RP: Broken Anew
Date: March 5/6, 2005 (wee small hours of morning)
Characters: Cedric Diggory
Location: Cedric's bedroom
Status: Private
Summary: "It took Cedric a day to crash ..."
Completion: Complete
It took Cedric a day to crash.
He'd kept a good face on it for the rest of the after-sweat feast, and had talked some with Jeff that evening. At first, he'd felt relieved that the decision had been made, and even relieved (in a strange way) that his instincts had been on target. He trusted them more when dealing with others than when it involved him.
He also knew, deep down, it was the right choice. Whether or not Hermione and Roger worked, he and Hermione wouldn't. At least not where they were in their lives right now. Yes, they both loved books, loved history and culture, liked to be organized and had ambitions. They were introverts. They'd been prefects, and swots in school. But she couldn't dance while she worked and that ... bothered him. Just as much as he suspected it had bothered her to see him do so in the midst of working.
Dancing while one worked -- or not -- reflected quite different approaches to life. Cedric worked hard and played hard; Hermione had said herself that she didn't play, not in such a way. And Cedric didn't understand that. More, he didn't want to -- which in turn made him feel guilty and insensitive, but also annoyed. It was a nasty circle, and even if Hermione hadn't meant it so, he'd felt judged for dancing. Those were his issues, not hers, but the fact she kept triggering them ...
It told him, more than anything else, how far apart they were in essentials.
Gwen had been able to play. She'd been bossy, aggressive, a fierce warrior for what she believed in and for those she loved. But he had a vivid memory of her diving into a pile of autumn leaves, then pulling him after. They'd wrestled amid pink and yellow and blood red, then had lain there, holding hands and talking, and giggling. It was so vivid and visceral it was almost painful even now, and the end of things with Hermione had dragged all that back out again, things he'd thought resolved. But grief wasn't linear. It spiraled around, out and back and out again and now it was back and he felt broken anew.
Gwen hadn't been right for him either, in the end. She hadn't been able to trust him -- not for the usual reasons; he'd never cheated on her, never lied about anything important, and she knew it. Yet she hadn't come to Britain with him. Intellectually, he could recite all the 'why's for that. She'd been in the middle of law school with a scholarship that wasn't likely to recognize time off for a wizards' war. And there was no way she (rez-poor second in seven kids) could possibly afford school otherwise. Moreover, the war then had been indefinite; no one had known it would be over in just a year.
"I'll put you through, when we get back. If I have to take a job selling shoes to do it -- I'll put you through law school."
That had been his promise ... and he'd meant it. But she hadn't believed him. Not because she'd thought he was lying, but because she couldn't trust him enough. She'd been too afraid she'd wind up like Pocahontas, on display in London as American exotica. Or, worse, relegated to raising kids and keeping house and being somebody's secretary. It had been the fate of too many Red women who'd married White men. Cedric understood that. He knew the ugly history and how it colored biracial relationships -- knew and sympathized and believed in justice. But in the end, he'd hoped they could get past it. That she could be just Gwen Banks and he could be just Cedric Diggory, and a girl could trust a boy when he said he loved her and believed in her and would do anything for her if she'd just come with him now when he needed her most. That's what relationships were, weren't they? Give and take. She and he -- they weren't poster children for a biracial marriage. They were people.
Yes, he knew Gwen couldn't practice tribal law in England. That had been the ostensible reason for her refusal ... that, her scholarship, and being in the middle of law school. And they were real reasons. But initially he hadn't meant to stay here, just come back for a while. If only she'd trusted him when he'd said he'd return to Toronto after the war and put her through school .... He'd loved her, desperately, completely. But she couldn't trust him enough to believe him. Because he was white, and she was afraid of becoming a statistic.
As much as he understood that intellectually -- wanted to understand -- it made him FURIOUS. He couldn't even admit, half the time, how angry it made him because he felt insensitive. And in the end, she'd made herself a statistic -- a Red woman left by a White man -- because she hadn't been able to trust.
What brilliant irony.
So he'd come second to her career -- and to her fears. She hadn't loved him enough. He wanted somebody who could love him enough, and who he could love that much in return. He didn't need to be needed, but he needed to be trusted. He wanted the storybook ending, even if reality had taught him that successful relationships depended on avoiding the unforgivable or asking the impossible. Gwen hadn't been able to fall and believe he'd catch her. She'd needed the safety net. He hadn't been able to give it, not when giving it would mean staying in Toronto and not returning to help in the war. "They don't need you," Gwen had said. "I need you."
It wasn't about being needed. It as about his honor, his loyalty to his own people. He'd had to come back. She just hadn't understood.
She hadn't really understood him either.
He wondered if anybody ever would, with all his quirks and odd passions and tendencies to obsess, his occasional selfishnesses, his vanities and insecurities that didn't make sense. He wanted to be loved for his whole self, warts and love-handles and all. Sometimes he wondered if that person was out there, cynical as it sounded. Perhaps 27 was a bit young to consign himself to bachelorhood, but he couldn't see the future, only the past and present, and just now, he was feeling bruised all over again after getting back up on the horse -- and thus, rather sorry for himself. He knew it wasn't mature, and it wasn't sensible, but for a little while, he was tired of being both.
