Archive of Our Own ^beta

so:

War. 

you were 21. 

you weren’t a child, really.

(not really)

but you were 21.

21 is young.

and you were going to War

your father sent you off with a squeeze to your shoulder, 

your brother sent you off with a lopsided half smile,

your mother sent you off with a hug that lasted longer than she’d ever held you before.

you knew you might not come back.

your brother, your mirror, was quiet. 

was quiet until he wasn’t. until he said, after dashing the length to the carriage, after every intended goodbye, down the drive and to where you sat, packed away in the buggy already. he’d reached in, through the window, caught your hand, 

he was looking at you with his blue-matter-blue eyes, frantic, frantic, then,

“don’t get yourself killed, pete,”

and you’d said

“i wont, peter”

and peter looked at you, wild eyed still, gripping your hand with his blue-tinged knuckles, and you

for a moment

you worried

but well?

but well,

the automatons would be there, and you’re there to keep them from breaking, you’re there to maintain them as they fight, you’re there to keep them battle worthy, rescue mission worthy, service worthy,

you’re important

you probably won't see front lines often 

but as peter looks you, frantic-eyed - grasping the depth of danger as his cane digs a hole in the mud,

you squeeze his hand back. “peter,” you repeat, “i’ll be home soon.”

and then the carriage starts forward, and peter steps back, and you turn away from him, because if you see his face fall, if you see him worried, you would 

worry.

you would worry

you don't think you can quite afford to worry

you don't worry is very good for War

*

(a long time later, he’d jab you in the ribs and say he never worried a second. but you both knew that was never going to be true)

(you both knew that was never once true)

*

war is

War is War

War is War

you write peter letters from the hangars they have you in, your hands are always stained with oil, always bruised with overwork. 

your robots come back battered from the field, and you have to work nights and days to keep them running. 

your robots come back with blood worked into their finger joints and shaking. 

your robots come back with oil streaks down their faceplates so stubborn you have to take the metal off and buff them clean.

you write peter letters and none of them are quite true

you let your robots write on your letters

and you think they’re more honest than you ever could be

peter is soft

peter can't know all this

he would never be able to handle all this

they send you to the front with the robots. they're working in the medical tents. they’re running the injured from the field to here. there are so many injured they can't afford to send them back to you for repairs.

there are so many bodies

there is blood on your pants

there is blood under your nails mixing with oil

there is blood

just blood

only blood

*

you don't see the combat often - not with your own two eyes

only when the robots are sent in

they aren't sent in often - they’re programmed for search and rescue, for moving cargo, for assistance

but they are also programmed for War

and you are holding a gun

you are, in fact, holding a gun

rabbit lights your cigarette with the flamethrower your father installed in [her] throat. [she] grins at you with copper teeth. 

“y-y-you’ll be fine, pete!” [she] says, “i’ve got a gatling gun!”

and [she] does

[she] does 

you put it on this morning. 

you take a drag of nicotine, and try to calm your nerves

it's War

it's War

it's War

*

you don't like preparing the bots for battle with their weapons. 

you and peter spent months readying them for the stage.

you don't like taking off rabbit's hand and swapping it out for the saw, even if [she] usually uses it to cut people out of certain death when they’re trapped

you don't like installing the gatling gun back onto [her] arm that you so carefully rewired to press keyboard buttons.

you don't like the way the spine stares into the distance, as you load battery cells into his tesla coil, 

you don't like the way the hatchworth has to awkwardly sit for you to access his ammunition storage.

you don't like how the jon shifts - nervous under your hands as you mount his rocket launcher, 

you don't like the way upgrade stares at you, as you refill her compartments of replacement parts - as you run ammunition into her guns

you and peter rebuilt them for the stage

you’re glad peter doesn't have to see them like this

you’re glad peter is home

you’re just glad peter is home

*

you and peter turned 22 last week

you’ve never been apart so long

the robots wanted to celebrate 

you just wanted to scream.

you’re glad peter's home

you are glad that peter is home

his letters are often

yours might be dwindling

he’s written you about a lady he met at an stageplay - mary is her name, she was one of the actresses - and he’s moving forward

you feel like you and the robots are only moving back

*

it's War

what else is there to say?

