celia wood (theyoungestwood) wrote in reduxpitch, @ 2016-08-25 08:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | !thread, character: celia wood, retired character: arran wood |
Who: Arran and Celia Wood.
What: A bit of forewarning.
Where: At the beach.
When: 23rd August, shortly before midnight.
Warning: More swearing from Arran.
When Hermione had invited him to the beach, Arran hadn’t expected it to be a party. He felt a bit bad for bringing Byron, who was probably hiding behind a rock somewhere, if he hadn’t gone home already. He’d expected a small circle of friends, around a small fire, toasting marshmallows. Byron, he thought, would have enjoyed that. Arran would have too — but he had the extra benefit of also enjoying the party as it was. He’d lost Hermione somewhere, when he’d gone off to run some races in sand. He was afraid he might also have lost his shoes. But maybe Hermione had them - she seemed organised like that. If not, Arran could accio them before he went home.
His watch told him it was nearly midnight, so he went looking for another drink. Maybe he’d find Hermione on the way and then he could - He bumped into someone. Someone smaller than Hermione, but also more familiar. “Celia!” Arran draped an arm across Celia’s shoulders, spinning her to face him and pulling her away from whatever she’d been doing. “Look,” he said, shoving his watch at her in the dark. “It’s nearly 12. Know what that means?” He didn’t give her much of a chance to answer. “It’s almost my birthday! Have a drink with me.”
--
Bonfires were fun! There were so many people, and lots of food and things to drink, and Celia was having a great time doing nothing in particular. It was enjoyable simply to be in the middle of it all. She'd built a sandcastle or two, of course, but she'd tapered off to merely milling around and making pleasant but mostly pointless conversations with people. That was what one did at these things, right?
But then there was an around around her shoulders and a familiar voice saying her name. “Arran!” she replied with a beaming smile, hugging onto him and giggling when he shoved his watch her way. “It almost is! We have to have a drink to celebrate!”
With his arm around around her, it was easy to lead him over to where her blanket was, and her cooler that still had a few cold bottles of beer inside. She pulled two out and handed one to him as she plopped down to sit. “To your birthday!”
--
Arran was impressed that Celia had a blanket. Or, actually, he was mostly impressed that Celia could still find her blanket. His was… somewhere. Probably by now other people were sitting on it, and Arran really couldn’t bring himself to care. It was just a blanket. Maybe someone else would take it home and take care of it. It could have a whole new life, a more exciting one than being in Arran’s cupboard.
“I think,” he announced to Celia as he sat down and reached for the beer she offered, “that I am more drunk than I realised. Does that seem likely?” He tilted his head at her while he buried his bare feet in the sand to one side of the blanket. It was nice, cool. The beer was cool too, and he toasted Celia before setting the bottle to his lips.
After glancing at his watch again, to make sure it wasn’t quite his birthday yet, Arran fixed his gaze on Celia. He had wanted to tell her something. He’d known she would be here tonight, and he’d wanted to tell her something, because he didn’t want to tell her on his birthday, and ruin the party. “Are you excited for my pizza party?” he asked. He was excited. More excited than he’d expected to be, given the notable absence of his former best friend.
Oh. That was what he’d wanted to say. “I miss Roger.”
--
“I think that's likely,” Celia agreed with a nod. “Because there's a bonfire, and it's almost your birthday!” She smiled brightly before taking a drink of her beer, stretching her legs out in front of her and watching the way the flames danced against the dark sky not too far from where they were.
At the mention of the pizza party, she lit up again. “I'm very excited! I don't know if I'll make anything too out there but it's always good to have pizza, and to celebrate your birthday! So it should be great. Do you need help setting up? Or should I bring something? I can do anything you need.”
She was mid-sip when he mentioned Roger, and she glanced around as though she would spot him. “You should have invited him!”
--
Arran wasn’t sure the bonfire was making him drunk, but he was willing to accept Celia’s explanation, if only because she wasn’t going off on tangents about blankets and the boring lives they must lead. At least, as far as Arran could tell she wasn’t. She seemed eminently the more sensible just then.
He shook his head in answer to all her questions at once. “You should make something out there,” he insisted. “That’s the point. If everyone makes ham and mushroom, it’ll be boring. Bet you a sickle Oliver makes something with kale.” It was a very, very safe bet and Arran really wouldn’t blame Celia for not taking it. Assuming he remembered this conversation tomorrow. “I have muggle premade dough, and sauce, and I’ll grate all the cheese magically, and I’m going to put picnic tables!” Arran had thought it all through. Lottie, he was sure, would be very proud.
There was a painful twist in the vicinity of Arran’s stomach when Celie suggested he should have invited Roger. If only it could be that easy. “No,” he said. “I can’t invite Roger.” To anything, anymore. “He fucked Cariad.” It wasn’t at all the careful, considered way Arran had wanted to tell Celia.
--
“I'm not taking that bet because of course he will,” Celia replied before sticking her tongue out at him. She planned on making a pizza she would like to eat, which meant it might not be that inventive but it would definitely be delicious. That was all that mattered, right. She thought so. “That all sounds lovely! But if you need any help at all you should let me know. It's your birthday, I don't want you to be stressed!”
At his statement that he couldn't invite Roger, her lips parted to ask why not but the words died before the came. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her, and she sat frozen as she stared at her brother. It took a moment, but then she blinked, drew in a breath, and ignored the way her grip tightened on the beer bottle in her hand. “What?”
--
Forgetting the conversation about the party entirely, Arran watched Celia. Her reaction, at least from the outside, was almost the same as his had been when Roger told him. He nodded, any further explanation stuck in his throat. He loosened it, with a long swallow of his beer. “That’s why-” he said, trailing off. He didn’t want to say the words. It had been real for a year now, but Arran still wished more than anything that it wasn’t.
