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psalm_onethirtyoneOn the third morning they get their things together--they didn't arrive with much, but they leave with plenty more. Peredur presses things on them, a few paper shopping bags full of fruits and vegetables and a jug of cider. Helen laughs--Mordred flirts with her shamelessly--and gives them fresh pie.
Galahad lingers, hanging back and looking at them with a hint of disquiet that Gaheris almost understands. Before they leave he offers his hand, and Galahad takes it, just for a moment. Mordred isn't looking. He's laughing again, an easiness in his shoulders. Things seem peaceful, or very close to it, and Gaheris isn't sure whether that's right, whether they've earned it to be that way. Shouldn't someone still be fighting? Aren't they all enemies--no, something worse than enemies, because before that they were all friends--standing around laughing together, shaking hands, giving kisses just as if nothing had ever happened to part them in the first place?
But he doesn't have time or means to think about it long. They pile all their things into the back seat of the Accord, Peredur good-naturedly wincing over the treatment of the delicate peaches, and say good-bye with more hugs and handshakes. Peredur holds him close, like a brother, and says,--
"You're gonna be okay,"
and Gaheris nods, even though he isn't sure whether he believes. Then Mordred starts the car and threatens to drive off without him, and with waving they go off down the street. Craning his neck around, he can see Galahad waving, too, and Helen kissing him.
A few miles further, Mordred startles him with a laugh.
"Well. That was--"
"They're so happy," says Gaheris.
"What, and we aren't?" Mordred leans over, but this time Gaheris ducks away from the hair-ruffling. "Squirmy bastard. All right. We're going home now. I promised Clar we'd be there by lunchtime."
"Does she still turn people into hedgehogs? Or were you joking?"
"Sometimes. Depends. We live in a pretty residential neighbourhood, so there're plenty of candidates--some I wish to God she would--but she doesn't go out much. We've got half the kids convinced she's a crazy person, which isn't so far from the truth."
"I don't argue."
"So yeah, there were some incidents, but people don't handle it like they used to. She had to turn the pizza guy back."
"Which pissed her off."
"Which pissed her off."
"Figured."
Mordred laughs. "She's good to live with. She handles it better than I did. No, 'God, I can't believe this happened,' no surprise. I remembered from when I was little, but she got it all back in the middle of AP chemistry."
"She told you that?"
"I was there. We went to school together. I remembered, but I didn't want to say anything, some days I didn't know whether it was just me and I was crazy in my head, or whether she just coincidentally looked like my sister, or whether she didn't remember and telling her would be bad. So she broke a test tube full of acid, they sent her to the nurse's, she said she was fine--she bitched out the poor nurse. After school she came and got hold of me. That's about it. She figured out a lot of this for us."
"And she knew where I was?"
"She had a general idea. I told you. She's like she always was, all half-sentences and coming into an idea all of a sudden and having to tell you the minute she gets it, whether she can say it in a way you understand or what. She was like that in school, too, but I didn't know how to handle it then."
"Do you think she'll know where the rest of us are? You said Gawain might be in California. What about Gareth and Agrivain? What about--" Lynet "--Lynet?"
"Ask her yourself when we get there."
~~~
It's one o'clock by the time Mordred pulls into a parking space alongside the sidewalk in front of an old brick house. It's a place that's not city and not suburb, streets and houses with occasional taxis and buses going by, kids on the sidewalk, those porches that are just wide steps with iron handrails. Mordred locks the car, opens the trunk, gets his suitcase out. For the first time, Gaheris realises he hasn't asked what Mordred does, what kind of clothes are in the suitcase.
By then Mordred's already inside, so Gaheris grabs his own things and slams the trunk and hurries in.
The house smells like cigarette smoke inside, even though the windows are open. From what seems like faraway he can hear Mordred yelling.
"We're home! Would it kill you to air the place out once in a while?"
The sharp, low voice that belongs to one person in the world shouts back, "Kill you to shut up?"
Still yelling, "Of course. Second-hand smoke, woman. If you've been using my disc tray for an ashtray again I'll--"
"Asshole," she mutters.
Gaheris turns so quickly he has to catch himself on the counter. Clar looks at him, rolls her eyes, and puts her cigarette out in the little glass ashtray on the counter.
