Item Post

Aug. 3rd, 2013 09:11 pm
fuck_it: (pic#5100302)
It feels like a long fuckin' time ago that Chris walked out of his hut on an island a long way away and found his brother's grave stone. He reckons it's still there, because unlike the stuff he had on him and Anwar the toad, it never turned up with him. At least, so far as he can tell. It's a big city and he still hasn't managed to see all of it.

It bothered him at first, that reminder of Peter still being stuck there while he'd moved on, but there's really fuck all that Chris can do about it anyway, so he mostly tries not to think about it. And he's been doing a pretty good job of that, at least until he cuts through the graveyard behind one of the churches on his way home and happens to look down at the right moment.

Or maybe it's the wrong moment, because he would've just kept on going if he hadn't seen the name on the stone there, the one he thought he left back on the island, or back in Bristol.

Peter Miles
Brother, Son and Angel

Where he goes, Peter goes too, it seems.

At least they're in the same place again, that is, if it's everything and not just the stone there. Chris never found out for sure on the island and he doesn't think he wants to know here either. He makes a note of the church he's walked behind and is about to go on his way— he'll be back to visit, he always comes back to visit— except the marker just next to Peter's catches his attention. It's just a wooden cross, nothing as fancy as what Peter's got, or as the ones with the giant statues of angels and all. But Chris's own name is engraved on the wood there: Christopher Miles in neat letters.

He doesn't know how long he just stares at it, but it's long enough that he loses track of time, that he forgets for a bit that he was headed home in the first place. Is he down there? Buried underneath the dirt, would he find himself if he dug into the dirt? It's fucked to think about and Chris doesn't want to know.

But there they are, both the Miles boys, just like they're 'sposed to be, Chris thinks. At least there's something dead set on keeping bits of his family together.

[Open to people who know Chris, set in August.]
fuck_it: (Best day of my life)
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.


fuck_it: (Default)Chris Miles

March 2015

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