noonelaughed | Dated Monday, August 8th, post ageswap

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Dated Monday, August 8th, post ageswap

The weekend was fucked.

Chris remembers all of it, though. He remembers waking up as a kid, he remembers being little again and not knowing where his mum and and dad were. He remembers, even as a little kid on the island, liking the fish in his hut most of all, all the bright colors of the tropical ones and how they fit in with the duller colored-ones. He'd been worried about missing cubs, and about whether or not he'd be able to get his knots right when he was stuck on an island and not able to practice properly.

It's all fucked, and when he wakes up as himself again, the age he's supposed to be, it's all still stuck with him, the fact that just twenty-four hours ago, he hadn't remembered about Peter, or his mum or his dad or any of it. In some ways, he kind of wishes he could have stayed that way, not remembering how everything'd gone for him. Maybe he could have lived it over again and done it right this time and not been such a fuck up.

It's back to normal now though, and Chris decides to head up to the compound to see try and find people he knows, to make sure they've all changed back as well. At least that's one good thing about when the island decides to fuck around with them all: it's generally good about putting things right in the end.

He doesn't make it far though, before he sees it.

It's sitting there behind his hut like it belongs there, stone and solid, and if it had eyes it'd be staring back at him, it would.

Peter Miles
Brother, Son and Angel

There's even a bunch of flowers on the ground like his mum's just been there. Like somehow, she's found Peter's grave on the island but didn't think enough to come and shake him awake to say 'hi' to him. Everything's back to normal, alright.

Chris doesn't even remember walking towards it, or sitting down on the ground there, but the next thing he knows, he has. Before he knows it he's rolling a joint, remembering again how his little fingers were never able to do the knots properly, but how they've always been able to at least do this.

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It was a difficult weekend. Somehow that doesn't register with Olive until it's over, she's so wrapped up in taking care of her friends, looking out for Eduardo, checking in on Chris. Trying to juggle it all, it was tough, but she managed, telling herself it would end eventually, and in the meantime, they'd needed her. She's never been able to say no to that.

When she wakes up a teenager again, she's more grateful to be eighteen than she's been since her birthday, but her responsibilities aren't at an end yet. She doesn't head out to Chris' right away — there are things to do at home now that everything's not all messed up, and admittedly, for a little while, she's not thinking about anything she should be doing elsewhere — but after breakfast, it's one of her first stops. He doesn't answer the door when she knocks, though, so she steps back, calling "Chris?" She nearly leaves before she catches sight of him as she's walking off, swerving in her course at once. "Hey."

He hears Olive's voice, but doesn't look up at her right away, concentrating instead on his fingers and on making sure he's got just the right amount of spliff settled in the bend of paper. It used to be easy to get the amount wrong, back when he was first learning, but now it's fuckin' second nature. Maybe not like breathing or anything, but he reckons he could do it with his eyes closed if someone asked him to.

"Hey," he says, "Guess everyone's back to normal then, yeah?"

"Yup." Everyone, but not everything, Olive thinks, because as she remembers it, there wasn't a tombstone in Chris' backyard before. It's the kind of thing she thinks she would have noticed or that would have come up at some point, and it leaves her instinctively wary. Even so, she sinks down to sit cross-legged in front of him, hands clapping down on her knees. "Order is restored, I am no longer a cougar, and you seem to be back to normal, so... you remember it all? Seemed like it was... messing around with people's memories some there."

"Yeah, mostly," Chris replies, and as much as he's trying not to think about how great it'd been to not have to think about all the shit he's got on his mind now— about Peter and his mum and dad— he's glad everything's back to the way it was before. Satisfied with the way the spliff's sitting, he starts to roll it up, fingers moving easily over the paper.

"Thanks, though. Y'know, for the weekend. I know you could've been off doing loads of other stuff instead."

Olive shakes her head. "No, it's fine," she says. "I wasn't just going to leave you all on your own like that." If she'd been a little more sure of herself, she would have invited him to stay with her until it all passed, but she promised Eduardo it would be just them, that they'd keep to themselves. She's a little sorry for it now, watching the way Chris just sits and goes on like nothing's out of the ordinary, until she starts to wonder if she imagined that thing wasn't here before. Maybe she's always missed it.

God, no, she's not that blind. Or dumb. And the name she can make out behind him isn't one she knows, but it makes her blood run cold as she imagines the possibilities. "Chris, how long has that been here?"

