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~*~
Every time Ryne comes over, she remembers that An Lad’s
rich
.
“Wow,” she murmurs, gazing up at the chandelier above An Lad’s foyer and the grand staircases-- plural! --flanking the atrium like two great trees twisted into a double helix. She sits on a bench fashioned like a log on the forest floor and tugs off her shoes, gazing up at ornate lanterns in brass cages draped across the stairs.
“This is amazing,” Ryne stares, mouth agape. “It’s like stepping into Lothlorien.”
“I never read Narnia,” An Lad teases dryly.
Ryne swats at them, playful. An Lad nods towards the stairs, poking a thumb over their shoulder.
“You remember where my room is, yeah? I just gotta-- you know.”
Ryne nods, and starts making her way upstairs. It’s a pity the lanterns aren’t lit, she thinks. It would be a wonder to see An Manor in all its glory. Instead, with the only light coming from a lonely lamp in the lounge, the creeping shadows only made the house feel so much bigger, so much colder, emptier. Haunted.
“Mum,” An Lad calls into the lamplight.
An Eo, in a stunning ivory nightgown and luminous teal robe, stirs at the voice. They sit curled on a couch that’s far too big for them alone, looking effortlessly elegant opposite an equally ostentatious flat screen television. But the TV’s off; the only things on its mirrored surface phantoms in firelight.
“Mmm,” An Eo coos, their eyes closed, a wistful smile on their lips. “Is that you, my rosebud?”
“Mum,” An Lad says more firmly. “It’s me. Lad. I have a friend over, so…”
“That’s nice,” An Eo says, absently topping off her wine glass and taking a sip.
An Lad lingers in the lounge for one long moment. Two. Their fingers twitch, flex into fists, and go limp again.
“...I’ll be in my room,” An Lad says at last, leaving An Eo to sit in the dark and gaze through their wineglass at something miles-- or years-- away.
~*~
“Sorry about all the… er…”
“Mess?”
“I was going to say ‘depression’.”
Ryne snickers, but her smile is patient and warm. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” An Lad insists, stubborn. They snap their fingers, and all the crumpled clothes strewn about their room rise like puppets on strings. An Lad snaps their fingers again, with a spell intended to send their errant clothes marching back to their proper places, only for their animated clothes to exchange confused glances.
The spell fizzles, half-formed. An Lad frowns in annoyance.
“...That didn’t work,” An Lad muses.
“But it looked pretty cool!” Ryne chimes in.
An Lad growls, reaching up and frizzing up their hair in frustration.
“...It’s
really
okay--” Ryne tries.
“No, it’s not. You don’t even have a place to sit.”
“Let me help, then,” Ryne presses. “Let me just go grab some bags.”
Ryne slips out the door before An Lad can argue. An Lad sits on their bed with a huff, beside a pile of crumpled clothes. An Lad groans, reaching down and consolidating a trio of stained styrofoam noodle cups into a stack. They feel eyes upon them, turn, and notice an animated hoodie watching them, empty hood curled in what looks for all the world like a sneer. An Lad groans and smacks the lingering spell out of the cloth. You wouldn’t think a piece of fabric could look judgmental, but…
“Sorry to keep you waiting!” Ryne chirps upon her return, arms laden with plastic bags. She glances at her feet, sheepish. “I, uh… got lost. Your house is huge. Also, I think your mom thinks I’m a ghost.”
“Takes one to know one,” An Lad mutters darkly.
Ryne squirms, biting her lip. Silently, she and An Lad designate one bag for laundry, one for garbage, and one for recycling, and they begin their search for An Lad’s floor.
“You don’t have to,” An Lad tries yet again.
“I
want
to,” Ryne insists.
“You don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, do you?”
“I’m sorry,” Ryne snickers.
“It’s whatever.”
Ryne pauses, her smile fading. She glances at An Lad sidelong, catching their icy gray gaze.
“No, I mean… I’m sorry,” Ryne says, soft and warm as sunlight.
An Lad feels a stinging in their eyes. They glance at the floor, muttering. “...Yeah.”
They sort and bag and fold together, on their hands and knees on An Lad’s allegedly carpeted floor. Moment by moment, the somber silence between them softens into something more comfortable. Something warm.
“Thanks, by the way,” An Lad mutters.
“Of course. You gotta be ready if that cute pink pixie ever comes over,” Ryne says, waggling her eyebrows salaciously, and gets a giant goobbue plushie in her face for her teasing.
“Okay!” An Lad announces with a clap of their hands, after they’ve exposed enough of the floor for them to sit side by side. “I’m not making you spend the whole night helping me clean my room. Wanna watch something?”
“Sure!” Ryne nods up to the more reasonably-sized television mounted on An Lad’s wall. “Where’s the remote?”
“Oh, it’s… here. Somewhere.” An Lad shrugs, gesturing to the piles of clutter around them. “But don’t worry. I’ve got a remote app on my phone. What’s your favorite streaming service? Mum has them all.”
