Tyrone Astin, Emotions, 007. Annoyed
Title: Promises
Prompt Set: Emotions
Character: Tyrone Astin
Prompt: 007. Annoyed
Word Count: 692
Rating/Warnings: G
Author's Notes: Written for a prompt in my Creative Writing class: dramatic voice, mostly dialogue (Hemingway-esque). And I've been meaning to do this for ages. Also, you meet the much, much softer side of Christopher Astin. He's usually much more short-tempered. Feedback much appreciated. Also... yeah, I'm back. Long story why I'm gone, but suffice to say I'm in Cambridge.
Summary: Christopher Astin once made his son a promise... and though neither of them intended it, it was broken. Time: Early 2004.
The room was pale green, and the windows let in the light flashing off the tall buildings. The soudns of the busy street below echoed faintly into the air. A bed was in one corner, as perfectly made as the day before, or the day before that, or the day before that one. Two plushy brown chairs sat on either side of a table, round, painted blue, and with an impossibly smooth surface. By the window opposite the door was another chair, wooden, facing out towards the city. In it sat a boy with hair that glinted golden in the sunlight. He was rather tall, but his face still had some of the roundness of childhood. The air conditioning stirring his hair was the only movement in the room.
"...any better?" A man was outside the door.
"It's hard to tell, you know," the nurse's voice replied. There was a creak as the door opened. "He's still talking."
"Good." A small click as the door shut again was folowed by a few footsteps. "Hello, lad."
"...Dad."
"Are you feeling alright?" The Scottish accent always softened that question. It set him apart from the rest.
"Must you always ask me that?"
"You're avoiding the question."
"It's not like the answer will ever change, you know. I don't know why you even bother."
"Because you're my son."
"For most people that wouldn't really matter."
"I'm not most people."
"Right, because most people in the States can pronounce the bloody language."
"Watch your mouth, lad."
"Or you'll do what?" the boy snorted. "Take away my dinner, guilt trip me, yell and scream at me? You wouldn't dare. Not anymore."
"It's not a matter of daring, it's a matter of wanting. I wouldn't want you to feel like that."
"It never bothered you if I tried to tell you about my grades or couldn't explain them."
"Lad..."
"Or was it different before you decided to care if I decided to reach for the nearest sharp pointy object?" Now he turned to meet his father's eyes. His lip was curved in a faint smile, but there was no accompanying crinkle at the corners of his eyes or lift of his cheeks.
"I didn't know there was a problem."
"A problem?" His laugh came in two short, light breaths. "There isn't any problem. I'm just crazy, that's all."
"You're not crazy."
"Then what am I? A little... a little unwell? If I didn't hate my voice, I'd be singing that entire song right about now."
"Martin sent you a letter."
"You're changing the subject."
"Because you aren't doing credit to your intelligence."
"Oh thank you, Father! Thank you, thank you, thank you for admitting I can be smart."
"Did you want the letter or didn't you?" The older man was tapping his foot a bit.
"Why'd he write?" the boy asked.
"It's normal for friends to stay in touch, and you haven't spoken since December."
"But why would he write? He doesn't have any reason to, unless..." A pause, and his voice became clipped. "You told him."
"Told him what?"
"That I'm crazy, unbalanced, chemically out-of-whack..."
"He knows you're sick."
"'He knows you're sick,'" he mimicked, pitching his voice too high before wincing. "God, I hate my voice. I want to sing, but... I daren't try."
"You'll be fine."
"Once I'm dead, you mean."
His father sighed, "As soon as we get your dosage right."
"Oh, fun! Drugs to screw with my head! Just what I've always wanted."
There was a long silence.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"You won't tell him, will you? That I'm nuts?"
"Not if you don't want me to. I just don't see why it matters."
"He's my only friend who bothered keeping up with me. He wouldn't want to if he knew I'm psycho."
"Technically you're not psycho."
"Whatever." He turned back to the window.
The father sighed.
After a long time, almost ten minutes, the boy said softly, "You promised..."
"What?" His father's voice was just as soft.
"You promised me. When Uncle Andrew shot himself. You promised it wouldn't be me."
"I know."
Another silence.
"Lad?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry."
"... Yeah. Me too."