[M] And I Am Consequence

[Lars]

Dentis 27, 2718
Laboratory Beta · Night

The most difficult task, perhaps, had been convincing Jamie to turn and go back to their dorm once they reached the cold, darkened staircase. His help had been appreciated, the dark-haired, younger passive having assisted him in the walk to the stairs from the mess that was their dorm, leaving a trail of blood behind them on the ground, but he didn't want his help anymore. He wouldn't have taken it in the first place if he could've helped it, but he recognized the state of himself at current and wasn't going to push himself more than required.

That being said, he didn't want Jamie to finish the journey to the laboratory with him. Perhaps it was some form of spite, some issue of pride, he didn't know and didn't care. So once the younger had taken him down the stairs and to the door leading into the strange, dark halls, he had forced the man to turn around and leave him.

He wasn't entirely sure he would make it to the laboratory.

It was a mix of things that drove him forward; adrenaline, for one, that coursed through the veins that continued to spill his blood onto the cold ground. Fear, as well, that quickened his heart in his chest and threatened to send him into a panic over all the blood he'd lost already. Anger, an anger that stirred from within his sickened stomach and rose into his throat, an anger that kept him warm even in the cold, dark air of the hallway as he stumbled and pushed on. Confusion, for the patron's reasoning for such a violent punishment. Obviously there was more to it than a little spill, but what had he done against the man? What had he done to personally offend him in such a way that he believed this a worthy punishment?

Hatred. A powerful force driving him on; the darkness to his reddened eyes that glinted with nothing good.

Lars was a lot of things. Polite, dutiful, obedient. Unforgiving.

It was with Alioe's grace that he still had the key given to them by Professor Moore, and after a stumbling, struggling journey through the dark, the Hessean made it to Laboratory Beta. He was unable to go as far in as they had gone before, but it was enough for the passive, who seemed to collapse now that he felt himself in relative safety; falling to his already-bruised knees a mess of blood, bruises, and paleness. Even now the blood dripped from each infliction, a testament to his instability and a forming puddle of red liquid beneath him.

"Prof-rof--prof--Prof--Moore," called the injured Lars, his voice a strained and struggling sound against the silence before another choke interrupted him. A spatter of blood against the floor, burbling in his mouth and spilling down his chin.

He should've went to the hospital, shouldn't he.

Unable to keep himself upright any longer, Lars let himself fall forwards, onto his beaten face and the chill of the floor.

The hospital doesn't care about us, not like they do.

An exhausted sigh pushed its way from his mouth, his eyes closing as the struggle to keep them open overwhelmed him.

You said you wouldn't let him die. Don't let him die.

[Muse]

27th of Dentis, 2718
Laboratory Beta | A Dark Hour

P rofessor Harper Moore was a single galdor who kept no pets and had few friends among his peers. He'd spent almost the entire past decade of his (still young by his race's standards) life devoted to researching monic theory and the boundaries of magical communication between galdorkind and the world as it was currently understood.

It was a thankless job.

In fact, he'd become comfortable with the stigma he'd slowly been labeled with in recent years for his willingness to not only associate with the magical offspring of his own people, but to also deign them worth valuing. Thank Alioe the Magisters had so unwittingly elected their first sympathizer Headmistress, let alone the first woman to hold sway over Brunnhold and the government with her kind of views. If only the rest of the Kingdom saw things her way, but, alas, they did not. Harper feared in his heart of hearts that in Anaxas, those in power never would. The Six Kingdoms, in general, were so horribly misled in various ways as far as the bespectacled scientist was concerned that he worried for most of Vita on a regular basis.

Then, as if he didn't need more to burden himself with, as if he didn't already feel the weight of sentient morality on his shoulders, well, then he found it.

And it was impossible to ignore.

Not the nexus. Not the answer to the so-called problem of passivity. No. All of those things, Professor Moore believed, were inevitable.

But this, this one thing was quite terrible and he had no idea how to present it all to those in power in a way that at all made sense to anyone but himself and perhaps a handful of other galdori in all of their current levels of education. He'd been working on actually quantifying his discovery in as calm a manner as possible, buried in books in the library-like lounge of Laboratory Beta for hours: several charts and a stack of papers and three diagrams and one spilled well of ink and two broken quills and one pair of socks and two empty cups of tea and a half eaten sandwich and four little chocolates later and all Harper had managed to accomplish was a few very urgent, disturbed sentences.

And a nap.

Sprawled over a good portion of his notes, quill still in his hand and his spectacles precariously perched at the edge of the table overburdened by to many borrowed tomes from all across campus (including the Crypts), Professor Moore snored softly, muttering equations in his exhausted sleep.

He didn't hear the slumping in the hall outside, nor did he hear key in the lock, but he heard the door open. Harper stirred, quite hopeful that it was Castor Devlin, but in his foggy state of half-consciousness remembered that the older galdor was (once again) in Vienda, much to Headmistress Servalis' displeasure. Whatever the other professor was up to that kept him from Brunnhold more and more often, it was wearing on everyone—

The thump of a body hitting his floor instead of an expected greeting had the monic theorist up. Sort of. He fumbled in sudden panic, hearing his name in a groan, and tossed papers, his spectacles, a teacup, and nearly himself onto the carpet around the lounge and the low table he'd been using to extrapolate data into intelligible words,

"Yes. Hello? Who is it?"

Ventured the galdor, grasping for glasses that were no longer within reach, the lights in the room barely sputtering without much oil left since he'd clearly been asleep for too long. It was hardly a matter of conscious thought anymore, the suddenly very awake professor waving a hand and muttering a few words of Monite without even a real gathering of his frazzled field, the warm glow of an illumination spell flooding the room with a comfortable level of light, the mona reacting just as much to the urgency in his words as well as the familiarity in his tone.

The door shut heavily, a slow old thing with a whine in the hinges if one didn't pull it shut themselves. Sprawled over tile and the edge of the rug in the foyer of Laboratory Beta was a bloody creature in a passive uniform,

"Tocks!" Harper was not one to forget a face, so long as that face was generally recognizable. Forgoing the search for his much-needed spectacles, he crossed the room, tripping over one more open, misplaced book in his haste before he could kneel near the battered young man on his floor, reaching gingerly to attempt to roll the passive over without causing more harm, squinting at the battered features, it admittedly took the professor a moment to recognize what he was looking at, but his hands were already moving to assess injuries with a gentle touch, "Oh. Mister Savatier—I mean, Lars—you're safe here, like I promised. I'd ask what happened, but that's a waste of time at this moment, isn't it? Need I remind you, sir, that I'm not a physician? I'm a theorist. Got it? Yes? Good. Noted, then. Listen to me ramble. Gods, alright, let's see ..."

