Work Text:
My father was always behind this one desk at the office. Ever since I was young, I would always peek inside and see him working on some papers I didn't bother reading. Other times, he was sipping coffee as he read the morning news.
Nonetheless, he rarely ever left that office. It didn't bother me, though. It only gave me that stigma surrounding desks and offices.
Alfred thought it was because Papa Francis is an evil boss, just like those bad guys in the movies we watch every Saturday noon. The ones with varied glocks inside their suits and private jetsーthose guys. I would always excuse his hyperactive imagination and defend Papa by pointing out we don't have any jets anywhere. Dad agrees, but I assumed it was because he had an office of his own at work and does the same. We were sure, however, that he didn't have a jet either.
Their jobs didn't bother us at all, or perhaps it was because we grew up with them doing that as a normal thing. Perhaps we didn't realize as kids that families are supposed to watch movies together, relax at couches together, or even sit in the car together. Perhaps the reason why it didn't bother us was because we thought it was normal that they rode on other cars while we were driven by the chaffeur instead of any of them.
Either way, we weren't that affected. We have each other anyway. If neither Papa or Dad were available, we would watch the movies by ourselves. We would sit at the couch and play pretend-war by ourselves. We would chat at the car with our imaginary friends by ourselves. Whenever one of us started to question it, we answer it ourselves with the redundant, "Maybe they won't."
Aren't they supposed to help us do homework? Maybe they are not supposed to.
Aren't they supposed to read us bedtime stories? Maybe parents are not supposed to.
Aren't they supposed to attend the school conference? Maybe it's not for parents and they are not supposed to.
Despite this, we somehow grew up well. It was one of the greatest mysteries of time. Alfred got a nice reputation as a campus celebrity at university because of his theatric feats that could get him to Hollywood if he wanted to. I myself made a name in hockey, and they say I had a chance to join the big leagues if I wished. The best part of that is that we always see Papa and Dad at the audience watching us in our play. They were our fans, even if they had trouble expressing it in words.
We knew, because of how they hug us at the backstage. We knew, because of how they store our medals, certificates and photos at their respective offices to look at when they're feeling demotivated. We knew, because they won't bother skipping a day at their jobs just to watch us play if they don't care.
When the time that we had to move out came, they were still at their offices, but at least they decided to merge theirs into just one room at home. Papa Francis and Daddy Arthur aged well, but the same may not be said towards their souls. Or rather, our sense of family in general. When we became adults and their joints started to fail, nothing much changed.
I liked to think it didn't bother any of us because whether we like to admit it or not, we never really knew each other deep in the soul. Spiritually and emotionally, if you will.
Never had we got an emotional, life-changing conversation with each other in our entire lives. We never received the talk from either of them, nor did we ever learn some backstory about how they met each other or what our grandparents were like. We only knew their names, birthdays and contact numbers, and we might as well meet each other through a business card instead of a home. It was a bitter truth we didn't bother awknowledging before.
We knew they loved us, and that they still do, but there just something so missing in where pride and regret sits. I wished I was brave enough to step inside that office and ask Papa how his day at work was, or at least refill Dad's cup of tea. I wished we decided to force the idea of a family bonding to them by dragging them down to watch the movie together. I wished we had done something, anything, that could spark something interesting in our bonds. Alfred was the first one to face this reality and blame himself and not too soon, I found myself regretting every single second I spent in that house doing absolutely nothing. I wish we could come back, fix everything and live with the family we never had before.
But that won't happen, because none of us were bothered by the peace before. Nothing seemed wrong, no one held grudges nor was there something wrong with any relationship that exists in that house. And so nobody made a move to fix it. Big mistake, honestly.
Now, years later, that "missing" something was finally unearthed. We got to know who Francis and Arthur Bonnefoy really were, through their desks apparently.
This was the closest to a family connection we had, ironically and weirdly found after the two of them were gone.
It was a Monday morning when Alfred and I decided to ditch our crappy internship meetings and drive back to our old street instead. Alfred drove the both of us and for once, he let me roll the window down and spare the annoying radio.
He didn't speak of anything the entire ride. I didn't say anything either.
The house we grew up in had grown quite well, with the former bushes slightly overgrown yet still familiar. Some windows had cracks on the glass, but other than that, no other thing seemed much out of place. Either way, it was still there.
