Bonus Non-whumptober Delancey Fic Bc Apparently Its Necessary.

Bonus non-whumptober delancey fic bc apparently it’s necessary.

cw. Mention of/allusions to suicide

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Morris wasn’t sure what time it was, but it must’ve been late, or maybe the early hours of the morning; the low hanging moon shining just enough light into the room through the gaps of space between the rotted wood of the roof Oscar hadn’t got round to fixing yet.

His breath was caught in his throat, and he was cold, his thin blanket that had been patched up several times over a tangled mess on the floor. He must’ve kicked it off in his sleep.

Nightmares weren’t unusual, and he couldn’t even remember this one, not really, grasping at smoke as he tried to slot the foggy images back into place, but he felt it in his chest, something hollow that made him aware of what felt like empty space in his ribcage.

It was something about Ma, maybe. When he closed his eyes he pictured her face, her features a little distorted maybe, from so many years without her, but it was easy to piece together when he looked so much like her. He saw her most of the time when he looked in the mirror.

It was the little things he forgot, whether the freckle on her chin was on the right or left of her lip. Whether the scar just below her eye was white or pink.

And she always looked happy, when he imaged her. He doesn’t remember her ever looking happy.

He had an old picture once. When da had told them to pack, Christ, near 10 years ago now, he’d not known what to bring, but shoved the picture of mammy from his bedside table into his pocket before da shoved them out the door and in the back of the cart and abandoned them to Snyder like the shit father he always had been.

Morris remembered being scared, then. Clinging to Oscar’s hand. And in retrospect he realised Oscar must’ve been scared too, a little kid still. He’d held onto Morris’s hand just as tight in return.

It wasn’t long after they were out of the refuge that Oscar had burnt it, the picture.

Morris couldn’t remember what the argument that prompted it was about anymore, he just remembered the flames licking up the side of the crumpled photo, more creases than it was her image anymore with the amount it had been shoved in his pocket and taken out and unfolded and held so tightly he was sure he accidentally tore it.

He thought about the photo (ma sat down next her husband, a bruise shadowing her cheek) as he leant down to grab his blanket from the floor. The rotting wooden frame of the bed creaked. It was loud in the silence of the room, the only noise aside from Oscar’s level breathing, and then that shifted.

“Mo?” His voice was low and rough and so southern that for a moment Morris was sure he was da.

“Go back to sleep, Os.”

A few second of quiet. And then the shitty mattress gurning as Oscar turned over, pushed himself up onto his elbow to stare at him.

Morris couldn’t help the fond twist of his lip despite the circumstance. Even through the dark he could see that Oscar’s curls were a mess, and he was wearing an expression that Morris recognised from the street cat he disturbed the other week while it was napping on a sunny patch of cobble. Disgruntled.

“Wha’s wrong with you?”

Morris pulled his legs up to his chest, ignoring the goosebumps dotting along his skin. “Nothin’.”

“Shit liar.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

“You’re cryin’.”

Morris furrowed his brows and swiped the heel of his palm underneath his eyes. It came away wet.

He hadn’t even realised.

“Seriously Mo.” Oscar shifted and the bed creaked again. “Know I hate it when you lie.”

“Dreamin’ ‘bout ma. I think.”

The admission felt dangerous. There was never any way of knowing Oscar’s reaction to things like this. Whether he’d blow up or ruffle Morris’s hair or ignore him the rest of the night.

Oscar never liked talking about their ma. Morris couldn’t remember the last time Oscar had brought her up first.

He was all too aware of the ways Oscar’s jaw hardened as he swallowed, of the way he flexed his hand.

“I don’t remember what,” he continued, “but I- I don’t think I can remember her face proper.”

Oscar fell back onto his mattress, elbow shifting from under him and Morris noted how he pulled a face at the sound, noted how he didn’t close his eyes but stared up at the ceiling instead.

“You’re right. Should just go back to sleep Mo.”

Morris swallowed hard and pulled the blanket closer around himself. His throat was aching.

“Was she greying when she-“ he couldn’t quite say it, even though it was years ago, and he’s said it before, hundreds of times. “I remember her hair bein’ real dark but sometimes I think about it and-“

“Startin’ to. Grey roots.”

“She was only young though.”

“Stress, Mo.” His voice still sounded all too much like da’s. Low. A quality of gravel to it.

Oscar was starting to grey a little too, in the same spots their da had, only a couple hairs, but Morris was growing more and more aware of it. He’d never thought his brother as old. There was only two years between them.

But ma hadn’t been old either.

“You’re not ever. you’re not ever gonna kill yourself, Os?”

“Jesus-“

“Cause you- ma weren’t even much older than you when she-“

“Morris-“

“-did it and I don’t think I’d be good, at bein’ on my own.” He swiped at his eyes again. “You could. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be good at it-“

“Christ Mo.” Oscar pushed himself up again and glared at him from across the room, if it weren’t for the late hour, Morris would swear there was a sheen to his eyes. But he knew better than to mention it. “I ain’t gonna kill myself, okay?”

