Archive of Our Own ^beta

Maurice is all frantic motion and restless energy as he storms through the house calling for Shun. Donald hasn't seen him move this much in a while, but he supposes a pseudo son going missing for over 24 hours, leaving only a weird painting in red ink is a cause to get worried.

He is all anxious twitching, urging Donald on, walking ahead, and then jogging back till they make it to the clearing, less foggy than before, where Shun is. They both freeze at the sight of him, gun in hand sitting slumped on a log, but where Donald wants to yell and run -- get back, he might shoot, like Amy -- he watches as his dad approaches Shun with a steady, careful calm.

Donald watches as they sit. And sit. And sit. He crosses his arms and taps his foot. Then shifts his weight, crosses his arms the other way, and taps the other foot. For balance. And because he can't understand why they aren't doing anything. At least when Amy had gone mad she had been yelling. Shun isn't even doing anything as far as he can see.

Eventually, he needs to piss and when even that declaration fails to move the two men he turns and walks away. They'll be fine. Probably.

He finds them later -- by accident as he tries to sneak into Shun's cabin to photograph his painting so he and Matilda can translate the Japanese -- asleep together on Shun's futon. Shun is flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes while Maurice is curled on his side facing the younger man, one large hand splayed across his chest, gently rising and falling with Shun’s breathing.

Donald is overwhelmed by the memory of his dad, in the same position -- one warm comforting hand on his chest -- with him the one year Amy had come back from school with the super flu and had spread her germy grossness all over his stuff till even his own superior immune system couldn't fight it off. He had forgotten about that until just now, and suddenly the cabin was very dusty.

Donald blinks and then blinks again before slowly backing out and quietly shutting the door. He doesn't need a photo of that painting anyway. It is probably something dumb, and he has to be getting back to Matilda; she gets stroppy if he turns up for date night late.

Maurice groaned softly as his knees clicked as he made his way down the stairs. His face was tight, his eyes felt dry and itchy and he was in desperate need of a cup of tea. Donald was out on his date, Amy was out too, maybe with her band or her girlfriend, Deborah had taken Shun into town to see Dr. Miriam and get some lunch, and he had finally had the house to himself to, as his therapist put it, ‘release a little pressure and just have a fucking cry’.

Maurice turned the corner into the kitchen and froze. Maybe he hadn’t been as alone as he had thought. Amy was curled up on the sofa, eyes closed, large headphones clamped over her ears and -- after a moment of watching her composing? sleeping? pretending to sleep to give him privacy? -- he turned towards the kettle and focused on making his tea.

She stirred when he settled on the couch next to her -- steaming mug in hand -- her eyes fluttering open as she shifted and curled into his shoulder, fisting one hand in his sweater. Her eyes slid closed again and Maurice let out a gentle sigh, wrapping one arm around Amy and taking a sip of his tea. The edge of her headphones was digging into his chest but the weight of her was grounding and Maurice found himself drifting -- better and easier than meditation or crying -- as he slowly relaxed.

Maurice startled awake to the feeling of gentle fingers touching his adams apple and then a soft palm covering his neck. Amy didn't say anything when his eyes opened and their gazes met but she pulled her hand back and after another moment he turned, setting his empty cup of tea on the side table and tipping his head back against the couch once more.

The fingers returned once more, as his eyes closed, this time to his pulse in his neck, resting there. Feeling. Until, in a flurry of motion, the weight against his side disappeared and Maurice was listening to the thumping of feet dashing up the stairs.

Amy was back in what felt like an instant, and Maurice's eyes flew open as a bunch of stuff was dumped in his lap. Paper and rulers, Amy’s mini keyboard and music sampler amongst other things and then she was taping a stethoscope to his chest and connecting that, somehow, to a mic and a speaker and then the sound of his heart, beating on, racing and calming in alternating waves, was filling the room.

It was odd, listening to your own heartbeat Maurice thought idly, the sound of life, trundling on, doing its own thing with nary a conscious thought from his brain that seemed to overthink everything else. Its steady rhythm was interspersed with the tinkling notes as Amy tapped at the piano and hummed to herself, scribbling melodies down and Maurice marveled as she got lost in the music.