"Like a rabbit." She's herself, just as his brief flashes of memory permit him to see her; taller than any of the boys, long dark hair, face best suited to scowling. Pale as the sun in winter. Wearing jeans just like he is. "So you're home."
It's not like with Mordred. He doesn't know what to say to her, and he tenses uncomfortably, longing for his voice to return and his mind to return. His throat feel strained with something that wants to come out but doesn't know what shape it will turn out to be once it leaves the darkness. She keeps on looking at him.
"She's here. You won't be looking long. You just have not to be an idiot."
Just then Mordred comes back in, shedding his jacket on a chair. "He can't help it, you know that."
"Did you bring me anything?" abruptly.
"As a matter of fact--"
"Good. Where is it?" She makes for the bag he's left on the kitchen table. She paws through it like a cat, batting things forward delicately and disdainfully. Gaheris watches. "Good," as she pulls out a little wooden box and a carton of cigarettes. Then she pauses. "What's this?"
"You like them."
She gathers up a handful or so of Hershey's kisses with bright black and red foil wrappers, tucks them into the pockets of her black smock, and slips out of the room, leaving behind more cigarette smoke. Mordred sighs and wipes ash onto the floor.
"Damn woman. Just because we can't get lung cancer." He grins sideways at Gaheris, running his hand through his hair. "Just as long as she hasn't done anything to my cappuccino maker--" and he reaches up into one of the cabinets, pulls down a big black plastic object and sets it on the counter. "Thank god for small mercies. Good. We'll have some decent coffee. And get me the frother, will you? It's in the middle drawer over there. Yeah, there. Thanks." Gaheris tosses and he catches it.
"We can't get lung cancer?" he asks, leaning against the counter beside Mordred and frowning.
"More's the pity. She's got the whole house wired with spells. I asked for something against the common cold, but she just looked at me. Apparently we only provide insurance against death. Sometimes she reminds me of Mother."
~~~
Gaheris settles into it. It's not so hard. His room is on the second floor, carpeted in grey, walls painted green. Mordred says Clar did it for him when they first moved in, swearing she knew they'd find him and she wanted his room to look right. There's a window that looks out on the street, and he had a giant desk instead of a bedside table or dresser. By the second day he has it covered with marked sheets of paper and broken ends of charcoal pencils.
Clar, it turns out, doesn't work at all. She stays home all the time in her own room or the living room--what was once the living room. Now it's her workshop. Mordred explains with an air of great long-suffering that he can enter at his own peril, that it's where all the cigarette smoke emanates from.
And Mordred himself is a lecturer for colleges. Mostly, he tells Gaheris, he sticks to his own, that's University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine, but sometimes they invite him out. "Anything to get out of the place, I'll take it," he says, grinning like a boy. "Hell. I keep hoping they'll invite me to Alaska." It doesn't pay well, but they have enough for the bills on the house and groceries, and that's fine. "But you'll have to get a job if you want to stay with us. No freeloading." He says that one evening just before bed, leaning in the doorway to Gaheris' room. "Slacker."
"I dropped out of high school. I can't really do anything."
"There's a McDonald's down the street," innocently, as he sidles across the room and sits beside Gaheris, who pushes him.
"No thanks."
Mordred pushes back. "You should be grateful I'm looking out for you."
"Looking out for me? You're trying to degrade me."
"You're a starving artist from New York. How much more degraded can you be?" He tickles.
"Jesus--stop that."
Mordred bursts out laughing. "Have you forgotten what it's like having an older brother?"
"What--augh--no--"
"They never stop when you tell them to. Don't kick, it's not polite," as Gaheris squirms and struggles. By the time Clar starts banging on the ceiling from below in the living room, Gaheris is yelping and pinned to the floor, and Mordred is tickling mercilessly. They're both flushed and laughing, like puppies or boys or something younger and more innocent than what they are. It draws her upstairs.
"Shut up!" Clar thumps Mordred on the back of the head with the broom handle. "Can't think, can't work, can't get anything done." She shoots a look at Gaheris, who's lying on his side limply, out of breath. "It's almost time."
"What?" he manages.
"And you're not looking. Boys are so stupid." She slams the door behind her.
