I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Printable Version
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RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
They locked the door behind them and left, and the world outside the room of the inn existed, just as it had when Cash got there that morning. Muggle London ensured that he would not be recognized — Cash was generally only peripherally aware of the things people said about the Lestranges, but he was very recognizable, and he didn't want any of this coming back to him — but there were downsides to it, too. He didn't carry a lighter with him. If he was in muggle London and desperately wanted to smoke he would usually light the end of his cigarettes with wandless magic, but he couldn't manage that right now, and he couldn't pull a wand here. He thumbed over the cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket.
"I feel —" everything, all at once, coming back. All the things the dementor had had him replaying, all the things it had poked at all day, all of it. (There was an incident in Moscow with a prostitute, and there was something about the memory now that felt artificial. It was not entirely accurate, the feeling it conjured. Belphoebe's thumbprints were all over it. He was remembering it now and it was not helping the throbbing in his skull, or the vague out of body feeling he'd had for most of the day.)
Cash swallowed around the lump in his throat again. He was not entirely sure what he was feeling. The lights of London in the evening were too bright, people's voices were too loud, there was so much of it and he felt very deliberate about remaining close to Ford, as if otherwise he might drift away and be unable to find the inn again. "We can talk about — whatever it is we should talk about."
"I feel —" everything, all at once, coming back. All the things the dementor had had him replaying, all the things it had poked at all day, all of it. (There was an incident in Moscow with a prostitute, and there was something about the memory now that felt artificial. It was not entirely accurate, the feeling it conjured. Belphoebe's thumbprints were all over it. He was remembering it now and it was not helping the throbbing in his skull, or the vague out of body feeling he'd had for most of the day.)
Cash swallowed around the lump in his throat again. He was not entirely sure what he was feeling. The lights of London in the evening were too bright, people's voices were too loud, there was so much of it and he felt very deliberate about remaining close to Ford, as if otherwise he might drift away and be unable to find the inn again. "We can talk about — whatever it is we should talk about."
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
Ford watched Cash's expression as he answered, not satisfied at all. He didn't look ready to talk about anything, and Ford knew the sorts of questions he had to ask would not be particularly easy to answer. It was a conversation that needed to happen, though, because while they might have locked the dementor in a wardrobe the dementor had not created itself. The root of the problem was still there, and potentially still ready to boil over the way that it had today. Ford couldn't walk away from this in good conscious thinking that Lestrange might go and create another dementor tomorrow, or next week, or next month. He really shouldn't walk away from this at all, because this was a Big Fucking Deal and he ought to report it to someone at work, but he'd half-promised Lestrange he wouldn't say anything about it, when they'd been exchanging letters earlier (before he had known what it really was), and Lestrange was his friend, so — he could at least try to see if he felt as though this could be resolved without getting other people involved.
If he came out of this conversation and felt like he couldn't manage it, though, he'd owl his supervisor before the night was through. Ford understood that Lestrange wanted to keep this to himself, but if he was liable to create another dementor, Ford was going to tell someone. It would be for Cash's own good, he knew — because he suspected that if this happened again, Cash would not survive it.
Ford shifted his eyes from Cash to the gas lamps lining the street as they walked. He didn't look ready to have this conversation, but Ford wasn't sure whether waiting would help or not, and they had to have the conversation sooner or later.
"Alright," he said eventually. "The thing is — that doesn't just happen to people. I've never heard about one of those coming from just one person before. And I'm not saying this to scare you or make you feel bad, or anything, but if that happened once I feel like — it might happen again, unless something changes. So —" he hesitated here, unsure if this was really the right course of action but not knowing how else to proceed. Ford could be good at fixing things, when he put his mind to it, but he couldn't fix something if he didn't know how broken it was (and maybe he couldn't fix this at all, because maybe Cash was too broken and Ford didn't know what he was doing and it was all way too far beyond him, but — he had to try, at least, and it seemed unlikely at the moment that he could make things any worse).
Ford bit his lower lip lightly and glanced at Lestrange, then decided to forge ahead. "I want to ask you some questions you probably don't want to think about. And I want you to tell me the truth, even if it's — especially if it's the sort of thing you normally lie to people about."
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
Of course this wasn't the sort of thing that normally happened to people, because otherwise there would be far more dementors running around London, and Cash would have heard of them before.