Morris was afraid that if he spoke, no sound would come out. Instead he studied Oscar’s face as best he could through the darkness. His cheeks looked gaunter with all the shadows, his deep set eyes even darker, high cheekbones like da, a strong jawline, handsome. His hair was still a mess.

He looked tried.

Had looked tired for as long as Morris could remember. And Morris wondered if this was the image of Oscar he would remember, or if he would make him smile like he did with ma when he thought about her.

“I just.” His voice was quiet, but it felt like he was breaking something by talking. “I don’t wanna forget your face too.”

playing guitar, singing phoebe bridgers, thinking about michael sullivan, and eating pringles (that i dropped on my bedroom floor) like a stray cat

here’s part of what i was singing if y’all care

ai-less whumptober; day twelve

@ailesswhumptober 12 — isolation, sensory deprivation, “Can you feel me? I’m right here.” ↳ the farm, circa 1889 word count; 1.4k

cw; abuse, claustrophobia, mentions of death

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It's cold. So damn cold. Hellishly, endlessly cold.

Oscar is numb. It's dark all around him, pitch blackness, and the cold has sank into his bones to weigh him down like water, stiffened his joints like death does to the animals. He'd long ago lost track of what time it is, and through the stone walls around him has no idea if the sun is still up. If anyone might still be awake.

If anyone still remembers him out here at all.

He'd been asking for it, really. He'd known it was coming. There was nothing else to expect. But Da had started on Mo for something stupid, and Oscar can never stop himself from getting involved when it's his wee brother on the wrong end of Da's anger. Mo's only tiny, and Da is so huge, so cruel.

So Oscar had thrown himself in between them and shouted and protested — and after Da had belted him bloody for his troubles, he'd dragged him out the back door with a big calloused hand around his arm. Kicking and screaming and pleading. Over the hill and to the old shed by the fields; a stout, damp stone structure with no windows and a solid wooden door that bolts on the outside, so small inside that Oscar can just about sit but can't lay down, surrounded on every side with old tools and machinery. Rusted monuments of his father.

And though Oscar had known, had expected, exactly where he'd end up — where he always ends up — he'd still started screaming louder.

"Please!" Oscar had wailed, digging his bare heels desperately into the damp dirt to try and slow the walk. It hadn't worked. His father is a big man. Strong. A farmer. "Please, please, Da, I'll—I swear to God I'll be good, I'll be quiet, you can lock me up inside 'til—'til you need me, I'll clean, I'll look after the babby—"

He knows it's no use to beg Da, not when the man's made his mind up — not ever. But it's an instinct to fight. Perhaps Oscar's only instinct.

All the fight's left him now.

For hours he had screamed, even after the bolt was slid into place with the sickeningly familiar sound of grating metal. He had begged and hammered his fists on the door until his knuckles split, the blood the only warmth available to him, but it's long cooled and gone thick and tacky since. He'd wailed for his father, and then wailed for Ma. Wailed for his grandfather despite every knowledge that he's dead. Pleaded for anyone to come and let him out, come save him, come protect him from the stone walls that seem to be closing in on him from every side despite the fact he can't see them. Can't even feel them with touch, for when he reaches out or moves too far, the metal edges of tools find him first. Too blunt and rusted to be much more than a warning, but what a warning they are.

At least they keep him conscious. Prevent him from tilting too far from either side, even in moments his consciousness tries to leave him, worn thin from exhaustion. Hunger.

On the one hand, it feels as if it would be a blessing to fall asleep, pass the time he's imprisoned here to suffer his penance, but Oscar is all too aware of the risks of not waking up. Perhaps being asleep when Da is finally close enough again for Oscar to make a noise and remind him he's here, and miss his chance entirely. He doesn't want to die in here.

Alone and forgotten. As fitting as it seems for him.

Perhaps half of it is fear for his own mortality, but the rest —

Who would look after Mo?

Da and Ma are both shit at it, probably haven't even fed the kid tonight. Had they put him to bed? Mo ain't good at sleeping on his own, he won't stay in their bedroom unless Oscar is there to keep him there, and then he'll wander off God knows where. He's gone missing countless times before, been found wandering the field or hiding somewhere in the farmhouse or curled up with the animals in one of the barns. Oscar can only wonder where he is now.

He supposes he has the answer to his question when he hears quiet footsteps approaching.

They aren't the heavy stomps of Da's boots, nor the delicate steps of Ma's bare feet. They're bare, but they're clumsy. Young.

"Os?" Morris says.

Oscar swallows hard to stifle a sob.

He'd thought his tears had all dried up with how he'd wailed, but suddenly they've found him again, and they've wound themselves tight around his throat, tighter than even the cold had bound him. He's struck with the desire to hold his little brother, clutch him tight to his chest. For his own comfort or Morris.

