[NOTE: because won't let me have crossed-out text (despicable.), I'm replacing it with dashes (-like this-). Please fill in the blanks!]
General warnings: trouble breathing; (states resembling) panic attacks; depression; familial tension, difficult parental relationships
You just wish there was still a place for you in the world.
If only the overarching symphony could accommodate the grating, pained sounds brewing in everything that is left of you. If only your song still belonged.
Even if you were still able to sound your heart, what is your lonely voice against the boundless dark around you? What is it without the crackling metal, without the thunderous echo, without the chorus of adoration pushing you forward, against the overwhelming threat of the cosmos?
Was it them who were a part of your song or were you a part of theirs?.. It seems to matter less now. You just wish it still held you up, anchored you; you wish it was still there to make your approach thick with gravity, pulling everything close. You wish you were still irreplaceable, front and center, the very rhythm of the march.
You wish desperately for the same security, promise of importance, to never, ever be left alone again. Just don't leave me alone again. Don't make me one of the many, forgettable, dispensable, easy to toss aside.
Not alone. Anything but alone.
Eya played a funny little joke on you, didn't she. Hilarious.
What an offer it was, to be given a chance on safety, to dig your feet firmly into the ground that had no choice but to cave. To be able to tighten your grip around the world, to hold onto your place in it as fiercely as your body would allow.
Why would you ever say no? Your every wish fulfilled so plentifully, all the comfort you had ever yearned for handed right to you, how could you ever stop? How could you possibly keep yourself from longing for more, for this to never be over?
Once the world started singing a new song, each heart alight, all equal, yours stood no chance. For the first time in your long, fearful life, it had the choice of control. It would never be able to change its tune in time.
The world made you scared. The world made you shake with the thought of the vast expanse of land, then sea, then bottomless skies, all profoundly indifferent to your pathetic little fate. The world never paid you much mind when you were stumbling through it, still just a kid, bruising yourself at every turn, giving your very best - yet never becoming special enough to draw another into your orbit, to be helped, to be loved.
The world seemed to have redeemed itself, by finally giving you every single thing you deserved. Guidance. Purpose. Adoration. It took you into its arms as the most incredible thing it had ever held within itself.
It took advantage of your every deep desire.
It threw you away with no hesitation once your part no longer served the whole. It branded your heart rotten for daring to want what it offered. It infected you with the bone-deep itch to matter, then flinched away in disgust once you tried.
You despise it with every fiber of your being. You hate everything that is alive and moving.
Your hatred is venom, and life rejects it. Life rejects you.
You wish to tear your bleeding, poisoned heart right out.
- Oh-hoh! Down already, muffin!
Kiwi lingers on the last step of the stairs, hand on the rails, an exhausted smile faint on their lips. They nod to Mom, then to Baron sitting in the big chair they watched him drag out of the bedroom and dust off just the day before. The mechanical morning greeting is dry and laboured, like their long-suffering neck has rusted through.
- Thought I'd have to go pester you more to get you out of bed, - Mom laughs, setting a teapot in the middle of the table. - Well, come help, since you're here!
Bard nods again, letting their mother's off-handed remark sink into the pit of their stomach – like swallowing an ice cube - and wordlessly makes their way over to the kitchen counter. Baron stirs and follows promptly, hulking behind his two family members. Bard feels incredibly awkward trying to maintain the appropriate amount of eye contact while handing him plates of porridge, which Baron accepts with another silent nod. Overworking one's neck joints seems to be the most popular method of communication in the household these days.
Baron lumbers over to the table, and Kiwi follows, a bread basket filled with sugar buns and a little bowl of home-made jam in tow. They wince slightly at the sight of it. Rhubarb.
Mom places a round-bellied steaming teapot in the middle of the table and looks over it with a satisfied little hum.
- Don't let it all go cold, now!
Silently consuming the laid-out meal as Mom chatters over it is about the only experience Kiwi and their… dad can find any sort of solidarity in. Now and then, they exchange a wordless look, Kiwi reluctantly spreading jam on a sliced bun, Baron sending a spoonful of oatmeal behind his cheek. Although Baron's awkward silence has a distinct shade of guilt to it. That makes Bard wonder if they should feel worse about not engaging, too.