"Alright," Cash said, looking down at the cobblestones. Maybe he should just tell Greengrass that maybe it would happen again, because nothing was going to change and because if it happened again he would not bother the other man about it. Not because Cash wasn't grateful — Cash was immensely grateful to be out here with the feeling of being himself sinking into his bones, instead of alone on the bedspread in the inn thinking that was just everything — but because Ford didn't deserve to be subjected to this.
"Okay." He wished they had brought the gin with him, wished he was the sort of person who carried matches with him, wished there was something he could put in his hands. "But — I need to know you won't tell anyone what I say." These answers could get him killed. Cash was not going to claim to be entirely opposed to the idea of it, of everything just stopping — but he didn't particularly want to drop dead from his Unbreakable Vow because Greengrass told the Ministry about him, either. Publicly disgracing the family, he never should have sworn to that one, Eli had been right to freak out when he reacted.
He didn't want to do this. He certainly did not want to do this entirely sober. He also did not want to admit that he could not do this sober, but on the list of things he did not want to admit, that didn't particularly rank highly.
"And — maybe liquor." Emergency bourbon, at least in spirit — Ford did not strike him as the person who would have been fond of emergency bourbon in practice.
"Alright," Cash said, looking down at the cobblestones. Maybe he should just tell Greengrass that maybe it would happen again, because nothing was going to change and because if it happened again he would not bother the other man about it. Not because Cash wasn't grateful — Cash was immensely grateful to be out here with the feeling of being himself sinking into his bones, instead of alone on the bedspread in the inn thinking that was just everything — but because Ford didn't deserve to be subjected to this.
"Okay." He wished they had brought the gin with him, wished he was the sort of person who carried matches with him, wished there was something he could put in his hands. "But — I need to know you won't tell anyone what I say." These answers could get him killed. Cash was not going to claim to be entirely opposed to the idea of it, of everything just stopping — but he didn't particularly want to drop dead from his Unbreakable Vow because Greengrass told the Ministry about him, either. Publicly disgracing the family, he never should have sworn to that one, Eli had been right to freak out when he reacted.
He didn't want to do this. He certainly did not want to do this entirely sober. He also did not want to admit that he could not do this sober, but on the list of things he did not want to admit, that didn't particularly rank highly.
"And — maybe liquor." Emergency bourbon, at least in spirit — Ford did not strike him as the person who would have been fond of emergency bourbon in practice.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
Ford frowned at the request for liquor, but didn't object. Cash didn't look ready for this conversation, still, and maybe would never be ready for this conversation, so he could be allowed a bit of a crutch if that was what it took to get through it.
"Alright. I don't have any Muggle money on me, though," he said, which was true. He didn't know whether Lestrange would have any, but he doubted it — he'd said before he didn't understand Muggle money — so that left them with either stealing something or heading towards the wizarding areas of London, which Lestrange had said he wanted to avoid. On the other hand, he'd booked a room in a Muggle inn, so maybe he had some spare change floating around in his pockets.
"And I won't tell anyone," he promised, and he didn't even feel as though it was a lie. To be honest, he didn't know yet whether or not it would be — that depended on the answers to the questions, and on whether he thought it might save Cash from having to go through that again to tell someone. But Ford could cross that bridge when he came to it; it was easy to agree to the spirit of the request, because he understood keeping secrets and he didn't really have any desire to go spreading any of his friend's.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
They could get liquor and Greengrass wouldn't tell anyone what he said, which was as safe of a guarantee as Cash was going to get at this point. He fished around in the pockets of his coat and found a muggle coin in with the cigarettes, and he was not sure what value it stood for but was fairly confident he could get a bottle of something for it. It didn't take them long to find an off-license on the corner, and Cash spent a few moments considering — he knew that Ford didn't like whiskey and it felt weird to drink it around him, bourbon was essentially whiskey, and it felt silly to buy gin again when he already had gin at the inn. So — brandy, he guessed. That would be fine.
Cash was able to approximate something like small talk with the grocer he purchased it from through the exchange and stepped outside back into the too much noise of London. He looked at Ford. "Where do you want to talk?" Cash asked; they could walk at the same time or they could go somewhere for the dinner Ford had mentioned, or they could (he guessed) go back to the inn. It didn't matter; he just wanted to let himself be piloted through this as much as he could.