The galdor smiled wanly, interjecting self-deprecating humor to hide the revulsion he was actually experiencing at the extent of the passive's bloodied state. He was, in fact, far more squeamish than he could in this moment let on, "... I'm not going to move you yet, so just be still. Did you walk all the way here alone? Good Lady."

Harper glanced up to the door with a scowl as if waiting to make sure the blond was alone instead of simply asking, but it was rather obvious Lars had no other companions. The Passive Ward had its own Infirmary, yet the younger man had felt compelled to crawl his way all the way to the Laboratory instead. This did not put the professor at ease at all,

"I'm going to use magic—is that alright? I will do my best to make sure you don't feel much pain, but I can't guarantee you won't feel anything. Just like with your friend—Fionn, was it?" Ignorant of the truth, Professor Moore had no idea that such words were probably just as injurious as anything else the younger man had experienced that evening at the boy's hands. Moving to sit on the floor next to Lars and ignoring the mess, he placed a hand on the man's shoulder with gentle concern, gathering his field and the Quantitative mona that seemed to favor the Laboratory with their presence,

"Here, now, it's alright. Just give me a moment to make sure I should be moving you at all." Harper added softly, beginning to speak his carefully measured cadence in Monite, reaching out with mona-extended senses to visualize the passive's injuries first, to assess the damage, hazel eyes closing for a moment in concentration. Somewhere in the middle of his rhythmic phrases, he hissed and his face scrunched into a scowl, the leybridge of his spellwork moving from Quantitative to Living conversation with the light shift between two phrases. There was a tangible shift in the air, unseen sentience moving in what could only be described as curious obedience to Harper's verbal requests.

The young man's injuries were common ones from a severe beating: mostly bruises and surface cuts. Signs of the level of excessiveness taken to bring the passive harm included broken ribs and bleeding inside of his body that Moore wasn't educated enough in the right fields of medicine and anatomy to properly understand, nor was he at all aware that Lars had any particular blood condition. Rare and hardly documented, such details filtered past Professor Moore's analysis and he could only treat what he knew with his magical phrasing: damaged tissue knit back together, veins repaired themselves, and bruised skin slowly faded. Harper couldn't mend broken bones, but he could set them on their way toward healing, the feeling of his own insides shifting, of pressure and minuscule changes, though surprisingly painless, was most likely not pleasant.

It was particularly difficult to convince the mona to do anything at all about the internal bleeding, more because the monic theorist didn't know the proper phrasing or the detailed spells for such things, but he was comfortable enough in his relationship with the mona that he simply shifted his request in Monite to accommodate, gathering all of the blood through the use of another leybridge into Physical conversation.

Harper had the presence of mind to stretch his body toward the low table and grasp rather clumsily for the small little wastebasket, mostly full of crumpled papers and a half-eaten sandwich, still speaking the final phrases of his spell. His face said it all, a mixture of exertion and fear, eyes widening behind his spectacles as he encouraged Lars to sit up carefully, shoving the makeshift bucket into his hands as if he would find himself suddenly needing its use.

He would.

The very overwhelming need to vomit accompanied the passive becoming upright again as if someone had suddenly poured way too much liquid into his stomach (Professor Moore had, in fact, done that very thing), and so long as the younger man didn't fight the sensation too much, he would indeed throw up far more blood than anyone ever naturally would have or should have. Harper blanched and turned a few shades of green, his voice wavering as he closed his eyes, a few beads of sweat on his forehead beneath the dark mess of hair he probably hadn't bothered to tame for days.

The last of his endurance for magic was spent making sure that while Lars was already sore and aching and his ribs were still quite broken, his bleeding had more or less been stopped, coagulation apparently something his body refused to do and the mona bristled about doing it for him, begrudgingly obeying the last phrases of Harper's spellwork only to leave a ringing in both their ears and a sharp pain in their sinuses for a few moments.

With that, the galdor leaned back on his hands and sighed, staring up at the ceiling, refusing to look at the bucket, feeling the ache settle into his joints as runoff from all the Living conversation he'd just had,

"Not a physician, not one bit, Lars. Your ribs are broken, and I can't for the clocking life of me remember if I'm supposed to bind those or leave them. Can you tell me what happened? I mean, you don't have to. No. I just—do I need to go to Mrs. Rogers?"

[Lars]

Dentis 27, 2718
Laboratory Beta · Night

Professor Moore's relatively quick reaction to his sudden appearance was probably the best thing that had happened all night, so far, and the passive would've felt a small measure of relief accompany the pain if only the latter was less intense. Admittedly it took a few moments for the Professor to get his bearings and make it over to him, Lars barely noticing the way he tripped over a stray book, far too exhausted from keeping himself conscious to expend any energy looking around the lounge-like front area of the laboratory.

Hands were upon him; gentle in their touch but painful nonetheless. Compared to the state of the rest of his body it hardly made a difference, the man doing his best to assist in turning himself over, steel-blue eyes flicking tiredly open to look up at the professor's face, ears straining just to make sense of his words.

He was right, he knew he wasn't any kind of doctor. He'd seen his treatment with Fionn's injuries, the uncertainty inflicted in the foreign words that spilled from his tongue, but there had been no other choice in his mind; no other option. The infirmary had been closer, likely would've been a better place to get treatment without pain, but gods he didn't want to go. He didn't want to see one more unfriendly face, didn't want to hear one more clocking comment, didn't want to deal with anyone right now except someone that would treat him fairly and without some sort of bias or discrimination.

Professor Moore had treated him--both of them--so differently than the rest, as if it didn't even occur to him to be unkind. It had been a shock to come across people such as the two professors, almost disconcerting really, but even though he had only met with them for a short time, he felt safer in their care than anywhere else in the gods-damned fortress of a university.

Unresponsive as he was verbally, Lars made a sound of agreement, and did take care to acknowledge the professor's requests; remaining still under his touch as the galdor presumably inspected the extent of his injuries. Especially in the dizzying condition he found himself in now, he wouldn't dare attempt to make sense of the words he spoke; the magical requests that would hopefully obey his will as easily as they ignored his own. It was a strange sort of feeling, not painful against the agony he was already faced with, but something entirely new and unusual. It almost felt as if every part of him--each little piece, divided into thousands upon thousands of particles beyond his understanding, was moving ever so slightly at the request of the man above him.

It was then that the feeling shifted, the change minuscule, but the sensation more intense throughout his body and harder to ignore, even against the pain removing itself. His eyes closed tightly, the blonde did his best to keep still as the professor continued his muttered and unfamiliar incantations, grinding his teeth (one now jagged, having caught and chipped against Fionn's knuckle) and pulling bony red fingers into fists.

He barely registered the noise of a small wastebasket being grabbed and set in front of him; only opening his eyes again when his hands were pushed to hold onto the object, only registering what was happening at all when he was gently pushed into a sitting position.

