[The letter arrives addressed to "Teacher". The handwriting on both the envelope and the parchment within is clean and purposeful, with delicate spacing. It is clearly written by someone who had both been trained in handwriting and had spent time considering and choosing the words the words inked there.]
Teacher,
This week is my sixteenth birthday. People will gather at the beach on Friday a bit before the sun sets. The part of the beach near where you found me.
I am not sure what will happen there as I've never had a birthday before. But I understand that the people you care about and care for you in return are supposed to gather together to be happy that you were born. I suppose it's a way for humans to acknowledge and be happy for their own existence.
I was happy to be alive when we lived together for the first time. Teacher is someone I cared for. No one ever had looked after me like that before. Now, I don't even know if he was real. I try not to think about it yet I think about it at night when I try to think of nothing at all.
If Teacher is real, he's invited to attend the party because I still care for him. Maybe the answer, to lay it all to rest, will be a gift.
[ In the corner of the house is a fern. For weeks, skeletons have tended it; for weeks, John has stopped in the doorway to look at it, something in his eyes gone remote and faraway. On bad days, it lures him like fire for a moth: he gentles an open palm over its fronds, a half-second from yanking out its feeble thalergy at the roots. With a flare of temper he could wither it to ash.
What does it matter, right? He could preserve the fern in perfect, immaculate stasis. He could raise a dark and tangled thing in its place, and call it a better fit for the decor. He could damn it all and call it one less chore, not have to stop in the doorway to look and see whether it's wilted.
He lets it live. It stays in the corner, unruly and the wrong shade of green to fit into the crisp blacks and bone-whites of the mansion. The skeletons tend it, and nobody comments.
John is standing by the fern as he reads the letter. He passes a hand over his eyes; he makes a soft noise. In the set of his shoulders is exhaustion, and in his mind is an indistinct clench of memory, of saltwater and a body cradled in his arms. ]
[ There's a moment, as John isn't looking — as he passes a hand over his eyes, as he perhaps rubs at his brow with his thumb, in that way that he does — that the letter is lowered; a moment when the wash of memories is more real and present than the simple facts of living-or-dead cellulose on either side. There's a moment when his attention is on the contents of the letter, on its meaning, on its context for that matter, and not on its physical form.
That is, of course, the moment when the youngest resident of Bone House strikes, with appalling precision and determination, as surely can't befit a creature that's a mere two months old — and the letter is no longer in John's lax hand, because it's been snatched up (and slightly perforated) in the mouth of a creature variably referred to as 'dragon' or 'dinosaur'; occasionally 'pterodactyl'; always — ]
Petrie, don't — no! Don't do that — oh for — what the hell have you gone and stolen now, you — you little rapscallion!
[ The screeching and caterwauling of an unrepentant azhdarchid deprived of his newest toy, and held forcibly by the back of the ribcage so as not to fly off again (lacking a scruff), continues unabated long enough to cover up the sounds of Augustine trying to identify what the hell Petrie grabbed — and then reading it.
There's a long pause. ]
So you're going, then, [ Augustine says at last, quite briskly, dino-dragon son still dangling by his side, hissing and thrashing quietly, as his father levels a gaze on John.
(He is not saying this in a tone to indicate that he's asking a question.) ]
[ A dinosaur ruins his perfectly good brooding moment, and God throws up his hands about it and gives right up. John lets Augustine read the letter with an almost pointed resignation. He just rubs at his eyes, endures Petrie, and looks put-upon by existence at large.
At this, though, he drops his hand and flashes Augustine a downright incredulous look. ]
You think I'm beach party material, right now?
[ You know it's bad when he's pitching softballs like this. ]
[ To John's credit, or something like it, his comment does put a wintry little smile onto Augustine's face. Petrie continues to voice his objections. ]
Whyever not? You're still every bit as tan as ever; you're hardly going to blind someone with your pasty white legs, now, are you?
[ Willfully ignoring the events of two months ago, that left him with a fresh batch of deep-water-horror nightmares — who, Augustine? Surely that's a jest, no...? ]
I don't care if you only stay five minutes, John; you're still going.
[ There's an undercurrent, here, of: «I didn't spend days worrying about that boy staying alone in the house with you for you to blow him off as irrelevant now that you've got the rest of us.» Quite nearly missable! ]
[ It's easy to bat these back and forth, for all that John's expression closes off behind the levity. When he catches the sentiment, it tightens and darkens. ]
Mate, you can guess the guest list. The party does stop when I walk in.
Well, my naked legs certainly aren't, [ Augustine shoots back crisply. ] Petrie certainly isn't going alone, however — and I haven't heard yet if his sibling is attending.
[ The elegance of his shrug is dampened, somewhat, by said varmint's caterwauling, flailing, and flapping, sad to say.
Augustine presses his luck anyway. ]
You could always borrow that mask and suit I had from late May —
[ ... well, wait, the suit never did get fixed up again after — ]
The mask, anyway, [ lightly enough. ] I don't suppose the suit would actually fit you that well, come to think of it.
