What Would Rhys Cadwallader Do? (cymru) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-01-15 09:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | rhys cadwallader, will cadwallader |
WHO: Will & Rhys Cadwallader.
WHAT: Cousins having a chat, and avoiding certain topics.
WHEN: Monday afternoon, January 15th.
WHERE: The Gentle Green B&B.
WARNINGS: Mentions of death? Other than that, nah.
He had told Nora he wouldn’t bring it up. It being the psychopath (sociopath? Will wasn’t quite sure on the difference between the two, except that both probably fit) that was screwing with Rhys just because he could. So he wouldn’t. He was just here to check on his cousin, as you did when you weren’t at all worried about their mental state. He’d texted first, as to not give Rhys a heart attack by showing up unannounced, but he hadn’t told him he was bringing food. He usually did, so it probably wasn’t a surprise, but that was besides the point. “Hey,” he said, knocking lightly on the door before entering the sitting room. “Guess what I brought?” Rhys had been sitting with brows furrowed, looking down at his phone as though he expected to be given bad news at any moment. His gaze snapped upward when Will entered, followed by a sigh of relief and a smile. “Hey,” he greeted in return, thankful for both the company and the distraction. “You didn’t have to bring anything. But also—what did you bring?” He raised his eyebrows curiously, unsure of what to guess. “Butter chicken! Will had gone back on forth on exactly what he would eat and not tell his team nutritionist about all morning (if nothing else it was nicer than worrying about Eurig and Emmy and the MRC), and settled on Indian food. “And some other stuff. But mostly that.” He deposited the bag in Rhys’ lap and went to hunt down some cutlery and drinks, wandering back into the room and taking a seat next to his cousin just as he discovered what ‘other stuff’ meant – two kinds of fairly amazing naan. “Nobody else here?” he asked. “No, no-one’s here,” Rhys said. No-one officially, he neglected to clarify. He took in the whole feast and looked to his cousin with gratitude. “This is awesome, thank you. You really didn’t have to do all this.” He paused long enough to take a piece of naan, which was too amazing to resist. He reached over and gave Will’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, then added with sincerity, “I’m glad you came.” Will was busy, he knew—professional quidditch seemed like a whirlwind—and he’d just bid farewell to his son recently for who-even-knew-how-long; Rhys was thankful that he’d taken the time to visit, even if he did feel a bit guilty that Will had gone out of his way. “How are things?” Rhys asked, with a hint of concern. “I know,” Will said. “I wanted to.” There were a lot of reasons to spend more time with Rhys right now. The fact that he’d narrowly avoided Azkaban was just one of them. Also (possibly less important); he had to share his new find as far as takeout went. “I’m glad to be here. I have optional flying today, so I figured I’d come by.” “I’m okay,” he said to Rhys’ question, pulling a container open. The food smelled amazing. “Still freaking out about the MRC a bit,” he had to admit. “I can imagine,” Rhys said, sympathetic. “Why are they even bothering you in the first place? He's not Muggleborn, so that seems a bit outside of their jurisdiction.” He hadn't spent over a decade of his life at the Ministry not to know about the bureaucratic process, though the Ministry as it stood now was nothing like the Ministry he remembered. “Something about it being legally mandatory, all that usual crap,” Will said. “But I’m the one who convinced Emmy this was safer. Better for him. So it’s better they bother me than them, I guess.” He’d told Rhys that before, he was pretty sure of that. He’d probably tell him that another dozen times at least before this was all over. There wasn’t much else to say. “How about you? Everything all right down here?” “Better that they didn’t bother anyone at all, but I suppose that’s not an option, unfortunately,” Rhys muttered, though he knew all too well that there was little one could do to keep terrible people away from one’s doorstep. He opted not to press the issue; Will would talk about it when he felt ready to talk about it. “Everything’s all right over here, yeah. At least for now. It’s the off-season, so no-one much is booking. And he hasn’t come back yet, no, because I know you’re probably wondering. Hopefully he got his fill of harassment and has moved on to whatever other terrible things he fills his time with.” As far as Rhys was concerned, that was that. He ate a forkful of butter chicken, more than happy to change the subject. “This is great—where did you get this?” he asked. Will could see a subject change when it was put in front of him, and it wasn’t as if he’d done the same more times than he could count. They seemed to take turns, the two of them, and right now Rhys was the one needing a push in the right direction. If only Will had been better at that. “Just let me know if the others give you shit about it,” he said. “And I won’t make you talk about it.” “A new place opened down the street from my place,” he went on, dropping the subject. “I’m currently eating my way through their menu, or I would if I could. Planning to eat a lot of crap in the off season, though. To make up for it.” Possibly not what a professional athlete should do, but Will couldn’t bring himself to care too much. Not with the way things were going, anyway. It was hard to be at your best with all this stuff going on around them. “My family doesn't need to know,” was all Rhys had to say about that. The last thing he needed right now when he was already feeling low was another guilt trip or being babied by his well-meaning but clueless parents. Take-away was a much safer subject. “You can bulk up for the winter. You won't even need a coat,” he teased. Will dropped the subject. “Sounds like a plan.