It began as a cough, a strangled sound that caught in his throat, one overpowered with the flood that ascended within and fell like Loshis downpour into the wastebasket. The feeling in his stomach was arguably more unpleasant than the sensation of his insides moving and putting themselves back together; a sickening, harsh, painful force that made him heave again into the basket. Such a little thing was quickly filled almost to the brim with the passive's bright blood, the papers and half-eaten sandwich beneath now forgotten and drowned in the lake that had birthed from his recovering stomach.

But then it was over.

Despite the blood soaking through the entirety of his uniform, still dripping from his chin as if he'd killed and eaten an animal right then and there with nothing but the red-stained white blades in his mouth, well he felt... better. Not a sort of better that made him want to jump up and run back to the dorm in excitement, absolutely not, but a better that told him that he was going to be alright; he wasn't going to die. Not yet.

He was still as pale as Gioran snow, the blood thankfully remaining within his veins at this point, but he couldn't ignore the weightlessness of his drained form, especially now that he had vomited all that had crashed like wild waves, loose and not contained beneath the skin. However, it was far easier to keep his eyes open and focused than it had been before, and the pain from his roommate's harsh beating had lessened so considerably that he honestly didn't even register it now. Likewise, the immense shock to his system left him uncaring towards the ringing in his ears and the sharp pain that came to his sinuses; the aftermath of the professor's magic hardly important to the man.

It perhaps took Lars a few moments longer than the professor to come back into his senses properly, the passive pushing the blood-filled basket a few feet away before turning towards the older man, remaining firmly planted on the ground but keeping himself sitting with the new bit of strength in his muscles. A few moments again for him to recall what the galdor had asked of him, but soon he was nodding, breath finally finding itself steady in his chest again.

"Th-- another cough cut him off, but it was easier for him to continue, "sorry. His--my throat, it still--thank you. Thank you, Professor," and the servant couldn't help but to reach out, the knowledge that he easily could have died overwhelming him, arms wrapping around the professor that sat back on his hands and so clearly tried not to look upon the blood. He couldn't blame him at all, and didn't; his arms shook as he hugged the galdor and tried to keep himself from tears.

It worked; Lars' display of tears in the dormitory had been highly unusual and they didn't show again, but the passive was shaken to the core.

"He's sorry, h--he's all bloody, sorry sir," he muttered, pulling himself back, occupying his hands instead with an attempt to wipe some of the blood from his face.

"No, no he doesn't want Mrs. Rogers, he doesn't--" taking a small breath to get his words under control, Lars slowed down, allowing his eyes to close and his form to still.

What was he supposed to do? Tell him the truth, of course, but what would happen then? As much as the violent punishment had surprised him, Fionn's distress, his strange actions and whispered apologies, they surprised him even more. His fists had so easily broken skin, his kicks had so quickly slammed against his sides, but somehow he had still been almost reluctant to attack.

Lars would've thought more into the matter if the punishment had been at all necessary. If Fionn wanted to play both sides; be Ayden's attack dog while also trying to keep Lars on his good side, well that wasn't going to happen.

Swallowing almost nervously, Lars' eyes flicked back to the professor.

"Um, it... punishment, he said," offered the blonde, "his patron, that is. He said that he had to be punished for his manners and mistakes. He--um, he spilled juice on a professor, last night at dinner. So he was punished."

He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping an arm around them while the his other was used to push bloody fingers through his hair; awkwardly trailing through the golden strands and the dried scarlet clumps, "he--he didn't--he didn't deserve it, he made a mistake. He doesn't think he deserved it but Fionn did. Gods, he didn't do anything wrong, did he? He was going to die."

[Muse]

27th of Dentis, 2718
Laboratory Beta | A Dark Hour

T hat was perhaps all a bit more than Harper Moore was expecting out of his evening, and while he didn't crawl away in horror, the galdor did scoot back a few inches, eyes wide and pallor one of involuntary disgust, nauseated and afraid. He'd done a decent enough job putting Lars back together, but the younger passive would definitely need more medical attention, especially considering the volume of blood he'd just deposited into a wastebasket. That wasn't a healthy thing, all the internal bleeding mysterious to the theorist. Medical conditions far outside of his area of research despite his interest in passivity and genetics. He was certainly looking at his work from a monic point of view instead of a physiological one, but he had reached a point in his research where he knew that finding an ally in the medical profession was going to have to finally happen—

How in Alioe's name was the Professor going to explain any of this?

Gods, of course Castor and his smooth tongue would be off galavanting somewhere in Vienda or the Circle knew where on a night like this.

He was sweaty, but in that frightened, clammy way that made him wish he was dreaming and he'd just wake the clock up. The poor creature in front of him needed a wash and fresh clothes, and thankfully, because bachelor Harper was quite guilty of sleeping for days in Laboratory Beta instead of going home to Muffey during the week, he had plenty of spare everything. Although, the wash station was more for simple cleaning than a full bath, there was thankfully a sink and a handful of towels. The lab wasn't at all a chemical one, as all of Moore and Devlin's work was quite literally theoretical in nature, and the set up of the place was designed for far less messy experiments. Thankfully, he'd commandeered a small section of the Parford Wing that had once been devoted to animal tests (because, apparently, passives were just animals, after all, right?), and thus the four rooms of the laboratory included plumbing and linen service.

Harper, of course, took advantage of these things and used the lab as an apartment away from home, much to the Headmistress' displeasure.

"You have nothing to apologize to me for. I'm sorry I can't do more healing at this juncture, but we'll get you cleaned up and figure out where to go from there, alright?" The galdor blinked, glancing down at the mess on his floor and the blood on his hands, wincing at the sight of it all, stomach turned already by far more gore than the theorist was at all used to seeing.

Of course he didn't want Mrs. Rogers involved—when did the passives ever want to get those in charge of them involved? The woman was a trustworthy sort, if not a bit strict, but the repercussions of a disciplinary shake-down in the Passive Ward usually had invisible consequences.

"Last night? That was you? You didn't do anything wrong. Everyone has accidents. Gods, don't even look at my desk or my table right now. I'm so clumsy—Professor Siordanti was there, yes. He's come a long way with his temper, but, still—uh—I was there, too, and—" The word punishment stopped Harper in his tracks, tongue stuck against the back of his teeth and his hazel eyes narrowing under dark brows that drew together in frustrated confusion. Lars' patron had decided a simple mistake had been worthy of such a beating? Who was putting these clearly disturbed people in charge of their peers? Not even Gated passives were free from the corruption of power. The galdor grunted, a choked sound of objection that seemed unable to entirely leave the cavity of his chest,

"What? NO. No, Lars. No one deserves that kind of violence. No one. Especially not you. Not any of you. Ridiculous. I can't abide this. I just won't."

