Come lift up your voices all grief to refrain

by Galysh

It's the summer of 1990 and Asher's not looking forward to spending it at the beach, but at least he has his brothers to keep him entertained. Or. Twenty years have gone by since Asher broke his promise, now closing in on forty he finds that regret is a foul concoction to drink indeed. Desiring to spare his son that pain, he calls up his brother again.

2. Chapter 2

Come lift up your voices all grief to refrain (for we may or might never all meet here again)

Part II

July 2010

Cirque de la Lune

"Sirius, come help with these boxes!" Asher calls, pushing through the flap of a tent. "On the double now!" Hears his son coming before he sees him, but soon the youth is beside him. At ten years of age, Sirius has finally started to grow taller, his cheeks losing their childhood pudginess in favor of a sharp jawline. Looking at him, Asher sees an odd mixture of his family's blood and his wife all muddled together so that at times he can almost imagine Sirius as he would have been had he been raised a de Vienne, but at others he only sees Sorina's son with his shining eyes and impish smile. "The smaller one on top," Asher tells him, "be mindful with it. There are vials inside."

Dutifully Sirius takes the topmost box and proceeds him into the infirmary, where he places the vials away without being instructed as to where. Pride is a rare emotion for Asher to feel, but more often than not, he finds it filling him when he looks at his son. Already, Sirius is far more responsible of a child than Asher had been at that age, quick on the uptake and so studious that it is frankly worrying. Would that Asher could send him off to a proper school where his talents could be honed into perfection but the one time he implied such, Cyrille had looked at him like he'd grown a second head, and Sirius, himself, had been driven close to tears. So Asher had been forced to set aside that dream and devoted more time to teaching Sirius what he could, much to the boy's pleasure. And well, if he's being honest Asher does enjoy having him at his elbow, it's nice talking to someone actually interested in his lessons. Shaking his head at his absurdness, Asher sets the last boxes down in their appropriate location.

Slowly, meticulously, he looks over the infirmary and when he deems that it is as ready as it can be, he walks out. Sirius trots after him, still needing to take many quick steps to keep up with Asher's longer strides. Together, the pair move on to assist first the stable master and then the kitchens, moving boxes as bid and familiarizing themselves with the lay of the land, for it has been a year since they were last posted in Averoigne. Politely, Asher pretends not to see how Sirius keeps looking about as if searching for someone, but when it grows frequent enough that he becomes distracted, he sends him off with a warning to be back in time for dinner. As swift as an eagle taking flight, Sirius shoots off towards the borders of the circus, and Asher watches him go, wondering why he feels as if it is he who has been set adrift. "It must be old age," he muses softly, "perhaps it has overtaken me at last."

"Old age, pwah!" An unasked and unlooked-for passerby scoffs. "You're barely a day over thirty, doctor lad. Don't you be speaking about old age now."

"I'm two years shy of four decades," Asher replies dryly and moves on before he can be drawn into conversation. With his primary duties taken care of, there's not much for him to do, and even when he extends aid, most turn him aside, reminding him that he'll 'be busy soon enough, rest while you can.' It is wise advice and kindly meant at that, but Asher ignores it all the same. He has never enjoyed standing idle while others toil, and even the promise of future hard work is not enough to ease his present restlessness. Unbidden, his feet carry him away from the hustle and bustle until Asher finds his way onto a rarely-walked path. Following it brings him to a lake, the blue waters lapping gently at the rocky shore, and there he takes a seat, divesting one foot of its confines to dip it into the water. There's a thought wriggling and squirming at the back of his mind, and he extracts it now reluctantly, holding it up to the light.

Last year, in a moment of insanity and panic, he had called his brother for assistance and against all odds, Girart had actually shown up. Mind, it had been with evident reluctance and he had made no effort to temper his gruff exterior or barbed tongue, but he had come all the same. Having him present in the RV and in the infirmary had lifted a weight off of Asher's shoulders, one he hadn't realized had been slowly strangling him. It had been nice to speak with someone who understood him, to speak medical terms and not need to explain them and most importantly, to have someone else treat Sirius with all the care and gentleness he deserved. Of course, that had been a one-time occasion, and Asher is confident Girart would refuse should he ask him, but there is no harm in making the offer. After all, as long as Sirius does not find out, the only wounded party will be his pride. Driven by such a thought, he retrieves his phone and scrolls until he gets the appropriate contact info.