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if adding this to the pile was too much. But at least it wasn’t talking about Death Eaters. “We should try to fly some time,” he said. “Just around the garden. See how it goes.” “Yeah?” Rhys said, his tone hopeful and hesitant all at once. He paused before a moment before adding, quite sheepishly, “I've been… well. I've been practicing a little? I got a new broom awhile back. They make special ones for… well, you know.” He crossed his arms, looking embarrassed, just thinking about how ridiculous he'd look awkwardly attempting to fly alongside his dashing professional quidditch-playing cousin. “Really?” Will said, unable to hold back the excitement. “That’s awesome! We should definitely do that. You should’ve told me, though. I would’ve helped you pick it out.” “I’m not very good!” Rhys added hurriedly, not wanting Will to wind up disappointed. “I’m slow, and I need help, and I’ll probably look stupid. Sorry, I’m not much fun anymore. I’m trying, though! Maybe I’ll get better at it, I don’t know.” Will rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’re such a bore these days.” And then, remembering Nora’s words, “except, you know, you’re not. You just think you are. But I’ll help you and once we’re in the air you’ll pick it up quickly, I’m sure of it.” Rhys looked unsure of it all, but nodded anyway. “Yeah, it's not bad once I'm up in the air! It's just getting up there that's… yeah. It's not easy as it used to be,” he said, obviously struggling a bit with that admission, even though it wasn't news to either of them. It only occurred to him afterward that perhaps he was being difficult for the people who were trying to encourage him, and with that in mind, he took a deep breath and added, as optimistic as he could muster, “But I couldn't walk at all six months ago, so being able to fly—even if I suck at it—isn't nothing. I'm getting somewhere.” He sounded as though he was trying to reassure himself just as much as he was trying to reassure Will. Hopefully, that was enough. “You’re definitely getting somewhere,” Will said. “Six months is nothing in injury time. Ask my shoulder. Actually, don’t, you might remind it that I’m old in Quidditch years. And you don’t suck at it. I refuse,” he waved his fork at Rhys to emphasise his words, “to believe that you suck.” Rhys tried his best to smile and take it to heart, though he didn’t look quite as convinced as he would have liked. “It’s been a long one year, three months, and eighteen days,” he said, without really having to think about it much, his quintessential now-nearly useless Auror superpower. “Imagine if I’d done Quidditch instead—we’d both be old in Quidditch years, complaining about how the kids these days have it much easier with all these newfound bludgers.” He carefully skirted the argument about whether or not he sucked, and stuffed his face full of chicken instead. “Quidditch isn’t a low-risk profession either,” Will pointed out. “I’ve just been lucky I’ve been able to do for this long.” There had been some injuries through the year; a concussion or two, some broken bones, that shoulder he kept dislocating, but nothing big. Others weren’t that lucky. “I’m a little annoyed the Death Eaters are ruining my last season, though,” he added. “But at least it’s not my first. Some of the kids just starting out… I feel bad for them. Quidditch isn’t supposed to be all politics and no play.” “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply it wasn’t,” Rhys said, wincing at his ability to make conversations worse the more he tried to make improve them. “Especially these days.” Inferi at matches, Death Eaters murdering them for speaking out, the list went on. He’d thought that Nora would be safer working for a Quidditch team; now, she was likely in more danger than he was. “Just saying, we’ve both picked high risk stuff. Lucky neither of us is dead.” That was how Will looked at it, at least. Death wasn’t exactly a every day occurance when it came to Quidditch, but once Death Eaters were involved anything could happen. “You now what’s missing, though?” Will put down his fork. “Dessert. I didn’t of that.” Rhys would have never really put the risk of dying from Quidditch at the same threat level as dying from being Auror, but who knew these days? Just about anything ran you the risk of being murdered by Death Eaters now, including running a seemingly peaceful Bed & Breakfast. He was thankful for the change of subject. “Dessert? I’ve got cake in the fridge. I can go fetch it.” Rhys said, setting his food aside, more than happy to take a moment to escape before they spoke any further about anyone dying. Will busied himself with putting away the empty food containers, equally grateful for a moment to himself. He had a distinct feeling that he was talking too much, but didn’t quite know to stop. Rhys removing himself from the situation was probably a good thing, he thought. It didn’t quite use to be this way. But then again, things changed. And only occasionally for the better. |