Even on the rare occasions when John was here these days, he was never really here, was he? He might as well be half a world away. It was like he had up and left England once, and had taken to leaving half of himself on his ships even when he came home, like he’d splinched himself.
Might’ve splinched that button off, Evander thought darkly. If one could splinch buttons, that was. He supposed it should have been only a small space, a discreet enough loss, nothing anyone would notice - but if Evander had noticed, he was sure someone else would. And Evander had noticed: the asymmetry of the lines of buttons now, that loose, frayed end thread trailing there pointlessly, and the idea that his brother apparently hadn’t noticed, or (worse, possibly) didn’t care, was driving him up the wall. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware, quietly, that the button issue was spinning out of proportion. He should have glanced at it, recognised that it irked him and moved on, but - back to what? That their father was dead? That who-knew-how-much of him was stuffed in that coffin under the dirt? That the world was not right and could never be right again and there was nothing he could do about it?
The missing button was not right, either. One might suppose it almost an affront, really, to their father’s memory. To anyone’s memory, to show up at a funeral in anything less than one’s best. Merlin, a housemaid would have shown up looking smarter; even a footman would have checked his jacket buttons.
It would not take a scene to fix this issue, of course. Certainly not. John hadn’t heard him, because of course he hadn’t, he was away with the fairies (naturally, the changeling child he was), but Evander found himself compelled not to simply let this slide without repetition. He slung his arm in front of his brother to slow his walk, so he wouldn’t amble off before fixing the glaring problem, and turned on his heel to face him. “I said,” Evander stressed, wanting to keep the conversation to a murmur but not about to let Johnny neglect to hear him twice in succession, even if he had to enunciate like he was speaking to a dunce of a child, “what did you do to that button?” He jabbed at the air at John’s front, where the button ought to be.
Might’ve splinched that button off, Evander thought darkly. If one could splinch buttons, that was. He supposed it should have been only a small space, a discreet enough loss, nothing anyone would notice - but if Evander had noticed, he was sure someone else would. And Evander had noticed: the asymmetry of the lines of buttons now, that loose, frayed end thread trailing there pointlessly, and the idea that his brother apparently hadn’t noticed, or (worse, possibly) didn’t care, was driving him up the wall. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware, quietly, that the button issue was spinning out of proportion. He should have glanced at it, recognised that it irked him and moved on, but - back to what? That their father was dead? That who-knew-how-much of him was stuffed in that coffin under the dirt? That the world was not right and could never be right again and there was nothing he could do about it?
The missing button was not right, either. One might suppose it almost an affront, really, to their father’s memory. To anyone’s memory, to show up at a funeral in anything less than one’s best. Merlin, a housemaid would have shown up looking smarter; even a footman would have checked his jacket buttons.
It would not take a scene to fix this issue, of course. Certainly not. John hadn’t heard him, because of course he hadn’t, he was away with the fairies (naturally, the changeling child he was), but Evander found himself compelled not to simply let this slide without repetition. He slung his arm in front of his brother to slow his walk, so he wouldn’t amble off before fixing the glaring problem, and turned on his heel to face him. “I said,” Evander stressed, wanting to keep the conversation to a murmur but not about to let Johnny neglect to hear him twice in succession, even if he had to enunciate like he was speaking to a dunce of a child, “what did you do to that button?” He jabbed at the air at John’s front, where the button ought to be.
