Soul had been prepared as he was ever going to be for Viv's things. Right after the incident, Flora still had enough of herself together to put the major accumulation away– clothes, books, and whatever important paperwork. It was the knick-knacks and residuals that lingered, and Soul had never been able to even think about touching them. They were sacred pieces, and not just that, but as he'd finally come to admit, having the museum meant solidifying himself as a stranger. If he put them away– if everything had a new place, it meant his life would be his.
The feeling wasn't necessarily guts through his nose, but definitely at least chicken wire wrapping around every muscle as he tried to separate and sort. There was a box for Layla, one for Remy, and the horrible last option: trash. As if he could ever stomach the idea of throwing anything of hers away! Even the dust bunnies could be a treasure– if only he could just ask her. In the end, only miniscule bric-a-brac made it there, the bulk of the decision-making left to the proper Desjardins.
Whatever he had believed was anxiety about Viv's side was now pale and anemic in comparison to the sea that threatened to sweep him away as he stared at Wes's. He had tried to pull it apart bit by bit with Marie before this conquest even started, and the closest to the truth he could come was still covered in grey. It wasn't like Viv. In a way, it was the opposite because… well, what would happen if he didn't feel? What kind of brother would he be if he picked up Wes's things one by one and regarded them with just as much emotion as a used tissue? Especially since all evidence pointed to the fact that Wes had wanted him as a brother– that their distance was another bitter bit borne of his mother.
Again, clothes, books, paperwork were absent, leaving pickings thin. Layla's box remained, but he'd already put Remy's out into the hallway, and the urge to make one with his name warbled off with the same fear: what if I don't want to keep anything?
He moved slowly as winter's sap to the bedside table and opened the drawer. In an odd bit of echoing of his own possessions, Soul suddenly found that nothing had a place. He'd lived his life assuming that Wes had been perfectly disciplined in every regard, but this spelled chaos. Movie ticket stubs and a receipt for hair dye—did he dye his hair?—were the first two standouts and the first in the trash. A stray earring—Viv's or his? Did he have pierced ears?—and a "Welcome to Vegas" keychain were next. For some reason, he pocketed the earring and tossed the other trinket into Layla's box.
A rubber finger-guard for page turning.
A three—not four—leaf clover pressed between wax paper.
A pen-light.
A coupon in Viv's fine handwriting for a kiss.
Relief—yes, relief and thank Death it was there—washed over him with each item. His heart wasn't absent, and while it wasn't the perfect emotion, it was still there: each object produced wonder. Inquisitive mental somersaults over their existence and purpose. Visions of Wes in tableau with each one. He cared, and wasn't that all he had really been worried about?
After the hodgepodge of the front, he found the back crammed with paper. It took some force to dislodge anything from the pile since it was evident that piece after piece had been jammed in there with nowhere else to go. Before even identifying the parchment, he was busy trying to suss out the emotion of it.
These weren't receipts.
Not any playful coupons.
Just envelopes smashed one after another. Out of anger? Out of annoyance? Out of–? He finally glanced at the front:
Soul Evans 42 Grigori Way APT G1 Seattle, WA 98199Stamped. Sealed. The only thing missing was a postage mark– actually, the real missing piece was that these looked like he should be pulling them out of his drawer and not his brother's. Why? Why were they crammed in here?
Anger?
Annoyance?
The sudden urge to chuck them into the bin washed over him. It was the easiest answer: what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. There also wasn't a Remy in this equation– someone who could preview and highlight only the need-to-know portions. Lastly, these weren't like Viv's private thoughts. These were… addressed to him. Ready to mail, but for some reason not.
He fiddled with the corner of one, daring the wayward movement of his finger to break the seal. Without the postage date, the order was impossible to know, but… it shouldn't matter. Any one of these is just going to tell me what I already know, right? That we… that we weren't really brothers.
That thought brought him to a hard seat on the bed, the fear swallowing the rest of his movement. He could stay like this. He could throw it all away, and let whatever was in the past go back to being buried– stashed away in the back of the drawer. He could ask Layla– Remy– Maka to just dump the rest, and he'd never have to know–
He flicked his thumb, snapping away paper from the glue.
Little Brother:
It's not exactly fair to bring you into a marital discussion
Oh, who cares, it's not as if I'm going to have the nerve to send these.