it's War

*

the robots save dozens of men

for their work you’re named a colonel. for their heroism you are rewarded.

colonel peter alexander walter iii. It distinguishes your name from your brothers for the first time in your life. But your father is a colonel. So perhaps it only confuses things more. 

peter's letter jokes about it, after 22 years, you can be colonel,

you can only feel sick

sick

sick

*

and then you go home

*

and then you go home. and you thought you would be able to go back to how it was

*

and then you go home and it feels like you’re suffocating in open air

*

peter is different. peter is older. you are older too but you feel like you’re drowning.

you can't handle people walking behind you.

you can't handle people slamming doors

you're angry. you’re angry all the time

and you thought it would be the same, but it's not

peter is different.

peter is courting a woman named mary mickleson. mary mickleson has run off from her family on a farm all the way in virginia, and, apparently, lives in peter’s room, here, here, here despite the fact she and him aren't married. 

“it makes sense, pete, she’s trying to make it big in acting, board is expensive,”

“she sleeps in your bed, peter,” you point out, you’re laying on the floor, and peter is staring down at you, arms crossed, and you—

you wish it were just how it was.

and peter stares at you, and you stare back, and you—

you cannot take any of this

“i’m here, now, you don't have to stall the wedding.” it comes out rough, angry, and you don't know why but you are, you are, at him, him and his dream life, while you feel like some rotting limb, stapled to him, that he has too drag around after him, and he—

and he sits next to you, on the floor, which you are still laying on, and his face is blue around the edges, more blue than before, and his black hair looks purple at the roots, and your hands aren’t stained with oil but his are blue to the knuckles, now, and—

and he lays next to you on the floor

and you feel like you’re falling further down anyway

“im not stalling anything, pete. she can't get married because her producer wants her to pretend to be having an affair with her co-star. she tells me it will end once the movie is out. publicity. but until then she needs to stay mickleson.”

“...and you’re fine with that?” you ask, aghast, pushing yourself up

“pete,” he looks up at you now, “i’d be fine with anything she gives me.”

you don't understand him anymore

and that's worse than him changing, really

that you don't understand him anymore

*

peter’s busy, 

peter’s busy and you can't stand it. mary takes him to shows, to plays, to operas, to sets, all across the state, and he said he would work on Steam Man Band with you, when you got back. would help you sequence and program more songs with the robots for them to sing, that he would help you with it

but he is busy

he is busy and you feel like you are only falling behind

the robots still sing, though, just like you and him built them too

they seem happier on stage

you wish you did

you wish you felt anything at all

*

you work. you work on songs with the robots. you want to get them back on stage regularly, 

you work until your hands are numb. you work until you collapse at your desk.

but peter is busy with mary. 

and you are busy with Steam Man Band

you feel like you are falling

or failing

or both

your father steps into your workshop, one night, he puts a hand on your shoulder, stands behind you, tousles your hair, and you are so tired you can hardly think to say

“i’m busy”

and your father pulls a second chair from the wall, sits next to you, and you feel like your lungs are going to burst they're so tight in your chest

you can't look at him

“son,” he says, and you’re his second, you’re his reclusive one, you’re the one who can't get over War, you’re the one who—

“pete,” he says again, and you look over at him, and he’s worried, you’re worrying him, you’re worrying everyone, you’re—

“have you ever thought about attending college?” he asks, and—

and no, no you haven’t, really, but..

“yes.” you say, instead of the truth, because maybe taking initiative is good. 

your father raises an eyebrow, but you keep his gaze, and he squeezes your shoulder again,

“good. because i think you should enroll next semester. you need to do something other than sit in this workshop.”

and you want to protest, you don't want to leave again but

but you nod instead

because you’d do whatever he wants to if it means being more than his second son

being more than a warped reflection of your brother

*

then: 

you go to college. 

you go to college and that's when your life really starts again

it's in a mathematics class that you sort of despise, that a man who takes a seat next to you introduces himself - he has long black hair tied up behind him, a sharp jaw, and green eyes so green you think they can't be real

and that's when you meet Him

and that's when He meets you

“Lovely to meet you,” He says, after you cough out an awkward hello at His greeting, “My name is Ignatius, Ignatius Becile,” 

and as He says it it's like lightning

or perhaps fire

because you stare

you stare

“oh,” you say, to Him, to Him, to Him, “um, peter. peter walter. the third.”

