counter. “Because she’s about to pay for something under false pretenses.”

He turned to Tanimoto. “May I?” He nodded toward the ring.

She hesitated, then slowly handed it over.

Richard took the loupe from his pocket—habit, always carried—and held the ring under the light.

Two seconds.

“Synthetic,” he said simply. “Glass-filled fracture. Very pretty, very fake.”

He handed it back.

Tanimoto looked stunned. A little embarrassed.

Nakata stepped forward, standing beside her now. Taller than her, just under Richard’s height, but with a presence that was hard to ignore.

“And who are you exactly?” he asked—not rude, just level.

Richard offered a faint smile. “Someone who’s been in this business long enough to know a scam when he sees one.”

A pause.

Then Nakata gave a small nod. Almost invisible. But it was approval.

Behind them, Mr. Pandey was seething quietly, but no one looked at him anymore.

Richard exhaled through his nose, barely a breath.

So much for walking away.

---

He’d barely walked a few steps away when it happened.

A blast—sharp, concussive—ripped through the street behind him.

Bam!

The shockwave threw him forward, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He hit the ground hard, elbows scraping pavement.

For a second, all he heard was a strange ringing. Muffled chaos. Like the world had gone underwater.

Then it cleared just enough to hear screams. Shouting. Running feet. The sharp metallic clang of something collapsing behind him.

He turned back.

Kaliya Pandey Gems was rubble. So were the shops on either side. Gone in a blink—glass shattered, walls caved in, smoke curling up like black snakes. A twisted mess of wood, brick, and burning silk.

Tanimoto was half-buried under a slab of concrete and decorative metalwork, face bloodied, eyes wide and blinking. Shimomura was nearby, groaning under a pile of splintered timber and red cloth.

Nakata lay on his side, dust and blood streaked across his scalp—shards embedded near his temple—but he was moving. Conscious. Alive.

Richard’s heart slammed in his chest. His left ear buzzed like a faulty speaker, each breath jagged.

Sinhalese. Tamil. Angry voices shouting from the crowd, cutting through the smoke.

“Fake gem shops!”

“Justice!”

“They sold lies!”

So—this wasn’t random. It was targeted. All three shops. Swindlers. Someone had decided to make a brutal point.

Richard pressed a hand to his temple, dizzy.

This place isn't safe.

And yet—

No one was helping them.

The crowd was in flight mode, scattering in all directions. No aid, no questions. Just survival.

Pandey, he saw dimly, was already buried behind his own counter. Not moving.

Richard’s muscles screamed as he pushed himself up.

Still shaky. Still half-deaf. But moving.

The tourists weren’t going to survive this unless someone helped. And it looked like he was the only one with enough sense left to try.

He stumbled toward the wreckage—toward them.

Great emotional layering here—Richard’s exhaustion, guilt, resolve. I’ve refined the passage for clarity and tone, translated the Hindi (“haadsa” = accident/disaster, “Josh” = energy/spirit), and smoothed it into natural British English:

---

Adrenaline carried him forward, but his body had other plans.

The illness—self-inflicted, though not intentionally—still lingered in his bones. And after everything today—the walking, the heat, the sudden explosion—his energy was draining fast. Seventy percent gone, if he had to guess. Muscles shaky, lungs working too hard.

Still, he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t run, of course—his legs wouldn’t allow it anyway—but morally, he couldn’t. Those students needed help. They didn’t know this place, didn’t know what had hit them. No one else was stepping in.

And a small, guilty voice whispered: If you hadn’t spoken to them… maybe they would’ve made the purchase quickly. Maybe they’d have walked out before the blast.

That thought burned. A disaster—haadsa, as his mind tagged it in old Hindi vocabulary—wrapped in the bitter taste of what if.

Then his phone buzzed.

He hadn’t reached the wreckage yet—was still maybe fifteen metres out—but every step was heavier than the last. His limbs felt drained, wrung out.

The caller ID blinked on.

Saul.

Richard swore under his breath and ducked beneath a coconut tree at the far corner—one that still stood intact, shielded by a roadside wall. It offered both cover and a moment to breathe.

He answered.

And just hearing Saul’s name, knowing that voice would follow, gave him a surge of energy—not physical, exactly, but spirit. Josh, his old tutor would have said. Fire in the blood.

Richard pressed the phone to his ear, breath shallow but steadying.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Richard, are you still out on the streets?” Saul’s voice came through, clipped and urgent.

“Yes. Actually—”

Saul cut him off. “Get back home. Now. A riot’s broken out.”

Richard blinked, heart still hammering.

“Details are fuzzy,” Saul continued, “but from what I’m hearing, a Hindu Tamil shop was bombed—allegedly by Muslim Tamils—and now it’s chaos. Everyone’s out for blood.”

His voice carried that familiar Indian lilt—English tinged with tension. Usually, they switched between languages, a mix of Hindi, Tamil, and English that had become their own private shorthand. But since Richard had fallen ill, Saul had stuck to English. And Richard—still recovering, still relearning how to process the world—was quietly grateful.

He closed his eyes briefly, phone pressed to his ear, the chaos around him blurring at the edges.

“Saul,” Richard said, voice low, “I’m near the shops that were hit—”

“What!?” Saul exclaimed. “You’re there?”

Another blast rang out—not as strong as the first, but enough to shake the ground. Richard instinctively ducked and shouted over the noise.

“Tourists—three of them! Just uni age kids. They’re down. I have to help!”

There was a pause, the line crackling.

“Richard,” Saul said, voice tight, “are you even up to it?”

Before Richard could answer, Saul pushed on.

“Alright, I’m coming over. Send me the location. And how bad are they?”

“Beneath the rubble,” Richard said. “One’s buried halfway, the others—less so, but injured.”

“Then don’t start dragging them out,” Saul warned. “Assess first. Check for internal injuries. Don’t do anything that could make it worse.”

“Yes. I’m moving toward them now,” Richard said, already stepping back out into the dust and wreckage.

The line stayed open, Saul silent on the other end, listening.

---

Richard rushed toward the rubble.

A splintered section of shop roof cracked loose and came down fast. He ducked, but not fast enough—a jagged beam scraped across his thigh, ripping through his trousers.

He yelped, staggered, blood already soaking the fabric. Just a surface wound. A slash across the skin. Painful, but manageable.

'Nothing compared to the intramuscular meds I was getting daily till four days ago', he thought grimly.

He pushed forward.

Seigi Nakata—the karate kid, as Richard had internally dubbed him—was half-buried beneath timber and crumbled plaster. One leg was pinned, but he was fully conscious, jaw tight, face contorted with pain.

Richard dropped beside him.

“Let me help.”

Seigi gave a small shrug. “I’m in no state to protest. But—please—get Tanimoto first. She’s completely buried. I’m worried.”

Richard glanced over. The girl was nearly invisible under the wreckage. Shimomura was stirring now, dazed but less buried.

Still catching his breath, Richard began clearing the debris off Seigi.

“I’m not at my best,” he admitted, voice strained. “But we could free your girlfriend faster. You’re not badly hurt, are you?”

“I’m not,” Seigi replied, his English thickly accented, stiff from disuse but clear enough. “Thank god.”

Richard offered him a nod, even as he tugged free a cracked shelf.

"I’m only twenty-four", he thought. "I should probably stop calling them kids."

---

Richard’s breath was ragged as he sank down onto the wreckage-strewn ground, wiping sweat and dust from his brow with a trembling hand.

Seigi’s left leg had been stuck, not crushed—more pressure than real damage. He was scraped, cut in places, mostly from splinters and sharp edges. But nothing broken. Nothing deep. His torso had been clear the whole time. In all this madness, he was lucky.

Richard heaved the last plank aside and offered a hand. Seigi took it and pulled himself up with a wince but no complaint.

“I’m alright,” he said, brushing off plaster dust. “Thank you so much, Mr...?”

Richard blinked, the question catching him off guard for a second.

“Ranasinghe,” he said finally. “Richard Ranasinghe de Vulpian”

Seigi gave a short nod—grateful, serious, still clearly worried.

“I’ll help with Tanimoto now.”

Richard nodded, eyes already scanning the debris. “Good. Let’s get her out—carefully.”

And despite the blood, the pain, and the ringing in his ear, Richard moved to his feet again.

No rest yet.

---

Tanimoto was in bad shape.

She’d been buried under solid debris—chunks of brick, shattered beams, and shop fittings. It was a miracle her frame hadn’t been crushed.

They worked fast but carefully. Seigi focused on her upper body, clearing around her head and shoulders. Her hands were loosely covering her eyes, and she was unconscious, face smudged with soot and blood.

“She’s breathing,” Seigi muttered. “Thank god.”

Richard nodded, swallowing down his own exhaustion as he shifted debris from her legs and hips. His muscles burned. Every movement cost more than the last. But finally—finally—she was free.

He pulled a small bottle of water from his pocket and handed it to Seigi, who took it gratefully.

“I’m knackered,” Richard said, breath coming shallow. “You handle your other friend—free him yourself.”

Seigi nodded, unscrewed the cap, took a few sips, then poured a little over Tanimoto’s face.

She blinked. Coughed. Eyes fluttered open.

“Seigi?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said, crouched beside her, steadying her head. He pointed back toward Richard. “He helped us. He’s helping.”

Tanimoto lay on the rubble, dazed but no longer trapped.

“Don’t move,” Richard warned, kneeling beside her. “You were buried for a while—there could be internal injuries.”

Seigi was already moving toward Shimomura, who had started trying to sit up, blinking slowly and rubbing dust from his face.

“Stay still,” Seigi called. “We’re coming.”

Richard leaned back on his heels, heart pounding, throat dry. His body felt like it might fold in on itself at any moment.

But they were alive.

All three.

---

Seigi made his way over to Shimomura, who was half-pinned under a twisted metal frame and a collapsed shelf. The boy had a deep gash running down his left calf, and a jagged shard of wood was lodged shallowly in his side. He winced sharply as Seigi tugged the debris off him.

“Bloody hell,” Shimomura groaned in Japanese. “Feels like I’ve been punctured all over with useless splinters.”

“Come on, Shimomura,” Seigi said, crouching beside him, voice soft but firm. “You’re bleeding like sliced meat, but you’re not crying. That’s brave, mate.”

Shimomura let out a breathy chuckle despite the pain as he shifted from the awkward crouch he'd been trapped in, finally able to sit upright.

Richard glanced out toward the street. Still no police.

The crowd that had once bustled through this part of town had vanished. Shopkeepers, tourists, vendors—gone. What remained was chaos further down: groups of Tamil Muslims in white and caps, and Hindu Tamils in bright dhotis and shirts, locked in vicious street fighting. Some wielded sickles and machetes, others bare fists, but mercifully, no guns yet. No one was paying any attention to the bombed-out jewellery shops now. Thank God for that.

Just as Richard began to shift again, determined to help further despite his own flagging strength, a screech of tyres cut through the noise.

A sleek, dust-streaked black Jaguar skidded to a halt just outside the rubble of what was once "Pandey Jewellery & Jewels".

Saul was here.

Saul stepped out of the car with quiet urgency, his eyes sweeping over the scene like a scanner—quick, clinical, precise. Despite the chaos, he moved with the steady confidence of someone who’d been in far worse.

