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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 26, 2007 23:11:51 GMT -5
"Oh, yeah," Ian said, trying not to lose his advantage with the memory of that obligation. "I heard he's back. I wondered if you had anything to do with that. I didn't think Brandon would be around anymore; did you miss him?" He let his fingers drop to the edge of the book, fingering the corner of the pages, pulling them slightly apart with great delicacy. "Maybe you . . . wrote him a letter?" Ian laughed; and pulled the book from Jean's hands without warning, flipping the pages and scanning the many epistles with amusement. "My dearest Brandon, Knockwood has languished so dull and uneventful without your warm spirit in its halls. I find myself oft in solitude, passing away the dreariness of Sunday afternoons in solitude, wanting the comfort of your arms as I whittle away the minutes in our verdant courtyard." Ian climbed up onto the nearest chair's seat and raised the book above his head, grinning down at Jean and raising his eyebrows. "Did he bring you one? 'Jean, though I have traveled away from Kinrick's gainly estate, I am taut with the ties that bind me to you and thus to our house as well. . ."
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Post by boingpop on Jul 26, 2007 23:31:07 GMT -5
Jean didn't stand, nor did he turn his head to face Ian. "I wonder, for one who finds the prose of Austin flowery how you manage to erect such a flowery tale of your own." He shook his head, "I'm apt to thank you for your concern for my solitude, however I can assure you Brandon is not the object of my affection, and though perhaps you wish to hurt me in your display I'm pressed to question if your heartfelt display is the result of a deep- perhaps hidden- wish to pen such a letter yourself.
Jean stood, crossing the isle and up to Ian's perch. "I've been nonsensical to think that there is any bit of a pleasant person within you." Jean pulled at the book in Ian's hands- a rip pulling at the binding- a half following his hand while the rest remained.
Jean's face went cold, his expression blank. He grabbed the second half and turned silent. Standing for a moment to look at the thing, it was indeed worn- old- yet had been his- the only thing ever his, the only thing he hadn't had to share. He closed his eyes for a moment trying to withhold tears. Taking a few steps away, he breathed deeply- coming to the door of the hall he pushed it open. Exiting to the hall, where leaning against the wall, he held the broken thing a tear rolling down his cheek.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 26, 2007 23:41:34 GMT -5
Ian stood there for a moment, hardly registering Jean's words, the beginning of thought on them torn away as the book had ripped, the audible vibration wiping away his reaction to Jean's strike; instead, he looked at his empty hands, and jumped down from his perch, taken only to challenge Jean's height over him, and ran up the aisle, flinging the door open and swinging around to the other side of it to look at Jean, feeling almost awkard at the sight of the tear. Without any apology, Ian pulled his wand out and pointed it at the broken thing. "Reparo," he said gruffly, watching the binding knit back together . . . the book was also suddenly much less beaten and battered, and yet, Ian couldn't help wondering if that was a bad thing, like a beautiful old piece of furniture stripped and made shiny again.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 26, 2007 23:53:24 GMT -5
Jean turned to him, staring at him for a moment then at the book. It looked practically new, the stains- bent edges, all was gone. Even the wax which had dripped down the cover had vanished. He swallowed, and looked back at him. "No one asked---" He sighed deeply, and looked back at the book. "Thank you-" He said sharply, throwing the book at him. He turned away from him, closing his eyes for a moment before walking away. As he got further he stopped. "Don't follow."
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 27, 2007 0:04:30 GMT -5
Ian caught the book at his chest, holding it between his hands with a look of deep regret that he hid quickly enough under a calm facade. He cleared his throat once, and said lowly, in a tone that masked sorrow with a steadfast voice, "Then don't walk away." Ian did not step towards him, but rather opened the book slowly, looking down at its flawless pages with that sense of loss, a whole history gone . . . "Jean-" he began, then stopped, falling silent once more.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 27, 2007 0:07:57 GMT -5
"What?" Jean yelled back, turning to look at him. "What do you want?" He wiped his eyes.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 27, 2007 0:27:12 GMT -5
"Jean . . . I'm sorry, okay? I want you to know that." Once again, apology was tenuous and awkward, obviously the Wolfsbane found such a thing unfamiliar. Indeed, his eyes betrayed his surprise that he'd done so. Why am I saying sorry to this Kinrick? Or had they been friends beyond houses? He also remembered telling someone else he'd met one of the otters who wasn't so bad. When had that been? Ian looked down at the book again, and bit back any further apology for a moment before blurting out again, "You're the only friend I can trust. My own house . . . they'd sell me out in a minute in the name of something more intrinsic."
