There was no explaining himself and there were certainly no explanations that would qualify as good enough which would validate Baldric’s position. He didn’t expect Bentley to understand. Unlike himself, Baldric supposed that Bentley had lived a rather settled life in which the Slytherin went through the motions and ended up the way the stars had predicted he would. What came with raising a Gryffindor was a rebelliousness which Baldric’s parents didn’t understand. In trying to fit him into the mould they’d wanted for their son – the brilliant, dashing Quidditch player with a penchant for women and adventure – they’d alienated him, pushed him away and incited a disloyalty in him which had ultimately brought him to this point. He could have had it all, as his father adored to remind him bitterly. But he chose to fight his father. To drink, to smoke. To do anything to jeopardise his golden future. Baldric didn’t and couldn’t find it within himself to care, either. He was glad to, in fact.
What he had always wanted was a simple life akin to the one he remembered before he understood the burden his father had placed on his shoulders. He wanted a cottage buried within a valley by a river and he wanted sheep or alpacas to farm and worry after. He wanted to grow herbs by the waterside and have his own little plot behind his home. He wanted something so simple and so easy. He wanted a life he could breathe, it was that uncomplicated. He wanted warm fresh bread with goat’s cheese bought from the next farm over spread over top. He wanted rich wine that could only be bought in large cases when they came in on the boats at the port downriver. He wanted to be able to get fresh salmon or trout from the river and cut firewood in the afternoon so that the cottage would always be warm in the evening. He wanted that alone or with someone else but he just wanted to be left to his own devices, living as he desired and not to the rules and regulations of another.
The Ministry was going to threaten whatever measure of happiness Baldric sought to find for himself. They would right him on his proper path to the delight of his father. They’d procure him a suitable wife who could bear him an inordinate number of children and he would play Quidditch until he turned thirty at which point he’d retire as all do and go into broadcasting or do ads or something. He didn’t have that choice anymore. If he wanted to, he’d choose Quidditch. It being his only vocation which could give him a sizable and consistent salary quickly. He needed to support the family that was about to be forced upon him. Regardless of whether he wanted the way it was being packaged or not. He had a plan for a family, one which went with the cottage and the fish and the wine. He had it all mapped out in his head. The idea of that being ripped away in favour for something glittering and nuclear robbed all of the air from his chest.
Years growing up in the Highlands had shown Baldric how to understand the environment and he wanted the same for his children. He wanted to watch them take their first proper steps outdoors in wellingtons a little bit too big for them. He wanted to have them in raincoats, unafraid of the showers from the clouds, happily plundering the shoreline in search of pretty shells or sodden animals wriggling in the mud. He wanted to see them older, to see them run with a sheep dog hot on their heels, clearing them off of their feet with a wide canine grin. Their giggles, he imagined, would leap into the air as the dog helped them to their feet by pulling on the hoots of their coats. With a fist each grabbing hold of an ear and one, littler one, catching the tail, they’d balance themselves again and take off at a run, resuming the game. Eventually he’d scoop them all up under his arms and drop them, muddy and windswept onto the rug to dry off by the fire.
In his mind’s eye he’d conjured all of this without anyone else, exemplifying the structural problem in him becoming a father. He understood that even if he took to life the way his gut was telling him to, he wouldn’t be able to have any children then either. Truly, the only way he’d experience everything that came with a family would be to adhere to the law. But the very idea of it turned Baldric’s stomach and made him pale a shade closer to sickness. A sigh passed his lips and he finally set down the last dry plate. His fingers played with the porcelain for a moment and he frowned, concentrating, trying to see who would be there beside him, watching their children, pulling off their socks and wellies, combing through their messy curls. He wanted to know. He wanted to know that everything would be fine. But he just couldn’t see. He couldn’t imagine it. Which surely… surely it nullified everything else, too? None of it would happen for him. Perhaps he’d get the dog, though.