Like the field doctor he once was.

But first, he made a beeline for Richard.

“You look like you’ve seen death,” Saul said, voice low but firm, eyes flicking over the blood on Richard’s trousers and the exhaustion in his posture.

Richard gave a faint, crooked smirk.

“Actually, I have seen a dead body now. Over there—buried behind his own desk, cashier, and sins.” He gestured weakly toward the collapsed remnants of Pandey’s shop. “Kaliya Pandey.”

Saul’s expression didn’t flicker. He simply nodded once, as if that piece of information fit perfectly into a grim puzzle already assembling in his mind.

Then, without a word, he crouched beside Richard and began inspecting the thigh wound.

“No deep tissue damage,” Saul muttered, almost to himself. “But you’re dehydrated. Your hands are trembling.”

“I know,” Richard murmured. “I’m not exactly at peak condition.”

Saul gave him a brief look. “And yet, still playing the hero.”

Richard glanced at the trio behind them. “Didn’t have a choice.”

Saul didn’t argue.

He never did when it mattered.

Then Saul moved to Tanimoto, switching to gentle Japanese as he knelt beside her.

She nodded slowly when he asked if she was in pain. “My chest… it hurts.”

He examined her with steady, gloved hands—gloves meant for gemstone work, but they’d serve. His touch was careful, methodical.

“Two fractured ribs,” he said quietly, almost more to himself.

“Are they broken?” she asked, eyes glassy with tears from the pain.

“No,” Saul replied calmly. “If they were broken, you’d be in much worse pain than you are now, especially from what I just did.”

She exhaled shakily, and he moved on to check her legs—small cuts everywhere, and a deeper gash on the back of her thigh. Her heel was swollen, turning purple.

“Badly sprained,” Saul said. “But overall, you’re lucky. No signs of internal injury.”

He asked her a dozen questions in fluent, comforting Japanese, watching her eyes and responses with the precision of someone trained to spot everything. When he was sure she was stable for the moment, he turned to Shimomura.

The boy was sitting up, but bleeding steadily from a dozen small wounds. He’d been directly in front of the cheap glass case when the ceiling caved in and the display shattered on top of him. Tiny shards still clung to his shirt and skin, glittering faintly.

Saul examined him quickly, cleaning and assessing where he could. Shimomura winced but didn’t complain.

Saul noted, silently, how all three of them had covered their faces during the blast—hands over eyes, nose, mouth. A reflex drilled into them from years of typhoon and earthquake training back home in Japan.

It might’ve saved their lives. No disfigurement. No blindness. Just blood, bruises, and trauma.

But they were alive.

“Lucky,” Saul muttered, more to himself than anyone. “Bloody lucky.”

---

Saul carefully removed several larger shards of glass from Shimomura’s arms and side. The boy flinched but didn’t cry out, teeth clenched, eyes focused on nothing.

Richard watched from where he sat, exhausted but alert.

"Seriously", he thought, "what were they thinking?"

"A mini skirt and shorts". In Kandy. In this humidity. "Tourist logic".

He shook his head faintly.

At least the tall one—Nakata—had been wearing full-length trousers. With proper pockets, no less. One out of three with a hint of common sense.

Richard wasn’t judging, exactly. But still. When you’re caught in a riot and bombed out of a dodgy gemstone shop, a bit of sensible clothing could make the difference between grazes and stitches.

He winced slightly, shifting his own leg.

"Not that I’ve got much room to talk", he admitted silently.

---

“This one’s deep,” Saul said to Shimomura, carefully pulling aside fabric and revealing a jagged piece of glass embedded near the boy’s left side. Blood welled around it. “Six, maybe seven stitches.”

Shimomura swallowed hard but nodded, his face pale.

Saul glanced at Richard. “We’ll handle the sutures back at my clinic.”

He turned his attention back to the wound.

“But I’m taking this out now. No question.”

He reached for his makeshift kit, gloves already sticky with blood and dust.

“My home’s forty-five minutes away,” Saul continued, his tone steady, almost casual. “Leaving this in would only risk infection, tearing, or worse on the journey.”

He looked Shimomura in the eye, steady and calm.

“Let’s just say—this is better out than in.”

Then, without further comment, he began the work—clean, efficient, and fast. Once the shard was out, he pressed gauze against the bleeding, taped it securely, and moved on to the next.

Shimomura exhaled, eyes shut tight, but he didn’t scream.

Saul nodded once. “Good lad.”

---

Richard winced just watching Saul work, the sharp edge of that glass piece sliding free from flesh.

“They’re in deep shit,” he muttered under his breath, to no one in particular.

Saul, too focused to hear—or more likely, choosing not to acknowledge it—continued dressing the wound with practised hands.

Nearby, Seigi had collapsed onto a stool that had somehow survived the blast intact. His shoulders rose and fell in short, ragged bursts. Sweat clung to his face, dust smeared across his jaw, but his hands were steady—braced on his knees, as if anchoring himself in the aftermath.

The exhaustion had hit him all at once now that adrenaline had worn off. Getting buried, dug out, and then freeing two people while still injured—it had taken its toll.

He didn’t complain. Just breathed, eyes half-shut, lips pressed into a thin line.

Richard glanced at him, then back to Shimomura, then the unconscious hum of the shattered street around them.

---

Richard gave Seigi a once-over as Saul dropped down onto a large slab of broken concrete in front of him. The old doctor’s breath was steady, his focus laser-sharp despite the chaos.

“Are you a paramedic?” Seigi asked as Saul gently moved his left ankle in various directions. His shoes were battered, especially the left one, but still on—barely.

“I’m a British doctor,” Saul replied, now pressing carefully along Seigi’s thigh and calf. “Muscle trauma—impact pressure. No deep gashes. Just scrapes and bruises. Any sharp pain in the hip?”

Seigi shook his head. “No. Except—” He hesitated, then pulled his shirt up slightly to reveal a shallow slash at his upper right hip. “Here. Happened under the debris. Shirt got dragged up, trousers down. I’ve fixed it since.”

Saul examined the cut, gave a curt nod.

“Your back, chest, arms?”

“Some cuts. Nothing serious,” Seigi replied. “Only my legs were buried.”

“That explains it,” Saul said. “You’re the least injured of the three.”

“Doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”

“Not emotionally, no,” Saul admitted. “But physically—definitely.”

Seigi glanced over. Shimomura and Tanimoto were now sitting side by side, propped up against a more stable wall of rubble, Richard crouched in front of them.

“They need a hospital,” Seigi said.

“Of course,” Saul agreed. “I can drive you three there. But... the roads are technically under curfew now. Military will be swarming the city soon. It’s not exactly safe to be out.”

He paused, scanning the area. His voice dropped slightly.

“And I’d like to finish helping you properly. There’ll be casualties from this—communal violence, bombings. Hospitals will be overrun. And unless one of you speaks Telugu, Tamil, Sinhalese, Hindi or Urdu... well, navigating a government clinic might be trickier than you'd expect.”

“No,” Seigi said. “None of us do. But doesn’t English work?”

“Yes, if you’re sightseeing, partying, or lounging on a beach,” Saul said. “Not so much when you’re bleeding in the queue at a state clinic.”

Seigi let out a low breath. “That was... informative. Eye-opening.”

“Not that you were refusing my help,” Saul added dryly.

“I wasn’t,” Seigi said. “Just..You and your student have already helped us so much".

Saul tilted his head slightly. “How did you know he’s my student?”

“He’s got that half-defiant, half-determined look,” Seigi added. “Like someone who’s trained under someone strict, but stayed anyway.”

Saul gave a small smile. “Then you’re more observant than most.”

---

Saul and Richard carefully helped Shimomura into the Jaguar, settling him into the back seat with a jacket tucked beneath his bleeding leg. Then Seigi and Saul supported Tanimoto in next, slow and steady.

Once inside, doors shut and the engine humming, the introductions finally happened properly. Names, small nods, and faint, tired smiles exchanged in the tense quiet.

And then—Tanimoto broke.

The moment the car rolled forward, she started sobbing. Uncontrollably.

“I’m never coming to Sri Lanka again,” she gasped, clutching her chest. “Dear Buddha, it hurts—ahh—!”

In the rear-view mirror, Saul glanced back. “Seigi-kun, stop her crying if you can. Her ribs are fractured. I’m fairly certain they’re not broken—but they will feel like it if she keeps pressing on them.”

“Ahh, Seigi—help,” she whimpered. “Tanimoto-san, please hold on,” he said softly, wrapping an arm around her.

“You’re my strong angel. Please. Don’t cry—you’re hurting yourself.”

She buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing harder. Seigi winced—her weight pressed against a nasty cut on his upper arm—but he didn’t move away. All three of them had bloodstained, torn clothes, the aftermath of survival plain on them.

“Tanimoto…” he murmured, but couldn’t finish the sentence.

Saul's voice came steady, measured. “Shouko-san, describe the pain. Sharp? Dull?”

“Sharp,” she sobbed, “like something’s pressing somewhere it shouldn’t be—like—agh!”

“You need a painkiller,” Saul said. “It’ll buy us thirty, maybe forty minutes. I’m driving as fast as I safely can.”

“Richard,” he added.

“I’m not playing doctor,” Richard interrupted flatly. “Not when you’re about to say that shot needs to go right into her hurting muscle.”

Saul didn’t argue. Just confirmed, “Yes. It does.”

“Will it help?” Tanimoto asked between gasps.

“In two minutes,” Saul said. “It’ll dull the edge.”

“Then do it,” she cried. “It’s—hurting!”

“Seigi-san, it’ll have to be you,” Saul said.

Richard passed the vial and syringe from the first aid kit. Seigi took them without hesitation. His hands, though scraped and stained, were surprisingly steady. He loaded the syringe, fixed the needle, and gave a quick nod.

Tanimoto pulled off her half-sleeved top, leaving her in just her bra and mini skirt. Her ribs were visibly swollen beneath the skin. She pointed shakily at the spot just under her breast.

“It’ll sting,” Saul warned. “Only for a moment.”

Seigi didn’t flinch. He pressed the needle in, pushed the plunger slowly.

Tanimoto whimpered, clutching her skirt in one hand, her jaw clenched.

Then it was done.

Seigi capped the syringe, set it aside, and placed a gentle hand on her back.

“You’re alright now,” he whispered.

Tanimoto leaned against him, eyes squeezed shut, her breathing beginning to ease.

---

Meanwhile, Shimomura was in his own quiet distress, staring down at the ruined guitar case at his feet.

“My beloved guitar…” he muttered, his voice thick with regret. “I should’ve left it at the motel. It’s completely destroyed.”

Saul glanced at him through the mirror, then spoke without turning.

“Actually, I’ve got a guitar in my attic. It’s old—but properly functional. Antique, even. Belonged to a close friend of mine, now gone. I think he’d be glad to know it was being played again.”

Shimomura’s head snapped up. “I… I can take your guitar?”

“Of course,” Saul said. “You’re clearly good enough to carry one around for a carnival. Might as well have a working one.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much!” Shimomura said, voice cracking a little. “I don’t even have the budget to replace it for at least six months—unless my father suddenly agrees to help, which... is unlikely. This means a lot.”