Mordred laughs. "Well, well. I'm glad you two are getting along so well."
"Shut up." Gaheris hits him. "What's she talking about?"
"Hell if I know. You're the one she was talking to."
"Damn."
But even despite Clar's anger, he falls asleep worn out and contented. Something is at rest for to-night. He can feel the bruises already appearing from falling on the floor, and the sore spot on his head where he accidentally hit it trying to get away from Mordred.
It's almost time.
He'll figure it out to-morrow, he tells himself. Too tired to think about it now.
~~~
The next day he's alone. Clar slips out of the house before breakfast, casting dark looks at him and muttering, and Mordred heads off to the college. He finishes up alone, washing the dishes slowly and with lots of warm water.
He hasn't been outside since he came. Maybe Clar's rubbing off on him--but he never used to go out, did he? Why does everything seem so faraway when it's only been a week? A little more than a week. Not so long since he was in his tiny apartment, looking out at all the people and hiding from them. Hiding from the cold.
The water over his hands comforts him, and it surprises him to realise that he needs the comfort. Isn't he all right?
Why does he always ask himself these questions? It's not as though he knows the answers. He doesn't know why the cold frightens him, or why people frighten him, except the obvious reasons he's always thought of a hundred times before--because I killed her, because he killed me, because I'm an Orkney--because I don't know where she is and now I know how she died--but they aren't answers, only thoughts and theories.
Of a sudden he puts the dishes down, turns off the tap, pulls on his jacket. It used to work when he was thinking too much. If he could keep away from the people, he could freeze out the thought for a while, stop everything but the cold. Well, you can't stop everything. It's enough to stop the rest.
Outside the wind's strong. It's only autumn, and Gaheris is looking for snow. He's looking.
It's almost time, and you're not looking.
He hesitates.
Looking.
He's looking. Something is there, because Clar is always right, even if it seems impossible to understand her. It's time for something. --For her-- he remembers, casting back. Lynet. It's got to be Lynet. (Please let it be Lynet)
Where is she?
"Hey! Mister!"
He turns and stares stupidly at her. She tosses her light hair, mousy-brown just like it should be. Her eyes flash green.
"Mister. Hello?"
"What is it?"
"Our ball. Throw it back."
"What?"
"It's right in front of you. Throw it back."
He picks up the baseball and tosses it back across the street, watching it arc. The girl catches it neatly. "Thanks."
"Wait a minute."
"What?"
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"What about?"
"What's your name?"
"Amy. Who are you?"
"I'm--" His mind blanks. There must have been some name, some other name, something he was called when he was a child, because coincidence wouldn't have let his parents name him something like his real name, would it? "--Gaheris."
She laughs. "Really?"
"Yes." It must be so absurd, to be calling this conversation across the street at each other, almost shouting because the wind is so strong.
"That's a pretty dumb name, mister."
"I know. Hey, how old are you?"
"Fourteen. You're living in that old place where the crazy lady lives, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Is she crazy?"
"No, she's--she's a--she's not crazy."
"There was a lawsuit last summer. She hurt somebody's kid."
He stares blankly. The girl laughs again. It stings. In that laugh he can hear her, exactly as he remembers, scathing and mocking him.
"I'd watch out," she calls.
"I already do. She's my sister."
"Lucky you."
"I thank God every day."
"You're stupider than you look."
"And you're smarter."
"I thought adults were supposed to be nice to kids."
"I guess you don't go to school, then."
She just smiles. Gaheris wonders why it doesn't hurt more. Maybe it's because she's just the same, she's his Lynet, not the fairest but always the cleverest, with her tongue of fire, but after they fought so lengthily that everyone thought they hated each other she'd kiss him and he'd love her fiercely. She doesn't remember him, and she's young enough to be his daughter, but she's the same.
"I'd invite myself in, but I never catch the ball," he says, watching for a reaction.
For a moment he's sure she's going to turn away, shrug and turn away, just as she should--or, hell, isn't he just a creepy adult, possibly a child molester, striking up conversation he's no right to begin?--but she looks at him consideringly, and says,--
"That's okay. I'll put you on the other team. Come on."
He pulls his jacket tighter and dashes across the street.
