Living
Author's Note: I know this took way longer than it was supposed to. It's been an…unpleasant year and that continues. I'm writing in fits and spurts but I don't know when the next chapter will be but the boys are talking to me again so that's a good sign. All the muses went silent for a bit there.
I'm not sure when In Dreams will be updated. Hopefully soon but, unfortunately, I'm betting on nothing and making no promises in this point in time. It will be updated, I just don't know when yet.
Prologue
Byron thought that, this moment, should be the most ill-at-ease he had ever been in his life. It wasn't. It wasn't even close, in fact, despite all of the crazy swirling about inside him it was one of the least mind-fucking, mind-numbing moments of his life.
Yeah, it was weird, watching the man he knew as his King hover over the man he couldn't stop, couldn't ever stop, thinking about as his father, who looked like a wisp of wind could break him, sitting there across from him, pale and anxious and twitching.
Fuck, who was this man? This wasn't his father. This wasn't, couldn't be it, had to be wrong, somehow, even though he knew it wasn't, could feel that it wasn't.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Everything was supposed to be right now, damnit.
There were…many things he had imagined, almost expected, when meeting his father, again, but this man hadn't ever crept into his imagination. He'd thought…He could feel his ada, feel him there, reaching for him but…Finley was a pale imitation of that, shaky and nervous and all the things his father had never been and he didn't know what to do with that, how to deal with that. Things…were supposed to be alright now; this just twisted everything inside him again.
"Fin," the King, no, Alexander, said, smiling sadly, "go get your smokes, okay? You look like you need one."
Finley exhaled and nodded and left silently. He hadn't said a word since ushering Byron into the house and calling, with an edge of panic colouring his voice, for Alexander. Byron had only heard him say what amounted to, maybe, a sentence but…That had hurt, badly because…his voice was the same. Everything else was different but that…remained and…
He swallowed, eyes coming up and watching the man who had been studying him with a wary curiosity Byron wasn't sure what to make of since he'd first seen him. He leaned forward, eyes intent, and asked, without preamble: "How long have you been homeless?"
The question caught him off guard, quieter and gentler than he was used to. He normally saw it coming, saw the look in people's eyes and had a retort ready, but…He'd tried to hide it, for today, waited, even, after he found his father, the man he'd been searching for since…too long, waited so he could get his clothing cleaned at Mercy House and have a shower. That question, coming in a firm and gentle voice that he knew too well, that had been perhaps the third greatest influence in his life, behind his father and mother, from this man, who looked and felt and was so much like he remembered, he could only bark: "What?"
Alexander shrugged, "I've worked in too many shelters and clinics not to recognize the signs, even if you are hiding them. How long have you been homeless? And why are you?"
"That's none of your fucking business," Byron spat, flushing, his voice tight.
"Yes, it is," Alexander replied firmly. "It is because of Finley. It is because…Look, I'm not as...I don't remember like he does, like I think you do, but I do remember. I remember you. If you're chronically homeless I need to know why because Fin…"
Alexander grimaced, "Finley isn't Faramir, not like he was. I need to know how it will effect him. And it will."
Byron's face was very stiff and he would not meet Alexander's eyes. "Two years, or so. Since a few months after my parents died."
"Why?" Alexander pressed.
"Foster care didn't agree with me," Byron said dryly.
"Have you been…" They both heard Finley's uneven footsteps coming back and Alexander's question abruptly ceased. It was not, they decided unanimously with just a look between them, something that Finley needed to know yet.
And as he came back in, Byron knew why, and it wasn't for his sake. Finley was clutching the packet of cigarettes so tight he was crushing the ones on the end, a half finished cigarette already hanging from his bloodless lips. Alexander's eyes softened with concern, looking at him, and he moved as Finley sat down again, his arm finding its place around him, body so close they could share warmth through the fabric of their clothes. Finley leaned into him, seeking…Byron wasn't sure what, comfort or strength or something…
It wasn't something he had seen his father do, ever. Not like this.
Finley smiled thinly, clearly trying and just as clearly strained to the very edge of his ability to cope. But his eyes were soft, looking at Byron, like he was looking at his son. Like he knew it, felt it, like Byron did but…
It wasn't…wasn't…
"I can't believe this," Finley said quietly, taking another drag as Alexander's arm tightened around him. For a moment, and no more than that, his eyes were the same as they had been…before. "I'm…I'm glad you're here, Boro."
It brought a silver-swift smile to Byron's face, hearing the nickname, feeling, for a moment, the sick churning in his stomach settle. It wasn't right, wasn't what it should be, and still might be the biggest mistake he had ever made, coming here, thinking that this could…fix things. It couldn't. He'd been a fool to think maybe it could but…
For a moment, before Finely took another long steadying drag, before Alexander pushed a plate of food in front of him with watchful, wary, worried eyes, before they started talking at each other…
For just a moment he was home.