Take Me Home

[Simon Blackmoore]

Walking up the drive towards White Manor, Simon was unnerved by the quietness of the area. He supposed there was no reason for there to be wild activity, but the wind was calm and there was an unnatural stillness to the air that made him hurry down the gravel path. The manor house was imposing, to say the least, though Simon wasn't intimidated by its obvious wealth. Vague silhouettes passed behind white curtains and he tracked them with his slate grey eyes, hoping, wondering if any of them were his older brother. If Greg was working then he'd be outside, which made Simon reached out to touch impeccably trimmed bushes at the side of the drive as he passed. From the look of his letter, though, he didn't think Greg capable for working at this time.

Simon had been deeply disturbed by the letter he'd received in the wee hours of the morning in the presence of their father. Gregory had written as though he was drunk, although he'd never known his brother to imbibe since his early twenties. What he suspected was more emotional turmoil, though he had no basis for comparison as his weekly letters with his older sibling had ceased at the commencement of Greg's employment. There was something terribly wrong about the situation; no mater what happened in the coming hours, Simon was getting him out of there and back into the safety of his townhouse. When Greg was ready, Simon would contact Audel for him, and together they would begin to piece through what at happened at White Manor.

He approached the big white door (funny.) and briefly contemplated walking right in, but the ginger-haired man figured that would just as easily end with him at the wrong end of a wand, so he knocked, waiting as patiently as an impatient man could possibly be. Or was it the other way around? He hoped that Greg would be the one to answer, but judging by the contents of his letter, Simon might have to physically carry him out the door. He frowned and knocked again unnecessarily.​

 

[Keevan White]

Over the past few days, a strange silence had fallen over the White manor. With no energy left to yell, Keevan had resigned to the confines of his office, where he'd spent the last six hours crunching figures and warding off panic attacks. It made no difference how many tasks the businessman involved himself in; there was something on his mind, and it was eating him from the inside out. Though the room wasn't cold, he gave a tremendous shiver. His skin was pale and clammy, and the hand he lifted to rub his forehead had been shaking since the previous day. He'd really done it now. Whatever hope Keevan had clutched of salvaging anything from this train wreckage was well and truly gone. Over. Gregory had given him chance after damned chance to admit to his feelings, and he'd rebuked them every single time.

What would it take? How much would it need to hurt before he let himself fall? Love was weakness. Love was vulnerable. Love was painful. But unfortunately, it was also the spark in his soul; the bane of his very existence. He'd come to realise, over the past few months, just how devoid his heart had been before Gregory's arrival at the manor. At first he'd pushed it away; shunned it to the deepest corners of his mind, where he could safely ignore it and continue to live his half-life without fear or vulnerability. It was easier that way. What he had failed to grasp was that a life without love, regardless of how safe it appeared on the outside, was the most dangerous life of all.

The knocking was distant at first, like Keevan's ears were deafened by the surrounding fog. But then it came again, this time with more clarity, and he mustered the strength to get to his feet and head for the front door. "Sorry, I'm not interested in buying anything today," rehearsed Keevan under his breath as he reached the bottom of the stairs. But when he opened the door, it was not a salesman who stared back at him at all. Or if it was, he wasn't a very good one, because he didn't appear to have anything to sell. "Yes?" he said simply, slightly dazed and a little perturbed by the arrival of his unexpected guest.

 

[Simon Blackmoore]

Simon merely raised an eyebrow at the proffered 'Yes?', already growing colder towards the person who answered the door. Truth to be told, it wouldn't have taken much that day to send him into foul mood. He'd never been quick to judge at the best of times, but it was the worst of times and Simon had no idea who to blame for his brother's terror. Surely it was fear that had motivated such a disturbing letter? He'd never known Gregory to fall into depression, or to give in to more desperate emotions. One of the few times he'd ever seen his brother in acute distress was when Greg had pushed their younger sisters out of their tree-house and injured Connie. His brother had cried for days, even after the feistier twin had recovered. That had been thirty-two years ago.

"My name is Simon Blackmoore," he introduced himself flatly. Simon was not there to impress. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are, but I'm given to believe that my older brother, Gregory Yearling, is staying here. Please take me to him." He imagined that the ebony-haired man was the master of the house, for despite looking a little worse for wear (he couldn't help but notice), his mannerisms suggested an ownership and authority over the building. He wanted explanations, damnit! He wanted to shake it out of the man, to take him by the neck and wring the whereabouts of his brother out of him. This man might be the master of the house, but Simon told himself that he would be the master of his own emotions. No matter what happened, Gregory would not be left to suffer.​

 

[Keevan White]

The words struck him like knives. One to the chest, one to the stomach, and one to the throat. Keevan, his expression twisted with pain, swallowed the blades and stepped back from the door. A gesture of defeat. Even if he'd refused the man entry, or denied his proclamations of Gregory's whereabouts, the truth hung in Keevan's eyes like white flags. "Come in," he said gruffly, no longer able to hold Simon's gaze now that the face had a name. I've maltreated your brother, was all he could think as he held open the door, eyes fixated on a scuff on the tiled marbled floor. He didn't even care that Gregory had made contact his family. Simon had come to take him away, and Keevan deserved it.