[ In the hypothetical universe where it was wearable again, and all that. ]
[ John makes an incredulous noise low in his throat. ]
Sure, nothing conveys good intentions like a plague doctor getup.
[ Anyway: ] Either I make a show of going, or I don't go. Still seems early for it... the storms have only just settled.
[ Which is about the most he's said, lately, about the ocean's rage, the sea-Heralds, and the wall of bone he got so weird about raising around the property to keep the floodwaters out. It's not clear, in the moment, whether he's afraid of the beach or the people on it— or whether there's a difference. ]
"Early" is "whilst the hurricane warnings are still in effect", John.
[ Pretty good, for a retort, huh? ]
You don't have to make a show of it, anyway — it's not as if it's an invitation to teach everyone the Cha-Cha Slide, after all. He just wants to see that the person who actually cared for him still does.
That shouldn't be too hard for you, should it?
[ Judgmental eyebrows indicate it had better not be — with a particularly piercing pterodactyl screech as emphatic agreement. ]
Alright! Alright. You don't have to be a dick about it. [ He waves a hand like stop that, but something in his eyes is still knotted up. ] I will go to a kid's birthday party and we'll see who comes out standing at the end. If it goes pear-shaped I get to say I told you so.
[ A beat. ]
But, you know, without killing anyone. That would just be embarrassing.
[ Augustine waves the letter, still held fast in one hand, in a moment's emphasis; Petrie cries out in mortal agony because Dad still won't let him have the crinkly thing; he continues to ignore his dragon-child's suffering. ]
Just because Kaworu asked for something specific is no reason you'll be wanting everyone else to wonder what gift you've brought, should you show up with empty hands — not bearing weapons hardly applies in your case.
[ Mostly. Mostly, because normally if he shows up anywhere in the Nine Houses, everyone falls over themselves thanking him for the gift of his presence. That one might not fly, this time. ]
You think I should start carrying a knife, just to fake people out? Might be a bit late for it.
[ The look on Augustine's face —the sort of grim, We Are Not Amused exhaustion known to parents of small children throughout the worlds — says, quite plainly, I would facepalm at you, but my hands are full. ]
Yes, John. Of course. That's exactly what I meant, my Lord. [ (Oops, hey, watch the sarcasm —) ] Nothing at all to do with the way your mind is your greatest weapon.
[ This is, of course, by far one of the most polite ways he could phrase that part of it; nearly enough to hide the whisper, impossible to tell if the voice is Augustine's or Alfred's, of «Or the loyalty you inspire in others.» ]
Give him something he'll like, whether or not he's happy with you at the time, and you might just improve the frequency with which he is, [ Augustine continues (concludes) quickly enough. ]
[ He catches the murmur, and that's a knife. He covers the little flinch in his face as he turns away, advice taken and argument lost. Birthday party it is. ]
I'll make a note of that.
[ As though gifts would do much good for this situation, old and scarred as it is. ]
Far from the worst thing I've called you, isn't it?
[ Wry, maybe a quarter-apologetic, too — and there's a crinkle, behind John, at the last; Augustine holds out the note, rather than holding out the infantile dragon, sulking and squalling as he still is. (At least he's precocial enough that he hasn't needed to be diapered, and doesn't soil himself or the house as he's out and about.) ]
Here — whether or not you intend to use it for your notetaking — unless you want him to shred it for you?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a letter delivered to the bone house
Teacher,
This week is my sixteenth birthday. People will gather at the beach on Friday a bit before the sun sets. The part of the beach near where you found me.
I am not sure what will happen there as I've never had a birthday before. But I understand that the people you care about and care for you in return are supposed to gather together to be happy that you were born. I suppose it's a way for humans to acknowledge and be happy for their own existence.
I was happy to be alive when we lived together for the first time. Teacher is someone I cared for. No one ever had looked after me like that before. Now, I don't even know if he was real. I try not to think about it yet I think about it at night when I try to think of nothing at all.
If Teacher is real, he's invited to attend the party because I still care for him. Maybe the answer, to lay it all to rest, will be a gift.
Yours,
Kaworu Nagisa
for augustine
What does it matter, right? He could preserve the fern in perfect, immaculate stasis. He could raise a dark and tangled thing in its place, and call it a better fit for the decor. He could damn it all and call it one less chore, not have to stop in the doorway to look and see whether it's wilted.
He lets it live. It stays in the corner, unruly and the wrong shade of green to fit into the crisp blacks and bone-whites of the mansion. The skeletons tend it, and nobody comments.
John is standing by the fern as he reads the letter. He passes a hand over his eyes; he makes a soft noise. In the set of his shoulders is exhaustion, and in his mind is an indistinct clench of memory, of saltwater and a body cradled in his arms. ]
no subject
That is, of course, the moment when the youngest resident of Bone House strikes, with appalling precision and determination, as surely can't befit a creature that's a mere two months old — and the letter is no longer in John's lax hand, because it's been snatched up (and slightly perforated) in the mouth of a creature variably referred to as 'dragon' or 'dinosaur'; occasionally 'pterodactyl'; always — ]
Petrie, don't — no! Don't do that — oh for — what the hell have you gone and stolen now, you — you little rapscallion!
