She stood beside him, watching him with attentive eyes. She watched him lean on his cane, listened to the pattern of his breathing; she was observant enough to know when someone was in pain, even if she wasn't educated enough on the subject to help.

"Vaguely, yes," she said, her expression unmoving, "That's all the little nerves in the body, yes? And the spine?"

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August nodded. "I was in a carriage accident sixteen years ago ago," he said, unsure why he was telling her. The only explanation was that he wanted her to know, but August wasn't sure there was enough justification. "My right leg was shattered." Blinding pain, the magic from his wand and from the carriage, and then — nothing. He'd passed out, August thought, but if he hadn't passed out he simply did not remember.

When he woke up in St. Mungo's, he was screaming.

"The healers were able to fix it, mostly," he said, "But they told me the nerves were damaged. So sometimes — especially when it's cold — my leg swells up, and the pain becomes... notable."

It was always there. But often, he could ignore it. When it was cold — and when he had fallen so recently — he couldn't get away with it.

Maybe admitting things like this would make her less horrified by his weakness.

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set by Bree

Listening to his story, Grace found it difficult to keep her expression neutral—well, as neutral as wide-eyed sympathy could get. It was hard to imagine a sixteen-year-old Mr. Echelon-Arnost, let alone one who was screaming and thrashing with the pain of a carriage crash injury. The most physical pain Grace had ever endured was twisting her ankle while dancing, so it was difficult to truly grasp how much pain had been caused by a leg so irreparably damaged.

Grace had been blessed with a kind, tender heart, but not as lucky when it came to expressing it. She didn't want him to have to walk her home, but she didn't want to say that out loud, knowing it would only sound like she was rejecting his offer. In the same stroke she couldn't simply accept his explanation and then force him to soldier on, knowing it would be insensitive. How to express sympathy without pity? How to show that she saw him without being too... much?

Her hand had left his arm, but it still hovered above, unmoving. She let it drop back onto his sleeve and gave a gentle squeeze, her best attempt at comfort. "You're much stronger than me, Mr. Echelon-Arnost," she replied. Then, looking over his shoulder across the cobble street, she thought of something. "They're having a special at the desserterie. I think I should like to sit with a hot cup of cocoa before I go home. Have you had theirs before?" she asked, her smile broadening by just a fraction. It was an invitation, one more graceful than she thought she'd been capable of managing. There he could sit, and she could sip cocoa, and she would not feel like a burden, and he would not have to be embarrassed.

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August wanted to correct her. He wasn't strong because he wanted to be strong; he did this because the alternative was to give up.

Her idea, though, was better. August smiled thinly at her, because he saw exactly what she was doing, but it was better than what he'd planned — (namely, in that he hadn't had a plan.) "That sounds lovely, Miss Greengrass," he said, "I haven't had the pleasure of trying their hot cocoa before, but if you do not mind, I should like to join you."

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set by Bree

Grace gave a slightly too-wide smile, just as relieved that he hadn't turned her away as she was thrilled by the idea that she would get to drink cocoa with him. (It was an underrated time to spend time with someone, she thought. Long pauses throughout the conversation to enjoy her drink and think of all the things she could say without it being deemed "awkward" or "asocial". It was perfect, really.)

"Yes, of course," she said, just a little too quickly, "I would enjoy that." And she would. Maybe more than she ought to.

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