[ al may have noticed earlier on in the day (or, by now, yesterday) that alois had been sleeping over-excessively, or at the least not leaving the bed much. he's already something of a problem, the brat sort, when it comes to chores, but earlier it had been down right refusal. the loud, door-slamming refusal, likeliest. at times, the room was too quiet, and others, it might've been filled with crying, or the tiny murmurs of two brothers talking, and others, when luca wasn't in it all, with the sounds of things snapping or shattering.
it's nearing five in the morning and for the last hour a lot of noise has come from the kitchen. the swinging open (but not closing) of cabinet doors, in too rapid a succession to be normal, shuffling, the sharp sound of porcelain or glass bursting, a door swinging open and slamming back, frenzied, soft weeping, and the tiny, urgent clucking of a hen. it depends on how close to the kitchen al is or has been, he may not hear the next part—there's flurried, rustled flapping, something that sounds like a stick, or a lot of small twigs, snapping all at once (the flapping becomes slower at this point), a mixture of high-pitched clucking and that airy-growl frightened and furious chickens are capable of, and finally, a sickening wet sound accompanied by a loud, snapping, crack. for a few minutes, it's pure, thick and suffocating silence.
the sun still isn't quite up yet, but whenever it is al does decide, regardless of having heard any of the noise or not, to venture into the kitchen he'll find a, well, probably a more than nerve-wracking mess. on one end of the kitchen, is a hen's head. its beady black eyes still open, its beak slightly ajar, and a little pf its spinal cord and esophagus laying out like a slimy pink worm behind it. the body is a foot or two away, feet crooked, one of the wings mangled, and unquestionably, there's a pool of blood underneath it (tinier pools trailing away from it in all directions). there's a soft splattering of it here and there, on cabinet doors, on dishes, on the faucet and some places on the counters. places where feathers have stuck on.
a damp, crumpled up towel lies near-by the sink, eerily soaked pink-red.
alois trancy is under the kitchen table, with all the chairs pulled in around him, laying on his stomach and chewing his thumbnail. his hands are raw, pink also, from the looks of them he's probably scrubbed them too hard. blood is still on his wrists, though, and in his hair with feathers, and on his clothes. ]
[Al has almost entirely no idea what to do in response, other than to attempt to treat him normally through the day. Though he's inclined to be gentle when it comes to chores at first, and Luca will be a big help with that, the frequent crying, the excessive sleeping and his outbursts are probably the hardest to deal with.
Al hadn't slept through most of the night anyway, and he was up before the sun to go for a run. When he came back he felt a touch refreshed, but sweaty, and came in through the kitchen door.
His immediate thought was that one of the dogs had somehow gotten into the chicken coop, but the pattern was unfamiliar. He can hear the guilty party under the kitchen table, and it takes a few seconds for reality to manifest.
Alois had just ripped the head off a live chicken in their kitchen.
Al had never felt so profoundly out of his element. He was upset and outraged, certainly... but he was far more concerned for Alois.
He stops, kneels down by the chair legs, and peers at him, worried.]
[ 'I don't always think things through,' is what he'd told urahara earlier in the night, and hearing al come in, seeing his shoes from under the table, it sinks in that he hadn't anticipated (stupidly, stupidly) anyone seeing or anyone reacting.
claude would make him tea, collect him from under the table, maybe hold him, and coddle him, coddle the behavior, bathe him later. that alois hasn't any idea at all what to expect from al makes him pinch his teeth harder against his nail, and he has to sheer it away.
he watches his legs move nearer, and shrinks in response. there's no eye contact, and alois' has the look of someone finally spent. ]
Nothing, [ he mutters it against his knuckles. what a dumb thing to say, but it's all he can think to. ]
[Al lingers where he is for a few more seconds, struggling for the correct reaction. Spoiler: there isn't one. The more he thinks about it, the more horrified he is.]
Did you do this on purpose?
