I'll tend to the flames (you can worship the ashes)

by Galysh

With his son ill, and his work needing all his attention, Asher swallows his pride and calls his family for help.

17

I'll tend to the flame (you can worship the ashes)

Dawn has just begun to trickle over the horizon when he departs his abode, hands shoved deep in his pockets and hood pulled low on his head. He stops at the edge of the property, fiddling with the worn iron gate that separates his lands from the public domain. When he finally hauls it open, it squeaks a protest, and he makes a mental note to oil the hinges. He steps past it, gaze fixated on the ground, taking note of the cracked sidewalk concrete disrupted by tree roots, desperate for some sort of nutrient. His heart pounds heavily within his chest, an overwhelming pressure that makes his ears ring in unhelpful sympathy and his lungs incapable of expanding to their full capacity. It takes conscious thought to remind himself to breathe, but even that hardly feels as enough. He crouches, pretending to tie his shoes, even as he grabs his shirt. Presses his palm into his chest and forces himself to inhale slowly. 1, 2, 3, 4, he thinks carefully, 4, 5, 6, 7, in and out. The counting helps somewhat, or perhaps it is because he is no longer locked in the depths of the nightmare that had sent him running for the bathroom only a few minutes ago. For what is not the first time, and will surely not be the last, he misses his husband's presence. However, Yvon is away visiting family and the house feels empty. Girart wishes then that he had invited himself along on Yvon's trip, but the desire is as stupid as it is selfish. He's aware that Yvon would not have denied his request, but his own job would have hounded his every step until the 'vacation' turned into a cesspool of online meetings, rendered all the more difficult because Yvon's sister lives in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. No, he had decided then and he stands by it now; it was far better to spare Yvon the additional stress and let him visit with his sister and her family in peace. Girart will be fine; he can manage a fortnight on his own without winding up in any sort of trouble.

That is what he had thought, but a mere two days after he'd dropped Yvon off at the airport, the night terrors had returned. Girart suspects that they are partly brought on by his job as it had been increasingly stressful of late due to no less than three employees being out on parental leave simultaneously. Girart doesn't understand what it is about the fall that makes babies start emerging from the woodwork, but it is highly aggravating when he needs his coworkers to focus on their tasks rather than cooing at photos of wrinkly proto-humans. However, as tempting as it would be to point that out, he'd kept his thoughts to himself because he wanted his coworkers to be well and, more importantly, return to work. It's not as if he can demand that they stop living their lives to attend a boring 8-5, so he'd swallowed his spite and shouldered the extra hours. With Olivier away at college and Yvon off in the mountains, there's no real reason for him to be making an effort to come home at a reasonable hour. More often than not, he finds himself staying until 8 pm or 9 pm before he calls it a day. Dinner is whatever simple meal he can scrounge up the energy to cook and then a glass of wine to calm his nerves before bed. Not that it has helped him so far, he still finds himself waking up throughout the night and instinctively patting around on the far side of the bed for where his husband should be — but is not — sleeping. Waking up at dawn, despite his late hours, is relatively easy when staying asleep for more than four hours in a row is as difficult as it is. If his coworkers notice the deepening of his eye bags, they're smart enough to not mention it when it means that their own loads are a little bit lighter. It is difficult to find fault in their logic when he knows himself well enough to know that he would brush off offers of assistance with cold pride, but all the same there is a part of him that wishes they would step up to the batting plate. He sighs, finishes with his stretching and sets off down the road at a rapid pace. Being that it is Saturday and an early morning at that, there are not many people out. He stops only to greet the German shepherd that lives at the corner of his street, doing their familiar little dance where they other race each other to the other end of the yard before he veers off and takes a trail that leads into the local park.

The trees there are sparse but large, massive branches stretching across the path as if ever seeking to reach the other side. In the summer, he likes sitting under them, relaxing in the coolness of the shade, as children of various ages scamper by climbing and hollering happily. It's an experience he never indulged in as a child, but to see others do so is almost as fun. The trail winds through greenery for a bit before debuting back out into streets of asphalt and sidewalks of concrete. The houses here are slightly smaller, built more vertical than they are sprawling to conserve as much space as possible. The town council has been making noises for years about building new apartment complexes but so far it has come to nothing, and Girart personally prefers it to stay that way. No matter the desires of the local bank, the town is just the right size in his opinion; it doesn't need to grow any bigger. He relishes in the peacefulness of the neighborhood, passing by the local elementary school with its 'Welcome new bats!' sign still proudly strung up, the grocery store that doubles as both their community center, library, and biggest gas station in town. It's unconventional, but Girart can understand the appeal of dropping the kids at the library while the parents go off to shake their fists at the podium. Eventually, when the sun was fully in the sky and the streets had begun to fill with life, he returned to his own home. His phone buzzes as he lets himself into the house, and he checks it absentmindedly, lips curling into the barest hint of a smile when he sees who it is from.

"Nerd," Girart says fondly, thumb swiping slowly through the absolute deluge of photos that Yvon had unloaded on him, the vast majority of which are of flowers he must have seen on his own run. Although a few were of Yvon himself accompanied by a young woman that must be his niece. Normally, Yvon and Girart run together in the mornings, but his husband is currently in a time zone six hours ahead, and their schedules are disjointed. Yvon must have changed his running schedule from early morning to midday if he's just now texting; it feels a little like they've been running together and his heart does a silly little double-tap. Go shower, you stink, he texts back rather than the positive tidal wave of mushy feelings currently swamping his brain, and then adds. Stay hydrated; I hear it's stupidly hot over there. Drops his cell on the counter and bends down to unlace his shoes before he carelessly kicks them in the shoe hutch's general direction. There is something liberating about being messy without worrying about someone yelling at him when the first twenty-five years of his life had been spent marching to someone else's tune. His phone buzzes again, no doubt a sarcastic response from Yvon, but when he looks at it, he sees an unfamiliar number reflecting back at him. Girart stares at it for a long moment, wracking his brain to see if he recognizes the area code, but the only thing he can ascertain is that it is not a local number. Shrugging, he abandons the phone in favor of a glass of water.

The call has gone to voicemail by the time he returns, but there are no new messages for him to listen to. He thinks that whatever or whoever it was, must not have been more important than that. Sipping his water, he scrolls through Yvon's latest series of texts, all positive and upbeat. Hearing that his husband is having fun goes a long way towards soothing his own nerves. The phone starts to vibrate again just as he's crafting an answer, and he glares at it, torn between the desire to ignore the call or answer the spam caller in German. Once more the call goes to voicemail, and he sighs in relief, resuming his texting. There is peace for nearly five minutes before it starts to vibrate again and Girart gives in, aggressively flicking his thumb across the screen.

