mhari
in
df_loggage
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Mordred has issues, Gawain is sensible and well-meaning, sky blue, water wet.
Some time after dark, in the midst of a shower slowly turning to sleet, Mordred lets himself into the house as quietly as the door, prone to sticking in the damp, will allow.
Gawain is sitting up reading, not so absorbed in his book as to miss the creak of the door (or the sharp noise the third floor plank to the right makes whenever any weight is put down anywhere near it - he's going to have to fix that). "Hello, Mordred! Welcome home!" he says, without actually looking up.
A wince. "Please."
"...Please what?" Gawain asks, and putting the book down and walking over to lean in the doorframe of the main hall.
"Your cheer. Your geniality. A simple 'where the hell have you been' would suffice." Mordred shrugs off his jacket, drops it on its peg and stares at it a moment. "I like modernity," he adds defensively, apropos of nothing.
Gawain shrugs, an odd action when done leaning on a shoulder. "If I was worried about you, you might have gotten one. But it's not that late." He looks quizzically at Mordred's back for a moment. "Something happen?"
"Does anything ever happen?"
"Sometimes. I seem to recall turning into a Newfoundland."
Mordred gives a stifled snort, and leans against the wall, his head against one arm, shoulders shaking in slightly hysterical laughter. "There was that."
"You see?" Gawain moves away from the door and puts a hand on one of Mordred's shoulders. "What's wrong?" Warm, and worried, and possibly infuriating for those very qualities, but there you have it.
"Dammit," between spasms, "--dammit. I'm fine. I just. Oh, God." He catches a breath, and straightens unsteadily.
Gawain rubs at his shoulder awkwardly, trying to be soothing, and waits, watching closely.
Mordred shrugs him off, still avoiding his eyes. "Nothing. Nothing new."
Gawain allows the shrugging, but sticks close. "Old things, then?"
"Antiquity never did anything for me." He shoves his hands into damp denim pockets, looking blankly at the stair rail. After a minute, softly, "I don't think I can handle this."
Gawain turns his head to the side. "Which this?" (Very worried now, but he's not allowed to panic, so he's not going to.)
"This, everything, I don't-- I can't be here if he's going to be here, that's what it comes down to, he hates me, and he's perfectly right, and I don't understand." Somewhere in the midst of the words, he's lost the defiant edge. "I can't. I don't--"
Gawain frowns and steps forward and hugs his brother - standoffishness aside. There's really only one 'he' that could be. Most people don't get Mordred in a tizzy. He is not, however, entirely sure what to say.
"I'm scared," Mordred says, very softly, into Gawain's shoulder, "that's all. I don't want to be who he thinks I am."
Gawain hugs him tighter. "You're not. He's not always right."
Another miserable snicker. "That is, as they say around here, his character note. Even when he's wrong, he's right. And I'm not, and that's mine."
"Nonsense."
"--and yours is to be decent, you son of a bitch, even when you shouldn't be." Mordred hugs him back then, too tightly, still shaking.
Gawain clings a little bit. "I don't see what decency has to do with it. But you're not always wrong - if you were you wouldn't be able to understand Clarissant, I know I can't, and I'm sure he can't either, or wouldn't if he'd ever exchanged more than two words with her, and - and, well."
Silence for a while. "Yeah. Well."
"And other things. You remember the time there was that Lady? From Denmark? And I wanted to rescue her and you said -"
"--I don't remember. That's the whole point."
"Oh. Well, you said I was being stupid and she didn't need rescuing, which I was and which she didn't, and she nearly killed me. ...I really should have paid attention."
It gets a chuckle, if a wry and not very happy one. "That's not right. That's common sense."
"She had most of the rest of court fooled too. Why won't you believe me?"
"I don't know who to believe," subdued.
"Oh," Gawain pauses and then says, unhappily, "I suppose that does make sense."
"You don't remember," in the same small, dry voice, "any more than I do."
Gawain freezes. "Maybe less. To be honest. But if we don't remember - I don't know. Are we the same people? We must have changed, if. Or perhaps. I don't know."
"I don't either." Mordred pulls away finally. "I just-- can't take him looking at me like that-- and having nothing, nothing to say in my defense because I don't know anything."
"I'm sorry." Utterly sincere. "I wish I knew how to help."
"I wish you did too," with a flicker of humor.
Gawain laughs. "That'd be nice for us both, huh?" He thinks for a moment. "...Pancakes? They're not a long term solution, but they're tasty. Did you eat? I bet you didn't."
This sets off another bout of laughter, no less giddy but somewhat more genuine. "Sure. Why not? Why the hell not?"