Rubbing at his eyes, Baldric pulled his hand across his face, trying to ignore the way the signet ring around his middle finger scraped at the skin across the bridge of his nose. He tugged at it absently, twisting it around and around before finally taking it off and placing it down on the counter. He couldn’t. How could they do it? What had they done? What made it a prerequisite? What had changed? Baldric looked down at his arms where the pox marks were still dotted, just beneath the skin there, hidden almost like freckles now but he knew where each and every one was and he could still the pain rough and raw in his veins if he cared to remember it. He’d spent weeks in the Hospital Wing and further days and weeks at St. Mungo’s when his symptoms became too much for the matron to deal with. He, like so many others, had walked the path between life and death, indecisive about which he preferred. It was all because of the Welsh Green Itch. All of it. All of their unhappiness. For a moment, Baldric wished he’d died.
Baldric chuckled despite himself and rubbed his fingers along Bentley’s jawline, tracing the stubble that was eagerly taking up residence on his chin. He couldn’t imagine that the Slytherin would give up without much of a fight. It was their nature to subvert authority eventually and Baldric could imagine Bentley had a master plan of sorts. He wished he was that canny. He didn’t think he had it in him, though. There would come a time when a choice would be needed to be made and Baldric didn’t know which road he’d choose to go down. He had never seen himself as the serving, ministerial type but he knew even his friends couldn’t fight them. No matter how hard Cordella and Gisele fought or how stubborn Sonia and Baird were, they all got married. There was no choice in the matter. It was marry or be married. No one could just be.
“Doesn’t make you a bad person, Ben.” Baldric murmured. “Everyone has one last card to play. You could feign impotency.”
Baldric waggled his eyebrows playfully and dropped his hands to lace his fingers with Ben’s. They both knew that was not something which Bentley struggled with but for a moment Baldric enjoyed the humour and he curled his fingers around the other man’s, happily acquiescing to the request that they return to bed. Sleep was something they both needed. Regardless of the outcome, it had been a maddening couple of days and the hangovers still clung. Food would have to be sourced sometime in the morning. Baldric knew he needed to sleep off his upset and sleep off everything else that hovered about him. Then he needed a hot shower and something that looked like a cigarette, some coffee and perhaps he’d try and figure out what in God’s name he was doing. All he was sure of was that he needed Ben. He needed the man beside him to just stay and be the man beside him for the moment or for the next week, month, year, eternity. Ben was all he knew. Every scent, every sound, every sight, every touch beneath his fingertips was part of Bentley and he needed that anchor. To consider anything else was to unhinge everything; for nothing else made sense.
Descending into bed, Baldric brought the covers up around them, his arms snaking around Bentley. Curling up behind his lover, Baldric buried his face in Bentley’s neck, pressing a kiss there before bringing one of his legs between Bentley’s, bringing them ever closer. He needed that solace. He needed to know that someone was there. But what made his chest ache was the fact that Bentley was ephemeral. Bentley wouldn’t be there in a few weeks’ time when Baldric opened his eyes. Baldric himself would either be home or he’d be dragged back to Hogwarts by the scruff of his neck to answer for what had been chosen for him. He’d have to wake up beside a stranger – one even stranger than the stranger he wanted to wake up with instead – and that would be his reality. He didn’t want that. He wanted anything but that as long as he could still have Bentley. But he knew that wouldn’t be his reality whether he liked it or not. He’d wake up beside a waif he didn’t understand. One he’d call wife.
Bright sunshine began to stream in through the windows early that morning but by the time Baldric Wood was finally lifted from his slumber. He rolled over, turning away from the sunshine. Baldric threw out an arm but didn’t find what he was expecting. Snapping eyes open, Baldric lifted his head and looked about, clawing his arms back towards his chest as though the sheets suddenly burned him. Ben was gone. Clawing in a breath, Baldric sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. Rubbing at his eyes he removed the sleepy dust clinging in the creases of his lids. Then he felt across his cheeks, confusion knitting his brows together as he felt a sticky trail leading down his cheeks. He brought his fingers to his lips and pulled them away immediately when his tongue registered the saltiness of tears. Then, as if to confirm what he already suspected, Baldric caught sight of himself in the mirror. His eyes were rimmed with scarlet. But he couldn’t remember crying.