"de Vienne," he snaps into it, expecting to hear the smarmy voice of an auto-insurer or a salesperson, but instead he is greeted with a relieved sigh.

"Girart," a familiar voice says on the other side, whispering his name as if it is the holiest of prayers, "nice of you to finally answer."

Girart holds the phone away from his ear, sticks his finger into said ear, wriggles it around roughly and then withdraws it. Satisfied that it is clean, he picks up the phone and asks in his driest, most unimpressed tone, "new phone. Who is this?"

There is silence on the other end for almost a full thirty seconds, and then it is broken by a spew of exasperated pseudo-curses that are all entirely Asher, for his brother is the only one who would bother to say "shitake mushrooms" rather than the much faster "shit." The tension that had taken his heart and lungs hostage when he'd first heard his name dissolves. The part of himself that is still weak and reliant on other people is relieved to hear Asher's voice; five years of radio silence is a long time even for a family that made a point of not staying in touch. The rest of him, however, is mostly annoyed at having his peaceful Saturday interrupted. "What do you want?" he asks tiredly, barreling straight through whatever it was Asher had been rambling about.

"Were you not listening?!" Asher's voice jumps two octaves higher in evident exasperation. Girart merely hums and leans against the counter, his fingers drumming an impatient beat against his thigh. He lets the "no" hang unspoken but evident in the air between them. Asher sighs loudly and pointedly, but he summarizes his previous rambles into three words. "Sirius is sick."

Girart blinks unbidden an image of the last time he had seen Sirius pops into his head. The toddler had been sitting in Olivier's lap, waving his little fists as he excitedly babbled about his favorite foods. That had been five years ago, so the kid must no longer be a toddler, he surmises, but not yet old enough to survive on his own either. "It happens; kids are walking bags of germs," he says, and then as fear sinks its cold claws into his heart, "why are you calling me?"

"You really need to get your ears checked," Asher says, and Girart can tell his patience is running low, not that he ever had a lot of it to begin with. "I'm calling because I need your help; my son is sick —"

"You're a doctor," Girart interrupts, "if the kid is that sick, you deal with it. Don't drag me into whatever mess you've tripped into this time." If Yvon had been there, he's certain he would have been treated to a disapproving look at a minimum. His husband believes that if Girart just tried hard enough he'd be able to reconnect with his siblings. Girart doesn't understand how he's able to maintain that level of optimism when he's met Renier — the man who not only formed but was the president of an anti-LGBTQIA club in high school — but he's more than willing to be the pessimist in their relationship. He doesn't mind being the black sheep in their family, even if realistically speaking, his far from the only one. After all, out of four children, only Renier has managed to stay in their parent's good graces throughout the years. Girart isn't sure whether that speaks worse of his brother or his parents' tutelage. Thinking about that however, just reminds him of his own failures and he pushes the thoughts away angrily. Even though both Asher and Milon had struck out on their own, somehow it is him that has disappointed his parents the most for the mere sin of being —

"Girart, are you even listening?" Asher's exasperated voice cut through the spiral of his thoughts as effectively as a knife through melting butter. "Would it kill you to make an effort here, this is important!"

"Yes," Girart replies honestly because while he's never been a liar, he is a tad dramatic. "Are you even aware of what you're asking from me? I'm already working 60 hours a week; I don't have the time or the inclination to drag myself off to wherever you are." Asher inhales as if to start yelling and speaks swiftly before he can. "Last I checked you had no need or desire for my assistance with your new circus life. You've made it quite clear that you wanted nothing to do with me, Montmirail." Spits the name out like the curse he intends it to be and hears Asher inhale sharply. Satisfaction flows through his veins like water running through a gully and he smiles to himself, it is not a kind expression but Girart has never deluded himself into thinking that he is a kind person. He's that self-aware at least. He's expecting Asher to realize the pointlessness of this conversation and hang up, but to his surprise he hears the man clear his throat as if planning to ply his case once more.

"I - I - Look, I'm sorry," Asher says after a few painful sounding false starts. "But this is important, so please, I - I'm begging you here, Girart, I need back up." His voice stutters and wobbles over his words, the apology sounding as if it has been dragged out of the depths of a cavern and only just barely made it past Asher's clenched jaw, but Girart knows his brother and knows equally well how utterly rare it was for him to admit a fault. To hear him do so now is beyond shocking and for several painful heartbeats it is all he can do to sit in silence. Not once before has Asher ever apologized to him, not when he accidentally kicked a ball through his science project or when he'd outed him to their parents in a fit of rage. Apologies are simply something that Asher does not do; he's inherited that much from his parents at least.

"Say again, I didn't catch that," he says shakily, unable to resist needling the bastard a little. The strength of Asher's answering sigh is so strong that he can nearly feel it through the phone line, as impossible as that is.

"You are a cruel and cold individual," Asher starts and Girart responds by making the 'beep beep' noise of a disconnected line. "But," Asher continues in a remarkable display of self-control, "I'm sorry for my part in your estrangement from the family, and for - for," he trails off, his silence more telling than any words he might have been.

"For leaving," Girart supplies helpfully, and even now, years later it still hurts a little when he remembers how he had been cast aside. "And I get along just fine with my family, thank you very much." If he defines the word 'family' a term that applies exclusively to Yvon and Olivier, then it is even a truthful statement.

"You left first," Asher mutters, perhaps not intended for Girart's ears, but he hears all the same and an ugly scoff escapes immediately. "I didn't leave, brother dearest, I was shipped off to boot camp, against my will, mind you. I just chose to stay because it turned out that the brothers I made there were kinder than my own blood relatives."

"It's because you say shit like that that you never get invited over for dinner," Asher says icily, but Girart could hear the hurt pride in his voice as clear as day. His brother had never quite managed to master his tone when feeling emotional. Their mother often scolded him for raising his voice at the dinner table or not maintaining a polite enough tone when responding to people. Their mother had many such ideals, most of which Girart had since forgotten but it is easy to see the traces of her presence when he speaks with his brothers. Perhaps that is why he hated speaking with them; they are an ugly reminder of the child he'd once been. "Do you still receive Christmas cards? Because I do."