Mom watches them reach for another pastry and shakes her head with a laugh that is probably supposed to be affectionate.
- You're so hard to cook for, muffin!
Kiwi tries to mold their face into a noncommittal expression, but can feel it scrunch up around their tensely neutral smile as if they'd just bit down on a lemon. They glare at the bowl in Baron's hands with a weird mixture of resistance and jealousy. Not for the contents, for sure, they're more than comfortable with their preferences, but perhaps… for the freedom to casually share a meal.
Baron seems to intercept that look and puts the bowl down. The ceramic bottom taps against the table, a sound like a punctuation mark. He clears his throat.
- So…
Bard looks up at him, all but horrified. Mom throws a quizzical curious glance over the cup of tea she's holding up to her lips.
During the two weeks Kiwi has been staying at their parents' house, they have barely heard Baron utter more than a word, safe for the extremely awkward welcome the next morning after their arrival. Baron seems to be aware of that, too, shifting in his seat for a couple of seconds before continuing.
- I'm sitting in on some workshops and the community meeting at the Fa…- he stops and covers his slip up with a delayed cough, - the center.
He turns to Kiwi, full-body, brushing against the table in the process and causing the cutlery to clatter. Kiwi feels incredibly small.
- I thought that maybe, uh… - Baron rubs his knees, drying his palms. He looks about as nervous as Bard, if that is at all possible, -…you'd want to come as well.
Bard feels like choking, on food or tea, but there is none in their mouth at the moment. So instead they just glare, feeling their own hands become sweatier and sweatier. Spending a whole… day? With their wayward father,of all people?
- Oh-ho-ho, how wonderful! - Mom chimes in cheerfully. Of course, she does.
Kiwi barely has the bandwidth to ruminate on just how shamefully potent their annoyance is. They never voice it, but the sheer power of it still feels impudent, somehow. And they are growing more and more irritable, lately.
- A great day to go out, isn't it? - Mom continues, not helping at all. - It's about time you left the house, too, muffin!
Bard never even gets to reply. Mom moves on to packing the leftover pastries for the two to take with them, and urges Kiwi to have one more with his tea. Kiwi has trouble conceiving of eating anything at all, his stomach in the process of tying itself into several tight knots. He mumbles excuses inarticulately, speaking mostly with his hands that are held up in front of him in a politely defensive gesture. From time to time, he dares to throw a glance at Baron. The latter is stubbornly cleaning his glasses, bushy eyebrows lowered, obscuring his eyes in the lenses' place.
This is going to be… a day.
.
Bard doesn't know what to do with their hands as they are walking down the street next to their… dad. Every usual gesture suddenly feels incredibly childish, and for some inexplicable reason, that feels… wrong. Far too… vulnerable? Is this how Miriam feels most of the time?..
Mom's not wrong, it… has been a while since they've been outside. Which makes her remark only more uncomfortable.
The first few days Kiwi diligently tried to engage. They checked in on all the neighbours; hung around the grocery store, sprawled over the counter as Tanya was detailing the stock on the large board behind it; took part in a cooking class at Beth and Katya's; clapped along to the live performances at the Pub. As their visit continued, however, staying in and endlessly re-reading old diary entries was becoming more and more of an easier choice. It got too wearing, desperately trying to enjoy Chismest's new, friendlier face despite the underlying sense of dread that greeted them every morning.
Now, walking down the streets in Baron's company, they smiled awkwardly at every surprised look or forced casual expression. People have been asking Mom if they had left already, Bard knows they have. Mom didn't fail to mention that.
The two walk in silence, neither of them really knowing how to even start to approach a conversation with the other. But Baron has apparently discovered an unsettling amount of gut to try nonetheless.
He clears his throat once again, and Kiwi feels their stomach drop at the prospect of having to handle small-talk.
- So… - Baron seems to be weighing his words in his mind, judging which ones would be best to follow with. Eventually, he sighs in resignation, the same low rustling sound from the other side of the wall. - Do you… like it here?
Bard is… at an utter loss of words. Does she "like it"?..
She likes what Chismest has become. She likes that every familiar face is now healthier, and happier. She likes that everyone is closer now, and caring. She likes that the children can play outside, without choking on poisonous smog.
