13 ◈ spam & private

[He seethes, like he's boiling under his skin. The last time he was this angry - well, the last time he was this angry there was a kidnapping, and a death. He remembers it clear as day even though it was more than a year ago now, blackness welling up behind his eyes with the pop-pop-pop like fireworks if he didn't know any better. After all his schemes, all his work, all his little impulses, nothing made a difference.]

[Which he should have known. The truth of the matter is that his family betrayed him in the end. Not just Joe, but everyone, the people who had depended on him and who'd professed to love him. The people he had loved, they left him alone, sealed him away in isolation and put him out of their misery. He knows.]

[He just doesn't get why he's surprised anymore.]

[Another thing that he knows better than to do but starts doing anyway is spending an exponentially larger amount of time in the pub. He's not actually drinking that much; mostly he sits at the bar with a book on his lap, one thumb stuck in a page about midway through. Occasionally he props it open against the sticky counter and reads about casks and jesters and black cats, and gets an odd, glazed look on his face, remembering the sense of old faiths and old loves. When he's done in the bar, he goes to the chapel and sits in the same way. Maybe it's odd to read in there, but it's what he tends towards.]

[He's homesick. So sue him.]

private } iris, later

I need a favor from you.