and you can see it in His face, that He recognizes it, but His smile doesn’t waver, if anything it grows,

“Well Peter,” He greets, He greets and He adds an r, and had you ever been called peter with an r before then? “I hope we can get through this class together,” He tilts his head sideways at the professor, who, admittedly, is a bit bumbling, “I haven't much faith in the faculty…”

and you laugh, and He sets His books on the table beside you, and you—

you let Him

you let Him

*

(and that's when everything started, really

you sort of wish you’d punched Him then

but you never would have

you never ever would have, 

you know you never ever would have)

*

Him

Him

Him

Ignatius Becile. your father's enemies son. Ignatius Becile. He’s a few years older than you. Ignatius Becile. Ignatius Becile. Ignatius Becile.

He’s perhaps the first friend you’ve ever had that wasn’t also peter's. 

He’s perhaps the first friend you’ve ever had that didn’t compare you to peter.

He’s brilliant. He’s smarter than you think you ever could be. He invites you to His lodging, gets you a glass of whiskey, and you talk, you smoke, and you’re friends

you’re friends

there's no mary needling into conversations, spiriting Him away

there's no robots causing an incident you need to fix before something explodes

there's just Him

and the thing is you—

you do rather like His company.

*

peter writes you weekly. 

you write him as often as you can between classes.

this is not the longest you’ve gone without seeing him.

he mentions mary. 

he mentions mother

he mentions father

you do not mention Ignatius.

*

peter. your brother peter. your sweet brother peter who never saw War. your sweet stupid brother with a woman who’s still not marrying him as her dreams unfold on camera.

peter, peter walter the second

your wonderful brother better than you’ll ever be. home running the business with father while you’ve been sent here

your wonderful brother who your father looks at like he's something still

your suave brother whose woman draws looks from every man watching the silver screen

your soft brother who never saw bodies and heard bullets hailing

your brother 

your brother who your father likes, rather than is nervous for

your brother who you miss like a gored open wound

your brother who was growing tired of you

your brother who you were too much for now, now that you can't stop thinking about death and bullets and War. 

now that he was the only one who could pull you from your head,

your brother who is hundreds of miles away

you write him as often as you can

you do not mention Ignatius

*

Ignatius has a son, you learn. a son. you learn when you duck into His house after a late science class, bottle of whiskey already in hand, intending to drink away the night with him as you oft to, only to find Him sitting on His sofa with a very small boy. 

Ignatius tells the child to stay, as He pulls you away, into the hall

you are sort of just standing there, as Ignatius paces up and down his hall, explaining, irate, with red-flushed cheeks and wide-eyes that the boy was at His cousins, but she’s refusing to watch the boy further, too busy with her own new baby, and so he’s been sent up here with only a letter and last month's money He sent down, and you—

you loop your arm through His, and say,

“Ignatius,” His name rolls off your tongue, “lets get you a drink, and then we’ll clear out your office, get him a bed in the morning, the couch will do for a night,” and you can feel Him, tense, tense as a live wire, as overwound clockwork, you can practically feel His butterfly pulse under your hand, but He lets you, He lets you, He sags sideways, lets you walk Him to His work desk, lets you shrug His coat off His shoulders, still on from hours earlier when you saw Him this morning,

“You’re right Peter,” He says, “You’re always right. Thank you. Of course. Yes.”

you pour Him a drink, as the child stares at you with eyes as green as his Father's from the couch. he’s.. perhaps three or four, nebulously between the two. 

a son.

well

at least a son won’t actively convince Him you’re insane, like a brothers betrothed might

*

Ignatius calls you peter. peter with an r. 

peter with an r. 

your brother has always been peter with an r. you’ve always been pete. 

the second with the name. the third to be called it. peter was born first, pete, it's only fair you get the nickname, as second child, second child,

Ignatius calls you peter with an r. 