It's not exactly fair to bring you into a marital discussion, but I lied to my wife today. I'm keenly aware that Vivienne is your favorite, so I know whose side you'd take in an actual fight, but this one was different, I suppose. It was about you.
I honestly assumed Vivienne and I would have argued about this ages ago: Why aren't you and I better brothers? Vivienne has always shown you special attention– more than enough to irk Remy and produce bouts of jealousy from me. I don't think Remy or I have ever been good at sharing (one of the many reasons we will never be buddy-brothers-in-law) and to make matters worse, you genuinely don't seem to realize just how much Vivienne dotes on you. But I digress. She finally asked today, and while I wanted to meander through with some kind of diversion, five years of marriage and a child have left me with the inability to hide from her.
I made the mistake of mentioning Mom first, and that was where Vivienne's thought process started and stopped. It's easy to blame Mom since there's a mountain of evidence for her lack of maternal warmth, but what Vivienne refuses to see is how much I am at fault. Mom might have laid the building blocks for our separation (or perhaps I should say didn't lay any foundation to our connection), but I was the one who decided not to break free. I'm aware that refusing any of Mom's wishes is asking for a death sentence, but I will never understand why I have allowed that to feed my fear about creating some kind of bond with you.
Ah, another lie.
Lie #1: I told Vivienne that you hated me, and that there was no coming back from that.
Lie #2: Fear of Mom is what kept me from bonding with you.
Truth #1: I suppose this is me being full of myself, but I've been aware for some time that you harbor at least some kind of stunted affection for me. I have done nothing to water that delicate flower, I know, but I still watched it grow with breathless anticipation. Like a coward, I had hoped that you would be the one to overcome and bridge our gap. Instead, you ran. I don't blame you, but at the same time, I selfishly wish you'd taken me with you.
Truth #2: I was scared of Mom, but ultimately, I was more scared of you. If I couldn't make this right, you'd hate me. The flimsy bit of affection that lived in you (probably because of genetics) would be snuffed out by one wrong move. I watched the tenuous relationship between you and our parents, and I was sure I walked the same tightrope. All of that sounds like I'm blaming you, and what's worse is I'm sure I am.
Isn't that a joke? The older brother wishes the younger brother would have saved him. The older brother blames the younger for his own fear. What a joke indeed.
…
Vivienne is pregnant again! I wonder if that means the little listening sessions will become a threesome instead of my two girls pouring over your voice on the radio. There it is– jealousy is a terrible, oily thing, isn't it? I try to tell myself I'm here, I'm with them, but with how much work takes me away it's starting to feel as if my daughter knows your voice better than my own. Oh, Soul, it's so petty. It's so childish! And I'd never tell Vivienne to stop, not ever, especially since Layla loves you.
My daughter, who has no memory of your face, loves you so deeply.
Though I've been jealous of it, it's actually something I've desperately needed as well. Being only a toddler, she doesn't have or realize any roadblocks to love. Instead, she hugs the little speaker to her belly, letting your words buzz and tickle her. She laughs when you do. She looks at the picture of you and I and babbles what I pretend are her baby-magic spells, trying to bring us back together.
Because I'll admit, while Vivienne, Layla, and new baby listen to you together during the day, I've taken it up late at night. I'm often overwhelmed by the happiness I hear in your voice. Vivienne assures me that you're still depressed when she speaks to you on the phone, but at least in those moments captured on tape you sound so different from the boy I remember. It's a good kind of different.
…
It's a boy. Secretly, I was sure we were having another girl, and if she was going to be anything like precious little Layla…
It's a boy. Men like that sort of thing, don't they? A boy to keep up the family name? To be a little clone of you? So on and so forth. It makes me think about Shihab, something that I'm sure neither of us enjoys doing. Somehow I was never that for him. I don't know if it was because I picked up Mom's musical inclinations or because I chose to marry Vivienne instead of the million potential matches from his home, but… he placed that mantle on you. Or less a mantle and more a yoke.
It makes me fear having a son. What was it that flipped that switch in Shihab? I remember the distance between us even before you were born, and I don't think you had anything to do with the gap as it continued to grow. If anything, your birth slowed it down for a time, as if he suddenly remembered he had sons. Sometimes I toy with the idea of asking him. I'm an adult now, we can talk like adults, can't we?
It also makes me wonder what you'd be like as a father. For some reason, I don't see you falling victim to the same things. Maybe (actually hopefully) I'm projecting. I hope we both can be better than Shihab, though I feel as if that's setting the bar fairly low. Though I think I'd like to see you as a father. Maybe someday.