“Alright, kid,” Saul said, half-smiling. “Just don’t get too excited. That nasty gash on your calf still needs a good lot of stitching.”

Shimomura laughed weakly, then winced. “Noted.”

---

Tanimoto had fallen asleep about fifteen minutes after the injection. Her breathing was steady now, pain-muted, her body finally able to rest.

Seigi leaned over and gently touched her shoulder. “Tanimoto?” he said quietly.

No response.

His expression tightened. “She’s not—?”

“She’s asleep,” Saul cut in calmly, glancing back. “Let her rest. The painkiller was strong—especially for someone with no narcotic tolerance.”

Seigi still looked uneasy.

Saul continued, “Her skin—clear, untouched by anything. Not just in colour, but condition. Radiant. You don’t see that with someone on regular meds, or drinking heavily, or pumping chemicals into their body.”

Seigi blinked at him.

Shimomura leaned forward a little, eyebrows raised. “Whoa. That was full Sherlock Holmes mode.”

“She’s healthy,” Seigi said, sitting back slightly. “Barely drinks. Never more than three pints—and even that’s rare.”

“Explains it,” Saul murmured, eyes back on the road. “She’ll wake up in an hour or two. Might feel groggy, but the pain should be manageable by then.”

The car hummed along the narrow road, the dust and noise of the city left behind.

---

“Where are we going?” Seigi asked Richard as the car climbed steadily up the winding hill road.

“Saul’s estate,” Richard replied, still gazing out the window.

“Does it have a name?”

“No. I just call it Saul’s house,” Richard said with a faint shrug. “Though the locals refer to it as the Ranasinghe Bungalow.”

Seigi nodded quietly, filing that away.

His eyes drifted absently back to Richard, who was watching the landscape pass with a tired, unreadable expression.

When Seigi had first seen him—back at the market—he’d been, frankly, stunned.

"What an utterly handsome English rose", he’d thought, near speechless. Must be a tourist.

But then Richard had helped them. Really helped them. Not just with the rescuing, but before that—stepping in when they were about to be swindled, warning them about the fake jewellery, gently but firmly.

And now, even more so—this man, who’d clearly been through something himself, had thrown himself into the chaos to help total strangers.

He’d mentioned not being well recently. It showed, faintly—around the eyes, in the way he moved, the occasional wince when he thought no one noticed.

But still. Even in a simple checkered butterscotch button-down and trousers, a little dust-streaked and creased, Richard looked… dapper. Effortlessly elegant.

"If Tanimoto is a dark beauty angel," Seigi thought, glancing at his sleeping friend, "then he’s the light one".

He blinked, shook the thought away gently, and looked back out at the road.

But it lingered, quietly, in the background of his mind.

---

Richard glanced sideways.

Seigi was looking at him again—steadily, openly—and Richard, instinctively, looked away.

Not annoyed. Just… noticed.

A moment later, Seigi shifted in his seat, clearly trying to smooth the moment with a bit of awkward small talk.

“So, Mr Ranasinghe?”

“Yes?” Saul replied, not looking back, hands steady on the wheel.

“No, I meant him,” Seigi said, gesturing toward Richard.

Richard turned, met Seigi’s eyes briefly. His voice was low, almost to himself.

“You can call me Richard. My English name is Richard Claremont, anyway.”

“Okay… Richard,” Seigi said, the name slightly foreign in his mouth.

“So—he’s a doctor,” Seigi added, nodding toward Saul. “And you work with gems. Are you training to be a doctor now too?”

Saul chuckled from the front seat.

Richard replied in quiet Japanese, still half turned toward Seigi.

“Saul used to be a doctor. Still legally licensed, if you’re wondering. But he’s also a world-renowned gemologist.”

Seigi blinked.

“I’m a gemstone appraiser,” Richard continued. “Saul’s my mentor. I’m learning hands-on, real-world gem work. Not a medic. Though I’ve been told I’ve been a rather difficult patient this past month.”

Seigi tilted his head, intrigued. “What happened to you?”

Richard hesitated.

“Only if you promise not to laugh.”

“I’d never laugh at a sick person,” Seigi said firmly.

Richard gave a small smile. “I was trying to perfect a Royal milk tea recipe... and ended up overdosing on the tea.”

Seigi blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Richard nodded. “I poisoned myself. Caffeine toxicity, fluid imbalance. I needed daily IVs and injections for weeks to stabilise.”

Seigi winced. “Sounds... painful.”

“It was,” Richard said simply, then looked back out the window, lips twitching faintly.

"Are you better now?"

Richard turned his head slightly, eyes still on the window. The hill road was quiet now—green slopes stretching below them, sunlight softening the sharp edges of the day.

“Mostly,” he said.

Then, after a beat, he added, “I’m stronger than I was a week ago. But I get tired easily. My head still rings sometimes. And my body… feels like it’s catching up.”

Seigi nodded, listening quietly.

“But yes,” Richard said, this time looking at him directly, “I am better now. Today was the first time I’ve been allowed out alone.”

Seigi’s gaze held his for a second longer.

“You didn’t waste it,” he said.

Richard’s mouth twitched at the corners. “No,” he said softly. “Didn’t really have the chance to.”

---

“You look so… European,” Seigi finally said, as if settling on the safest version of what he really meant.

“I am European,” Richard replied, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “British.”

Seigi hesitated. “Then… why would you elect to live here?”

And almost immediately, he winced. “Sorry—that sounded intrusive. I didn’t mean—”

Richard shook his head, still gazing out at the green hills. “No, it’s a fair question.”

Seigi pressed on, softer now. “Just… Britain’s a developed country. Japan too. But Sri Lanka…” He paused. “It’s in civil unrest. Still recovering. Less… stable.”

Richard let out a slow breath.

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” he said quietly. “Because it’s not stable. Because there’s work that matters. And because… this place—it’s not just beautiful. It’s layered. Complicated. Honest, in its own brutal way.”

He looked at Seigi then.

“And not everything about ‘developed’ countries is worth missing.”

Seigi absorbed that in silence.

---

After a moment, Richard asked, his tone casual but genuinely curious, “What subjects are you studying, then?”

“Business Studies and Economics,” Seigi replied. “Second year. Kasaba University. Shimomura too.”

He glanced toward his friends, still resting.

“Tanimoto’s different. She’s training to become a junior high school teacher.”

Richard nodded, filing that away.

“Kasaba University,” he repeated. “That’s a good one, isn’t it?”

Seigi gave a small smile. “It’s decent. Hard to get into, harder to stay in.”

Richard chuckled faintly. “Sounds like most things worth doing.”

---

Saul pulled up in front of the estate gates, which creaked open slowly as if recognising urgency.

The Ranasinghe Bungalow stood tall and quiet against the hillside—colonial bones wrapped in overgrown bougainvillaea and the scent of cardamom. The househelp were already waiting by the porch, alerted by a call Saul had made earlier.

With their help, they carried a groggy, half-sedated Tanimoto and a limping, semi-conscious Shimomura into the medical room.

Saul went to work instantly.

Shimomura was first. Saul cleaned and stitched the deepest cuts with practised efficiency, gave him painkillers, pausing only to ask,
“Can I sedate you lightly? Just to let your body rest.”

Shimomura, barely upright, nodded once before slumping back. The sedative took effect fast, his breathing evening out as Saul covered him with a light blanket.

Then he turned to Tanimoto.

Still unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady, she winced reflexively as Saul gently palpated her ribs. With gloved fingers and steady pressure, he confirmed what he already suspected—two clean fractures, likely stress from blunt trauma, not splintered. He bound her chest carefully with a breathable compression wrap, mindful of the swelling. He gave her NSAIDs to help bring the inflammation down and pain relief of course.

Her ankle was badly sprained, the swelling already spreading up toward the shin. Saul elevated it with cushions, applied a cooling gel, and began wrapping it in layers of support bandage—tight, but not restrictive.

Richard and Seigi stood nearby, silent now. Watching.

Saul stepped back, checked Tanimoto’s pulse, then nodded to himself.

“She’ll rest now. Properly.”

Then Saul turned to Richard.

“You’re just fussing,” Richard said, already pulling up the leg of his trousers so Saul could get to the wound.

“Oh, dear Richie,” Saul replied dryly, cleaning the blood away. “Would you say the same to Di and Jeff, also?”

Richard didn’t answer. He just let Saul work in silence.

The cut didn’t need stitches—just cleaning and a firm dressing. Still, Saul was careful, methodical.

Across the room, Seigi sat curled on the couch with a mug of tea, watching and listening. He’d cleaned and bandaged his own cuts while Saul had been busy, one strip of gauze still tied a bit unevenly at his wrist.

“They’re not coming back tonight, are they?” Richard asked quietly.

Saul shook his head. “No. Sri Lanka’s in practical lockdown now. Jeffrey’s stuck in Colombo, and Diana’s in Bengaluru.”

Richard nodded, then asked, “And Maya?”

“She’s still in the Ratanpura house. Safe.”

The room fell into a low, thoughtful silence. Richard glanced around.

“The house feels… different without them.”

“Yes,” Saul said. “And these three will be sleeping through till evening, most likely.”

“I’m not sleepy,” Seigi piped up, raising a hand.

“You don’t need to sleep,” Saul said, pointing at him with a hint of fondness. “But you do need to rest. Your body’s going to start aching later—impact trauma.”

Seigi gave a slight, reluctant nod.

“When’s the curfew ending, then?” he asked after a moment. “When can we actually go home?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Saul said, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. “The rioting groups are being… managed. My people say the roads will be safe enough by 8 a.m.—if you're in a bulletproof car, that is.”

Seigi looked mildly alarmed. Richard just raised an eyebrow.

Saul shrugged. “Standard protocol. Welcome to paradise.”

“Lucky for you,” Saul added, glancing over his shoulder, “all my cars are bulletproof.”

Seigi blinked. “All of them?”

Saul gave a half-smile. “One doesn’t live here for decades without making a few adjustments.”

Then his tone shifted slightly, more serious. “Actually, Mr Nakata, you should contact the Japanese embassy soon. They’re notoriously efficient at extracting their citizens from crisis zones.”

“I’ll do it now,” Seigi said, already pulling out his phone.

He stood, still limping a little, and stepped toward the far window where signal would be best.

Richard watched him go, then leaned back in the chair, letting the weight of the day settle.

Saul gathered his kit, hands still steady. “Get some rest, Richard.”

“I’ll try.”

The house settled again—soft light, drawn curtains, and the hush of recovery setting in.

Outside, the hills of Kandy were quiet. But inside, the day wasn’t forgotten—just folded into silence.

---

Seigi ended up resting through the afternoon, like the others. The soft mattress, the silence, and the sheer weight of the day pulled him under.

By early evening, the house had dipped into a hush. His friends were still asleep, curled up in their guest beds, unmoving.

Emerging from his own room, Seigi wandered quietly through the corridor, barefoot, listening to the creak of the old wood beneath his steps.

He spotted Richard ahead, limping slowly through the hallway, steadying himself against the wall with one hand. He looked pale—drawn. Strained, but trying to look composed.

