[ so a man died, an important one, but what the fuck? hawk smells like the bottom of a barrel, and embry has no real experience with grief. he doesn't remember his dad, dead and gone and replaced by morgan's before he was two. if his mother ever died — though he can't imagine vivienne moore being anything but immortal — he would stand at her funeral and deliver the eulogy like a dutiful son should. he would shed some tears, probably, but he's shed more tears kneeling at ash's feet than he ever has on his family, and maybe that's part of the reason why he's a supremely fucked up man today.
he pushes past hawk, who should not be in such a debauched state all things considered, and heads for his kitchen, putting down his goods and sliding his unopened bottle to the furthest corner of the counter in a very pointed manner. ]
This is from me, but you can't have it. [ from his blazer, he slips out a creamy envelope made of textured paper. a very nice card, from very nice people. people who should probably be here instead of him. ] This is from Ash and Greer. Sorry for your loss.
[ fuck, he sounds like an asshole. embry's never been good at taking care of people, that's always been ash's job and he's picked up exactly zero skills from hovering in his proximity for over a decade now. osmosis is clearly bullshit. he turns to the food, banishing his casual wonder over hawk's tousled curls while spreading out boxes and plastic containers. he opens a carton of noodles, snaps a pair of chopsticks in half to stick inside, and pushes it toward hawk. ]
Eat something before your goddamn stomach lining deteriorates.
[ he takes hawk's glass away without asking, throwing back the contents in one swallow. then he escapes again, because hawk looks fucking sinful in silk, and also so goddamn sad that embry doesn't know what to do with himself. he suddenly has a brief and unwelcome stab of understanding of what ash must have felt like each time he looked at embry himself, with all of his chips and cracks and bitterly jagged edges, and how much of a toll it must have taken to put up with his horrible fucking melancholia for as many years as he did. at least hawk has a reason.
he drifts away to give hawk a chance to eat, wandering through his apartment in silence. it's tasteful, almost like his own, except there are little pieces of himself scattered about, like maybe this space is the one safe place in all of america and that's why hawk has never asked embry over. he lifts a little glass snow globe in his hands once, setting it back down carefully, then spots the old record player sitting by the wall, the corner of his mouth curling with sudden surprise. after thumbing through the collection of vinyls, he makes a noise and lifts one out. ]
An Hour With Johann Strauss? [ he looks at the worn cover, his heart giving a complicated little flutter. ] I haven't heard Strauss since I was in Prague back during my deployment. I went for a week for R&R.
[ and — god, there's so much more he could say, like how he'd orchestrated fucking morgan to fuck ash, and how he'd taught ash how to waltz one night, and how he'd first heard the words little prince from him then. embry slides the record from the case and fits it into the player, carefully lowering the needle. strains of music drift up as he walks over and plucks one of hawk's abandoned cigarettes from the ashtray, lifting it to his lips for a drag. ]
I would've gone with you. [ to the funeral goes unsaid. ] If you'd asked. You could've said something. You didn't have to go ghost on me.
[ i was worried also goes unsaid, his eyes cutting to hawk. the bottle of scotch sits on the table by the sofa, which embry picks up and drinks directly from before setting it several extra feet out of hawk's way. ]
no subject
[ so a man died, an important one, but what the fuck? hawk smells like the bottom of a barrel, and embry has no real experience with grief. he doesn't remember his dad, dead and gone and replaced by morgan's before he was two. if his mother ever died — though he can't imagine vivienne moore being anything but immortal — he would stand at her funeral and deliver the eulogy like a dutiful son should. he would shed some tears, probably, but he's shed more tears kneeling at ash's feet than he ever has on his family, and maybe that's part of the reason why he's a supremely fucked up man today.
he pushes past hawk, who should not be in such a debauched state all things considered, and heads for his kitchen, putting down his goods and sliding his unopened bottle to the furthest corner of the counter in a very pointed manner. ]
This is from me, but you can't have it. [ from his blazer, he slips out a creamy envelope made of textured paper. a very nice card, from very nice people. people who should probably be here instead of him. ] This is from Ash and Greer. Sorry for your loss.
[ fuck, he sounds like an asshole. embry's never been good at taking care of people, that's always been ash's job and he's picked up exactly zero skills from hovering in his proximity for over a decade now. osmosis is clearly bullshit. he turns to the food, banishing his casual wonder over hawk's tousled curls while spreading out boxes and plastic containers. he opens a carton of noodles, snaps a pair of chopsticks in half to stick inside, and pushes it toward hawk. ]
Eat something before your goddamn stomach lining deteriorates.
[ he takes hawk's glass away without asking, throwing back the contents in one swallow. then he escapes again, because hawk looks fucking sinful in silk, and also so goddamn sad that embry doesn't know what to do with himself. he suddenly has a brief and unwelcome stab of understanding of what ash must have felt like each time he looked at embry himself, with all of his chips and cracks and bitterly jagged edges, and how much of a toll it must have taken to put up with his horrible fucking melancholia for as many years as he did. at least hawk has a reason.
he drifts away to give hawk a chance to eat, wandering through his apartment in silence. it's tasteful, almost like his own, except there are little pieces of himself scattered about, like maybe this space is the one safe place in all of america and that's why hawk has never asked embry over. he lifts a little glass snow globe in his hands once, setting it back down carefully, then spots the old record player sitting by the wall, the corner of his mouth curling with sudden surprise. after thumbing through the collection of vinyls, he makes a noise and lifts one out. ]
An Hour With Johann Strauss? [ he looks at the worn cover, his heart giving a complicated little flutter. ] I haven't heard Strauss since I was in Prague back during my deployment. I went for a week for R&R.
[ and — god, there's so much more he could say, like how he'd orchestrated fucking morgan to fuck ash, and how he'd taught ash how to waltz one night, and how he'd first heard the words little prince from him then. embry slides the record from the case and fits it into the player, carefully lowering the needle. strains of music drift up as he walks over and plucks one of hawk's abandoned cigarettes from the ashtray, lifting it to his lips for a drag. ]
I would've gone with you. [ to the funeral goes unsaid. ] If you'd asked. You could've said something. You didn't have to go ghost on me.
[ i was worried also goes unsaid, his eyes cutting to hawk. the bottle of scotch sits on the table by the sofa, which embry picks up and drinks directly from before setting it several extra feet out of hawk's way. ]
Take the rest of the week. You look like shit.