you’ve always just wanted someone to just look at you and see you, and not a paler, shakier, angrier version of your brother who never went to War 

certainly peter-with-an-r is sicker than you, 

certainly he’s never been as strong as you, with joints that don't work very well, just enough so he was useless to the draft, 

certainly he’s soft, academic to your inventor, theoretical to your doing, he’s ideas, he’s wonder — he never would have made it in the War

but you are twins

but you are twins

and the thing is

he’s peter-with-an-r

and he’s, probably, the better one

certainly so after the War

certainly so now that you are here, here, at college, downing whiskey with the son of your father's enemy

you are the third peter walter. 

and you are here,

not there, not home, not clinging white-knuckled to your brother to feel real again,

not there, not looking your mother in the eyes after a day locking yourself in the basement with the robots, while your brother was out in the park with his lady,

not there, with peter-with-an-r, with peter, your peter, your peter,

you are not there

you are here,

here, with Him

and to Him, you are peter. not pete. not the second. not the third. 

for once you are just peter

and your peter isn't here 

but He is

He is,

and you wish peter were here, you do, with every breath crushed out of your lungs, you wish peter were here,

you don't hardly know how to exist without him,

but here you're peter

and you’re here

with Him

Ignatius Becile

Ignatius Becile

Ignatius Becile

He’s smart. 

He’s charming.

He doesn't look at you and see peter in off-color. He doesn’t look at you and see the warped version of your reflection. He doesn't look at you and see peter but broken

He looks at you 

and just sees

peter-with-an-r

he just sees you

*

He talks about elephants and giraffes like it's a buried hatchet, and not your father's story he tells at lunch, grandiose, victorious,

He talks about it as water beneath a crumbling bridge, history, and not a topic that makes the robots quiet and talk quietly between themselves,

He talks about it and not everything that colored His world, because every moment of it colored yours

you grew up around your father, grandiose talking points about mines, and environmental disaster, and theivery, and crimes, 

you grew up around your father tight-lipped until your mother leaves the room, talking about delilah morreo and how brilliant she was, how he’d fight a war in her name again,

you grew up with every moment colored by giraffes and blue, blue, blue,

and He makes it seem like it's nothing - a funny story between a dead man, and an alive one

He makes it seem like it’s nothing

and you sit there, as He toasts you to the future, and realize,

it is nothing, isn’t it? what was your father thinking? what was His father thinking? it's business of the past, the dead, the damned,

you and Him?

you and Him are the future

*

you still write peter as often as you can,

you still don't mention Ignatius as much as you ought to,

a friend, you call Him, my friend,

my friend 

because He's the son of thaddeus becile

because your father would snap, lose his mind, run his fuse to the powder,

because your father would drag you home back to that house and peter and his perfect life with mary,

and there you are you are nothing but a duplicate of someone less ruined than yourself

and there you are pete

but here 

here you are peter-with-an-r

you still wish peter was here

but not as much as you used to

Ignatius is your friend

and you don't need peter as much here as you do at home

you’re starting to wonder if you need him at all

after all, you have Him now

you have Him now

*

Ignatius’ son is sweet. he’s sweet, and smart. you will give him that. his name is norman becile. and more often than not, you have been roped into childwatching at the hours when Ignatius has class, and you do not. 

you’ve watched the boy disassemble and reassemble a clockwork bird you built approximately a thousand times now. it keeps him entertained well enough while you scratch down essays at His desk, which now lives in the living space, though the birds twisted chirping is albeit a bit distracting. 

the boy is smart. 

he also follows you somewhat like a puppy around the house

you’ve learned his favorite foods, and how to read him to sleep when he’s particularly hyper at night, and Ignatius is still out late

you don't mind him as much as you originally thought you might,

he’s a sweet child

*

Ignatius and you spend the nights listening to the radio, complaining of classes, tinkering with half-built machines, drinking, and smoking

the boy sleeps early enough, (and sound enough) that the nights are at least yours,

on most days you both end up laughing so hard over some nonsense you can't breathe

on most days it's nice

*

on other days it isn't. 

you’re standing beside Him, 

He has been pacing the halls for hours, you only got Him sitting when you promised you’d spend the night here, that you won't leave, that you won't leave Him,

His nerves are getting to Him, tests soon, end of the semester melancholic panic

first He tells you He’s been having nightmares

(you have those - bodies and bullets)

(oil caked in layers on your hands)

