Flora's voice was crystal clear in his head as he tapped the envelope against the edge of the desk to settle its contents and tore the short end open, that he had an entire collection of letter openers within arm's reach but still chose to tear into his mail like a wild animal. And somehow, the letterhead already had a sinking feeling weighting deep into his chest, that it was the consult he'd been dreading, the stipulations on the trust fund and his inheritance of the family manor having matured, bringing a responsibility to his name that Miles both wanted and dreaded. Wanted because it had been his childhood home, wanted because he had happy memories there with Flora, with Mrs. Grose, with Ms. Jessel even, and yes, with Quint. But that's where the boundary shifted and the memories became blurred, that fine line between happiness and fear. Memories of riding, of the harsh crack of the whip and the live, raw feel of the powerful creature beneath him, of hours in the stables flung on the warm hay, of walking with too much soreness and only some of it from riding, of avoiding Mrs. Grose, and even Flora. Of watching him, of watching her, and Kate. The polaroids, the pulse of her neck beneath his thumbs, and Miles shut his eyes, tossing the envelope to the desk and rubbing both hands down his face. He didn't have to go back, he reminded himself. There was nothing there to clean out that needed him urgently, but the appointment to the law office still stood.

He presented himself as punctually as he could, which is to say half an hour early, and followed the suite numbers to the second floor corridor, letting himself within the designated area and unfolding the dossier he carried with the scant assortment of other documents he'd been proffered. “Miles Fairchild,” he introduced, “I have the eleven-thirty.” He was told politely to take a seat and glanced at the clock, the time spelling scarcely eleven and took the dossier back with him, finding a place in one of the vinyl-coated waiting room chairs, looking about at the dusty fake plants in giant plaster urns, the various paintings hung up on the wall, anachronistic and glowering, and at the TV, on mute, flashing in the corner some inanity that passed for local news. Taking in and letting out a deep breath, Miles dared a further glance to the only other person in the waiting area, a young woman still wearing her coat, dark hair tugged back from a round, childish face, eyes cast down on the paperwork in her lap.   

           𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬, there are two types of people:  one,  who turns the pages carefully and uses bookmarks to keep their place without damaging a stitch of paper that’s weaving out the story of cathy and heathcIiff,  and two,  who scrawls and bends and folds every fucking page like it’s nothing but a napkin,  disposable and cheap,  before throwing it right back where they found it without so much of a care.   you are type one.  peach saIinger,  insufferable socialite and uninspired, uninteresting media mogul is type two,  and then some.

but hey.  i’m a good guy,  and more importantly,  a great boyfriend.  i’ve picked up a get well soon bear that i just know she’ll hate  --  maybe that’s a bit petty,  but there’s something about tacky that screams peach’s name into the fucking sunset and i’ll sit the teddy so it stares right down at her stupid silk sheets until she throws it out.  but you’ll notice when she does that.  you’ll think she’s the petty one,  and you’ll have more time for me.  it’s perfect!  i come across as the perfect boyfriend,  and you’re disappointed in peach for being jealous and petty.  it’s pink,  and purple,  and i’d stared down at three bears before deciding this is the one to truly push peach’s buttons before showing up at her entirely ridiculous apartment.

                       “hey,  peach.  i’m so sorry to hear about what happened in the park.”     i heard about it,  because i was there,  and i thought that rock was heavier than it turned out to be.  huh.  guess i was wrong.

Pugsley knew that, knew that his mother was justified in sending him to his room, knew that his father was justified in supporting her. Knew that he'd been wrong to say what he'd said, knew that he didn't mean a word of it. And yet it didn't change the tightness in his chest that was some combustible mixture of fear and anger, something he'd only felt rarely for himself, more often directed toward other matters. Other creatures, other things. But this? He didn't want to go. Didn't want to be made a fool of in front of the Frump side of the family who would first of all disparage that he even looked like his father, and would ask if at least Wednesday was ever going to get married. Who would watch every step of his uncoordinated feet and set him up with someone he'd never seen before in his life, because if Wednesday wasn't going to be there, he was their next best bet, and maybe Aunt Ophelia would help and maybe she wouldn't.

Still didn't change the fact that cursing out the family of his mother hadn't been a very good idea. While their little brother had watched with round eyes from the other side of the table. And Wednesday wasn't even there to kick him into a better mood.

He knew she was in the doorway, he knew it because he'd seen her appear there, could hear her voice and if he focused long enough he could still see the grey sweater she wore, grey with dark maroon pants, her hair pulled back from her brow. As it was, Miles felt his own pulse thundering in his ears, felt the rise of his heart into his throat until words forced themselves out in a voice not his own, and he warded her away with a broad sweep of his arm, legs still folded beneath him on the low ottoman, the accoutrements of his childhood spread out around him. 

Guitar, drumset, terrarium that held only exoskeletons now, that odd table that had been gifted to him because it fit nowhere else in the scheme of the old manor. The yellowing picture of Kurt Cobain on the wall, sleeping like the dead, and the bed he'd insisted on racking down from its frame and tumbling to the floor like a homeless person, Mrs. Grose had said, like it was in the hayloft of the barn -

“I can't -” Miles choked out, dragging Marta back into his field of vision with some effort, his chest hitching with the effort it took to force the words past where his heart had lodged in his trachea. “I can't leave. He won't let me.”

 maybe there was a reason toziers should stay away from kaspbraks. maybe there’s also a reason that freddie should not be with ryan tozier at the moment. trying to find their brothers when they both had run off together hadn’t been the best idea, and definitely dragging freddie to the barrens wasn’t smart either.    “please uh.. --” he paused and looked down at the water before hesitating. “ be careful okay? all i know is richie kept talking about how bill and them were going to go down here later, so i think that might be where they’re at.”