Photo album spread out on my bedroom floor...

[almost_knightly]

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]

Comments

[almost_knightly]

I don't tend to go raving about it all over the place, no. I told Gil because you made me worry and it pissed me off.

[Idly, Break flips a little ways back in the photo album that's still on their laps. It's -- well, it's a shame, really. He'd wanted so much to show his counterpart his home.]

[candycoated]

*siiigh. Ah, well. Gilbert already knows about all that now, so it's too late to put the cat -- so to speak -- back into the bag.

Younger-Break hears the pages flapping then, and turns his useless gaze back downward in the direction of the album, staring just a little wistfully. Other-Break had wanted to show him, and he'd -- honestly wanted to see.

Despite every snide thing he's ever said about his counterpart in the past, he really thinks it... it sounds like a wonderful life, that the other man leads.

When he speaks up again, he sounds a little bit hesitant, almost shy.*

Do you suppose-- you could tell me some more about it...? ...Milady's album.

[almost_knightly]

...yeah. Of course. I would -- fear for your arm if we tried to detach Mordred at the moment, anyway.

[He chuckles a bit over that, but it's really to hide his awkward pleasure at the unexpected question. So many of their conversations seem to end with weeks of no contact that Break honestly half expects it every time they sit down together.]

Is there anyfing in particular you'd like to hear about, or...?

[candycoated]

*he pauses for another half a second before reaching up to scratch his head a bit, with a faintly embarrassed little laugh.*

...Whatever might happen to cross your mind. Pick your favorites, I suppose...?

*in the meantime, his other arm is falling asleep a bit, but -- well, he'll deal with the marauding kitten when the time comes.*

[almost_knightly]

Well.

[Break ponders a moment, then flips a few more pages.]

By her late teens Sharon was pretty sure she wanted to go into fashion design. So between high school and university, she spent a year abroad in Paris -- country of France, continent of Europe. I was born in Europe; it's all full of stone streets and cathedrals and little shops and just -- old fings. I love that about it.

Anyway the Rainsworths sent me along just so she wouldn't be all on her own for a year, and since she was in class all day, I pretty much had nuffin'-a do the entire time but walk around the city and find all the best bakeries...

[candycoated]

*the younger Break listens quite intently as the older one continues to narrate; after a little while, in between interjections and questions, he reaches over for his lukewarm tea again to pour himself another cup; he takes a good long sip and offers some to his other self in turn. He reaches inside his sleeve to give the half-asleep kitten a careful scritch. He runs his finger across another page, feels at the glossy edges of his other self's futuristic photographs.

Older-Break goes on about adventures in Europe, Sharon's fashion experiments, holidays, family gatherings. Vacations. Work and friends and marriages and breakups. There are any number of photographs inside Shelly's carefully-prepared album, and all of them, it seems, have a colorful story behind them.

He finds himself drawn in as he listens, teacup clutched in his hands again. They are, really and truly, a wonderful set of stories. His older self speaks so warmly and proudly of his family. Break could very nearly listen forever.

They might be the most beautiful fairy tales he's ever heard.*