Laurent of Vere (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cast_iron_bitch) wrote2018-01-06 03:30 pm
cast_iron_bitch) wrote2018-01-06 03:30 pm
(no subject)
Laurent's feet cut a direct line from the hospital to his Terrace rooms. There were any number of places he might have gone to clear his head - or swing his arms, as he was in a rare mood to cut something down to its marrow - yet Laurent did not trust his mood to take him anywhere but home.
Of all the people, of all the traitorous, miserable wretches. This place seemed to collect every possible person from everywhere, human or not, alive or dead, yet it could not see fit to ever bring his brother.
Laurent stopped. It was cold enough that the very air he pulled into his lungs stung all the way down, yet for a moment he couldn't move. This was, perhaps, the first time he allowed himself to admit to hope. Auguste might yet come, even if Darrow insisted on bringing every horrible person from home first.
Shoulders rounding against the wind, Laurent continued on, chilled enough now to hurry indoors, but he found when he was at last standing in his apartment and pulling off his frozen scarf, the core of him was still molten, roiling with a fury he could not seem to expunge with clear and measured thought.
Laurent cast his eyes about the living until his gaze came to rest on a vase. It had been in these rooms longer than he had, there when he moved in. It was squatty and blue, nothing he would have ever chosen apart from the color, but the fat bottom rested neatly in the curve of Laurent's palm.
He stared at it, then threw it at the far wall with all his strength.
Of all the people, of all the traitorous, miserable wretches. This place seemed to collect every possible person from everywhere, human or not, alive or dead, yet it could not see fit to ever bring his brother.
Laurent stopped. It was cold enough that the very air he pulled into his lungs stung all the way down, yet for a moment he couldn't move. This was, perhaps, the first time he allowed himself to admit to hope. Auguste might yet come, even if Darrow insisted on bringing every horrible person from home first.
Shoulders rounding against the wind, Laurent continued on, chilled enough now to hurry indoors, but he found when he was at last standing in his apartment and pulling off his frozen scarf, the core of him was still molten, roiling with a fury he could not seem to expunge with clear and measured thought.
Laurent cast his eyes about the living until his gaze came to rest on a vase. It had been in these rooms longer than he had, there when he moved in. It was squatty and blue, nothing he would have ever chosen apart from the color, but the fat bottom rested neatly in the curve of Laurent's palm.
He stared at it, then threw it at the far wall with all his strength.