Chapter Text
Richard Claremont had never been one for self-preservation, Or self-destruction, but this was a new low, even for him.
He had made a critical miscalculation—he had underestimated the power of Royal Milk Tea.
And now, he was paying the price.
The stomach ache had come quickly, creeping up his spine and making his whole limbs weak. Then the fever slowly crawled over him, heating his body. Oh so heat...he felt as if he's sprawled near a furnace.
His usually impeccable composure had crumbled into a mess of shivers and dizziness, all because he had decided that chugging an obscene amount of Royal Milk Tea in a single day was somehow a good idea. The sugar crash had been immediate, the nausea and abdominal cramps unbearable, and now he was paying for it in the worst way possible.
Saul Ranasinghe Ali, who was alerted an hour ago about his resident pupil being sick, stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed–watching his protégé groan dramatically into a silk pillow. The doctor-turned-jeweler—turned doctor again (for now) had seen many a fool drink themselves into illness, but Richard was perhaps the first to do so with tea.
“How many cups?” Saul asked, voice carrying the dry amusement of a man who had long since given up on being surprised by Richard’s antics.
“...fourteen,” Richard mumbled. Then, after a pause, he amended, “Possibly sixteen.”
Saul sighed, pulling out his pocket watch as though to calculate just how much time he would waste tending to this self-inflicted catastrophe. “You have the constitution of an ox. You should have been dead halfway through.”
Richard, who had turned a sickly shade of green, did not seem reassured by this observation. He knew his gemstone appraiser mentor was also a UK-licensed doctor, which is why the househelp had summoned Saul instead of a random local physician. And at this moment, Saul was inquiring about his condition. Saul was assessing him with his usual keen scrutiny.
“Everything is spinning,” he muttered. “And my hands won’t stop shaking.”
“That would be the obscene amount of caffeine, tannin and lactic acid in your system.” Saul took a seat on the edge of the bed, pressing a cool hand to Richard’s forehead. “you, merely are an idiot, not a dying man, as my househelp thought, congratulations."
Richard scowled but lacked the strength to argue. It was infuriating how his mentor could so effortlessly reduce him to a fumbling teenager.
Saul, for all his exasperation, was not without mercy. He retrieved a small flask from his coat, pouring out a measured dose of something bitter-smelling. “Drink this.”
Richard eyed the liquid with deep suspicion. “What is it?”
“A remedy.”
“You made it sound like poison.”
Saul held firm. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have let the tea do it.”
With no counterargument and no dignity left, Richard swallowed the concoction in one go—then immediately gagged. “Tastes like boiled regret,” he choked out.
Saul patted his shoulder, the barest hint of fondness in the gesture. “Good. That means it'll work.”
As Richard lay back, exhaustion catching up to him, Saul settled into the chair beside the bed. "Take this paracetamol too."
Richard gratefully took it along with the glass of water.
"Sleep it off. And if you ever do this again, I will not be so kind.”
Richard, eyed him heavy-lidded. “You say that, but we both know you’d still take care of me.”
Saul huffed but did not deny it.
Richard, satisfied with his minor victory, let sleep claim him—content in the knowledge that even his worst mistakes had someone to catch him when he fell.
☕☕☕
Richard, the most handsome man in any room (not by his own admission), had somehow managed to get worse.
Saul Ranasinghe had not been overly concerned when Richard first started complaining about nausea and dizziness. Saul had been prepared for some theatrics. He had assumed, quite reasonably, that the younger man would suffer, recover, and learn a valuable lesson about excessive consumption of Royal Milk Tea.
But no. No such lesson was learned.
He had, of course, been foolishly optimistic.
Instead of learning a valuable lesson, Richard had spiraled into full-blown disaster mode. His fever was burning him up, his limbs were trembling, and worst of all—his dramatic tendencies had reached their peak—probably being mildly delirious already.
“I am fading,” Richard announced from the king sized bed, in elegant British English– Saul figured it was probably effortful for him to switch into Cantonese at the moment, as were their deal. Richard draped an arm over his forehead like a dying aristocrat. “This is how it ends for me.The tea has finally claimed me.”
Saul who had spent the last hour preparing an IV drip–to use if needed and injections to stabilize his idiotic pupil, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, you are dying,” he deadpanned. “And I am saving you. Now, hold out your arm and roll up your sleeve.”
Richard’s eyes widened in immediate, unfiltered betrayal. “Injection? You’re giving me shots?”
“Yes.” Saul tapped the syringe. “Two, in fact.”
Richard, who had faced danger and intrigue, and malicious customers without so much as flinching, visibly recoiled. “Surely there’s another way.”
“There isn’t.”
“I don’t do needles.”
“You also don’t do self-preservation, and yet here we are.”