“about the War?” you ask, you ask, because you can only assume He fought, was drafted, but He shakes His head, harsh, and you pry His fingers from His palms, where His nails crowd crescents into His skin, 

“No, Peter, no, not the war,” He manages once you’ve linked His hand in yours, you don't know how else to make Him stop short of forcibly cutting his too-long nails in the midst of whatever this is, “I was hardly in it,” 

and you can see the way His shoulders are shaking, and you wonder if peter felt like this whenever you pounded on his door in the night, 

(you would, 

you would do that,

too often, perhaps, 

you would pound on peter's door, until the he swung it open, 

until peter stared at you, blocking his room, 

you could always still see his mary staring at you from peter's bed, her hair done up in curlers, livid again at you, 

for doing this again, 

again,

you keep doing this,

and peter would have to walk you back to your room as you shook,

as you couldn't stop the words pouring from your lips, peter the only thing holding you up as you legs threatened to give beneath you,

and peter would have to sit you down on your bed, stay there until you remembered how to breathe around the gunsmoke that never really left your throat, 

he’d need to hold your sobbing body against his, and you’d just wish he could stay, stay, stay like you used to when he was young and couldn't sleep, stay like you did when you’d stay in his bed and fight his dragons with wooden swords until the sun rose,

but once he was sure you weren’t going to collapse in on yourself, he’d leave, he’d always leave, leave you, return to his room with you in the dark, for mary, mary, mary, 

you wonder if this is how peter felt.

when you did all that)

“yeah?” you say, as Ignatius looks at you with wild eyes, wet eyes, cornered, 

“I was raised by my aunt, Peter, because my father was killed by his—” Ignatius stuttered, as He spoke, then, 

(and, you know now, you know and this is the last time you could have backed out,

and you should have, you should have,

but instead)

you hold his hand as tight as you can, as he leans into you, shaking like the winter has wormed into His bones, 

and you

knew then

you knew, as you exhale, sharp, panicked,

that He trusts you

“I don't— he’d said she was his wife, Peter, he’d said she was his wife, my mother- was dead, by then, a fever, years prior, I was young, perhaps five, six, but— he’d—”

and you knew, as you pulled Him against you, clumsy about His elbows, awkward, you’ve never held anyone, peter never needed to be held, never since he was small, and you’re out of practice,

but you knew,

you trusted him too

(you held him, then

that night,

you held him,)

“She was tall, too tall, Peter, my father was short, Peter, but she was— she towered, beside him, and her hair was brown, matted, like a— like a street dog, all— it was falling out, manged, and her hands— he was holding one of hers, as she stood there, it was too long, Peter, and her eyes were wrong, all green, there was only green, I don't know what he did, Peter, but he’d— there was something wrong with her.”

He’d fallen against you then, clawing with His free hand at your back, shuddering, 

and you are all He has, you think

you are all He has,

“I don’t know what I saw, Peter, I don't, I was too young, I think, but she— he took her out of the basement, of that house, he had then. I was never allowed down. But Peter—” 

and His voice breaks, shatters like a splintering piece of wood, cracking, “He called her his wife, Peter, and her face it— cracked? twisted?” 

“Ignatius,” you say, and you don't know what to say, but He’s shaking and you—

what would peter do? you think, hate yourself for it, that even now, you look to him, 

but you don't know how to help, you don't know what to do other than keep His hand in your own, than to wrap your other arm around Him,

“Peter, no, listen, please,” and He’s shaking, “Tell me I'm insane, if I am, Peter, he called her his wife, and she turned, more- more than something living can, it was when he said wife, and her eyes, Peter, I remember seeing his shadow on the wall, the light from them was so bright as she— reached into him? and pulled— out his heart, Peter, his blood, Peter, it— the woman, the thing, it drank his blood, it ate his heart, it— if I am insane Peter, tell me, please, and then it looked at me and it—”

He's looking at you, now eyes wide, hair a mess, shaking, shaking,

“I was sure it would kill me, too, but it dropped him, my father, as it saw me, and— I don't— I don't know, Peter, I-”

but you know.

you know.

your father told you as much

what green matter does to those who it infests

(and you know, looking back now, at this moment, you chose what would happen from here,

you offered him the apple,)

“your father was thaddeus becile,” you say, as He shudders there, in your arms, “and— Ignatius? I think I have a rather certain idea, what that was,”

(you offered him the apple, and with desperation he bit into it.)