~~~
That evening he gets home later than either Mordred or Clar. Mordred looks up when he comes in.
"Have a good time?"
Gaheris, still pulling leaves and sticks out of his hair, grins at him.
"So you made a new friend."
"We played baseball. Don't worry, I'm not getting more action than you."
"Tchah. Mind in the gutter. I could point out that it's too dark to play baseball."
"After that we were hungry. We got dinner at the McDonald's."
"Dear God."
"And saw a movie."
"What do you mean, you're not getting more action than me?"
Clar pokes her head in. "You kept your eyes open. Good. Not an utter idiot." Before Gaheris can smile she adds, "All the time, anyway," and ducks out.
"Lynet?" Mordred asks.
"She's--" He pulls off his shoes and puts his feet up on the table for just a moment before Mordred swats them off with his magazine. "Just like I remember. Tried to bite off everyone's head. I don't-- God," covering his face with his hands in relief. "Lynet. I've missed her."
For some reason it feels like his secret that she's so young and doesn't remember. He doesn't want any sympathy over it. She's perfect. She doesn't love him and it's fine, it's just fine, it's enough that she's his friend and doesn't mind him, that she isn't afraid of him and isn't disturbed by the idea of having a friend ten years older than she is. Uncle Gaheris, he thinks, mocking himself the way she does. As long as she's there it doesn't matter how she's there.
He peeks at Mordred. "Hey."
"What?"
"What kind of cigarettes does Clar like?"
Mordred throws the magazine at him. "Goddamn enabler. Virginia Slims."
Galahad lingers, hanging back and looking at them with a hint of disquiet that Gaheris almost understands. Before they leave he offers his hand, and Galahad takes it, just for a moment. Mordred isn't looking. He's laughing again, an easiness in his shoulders. Things seem peaceful, or very close to it, and Gaheris isn't sure whether that's right, whether they've earned it to be that way. Shouldn't someone still be fighting? Aren't they all enemies--no, something worse than enemies, because before that they were all friends--standing around laughing together, shaking hands, giving kisses just as if nothing had ever happened to part them in the first place?
But he doesn't have time or means to think about it long. They pile all their things into the back seat of the Accord, Peredur good-naturedly wincing over the treatment of the delicate peaches, and say good-bye with more hugs and handshakes. Peredur holds him close, like a brother, and says,--
"You're gonna be okay,"
and Gaheris nods, even though he isn't sure whether he believes. Then Mordred starts the car and threatens to drive off without him, and with waving they go off down the street. Craning his neck around, he can see Galahad waving, too, and Helen kissing him.
A few miles further, Mordred startles him with a laugh.
"Well. That was--"
"They're so happy," says Gaheris.
"What, and we aren't?" Mordred leans over, but this time Gaheris ducks away from the hair-ruffling. "Squirmy bastard. All right. We're going home now. I promised Clar we'd be there by lunchtime."
"Does she still turn people into hedgehogs? Or were you joking?"
"Sometimes. Depends. We live in a pretty residential neighbourhood, so there're plenty of candidates--some I wish to God she would--but she doesn't go out much. We've got half the kids convinced she's a crazy person, which isn't so far from the truth."
"I don't argue."
"So yeah, there were some incidents, but people don't handle it like they used to. She had to turn the pizza guy back."
"Which pissed her off."
"Which pissed her off."
"Figured."
Mordred laughs. "She's good to live with. She handles it better than I did. No, 'God, I can't believe this happened,' no surprise. I remembered from when I was little, but she got it all back in the middle of AP chemistry."
"She told you that?"
"I was there. We went to school together. I remembered, but I didn't want to say anything, some days I didn't know whether it was just me and I was crazy in my head, or whether she just coincidentally looked like my sister, or whether she didn't remember and telling her would be bad. So she broke a test tube full of acid, they sent her to the nurse's, she said she was fine--she bitched out the poor nurse. After school she came and got hold of me. That's about it. She figured out a lot of this for us."
"And she knew where I was?"
"She had a general idea. I told you. She's like she always was, all half-sentences and coming into an idea all of a sudden and having to tell you the minute she gets it, whether she can say it in a way you understand or what. She was like that in school, too, but I didn't know how to handle it then."