Do they like being here? Do they like shutting themself in their room, glumly listening to the sound of snowball fights breaking out right under their window? Do they like the unexplainable, persistent sense of… being left behind…
Kiwi gulps down the sick feeling rising from their gut as all the dream sensations attack their body once again, and shakes their head in an attempt to snap out of it.
Baron seems to take thatfor their reply. His eyebrows move up a degree, and – weirdly – he seems smaller, for just a moment. The thought of letting a single person, let alone Baron, suspect they are the odd one out, fills Bard with panic. They leap into the energetic equivalent of a 180-degree turn and start emphatically nodding instead, trying to emphasize, somehow, that this is their chosen answer.
Baron seems incredibly confused as to what to make of it. He turns away and rubs the back of his neck before carefully, tentatively continuing:
- Y-yeah. Me as well. - He looks up ahead, wistfully, and adds quietly, barely audible: - Strange to think I'd kept myself from this for so long…
Bard shoots a look at Baron's face, conflicted. Are the two of them… relating? Is Baron just as conflicted over the sight of Chismest's thriving?.. They guess it would only make sense for him to be, given everything, but…
But… something.
Whatever the "something" is, it makes the poorly suppressed flurry of emotions within them intensify. They will not explore that. They are not going down that path.
Bard squeezes as polite of a smile as they can out of themself and turns away, looking right ahead. They seem to be approaching the grocery store.
Tanya sees the weird duo pass by the window and waves, bringing both of them to a stop. Soon, she is coming through the door, a little jar in her hands.
- Well hey there, - she seems to greet Kiwi specifically, only sparing Baron a wary side-glance. He does not waver under it. The step back he takes is almost demonstratively polite.
Tanya turns her full attention back to Bard.
- Haven't seen you around in a while, have I?
Kiwi shrugs with an awkward smile. Tanya shakes her head.
- Now, now, I ain't ragging on you. Just couldn't find a good time to give you this.
She extends her hand holding the small jar. Bard takes it into their palms, confused. The contents of it are beaming bright orange. The word "Marmalade" is written in cursive on the brown label.
- Special delivery! - Tanya smiles warmly; her particular but welcoming demeanor is something Kiwi has grown to appreciate. - Got a whole crate of those, actually, but those pirate friends of yours insisted I keep one safe for you. No idea how they'd caught the wind of you staying here, - she shrugs, - but either way you're getting something sweet outta it.
Kiwi looks at the jar they are carefully holding in their hands, overcome. They suddenly find themself so tired and so fragile, the unexpected wave of gratitude and warmth make their eyes sting with the promise of tears. They look back up at Tanya, their smile for once genuine and heartfelt.
- Thank you ~, - they sing softly, struggling to find more words to express how much this is turning out to mean to them. Tanya interrupts it.
- Don't go thanking me, I'm just passing on. - She does the closest thing available to ruffling their hair: patting and flattening their hat with a similar hand motion. - Be good, hon.
She smiles one more time before heading back into the store. Kiwi squeezes their eyes shut, trying to covertly blink the budding tears away, then turns back to where Baron is standing. He seems to have been studying the paving for the last couple of minutes.
Bard takes a reluctant step towards the ex-factory building to signify they are ready to move on. Baron follows, looking at the jar of marmalade they are still clutching in their hands and attempting a slight smile.
- You have many… interesting friends.
Kiwi tries to smile with the same amount of genuine affection they'd just felt at the unexpected gift, but it comes out awkward and sour. They are suddenly very aware of not having said a single articulate word to their dad the entire morning. They clear their throat.
- Yeah!..~
Her voice is small, quiet, but it's… something, at least. It is bewildering to think about her recent encounter with Baron, the first one in years. It was so easy to challenge him, back when Kiwi had no idea who he was. Now, the overwhelming discomfort and confusion of having to interact with her long-forgotten… father… render her basically incapable of any solid verbal exchange.
They ascend the steps leading up to the entrance into the intimidating building that now houses the Community Center. Kiwi glances over the schedule as they pass it. Workshops, consortium meetings, training, public discussions… Chismest's busy schedule is a constant, at least.
Once inside the building, Kiwi and Baron take the stairs to the second floor of the factory, away from the narrow, menacing hallway leading into the ground. There is no low rumble echoing through it: the production lines are only brought to life to order these days. Bard tries their best to not feel like they are walking above the lair of a sleeping beast.