The phone rings once, twice, and then, unsurprisingly, goes directly to voicemail. Annoyed, Asher hangs up and tries again; this time, the phone is answered on the first ring. "I'm busy. Make it quick," Girart says before he can even get a word in.

"It's Saturday. What on earth could you be busy with?" Asher retorts, annoyed enough that he briefly forgets his reason for calling. "Surely your job doesn't expect you to work those."

"Some of us do actually work for a living," Girart retorts, but he sounds more tired than annoyed, "I am actually busy though; what did you want?"

"Sirius asked when you're visiting again," Asher lies swiftly, "so when are you coming?"

Girart is silent on the other end, but Asher imagines that he's probably rolling his eyes or saying something snide to that husband of his. Asher has only met Yvon once, but what he remembers is muscles and a terrifying smile that promised bodily pain if he didn't remove himself from the vicinity. If Asher never crosses his path again, that would suit him just fine. "Well?" He presses impatiently when the silence has gone on for a ridiculous amount of time. "Surely even you can take a few days off work to visit your nephew."

"I already have plans," Girart growls, but he sounds distracted like he's doing something else; a moment later, he sighs. "I can come next week, but I'm bringing your other nephew along, seeing as he already has dibs on any vacations I might have."

"Nephew?" Asher asks innocently, "Don't you mean your son? Or has Milon finally settled down and had a few of his own?"

"Oh fuck off with that," Girart snaps back, "I'll thank you to not say such things around the boy, or I'll have your tongue." Huffing loudly, he adds, "have you not spoken to Milon? And don't give me the phone bullshit excuse again; you can find his number on the hospital website."

"We don't get along," Asher says lightly, "I don't think we've exchanged a single word in the past decade. His fault, of course; you know how golden children who fell from grace can get when faced with their more successful siblings." It's cruel and untrue, but he can no more swallow the words than admit the real reason he and Milon had fallen out. Not when he still has a scar on his elbow from how badly Milon had broken his arm. Not when the cause of their entire disagreement had been Girart himself, thankfully still oblivious years later.

"Must have been an ugly fight," Girart says evenly, but Asher has known his brother long enough to hear the carefully controlled anger. "If you're still scared of him after so long."

"I do not fear him," Asher hisses, "are you going to be able to come or not? I can set you up with your own housing this time. There is no need to force four people into our RV."

"Yeah sure, I'll come," Girart says after another long pause, no doubt checking with Olivier, "next week work for you?"

"That suits me just fine," Asher says swiftly, relief catching him off guard with its strength, "and Girart, I appreciate it. Sirius will be delighted."

"I'll see you in a week," Girart says, giving no acknowledgment to his words, and the call ends just as swiftly. Asher stares at his phone for a long moment, wondering how he will survive the visit when he doesn't have a sick child to soften Girart up before sighing and sticking his foot back in his shoe. All of that can be dealt with later; right now he probably ought to track down his son and ensure he hasn't gotten into any trouble.

He finds Sirius sitting on a stool outside the RV while he peels potatoes. Noé, the boy he'd befriended last summer, is sitting on the ground, weaving grass stalks together as he chatters about some strange bird he'd seen. "Afternoon," Asher greets them and sits on the ground beside them. "It's been quite some time since I've seen your face, young man. Have you grown taller?"

"I have!" Noé exclaims proudly, "A whole 10 centimeters. I'm tall enough to ride the tractor on my own now."

"That's nice," Asher says, although he can think of nothing more unappealing than riding a smelly tractor. "Will you be joining us for dinner?" Noé shakes his head apologetically, replying that he's promised his grandparents that he'll be home by sundown. Nodding, Asher reminds them to clean up before they trek inside and then searches for the troupe Leader, hoping to reserve a spare tent before they get taken. It is an errand that winds up taking him the rest of the afternoon, for midway through he's summoned to the infirmary to deal with bee stings after some poor fool thought it wise to disturb a nest.

And so the week went; Asher kept busy with his infirmary work, and Sirius, when not by his side, spent his days with Noé. As it is pretty nice to see his son running about with a friend his own age, Asher does not begrudge him his fun, but not having him underfoot and thus at the forefront of his mind leads to the unanticipated result of Asher forgetting to warn him about the visit. Would never have remembered at all had Girart not texted him the morning of to let him know they'd made the train. Exasperated, exhausted, and already annoyed by a busy morning, Asher hustles off to find his son and the troupe leader. The latter he finds first for Cyrille is impossible to miss when one only needs to listen for his booming voice, but Sirius proves harder to locate. Eventually, Asher finds him in the stables, explaining to Noé the various elements of horse anatomy. Asher can't leave him unsupervised, so he drags him along to the impromptu meeting.

