things i've written

Kazimír doesn't go home until long after sunset. his eyes are red and raw from crying, his throat hurts from screaming. He can't bear to look his mother in the eye, to tell her he stood by and did nothing as they ripped his brother apart. He can't look at her knowing that he tried to press the ruined mess of viscera back into the shredded stomach of the thing that used to be his brother. Warm blood and clots of tissue pressed against his hands. He swears off meat for at least the next few months.

Kaz stays out nearly all night, wandering as far away from his usual hangouts as possible. The ghost of his brother haunts their corners, caught on the memories of summers and weekends past. Kaz wanders to a park he's never seen, climbs a tree he's never scaled, and looks down at the world from almost 40 feet up. Everything is so small from up there; the loss of his brother is too big to scale down, there isn't a tree tall enough he could look down on it from. For a moment, he considers what the freefall would be like, what the ground would feel like when it came up to meet him.

Kazimír climbs down, and walks home again.

Kazimír has cold hands, probably from the nicotine. He started smoking at 13, a habit he picked up from his brother- one of the few vices Ilja had. It got worse for a few years after Ilja died, a mix of coping and selfharm (what was worse in the long run? his cutting or his smoking?).

He still carries a pack of Marlboro Reds, nervously chainsmoking outside to give himself an excuse to leave. He'd thrown up multiple times from nicotine poisoning after staying out all night. He was never one for parties or outings or hangout sessions.

His power worked best when shadows were long and deep, letting him melt seamlessly in and out. People are looser with their valuables at that time of night, drunkenly stumbling along the sidewalks in the shittier side of town. It's too easy to nick a wallet or slip a tennis bracelet off some uptown girl's wrist. He's gone before they notice.

Kazimír doesn't stick around places very long, leaving behind a burnt out cigarette in his place. He wasn't built to stay in one place, always drifting in and out, nothing to anchor him with his beloved older brother gone.

Professor Evžen Holyfield wakes up on the (really, quite lovely) couch in the parlor. Sugarplum noses at his hand, peeking out from underneath, as if sensing his master's distress. Mildred shakes her head, icy eyes unsympathetic as ever from her perch atop one of the many overflowing bookshelves.

"Still 'aving nightmares, Professor?" Mildred asks, stirring Elisha into wakefulness as well. "What's going on?" he noses against her flank, little paws dug into her long fur. "Stupid man's not taking care of 'imself again," she explains. It's a good thing that starveling cat has gone into the pantry again- the sight of the damned thing might have sent the Professor into hysterics.

The professor sighs heavily, rubbing at his eyes. "I can't just take laudanum every night," he explains. Sugarplum hops up onto the couch and into his master's lap. "If I did, they'd have to prepare me permanent residence in the Royal Beth. You knew how I was." He begins petting the dachshund absently. "And someone has to take care of the tanks." The various strange aquatic and reptilian creatures he's collected over the years, he means.

"Yer devil could, or that blasted thief ye married," Mildred retorts. "Hell, yer aunt could come visit. Or that- that augur, or the artist. Even Hephaesta would. Ask literally anyone for 'elp." She pauses. "Unless it's me. I don't want to." Elisha nips her ear disapprovingly; he knows that the Professor took the both of them in when Mildred had been ousted from the Duchess' court. Most Londoners would have just taken him, and not Mildred. "What are the nightmares even about anyway?" the kitten asks.

Holyfield stills, hand stopping in the middle of Sugarplum's back. "Oh- well. That's... You remember how one night, long before Hephaesta had the star, when I came home with bloody hands?" he says, barely above a whisper. "Poor Edward had me buried alive. I had to dig my way out. And the orphanage... I still remember the screaming." Sugarplum barks, startling Holyfield out of his silence. Elisha gives Mildred a look, wide green eyes pleading with her. "He's a cat too, you know," the kitten whispers. She sighs, hopping down from the shelf. "I'll go get yer wan, 'e can do more than I can," she says, starting up the stairs to the attic to fetch Isa.

Professor Holyfield stands quietly, holding the dachshund (his dachshund?) and staring up at the sugarless sugar falling like snow. He thinks of the Mountaineer, his body frozen dead-solid and black like like starless wells. He thinks of Sugarplum, the dog, his- her? dog. The spies. The ring. He remembers Berlin (had he ever been to Berlin?) and the nightly walks with Sugarplum. The sweet little thing had been at his side ever since he became a journalist (is he journalist?), his constant companion. Sugarplum had gone missing, but he'd found him, of course. Holyfield was something of a detective himself, he'd walked the paths of Wilmot's End many times before. He may not be a player in the Game, but he had worked with the Honey-Addled Detective for a few years after leaving New Newgate. It was a good thing they'd let him keep Sugarplum while incarcerated. He wouldn't have known what to do without him. Sugarplum had always been very important to him, he even used the dog's name as a cipher. Nobody would ever have guessed it. He's reminded of the Incognito Agent. He'd have to check on her. The Game never lets its players go for long, she'd be back at the chessboard soon. Maybe she'd like to visit with the dog, he was such a sweet little thing.
He looks down at the dog in his arms, at the tag carved with a delicate snowflake, and is glad. Sugarplum is safe at home again.