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Tea With Friends (pt 1 & 2) [completed]


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Cross posting these here from my tumblr now that both parts are finished :) check out the commissioned artwork that was done for it, found here and here! I'll post the second part separately underneath this, but part one is male, part two is female, and it's strictly platonic!

There were, Elliott reasoned with himself, many worse ways one could spend his Wednesday afternoon. He could think of worse places, worse activities, worse circumstances; this was, all in all, quite a civil and uncomplicated afternoon. It would be unbecoming of him to complain, especially when he was waiting on company, and especially when the company he was waiting on was–


Eyes naturally turned to her when she entered, flaming curls tied into a smart chignon–or, perhaps, the best approximation of it possible, given that her hair found itself quite unwilling to be tamed and tied into something so subdued. The suit she wore was tailored carefully to her figure despite being a gentleman’s clothing–and, indeed, he knew quite intimately of whom had been relieved of it–but the bright blues of the fabrics matched the blue of her eyes more beautifully than it ever had his.

He rose to greet her, taking her hand tenderly in one of his. The rules of decorum were rather lax in this neighborhood–and he thanked his lucky stars for it–as it meant he was able to get away with a bit more than he could in some of the more affluent districts. The ever-shifting rules were more than he knew to manage, no matter how many books on the subject he devoured, or how many times he wrote in letters to the newspapers, or asked his employer to impart their study on the matter to him. So often the rules of etiquette contradicted themselves, or were reliant upon unspoken knowledge, that it made him feel faint just considering how best to conduct himself.

He considered, briefly, that perhaps the fever was also to blame for his feeling faint when she seemed to wince at his touch.

“You’re unwell.” It wasn’t a question in the slightest, and he found himself fumbling for his words.

“Nothing concerning, nor unusual. You know me.”

Florence wrinkled her nose at the assurances. “It’s true. I know you enough to know that you should be home.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I missed our appointment?”

“I have it on good authority that you’re not a gentleman.”

“And whose would that be?”


A sheepish smile crept onto his features, her hand still held between his. “I suppose you’ve caught me, but my point remains. I didn’t want to miss our weekly tea.”

“If you faint, I’m not going to revive you. I’ll leave you where you lay.”

“Aren’t you sweet? Thankfully I’m not prone to losing consciousness.” The weakness in his knees betrayed the statement, but he dared not bring it up now that she had finally taken her seat. “So, my dear friend, how has your week been?”

“No different than the last. Let’s not mince words, though, Elliott.” Flaming curls strained against their clasp as she tilted her head and rested her chin in her palm. “Tell me about my pup.”

Elliott held up a finger in warning as his brows drew together and breath snagged insistently. He tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, drawing the cloth to bury his nose into to shield her from the offending view and resultant spray. “Hdt’DZZHH'hue! Hh‘DTZHiew! 'DTZZHH'hue!”

He gasped for a fourth, closed eyes and desperately slanted brows the only thing visible above the cloth, but the itch abated at the last second and left him without any sort of conclusion to the fit. After another second or two, when he was certain he was finished, Elliott tended to reddened nostrils with the sodden cloth, and gave a tentative–and ineffective–sniff. “I do beg your pardon.”

A scattering of blessings greeted him from the other patrons of the establishment, and he could feel the heat rise in his cheeks at the unwanted attention. This was certainly not the last time he would be interrupting them, and they would sooner tire or lose their voices than to keep up with him. “Where was I?”

Florence’s eyes were appraising as she took in his appearance in the recovery, and he was acutely aware of the way her gaze lingered on him. He had nearly been late leaving the house trying to make himself presentable, and despite his Herculean efforts, he knew there was much to be desired. He couldn’t hide the shadows beneath his eyes, the glassy sheen to them, the chafed skin of his nostrils indicative of being far too familiar with his handkerchiefs; indeed, he could still feel the wetness that gathered at their rims despite the constant attention, and had to stop himself from sniffling as profusely as he felt he needed.


“Oh! Yes, yes, you’re right. I swear I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached. She, uhm…h-hold on one moment…” No sooner had he retired his handkerchief to his sleeve than he found himself tugging it back out again, brow creased and eyes watering from the deep, buzzing itch that threatened to escalate into something actionable at any second. Glistering nostrils twitched and flared, handkerchief in open palms as he prepared for the oncoming paroxysm. The feeling teased and toyed with him, making his breath come in fluttering and unsteady gasps, before once again petering out to the dull itch that had nestled itself quite comfortably in his sinuses since he woke this morning.


