Gerald Avery (tenebrisme) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-05-17 11:48:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | gerald avery, hugo nott |
WHO: Hugo Nott and Gerald Avery
WHEN: We'll say last evening.
WHERE: The Avery estate.
SUMMARY: Two old friends have a chat.
WARNINGS: N/A (I promise)
The sunlight filtered in through the high windows in dramatic fashion; fluffy clouds with flat bottoms scudded across the sky, a reminder that Spring was never quite gentle. And with an eye to the cloud, Gerald turned instead to Hugo and filled the man’s glass. It’d been too long since they had sat together, allowing the space to fill in companionable silence between them. There had been much to do. Gerald lifted his glass in salute. “To hope.” Hugo’s own toast was slower, more deliberate in action, and wordless to boot. He raised the glass before drinking from it gently. Hope was something that had been in short supply, unlike wine. He huffed a small sigh and stared up at the top of the window. “Good painting weather,” Hugo finally spoke. Greedy for that hope he toasted, Gerald took two sips of wine before he responded to Hugo. “Yes. This afternoon I thought I might …” It would be a fine evening to work on his rendering of Keats. He only found that the medium - any medium beyond flesh - did not do his boy justice. He smiled through the ache. “Would you like to stay and have a go at a canvas?” Hugo shook his head in response. “Anything of mine would look like the scrawling of a child in comparison to you work, my friend,” he told Gerald. “Your talent for art is always one of the things I envy most about you.” He turned his attention back to his wine briefly. He envied a lot about his friend, talent and wine collection included. A pause. “Sometimes, one releases one’s feelings and proclivities on a canvas. And other times, one releases one’s feelings and suddenly it’s work rendered for the Dark Lord and for the Cause.” He stared at his friend who was staring so introspectively at his wine and suddenly wondered what, in all of his own grief, he’d missed. “You can tell me, Hugo.” Hugo’s initial response was a loud huff of breath, inclined towards denial. He stared at the window frame again, unwilling to discuss his parenting issues when his friend was still grieving the loss of a son. But, as this was likely to be the only listening ear — “I spoke with Theodore about taking the Mark. He’s uninterested.” His tone betrayed his annoyance, the fact that it was far more than disinterest that stopped Hugo’s sole heir from following in his footsteps. Gerald waited a beat -- “Well, I can hardly blame him.” It wasn’t only the loss of his son, it was the bad press and their inability to turn the corner with the advantages they’d previously had. They’d been wasteful with their strengths and now, their position was slipping. Or it felt like it was slipping. “Theodore wants to preserve his life.” “Then he's a coward,” Hugo was dismissive of the fact, despite that knowledge hurting him. How could his friend have two sons that had endeavoured to follow in his footsteps, when Hugo himself had none? He'd complain that it was unfair if he wasn't all too aware of the loss of Keats. A pause, and then in a pained tone; “he's my only son, Gerald.” Gerald’s eyes softened. “ … don’t throw him away,” he said, letting the mild tone build in his voice so that Hugo could not tell if he meant throw him away to their cause or because he would not join them. His nod of assent was brief. “You cannot.” “I could,” Hugo’s words were adamant, but his hurt was still audible. “I could cast him out, make him fend for himself for once. See how well the Muggle-lovers treat him.” He’d mulled over all of the ideas. “He’d fall on his feet, certainly.” Hugo’s own escape artistry could only have been rivaled by his son’s talent for somehow ending up in situations that benefited him. “He has a few months left at school.” Musing on the time they had left, Gerald said nothing for a moment. He let the silence hang companionably between them. Finally, he offered a shrug. “He is your only son and heir. I should think to educate him regarding the lack of opportunity should his father be unsuccessful might make him more pliant.” A pause. “But then, I would not want you to go through my travails. Dante had been lost. Now Keats …” He steeled himself. “Be a father to him. Provide him with choices.” “And if he continues to refuse it?” Hugo asked. “He continues to refuse me?” He clutched the wine glass a little more, selfishly refusing to be sidetracked by sympathy for his friend’s loss. A grunt. “I suppose you’ll have to decide if you’re more Nott or Black.” Hugo held the wine glass at an angle, swirling the liquid around gently inside it. “Not everyone goes cutting out family members with quite such vigour as the dear departed Madam Black,” he chuckled softly, pushing aside his hurt for the moment. “Though I wonder if her methods were lacking, the delivery was always good.” Gerald’s brow arched. His admonition to Hugo that he hadn’t that kind of spare was drowned in a sip of his wine. Finally, he said -- “I recommend sympathy, old friend. Neither one of us are very young anymore. Let us enjoy what peace and love we have left.” Unsaid -- there is so little left. |