"I'm hanging up now," Girart says simply and flicks his thumb across the end call button, mercilessly cutting off Asher's squawk of outrage. Carefully he sets his phone on the counter, takes two steps away and then unleashes a scream of sheer rage, his fist slamming into the wall with all the anger his body has been building up throughout the years. It's not as if he hadn't been aware that his parents still made attempts to speak with Asher, they'd tried to apply for guardianship of his child after all but it still hurts. He hasn't spoken to them in nearly a decade, hasn't seen them since he was 18 and still foolishly hopeful that they might yet forgive him for the sin of being gay. For Asher to rub that in his face is just one more reason for him to dislike the man that had once been his closest sibling, and yet, despite the rage and the pain waging equal warfare in his heart there is a part of him that wants to go. Even now, when he had thought himself rid of foolish sentimentality he still desires to go to Asher's aid. He blames Olivier for softening his heart over the years, if he'd never taken in his nephew then he wouldn't be feeling this way now about the prospect of another nephew being in need. He sighs heavily and slowly unclenches his fist, inspecting his knuckles. The skin has split slightly, blood escaping from the scrapes left behind, but as his fingers still move when he flexes them he doesn't spare them any more attention. He takes the time to finish his water, mentally turning over what he'll say to Asher and then when he feels somewhat settled, he calls him back.

The phone rings for a long time, and for a few hopeful moments he thinks it might go to voicemail thus relieving him of his duties, but then it picks up. "I forgot to say —"

"That you're an asshole?" Asher interrupts and then makes a noise of alarm. "Shitake! Sirius cover your ears; erase that from your memory banks right now!" Mumbling ensues through the line, an inaudible voice saying something back that has Asher sighing like he's carrying the weight of the world. "Do as I say not as I do; now drink your tea and be quiet." More mumbling in response followed by a series of coughs — that even through the phone wire — sound absolutely horrendous. Girart rubs his own throat in mute sympathy.

"A+ parenting right there," Girart says when it sounds like he's finished, "that kid is going to get so many demerits for having a foul mouth."

"No he won't," Asher retorts, "unlike you he has a solid control of when to speak or not to speak."

"Knowing you, it's the latter more than the former," Girart says mildly, still smarting from the blow that Asher had dealt him earlier. "Does he still say fwuck?" Some might call him a fool for bringing up that word, but Girart finds himself spurred on by some sense of morbid curiosity that has him walking out in front of the locomotive named Asher. There is silence for so long that he wonders if it is Asher who has hung up this time, but then there is a sound so rare and unfamiliar that it takes him several moments to realize that Asher is chuckling. "It took him five months to grow tired of that word, you ought to be proud," he says.

"I'm the proudest," Girart says after a beat, hesitating as he considers how to continue on this mostly positive vein. The Yvon that lives rent free in the back of is mind is whispering unhelpful encouragements, something about common ground. "Speaking of accomplishments, Olivier made it into Paracelsus University," he says.

"…Olivier?"

His mood darkens so fast it feels as if he has had a bucket of ice cold water dumped over his head. "Your nephew," he hisses, "Renier's eldest. You've met him before."

"Oh him." Is the blatantly dismissive answer, "that's the one who took Sirius to roll around in the filth and much, yes?"

"I am going to kick you so hard that you won't be able to produce any more children," Girart says evenly and means every single word of his threat. Waits a loaded moment before he continues, "Olivier is the one that baby-sat your spawn while you were indisposed, yes. You're lucky he's a kind and forgiving soul because he bears no grudge against you for your atrocious reaction to him."

He hears shuffling through the phone line and Asher says in an uncertain voice. "You speak as if you care about him." Though his words were not phrased as such, Girart can hear the question in them as clear as day.

"He's a good kid," is all he says, not wanting to give Asher an inch lest he decide to take a mile. Asher hums noncommittedly but Girart reads the judgment in the sound all the same and bristles angrily. "Mind your tone," he warns, "I wasn't joking about kicking you."

"So, you'll come help then?" Asher asks, as per usual only interpretating the words that he desires to hear. "In order to kick me you'll need to be here in person, you know." Girart sighs, and then sighs again when that does little to appropriately showcase the depth of his exasperation.

"I was an army medic, I never passed my exams," Girart reminds him, the words escaping far more sharply than he intends. Even years later, the memory of his failures still sat heavily on his shoulders. Out of the four of them, he'd been the only one not accepted into the prestigious Vardhar Medical School, it hardly mattered that the military was quite satisfied with his talents, his parents had been disappointed. "If," and here, Girart had to pause to breath before the tremble in his voice can betray him, "if you want a qualified doctor you really should be calling Milon not me." He shoves away from the counter, having grown tired of his muscles complaining and relocates to the couch instead. Sprawls out on it as best he can when it feels like ants coursing through his veins.

"I haven't talked to Milon since I dipped out," Asher answers honestly, "I don't even have his phone number." He doesn't ask how their eldest brother is, and Girart doesn't tell him. If Asher cared he was perfectly capable of doing his own research. The silence drags on for another few moments, and Girart imagines that Asher is sitting still as stone on the other side of the phone, waiting for him to break first. Once upon a time, Girart might have done so because he was young and foolish, and desired little else than his brother's attention but he's since outgrown that youthful stupidity. If Asher thinks that he can guilt him into spending the weekend living God knows where, he needs to spend more time thinking —

"I have a job," Girart hears himself say, a last ditch effort to get himself out of committing.

"If you won't use your vacation hours, and I know that you will not, because you're a Montmirail, then rest assured. There is WIFI here," Asher says, taking his victory in stride and speaking with such a self-assured tone that it is almost as if he'd known he would win in the end.

"I'd be a terrible babysitter if I worked instead of watching your sick spawn," Girart points out, rather than the string of curse words brewing in his gut because in that moment he has never hated Asher more. Arguing more is pointless when he knows he's already given in, the moment that he'd broken first had been his downfall just like has been every time prior.

"You won't be watching my boy," Asher replies, "That's my job. I need you to look after the infirmary. If you can handle that for the weekend and maybe the beginning of next week, it should all work out. See, it's not so bad."

"It sounds like hell," Girart says, because he's never been one to let Asher get away with being smug for long. "But I'll do it, because unlike you, I actually care about my nephew's well being." The little angel shaped Yvon that lived rent-free in the back of his mind, was practically flailing about in distress. Girart imagined that the real Yvon would have also been flailing had he overheard this conversation.

"I care about my nephew," Asher replies, but his words would have sounded a lot more convincing if he hadn't also sounded so unsure.

