[ The quiet comes from Augustine, too, in the wake of that; radio static, or a conversation in a room too distant to hear anything but the rise and fall of voices — unable even to identify the language being used, much less the accent — a conversation that has nothing to do with John, and everything to do with the wonder of having Augustine and his brother together in one place, once again.
It's just that, well... it lasts a while, this time, once again. Long enough for Augustine to relay everything to Alfred, maybe; long enough for them to discuss whether or not it's worth trying to hunt for a meal, or just keep burning those Lyctoral fires; long enough to debate which Gilbert & Sullivan operetta was the greatest of all time; who knows. ]
«They left you as soon as they could load up a truck, after getting back from the beach,» [ is what comes across, finally, in the tired tone of someone trying to be gentle about something that probably should have already been obvious. ] «Everyone who was going to, anyway — whether permanently, or just until you stopped being... that.»
[ "That", flatly, because it's easier, simpler, neater than any of the other ways he could describe the absolute Hell of those three days —
— the ones he actively chose to remain, as close as his sanity could bear, leaving only to return, again and again, but —
He gets it. He does. He's old news. Of course he came back, even though it hurt him; that's just what he's always done. That's just Augustine, God's patient and dependable Saint. He isn't the kids, the shiny new toys here to keep him distracted away from the fact that this isn't the universe he inherited so meekly. He doesn't run this show; he isn't even necessarily the main character in the story — so why would a well-worn sidekick matter anywhere near so much as a troupe of plucky ingenues? ]
«I'll be back to help,» [ he says — lame as it is — rather than letting himself reflect on any of that long enough, closely enough, to know John will hear it.
He doesn't say when he'll be back; what's the point? It will take as long as it takes, and any attempt to pin it down more than that will just about guarantee a failure. ]
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It's just that, well... it lasts a while, this time, once again. Long enough for Augustine to relay everything to Alfred, maybe; long enough for them to discuss whether or not it's worth trying to hunt for a meal, or just keep burning those Lyctoral fires; long enough to debate which Gilbert & Sullivan operetta was the greatest of all time; who knows. ]
«They left you as soon as they could load up a truck, after getting back from the beach,» [ is what comes across, finally, in the tired tone of someone trying to be gentle about something that probably should have already been obvious. ] «Everyone who was going to, anyway — whether permanently, or just until you stopped being... that.»
[ "That", flatly, because it's easier, simpler, neater than any of the other ways he could describe the absolute Hell of those three days —
— the ones he actively chose to remain, as close as his sanity could bear, leaving only to return, again and again, but —
He gets it. He does. He's old news. Of course he came back, even though it hurt him; that's just what he's always done. That's just Augustine, God's patient and dependable Saint. He isn't the kids, the shiny new toys here to keep him distracted away from the fact that this isn't the universe he inherited so meekly. He doesn't run this show; he isn't even necessarily the main character in the story — so why would a well-worn sidekick matter anywhere near so much as a troupe of plucky ingenues? ]
«I'll be back to help,» [ he says — lame as it is — rather than letting himself reflect on any of that long enough, closely enough, to know John will hear it.
He doesn't say when he'll be back; what's the point? It will take as long as it takes, and any attempt to pin it down more than that will just about guarantee a failure. ]