“Oho, big spender…”
Ryne takes An Lad’s tomephone and starts browsing, diving headfirst into paralysis of choice. An Lad leans back-- and startles, against the clattering of canned energy drinks in their designated recycling bag. But after a moment’s surprise, they settle, An Lad trading the bag of recycling for a better impromptu backrest in the form of their giant goobbue plush.
An Lad watches Ryne, scroll down pages of movies, her immaculate white blouse-- a white Lad used to flinch at, reminding them of Mum-- now awash with shifting color. Something about this feels… normal. Right. As close to normal as An Lad ever felt.
Until they hear it. Faint but unmistakable-- the rumble of an engine, the crumble of tires on asphalt.
An Lad snaps alert, searching over their shoulder as if they’d heard a gunshot. They clamber over their goobbue plush and the piles of laundry, climbs onto their bed, throws the curtains aside and looks down at the driveway.
A stone sinks in An Lad’s chest.
“Wow, do you ever just scroll down like hundreds of movies and TV shows and then think, ‘you know, I don’t know if I want to watch
any
of these’?” Ryne laughs. She turns, snickering, only for her mirth to flick over to concern. “...An Lad? You okay?”
“Da’s here,” An Lad ekes out, breathless.
Ryne furrows her brows. “Your dad? Oh, um… that’s… good, right…?”
“It
varies
,” An Lad growls, their jaw tight. Their wings buzz, agitated, behind their back, involuntarily lifting them off the ground.
“Your wings,” Ryne urges.
“I know,” An Lad hisses, clutching their head. “It happens when I get really stressed out. Da calls it me ‘going hummingbird’.”
“Cute!”
“It doesn’t
feel
cute,” An Lad snaps.
“Right. Sorry,” Ryne frets. “What, uh… what can I do?”
“I don’t know,” An Lad hisses in frustration, rising higher in the air. Pretty soon, they’d be bumping into the ceiling.
“Hey. Hey,” Ryne says gently, offering her hands. An Lad clings to her like a lifeline, lets her pull them down so they’re hovering at head-height. Ryne racks her brain, improvising. “Let’s, um… let’s do something fun. Let’s watch something! You pick something.”
An Lad, still distressed and swaying in Ryne’s grip like a bird eager to flit away, just limply shakes their head ‘no’. Ryne nods.
“Okay. Okay. Um. How about we listen to some music?”
“I don’t want Da to hear. I don’t want them to know I’m home.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got headphones. Here, I have plenty of my music on my phone. You can pick.”
An Lad takes Ryne’s tomephone and scrolls down her music library with trembling fingers, Ryne keeping a firm grip on their arms. An Lad’s frantic wingbeats start to slow, bit by bit, until they’re only floating a few inches above the floor.
“I, um…” An Lad speaks up, suddenly sheepish. “...There’s too many. I can’t decide.”
Their eyes meet. A snicker bubbles out of Ryne’s chest. They snort and laugh, together, An Lad’s wings dissipating back into wisps of teal smoke as Ryne bundles them into her arms.
They sit shoulder to shoulder on An Lad’s bed, An Lad pre-emptively reaching behind Ryne’s back and stuffing an errant, half-full bag of stale potato chips into their designated garbage bag. Ryne picks an album-- evidently she’s more decisive with music than TV-- and they sit together, sharing headphones, An Lad pointedly
not
thinking about whatever was going on downstairs.
“You know,” An Lad absently points out, “these headphones… they’re wireless. We don’t need to sit so close.”
“I know,” Ryne says. She doesn’t move.
An Lad leans back until they’re laying down. Ryne unselfconsciously follows them. They lay together, gazing up at the ceiling, connected by more than touch, by more than their favorite bands. By solidarity. Knowing.
“Sorry,” An Lad mumbles into Ryne’s shoulder.
“For?”
“Making tonight all about me,” An Lad shrugs. “Not like I’m the only one out there with problem parents.”
“It’s okay,” Ryne coos. “You’d let me lean on you whenever
my
turn comes around. And, well… you don’t often talk about your family.”
“Because I’m worried that if I start, I’ll never
stop
,” An Lad groans. “...You only know so much about it because Da dragged you into it. Took you under their wing. Their star pupil, their pet project to spite Mum. As if they could prove who could better raise a child.”
“Well, I’m glad they did,” Ryne says gently. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone.”
“Great,” An Lad smiles wryly. “Who would’ve thought that my evil stepsister would be my first and only friend.”
“Don’t call me that!” Ryne laughs, bright as the sun. An Lad’s smile is like the moon, a cool, pale reflection of Ryne’s light and warmth.
An Lad folds their hands on their chest, looking up at the ceiling. Eventually, they heave a sigh.
“...Did I ever tell you about my gran?” An Lad quietly wonders.