"You didn't even remember Olivier's name," Girart says dryly, "talk about being a shitty uncle. I bet you don't know how many children Milon has either."

"Does he have kids?"

"Well, no, but that's not the point," Girart says with a huff. "I know your son's name the least you could do is learn the name of mine." It isn't until Asher asks in a startled voice "you and Yvon had a kid?" that he realizes just what he said. Girart feels his face start to heat up and he sinks lower on the couch, pathetically grateful that there is no one around to hear his slip-up. It's not as if Olivier would mind, of that he's positive but there is a large difference between thinking of someone as your son and actually saying it allowed. Renier has never quite forgiven him for — as he put it 'stealing his eldest child' — he doesn't want to imagine what the response would be if he made it legal.

"Ah," Asher says into the silence, and his tone has far too much perceptiveness. "I am beginning to understand, I had thought it strange that that boy was —"

"Give me your address, I'll catch the earliest train out," Girart cuts him off, "the sooner I get out there the better, right?" The last thing he desires is to be analyzed by Asher of all people, the bastard is just intelligent enough to make him feel as if he was being truly seen. Going to a therapist is more appealing than sitting through one of Asher's Twenty Questions games. It's not as if he doesn't desire to be understood, merely that he has no desire to allow Asher in.

"I'll pick you up from the train station," Asher says and a moment later his phone beeped with an incoming text.

"I'll walk," Girart replies automatically, "might as well enjoy my last few moments of freedom."

"I'll pick you up," Asher says again, firmly, and ends the call.

Girart stares down at his phone for several minutes, unsure what he should be feeling right now. Relief perhaps that Asher was not dead? Happiness that his brother cared enough to go out of his way to pick him up, or anger that his assistance was once again being taken for granted. It's the same thing that had occurred five years ago when Asher had called him from a payphone and asked if he could spend the night. He hadn't even been in the same state, but Girart had gone because his brother had sounded terrified. And now as well, he finds himself packing a duffel bag with all haste, taking the items that he'll need on top of his work. It is not so much of a vacation that he is planning but a workcation, and not a single inch of him is pleased. He books the earliest train out, wincing when he sees that it barely gives him enough time to shower much less call Yvon and update him on the situation. He forgoes the latter in favor of scrubbing off the top layer of dirt, and then goes through the house shutting off appliances. There is something nostalgic about the actions for the last time he had been on a trip of any sort had been to take Olivier and his friends to the beach, two years prior. Vacations were truly not a regular occurrence.

He makes it to the train with only a few minutes to spare, and scrunches himself down in a seat as far away from the general populace as he can. Once settled, he puts on his headphones and calls his husband. After a brief but fruitful conversation that leaves him feeling as if he might actually be able to survive this trip, he gets out his laptop and starts getting ahead on the work week. The more he can do now, the less he'll have to do on Monday, he thinks tiredly, and buckles in for the long haul.

Hours go by, time tracked only in the draining of his laptop battery, and the increasing soreness of his spine as he remains bent over the keyboard. He gains a seatmate at one point, only to scare them away with a badly timed swear, and then is left alone for the rest of the ride. When the words on the screen begin to blur together, he stows his laptop and leans his head against the window, eyes closing of their own volition. Opens them again to the crackling voice of the conductor announcing his stop, after what feels like only a scant handful of minutes. However, his phone tells him that it has been at least an hour. Yawning, Girart sends a error ridden text to Asher, to tired to bother with his spelling and then gathers his bag and stumbles to the exit. The station he is deposited upon is more of a poorly meshed collection of buildings than an actual train station. He half expects to see horse drawn carriages on the other side of the terminal rather than a parking lot with a handful of cars. He looks around for any sign of Asher's mustang before he remembers that the man is likely driving a different vehicle after fifteen years, if he even still has one. He makes his way to a lonesome bench on the sidewalk, resting against his head on his duffel. It's not the most comfortable of pillows but he'll take what he can get given the circumstances. Closing his eyes feels like giving in, so he settles for staring up at the clouded sky instead, tracing it repeatedly in search of patterns. Just as he thinks he might need to start walking, the horrid rumblings of some vehicle catches his attention. Turns his head and sees an old truck making a beeline straight for him, smoke emerging in spurts and clouds from its exhaust pipe.

Girart sighs and sits up, dragging a hand through his messy hair as he waits to see if this is Asher come to fetch him or some one else headed to the train. The truck halts in front of him much to his dismay and then the door swings open with gusto and out steps a man. The first thing he notices is the man's height, at least a head taller than Yvon's 190 cm, and the next is his sheer breadth. His plaid shirt does little to hide the width of his shoulders, or the muscles when he lifts an arm and waves. "You must be Asher's lil'brother," he says by way of greeting, his voice booming in the otherwise quiet parking lot.

If Girart is slow to respond it is only because he can't recall the last time he was introduced as being a relation of Asher, and he manages a polite enough nod after a few taught breaths. The man appears to take no offence, stepping in close to clap a hand on Girart's shoulder. "My, but the two of you look similar, is that all you've brought?"

"I won't be staying long," Girart answers and steps away from his hand. "Asher couldn't make it?" Although, he's not surprised some manner of disappointment must have slipped into his voice for the stranger gives him a much sharper look, his eyes sweeping him over from toe to head. Instinctively, Girart straightens up, hating feeling like he's being assessed or worse, compared to his brother. He rolls his shoulders, ignoring his left one when it twinges in protest with the ease of long practice, and picks up his duffel. "Who are you?"

"Very similar indeed," the man says again, looking amused. "I am Cyrille, troupe leader of this circus. The little one's state has taken a turn for the worse, so here I am in his stead." He gestures towards the truck with one hand. "Come along, we'll have you back in no time." He stalks off without so much of a glance over his shoulder. Girart hesitates, eyeing the muddy vehicle and then weighs the prospect of walking anyway, but he doesn't know how far of a walk it is and if this is the troupe leader, pissing him off is probably something he ought not to do. He follows after him. The truck looks no less appealing on the inside than on the outside, but Girart reminds himself that he has sat on worse as he clambers inside and then wonders if its too late to walk when he realizes that there's no seatbelt. "Don't worry," Cyrille says cheerfully, "no one has fallen out in years."

"My concern has suddenly grown exponentially higher," Girart replies without thought, and then stiffens when he hears a chuckle. They set off, the truck taking every pothole and speedbump with equal parts grace and height. Girart swallows carefully and grips his knees, trying not to flinch every time they hit a rut in the road. Although beautiful, the scenery outside is not enough to keep his attention so he looks around inside instead. Noting the little Jonny Cash bobblehead on the dash, and the plastic horse figurine next to it. There is a story there he's sure, but not one he dares to ask after. Glances out of the corner of his eye to see Cyrille observing him rather than watching the road. "Can I help you?" He asks, tensely.