[Very softly. Mostly he's just... unable to believe that someone would.]
[A few more heartbeats, as he weighs the situation. Coddling the behavior will do absolutely nothing good for him. Though he does want to cultivate a relationship with Alois, that is secondary right now.]
Why did you do something like this? Why would you hurt something smaller than you, helpless, something that couldn't even fight back? Why would you put anything through pain like that?
[ 'Why,' al is saying. why, why, why, in such an uncomfortably calm way, and alois is present in it, listening, but not daring to look. his throat is dry. 'Smaller than you, helpless, that couldn't fight back;' his throat is a deserted, empty, unusable well, his stomach is acid, and he wants to be sick. eyes open, eyes closed, moving, sitting still, speaking, or sleeping, he has the kind of mind that won't turn off. it overlaps and intersects with vilely vivid memory and graphic imaginative imagery, it makes him restless and flighty, makes him cry too much and laugh too loud. it turns him inside-out, and all of him comes tumbling out onto the floor.
there's a piece of himself that watches it happen. it's sucked into the middle, compressed feeling, and he watches himself damage, destroy, lose any semblance of control he waltzes around and pretends to have in the first place.
it happens mostly during the worst of times. though, by his standards even 'bad times' are skewed. still, the world-shaking realization he's made, inadvertently caused by his own brother's well-meaning curiosity and honesty, is the worst of the worst of times.
for a long while, alois says nothing, makes not even the smallest move to say anything, and gazes out through the chair-legs in a vague stupor at the fluffy, messy remains of chicken someways from the two of them. al's words are running and running through his head. he watches people throw stones at or beat luca, he watches a man make money off of jim, watches the same man sell jim and other boys, watches from a deep, underground place, boy after boy go to appease an earl, watches boys grow thinner, sicker, and he watches servants drag corpses out by legs like livestock, and he watches Father get angry if he ever slips up, if he ever isn't just so.
he watches claude faustus saying things. he says luca macken, and sebastian michaelis, and he tells him about ciel phantomhive when he goes out to gather information, and sometimes there's a quirk to his lips and his eyes are satisfied, lustful, he puts his hand in alois' hair and makes it seem comforting. he says, 'magnificent.'
his eyes are unconsciously a little wider, and he's forgotten to breathe, the result of which has him coughing so suddenly he sits up too fast and knocks his head. ]
I had— [ 'smaller,' he still hears in al's voice, and his lower lashes are brimming over with tears. ]
It's a bird, it's— it was— it's a bird. [ this is all shaky, but he thinks it's sufficient. ]
[Al watches him, slowly beginning to understand. Alois sometimes acts like he's in the grips of a living nightmare. Though he can't quite understand what Alois sees, he knows he SEES things, hears things, and his memory is much too strong.
Urahara spoke of abuse. And if Alois had been in the hands of a demon, as they suspected, it had undoubtedly been horrific enough for Alois to call for one.
Al settles a little, confident that Alois is not in the least putting on an act to avoid getting out of trouble.]
... you're hurting. I know you are. But even if you're in pain, no matter how much it is, you can't turn it on helpless things.
[He sounds terribly serious, but the strain in his voice is more concern than anger.]
[ 'I'm angry. I can't stop. I can't stop myself, I can't stop being angry.' ]
It's a bird. He— He fucking loves stupid birds! And, it's small, and it thinks it can fly, and it can't. It can't. I had to.
[ it escalates, progresses into open, furious weeping. ]
Someone had to remind it, otherwise it'd look at the sky too much and be loved by him and I can't—
[ a half-moment of only silence, then he slams both hands to cover his face, bawling now. ] I don't know why, I don't why, I can't— I can't stop, once it starts. It's little heart. I don't know why. It scratched me and it cried and I just kept going I don't know why.
It's still wrong, Alois. It's wrong to hurt something that can't fight back, to make it afraid and cause it pain. No matter what, it's wrong.
