almost_knightly | Photo album spread out on my bedroom floor...

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[phdr]

Photo album spread out on my bedroom floor...

There was nothing remarkable about the day when Break got up this morning. There was nothing remarkable lying in wait in his bathroom, and nothing remarkable between himself and the kitchen, and nothing remarkable between the kitchen and the library.

The library, however, held something new today. It was lurking on the bottom shelf, easily missed but for Break's habit of crawling around on the floor -- a large binder, sedate red leather and several inches wide.

Break knows that binder.

Fingers shaking, he snatches it up out of the shelf. He fumbles it, and it falls open, and the first thing he sees is Faneuil Hall at Christmas, covered in snow. Below that is a photograph of Shelly, his own Shelly, dressed in winter clothes and laughing with Sharon when she was still small, and there's his ponytail in the photograph next to it because no one could ever get him to look at the camera that first year and he's seen these pictures a thousand times --

He slams the book shut, suddenly unable to look. A cruel gift, in a way; there are days that he wonders if he'll ever see this place and these people again. But on the other hand, now -- now he can show people, he can let them see things he's only described. It's as precious as it is mean.

Gathering the photo album up close to his chest and clutching it as though he's afraid it'll vanish, Break leaves the library, in search of some of the people he trusts most.

[ooc: Locked to

hadengineered,

retraced,

of_murder,

standstilltime,

smallkindnesses,

info_barma]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Break turns all this over in his head for a few moments. It certainly does explain -- well, everything. The time it took for younger-Break to return, the lack of reactions over this and that. It likely also explains how scarce the other has been; that's nothing new, but at least it's usually for a different reason each time.

The other Break in this place that he spends the most time with -- she's blind, too. Dealing with this Break won't really be all that much different because of this change, which was probably an inevitable one, if he went home. His older double will just start telling him where the cookies are, when they're alone. That's all.]

...this particular costume was one of the few where I wasn't matched up wiv somebody. I wasn't trying to be anyfing specific; I just liked the outfit. It was this long, tattered, old-fashioned blue coat and a matching top hat wiv a pink sash tied 'round the brim.

Gillyweed told me you wore just about the exact same fing the day you met. I s'pose deep down, we actually have similar taste.

[Except that the younger one is probably a lot less likely to ever have a kitten on his head.]

*---blink. Staring over toward the other again, looking rather genuinely surprised*

You're kidding. We had the exact same--- ?

*pausing to turn his gaze down toward the teacup, an odd expression passing over his face. When he starts to laugh it sounds... a little helpless, somehow. It's a moment or three past being properly seemly by the time he finally manages to stop.*

Ahh, I miss that outfit. I believe I still have the hat somewhere, but the poor jacket did not survive a full year in the ranks of Pandora's grunts...

Mine fell apart, too. Poor Gilbert made a face like he'd seen a ghost; you must have made quite an impression.

[Mordred is stirring; Break plucks her gently from his head and sets her back in his lap, tucking his mussed hair back into place. When he speaks next, his voice is quiet.]

You should tell him.

*dryly* I'm told I was a particularly interesting person at that time in my life, but---

*he pauses abruptly at those last words, though, hands stilling around the teacup.*

*his expression slackens back out into 'bland and inscrutable' again after a moment, and he stares over at the shadow he knows to be the other man's face, not speaking, weighing replies and discarding them--*

*the one at home knows, of course, and he's at least somewhat resigned to it by now. He's resigned to the fact that he couldn't get it past Liam, to the fact that confessing to Sharon was the right thing to do, that -- that all the people he knows insist on poking at his weak and embarrassing spots and it... makes them happy somehow, fulfills them somehow, so he can sort of live with having to share a little bit.

But he knows it caused them all pain and worry and doubt. And no one is supposed to be -- worrying about Xerxes Break. No one is supposed to be looking after him. That's his job, dammit. He's supposed to be the strong one, the one putting himself between all these stupid kids and the world, watching over them--

All this touchy-feely-ness he's slowly getting sucked into lately is just ruining his image, honestly, and he--

If he can be one less worry for Gilbert, for Sharon and Liam and anyone else here that cares about him, even if it's an inevitably temporary arrangement -- then he wants to be. He wants to keep on being "that Break who can see". He wants... to lighten Gil's burden, when he can. He's put enough on the boy's shoulders over the years without starting to add his every little health problem on top of it.

If he were with Gilbert-from-back-home, his subordinate would certainly yell at him some more for thinking like this, but... well, what's new? Gil yells at him all the time. Sometimes it's even rather charming.

