Item Post

[fuck_it]

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.]

Comments

[fuck_it]

"That's just a bollocks way of saying you can't get rid of the water anyway," Chris says, and for a second, he's reminded of when he used to sell properties, even though they're talking about the ocean here, and not a damp patch on the ceiling.

[thecautionarywhale]

"I like to think of it as creative reinterpretation of the problem in front of us. I had to learn something in English class, right?" It's not like writing essays on books by boring dead guys exactly kept her attention for long.

[fuck_it]

"I was never too good at English," he admits, though he didn't do well in any of his courses, really. Probably why they eventually chucked him out. Well, that and the stealing, probably.

[thecautionarywhale]

"Dude, aren't you by default good at English? I mean, it kinda comes with the territory. It's not like us upstart Americans, right?" She teases, nudging him gently.

[fuck_it]

"Yeah, well, there's speaking it and then there's like," he laughs, "all that other shit, yeah? The coursework shit."

That, he'd been pretty fucking horrible with.

[thecautionarywhale]

"Yeah. Shakespeare man. It doesn't come implanted into your brain? There's not a chip or something they just implant that gives you the knowledge of all British stuff ever?" Joking seems the way to go. It's not talking about the church yard or what was there, or what had happened to lead to that. "I mean, I know all Americana. It's like, required. Come on, test me."

[fuck_it]

"Alright then," Chris says, though his own knowledge of American history or whatever is pretty limited. He's not even sure what to ask, really.

"Okay, so who's your queen?"

[thecautionarywhale]

"We don't have a queen, thank you." That's one she can get right off the bat. "We chucked your queen out with some tea. Or was it a king? Who knows."

[fuck_it]

"Probably your first mistake," Chris replies, but there's at least a small smile on his face when he says it, the fucked memory of the rest of today fading just a bit already.

"Especially the bit with the tea."

[thecautionarywhale]

"Tea's crap unless it's iced with a lot of sugar and lemon," she shoots back, fairly sure that as a British person he'll be honour bound to defend tea's, well, honour. "You're crazy if you rink it any other way."

[fuck_it]

"I think what you've just said's a punishable offense, mate," he jokes, because though it's a stereotype, sometimes he thinks it's probably not far from the truth. "They'll send you straight to the tower of London for talking shit about tea. Or drinking it iced."

[thecautionarywhale]

"Whatever," she waves a hand at him, the dismissal in the movement clear. "What would you know. Don't you like, suck on limes, or stuff?"

[fuck_it]

"I think you've watched too much television," Chris decides, because he doesn't know what the fuck she's even on about now. Some people like lemon in their tea and all, but he doesn't think he knows anyone who uses limes instead. It's a mental idea, that.

[thecautionarywhale]

"Probably. I hear it rots brains. But seriously, limeys. They were like the British Navy. They sucked on limes to stop scurvy and stuff, it's how you got the nicknames." She holds up a hand for a high five, sure she's won that round.