[Since Luca doesn't show any special love of birds, Al assumes the 'he' is someone he doesn't know. But it's the fear of hurting Luca that pulls Al up short. Right now, that's his worst fear. Alois continuing the cycle of abuse. Luca trusts and loves him so much, he'd be less likely to let on if something happened.]
Are you afraid of that?
[He sits, wrapping his arms around his legs. His voice is soft, still.]
[ he has to take a moment or two to gather himself, swallow down stones in his empty-dry-well throat, and make where he can speak coherently enough again. ]
The most, [ 'The most'. he's afraid of everything. he laughs a lot, that's true, and sometimes there's a mischievous glint in his eyes, but that fear is restricting, persistent, it won't leave. al terrifies him. he sees how he is with luca, how good he is, how he is now. patient and with a warm presence, and alois won't dare move out from under the table because he can't understand how people can be so good.
it's not unlike hannah. he doesn't understand people like her or al and they're the most horrifying, because of their softness, their abundant patience, and because alois is a child who expects to be brutally reprimanded when he's made someone unhappy or told he's 'beautiful,' before being thrown aside.
he's disgusting. ]
I'm vulgar. I have such terrible hands, they've done a lot of terrible things. I shouldn't be— ... I hate it when things stop moving. I hate my terrible hands, I'm really.
[ conveying things is difficult! ]
I didn't want to be the only one who can't look at the sky, and I was— I'm fucking angry, I can't stop— I can't punish Claude, and it's a bird, and my hands are awful, I'm really awful.
[It's very soft, and though it's hushed, the emotion in it is the same as he speaks to Luca. He's tried to hold back on being familiar with Alois, but this comes too strongly to the surface to mask.]
You are not vulgar, you're not bad. I've seen horrible things, and you're not them.
[ al is only saying this because he doesn't know the things alois has done. allowed to be done to him. that he's unclean, profoundly filthy, rotten cored.
he's a terrible child who's only capable of doing bad, tearing off wings, or breaking small bones, or moving them just right over a man. sinful hands. unworthy, bile-inducing hands.
the whole time, alois weeps and weeps, because for once he's at a loss for words, even fragments of sentences because he doesn't know how to say what he feels, or what he thinks, not when it's true or when he's hurting so much. there are tears stubbornly rolling down his cheeks, rebelling against the flighty, small pale hands that come up to wipe the backs of themselves, the knuckles, or wrists against his eyelashes.
a good few minutes of this, then gasping out. ] I didn't want to kill it, I didn't want to, I was so mad.
I'm tired.
I... [ he grows hush here, and the rest is muttered with airy, shock into his palms. ] I want Claude.
[It's very soft and he has no idea if Alois with even allow a touch, but he can't watch him cry and ignore the need to comfort the tears. He holds out his hands.]
[ fingers settle against the leg of a chair to push aside, and he very much wants to. he wants arms right now and it doesn't really matter how, but then he sees his raw knuckles and his dried blood speckled wrists and he pulls the arm back. ]
I'm dirty. [ all tentative, while peeking out at him. ]
[It's soft, final and reassuring. He doesn't care about whether he's dirty, bloody or otherwise. In any form. This is still Jim -- this is still his boy, even if he's hurting and damaged.]
[ hesitating still, his eyes drop to his knees, his fingers curl in toward his palms, then he's nudging the chair aside to crawl out.
alois half-topples and half-drops his face against his chest, and winds trembling fingers into al's clothes. stares widely into the shadow against him, created by his own head. ]
[ his own arms don't wrap around, but his fingers do clench more earnestly. he's still wide-eyed, peering, heart hammering relentlessly. claude can't hold him, but al can, and he hadn't expected it to feel so different.
he can't figure out what al wants. it's enough to have him shaking too much. part of him wants to cry into him, another wants to crawl into his lap, and another wants to pull his hair and kick him, and so he strains because he isn't sure which is the best to do in this case. ]
[The warmth and reassurance is perfect. He gathers Alois up all the more, ruffling his fingers through his hair.