...It's not like... he isn't trying to learn to lean on them, just a little. He just-- doesn't want to stop being that person they can all lean on in return.*

*his grip on the cup is a little bit tight when he finally speaks, his voice utterly, utterly mild.*

I'm terribly sorry, but I don't seem to remember soliciting any opinions on the subject.

Xerxes.

[The other one can probably hear the flat look his elder counterpart is giving him. Break believes he has some idea what's going on in the younger one's mind just now because he's far enough away from that time in his life to know full well that he thought it his own self, back then, and his friends had to more or less beat it out of him over the course of a year. That's his reason for mentioning it at all, in fact -- he's more than aware that unless he's forced, no, the younger Break isn't going to tell him, and then it will come out at some horribly inappropriate time and cause everybody all manner of angst and upset.

And even though Break had found him first, it had been Gilbert who carried his corpse down the hall, back then.]

I've no intention of tattling, but he deserves to know.

*lips pursed, leaning back in his seat. His voice is tight now*

What he deserves is not to have to deal with yet another burden that he will take too seriously and fret needlessly about.

If you aren't going to tell him, then this conversation is over.

*he sips at his tea for a little while in a rather cold silence.*

I'm sure he'll feel fantastic when he ultimately finds out by accident -- he's not stupid, you know -- and discovers that you didn't trust him enough to tell him on your own after all he's done for you.

[Not over, in fact. Break reaches over to the side of the album that's still on his counterpart's side and turns several pages, slamming them down insistently.]

Look. Well, you can't; but look. These photos here are from when I was your age, and I'm not in a single one of 'em because that was the year I had the cancer. Out of nowhere a persistent cough turned into having to tell everyone my own body was trying to kill me. I couldn't have kept it hidden, the side effects were too obvious; so I had to 'fess up early. My hair was falling out, and I lost so much weight none of my clothes fit, and I was so nauseous all the time I could barely keep bread down. I was always tired and I got to be so weak I couldn't even lift a bloomin' pot of water and carry it to the stove, and I didn't want anyone to see me like that! All I wanted was for everyone to leave me alone so I could deal wiv it in peace, and nobody would.

They damn near made me crazy. They were always calling, wanting to know weekly updates. Liam went on leave from work to stay home wiv me, Gilbert started trying to cook up fings I could actually eat and by the end of it he was making all our meals. Liam's family sent me presents, Oz brought me books, Barma offered to pay our rent. Shelly started coming over and doing the laundry! And it wasn't until after it was all over that I realized that all the fussing and worrying and demanding to know all my business -- it was because all any of them wanted was for me to stay.

And by trying to avoid them and their help and keep everyfing I was going frough to meself, I was dismissing how much they all loved me, and that wasn't fair to them.

...I don't think you understand.

*the hardness has slipped out of his voice a bit, and he slumps down just a little where he's sitting, head leaning back. For a moment, he closes his useless eye.*

You've been here for months; you've seen what sorts of lives we lead. Our world isn't... like yours. Gilbert is--

*a moment of silence again.*

...He spent a decade not knowing whether the most important person in his life was lost to him forever, believing himself a worthless failure as a servant, certainly as a human being. He's blocked out all memories of his childhood, confronting anything related to it can send him into fits. He has a great deal of blood on his hands, quite against his own will, and he hates himself for every death he's caused. He was forced to live with a family that largely hated him; and then he got attached anyway -- and they've been murdered to a man. His brother by blood is an enemy to our organization, a murderer, and constantly dashing off into harm's way. His beloved master is in daily danger of dying or kidnapping or being dragged into the Abyss. He barely sleeps or looks after himself and I'm quite convinced he has never in his life learned how to do something for fun. Madness and death are no more than two steps behind him at any time...

*his lips twist sardonically for a moment*

And he had the great misfortune of falling in as an impressionable child with someone who constantly sends him off to be hurt again.

*a slow, deep breath then. He reaches over to set down the teacup, voice still quiet and somehow suddenly very... tired.*

--Perhaps some of that is true for yours as well. Perhaps not. But how...

How can you expect me to put more on his shoulders? If I can spare him that for another few months, a few weeks, a few days---

*--he doesn't care what will happen afterward. Gilbert will be angry, of course. But he would be anyway. He'd be angry if Break told him right now. He'd shout and stomp around and sulk and make those wounded faces of his and--

and then, once he'd gotten over it a little, he would get straight to the worrying. The fear. Looking ahead to what this might mean.

He has enough on his mind, without fretting more than he already does about Break... going anywhere.*

[Break listens to him quietly, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose and the other tickling the cat to keep her from running off again. He does know how different that other world is; he knows that people are dead in that other world who are still alive and well in his. He knows his own counterparts are mass-murderers and that his own Vincent isn't nearly as bad off as most of the ones here seem to be. He's met the tiny Gilbert and he's seen how it started, and he's seen even Gilbertine -- who he considers the most level-headed of them all -- come close to having fits.