"No need to be so defensive," Cyrille replies and yet his attention remains fixed on Girart, like he's trying to figure out what exactly it is that makes him tick. Girart frowns and turns his attention to the road instead, his shoulders only growing more tense under the weight of such intense scrutiny. Its not the first time that he's been under such pressure, and he's well aware that it'll likely not be the last, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. Just then the truck hits a particularly vicious bump and he leaves the seat for a few heart stopping seconds before settling back in. Cyrille grunts softly, "the roads out here are particularly bad. No point in replacing them when a lot of the travel is by horse."

"I rather think the horses would prefer to not be breaking a leg in these holes," Girart replies stiffly, and then bristles when he hears another chuckle. "Nor was that a joke."

"Asher made mention that his brother had a sharp tongue, I see he did not speak lightly," is all Cyrille says, spinning the wheel and taking them down a road so bumpy it might be less of a road and more of a dirt path. He says nothing else for the rest of the ride, perhaps realizing that Girart has very little desire to be here. After a time they pass under a huge sign declaring that they are now entering the "Cirque de la Lune" and Cyrille drives for a little while longer before he stops next to a decently sized RV, with a caduceus painted on its side. "Here we go, this is your stop." Girart eyes it for a moment, taking in the curtain clad windows and the relatively clean exterior. He gets out, albeit reluctantly, but before he can grab his bag Cyrille snatches it up and strides up to the door. Girart swallows a sigh, makes a valiant effort to wipe away some of the exhaustion on his face and follows him up a set of rickety wooden stairs. He thinks he spies movement in the curtain as Cyrille knocks loudly.

The door swings open a moment later and there on the other side stands Asher de Montmirail né de Vienne. He looks much as Girart remembers him being in his youth, from his curly brown hair to his austere expression, as his lips press together in silent displeasure. Dark shadows are beneath his eyes, and Girart imagines they are an equal match to his own. His eyes are a chilled grey when he sweeps them from Cyrille down to Girart and then back again. "Thank you for bringing him," he says cooly, but his posture is the opposite of welcoming.

"Anytime son," Cyrille replies with a smile that is so genuine it physically hurts to look at. He deposits the duffel bag and turns around, the smile long gone by the time he's facing Girart again. Girart eyes him for a moment and then wordlessly moves out of the way, his mind in turmoil from that bombshell that had just been dropped on his unprepared ears. He watches the troupe leader swing back into his truck and rumble off in another direction before slowly turning his attention back to Asher. His brother is still standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and an uncomfortable look in his eyes.

"How's the kid?" Girart asks, rather than the question Asher was clearly expecting. "If you'd texted, I could have walked you know. Instead of troubling your boss." He steps back up the stairs and bullies his way into the RV via poking at Asher's shoulder until he steps back far enough. The door shutting behind them has the same damning finality as a coffin lid closing. The interior is sparsely decorated, he spies a small kitchen filled with dirty dishes, a table covered in books, a pile of cushions on the floor and in the far corner a drawn curtain.

"Asleep," Asher says quietly and gestures towards said curtain. "He's running a fever; as you can see there's not much room here, but we'll figure something out. You're used to roughing it out, I imagine." He slips past Girart and takes his duffel moving it someplace more out of the way. "Settle in, I'll show you to your station whenever you're ready." As he speaks he flutters about the space on careful feet, picking up items on the table and moving them somewhere else only to pick them up again a second later. Girart grows tired of watching after the third time it happens.

"Asher."

His brother gives no sign that he's heard him, too busy re-arranging the curtains as if the view of grass was somehow better than the goldfish patterning. Girart rolls his eyes and when his brother wanders past him, he reaches out quick as a flash and grabs his shoulder. "Sit down." Asher looks at him as if he has broken some sort of code of conduct, his eyebrows furrowing in preparation to argue. "You're exhausted," Girart says before he can, "I'm exhausted. But unlike you, I'm perfectly willing to smack some sense into your head so sit down and rest. You can show me around once you've got some shut eye." Glares at him with all the energy that he can muster, which turns out to be a lot when he remembers how pissed off he is at Asher, and sees the other man's shoulders slump. Satisfied, he watches him slink over to the armchair and sit down. Without sparing him another thought, he removes his windbreaker and heads to the sink. Up close the dirty dishes are even less appealing, but Girart has survived boarding school and the military, he can stand to scrub some dishes. Encouraged on by some long forgotten sense of responsibility, he washes them and then washes the sink to for good measure. After finishing that, he moves on to the table, stacking the books and returning them to their place on the nearby shelves. Of course Asher would have replaced any extra sleeping room with bookcases, he thinks in no small amount of amusement. He's just considering sweeping when he hears muffled coughing from the direction of the curtains.

Glances to Asher first and sees that the man is fast asleep, mouth open as he snores. He doesn't look as if he'll be awakening anytime soon. Girart snags a freshly cleaned mug, fills it with water, and then makes his way over to the curtain. "Knock knock," he says softly and pushes his way through. The bed on the other side is a mess of sheets and blankets, all wrapped around the small frame of a boy with curly black hair and a flushed face. He looks up at the intrusion, a hopeful expression transforming into one far more wary and mistrustful within the span of a few seconds. "I'm your uncle," Girart says, correctly interpreting the question on the boy's face. "Your father's taking a nap right now, don't worry."

"I wasn't worried," the boy replies in a worried tone. His hands tremble slightly as he accepts the mug and then takes a careful sip. "I have an uncle?" He asks after a few sips, and Girart does his best to pretend that the question doesn't hurt. Inquisitive, if tired eyes, turn towards him and the boy looks him over slowly. Girart allows the perusal only because it is a child he is dealing with and he would rather not scare the boy. "I didn't know my mom had siblings," he whispers.

"I wouldn't know either seeing as how I'm your father's younger brother," Girart says dryly, "you've gotten bigger since the last time I saw you, kid." Sirius blinks at him in confusion. Right, toddler, Girart thinks, mentally giving himself a cuff over the head. "Never mind, do you need anything? Are you hungry?"