Saul grabbed Richard’s wrist, ignoring the way the man flailed like a fish out of water. “Stop wriggling. You are a grown man.”
“I am a grown man, and that is exactly why I am refusing!” Richard tried to roll off the bed, but Saul was quicker, shoving him back down with an impressive amount of force for someone who spent most of his time crafting jewelry.
“Richard,” Saul said, voice carrying the weary patience of a man who had been forced to deal with nonsense far too often in his life, “you drank fifteen cups of Royal Milk Tea.Your body is currently punishing you for your hubris. This injection will fix that."
"Now. Hold. Still.” Saul ordered, already rolling up Richard’s sleeve.
Richard reluctantly held his arm out as though offering it for execution. “You are enjoying this.”
Saul smirked. “Only a little.”
He wiped and sterilized the crook of his elbow with a cotton dabbed in alcohol. Finding the right vein was no trouble—Richard was mostly muscle, after all.
The first injection went in, fast, with a sharp sting. Richard jolted, eyes wide. He froze. The sharp prick of the needle barely gave him time to react before a hot, stinging sensation spread through the crook of his elbow. As the contents of the syringe was pushed inside his vein, the burn deepened—like a concentrated ache blooming beneath his skin. His arm twitched involuntarily, his fingers curling at the sudden discomfort. It wasn’t just the sting of the needle—it was the way the liquid forced its way, thick and unrelenting for almost a minute. By the time the syringe was emptied and the needle withdrawn, a dull soreness had settled in, leaving behind a faint throbbing that lingered stubbornly. He yelped. “I hate this. This is the worst.”
"You'll live," Saul said dryly as he withdrew the needle, pressing cotton firmly over the tiny wound to stop bleeding.
Without missing a beat, he reached for the second syringe, uncapping the already-filled injection with practiced ease.
Richard, ever the performer, looked on the verge of tears as Saul prepared the second shot. “You absolute villian.”
“And yet, I am the one treating your self- inflicted illness due to over indulgence.”
The second shot followed. Richard squeezed his eyes shut as the second injection went in. As the injection pierced the same vein, a fresh sting flared through Richard’s arm, sharper this time against the already tender spot. The new dose mixed with the remnants of the first, sending another strange, painful, burning sensation coursing beneath his skin. His muscles tensed instinctively, as Saul-knows-what medicine settled in. His skin crawled and he shuddered despite trying his best to stay still– as there was no way Dr. Saul was leaving without giving the shots. His suffering, he was certain, was unmatched in all of history. This time, Richard unintentionally let out the tiniest, most pitiful noise—and to Saul’s genuine surprise, silent tears began spilling down his face
Saul, who had been about to pack up his supplies, sighed. “Oh, come on, Richard. It wasn’t that bad.”
Richard turned his head away, sniffling. "You're not the one on the receiving end of that dosage. My arm... It still stings."
Saul stared at him, then exhaled through his nose. Without a word, he fished into his pocket and tossed a piece of chocolate onto Richard’s chest.
Richard frowned. “What’s this?”
“A bribe.”
“…For?”
Saul gave him a flat look. “For not making me listen to your whining all night.”
Richard sniffed again but unwrapped the chocolate; he then lifted the caramel, staring at it in deep contemplation before popping it into his mouth. He chewed, then sighed. “I am still the most tragic man in the world.”
Saul shook his head, standing. “You are a tragedy, I’ll give you that.”
And despite his lingering complaints, Richard had to admit—he already felt a little better. He flopped back against the bed dramatically.
Saul thought to himself how unreserved and unpolished his pupil was acting today, being sick, and quietly chuckled at his expense.
Richard had endured many things in life—betrayal, rejection, and the ruthless judgment of high society. But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for the lingering sting of those infernal injections.
It was absurd, really. A 24 years old, grown man should not cry over a pair of simple shots. And yet—here he was.
Despite his best efforts, silent tears slipped down his cheeks, glistening like jewels in the dim candlelight. His body still ached, the fever left him weak, and the sting in his arm lingered—a dull, persistent throb that refused to be ignored.
Saul Ranasinghe had been halfway to the door when he caught the barely-audible hitch in Richard’s breath. He turned, expecting more dramatics—perhaps another declaration of impending death.
Instead, what he found again made him pause.
Richard, usually the embodiment of effortless charm and unshakable arrogance, sat still, eyes fixed downward, his expression tight with the effort of maintaining composure. But the tears betrayed him, slipping past his lashes, trailing down his cheeks in quiet defiance.
Saul sighed. He should have expected this. The fool had a tendency to act invincible until his body decided otherwise.
Without a word, he stepped back toward Richard, retrieving a box of tissues from the almirah.
He held it out. “Here.”