The first thing Alfred did was to abruptly pause by the doorway and claim to check the garage and work his way in for inspection. I could hear how his voice wavered, but I didn't say a thing. As I let him wallow on his emotions, I went in through the front door and immediately, almost like a muscle memory, bee-lined for that one door to the left.
That office wasn't so different. They may have left the window open just a crack, with some drawers open from the police investigation that took place, but that was it. It was bizarre that nobody touched this place, not even Alfred or myself, after that incident.
I felt my chest weigh down at the uncertainty lying at the heavy atmosphere, but I still had the energy to step in and trace a line on the dust that covered their things. I could hear gasps and restricted sobs come from the ground floor thanks to the open window, and I could do nothing but listen and beg myself to try and not to break down into tears as Alfred was doing.
Papa's desk was the oldest one in the house, made of wood and I believe was bought from an antique shop. It matched the wood bookshelves on his side of the office. His chair is often missing though, and he ends up using different chairs around the house to make up for the lost one. When he died, the chair that was placed there was one of the dining table ones. It was missing a leg now, and I tried not to remember why.
On his desk were usual things one could see in a lawyer's desk. The metal nameplate was the dustiest, but I could still read "Atty. Francis Bonnefoy" under the thick gray layer. Near that was a pencil holder shaped very much like a star (oddly similar to how Alfred drew one) containing his favorite penーthe one with his name on its metal. I picked it up, clicked it and tried to test its ink, but it only marked the paper blank. I find it mysterious how it was empty by the time Papa left it. Didn't he write to us just a few days before they...?
As I tried scribbling with the faulty pen, Alfred entered the room embracing a large cardboard box labelled "Dads :>". Usually, he would say something stupid everytime he entered someone's 3-meter personal bubble, but he was standing inches from me still silent as a statue. I noticed badly swiped tear stains on his cheeks, but then again I didn't say anything.
I don't know what to.
I'm afraid I might end up crying too.
He averted his attention to the bookshelves and started sorting Dad's books to the cardboard box or the trash. Alfred's default bin would be the trash, but I noticed subtle pauses of hesitation everytime he threw something out. We were both aware of how much Arthur was fond of his novels.
I decided to do the same with Papa's shelves and drawers. Everytime I pull a book out, a rain of dust fell over me and by the time I finished scanning the shelves, I was pretty sure I had gray hair and 3 more allergies. Since most of Papa's files were from his cases anyway, we believe that his workplace already pulled out the ones they need. The first trash bag was filled, tied and thrown to the hallway, which creaked. We both flinched until we remembered there was no one to scold us from useless noise anymore.
I pulled out the unstable dining chair away and kneeled down to examine the drawers. The first drawer consisted of two half-broken fountain pens, a notepad filled with grocery lists (oh, so that's where the fridge notes were from!) and a bottle of spray cologne he also used as an air freshener. I smiled at the memory of him and Dad arguing about that spray cologne, which ended up in both of them trying to spray each other with their respective candidates for an air freshener. We joined in the fight, but with water guns instead. Needless to say, we were grounded for risking their office papers, but we all had fun.
At least not every memory we had in this house was angsty, right?
"Matt..."
His voice echoed.
I glanced at Alfred, who was standing still as he looked at something on his hand. He slowly showed the paper to me, which was a page from Papa's notepad where a maple leaf and a blue flower was pressed flat and taped. It was crinkled and oddly coloured for a flower and a leaf, but it was clear it was often brought out and held.
Just some kindergarten project we decided to give them on father's day.
You know, decades ago.
I slowly brought my arms back into action as I pretended to not feel anything. I saw how he pocketed the memorabilia like some cash he doesn't want to spend.
I felt my own heart beat rapidly at the remembrance. It was a four clover that I found randomly somewhere, while the flower was a Forget-Me-Not from Mrs. Potts' garden next door, which ceased to exist a long time ago.
I was glad Dad kept it in his wallet. I was glad.
I was glad.
"Alfred," I called.
He looked up from scanning one of Dad's drawers. "Yeah?"
"Let's come back another time. I remembered something important I have to do," I lied. Either way, he stared at me warily before nodding.
"Uh, sure thing."
He stepped out first and threw the trash bag over his shoulder. His steps creaked out the hallway and I heard it distance. I picked up the cardboard box and followed.
I felt like there was just a lot more secrets in that office. Something not enough for one day to discover.
Or perhaps I just want to cry. Either one of the two.