*

green matter. He knew of it, of course He did, but His father died when He was so small much of the details hardly stuck. 

He knew of mines, He knew of elephants, He knew his aunt had told Him it ruined His father's mind, 

and you tell Him all of it you know

and the story comes together as He stops shaking, quite so terribly

His expression changes, as everything slots together,

you don't know who that woman is, was, went,

but your father showed you photos, once, when you asked, of the twisted bodies of the poor men who operated the elephants, 

too long, green he said, crystals growing from their guts, glowing, from the photos,

and you can tell, as He asks question after question, a desperate sort of recognition, that the box is open, and hope sleeps still inside. 

*

of course

well

you know what happens

*

and then:

He founds becile Industries once He graduates

and He does graduate before you

*

you stay in touch, of course you do, of course you do

it's Him

but

well - that only lasts so long

your father finds a letter first, signed with love, Ignatius Becile, when you’re downstairs, finds your photos, of you, of Him, soon after, he drags you to the table where it's all laid out, 

“what is this, pete,” is all he’d said to you, cold, cold, cold,

and

well

it's damning

of course it is

of course it was

you’d taken photos with him when you went on an overseas trip to one of the candy mines, under the guise of wanting to see where your father spend so much time fighting,

there's a photo of Him holding a crystal with His smile,

there’s a photo you had taken of the two of you in front of the 25 year old remnants of an elephant,

there’s photos of quite a lot of things,

and your father screams himself hoarse when you fail to justify any of it with anything beyond,

He’s my friend,

(and it's not as if the way He’s holding you in some of those photos particularly reflects that word)

(a friend)

and peter

and peter

and peter

and peter stands frozen next to him, staring at you like he doesn't even know you,

perhaps he doesn't

you didn't mention Him in your letters

and your father tells you to get out

and peter says nothing

and your mother tries to talk, rushes after you,

but you’re already out the door

*

you go to Him

of course you do

you show up at His house, it's not far, and you’ve been many times, He answers, sees you, 

you,

you,

and

“Peter?” He says, as you fall forward, against Him, with nothing but a name that isn’t even yours, with nothing at all left, and He shuts the door, and

and this time it's Him, walking you to somewhere to sit, Him letting you scream furious tears about your father, your brother, your life into His chest,

and it's Him who says “You’re staying,” it's firm, with the sort of finality He only gets when He’s furious,

and you look up, on His couch, His hands in yours, 

“what?” you say, 

and He puts a hand to your cheek, and says, “Of course you’re are, Peter, of course you are,”

and you do

and He kisses you

and you were always going to stay,

and you were always going to stay

*

you spend months with Him, 

you try to forget, 

forget peter's empty eyes, forget the harrowed look on your mother's face as she reached for you as you turned, forget the way your father snapped, snapped, snapped, 

and you manage too,

mostly,

you manage to until peter's wedding invitation, and a desperate apologizing letter arrive at His door, 

Ignatius stops you from tearing it up, 

“Peter,” He holds it away, the invitation, as you pace, shaking you’re so angry, shaking at the audacity, shaking at the everything,

until He catches your hand, “Peter, you miss him,”

and

and peter says pete, you’re my brother,

and peter says pete, please come home

and peter says pete, mom is sick with worry,

and peter says pete, father’s getting sicker, 

and peter says pete, the robots miss you

and peter says pete, i’m sorry, im so sorry

and peter says pete, i can't do this without you,

and peter says pete you’re my brother, 

and peter says pete, im getting married

and peter says pete, i want you to be my best man

and

He takes you, He takes you close, and He tells you, “Peter, go be his best man.”

and you say

“only if he lets me bring You”

and He looks at you, He looks at you, and says, “Okay, Peter, okay,”

*

you meet with peter before the wedding,

he holds you like he hasn’t in years

you forgot, you think

you forgot that he needs you as much as you need him

when you say you’ll be his best man if and only if Ignatius can attend he says yes without hesitation,

he missed you

he’s your brother

you missed him

*

you bring Him to your brother's wedding. 