"Well, son, what has you all aflutter?" Cyrille asks, amusement mingling with genuine concern. Sirius stands silently by his side, looking up at Asher with equally worried eyes, while Noé just looks around the inside of the office with wide-eyed curiosity.

"Do you remember Girart, my brother?" Asher asks, swiftly continuing when he has received a nod, "he's paying me another visit; is in fact already on his way. I've been busy enough that it's totally slipped my mind, but he'll likely need to be picked up."

"Will do," Cyrille says, although Asher hasn't asked anything of him. "Is it just your brother?"

"And his nephew," Asher adds, "that'll be your cousin, Olivier. You met him when you were very young."

Sirius doesn't look remotely reassured, his eyes shifting between them as he crosses his arms across his chest. "Will he need watching?" He asks.

"No, or at least I should hope not," Asher answers, chuckling despite himself. "He's a fair bit older than you, perhaps 9 or so years?" If anything, Sirius looks relieved to hear this, and he relaxes somewhat. Sighing, he wipes away some straw that has gotten on his shoulder. "They likely won't be here longer than a few days, and Girart at least can help if the infirmary gets overwhelmed again. I just thought you should know."

"Of course, I'd be more than delighted to host them for a meal this time," Cyrille says, smiling broadly when Asher shoots him a horrified look, "I was unable to last time, what with the lil'doc being all a'fevered, but I'd quite like to hold a more formal conversation with your brother. He seems like an interesting story."

"He's," Asher starts and then stops when no child-appropriate terms come to mind, "interesting, yes. I'd be indebted if you could pick them both up and bring them safely."

"As I said, it's no problem for me," Cyrille replies, "although I doubt your brother will be pleased. He didn't like my dear Bessie last time." Asher snorts at that, having felt for himself on many occasions how uncomfortable the road is. Catching sight of Sirius' expression, he turns toward him, but the boy only shakes his head, sighing loudly.

"I'll need to peel more potatoes," he announces dejectedly and walks out of the tent. Noé trots after him, shouting something about being willing to help.

"As can you," Cyrille points out and unceremoniously propels Asher after the two boys.

Although Sirius declares himself unimpressed with Asher and Noé's assistance, Asher catches him smiling into his meal prep on more than one occasion, so he does not take his words to heart. Under Sirius' stern instructions, they put together a hearty potato stew that will fill any hungry belly. With the meal simmering on the stove and Sirius walking Noé out to the road, Asher is left to sit in his own thoughts. An unpleasant task when the thoughts are as burdensome as his own, so rather than stew in them, he fetches a thick book in which he has begun to transcribe all his medical knowledge.

One day, years from now, when his little one is grown and has struck out on his own, he will no longer need either father or instructor. All the same, Asher hopes that his teachings will not fade away with the passage of time, so he transcribes them now within the book. Within it, he will place all his medical knowledge, for there is nothing else of value that he can pass on to Sirius, and when it is complete, he will gift it to the boy and set him free to explore the world. The thought of a grown Sirius struggling to decipher his handwriting spurs him on to neatly print every letter no matter how it causes his hand to cramp. Such endeavors take him the rest of the evening, and he has completed half a dozen pages when he hears voices outside the RV. Swiftly, Asher stows the book away again and goes to greet his guests.

Sirius is on the other side, looking small and oddly at home amid his cousin and uncle — uncles, Asher corrects himself. Etiquette training and shock are the only things that keep him from speaking aloud the foul words that come to his tongue. Behind the youth, he assumes must be Olivier, is Girart, and next to him, standing tall with guarded eyes, is a brother he has not seen in over a decade. Time has not touched Milon's golden hair except to bless it with the occasional gray strands and to paint lines on his face.

"Go inside," Asher says flatly, "show your cousin around." Ignoring Sirius' confused expression, he stalks down the steps, bearing down on the other two, rage mounting with each stride. It continues to climb as he leads them away from the RV so that Sirius will not overhear and then further still so that no one else will feel tempted to eavesdrop.

