With a spoon full of sugar

[Erastus Radclyffe III]

Mornings, when quiet and marked by the absence of the Viscount, were always good.

Erastus woke that morning with a lingering laziness, unwilling to leave the warmth of his bed but doing so nonetheless. After the previous night's escapades, simply getting up felt like an accomplishment. He allowed Jeoffrey to assist him with his garments, always counting himself fortunate not to be a lady — otherwise, the morning would surely have stretched into the afternoon. Once dressed, he styled his hair, ensured his face was clean-shaven, and made his way downstairs.

His father was, of course, in a meeting. Erastus had been asked — no, requested? No, threatened — to attend, but he had managed to avoid it with the excuse of being out until late, utterly exhausted, perhaps even a bit ill. As the sole heir and only child, "ill" was a word neither of his parents ever wished to hear, not even when they knew full well it was a ploy. Despite their awareness of his antics, they were never willing to chance it. His mother, meanwhile, was occupied with a private morning gathering, breaking the fast with other ladies of society. This left him free to claim his spot at the table, where he unfolded the newspaper and savored the rare quiet.

Mornings at Rochdale House typically began with a long-winded speech on responsibility from his father, accompanied by an exhaustive list of the day's obligations. His mother, on the other hand, would prattle on about calling the tailor, attending or hosting some gathering, and, inevitably, the topic would shift to eligible young ladies who might one day become Viscountess. If not that, she would lament over the young women who had already wed or were soon to be, sighing wistfully about "missed opportunities" and how dearly she longed for a daughter-in-law and grandchildren. It was a waking nightmare. The only reprieve came when Nikolaas did something to draw attention to himself — or, more accurately, when he got caught doing something. On those occasions, the scrutiny shifted to Nik. Sometimes, Erastus would sit back, lips curled in an amused grin, watching his cousin squirm under the weight of it. Other times, he’d take pity on him, gallantly stepping in to save him. And then there were the days when Erastus threw himself directly into the lion's den, offering himself up as a target for his father's sharp tongue with a well-placed jest or a remark that could only be called insolent — at least, in his father's eyes.

The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him to his cousin’s arrival, though he did not look up from his paper until Nik drew near. “Morning, my dearest cousin,” he greeted, flashing his signature lopsided grin, his mood as light and pleasant as it always was on mornings free of lectures. “Jeoffrey,” he called to the butler, who promptly instructed a maid to prepare a meal for Nik.

To an outsider, Erastus’s air of nonchalance might have seemed affected, but in truth, had anyone asked him how he was feeling, he would have answered honestly: awful. He swore, as he had many times before, never to stay out so late again.

“Was your night as dreadful as you look, or so good that it was hard to return home?” he asked, his tone laced with humor. Seriousness was a rarity for him, reserved only for situations that truly demanded it.

[Nikolaas van Lynden]

They made shit coffee in this house.

Of all the many faults and foibles Nikolaas could have called upon to besmirch the reportedly good name of Rochdale, to his Dutch mind, this was by far the most egregious. English tea was bitter and terrible, and thus they presumed their coffee must be as well, and any complaints lodged as to quality were met with dull, moonish eyes and zero comprehension.

This morning, Nikolaas had preemptively fixed a thin-lipped frown upon his face in anticipation of this profound burden. As he sat, he cut a glance to his cousin and shook out his napkin across his lap. "Do not project your miscalculations upon me," he shot back, and his nostrils flared at the burnt, nutty scent as he was poured a measure of English-brewed dreck. A plate was laid before him and he plucked up a piece of toast. He was, in fact, feeling rather fine, apart from the prospect of what awaited him in his cup.

"I need to go out today," he added as he smeared a bit of marmalade across the toast. Should Nik endeavor to leave the house alone, he could easily manage it, but the cover of his cousin's nonexistent watchful eye made the process a smoother one. When Nikolaas could avoid conversing with his idiot of an uncle, he did.

[Erastus Radclyffe III]

Erastus glanced over at his cousin, who was engrossed in the newspaper, and feigned a dramatic gasp, pressing one hand to his chest. "Miscalculations? Oh, dear cousin, how you wound me! As if I would ever!" he declared, chuckling to himself before, as always, proceeding as though nothing had happened. And certainly, as if the blond, grumpy Dutchman was not in one of his typical bad moods. Rast, however, remained unfazed. Nikolaas was simply being Nikolaas, and it seemed foolish to allow their mutual dislike to fester when they were under the same roof. Especially when their efforts would be far better spent as partners in crime rather than enemies. Besides, Erastus was always fond of jesting, and Nik was, as ever, the perfect mark. He wetted his lips and continued to enjoy his breakfast, pausing only when addressed. His tea was starting to grow lukewarm, if not outright cold.

Though their banter often suggested camaraderie, the truth was that there were parts of themselves both young men kept hidden from one another. In Erastus's mind, Nik only had secrets because he made no effort to reveal them—whatever little Erastus had gleaned already caused him enough discomfort. As for Nikolaas, he was too consumed with his own affairs to notice his cousin’s quiet struggles. Not that Erastus’s own endeavors were particularly noteworthy—his activities changed with every passing night, save for the rare occasion when he could not resist, when his limits were tested, and the forbidden called out to him like a cursed siren. He pressed his lips together for a moment, as if steeling himself, before he dared to broach a conversation that rarely ended peacefully.

"Again? Where? Was last evening not enough?" he asked.

