Gerald Avery (tenebrisme) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-05-02 23:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | dante avery, gerald avery |
WHO: Dante and Gerald Avery
WHEN: This evening seems fine!
WHERE: The Avery estate; Gerald's studio
SUMMARY: Father and son have an important talk.
WARNINGS: EMO STUFF! A half-finished portrait of Keats. :')
The canvas before Gerald was curtained as he worked from memory, the brush in his hand supplemented by a far finer brush that was controlled with his wand. Upon the canvas a pale and smiling face, crystalline eyes hidden behind spectacles, with a sweet bow tie, was taking shape. He could not give his children Keats back. But he could honour him. Gerald expected Dante to arrive soon. A decanter of amber liquid with two glasses awaited them. Unsure of himself and his ability to hold himself together in front of his father, Dante had done his best to be everywhere but home whenever possible. He didn’t know how to be there for either of his parents, especially in light of Violet’s abandonment, too. He barely knew how to be there for himself anymore. Nearly his entire life had fallen apart in the span of a week. He couldn’t avoid his father forever, though, so he gave in finally and joined his father in the studio. “I can come back if you’re busy.” Apollo greeted Dante with a purr and a paw at the hem of his trousers, requesting pats. Gerald shook his head and stood, letting both brushes come to a stop as he stepped from the canvas. “Stay. I’m glad you’re here.” Dante didn’t look at the canvas. Any other time, he might have. Now, he didn’t want to know what would be looking at him. Instead, he bent to scratch his father’s cat behind his ears. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here much.” He meant that, too. It’d been difficult to be in the house, knowing Keats wasn’t there. “ … you’ve been busy,” Gerald said easily. It was a better lie than admitting he was sure his son avoided the house for the brother and the family he had to be missing. “You’re leading your own life. It’s to be expected. I can’t keep you with me forever.” “No,” Dante agreed, “you can’t.” That was what parents were supposed to do, Dante thought. Raise their children to be self-sufficient and independent. He wouldn’t get to do the same for his son. The thought sent a chill through him. “Not much of a life, though,” he admitted after a moment. “Not without - with Violet gone, I mean. It isn’t what I thought…” “ … it isn’t what you thought,” he agreed gently. “Our plans seem to be morphing at alarming rates. But it isn’t what it has to be.” For a moment, he could feel his desire on the tip of his tongue. Dante would take Valkyrie and run. “It isn’t what it has to be after.” Frowning, he looked up at his father. After what? He wasn’t sure. All Dante really knew was that everything had changed and he didn’t know where he was going next. The last few months had been a whirlwind. Everything had changed quickly, and just when he thought he had settled, it changed again. “I don’t know what after looks like anymore.” Dante wouldn’t have been so candid normally. He used to put on a good show, confident and sure. Not anymore. “That’s all right. You don’t have to know the whole plot.” A stool materialized and slid to a halt by Dante’s side while Gerald sat on the edge of his own. He hated his son’s sorrow; the world continued dealing him raw hands. And here he was too delicate to be as good to Dante as he should. “Sit. I’m here for you.” He wasn’t supposed to know the whole plot, Dante thought. At least, he wasn’t supposed to know it all when it came to the Dark Lord and His plans for the future were concerned. He was supposed to trust that He knew what was best for all of them. He sat down on the stool as his father suggested, but he was quiet for a moment longer, unsure of himself and of what to say. Sometimes he felt like the entire mess of his life was his father’s fault; his father said he was there for him, but how was he supposed to say that? He shouldn’t be second-guessing his choices, in any case. He shouldn’t be wondering what he could have done to make Violet want to stay. “I don’t think I’ll ever meet him,” he finally admitted, his voice quiet. He hadn’t warmed up to the idea of being a father right away, but it had seeped into his bones now. He wanted it more than he ever thought he would. After a moment, Gerald sighed. It seemed as though Dante was right. Slughorn’s antics had guaranteed that not ever experiencing fatherhood was imminently possible. And for a man who’d endured the rigors of Azkaban, he knew that this was a salvation he’d long hoped for. New life could mean so many things. But more than anything, it was hope. Hope with their family broken. His lips pressed into a thin, stark line. He wanted Dante to know his son. But even more than that, he wanted his remaining children to survive this war. Tom’s aims were so close to them, and he knew that faith was required to see it through. But he could not bear the thought of his children dead. Valkyrie had her out. But did Dante? “What would you change? If you could.” “I…” Dante frowned. Did his father mean in general, or just with Violet? He’d never considered that he could change any aspect of his life. It was meant to play out in a certain way, and that was that. He’d always expected they would win, and he’d get everything he ever wanted. Winning felt different than he thought it would. