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"Again?" Lazlo asks from the comfort of the couch, lounging lazily with his head propped up to look at his older brother in the doorway.
Vidcund is holding the dead flowers in his arms, cradling them to his chest as a mother would her deceased offspring. His expression is flat but Lazlo has known Vidcund long enough to see the pain and disappointment in his eyes.
"Yes," His voice is quiet. It is unusual, for his brother can normally be heard from all corners of the house with that angry booming voice of his. A large man like him would of course have the ribcage and lung capacity to match.
With a sigh, Lazlo heaves himself off the couch. "I'll get the materials, do you have the speech?"
Vidcund gestures lamely to the slip of paper poking out from his breast pocket and Lazlo lets out a short 'aha' at that.
"I'll see you in the backyard. Want me to call Pascal?"
"No..."
"Alright," Lazlo shrugs and heads towards his room. On his way there, he passes his other brother Pascal in the kitchen and snatches a bite from his chicken sandwich. An undignified yell of his name follows Lazlo as he brushes past but he just laughs.
From the top shelf of a closet, he retrieves a wooden box and a trumpet case. Leaning against the wall there's a shovel. He grabs that one too.
Back in the kitchen, Pascal shoots him a dirty look that quickly morphs into one of understanding at the sight of the shovel.
His eyebrows shoot up, a wordless question aimed at his brother, "Again?"
"Again," Lazlo confirms with a nod and Pascal makes a sound of acknowledgement before slinking back in his chair. This time he guards his plate as his younger brother walks past. Lazlo winks at him and heads outside.
Vidcund is standing in the middle of the backyard looking strangely lost and out of place wearing a stuffy suit in the middle of the desert. His shoulders shoot up at the sound of the door slamming shut but he relaxes ever so at the sight of Lazlo. The muscles of Vidcund's jaw remain tense and his hands are balled into fists. But he isn't mad, no, he's just defeated.
Lazlo places the box on the ground and points to a spot in the sand with the shovel. "There?"
Vidcund shakes his head, "No," and gestures with his arms still full of flowers towards a different place. "Here."
The younger man hums and pushes the blade into the ground, stopping only to look up at his older brother who gives a sharp nod. And so Lazlo starts digging.
It's not a very deep hole, it doesn't need to be. Just enough for the box to be covered. But Lazlo is sweating lightly when he's done.
The sun is merciless this Sunday afternoon.
He opens the box and takes out a plant label. A picture of the flowers and the name of the plant genus printed on in graceful letters.
Next to him, Vidcund kneels. Lazlo can hear him swallow audibly at the sight of the makeshift coffin and his hands tremble as they place the flowers in it. Lazlo doesn't comment.
He puts the lid back on the box and lowers it into the shallow grave. The brothers rise at the same time, one more steadily than the other.
Lazlo looks at Vidcund and the older man takes out the piece of paper from his breast pocket. He has already memorized it, Lazlo knows, and so has he. But it gives his brother something to hold onto so Lazlo lets Vidcund do as he likes.
The young man watches him from the corner of his eyes as he reads, head bowed solemnly. Vidcund is tall and broad-shouldered yet so fragile. Lazlo doesn't like to see him like this, but what else can he do except to be there for him in this time of need?
When the last words are said Vidcund's hands fall limply back to his side and Lazlo takes this as his sign. It's crude and straight to the point but Lazlo does his best to make the process of filling up the hole as ceremonial as possible.
The honour of placing the label, or the grave marker befalls on Vidcund, who takes his time making sure it is proper and steady.
While his brother busies himself with that task Lazlo frees his old trumpet from its cage. The instrument is still in decent condition after almost two decades. He learnt to play when he was six and still had dreams of making it big as a famous trumpet player. It didn't start like this at first but nowadays it's mostly on occasions such as these that it leaves his closet.
The moment Vidcund stands back up Lazlo raises the mouthpiece of the instrument to his mouth and starts to play the Taps. The sound of the melody carries over the vast expanse of land and he's sure even Pascal can hear it from inside.
The tune had not been part of Lazlo's original repertoire but somewhere along his way towards adulthood, he had picked it up and eventually it had become the song he had gotten most familiar with.
Vidcund has been holding himself together all this time, trying to appear strong. But now he breaks and Lazlo notices the exact moment it happens. His shoulders slump inward and jerk with each sob that rattles through his body. Lazlo fixes his gaze on the far horizon and continues playing.
It takes a bit more than a full minute for the song to finish and at the end, Vidcund has already calmed down considerably. Lazlo places the trumpet back in its case and then moves to stand next to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"We'll get you some new seeds tomorrow, then you can try again."