"Dunno," he says with a shrug, and it's true, even if he could probably make a guess if he tried. "It was there when I woke up, so maybe all weekend."

Chris hadn't noticed it while he was little the past few days, but that's not all that surprising, really. He'd been more concerned about the fish and exploring and shit than whether or not the tombstone behind the hut belonged to his brother.

"Is it —" Olive stops, biting her lip so hard she thinks, for a moment, she might draw blood. She won't, she knows she won't, but it feels like it. How he can just go on like things are normal, she doesn't know. But then, what else is he supposed to do, cry and throw a fit? The island is cruel, she's learning that, if not to her, then to the people she loves, and sometimes all there is to do is to keep going like that isn't true. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"Yeah... um, yeah, I did," Chris says, and he licks the paper to seal the joint before pulling a lighter out of his pocket. He's using one of the good papers that he got back in January, so he'll burn the crease with the lighter.

"Guess this place thinks I forgot about him, or somethin'."

"Well, that's stupid," Olive says. It's horrible, is what it is, a deliberate and mean attempt to fuck with Chris, and it's infuriating, that anyone or anything could use his brother's death against him. Of course he hasn't forgotten. She may not know a thing about it, but she knows Chris and she knows what it's like to have a brother, and there's no way in hell he's forgotten. "I mean, he was your brother, that's... God, Chris, I am so sorry." She doesn't know, she can't fathom, what she would do if it were her, if Chip or Kale died. The idea, the hypothetical, is painful enough all on its own.

Of course, Chris could never forget about Peter. It's fuckin' mental to think that he would. Peter had been the nicest bloke anyone could ever hope to meet-- he'd definitely been the nicest person Chris had ever known, anyway.

But he's been through all this already, ages ago back when it first happened and every time he visited the grave back home.

"Yeah, well, it was years ago, though, wasn't it?" he says, and gestures back toward the date on the headstone before he burns the crease of the joint to seal it properly.

"But still," Olive starts, then lets it drop, unsure how to continue. He knows all this, knows how it works, how it feels, in ways she can only half-imagine. She doesn't really even want to try. Something like that has to be devastating, and while life goes on, she's not sure she really believes anyone ever gets over something like that. She doesn't believe Chris has either, but she knows a dismissal when she hears one; it's not something he wants to talk about, though the island's making it difficult to avoid. "Can I ask what happened?"

Chris fumbles with the joint, shifting it between his fingers as he looks down at the ground instead of up at Olive.

"It was a... um, it was a head thing. With his brain," Chris says, and taps two fingers against the side of his own head. Something Claire said to him a few months ago pops into his head, but he pushes the thought away. This is all fucked.

Olive nods, biting her lip and look down, too. "I'm sorry," she says, quick after a moment's silence. "I know that doesn't... help anything, but I am, and... We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but there's kind of a, a giant conversation piece in your yard. And if you do want to... you know, I'm good at listening." She doesn't want to make him uncomfortable or upset him, both of which she figures are inevitable with the topic, but he shouldn't have to deal with this all by himself either.

"Yeah," Chris says, and for a second, actually acknowledges the headstone behind him, twisting around to look at it for a second. Somebody'll ask him about it before long, most likely. It's not as if Chris has always got people coming by his hut other than his mates, but still, someone's bound to ask.

"D'you reckon I should try to find a way to get it moved to the graveyard?"

Somehow, though, it seems wrong to do anything with it, like it's already in its proper place.

Olive considers that for a moment, then, biting her lip, shakes her head. "I mean, if you think you should," she says. "I can look into it for you, if you want. But I don't know. He's your brother. Kind of seems wrong to put it with all those strangers." If it were anyone she loved — God, she'd hate the reminder, having to see it every day, but that hurt would be there, she thinks, even without something to see and bring it all back.

"No, you're right," Chris replies, because getting someone to move it'll turn into a problem for someone else. It's probably fuckin' heavy, and the graveyard's like... miles or something, almost on the other side of the island.

The joint feels awkward in his hands, so he lights it, mostly for something to do with his hands. He inhales, breath shaky before he says anything else, the joint hanging from his lips.

"It'll stay. I just... I dunno. I dont' fuckin' know, Olive."

Olive bites her lip, shifting to sit beside him, her head on his shoulder. She hates not having an answer for him, but there probably isn't one out there in any world, not for this, and all she knows how to do is be close. It hurts, knowing someone she loves has to go through this, that she can't protect her friends, but at least she can be here for him.