Cash was able to approximate something like small talk with the grocer he purchased it from through the exchange and stepped outside back into the too much noise of London. He looked at Ford. "Where do you want to talk?" Cash asked; they could walk at the same time or they could go somewhere for the dinner Ford had mentioned, or they could (he guessed) go back to the inn. It didn't matter; he just wanted to let himself be piloted through this as much as he could.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
CW: self harm
Ford didn't have a clear idea of where he wanted to be for this conversation, so he took a moment to consider his options. It seemed like something that might benefit from a little solidity, a little less transience than just pacing through London, but where would they go? Not to a restaurant, surely, because they didn't have that much Muggle money between the two of them and restaurants typically didn't let patrons bring bottles of brandy in with them, and it would have been far too public for them to speak freely. "Let's find a bench in a park," he decided eventually. There was a little one around the corner, if he was remembering where they were correctly, and it would probably be mostly deserted at this hour. It wasn't yet so late that it would be conspicuous for two men to be sitting in a park, though — and it was better than the inn, at any rate, which still had a dementor trapped in the wardrobe in the corner.
When they'd arrived Ford sat on the bench, then pulled his feet up next to him so that he could wrap his arms loosely around his knees. This was a childish posture, but they were in Muggle London, so it wasn't as though anyone was going to care. Besides, Ford didn't really want to talk about any of this, either, and he wasn't planning on drinking any of the brandy. He was going to comfort himself however he could, even if that meant hugging his knees to his chest if things got too tense.
"I don't want you to feel like I'm interrogating you," he said softly, after spending a moment trying to think where to start. "I'll ask questions, but if you want to... just talk, that's alright, too. And if you need to take a minute..." he drifted off, shrugged again as he had in the room at the inn after suggesting they go for a walk together. At least the air was clearer out here than it had been then. Ford took a breath, steeled himself, then looked over to try and catch Cash's eyes. "Do you ever think about hurting yourself?"
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
cw: suicide
He sat on the bench at an angle, turned towards Greengrass; one leg was folded underneath him and the other hung over the edge of the bench. Cash unscrewed the cap of the brandy, but didn't drink any of it yet.
It wasn't an interrogation but he could talk as much as he wanted, which was not at all. Cash shrugged. He met Ford's gaze and held it, despite the instinct to drop his own eyes — Ford wasn't going to look in his head, both because he wasn't like that and because, if he was going to, there had been plenty of opportunities already.
"I don't know," Cash said, because he wasn't sure — he could not tell about thinking about ways harm could befall him and letting those risks happen and maybe he could get hurt was the same as thinking about hurting himself. And maybe the distinction didn't matter, maybe it was bad enough that he wasn't repulsed by it at all. "Well — sometimes. Sure."
It wasn't an interrogation but he could talk as much as he wanted, which was not at all. Cash shrugged. He met Ford's gaze and held it, despite the instinct to drop his own eyes — Ford wasn't going to look in his head, both because he wasn't like that and because, if he was going to, there had been plenty of opportunities already.
"I don't know," Cash said, because he wasn't sure — he could not tell about thinking about ways harm could befall him and letting those risks happen and maybe he could get hurt was the same as thinking about hurting himself. And maybe the distinction didn't matter, maybe it was bad enough that he wasn't repulsed by it at all. "Well — sometimes. Sure."
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
Ford had been expecting an answer like that, which was why he'd asked the question in the first place — after having somehow created a dementor in his bedroom it would have been far more surprising if the answer was no — but he felt a weight settle in his stomach all the same as Cash said it out loud. Well — sometimes. Sure. So casual about it, as if this was just the way life was. Sure. Maybe sometime someone had even made a dark joke about it and Cash had laughed.
He had held out a thin hope that maybe Lestrange would have said it happened today, but not before, because that would have been something to latch onto. That would have meant it was the dementor, and not him — but that had been a little naive to even hope for, hadn't it? The dementor had come from somewhere, and normal, healthy people did not create dementors in their sleep.
