TASK 003 / 02; Eulogy, a FEW words in honor of Richard
Sebastian didn't have a problem writing his Eulogy, his problem was making this a speech. In a different situation, Jack would have read whatever he would write, but not this time. His words for Richard were supposed to be said by him, not by someone else. That was an issue. Sebastian didn't speak much in his daily life, everybody knew that. Maybe it wouldn't have been so strange to ask someone else to read it for him. He struggled.
He was lucky enough that Alison had to be the first, and at least there were a couple of others before him. He shouldn't repeat the same they have said, and honestly, the eldest had already given a wonderful speech. Why would Mrs. Tristan want them all to do it? There were too many of them, and Sebastian was pretty sure every single guest knew all wards had the most sad and tragic stories, what would be the point of hearing the same over and over again? This funeral was going to be endless.
By the time it was Sebastian's turn, he stayed still, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Tristan in an attempt to try his luck and be forgotten, but who would forget him? Definitely not Mrs. Tristan.
He stood in front of the crowd, all eyes on him waiting for his words to come out. It reminded him of his parents, waiting for words to come out of their young child. Sebastian cleared his throat and looked down at the paper in his hands, his written eulogy felt too long, too many words. He had so much to say about Richard and for once, he wished people could read his thoughts. He missed Jack so much. Dammit.
"When I was a child, I thought of Richard as a hero, as I grew up I saw him for what he was, a regular man. Now that he is gone I realize he was both. Fantastic enough to make me speak in public, regular enough to have to write an eulogy for his funeral." Sebastian licked his lips, there were many more things written on the paper between his fingers, but it felt unnecessary and probably Richard would accept the few words he had shared. Who cared about thanking the guest for coming? It was a funeral, there was nothing to be grateful about.
"Whether a hero or regular, I hope he has reunited with his family, I can't think of someone who deserves it more." He looked into the eyes of each of the wards, they all had someone they wished to reunite with again if there was such a place like heaven. "No offense." He meant it, but also, he didn't.
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TASK 003 / 01; What is your character wearing to the funeral?
Sebastian spent the whole morning trying to put something together. Even if he came to Woodrow House knowing he was attending Richard's funeral, he didn't think beforehand what he would be wearing for the occasion. Luckily for him, a good part of his wardrobe was funeral-coded.
After lending his favorite tie to Reuben as the younger had nothing to wear, Sebastian had to change his outfit for a fourth time that morning. Choosing to wear a three-piece Dolce&Gabbana black suit with stripped lines —only noticeable when looking at him up close—paired with a white shirt and black tie of the same brand. Leather gloves included and a silver tie chain to put the whole outfit together.
Sebastian wears his clothes, his clothes don't wear him. Everything is tailored perfectly and goes according to his personal style. His hair is brushed back with a few strands out of place —this is done on purpose, since Jack has told him in the past that it made him look more approachable, not really—
Whether his choice is funeral appropriate or not, he will let Mrs. Tristan judge, but no one would deny he looked on point and out of dream/nightmare, depending on how one decides to look at it.
TASK 001; It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today...
"FOR IT NEVER WAS WORTH TELLING"
Sebastian was a morning person and a night owl, both simultaneously, which meant that the hours of sleep he got each day were not many. It wasn't exactly insomnia, or at least he denied suffering from any kind of sleep disorder, for him sleep wasn't a hundred percent necessary, his agent Jack, on the other hand, didn't agree.
"You haven't slept for two days, Sebastian. You'd think that's normal, but it's not. Humans die faster from sleep deprivation than from starvation." The middle-aged man entered the darkened office, the warm light of the desk lamp still on, illuminating the pale face of Sebastian, who was still sitting in the same spot from the night before, staring at the same blank papers in front of him. Something was not right.
"I brought you coffee, an egg sandwich, and your mail—" said Jack while placing all three things on the desk, "No, I don't wanna hear it," he continued as if Sebastian had uttered a word in response since the agent had arrived —he did not— "you prefer porridge in the mornings, but I am not your cook, neither your lover to get in that kitchen to stir a pot." Jack kept the conversation going. It had always been like that, and if Sebastian had to admit it, most of the time, Jack replied to his exact thoughts. Not only was he an excellent agent, but an admirable mind reader as well. Reasons why the author never cut ties with him, even if he could speak for both of them and probably an army.
Jack made his way to the windows, dark velvety curtains still drawn as if it wasn't 11am. In one sharp, clean motion, Jack pulled the curtains open, the early September sunlight streaming into the room, forcing Sebastian to close his eyes, still unprepared to face the day. His hand finally left the papers and pen he had clung to all night and used it as a shield to protect himself from the onslaught of the sun. 'Damn you' his thoughts shouted, his lips stayed closed.
The bold rays of light lay on his desk, daring him. The shadow of the freshly purchased coffee cup rested over his correspondence waiting to be read. Sebastian did not receive many letters, not personal ones at least, since all letters from his readers came to Jack, were read by Jack, and answered by Jack himself. Sebastian allowed him to impersonate him as long as he didn't go over the line, which, not counting the time when he fed the story that Sebastian was not human but an otherworldly being, he did quite well. Jack claimed his correspondence writing was his part to fatten up the fantasy that fed them both. This time, however, the letter had arrived at his residence.
It took a couple of seconds for his eyes to adjust to the new lighting in the room, but as soon as they did, he recognized Mrs. Tristan's immaculate handwriting. Nothing good ever came from that cursive handwriting, never had. Long fingers reached for the envelope, he moved slowly, as he always did, but if someone had looked closely, they would have noticed the shaking of his hand when his fingertips touched the paper. Sebastian had been restless all night, his word count hadn't progressed at all. Something wouldn't let him concentrate. That knot in the pit of his stomach indicated something wasn't right. Instinct, some called it. Work disturber, Sebastian would correct them.
"I will visit Mr. Phillips this afternoon, he was kind enough to collect some newspapers from the '60s," Jack sat opposite the writer, his green eyes peeling his own sandwich as he grabbed it while talking. Words that Sebastian was no longer hearing, he reached for his gold letter opener, the knife slowly cutting through paper. It took way longer than it should, it was as if Sebastian hoped to push the reading as much as possible, but it was unavoidable.
Dear Sebastian,
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today to convey the most unfortunate news: our dear Richard has passed away.
All color left his face, and he never had much to begin with. It was as if he had been punched in the stomach with a missile, he could not describe it any differently. Death felt so far away but also so close. This was it, the reason why Sebastian couldn't sleep for two nights, it was his body telling him to prepare, to once again belong to nowhere.
Jack did not take long to notice. His half-eaten sandwich was no longer the center of his attention, but Sebastian. "What's wrong? You look like you're being blackmailed."
"My father is dead." His voice came out, his first words in two days. His tone was so low and deep that it sounded like they were in a cave. Sebastian had referred to Richard as his father since he finished college. Never personally, never to introduce him to others with that title, but privately, in solitude, to people who didn't know who Richard was.
Sebastian stood up from the desk, his long legs finally stretching after hours of sitting. He stumbled against the chair, and his body lost balance for a split second, but he recovered quickly.
"I thought your father was already dead," Jack said while following Sebastian upstairs into his dresser, the observer shoved his clothes into a suitcase, not worried about wrinkles for the first time ever.
"How many times can a father die?" Jack questioned, mostly to himself, confused by the story that had not been written, because Sebastian wrote about everybody in his life, but never about himself.