Unable to look at Celia, Arran turned his eyes down to the beer bottle in his hands. It was almost half empty, and he didn’t remember drinking that much. Nervous, he dug the end of the bottle into the sand, making a little holder for it. Getting drunk didn’t actually help - Arran had learned that. Adding vomit to his anger didn’t improve his mood.
--
Oh, Celia was mad. So very mad. She wanted to go find Roger and whack him over the head with beater’s bat until she stopped being mad. Her heart hurt from that look on her brother’s face, and it made her want to find the cause and get rid of it. But she couldn't, because it was Roger and Cariad and they were people and one couldn't just get rid of people. So she let her jaw clench a moment as she reined in her anger, because sitting there with Arran wasn't the time for that.
Scooting closer, she hooked her arm through his and rest her head against his shoulder. “I'm sorry, Arran.”
--
No longer holding the beer, Arran looked his arm around Celia, resting his chin on the top of her head. He could have demanded she pet his hair, and he was sure she would have, but he didn’t want that. Hair pets were for when you’d had a bad match, or you were ill, not for - Well, this was worse than Arran had ever felt about a bad match, and he didn’t think Celia’s hands in his hair could fix it.
After a long time, Arran finally spoke again - returning to his original point. “I miss him.” It was stupid, because Arran was still furious, and hurt. He didn’t want to see Roger, or forgive him, or to put it behind them, but he still missed what it had been like before. More, by far, than he missed Cariad. He could remember being single before Cariad. His memories of the time before Roger were a lot more remote. “But I can’t -” he added, hoping Celia would understand.
--
Celia closed her eyes as she sat there against him, hugging onto his arm and feeling his chin resting on her head. She wanted more than anything to help him feel better but she couldn't think of a way how. Ice cream or beer or anything else… those weren't strong enough to help with something like this. She wasn't sure anything was.
“I know,” she said quietly, turning her head to nuzzle her face in against his arm. Arran and Roger had always been… Arran and Roger. Like Oliver and Charlie, but different. They went together in her head, and she was sure in his too. But they weren't Arran and Roger anymore. They were Arran, and Roger. “I'm sorry.”
--
It didn’t surprise Arran that Celia’s reaction was very different to Oliver’s. From Celia there were awkward, insightful questions about whether Roger was a good person, about whether Arran should forgive him if he hadn’t meant to cause pain. What did surprise him was that Celia didn’t seem more… angry. He’d been worried that she would, that he’d have to decide whether or not to hold her back from going after Roger on his behalf.
It was a relief, not to have to think about it. Arran didn’t know what he wanted, whether he wanted Roger to suffer and be miserable or, well, not. They’d been best friends for years, Arran had always wanted to spare Roger suffering,if he could, or at least make the suffering bearable if that was all he could do. When Roger had accidentally written to him on Father’s Day, Arran mostly hadn’t wanted him to be sad, even if he’ also thought it didn’t need to be any of his business anymore.
“I wish I’d told you before,” Arran said after a while. He wasn’t sorry that he hadn’t - because that would suggest he’d thought it was wrong, when really he just thought the timing was unfortunate. “I didn’t tell anyone until Oliver last week. I didn’t want to talk about it.” He still didnt, really.
--
“I wish you had, too,” Celia said softly, giving his arm a squeeze. She knew it was up to all of them when they told each other anything, but she hoped all her siblings knew they could talk to her. She didn't ever want them thinking they couldn't, about anything. Not that they had to. It made her sad to think Arran hadn't had anyone to talk to for so long about this big thing that had happened.
Tilting her head back, she rest her chin on his arm and looked up at him. “I never would have asked him if I'd known. To the gala, I mean.”
--
“I know that,” Arran assured her. He blamed himself for not telling Celia, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to her that she would invite Roger to be her date anywhere. The idea unsettled him, even though it had looked from the outside like a very platonic date. Before, Arran would have trusted Roger not to mess his sister around. (Or, if it had looked like it might actually be serious, rathern than Roger’s usual attempts at relationships, Arran would probably have been thrilled.) Now, though, Arran didn’t know what he could trust Roger to do or not do. Roger had, after all, slept with his girlfriend.
Glancing down at his watch, Arran sighed. “I didn’t want to ruin my birthday,” he told her. Obviously, Roger wasn’t going to be there, and Arran hadn’t wanted to talk about why when he was supposed to be celebrating. “That went well.” It was past midnight now, and here Arran was, sitting on the sand, moping about Roger and Cariad.
--
Celia glanced down at his watch with him and then frowned for a moment before getting a more resolute look. There was plenty of time to deal with all this, and on days that weren't Arran’s birthday. His birthday was for celebrating, which was what they were going to do.
“We’re not going to let your birthday be ruined,” she said, shaking her head. “Five minutes of sad talk, that leaves twenty three hours and fifty five minutes for celebrating. That's not a bad ratio, you know.” She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek before offering him a smile. “Happy birthday, Arran. I'm determined for it to be a good one.”
--
When Celia put her mind to something, it was very easy indeed to believe that thing would happen. Arran couldn’t doubt her when she said his birthday would be a good one - it would, because there would be pizza and friends and beer and, best of all, his family. “You’re right,” Arran agreed. “That’s a great ratio.” And he was going to stop being sad now, as much as he was able. Anything else would be going against what Celia wanted, and that was never a good idea.
He gave Celia a squeeze with the arm still around her. She’d taken it better than Arran had feared, and now he only had Lottie left to tell. He honestly wasn’t sure how that was going to go - but so far, Celia and Oliver had both been excellent, if unexpected.