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d find a way to…” Dante considered his words carefully. He didn’t want to force her to stay, but he didn’t want to lose her or their son. He couldn’t break free. He couldn’t be who she was asking for. “I can’t change anything.” Gerald looked down at his gnarled hand. There it rested, the instrument of so much creation and so much death. And for what purpose? To further the good lives of his children. And here they were, embroiled and enmeshed in fear. His purpose and desires felt blunted by Keats’ death, by Dante’s sorrow. “You can,” he said quietly. “You can go.” A chill ran down Dante’s spine. All through the few years of service, the years of his ill-gotten peace, his father had never suggested something like that before. “You - you can’t -” Dante felt panicked. Why had his father even wanted him to join, only to tell him to leave? “He won’t let me. I owe him more years, we all do. You know no one walks away from this.” “Oh, I know very well.” Gerald looked up, his black eyes shineless. He knew what this war was doing - had done, since the days of his youth. “I know very well what Tom requires. But I would defy him, if that meant that you had precisely what you wanted.” He shrugged. “You’ve sacrificed too much.” What Dante wanted was complicated. He still believed in the reason they were fighting. He didn’t agree with all of the methods, but he assumed those older than he was had a reason. But he also wanted his family, or what was left of it. His sister, his parents. Violet and their son. “What about Valkyrie?” he asked, frowning. “She’s already lost Keats. She can’t lose us too.” “Valkyrie …” he smiled softly. He knew that she would survive with or without them. He knew that she had her ways. Of all of them, he knew that she would continue their family. Gerald was old enough to know that he was likely to not survive whatever mess was coming. But they could. “You have a decision to make, Dante. It’s the decision you’ve always had. Stay and fight, try to live. Our aims are not wrong because they’re harder now. Or you can go and I will do my best to protect you and smooth your way. There are costs associated with either decision.” Dante shook his head. He’d never had a choice. But that wasn’t exactly true, of course. He’d always had a choice. He’d just chosen the path that he hoped would make his father most proud of him. He’d chosen the path that would bring them closer together, that would give them a common enemy to fight together, a common goal to accomplish together. He didn’t say any of that, though. “She wants me to leave,” he admitted, averting his gaze. “I told her it wasn’t possible.” It was, however, the only way he could ever meet his son, and he understood that. He was the reason for that. The choices he made were the reason he was in the position he was. It was his fault. “She’s required you to respond to an ultimatum, which doesn’t seem very loving at all,” he said easily. Violet Slughorn’s little defection had cost them because it distracted Dante and wounded him when Keats’ loss already did so thoroughly. He felt nothing but scorn for the girl. “But if we are successful it doesn’t mean that you cannot find her after. Survive and find your son, battle with perceived dishonour. Or stay and attempt to survive. I can’t tell you what is best. Only that I love you and …” and I wish our war had never come to this. He took a breath. “And I’m sorry.” It was only when his father apologised that Dante looked up. He wanted to say that breaking a promise to Violet hadn’t been very loving, or that it wasn’t very loving to make a son feel like the only way to gain a father’s pride was to join him in murder. But those had both been his own choices, too. He could only blame his father for his failures for so long. He was the one who had cost himself his own life. “For what?” “I’m sorry for not having better options.” He shook his head slowly. “I’d only wanted a better life for you all.” And it seemed feasible fifty years ago. Hearing that, Dante felt a twinge of guilt for being so angry for so long. He sighed and nodded. “I know, father.” Everything they’d done over the years had been so they could make a better world for everyone else. For Valkyrie, for Keats. For future generations. Now, Dante felt it all slipping away. What sort of world were they even building if Keats wasn’t there for it? What were they building if his son wouldn’t be a part of it? “I’ll think about it,” Dante told his father. The prospect of deciding what to do seemed even more daunting than before, and he feared what might happen if he found himself called to the Dark Lord any time soon, because He would certainly be able to tell. Dante didn’t like the idea of facing Him. He was afraid of leaving, too, and of what he might find if he did. Or what he might not find. He cleared his throat and added, “and I love you too.” He smiled wanly. How he often ached to hear this from his children. Instead of expounding further, he stood and flourished his wand at a canvas at the back wall. “Let me show you how to walk through, then. Perhaps you can find a way to connect the painting to where she is, if she wants you. Otherwise, you have a new and powerful charm in your arsenal. It could protect you.” For years, Dante had watched his father and his artwork. He’d longed to be part of what his father did. Lacking the artistic skill that Keats had, Dante often felt left out of that part of their father’s life, even as he traveled abroad to collect artefacts for him. Now, he and Valkyrie were all their father had left. He understood the significance of the offer, and he was grateful. “I’d be honoured.” |