"That's the spirit!" Gawain says, and heads off to dig out a skillet and mixing bowl.
Some time after dark, in the midst of a shower slowly turning to sleet, Mordred lets himself into the house as quietly as the door, prone to sticking in the damp, will allow.
Gawain is sitting up reading, not so absorbed in his book as to miss the creak of the door (or the sharp noise the third floor plank to the right makes whenever any weight is put down anywhere near it - he's going to have to fix that). "Hello, Mordred! Welcome home!" he says, without actually looking up.
A wince. "Please."
"...Please what?" Gawain asks, and putting the book down and walking over to lean in the doorframe of the main hall.
"Your cheer. Your geniality. A simple 'where the hell have you been' would suffice." Mordred shrugs off his jacket, drops it on its peg and stares at it a moment. "I like modernity," he adds defensively, apropos of nothing.
Gawain shrugs, an odd action when done leaning on a shoulder. "If I was worried about you, you might have gotten one. But it's not that late." He looks quizzically at Mordred's back for a moment. "Something happen?"
"Does anything ever happen?"
"Sometimes. I seem to recall turning into a Newfoundland."
Mordred gives a stifled snort, and leans against the wall, his head against one arm, shoulders shaking in slightly hysterical laughter. "There was that."
"You see?" Gawain moves away from the door and puts a hand on one of Mordred's shoulders. "What's wrong?" Warm, and worried, and possibly infuriating for those very qualities, but there you have it.
"Dammit," between spasms, "--dammit. I'm fine. I just. Oh, God." He catches a breath, and straightens unsteadily.
Gawain rubs at his shoulder awkwardly, trying to be soothing, and waits, watching closely.
Mordred shrugs him off, still avoiding his eyes. "Nothing. Nothing new."
Gawain allows the shrugging, but sticks close. "Old things, then?"
"Antiquity never did anything for me." He shoves his hands into damp denim pockets, looking blankly at the stair rail. After a minute, softly, "I don't think I can handle this."
Gawain turns his head to the side. "Which this?" (Very worried now, but he's not allowed to panic, so he's not going to.)
"This, everything, I don't-- I can't be here if he's going to be here, that's what it comes down to, he hates me, and he's perfectly right, and I don't understand." Somewhere in the midst of the words, he's lost the defiant edge. "I can't. I don't--"
Gawain frowns and steps forward and hugs his brother - standoffishness aside. There's really only one 'he' that could be. Most people don't get Mordred in a tizzy. He is not, however, entirely sure what to say.
"I'm scared," Mordred says, very softly, into Gawain's shoulder, "that's all. I don't want to be who he thinks I am."
Gawain hugs him tighter. "You're not. He's not always right."
Another miserable snicker. "That is, as they say around here, his character note. Even when he's wrong, he's right. And I'm not, and that's mine."
"Nonsense."
"--and yours is to be decent, you son of a bitch, even when you shouldn't be." Mordred hugs him back then, too tightly, still shaking.
Gawain clings a little bit. "I don't see what decency has to do with it. But you're not always wrong - if you were you wouldn't be able to understand Clarissant, I know I can't, and I'm sure he can't either, or wouldn't if he'd ever exchanged more than two words with her, and - and, well."
Silence for a while. "Yeah. Well."
"And other things. You remember the time there was that Lady? From Denmark? And I wanted to rescue her and you said -"
"--I don't remember. That's the whole point."
"Oh. Well, you said I was being stupid and she didn't need rescuing, which I was and which she didn't, and she nearly killed me. ...I really should have paid attention."
It gets a chuckle, if a wry and not very happy one. "That's not right. That's common sense."
"She had most of the rest of court fooled too. Why won't you believe me?"
"I don't know who to believe," subdued.
"Oh," Gawain pauses and then says, unhappily, "I suppose that does make sense."
"You don't remember," in the same small, dry voice, "any more than I do."
Gawain freezes. "Maybe less. To be honest. But if we don't remember - I don't know. Are we the same people? We must have changed, if. Or perhaps. I don't know."
"I don't either." Mordred pulls away finally. "I just-- can't take him looking at me like that-- and having nothing, nothing to say in my defense because I don't know anything."
"I'm sorry." Utterly sincere. "I wish I knew how to help."
"I wish you did too," with a flicker of humor.
Gawain laughs. "That'd be nice for us both, huh?" He thinks for a moment. "...Pancakes? They're not a long term solution, but they're tasty. Did you eat? I bet you didn't."
This sets off another bout of laughter, no less giddy but somewhat more genuine. "Sure. Why not? Why the hell not?"
"That's the spirit!" Gawain says, and heads off to dig out a skillet and mixing bowl.