He stood suddenly, disgusted in more than one way, careful not to slip on the rather staggering amount of blood that the younger man seemed to have left all over the tile floor. He leaned to offer as much support as he could to get the passive to his feet as well, not letting go as he tilted his head toward the doorway that led further into the lab, "It's one thing to ask a man to be more careful next time after an accident, and it's another thing to attempt murder by some vicious, unnecessary beating. This is wrong, Lars. Please don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise, no matter what anyone else has told you—Fionn? I thought Fionn was your friend? Was Castor confused? Was I? What kind of animal is your patron now? Didn't you two just have a run-in with your last patron? Is Mrs. Rogers no longer responsible for the vetting of passives in charge of your halls? I can't even process this, This is all very wrong—not you, Lars. Everything else. This is no way to steward passives. You are still a galdor's child. Punishment—clocking hell."

As he rambled vehemently, Harper very carefully led both of them toward the small room that contained a toilet and a washbasin meant more for washing equipment in than washing just hands. The monic theorist had taken advantage of its generous size far more times than he cared to admit, and he turned the taps on to let the water warm up, setting Lars very gently to sit or lean as he saw fit. He spoke over washing his hands and rolling up his sleeves, not looking at the passive for a few moments because he was very carefully attempting to tuck away the sense of overwhelm that crawled all over his person, "I'm sorry, you don't need me carrying on right now. I will be taking care of all of this personally. All of it. Are you willing to give me a full and honest account of what happened tonight? Wait—not now—think on it—let me get you something clean to wear and you can wipe up. There's towels there on the shelf. Be careful—your ribs are still broken and you've lost a lot of blood. Go slowly and I'll—uh—I'll be right back. Maybe you need help? I—right."

Professor Moore was obviously flustered, red-faced and squinting without his spectacles, talking with his hands and full of an angry passion. He didn't want to make things awkward for the younger passive, unsure of how much assistance he should be offering to another man when it came to undressing or washing away all the blood, so he chewed the inside of his cheek and slipped out of the small room for a moment, rummaging through the tiny closet full of various scientific accoutrements and a large suitcase that he lugged from Muffey to Brunnhold and back again every week's end on the nines and tens when he actually bothered to go home.

He returned to the tiny, cramped unintentional sort of washroom with an armful of his own clothing, a rather spartan first aid kit, and the rest of his box of lavender-infused chocolates from his very floral home town. Knocking first on the door he'd gently shut behind him, a nervous, tired waver in his voice revealed he'd left professional far behind amid his notes scattered in the other room, "Let's get you washed up and perhaps check on what's still bleeding that may need more attention. Then, well, I suppose it's up to me to take care of cleaning the floor while you have a sit down and collect your wits. Do you drink tea? Maybe with a bit of honey. I can—one thing at a time, Harper. Right. I'm getting ahead of myself, Lars. You first. Let me help."

There was no judgmental or condescending tone in his voice, the dark-haired galdor clearly still full of an anger he didn't know how to direct into anything but overwhelming kindness on the wounded creature that had somehow managed to crawl into his laboratory. It wasn't guilt that drove him—his care was genuine—but clock the Circle if there wouldn't be trouble come morning if Harper had anything to do with it.

He knew Ophelia would be furious. The entire Ward would be examined now, though he hoped to temper the chaos with reason and gentleness more deserving of a civilized Kingdom if he could manage it.

[Lars]

Dentis 27, 2718
Laboratory Beta · Night

Something about the professor's awkward, nervous demeanor was a comfort to the weakened passive, his tendency to ramble on as he spoke reminding him somewhat of Jamie, if the dark-haired servant was perhaps less annoying. It gave him something to focus on; a reason to keep his mind afloat and his eyes open.

Professor Moore was kind, as he had remembered; each sentence only evidence of his lack of prejudice, of his fair and open mind, and it was such a startling contrast to the ridicule to which he'd grown accustomed. The last two weeks or so, especially, even his dormitory had become little more than a war zone; the one sanctuary he'd had was soured by conflict, confusion, and misunderstanding. Fionn's appearance had been promising at the start, he supposed; he couldn't deny that he had found himself interested in the total lack of care the young man held for his servitude, the rebellious nature that clung to his angry form, but nothing good had come from it.

Perhaps if all that anger wasn't turned on him so frequently it wouldn't have went so badly. Perhaps if he had made himself smaller, less noticeable, then none of this would've happened.

Then there was the galdor in front of him, claiming the opposite, that he had done nothing wrong. What was he supposed to believe, when everything conflicted and struggled against everything else? It was a mess of emotions within the passive, who continued to drag fingers anxiously through his hair, fighting against the overwhelming heaviness in his chest that threatened to ascend to his eyes.

No one deserves that kind of violence.

As the older man suddenly stood, Lars lifted his head, reaching out to accept his assistance in standing up himself. The help was appreciated, even if the close contact was still quite unusual from a superior and would've shot his heart into a frenzy if it had been anyone else. He did his best to stay upright at the professor's side as he was led into a different room, though the pain was but a fraction of what he'd felt on his dark journey to the laboratory.

"F--Fionn, no, he's not his friend," managed the Hessean, a bitter edge to his otherwise soft voice, "he's got some--some fixation with our patron, he doesn't know, but he does the dirty work while Ayden keeps his hands clean. Th--things, things were fine, before Ayden, but Fionn's obsessed with him."

Fionn's behavior had been different since the new patron's arrival, it was true, even if he had already been a bit chaotic and hostile before him. Now it was as if the harshness in him had been illuminated; something driving the young man to violence and cruelty in place of understanding. Lars had been willing, for the most part, to ignore the difficulties his newest roommate had presented him, but gods he was done. He was done with it.

The situation with Fred had been unusual, he realized; Fionn's quiet promises of protection from some unseen threat nothing but lies and manipulation. What was this supposed to be? Was violence some twisted sort of protection, in his mind, because gods it wasn't to Lars, it was the farthest thing from it and any trust he'd had in the young passive was shattered into smaller and smaller pieces with each strike against his skin.

Once they had entered the other room, Lars moved to lean against the washbasin, a sigh escaping him as he rested for just a moment. He really had no clue how he had managed the walk through the dark halls beneath Brunnhold to the laboratory, when now a simple walk across the room tired him out. Reaching into the water hesitantly and finding the liquid warm, rather than steaming and hot as it was in the laundry rooms, he seemed to relax and offered a nod to the professor.

"Yes, he can, of course," he said first, starting to wipe the blood from his shaking hands. His recount of the night's events would likely be far from entertaining; he doubted the kindly professor actually wanted to hear about how he had ended up face-down in the laboratory so late, but he had no issue in being honest with the man. At the moment, repercussions for Ayden--or Fionn, or anyone--were the last thing on his mind; he cared more to recover than to shake the system that their patron had devised.