The two take their seats in a once-spacious conference room, seating rearranged and reimagined in a way that tiptoes along the thin line between ingeniously efficient and absurdly cramped. The room is gradually filling with people who recognize Baron, some giving reserved nods, few – more enthusiastic waves.
A tall dark figure leans into the space between them for a more conspiratorial greeting, murmuring something to Baron in low tones. Baron chuckles and pats the person's shoulder heavily, then turns to Bard. He is smiling; there is uncharacteristic and… frankly unsettling vivacity in that.
- You have met Vlad…,- Baron assumes, only somewhat sure, and Kiwi can finally recognize the tall person as the Clockwork Pub's bartender. They give a sheepish smile and a nod, and Vlad returns the latter, accompanied by a somewhat wistful look.
The sudden weight of a large, heavy palm on their shoulder, along with the pure emotional shock at this distinctly fatherly gesture, almost knock Kiwi's ghost out of them.
- This is my, – there is only a fraction of a beat before the final word drops, - kid.
Bard stares at Baron's face with enough dumbfounded intensity to notice the subtle signs of nervousness: the furrowing brows, the dry lips firmly pressed together. There is some relief in knowing he feels about as uneasy actually saying this.
Vlad nods, slowly, reflectively.
- I should have noticed the semblance, - he draws out, and, barely giving Kiwi time to recover from that, adds: - Good to have you back, young Bard.
Vlad takes an empty seat a few rows away, leaving Kiwi and Baron to sweat in the aftershock of the sudden t. The weight of Baron's hand disappearing hardly registers. Kiwi mindlessly stares at the wooden desk in front of him. Vlad's "back" echoes in his mind, dressing in more and more foreboding tones with every encore. Is this it? Are they… staying?.. The thought makes their stomach churn.
They purposefully shift their attention to the people seated around them in an attempt to fight the sickness. There are at least a dozen conversations happening at the table at the same time, from confidential murmurs to loud exchanges interlaced with laughter. The room is bustling with sound and action, even with everyone sitting still.
A single voice rises above the neighbourly commotion, drawing it to a single focus.
- Hello, everyone.
Bard's eyes follow in tandem with everyone else's, and they shrivel up in their chair, wishing to make their body as small as humanly possible. At the center of the room and everyone's attention, there is Elara – the very person Bard has been avoiding since even before his self-imposed confinement. They hunch behind the desk, hoping to not draw her eye.
Elara glances around the room. Her eyes travel from one face to another, eventually meeting Kiwi's. He succumbs to agony as Elara gives him the same plain, honest look, accompanied by a subtle steady smile, before moving on.
- Thank you for coming. - There is a pause as the head astronomer and now community organizer considers what to say next, apparently less confident single-handedly orchestrating a public discussion. She turns to Elmer and gives him a quiet nod.
Elmer, fully in his element, clears his throat, preparing to project.
- Agenda for the day, - he shrieks out, enunciating: - updates on Chismest's research program; the public library initiative, session 1; trade and barter year plan; sustainability panel, session 3.
Elara throws another look around the conference room.
- Unless anybody has any last-minute pitches, - a second-long pause, - let us begin.
The public discussion turns out to be… draining. The many-voiced conversation ebbs and flows: one moment it is overwhelming with everyone's impatience, people barely managing to not talk over each other; then it is tedious, the consortium mulling over the routine detail of the town's day-to-day functioning.
The worst part is that Kiwi can actually sense the rhythm of it, the rise and the fall; they recognize a skipping shifting rhapsody in the chain of interlinking exclamations, one prompting another; they feel the steady vital rhythm of cross-referenced numbers and well-practiced schedules. They feel the song of the moment.
It is like sensing the vague outline of a repeating dream, recognizing something that used to be vivid in their mind in a completely different state of it. Some part of them longs to join in, crush into the stream of collective life, move with it, be carried by it, naturally dissolving into the overarching symphony. But it is alien, it is a song they do not share with the rest. If there was a time when they knew how to join someone else's celebration, – and they believe there was, even though it sounds like something from another life - it seems to have passed. Irrevocably.