When he is satisfied that they are far enough away, nestled beneath the protective shade of a large tree, he spins about, snarling. "What is he doing here?" Means to say more, to speak rage and hurt in equal measure until he has cowed both of them, but he finds that the words do not come willingly.

"He," Girart returns flatly, having planted himself protectively in front of Milon, an absurd action given that Milon is taller and more robust than them both, "was gracious enough to alter his vacation plans so that your nephew's request could be granted."

"That… You realize that made absolutely zero sense, right?" Asher says incredulously, "I let you pick the date; what does that have to do with his vacation plans?" Girart makes a noise like an angry bull, and Asher tenses to prepare for the fight that will undoubtedly break out any second. The last time had been a fluke. He's a fool for thinking that he could get along with his brother a second time.

"Forgive him, he's exhausted and not thinking clearly," Milon interjects, and then he does something that Asher would never dare to do in a thousand years, he places a hand on Girart's shoulder and shoves him aside. "What he meant to say is, sorry Asher, I forgot to tell you I was planning to visit my other brother this week. Could we just kill two birds with one stone and meet up?"

Milon, Asher notes, is not smiling as he speaks, nor does he appear angry; he simply seems old and tired, exactly like Asher feels inside. He looks at Girart and sees him glaring at both of them, but when his brother meets his gaze, the glare fades away into something almost apologetic. "I really did forget," he says stiffly, "I don't know what happened between you two, but are you really going to deny Sirius the opportunity to meet his single nice uncle?"

"Nice is not the word I would use," Asher retorts because he's never learned how to back down from a fight. "Just because he's capable of maintaining a respectable veneer for the public doesn't make him—"

"I'm sorry."

"What?" Flabbergasted, he stares at Milon, "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, I apologize," Milon repeats, "I am sorry for breaking your arm, which, if I may remind you, was an accident and something I apologized for directly after it happened."

"You can't just apologize," Asher hisses, strangled and confused, suddenly feeling like he's been pushed into cold water without warning. "That's! You can't just! If you do that, what on earth am I supposed to do then?"

"Grow up, I suppose," Girart cuts in, and if he looked annoyed earlier, he seems exasperated now. "All this over a broken bone, really? That's embarrassing." With a disgusted snort, he gives them both a look and stalks off back to the RV, tossing over his shoulder, "Hurry up and make up; you're wasting Sirius' hard work."

Asher watches him go, still reeling and then turns an offended gaze onto Milon. "Is this what being a homosexual does to people? When did he become the reasonable one?"

"I'd like to think it's made me more reasonable, but I'm sure you'd disagree," Milon replies.

Asher stares at him, but when all he receives is an impassive raised eyebrow, he groans aloud and holds out his hand. "I accept your apology. I am, for my part, sorry for the words I spoke, which led to your anger. I did regret them, and not just because you beat some sense into my head."

Milon hums, gazing at his hand with the same interest that one pays a poisonous viper. It is, perhaps, more than a little deserved, Asher is pained to admit. "It's not to me you owe the apology," he says after a long moment, "but I'd say this is as good a start as any." His grip is firm when he takes Asher's hand, but rather than shake it as a civilized person would, he uses it to yank him into a hug. Asher squawks in outrage, but his struggles prove futile when Milon only roughly ruffles his hair and pushes him away. "There. A bird's nest just how it was always meant to be."

He walks away then, leaving Asher with little choice but to follow, and if he smiles, it's not as if anyone can see.

Dinner is surprisingly bearable, Sirius and Olivier carrying most of the conversation as the boy is fascinated by Olivier's studies and eager to ply him with questions. Asher keeps himself occupied with a glass of port and tries to pretend that he's not drinking in the sight of his brothers in one place. If he squints, Olivier even looks like Renier, but that is unkind and cruel, for the young man is soft-spoken and kind, his patience for Sirius's questions endless. Looking at him, with his dark locks held back in a low queue and lips curled into a slight smile, Asher can almost see the child he had once been. A half-forgotten and long-shattered promise drifts to the forefront of his mind, and he leans forward abruptly, setting the glass down with a loud noise.

Silence falls. Sirius' head snaps towards him, alarm in his eyes, and he immediately rises. "Sorry Father, were we being too loud? It's gotten late. Shall I see our guests to their tent?"

"No, sit back down," Asher says hastily, belatedly realizing how his action could be misinterpreted. "It is late, but not so late; we need to chase them out just yet. I had a thought, that's all." Sirius looks at him dubiously but slowly sinks back into his seat. "Your friend, Noé, do you know if he's fond of kicking a ball around?"

