ii.
Duncan wakes up earlier than usual today.
He is met with the heat of summer and the darkness of his room; it's stifling.
He had drawn his blinds tightly since the day Klaus and Sunny arrived. He hasn't been greeted with the sun shining down upon in the early hours since she died. It's only fitting, when you are in mourning.
Except for the days Sunny, on wobbly legs, jumps onto his bed, proclaiming quite clearly, "It's morning! It's morning! It's morning!" With Isadora not too far behind, not exactly hovering over the small child be ready and waiting for any possible slip in footing.
Her voice is high and squicky and airy, as youth should be. She nibbles at his fingers, blows between his ears, poking his stomach when he is stubborn. He imagines that this is youth, that this is innocent.
(She doesn't remember everything that has gone on in her short life here on earth. She can't place names or understand the things that her brother, or they, talks about.
He fears the day that will come. Soon, they all know, she will not clearly remember Violet—her sister, her foster mother—much like how she can not clearly remember their mother's voice, her sweet perfume.
And Duncan hopes, with all the Klaus talks about—them and her—, that she never will forget.)
He sluggishly crawls out of bed, a yawn erupting from his chest and shaking his bones, leaving him wide awake; his messy hair and circles under his eyes evidence of his fitful sleep.
It is far too early in the morning to truly be awake. The sun has barely risen, the crickets still chirp in unison, and only a few birds dare to peak from the dark and sing.
He stalks down the halls, down the creaky stairs—paying careful attention not to step on the one squeaky step at the base—and past the living room, where he can clearly see Sunny sprawled on the couch. He watches her, for a long moment.
She's clutching a chewed-up doll she bought on one of her shopping trips with Isadora (probably as they where heading toward her hole-in-the-wall book shop). Her soft, breathy snores drift down the hall and sound almost like a lullaby to him.
He tries not to laugh—not too loud, anyway—as she burrows her face further into the pillow, her hair flaring about wildly; her limbs in a mess that only children and yoga instructor's can get their bodies into. He fears' waking her—of ruining this moment—because she sleeps lightly, as though still lost in that time when they had to run at a moment's call.
The kitchen is big and roomy with many cabinets and ugly, bright yellow, with polka dots, curtains at each window. The colors burn at his eyes; he thinks it is too early and too bright and he needs coffee, now, it seems.
(He makes himself a quick cup; stubbing his toe against one of the cabinets as he did so.)
His skin still feels oily and he feels dirty in his old cloths—the stick in impossible places like someone lathered on glue before he put it one; his hair coming at odd angles that could rival Sunny's even as he, casually, smoothes it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the sun peeking over hilltops in the window and through those ugly drapes that Sunny chose. He sees Klaus watering his garden—
His violets.
For a moment, Duncan just stares at Klaus and sees how much he's changed from that last time (and from That Day).
His hair is longer now than it ever had been previously; Sunny likes to tug at it when he holds her close; she likes to kiss the ends and play with it like it where some kind of beloved toy. His glasses slip further and further until they hang, perilously, on the tip of his nose. He's still thin but not as gaunt or sickly looking as he first did.
Duncan can see as Klaus waters Duncan's flowers—through his posture, the gleam in his eyes, the small smile on his lips—that Klaus looks like he is alive.
(He thinks it is about time.)
Soon, he forgets to ache.
iii.
When Duncan kisses him—his lips are chapped and cracking unlike…hers—Klaus can't help but cloths his eyes and—
He thinks of Violet, in her grave, rolling around, crying.
("You betrayed me, Klaus.")
He feels disgusting and ashamed and—
A tiny, indistinguishable, part of him is pleased.
THE END.
author's note: So that's the end to beautiful, broken boys. For now, anyway. I'm working on a longer, edited version of this chapter, since an event that happened recently in which most of my A Series of Unfortunate Events fanfics where deleted, as well as a few from my current fandoms. Most have been found while others are still missing; the edited version of this chapter(s), for instance.
It's a sucky way to announce a departure from this fandom, but one that is long over due. I hope to add onto this more, like I wanted, but due to lack of inspiration--i.e. caring--for this fandom, it looks like a long day coming. - pixie paramount (7/1/2008, 9:04 PM)