(no subject)
When Edmund steps through the House of Arch painting, he's carrying a notebook and two elementary math textbooks. Folded and tucked into the notebook are a few worksheets; the students at the House of Arch school don't get much homework, but they do get some.
Teaching, Edmund is finding, suits him pretty well.
He stops by the bar for tea, and gets an envelope with it. He blinks at it -- and blinks again, face shadowing, when he recognizes the handwriting on the front. He knows it well, even now, of course; it's Kitty's. He carries tea and papers to a quiet table, where he slits open the envelope and unfolds the letter.
By the first line -- If you're reading this -- his jaw is tight.
We were supposed to be getting married in two weeks, you know.
By the end, his face is white, and utterly set.
Would it help if I said I love you?
Moving deliberately, and very nearly normally, he rises and gathers up his things, and returns the tea set to the bar. "I'm sorry, love," he murmurs as teapot and cup vanish into the wood. "Not in the mood for it after all." Twenty-three steps take him back to the wall, and with a light touch to the frame he vanishes back into the House of Arch.
I would like for you to have not been a jerk so obsessed with yourself that you could have seen I was trying not to break down.
(He doesn't see anyone on the way to his room. Easy enough in a house with no hallways.
I'm not being fair. I don't have to be. You sure as hell weren't. I'm being petty and hurt now.
He's distantly grateful.)
When he returns, it's with no schoolwork, and in a heavy coat. One more stop by the bar, and he's on his way out the door with one bottle of whiskey in hand and two more in a bag.
He told me to go. And I came back, because you weren't there.
That should, he figures, be enough to last him a good while. Even at the rate he intends to drink it.
And I'm staying here, with you, for as long as you'll have me. Forever, if you want.
Teaching, Edmund is finding, suits him pretty well.
He stops by the bar for tea, and gets an envelope with it. He blinks at it -- and blinks again, face shadowing, when he recognizes the handwriting on the front. He knows it well, even now, of course; it's Kitty's. He carries tea and papers to a quiet table, where he slits open the envelope and unfolds the letter.
By the first line -- If you're reading this -- his jaw is tight.
We were supposed to be getting married in two weeks, you know.
By the end, his face is white, and utterly set.
Would it help if I said I love you?
Moving deliberately, and very nearly normally, he rises and gathers up his things, and returns the tea set to the bar. "I'm sorry, love," he murmurs as teapot and cup vanish into the wood. "Not in the mood for it after all." Twenty-three steps take him back to the wall, and with a light touch to the frame he vanishes back into the House of Arch.
I would like for you to have not been a jerk so obsessed with yourself that you could have seen I was trying not to break down.
(He doesn't see anyone on the way to his room. Easy enough in a house with no hallways.
I'm not being fair. I don't have to be. You sure as hell weren't. I'm being petty and hurt now.
He's distantly grateful.)
When he returns, it's with no schoolwork, and in a heavy coat. One more stop by the bar, and he's on his way out the door with one bottle of whiskey in hand and two more in a bag.
He told me to go. And I came back, because you weren't there.
That should, he figures, be enough to last him a good while. Even at the rate he intends to drink it.
And I'm staying here, with you, for as long as you'll have me. Forever, if you want.