Throwing back the covers, Baldric got out of bed. Finding the bathroom wasn’t a strenuous task but Baldric felt exhausted before he had even begun. After that scalding shower he had promised himself, Baldric managed to find a towel and padded about the flat, brewing himself some coffee before going back into the bedroom, wondering idly what he could pilfer long enough to get to his parents’ house and back again without feeling like he still smelt like lager, whisky and wine. The shirt he had worn for two days straight had been black listed as far as he was concerned and as tempted as he was to throw it out, he knew he’d need it and so it was demonised in the washing hamper along with his snitch boxers and the socks. Then he stole a pair of boxers from Ben – though he didn’t think the man would mind but he still felt awful – as well as a t-shirt that looked as though it hadn’t been worn much from the back of his lover’s wardrobe and then he sourced some socks - black, he made a mental note to get Ben some more colourful ones – and then went back in search of his coffee.
Cold coffee greeted Baldric when he walked into the kitchen. He didn’t mind, regardless, and fastened his belt quickly before picking the cup up and taking a mouthful. Then he set about addressing the lack of nicotine in his system which was beginning to make him feel antsy and jittery. He wasn’t sure whether that was the fact that he was stone cold sober and that his last cup of tea had tasted like sewer water but he needed something familiar to him that he could understand. Without Ben, the flat just felt like an unrecognisable face in a crowd. Baldric perceived it, understood it even, but it didn’t feel like something he knew and remembered.
Having pulled out his things from the pocket of his jacket, Baldric padded back into the kitchen. He dropped the tobacco down on the table and took out his penultimate piece of rolling paper. After taking a pinch of tobacco out of the packet he spread it evenly across the paper and put the filter in. Then, after rolling and sealing the cigarette, Baldric sat himself up on the kitchen counter and wrenched open one of the windows. Once the cigarette was lit, Baldric set his head back against one of the cupboards and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds going on below in the street. He knew that he couldn’t put it off any longer. He needed to go home and pick up some things regardless of the reception that he incited. He needed to be able to wear different clothes each day and feel clean and have some of his creature comforts – though they were few.
After finishing his cigarette, Baldric apparated. When he arrived in Glospie it was to the smell of burning wood, an irony that was not lost on him. He could see the smoke rising up out from behind the cottage and Baldric trudged reluctantly through the heather, tucking his coat tighter around himself as he neared. The house didn’t seem as bright or as welcoming despite the sunshine. In fact, it looked gloomier than he had ever seen it before. Perhaps that was the way he was choosing to see it, though. His home was his home. It would always be his home regardless of the way he felt. It was where he grew up and whilst he’d forgotten what it was like to be with his parents and feel utterly loved and unburdened by their needs, he still found he held some love for them and where he grew up. That wouldn’t be replaced by hate, regardless of how much of it he harboured.
Opening the front door, the smell of breakfast flooded Baldric’s senses but he realised with a deeper breath that it was only toast – burnt toast at that which was sat in the toaster untouched. He sighed, sliding off his jacket, and dumped it on the kitchen table before making his way towards the stairs. He wanted to be in and out as fast as possible but, at the same time, he wanted to linger and to perhaps even talk to his mother for a few moments. He got that wish, too, because as he reached the foot of the stairs he caught sight of her at the top, her frail arms shaking as she clung onto the rail as hard as she could. Her hair, long and greying, quivered about her and she looked paler than ever. There was nothing left of her, her whole body drowned beneath the night dress she was wearing. There was nothing left of his mother and for the life of him he couldn’t understand why.
“Mum.”
“Baldric, sweetheart! I tried to stop him … your father… he’s burning the broomsticks you have to stop him!”
“Mum I don’t care about the broomsticks. Come here, we need to get you back to bed.”
“But they’re yours… Baldric!”