Kiwi is pulled into the tidal wave only once, without any initiative on their part, as the sky-mapping project is being discussed. Elara's eyes stay on them, thoughtful, trying to puzzle them out, as she asks:
- Are there any news from Delphi? If you wouldn't mind sharing.
Kiwi thinks back to the letter entombed in the drawer of their bedside table, out of sight, yet still burning in her mind daily and making her shrivel up with guilt, then plunge herself into avoidance. They vividly re-live the sensation of crumpling yet another sheet of colorful paper up, failing to find the words for their reply. Their decision to stay (for a while? …indefinitely? no, no, surely not) is already obvious. Why do they dread the idea of actually announcing it to Miriam so much?
Bard shakes the thought off, returning to the present moment, to the concerned, questioning looks of everyone who has just watched them zone out, lost in their own mind. They smile pitifully as they shake their head again, more emphatically. Elara nods, slowly, her eyebrows softly knitting together, and Bard makes a mental note to leave the room as soon as the meeting is over, sneak away with the crowd before they can be stopped and questioned further.
The conversation moves on, and Bard is left outside of it, rocked by irregular waves, thrown in this and that direction like old, soggy driftwood. She cannot follow the flow of the discussion, she cannot focus on the words bouncing from one end of the overcrowded room to another, and the unsteady rhythm she cannot keep up with leaves her queasy. She just wants to crawl back under her blanket, let it muffle all the sounds apart from her own breathing - and try not to think too hard about the latter, the tightness in her non-existent chest that haunts her every dream, the persistent pull somewhere out of cosmos–
Okay. She needs something to center herself. One single thing to focus on, to ignore the surrounding chorus.
Kiwi barely gets to think before their eyes stop on Baron's face – arguably, the worst possible subject for them to try to ground themself with half-through their unraveling. But Baron seems to feel out of place in the general harmony as well, and that provides Kiwi with a weird, uncomfortable sort of solidarity, another's experience forcing itself on them through the sheer familiarity of it. At the back of their mind, they note how this feels sort of like being possessed by a ghost (again), but also… as if they are doing the possession at the same time?.. They could compare it to their nightmares. But they won't. They are not thinking about those.
The chorus of the consortium is spontaneous, unpracticed, noisy. Kiwi thinks back to the rhythmic thumping of factory machinery, the unified movement of workers, in at nine, out at five. Up until recently, Baron hadn't heard anything but that steady march for more than twenty years. No wonder this is weird for him, too.
There is this specific hesitation to him, as well: how he frowns at something he feels the need to dispute, opens his mouth - but stops before producing any sound. He seems to be marking his thoughts on a piece of paper, but that hardly satisfies him, and he is left shifting in his seat restlessly, exhaling sharply through his nostrils.
All this fidgeting is much less subtle than he probably thinks. His immediate neighbours keep throwing looks in his and Bard's direction, some of them questioning, some incredulous. Associating with their father is not something Bard is generally excited about, but here, in the troughs of difficult history and unresolved hurt, the discomfort is all the more intense.
At one point, Baron leans on the desk with his entire lumbering frame, making it creak, and lets out a loud jingling sigh. The room goes quiet.
Heads turn.
People are looking at the imposing figure with overwhelmingly guarded expressions. Baron notices the kind of attention he has drawn to himself and fixes his gaze in front of him, visibly tense. Next to him, Kiwi is trying to slide under the desk undetected.
They think back to Tanya, to the look in her eyes when she saw Baron. They are suddenly acutely aware of how much of a pressuring, entitled presence Baron must be to many people in Chismest. Even those ready to give him a second chance must feel threatened when the person who once dictated their entire way of life tries to affect it once again, even as an equal.
Baron seems to be aware of this, too. He is demonstratively silent, barely even breathing when he raises his eyes, but there is a weird air of defiance to it. He looks around defensively, as if the room has just collectively reached for pitchforks.
For a moment, Bard sees him again the way they did some months ago, for the first time in many, many years. Prideful, self-righteous, towering over the rest of the world that simply does not know what is best for it.
Back then, that hardly had any effect on them, outside of Chismest's general depressing atmosphere. Now, knowing that this was their father, the very mythical looming presence at the back of their mind, casting its shadow onto every little misstep and every instance of rejection, a constant reminder of their insignificance… The thought makes Kiwi shudder. Nothing scares them more than the idea of this cold, dismissive look inevitably turning to them, saying everything that has previously only been implied.
