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"As long as… that person, is left to be," what an ambiguous term. It's safe, that's what it means, "we can close this conversation." It sounds like defeat. Honestly, for the briefest of moments, Pyro is very, terribly, scared. Perhaps it's for nothing.
His father closes his eyes, briskly, but looks so tired at the same time. Then chuckles.
"You speak those words like… that person," and he has the same struggle, "is something of a fair maiden."
"Father," Pyro cuts him off.
It rings, a little, in the silence of the cabinet. It's unfortunate how his voice rings out heavier and lower than that of the head of the house, the thought slips.
Zombie starts laughing. It sounds like creaking, or shuffling of paper. His eyes are perfectly like stillwater. Pyro, with his palms on his knees, watches, until the final short cackle.
"I didn't expect you to find it so… amusing," slips out. Regret is to come later. Obviously.
"I trust you to know what's good for the family," Zombie nods. "Eventually."
Ah.
The chill that's been gathering in his lungs slowly now inflates, and takes up all of them.
"You're my oldest son after all."
Zombie Hemlocke puts his hands together, and then looks at him, awaiting. Something. For him to say yes, possibly. This is, must be in his eyes, the perfect opportunity of dismissal. He should be thankful, really. His father is not usually so… kind.
The sun sparkles in the eyes opposite of him slowly dim.
"You're dismissed," Zombie points out finally.
'Thank you, father,' is stuck in his throat. He will never say that. All he can do, ever, is grip his fists silently and think bitter thoughts.
Were he firmly religious, he would think about the excessive heat of hell, but instead he will in his bed, posed as a cadaver and with his eyes closed, ponder on the difference between a roughed up and struggling head of the house Pyroscythe caringly tending to his wife and children after all, and a distanced and loveless one. On marrying for love at all; and then feel the coughing swell up in his chest.
"I speak this from the heart," he says quietly, softly, "and only I do, that your worldview is horribly limited."
Zombie had stopped paying attention to him, and cuts him down now with a stare. Really, what is he thinking – blaming the head of the Hemlocke family of something as outrageous as unintelligence.
"So many things I do for your brother?" questioning. Zombie stands up slowly, palms hovering over the table. Pyro is so cold. "So many… lengths I go to…? And you dare?"
Pyro, sluggishly, smiles. "…I do. I'm your son, after all."
It only barely feels, or maybe it's just him wishing that on his father as per usual, like it strikes something deep within Zombie – same as when another specific person is faintly mentioned, even alluded to. Awakens something inside of him. A fighting spirit, maybe, like a true Hemlocke indeed. Always something nasty, really.
"And you're the heir," Zombie reminds him of a thing that should not need recalling. "Behave." There's a sense of intent behind it, something like, 'I don't care what my fourth child does behind very closed doors, but not you', familiar.
Pyro's smile of cracked lips hurts.
"And find yourself a- maid, a new maid," Zombie throws, somewhere to the side, perfectly dismissive and light again. "Honestly, what an obscenity," whispers.
Danger, flares as if through mush in his head. It's so easy to be manipulated by the well-being of another, but oh, he's so angry, too.
"As you say," Pyro replies, neutrally. Then steps on the carpets.
*
He's technically known Mysticat for longer than he had… the person before her, for all his life. It should be natural to take help and attention from her. It is, in a way. She fixes his tie on him before he leaves, and the only thing he feels is a softness as he watches her eyes sparkle.
"Do you think it will ever get better, Mysty?" he asks, aimless and yearning. She smiles, tied in secrets high society would spit at the same way as his, perfectly the same and yet nothing alike at all, and tells him, maidservant to a master, yes.
*
"I don't… I simply don't… I'm not qualified for the job. Anyone, is better qualified, than just… me. To be Master Pyroscythe's aid."
Ivory sits on her bed with her hands shielding her. Her voice is so… brittle, has been on the verge of shattering into woodchips, an ill-treated musical instrument. Serapter stands up, utterly unsure of what to do, and pats down her back with a clumsy hand. She shivers, a little. The thought clings again, with the action too rough – like a palm against the bark of a tree.
"Anybody," she repeats, with a stronger voice now. "You could-!" slows just slightly, as she watches him shake his head while everything's in a blur, time is. "You could," settles.
"I'm Master Zam's, right hand… guy," Serapter explains, almost cheerfully under her strengthening look, "can't let him down like that, can ya," cackles. "And Master Pyro, he doesn't accept butlers anyway."