He cowed under his name, feeling more like a bashful schoolboy than a grown man. Despite her slight stature–Florence stood at a slight four feet eleven inches, a full one and one quarter feet beneath himself–she was still a formidable and intimidating presence.

“I know you won’t agree to rescheduling, and I’m a busy woman.” She looked to their waiter, and tilted her head towards Elliott, her brows raising in a gesture, and the man disappeared back towards the kitchen. “There. You’ll thank me later.”

“What did you–?”

“They know me here. The owner and I have an understanding. I bring him business, and he allows me to do my work. Ensures that I find myself well taken care of when I’m within these four walls.” Florence leaned back in her chair, resting languidly against the high back of it. “Now. We’ve got a few moments before our drinks arrive. Do you think you’ll be able to survive them without sneezing yourself to pieces?”

Just the word itself was enough to make him wrinkle his nose in irritation. A clogged, useless snuffle was his response as he tended to flushed nostrils. “I think I can manage. Please forgive me for the state I’m in, Florence. You know how unusually cold it’s been as of late, and being on the water is especially so. I’m afraid the chill and damp did me no favors. This cold tore through half the crew before we made it back to port–but that’s inevitable, unfortunately–close quarters and all shared spaces and what have you–not that I need to explain this to you, of course–I know you’re well aware of the ins and outs of zailing.”

“I haven’t been a zailor’s wife for a handful of years, no, but I remember. I was only on the ship with Charles once, before Warren was born, and it was like sitting in a floating coffin. The entire thing creaked like it intended to fall apart around us, with the winds howling and the water shaking it so forcefully the entire thing rattled like someone shaking a tin of sweets.” She toyed with her silverware as she spoke, pointedly ignoring the glances other tables were sending to hers. The object of their attention was sat opposite of her, sipping at his glass of water held between shaking fingers. “Elliott.”


“Come sit next to me.”

He was nothing if not obedient, and to refuse a request from a lady was inexcusable–especially one as reasonable as this–though there was a nagging doubt within him about how it would look to observers, of which there were assuredly plenty. “Is this suitably close?”

The shock on his face was evident when the back of a hand pressed against his cheek. She didn’t need to touch him to know that he was feverish; the glassy brightness of his eyes, his general pallor aside from the harsh splashes of redness across his cheeks and nose, and the faint sheen on his forehead from sweat beginning to gather at his hairline confirmed it. But despite her relatively callous nature, even she found herself moved to pity when she looked at his misery, and knew even a small gesture would bring a measure of relief to such a social creature as he.

“Elliott, you’re hot as a devil. I could boil the kettle on you.”

“Ah. I’d, er, suspected as much. I feel quite like I’m going to freeze, but I know that the urge to bury myself beneath layers is an insidious one. An already high temperature doesn’t much benefit from me dressing like I’m wearing the entirety of my wardrobe at once.” Despite the relative warmth of the room, he still shivered like he intended to shake himself apart at the seams. Her touch reminded him of how frigid he was, and he profoundly regretted having left both his jacket and greatcoat at home.

It was inappropriate to be without layers, such as he was, but there seemed to be little objection to the innumerable improprieties being committed in the establishment, not only by himself and his companion but those around them as well. Couples without a chaperone, people of different classes intermingling, physical contact between men and women, those wearing too little or too much; minor and major transgressions, a flagrant disregard for social norms. It was exhilarating, if he was honest with himself. Daring. Dangerous. He felt quite roguish, even for as poorly as he was faring.

A scarred man–possibly a veteran by the looks of him, Elliott mused–set two mugs on the table between the pair, and clapped a hand roughly on Florence’s shoulder to jostle her a bit. “Miss Flo,” he boomed, a wide grin visible beneath a graying mustache, “pleasure to have you in again. Don’t let your gentleman friend die on the floor–bad for business, you know.” He laughed to himself, and shook Elliott’s shoulder in a boyishly rough-but-affectionate manner as well. “That was a joke, lad. Drink up, it’ll warm you through, chase off the worst of that nasty business in you.”

