remarks | (no subject)

[ Humoring her comes easily — a dip of his head, a spread of his arms. It makes him look innocent and, as far as his sister is concerned, he still is. A little misguided perhaps, guilty of a kind of self-salvaging conceitedness; but that was were nothing but a little white crime compared to the true ugliness he was capable of. (He had been cruel to her once as a girl and though Eamonn continues to hold her at arm's length, he tries not to hurt her the same way again. Keeping Eavan ignorant of his work, of his girls — that's a part of that.) ]

Ain't much t'say f'r a man t'at's already got himself everyt'ing, [ he boasts broadly (a kind of pantomime). ]

[ There's an implicit sort of trust given over with the bond of family blood, one that he'd once taken advantage of (and she'd let him, though there'd still been a line drawn in the sand). Following his absence, things have changed, though she never asks how or why. (It had been on her account that he'd gotten into trouble in the first place, hadn't it?) ]

Well, aren't you enligh'ened. Or just feelin' generous.

[ There is an innocence that comes with childhood, just as there is a trust that is given when born of the same blood. And yes, if he's honest, Eamonn will admit: he'd taken advantage of both (of her, the sweet little lamb) right until he'd met that line in the sand. The rejection that followed had broken his heart and — more importantly — bruised his ego, two crimes that he would have punished any other girl for, but not her, not Eavan, not their dearest Eve. ]

Been called worse t'ings in m'day, luv. [ He waggles a finger at her. ] If'm gonna be somet'ing, I'd rat'er be generous than just old an' daft. [ A pause, then he asks, his gaze lingering: ] Why — what'd you wish for?

T'ey're no' mutually exclusive, [ Eavan points out. ] My old, daft, 'ccasionally gen'rous older brot'er.

[ Still, at his question, she quiets, reaching up to straighten out his collar. (She'd felt both injuries, way back when, a side effect of a power she hadn't yet completely been able to control. It's an apology, given the circumstances, she still isn't sure how to make.) ]

Don't y' know — tell someone what y' wished for an' it'll never come true. Now, don't go callin' me a hypocrite, I know 't already.

[ Eamonn winces at that, playacting brutality, but deep inside he feels something pinch at his heart — a worrying feeling that tells him it's not a joke, it's true. Eavan's old, daft, occasionally generous older brother — that's what he is and what he's always been, the cards stacked against him from the very start. That's water under the bridge now, his cruelty honed to hide it, his very favorite girls the image of his sister as child — large, doe eyes and thick brown hair and a sadness that lingers (a sadness he put there), making them meek and easy and soft (the clay he always wanted her to be, but which she never was).

With her hands on his collar, he straightens his poster, tries to emulate respectable (something of a private laugh). His eyebrows lift as he juts his chin, trying to lessen the shadow it casts over the button hidden behind his eye. ] T'at y'r way of tellin' me y'haven't gotten it yet? Bah, t'at'll nev'r do. Goin' t'have t'work twice as hard t'make it up t'you.

S'a long time comin', innit?

[ (Here's the bloody truth: he'd been a prince in her eyes, once upon a time. She hadn't known any better — he'd made sure she hadn't, though in the end it hadn't been quite enough. I'm sorry, we shouldn't, we can't. But time brings experience and time brings change, and the lives of the Keane children aren't the kinds of tales to be found in storybooks.) ]

Maybe, [ she hums, palms spreading flat over his shoulders. ] But good t'ings're worth waitin' for, y'know?

[ It's the sort of optimism that Eamonn doesn't understand and he knows, as her big brother, he should be taking care to keep that optimism safe — not break it down under the boot of his own cynicisms. But the world it's a pretty place, especially not for sweet girls like Eavan. Big Bad wolves come out at night and — more often than not — they wear his face.

It's proof of loyalty that he doesn't terrorize her, sparing her the fates of other girls. She may not be his type anymore (he'd loved a girl, not a woman) but there are still scars ringed round his heart. (Shoulda, woulda, coulda — that's the Keane motto.) ]

Better be pretty damn good, Evie — a wait t'at long.

[ (Shoulda, woulda, coulda — sometimes she wonders what might have happened if she'd never said no, if she'd be happier than she is now, if he wouldn't have left. They're not pretty sorts of thoughts given the blood shared between them, but the world isn't a pretty place and Eavan, despite appearances, had come to that realization at an early age. It wasn't the sort of truth that was easy to escape, not with a power like hers.)

Raising a finger to tap the side of her nose, she winks as if letting him in on some kind of secret. ]

If my big brot'er's on t'e case, t'ere's no way it couldn't be, aye?