Once the door was closed, the straight-haired man walked stiffly through to the lobby. He stopped at the bottom of the staircase. He hadn't meant to stop: his legs simply couldn't carry him any further. There was no way he could make it to the gardener's door without collapsing into tears, so he gestured up the staircase with a hand. "Fourth door to the right," he said, wincing as the words left his mouth. This was it. Of all the ways Keevan had pictured Gregory leaving, it had never been like this. Sneaking out in the dead of night, maybe. Discovering that the apparition ward did not stretch to the far eastern wall of the garden, perhaps. But no. He'd been driven to such depths of despair that he'd called for his brother. Gregory needed Simon, almost in the way Lucan needed Keevan. Just then, the business man's stomach did a double back flip, and he excused himself to a room off the hall to calm himself.

 

[Simon Blackmoore]

He was surprised, to put it mildly, when he was simply allowed entry and told exactly where he could find his brother. The other wizard had not even introduced himself or asked for an explanation. He'd looked like what Simon had expected Greg to look like; haggard, empty, seconds from tears and yet somehow also barely caring enough to bother with it. Simon felt a flash of concern for him, as well as confusion and the ever-present anger towards this unknown threat that Greg was facing, but he'd learned long ago not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He followed the owner of White Manor silently until he was brought to the foot of a great staircase that peeled off in two directions at the top. With one unsure glance cast back towards Keevan, Simon nodded to him and began counting doors.

Simon did not know what he'd expected to find, but somehow he'd thought to come face to face with his older brother immediately. Not so. The whitewashed door was firmly shut, and the tall man knocked gingerly for a moment as if loud noises might scare Greg into flight. There was no response. Simon knocked twice more, putting some insistence into the sound.
"Please go away," said his brother's voice through the wood. Is that Gregory? thought Simon, dismayed. He sounds a hundred years old.
"Greg?" said Simon, placing his palm on the door as he called out, but the texture came away from his fingers as the door swung open within seconds. His arms were immediately full; Greg's full weight bore him to the ground till the two brothers were on their knees in the door frame.
"Greg," he exclaimed softly, his voice muffled in the wild tangles of his brother's hair, and he wrapped his arms around the slighter frame as it shook beneath him. "Hey, hey, hey, shh." Simon'd thought he could handle anything, but he was mortified by Gregory's reaction. He felt utterly helpless in the face of this unknown grief that poured out of the older man in waves. Simon managed to drag them semi-upright and half carry his brother through the door so he could shut it behind him. It seemed they'd have to wait before walking out of this miserable place.​

 

[Gregory White]

Gregory had been lying face-down in his pillow, outwardly tranquil but withering on the inside since the previous morning. He had neither ate nor slept, preferring to meditate in an attempt not to think, but his not-thinking was permeated by a sick sense of wrongness with the world. No matter how blank his mind was, how alive his body was and how much he was not thinking about Keevan, all was not right. This was a parallel universe that detailed the myriad of ways his life could go wrong. It was a sickening, shaky feeling that made his limbs tremble almost constantly, and his facade shattered at the sound of his brother's voice.

All of his not-thinking had been for naught when his apparent saviour called out to him through the door. He broke completely, again, still stunned at how he could continue to break when there was nothing but pieces of himself left. Greg registered being carried back to the bed, and he peddled his feet aimlessly as though trying to assist in walking. He wondered why Simon was prying his hands off of his shoulders until he looked up and saw the beginnings of bruises on his younger brother's upper arms. He'd been shaking, but at the sight of his fingermarks Greg began to tear up in wordless apology, which Simon hushed with a thumb to his cheek.
"Greg, stop. Look at me." Gregory obeyed. "No really, stop." The taller sibling took both of his hands between his larger ones and squeezed until Greg looked down in shock, registering pain. "You have to look at me properly." He was trying. Simon's copper curls were glinting at the touch of the faint strings of light coming from between the curtains. "Where are your things?"
"Bathroom," Greg responded, feeling dazed. He swayed a little as Simon's hands left him and he pressed them to the bed to steady himself. That's right, he'd packed his toiletries about ... six hours ago? Had it been that long?
"Can you walk?" Simon asked him, and he looked confused until he remembered that he'd greeted his brother by collapsing at his feet. Greg frowned and nodded. If it meant getting out of this tomb-like room, he could gallop. He was being helped to his feet, and Simon was dragging his trunk behind them, then they were being marched slowly but steadily towards the door. Fourth door on the right. Third door on the right. Second door on the right. They were at the landing.

