WHO: Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm WHAT: Homecoming and worry WHEN: Thursday night WHERE: Their home WARNINGS: Alcoholism, suicidal ideation, references to incest.
A secondment was a thrilling opportunity for Wil, sure, and Jacob would insist until he was blue in the face that he was happy for his brother. Being happy for Wil didn't mean he couldn't lose control of himself entirely and end up circling the drain, now did it!?
There was no use for him now, that was the root cause of it all. Jacob had worked alongside his brother because he had needed him. Wilhelm was the creative one, who spun their stories into pure magic with his words. Wil did research too, of course, but it was Jacob's specialty. Without Wil he was pretty much writing the dictionary and as important work as that had been, it was over now. Now there were websites like Urban Dictionary where anyone could go and write a definition for a pop culture phrase or even their best friend's name and it was preserved there for all to see. When Jacob was in a particularly masochistic mood, he would drink a lot of scotch and just lose himself down a hole of Urban Dictionary surfing in his underpants.
Without Wil, he was essentially useless in this modern world. Their stories had been told, and there was no real reason for him to collect more. People told their own tales on blogs and YouTube. There was no reason for him to travel and write down tales which had, until then, only been passed on by word of mouth. Hell, people were so into telling every minute detail of their lives that they could just tweet it constantly at each other in 240 characters or less.
His daughters didn't even need him. Greta wanted to be anywhere but around him and he could hardly blame her. Just by being his kid, he'd condemned her to a life where the rules of fairy tales actually mattered. And Ella had Patrick now too. Patrick was a better man than he could ever be, let along a better father.
And so Jacob drank. He smoked opium and heroin because opium, at least, could use his patronage to stick around. That was surely accomplishing something. And Diana seemed to like him well enough. The drugs dulled the useless feeling he fought against, though he didn't seem to realise what they really meant was that he was losing.
And on days like today, after getting fired from a position at a prestigious university which he had held for several years just the day before, Jacob wondered just how long he could manage to stay dead if he were to hang himself. It would all depend on who found his body and when, surely. He couldn't really come back to life if he was still hanging there in a noose, right? Or maybe he should fill his pockets with rocks and walk out into the ocean. He could float there on the sea floor, and not have to face the every day reminder that he had no purpose here.
Of course that would mean putting pants on. And leaving the house. So instead a nearly naked Jacob closed himself in the library, an empty bottle of scotch at his feet and another, half-full in his hands. He had chased the dragon and the smouldering remains were beside him. He didn't know his drunken message had alerted Wil so much that the man he loved more than anything was currently on his way home and about to walk in on this. All he knew was that he hated himself and he was sick of feeling it.
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Buried in the pile of junk mail in their post box was a postcard from Greta, which Wil stuck to the fridge with a magnet when he got in the front door.
It was quiet in the kitchen. That meant that Jacob had to be in the library, which was somewhat soundproofed by the many bookcases around the walls. Wil dropped his suitcase on the floor and ventured down the hallway towards the door.
Jacob's intoxicated postings had concerned Wilhelm from where he was doing some research on some early American folk tales. Jacob had appeared to be happy for him to go away for a while, but Wil's own excitement at the new finds had probably blinded him to the danger signs. That Jacob could spiral to such depths as being fired in this short amount of time was a worry.
"Brother?" Wil tapped gently on the library door, and when he didn't get a response, tapped louder. "Jacob? Are you in there?" He turned the knob and pushed the door open, bracing himself for what he might find.
The only thing that could have broken through his drunken and drug addled sorrow, was Wil's voice. When he heard his brother, Jacob's head snapped towards the door and he tried (and failed) to push the empty bottles and drug paraphernalia away from him.
"Wil!" he said, the name sounding like the gasping breath of a drowning man on his lips. "You're here," he continued in German. He tried to stand, but fell back to the chair, which was hardly surprising. His diet had consisted of nothing but illicit substances for days. "What day is it? Has it been three months?"