Ford wanted to ask why, because he desperately wanted to understand — he wanted to understand so that he could try and wrap his mind around what to do about it — but he knew that was probably too big of a question to be answered, right now. Maybe it was too big of a question for Cash to even think about, in his current mental state. So instead, Ford drew in a shallow breath and asked, "How long has it been like this?"
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
cw: suicide
This time Cash took a sip of the brandy before he answered, more to buy himself time than because the question itself was particularly difficult. He knew the exact turning point where this had started to feel like it just wasn't worth it. And maybe before he'd been a little haphazard with his own well being, a little reckless, but — he'd never been looking at smoke curling on the ceiling of a muggle building and thought maybe.
"I've been nervous my whole life," he said; it was easier to admit to the panic attacks he remembered having even early in Hogwarts than it was to admit to the rest of this. And maybe it could just serve to take the edge off of it: I've always been a little crazy, don't worry about it. "But I wasn't like this until — almost four years ago." He knew why, and he knew where, and he knew that once they edged closer to the truth of the incident he was well and truly fucked.
"I've been nervous my whole life," he said; it was easier to admit to the panic attacks he remembered having even early in Hogwarts than it was to admit to the rest of this. And maybe it could just serve to take the edge off of it: I've always been a little crazy, don't worry about it. "But I wasn't like this until — almost four years ago." He knew why, and he knew where, and he knew that once they edged closer to the truth of the incident he was well and truly fucked.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
Four years ago — four years! A thought popped into Ford's mind, unbidden and unwelcome: if Noble was feeling the same way, then, it might be another three years before it finally reached a breaking point. Or it might be tomorrow; there were no rules for these things.
As soon as the thought occurred to him he pushed it away, because he didn't have the capacity for those sorts of what-ifs at the moment. Lestrange was the person sitting in front of him, and Cash needed his full attention. Not that Ford was sure even his full attention would make much of a difference, because this was so big and so shapeless that he didn't even know where he could start to grab at it, much less wrestle it down into something more manageable. Four years ago — did that mean anything to him? For a brief moment he considered it might have had something to do with leaving Hogwarts and having to be an adult (which could certainly have been depressing, Ford could grant that) before he remembered that Hogwarts had been more than four years ago, although sometimes it didn't feel that way. Four years ago they'd been twenty, and age twenty was a not-very-significant moment of Ford's life. Had it been a significant moment for Lestrange? The way Cash had answered the question sort of implied that it was — just the fact that he had a specific number at all implied that there was something that had happened, and not that this feeling had just crept up on him without his knowing when or where it came from.
Did something happen four years ago? Ford wanted to ask, but he had the sense that he didn't have the right. If he thought he needed to know in order to help, he'd ask anyway, but until he was sure he wanted to refrain from pushing any boundaries unnecessarily.
So instead Ford rested his chin on one of his arms, and he asked very gingerly, "Do you think it would help to talk about it? Do you... have anyone you can talk to about this?"
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
Cash drummed his fingers against the top of the bench, considering Ford's question. He sometimes talked to Gallivan about the weird shapeless apathy they both held, but explaining why would have certainly ruined everything — Cash had a sense that once he started talking he wouldn't stop, and never mind the kissing, if Gallivan knew what was wrong with him he would never trust him with the Cannons at all. And then there was Angie, who knew him better than he knew himself and who would have been furious if she knew what had happened today. Things were complicated there, too, because Cash wanted to be better for her than he was, so that she would not feel obligated to come back here and check on him when really she wanted to be traveling.
"There's a friend of mine," Cash admitted, and this was a little complicated, too, because he was not supposed to talk to Angie since her disownment. "Just a friend, not — well, you know. She's a friend." It felt important to note that he wasn't romantically interested in Angie both for the topics they were circling around and just — he did not want Ford to walk around thinking that Cash was catastrophically sad because he had a secret girl.
"And she knows that I'm —" he tilted his head and made a clicking sound in the back of his throat as if that could encompass everything "— to an extent. But — it happened to her too, and she's not broken, and she doesn't need to — she shouldn't have to spend her time worrying about me. Neither should you." By rights Greengrass could have gone home by now and left Cash to sort the rest of it — (although Cash probably would just leave the dementor in the inn if it was up to him, so maybe not) — but he was still here, asking questions, trying to solve this like it was solvable.