Sometimes it did feel like a curse on their family. The darkness stalking his father and him and Amy and even poor Shun, but at other times, it was just a background part of who they all were, just another patchwork in the crazy wonderful quilt that was them.

Mrs. Flowers had been waiting for them in the kitchen when Mr. Flowers finally ushered Shun in, one large gentle hand on his back pushing him forward, not letting him run back to his little house. No Amy, no Donald, but Mrs. Flowers, sitting at the table, with a cold cup of tea.

Before he could offer to heat her tea, or make new tea -- sorry for the trouble, I'm no trouble, let me help -- she was jumping out of her seat and circling around the table to clasp both his hands in hers. Mrs. Flowers spoke too fast, she was always speaking fast, but today was even faster, and higher pitched, staring deep into his eyes and Shun just wanted to go back out where it was quiet. But polite. He nodded and bowed his head and nodded till she had run out of words and was then leading him upstairs, one firm hand on his wrist, Mr. Flowers hand still on his back.

Mrs. Flowers pushed him to sit down on the bed in the room for guests. She patted his shoulders and told him to take off his shoes and then she was bustling out of the door pulling her husband with her, and then Shun was alone. He looked around. Blinked slowly. The special place, the clearing, was still calling him, the ghosts were whispering, but before he could answer them, or maybe see for them at the window, Mr. and Mrs. Flowers were back, with their arms full of his bags and stuff from his little house.

They tucked them into the drawers, and hung the clothes in the closet, and even left the futon if he didn't like the bed. And Mrs. Flowers was still talking, many words, lots of apologies, until Mr. Flowers pushed her out and sat down next to him again. Mr. Flowers was big. And warm, and his shoulder was soft but firm -- like a good futon -- and he patted Shun's knee as he quietly mumbled.

He’d meant what he said about family. This was Shun's room. They were right next door if he needed anything.

Mrs. Flowers did not understand how thin the line between life and death was. She knew in her head but she didn't understand. Not like Mr. Flowers or Amy-chan or the therapy doctor. But Mrs. Flowers also drove him to therapy every week.

She was always on time, never forgetting, always very happy. And she was always talking. First three weeks, Mrs. Flowers talked all the way to the doctor and all the way back. Therapy doctor suggested after week four, when Mrs. Flowers came in to pay, that they try silent driving on the way back. Mrs. Flowers frowned at that, frowned all the way through their lunch at the bad imitation Japanese restaurant, frowned through buying the groceries and frowned as she drove back, but she didn't talk. Mrs. Flowers didn't talk week five either and then finally in week six she started to get it.

Shun started small. Started by telling her about the train. And the house. And the little feet. And Grubbs. And by week eight she was still not talking but she was closer to understanding. She wouldn't fully understand, but the silence was different now. It had a different quality to it. A quality a little like the special spot in the forest. A place that was okay to go to when his head felt all foggy. A new family -- not replacing, but understanding -- his old family.

Amy could see them from her window. When she stopped to look up from the music that still flowed from her every pore -- but now flowed at more reasonable paces -- she could see her dad and Shun out on the lawn. They would start each day the same way. With homemade smoothie drinks at the picnic table and then stretching and then a slow jog around the yard and then down the trail.

In the afternoons it was different. Sometimes they would be out with the strawberries, weeding, mulching, digging in the dirt. Other days she would see them making the trip from the main house to the shed and back, sometimes with tea, sometimes with soup, in and out. Other days they would be sitting and talking, at the table or in the little cluster of trees. Or maybe they did all the things every day, Amy wasn't sure. She would lose track of the time between her glances out the window.

At first, Shun moved like he used to at the beginning when he came to stay with them -- before he had found alcohol to loosen him up -- stiff and a little strange, but as the weeks went by slowly he regained some of that loose limbed softness that he had found with the drink, although this time just through -- as dad kept going on about -- through the endorphins of exercise.

Their family shared the curse, metaphorically speaking, but this specific devil was one that dad and Shun had for themselves, and one they seemed to slowly be wrestling side by side.

When mum and dad went off for yet another try at their perfect holiday Amy found Shun sitting at the kitchen table staring morosely at two still full watery glasses of smoothie. She grabbed the untouched one, swirling it to try and get the settled fruit and water to mix again before trying to just throw it back and gagging on the overwhelmingly sickly taste of protein powder.