"Do you think she'll know where the rest of us are? You said Gawain might be in California. What about Gareth and Agrivain? What about--" Lynet "--Lynet?"
"Ask her yourself when we get there."
It's one o'clock by the time Mordred pulls into a parking space alongside the sidewalk in front of an old brick house. It's a place that's not city and not suburb, streets and houses with occasional taxis and buses going by, kids on the sidewalk, those porches that are just wide steps with iron handrails. Mordred locks the car, opens the trunk, gets his suitcase out. For the first time, Gaheris realises he hasn't asked what Mordred does, what kind of clothes are in the suitcase.
By then Mordred's already inside, so Gaheris grabs his own things and slams the trunk and hurries in.
The house smells like cigarette smoke inside, even though the windows are open. From what seems like faraway he can hear Mordred yelling.
"We're home! Would it kill you to air the place out once in a while?"
The sharp, low voice that belongs to one person in the world shouts back, "Kill you to shut up?"
Still yelling, "Of course. Second-hand smoke, woman. If you've been using my disc tray for an ashtray again I'll--"
"Asshole," she mutters.
Gaheris turns so quickly he has to catch himself on the counter. Clar looks at him, rolls her eyes, and puts her cigarette out in the little glass ashtray on the counter.
"Like a rabbit." She's herself, just as his brief flashes of memory permit him to see her; taller than any of the boys, long dark hair, face best suited to scowling. Pale as the sun in winter. Wearing jeans just like he is. "So you're home."
It's not like with Mordred. He doesn't know what to say to her, and he tenses uncomfortably, longing for his voice to return and his mind to return. His throat feel strained with something that wants to come out but doesn't know what shape it will turn out to be once it leaves the darkness. She keeps on looking at him.
"She's here. You won't be looking long. You just have not to be an idiot."
Just then Mordred comes back in, shedding his jacket on a chair. "He can't help it, you know that."
"Did you bring me anything?" abruptly.
"As a matter of fact--"
"Good. Where is it?" She makes for the bag he's left on the kitchen table. She paws through it like a cat, batting things forward delicately and disdainfully. Gaheris watches. "Good," as she pulls out a little wooden box and a carton of cigarettes. Then she pauses. "What's this?"
"You like them."
She gathers up a handful or so of Hershey's kisses with bright black and red foil wrappers, tucks them into the pockets of her black smock, and slips out of the room, leaving behind more cigarette smoke. Mordred sighs and wipes ash onto the floor.
"Damn woman. Just because we can't get lung cancer." He grins sideways at Gaheris, running his hand through his hair. "Just as long as she hasn't done anything to my cappuccino maker--" and he reaches up into one of the cabinets, pulls down a big black plastic object and sets it on the counter. "Thank god for small mercies. Good. We'll have some decent coffee. And get me the frother, will you? It's in the middle drawer over there. Yeah, there. Thanks." Gaheris tosses and he catches it.
"We can't get lung cancer?" he asks, leaning against the counter beside Mordred and frowning.
"More's the pity. She's got the whole house wired with spells. I asked for something against the common cold, but she just looked at me. Apparently we only provide insurance against death. Sometimes she reminds me of Mother."
Gaheris settles into it. It's not so hard. His room is on the second floor, carpeted in grey, walls painted green. Mordred says Clar did it for him when they first moved in, swearing she knew they'd find him and she wanted his room to look right. There's a window that looks out on the street, and he had a giant desk instead of a bedside table or dresser. By the second day he has it covered with marked sheets of paper and broken ends of charcoal pencils.
Clar, it turns out, doesn't work at all. She stays home all the time in her own room or the living room--what was once the living room. Now it's her workshop. Mordred explains with an air of great long-suffering that he can enter at his own peril, that it's where all the cigarette smoke emanates from.
And Mordred himself is a lecturer for colleges. Mostly, he tells Gaheris, he sticks to his own, that's University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine, but sometimes they invite him out. "Anything to get out of the place, I'll take it," he says, grinning like a boy. "Hell. I keep hoping they'll invite me to Alaska." It doesn't pay well, but they have enough for the bills on the house and groceries, and that's fine. "But you'll have to get a job if you want to stay with us. No freeloading." He says that one evening just before bed, leaning in the doorway to Gaheris' room. "Slacker."
