What Would Rhys Cadwallader Do? (cymru) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-03-21 21:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | rhys cadwallader |
WHO: Rhys & Dafydd Cadwallader.
WHAT: Brotherly bonding.
WHEN: Today, March 21, 2018.
WHERE: Cadwallader & Sons Musical Instruments & Instruction.
WARNINGS: Jill makes me sad.
Dafydd hummed, head absently nodding along to the beat of the music as he finished polishing the French horn, a single minded, loving focus that meant he was completely unaware of his surroundings. The shop was closed and Dafydd enjoyed this part of his day, when he examined and maintained each of the instruments in the shop, all by hand. Music was far too intimate to leave to magic. And if the music that was playing happened to be the strings of Mahler, a muggle, well it was a good thing the shop was closed. There was the soft ding! of the bell above the door as Rhys shouldered his way inside and locked the door behind him. Though he was always concerned about his brother since his family had left for the relative safety of France, these days he made even more of an effort to ensure he was still hanging in there. It was difficult to sneak up on someone while balancing on crutches, but Rhys nonetheless attempted it. He found his brother horn-polishing and approached him carefully. “Do you think it’s shiny enough? I think your reflection must have a reflection by now.” Rhys blurted out suddenly, hoping to startle him. Dafydd was dignified enough not to shout in genuine fear, so instead he dropped the horn and stumbled gracelessly into a harp, nearly taking it down with him. “Jesus, Jesus!” Dafydd gaped at his brother. “Giving me a he — my god the French horn!” Rhys’ forehead wrinkled with concern. “Jesus, I didn't think that would actually work. Sorry about that,” he said guiltily, immediately attempting to stoop to retrieve the instrument. This was easier said than done, however, as he was a very tall man with very poor balance, and he quickly found himself sprawled out on the floor, crutches and limbs having slipped out from under him. Nonetheless, he pulled the French horn into his lap and rubbed at a scuff mark with his sleeve. “See? Good as new,” he said, as though that had been his intention all along. Dafydd untangled himself from the harp, gentle movements suddenly urgent when his little brother was now on the floor. Dafydd paused, knowing what Rhys would not appreciate being said, and bent down to sit next to him. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he demanded and tugged the horn into his grasp, critically surveying every surface. He picked up the oiled rag he’d been using before, and resumed polishing. “Your shirt? Are you trying to sabotage the store.” Rhys, looking very pink in the face, appreciated his brother just going along with this. He chuckled. “Yes, you got me. In fact, I'm trying to destroy music itself.” He reached over and gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder. “How are you, Davey?” “Fine,” the older Cadwallader replied. “Now that my heart rate is reaching normal levels. Just tidying up. What about you?” He frowned. “Everything ok?” “Of course. Everything's fine. Same as it always is,” Rhys assured him, sounding slightly wearier than he'd intended. He shifted to make himself more comfortable on the floor. “How's the shop?” he asked conversationally. He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Have you heard from Gruff lately?” Dafydd heard the fatigue in Rhys’ tone and frowned. He frowned deeper when his son was brought up and clutched a little at the French horn. “The shop is fine. Business is…” well there were less people in the Wizarding world and everyone left was too terrified to do something like play music. “It’s fine for now, but we need to figure out some sort of promotional thing because they aren’t coming in here like they used to. They’ve taken everything, even the joy to just play music.” He sighed. “My son,” he added to that list but Dafydd knew that was ultimately his fault. He could have gone too. “I haven’t talked to him in a while,” he admitted. “I'm probably not the best person for promotions ideas, since the B&B’s not exactly selling out either, but between the two of us, I'm sure we can come up with something,” Rhys said, trying his best to sound more confident than he felt. War was likely not a great time for any business, minus the funeral homes and bigoted war profiteers. Knowing his brother would hate this, Rhys bit his lip before suggesting, “Have you ever thought about maybe shuttering the shop for awhile? Going to visit him? It wouldn't have to be permanent