expiationlogs | CLOSED ❯ the hauntings and the haunted

[Playing some checkers is actually happening, it seems; Octavian is both not surprised (because Charles seems like the do-gooder type to keep his word for better or worse) and a little surprised anyway (because most people aren't), but it isn't as if his handful of projects are going anywhere in the middle of the night, so, checkers.

He does have a checkerboard now, and as a result, has since badgered a local into moving a coffee table into his living room. He's even had them arrange the big armchairs into something more resembling a logical furniture arrangement, not that Charles would notice the difference. The checkers set is slightly oversized, as if for children, because it is. This was meant to be a helpful concession, and it kind of is, but he doesn't want to talk about it.

He is also there, by the front door, when Charles slides through it, because half of the local ghost population has some pathological avoidance issues when it comes to phasing through things and assumed he should go open the door, so—well! Hello! He lacks the capacity to properly reel back from the sudden Charles appearance, but he is definitely standing right there, overtly on his way to open the door.]

So you are. [So very evident... let him just move back a few feet, hrmngh...] ...Come in.

[Like, the rest of the way. Kids these days. Take in the heavily runed Work Area and the lesser-used Everything Else, now featuring a photograph pinned up on the wall in view of the armchairs. It is not framed, but it's the only decoration in here besides, like, the runes and all.]

[ oh, oops — well, that's a little embarrassing, and charles aims a sheepish look at octavian as if to say, oh, sorry about that. but he does do as instructed, taking a few more steps to actually come in properly and not hover near the door awkwardly. ]

This is nice, [ he says, with a nod to the living room, and he even seems to mean it instead of just saying it as a polite thing to say. ]

So that where you work? Huh, I wonder if I know some of the symbols. [ he moves a little closer, except that's when he spots the photograph, and promptly veers off course immediately. ]

Oh, that's — [ sorry, his detective instinct is just to investigate everything he sees, regardless of if it's polite or not... so he stops before the photo, tilts his head as he takes in what it depicts. ]

[It's one of those small things that remind Octavian that he and Charles are very different even when it comes to their innate nature as ghosts. Ghostly beings. His severe aversion to actually behaving in a manner befitting, well, a ghost is his own problem, and so he stands there for a moment just looking at the still-closed door before turning away to see what Charles is doing.

Chattering, it seems, ah youth—]

The symbols are not hard to learn.

[He could do a little bunch of flash cards or something— no, but maybe a sheet of notes? Hmm, much to think about.

But Charles has already moved on to the photo, and Octavian comes over to look at it alongside him. It's three men in a sitting room of some opulence, two seated on a plush sofa: one of them is clearly Octavian, alive and well but not much different than he appears now besides that. The other seated man is visibly just Octavian without the glasses with more neatly coiffed hair and a relaxed slouch; the two of them appear enjoyably mid-conversation, not looking at the photographer.

The third man appears about their age, maybe a few years older (could be the tightly trimmed facial hair), standing behind the couch with rigidly upright posture and actually looking at the camera, smiling mildly, like he expected these two to not take the moment entirely seriously. His clothes are finer in an intentional way, quality made to be looked at, and the overall impression he gives is businesslike. His hand is on Octavian's shoulder.]

That is my brother. Sterling. One of the greatest intellectual minds of a generation. [In his esteemed opinion, which is the one that matters. Anyway,] He died.

[And did not hack what remained of his soul into a ghost, is the implication here. Octavian turns to drift back to his sitting area, waving a hand at the photograph as he goes.]

Pay no heed to the rest.

[ it is a significant difference, yes — charles thinks that all things considered, being a supernatural entity is pretty aces, actually; if he ignores the fact that he's, you know, dead, ignores the bitterness over that and the way going around london unseen by most people reminds him that he doesn't exist to these people, well... what remains is pretty cool. being able to haunt people's fun, being able to walk through walls is convenient, and the whole magic thing? also cool!

anyway — he doesn't stop to pay much attention to octavian's momentary stumble there, not when he's focused on taking in the picture, the men it depicts, the way they look. he's pretty good at reading people's body language and expressions... and the impressions there are very obvious. ]

Had no idea you've got a twin, [ he says, before what he's said catches up with him and he grimaces, sympathy crossing his expression. ] Had. Sorry for your loss. Was he like you in personality, too?