Kiwi is sitting next to the scariest person this side of a life-sucking void outside of time and space, and all the eyes are on the two of them, and the rest of the word makes no difference between Baron and his lost, odd child, both of them glaringly out of place.
The longest few seconds of their life – not counting the world's impending end, they suppose - pass in deafening silence stretched so thin KIwi is scared it's going to burst any moment. Then the conversation slowly picks up, flows once more, avoiding the now isolated island of Baron's seat. Kiwi dares to look around from where they are half-hidden behind the desk. Have their neighbours to the right and to the left moved just a little bit further away?..
Elara's eyes linger on Baron's face just a fraction of a second longer, with some hint of rapport. Her chin moves ever so slightly in a secret nod intended only for him, before she turns back to the indignant speaker interrupted by Baron's display of frustration.
Baron himself spends the rest of their time in the conference room stone-still. Bard tries to mimic, hoping any further attention slides off of her if she blends into the background. Under the desk, though, her sweating hands are desperately clutching the marmalade jar.
When Elmer calls a break and Baron stands up, intending to leave, Bard all but deflates with relief. They do not have to follow him around, they know it. But, however deeply rattling it is to be around him, especially now, they feel a strange sense of obligation. Like the plan sprung on them over breakfast means both they and their parent are supposed to fulfill a certain quota before either is released from this weird, strained attempt on father-child bonding time.
Kiwi doesn't like this feeling. It's been a long time since they had to be someone's child, and they cannot remember the last time they were their father's. It was hard enough to balance their dreams and desires alongside Mom's off-handed but insistent expressions of all the regrets she quite openly held, about Kiwi's passions, their chosen path in life, their decision to leave and the lack of visits. This new, sudden and alien responsibility for yet another familial relationship feels only heavier with the weight of all the years Kiwi didn't have to bother with it, outside of the sleepless nights by the window or picking at their being in search of apparent faults.
Bard feels his fists clench at his sides as he sinks into a dark, glum state of low-burning anger. It was never his decision to put the two of them into this situation. Why must he feel any responsibility–
He is yanked right out of his thoughts as Elara's voice cuts through the background noise of moving benches and discordant steps.
- Oh, Baron. Good day. I was just about to find you.
Kiwi freezes, for just a second, then chooses cowardice. They look around, hurriedly, and slip behind Baron's wide back, trying to get lost in the crowd against all odds, pulling the glaring beacon that is their red feather hat off their head. Maybe it's their restless imagination, maybe it is the proverbial sixth sense, but they feel two pairs of eyes follow them to the exit. No one calls out, however, leaving them to their expeditious escape.
Outside of the conference room, Kiwi leans against the wall and lets out a long sigh, half-exhausted, half-relieved. The general commotion of the many groups of people moving up and down the hallways, of doors opening and slamming shut, is still hard on their frazzled nerves. They want to go home. They don't want "home" to be their mother's.
They're not sure how long they stand there for until Baron exits as well, looking thoughtful, scratching his chin. He seems almost surprised to see Bard right next to the door and takes a moment to recollect himself. He clears his throat and attempts to… look cheerful?.. That does not quite work out, and eventually Baron gives up and simply sighs, despondent.
- I will not be staying around for the second half, - he announces with a glum expression. - You're welcome to, if you…
Bard shakes their head, and Baron nods, slowly, processing.
- Well… - he sighs again, then makes his way down the hallway, - this means I'm free to join a couple of workshops. - He looks at Bard, contemplative, then forces out: - Why don't you… try out any? See if there is anything you'd like.
Kiwi weighs her options. They need space, desperately. They do not want to aimlessly wander the streets, prompting polite conversations and letting the cold air freeze them all the way through. They would not be able to deal with the meaningful look in Mom's eyes right now, and it is coming if they return home so early, making their way straight to their room.
They just need a quiet corner.
They find it at the back of a room where a small-voiced, timid-looking person is delivering a lecture in low, unimposing tones. Kiwi leans against the wall, cradling their knee, feeling their eyelids droop with the weight of the past weeks of poor sleep, poor mood and general nervous exhaustion. They let themself node off, the incoherent scribblings on the board slowly blurring into even more meaningless shapes.
