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psalm_onethirtyoneAaaaand now they can stop breathing.
The strips of lawn along the sidewalks have come up flowers, with tulips and daylillies around mailboxes and lampposts. It's like a Helen Steiner Rice card, and Gaheris aims occasional kicks at especially brightly coloured hyacinth as he goes by. Something has to change.
He should be perfectly happy, of course. He's got Mordred and Clar, he's got Amy--Amy who's been telling her mother than he's a new teacher at school who lives in the same part of town they do, and that's why he walks her home after the bus lets her off--something given back to him that he's been missing for years. He's grown used to Clar's cigarette smoke everywhere, to tripping over the cord of Mordred's dehumidifier and pulling it unplugged every single time he goes by the damn thing. It should be enough.
Why isn't it? He's taken to wandering around pointlessly, until by Easter he's learned every housefront and knows most of the people by sight, if not by name. He doesn't ever speak to anyone; he still can't do that, shies away from them if they come near him and try to talk. It isn't good enough. Amy's turned fifteen back in March, had no birthday party, but he took her out for ice cream and that seemed as though it were enough for her. She smiled at him without mocking. She seemed happy. He thought he was.
What does it mean? He thinks he's tired and tries to sleep more, but that doesn't help, only makes him feel worse.
And suddenly he takes off down the sidewalk, running faster than his breath and his mind. Why does he still think like this after all the time that's passed? It's been long enough for him to ease, more than long enough for this to leave him alone. Mordred doesn't speak of it, as if he isn't troubled by it; and he's afraid to ask Clar, but Clar never seemed to care anyway. It's Morgause. It's the memory of his mother.
When they were young she tested them. When they were a little older she worked at training them. All Gaheris really remembers of his mother, in the brief flashes of things that will abruptly come into his head and leave him weak-kneed, is her laughing at him when he was little. She found him crying because Agrivain had beat him at swordplay, and she laughed at him scornfully, looking down at him. She had always seemed so tall then.
"Why are you crying?"
"Agrivain hit me."
"I'd cry too, if I was stupid enough to let Agrivain hit me."
"I didn't mean to," he said sulkily.
Morgause darkened. "Don't talk to your mother like that, Gaheris. I can hit you harder than Agrivain can." She knelt in front of him. "Your brothers don't love you, and I can see why. You'll have to work a lot harder if you want to be part of this family." Then she stood and turned away; he remembers the almost-silent whisper of her skirts. She was so beautiful.
And it's this, and it's this, that sends him running. Can't he get away? She's dead. She's long dead, and it's been so many years, and he has Mordred and Clar and they seem to love him-- at least Mordred does-- why isn't he faster? he thinks. (Why did he kill her? Is this the reason she's always there? Is it some kind of punishment?) Can she find me now? If Clar and Mordred are here, is there any reason to think she isn't, also, isn't following him and driving him out of his happiness? Is it any less than her right?
The bus station. There's a bus station over the train station, not too far away. Maybe he'll just run away, see how she likes that. He can't even feel himself running any more. It's like flying, just one long solid step that doesn't touch the ground.
He can outrun it. He can.
~~~
The bus drives through the night; Gaheris sleeps in his seat, curled up. He's mostly broke now. Ten dollars and a handful of change in his jacket pockets.
He gets out in Cleveland, stays long enough to catch the next bus out. In the end it's Boston. Not far enough away from home, but at least far. By that time it's early morning, and the sun's just coming up, splitted by the buildings but shining strong. The alleyways are starting to light up. He sees crates and dumpsters and occasional stirring bundles of homeless people.
One of them shifts and stands, grasping the side of the building for support. Gaheris walks a little faster, trying not to look.
"Brother."
Brother. He can't ignore that, never could. He stills.
Only it doesn't mean anything--he doesn't know him-- It's a generic greeting in the middle of a city he's never visited before, where anything might be called out. Maybe the man's crazy. They always are. Maybe it's just to make him feel guilty so he'll give his change. Who knows why. But it's not someone he knows, not a brother, never a brother no.
The homeless man suddenly grasps his shoulder, and before he has time to push him away, doubles over and vomits on the pavement; then slumps against him so hard that Gaheris has to hold him up or be knocked down himself.
"Agrivain?" he says, so softly it comes out a whisper.
