30th of Vortas, 2718
HOME | TOO LATE AGAIN
Rhys stared at the back of his eyelids for a few precious heartbeats, the spacious but rather open layout of his otherwise humble for a Sergeant of the Seventen flat allowing him the opportunity to hear every word said in the living area from the kitchen, even above the crackle of the hearth and the thunderous rush of his own elevated pulse.
Charity had been told, specifically, not to tell him what happened, and while the tall not-galdor couldn't give a chrove's erse what kind of personal danger that represented for himself in the end, he was aware that he was no longer able to simply wing his handsome way through life in hatcher-may-care style. His blonde pianist needed his protection, and while Gale would most likely never ask and never claim such a truth, the young human smith he'd come to claim as family probably needed him around, too. Maybe. Sometimes, Rhys wasn't sure, even now, aware of all the social and now personal obstacles between them—
"Diaxio." He echoed in a low whisper, opening his eyes to glare into the living room, glamour bristling as Charity explained everything in a rambling, broken manner. There was a warmth that grew in the cavity of his chest, a little spark that became hotter and more uncomfortable, flames licking their way through his veins as the history of a carefully constructed addiction was revealed to be entirely on purpose and not at all a youthful, lovelorn mistake.
Benjamin's name came up.
And a gun.
What the—
Gods, it was so well orchestrated and organized that the Seventen's mind was already beginning to follow the strands as if they were some very tangible web, his Numbrey-trained thought process already beginning to construct a larger picture and organize everything so neatly into a case, ready to be—
"Godsdamnit." Grunted the wick in the kitchen, a defeated noise that hid in its tone the fire that gnawed at him from within, fully aware of the effects on Charity's sober progress just one strong fall like this would have on her—on them. He'd barely endured her first crawl to sobriety because he wasn't at all equipped, and even though he was very prepared now, the thought of the requirements that had just been demanded on her sank like a knife into his guts.
He uncurled his fingers from the countertop and stared at nothing while Mister Saunders asked more questions, quick-witted and careful to gather more information, but somewhere between her words and her tears, somewhere just when the galdor he loved turned her words inward and dangerously so, Rhys lost his tenuous grip on his own self control. Gale's words only dug a bit deeper under his skin, aware that the young smith didn't at all need to be swept into the tide of emotional things, let alone the rest of the mess. This was all work he should be doing, but how? How could he do anything about any of this without risking Charity's life? Or his career (as if that wasn't already a matter of time)?
Years of secrets, heavy and flammable, roared to bright, fiery life and threatened to entirely consume his ability to string together coherent thoughts. It was too much on the heels of the riot, on the coattails of his father's honesty, on the mystery of Gale's almost-deadly attack, made even heavier by the kind of forced high Charity was experiencing. It all felt like too damn much.
Rhys moved to lean up from the counter, hands reaching, arm sweeping across the tile and spilling every clean dish and cup and even the small wooden rack onto the floor with a satisfying crashing noise, shattering everything in a cacophony of cheap porcelain and inexpensive utensils. He watched it all, everything hitting the worn wood of his kitchen floor and exploding into little pieces on impact as if it was a mirror of his own life, right now, right at this moment. It was something—the sound as jarring as the shock and anger that surged in his insides—but it wasn't really enough of an expression of the helplessness that writhed its way out from the darkness of his mind,
"Godsdamnit!" He repeated, louder than before, crunching over his mess in bare feet to stalk his way back toward the lounge, not even wincing. Expression an unreadable mask of frustration and distress, he barely, just barely, managed to keep himself from further expressing his rage at his own helpless furniture, wringing his hands into his hair before dragging them over his face instead. Overwhelmed with everything as it unfolded—the wounded young human in his home, the totally wasted galdor he loved, and the damning truth of his heritage—Rhys could only clear his head by lashing out at what was immediately within reach before he could at all focus on the bigger picture,
"Enough. Gods, just enough! You aren't a villain, nor are you clocking stupid. You're here because I thought you wanted to be, because I thought I was doing the right thing between us. Listen, even if you don't care—I do. I didn't think I would or I could, but I do. You don't have to be any more a part of my mess than I am of yours, but so help me if you're gonna stick around, stop assuming you're beneath it all. In my home, in this moment, you are not—"
The finger that pointed shook but did not attempt to pierce his sister's sternum despite the force it may have had behind it, and as quickly as it was shoved in one direction, it flicked toward Charity,
"—Gale's right, you know. I won't tell you any different, lover, because you aren't better off anywhere else, anywhere else but with me. You're certainly not better off dead. I'm not even going to have that discussion with you, especially not high. No. You're not gonna just give up because it looks easier and I'm not going to let any of those pieces of shit hurt you. I'm here—" He wiggled his toes because he was aware he'd stepped on sharp things, curling his fingers in and hooking a thumb toward his narrow chest for emphasis, "—I'm here in the middle of all of this shit—your shit and their shit and let's not even bother with my own shit—because I clocking well want to be. Because there's nowhere else I'd rather be. You're all I've got—both of you now—and that's a selfish thing to say even if it's true. But. Here we are. Here I am."
That was that.
His eyes wandered to the door and for a ragged breath, he imagined himself slipping through it into the darkness, a force of angry vengeance strangling galdori drug pushers in their sleep.
Snapping back to the moment, shoulders sagging, the tall blond did his best not to totally deflate into a puddle of impotent misery, throwing up the hands that had tangled his hair into an unkempt mess, "It takes a special kind of ersehat to put together something like that, and it sure as Hurte's stripes isn't that stopclocking dumberse Benjamin. Especially because I haven't even caught wind of this yet, and it's probably been on purpose—for years, Charity. Years of my life and your—"
He sat then, sunk like a stone onto his floor as if struck by something hard and sharp, eyes wide. Adrenaline crawled away and left something far stronger in its wake—fear.
"—only your chroveshit of a father would ploy to keep you under his thumb like that. For clocks'sake. I know he's been consorting with the Oculus and this sort of corruption doesn't at all surprise me because Morde is such a godsbedamned idealist. But, Charity—shit. Diaxo has been in your life your whole childhood. In all of our classes—"
He was going to kill that man.
And he wouldn't be sorry when he did.
He wanted to break every bone in Benjamin's body, too.
Would it be worth it to walk away from his entire career for these violently indulgent things? Was this a selfish delusion or the only solution?
Right now, he couldn't tell the difference.
Unable to finish his thoughts, racing and wild as they were, very angry at everything and everyone, Rhys fell quiet, the weight of unfiltered horror clingy and suffocating, crushing his ribs. Guilt was there, too, so much guilt. He blamed himself for ever letting Damen intimidate him—even if the man wasn't ultimately responsible, he was involved. He had to be.
Rhys flopped backwards, arms splaying across his floor and a groan that best described his sense of angry, exasperated overwhelm escaping through grit teeth.