"I don't think anyone really knows how to deal with it," she says. "What was he like? Your brother."

"Peter?" Chris asks, knowing that it's an empty question. He looks at the joint in his hand for a long moment, at the thin wisp of smoke rising into the air.

"Nicest bloke you could ever meet, really. Everyone loved him. Two of you probably would have gotten along, actually."

Peter'd gotten along with most everyone, come to think of it. Sometimes, Chris wondered whether or not the wrong brother had gone first. Only sometimes, though, mostly because in the end, all that hadn't mattered too much.

"I bet," Olive says, quiet. It's not an empty statement; she believes Chris entirely. There's a degree to which what he says could just be sibling loyalty, but mostly, she just believes him, and it's just unfair. She doesn't need to know how old Peter was to know he was too young to go, that Chris was too young to have to deal with a loss like that. "If he was anything like you, I would've loved him."

The island seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief that morning, everyone's bodies returned to normal— age, sex, and all. Claire knows that comparatively speaking, she's had little to deal with. Sure, waking up as Maxxie threw her for a loop, but the shock of it quickly pales when one considers people who had age lumped on top of everything else. Whose minds hurtled back in time, whose memories erased. If there's anything Claire can't imagine, it's the stress of that, of having forgotten lessons learned long ago. (Or, even, simply the burden of having that weight rushing in again.)

Which is why, after a minute of basking in being able to wear her own clothing again, Claire sets out to look for Chris.

If there's one thing she doesn't expect, it's to spot him sitting next to a grave.

Walking over and not saying a word, Claire sinks down to the ground next to Chris, eyes grazing over the name— and that's all she really needs to know.

Chris honestly doesn't remember how much of Claire he saw over the weekend. He'd been focused on a bunch of other stuff, really: on exploring, on watching the fish, on wondering whether or not his mum and dad would show up to take him home. But it seems like just about everyone he knows ended up changed.

"S'pose everyone's all gone back to normal today," he says, looking up at Claire for only a moment before he goes back to making sure he hasn't put too much spliff in the joint.

Her eyes linger on the joint, wanting to pull it away, but maybe this isn't the right time. Or maybe it is— Claire has a hard time telling these days, biting at her lower lip as she watches the easy motions, practiced, like he's done this a million times. The indecision, Claire thinks to herself, is always what results in life unraveling itself over time. Can't deny him whatever amount of relief he might get from the pot. Can't help thinking that the longer he indulges himself, the greater chance that something else will go wrong. It's an impasse, and merely standing at it makes Claire feel like she's on the cusp of breaking into tears— she can't imagine how it must feel on Chris' side.

Nudging herself closer, she gives the headstone a wary look before she tries to reach out for Chris' hand, running her own down the side of his arm before she leans in, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Things are never really normal around here," she says softly.

He'll grab her hand eventually, but not just yet. Not while his fingers are busy rolling the spliff into a neat little cylinder. He doesn't have a lot of these rolling papers left, and it'd be a fuckin' shame to waste one just now.

Satisfied he's got just the right amount settled there in the slight bend of the paper, he starts to roll it.

"Did I ever tell you how Peter was my mum and dad's favorite?" he asks her without looking over.

That's the sort of thing all kids dread and fear, Claire thinks quietly to herself, even as she pulls over to sit closer to Chris, until their arms touch, until she can see every lash and the way they seem turned down to hide his eyes from view. Parents are supposed to love unconditionally, equally, and while Claire can't say that she's felt anything but from her own adoptive parents, she remembers how it felt to watch her biological father turn up and turn away the thought of even meeting her at all. There's a part of her that wants to tell Chris that it can't be true, that no parent would be unable to love someone like him, but she doesn't know that. She's never met them.

And if there's something that Claire can't do, it's offer comfort in the form of lies or uncertainties.

"No," she answers quietly, falling silent for a moment. "Maybe... maybe they were just afraid. Even adults can run from what scares them."

"No, it's okay," Chris replies, looking over, and there's no bitterness in his voice at all as he says it. He pauses for a second, then runs his tongue along the edge of the joint to seal it. He's fumbling the joint between his fingers before he talks again.

"You would've fuckin' loved Peter. Pretty much everyone did. Nicest person you could ever meet."

