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the lofty "axebanger" brookstanton (connard) wrote in valesco,

"What?" he asked incredulously. "Here?"

Did she mean he should stay in her house while she left? His brows crinkled in confusion as he lifted his head to stare at her. "Why would you—"

If she was not home, Axe almost always left until she would be. How could he stay in her house without her? Even with her, he was overcome with the feeling that he no longer belonged, like the walls themselves could read his mind, his heart, better than he could and disapproved of him abusing their shelter.

Everywhere he looked, there were memories of the happier times between them, and they seemed to haunt him wherever he went, taunt him, almost. He had had one good thing, one true thing, and in the end, he was not worthy enough for it. Did that explain the strange numbness he felt now, that he was not a part of this conversation and was instead watching it from the doorway, impassive?

But if that were the case, why was it that memories of the two of them still flashed through his mind, almost against his will. They somehow represented his failure to overcome what everyone thought of him, this fast-and-loose playing bastard son of a drug-addled Muggle and an unfaithful wizard that inherited his mother's madness and taste for substances and his father's inability to commit to anything.

Stung by the violent turn of his thoughts, Axe shook his head as though he'd misheard Rose, feeling sickness begin to roil in his stomach.

"Rose, do not be absurd."