it's your compromise

your father shakes His hand

your brother marries Mary

it goes better than you thought it would

*

you bring Him home with you

you walk him through the doors of your manor

(your brothers manor)

and

and do i even need to say it?

you know how this goes

*

you introduce him to the robots

you don't catch the look he has as he shakes rabbit's hand

you don't catch any of it at all

do i even need to say it?

you know just how this goes

*

He gets more ambitious

you start to catch that

at first you think it's harmless, as He makes deals that would have peter swooning at the money involved,

at first you think it's nothing, as He starts experimenting further with green matter, 

“Peter, I’m not my father,” He says to you over a drink, “I won’t overdue it, I’m not going to get anyone killed,”

you know exactly how this goes.

*

He gets less careful,

you absolutely catch that, 

He has norman working with green matter now, and he’s still a teenager, and you tell Him that's a bad idea, but He waves off your concern

says He knows what he’s doing

you know exactly how this goes,

*

He gets more ruthless

you have absolutely no idea what to think of that,

He undercuts your brother in an auction, He snipes staff from under you,

you ask Him what He’s doing, sharp, after peter tells you,

He tells you it's just business, peter, it's just good business,

you tell Him it's not just business, it's your brothers livelihood, its your home, it's your robots, it's your life,

and you know, you know, exactly how this goes. 

*

He’s different, He’s different, and you can't hardly talk to Him,

His eyes were never this green before

you don't recognize Him, and as He greets you, after having undercut your family out of a major buyer, with a smile,

you tell Him to never talk to you again, over shaking hands, you tell Him to never talk to you again, you’re done, you’re done

peter has no idea how he’s going to keep the money in the green

and you have never felt more sick

and He has the audacity to look hurt

He has the audacity to ask why,

and you know

exactly

how

this

goes

His eyes are far too green

*

He knows how to get into the manor

you gave Him a key

and the spine tells you, louder than you’ve ever heard him, that He took rabbit, 

you know

exactly

how this is going to go

*

you and peter go get ready,

your niece wanda’s husband, a professor, a young man you quite like, volunteers himself with you, 

the spine is sparking and glitching, as you get everyone into the car,

you know where He is going to be

*

you're standing in front of Him,

norman is behind Him, next to rabbit, rabbit, who is strapped to a table, rabbit who is pried open, rabbit who is sobbing, 

Ignatius looks at you, His arms crossed, 

“Peter,” He greets, “I thought you wanted nothing to do with Me?” 

He tilts his head, feigning innocence as Rabbit screams, 

and peter is next to you, 

and peter is seething, you’ve never seen him this mad in your life, 

and everything has fallen apart, 

“Ignatius,” you say, “just— give us rabbit,”

you know Him, you know Him so well, you can- you’re sure you can talk him down, He’s—

there is something wrong with Him

the roots of His hair burn green against His hairline, and this isn't Him, you think, He’d never do this,

but as He steps forward, His eyes are green, green, all green, 

and you know

you know what green matter poisoning looks like, 

“just— Ignatius, i’ll— i’m sorry,”

and you can talk Him down

you can get Him away from His lab,

and you should have done something—

and He falters a moment, wavering, and you see Him, He’s still there, you can, you can fix this, fix Him, maybe, you can—

you can talk Him down

“No you’re not,” He says, “Peter, I think you made yourself very clear, last time we talked, I don't even need the robot for long, I just need to figure out how it works, I’ll give it right back—”

and you can still see Him

but peter never knew Him

and peter snaps, you see it in his eyes, next to you, as he abruptly lunges, and—

and Ignatius pulls a lever

and you always knew how this was going to end

and Ignatius pulls the lever

and everything

goes 

blue

fractal lightning blue

and everything goes fractal brilliant blue

you fall, you fall, your head splitting, falling inversed,

and you scream, as peter—

and you scream, as guy—

and you scream,

and you break,

and as the fog clears

and

and your brother is gone

and your nephew in law is gone

and you can't move

and you can't move

but you hear Him, you hear Ignatius, you hear Him, as you manage to find your body, as you manage to get an arm under you, your left isn't moving right, you stand, you stand and the spine is next to rabbit, 

and your brother is

and peter is

and it is just you

just you and Ignatius

and there is nothing left

and Ignatius has killed your brother

and He’s killed your twin brother

and

and rabbit is sobbing - and the spine is sparking

and norman is only blood

and Ignatius falls to his knees

and Ignatius is shaking

and Ignatius has killed your brother

and Ignatius’s arm is only blood

and you don't

care

*

(this was always going to happen)