"There's a friend of mine," Cash admitted, and this was a little complicated, too, because he was not supposed to talk to Angie since her disownment. "Just a friend, not — well, you know. She's a friend." It felt important to note that he wasn't romantically interested in Angie both for the topics they were circling around and just — he did not want Ford to walk around thinking that Cash was catastrophically sad because he had a secret girl.
"And she knows that I'm —" he tilted his head and made a clicking sound in the back of his throat as if that could encompass everything "— to an extent. But — it happened to her too, and she's not broken, and she doesn't need to — she shouldn't have to spend her time worrying about me. Neither should you." By rights Greengrass could have gone home by now and left Cash to sort the rest of it — (although Cash probably would just leave the dementor in the inn if it was up to him, so maybe not) — but he was still here, asking questions, trying to solve this like it was solvable.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
There was something that chafed in the last thing Lestrange said. It was that it was too close, he realized, to how the conversation after dinner had started. You don't have to worry about me. Ford probably should have just let it go, but he didn't know if he could. It stuck in his mind as he sniffed and looked off over the back of the bench. "I can spend my time however I want," he said, voice level. He didn't want Cash to think he was angry at him, because he wasn't really, but he did want to quash this flimsy deflection before Cash tried to throw it at him again later. Glancing back at the other man, he continued, "And right now I'm spending it talking to you."
That said, he could turn over the rest of what Lestrange had told him in his mind, as though picking it apart for clues. Having a friend he could confide in was good (having a female friend he could confide in was a little bizarre, but maybe that was just Ford's pent up anxieties from the Begonia Belby mess shining through? Prior to that, he supposed he hadn't had any problems being friends with women, either). Ford thought she probably would have protested that she didn't need to be sheltered from Cash's feelings, if she was really his friend, but since Ford didn't know who this girl was it would be too presumptuous of him to speak for her on that point. So for the purposes of their conversation, the answer was no, he didn't have anyone else to talk to about this.
The other thing, of course, was that hint towards it. It had happened to her, too. There was a definitive thing that had happened, then, and Ford was beginning to think he was going to have to come right out and ask about it, but he was still hesitant. He turned his mind instead to the last piece of interest: she's not broken. So Cash knew, at least to an extent, how bad things were, but he still felt like no one else should have to trouble themselves worrying over it.
"You feel like you have to be strong for other people?" Ford guessed. "Or is it something else?"
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
Cash shrugged, although he was a little thrown off by Ford's determination to stay here. They didn't really know one another that well, but if Greengrass wanted to spend his night talking about all the ways Cash was fucked up then sure, he could do that.
Maybe this was a good time for more brandy, because he didn't know how to begin to answer the question. He took a large gulping sip of it. Was he trying to be strong? For Angie, maybe, and certainly for Ellory. But he didn't have enough friends to be prioritizing their feelings that much.
"I can't be this way," Cash said, "I can't be all messed up because —" it was hard to explain the Lestrange family to people who did not grow up inside it; Cash understood very well that he was famous and notable and that the family legacy mattered, but it was hard to explain to people who had not grown up in it, but that wasn't all of it.
He could get away with being a little publicly morose. But he had always been extroverted, had always been — fairly good with people and small talk, even if sometimes he was more inclined to ignore people when he was not interested in what they were saying. So he should be able to coast by on people's impressions of the Lestrange name as long as he was just letting out a little bit of it, just aloof, he was not the most interesting member of the family anyways.
If he was trying to be honest with Ford — and he was, he thought, trying to be honest with Ford — then he had to be honest with Ford.
"It's better not to feel it." He could ignore it and sometimes it swelled up in little bursts but he could ignore it, and chain smoke when he was nervous, and sometimes he woke up screaming in his own bed but that was better than either attracting more attention from his father or feeling things head on the way he had been since they shut the dementor away.
Maybe this was a good time for more brandy, because he didn't know how to begin to answer the question. He took a large gulping sip of it. Was he trying to be strong? For Angie, maybe, and certainly for Ellory. But he didn't have enough friends to be prioritizing their feelings that much.
"I can't be this way," Cash said, "I can't be all messed up because —" it was hard to explain the Lestrange family to people who did not grow up inside it; Cash understood very well that he was famous and notable and that the family legacy mattered, but it was hard to explain to people who had not grown up in it, but that wasn't all of it.