"Oh, fuck you." The man wipes his face on his sleeve. "I'm not Agrivain."
"Gareth?"
"Wee Gareth. Don't forget the wee. You always called me wee. Little innocent stupid Gareth."
"What--" He doesn't manage anything else. Gareth wraps his coat tighter around himself and scowls. His face is cut and bleeding sluggishly, almost dried up. There's a bottle sticking out of his coat pocket.
"Thought I'd be fine, didn't you? Did you even think? They thought I was crazy. They couldn't figure out what was wrong with me and they took me to so many fucking shrinks and I didn't get better and I still told everyone they were my brothers, my brothers were Gaheris and Gawain and all of you and I didn't even finish secondary school and I ran away from home and I hate you so much. I hate you so much. I didn't ever get better and I'm still crazy and now I'm a crazy drunk and I still think you're my brother and I'm only nineteen fucking years old and I'm a crazy drunk and you never found me. Why didn't you ever find me?"
"I've found you now."
"Well, that's ten years too late, isn't it?" And then he begins to cry. Gaheris gathers him up, ignores the smell and the dirt and the thick layers of old clothes that are almost made of tears and garbage and old tape. "Why didn't you ever find me? I kept waiting for you," while Gaheris smooths his unwashed hair and kisses his forehead.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he says, over and over.
At last they break apart; Gareth reaches for his hand and Gaheris holds it tightly. It reminds him of once when they were little, and they'd gone questing, because they wanted to be like knights. They got lost in hardly any time at all, and Gareth clung to his hand while Gaheris pretended to know the way home.
"Come on," Gaheris says. "I'll go call Mordred, okay? Then he can come pick us up and we can go home."
"Where's home?"
"It's in Philadelphia. It's nice. We have a nice house. There's a room for you, it's green."
"I like green," Gareth says in a tiny voice.
"How about something to eat?"
"I'll probably throw up again. I have a hangover."
"That's okay." He pats Gareth's shoulder. "We'll forget about that for now, then. You want my jacket?"
"Okay."
"There you go," with a little bit of a smile. "Now I'll call Mordred."
Gareth trails along as he searches for a pay phone, holding Gaheris' jacket close and never looking anywhere else but him. When they finally find one, inside the lobby of a bus station where people throw Gareth looks but don't say anything, Gaheris puts in his quarters and dials. Mordred answers.
"H'lo?"
"Hey, it's me--"
"Where the hell are you?"
"In Boston. I--"
"In Boston? What in God's name are you doing in Boston? Do you know what time it is? What the hell is going on in your head? Jesus!"
"Shut up, shut up. I've got Gareth."
"You son of a--what?"
"Gareth. He's right beside me."
"Hi," Gareth interjects softly.
"What the hell are you doing in Boston?"
"Don't answer him. --Look, the problem is I spent all my money getting here. I can't get back. Can you, god, I don't know, come and get us?"
"You're both morons. I'll buy you tickets online and you can ride home by your goddamn selves."
"Thanks a lot," Gaheris says.
"Don't you ever do that again, or I'll personally kick your ass. I'm still bigger and smarter than you are. Find a cyber-café and buy a coffee so they don't throw you out, and I'll send you your tickets. Write my e-mail address down. mwilkinson@pasom.edu, got it?"
"Thanks."
"Idiot." Mordred hangs up.
Gareth almost beams. For a moment it feels as though nothing's ever changed, they're still boys, still living in Orkney and Gareth is so proud and so excited because Gaheris found the way home; and for Gareth that's sealed it, his brother is the smartest, best person in the world. It seems unreasonable that he's dressed in falling-apart clothes and smells like old beer and shots and sickness. Gaheris sighs. "You ready?"
"Yes." Then, before he can start walking, Gareth leans up and kisses his mouth. "Thank you for coming," he says. "I told everyone you'd come. I knew it."
And Gaheris doesn't know what to say.
The strips of lawn along the sidewalks have come up flowers, with tulips and daylillies around mailboxes and lampposts. It's like a Helen Steiner Rice card, and Gaheris aims occasional kicks at especially brightly coloured hyacinth as he goes by. Something has to change.
