minuet ; indy & ivory

[ᴥ]

IVORY AUCLAIR

He's called three times.

The phone starts buzzing, making four.

Imagine each vibration angrier, a building rage reverberating on the glass tabletop. He won't stop until I pick up. The longer I wait, the worse it will be. It's a wonder I've found myself here again, picking at a scab. Rather have open wounds than wear more scars.

But I'm only ever staving off infection - four calls wear into six before I answer. "This is Ivory."

"Ivory." He repeats the name like it's his to own, "You must be busy."

"Papa, um, yeah." I try to smile around the words, to sound sweet like he likes me to be, "I was practicing."

"Ah, excellent, your mother has been worrying." The gravel in his voice softens, I've said the right thing.

"Worrying? That's unlike her."

"Can you blame her, mon lapin? You are not surrounding yourself with reliable people. It is good to see that it hasn't affected your work ethic."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Ivory." Voice like a bullet torn from its chamber, every bit a warning shot. "Have you spoken to your brother about the fundraiser this weekend?"

"I was getting around to it. He's been busy."

"Too busy to take my calls, just like you." A beat of silence, I realize I'm holding my breath, "But you picked up, he never has."

It's comforting, in a way, to know that I am not the only Auclair made up of putrid neuroses. Of all Indy's unanswered calls, only one of them is mine. Wanting to hurt him without the hurt, and wanting to feel alone. That voicemail sits in his inbox, an effigy. "Please. I don't want to talk about this."

"More than happy to let you sacrifice a year of your education, but he cannot spare a single weekend?" And I am glad they blame him for my failure, I could not shoulder that weight.

"I didn't say that. He'll be there. We'll both be there."

"I do hope this won't be yet another disappointment, your mother could not take it."

"Send her my love." An empty threat, I have nothing to give.

"And what good will that do? Make sure this weekend goes smoothly, that will be enough."

My father's words have thorns, and they burn rose petals into my cheeks. Orange, red, pink, shame turns me into a garden. "Understood, Papa."

He hangs up before I can.

---

My reflection keeps smiling at me. It's been a while since she has, I almost forgot what it was like to catch her in the corner of my gaze. She whispers sweet nothings and gentle reminders. Comforting agonies I haven't considered since I left school. Since I started feeling better.

She asks me, "Can you hear your heart beating?". I've tried to drown it out. Split the blisters on palms until the drumhead went slick with oozing serum, broke a couple drumsticks and shoved the splinters under my nails.

I can still hear my heart beating.

I don't really think I should be alone. I can't ask Indy to skip work.

I'll have to tell him about our father's ultimatum. That I can stay here only as long as he's willing to be a part of the family again.

And I still remember watching him get smaller out the rearview mirror, hands pressed to the glass. Numb, though this was long before I'd lose the feeling in my fingers.

He chose to leave me behind because it was better than being with them.

I wouldn't blame him if he did it again.

I'm beating a senseless rhythm when I hear the door open. As dreadful as nails on a chalkboard, void of all emotion. My wrists won't cooperate, there's no music playing in my head. It's a sound that is more like silence.

I worry he'll be able to tell. We're made of music, him and I.

"Indy!" I stop, I clasp my hands together to hide how I've beaten them raw. There's a superficial sting where sweat mingles with open skin, "We need to talk."

He's drawn to the music room, a moth to open flame. Cruel that wings are flammable things. He leans against the doorway, raised brows and gnashing teeth. "Damn Ives, who died?" His laughter warms the cruelty in those words. He doesn't even know it's there.

I look down at my lap, press my thumb into a leaking wound - "Papa's been calling you."

Oh, I remember the symphony of slamming doors. Screaming matches muffled through the pillows I'd pulled over my head. I hate to watch the old anger leak back into him, I feel small. I shrink into myself, wanting to be smaller.

"Bet he has. Bet he mentioned Mom too. Right?"

Not really a question, an accent.

I keep looking at my lap.