They sway on the very cusp of sleep and wakefulness, safe from the disarray of life and the cold thick terror of nightmares. There is an unsettling amount of comfort to be found in not having to deal with existing.
Bard places the marmalade jar on top of the bedside table. Their eyes linger on the handle of the drawer just below the board. Hesitantly, they curl their fingers around it and pull the drawer open.
Miriam's letter rests on top of a chaotic pile of paper and various craft supplies. It isn't folded, and the familiar words call out to them once again.
"-Bard,-
-Kiwi,-
-Hey, you-
Uh. Hi."
A weak smile tugs at their mouth.
The rest of the letter burns with long-overdue, not very well-concealed urgency, kindling the background sense of guilt that is now pretty much constant.
"…haul boards around on my broom like a mule while everyone is hovering and asking me questions and RUSHING ME. There's a lot of people and
We're holding off 'till you're here anyway, so like, hurry up? I don't… know what to do with all of THEM wanting something from me all the time, and Saphy's no dang help! -I don't know why she expects me to… UGH, whatever.-"
The haunting vision of Miriam shutting further and further down under the pressure, knowing Bard was supposed to be there next to her, feeling abandoned and alone, starts turning Kiwi's guts inside out once again. But still, there is a bitter sort of comfort in reading this hesitant message from their best friend, examining the familiar antsy corners of her handwriting. Kiwi reaches for it, fingertips hovering just above the surface of the paper. Their eyes linger on the last line, scribbled on rashly, almost like an afterthought. Which means she really meant it.
"…Miss you."
There is a shout from down the stairs. Bard's hand jolts back.
- Don't take too long, muffin! - Mom draws out, rushing him to take his place at the dinner table. Bard throws one final glance at Miriam's name at the bottom of the page before leaving the room.
He will write back today. Totally! Probably.
It's hard to make their dinner go down when Baron keeps throwing heavy glances in Kiwi's direction. They try their best not to notice, but the unspoken tension pumps their body full of adrenaline. Bard wants to shift and fidget and move their limbs to shake out the pinpricks of restless nervous energy, but hesitates, not wanting to draw even more attention. She is stuck sending one spoonful of veggie stew into her mouth after another in a mechanical, almost robotic motion, only occasionally nervously glancing over to where Baron keeps staring with the air of inexplicable dread.
Once the table is cleared and the unspokenly mandated fifteen to thirty minutes of quality family time begin, things escalate.
Bard is absent-mindedly picking at the stray threads of the couch's armrest when a cough up above calls for their attention. Baron is towering over them, looking sulking and miserable.
Oh no.
Kiwi's head snaps in the other direction, grasping at the last straw of Mom's presence, only to see her thoughtfully leave the room. Of course. Of course.
As Bard feverishly ponders whether Ira's usual lack of consideration is reserved for turning their life into quiet misery, Baron sits down, a full seat over. Kiwi feels the couch sag under his weight and grabs the armrest, scared of getting pulled into this sudden gravity well. They are staring at their knees, desperately hoping this isn't going where this is certainly, absolutely, one hundred percent going.
- So…
Kiwi is now staring holes in the floor, hoping to compel it to open on command and mercifully swallow her whole.
Baron sighs, and out of the corner of her eyes, Kiwi sees his shoulders fall into a tired, resigned posture.
She keeps begging Eya to let her disappear.
When Baron speaks again, the words come out on the exhale, heavy, weary, bare.
- You saw me out there. I… - a pause, as he searches for words, while Bard prays for them to never, ever come, - I… made a great mess of things. Too many mistakes, for too long.
He lets the thought sink in, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of it. He wants Bard to know he means it. He thinks this is better. This is so, so much worse.
Baron continues, eventually.
- Now no one… really knows what to do with me. Myself included.
There's a mirthless chuckle, and Kiwi dares to throw a single glance at Baron's face, a bitter smile cutting hard lines into it.
Bard is silent.
Baron sighs once again, heavier.
- Despite that, what you did… what all of you did, and what you played a large part in… it brought me here, like everyone else. I don't quite know how to move on. But the world has decided it was…, - he hesitates for a second, - better off with me in it. I can't pretend to understand why, but it has.