The steaming mug was enticing enough by sight alone that he lowered both his shoulders and his guard. “Thank you, sir, sincerely. And thank you as well, Florence. I trust this is your doing?”

Ringlets bobbed as she turned to look away with a faint shrug of the shoulders. “Don’t consider it a gift. Merely something to keep you from grinning at the daisy roots.” She took a sip from her own mug, steam coiling around her face like the tendrils of smoke that often trailed from her cigarettes. “You’ll keep this dry, of course. If people hear that I’ve got a kind bone in my body, they’ll expect to benefit from it.”

Chapped lips twisted into a soft smile, and he took a few gulps of his drink to soothe his raw throat and warm his frigid bones. He was quite steadfast about his sobriety, but there was always room for an exception. The wine during the Eucharist, a glass of brandy to toast at some event, and a hot toddy during a thoroughly wretched headcold, courtesy of the mother of his child. “I’ll keep mum, you have my word.”

“Drink your hot toddy, you sentimental fool.” Florence gestured with her tea, cinnamon and clove warmth cupped in her palms. “I won’t have you wasting my money.”

He required no further pressing, taking a breath with discomfort in preparation, nose too thoroughly blocked to grant him the luxury of drinking at a steady pace. Instead he found himself alternating between whether the gulp he took was of air or of his drink. Whiskey, clove, cinnamon, lemon, honey; even in his cold-addled state, he could appreciate the flavor as much as the effects it had on him. Inhaling steam always aided in easing congestion, he found, but especially when it was something as spiced as this.

His nose wrinkled slightly as a droplet of moisture beaded beneath one abused nostril, the shifting congestion leaving room for an itch to unfurl in its place, feathery tendrils of irritation spreading through him. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw slack as he drew a sodden handkerchief up between cupped palms in anticipation. “Hh’HYIZZHH'hue! HiDZZHHieww! 'zhHiew!” The soaked cloth held like a lifeline between slender fingers was now of little use, merely serving to further chap the red elliptical nostrils it was pressed against.

Something soft and dry brushed against the back of his hand, and he didn’t allow himself the luxury of prying open teary eyes to spare it a glance, shoving its predecessor into his pocket and clamping the proffered against his nose for dear life.

“Hh…hh–hDT’DZZH'iew! DTZZHH'hue! Mercy, please excuse me…” The heel of his palm wiped away the stray tears from the corners of his eyes where they threatened to roll down his cheeks.

“Bless you! Doubly so…” Florence’s brow was creased with sympathy, a hand resting on his shoulder. “Keep that. I’m sending you home, and I’ll get it from you later. For your sake, mine, and everyone else in London’s, you’re going home and going to bed before you infect half the City like this. Am I clear?”

“Quite.” Normally he would object, make excuses of how this was just a cold, albeit a fierce one, and how pausing his life for something so minor would be wasting precious time, but he could think of fewer places he would have liked to be than buried beneath a pile of blankets and resting–for however much rest he was able to snatch between the paroxysms, but rest nonetheless. “You have my apologies and gratitude in equal measure.”

Edited by gay-for-the-snz
fixing broken link
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It was Friday morning when Elliott rapped lightly on the door to Florence's room, a bag tucked gingerly beneath his arm, and a tray balanced precariously against his chest to support it. "Florence, my friend? I'm going to open the door."

The woman he sought was sitting in her bed in naught but her suit jacket and a pair of ill fitting trousers, a stack of pillows around her in enough quantity to indicate no amount of them had brought her any comfort. Her hair was a wild mass of curls that encroached on her face and settled around her shoulders, and the look she gave him was one of pure venom. "You are not," she sniffed sharply, "my friend today."

His smile was serene in the face of her remark. "Oh, come now, you don't mean that. I don't blame you for being a bit irritable, though, I understand it's quite an uncomfortable ordeal, this cold you've caught."

She huffed a mirthless laugh, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to face him more fully. "Caught? No, was given more like! And then you invite yourself here into my room, as if you own it. Don't you know it's inappropriate to see a lady with her hair down?"

"I was given permission by your landlady, of course, I'd never invite myself where someone hadn't given me any semblance of permission. She's worried about you, and it's no wonder why. I was told you haven't left your room since Wednesday evening, even to take your meals. Speaking of..." He cautiously set down the tray he had been sent up with, and glanced between the contents and his companion in hopes they were suitably enticing to soothe her ire and coax her into some sustenance.