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Post by boingpop on Jul 27, 2007 0:45:03 GMT -5
"Friends." He nodded, "Friends? Thats what this is?" Jean's face light up in a smile and he hit his head. "Oh! So thats what friends are like? Insulting, arguing, the general distaste for my beliefs. And here I thought all the people who did similar didn't like me." His face fell. "I'm truly saddened to hear your housemates hold no loyalty to you, really I might shed a tear for it." He glanced at the book, his face sunk, and he turned away. "I don't want your friendship." He said looking out a window, he walked towards it.
After a long pause he spoke, "You know I've probably read that book more than you've read anything." He sighed, "It was a gift, from my uncle. He gave it to me when I was too young to even understand it, and- after that day I never saw him again. My mother wasn't fond of him, and refused to let him remain as part of the family. He became estranged- and I with him..." He stopped himself, looking back at Ian with a new tear on his face. "Ian- I don't understand you and you've proven to be the most infuriatingly arrogant--" He looked away.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 27, 2007 0:52:41 GMT -5
"You're right!" Ian cried suddenly, tossing the book at Jean with a slow, spiralling motion. "You don't understand me . . . how could you? You never even tried! You have no idea what it's like to suffer the weight of expectation!" His eyes narrowed slightly as he half-spat, "And you think to call me arrogant, even now, I've no doubt you're ready to react with some thought or some sarcastic expression minimizing my difficulty, oh, poor Ian, so hard it must be for you, being rich and priveleged . . . you would, too, you'd mimic it as a tiny problem for a spoiled boy. Well, maybe I'd rather be estranged than carry that mantle. And to top it off, I'll never be my brother, he's the real heir, isn't he? I mean, I'm the style, not the substance, and you don't even know!" Ian was fuming, his own tears purely of frustration, not able to feel the sort of melancholy despair that Jean had. "'Course I'm arrogant. If I weren't, I'd drown."
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Post by boingpop on Jul 27, 2007 1:12:23 GMT -5
Jean looked to him, "And yet you continue to perpetuate that. You dismiss all that is below you- if you truly--" Jean just looked at him. "I don't understand you, nor you me." He looked at the book which had landed at his feet, after the glance he looked up, and back to the window. Having nothing to say to him. He couldn't understand how someone who felt that away about his upbringing would continue it with talk of blood, and marrying properly- Dismissing muggles.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 27, 2007 1:28:19 GMT -5
"I never claimed to understand you." Ian tucked his hands behind his back and took a few steps towards him. "Although, you have to admit, I knew enough to push a few buttons . . ." His mouth quirked in amusement, then he wiped it off his face, looking serious again. He crouched down and picked up the book, holding it near his feet, his eyes apparently shut but really he was looking towards his own hands. He took in a quick breath, his lips parting, and made a small sound as though he was going to speak. Ian shut his mouth once more, running one finger along the healed binding, and then blurted out, "Everyone operated on social assumptions, didn't they? It's no different for them . . . then for us . . . family . . . and appearance . . . and this game . . . but they were all happy in the end, could anyone promise the same to me?" he said, barely talking above a whisper, his confession to having read it unnoticed even to himself; Ian probably didn't even register his audible response. He remained there, near the ground, a solemn look on his face as he continued the finger the binding.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 27, 2007 16:44:41 GMT -5
Jean, without great sorrow paid on Ian, turned away from him. He had no design to feel bad for him- and in truth couldn't see why he seemed to expect it. He sighed shortly and took a step away. "Then we don't understand each other, it is a mutual lack of ability."
Motionless for a moment he rethought events of the day- which seemed to start so well and had ended in such a morbid manner including but not limited to the erasure of all that was sacred of his book. Without much effort he'd managed to change his opinion of Ian, he expected Ian's of him had changed promptly. He also had- without truly trying- been unable to have a strong hate, only a rather temperate annoyance with the manner of Ian.
The hurt which he felt- and which continued to call upon his eyes to create tears- ran more deeply and though thru proxy could be related to Ian, it was the general truth that the sadness would've come with or without his interaction and for his part in the event he could not be faulted greatly.
Another step advanced, and breathing deeply he started off at pace. He couldn't be expected to hear Ian's grievances of his birth, nor did he wish to play into the pitty which it seemed to be Ian's plan to bestow upon himself, and in relation- The pity Jean was expected to pay. All of it could not be bared, he wanted no more of it and had not wanted it to begin with. The entire thing wasn't asked, and for what it was it had gone on too long.
Turning the corner of the corridor, he exited through two large doors-oak- The duo creaked open- and in the moment that Jean had passed through, slammed shut- the sound echoing down the hall vibrating past Ian's position.
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