visionary doctor to the poor

Shrugging slightly, he watches Mortimer as he stared off into the distance for a moment, studying the boy’s little button nose and clear blue eyes, so very different from Igor’s. He feels bad for making Edmund and Mortimer angry at each other, but the other boy had been rude, and if Mortimer said it was ok, it must be alright. He jerks back a little as the smaller boy virtually jumps up in his seat, face carved into a giant grin. Igor blushes again a little at the compliment, before another good idea springs to mind. ‘Well thank you … Not many people see it that way … If you really want to learn, I could teach you. Piano that is, you’d have to ask Papa for singing lessons.’ Still his smile fades at what Mortimer next says. ‘I’m sorry Mort’mer, I didn’t know. I’m sure they’re in a better place now. At least you have Edmund and his parents, right?’ Pausing for a moment to bite at his lip, he quickly leans forward, stretching out his arms to give a quick hug to the other boy, before he hastily retreats back to where his parents had instructed him to stay, ignoring the blush on his cheeks. He hadn’t ever hugged anyone apart from Mama, but Mortimer was nice to hug, soft and warm, and he smelt nice, of talcuum powder and clean clothes. They sit in silence for a moment, Igor watching him fiddle with his hands and sleeves, before his new friend suddenly jumps up.

His temporary lapse into sullenness is entirely forgotten, the moment replaced with the rather abrupt hug and the possibility of having piano lessons. An exchange of knowledge and a new friend, he thinks, are more than enough to cheer anyone up. The hug, in particular. If he'd know that it had been coming, he wouldn't have let the other boy let go so easily.

Hiding his giggles as he watches Mortimer turn to his friend and tell him off. He feels guilty for making Edmund angry at Mortimer, and Mortimer equally annoyed back, but he’s glad he won’t be left alone and someone seems to be standing up for him. Offering Edmund an apologetic look, he watches the other boy slink away after Mortimer’s sharp shove, obviously aware of when to cut his losses. It makes Igor scared for a moment, worried that he will inevitably screw up and cause Mortimer to push him away like that, but he pushes that thought aside and focuses on the other boy, giving him another faint smile as he nods. 

"We've had worse and don't apologise. Edmund was being mean, he should be the one apologising. He'll be fine, he gets over things quick. Maybe too quick..." Trailing off in thought, Mortimer squints at the table briefly before returning his focus to Igor. Immediately brightening, he has to remind himself to not stand on his seat, though that was exactly what he had been about to do. "That's not weird, that's brilliant! I wish I could do that. I'm not, um, too good at music. Or singing. Yet. But I want to be better." The grin he aims at the other boy splits his face. "No, we're not. Edmund parents took me in, a-after... after my own parents died. Passed away," he corrects, remembering the wording he'd been taught to avoid being blunt. Lapsing into a short silence, he fiddles with his sleeves again then quickly tucks his hands under his legs. It's a bad habit of his, and he's already frayed a few shirts by doing it repeatedly.

Never one to dwell on the past, he slides off his seat and darts back to the doorway. "You're being silly, Igor, just wait there." With that, he slips out into the hall and makes his way to the kitchen as quietly as he can. Knowing where to look, he locates the tin of biscuits right away, plucking it from a counter and running back to the sitting room before anyone could interrupt his mission.

Faltering for a second, he comes to a stop entirely while his brow crumples together. His mouth works uselessly as he casts around for something to say in response, though he comes up blank and all the more frustrated for it.

"Where are you from? Do you like it here in England? And what were you doing with your hands just now? Is that a nervous tic? I have one, or at least Edmund says I have one. He says I bounce in place when I get nervous- I-I’m sorry, I’m talking too much. Or too fast. Am I talking too fast?" He finally runs out of steam, trailing off with a hesitant expression, tugging at the hems of his sleeves.

Edmund comes up behind him, taking a handful of Mortimer’s shirt again and tugging him back. “Russian, aren’t you? Did you pick English up already or are you still learning?”

He nods when he hears the word Russian, before replying in slow, careful English, attempting to mimic the other two boys in order to lessen the thick accent that chokes his words. ‘I am still learning English, but Mama says I am doing well. I already know quite a lot, but it’s hard when people talk fast.’ He stops, giving Morti-something an apologetic smile to explain why he didn’t reply to his quetions.

Irritated by the embarrassment Edmund brings to their new... possible friend, he turns on the spot and shoves the boy away with all the strength he can muster in his still small body, stubborn frown set on his face. "Go away, Edmund. Your mum's told you not to be like that and you are being mean to Igor. I'll tell."

Edmund, always one to know when he's starting to push maybe a bit too much, backs down under the threat. His parents, while usually cheerful, never took too well to news that their son was being anything less than decent to others. The thought of being pulled by his ear to his room is enough to make his face pale and raise his hands in surrender. "You deal with Igor then. We'll see how far along you get." He turns and leaves the room with a loud huff, making no effort to muffle his mutterings on the ridiculousness of the name Igor.

First, he had been dragged out of bed early by his mother and a firm grip on his ear, commanded to get ready for an unknown visitation, his hair in a carefully slicked control, his best (and most uncomfortable) clothes on, his stupid glasses perched on the end of his nose, making him look like an owl. And not a good owl. Then he had been quickly ushered into his parents car for a short journey that ended outside a large and certainly imposing house. His father told him to behave, smiling when he nodded swiftly, and with that he was pushed inside.

Lord and Lady St. John-Smythe are announced to him, and he is told where to sit, and how to look attentive and drink tea. He doesn’t like the tea and his mother will only let him have one biscuit. After a while, the adults stand, abandoning him with a firm instruction not to leave the room, and with that Igor is alone. They’d even cleared away the biscuits.

He sits carefully, legs swinging where they dangle off the edge of his seat, body perfectly still. He’ll be told off if he moves and touches anything, so to stave off the boredom he runs over the scales and pieces he had learnt on the piano yesterday, tiny fingers tapping rhythmically against his leg as he sits there, imagining pretty stands of music and long scalic runs.

Until they are rudely interrupted by a small figure barging into the room.

Igor looks up immediately, blinking at the boy making his way determinedly across the room towards him, before another, slightly taller boy, seems to leap out from behind the door frame, grappling with the first boy who is rather loudly telling him something. Probably their names. He doesn’t respond straight away, content to watch the boys (they must be brothers) grapple with each other. Igor doesn’t know many other children, not since his parents moved countries, and he’s far happier to sit quietly on his own than play wrestle and cause trouble and other things boys his age do, but it is rude not to tell the other two his name.

After a moment he mumbles out a heavily accented, Yes and my name is Igor., hanging his head in shame from the silly accent he can’t seem to shake, his stupid glasses, his embarrassing name, wishing the carpet would just swallow him up already.

"Where are you from? Do you like it here in England? And what were you doing with your hands just now? Is that a nervous tic? I have one, or at least Edmund says I have one. He says I bounce in place when I get nervous- I-I'm sorry, I'm talking too much. Or too fast. Am I talking too fast?" He finally runs out of steam, trailing off with a hesitant expression, tugging at the hems of his sleeves.

Edmund comes up behind him, taking a handful of Mortimer's shirt again and tugging him back. "Russian, aren't you? Did you pick English up already or are you still learning?"