Work Text:
Rain.
He turned his aimlessly wandering gaze above, wondering. How long was he so out of it that he did not even realize that he was soaking wet being under the rain? Or that it was actually raining, for that matter?
Ah, never mind.
He stood up, slightly shaking his head realizing the inanity of the whole situation. He knew it of course. It was, after all, a fact of human life. It is one of the things that do not get deleted from his mind.
It seems that he was not truly successful in divorcing himself from sentiment, then.
Of all the aspirations that fill the human mind, of the things they call “destiny”, almost all of them is subjective. The only permanent and actual destiny of humans is death.
It is governed by basic logic: all beginnings end.
She was timeless, after all – or he thought she was.
Grand-mere.
It felt he was walking in a white noiseless daze, with all those people in black or white, like a zombie and awakened with a horrible start when the priest’s drones of the afterlife cut mercilessly through the white daze.
Grand-mere was dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
The word reverberated in his skull over and over again, ricocheting with a high ringing sound, making him rock back physically.
Mycroft seem to know of his sudden start because a firm hand settled on his shoulder, grounding him. Mycroft never touched him when he was not hurt, as far as he remembered. If he was in a normal situation, he would shoot out a barb but he took it as it was – and God forbid – he even relished it.
All the while, his grandmother’s coffin was lowered to the ground, accompanied by the cacophony of prayers.
One by one, the crowd thinned leaving him and Mycroft behind. Mummy said something and other then also left with Father. Mycroft’s hand was still on his shoulder.
“Sentiment, my dear brother, brings nothing but pain. Caring has never been an advantage.”
He shook Mycroft’s hand off then. He did not appreciate him saying this, as if he was defiling Grand-mere’s affections for the both of them. God knows his grandmother acted what his own mother should be like.
Mycroft left then, leaving him alone with the freshly covered grave.
Meanwhile, the skies above were darkening.
He found himself on a nearby waiting shed, standing and dripping on the dry pavement. He seems to be drifting in and out of alertness.
This must be shock, he thinks.
He let it be. Dramatic it may be, it seems the world lost a little bit of its charm.
“Here,”
A voice seemed to cut on the white haze his thoughts have turned to again. He whipped his head to the intruder, startled. He followed the hand, which held a Styrofoam cup of what smells like tea, and saw a sombre face under a wave of blonde hair looking back at him.
He did not know what facial expression he did or if he did, but a slight turning down of lips that made those blue eyes on that sombre face dimmed.
“Don’t worry, I did not poison it or spat on it or something.”
After a few beats of that declaration did he take the offered cup, letting the warmth seep into his chilled fingers.
“You know, when my mother was alive, she always let us drink tea when we are feeling upset. It is like...tea is the answer to every bad feeling out there. She would let us drink a cup or two before we explain ourselves again. It really does calm you...or was it just conditioned to us? I think-” The other boy suddenly stopped, turning to him with wide eyes. His bright expression and cheery disposition suddenly fell and a shuttered look and embarrassed disposition replaced it.
“I am sorry, I know you must be somewhere else and shouldn’t be hearing this crap. It’s just that, I have seen you standing there,” he gestured on a vague direction where Grand-mere’s coffin was “and you were so alone and...” a sigh. “You won’t always be alone, you know. Somebody will pick you up and make the world seem alive again.”
The other boy abruptly turned away, never seeing him stagger for the second time of that day. He never understood but, seeing those eyes smolder with determination as he uttered such words. The other boy lost more than what he lost, the boy lost his own mother but why was he capable of such concern and optimism? He was already sideswept with the torrent of emotions of loss and despair but the boy's determination and comfort...It was as if he was physically feeling the other boy’s intent and concern. It was like being in front of the fireplace at winter.
But why the concern? They are not relatives. Why?
Why?
He looked up, gathering his bearings and to call after the other boy but a thud of a closing automobile door was heard and a distant rumbling of a car speeding away prevented him.
He heaved a gusty sigh, frustrated and a little bit irate. He looked up the steaming cup of tea on his hand and that was where he spotted it, written in black Sharpie of what looks like a woman’s writing (based on the distinct curl on the ends of the letters):
JW