The boy looks at him something a lot like fear in his eyes, then looks down again, fiddling with a small horse plushie in his lap. He doesn't answer, not even when Girart makes an encouraging sound. Girart stares at him for a bit longer and then slips back into the main room, figuring that if the kid gets hungry he'll merely come out and ask. The kid does not emerge to ask for food, remaining curled up in his bed whenever Girart sticks his head through the curtain to check on him. He's not worried, he tells himself as he starts rifling through the fridge and pantry; he's merely slightly concerned. After some hunting he finds some chicken bits in the fridge, pasta in the back of a cabinet and gets to work making a light soup. It is nothing fancy, nor even something he himself particularly likes, but the texture and ingredients will hopefully be easy for Sirius to digest. While the soup simmers, he continues cleaning, eventually digging out a set of spare sheets for the bed and most importantly a hammock. While not ideal, he'll happily sleep in that rather than the RV floor. When he next checks on the food, he sees a small figure sitting at the table. Girart smiles to himself and pours him a small bowlful of soup, setting it in front of the boy. "Eat up, you'll need your strength."

Sirius observes him quietly as he eats, his eyes akin to two great pools of water so emotive are their depths. He lacks his father's aquiline nose, deep-set eyes, or even his sharp jawline and Girart assumes that means he's gotten most of his physical appearance from his mother. There is a wariness to the boy that he was not expecting, but he supposes makes sense when he considers how Asher is as a person. Once more he finds himself unsure how he feels about the situation, even less so when Sirius wordlessly gets up and waddles off to wash his bowl on his own. Telling him that he can leave it in the sink only earns him a stubborn pout, so he leaves him be and goes to wake the older pest instead. Asher is beyond reluctant to awaken, swatting away Girart's first attempts and then cursing him out in barely audible French when he tries again. Girart tolerates that for only as long as he needs to fetch a glass of water and dumps it on Asher's face, resulting in him coming awake with a spluttering of pure rage. "Food," Girart says and ignores his angry hissing in favor of brewing up Sirius a cup of tea. He's not sure how the boy likes his beverages, but Olivier prefers honey over sugar so he goes with that. Brings the mug to him and in time to catch him halfway through stripping his bed. "What are you doing?"

Sirius freezes like a deer in the headlights, his eyes growing even bigger. Girart repeats the question in a sharper tone when he fails to answer. "Sick," Sirius mumbles after a bit, his gaze fixed on the ground. "When sick, change sheets regularly." He peeks up briefly, and once more Girart spots the fear lurking in his eyes before he lowers his head again, and simply shuffles in place.

"Sick people aren't responsible for changing the sheets," he points out and Sirius responds with a shrug. He resumes his self appointed task, wobbling in place like a newly born foal. "Stop that," he snaps and takes the edge of the bedding from him. Sirius startles and skitters away with an alarmed noise. He presses his back against the RV wall, staring at Girart with large eyes, and the fear present there is so potent as to be palpable, but Girart can't begin to imagine what he had done or said to place it there. Sirius hadn't been afraid of him until after he'd introduced himself as Asher's brother, but there was no way that Sirius should have any experience with them. He knows that Asher would never bring his son within a hundred miles of Renier, and he's already said that he hasn't spoken with Milon in years, so all that remains is himself. Perhaps, Girart thinks bitterly, he is far scarier than he had assumed. Olivier had also been scared of him when he was younger. However, this realization does little to mitigate his irritation or heighten his patience. "I'm not going to hurt —"

The words die in his throat as he hears footsteps behind him and he turns his head just enough to see Asher standing behind him, wary concern written in large print across his face. Girart sees his gaze move past him to Sirius — scared and in the corner — and knows that explaining himself is already a lost cause. His prediction is only proved correct when he spots the brewing storm of protective anger on Asher's face.

"I told you," Girart says swiftly, "I'm a terrible babysitter." Sets the tea down on the nearest surface and flees the RV before he can cause any more damage. Outside, the sun has nearly set bringing with it a refreshing coolness, that soothes the embarrassed stinging of his cheeks. He checks his phone, instinctively wanting to call Yvon but if the hour is late for him, it is even later for his husband, and he stows it away again with a curse. Allows his feet to carry him hither and thither as he wanders through the camp, noticing the array of different RVs and tents covering the landscape. In the distance, he spots horses and swiftly heads in the opposite direction, having never been a fan of the giant creatures. He spots the main tent next, recognizable from the loud sounds of laughter and merriment that emerge from it. Glancing inside gives him a brief look at an ongoing show before he catches sight of the bouncer and swiftly continues on his way. The infirmary is also easily found, but Girart does not set foot inside what he can only assume is Asher's domain, and instead about faces to go the opposite direction. Eventually, he runs out of ground to cover and finds himself sitting on a table near the food trucks. There are still folks about but he suspects that the ongoing show must be the last one of the evening, for there are far less than he might have otherwise expected.

Left with nothing to do, he leans back on his hands and stares at the sky. He leans further back, resting his head on his arms as he watches the sky grow from sunset to twilight to dusk as the stars start to emerge. Some constellations he recognizes, others he doesn't, but their twinkling is comforting in as much as a distant ball of gas can be comforting. He doesn't intend to fall asleep there, not laying on a table for all the world to see, but the peacefulness of the countryside and a week's worth of built up exhaustion soon lull him into the depths of slumber.

"—work. I take it you two aren't close?"

"We used to be, but you know how it is. Growing up, sometimes people just drift apart. It hardly helps that we're both a bit of an ass."

Consciousness returns to the unpleasant sound of voices, and Girart reluctantly opens his eyes to see that it is well and truly dark outside. Rubs at his eyes and sits up partially, some instinct whispering to him that he's being observed and he sees that it is indeed so, for when he looks to his left there stands Asher, hands in his pockets and a flashlight strapped to his head. Next to him is the Troupe Leader, Cyrille, and Girart abruptly remembers that he had referred to Asher as his son. The reminder is enough to jolt the last traces of sleep from his system, and he sits up fully, glaring at both of them defensively. "What," he snaps, "I got tired of waiting around for you." Draws some measure of pleasure when he sees annoyance immediately blossom on Asher's face, but it fades just as quickly when the man merely gestures as if to say 'see?' Cyrille arches a bushy eyebrow and his unimpressed face reminds him so much of a disappointed parent that Girart ducks his head automatically and looks away.

"I was going to let you sleep," Asher begins magnanimously, "seeing as how you clearly need it, but unfortunately the work day starts early and I would rather show you now, instead of tomorrow." Girart gives him a suspicious look, taking in his appearance and that of Cyrille's, if he didn't know better he would think that his brother had been out looking for him. Checks his phone warily, and sees to his surprise that there are several missed calls. He winces. "Sorry, it was on mute," he says, because while Asher might not know how to apologize, Girart isn't him.