There's nothing more he seems to want, nothing pushed for, nothing asked. It doesn't cost him anything to give him this, and he expects nothing in return.]
[ he'd hit hannah. God, would he have hit hannah had she been al in this very moment. his hands ache and he wants to, that's definite, but he's so very, very worn out and all he can manage is another quiet spilling of tears. ]
[ he's not sure what al's saying at all. after a half-minute of resting his cheek against him, he slips away to sit up, pressing the heel of a palm against one eye. ]
Nothing is, [ and, if he were in a better state of it, he would have managed this convincingly and not so quick that it's defensive. ]
I meant, I don't understand how you can sit here like you are and talk like you fucking do with your fucking voice and make it so difficult to figure out what you must be thinking, and not hit me because I'm bad at chores or I won't do them, I killed your chicken, and I'm really gross and you're just sitting here holding me like nothing's even happened!
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timeasmymeasure
action into oblivion & :c back-dated to uhh. when it needs to be.
Date: 2012-10-18 06:19 am (UTC)it's nearing five in the morning and for the last hour a lot of noise has come from the kitchen. the swinging open (but not closing) of cabinet doors, in too rapid a succession to be normal, shuffling, the sharp sound of porcelain or glass bursting, a door swinging open and slamming back, frenzied, soft weeping, and the tiny, urgent clucking of a hen. it depends on how close to the kitchen al is or has been, he may not hear the next part—there's flurried, rustled flapping, something that sounds like a stick, or a lot of small twigs, snapping all at once (the flapping becomes slower at this point), a mixture of high-pitched clucking and that airy-growl frightened and furious chickens are capable of, and finally, a sickening wet sound accompanied by a loud, snapping, crack. for a few minutes, it's pure, thick and suffocating silence.
the sun still isn't quite up yet, but whenever it is al does decide, regardless of having heard any of the noise or not, to venture into the kitchen he'll find a, well, probably a more than nerve-wracking mess. on one end of the kitchen, is a hen's head. its beady black eyes still open, its beak slightly ajar, and a little pf its spinal cord and esophagus laying out like a slimy pink worm behind it. the body is a foot or two away, feet crooked, one of the wings mangled, and unquestionably, there's a pool of blood underneath it (tinier pools trailing away from it in all directions). there's a soft splattering of it here and there, on cabinet doors, on dishes, on the faucet and some places on the counters. places where feathers have stuck on.
a damp, crumpled up towel lies near-by the sink, eerily soaked pink-red.
alois trancy is under the kitchen table, with all the chairs pulled in around him, laying on his stomach and chewing his thumbnail. his hands are raw, pink also, from the looks of them he's probably scrubbed them too hard. blood is still on his wrists, though, and in his hair with feathers, and on his clothes. ]
no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 07:47 am (UTC)Al hadn't slept through most of the night anyway, and he was up before the sun to go for a run. When he came back he felt a touch refreshed, but sweaty, and came in through the kitchen door.
His immediate thought was that one of the dogs had somehow gotten into the chicken coop, but the pattern was unfamiliar. He can hear the guilty party under the kitchen table, and it takes a few seconds for reality to manifest.
Alois had just ripped the head off a live chicken in their kitchen.
Al had never felt so profoundly out of his element. He was upset and outraged, certainly... but he was far more concerned for Alois.
He stops, kneels down by the chair legs, and peers at him, worried.]
Alois? What happened here?
no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 07:55 am (UTC)claude would make him tea, collect him from under the table, maybe hold him, and coddle him, coddle the behavior, bathe him later. that alois hasn't any idea at all what to expect from al makes him pinch his teeth harder against his nail, and he has to sheer it away.
he watches his legs move nearer, and shrinks in response. there's no eye contact, and alois' has the look of someone finally spent. ]
Nothing, [ he mutters it against his knuckles. what a dumb thing to say, but it's all he can think to. ]
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Date: 2012-10-18 07:57 am (UTC)Did you do this on purpose?