At the mention of towels, the blonde pulled a hand from the water, grabbing two from the shelf and setting one to the side to stay dry. The other was doused, brought upwards again to wipe drying blood from his face, and the galdor's exit from the room prompted him to stick his head beneath the stream.

It was overwhelming, the sudden sense of loss he felt as the professor left the room. The sense of betrayal from his roommate's hostility--he had been unkind before, it was true, but the only physical instance had been a jab to his collarbone the night they met. It had left a bruise, but it had been ignored. The sense of being alone, something he had always known and had come to live with despite the presence of roommates and peers, of being so far away from everyone else even as they stood right beside him, of being a shadow in the corner of a room, of being the unseen, unheard, unknown, unimportant, unwanted and unloved bastardization of galdorkind; of being Lars.

Who was Lars but another of so many unwanted sons? Who was he to question?

He didn't know why, but the steady stream of water that soaked his golden hair dragged the misery from below. He brought his hands to push through the wet strands, pulling clumps of blood apart to wash the red stain from his hair. It was a quick enough process, the water running over from his scalp and onto his face, fingers moving then to wipe it clean. This took a bit longer, the passive having to rub a bit at his temples and his cheekbones in particular before realizing it was probably a better idea not to reopen any wounds.

Pulling his head from the basin, he let the water drip from his hair down onto his shoulders, enjoying the warmth provided while his body struggled to keep from shivering, what with so much warm blood having spilled from it earlier. It was a small struggle to remove his shirt, his fingers fumbling to unbutton and push it off, the wet towel then used to clean his upper body.

Perhaps it would've been best to look over himself before blindly wiping with the towel, for as soon as he ventured to remove the blood from his abdomen, it protested with a sharp pain. The sensation dragged his eyes downwards, widening at the sight of himself; the way that a bone had fought from it's gods-given structure and pushed outwards as if seeking to find sunlight, protruding in such a fashion that he was surprised it hadn't broken through the skin.

Thankfully Professor Moore was quick to return, and Lars swallowed the panicked lump in his throat before looking to the door and replying, "Uh, yes, he--th--thank you, sir. You're very kind, Professor, it--it means a lot."

Shifting on his feet, the passive's hand covered his misplaced rib almost protectively, "he's sorry to have sprung this on you, but he, uh. I trust you, sir. If he went to the infirmary then Ayden would know, and he doesn't know that Ayden doesn't have control over more than just, uh, Fionn. Thank you. Really."

Lars took a breath, letting the wet towel drop into the washbasin and grabbing the dry one instead, bringing it to dry off his hair. He was still a certified mess; blood coated his neck where he hadn't thought to scrub and the rest of his uniform was soaked, but it brought him a measure of comfort just to know that the fluffy golden mess atop his head was washed of red--and a mess it was.

"Professor, he... can he ask what you're going to do? You said you wont stand for it, but sir, he doesn't want you to do anything that will put you at... well at risk, sir."

[Muse]

27th of Dentis, 2718
Laboratory Beta | A Dark Hour

Harper couldn't help but frown as Lars explained that Fionn, the younger passive that had been injured the first time they met just not so long ago, was not only not his friend, but that he was, perhaps, involved in questionable relationships with yet another questionable patron. Good Lady, who was even vetting these passives into positions of power? Obsessed. He seemed to note the comment. Just like he'd admitted he wasn't a physician, Professor Moore wasn't a psychologist, either, but monic theory actually had quite a bit of overlap with psychological theory because the mona was sentient and interacted with sentient beings. The overlap certainly didn't cover abusive relationships or whatever the bloodied creature in front of him was hinting at, but it was just enough. And the galdor was intelligent enough to draw conclusions and it showed on his face.

He used that moment to slip away before he said something he shouldn't, mulling over Lars' words as he found what he was searching for in the closet, as he returned to the small wash room to a half-dressed and dripping man who was still somewhat bloodied and definitely pale. Gods, he had not studied for any of this, and Harper hated the way the sight of the passive made his chest tighten. Hastily, he set down the first aid kit on the lip of the washbasin and found a clean spot to set the fresh clothes, inhaling sharply as if he was gathering the breath to summon strength from the air itself.

It didn't work.

He was still frowning, "No, I understand. If this Ayden is capable of such things, then you were right to come here. Let me see what I can do. Raise your arms a little, please? Yes, I see that. Wrapping it is, Lars." The theorist swallowed his nervousness, hazel eyes pointedly looking downward to the younger man's ribs. While the bruising had faded, the protective touches weren't disguised well enough to go unnoticed. He waved a roll of bandages in the passive's direction, the thick, long roll meant to bind instead of absorb. Tucking the bandages under one arm, he paused without a hint of hesitance or shame to use a towel to gently wipe any additional blood from Lars' torso before he set about binding broken ribs to the best of his logical guesstimation,

"What am I going to do? Well, uh—" Harper blinked, caught off guard by the man's need to know so immediately, passionately and genuinely angered but perhaps not yet crystal clear on his plans, "—I won't put myself at any more risk than I already have, Lars. My decision to study passivity has earned me a bit of a reputation on campus, as you can imagine. I'll have you know Headmistress Servalis is on our side, and neither of us were aware of there being this kind of abuse rampant in the Passive Ward. Is this a big problem? The last time you were here with Fionn, I seem to remember it being no less ... disturbing."

The professor attempted to be gentle in his firm binding of broken ribs, rotating around while he spoke and using his free hand to help steady the passive as he did so. Tucking the end of the bandage in the folds wrapped around the other man's body, he stood and seemed to feel the need for another visual inspection, perhaps worried that Lars was still bleeding.

No, he was just still messy.

Wetting another towel in warm water from the sink and turning to finish wiping Lars clean, Harper continued, "The kinds of stressful, oppressive conditions passives are subject to are not healthy—mentally or otherwise. It's wrong. It's all very wrong. You're not a lesser beast, mistakenly born of a galdor's womb. It's—I can really carry on—um—anyway, I'm not worried about myself. While I am a tenured professor and respected monic theorist, I'm much more concerned about my research, which, ultimately, I would struggle to conduct off campus since there are far more gated passives than free ones. Having the support of a Magister like Castor has been helpful, but Ophelia is also keen on my findings. Some of us are indeed worried for your welfare—for all passives. Does Fionn need help, Lars? Does anyone else on your hall? Has your new patron only attacked you? Mrs. Rogers needs to be told and I suppose patrons and matrons need thoroughly assessed."

