Re: log: blake and graham, thorne house
The boy didn't look defiant or defensive, just kind of tired. Graham knew weariness that couldn't be cured by sleep, and he knew exhaustion that went bone-deep, dug in, and stayed. Maybe, in different circumstances, he might have found it in him to be sympathetic but just then he wasn't much in the mood to take pity on anybody else. Maybe that wasn't all fair, because his anger, that attitude of being so fucking done, went beyond Blake and his stupidity. It was what his actions represented, memories being tossed out for everyone to see. An invasion of privacy, secrets being shattered, in his mind it felt like things slipping through his fingers and of loss repeated like wounds being reopened, and he didn't like it.
His kid wasn't a kid anymore, but he didn't say as much. Even saying that he was alright, that he'd survived, was crossing a line; that was the extent of the information he was willing to give. Talking about his son hurt, same as his wife, which was why he didn't do it often. Or ever, in fact. Silence was an older, more familiar friend than words were.
"My kid is none of your business. Same as my wife. Same as me." Blake hadn't asked to see his memories, Graham knew that. But he'd had a choice, after, of what to do with what he'd seen. "But if you wanted to know, you should've asked me." He returned to the bottle of vodka, took a swig. "But you already know that." He'd admitted to fucking up, after all. So there was some level of recognition somewhere.
It didn't surprise him, that his confession hadn't made him feel better. Graham remembered confessions of his own a long time ago, in a church, but once naivety had been chased away by life and adulthood he'd stopped thinking it made a differently. Only helped because people deluded themselves. He nodded a little, acknowledging the truth of the statement. Blake could've lied. He wouldn't have liked it very much if he had.
Blake's question made him laugh. It wasn't a happy sound, wasn't amused. It was off-kilter, wrong and hard to hear. Graham set the bottle down. The things that would cheer him up were impossible, wishes and fairy tales that didn't exist in real life. He couldn't bring his wife back. He couldn't make it so that he'd raised his son right, himself, instead of sending him away. He couldn't turn back time. But hey, he could throw a punch at some rich kid. Wasn't that a good compromise?
He stopped laughing a little too abruptly and tipped his head back, a tilt of his chin, without giving a clear answer. "Get up."