[ The screeching and caterwauling of an unrepentant azhdarchid deprived of his newest toy, and held forcibly by the back of the ribcage so as not to fly off again (lacking a scruff), continues unabated long enough to cover up the sounds of Augustine trying to identify what the hell Petrie grabbed — and then reading it.
There's a long pause. ]
So you're going, then, [ Augustine says at last, quite briskly, dino-dragon son still dangling by his side, hissing and thrashing quietly, as his father levels a gaze on John.
(He is not saying this in a tone to indicate that he's asking a question.) ]
no subject
At this, though, he drops his hand and flashes Augustine a downright incredulous look. ]
You think I'm beach party material, right now?
[ You know it's bad when he's pitching softballs like this. ]
no subject
Whyever not? You're still every bit as tan as ever; you're hardly going to blind someone with your pasty white legs, now, are you?
[ Willfully ignoring the events of two months ago, that left him with a fresh batch of deep-water-horror nightmares — who, Augustine? Surely that's a jest, no...? ]
I don't care if you only stay five minutes, John; you're still going.
[ There's an undercurrent, here, of: «I didn't spend days worrying about that boy staying alone in the house with you for you to blow him off as irrelevant now that you've got the rest of us.» Quite nearly missable! ]
no subject
[ It's easy to bat these back and forth, for all that John's expression closes off behind the levity. When he catches the sentiment, it tightens and darkens. ]
Mate, you can guess the guest list. The party does stop when I walk in.
no subject
[ The elegance of his shrug is dampened, somewhat, by said varmint's caterwauling, flailing, and flapping, sad to say.
Augustine presses his luck anyway. ]
You could always borrow that mask and suit I had from late May —
[ ... well, wait, the suit never did get fixed up again after — ]
The mask, anyway, [ lightly enough. ] I don't suppose the suit would actually fit you that well, come to think of it.
[ In the hypothetical universe where it was wearable again, and all that. ]
no subject
Sure, nothing conveys good intentions like a plague doctor getup.
[ Anyway: ] Either I make a show of going, or I don't go. Still seems early for it... the storms have only just settled.
[ Which is about the most he's said, lately, about the ocean's rage, the sea-Heralds, and the wall of bone he got so weird about raising around the property to keep the floodwaters out. It's not clear, in the moment, whether he's afraid of the beach or the people on it— or whether there's a difference. ]
no subject
[ Pretty good, for a retort, huh? ]
You don't have to make a show of it, anyway — it's not as if it's an invitation to teach everyone the Cha-Cha Slide, after all. He just wants to see that the person who actually cared for him still does.
That shouldn't be too hard for you, should it?
[ Judgmental eyebrows indicate it had better not be — with a particularly piercing pterodactyl screech as emphatic agreement. ]
no subject
[ A beat. ]
But, you know, without killing anyone. That would just be embarrassing.
no subject
[ Augustine waves the letter, still held fast in one hand, in a moment's emphasis; Petrie cries out in mortal agony because Dad still won't let him have the crinkly thing; he continues to ignore his dragon-child's suffering. ]
Just because Kaworu asked for something specific is no reason you'll be wanting everyone else to wonder what gift you've brought, should you show up with empty hands — not bearing weapons hardly applies in your case.
no subject
[ Mostly. Mostly, because normally if he shows up anywhere in the Nine Houses, everyone falls over themselves thanking him for the gift of his presence. That one might not fly, this time. ]
You think I should start carrying a knife, just to fake people out? Might be a bit late for it.
no subject
Yes, John. Of course. That's exactly what I meant, my Lord. [ (Oops, hey, watch the sarcasm —) ] Nothing at all to do with the way your mind is your greatest weapon.
[ This is, of course, by far one of the most polite ways he could phrase that part of it; nearly enough to hide the whisper, impossible to tell if the voice is Augustine's or Alfred's, of «Or the loyalty you inspire in others.» ]
Give him something he'll like, whether or not he's happy with you at the time, and you might just improve the frequency with which he is, [ Augustine continues (concludes) quickly enough. ]
no subject
[ He catches the murmur, and that's a knife. He covers the little flinch in his face as he turns away, advice taken and argument lost. Birthday party it is. ]
I'll make a note of that.
[ As though gifts would do much good for this situation, old and scarred as it is. ]
no subject
[ Wry, maybe a quarter-apologetic, too — and there's a crinkle, behind John, at the last; Augustine holds out the note, rather than holding out the infantile dragon, sulking and squalling as he still is. (At least he's precocial enough that he hasn't needed to be diapered, and doesn't soil himself or the house as he's out and about.) ]
Here — whether or not you intend to use it for your notetaking — unless you want him to shred it for you?