He was aware he'd probably kept the younger man standing for too long, and so he moved to help him change clothes as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Professor Moore was simply moving through the logical motions of his thoughts, burying any awkwardness about being trapped in a small space with another man in various states of undress to himself out of necessity. Nervously going from one step to another, doing for Lars what he felt needed to be done, even if his mind was still turning through events and churning through solution possibilities and finding them all lacking.

"Tocks. This is so not my wheelhouse. Why couldn't you just show up with some books, hmm? Why can't this sort of thing just be solved with a good pile of paperwork?"

He sighed, buttoning buttons and letting his hazel eyes meet the passive's blue hues, sincere and uncomfortable at the same time, "I think I can manage to arrange for some time away from the Passive Ward for you to recover—I'm always in need of assistance somewhere or somehow. There's no sense in returning you to that situation right now, considering it was nearly fatal tonight. But first? You're going to finally sit down—"

Professor Moore hooked a thumb toward the lounge that was full of his books and his notes where he'd been napping,

"—and drink some tea."

[Lars]

Dentis 27, 2718
Laboratory Beta · Night

Lars felt a small warmth rise to his cheeks, what little blood remaining in his body deciding to display his embarrassment at having been caught attempting to hide the extent of his injury. Offering a nod, he raised his arms without hesitance, biting the inside of his cheek as the older professor began to bind the bandaging over his broken and misplaced ribs; the man's magic having certainly helped a lot but still leaving him with the promise of waiting for the ribs to recover for a while.

It was a painful process for the blonde, but he kept himself mostly quiet, the only protest being a small sound of disapproval when he bandaged over the misplaced rib in particular.

The passive watched curiously as Professor Moore moved about, occupying himself with the man's explanations rather than the tight binding that made breathing that more difficult. He was an interesting man to observe; a ball of nervous and awkward energy that, despite the sound of it, served only to elevate the galdor in Lars' mind. It was often as such that he gravitated those that reminded him in some way of himself, even ones far more successful than he could ever hope to be. A galdor supportive of his kind had to face a lot of difficulties from their peers, he was sure, and he had to wonder why anyone in the professor's position would put their reputation on the line for the sake of their inferiors.

What made the professor so passionate about the cause? The thought of a galdor being genuinely invested without any sort of ulterior motive was absurd, but he couldn't imagine the kind, if awkward man bandaging his ribs as having any greedy or ill intent.

"It wasn't this bad until Ayden," he offered first, "things weren't always pleasant but there wasn't so much... violence, not that I knew of at the least. Fred wasn't a good man either, but I--"

He wasn't even sure if he could reliably give the professor an accurate answer. Lars had been there for a lengthy span of time, but he hadn't exactly been one to reach out and speak with his fellow servants all that much unless forced. Had this kind of abuse simply flew under his radar? Had he never looked?

Ayden had been a pest from the start, but beyond verbal abuse, hadn't been an issue for the blonde. He had always picked on him for one reason or another, dubbing him the "bloody half-wit" from the beginning, he assumed because of his speech but had never cared to inquire. One man's hostilities had never been enough to make him care before tonight.

Nonetheless, the man seemed to slip easily into the use of first-person; continuing to watch the professor as he finished up with the bandaging and moved to inspect the state of him. It was a bit of a shock for the younger man when he brought a damp towel to assist in removing the blood from fragile, pale skin, the momentary surprise clear in the widening of blue eyes but otherwise ignored,

"I--I'm not sure," admitted the blonde on the subject of Fionn and the others, not entirely sure if he wanted the younger passive to be helped, "Ayden has--he definitely has control over a lot of us, I'd say, and no, this isn't really an unusual punishment, I don't think. Fionn has taken to beating whoever Ayden thinks deserves it. I'm not sure if he needs help or if he needs to--" cutting himself short, Lars switched the matter without thought, "I don't know who put Ayden in charge, but I--I wouldn't trust them, whether it was Mrs. Rogers or anyone else."

He spoke as Professor Moore helped him change; blood-stained and likely ruined uniform set to the side (folded neatly, he wasn't an animal), donning unfamiliar clothes that made the passive recall that he did, in fact, used to wear things beyond the pale blues of his given uniforms. His fingers toyed with the edges of his sleeves as the professor finished buttoning up his shirt, Lars glancing up to meet his gaze and finding himself nodding in agreement without fully realizing the meaning behind the words.

A spark of realization brightened the once-faraway gaze, "time away--time away? You mean away from Brunnhold?" the notion was quite clearly a strange one to Lars, who tilted his head ever-so-slightly and observed as if expecting some other explanation. Time away. What even was that? The most time away he'd had was a short visit to the Stacks--one that Ayden had discovered and tucked away for future punishment, he realized earlier, and it made him wonder for a moment if the same would happen again if he was away and Ayden found out.

Professor Moore wouldn't let that happen, though, certainly not. Still, the fear quite literally pounded into him from the night's events lingered in his mind and he couldn't brush it off.

"Tea--sorry, yes, that would be nice. Very nice," he replied softly, glancing down at himself--such a curious sight, to be out of uniform--and once again finding himself rubbing his fingers against the fabric of his sleeves, more comfortable than what he was used to, and a definite upgrade from the bloodied garments folded to the side.

Lars bowed his head briefly, slipping past the professor and making his way back to the lounge with a new measure of strength and stability now that he was clean and bandaged properly. Taking a seat, the passive's back was as straight as the walls around them, the idea of resting and drinking a cup of hot tea almost intimidating. He wasn't meant for this, not really, not even as a form of recovery; he was a servant and to treat him kindly was appreciated, but it wasn't as if he would ever be more than a servant. Little luxuries provided to the blonde would only be missed more once he knew of their comforts, he believed, but he wasn't going to refuse when his throat still stung from the flood.

"So I wont be going back to the dorm tonight, then?" questioned the Hessean with a note of relief, "I suppose that's a good idea. I wouldn't think it's unlikely for Ayden to come back stronger next time, once he knows I got help. Fionn, as well. He was--he was acting very strange, and I've been so lost as to what he wants from me."

[Muse]

27th of Dentis, 2718
Laboratory Beta | A Dark Hour

"I'm at least aware that oppressive conditions encourage an unnecessary ruthlessness among those oppressed. Passives here on campus haven't always had conditions this severe, and it's definitely been worse during my tenure." Harper admitted quietly, careful not to cause unnecessary pain to the battered man he was attempting to assist. It seemed so strange that Lars would attempt to hide his injury, but the professor had begun to realize that this was a common behavior. No one wanted to go to the Infirmary or the hospital and have their injuries written on paper: not the injured nor the one who was responsible. It was easier to just hide and deal with things than find oneself under further scrutiny or more difficult restriction.

These were all new situations that the older galdor had never in his life had to think about or prepare for or deal with before he decided to turn his monic theoretical research toward passivity. What had begun as a much more innocent and perhaps far more selfish curiosity had grown into something much deeper, the man actually genuinely compassionate and now thoroughly entrenched in bettering the status of men and women born of the same heritage despite what centuries of ignorance had come to label as unwanted trash in the gene pool.

