silas black awoke to a sensation best describes as wrong. firstly, you were not nestled against his side as you had been initially—yourself, him, and rhydian were all having a sleepover of sorts. (the lot of you had been burrowed in a pile of blankets silas had splayed upon the black marble of his bedroom floor.)

that, however, was irrelevant—back to his distress! it began with a tardy, wary awareness at first—the peculiar sensation of something warm, firm, pressed just above his lip. silas' sleep-riddled conscience barely registered it. but then came the tearing—an abrupt, searing tug of his skin. his eyes flew open, his panic tangible.

silas moved on pure instinct, one hand slapping to his upper lip as a burning sensation came to life upon his skin. his breath came out in a strangled gasp, followed by a horrified wail.

you, traitor, were almost doubled over, laughter spilled from your mouth. how wounding, silas thought to himself—the very mouth he had kissed was . . .

his eyes strayed to what it was that you clutched. a wax strip. with—oh, merlin—his moustache on it.

another mortified wail escaped his mouth, a cry of sheer anguish, as he scrambled out of bed in his desperation to acquire a mirror.

when he finally had ahold of a mirror, the sight that greeted him could've caused him to faint— gone.

his moustache, his legacy. his two whole hairs.

silas swivelled, an undignified noise clawing out of his throat as he sputtered in outrage at his younger brother. "rhydian!" he howled, "what have you done?" silas launched forward—rhydian shrieked girlishly, staggering towards the door with the aimless grace of a man inebriated. silas was quicker in his pursuit, wrestling his brother to the ground.

"i grew that for months, you bastard!" silas bellowed, pinning rhydian down. "two whole hairs! do you know how rare that is—?!" he continued, aggrieved. rhydian was choking on his own amusement, gasping around laughter, "rare? you looked like a teenage boy who glued cat hairs to his face!"