Ryne squirms, guilty. “Oh, just because I said-- I mean, you don’t have to--”
“I
want
to,” An Lad insists, meeting her eyes. Ryne nods.
“...No, you didn’t,” Ryne murmurs.
“They passed away when I was young,” An Lad recites, absent, melancholy. “Honestly, I don’t remember much about them. Near the end, they just spent so much time sleeping. And when they were awake, they were… confused. Forgetful. I’m pretty sure they died without ever knowing about the divorce.”
“That must have been hard,” Ryne offers.
An Lad sighs. “...Pixies don’t age. But we can still die. I’m hoping I get a little taller before my looks get frozen in time. When Gran passed, they didn’t look a day over 35. The sleeping is the sign. Sleeping more and more, until one day you just don’t wake up. I’m sure that doesn’t sound too bad; pixies die more peacefully than most. But the waiting was the hardest part. Watching, waiting, seeing Gran nod off in their rocking chair and wondering if this would be the last time. The dying was so much harder than the death.”
“I’m sorry,” Ryne murmurs.
Silence. An Lad takes a deep breath, and lets it out slow.
“,,,The point is, it’s in the past,” An Lad declares. “Gran died, and I made my peace with it and moved on. It hurt, but it was… straightforward. Uncomplicated. Mum and Da… they’re not so simple.”
Ryne nods sagely. She speaks into the aching quiet.
“You know, I was an orphan,” Ryne begins. “I… never really knew my parents. I think it would hurt more if I’d lost them, but I never had them to start. Grief is about… absence. And they were already gone.”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” An Lad looks at her. “How do you mourn someone who’s still alive?”
~*~
They spend a long time together, just laying in An Lad’s bed and talking up at the ceiling. At one point, An Lad’s earbud falls out and they spend half an hour having to declutter the bed so they can find it again. Eventually, they decide on a movie to put on. They laugh along and lean into each other, drinking in the warmth, the connection. They found each other when they needed it most; their shelter. Their oasis.
When it’s well after midnight and they both realize to their collective dismay that they still have class in the morning, Ryne reluctantly decides to be responsible and go home. Tempted as she is to stay, and tempted as An Lad is to let her, they’d both be in for an earful if An Eo found out a girl had spent the night. Even, or perhaps
especially
if that girl was An Lad’s so-called evil stepsister.
So An Lad eases open one of their ornate gilt-frame windows (“I always forget you’re rich and own a mansion.” “
Mum
is rich and owns the mansion. I just live here.”), wraps their arms around Ryne’s waist and carefully flies her down into the yard. They linger there for a long moment, hugging and swaying, before Ryne reluctantly untangles herself from An Lad’s arms and starts making her way to the public aetheryte a few blocks away.
An Lad raises a hand to their mouth, stifling a yawn. Glowing teal smoke flickers behind their back, their wings only halfheartedly manifesting.
An Lad glances between their bedroom window and the manor’s front doors. An Lad’s fingers twitch, flex into fists and then back again. They take a deep breath.
They pull open the doors.
There’s still a single lonely lamp on in the heart of the house. It beckons them forward like a lure in the deep, like a moth to a flame, even if that flame could be the moth’s undoing.
In the lounge, An Lad finds the candleflame, poking over the top of the couch. The shock of unmistakable red hair, glowing in the lamplight. The arm casually draped across the top of the couch, almost but not quite touching Mum’s shoulder. A fiery red necktie, hanging loose, the top three buttons of their dress shirt rakishly undone.
An Eo sits up, spotting An Lad over Feo Ul’s shoulder. Feo Ul turns to face them. Both their eyes shine unnaturally in the light, fiery amber and frosty blue. Ryne, no doubt, would find this entrancing. To An Lad, it’s a warning, written in light. Like a venomous snake in bright colors, urging you to stay away.
“Look! Look who’s here!” An Eo titters like they’re twenty years younger. Their voice is shrill, manic. An Lad can’t tell if they’re laughing or crying. “Say hi to your Da, Lad.”
An Lad feels the tension in their fingers, the buzzing at their back. They clench their fists, willing their wings back into wisps of teal light.
“...Hi, Da,” Lad mutters to the floor, their jaw tight. “Will I still see you in the morning?”
“Of course,” Feo Ul smiles. “You’re coming to class, aren’t you?”
An Lad stands there, stiff as a board, a knot in their throat. They grit their teeth, stubbornly forcing their wings at bay, and march mechanically up to their room, one foot in front of the other. Their parents watch them go, inscrutable, their eyes shining in the dark.
Grief is about absence, huh? Well, Feo Ul comes and goes as they please.
Whatever An Lad’s parents had between them, it isn’t dead. It clings stubbornly to life, sustained by that awful, dreadful, parasitic hope.
They say goodbye, over and over again.
Just once, An Lad would like to know if it’s for the last time.
~*~