They were missing something. They all were.

But he didn't want to make those discoveries by stepping on the very people he'd come to know and see as, well, valuable and viable people.

Professor Moore sighed, listening to Lars speak further about Ayden and Fionn, reading into the pauses and hesitation. The hurt was far more than physical for the other man, perhaps even burdened by a sense of betrayal, and yet Harper wasn't ignorant of the immediate trust he'd seemed to have earned from the injured passive. If he noticed the change in the way Lars spoke, it wasn't immediately registered, for the galdor was wrapped up in blood and broken bones and so reactive to the moment that he hardly had time to process what was being communicated, let alone how it was being spoken to begin with.

Regardless, the whole situation was so glaringly wrong that he couldn't help the tightening of his field in frustration, "Everyone deserves the opportunity for help. The question will be whether or not Fionn wants any. From the sound of things, Ayden won't even think he's a problem. I trust Mrs. Rogers, even if she made a mistake. None of us are perfect, Lars."

Not even galdori.

Harper was unsure if he'd ever dressed a grown man before other than himself, and if any color flushed his cheeks, he pretended that it was completely a non-issue, professional and so very careful to make effort in mitigating the passive's pain. He was still sheltered enough from some of the reality they stood in to not think twice about putting the gated servant into his own clothes, his eagerness to be kind and helpful exceeding his ability to think through the consequences of his altruistic generosity,

"Yes. Away from Brunnhold. Away from the stress and the abuse. Somewhere safe to finish healing while I deal with whatever mess is happening on the passive ward. You don't need to go back to your dorm situation, do you? No. And no one needs to know you're alright if they weren't concerned with your wellbeing to begin with. I will take you on as my personal servant for the sake of official records and you can have some time to breathe." The bespectacled galdor was very confident this was something Lars needed, ignorant of how terrifying it must have sounded to a creature trained to work without thinking of themselves at all. What a selfish indulgence it must have been from Harper's lips, the suggestion that this scrap deserved a break at all.

He was clueless, of course. His heart in the right place even if he wore his cultural ignorance on his sleeve without even knowing. He was still learning, to be fair. He'd only been experimenting with passivity for less than a year, after all.

When he reached to support the younger man on their way to the small lounge area where he'd once been asleep, surrounded by his books and notes, Harper was surprised to realize his assistance in getting Lars situated on the couch was unnecessary. It wasn't a bad thing, but the awkward professor was suddenly even further flustered than he'd been before, covering it all with the shyest of smiles. He glanced at his tea cup, which was used and still half full. The kettle had been placed near the small cast iron stove meant to keep Laboratory Beta warm, and the galdor moved to peer beneath the lid in order to decide it still had enough water in it to make a decent cup of tea. He set it back on the stovetop for a few moments, rummaging through a box on the bookshelf for a clean cup and more tea to brew in a little metal strainer,

"Well, ah. See. I don't live here at Brunnhold campus or even in the Stacks. Uh. My home is actually in Muffey. I used to make the commute daily, but, well, I'm clocking lazy now." He chuckled then, embarrassed to admit in a round about way that he lived out of the lab more often than he cared to admit. Or rented a room in the Stacks. Not that he was good at sleeping or caring for himself like a proper adult, so easily distracted for houses by an idea or a theory worth chasing, "Yes, you can sleep here. The couch is comfortable. Trust me. I've broken it in for you many times over. I will ... take to the floor or the chair. I have a class tomorrow, but it's small. They're used to me being a mess."

Harper smirked, now thoroughly chagrined as he accidentally examined his bachelorhood in front of a passive. His hazel gaze drifted past Lars to the mess still on the tile floor of the foyer, dribbling and dragging its way to the washroom. He'd have to clean that.

Tocks.

"You're right, unfortunately. I don't believe it's safe for you to return, and I have no desire to see any more passive deaths, Lars. I'm sorry that I mistook you for having a friendship with Fionn. I feel as though I missed an opportunity to protect you." Was the man really blushing? He hid it by making himself busy between the lounge and the washroom, using what was left of the towels to begin cleaning the floor while he waited for the kettle to whistle. He did his best not to reveal himself as the awkward academic he truly was, but it was impossible.

"I imagine proper friendships are difficult, considering your situations, let alone relationships of any kind. I feel like this is a huge problem for passives, that your living conditions and the reasoning behind your isolation from galdor society could be made more bearable by opportunities for caring relationships. Other Kingdoms have proven this as truth—Mugroba is centuries ahead of Anaxas when it comes to recognizing the reality of things. Mostly. They—anyway. I have my opinions." He rambled between wiping, scrubbing, washing, aware that this conversation was strange and that their current situation was stranger. Forging ahead because his personality didn't allow for anything else, Harper Moore simply refused to walk on eggshells almost in spite of his very real ignorance, too emotionally invested in the other man already, given the passive had just crawled his way bleeding and broken across campus just to seek his help,

"I don't expect you to speak for anyone else involved in this mess, though. Just yourself. I will talk to him myself. Eventually. For now, though, I'm far more concerned about getting you sorted and safe."

[Lars]

Dentis 27, 2718
Laboratory Beta · Night

The confirmation that time away meant time away from Brunnhold, it was a strange and almost unsettling thing to hear, and if he wasn't so caught on the professor's each word currently he might've assumed he had heard him wrong. Away from Brunnhold. Away from the stress and abuse. For a moment, Lars struggled to keep his expression steady, unable to help the glimmer of withheld tears even if he held the tears themselves for the time being. He didn't understand why the galdor was being so kind, why he seemed to understand.

Why he did understand, as much as a galdor could. It was blasphemy, but such sweet sacrilege it was to have an friend.

"That--that would be nice, thank you, sir," he began, eyes flicking to the ground, "he won't be a nuisance, he promises. He's much better at his job than this might suggest," Lars wasn't fully aware of what all of it might mean for him, but he was willing to take a chance if it meant getting out for a while. He had never cared to hope before, never let himself wish for escape when he knew that he was a danger to society and that society was a danger to him as well. He wasn't sure what it would be like to clean another place--cook in a foreign kitchen, sleep outside of a dorm, wander halls not attached to the university, but he was hopeful and curious beyond measure.

When the passive made his way to the sofa without assistance, he at first thought nothing of the matter beyond the pain in his chest, but a glance back to the professor distracted him from the unpleasant sensation. A smile--small, shy, but smiling nonetheless. Lars found himself mirroring the gesture, glancing down to his hands, uncertain if a man like him was even supposed to smile. Passives weren't meant to be seen nor heard, and he imagined it would be taken as a selfish notion to see one smile; he fought against the reaction and bit against his cheek to regain a neutral expression.

