Basil pulled away from him and Atticus allowed his arm to fall back to his side, his lips tightening into a thin line. Whatever anger his brother was feeling was boiling over, although he couldn’t think back to what. They had been fine this morning. Cordial, at least, with a good morning even if there had been nothing more than that. (Did he miss his little brother? Sometimes it was hard to tell.) They always had their shields up, as if waiting for the other to finally take a stab; it would break their mother’s heart more than his own when Basil finally abandoned the family to do as he fancied.

And Atticus would be the only one left to clean up the pieces of her broken heart.

Just as he’d been the one to help clean up the mess that the relocation had caused her, and just as he’d been the only one to help Basil in his time of need.

Lost in his own thoughts, Atticus huffed as his brother turned heel and accepted his garments from the usher; he waved them off for himself  as he knew he’d reenter the party with or without Basil in tow, but did manage to push the empty champagne glass into his hand as he followed his little brother.

The cool air hit him like a ton of bricks and Atticus gently shook his head. He waited until they were out of ear shot, lest the newest rumors would be of their fractured family - like Atticus wanted another thing to clean up. He wasn’t a damn maid!  “More important commitments? You get to choose your own commitments all year. I asked one thing of you. One. And now you’re running away.”  He quickened his steps to catch up to his brother.

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