He just wanted to cry.
Characters: Cedric Diggory
Location: Cedric's bedroom
Status: Private
Summary: "It took Cedric a day to crash ..."
Completion: Complete
It took Cedric a day to crash.
He'd kept a good face on it for the rest of the after-sweat feast, and had talked some with Jeff that evening. At first, he'd felt relieved that the decision had been made, and even relieved (in a strange way) that his instincts had been on target. He trusted them more when dealing with others than when it involved him.
He also knew, deep down, it was the right choice. Whether or not Hermione and Roger worked, he and Hermione wouldn't. At least not where they were in their lives right now. Yes, they both loved books, loved history and culture, liked to be organized and had ambitions. They were introverts. They'd been prefects, and swots in school. But she couldn't dance while she worked and that ... bothered him. Just as much as he suspected it had bothered her to see him do so in the midst of working.
Dancing while one worked -- or not -- reflected quite different approaches to life. Cedric worked hard and played hard; Hermione had said herself that she didn't play, not in such a way. And Cedric didn't understand that. More, he didn't want to -- which in turn made him feel guilty and insensitive, but also annoyed. It was a nasty circle, and even if Hermione hadn't meant it so, he'd felt judged for dancing. Those were his issues, not hers, but the fact she kept triggering them ...
It told him, more than anything else, how far apart they were in essentials.
Gwen had been able to play. She'd been bossy, aggressive, a fierce warrior for what she believed in and for those she loved. But he had a vivid memory of her diving into a pile of autumn leaves, then pulling him after. They'd wrestled amid pink and yellow and blood red, then had lain there, holding hands and talking, and giggling. It was so vivid and visceral it was almost painful even now, and the end of things with Hermione had dragged all that back out again, things he'd thought resolved. But grief wasn't linear. It spiraled around, out and back and out again and now it was back and he felt broken anew.
Gwen hadn't been right for him either, in the end. She hadn't been able to trust him -- not for the usual reasons; he'd never cheated on her, never lied about anything important, and she knew it. Yet she hadn't come to Britain with him. Intellectually, he could recite all the 'why's for that. She'd been in the middle of law school with a scholarship that wasn't likely to recognize time off for a wizards' war. And there was no way she (rez-poor second in seven kids) could possibly afford school otherwise. Moreover, the war then had been indefinite; no one had known it would be over in just a year.
"I'll put you through, when we get back. If I have to take a job selling shoes to do it -- I'll put you through law school."
That had been his promise ... and he'd meant it. But she hadn't believed him. Not because she'd thought he was lying, but because she couldn't trust him enough. She'd been too afraid she'd wind up like Pocahontas, on display in London as American exotica. Or, worse, relegated to raising kids and keeping house and being somebody's secretary. It had been the fate of too many Red women who'd married White men. Cedric understood that. He knew the ugly history and how it colored biracial relationships -- knew and sympathized and believed in justice. But in the end, he'd hoped they could get past it. That she could be just Gwen Banks and he could be just Cedric Diggory, and a girl could trust a boy when he said he loved her and believed in her and would do anything for her if she'd just come with him now when he needed her most. That's what relationships were, weren't they? Give and take. She and he -- they weren't poster children for a biracial marriage. They were people.
Yes, he knew Gwen couldn't practice tribal law in England. That had been the ostensible reason for her refusal ... that, her scholarship, and being in the middle of law school. And they were real reasons. But initially he hadn't meant to stay here, just come back for a while. If only she'd trusted him when he'd said he'd return to Toronto after the war and put her through school .... He'd loved her, desperately, completely. But she couldn't trust him enough to believe him. Because he was white, and she was afraid of becoming a statistic.
As much as he understood that intellectually -- wanted to understand -- it made him FURIOUS. He couldn't even admit, half the time, how angry it made him because he felt insensitive. And in the end, she'd made herself a statistic -- a Red woman left by a White man -- because she hadn't been able to trust.
What brilliant irony.
So he'd come second to her career -- and to her fears. She hadn't loved him enough. He wanted somebody who could love him enough, and who he could love that much in return. He didn't need to be needed, but he needed to be trusted. He wanted the storybook ending, even if reality had taught him that successful relationships depended on avoiding the unforgivable or asking the impossible. Gwen hadn't been able to fall and believe he'd catch her. She'd needed the safety net. He hadn't been able to give it, not when giving it would mean staying in Toronto and not returning to help in the war. "They don't need you," Gwen had said. "I need you."
It wasn't about being needed. It as about his honor, his loyalty to his own people. He'd had to come back. She just hadn't understood.
She hadn't really understood him either.
He wondered if anybody ever would, with all his quirks and odd passions and tendencies to obsess, his occasional selfishnesses, his vanities and insecurities that didn't make sense. He wanted to be loved for his whole self, warts and love-handles and all. Sometimes he wondered if that person was out there, cynical as it sounded. Perhaps 27 was a bit young to consign himself to bachelorhood, but he couldn't see the future, only the past and present, and just now, he was feeling bruised all over again after getting back up on the horse -- and thus, rather sorry for himself. He knew it wasn't mature, and it wasn't sensible, but for a little while, he was tired of being both.
He just wanted to cry.