He could get away with being a little publicly morose. But he had always been extroverted, had always been — fairly good with people and small talk, even if sometimes he was more inclined to ignore people when he was not interested in what they were saying. So he should be able to coast by on people's impressions of the Lestrange name as long as he was just letting out a little bit of it, just aloof, he was not the most interesting member of the family anyways.
If he was trying to be honest with Ford — and he was, he thought, trying to be honest with Ford — then he had to be honest with Ford.
"It's better not to feel it." He could ignore it and sometimes it swelled up in little bursts but he could ignore it, and chain smoke when he was nervous, and sometimes he woke up screaming in his own bed but that was better than either attracting more attention from his father or feeling things head on the way he had been since they shut the dementor away.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
CW: depression, suicide
Ford felt as though a chill had settled on his shoulders at Cash's final sentence, and he had to resist the urge to look around and see whether the dementor had somehow escaped and followed them here, catching up with them on this park bench at exactly the wrong moment. Ford knew what that was like, a little, too. He was hesitant to even think it, because obviously nothing he was currently going through or ever had gone through was comparable to the way that Cash was feeling at the moment, but Ford was no stranger to pushing things away so that you didn't have to feel them. He'd done that with Darrow and his mysterious magic and the unknown potion, until he'd been forced to face it in the form of a boggart. But that was different than what Cash was doing, because boggarts were a lot lower stakes. Ford was used to living with fear, to some degree. Cash had something no one could live with.
"I know," he said sympathetically. "I know it feels that way. But you can't ignore it," he said. Ford moved his arm so that his elbow was on one knee and he could run his hand through his hair and looked over the back of the bench again. It's going to kill you if you ignore it, he thought, but decided not to say. It might not have the right effect, when Lestrange was in this frame of mind — he might not think that sounded like such a bad alternative, compared to having to live with the weight of what was inside him.
It was time to ask about it, Ford realized. There wasn't anything left to say, and if he was telling Cash that he needed to confront it, this was the next step. Ford took a breath, then refocused on Cash's eyes. "What happened four years ago?"
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
cw: depression, suicide
Other than today, Cash had actually had a pretty good track record with ignoring it, but he did not think that pointing this out would go over well with Greengrass. And the next question was worse. He'd known they would get there eventually, but had not even begun to come up with a way to answer. He kept his eyes on Ford's, as if those would hold the answer — and it was harder for him to lie when he was making eye contact with someone, because of Belphoebe, who could pull the truth out of him anyways. He took another long pulling gulp of the brandy and swallowed and tried to figure this out.
Ford knew that at his worst, Cash wanted to die — and the best way of looking at it was that Cash felt neutrally about his own death. Knowing everything else shouldn't compare to that. He tapped his fingertips against the back of the bench.
"I don't know if you remember the boy I was friends with at Hogwarts," Cash said, and that was bad enough, he didn't want to be saying this, he could feel all of it wanting to burst out, all of it. "But — things were a little more complicated than that." He broke eye contact to glance around, see if anyone was listening, but no one was, and they were in a muggle park.
He met Ford's eyes again. "Four years ago I saw him die," Cash said. He had seen him die he had felt him die, the warmth leaving Eli's body, which was still touching him when Lucius berated him and Cash had said whatever he thought would make his father not murder him in that moment. He remembered being on top of Eli, a door blasting off its hinges, and then — Eli's body growing cold.
And maybe he could admit this and maybe then Ford would just be done with him, done with this conversation, and then if this thing inside him killed him eventually then — it didn't have to be anyone else's problem. Angie would forgive it, he thought; she would be mad at him for a while but she would get it. Ellory would be alright, she was undaunted. Gallivan — Theo — would eventually forgive him. Cash swallowed again.
"It was my fault," Cash said. He should have known better, should have stayed away. He should have moved to block Eli's body with his own as soon as he heard the door explode, because he had known before looking that it was Lucius. "And I —" he swallowed again, and looked up at Ford's hand rather than at his eyes, "— that was it, then."
It wasn’t enough, wasn’t all of it — did not encapsulate why that had been so terrible. But it was close.
Ford knew that at his worst, Cash wanted to die — and the best way of looking at it was that Cash felt neutrally about his own death. Knowing everything else shouldn't compare to that. He tapped his fingertips against the back of the bench.