"I'd assumed you were ignoring my phone calls again," Asher replies, an odd expression on his face, almost as if he's unsure how to proceed. Girart can hardly fail to miss how he looks to Cyrille for support.

"Yes well, I have your number now," Girart retorts and walks over to him, tugging his clothing back into a semblance of order. "Show me what you need done, it's already late." Asher hums thoughtfully, eyes narrowed as he looks at Girart but whatever it is that he finds, he clearly decides to not pursue for he spins on his heels and walks away a moment later. Girart follows him and Cyrille takes up the rear, bracketing him with the glow of their flashlights. Asher brings him to the infirmary, walking him through the tent and attached RV and introducing him to the few patients currently there. Girart takes all of it in stride, though he cannot fail to notice the difference in treatment he recieves when compared to Asher. Although, the man is as cold and emotive as a lump of snow, his patients treat him with nothing less than respect and fondness. They ask him how Sirius is doing and crack jokes without the slightest hint of nerves. It becomes clear quite quickly that Asher has built himself a community out here in the middle of nowhere, and although Girart knows he should feel happy for him, he can't quite swallow down the acidic tinge of jealousy. Afterward, he brings him to the main attraction areas, pointing out where each first aid kit is located and rambling off important facts. Girart takes it all in as best he can, writing down a few of the longer ones on his phone, and asking questions about those he doesn't understand. For once Asher speaks without reserve or insult, and Girart meets him halfway by keeping his own town as professional as he can. It's rather nice being able to hold an entire conversation with his brother without once wanting to punch him in the nose.

The tour ends back at the RV, only the two of them left for Cyrille had excused himself awhile back, and Girart finds himself hovering at the foot of the stairs, reluctant to enter. "I was thinking I could set up the hammock and sleep outside," he says, gesturing in the vague direction of trees. It's hard to tell in the gloom what is a tree and what is a dwelling.

Asher looks at him for a moment, that same odd expression on his face and then he sighs, evidently exasperated. "Contriteness is not a good look on you; get up here and have dinner. Don't think I didn't notice you skipping out." Girart opens his mouth to argue; there are a dozen retorts he could spit out, each more vicious than the last but Asher is holding the door open for him and he finds that he doesn't want to fight. He steps closer, lingering on the doorway for another moment much to Asher's visible annoyance. "Hey," he starts and then stops, for once struggling to find the correct words. Side eyes his brother to see that he is frowning again, his jaws tense with his unspoken words.

"Never mind," Girart mutters and slips past him into the warmth of the RV.

"It's because you look like our father," Asher says, and though his voice is quiet, in the previous stillness of the air it sounds as loud as thunder. Girart feels his stomach roil abruptly, bile lapping at the back of his throat. "I took him to see our parents," Asher continues mercilessly, "they insisted and I thought, foolishly, that even though they don't love me, they might still love the boy. But they — they tried to t-take him from me, and now…." He trails off, his voice cracking and buckling under the weight of his words. "Siri… the stress of it all, I think. He first started showing systems when we got back from the trip." Girart turns to him instinctively and sees that his eyes are glassy; the sight pains him far more than he could have ever imagined it would. Asher wipes at his eyes, his shoulders rounding in and Girart goes to him without thought or hesitation, pulling him into his arms and pressing his face against his shoulder like he might have if he were hugging Olivier.

"It's not your fault," He offers, expecting Asher to pull away but instead he finds arms wrapping around him as his brother all but collapses against him. "Ash…?" Girart asks but when the only response he receives is angry snuffling, he settles into his new role without another word, awkwardly rubbing Asher's back. After a while, his brother starts to squirm and Girart is more than willing to release him, stumbling back a few steps. Asher wipes his eyes again and coughs awkwardly, his face the same color as a tomato. He rubs the back of his neck and coughs again, so clearly unsure as to how to proceed now that Girart finds himself obligated to say something, anything, to break the silence.

"Are you getting shorter with your old age?" He asks, "I don't remember you being that much smaller than me." Asher's mouth opens and closes like a fish's but then he gives a helpless sort of laugh, all shaken and high-pitched. Girart chuckles, and when Asher heats him up a bowl of soup before unceremoniously shoving him into the armchair, he feels like there might still be hope for them after all.

Sunday's sun comes swiftly, and Girart leaves Asher with his son to go and take care of his duties. In the daylight, the circus is far busier than he could ever have expected and he finds himself running to and fro without a chance to take a break, much less sit down and eat. If this is what Asher has been dealing with, he can understand why he struggled under the weight of his duties. And while Girart will certainly never tell him to his face, the sheer level of respect that the other troupe workers have towards his brother fills him with pride. While he wasn't looking, too busy drowning in his own issues, Asher had gone and built himself a community that loved and respected him and Girart can both understand and respect the level of commitment that such an endeavor takes. So, he keeps his mouth shut when the workers make innocent comparisons to his brother, plasters on a smile where he would normally be glaring, and does his utmost to lessen the load if only by a little. His efforts pay off for by the time Asher emerges from the RV there is no work for him to do, leaving him free to sit with his son and read him stories. Although, Girart personally thinks that he's a little young for the Brothers Grimm, neither Sirius nor Asher agree with him, and he knows a losing battle when he sees one.

With Asher's quiet and melodic voice reading tales of horror as a soundtrack, he sits at the table and gets out his laptop, once more trying to get ahead on the incoming week. He falls asleep there, head pillowed on his arms, and awakens with a back so sore he has to talk himself into standing up. Asher laughs at him, but as he also places a cup of coffee in front of him, Girart is willing to let that particular offense slide. Monday is no less busy than Sunday had been, rendered all the worse by the fact that he spends the afternoon sitting in on a skype call that really could have been a video. He's not even on camera, yet he feels obligated to sit up straight at the infirmary desk and take notes when he's not acting as a pseudo-Asher. At least, after the fifth time, most workers have gotten the hint that he doesn't appreciate being referred to as Montmirail's kid brother, or any other variation. Monday afternoon is a time for celebration, as Sirius' fever breaks, and the boy spends as much time as he can toddling after Girart demanding to know "what he thinks he's doing" with fewer words and far more staring. He doesn't take the hint after the second time that Girart kicks him out of the infirmary, so he eventually gives in to his new shadow and prays that Asher will return from town soon.

