How To Fall From Grace [MxM]

Step 2: Fall to pieces

He'd broken another mirror.

Frey stared into the few shards left in the frame, his own scream still echoing in his ears, and his expression having gone from fury to shock as soon as it had shattered.

Why was he shocked? It had happened before. Never intentionally, but just a part of his life, like any other time his emotions had gotten the best of him.

He glanced towards the door. No one would bother to show up, asking what had happened and if he was alright. Not that he wanted them to.

He was at least fairly certain he didn't want them to.

His hands trembled as he looked down at the remains of a white, flowery vase that was no better off than the mirror it had collided with. Someone would have to show up eventually because of that. The floor was no place for sharp pieces of glass, which Frey was well aware of by now. Storming thoughts and muscle spasms didn't mix well with unsafe environments.

And those who cleaned it up would talk, just like he knew they did whenever these things happened.

Of course, a servant's whisper meant nothing to him. He held no regard for their opinions, so they could gossip all they wanted about the cleaning they had to do. They could gossip until they dropped for all he cared, but he had a nagging suspicion that it was spreading. For some reason, people from his social class still listened to their servants. They couldn't consider what they heard as facts, but with the same words thrown around again and again, it was hard to think nothing of it.

And sweet, charming Lord Clausson was not supposed to scream and break things in frustration and despair on a regular basis.

"Screw them," he whispered under his breath while wiping tears from his cheeks, hand instantly retracting as he brushed against the scar.

That archon forsaken scar.

His mind was thrown into tumult again, and he clenched his fists hard to stop them from convulsing. He had to. It made him look bad. His father had told him so many times.

A whimper escaped him, and he sank down on the floor where he pressed his forehead against his knees.

"Stop it," he reminded himself, voice weak and pleading as he began swaying from side to side. "Calm down. It's just a vase. Just a mirror. Just— Just a... Scar."

Another whimper, and he slammed his open palm against the floor with a growl.

"Stop. Shaking!" He struck it down repeatedly, fully aware of the glass invading his skin, but he couldn't stop. "Nothing's happened! Nothing's new! It's healed! It's been there for a year! He— He's already been gone for a year!"

His voice cracked, and he broke down into sobs again just as the door was opened and a hand grabbed his wrist.

Silence ensued as his body tensed up, and remorse engulfed him when his thoughts fell into place.

"... I just...Don't like floral vases," he mumbled, turning his head to look away while Damien examined his hand.

"We'll find one with another pattern."

"Perhaps vases just aren't my thing, when I think about it."

"They're inconvenient projectiles, that's for certain." Damien carefully placed Frey's hand down and stood up from the floor. "I'll have someone come take a look at your hand."

He didn't leave immediately though and Frey could guess that he was staring at him, perhaps waiting for an explanation, or some kind of acknowledgement of what just happened, but Frey wouldn't have it. Instead he nodded to confirm that he'd heard him, and that was it.