[ aside from just looks, of course. and then, wait, ] Uh, but what about —

[ the man who is neither octavian nor sterling? though he's been just told to not pay attention to him, which, hm, isn't really a great implication there. but he hovers near the picture, regardless, instead of following after octavian. ]

[Oh, so he's paying heed anyway, alright. Octavian still drifts over to the chairs and sits, not that he's precisely capable of sinking into the chair right now; it's the thought that counts. He watches Charles just stand there, heeding, and frowns.

Well, first of all,] No. Sterling and I were not the same. He radiated charm and joy.

[And he was perfect for it, in a way that Octavian cherished. Truly the only brother who ever mattered, in the history of brothers.

Then, well, if Charles is really just going to stand there and not politely pay no heed at all... fine,]

His name is Hiram. He is a hole in the heart.

[ yes, sorry, it's the detective instinct to stick his nose where it doesn't belong — but it is also the curiosity that comes from octavian's obvious dismissal, the curiosity to know more about him, when the facts he does, in fact, know can be counted with one hand.

and of course, his first instinct is to say something like well it's okay if you don't radiate charm and joy, you're really great anyway, except that's really, sort of not the point here; so he swallows and says, ] He sounds great.

[ once again, he says it entirely sincerely, for a moment feeling incredible sadness for octavian's loss, and also sadness that this person no longer exists in his world. death doesn't discriminate, does she?

and then, well. the sadness in his expression doesn't dissipate at all, only changes form into something quieter. ] ... oh. [ he frowns, sympathy in his eyes as he says, ] Were you close?

[It's—not quite lucky exactly that Charles doesn't go into his speech of encouragement there, if only because Octavian is not equipped with the sort of regard for appropriate behavior that would stop him from telling him to shut up and say something flattering about Sterling again. He is quite great, yes, he knows, he has several things named after him in his legacy, but the point is: Sterling was quite great, too. Octavian would have to insist that he's dead, not in need of positive reinforcement, and he would have to figure out how to do it without sounding too callous, because Charles is a nice boy. So.

If nothing else, it saves time to skip all of that. He's already feeling some kind of unpleasantness at Hiram's involvement in this conversation, sitting there and glowering about it. Could he have torn Hiram out of the photograph? Certainly. He could have burned it, too. Sliced it up a bit. Dripped hot wax on it, something. He didn't; he chooses not to think about that.

So. Were they close.]

Yes. Second only to my brother.

[He can't afford to get overly emotional about this, about Hiram and everything else, without his hold on himself starting to slip; so when he starts to grow more translucent around the edges, he has to take a moment to frown harder and pull himself together, literally.]

I occupied his guest wing for a time. In some ways I still do. [This is not a metaphor for nostalgia,] He left me there to rot.

[Then, because Charles is a nice boy,] Hold your sympathies.

[ perhaps later, he will ask for more details about sterling — out of genuine curiosity, and to remember octavian's brother, to preserve his memory in this small way. after all, when you're gone, only memories remain; and if he can't help in any other way, maybe it'll be enough that there will be someone else, here, aside from octavian himself, who carries at least some knowledge of sterling howe.

but now he focuses on the information given to him, even if he's, hm, pushed octavian to it — and when the meaning of his words sinks in, charles schools his expression carefully into something impenetrable, a wall where only his eyes betray his anger; because it is not sympathy that is his immediate feeling, no, but a hot spike of rage.

at his side, his hand squeezes into a fist.

carefully, almost blandly, he asks, ]

Is he alive?

[Fitting, isn't it, that the most appropriate reaction to his untimely demise comes from the only other ghost in this place. Octavian has received, he thinks, the full run of living people reactions, from awkward sympathies to flippancy, but in Charles he can see the appropriate anger. In his careful stamping down of his own emotion - ha, yes, Octavian is familiar with that one - is the dark spot of retribution, and that is...

Appreciated. He has no heart to seize gratefully against his ribs, no jaw to unclench with relief, but he still feels the same sort of sentiment.

That said,] Of course he is. We are wealthy and influential. Hardly anyone gets to us except our neighbors.