…
Vivienne never could leave well enough alone. Now she's fought with Mom and…
How can I express how much of a relief it is? It is unfair that I've let my pregnant wife fight for me, but… no more Mom. No more Shihab. No more worrying if Layla will have to hear any of that toxicity, or be taught that what she is isn't good enough. No more worrying if our little boy (as I write this, Reginald is our top choice, an old family name of Vivienne's) will just become another pawn in some game of theirs. I feel free, but suddenly I'm worried, so worried about you.
Do you feel this way? Does being in Seattle mean you're free of Mom and Shihab? Have your worries evaporated like this? I don't want to borrow Mom's way of looking at it, but is it more that you're hiding? That you've run away, but still have some tether to home? I'm hoping that's wrong. I'm hoping you're living the life you want and not feeling encumbered. Still, I can't shake the worry.
To be honest, I want to call you. I'm thinking about sending this letter. I'm thinking about just hopping on a plane and showing up at your front door. I think all these wants are starting to outweigh my fears.
Most of all, I want to see the joy on Layla's face when she finally meets her favorite voice.
…
I hope this isn't jinxing anything.
For our anniversary, of course Vivienne and I will be doing the stereotypical night out. Don't worry, Layla will be staying with Flora and Julien (that's Vivienne's mom and dad who I think you only met at the wedding). Except we've also come to an agreement: we need a little vacation. We've never seen Seattle, and that nagging feeling hasn't gone away. I hope this won't get in the way of your life, and I still fear that you'll turn a cold shoulder to me even if I go this far, but… at the very least I want to do this for Layla. That's how I'll put it for now. That whatever happens between you and I will be what it is, but Layla deserves her love.
Vivienne plans on calling you tonight after dinner. She can barely wait as it is, but I asked her to just hold off in case it didn't go exactly as planned. It would also be nice just to have an evening for the two of us. You don't understand that yet, but maybe one day you will. Maybe. I hope I can be there for that.
Layla stretched and wriggled, nudging into Liz with her back and Patty with her legs. This brought Liz's attention from the not-so-thrilling thriller they had been attempting to watch for the past hour, but the little bug had been too squirmy. Finally, Liz froze the frame mid-car crash.
Patty, as always deeply connected to her sister, perked immediately. "Time to spill, kiddo."
Liz kept her smile muted, trying to respect whatever storm was raging in Layla's heart while still appreciating her sister. "You know we'll listen," she bookended.
The little girl glanced between the two before focusing on the TV again. For a moment, all signs pointed towards Layla sweeping whatever it was under the rug as she reached for the remote herself, but a sigh engulfed and swept it all away. "I talked to Dr. Marie about it, but I still don't know if it's right."
"Asking for another opinion never hurts," Patty prodded.
Liz tossed an arm around Layla's shoulders and squeezed. "Maybe there's something we know that she doesn't, considering we are your favorite aunties."
Layla managed a wan smile before dropping her eyes to her lap. There, her fingers began to play with the pilling of the blanket before she started: "We talk a lot about what Mommy was like."
Patty's gaze flicked to her sister's, both meeting to exchange a second of heartache. "Did you want to know more?"
"Sort of," Layla continued quietly. "Maybe, just– why does Papa love Mommy so much? I-I don't think he loves Daddy that much."
Liz always prided herself on being prepared for any discussion, but this moment broke her record. The dirty layers of Soul's family drama would take hours to unpack, and most definitely a level of maturity that Layla couldn't begin to have. Squashing it– compacting that information into a bite for a grade-schooler seemed impossible.
"Your mommy was just like that," Patty chirped as if none of the existential crisis that Liz was living had bled to her. "Her heart was so big that she made everyone love her to bits. Just like you, Layla."
Alright, well, Liz could admit defeat. Thank goodness for Patty's lack of a filter.
While Liz had found satisfaction, Layla's brow only furrowed further. "Did he love Mommy in the romantic way?"
Patty popped a boisterous laugh. "No!" She emphasized with a million little echoes of the word as she shook Layla's shoulders. "He just really needed someone and your mommy was the one who stepped up, no questions asked, no judgment. She was exactly what he needed."
Liz's first thought didn't exactly strengthen Patty's case: Like Maka. Censoring was her best bet, especially as Patty continued.