"I don't know if you remember the boy I was friends with at Hogwarts," Cash said, and that was bad enough, he didn't want to be saying this, he could feel all of it wanting to burst out, all of it. "But — things were a little more complicated than that." He broke eye contact to glance around, see if anyone was listening, but no one was, and they were in a muggle park.
He met Ford's eyes again. "Four years ago I saw him die," Cash said. He had seen him die he had felt him die, the warmth leaving Eli's body, which was still touching him when Lucius berated him and Cash had said whatever he thought would make his father not murder him in that moment. He remembered being on top of Eli, a door blasting off its hinges, and then — Eli's body growing cold.
And maybe he could admit this and maybe then Ford would just be done with him, done with this conversation, and then if this thing inside him killed him eventually then — it didn't have to be anyone else's problem. Angie would forgive it, he thought; she would be mad at him for a while but she would get it. Ellory would be alright, she was undaunted. Gallivan — Theo — would eventually forgive him. Cash swallowed again.
"It was my fault," Cash said. He should have known better, should have stayed away. He should have moved to block Eli's body with his own as soon as he heard the door explode, because he had known before looking that it was Lucius. "And I —" he swallowed again, and looked up at Ford's hand rather than at his eyes, "— that was it, then."
It wasn’t enough, wasn’t all of it — did not encapsulate why that had been so terrible. But it was close.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
It took Ford only a moment to piece together which boy Lestrange was talking about. Ford had a good memory for names and faces, and they'd spent seven years taking classes together; he didn't think he'd forget anyone he went to Hogwarts with, and there was one boy — his last name was like a bird — Swan? — that had seemed to be inseparable with Lestrange all through school. Ford hadn't spared him a second thought since they'd graduated, and probably wouldn't ever have done if Lestrange hadn't brought him up, but he remembered him. Blond hair, lanky, poor — the last noteworthy because even at Hogwarts where house elves took care of all the laundry he was often wearing the same few pieces of clothing multiple times in one week.
The way Lestrange said complicated was loaded, and if they'd been having this conversation a month ago Ford might not have been able to parse his meaning. Between the weight in the air when Cash brought him up and the way that he looked around after he said it, though, Ford thought he understood. Ford had told at least one person that he and Dorian Fisk were friends, in the last week, but that was a lie. This was the same sort of complicated, Ford imagined — or, not the same, because this was so much bigger and more important than just a passing obsession and a few stolen moments together in some Muggle's house. Ford didn't know anything about it, of course, but the tone of Cash's voice as he spoke conveyed it all the same.
You loved him, Ford thought, but didn't say. It wasn't as though Lestrange needed Ford's commentary on this to understand how he felt about it, so it was needless to verbalize it. And he wouldn't have been able to, anyway, because the next thing Cash said momentarily knocked the air out of his lungs. He didn't do anything for a moment other than stare back at Lestrange, trying to process this — trying to wrap his mind around what it would feel like. Cash kept talking and Ford knew he probably should have said it wasn't your fault, because that was the sort of thing that people said in these kinds of conversations, but the words never reached his tongue, because — because Ford did know what this would feel like. He might never have been in love with someone but there were plenty of people he loved, and if Noble had died last month in the middle of dinner, wouldn't it have been Ford's fault?
Ford swallowed. It came out of nowhere and you keep going back and wondering if you missed all the signs, he thought, and he wasn't sure whether he was guessing about Cash's situation with Swan or exploring his own feelings from the night of the dinner party. It happened so fast and you never knew you could feel that alone.
He pushed his legs down off the bench, and from Lestrange's perspective it might have seemed like he was about to stand, but instead he slid over closer and wrapped his arms around the other man's shoulders, hugging him tightly. It was ill-timed and awkward and there was a brandy bottle between them that was pushing up against Ford's chest in an uncomfortable way, but he held it all the same. He didn't even know if he was clinging to Cash as a way to comfort him, or as a way to comfort himself — clinging to the hope that this wouldn't ever be him, sitting on the other side of this divide and thinking about what it was like instead of what it could be like. And there were still things popping into his head — You don't remember if you ever even told him how much you loved him and you don't know now whether or not it would have made any difference — that he could have said, but didn't.