[Very softly. Mostly he's just... unable to believe that someone would.]
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Date: 2012-10-18 07:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 08:07 am (UTC)Before Luca gets up.
[A few more heartbeats, as he weighs the situation. Coddling the behavior will do absolutely nothing good for him. Though he does want to cultivate a relationship with Alois, that is secondary right now.]
Why did you do something like this? Why would you hurt something smaller than you, helpless, something that couldn't even fight back? Why would you put anything through pain like that?
no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 02:18 pm (UTC)there's a piece of himself that watches it happen. it's sucked into the middle, compressed feeling, and he watches himself damage, destroy, lose any semblance of control he waltzes around and pretends to have in the first place.
it happens mostly during the worst of times. though, by his standards even 'bad times' are skewed. still, the world-shaking realization he's made, inadvertently caused by his own brother's well-meaning curiosity and honesty, is the worst of the worst of times.
for a long while, alois says nothing, makes not even the smallest move to say anything, and gazes out through the chair-legs in a vague stupor at the fluffy, messy remains of chicken someways from the two of them. al's words are running and running through his head. he watches people throw stones at or beat luca, he watches a man make money off of jim, watches the same man sell jim and other boys, watches from a deep, underground place, boy after boy go to appease an earl, watches boys grow thinner, sicker, and he watches servants drag corpses out by legs like livestock, and he watches Father get angry if he ever slips up, if he ever isn't just so.
he watches claude faustus saying things. he says luca macken, and sebastian michaelis, and he tells him about ciel phantomhive when he goes out to gather information, and sometimes there's a quirk to his lips and his eyes are satisfied, lustful, he puts his hand in alois' hair and makes it seem comforting. he says, 'magnificent.'
his eyes are unconsciously a little wider, and he's forgotten to breathe, the result of which has him coughing so suddenly he sits up too fast and knocks his head. ]
I had— [ 'smaller,' he still hears in al's voice, and his lower lashes are brimming over with tears. ]
It's a bird, it's— it was— it's a bird. [ this is all shaky, but he thinks it's sufficient. ]
no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 05:36 pm (UTC)Urahara spoke of abuse. And if Alois had been in the hands of a demon, as they suspected, it had undoubtedly been horrific enough for Alois to call for one.
Al settles a little, confident that Alois is not in the least putting on an act to avoid getting out of trouble.]
... you're hurting. I know you are. But even if you're in pain, no matter how much it is, you can't turn it on helpless things.
[He sounds terribly serious, but the strain in his voice is more concern than anger.]
no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 05:46 pm (UTC)It's a bird. He— He fucking loves stupid birds! And, it's small, and it thinks it can fly, and it can't. It can't. I had to.
[ it escalates, progresses into open, furious weeping. ]
Someone had to remind it, otherwise it'd look at the sky too much and be loved by him and I can't—
[ a half-moment of only silence, then he slams both hands to cover his face, bawling now. ] I don't know why, I don't why, I can't— I can't stop, once it starts. It's little heart. I don't know why. It scratched me and it cried and I just kept going I don't know why.
What if I hurt Luca?
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Date: 2012-10-18 05:57 pm (UTC)[Since Luca doesn't show any special love of birds, Al assumes the 'he' is someone he doesn't know. But it's the fear of hurting Luca that pulls Al up short. Right now, that's his worst fear. Alois continuing the cycle of abuse. Luca trusts and loves him so much, he'd be less likely to let on if something happened.]
Are you afraid of that?
[He sits, wrapping his arms around his legs. His voice is soft, still.]
