†, â
†â a memory of death/loss
Tarquin remembered his motherâs funeral in flashes.
 More than the actual events he always remembered the sinking feeling in his chest, he remembered feeling so completely untethered from everything going around him. It didnât help that he had known it was going to happen, after all she had been sick for a while. Only that the reality of it was so crushing, absolutely nothing could have prepared him for it. He was drowning in his own misery, in all the things he should have said. He didnât remember her funeral but God, he remembered every single bitter word that had crossed his lips. He remembered the way her face had caved in every single time until without fail, she had pulled herself together, patted his cheek and laughed it off. More than anything else he remembered his motherâs laugh, the way it had lit up any room she was in. Her children had that same laugh but no one would have guessed it because few had heard Tarquin laugh freely and Theia was far away.Â
Tarquin wanted to only remember the good things about his mother. He had wanted to remember her as the mother she had wanted to be; the one who had called him mi cielito ( he couldnât remember the last time she had called him by his name and not some term of endearment) and loved to hear him play the piano but the resentment almost choked him every time he thought of how time and time again she had chosen the man who had hurt them over her own children. It turned everything inside him smoldering red, the way she had never defended him but never defied him either. It left him grasping for breath whenever he thought of the ways she had let them down when they were too young to fight for themselves.
And yet, she had loved him. She had loved everyone she came across, even those that werenât worthy of her but she had loved him in a way made him fall to pieces at all the ways he had rejected it.Â
And so, this was what he remembered of his motherâs funeral:
he remembered his sister setting foot in the manor that her father had thrown her out of for the first time since she was eleven, looking every bit the image of their mother. he remembered evan speaking to him but he didnât remember what he had said, instead he remembered feeling as if he was floating above the whole scene; evanâs hand on his arm and him standing completely still until evan had fallen silent as he realized nothing he was saying was reaching him.
 he didnât remember until later how his relatives were talking about his sister being cursed and how she had walked away from them with more iron and strength than he could ever possess. at that time he had only felt evan tightening his hold on his arm which was just as well - the last thing he needed to do was cause a scene at his motherâs funeral. oh no, he would find plenty of ways to give in to his rage later.
he remembered sitting next to evan and feeling like a ghost; a shell of a person, someone who was present but not alive. and hell, even he had known that was wrong and so, he had dug his nails hard enough in his best friendâs arm to leave crescent marks. evan had covered his hand with his own for one brief moment and he had used evan as something to hold on to as he forced himself back inch by painful inch.
he remembered his sister wiping away her tears but he had never cried, he was chiseled out of stone and stone didnât weep and he would never put his pain on display like this, but then she had always been stronger than him. he remembered how their father had been walking towards them, how his sister had taken half a step behind him and he had steeled himself but all he could think of was not here. not now. he didnât have the energy for this. and just like that, evanâs mother had stepped in front of them, shielding them from any more damage that day. he didnât remember the sharp words she had spoken but he remembered his father wilting. he remembered evanâs solid presence behind him and he remembered feeling not so terribly alone in that moment.
â â a memory that may or may not have happened
there were many reasons tarquin didnât drink. the first one was obvious; it was what he had seen his father do his entire life and there were already enough similarities between the two of them without him forcing another. besides tarquin was quite capable of ruining his life without the drinking. he didnât need alcohol to have a temper that could be triggered at the slightest of infractions, didnât need alcohol to give in to the violence coursing through his veins.Â
he also could never properly remember what had happened the next day and that was another one of the reasons. there was either a blank where his memory should be or he only remembered fragments, the edges always blurred. it scared him in a way and so, tarquin had innumerable flaws but drinking wasnât one.Â
the months after his motherâs death were spent in a haze though and it was cruel because he knew seeing him downing one bottle after the other would have broken her heart. but she wasnât there anymore so what was the fucking point in thinking of her. it was the first time he understood his father to some degree, drinking made him forget and there was a sort of bliss in that.
he was drunk when he showed up at the rosier manor that night and he knew that had happened because it was where he woke up the next day but anything else was up for debate.
his broken memory was hardly reliable but evan had opened the door, his eyes tired with exhaustion but still somehow sharp as he took in tarquinâs state. tarquin had readied himself for disappointment but there was only relief in evanâs eyes and he felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulder. he had been avoiding him but isolation was the only way he knew of to deal with this overwhelming sadness. this grief was what he owed his mother for the necessary crime of going on living without her.
his hands were bloody, the result of yet another underground fight, a sort of high he chased because God he was so tired of feeling hollow. this one had been bad though but he knew he had won. if he hadnât he wouldnât still be standing.
evan had taken one look at his hands and led him to the couch. tarquin didnât know if they had exchanged any words though he did know that there had never been any need for them. evan understood him better than he himself did. he had returned moments later with a bowl filled with clean water, cotton and bandages. evan had made him sink his hands in the water and tarquin had watched with indifference as it turned red. it had hurt when evan disinfected the wounds but evan had treated him with such care, his movements so slow and gentle that tarquin had to swallow against the infinite tenderness he felt for this man.
 no one else had ever bothered with him and there had been so many times he had expected evan to give up on him but he had been right there every time he turned out without fail. his fingers closed around evanâs wrist as he finished bandaging his other hand. he didnât want him to move away and the next thing he knew their faces were inches away. tarquin could never make sense of what happened next - no many how many times he tried to sift through the blurry memory- but then their lips met for the briefest of moments, it was a kiss but not quite, not really, it was more of a ghost of a kiss. they moved away at the same time, both of them at the precipice but never taking the leap. tarquin knew he couldnât, he would not let himself ruin the one real relationship he had left. he treasured their friendship far too much to play with it. he touched evanâs jaw with aching fingers, until his fingers fell to the hollow of his neck. tarquin let out a shaky breath, and then another as he let his head fall against evanâs shoulder, willing his heart to slow down and his mind to stop spinning. he let out the saddest laugh because he had already lost too much and he wouldnât let himself lose this as well.
the next day he woke up with a raging headache but in a bed. he sat up the moment the fragmented memories started to come back but the things he remembered were senseless. he flexed his hands in a fist to find them completely healed - which made sense. why would evan bandage him when he could heal the injuries far more effectively with a flick of his wand? had he just dreamt the whole thing? tarquin couldnât completely rule out the possibility, not after a night of drinking and not after the events had taken on the same liquid form of dreams, blending in one another. every time he tried to hold onto a memory, it slipped away. when he finally dressed and left the room for breakfast, everything was as it should be. evan clapped his shoulder in his usual way and when their eyes met, tarquin saw nothing that would make him believe that anything out of the ordinary had happened. of course evan would know for sure but tarquin never found the words to ask.Â
he buried the incident in the deepest recesses of his mind, never let himself touch on it and never spoke to evan about it. he told himself that nothing had ever happened, that it had been a dream or his mind playing tricks on him and god this was why he didnât drink. he would have convinced himself too, if it hadnât been for how evan was a beacon in a field of gray, all blending in each other. if it hadnât been for how, for that one infinitesimal moment when their lips had touched, he had felt so goddamn alive. Â
