Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER TWELVE. . . Glory Be Your Downfall
"They will want you to succeed, but never more than them. They will write their names on your leash and call you necessary, call you urgent." Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
Very few days of Christmas were enjoyed by August Darlington-the joy of the holiday often shrouded by obligation. It's rare that Cassiopeia Darlington allows her son to abandon his duties in favour of his friends, and the days are becoming less and less as time goes on and as he grows older. The times August enjoyed were days of lazying on the couches of Lily's home, Malia by his side and hot chocolate gripped in their curled, warm fists as they doubled over in laughter at her father's rather appalling attempt at pancakes on the merry morning. The sun flickers through his closed curtains, playing with the shadows of his eyelashes battering against his cheeks as he rises with the rays. For a few moments, August allows himself to lay still, breathing in tune with the shifting of the breeze outside, and he finds peace. But it doesn't take long for the peace to be interrupted, the crashing of metal dishes in the kitchens on the floor below him strike his ears violently like the clashing of cymbals. He sighs, and he tenses within the same moment; the juxtaposition, the underlying battle between the content warming feeling of his covers tangled around his body and the realisation that his impending day is going to be spent picked apart and sown back together with obligation.
The room around him is too large of his liking, August remembers as he opens his eyes. Empty: void of him. The only mark of his living presence are books strewn across the mantle-most likely placed haphazardly after the week bender of straight reading comforted by the lulling sounds of The Beatles during the last holidays-and the collection of miscellaneous clothes littered across his furniture. A tentative knock sounds at his door, and August rises, pulling on a t-shirt that was tossed over the back of the couch by his fireplace. His toes catch on the satin of his pyjama pants and he momentarily loses his balance before August catches himself and wrenches open the door to reveal Theodora. He can't help but smile, the expression pulling on his lips like his emotions were the puppeteer of his body.
"Morning," she greets brightly, practically vibrating with excitement. Theodora pulls him into a crushing hug, her few years of Quidditch already having created a ripple of nimble muscle. "Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas, Gremlin." He adds the nickname as a last thought, holding her tightly to his chest. A wavelet of protectiveness creates a pang in his chest and throughout the rest of his body, and August fights every urge to pull her into the room and never let them leave. "Present time?"
