What Would Rhys Cadwallader Do? (cymru) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-02-09 11:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | rhys cadwallader |
WHO: Dafydd & Rhys Cadwallader.
WHAT: Making funeral arrangements for a friend.
WHEN: Tuesday, February 6th.
WHERE: The Gentle Green.
WARNINGS: :(
The kitchen was full, parchment and quills and barely touched food sat on Nora and Rhys’ kitchen table between the many people occupying seats and leaning against counters. It was sombre, a din, but a hushed one. It was suffocating and depressing for all the goodness of the people wanting to honour their fallen friend, and Dafydd, who already was awkward in groups, felt more so. Rhys hadn’t returned from wherever he’d excused himself minutes ago, so Dafydd decided to follow. Of the responsibilities of an older brother, Dafydd was confident. It didn’t take long. “Rhys,” he said quietly into the study as he came through the door, and watched from beneath a furrowed brow as his brother stared at the shelf in front of him. “Are you ok?” Rhys—sitting with his arms crossed and his own brow furrowed—barely glanced over at him, knowing that if he broke his concentration on nothing, he risked giving away his actual feelings. He never had been all that great with feelings. “I'm okay,” he lied quietly. He brought up his hand to dry his eyes, but tried to be casual about it. “I just need a minute.” Dafydd’s mouth thinned as he hesitated by the door. He knew his brother had enough people telling him how sorry they were, voicing their concerns or trying to telegraph them with their eyes. Dafydd stepped inside. “You know, I really have my work cut out for me,” he said after a long pause, and he sighed as if harassed. “Gawain really had the worst taste in muggle music. Bon Jovi on strings? Duran Duran by oboe? The Police, fine. New Order, better. I draw the line at Queen.” Rhys half-chuckled, half-sniffled, caught somewhere in-between. “What’s wrong with Queen? You don’t like Bohemian Rhapsody?” he asked weakly. “It’s a gateway shanty to amateur opera at best. No,” he sniffed, feigning some of the outrage if it meant Rhys found it amusing. He watched his brother from the corner of his eye as he sat down in the neighbouring chair. “I could be persuaded to do Eye of the Tiger.” Another part-snicker, but mingled with a bit more than a halfway-sniffle. Rhys tried his best not to let out a sob. “I can’t picture a minor-key string quartet version of Eye of the Tiger, but I think you could pull it off.” Dafydd reached over, heart breaking to hear how much Rhys struggled to keep himself together, and squeezed his hand. “Of course I could pull it off,” he huffed incredulously. “Talk to me,” he added more quietly. It was the hand squeeze that pushed him over the edge. The tears started to flow, and Rhys quickly tried to wipe them away, embarrassed to be caught not being as stoic as he had always tried to present himself as. “What is there to talk about? My friend is dead. They murdered him, and maybe there was something I could’ve done to help, but I didn’t. There’s nothing I can do, so what’s the point?” he said, equally quiet. “Something you could—“ Dafydd frowned. “Rhys there was nothing you could have done, that Lestrange woman made that very clear.” The thought that a Rhys might have been there was ice in his spine. Dafydd was of the camp that staying out of their way was the only way, but he couldn’t sit there and listen to the sheer defeat in Rhys’ tone. It was unnatural. “Please don’t put that responsibility on yourself.” “Yeah, I guess,” Rhys said, not wanting to continue on that particular subject despite the nagging feeling that if he had been there, or if he’d done something—anything else—perhaps Gawain would still be with them. He’d looked up to him for as long as he’d wanted to be an Auror; Gawain Robards had been the epitome of everything that Rhys had wanted to be: honest, loyal, brave, just. He’d never backed down from doing the right thing. Rhys had wanted to prove to him that his faith in him had not been misplaced. He’d wanted to make him proud. But it was too late for that now. It was not too late, however, to make his brother feel better. Perhaps someday, to even make him proud. Rhys beckoned toward him to ask for a hug. “I just wanted to do the right thing,” he said. “All I ever wanted was to at least try to do the right thing. I think that’s a lot of us, though.” Dafydd went without hesitation, wrapping his little brother tightly in his arms. “I know,” he said into Rhys’ shoulder. “You always have, you hear me Rhys? You are a good man, someone Gawain trusted and you did not let him down. You won’t.” If his grip tightened for a moment it was only because Dafydd felt the fear that those words might foretell Rhys picking up Gawain’s torch. But they were the right words to say; Rhys was good. He needed to hear that this would always be true. He could never let anyone down. His little brother took too much onto himself. Rhys, at least, had no plans to take up Gawain's torch; the man had left shoes that were far too big for him—or anyone else—to fill. Rhys was not a politician. He wasn't even an Auror, except in spirit. His last chance of contributing to that in any meaningful way had died with Gawain. He had, however, taken people into his home that had nowhere else to go, and as much as it pained him to keep that from Dafydd, he knew that he'd be better off not knowing. Rhys, at least, could still do his best to be a good brother, son, husband, and friend. It wasn't a lot, but he could still—in whatever small way he could manage—do his damndest to be a decent person. He would try his best not to let Gawain down in that respect. “Tell me more about his shitty taste in music. I could use a laugh,” Rhys said, wiping his face on his sleeve and trying to pull himself together. “That dragonhide jacket and earring look? Terrible. No wonder he never showed that to anyone.” Dafydd withdrew, taking in Rhys’ red eyes and the slight pleading in his expression. He rose to the occasion, squeezing his brother’s hand as he heaved a harassed sigh. “One time I asked him what band he thought had excellent musicality. He said Whitesnake,” Dafydd informed Rhys gravely. “I think he was serious.” |