[Mars, too, has capitalism problems. Octavian looks in the direction of the photograph without getting up. There are hooks in the fabric of him made of spite and vengeance and everyone of them is Hiram, Hiram, Hiram— But he has gotten out of that fucking room, and so he can manage a rueful smile. For Charles, who is getting so upset.]

But priorities come first. My body. Then his life empties around him. He will know it was me.

[ it is almost funny, in a way, how the living seem to think deaths like theirs (murders, to call them by the proper name) deserve sympathy — apologies, eyes filled with pity, attempts at comfort... when all charles has ever been able to feel about his own death, or any death similar to his, is pure, unadulterated anger. he is so, so angry about it all: the unfairness of it, the lack of justice, the fact the world could continue turning and no one, not one single person, truly gave a damn.

of course he's angry about what happened to octavian. of course. but his anger is not the simmering spite that octavian himself has; his is a rage that burns the edges of his soul, which is exactly why he keeps such a tight lid on it at all times — because anger like his so often ends up burning others, too. ]

Good, [ he says in the end, with a voice that is all sharp edges. ] Give him Hell.

[At the back of his mind Octavian always wonders how different Charles is compared to himself, in terms of the very literal terms and conditions of being a ghost. There are these bits about moving on, about unfinished business, and while he cannot deny he has unfinished business, it has always seemed that Charles' type of ghosts are more... regulated? Bound to the canon of ghost stories that permeate every culture? He is an amalgamation of spite and shoestring spellwork and luck, but—

It's good to know the rage is still there. That that of all things crosses the boundaries of Ghost Rules. Charles' anger is good, he thinks, it's useful; that anger will keep him going when nothing else will, so: good, that he has it.]

That is the plan. If he arrives here. It will be over and over. I have considered it.

[Imagine! The recursiveness of it! Ah!! But he's patient, so it's fine. His gaze darts to the photograph and back again.]

That is a sufficient reminder. I suppose.

[ oh, the rage is very much still there — even when he wishes it wasn't, wishes it so much he's willing to keep it behind a closed door bolted carefully shut at nearly all times. he has never once seen it as a good thing... and yet, he can't deny that there's something there that all ghosts seem to have, more than simply the unfinished business; an anger over an injustice, over something left undone, over their treatment at the hands of someone else, or the world at large.

he nods, then, like this is a totally normal conversation to be having. ]

Well... you've probably got it all handled, but for what it's worth — you ever need help defending yourself, or anything, let me know, won't you?

[ then, with a glance at the photograph once more, ] Think I could draw you guys? I mean, you and your brother. I'll give it to you when it's done. I'm not, like, great or anything, but... [ but. he hopes the thought comes through, if nothing else. ]

[It's a kind offer, because Charles is such a kind boy; defending himself, as if the worst thing that could happen to him hasn't already happened. It's kind, and from a living soul Octavian would scoff at it, but Charles understands. He nods once, with a small smile, and looks at the photograph again.

The offer is a surprise. Selfless, in a way so few things offered to him have been, now and before, in life. For a moment he's somewhere else, that workshop that became his tomb, and in the doorway that hasn't opened in decades a scuffed and bruised young man with a wild grin holds out a hand, offers to help him out of there, if he likes—

Hmm. He blinks.] That would be nice. I could procure a frame.

[But not for the actual photograph, because he's abnormal, it's fine.]

[ it isn't like octavian is very... expressive, at the best of times, but there's an edge of surprise in his silence, in that blink, and charles can only hope it's the good kind of surprise — so when he agrees, he lets out a sigh of relief, entirely unnecessarily so.

and then he just aims a blindingly bright smile at octavian. ]

Sure, sounds aces. [ not that he thinks his drawing would necessarily need a frame, or be good enough for one, but that's secondary here.

the photograph topic closed, he finally bounces his way fully into the room. ]

So, checkers?

[He is going out and getting a frame and putting his very first artwork by his new nephew in it, or so help him—

It's good, it's resolved, and he gestures at the coffee table between the arm chairs as Charles comes over properly. There is a checkers set, only slightly larger than the standard size for, well, checkers sets. The big pieces are easier to pick up with his fussy tangbility problems, see, so, well. Checkers for the elderly.]

Checkers. Indeed.

CLOSED ❯ the hauntings and the haunted

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