“Are you okay?” Seigi asked, voice low. “I’m sorry, but… you look bad. You helped us—and now you look exhausted.”

Richard let out a soft breath and eased himself down onto the living room couch with a quiet sigh.

“I’m just… sensitive, apparently,” he said, giving a small, tired smile. “That cut on my thigh’s making itself known, nothing more.”

He leaned back slightly, rubbing his neck.

“I’ve been given meds. Saul’s sure I’ll make a full recovery—from everything.”

Seigi moved to sit nearby, not too close, just enough.

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad. You really saved us, you know.”

Richard didn’t reply right away. Just looked out at the fading light through the windows, as the shadows began to stretch long across the tile.

---

“Do you and Saul live here alone most of the time?” Seigi asked, glancing around the quiet, sprawling house.

“We used to,” Richard replied, resting his head lightly against the back of the couch. “For a few months, it was just us.”

He paused, then added, “But then Maya came—she’s also Saul’s apprentice. And recently, my cousins—Jeff and Di—have been staying here too. They moved in to help while I was ill.”

Seigi nodded, thoughtful. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No,” Richard said. “Only child.”

“I’m an only child too,” Seigi said. “Before uni, I lived with my mother. My stepfather works somewhere in Southeast Asia—travels a lot.”

Richard nodded, his expression softening.

“My biological parents are divorced as well,” he said. “I grew up with my cousins—Jeff and Henry. They were more like brothers, really.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, the air warm but still.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just… understood.

A shared aloneness.

---

“Do you have pets?” Seigi asked suddenly, voice lighter.

“No,” Richard said, a soft smile touching his face. “But I did as a boy. A golden-haired dog. Gentle, always patient with me.”

Seigi’s expression warmed. “I’ve always wanted one too. Just never had the chance. Maybe someday, when I’ve got my own place—and can afford it.”

Richard nodded, studying him for a moment.

Emotionally mature, he thought. More than most people his age.

Then, casually but not without interest, Richard asked, “So—Tanimoto. Are you two together?”

Seigi didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He glanced toward the corridor, where the others still rested, then looked back.

“She’s dating me because we were already close friends. And… her parents really wanted her to have a partner. She’s an only child too.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“But she’s not into the idea of serious romance. Or sex. She’s not… wired that way. So we’re dating, and she holds my hand sometimes, lets me touch her shoulders. That’s all.”

Richard listened quietly.

“But,” Seigi continued, “I love her. She’s lovely. She’s kind. And honestly—I’m just grateful she feels safe enough with me to call me her boyfriend.”

There was no resentment in his voice. Just quiet pride. And a kind of peace.

Richard gave a slight nod, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“That,” he said, “is the most unshakable kind of love I’ve heard in a while.”

---

“What are you planning to do after uni?” Richard asked, tone easy, casual.

“Civil service,” Seigi said. “Part-time business job until I crack the exam.”

Richard nodded slowly, impressed. “Ambitious.”

Seigi shrugged lightly. “Stable job. My mum would sleep better.”

“And you?” he asked in return.

“I’m a gemstone appraiser,” Richard replied. “Already working with Ranasinghe Jewellery.”

He stretched his leg slightly, careful of the bandage.

“You could say I’ll be globe-trotting,” he added with a faint smile. “Acquiring and selling gems once I finish my apprenticeship. That’s the plan.”

Seigi looked at him for a moment. “Sounds… kind of brilliant, honestly.”

“It has its shine,” Richard said dryly, then added with a smirk, “Pun unintended.”

Seigi chuckled softly, eyes crinkling.

The room, quiet and golden in the evening light, held a calm that hadn’t existed earlier that day.

Just two tired young men, talking about life.

---

They talked a little more—about Japan, its customs, its food, its shifting seasons. Seigi was surprised, genuinely impressed by how much Richard knew.

“Language, history, etiquette... You’re practically Japanese,” he said, half-laughing.

“I read. A lot,” Richard replied simply, sipping water.

Just then, Saul appeared at the doorway, arms folded, smirking faintly.

“The injured,” he said, “are having dinner in bed when they wake up. Doctor’s orders. But if you two are hungry and up for an early dinner, let’s head to the dining room.”

Richard stood slowly. Seigi followed.

The table was already set—fragrant rice, rich dhal, spiced sambol, and warm coconut rotis. Classic Sri Lankan fare. Comfort food.

Seigi tried everything, praised everything.

“This is so good,” he said between bites. “We came to have fun here, you know. That was the idea.”

“Carnival, wasn’t it?” Richard asked.

“Yeah. Actually it’s not just the three of us. Half of our second year and some of the third signed up. University trip, part of a tour package.”

He paused, then added, “I wonder how they’re doing. Not that I’m close with everyone. Don’t even have most of their numbers, to be honest.”

“Shimomura’s phone probably has more updates,” he added, glancing around. “But it’s locked. Eye ID.”

Richard hummed quietly in response, still eating slowly, posture relaxed now, if tired.

Then Seigi said softly, “I’m really thankful you saved us, Richard-san. Truly.”

Richard gave a small nod, not meeting his eyes, just said, “It’s alright.”

Saul looked over from his own plate.

“Enough talking, kid. Eat.”

And so, they did.

Outside, the sun dipped low behind the hills.

---

Seigi wanted to ask for Richard’s number.

He really did.

But somehow—without knowing how—it was Saul’s number he ended up with instead.

Saul had scribbled it down casually, handing it over without much ceremony. “If anything comes up, call me. I tend to pick up.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Don’t bother with Richard’s number. He used to change it every month.”

Seigi blinked. “Seriously?”

Saul nodded. “Until his cousin finally tracked him down here. My advice? Don’t ask. If he gives it and disappears again, you’ll just end up disappointed.”

Seigi pocketed the paper and nodded.

It made sense, in a strange way. Richard did seem like someone who vanished now and then, quietly, on purpose.

And so this strange, chaotic, unforgettable day finally ended.

As the house fell into stillness once again, Seigi returned to his guest room, slipped under the sheets, and let his body give in to sleep.

In the quiet, there was no more panic. No more dust or blood or noise.

Just night.

And somewhere, down the hall, Richard Claremont slept too.

---

The next morning, just as promised, they all loaded into the car again.

It was 9:30 a.m. The curfew had lifted, the roads were clear, though the city still felt wary—wounded, but slowly stirring.

They made a quick stop at the motel to gather a few belongings, then began the long drive to the Japanese Embassy.

Richard had come along, seated beside Seigi in the back.

“Just for the road,” he’d said lightly. “Wanted the ride.”

No one questioned it.

By the time they reached the embassy, the morning had stretched into early afternoon. Guards met them at the gate, paperwork in hand, calm and efficient. Everything was under control now.

Seigi turned to Richard one last time.

“Thank you,” he said, voice firm but sincere.

Richard shook his hand. “Take care."

“I will,” Seigi said—and, on impulse, stepped forward and hugged him.

It was brief, but real.

When they pulled apart, there were no promises. No exchanges. Just quiet understanding.

They both knew—even if they never met again—they’d left an impression on each other.

Sometimes, good people drift in just for a chapter. Calm, kind, unexpected.

Who knew—fate might bring them back together. A short meeting. A passing moment.

But for now, they parted.

And the road rolled on.

·

Chapter Text

By evening, Jeffrey was back.

He walked into the sitting room like he owned the place, spotting Richard lounging on the couch with a book in his lap and a fresh bandage on his thigh.

“Richie,” he said, half-joking, half-serious, “you didn’t swoon like a Victorian yesterday, did you? No dramatic faints? Saul didn’t have to jab you with anything, hm?”

“No,” Richard replied flatly, then gave him a short, concise summary of the day before—just the basics. The explosion. The injured students. The rescue. Nothing more than necessary.

Jeffrey’s eyes widened. “Whoa. You played hero.”

He sat down opposite him. “Why didn’t you say anything on the phone? Or better yet—call me? Were those injured students really keeping you that busy… or just that entertaining?”

“Well, we did have company,” Saul said, stepping in from the hallway, a mug of tea in hand. “And Richard really is better. That’s the good news.”

Jeffrey smiled, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes.

“I agree,” he said. “It is.”

But there was something quiet and melancholy in his tone.

Richard caught it. He didn’t mention it. Not yet.

He just watched, silently filing it away.

---

Diana arrived the next morning, suitcase in hand and a lightness in her step.

The moment she saw Richard in the hallway, she set her bag down and pulled him into a tight hug.

“You absolute idiot hero,” she said against his shoulder. “I heard everything. Saul called me.”

She pulled back, smiling through the relief in her eyes. “Well done. Not just the rescue. But this—” she gestured at him, “being on your feet. Actually recovering. After all those aching, dragging days.”

Richard gave her a tired but genuine smile. “Thanks. Feels strange being congratulated for surviving.”

“That’s exactly what deserves congratulations,” Diana said. “You didn’t fold.”

And in that moment, Richard let himself feel it—the weight of it all. And the fact that it might just be over.

For now.

___

Evening.

The sky outside had paled to lavender; the ceiling fan spun slow, steady circles overhead. In the sitting room, quiet had become their shared language—a silence neither heavy nor awkward, just restful.

Diana sat curled into the corner of the couch, her shoulders faintly slouched from two hours of lecturing and an even longer live demonstration on a cadaver earlier in the noon. Her green tea steamed faintly in her cup, cupped gently in her long fingers.

Maya lounged opposite her, sipping the same. “Bit of ginger would’ve made it sharper,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice. “Then again, not everyone likes their evening brew to bite back.”

“I like this,” Diana replied quietly. “Subtle. Light.”

Saul sat on a wooden armchair nearby, a large ceramic mug of his signature spiced black tea in his hands, the aroma of clove and cinnamon warming the air around him.

Jeffrey was closest to the window, leg draped over his knee, but his eyes rarely drifted from the center of the room—where Richie stood, porcelain tray in hand, a humble, slightly bashful smile on his face.

He wore no scarf today. Just a pale blue shirt and well-pressed trousers. Still recovering, yes, but the sharpness had returned to his posture, and with it, that small gleam of pride.

“I made this,” Richard said softly, carefully placing the cups before them one by one. “Royal Milk Tea. My final cup.”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “You’re not drinking?”

“I’m allergic to tannins now,” he said, lips quirking dryly. “It’s rather poetic, actually. My great downfall wasn’t pride, family or enemies—it was tea.”

“You’re dramatic,” Diana muttered.

“I’m a jeweller,” he replied.

He returned to his seat—but didn’t pick up a cup. Instead, he folded his hands over his lap and waited. Watched.

Maya took the first sip.

And her eyes widened.

“Oh,” she exhaled. “Divine. Creamy, smooth, sweet—but not cloying. I’d slap someone for the recipe if it weren’t you.”

Diana took her taste next. “It’s perfectly balanced,” she said slowly. “The milk doesn’t overpower. The sugar’s delicate. And the leaves...” She looked up at him. “You chose black leaves with medium roast?”

“I did.”

“It’s... awesome.”

Saul took his cup, and as always, let the liquid roll on his tongue for a few long seconds before swallowing. He nodded slowly.