"I dropped out of high school. I can't really do anything."
"There's a McDonald's down the street," innocently, as he sidles across the room and sits beside Gaheris, who pushes him.
"No thanks."
Mordred pushes back. "You should be grateful I'm looking out for you."
"Looking out for me? You're trying to degrade me."
"You're a starving artist from New York. How much more degraded can you be?" He tickles.
"Jesus--stop that."
Mordred bursts out laughing. "Have you forgotten what it's like having an older brother?"
"What--augh--no--"
"They never stop when you tell them to. Don't kick, it's not polite," as Gaheris squirms and struggles. By the time Clar starts banging on the ceiling from below in the living room, Gaheris is yelping and pinned to the floor, and Mordred is tickling mercilessly. They're both flushed and laughing, like puppies or boys or something younger and more innocent than what they are. It draws her upstairs.
"Shut up!" Clar thumps Mordred on the back of the head with the broom handle. "Can't think, can't work, can't get anything done." She shoots a look at Gaheris, who's lying on his side limply, out of breath. "It's almost time."
"What?" he manages.
"And you're not looking. Boys are so stupid." She slams the door behind her.
Mordred laughs. "Well, well. I'm glad you two are getting along so well."
"Shut up." Gaheris hits him. "What's she talking about?"
"Hell if I know. You're the one she was talking to."
"Damn."
But even despite Clar's anger, he falls asleep worn out and contented. Something is at rest for to-night. He can feel the bruises already appearing from falling on the floor, and the sore spot on his head where he accidentally hit it trying to get away from Mordred.
It's almost time.
He'll figure it out to-morrow, he tells himself. Too tired to think about it now.
The next day he's alone. Clar slips out of the house before breakfast, casting dark looks at him and muttering, and Mordred heads off to the college. He finishes up alone, washing the dishes slowly and with lots of warm water.
He hasn't been outside since he came. Maybe Clar's rubbing off on him--but he never used to go out, did he? Why does everything seem so faraway when it's only been a week? A little more than a week. Not so long since he was in his tiny apartment, looking out at all the people and hiding from them. Hiding from the cold.
The water over his hands comforts him, and it surprises him to realise that he needs the comfort. Isn't he all right?
Why does he always ask himself these questions? It's not as though he knows the answers. He doesn't know why the cold frightens him, or why people frighten him, except the obvious reasons he's always thought of a hundred times before--because I killed her, because he killed me, because I'm an Orkney--because I don't know where she is and now I know how she died--but they aren't answers, only thoughts and theories.
Of a sudden he puts the dishes down, turns off the tap, pulls on his jacket. It used to work when he was thinking too much. If he could keep away from the people, he could freeze out the thought for a while, stop everything but the cold. Well, you can't stop everything. It's enough to stop the rest.
Outside the wind's strong. It's only autumn, and Gaheris is looking for snow. He's looking.
It's almost time, and you're not looking.
He hesitates.
Looking.
He's looking. Something is there, because Clar is always right, even if it seems impossible to understand her. It's time for something. --For her-- he remembers, casting back. Lynet. It's got to be Lynet. (Please let it be Lynet)
Where is she?
"Hey! Mister!"
He turns and stares stupidly at her. She tosses her light hair, mousy-brown just like it should be. Her eyes flash green.
"Mister. Hello?"
"What is it?"
"Our ball. Throw it back."
"What?"
"It's right in front of you. Throw it back."
He picks up the baseball and tosses it back across the street, watching it arc. The girl catches it neatly. "Thanks."
"Wait a minute."
"What?"
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"What about?"
"What's your name?"
"Amy. Who are you?"
"I'm--" His mind blanks. There must have been some name, some other name, something he was called when he was a child, because coincidence wouldn't have let his parents name him something like his real name, would it? "--Gaheris."
She laughs. "Really?"
"Yes." It must be so absurd, to be calling this conversation across the street at each other, almost shouting because the wind is so strong.
"That's a pretty dumb name, mister."
"I know. Hey, how old are you?"
"Fourteen. You're living in that old place where the crazy lady lives, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Is she crazy?"
"No, she's--she's a--she's not crazy."