As he heard the older man set the kettle atop the stove, the Hessean glanced upwards again, "I've never been to Muffey," he offered, "I used to live in Dorhaven, as a child, but I can't say that I remember it well. I remember my home felt a lot like Brunnhold does. It was tall, with lots of rooms."

The blonde cleared his throat, though the action was regrettable, as it renewed the pain in his throat.

"Sorry. It's easy to talk to you--the chair or the floor? Sir, you don't have to do that. Please, I'm the one that disrupted you in the first place. The sofa is yours, unless you have the drive to share with a servant," oddly enough, Lars felt comfortable enough in the professor's presence to joke. It was pleasant, to feel comfortable being anything other than obedient and faraway.

Blue eyes followed Professor Moore about, going from one room to the other and retrieving towels to start cleaning up the mess Lars had left on the floor. Cleaning blood from the tile was never his favorite work, but still the passive felt compelled to offer assistance, moving to stand and help but finding himself sitting back down immediately, his ribs protesting at the sudden movement. As much as he would like a break from servitude, he didn't exactly enjoy watching someone else clean the floor, especially not the kind professor. He had already done so much for him, and his words only made the passive's guilt grow.

"It, uh, it's not your fault, Professor. I had thought he was my friend as well, you didn't.. miss anything. I should've known to protect myself. You've done far more than enough for me now, and... thank you," fiddling with his hands, Lars pulled gently at a loose thread from the unfamiliar shirt sleeve, finding comfort in the fabrics. He did, however, fall silent as the professor moved onto the matter of friendships and relationships, caught off-guard by the man's notions and uncertain of how to respond just yet.

Continuing to fiddle with his sleeves, Lars replied, "yes, things are hard. I think.. for myself more than most, maybe that's why I was quick to trust Fionn. I don't know, I'm not the best to speak on the matter. I tend to stick to myself," the blonde admitted, "but I like your opinions. I don't think I've met anyone like you before, sir. I'll speak about any of it that I need to, for you, as long as I don't have to see him."

[Muse]

27th of Dentis, 2718
Laboratory Beta | A Dark Hour

"Idon't have any particular expectations for a job I have yet to define." Grunted the galdor professor, bent over the floor on his hands and knees, already bloodstained and dirty, the irony of scrubbing the passive's mess from his laboratory floor not at all lost on the usually otherwise dense academic. He was smirking, though his back was turned and the younger man could only guess at his expression based on how it lilted his tone of voice, "Castor's much better at the creative ad lib when it comes to coming up with words on the fly—I, well—I'm a planner. But we'll sort something out that will keep you from the dorms for a bit until I can figure out what the clock is happening in the Passive Ward with all of you."

It was a promise. An awkward one, but Harper had seen enough bloodshed in the past several days for his entire life. He wasn't a biological professor; Fred's body from earlier in the season had haunted him behind his eyelids. It still did. But this? Hazel eyes glanced down at his stained hands and further to his knees, suppressing a shudder—

He wasn't made for these things. Violence and emotional turmoil were not part of his education, but they had quickly educated him to play a different role than he'd ever intended.

—Harper felt the urge to write equations until he could forget it all, but there was still a smudged trail of red leading all the way to the tiny closet of a washroom. He slowly, carefully made his way in that direction as he continued to speak.

"I have never been to Dorhaven. I've hardly been to Vienda, our so-called dear capital. I have lived most of my life between Muffey, my family's home, and Brunnhold. Mostly Brunnhold lately. Everywhere has lots of rooms, but too many of them are empty." He muttered, perhaps lamely attempting at metaphor, too logical of a creature to accomplish such things as successfully as he'd like. Once he had the floor not looking like his laboratory was a slaughterhouse, he paused to wash his hands in the tiny water closet, tossing all of the bloodied towels in the oversized basin and staring at them for longer than was necessary in silence, forgetting himself for a moment in all that had been rushed into his once quiet, insular life just because of one tiny, innocuous curiosity.

"Tocks."

He'd have to change. He rolled up his sleeves instead, avoiding the obvious, forgetting in his distractedness to tug the spectacles from his face when he splashed water on it, muttering a few more curses into the palms of his hands before being forced to remove them and wipe them. Lars' voice carried from the sitting room and elicited an awkward, surprised laugh from him but he managed not to drop his spectacles on the floor by some unspoken miracle,

"Oh—uh—well. I'm not sure the sofa is quite—I'm not—ah—you're the one with broken ribs, so I would prefer to keep you comfortable. Perhaps without my elbows and knees to worry about?" He moved about the main rooms of the laboratory, digging for spare clothes he had stashed in the suitcase he lived out of instead of going home to Muffey,

"I'm not particularly good at friends. I think the proper word for me eventually ends up being boring. I don't like parties. I don't like pubs. I don't get guttered. I usually can talk about my projects for hours. I—well. There's probably several reasons I'm not married at this point, but friendships are hard and I'm not even a mistreated servant. It's not just you, you see?" Professor Moore attempted to present such truths with humor, but it was self-deprecating and only served to highlight the deep divide between himself and the passive more, not less. Assuming the other man wasn't about to leap from the couch to investigate what was taking him so long, he chose to take the moment to change from bloodied clothes into clean ones out of view,

"Castor is far more charismatic than me, and he's, well, he's perhaps the sly deceptive type. I trust him, but I know his strange behavior will most likely strain his friendship with Headmistress Servalis. Everything is this clocking delicate balance. Life. And things. I can't imagine attempting to find that balance when you haven't been taught to use a scale because you're a gated passive."

He paused, smirking,

"Not met anyone like me? As in someone who recognizes you're not worthless trash? I'm a monic theorist and perhaps one of the few professors in this entire university who should believe the opposite considering my qualifications and subject of study, it's true, but there's some piece of the puzzle I'm missing..." Harper kept himself from rambling about theory again, emerging from the wash room as the kettle bubbled and sputtered, far too old to properly whistle,

"Perfect timing. Finally." He offered, making his way to prepare some tea, "I think it would be best if you two spoke separately, yes. Not only for your sake, but also for Fionn's."

If Lars had stayed in the passive ward, would he have been dead by now?

The bespectacled professor scowled at the tea he measured carefully into the pot as if it knew the answers, "I'll just have to make sure no one knows you're dead before we leave after my classes tomorrow. You can stay out of trouble for one day in the lab, hopefully."

Tea steeping, Harper shoved hands into trouser pockets and hovered restlessly: his body tired but his mind so busy, so full. Hazel eyes studied the younger passive out of his uniform and in normal clothes, no longer a bloody mess. More than five feet away, and who but the gods would know he wasn't another golly?

No one.

No one at all.