“It reminds me,” he said, “of white motif pearls from the coastal shores—rare ones, the kind with faint warmth in their luster. They don’t blind the eye with shine... but if you look closely, they carry a softness that settles in the heart. That’s what this tea does.”

There was a pause.

Then they turned to Jeffrey, who had yet to speak. He had taken a sip in silence.

And now, he looked at Richard long and hard.

Finally, he said:
“Well, it tastes better than every single cup Henry ever made.”

Everyone stilled. Even Richard.

There was a beat of something—shock? Pain?—before Jeff added, “And you know he’ll haunt me for saying that.”

Richard blinked, then let out a breath of laughter. “I’ll put that on my tombstone, thank you.”

“You’re not dying,” Diana said immediately.

Maya kicked his foot gently. “You better not.”

Saul just raised his cup again in silent salute.

And Richard, in that stillness, looked around at the four of them—the surgeon, the brother, the old jeweler, the teasing apprentice—and saw what none of them had ever needed to say aloud:

They had formed a family. A strange, bruised, makeshift little family.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like a burden at its center.

He felt... home.

Chapter Text

Richard's Room. A Week Later.

The room was lighter now—both literally and in feeling. The curtains were wide open, letting the breeze in. Richard sat upright on his bed, dressed in a plain but crisp white shirt and cotton pants, posture stronger, face with more color.

Diana, seated beside him, rifled through his latest reports. Saul stood leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed, a rare smile on his face.

Diana set the file down and looped her stethoscope around her neck after a quick check of his heart. She pressed her fingers to his wrist, silently counting.

“Pulse steady. You look good,” she said, finally.

Saul nodded in agreement. “Color’s back. No shortness of breath. Appetite’s normal. No fever. I’m signing off.”

Richard smiled. “I feel good.”

He looked between the two of them, gratitude barely contained. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you both.”

Diana gave him a playful nudge. “Let’s not get all dramatic now. You just needed the right meds and people who cared.”

“Still,” Richard said, voice quiet but warm, “thank you. For not giving up on me.”

Saul picked up his clipboard. “You're officially off round-the-clock care, but still under the ‘don’t be stupid’ protocol.”

Richard laughed. “Got it.”

Diana reached for his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Welcome back, fit & fine Richie.”

______
Late Afternoon.

The soft hum of the fan filled the silence. Richard sat on the bed, legs crossed, fingers idly picking at a thread on the blanket. Jeff stood by the window, arms folded, gaze far off.

Richard looked up at him. “Jeff.”

Jeff turned. “Hmm?”

“There’s something you’ve been keeping from me.”

Jeff didn’t answer right away.

“Don’t say no. I know that face. You’ve been carrying something since I woke up. What is it?”

Jeff looked down, jaw tightening. “Not now, Rich.”

“Jeff. Please.”

Jeff hesitated, then looked at Diana, standing at the foot of the bed. “Can you tell him?”

Diana’s eyes softened. She walked over and sat beside Richard, taking his hand gently. “It’s about Henry.”

Richard didn’t blink. Just stared.

She continued, her voice calm. “He’s gone, sweetheart. He… took his own life.”

The words sat in the air like a brick dropped in water.

Richard didn’t speak. He didn’t cry.

He just stared at the wall across from him.

Jeff leaned forward slightly, watching him closely.

Still, nothing.

Richard’s voice finally came, dry. “When?”

“When Jeff came here,” Diana said.

Richard gave a small nod. That was it. No outburst. No questions.

Just a long silence. His eyes remained fixed. Accepting it the way one accepts the tide—it comes whether you're ready or not.

Jeff looked at Diana. She nodded, as if saying, let him sit with it.

And they did. The room stayed quiet. No one moved.

---

Jeff leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Richard closely.

Richard, still seated, looked composed—too composed, Jeff thought. He’d taken the news like someone listening to the weather.

Jeff (thoughts)
He really took it better than I expected... maybe too well.

Diana stood quietly by the dresser, arms folded.

But Richard—never dull, never simple—wasn’t done. He let the silence stretch just long enough, then spoke with measured calm.

RICHARD
“Henry was mentally ill. Suicidal, yes... But he actually did it. That doesn't just happen in a vacuum. Something must’ve pushed him.”

He glanced at both of them. Sharp, observant.

RICHARD (CONT'D)
“What was his last message? His last words?”

Jeff opened his mouth, then closed it.

JEFF
“I can’t. Di… you tell him.”

Diana sighed.

Before she could speak, Richard cut in.

RICHARD
“I’m right here, you know.”

He looked at them both—calm, but determined.

RICHARD (CONT'D)
“You’ve been treating me with kid gloves. And I’m not going to disrespect that by pretending I didn’t need it. Because I did.”

A pause.

RICHARD (CONT'D)
“If it hadn’t been for you two—supporting me, staying by me, refusing to let go—I might have given up myself. Wondered what was the point.”

He looked directly at Jeff now.

RICHARD (CONT'D)
“But I’m strong too, Jeff. Did you forget I won the inter-school boxing championship senior year? I took punches and smiled.”

A slight grin tugged at the corner of Jeff’s mouth, but it vanished quickly.

RICHARD (CONT'D)
“I’m not fragile. So please—whatever it is, don’t carry it alone. If you’re protecting me, stop. I’m asking you both now… what is it?”

Silence again. Jeff looked at Diana. Diana looked at Jeff.

And the weight between them wasn’t just grief anymore—it was the truth, still unspoken.

The air felt heavier now. The kind that presses on your chest before a storm breaks. Richard sat perfectly still, eyes trained on Diana, as if reading between the lines of her every breath.

DIANA
“Richard—”
(She paused, steeling herself, then resumed with calm detachment.)
“As you already know, Jeffrey rushed to your side as soon as he learned about your condition.”

She stood, arms loosely folded, but her posture was controlled, almost clinical.

DIANA (CONT'D)
“After he landed in Sri Lanka… well, one thing led to another. You were critical. There were decisions, procedures. For over 30 hours, Henry couldn’t reach Jeffrey.”

Richard’s gaze didn’t falter.

DIANA (CONT'D)
“Jeffrey deliberately switched off Henry’s line. He didn’t want him to know about you just yet.”

She stopped a beat—let that sink in.

DIANA (CONT'D)
“This didn’t sit well with Henry. The Earl—being the usual stern but kind man—saw Henry’s rising anxiety and let it slip. That Jeffrey had found you. That you were here. In Sri Lanka.”

Her voice thinned.

DIANA (CONT'D)
“Henry felt… abandoned. Replaced. He—”

She looked down, shaking her head slightly, then forced herself to finish.

DIANA (CONT'D)
“He did it. He killed himself.”

She cut off like a blade, tone now stripped of all neutrality.

Then came the flood—her voice no longer Diana-the-doctor, but Diana-the-person.

DIANA (CONT'D)
“And trust me, Richard. I damned his actions. The jealousy, the insecurity… to think your most treasured person would ever betray you like that—that’s twisted logic. Madness, really. And he was clinically unstable.”

She looked between the two men—and realized she'd said too much.

DIANA (softer)
“I’m sorry.”

A long pause.

DIANA (quietly, but firmly)
“Jeffrey… you coward. Speak.”

Jeff flinched like she’d slapped him. He didn’t raise his head. Didn’t speak for a beat.

Then he swallowed hard. Eyes locked on Richard.

JEFF
“She’s right.”

His voice cracked.

JEFF (CONT'D)
“I… I thought if I kept you apart, I could keep him together. I thought he’d be okay if he didn’t know I found you. But he knew.”

He exhaled, a breath full of guilt.

JEFF (CONT'D)
“I thought I could protect both of you. And I lost him.”

Silence again.

Richard’s expression hadn’t changed—but his knuckles were white where his hands gripped the blanket.

RICHARD
“Say his name, Jeff.”

Jeff blinked, stunned.

JEFF (softly)
“Henry.”

Richard finally looked down, and when he looked up again, his eyes glistened.

RICHARD (quietly)
“He deserved better than that ending.”

DIANA
“He did. But he wouldn’t let us give it to him.”

And in that moment, all three of them were quiet.

Grief had no more revelations. Just the heavy echo of what was lost—and who was left.

---

Tears slipped silently down Richard’s face as he stared past them, into the fading shape of someone he once knew.

RICHARD
(voice low, hoarse)
“Henry… before he got sick… he was always so calm. Easygoing. Accepting. He worked so damn hard. Always a gentleman.”

His lip trembled as he swallowed back a sob.

RICHARD (CONT’D)
“I wish things had turned out different. I wish the Seventh Earl hadn’t placed that curse upon us…”

Diana couldn’t hold back any longer. She crossed over to him, standing hunched at the edge of the desk where he sat, and wrapped her arms around him from behind—strong, comforting.

DIANA
(measured, heavy)
“Me too.”

Jeff, who’d been quiet—sitting, elbows on his knees—finally moved. He reached out, sliding in beside Richard on the bed. His arm rested gently over Richard’s back, joining the hug in his own tired way.

JEFF
(softly)
“We all do.”

And for a long moment, there were no more words.

Just three people clinging to what was left, mourning what was lost, and holding each other steady against the weight of memory.

___

RICHARD
Show me his last message.

JEFF (insisting)
No. It's not a note, it's a video, and u will not see it.

DIANA
It's vile, don't smear ur heart with those words of a senile man at the end of his tether. Who—who thought, living— living this beautiful world, with loved ones, was "not good enough & dying was better". No.

Richard shook his head conceding.

RICHARD

If you insist, I won't. But atleast tell me what he said. I promise I will not go behind your sights and watch that clip. I mean it.

Jeff clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the half-empty water bottle in his hand. Diana gave him a quiet look, a subtle nod that said let him have this much.

JEFF
(stern, but softening)
“It wasn’t… a message of peace, Rich. Not a goodbye, not a thank you. It was a storm. Angry. Disjointed. Like he’d convinced himself he was betrayed by me, by you. He said things like… ‘You both left me in the dark, ran to each other. Like I was disposable.’”

He paused, struggling with the weight of the memory.

JEFF (CONT’D)
“He accused me of forgetting him. Said I chose you over him, and he couldn’t bear it. He felt… replaced. That I’d discarded our years for—”
(a breath)
“For someone who never even loved him.”

Diana exhaled slowly, eyes distant but alert.

DIANA
“He called love a lie. Said no one really stays. That in the end, people only hold on to what makes them feel needed. He didn’t understand… he was needed. But his mind twisted everything.”

RICHARD
(quietly)
“That’s… brutal.”

Jeff nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.

JEFF
“Yeah. It was. And it killed something in me too, watching it. Because I saw flashes of the real Henry in there. Hurt. Desperate. But it was buried under poison. Poison he let fester.”

Richard sat still for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

RICHARD
“I’m glad you told me. And I won’t ask again. That wasn’t Henry. That was his illness speaking. I won’t remember him by those words. Only by the ones he said when he still had light.”

Jeff looked over at him, then reached out and gently squeezed his shoulder.

JEFF
“Thank you.”

And that was the end of it—for now. Just silence, mutual grief, and a promise unspoken: to hold on only to what was real, and let the rest drift away.