Baldric’s strong arms curled around his mother and he lifted her up, noting the way she barely strained his muscles. He could have thrown her into the air and she would’ve blown away on the back of a winter breeze. No one ever would have noticed. She would have been whisked off, as though she was barely a creature at all and just part of the wind. As he settled her back into her bed, her long hands curled around his cheeks, tugging at him, forcing him to look at her. She was skin and bone but not of her own volition, he was positive. She was fed. Force fed. Then when she was ill because she couldn’t stomach it, they had no choice but to repeat again in the hope that something would stay and she could sleep. Her eyes were wider and ghostlier than he could ever recall them being. Time without her, albeit a short amount, had allowed him to experience others. In doing so he saw what had become of her and his eyes sprang freely.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered reverently, his fingers smoothing back some of her hair. It was dead in his hands, like straw frozen over and over again, left as limp and lifeless as the air she seemed to be made of.
“This isn’t your fault, my sweet boy.” She smoothed his hair down. “This could never be your fault.”
“I can’t stay here, Mum. Please don’t ask me to stay. I can’t … I can’t…”
“Be with him or watch me die?” Alicia asked crudely.
“Mum,” Baldric squeaked, snaking his arms around her. As though he was a child again he nuzzled his head into her neck, albeit gently as though the movement could snap it. Her fingers brushed across his back and she whispered soothing words into his ear that went unheard but no less appreciated. He hated what had happened to her. He blamed himself as much as he did his father. They’d all done this to her. Aggravated it. Made her worse. Those days she used to spend in bed… just staring out hopelessly after a night of dreams that stalked her, threatened her with old memories, they turned into weeks and months until finally she couldn’t rise. Her silence had turned to illness. One day her illness would turn to death. They all knew it. But he didn’t want her to say it. If she acknowledged it then it was true.
“You’ve found a place, lad?” His mother asked, pressing him back a little, looking at him steadily. “You’ve found a place to stay. Someone who can look after you?”
Baldric sniffed. “I don’t need anyone to look after me, Mum. I’m not a baby anymore.”
“You’ll always be my baby Baldric Poseidon Cleander Wood. Even with those stupid names your father gave you. You are my baby. You are my son. You need someone to care about you when I can’t!” No illness would ever fully debilitate her. She was still a passionate woman. Burgeoning mortality did not make her weak.
“I’ve found someone,” Baldric nodded.
With that resolved, Alicia nodded and slid from Baldric’s arms, enveloping herself in the covers and dropping off to sleep. Her hand slipped from his and Baldric sighed heavily. He tucked the covers around her and then retired from the room, moving down the small hall to his own bedroom where he set to work. He ripped down photographs from the wall, stripped his clothes from the wardrobe and stole out keepsakes and trinkets from drawers. He put his camera in one of the duffels he’d started to fill. With that went his binoculars, his sketchbooks, his watercolours … everything he held dear to him was compartmentalised and stuffed into a bag. Then, before he knew what was happening, the frenzy desisted and he was back in Bentley’s flat again with his bags scattered around him and a hole in his chest in the shape of his mother.
Baldric dropped to the floor and drew his knees up to his chest, trying in earnest to replace the images ingrained on his brain of his mother into ones that were of her as he remembered her. But they wouldn’t go away. None of it would go away. His world had been shaken to its core. Everything had begun to fall apart and the only pillar left was ephemeral and ghostly. Ben wouldn’t be his. He wouldn’t keep him on his perilously placed feet. What was left? What on earth was left?
Sobering himself, Baldric got to his feet and shoved his things into the bedroom, wanting them out of the way but unsure where everything was supposed to go. Once the bags were set down his stomach announced itself with a grumble. He should have stayed for breakfast, roused his mother and tried to offer her orange juice – that’s what he should have done. He’d run away, albeit with her blessing, and he had nowhere to fall. No one to catch him.
There was food in the fridge. Ben hadn’t forgotten him. A watery smile rose to Baldric’s eyes and he removed the pasta salad that had been left behind. There was some chicken leftover too and Baldric took that out. Despite how his stomach rumbled, though, he couldn’t find it within himself to eat and so he collapsed heavily into the chair. Then, his head was dumped into his arms which came to rest on the table top and with that, Baldric let himself cry. Properly. For those moments, he let all of the hurt wash through him. Why?
by James Potter Wed Feb 19, 2014 3:47 am