"There's a fundraiser this weekend." I speak slowly not quite feeling like the words are mine, "He wants us to go. Or he wants me to leave."

I shake my head, the only hint of motion "I'll understand either way."

[arx]

INDIGO AUCLAIR

It's as if she had just lashed out and started strangling me—"Papa's been calling you."—fingers digging painfully into the base of my skull, tearing open old scars, forcing old memories to become fresh again. Memories full of anger, memories full of fear and embarrassment and tears. Memories full of a bitterness she was making rise to the surface at the mention of-

"...leave."

Home.

I don't want her to see those. I regret those.

I try my hardest to keep my smile from faltering, but I can feel a red hot heat rising behind my eyes. The ire leaks through gritted teeth and clenched jaw as I speak, voice hardened as my heart begins an unsteady rhythm. Ives sits quietly behind her set fiddling with her hands, looking smaller than usual. Made to feel smaller than usual no doubt.

"Oh, screw him," I kick at the amp and it slides further and more loudly across the floor than I mean for it to. "Why can't he just piss off? I don't need them and I haven't for years."

I mutter to myself, repeating her words with disgust as I try to regain composure, but—"'Both of us to go to-' Ffffffucking, stupid 'fundraisers.' Heh. Hilarious." I think of ties all knotted in bows, the illusion of gift wrapping masking the fact that it is just a fancy, patterned noose.

My fingers are twitching out chords because otherwise I think they might end up through the wall. And I didn't really know much about fixing drywall. Or broken knuckles. It wasn't worth risking not being able to play music anyway. Especially when I planned on playing at a bar this weekend with Slate and Sable- always earned us good tips.

"Can't you just tell them, 'No?'" And I know she can't. I know what their grasp feels like. "Say you aren't going, say you're living with me now or-" I sigh, force another curse back into the base of my throat. It comes out anyway as I turn to leave—"Damnit!"—and all I can hear is their voices tearing me to shreds.


--------------------------------------

"You were supposed to be watching after her, Indigo."

"Sweetheart, she isn't like you, she's- more fragile."

"Oh, Indigo, mon vilain. You've upset your mother."

"Then you don't need those fancy lessons I pay for anymore, do you?"

"You owe your mother and I both apologies in the next 15 minutes. And Indigo? I expect a more level-head when you hear your punishment this time."

"I do not raise disappointments, mon fils."

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I slam my door, press my face into my pillow and try to keep tears from welling up in my eyes. Maybe they would always have this grip on me no matter how far I tried to get, no matter how much time had passed. Always and forever pulling sinew from my spine and playing my strings—taking the thing I loved most in the world for themselves and plucking until they threatened to snap—until I danced for them.

And now they're using Ives to tug at them, too.

Because they've always known what I loved most. And how to use them until I became a perfect puppet son again.

I hate them.

I sit up and toss my pillow against the wall; it thuds heavily to the floor. I thought I had escaped this. I snatch at my phone and send out a some texts to: 'The OG Comrades': (hey, gotta cancel this weekend) (gonna ask if Rita needs anything else this week) (she loves me) (she will probs say yes) And then toss my phone aside, swiping away the notification about having new unheard voicemails, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes until I started seeing stars.

I hate them.

But I love her more.

And she had finally run far enough to catch up to me.

This time I wasn't leaving.

And she isn't either.

I flip open my guitar case in a rush, slinging it onto my back as I start rummaging through piles of clothes for- "Hey, Ives, which of these do you think will piss dad off more?" I turn the corner, holding up a heavily patched jean jacket in one hand and an atrociously vibrant ski jacket in the other. I nearly run into her- "Oh, you going somewhere?" -and I'm caught off guard, a crinkle in my brow.

"I wanted to show you something with this bridge I thought might sound cool," I toss the jackets across the living room and onto the couch, slinging my bass back in front of me and playing with the knobs.

And when I glance back to her, I find my own reflection swimming in her eyes.