---

“No, let me say it,” Jeff said after a while, like he needed to get it all out — and really never speak of it again.

“He accused me. Said, ‘You chose him over me… I thought you cared. That’s why you asked him to leave England, isn’t it? Then why did you run back to him? You abandoned me.’”

Jeff’s voice tightened, but he didn’t stop.

“‘So now, live your life happily. Enjoy it. Don’t think about me — you’ve done enough. I’m tired of living like this, like I mean nothing to anyone.’”

He paused only a second.

“‘I wish he wasn’t born. I wish things were different. That I was the rightful heir. You the spare. And him… just another cousin. Or not here at all.’”

Jeff's hands were clenched.

*“Then he said, ‘You chose him,’ and bitterly laughed. ‘Maybe see you in hell someday…’”

He swallowed hard and took a sip of water.

“Then he swallowed a dozen antidepressants. Just like that.”

Silence.

“Henry was brain-dead for three days,” Jeff said, quieter now. “I refused to leave your side. So Father — had the funeral without me, told the Claremont family you were unwell and I was with you. Anyone who asked further, he shut them down. Said I was where I was supposed to be: looking after the next Earl. You.”

---

Richard didn’t blink. Didn’t move. The room felt frozen in place around his still figure, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes that said: I heard every word. I understood every word. And I’ll carry every word.

Jeff set the bottle down with a dull thud.

JEFF
(voice hoarse)
“That’s it. That’s what he said. And I don’t want to repeat it again. Not because I want to erase it… but because it’s done now. He’s gone. And that pain, his pain… we can’t change it. But we can choose how we live with it.”

Richard finally exhaled. A long, heavy breath, like he'd been holding it in for days.

RICHARD
“So he really... believed I stole you.”

JEFF
“He didn’t just believe it, Rich. He clung to it. Twisted it into the only explanation that made sense to him. That way, he didn’t have to confront the emptiness inside himself.”

RICHARD
(quietly)
“I never wanted that.”

Jeff looked at him, his face softer now.

JEFF
“I know. And I never left him, not really. But I couldn’t be everything for someone falling apart, especially when he wouldn’t let me help.”

Diana, still seated across them, finally spoke.

DIANA
“Sometimes, the ones who cry out the loudest are also the ones who silence help with pride. Henry wanted to be saved, but only on his terms. And life... doesn’t work that way.”

There was silence again. No one crying. No one breaking. Just raw honesty hanging in the air.

RICHARD
(staring into nothing)
“Then let’s never speak of that video again. Let’s never let that be what defines him.”

JEFF
“You have my word.”

DIANA
“And mine.”

Richard nodded once. Then leaned back, eyes wet but steady.

RICHARD
“Thank you. For telling me. For not shielding me forever.”

Jeff gave a faint smile. One of relief. Maybe even forgiveness.

---

Despite himself, a quiet cry escaped Richard — sharp, small, but real. He wiped at his face roughly, refusing to be held this time.

“I’m not the next Earl,” he said, voice raw. “I will never be. That’s not my calling.”

He looked at the floor, then at neither of them.

“I don’t want to inherit a title soaked in that much grief.”

Before Jeff could spoke Di did.

Richard didn’t flinch, but his jaw clenched—tight, unmoving.

Di’s voice was calm, but firm, measured like she’d rehearsed it in her head a dozen times.

“You cannot escape your destiny,” she said. “Your duties. Your responsibilities. Being an Earl isn’t just about inheriting everything. It’s about carrying on. Shouldering what is expected of you. What only you can do now.”

Jeff stood still, letting her speak, but his gaze never left Richard’s face.

Richard let out a bitter laugh—short, humourless.

“Destiny?” he echoed. “You make it sound noble. Do you know what it feels like, Di? Everyone gone. One by one. And now I’m left with… a title, a ring, and a bloodline soaked in expectations?”

He looked at them both, eyes sharp now, not broken—just tired. Very, very tired.

“But go on then. Say it. Say what’s next.”

---

Diana spoke, her voice firm.
“Let me tell you a story. About a dark-haired girl her parents named Diana—because her life, absurdly enough, mirrored that of the late people's princess. She was quite the English rose herself, just with slightly darker hair than her namesake.

She was lovely. Sweet. Charming. Everyone wanted to know her. It didn’t matter what she did or didn’t do—people just kept saying, ‘Oh my God, she’s so beautiful, so lovely, so gorgeous—just like Princess Diana!’
What a beauty, right? Sounds familiar?”

Richard nodded. That was exactly how he felt—constantly bothered by his beautiful face, again and again, all his damn life.

“I—she—even had a villainous stepmother for three years. Her father, a WHO surgeon, couldn’t be bothered to believe that his second wife was abusing his precious third daughter. Her biological mother—a military trauma surgeon—had already won custody of the older two siblings.”

She glanced at Jeffrey. “Don’t flinch yet, Jeff. The story gets better.”

“The stepmother was as wicked as the ones from Cinderella or Snow White. The girl only wanted to live a normal life—as normal as someone who looked like her possibly could. She'd been fending off unwanted attention from boys and men since far too early an age.
She lived with that woman from age thirteen to fifteen.”

Diana paused, still speaking in third person.
“Before the stepmother entered the picture during the peak of her teenage years, her life had been like a fairytale. She really did live like a princess—with her real family.

And then one day, the stepmother pushed her down a long staircase. She was on her period. That would be the last one of her life. A severe injury to her uterus followed… and later, a full hysterectomy.

And now? The girl—now a woman—has yet to find a man who’d love her wholeheartedly. Who’d make her his wife even knowing she could never make him a father. Never.”

She looked at them, eyes burning.

“If that’s not twisted, unfair destiny…
Then what is?”

---

Richard was fully listening now. He asked quietly,
“What happened next, Di? A surgery that major at fifteen… and the emotional trauma that must’ve come with it...”
He trailed off, unsure how to put it all into words.

Jeffrey was rooted to the spot.
He had heard—through family gossip—that she couldn’t become a mother. But he had never dug deeper. He hadn’t wanted to risk breaking her trust.

---

Diana sat down, slowly, folding her hands in her lap as if steadying herself.

“What happened next?” she repeated, voice softer now. “Well… the girl had to grow up overnight.”

She didn’t look at either of them when she spoke. “She had physical therapy. Hormone treatments. Psychological evaluations. Months of hushed conversations behind doors, and pitying looks from adults who didn’t know how to talk to a teenager who’d just lost the possibility of ever carrying life inside her.”

Jeffrey’s jaw clenched slightly, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I didn’t even know what motherhood meant at fifteen,” she said, slipping from third person now. “But I knew what it meant to lose the option. I wasn’t just grieving what happened… I was grieving futures I didn’t even have the chance to imagine yet.”

Richard, quietly, “And no one was really there?”

“Oh, I had people,” she said. “Siblings. Friends. Therapists. But no one could make me feel whole again. That was something I had to claw my way toward, on my own. Took years. Hell, maybe I’m still doing it.”

She looked up at them both now, composed but raw.

“So when I say destiny isn’t fair? I know it isn’t. But I also know this—if you survive it, if you live through the pain, you earn the right to shape it.”

Richard didn’t speak, not yet.

And Jeff—he just finally looked at her with a depth of empathy he hadn’t quite reached before. Not pity. But a deeper kind of respect.

“You never lost me,” Jeff said quietly. “For the record.”

Diana blinked once, nodded. “Thank you. That matters.”

Then her gaze shifted back to Richard.

“Now. What are you going to do with what fate handed you?”

Richard spoke, "Doctor Diana, you're here.” His voice was hoarse, but steady. “Still standing. Still... giving. Still healing.”

She gave a faint smile, but didn’t speak.

“So what’s your point?” he asked, softly.

“That we don’t get to pick the cards we’re dealt,” she said. “But we choose how we play them. And you, Richard—” her voice cracked just a little, but her eyes stayed locked on his—“you still have a hand to play. The world needs you. Whether you want the title or not.”

Richard leaned back, jaw tightening.

“The world,” he repeated. “The world needs me.”

He almost laughed, but didn’t. “It needed Henry too, didn’t it? And where did that get him?”

Jeff finally spoke, quiet but firm. “Don’t do that.”

Richard turned his head.

Jeff went on, “Don’t reduce his death to some cosmic punchline. You know better. You’re just angry. And that’s fair. But don’t let it rot your heart.”

Richard’s gaze flicked down. The silence was heavy for a moment.

Then he said, “I’m not angry. I’m scared.”

That caught them both off guard.

He looked at Diana now. “I don’t want to be someone’s figurehead. I don’t want my life written out before me like some inherited script.”

“You already rewrote parts of it,” she said. “You survived. You stayed kind. That’s not weakness, Richard. That’s strength.”

“But I’ll never have a normal life,” he said.

“You were never meant to,” she said gently.

“Then what’s left for me?” he asked.

“Whatever you choose to do with it,” Jeff said, taking a step closer. “But don’t turn away from it because you think you’re broken or cursed. You’re not. You’re needed. And not just by the world. By me.”

Richard looked up at him.

Jeff’s voice lowered. “By us.”

Then, Jeff asked, sounding bewildered, to Di “Your mother? Where was she? She’s still alive, yeah?”

“And your stepmother?” he prompted. “Your father, too…?”

Diana’s tone was clipped as she began. “I’m telling you this only because I know everything about both of you—or at least, I believe I do. So it’s only fair you know about me, too.”

She took a measured breath before continuing.

“My mother sued my father for neglect. And his wife for child abuse.”

Jeff and Richard remained silent, listening.

“I spent seven months in and out of hospitals when I was fifteen. The first two were the hardest—I was in constant pain and had no idea what had even happened to me. They refused to tell me the full truth until I was back on my feet, saying that, in my drugged, medicated state, it wouldn’t make any sense.”

She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Perhaps that was when my curiosity about all things anatomical began. My parents were doctors, but it’s not like I lived with either of them much, or heard many stories about their work at home.”

“In those two months,” she said, “I was doused with those burning, flaring, searing sedatives you, Richard, rightfully complained so much about. So many times I lost count.

“Most of them were forced—against my will, without me even understanding what they were doing, except that they refused to remove the IV lines. Later, I’d only ask them to do that when the alternative was worse—like removing internal stitches or clearing out built-up matter. I won’t go into details.

“I was alone, most of the time. Just me and my books. My mother visited two or three times a day, but... she never really understood me. I guess I became a burden to her, especially when she was trying to build a new life with her new husband.”

She sighed, then continued.

“My stepmother destroyed her own life out of jealousy—jealousy over a child. That I, a girl, had too much: my father’s attention, his declared heir by his will, his spare time, his affection. She believed she deserved it all.

“At the end of the three-year court case, she was sentenced to sixteen years in prison. My mother settled with my father—took the money and moved on.

“My father used to visit me in the hospital when he could—three times a week, usually. He always brought gifts and books, when all I wanted was support, understanding, love.

“When I asked why I couldn’t go home with him or my mother, he said, ‘Your mom doesn’t want you in her new life.’ I found out later she was pregnant again and saw me as some kind of shadow over her fresh start. Thankfully, I learned that much later. And since my father was being sued for neglect, he wasn’t allowed custody. So I stayed in the hospital until I no longer needed post-op care. For all intents and purposes, I was a ward of the court for ten months.