“That’s vile,” she said, coughing into her elbow as she pulled Shun's glass away from him and poured it down the sink. “Pick n’ mix?”

“Hmmm?” Shun was looking up at her like she was speaking a different language. Perhaps she was.

Amy grabbed his wrist, pulling him to the shed and leading him to her pink and purple bike and helmet before moving to borrow Donald’s yellow one -- he was off with Matilda; what he didn’t know wouldn't hurt him -- and rolled it out to the driveway.

They cycled in silence. The air was cool and damp and still smelt of last night's thunderstorm but there were birds flying back and forth between the trees calling to each other. It was gray, and a little cloudy, but it just made the cheery pinks and yellows of the pick n’ mix candy shop pop all the more.

Shun was still not smiling as they docked their bikes but something in his face had brightened.

“We call-” he gestured to the store “-Dagashiya, in Japan.”

“Dagashiya” the word was unfamiliar and odd shaped on her tongue as the bell tinkled and she held the door open for him. They grabbed their paper bags and Amy watched as Shun added serious dark blue jelly beans and fluffy thundercloud marshmallows to his before pulling him down to her favorite aisle and adding sunny yellow star gummies to both of their bags till he finally cracked a smile.

Deborah clutched onto the edge of the sink as she leaned up to the kitchen window and watched Donald say goodbye to Matilda. Her little boy. Her little Squoggle. Her little inventor. All grown up. Donald was standing, ramrod straight in a full attention salute as Matilda drove off and she smiled.

Where Amy had been Maurice’s -- never calm unless she was laying on his shoulder -- Donald had been hers, loud and bold and brash and so, so full of heart. She understood him; where others, even sometimes Maurice and Amy, got annoyed all she could see was that heart. Her scared little boy who had buried his face in her skirt and denied crying when he had skinned his knees still trying to tell the world he was invincible.

She turned away from the window, trying to lean casually on the sink as he came back in, banging the front door open as he always did.

“So, mum, what did you think? And I’ll tell you now if you didn't like her, I’m going to be forced to tell you you're wrong, I’m sorry but-”

“Donald, she's lovely.” She cut him off before he could get going with his bluster. “I think she's really good for you.” It was true. The past year had been hard, and she hadn't been able to be there for him like she wanted, tied up as she was managing crisis after crisis with Maurice and Amy. Deborah was glad Donald had found someone for himself.

She watched as he floundered, opening and closing his mouth, below that stupid mustache -- not that she would ever, ever tell him that -- before he nodded sharply.

“Good. I'm glad you see that.”

“Oh, Donald.” She stepped around the table and pulled him into a hug, ignoring his indignant protests -- he would always be her little boy -- and after a moment he hugged her back lightly.

“Thanks, mum.”

“No, no dad you can’t count the space you started on-”

“Mr. Flowers go to jail, to jail!”

“No, you all count again. See-”

Deborah locked eyes with Donald across the circle of their family game night and they shared an eye roll and a smile. Donald had said at the beginning of the night that monopoly was a bad choice and he had been right.

Amy was getting more shrill by the minute, her flapping hand in danger of disrupting the board, and Deborah stifled her giggle when Donald mouthed I told you so at her before leaning forward to join the fight.

With Donald adding to the opposing side, Maurice was finally sentenced to jail and the game resumed but not before Deborah watched Donald sneakily pilfer another couple of hundreds from the bank.

She waited till afterwards when they were washing up to mention it. “Mr. Sticky Fingers, is that how you used to win all the games?” she bumped his shoulder with hers, jostling him teasingly but the expected blustering denial didn't come.

“‘Was the only way to win between dad and Amy teaming up.” He said staring out the window. This time it was Deborah who was gaping like a fish. I’ll be on your team. The words were almost tripping over themselves to get off her tongue I can be there for you but before she could get any of it out Donald was smiling softly.

“It was good though. Like old times. It felt…” Deborah waited, hardly even daring to breathe, “all right.”

From anyone else, it might have been a condemnation. But from her logical, practical Donald? Not bad at all.