"...what is it?" Her eyes lingered briefly on the little covered plate, steam still rising from beneath the tea towel. She hadn't eaten much of anything aside from the few items she kept tucked away in a drawer for times when she didn't want to impose on her landlady, or came in long after meals had been put away and the gas lamps turned low.

"She made buñuelos, and I don't know about you, my dear, but I think they sound delectable. If I can't convince you to partake--and I know you're not the sort who's easily persuaded--I may just eat them myself." Partly it was for show, but partly he found the smell of them quite appealing, and he couldn't deny that he was a bit peckish.

Oh, was that how it was, then? She lifted the towel and shoved one indelicately into her mouth. "I haven't eaten since yesterday, although I wouldn't know it by my appetite. I'll eat, but only because I know she won't let you leave until you've given her word that I accepted some of her food. She worries too much, that woman. I'm a grown adult, I had a child, I'm not one myself in need of fussing over." The statement was directed as much at him as it was about her landlady--they were cut from the same cloth, she mused. "What else did you bring?"

"Ah, well, I come bearing gifts, of course. First, and most importantly, I've brought you this." With a flourish, Elliott bowed deeply and handed over Florence's handkerchief, the soft white fabric freshly laundered and still smelling faintly of the soap he used to wash. "I appreciate you letting me borrow it, and I had a--well, I found myself rather certain that you would be in need of it, and my suspicions were confirmed when I received word that you were ill and hadn't been receiving guests, or going out."

"It may shock you to learn that those who are ill often choose to stay in rather than going out and giving their illness to others." Now that she was sitting up, he was able to get a better look at her, and to appreciate the signs of it on her face. Her hair was never quite neat, but now it was in wild disarray, looking like she hadn't bothered to attempt to comb through it since he'd seen her last, and her eyes were rather heavy and rimmed in a faint purple. Most noticeable, however, was her nose. The layer of freckles that covered her head to toe was thickest along her cheeks and nose and over the tops of her shoulders and upper arms--and yet the attention she had been paying to her nose had rendered them practically invisible, blending into the pink blush that crept from her nostrils up the bridge.

She was still a breathtaking specimen, even with a cold that had slackened her grooming routine and energy. Were he the sort of gentleman to take up with the fairer sex, he had little doubt that she would be someone he found quite ravishing. Even sexually inverted as he was, he was able to appreciate her beauty, her personality, her boldness; she was striking in all aspects, and he knew she had no shortage of suitors calling upon her.

"Look at me." Her fingers locked around his wrist, snapping him out of his thoughts and dragging him so he stood bent enough they were nearly nose to freckled nose. "Do you see that I'm suffering?" Her breath smelled faintly of cough pastilles, warm and minty. "I'm suffering because of you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And do you know, Elliott, what the worst part of this cold is?"


"I have had to sneeze desperately, since I first contracted this wretched cold from you."

"Oh. Well, er, yes, I'm well acquainted with the feeling. Of needing to sneeze, that is."

"Are you well acquainted with needing to, and being unable?"

"I don't think so, no. You've known me long enough to know that, er, not sneezing isn't often an issue for me."

She released her grip with a little huff, that soon morphed into a fit of chesty coughs. "I do know that. I've never found myself envious of it until now." One bare foot nudged at his leg to push him a bit and ensure she retained his attention, before she drew her own legs back up on the bed. "You know you owe me a modicum of comfort, yes?"

"Of course! That's why I'm here, actually--to check on you, I mean, and to take care of you. I'm no doctor, of course, but I've plenty of experience in being ill, and I've tried a fair number of remedies in my time--be cautious of mentioning folk remedies at the Docks, my crew mates have used me to test every one you could ever dream up, to prove to one another who's correct and most effective and what have you." In the privacy of her rooms, Elliott found himself quite comfortable to gesture emphatically as he spoke, not needing to attempt to keep himself or his constant need for motion palatable to the masses.

"You give them plenty of opportunity. Speaking of...sit down. I think I know how you can repay me for putting me into this situation in the first place." He sat himself at the foot of her bed, mindful to give her space to be comfortable in her own sheets.

"Anything I can do for you, just name it. You have my word as a gentleman and as your friend that if it's within my means, I'll procure or provide it for you."