"Merlin, what did he do to you?" he heard Simon mutter in low tones, but Greg's sharply pointed ears caught everything.
"He didn't love me," Greg replied unthinkingly. He must have said this loudly, for his own broken tones echoed back to him from all sides of the wide room. Simon gripped his hand hard to let him know that he had been loud ... or was it because of his answer? Down the steps. Clunk, clunk, clunk, said the trunk on every step down. They'd reached the front door, somehow. In a daze, Gregory turned, and though his other hand was captured firmly in Simon's, his left gripped the door frame, holding him to the last bow of the Manor. Gregory looked, and he stared right into Keevan's eyes. Simon tugged uncertainly at him. Stricken, Greg would not budge.

Please, said hope. Please don't let it end like this.​

 

[Keevan White]

As if he were watching a sick movie, the events of the last six months flashed before Keevan's eyes. He paced up and down the small office room on the side of the hall, tugging his fingers through his limp, lifeless hair. Had each dark brown strand been one of his heinous acts, he'd have torn each one from his scalp. "What do I do?" Keevan whispered hoarsely to himself, but the question was needless. He already knew what to do. The real question was, did he have the guts to do it?

Time was draining away. No doubt Simon would have reached Gregory by now, and from the flatness in his voice, Keevan supposed he didn't intend staying longer than it took him to get the gardener to his feet and manoeuvre him to the front door. The pharmaceuticals owner pressed a hand hard into his forehead, til his palm pained his brow. It couldn't end like this. If nothing else came of it, he at least had to tell Gregory the truth. The very thought itself was sickening - what would become of his reputation? He could deal with slander, but these allegations held too much truth to be denied with any plausibility. Everybody would know. Lucan. Regius. Decado would become a laughing stock for sure.

Who cares?

A little voice in the back of Keevan's head interrupted his train of thought. He stopped pacing. Maybe the voice had a point. Who cares? Who cares? What was Decado compared to Gregory? Nobody had ever made Keevan feel so alive. If he walked away now, how many years would it take to feel anything remotely close again?

It was decided. Yanking open the office door, Keevan stepped into the foyer just in time to watch Gregory and Simon cross the marbled floor. Look back, he pleaded. Tell me you want me to stop you. By the time the men reached the front door, Keevan had all but given up the scintilla of hope that he might be given one more chance, and his blue eyes brimmed with tears of regret and self-loathing. But then Gregory turned. Their helpless eyes locked, and it was all he needed. The word stumbled, unrehearsed and unexpected, from Keevan's mouth. "Wait." Now what? He'd planned nothing to say. "Please," he begged, unwilling to divulge his true feelings with Simon present. "I need to talk to you."

 

[Simon Blackmoore]

"Greg," said Simon, touching his upper arm and ready to tug if need be, but the gardener did not respond to him. He followed his eyes and they were locked with Keevan's. The other man looked wrecked, close to begging but saying nothing, until ... "Wait."
Simon hissed under his breath, his fingers wrapping around his elder brother's bicep and towing him towards the door. 'Wait' isn't gonna cut it, mate, he thought furiously. Merlin knew he didn't know all the details yet, but from what he'd seen of his brother, this man had done enough damage. Gregory tugged in the opposite direction, causing Simon to let go and clutch the door frame where the other's hand had been moments before.

"Greg, you don't want to-" began Simon, but he fell silent as his brother approached the taller man. He hated it, that White might beckon and Gregory would come, yet if he was being fair to them both, there didn't appear to be any premeditated malice involved. His brother stood before Keevan at an arms distance apart, fragile, desperate and brave.
"If you want to talk, I will listen," said Greg. "Simon, please, just a moment? I'll be okay." Like hell you will, his mind growled, but his brother was firm in voice if not in expression, so the editor nodded quietly and stepped out, closing the door behind him. It's fine, Simon told himself. If he wants time to talk, he can have it. He deserves closure on whatever this is. He closed his eyes and leaned against the house. I'll be right here.​

 

[Gregory White]

'I'll be okay' Gregory had said, but as soon as Simon shut the front door quietly, he felt terribly alone. He'd always been short but he'd never felt small until he was face to face with Keevan White. Worse yet, when he dared glance at the expression in the blue eyes above him, he'd had to flinch away. There was so much pain in them that he wanted to assuage, but it was not his place; it had never been his place, and Keevan had rejected him as clearly as if he had thrown him out.

So why were they standing before each other?

Greg took a deep, shuddering breath that when fully exhaled dropped his shoulders several inches and made him smaller again, but his managed to keep his chin high when he lifted his face to Keevan again.
"Do you want to talk somewhere more private?" he asked. Good. That was good. Logical, gentle, non-antagonistic. He tipped his head towards the tea room and walked slowly, waiting for indication that Keevan was following. He'd been in the room off the foyer so many times when working that he'd almost forgotten what had occurred there when he and Keevan met properly for the first time. That had been frightening, too, but he hadn't felt vulnerable. The lion had roared in him and snarled against the threat, but there was nothing his animagus form could do in this situation. He couldn't retreat into fur and have it all come good.
The door clicked shut gently and Greg circled the coffee table and hovered near the chaise lounge. He couldn't make himself sit, but he could at least make a passing effort at relaxation.

Silence.

"I was of the understanding that you'd made yourself clear," said Greg eventually.​