"Hey," she quickly replies, not quite wanting to interrupt, but needing Chris to understand her nonetheless. It's hard to imagine someone kinder than Chris, but in a way it makes sense too, that his older brother might have rivaled him in that much. If anything, it seems to suggest that Chris himself probably learned a great deal from that older brother, that Peter was the one who set the example, and that part of Peter lives on in his younger brother, who continues to still look up to him so much. Although Claire's eyes linger on the joint, her hand reaches out for his arm, trying to slow the movement there. "Don't sell yourself short. You're one of the nicest people I've ever met too, you know."

Biting her lower lip, her gaze lingers on his cheek, slides over to trace along the curve of his lashes. "Maybe you learned that from him."

"Yeah. I dunno. Maybe," Chris says, and Claire's hand on his arm doesn't go unnoticed. Everything between them's as fucked as it is that Peter's headstone's right there in his backyard. Even now, he wonders whether or not it's alright to even kiss her. Not that he would, just now, but he fuckin' hates how they are right now.

He pulls the lighter out of his pocket to burn the crease of the joint, but mostly just looks at it in his hand, vision blurring a bit as his mind wanders.

When he doesn't respond, Claire's hand drops again, to where it feels cold resting in her lap (even though that thought alone is a ridiculous one, on an island as humid as Tabula Rasa, where warmth is the standard and cold days are rare). She's not the one who should be seeking comfort, after all, between the two of them. Not right now. And if her presence doesn't afford him any of it, then that means that she'll watch from a distance, just make sure that he's okay rather than trying to shape his every move. It's just frustrating at times, Claire wanting to mold everything until it's perfect, encourage everything to go the way she wants, the way sometimes she feels she needs, nerves stretched thin.

Happiness is harder to find on the island than anyone would have them believe.

"I think we should take a walk," she says quietly, voice hoarse. Half-expecting for him to refuse.

Another fuckin' gravestone. Anybody who doesn't think the island's fucking sadistic, at this point, is lying to themselves. It's almost impressive, how efficiently it continues to fuck us all over.

"Who was he?" I ask, sitting down beside him and handing over a lighter. I guess it's a stupid question to ask. The age on the headstone, the dates, the name, the epitaph. But the fact is, I know next to nothing about Chris. I had no idea he had a brother, let alone one who died.

"My brother," Chris says, though he doesn't look up from the joint he's rolling. He's only got so many of the good skins left, so he'd hate to fuck this one up. Maybe this place thinks it's a tradeoff or something. He'll get pills and spliff, but he's got to deal with this in exchange for it.

Wincing, I draw my knees up to my chest, quiet for a moment while I watch him roll the joint. I can take one look at him and know he's not okay, even though I think Chris might be a master at hiding that kind of shit, but there isn't a whole lot to be said. Just seven months ago, I heard every fuckin' condolence in the book. I know how fuckin' hollow every one of 'em sounded.

"How old were you?"

"Nine, I think," Chris replies, though he knows full well how old he was. He remembers everything about that day. He remembers everything leading up to it, he remembers wanting to leave the fuckin' hospital so badly, but not being able to. Even now, he fuckin' hates them, hospitals.

"He wasn't much older."

Peter'd been in year nine, then, and already in and out of the hospital for at least a year. Things had started to get fucked up even before it'd happened, really.

"Shit," I breathe, pushing a hand through my hair and hating this place just a little bit more. I used to think maybe we were supposed to learn from this shit, like it was all a test or something. It's seeming more and more like senseless cruelty, these days.

"You okay?" It's a stupid fuckin' question, and I'm not sure I expect an honest answer.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm alright," Chris says, mostly just because it's an answer. Everything was already fucked before— with Claire knowing what happened, with him changing into a kid— so this doesn't really make it much worse.

He finishes rolling up the joint and locks the edge to properly seal it. "So, d'you get turned into somethin' else this weekend?"

"Had tits again. Too bad you missed it," I say with a smirk, letting him change the subject, 'cause it's not my business to try and push him about it. A gravestone and memories that are ten years gone, and havin' me grill him about it isn't gonna do a damn bit of good.

"What about you?"

"Think I was about seven," Chris says, though he doesn't know exactly. He hadn't remembered Peter dying, so it'd been before that at least. It's fucked up the way this place did all that only to have Peter's grave turn up just after.

"I spent most of the weekend trying to figure out where my Mum and Dad were, really."

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Dated Monday, August 8th, post ageswap

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