Florence eyed him with a faint smile of approval and satisfaction, reveling ever so slightly in how eager he was to please. It made requesting--or commanding--things of him much simpler than if he were of a more non-genial sort. "Make me sneeze."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. It wasn't a request. You said you would do what you could for me, and this is no insurmountable task. I want relief from this damned cold, and you're going to figure out how to provide it for me. After all," she wrinkled her nose in a mixture of amusement and irritation, "I'm consulting an expert. Call upon your experience, and we'll see if you earn my forgiveness."

If there was a way to hide his surprise, he didn't know it. The request wasn't necessarily an odd one--and Lord knew he had asked stranger things of others before--yet though it sat within his area of so-called expertise, he wasn't sure how, precisely, to go about this.

"Why don't you, er, get comfortable, and I'll see what I can do." He fussed with moving things about, clearing off the bedside table enough to carefully set something down--a little vase, brimming with fresh blossoms from the Surface. "These are so pretty--the name escapes me, but they used to grow in the area I grew up in. I don't suppose you--well, of course I know you haven't been to Virginia--but I don't suppose you've ever seen them before, at least? Captain Addington has a good working relationship with the other vessels--and you need to, of course, in the shipping business--but one of them occasionally makes trips through the Canal and brings back things from the Surface, and I was able to strike quite a nice bargain with her captain about purchasing a quantity of these before the rest of them were all parceled off and sold through the different costermongers and the like."

Brilliantly blue eyes were focused on him, on the way he moved and arranged them so carefully in the ugliest vase she'd ever seen. "Use those."

"Pardon?" He glanced down at them, eyeing the familiar blossoms with something approaching suspicion. "And...do what with them?"

"That's not my concern to figure out."

"Then why do you tease me? Surely you've some idea, or you wouldn't have found it fit to suggest them."

"I'm not going to start this debate with you again."

An exasperated laugh and one hand released the vase enough to point rather accusingly at her as the pieces click into place in his mind. "Ohhh, no. No. We have already been quite clear on this topic, and you know where I stand. I'm not going to--actually, perhaps I will! Perhaps I will put this whole matter to bed right now for you." A single flower was plucked from the bouquet, petals soft and ruffled like lace. "If hay-fever is real--and you know how I feel--surely I, in all of my sensitivity, would prove it, yes?"

He lifted the blossom to his nose and took a deep inhale, the scent pleasant and light and deeply nostalgic. It smelled of the sky, and the sun, and the wind, and the rain. It smelled of home. "Mmm, lovely. And there we are, hm? Nothing. Not even a whisper of a sniffle. Not so much as a hint of hay-fever, or the rose cold, or rose catarrh, or any other name they've deigned to call it. And besides," he gestured emphatically with the flower towards the window, "if that is the affliction you think I suffer from, where, pray tell, is the hay to cause it?"

"I'm certain your head is stuffed with hay and it's left you with no room for any sense." A breathless and ineffective snuffle saw her motioning broadly to the bed beside her legs, a clear invitation--no, he thought, a command--to be seated as well. "If you're unwilling to do what I asked, then you are more than welcome to take your sympathies and conclusions with you when you leave."

"I never said that I was unwilling. I merely said I don't know if you'll receive the outcome you're wishing for." He sat down beside her, carefully hooking the heels of his boots against the bedframe enough to ensure the lap he bashfully offered was stable. "Why don't you, ah, just rest your head here? I'll see what I can do for you."

His concern for propriety might have been charming in a boyish manner were she not so eager to get things moving. One of the plethora of pillows she had stacked on the bed moved to adorn his legs so she might have something to rest on, a mass of fire bright curls fanning out around her when she made use of it. "I'm ready. More than ready, even. Don't hesitate like I know you'll wish to--for once, don't let your nerves dominate you."

"I--! Er, right, of course! I'll just...here we are, then. Humor me as a man of frail nerves; close your eyes, won't you?" She opened her mouth to protest, seemed to think better of it, and closed her eyes with a huff to indicate her displeasure. "Thank you. Now...here we go, hm?"

Cautiously, the flower was brought to her nose, petals grazing the freckled skin. Instinctively she scrunched it, her brow furrowing at the sensation. A sharp sniff of irritation saw the furrow deepen further, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "It--snff!--tickles."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No. No, I...hh-? Hih--!" For a few painful seconds she hung on the edge, nostrils flared in anticipation before her voice rose sharply. "Hh...'chu!" The force wasn't enough to raise her from her position, the sound of it so delicate and shrill that he could scarcely believe it came from her.