"He likes sports and running about like a headless chicken, so I wouldn't be surprised," Sirius replies slowly. "Why? You can't recruit him to the circus; his grandparents are ancient and need his help at the shop, plus he'd get lost quickly and then cry. You'd hate that." The concern is back on his face, albeit for an entirely different reason this time, and Asher regrets setting down his glass as he no longer has anything to hide his amusement.

"I thought you, he and your cousin might like to head to the lake. You could take the ball and some food and make a day of it. Tomorrow's a Monday, after all, we don't get many customers at the start of the week." Even as he speaks, it takes strength of will to not look at Girart or Milon, but Sirius does it for him, innocently asking if they'd also like to come.

"Only if your father does," Girart replies because he is a cold-hearted bastard who never forgives or forgets anything, "as you just said, Ash. You shouldn't have many customers; no reason why you can't take the morning off."

"I," Asher starts stiffly, but then Sirius is looking at him, with his eyes full of hope, yet his shoulders braced for rejection, and Asher would do anything to soothe his fears, even if it means he has to endure his brothers. "I will come," he continues, trying not to appear annoyed, "do you want to borrow my cell and let your friend know?"

Sirius leaps up and rushes off to do just that; within moments, he's excitedly talking into it, and Asher is left to sit in awkward silence while they all wait for him to finish. Unable to bear it, Olivier pushes to his feet, saying something about doing the dishes, and starts to clear the table. Asher glances at Girart, unsurprised to see him on his phone, and then to Milon, who just gazes back at him with a neutral face. Grimacing, Asher wishes he'd thought of the dish excuse first, but there's nothing to do about it now. "Girart," he hisses, kicking at his ankle when his hissing goes ignored. "Regarde-moi, imbécile."

Milon snorts into his glass, adding in an equally quiet voice, "Ah yes, because insulting him has always gotten him to listen to you."

"Attends un moment, je suis en train d'être homosexuel," Girart replies, moving his foot out of reach. There's a very soft squeak from the kitchenette, and Asher belatedly realizes that Olivier probably speaks fluent French. He's avoided teaching Sirius out of some desire to separate him from his roots, but the more he thinks about it, the sillier it feels. If Sirius is going to have his uncles and cousin in his life, then he might as well ask him if he wants to learn; he deserves that much at least.

"Yvon sends his love, Oli," Girart announces, putting his phone away, "none for you though, Asher. He's not very fond of you, although I can't imagine why."

"None for Milon either?" Asher retorts snidely and then swiftly holds up a hand, "Never mind, I spoke too quickly."

"Chicken," Girart replies, but he sounds fond rather than upset, and amusement is glinting in his eyes. "Just wait for tomorrow. I'm going to score so many goals off of you."

"I'm sorry," Asher says swiftly before he can lose his courage or recover his senses. "For that and other things, thank you for coming all this way. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," Girart replies, and if he looks stunned, then Asher supposes he only has himself to blame. He hasn't exactly been the most forgiving or mature individual. But he's said what he has to say, and so it is with a clear conscience that he chases them out of his RV. Tomorrow, when the sun is bright and the birds are merry, they will chase a ball around as they had when they were unencumbered youth, and this time Asher will keep his promise.

The bonds that hold his siblings together have become frayed and fragile over time but are not yet entirely destroyed, and if it means Sirius will grow up with uncles who adore him, then Asher will swallow both his pride and his crimes and work to repair them. "This year and the next and the next," he swears, looking up at the moon.

"This year, what?" A warm body tucks itself up against him, wriggling until Asher wraps an arm around his shoulders, and Sirius settles with a contented noise.

"I was thinking of the future," Asher answers him honestly, "if your uncles can behave themselves, I was thinking of inviting them back next year. Making a routine of it as it were."

"As long as Olivier comes to," Sirius says after thinking, "that way, me an' Noé can play with him, and you can an' the adults can keep each other occupied. You'll work less if you have more doctors, right?"

"Right," Asher says, but it must not have been compelling for Sirius huffs, "Dad."

"Alright, alright," Asher says, amused despite himself, "but you'll always be my favorite assistant."

"I'm your only assistant," Sirius tells him, but there is happiness in his voice and a smile on his face. He settles in closer, and together they remain, sitting quietly and watching the sky fill with stars.