Enough, he thought to himself. Enough of what? Laudanum? Pleasure? Simple company? Should he dare accompany him for once? It wasn’t the type of company Nikolaas sought that frightened him, but rather what he might witness. He loved his cousin in his own way, he truly did, but he also knew better than to try and make sense of something that refused to be understood. He had learned this lesson well from his father, ever the stubborn man—practical, logical, and often blinded by his own fury or some other misguided passion. Erastus, practical and clear-headed, never understood the ways of the fool, and, ironically, had never been one himself. Though, as it happened, he did love to jest.

[Nikolaas van Lynden]

Rast was a gregarious sort. There seemed to be nothing that Nikolaas could say to him that could not be so gleefully dismissed, no matter the topic. The false face might have chafed but for the keen understanding of it being necessary — Or believed so, at the least — in such a staunchly English household as this. So few people in this country willingly told the truth about themselves or anything else.

"Last evening I spent principally waiting for you," said Nik. The coffee was indeed terrible, and he made some little attempt to not allow it to sour his mood. "You seem to believe me as secretive as yourself." On instinct, he took another sip from his cup and immediately frowned. "I suppose 'need' was an excessive verb. I would like to go out, if it please you. I am out of reading material." Whatever his cousin might have imagined, his life here had become a series of plodding days he was intent on simply getting through. He had no lovers — No regular ones, at least, and only one to speak of at all — and no one to visit beyond shopkeeps. There was a brief respite to be found lingering in a coffee shop of an afternoon, but any creative writing he attempted tended to frustrate him by the end of it regardless.

If he had received any letters from Maxime here or at home, he had no way to know. This was perhaps better for his sanity, but was disastrous for his poetry.

"If you haven't a secret destination to occupy you, I will manage alone."

[Erastus Radclyffe III]

Once more, he set aside his newspaper, his gaze shifting to his cousin, utterly bemused. Secretive, he thought, certainly not. Rast had been called many things in his time—reserved, perhaps, but never secretive. For the most part, he considered himself an honest man, with a healthy respect for propriety. True, there were certain things a gentleman simply did not say in polite society. There were rules to be followed, after all. But there were also basic expectations of decorum. If he happened to see a lady in a truly dreadful dress, he would, of course, keep such observations to himself; after all, if she chose to dress that way, who was he to comment on it? But if someone made a habit of cruelty, well—he would certainly have something to say about that. Though, of course, not in those exact words. In society, there were always more elegant ways to insult someone. The trick was to make it so subtle, so artfully done, that it only took a moment for the insult to land. Then, with any luck, their own ignorance would prevent a rebuttal. After all, life, much like a good conversation, was all about tactics.

Alone together now, Rast leaned forward, elbows on the table, arms crossed, and fixed his cousin with a rather intense stare. Perhaps it was he, rather than Nik, who had been overthinking things. Perhaps his recent indulgence in his father’s company had begun to make him far too concerned with every little detail. He frowned slightly, pondering the best way to respond, before finally deciding that he was, after all, no one’s father and settling back in his chair with a sigh. “If my methods of passing the time while waiting for you are considered 'secretive,' cousin, it’s only because you were not there to accompany me. Had you shown a little interest in my activities, I might have been more forthcoming. But, as it is…” He sighed, dramatically, like a heroine in a love story. “Ah, how unbearable is the plight of one-sided affection,” he added with another exaggerated sigh, as if the very weight of his woes could not be borne. He took a final sip of his tea, the picture of exaggerated drama. “But yes, with no 'secret' destination in mind, I might as well brighten your day with my presence. It may even keep the clouds at bay,” he teased, referring to his cousin’s customary melancholic air.

After finishing his breakfast, he rose from the table, stretching a little before beginning his morning routine, which, naturally, included the usual attention to hygiene—he was, after all, a man who prided himself on smelling delightful and being impeccably clean. Once done, he joined his cousin at the entrance, dressed in an ensemble that could only be described as unremarkable—though, in truth, he was far more concerned with the idea of strolling with Nik than with his attire. What had once been a tedious routine had, over time, become something he almost looked forward to. Louder, certainly—thanks to his father’s never-ending scolding—but richer in ways he had not expected. And sometimes, just sometimes, he found himself learning a thing or two from the grumpy young man at his side.

“I dare say, are you in search of poetry today?” he asked with a mischievous glint. “If you have no other engagements, would you be willing to accompany me to Hyde Park and read to me? I confess, I’ve attempted The City of Dreadful Night more than once, but I swear those words may as well be in a foreign language. Perhaps you could recommend something... less advanced? Something a bit more manageable, if you will. Poetry about feelings, perhaps? Romance, if you must, though I’d rather not." He shuddered at the thought. He paused, his gaze distant for a moment, for if he read any poetry about broken hearts, he was afraid he’d never recover.

[Nikolaas van Lynden]

"You see, this is why I prefer you keep to your secret appointments," Nikolaas shot back at the teasing, his stare pointed but his mouth not particularly stern. This was to be life with his cousin; had he the choice, he would much rather this than someone like his stodgy and self-important uncle.

"As I am not courting you, I think we may skip the poetic reading today," he added, just the faintest upward quirk to one corner of his mouth. He plucked up a piece of dry toast and stood. "If you are coming, come then. This house has all the character of a morgue."

It was, in fact, a rather nice house with a lot of rather nice things within it, but Nikolaas could not help but feel the place was cold. Nothing about the place spoke to who owned it, apart from their wealth and perhaps status. There was a great lot of gilt handed down merely for the sake of it.

Toast held between his teeth, Nikolaas paused in the foyer to allow one of the footmen to help him into his coat. He took a bite as he waited, considering his cousin while he chewed.

"First," he began once he'd swallowed, in a tone that brooked no argument, "I must have proper coffee."