But he's also come to see his own world, his own people, as the way things could be for the others. He's seen potential in all of the Gilberts here, and the more time he spends with them, the more it hurts that his own Gilbert still feels too awkward around him to speak to him.]

...he told me, you know. About the day you met. That he'd just lost Oz and he was crying in the rain when you showed up and offered him -- whatever the hell, spy stuff and Pandora. I'd say you must have been a beacon of hope in the darkness to him but actually I fink you kind of freaked him out. But -- what was it he said? "There was somefing about his words I had to trust."

And he still does, I daresay. Trust you, I mean.

[Break tilts his own head back, and the kitten crawls over his hand to visit other-Break again.]

Maybe what he needs is an acknowledgment of that trust. Did you ever fink of that? Maybe -- maybe instead of being wrapped up and coddled, he needs to be told, "I believe you're strong enough to handle this, even if you don't."

[Sliding a hand through his hair, he adds:] I mean, he's a Gil. He's gonna worry regardless, and you can't stop him from caring. I really do fink your being honest about it would help.

*opening his eye again, the younger Break stares up absently toward the vague play of light and shadow above his head, still looking rather tired. He doesn't debate the other's words, just staying silent for another moment.*

...I'm not going to tell him.

I didn't intend to tell you.

*even as he says the words, he can very nearly hear Sharon yelling at him now... probably something to the effect of 'haven't you learned anything!?'... but--

Well, no. Maybe he hasn't, at that.

He's trying. But he just-- Being back here, dealing with the same situation all over again, he can't help wanting to protect them all a little better this time.

...okay, maybe it worked out... all right, sort of, vaguely, at home. But he still can't bring himself to believe that what he did was mistaken in the first place.*

Bloomin' idiot, you are.

[Break wipes a hand over his face for a moment, wondering vaguely if it's only his age that gives him a different view of all this, or if maybe there's something deeper setting him apart from his doubles. He also makes a mental note to pay closer attention to that Gil, now that he knows more details of his past. After a few moments, lest the younger Break take it into his head that the photo album was the only reason he'd figured it out, he adds dryly:]

Just so you know, the ring was in your pocket when you were killed, and it has been on a chain around my neck since you were found. It did seem a bit odd that you didn't even make any faces at it.

Wh----

*as his head jerks over toward the sound of the other's voice, Mordred also picks the same moment to attack his thumb again.*

Augh-- Here now, stop that-- *reaching under his sleeve to tug at it, expression incredulous* Why would you ever-- *okay, distinctly pouting again now.* That goddamned ring!

Because it matters, stupid. Mordie, get out of there, you little beast --

[Making a valiant (and ultimately successful) effort to detach the wriggling ball of fluff from his counterpart's person, brb.]

The mansion made me feel what I felt, but I still felt it, I can't just -- ohmigod, you are a devil-cat. No, you can't chew on my fumb eiver, get -- no, Mordred! And anyway you were still carryin' it around!

*indignant* I wasn't trying to carry it around, do you know how many windows I threw that damned thing out of!?--

*he cuts himself off there, subsiding into a rather sullen silence as he reaches a hand over toward his other-self again. He's probably going to get himself good and scratched, but he may as well try to help distract the kitten a little.*

.....and anyway, your actual husband is here now. What in the world do you need me for? *lips pressing together and brow furrowing in something that almost wants to be a look of distaste, but isn't quite.*

I never needed you! If you must know, I've got several cuddle buddies in this place who are all far more cooperative about it than you ever were.

[The kitten takes a gleeful swat at the offered hand, and Break lets her go. If the other Break wants to stick his fingers into her pointy little grasp, that's his choice.]

...but I was happy that week. [Because of you, he doesn't say.] I don't just...forget that sort of fing.

[Oblivious to the tension between the two, Mordred attempts to crawl into younger-Break's sleeve again.]

*the inevitable gnawing and pinprick claws on his finger are a bit less vicious this time, so Break just lets the kitten disappear into his sleeve for a little while, leaning his other elbow on the armrest with chin plopped in his hand. Eyebrow twitching a litle bit:*

That is really much more than I wanted to know about your personal life--

*his voice quiets, then, as he stares off into the blank expanse of the room*

...But if this place hadn't been playing dirty tricks on us that week--

Nothing remotely like that ever would have happened. It's not... real. It nearly might as well have been a dream.

*though, of course, it isn't. He still vividly remembers what it was like to go to bed with this man, and--

Well. He was happy too.

Which is almost more itchy and uncomfortable than the thought of the sex.*

Photo album spread out on my bedroom floor...

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