He should be perfectly happy, of course. He's got Mordred and Clar, he's got Amy--Amy who's been telling her mother than he's a new teacher at school who lives in the same part of town they do, and that's why he walks her home after the bus lets her off--something given back to him that he's been missing for years. He's grown used to Clar's cigarette smoke everywhere, to tripping over the cord of Mordred's dehumidifier and pulling it unplugged every single time he goes by the damn thing. It should be enough.
Why isn't it? He's taken to wandering around pointlessly, until by Easter he's learned every housefront and knows most of the people by sight, if not by name. He doesn't ever speak to anyone; he still can't do that, shies away from them if they come near him and try to talk. It isn't good enough. Amy's turned fifteen back in March, had no birthday party, but he took her out for ice cream and that seemed as though it were enough for her. She smiled at him without mocking. She seemed happy. He thought he was.
What does it mean? He thinks he's tired and tries to sleep more, but that doesn't help, only makes him feel worse.
And suddenly he takes off down the sidewalk, running faster than his breath and his mind. Why does he still think like this after all the time that's passed? It's been long enough for him to ease, more than long enough for this to leave him alone. Mordred doesn't speak of it, as if he isn't troubled by it; and he's afraid to ask Clar, but Clar never seemed to care anyway. It's Morgause. It's the memory of his mother.
When they were young she tested them. When they were a little older she worked at training them. All Gaheris really remembers of his mother, in the brief flashes of things that will abruptly come into his head and leave him weak-kneed, is her laughing at him when he was little. She found him crying because Agrivain had beat him at swordplay, and she laughed at him scornfully, looking down at him. She had always seemed so tall then.
"Why are you crying?"
"Agrivain hit me."
"I'd cry too, if I was stupid enough to let Agrivain hit me."
"I didn't mean to," he said sulkily.
Morgause darkened. "Don't talk to your mother like that, Gaheris. I can hit you harder than Agrivain can." She knelt in front of him. "Your brothers don't love you, and I can see why. You'll have to work a lot harder if you want to be part of this family." Then she stood and turned away; he remembers the almost-silent whisper of her skirts. She was so beautiful.
And it's this, and it's this, that sends him running. Can't he get away? She's dead. She's long dead, and it's been so many years, and he has Mordred and Clar and they seem to love him-- at least Mordred does-- why isn't he faster? he thinks. (Why did he kill her? Is this the reason she's always there? Is it some kind of punishment?) Can she find me now? If Clar and Mordred are here, is there any reason to think she isn't, also, isn't following him and driving him out of his happiness? Is it any less than her right?
The bus station. There's a bus station over the train station, not too far away. Maybe he'll just run away, see how she likes that. He can't even feel himself running any more. It's like flying, just one long solid step that doesn't touch the ground.
He can outrun it. He can.
The bus drives through the night; Gaheris sleeps in his seat, curled up. He's mostly broke now. Ten dollars and a handful of change in his jacket pockets.
He gets out in Cleveland, stays long enough to catch the next bus out. In the end it's Boston. Not far enough away from home, but at least far. By that time it's early morning, and the sun's just coming up, splitted by the buildings but shining strong. The alleyways are starting to light up. He sees crates and dumpsters and occasional stirring bundles of homeless people.
One of them shifts and stands, grasping the side of the building for support. Gaheris walks a little faster, trying not to look.
"Brother."
Brother. He can't ignore that, never could. He stills.
Only it doesn't mean anything--he doesn't know him-- It's a generic greeting in the middle of a city he's never visited before, where anything might be called out. Maybe the man's crazy. They always are. Maybe it's just to make him feel guilty so he'll give his change. Who knows why. But it's not someone he knows, not a brother, never a brother no.
The homeless man suddenly grasps his shoulder, and before he has time to push him away, doubles over and vomits on the pavement; then slumps against him so hard that Gaheris has to hold him up or be knocked down himself.
"Agrivain?" he says, so softly it comes out a whisper.
"Oh, fuck you." The man wipes his face on his sleeve. "I'm not Agrivain."
"Gareth?"
"Wee Gareth. Don't forget the wee. You always called me wee. Little innocent stupid Gareth."
"What--" He doesn't manage anything else. Gareth wraps his coat tighter around himself and scowls. His face is cut and bleeding sluggishly, almost dried up. There's a bottle sticking out of his coat pocket.