Of hurting Luca?
no subject
Date: 2012-10-19 12:39 am (UTC)The most, [ 'The most'. he's afraid of everything. he laughs a lot, that's true, and sometimes there's a mischievous glint in his eyes, but that fear is restricting, persistent, it won't leave. al terrifies him. he sees how he is with luca, how good he is, how he is now. patient and with a warm presence, and alois won't dare move out from under the table because he can't understand how people can be so good.
it's not unlike hannah. he doesn't understand people like her or al and they're the most horrifying, because of their softness, their abundant patience, and because alois is a child who expects to be brutally reprimanded when he's made someone unhappy or told he's 'beautiful,' before being thrown aside.
he's disgusting. ]
I'm vulgar. I have such terrible hands, they've done a lot of terrible things. I shouldn't be— ... I hate it when things stop moving. I hate my terrible hands, I'm really.
[ conveying things is difficult! ]
I didn't want to be the only one who can't look at the sky, and I was— I'm fucking angry, I can't stop— I can't punish Claude, and it's a bird, and my hands are awful, I'm really awful.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-19 04:10 am (UTC)[It's very soft, and though it's hushed, the emotion in it is the same as he speaks to Luca. He's tried to hold back on being familiar with Alois, but this comes too strongly to the surface to mask.]
You are not vulgar, you're not bad. I've seen horrible things, and you're not them.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-19 05:32 am (UTC)he's a terrible child who's only capable of doing bad, tearing off wings, or breaking small bones, or moving them just right over a man. sinful hands. unworthy, bile-inducing hands.
the whole time, alois weeps and weeps, because for once he's at a loss for words, even fragments of sentences because he doesn't know how to say what he feels, or what he thinks, not when it's true or when he's hurting so much. there are tears stubbornly rolling down his cheeks, rebelling against the flighty, small pale hands that come up to wipe the backs of themselves, the knuckles, or wrists against his eyelashes.
a good few minutes of this, then gasping out. ] I didn't want to kill it, I didn't want to, I was so mad.
I'm tired.
I... [ he grows hush here, and the rest is muttered with airy, shock into his palms. ] I want Claude.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-19 05:58 am (UTC)[It's very soft and he has no idea if Alois with even allow a touch, but he can't watch him cry and ignore the need to comfort the tears. He holds out his hands.]
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Date: 2012-10-19 06:02 am (UTC)I'm dirty. [ all tentative, while peeking out at him. ]
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Date: 2012-10-19 06:17 am (UTC)[It's soft, final and reassuring. He doesn't care about whether he's dirty, bloody or otherwise. In any form. This is still Jim -- this is still his boy, even if he's hurting and damaged.]
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Date: 2012-10-19 06:23 am (UTC)alois half-topples and half-drops his face against his chest, and winds trembling fingers into al's clothes. stares widely into the shadow against him, created by his own head. ]
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Date: 2012-10-19 06:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-19 06:37 am (UTC)he can't figure out what al wants. it's enough to have him shaking too much. part of him wants to cry into him, another wants to crawl into his lap, and another wants to pull his hair and kick him, and so he strains because he isn't sure which is the best to do in this case. ]
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Date: 2012-10-19 06:47 am (UTC)[The warmth and reassurance is perfect. He gathers Alois up all the more, ruffling his fingers through his hair.
There's nothing more he seems to want, nothing pushed for, nothing asked. It doesn't cost him anything to give him this, and he expects nothing in return.]
no subject
Date: 2012-10-19 06:50 am (UTC)I don't understand.
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Date: 2012-10-19 07:01 am (UTC)[It hurts to admit.]
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Date: 2012-10-19 07:04 am (UTC)What do you mean?
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Date: 2012-10-19 07:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-19 07:12 am (UTC)I meant, I don't understand how you can sit here like you are and talk like you fucking do with your fucking voice and make it so difficult to figure out what you must be thinking, and not hit me because I'm bad at chores or I won't do them, I killed your chicken, and I'm really gross and you're just sitting here holding me like nothing's even happened!
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