[ (They deserve better. That alone is unquestionable. Maybe, in another life, in another time, they could have had it, something bright and wholly good as nurtured out of the love that they bear, as untainted by shame not their own and burdens they were never meant nor built to bear. What tokens of love they'd taken before are all stained by that color — the detergent Francis buys is the same one that his mother had used prior to her death, as Sal had demanded it, had refused to change, had refused so adamantly that he had made himself into someone else entirely. He should miss having an older brother, he knows, but he had been too young when things had changed to truly understand what the term meant, anyway. And so, he'd simply accepted the cards as they had fallen. He had looked at the cross hanging upon their wall and told himself that it was the will of God, as if somehow that would make things easier to bear.)
He hears her anyway. She doesn't like it, Phillipa says, and almost upon instinct, his hold upon her tightens. (Leave us alone. Please. Just leave us alone. The Shade, the phantom that lives in his own house, all of them. Please.) ]
Okay, [ he says, and it isn't that's alright; it's I'm sorry and I know. What else can he say, after all? How can you fight a thing that you cannot even see? ]
[ His arms tighten and that's how Phillipa knows that Francis has heard her. It makes her ashamed (I'm damaged goods, I know; but I'm not the one who damaged me; I was too young and I didn't know). The sensation crawls up along her spine and spreading — branch-like and ivy-like, ink through clear water — across her back and round her front, the tendrils digging deep into her lungs, threatening to wring a sob out of her though she's determined not to cry. (I'm tired, Francis. I'm just tired, it's okay.) ]
Okay, [ she manages, a little thinly, and it's don't be sorry and I know that you know. And that last point is one of the great comforts of her life (it's also one of the great sorrows). When Phillipa pulls back her face is flushed with the effort of not crying though her brow pinches in a way that makes it seem as if she will at any moment. ]
I'm sorry, I know we were supposed to go out, but— Can we— can we just not and say we did?
[ They're both damaged goods; stuffed animals with just one button eye each, with a limb torn off or stuffing falling out, not because they were loved too much but simply because they came off the manufacturing line that way. ]
Okay. [ (Sure, this time around. Sure and please don't cry and you're not just tired and you're not okay but I love you anyway.) ]
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He hears her anyway. She doesn't like it, Phillipa says, and almost upon instinct, his hold upon her tightens. (Leave us alone. Please. Just leave us alone. The Shade, the phantom that lives in his own house, all of them. Please.) ]
Okay, [ he says, and it isn't that's alright; it's I'm sorry and I know. What else can he say, after all? How can you fight a thing that you cannot even see? ]
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Okay, [ she manages, a little thinly, and it's don't be sorry and I know that you know. And that last point is one of the great comforts of her life (it's also one of the great sorrows). When Phillipa pulls back her face is flushed with the effort of not crying though her brow pinches in a way that makes it seem as if she will at any moment. ]
I'm sorry, I know we were supposed to go out, but— Can we— can we just not and say we did?
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Okay. [ (Sure, this time around. Sure and please don't cry and you're not just tired and you're not okay but I love you anyway.) ]
You don't have— you don't have to be sorry.