or anything. I mean, unless you wanted it to be.” Dafydd absently polished at the brass. “I don’t think his mother wants me there. I doubt he does. He has a new life now and it’s better for him to be there, without me mucking it up for him. He’s safe.” He turned to Rhys. “Besides. I’m not leaving you here.” Rhys frowned. “You didn't muck anything up for him. Death Eaters mucked everything up for everyone. It's okay to miss him. I miss him. I wish he was here with us. You shouldn't make yourself miserable just because I'm stuck here.” “I’m not making myself miserable because of you,” Dafydd retorted, offended. “I’m making myself miserable because...I’m an idiot. But it has nothing to do with you. My son is safe, you’re not and I don’t care what you say to try to convince me otherwise because we both know that’s just not true.” He huffed. It was a conversation they had over and over again, and after what happened with Gawain, Dafydd was staying firm. “If you stay I stay. Now, what going on. The Green isn’t doing well?” The Cadwalladers were nothing if not stubborn; Rhys knew Dafydd was unlikely to budge, so let the subject drop. “Not many people want a relaxing getaway when everyone's getting murdered by assholes,” Rhys said instead. “And now Nora's back at work, so I've got nothing much to do except hang out and think about what I've done. Or—more likely—what I'm not doing. It's not doing terribly, I suppose, but I'm more bored than I've ever been in my life.” He paused, then added, “Please don't tell Nora I said that.” Dafydd relaxed against the wall, enough that his shoulder was pressed against his brothers. “Of course I won’t,” he said. “You know, you could work here.” Rhys sighed, leaning his head against his older brother's shoulder. “I've thought about it, but who'd watch the inn if I wasn't there? For all I know, someone’ll let acromantula loose in my yard because I didn't say that purebloods vomit unicorns and shit rainbows once when I was twelve,” he grumbled, shutting his eyes. He couldn't tell Dafydd about the people at the Green he had to protect, but hopefully he didn't need to. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know they shit unicorns and vomit rainbows. No wonder they have it out for you,” Dafydd said after a moment, lofty and playing at easing some of the tension visible on his brothers face. “Can’t one of your friends can help?Didn’t Baz lose his job?” Rhys let out a weak chuckle at Dafydd's joke. “He did, but he works at the museum now. Besides, I don't trust anyone. Just Nora and you. Everyone else could be in league with the Death Eaters for all I know.” “I could be evil. I have skills.” Dafydd hugged the French horn and still managed to look half affronted. “You've also got a big heart,” Rhys said. “And I doubt any of them are as talented as you, since they spend all their time being murderous bigots instead of practicing something worthwhile.” “Seriously,” came out of Dafydd in a rush. “If half these people put that motivation and blind, psychotic devotion to music the world would be a better place. And with 150% less murder. Hell, they already look like some depressingly untalented goth metal band that claims to make music. Death Eaters is exactly the kind of stupid band name that screams mediocrity.” When he was with his brother the criticisms he normally kept to himself out of sheer fear seemed to just pour out. Rhys couldn't help but to laugh out loud at that description, an already-funny joke made that much funnier by the fact that Dafydd didn't often joke, especially about something as dangerous as their tacky mask-wearing foes. “I couldn't have said it better,” Rhys said delightedly. “I'd rather listen to Korn.” Dafydd looked visibly ill at the comment. “Why would you say that…” he muttered. He knocked his shoulder into his brother’s. “I’m here if you need help Rhys. I know there’s more going on that you’re not telling me, and that’s ok,” he sighed. “Just please think of yourself from time to time. Come work at the shop, we can switch or I can help you at the Green. Just...don’t sit in silence and suffer with a smile on your face for everyone else. I already know you’re ugly, and I still love you.” Rhys gave him a playful roll of his eyes and an affectionate pat on the arm. “The same goes for you, yeah?” he said. He paused, thoughtful, for a moment before adding, “Speaking of sitting and suffering… there is one thing you can help me with.” “Yeah?” Rhys reached out his hands. “Can you please help me up off this floor?” Dafydd hefted a sigh like the request was a monumental inconvenience. “I would but I don’t think I can get up off the floor either.” |