𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 ; A Shakespearean Tragedy Called Love

12

⎸12 ⎸

Steaming cookies are brought out of the oven, Alfred carefully only holds onto the edges of the pan with mitts and sets it on the counter, quietly scolding the two boys who reach out to grab them. He wouldn't want to have to deal with any burns, he had work to do.

( And caring for little boys with burns hurt him in ways he couldn't describe, maybe- just maybe, his times in the military were starting to take a bigger effect on his life )

Jason soaks in the smell of hot cookies, already imagining the hot and soft inside. The tender chocolate chips that will melt in his mouth and likely leave some on his face around his mouth, he'd wipe it off after someone mentions it but revel in how it made him feel.

No embarrassment, just joy.

Ivar rocks back and forth on the heel of his feet, excitement radiating off of him as he holds back from grabbing two or five cookies at once. He didn't want to risk the weird numbers that always came with burning your fingers, he hated the absence of feeling.

Alfred smiles, his eyes crinkling as he takes in the sight of the two young boys. He quite enjoyed the company of the two young boys, he missed Master Dick but the boys brought something inside this old house that he hadn't.

( Or had, at one point anyway but it wasn't the same )

It was love, quite obvious. Though Alfred was sure that they didn't realize it, most of the time those with eyes for each other, especially friends, never realize that their feelings for the other are reciprocated. It was a sad thing, so very common and bitter that the love for one another slowly dies out due to thinking the other doesn't return such feelings.

The looks Ivar often sent to Jason made him miss his old employers, they too once shared such sweet and tender looks. 

( Master Thomas would also quietly buy flowers and leave them around the house for her )

Alfred smiles at Ivar, love seeping from him mixed with- longing? Grief? Shame? Guilt? 

( He just wanted his lover back, he had regrets, and he didn't want Ivar to become the same as him, they were so similar it left an ache in his chest )

Ivar catches on and avoids the elderly man's gaze if he were to glance back at the two young boys, he understood grief- but seeing it in the elderly man was odd for Ivar.

Daresay, even uncomfortable. 

There was a sense of peace to it though, the grief that radiated off of the man in waves. The old house was used to it, Ivar could tell by the way it sagged and leeched off of the grief of a poor old man. He should probably put a stop to it, he could see it slowly killing the butler but he understood some things were meant to be, whether it was good or not. 

Ivar was not god, he couldn't stop death.

( He could cause it, just like any other person but he could not stop it - merely delay it unlike the masses )

Death had a way of taking the greatest things in life away from the living. It was an old song sung by the world for eons now, very few knew how to mimic its tune and it never turned out well. The one who sang the song was always left worse than before and the one brought back would never be the same, if that was a blessing in disguise Ivar wasn't sure. 

He had seen the toll of being brought back on the dead, no matter how much their revived loved them, it was never enough to save them. His-

( His mother was the greatest example of that ) 

He would only be able to sit back and watch as this old house took and took from its inhabitants, it had slowly begun leeching off of him too. He realized a few months back when he slept over and after consulting his father on the matter, he could feel it nipping at his skin and leeching off of him. It grew fond of him, whatever possessed the house- it reached out to him every time he made his way up to the front door. 

And wept whenever he left, he was, after all, the only way to speak to the living but he denied its right to speak time and time again. 

His father warned him, the house was no good, try not to spend that much time there.

( Maybe that's why every time he returned to this god-forsaken place he was always so tired, it was payback and whenever his father stalked on the nearby streets, watching the Manor he would always cough up bits of blood )

Alfred clears his throat quietly and rushes off to some other part of the house that needs his attention. He leaves the two boys in the kitchen with a quick glance and a gracious smile as the blond boy catches his eye for a moment. 

Ivar bites the inside of his cheek as his brows furrow, he should probably head home. 

Jason bangs his head against the counter, he clutches a half-eaten cookie in his left hand. "His cookies are amazing"

The smells waft around the kitchen, the cookies were still steaming and the chocolate chips were likely still melting. Alfred had a way with cooking, causing things to remain hot for longer - how that was possible? He wasn't entirely sure but he was very grateful, especially since he hadn't eaten one yet.

"Yup-" Ivar furrows his brow, sensing the way that the house shifted on its foundation. "Very good"

Jason looks up and finishes his cookie, he rests his chin on the palm of his hands and watches Ivar. "You didn't even try one" 

Ivar smiles weakly, he could distantly hear Alfred and Bruce talk about something to do with a doctor. "Hmm?"

"I said- You didn't even have one" Jason snorts and smiles, slightly leaning closer to his friend. "Yet you said it was very good"

"I don't have to have one of Alfred's cookies without knowing they're really good" Ivar points out and sits on a step stool, which oddly enough had splatters of dried paint on it. 

( He wondered if Jason was the cause of the paint or Dick, he could barely comprehend Bruce being the one to paint in a kitchen but then again the step stool could easily be placed in any room-

Maybe it was the deceased Martha Wayne? )

Jason thinks for a moment. "True, I suppose"

Ivar lets out a small sigh, his shoulder weighing down. "You were saying something about a teacher?"

"Yes," Jason claps his hands together. "I have this one English teacher and mind you I liked them at the beginning of the school year but recently they've been working us all to the bone!"

Ivar nods slowly. "How so? Besides, don't you like the pressure? Something about bringing the best out of your potential-...?" 

"That's because I want to write a novel one day- but that's not important for now, it's just that this teacher assigned a five-page essay, five pages! I'm only in grade nine, Ivar! Not college!" Jason says exasperated, he walks around the kitchen, very antsy. 

( Sometimes Ivar forgot that Americans view College and University as the same level, back in Canada where he had lived with his mother, university was seen as the highest place for education - Or at least the part in Canada he had lived in )

"What's the essay about?" 

Jason shrugs. "It's  an essay on a book, have you ever read Twelve Angry Men?" 

"Maybe?" Ivar mumbles. "Is it the one with an upside-down knife and a count?" 

Jason nods, still pacing around the kitchen. "And its a book with less then a hundred pages, how are we supposed to make a five-page essay with less than a hundred pages?"

Ivar just watches. "How am I supposed to know?"

(New) A/N:

Lmao, the fact that I write this for a closeted gay cousin speaks volumes