“Luckily, Earl Godfrey had just become the new Earl. He pulled some weight and, after four months, my father regained custody. During that time, I was placed under a court-appointed guardian—a single child psychologist who fostered kids like me. She was pragmatic, emotionally reserved, never overly warm or attached... but I needed that. After everything, I needed calm guidance and proper understanding.

“After seven months with her, I went to live with an aunt on my father’s side while finishing senior high in London. Then I was on my own—through uni and beyond. That year was enough to process it all. I moved on, poured my essence into biology, into becoming a cardiologist.”

She paused, her tone softening.

“I forgave my father. He was in love with her—love makes you blind. And she played a completely different role when he was around. He’s retired now. Spends his time on social and charity work, often hosted by the Claremonts.”

Another pause. Then, with just a flicker of bitterness:

“My love life? My last boyfriend—four years, a cardiac surgeon—left me because his parents wanted grandchildren. He didn’t care that I couldn’t have children. But when he told them he was going to propose to me, and about my condition, his father threatened to disown him. And that was that.”

She gave a slight shrug, as if brushing it off.

“I’ve yet to find someone who’ll love me enough to not care about offspring.”

Then there was silence. Deafening silence.

Jeffrey was the first to speak, stunned.
“Diana... I never knew. Jesus. You’ve been through so much.”

Richard opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked like he wanted to speak again, but stopped himself.

Diana noticed. “What is it, Richard? Say it. I won’t mind.”

“You’re a brilliant, resilient gem, Di,” Richard said, voice steady. “I bow before you.”
And he did — a deep, sincere bow.

Then, a spark lit in his eyes.
Diana swallowed hard, sensing something shift.
Jeff raised a questioning brow.

Richard looked straight at her. “I’m a man. What if I became your man?”

“What!” Jeff blurted first, incredulous.
Diana just stared at Richard, puzzled, speechless.

Jeff looked between the two, eyes wide. “Wait—what the hell are you saying, Richard?”

Richard didn’t flinch. “I’m saying exactly what you heard. Maybe it’s time I stop being handed everything and choose something for myself.” He turned back to Diana. “You’re strong, fierce, brilliant… and you make me want to be worthy of you.”

Diana blinked, still trying to process. “Richard… this isn’t—this isn’t some sympathy response, right? I’m not a project.”

“You’re not,” Richard said, stepping closer. “You’re everything I admire. And I’m not proposing, I’m not making promises. I’m asking—what if we gave it a shot? Just… see?”

Jeff folded his arms, half-shocked, half-skeptical. “You sure about this? You know she’s way out of your league.”

Richard chuckled, eyes still on Di. “Yeah. I know. That’s exactly why I had to say it.”

Di exhaled slowly, heart pounding, eyes flickering between the two. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispered. “But… damn it. You might not be entirely wrong.”

And then Richard dropped another bombshell on them.

“In six months, my apprenticeship ends,” he said, casually, like it wasn’t a major revelation. “Not that I was some nosikhiyaa to begin with. I’ve been in this game for years. After that, I’ll be moving to the Chinese branch of Ranasinghe Jewelry. In Hong Kong.”

Jeff straightened up, surprised. Diana raised an eyebrow.

“Here, everyone already knows my expertise,” Richard continued. “I’ve built my network. The new building will be done by then, and I plan to run the show there. I always wanted to be a globe-trotting jeweler—like Saul. That’s the dream.”

Then he looked straight at Diana.

“And you—Di—you’ve always been a gemstone to me. I told you once I had a crush on you. It’s true. That’s why I fell so hard for Debby at first. Her mannerisms…her appearance, they reminded me of you.”

Diana didn’t respond right away, but the look in her eyes said she was listening—closely.

Richard let the silence settle a moment, then added—softer this time, but no less certain,

“I didn’t realise it back then, of course. I thought I was just charmed by Debby. But it wasn’t her. Not really. It was that she moved like you. Spoke like you in moments. Had your fire—but none of your depth.”

Diana finally exhaled, arms still folded, but her eyes flicked away briefly—processing.

Jeff, seated to the side, let out a low whistle. “Well. If you were planning to make things interesting again, mission accomplished.”

Richard offered a faint grin but didn’t take his eyes off Di. “I’m not trying to throw you off balance. I just want to be honest—for once, completely. About where I am, where I’m going, and... who I’d want by my side, if I ever deserved her.”

Diana shook her head slightly, a wry smile creeping onto her lips despite herself. “You are impossible, Richard Ranasinghe de Vulpian.”

He tilted his head. “And yet, still standing here.”

She stepped toward him, slowly. “You’re reckless. You move fast. You speak faster.”

“Because life doesn’t wait,” he said.

She studied him for a moment longer, then quietly said, “Let’s see if your actions keep pace with your words.”

Richard smiled, eyes soft. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Jeff raised his cup of tea. “To emotional whiplash,” he muttered.

Diana and Richard exchanged a look. And for once—it felt like everything ahead might not be a mess... but something starting. Something real.

Richard smirked. “First of all, you started calling her ‘Aunt Diana’ when we were kids, and I just went along with it. That was your weird thing, not mine.”

Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Still. It stuck.”

“Only because I didn’t know what else to call her back then,” Richard shrugged. “She was the cool, intimidating med student who sometimes fixed our scraped knees and told us off when we got too rowdy.”

Diana gave a small laugh. “That’s... kind of accurate.”

Jeff wasn’t done. “So what if it doesn’t work out? You seriously want that kind of mess between all of us?”

Richard didn’t flinch. “It is a risk. But I’ve been living inside other people’s expectations my whole damn life. And what I’ve learned is—losing someone because you didn’t even try? That’s worse than any breakup.”

He turned to Diana again. “I know the odds. I’m not some love-blind idiot. But I also know what I feel, and what I want. I’ve changed. I’m still changing. But this—this isn’t just a whim.”

Diana folded her arms, lips pressed together thoughtfully. Jeff looked between the two of them, then finally sighed.

“I swear, if this turns into some tragic soap opera... I’m moving to America.”

Richard grinned. “Noted.”

---

"I'm 31, you're only 24 ..." Di said, as if talking to herself.

Richard didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. And I’ve lived through enough for twice that.”

Diana looked at him, uncertain. “It’s not just about numbers, Richard.”

“I know. It’s about what we’ve seen. What we’ve survived. And how we show up now, despite it all.” He stepped a little closer. “You think I don’t know what I’m asking? I do. You’re not just older. You’ve carried more weight, made harder choices, loved and lost... and still walk like you own your pain.”

Diana looked away for a second, her jaw tightening.

“I’m not trying to catch up to you,” he added gently. “I’m trying to walk beside you.”

She didn’t reply at first. Then finally, in a low voice, “I don’t want to be someone’s healing project. Or some rebel’s challenge.”

“You’re not,” Richard said, serious now. “You’re someone I admire. Deeply. And maybe that means nothing in the long run. But I’d rather you know now than keep wondering.”

Diana swallowed hard. She amused, asked, "So let me get this clear, you're asking your own distant cousin out?"

Richard smirked, unfazed. “Distant enough for it not to be weird, close enough for it to feel destined.”

Diana blinked, half-impressed, half-exasperated. “That’s your pitch?”

He shrugged, playful but sincere. “You’re a woman I’ve respected before I even knew what real respect meant. And now that I do, I’m not gonna pretend I don’t feel what I feel.”

Jeff just blinked between them. “I need a drink.”

Diana turned to Richard, still amused. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he said, then instantly grimaced, “—bad metaphor, sorry.”

She laughed despite herself. “God help me, you’re actually charming.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said with a grin. “Let me prove it.”

“Just give me a chance,” he urged, voice low but steady.

She swallowed hard. He stood from the edge of the bed—where he'd shifted around from the window to the desk, then finally settled into the armchair. Now, he took two steps closer, towering over her. At 5'7", she wasn’t short, but he still had a full head and half on her.

And for the first time, looking at him through a different lens—not as a patient, not as a friend, but as a man—he was stunning. Striking blue eyes, lighter than her own deep sapphire ones. A golden-haired angel to her raven-haired one.

Then he did something unexpected. He bent to one knee in front of her.

“Do you agree to be my gem?” he asked, offering his left hand—the same hand that had been a wreck just a week ago. Now it was mostly healed, only faint scars hinting at the pain he’d endured.

She bit her lip, breath catching. “I... I’m in. You’re a gracious man when you want to be. Okay, I’m charmed enough to give this a try.”

She took his hand and gently pulled him up.

“But,” she added, her gaze sharp now, “I sense something fishy, Richie. Don’t you dare trick me.”

“I’m not,” he said, earnest. “Now that you’ve agreed, hear me out.”

Jeff sat silently, still processing the unexpected twist unfolding before him. He sipped his coffee, eyes flicking between them, unreadable.

Richard turned fully to Diana now. “You’ll be my fiancée,” he said with quiet conviction. “And I’ll marry you—for your reassurance, I’ll sign a prenup. Five years, ten, however long you want. You set the terms.”

He stepped closer, gaze unwavering. “I love you. And yes, let’s finally see what’s behind those sealed doors at Claremont Manor. Whatever inheritance is hidden there—let’s find out together.”

He paused, just long enough. “But don’t you dare think I’m doing this for some ulterior motive. That’s just a bonus, if you’re on board. Because you, Diana—you're a proper, accomplished English woman. And you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

"​Everything you've ever wanted? Jeff repeated, "In terms of what, I mean in which & what way?"

Richard turned slightly toward Jeff, a small smile playing on his lips—not smug, just sure. “In every way that matters.”

He looked at Diana again. “Brains, strength, scars, soul. The way she stands up for herself. The way she doesn’t flinch from hard truths. She’s lived a life, not just existed. She’s beautiful, yeah—but not in that hollow, polished way. She’s the real thing.”

Then he glanced back at Jeff, voice calm. “I don’t want a porcelain doll. I want someone who’s fought, fallen, and still walks with her head up. Someone who won’t need me—but chooses me.”

He looked back at Diana, quieter now. “And she did.”

Richard said, his voice steady and clear, “And don’t even suggest I’d be dependent on her. No.”

He looked at Jeff, then at Diana. “You know I know how to stand on my own two feet. I always have.”

There was no ego in his tone—just calm conviction. “This isn’t about leaning on anyone. It’s about choosing to stand beside someone, for once.”

“That’s quite refreshing,” Di began, with a small smile. “I’m more or less a workaholic anyway… As for my family—haha—I’m not close to them either. Just obligations I attend a few times a year. My siblings—half, step, full, cousins, you name them—they either see me as some sort of role model, or they’re jealous, or I’m just a stranger to them.”

She turned to Richard, holding his gaze. “So Richie… let’s see how it works out.”

Jeffrey, still trying to piece things together, furrowed his brow. “Wait—you’re not close to anyone? So in that criteria where did rich & I used to fall?" Jeff asked genuinely curious.

Diana looked at Jeffrey, her expression softening, the question clearly hitting something tender.

“You two… weren’t ‘home.’” She said it gently, not to hurt. “But you were safe. Familiar. Chosen. Not by blood or duty, but because I wanted to be around you both.”

