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witticasterSomething. With Archie.
In retrospect, naming the boy Sebastian Robert Connor Bush-Kennedy was a little much, if only because it was a pain in the arse to say all of it in frustration when the boy got into something he shouldn't have. Most of the time, Archie just stuck with an annoyed Sebastian!, which was long enough in itself to be satisfying; that afternoon, he simply gave a great groan and slumped where he stood, resisting the urge to strike his palm to his forehead.
"The damage isn't as bad as it sounds," William assured him in a mild tone as he followed Archie's determined steps. Archie couldn't tell if William was taking such a nonchalant air on purpose, or if he had planned to look and speak so neutrally well before Archie returned from his visit to the Norrington house. "We'll buy new copies of your books."
The remains of his Riverside Shakespeare and several other, much thinner volumes still lay where the pages had been rent from their bindings, a testimony to the apparent horror which had befallen their flat in his absence. They were not destroyed entire--Sebastian's attention span did not last long enough to see the books thoroughly mauled--but he had torn enough pages into small enough pieces as to make sellotaping them back together an exercise in futility.
"Sure." Swallowing the petulant insistence that new books would not be his books, he tried to think of all the penciled-in margin notes he would need to replace and instead muttered a thoroughly insufficient, "When we've an extra eighty quid lying around, we will."
"You're kidding me." William sounded as though he didn't realize books could cost that much.
Archie jabbed at the Shakespeare with his big toe. "That one was sixty pounds by itself." Abruptly, he turned away from the scene and began to walk toward their bedroom.
He was both relieved and disappointed to find that William had not continued to shadow him, but the former so outweighed the latter that he shut the door firmly (but quietly, since Sebastian was napping) and proceeded to lay down on the bed, crossing his arms over his chest like an insolent child. The loss ate at him in a way he had never suspected the sight of a torn book would; he'd had most of those nigh on two and a half decades now, had learnt more than a few pages of them by heart (though, woefully, most likely not the pages Sebastian had ripped). They were his, in a way he knew he could never explain to anyone who asked, let alone William.
William, who was standing over him and had been for who knew how long, since Archie's gaze had been quite firmly on the ceiling and not the blue eyes gazing down on him. "Yes?" Archie asked, making no effort at pleasance.
"Sebastian will be up in twenty minutes," came the reply, calmly delivered but not coolly.
In retrospect, naming the boy Sebastian Robert Connor Bush-Kennedy was a little much, if only because it was a pain in the arse to say all of it in frustration when the boy got into something he shouldn't have. Most of the time, Archie just stuck with an annoyed Sebastian!, which was long enough in itself to be satisfying; that afternoon, he simply gave a great groan and slumped where he stood, resisting the urge to strike his palm to his forehead.
"The damage isn't as bad as it sounds," William assured him in a mild tone as he followed Archie's determined steps. Archie couldn't tell if William was taking such a nonchalant air on purpose, or if he had planned to look and speak so neutrally well before Archie returned from his visit to the Norrington house. "We'll buy new copies of your books."
The remains of his Riverside Shakespeare and several other, much thinner volumes still lay where the pages had been rent from their bindings, a testimony to the apparent horror which had befallen their flat in his absence. They were not destroyed entire--Sebastian's attention span did not last long enough to see the books thoroughly mauled--but he had torn enough pages into small enough pieces as to make sellotaping them back together an exercise in futility.
"Sure." Swallowing the petulant insistence that new books would not be his books, he tried to think of all the penciled-in margin notes he would need to replace and instead muttered a thoroughly insufficient, "When we've an extra eighty quid lying around, we will."
"You're kidding me." William sounded as though he didn't realize books could cost that much.
Archie jabbed at the Shakespeare with his big toe. "That one was sixty pounds by itself." Abruptly, he turned away from the scene and began to walk toward their bedroom.
He was both relieved and disappointed to find that William had not continued to shadow him, but the former so outweighed the latter that he shut the door firmly (but quietly, since Sebastian was napping) and proceeded to lay down on the bed, crossing his arms over his chest like an insolent child. The loss ate at him in a way he had never suspected the sight of a torn book would; he'd had most of those nigh on two and a half decades now, had learnt more than a few pages of them by heart (though, woefully, most likely not the pages Sebastian had ripped). They were his, in a way he knew he could never explain to anyone who asked, let alone William.
William, who was standing over him and had been for who knew how long, since Archie's gaze had been quite firmly on the ceiling and not the blue eyes gazing down on him. "Yes?" Archie asked, making no effort at pleasance.
"Sebastian will be up in twenty minutes," came the reply, calmly delivered but not coolly.
