sunburned

It continues to circle around in his head. Anahuraue, the Sapa Inca herself, is standing there in all her finery, as lovely as she has been for every single day since he found himself back here. In the corner of his eye, he can see Laurence and the others. He tries hard not to think about what passed between them, but it's difficult - it's difficult not to dwell on how quiet he felt and how safe, for a handful of moments. It had helped him realise that he could change things. That certain things were not necessarily written.

He dwells on that for a moment and, before he entirely knows what he's doing, he reaches up with his good hand, fumbling with the clasp of the red cloak and letting it drop, heavy, to the floor.

"No," he says, quietly. "Not this time."

One moment, they're having breakfast and Granby's in the middle of lifting his coffee cup to his lips and then next moment he blinks and finds himself standing in a vast stone hall, and the ache in his shoulder is back. And there she is, crowned in wedding finery - the Sapa Inca in a dress of yellow and red, shot through with gold, her crown of silver and gold and long feathers.

And it's done. He's married to her, with barely a word to say. Of course, there wouldn't be a word to say, not when he can barely say ten words together that she'd understand.

It's late by the time he finds himself at Laurence's door, clad in shirt and breeches, his wounded arm against his chest. He knocks, leaning his forehead against the frame and thankfully, for now, that he's managed to avoid Iskierka, even though catching a glimpse of her was like a balm on something that he didn't know was burning.

"For the love of God, Laurence," he hisses. "Would you let me in?"

It's been a miserable few days, as things go. He's given everyone but Laurence a wide berth and, even with Laurence, he's been an unbearable scrub. It's difficult to parse what he's actually feeling. It's not that he told her - that much he can live with. He meant it when he told Laurence that it wasn't anything to be ashamed of, and it wasn't something he wished that he could changed.

He was angry, more than anything, that she'd pried it out of him, as surely as if she'd used her nails.
And he's still angry. But he misses her.

He sighs, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside her curtain. No door to knock.

"Are you in there?" he asks, voice low. No reason to interrupt everyone's evening.

Settling in was a slow process; they did not have many possessions between them, not yet, but it still took time to make a place their own. The hut was a comfortable one - a pair of bedrooms, a bathroom and sitting room. Granby's room was a horror of piled clothes and books already, the bed usually made but not particularly well. He usually took the precaution of pulling the door closed, if only to save Laurence's nerves.

His favourite place was the front porch, a pair of chairs drawn close to the rail with a view of the sea.
He turned to a clean page in his sketchbook and propped his bare feet up on the rail.

If it doubt, he draws. It's always been the way. He first learned as a Midshipman, hanging around the covert, drawing his fllows first and then, when he got up the nerve, the dragons themselves. He must have been a sight, growing out of his coats every third day, sitting huddled into corners with a sketchpad balanced across his skinny knees. He's got passing talent as an artist (even if nobody can read the labels but him). He wishes he had his own folio, the sketches of Temeraire and Iskierka, Emily Roland and the odd one of William Laurence in a moment of relaxation.

But new pages will do, he supposes. In a pinch.

It's more awkward with only one hand, but he manages to get the pad wedged in his lap, solid enough that the lines don't wobble. He's sitting in the shade, watching Toothless bask in the sun. He'll talk to Hiccup and make notes later but, for now, he draws.

The trouble with Iskierka, and the problems with her are numerous, is that he’s not used to having so much. It’s not in his nature to waste. His mother scrimped and saved to raise him and his brothers and, when she could no longer manage, she sent him to the Corps. And he thrived, he did, but he never really lost the habit of making do.

Which brings him to shirts.

It is not too disastrous, a split seam, but it isn’t in him to throw it away. So he strips out of the shirt and, dressed in breeches and not much else, he finds needle and thread.

And Iskierka never needs to know.