She glanced briefly at Richard before continuing. “You especially, Jeff. You were my anchor during med school. And Richie… you were that wild, shining spark that reminded me to keep living.”

She let out a breath. “So if you’re asking where you two fell—you were the closest thing to home I had.”

"​But we weren't that close", Richard recalled.

Diana gave a small, knowing smile. “No, we weren’t. Not in the conventional sense. But closeness isn’t always loud or daily or obvious.”

She looked at Richard fully now. “You were present in the right moments. The way you spoke to me. Saw me. Even when we said nothing much at all, it was enough to feel seen. And when you didn’t know what I was going through, you still never treated me like I was broken. That stayed with me.”

She shrugged, more open now. “That’s its own kind of closeness, don’t you think?”

Before he could answer, she said, “And your flora and fauna activist American mother, Jeffrey—her fire, her passion for her cause—I never got bored of it, not once, during all my visits to Claremont Manor. Even Catherine, your mama, Richard—while being a quintessential drama queen—knew how to live freely, on her own terms. A wild butterfly, indeed. And the Earl, Godfrey himself, was a proper father figure. A guide. Someone to look up to... something my own father had failed to become.”

Jeffrey smiled, a little surprised by the sincerity in her tone. “You really remember all that?”

“I do,” Diana replied simply. “Some things you don’t forget. Not when they feel like warmth during a cold stretch of your life. That’s how I became Dr. Diana Claremont, the cardiologist I am today—working on humanitarian causes with the UN."

Richard was quiet, absorbing her words. Smiling.

"Now, Jeffrey, look away—I’m about to feel my boyfriend’s lips", she teased, pulling Richard’s head down toward hers and kissing him, even giving his lips a playful lick.

Richard burst out laughing, a deep, carefree belly laugh that echoed through the room.

Then all of them were laughing—loud, real, and for the first time in a long time, without any weight dragging them down.

Chapter Text

Today, after spending twenty-six days at Saul’s house in Sri Lanka, Diana and Jeffrey were leaving.

Jeffrey was flying back to the U.S., where his long-neglected profession awaited—his career as a businessman in finance needed attention. But he was leaving with something far more valuable than any deal or balance sheet: a renewed bond with his brother.

He no longer had Henry.
For the past two years, he hadn’t had Richard either—only a mentally unwell Henry. But now… now he had a gemstone of a brother again. Richard.

As for the grief over Henry’s death—well, the brother he’d loved so deeply had been gone for nearly five years already, slowly withering away into a shadow of himself. Jeffrey would cherish his memories, but that was it. Life was too vast, too full, to let a shadow hold him down.

And as for the inheritance mess—he was optimistic. The union of the Charming Jeweler Richard and the Accomplished Doctor Diana could be something remarkable. A powerful couple, even. The Claremont family would survive—and perhaps even thrive.

For Diana—Dr. Diana Claremont—it was time to continue her Asia Medical Tour. She’d take a four-day break first, then fly to Singapore.
But the silver lining?
She had a boyfriend now. One who accepted her wholeheartedly—even knowing she could never make him a father.
Richard Claremont had asked her out.
She’d said yes.
They were giving it a try.

He was himself again—the calm, charismatic, and elegant jeweler. The gemstone appraiser. And he had dropped another surprise: his apprenticeship with Saul would conclude in six months. After that, he’d be moving to the Hong Kong branch of Ranasinghe Jewelry.

Richard was healthy—both in body and mind.
And by making Diana his future bride, there was finally hope of resolving the long-standing inheritance mess.

Maya’s apprenticeship would finish in another four months. Not that she was deeply attached to the situation, as she herself admitted.
“However nice your college friends turn out to be,” she had said, “you’ve got to move on after your degree ends.”

Still, she’d expressed genuine delight—and surprise—at how serious Richard and Diana were about marriage. Whether or not the romance would last, they were both committed to supporting one another as husband and wife.

And Saul?
Well, it had been an ordeal—but he'd weathered it with grace. He was content having things return to normal with his most senior pupil, Richard.
Saul had always felt like a vagabond. That’s what life had taught him—especially after shifting from one religion to another in his younger years.

Richard had no plans to quit being a jeweler anytime soon. Their partnership would continue. And even if one day Richard decided to become an Earl in England, Saul’s personal philosophy—Saulism, as he jokingly called it—reminded him to cherish beauty, love it without attachment, and not be hollow when it eventually walked its own path.

He was a charitable businessman, and he would carry on—with a smile.

They had already said their goodbyes.
They toasted with a non-alcoholic drink.

To new beginnings.
And to normalcy.

__________________

[Scene: Ranasinghe Bungalow, Sri Lanka – A golden evening sun spills into the main hall, touching every polished corner, as soft ocean breeze flutters the curtains. The atmosphere is warm, tinged with departure, hope, and quiet contentment.]

---

•Diana & Richard – Balcony

Richard hands her a small velvet box. Inside, a moonstone pendant.

Richard:
"Not an engagement ring yet, but… I wanted to give you something lunar. Mysterious, strong, and always glowing—like you."

Diana: (smiling, touched)
"And yet, I’m the one lucky enough to be dating a man who appraises gemstones better than he appraises his own worth."

Richard: (with a light laugh)
"I’ll get better at that. With you beside me."

Diana:
"You know I can’t give you a child, Richie."

Richard:
"You already gave me life, Di. I’ll take that over any lineage."

(They hold each other quietly, letting the moment speak.)

---

•Jeffrey & Richard – Garden Path

Jeffrey:
"So… Hong Kong, huh?"

Richard:
"Six months. Not too far."

Jeffrey:
"Still closer than where you were two weeks ago."

Richard: (smiles faintly)
"I thought I lost you… and Henry."

Jeffrey:
"You found me again. And as for Henry—he left us long ago. I’ll grieve the man he was, but not the ghost he became."

(They clasp each other's shoulders—strong, brothers again.)

Jeffrey:
"You’re a gemstone of a brother, Richie. Don’t let anyone polish that shine down."

---

• Maya & Diana – Kitchen, sipping green tea

Maya:
"So you two are serious? The whole ‘till death do us part’ package?"

Diana: (soft chuckle)
"Something like that. Whether love thrives or fades, commitment will stay."

Maya:
"Wow. Grown-ups really do love like adults."

Diana:
"You sound proud."

Maya:
"I am. Of both of you. I’ll tease the hell out of you later, though."

---

•Saul & Richard – Jewelry Workshop

Saul:
"Ah, back to being the senior most jeweller pupil. I missed this version of you."

Richard: (grinning)
"Alive, focused, and polishing citrines like my life depends on it."

Saul:
"And it sort of does. But you know, Richie… beautiful things leave eventually. I’ve learned to love and let go."

Richard:
"I’m not leaving yet. And even when I do—you’ll be part of every carat I touch."

Saul: (smiles deeply)
"Then let’s make something priceless, while we still can."

---

[Narrated Montage Begins – Music swells softly: hopeful strings, low percussion]

Diana walking away through the airport gates, turning just once to smile at Richard, moonstone pendant on her neck catching light.

Jeffrey seated on a flight, typing an email to restructure his financial branch, with a photo of Richard and him on the seat beside him.

Maya sketching new jewelry designs, sipping tea, mumbling to herself, “Silly idiots, all of them.” Then smiling.

Saul reviewing ledgers, then glancing up at Richard across the room, who is examining a ruby under a loupe with concentration, healthy and steady.

A final wide shot: the Sri Lankan coast, Saul’s house nestled between cliffs and tea groves, as the sun sets peacefully.

Narration (in Richard’s voice):
"We were five people, bound not by blood but by care, chaos, and choice. Some stayed, some moved forward. But we had made a family, even if only for a chapter. And for me—this chapter, was the one that brought me back to life."

[FADE TO BLACK]

[TEXT ON SCREEN: “To new beginnings. To normalcy.”]

•

Chapter Text

ONE YEAR LATER
[Terrace Garden, Hong Kong | Evening]

A beautiful terrace garden atop a high-rise in Hong Kong glows with soft fairy lights, paper lanterns swaying gently. The skyline sparkles behind them. Soft instrumental jazz plays in the background. A table set for two, with white linen, orchids, and a chilled non-alcoholic drink waiting.

Richard, in a crisp navy suit, stands by the railing, nervous but smiling. Diana walks toward him, wearing a flowing peach pink dress. Her hair is wavy, moonstone pendant still around her neck. She looks radiant.

Richard:
"You know, Hong Kong isn’t Paris. But I found the most perfect view here anyway."

Diana: (smiling)
"That’s because you’re in it."

(He laughs gently, then drops to one knee, holding out a velvet box with a bespoke diamond ring.)

Richard:
"Dr. Diana Claremont… For years I thought life had already given me too much chaos to deserve something good. But then you walked into my disaster, steady hands and all… and made it a future."

(He opens the box.)

Richard:
"This ring isn’t just a symbol—it’s a promise. To never vanish. To show up, day after day, rain or shine. Will you marry me?"

Diana: (eyes glistening, warm smile)
"I was already yours, long before this moment. Yes, Richie. A hundred times, yes."

(They kiss. Applause breaks out from a few onlookers. The city lights flicker on in celebration.)

---

[Scene: Video Call – Jeffrey, back in New York]

Jeffrey is in his office, tie undone, sipping coffee. His phone buzzes with a call: “Richie & Di – Video.” He answers, expecting a quick chat.

Jeffrey:
"Hey! You both look suspiciously radiant—"

Diana & Richard (in unison):
"We’re engaged!"

(They hold up their hands to show the rings—hers sparkling, his simple and elegant.)

Jeffrey: (eyes widen, then he beams)
"YES! Finally! About time you made an honest woman out of her, Richie."

Richard:
"She’s the one who kept me honest, Jeff."

Jeffrey:
"You better treat her like the diamond she is—or I’ll cross oceans."

Diana:
"Thank you, Jeffrey. You’ve always been our biggest cheerleader."

Jeffrey: (smiling, glass raised)
"To the newly engaged Claremonts—.
Richard & Diana."

---

[Scene: Tokyo Office – Maya Hamada, now President of Hamada Jewelry]

Maya is sipping matcha in her sleek glass office when a "New Email – Subject: We Said Yes!" notification pings.

She opens it. Attached is a photo of Richard and Diana, arms around each other, rings sparkling. Caption:
“Designed by you. Worn by us. Forever.”

Maya: (snorts gently, fond)
"Idiots."

(She minimizes the email, picks up her phone, and dials the head of design.)

Maya:
"Tell the team the Claremont Engagement Collection is officially in motion. And tell them... I want perfection."

---

[Final Montage – Soft piano music plays]

Richard and Diana dancing on the terrace, under fairy lights.

Jeffrey raising a toast alone but smiling, a framed photo of his brothers now complete.

Maya walking into the Hamada design room, flipping sketches, eyes shining with focus.

Saul, in Sri Lanka, polishing a gemstone with pride, as sunlight hits it just right.

A ring glinting in moonlight on Diana’s hand as Richard kisses her fingers.

[TEXT ON SCREEN: “Some stories begin again with a single promise.”]

•

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