Ivory blinks, upfront. "Why?"
He has to think, for a conscious second, and then feels the concrete weight of Ivory waiting.
"Dunno," he shrugs. It's one of those unspeakable things, house rules that you're expected to never hear aloud and then follow anyway. Like common sense. Maybe it's a deadly secret, or absolutely nothing at all. "It's from what I've heard. But-! Don't worry, it's not like that," he immediately waves his hands. "He's a good guy."
Ivory manages a small smile, matching him. A beam from the sky. He grins wider.
"I… got as much. I think so too. I just don't want to dis…" whispers the last words, and he doesn't even catch fully.
"So I think, you'll do great."
Ivory very slowly, solidly, nods. Serapter doesn't think he's convinced her of anything, but her hands have stopped shaking. The fear curls in her heart into the smallest pearl, and it's no less significant than any other pain in this house.
*
"Mys… Mysticat, insisted on the lack of autopsy upon death," he says, firm and gentle. Ha.
Pyro momentarily feels nauseous.
"Did… uh… Miss Mysticat, like, anticipate the idea of being murdered?" Bormethius sounds strained and all the same genuinely curious.
He forces a smile. "I'm afraid not." 'It's a health condition.' 'It's a secret.' It's a matter of give-him-some-fucking-privacy. It's a matter of 'give her some fucking privacy'.
God, he wants to bury her in a closed casket.
They will not look at her in disgust, no matter what. Never.
*
The knock and the quiet, 'Come in', were left somewhere in the past and faded away in the air. They didn't matter, because Pyro wasn't entirely aware of the person it would be. Now, he relaxes back from instantaneously gained composure, nothing lost and everything for show. He doesn't look – just does utterly pathetic.
There's another peaceful sound against wood – that's of his table, and he perks up, unconsciously.
"It's condolence letters from the Boxwood household," is explained to him, as the papers fold from where they were pressed edge down to the surface, put down carefully.
"Letters?" he asks faintly and receives a nod.
"From the head of the family, as well as Miss Boxwood herself."
"That's… very personal."
He looks back down, into the floors. Feels his wrists hang heavily – it's fine, that's fine, just a moment more…
"Well, yes," a chuckle, and then the figure in dark approaches him. He offers out a palm.
"Thank you," mutters.
The letters don't proceed into his hand, and he grips for air and drops it back with a faint noise. It snaps him out, makes him flinch. He looks up. Starts, "You could have asked Ivory…" very quietly, and chokes on it, can't make himself say 'You should've had Ivory deliver, you didn't have to waste time'. Technically, they're a constant presence in the same house, for years of their life. It's nothing like that, that they can't see each other.
"That's private correspondence," Clown cuts him off, and somehow he still hovers, perfectly done clothes and hair slicked behind, well – sitting down Pyro would be always shorter than him standing, what ridiculousness, and yet, no matter what next to Clown he feels weak.
It's a fake idea. In an entangled theater of rules Clown takes a much smaller standing, with much lesser prospects. It's something shameful to admit to out loud. So of course he doesn't.
"Isn't that right," Pyro mutters.
"It was natural… Of course I'll deliver these myself, it doesn't-" Clown's perfect expression momentarily crumbles, and he's just frowning, pettily, or like he thinks Pyro is, "this would've been an overt invitation for courting if there wasn't a funeral, do you understand?" His eyes are dim when Pyro unwittingly catches them, melting ember irises. Pyro laughs out. The sound feels warped, unbelonging.
"That is a pity," he tells the silence. Clown's mask is already back in place, and he watches him nod slowly. It has the exact opposite meaning of his own words.
"Perhaps."
Pyro falls back. It doesn't even help fight the illusion there is an immeasurable weight on his shoulders, he's just sprawled on the bed, and his hair is messy.
'Do you think it ever gets better?' He feels like it doesn't. Sometimes he really feels like it doesn't.
Clown looks. Then, carefully, unclasps the hands hidden behind his back.
"Do you need anything…?" There's a slurry to it. It's not anything he's supposed to ask anymore, and Ivory Pyro excused a while ago today, so.
'You,' Pyro thinks earnestly. Or some good whiskey.
"No," he whispers. "You're dismissed."
He has his eyes closed and doesn't see a reaction from Clown, if he has any.