"Thought I'd be fine, didn't you? Did you even think? They thought I was crazy. They couldn't figure out what was wrong with me and they took me to so many fucking shrinks and I didn't get better and I still told everyone they were my brothers, my brothers were Gaheris and Gawain and all of you and I didn't even finish secondary school and I ran away from home and I hate you so much. I hate you so much. I didn't ever get better and I'm still crazy and now I'm a crazy drunk and I still think you're my brother and I'm only nineteen fucking years old and I'm a crazy drunk and you never found me. Why didn't you ever find me?"
"I've found you now."
"Well, that's ten years too late, isn't it?" And then he begins to cry. Gaheris gathers him up, ignores the smell and the dirt and the thick layers of old clothes that are almost made of tears and garbage and old tape. "Why didn't you ever find me? I kept waiting for you," while Gaheris smooths his unwashed hair and kisses his forehead.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he says, over and over.
At last they break apart; Gareth reaches for his hand and Gaheris holds it tightly. It reminds him of once when they were little, and they'd gone questing, because they wanted to be like knights. They got lost in hardly any time at all, and Gareth clung to his hand while Gaheris pretended to know the way home.
"Come on," Gaheris says. "I'll go call Mordred, okay? Then he can come pick us up and we can go home."
"Where's home?"
"It's in Philadelphia. It's nice. We have a nice house. There's a room for you, it's green."
"I like green," Gareth says in a tiny voice.
"How about something to eat?"
"I'll probably throw up again. I have a hangover."
"That's okay." He pats Gareth's shoulder. "We'll forget about that for now, then. You want my jacket?"
"Okay."
"There you go," with a little bit of a smile. "Now I'll call Mordred."
Gareth trails along as he searches for a pay phone, holding Gaheris' jacket close and never looking anywhere else but him. When they finally find one, inside the lobby of a bus station where people throw Gareth looks but don't say anything, Gaheris puts in his quarters and dials. Mordred answers.
"H'lo?"
"Hey, it's me--"
"Where the hell are you?"
"In Boston. I--"
"In Boston? What in God's name are you doing in Boston? Do you know what time it is? What the hell is going on in your head? Jesus!"
"Shut up, shut up. I've got Gareth."
"You son of a--what?"
"Gareth. He's right beside me."
"Hi," Gareth interjects softly.
"What the hell are you doing in Boston?"
"Don't answer him. --Look, the problem is I spent all my money getting here. I can't get back. Can you, god, I don't know, come and get us?"
"You're both morons. I'll buy you tickets online and you can ride home by your goddamn selves."
"Thanks a lot," Gaheris says.
"Don't you ever do that again, or I'll personally kick your ass. I'm still bigger and smarter than you are. Find a cyber-café and buy a coffee so they don't throw you out, and I'll send you your tickets. Write my e-mail address down. mwilkinson@pasom.edu, got it?"
"Thanks."
"Idiot." Mordred hangs up.
Gareth almost beams. For a moment it feels as though nothing's ever changed, they're still boys, still living in Orkney and Gareth is so proud and so excited because Gaheris found the way home; and for Gareth that's sealed it, his brother is the smartest, best person in the world. It seems unreasonable that he's dressed in falling-apart clothes and smells like old beer and shots and sickness. Gaheris sighs. "You ready?"
"Yes." Then, before he can start walking, Gareth leans up and kisses his mouth. "Thank you for coming," he says. "I told everyone you'd come. I knew it."
And Gaheris doesn't know what to say.
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(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 12:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-10 03:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-10 02:41 am (UTC)A: WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE LEFT. ...except Gawain. Fuckin' Gawain, you just know he's next. ...I better not be as much a mess as Gareth.And now that that's out of the way, aww. :( Such sad little messed-up-in-the-head things.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-10 03:11 am (UTC)Heh heh. You will be not half such a mess as Gareth. Heh. ... *halo*They are all crazy and it is woe. ;___;
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-15 12:59 am (UTC)A: ...thank Go-- ...Hey. No fair using my own words against me. D:<Tragedies abound...!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-15 01:07 am (UTC)Just waiiiiiiiit heeeeee.Naturally. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-10 07:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-11 01:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-11 01:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-11 03:13 am (UTC)