"There was a lawsuit last summer. She hurt somebody's kid."
He stares blankly. The girl laughs again. It stings. In that laugh he can hear her, exactly as he remembers, scathing and mocking him.
"I'd watch out," she calls.
"I already do. She's my sister."
"Lucky you."
"I thank God every day."
"You're stupider than you look."
"And you're smarter."
"I thought adults were supposed to be nice to kids."
"I guess you don't go to school, then."
She just smiles. Gaheris wonders why it doesn't hurt more. Maybe it's because she's just the same, she's his Lynet, not the fairest but always the cleverest, with her tongue of fire, but after they fought so lengthily that everyone thought they hated each other she'd kiss him and he'd love her fiercely. She doesn't remember him, and she's young enough to be his daughter, but she's the same.
"I'd invite myself in, but I never catch the ball," he says, watching for a reaction.
For a moment he's sure she's going to turn away, shrug and turn away, just as she should--or, hell, isn't he just a creepy adult, possibly a child molester, striking up conversation he's no right to begin?--but she looks at him consideringly, and says,--
"That's okay. I'll put you on the other team. Come on."
He pulls his jacket tighter and dashes across the street.
That evening he gets home later than either Mordred or Clar. Mordred looks up when he comes in.
"Have a good time?"
Gaheris, still pulling leaves and sticks out of his hair, grins at him.
"So you made a new friend."
"We played baseball. Don't worry, I'm not getting more action than you."
"Tchah. Mind in the gutter. I could point out that it's too dark to play baseball."
"After that we were hungry. We got dinner at the McDonald's."
"Dear God."
"And saw a movie."
"What do you mean, you're not getting more action than me?"
Clar pokes her head in. "You kept your eyes open. Good. Not an utter idiot." Before Gaheris can smile she adds, "All the time, anyway," and ducks out.
"Lynet?" Mordred asks.
"She's--" He pulls off his shoes and puts his feet up on the table for just a moment before Mordred swats them off with his magazine. "Just like I remember. Tried to bite off everyone's head. I don't-- God," covering his face with his hands in relief. "Lynet. I've missed her."
For some reason it feels like his secret that she's so young and doesn't remember. He doesn't want any sympathy over it. She's perfect. She doesn't love him and it's fine, it's just fine, it's enough that she's his friend and doesn't mind him, that she isn't afraid of him and isn't disturbed by the idea of having a friend ten years older than she is. Uncle Gaheris, he thinks, mocking himself the way she does. As long as she's there it doesn't matter how she's there.
He peeks at Mordred. "Hey."
"What?"
"What kind of cigarettes does Clar like?"
Mordred throws the magazine at him. "Goddamn enabler. Virginia Slims."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 02:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 02:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 02:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 02:58 am (UTC)Gary is scared to death of her. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:00 am (UTC)With good reason, surely!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:07 am (UTC)Ohhh, yes.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:18 am (UTC)I don't think Gareth has actually interacted with her yet. If he had, I'm sure he'd be frightened as well.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 03:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 04:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:24 am (UTC)Also, look at this (http://community.livejournal.com/desperatefans/1077032.html?thread=50577192#t50577192). XD
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:56 am (UTC)Eee, thread--!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:59 am (UTC)Aren't they doooorks?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-05 07:44 am (UTC)My mind is also in the gutter, as I've been reading the script for Lolita tonight and, well, if nothing else, Lynet sounds like a combination of Lolita and "nymphet" so. XD Sorry. So sorry. But yay, you did it. XD
Also, good! Of course. I'm loving this thing.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:07 am (UTC)Heeee. heee. Gary is flailing some more.
And here I thought the Mordred/Gary subtext would cancel out the Lolita!Lynet. XDThank you so much. ♥
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 02:57 am (UTC)Hey, just because there's Lolita doesn't mean Humbert wouldn't go after Quilty, too.
... ew, I just grossed myself out with that one. XD Sorry, Mordred. You're not Quilty.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 03:02 am (UTC)...That was my brain, madam.(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 03:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 03:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 03:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 03:14 am (UTC)I mean. come online?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 03:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-06 04:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-07 04:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-07 04:03 am (UTC)Over here, now (http://littlebetter.livejournal.com/4168.html). XD