"Bless you, Florence!" Bemusement was audible in his voice, his own brows pinched together. "I didn't expect it to be so--"


"--dainty." He cowed under the venomous look she gave him, blush coloring his cheeks.

"It's just--you're so--"

"If you want to keep your hand, I suggest you stop speaking and--snff!--return to what you were doing." Only once she was certain he had received her message plainly as if it was printed in black and white did she close her eyes and settle in once again.

The flower alighted on her nose once again, caressing nostrils that flared expectantly and depositing a fine yellow dust along them. She couldn't smell it, but she could feel the effect beginning to take hold; a slow, crawling tickle working its way through her sinuses and igniting the lingering itch that hadn't left her since she caught cold. Chapped lips parted with a slight gasp as an eager petal shook itself loose and teased at nasal walls growing more sensitive with each passing second.

A faltering breath, then a second sharp gasp that rose decidedly in pitch. "Hh--h'Tchu!" This one was only slightly more forceful than its predecessor, but he could see by the way pollen-kissed nostrils flared that she wasn't finished. "hH'TSChu! hh--hIH-!"

"Florence, are you--"

"TSSCHyuu!" Petals dropped from the flower as she turned away from him, propping herself up on one elbow and finally cupping one hand in front of herself to contain what she realized was going to be an ongoing effort. The cover was inadequate--Elliott could see the snarl as she drew another shaking breath--and conspicuously avoided paying attention to the way her chest heaved with it. "Hh--h'GSCHyuu! 'GSCHyue! Bloody H--hih-! hH'TSHHyuu!"

Dear Lord! With the expedience of a snail, it occurred to him that the poor woman was in the grips of a rather fierce fit--and fierce it was! He could scarcely believe how deeply the irritation was setting in such a short time, the sound harsh and growled and so utterly desperate it made him ache in sympathy--and it was being contained, woefully inadequately, in the palm of her hand. "Here--here!" His handkerchief had scarcely touched her fingers before she snatched it away from him and turned away to put her back fully to him.

She practically moaned through the next gasp, before doubling over with another wrenching sneeze that shook the halo of curls that encroached on her face. "hH'HGSSHhyuu!" A choked out "God" was the best she could get out before she blew her nose with such gusto that it brought color to his cheeks behind her to hear. She didn't care for his modesty, his deep shyness regarding propriety and what he should or shouldn't be privy to--if he wanted to be mortified by the sound--for she didn't give him the sight--of her abusing the cotton just as much as the flowers had abused her nose, that was his prerogative.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! God bless you, Florence!" A hesitant hand rested on her back, and he realized she was panting with the effort expended. "Are you--?"

"Finished?" She knuckled hard at nostrils that still threatened to betray her. "I may be, for the moment." Exhaustion crept into her voice beneath the liquidy edge it had gained, and she laid back dramatically to lean her weight against his side.

"I do hope this means I've been forgiven..."

A brow raised as she swiped roughly at her nose. "If you leave the bouquet behind...I will consider your debt repaid."

"Leave it--if it produced that effect, what on Earth makes you think you want it to remain in here with you?"

"Elliott," her shoulders tugged up with the effort of a snuffle that succeeded in precious little but illustrating his point, "I have needed to sneeze for two days. I am going to do more than my fair share of it before these die and I am left with nothing but that feeling that never comes to fruition. You already paid for them, and more importantly than that, you have already given them to me. If I wanted to swallow them whole like a snake, that would not be any of your concern."

"Well...yes, I suppose you're right. I just--well, you'll have to keep my blessings close at hand until these fade and you have to dispose of them." He fiddled with the ring he wore to keep his hands occupied, lest they attempt to comb back some of the tresses that rested against her flushed cheeks. "Bless you, many times over, my friend."

A wry smile played on her lips as she ran a fingertip over the remaining petals of the flower he had abandoned for her. "I'll be needing them."

Edited by gay-for-the-snz
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  • 1 month later...
  • 2 weeks later...

This was AMAZING! I so enjoyed the style of writing, the dynamic between the two, the lovely details of the cold, and the banter they had. Absolutely gorgeous!!! 

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