*

you’re home again, eventually

in the manor that is yours

not peter's

because peter is dead

and your nieces husband is dead

and your brothers son is the only one who can fix rabbit, because you can hardly get out of bed, and

and your brother is dead

and Ignatius killed him

*

things keep on

and your brother is dead

*

peter's daughter hasn't stopped crying

peter's daughter has lost just as much as you

peter's daughter is the last thing you care about, right now

*

you bring mark up into your office, the office that was peter's, and you tell him that you and him need to get all this together. 

you tell him things are going to be hard

you tell him you know his wife just died three years ago, but his father is dead, now

and he’s got to be a man, now

he’s got to help run the company, now

and mark looks at you, he looks at you, with hollowed eyes, his father just buried, 

and nods

*

money gets worse.

*

money gets worse, 

and mark crashes his cadillac into the ocean

you can hardly move your left arm, you can hardly even work, after the stroke

you can't care for his son

and wanda can hardly care for herself

the boy is placed elsewhere

on top of everything, the boy is placed elsewhere

*

and money gets even worse.

*

norman shows up at your doorstep one evening, he’s hardly 26, and he can hardly walk

you let him in. of course you do.

you watched him grow up.

he tells you his Father kicked him out

he tells you his Father can't handle him

he tells you a lot of things

he tells you he has no idea where else he can go

he can't work anymore, he says between tears, he can hardly think anymore, and

well

he was always sort of your stepson

*

Then He writes you a letter

Then Ignatius writes you a letter

and you are in a wind tunnel, the moment you see the stamp

He doesn’t make sense in the letter, words formatted oddly, sentence structure off, and you know, 

you know he’s not Him anymore

you know He’s too far gone to green matter, and whats left of Him is all but an animated corpse

but you are in a wind tunnel

and it is 1955

and peter is dead

and really

what on earth do you have left to lose?

he has an offer, and it's enough money that it would fix everything, everything, it would get you out of debt, it would pay for norman’s surgeries, it would pay enough to get things running again

your father is dead

your brother is dead

your nephew is dead

your niece is crumbling apart

and the only price is letting him into kazooland

the only price is letting him in

and what

do you

have left

to lose?

he wants out of this world, and he wants into another. he wants somewhere new, 

he's ruined it all here, he writes, in lilted handwriting so different from the swooping cursive He would write in so long ago, he’s ruined it all here, peter, 

he wants somewhere else

and

well?

you shouldn't say yes

he killed your brother

but

you loved Him

you loved Him

you write him back

you accept his deal

and He’s not there, not behind those all-green eyes as you shake his hand, when you tell him how to enter kazooland, because the person who’s hand you are shaking is not Him

you remember being 24 years old, when there was still light

you remember holding Him in that college apartment,

and you think

no, you know

you know that could have talked Him down, in that room with peter,

He still loved you

he still loves you now, somewhere, even if he’s arrested not a month later for trying to pay someone to break into your manor

he wouldn't have written otherwise

but He is as good as dead

ignatius is not Him anymore

*

and peter is still dead

and you’re tired

and ignatius lashes out, like a animal in death throws, he does

he’s arrested,

and then you’re in court all the time, looking at him, him as his hair grows in green, as his skin is a sickly infected green, 

and you are tired

and you’ve never been more tired

and you miss Him

but He is gone

*

norman testifies in court

and you are tired

*

the stress is getting to you

and your hair has never been more blue

what a pair you both turned into?

you have never been more tired

*

you can feel this splintering you. 

you can feel it

you don't sleep well, the nightmares of bodies and bullets returned,

you don't eat, everything tastes like ash,

*

and finally:

you’re in your office, 

your arm hurts, 

your chest feels tight, hurting,

you chalk it up the stroke until you put your head down, and realize,

and realize,

that probably,

you are going to die

but peter is already, 

and your mother is already,

and your father is already,

and, in every way that matters, He is already,

and

you have nothing left to lose

and

you die

and

time marches on

*