3.

"Brother, you're late! Artur has baked pies!"

August indulgently kneels on the wax-polished oak floors of the castle's entryway with a flourish, holding his arms wide open for his exuberant teenage brother to run into. His false smile evaporates, curling warmly. Marcel rests his head of thick brown waves on August's shoulder, his thin arms secure around the older man's torso, silently basking in his cosy warmth and calming amber scent. It lingers on his frilled linen shirt, the soft fabric still crisp under his fingers.

"Your heart races again," Marcel raises his head, meeting his brother's gaze. He fidgets with the cuffs of his sleeves, feeling the red-haired man's shoulders tense briefly.

Marcel recalls how his brother suddenly loses himself sometimes. Blank and absent, at times uncharacteristically humming or staring past him. The teen knows his presence is another that makes August's heart pound abruptly and swiftly, as though the organ is racing against death. Other times, he's caught the man slumped on the ground against a wall, his rapid and jerky breathing loud in the quiet hallways when Marcel sneakily wanders around the castle late into the night. 

Quietly, the boy pulls away with an excited smile, holding his hand out for August to pull himself up with. "Artur has already signed my report for today if you wish to read it while dining," he says, hazel eyes crinkling warmly.

When August has done and continues to do so much for him, distracting his brother from the pain of whatever he's suffering is the least Marcel believes he can do. August is more of a father than their own has been to them.

Regardless, Marcel's chest aches. He yearns for his brother's softer hands when they were not as rough and calloused as now. The time when August's face was less weathered with frowns and fatigue. When his brother laughed freely, snorting loudly, his expression was unrestricted, and his face was radiant.

Marcel blinks his teary eyes as he follows August to the kitchen, ignoring the workers in the humid, noisy environment.

He misses his brother even when the man stands before him, holding up their favourite mushroom pie with warm amusement.

"Is there something on my face?" August tilts his head slightly.

"Marks from the hideous cushions in father's carriage," Marcel gestures at his cheek with a grin, gleeful at his playful deception when August's face unexpectedly falls in horror. It quickly falters into relieved exasperation, and Marcel snorts into a burst of boisterous laughter, slumping onto a nearby stool to clutch his belly at the uncharacteristic expression.

By the Divines, Marcel still adores his brother.

***

August inspects the blood running down the polished, tanned leather of his boot with a frustrated sigh. The shit-fested pig was fortunate his court session of debating with aggressively defiant walking cadavers like his uncle delayed his return journey. Recalling it, August frowns and immediately boots the decapitated head down the dim, breezy alley with an unexpected wince; he'd accidentally stubbed his toe against the halfwit's crooked, false teeth.

"Divine Watcher..." August exhales deeply to ground himself from the throbbing pain, rubbing his stubbled cheek with his warm fingers. He stares down at Artur's headless corpse and curls his lip gleefully. His brown eyes crinkle once he crouches down, flipping over the elderly baker's stocky body, blood dripping down his wrists.

"Beast," August spits with a scowl, straightening himself to return to the quiet market square, empty with how late it was after the recent violent escalation slightly over a week ago.

Distastefully wiping his hands across his black overcoat, he frowns slightly and ducks his head past an archway, sweeping a loose lock of copper behind his cold ear. The soles of his shoes squelch with Artur's blood throughout his short walk to his carriage. 

Raising his chin in the cold air, the crescent moon hangs high over the low buildings near the square, and August sweeps his gaze past his carriage to stare at Thaddeus in his... spectacles.

"When did you begin wearing spectacles?" The older man blurts, baffled by Thaddeus' unprecedented visual impairment.

Alas, the fool only smiles widely, souring August's mood. 

"Deliver the surgeon that depraved lecher's cadaver for his research," he instructs curtly, closing the carriage door behind him without awaiting a reply.

Replacing his soiled overcoat with a spare, his chest aches as he remembers his best friend. With how infinitely competent Cecelia was, it became increasingly unbearable to delegate his work to anyone besides her. She hasn't met him yet, which makes August curl up on the cushions. The ache becomes more suffocating, and August realises the carriage has already moved when he tries to ground himself from his thoughts.

***

"Yes?" August drawls, cocking his head to the side impassively, hearing the heavy walnut door of the grand chamber thud close behind him. He looks away from his obese cousin's bloated belly with distaste. Caius' chubby, hairy cheeks grow more ruddy, the idiot gawking at him in outrage.

"Quivering like a rodent," August sneers, brusquely stalking past him down the hallway. He turns his head, sharply raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps I'll feed you to the infestation breeding in the slums. A belated recompense for your dedication to being indistinguishable from the swine you feast upon, porkchop—"

"You wretched–!" Caius snarls, rushing towards towards him.

August cackles vibrantly, his laughter echoing down the corridor at the man's shoddy attempt to tackle him, easily evading by stepping to the side.

Yet, somehow, the idiot manages to trip over his feet and knock himself unconscious against the nearby polished walnut cabinet.

August clicks his tongue, kneeling down to untie one of Caius's shoes. Yanking it off, he pulls the younger man's jaw open and secures it inside his mouth. Briefly admiring the somewhat liberating view, he pushes himself onto his feet and continues walking down the quiet hallways towards his study.

Entering it, August basks in the sweet smell filling his nose from his Blessed orchids sitting on his cluttered desk. The humming warmth inside him resonates with the flowers' aura, and he slumps in his chair behind his desk with a deep exhale. Fortunately, his fantasy of instead beating the imbecile bloody with his shoe puts him to sleep quicker than usual, smoothing the furrow of his brows as he starts snoring against his arms, gently snuffling.