"Sorta like Dr. Marie– Viv helped Soul think about things clearly rather than just with his hurt." Patty nodded along with her observation, the pleasure of the point made easily tilting her lips up in a grin.
"Why were you wondering that, honey?" Liz added delicately as she started to toy with the girl's hair.
Defeat drew down each of Layla's features. "Papa–" she started, but seemed to think better of it, trapping the rest behind her lip and shaking her head.
What the hell did Soul do? Liz was itching to pick up the phone and berate the man, but Layla was here for a reason: today was cleaning day. While Liz loved to put Soul in his place, doing so after he scrubbed out the last bit of his brother and sister-in-law was downright cruel. "Why don't you just tell us what Dr. Marie said."
Layla pondered this, still chewing on the pink of her lip. Finally, with a soft nod, she continued: "If Papa and Maka got married–"
If there had been liquid involved, both sisters would have provided a spit-take. "Married?" Liz offered, trying not to let that jump up in the air with incredulousness.
"Well"—the old Layla was back suddenly, the matter-of-fact air saturating her voice—"you can only be boyfriend and girlfriend for so long, Aunt Liz. Dr. Marie said you can't say exactly how long, but I want to prepare. Plus, Maka said family, and Papa already calls us a family, so…" She left that leading point, eyebrows rising in challenge.
"Well…" Liz echoed and looked to Patty, hoping desperately for another unfiltered spurt of wisdom.
Instead, Patty blinked, obviously dumbfounded.
"Well," Liz repeated, buying time. "If your papa and Maka got married, you could be a family, but that's partially your choice. Not that you get to choose whether or not they get married, but you choose what Maka means to you."
"That's what Dr. Marie said," Layla replied, oddly mournful.
"Um…" Liz floundered, looking at Patty once again as an anchor.
"You could live with Remy." That shot without apology from Patty's mouth as she stared Layla down.
How simply the tables had turned: Layla's eyes went wide and her mouth gaped.
"I know Maka and Soul would want to have you there," Patty amended, "but you could choose to go too, if you don't want to be a family with them."
"No!" Layla professed, adding a tumultuous shake of her head to solidify the word. "I want Papa, and I want Maka, too! I want–" She shrunk, shoulders curling as she tightly worried her fingers together. "Do you think it hurts Pop and Grandmama when I call Papa papa?"
"What?" While Liz's mind had to stretch for the reasoning behind the question, the answer was simple: it's not hurt, it's annoyance. They've never seen him as your papa, and they make sure to let him know at every turn.
Layla looked around the room, searching as if extra ears were listening. Finally she settled back to reading her knuckles. "Everyone makes me feel like it's okay to call Papa papa, even if Papa always says he doesn't want to replace Daddy."
"That's why you don't call him Daddy, right? Since papa isn't a replacement," Patty offered softly as she stole away one of Layla's panicked hands.
Layla nodded.
"Then it is fine. No one's forgotten your daddy," Liz urged as she took the other hand. The three cuddled close, almost conspiratorially. "And it doesn't hurt anyone because no one deserves to have an opinion but you and maybe Soul."
She considered this before squeezing the two sets of hands supporting her. "But who deserves to have an opinion about what I call Maka?"
Clarity was still miles away, but Liz was at least starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. "Why wouldn't it be the same? Just you and Maka?"
"That's what Dr. Marie said." Layla heaved a sigh bigger than her body. Silence hung, stale and weighty. "I think it would hurt Papa if I ever called Maka mama or momma or– or anything, and I don't want to hurt Papa."
Yes, clarity, but at the cost of any bit of joy. "Why do you think that, Layla?"
"Mommy was so important to Papa, and I know it's not the same—I'm not calling Maka mommy—but it still makes me feel like it is the same. Papa still cries about Mommy– dreams about Mommy, so…"
Oh, Soul, really? Liz's stomach crashed to her toes. Soul's hermitting may have crumbled away under Maka's watch, but here was the reminder that socially adept didn't mean healed. "How– how often does that happen?"
"The dreams?" Layla asked innocently, raising her eyes to Liz.
Liz tried to trap the quiver in her voice. "Yes."
The girl shrugged, but added: "I know it still happens, even if Maka's here."
Suddenly, all of the pressure from Layla existing was gone since Patty had gathered her up into her lap. "Liz, maybe you should go get some ice cream. You'll have to go to the store, we don't have any here."
Once again, Liz was thankful for that unbeatable sisterly connection.