The last sentence barely reaches Bard's ears through the sounds of blood pounding in them. He is suddenly flooded with panic, his body locking up, leaving him short of breath. No. No, don't make him think of that.
Oblivious to the fact that his child is suffocating, choked by terror, right next to him, Baron continues.
- I've hurt people. In more ways than I can ever hope to make up for. But I'm still… here. And it seems that the only right thing to do is to try, still.
Don't think. Don't think of the implication. Don't consider the fact that the world is trying to force you out of itself every single night. Don't think about what it means, that the man next to you, the one that had haunted the bigger part of your life with unspoken judgment, the one that terrifies you with just how easily he could destroy any semblance of peace you might've managed to gather, just might deserve a place in this universe much more than you ever did.
Is this really how it works? Their father, who spent decades hurting others out of the self-serving notion that he knew what people needed better than them, gets to stay with those he had wronged, while Kiwi is tortured with nightly reminders of what it would be like, to be left eternally alone, for daring to not have had an immediate, magical change of heart. They clench their fists in their lap, trying their best not to shake.
Baron notices, finally. There are a few seconds of silence as he staggers, obviously unsure how to proceed. Out of the corner of their watering eyes (no, no, no, this only makes this worse…), Bard sees him take his glasses off.
Baron rubs his eyes, wearily, then places a heavy hand on Kiwi's shoulder. They shrivel up and look over, sheepishly.
Baron meets their gaze. One would expect his eyes to be a piercing cold blue, to match the white in his hair and his general demeanor, inexplicably reminiscent of frost. Instead, they are brown. Dulled, shadowed by his furrowed brows, yet still… warm.
- Kiwi.
If only there were words in any human language capable of explaining why his father calling him by his name has just made Kiwi so disorientingly sick.
- Things are changing.
Please don't say that. Please.
- I would like to change with them, if I can.
Bard turns away from the eyes that look unsettlingly like their own and chokes down a laugh, too afraid it will come out as a sob. It gargles in their throat, weird and vague and embarrassing. The hand on their shoulder tightens in an attempt to comfort, and Kiwi wants to run miles away from themself.
- I know I have… hurt you. More than anyone else, perhaps.
He should stop. Can he please stop. Can't he see how hard Bard is trying to not think about-
- You don't owe me patience, or forgiveness. But I'm here. …If there is anything at all that you need from me.
Silence hangs heavy over them, threatening to crash Bard's stiff, trembling body. This is the part where they are supposed to say something. "I understand", or "I will never forgive you", or "Why did you do it?", or "Did you ever miss me at all?". Instead, they can barely push a single gulp of air down into their lungs. They stopped trying to sing when they discovered it is barely possible to get a spoken word out in their family's presence. How come being under this roof always renders them voiceless?
Baron waits. Patiently. It is terrifying, to think that he will continue waiting, always ready for Kiwi to walk in through this very door, announcing she is ready to mend their ill phantom of a relationship.
He is waiting for an answer. Any answer. Give him something, anything at all, just make it stop.
Bard nods, slowly, shakily, praying that this faint acknowledgment gets them off the hook. He could not possibly want more. He does not get to ask for more.
Baron's hand lingers on their shoulder another second, before finally releasing. Kiwi deflates in relief and immediately jumps off the couch, their legs wobbly, knees weak. Their eyes slide past Baron's lost expression. Without looking at him, they give another frantic nod and tear off towards the stairs, grabbing onto the handrails for dear life.
.
Her room is swaying softly before her. Kiwi takes one unsteady step away from the door, eyes wandering aimlessly. They catch the open drawer with the letter inside it, and Kiwi feels like she is about to crumble. She grabs the handle with a weak shaking hand and shuts it in a jerky motion.
The marmalade jar rocks with the bedside table, then tips over and hits the floor. The thick glass thuds loudly against the wooden boards. It rolls into the corner.
Bard lowers themself to the floor next to their bed, shaken, nauseous. They pull their hat off and do their best to breathe.
The ceiling light overhead is swinging slightly from the momentum of the door slamming shut just a few seconds ago. Bard's shadow is shifting, the outline vague and blurred. It looks little like themself.
For a second, they could swear they recognize the shape of a long scarf obscuring the line of their neck.