Richard, stubborn as always, did not take it. He merely scoffed, voice hoarse. “It’s fine.”
Saul gave him a look. “You are crying.”
Richard lifted his chin, attempting a smirk that fell flat. “It’s not crying. It’s—” He swallowed, blinking rapidly. “It’s just my body expressing itself in an inconvenient manner.”
Saul, unimpressed, flicked the tissue at him. “Then let your body express itself into this.”
Richard huffed but took the tissue anyway, dabbing at his eyes with all the grace of a man defeated. “It still stings,” he admitted, quieter this time.
Saul sighed, crouching slightly to examine the injection site. The skin was a little red, but nothing alarming. Still, he could see why it might linger—the sheer tension in Richard’s muscles alone was enough to make the pain last longer than necessary.
“Of course it stings,” Saul said. “You fought me like a wild animal instead of relaxing. Stiff as a wooden board. You brought this upon yourself. I presume the needle went deeper than it needed to.”
Richard sniffed, still dabbing at his face. “How cruel of you to state the truth at a time like this.”
Saul sat on the arm of the bed, watching as Richard took slow, steady breaths. “You’ll live.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The tension eased, the fever still loomed, but Richard was no longer trying to pretend he was untouchable.
Saul watched him for a moment longer before standing again. “Rest. I’ll make sure there’s something mild for you to drink when you wake.”
Richard hummed, already half-asleep.
As Saul turned to leave once more, he heard a mumbled, barely audible whisper.
“Thank you.”
Saul paused but didn’t turn back. Instead, he simply replied, “You’re welcome,” before stepping out, closing the door behind him.
The fool would be fine. And as exasperating as he was, Saul would make sure of it.
☕☕☕
Four hours after Poor Prince Richard had received his injections, he was humming.
This, in itself, was not unusual—except for the fact that it hadn’t stopped.
Saul, who had been out on business, received a message from his assistant. Apparently, his delicate, fever-stricken pupil had taken to singing. In multiple languages, being the polyglot he was.
Saul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Now he’s delirious too.
Upon returning, he found exactly what he had expected—a flushed, disheveled Richard sitting upright on his bed, swaying slightly, humming to himself like some tragic poet deep in his cups.
“Richard,” Saul called.
Richard didn’t even acknowledge him. He was too busy cycling through songs and half-remembered verses, slipping between languages as if his fever had burned away all his inhibitions.The tune was inconsistent, flowing from one melody into another like an unhinged medley.
First, French—something romantic, probably borrowed from a lost love letter. “Ah, Catherine, ma reine, je te salue…”
Then, British English—dramatic, melancholy. Something about a Deborah. “Oh, my dear Deborah… unrequited love, what a cruel mistress…it becomes..”
Then Spanish, “Ay, Jeffrey, por qué hiciste esto…”
then, Japanese—soft humming, something sorrowful.
Back to French again—Catherine, my queen, I bow to thee…
Then, in Hindi, "Mai tumhari yaadon mein dooba hua aashiq..Meri chahatein...pyaar.."
Then, suddenly—“Jeffrey, why did you do this?”
Shaul’s brow furrowed.
Who the hell is Jeffrey?
Then, silence. Saul crossed his arms, watching with a growing sense of amusement and concern.
Saul took the opportunity to interrupt before Richard could launch into yet another tragic ballad. He crossed the room in three strides, sat on the edge of the bed, and firmly pressed a hand against Richard’s forehead.
Richard blinked up at him, utterly unfocused, but still offended at the sudden touch.
“Saul Ranasinghe Ali,” Richard declared in perfect Cantonese, as if announcing him to a royal court.
Saul sighed. “You're English, Richard.”
Richard, undeterred, launched into an entire monologue in Cantonese, gesturing wildly as if giving a dramatic retelling of his mentor’s great and noble sacrifices.
Saul's brain translated bits & pieces –"My esteemed mentor, Doctor -Turned-Jeweller Saul Ranasinghe Ali.. middle-aged, grizzly bear, dignified, quintessential businessman and prone to lecturing.”
Saul snickered in amusement but, he didn’t have the patience for this.
With one smooth motion, he caught Richard’s shoulders and tucked him back under the blankets, strong brown hands handling this rough blue-eyed gem with practiced ease.
“Enough theatrics,” Saul muttered, adjusting the blanket.
Richard, ever stubborn, fought against the cocooning for exactly five seconds before settling, still humming faintly under his breath.
Saul watched him carefully, something calculating in his gaze.
Now, Saul was determined to get some answers.
He knew Richard was fleeing from his family—that much had been obvious.
But now, with names spilling from his fevered lips, with fragments of past lives slipping through the cracks—Saul knew there was far more to the story.
And it was time Richard explained.