He does not.

When the circus has finally closed for the day, Girart brings his shadow back to the RV, and sets him down in the armchair while he starts on dinner. Apparently having lost his fear along with his fever, Sirius does not stay there but relocates to the table as soon as Girart's back is turned. Girart discovers this when he's scaling a fish and hears the boy ask, "what are you doing?" from directly next his elbow.

"Fuck!" Girart snaps, hand flying to his chest as his heart does its best tap dance. "You —!" Turns partially and gestures. "I know I left you on the other side of the RV; what are you doing?" Sirius blinks back at him suspiciously, his tiny button nose scrunching up.

"Fatha said to keep both eyes on you," he replies, and then gestures at his face, where his bangs have been pinned back with two colorful hairpins, thus giving him a clear field of view. "I'm doing my job."

"That so? Did he also tell you to stay away from the big man with a knife, because you ought to stay away from the big man with a knife." He gestures at the knife pointedly, and then sets it down before he can accidentally scare the boy. He's not sure what changed between Saturday and today, but if Sirius is no longer afraid of him he'll try not to give him new reasons to be scared. It's rendered all the more difficult because he's never dealt with a child as young as Sirius before, not when he'd only seen the child as a toddler once.

"He didn't," Sirius says, frowning a little but the expression clears as swiftly as it had appeared. "He said you we-wewe - we," exasperation flashes across his face, "are not a dangah, not to me. Only to mean people who want to hurt me." He crosses his arms, head tilted back as he stares at him. He looks so self-assured and full of confidence that Girart can't bring himself to crush his beliefs, there will be time enough for Sirius to learn just how much of a bastard he is.

"I'm making fish," he says, in response to the earlier question, do you want to learn?"

Sirius takes two tiny steps closer, the top of the counter at the same level as his nose. He frowns and then looks up at Girart, his facial expression demanding that he find a solution to this problem without so much as ever saying so. Girart arches an eyebrow, amused despite himself when Sirius starts to bounce in place, trying to see. "You could stand on a chair?" He offers.

"Fatha says that's not safe," is the uncompromising reply.

"Right…"

"I could," his nephew starts and then stops, fiddling with his shirt hem. Girart waits for him to continue but when no more words are forthcoming he bribes him with a square of chocolate from a bar he'd found while snooping through Asher's cabinets. Sirius takes it with wide eyes and promptly shoves all of it into his mouth at once, chewing determinedly until he can speak once more. "If I, mmfr, back. I could see if I was on your back?" He inspects his fingers, his expression beyond disappointed when he finds them free of chocolate so Girart hands him another square.

"Fine, but wash your hands first and no pulling on my hair," he warns. Sirius nods enthusiastically and immediately wriggles past him to get to the sink. When he's dried his hands, Girart kneels down so he can clamber on his back and then stands up, checking to ensure that Sirius has a firm grip before he gets back to scaling. This time when the boy starts up his seemingly endless string of questions, he's prepared to answer them. Quietly explaining what he is doing to the fish and what he plans to do for the rest of the meal. Sirius listens with wide eyes and mostly astute questions, his chin occasionally digging into the top of Girart's skull, but he finds he doesn't mind. This bushy-eyed excitement is far preferable to the solemn lethargy of the past few days. Giving Sirius a piggyback ride turns out to be a convenient way to keep him both out from under his feet and in sight, so he continues to carry him as he cleans up the kitchen while dinner cooks. Asher returns in time to eat dinner with them, much to Sirius' visible delight, and Girart willingly fades into the background as he watches him ramble excitedly to his father. His happiness and excitement coax a smile from Asher as well.

"You were right," Sirius says proudly, after a brief struggle to get his 'r' sounds out correctly. "He does need help; his raccoon eyes are as bad as yours!" The two of them dissolve into giggles that should not be as heartwarming as they are, and though Girart wants to stay angry, wants to take offense at Asher laughing at him, but he finds amusement lurking where the anger normally lives. So he lets them have their giggles at his expense and when Asher looks at him — as if checking to make sure he isn't getting pissed — Girart sticks his tongue out at him. It's immature and silly but it makes Asher let out a startled snort and is therefore worth it.

"Uncle G," Sirius says later that evening, sitting on the table while Girart packed and Asher pretended to wash dishes. Girart glances at him, seeing the speculative look on the boy's face and then makes a questioning noise. Sirius inches a little bit closer to him, his feet swinging. "Will you come back an' visit?"

"You have a cousin who would dearly love to see you again," Girart replies, terrifyingly aware of the weight of Asher's gaze on his back. "I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't bring him to see you." It's the most that he can offer when things between him and Asher are akin to a knife balanced on a tightrope, but he finds that he means every word he says. He wants to come back and visit them even if it means he really will have to drag Olivier along.

"Okay," Sirius says, in a tone so like his dad that Girart has to look back just to make sure that he's talking to the correct one. "Don't take too long, we move a lot 'cause we're in a circus." There is a boatload of intelligence in those gray eyes and Girart finds it all the more difficult to mislead him so he settles for a neutral hum and resumes packing. A minute later he hears a thud as Sirius hops down and darts off to his father, asking if he'll read him a story now. Girart finishes his packing and then gets up, padding silently to the bed in the back. There he sees Sirius — his horse plushie in his arms — as he listens to his father read from a small, well-loved book. Occasionally Asher stops to explain a word, and the sight of them with their heads bent close together, with the same look of concentration on their face is picture perfect. Carefully Girart removes his phone and snaps a picture, sending it to Yvon with the caption. The kid grew up. When he looks up from his phone, Asher is watching him suspiciously.

"What? Am I not allowed to text?" Girart replies, even as he shoves his phone back into his pocket.

"No texting during story time," Asher says simply, and then to Girart's great shock he pats the bed. Girart stares at him and keeps staring as Asher's eyebrow arches in a clear challenge, but it is Sirius' impatient patting that convinces him to move and sit down on the very edge of the mattress.

"Fatha is reading the Hobbit," Sirius informs him excitedly, "have you read it?"

"Yes, but I don't mind listening to it again," Girart replies, making himself comfortable on the bed. Sirius beams and pokes his father's arm impatiently until Asher starts to read again, his surprisingly skillful voice breathing life into the words. Girart leans back against the wall and closes his eyes, feeling the tension drain completely from his frame for the first time since he'd received the phone call. For the first time in a long time, he thinks this is one part of Asher that he has missed and could get used to experiencing again. Maybe, someday, he might even be able to call him a friend once more.