"Mo," he chokes out. "You ain't s'pose to be out here."

He wonders what Morris is wearing. Pictures him in his threadbare undershirt and drawers he wears to bed, pictures him freezing in the cold late fall air. Pictures his tiny clumsy feet against the cold, wet dirt.

"Wan'ed you," Morris mumbles. "Can't sleep. M'back hurts, Os."

Oscar's hurts too.

"He hit you?" he asks quietly.

"Uh-huh."

"Fuck. 'm'sorry, Mo."

He hears movement as Morris shuffles closer and must sink down, and the door rattles slightly in its frame.

"Can you feel me?" Morris asks, with all the innocence of a little kid. "'m'right here. Got my—my hand on the door. So 's'almos' like bein' together."

Oscar has to swallow again. Shuffles closer and presses his own palm to the door, where he guesses Morris' might be.

"I can feel you, Mo."

He can't. All he can feel is the door between them and the walls all around him, but it's nice to pretend. For a moment, it almost makes it easier to breathe. But then he thinks a little more, about the fact that Morris is here, and his chest gets tight again. The walls squeeze in.

"Mo," he says, edged with urgency, "You gotta get back inside."

Morris whines. "I don' wanna."

"I know, I know you don't, but you gotta. 'f'Da catches you out here—"

"I don' wanna go inside, Daidí was bein' scary—"

"I know. I know, Mo. But he'll be scarier if he finds you, yeah?"

It's as if he can hear Morris swallow in the beat of silence that follows.

"Yeah," he whispers. "He'll be. Be real mad."

"Yeah. Good. Good kid. So you jus' gotta. Head back inside an' head to bed, alright. Wrap yourself up. 's'cold, ain't it?"

"Are you cold?" Morris asks suddenly, rather than answer.

Oscar can't feel his hands at all anymore. Can't feel his feet, the sensation crawling up his legs like he's sinking into something. His knees are aching like they've been turned to stone, and he feels as if maybe he'll never be able to move them again.

"'m'fine," he lies, and Morris believes him, because what else can the kid do?

"Okay," he says quietly. And then pats his palm in a soft rhythm against the door, a clumsy little game to amuse himself, until Oscar starts patting back. The two of them continue, locked in an out-of-sync sort of rattling of sound, until finally Oscar catches on to Morris' rhythm, and Morris bursts out giggling quietly as they're suddenly tapping in perfect sync to his own made-up music.

Oscar, despite everything, can't help but feel himself smile too.

"Get inside," he tells Morris gently. "Curl up on my side of the bed, 'f you gotta. Okay? Try get some sleep."

"I will," Mo says. Like the good kid he is. "I will. Love you, Os."

God. Oscar swallows hard.

"Love you too, Mo."

Morris' footsteps race away, and the silence that follows is deafening. So all-consuming that Oscar takes to tapping again, just to prove to himself that all sound hasn't emptied from the world, hasn't left him behind like everybody else.

It's cold. It's so fucking cold. And, without Morris, the fear begins to drown him again, but he meets it with a new determination — to stay awake, to survive. Because his baby brother needs him.

And Oscar's not a kid anymore.

i’m gagging. excellent work.

ai-less whumptober; day eleven

@ailesswhumptober 11 — hallucinations, truth serum, “Why would you even say that?” ↳ the refuge, circa 1896 word count; 1.8k

cw; drugging, mental health issues, caning, abuse, catholicism

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morris honest to God doesn't know what Oscar had done. He hadn't been involved, not remotely, hadn't even been told about the plan — whatever it was, whether it was planned at all. Whatever had been done, he hadn't seen. Hadn't heard. He doesn't know.

But Snyder doesn't believe him.

He'd watched, just a while earlier, as Oscar had been dragged from the bunk room — kicking and screaming the way he does when he's guilty — and sat and waited for him to be returned. He had no idea what his brother was in trouble for, but he was sure he'd find out when Oscar was tossed back black and blue, suitably (to the Refuge's standards) punished for whatever slight he'd commited against Snyder.

But Oscar hadn't come back. And then they'd come for Morris.

He kneels in Snyder's office now, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, back lit up in bright agony from his neck down to his tailbone, torn open with what was surely a hundred thousand strokes from one of Snyder's rattan canes, each one — and each strike from Snyder's bare hand, his polished shoes — intended to draw a confession from Morris. Honesty, Snyder says. But Morris can't be honest about what he doesn't know, can't confess sins he isn't privy to — and he wails that sentiment again, face inches from the rich maroon rug that spreads across Snyder's office floor, as Snyder's cane cracks down on him again.

It only earns him another kick to his ribs.

"Give it up," Snyder spits, voice cold and vicious in a manner Morris rarely hears, usually reserved for Oscar or Jack. Snyder is gentler with him. Snyder likes him. But right now he is looking at Morris like he despises him, like Morris has spat in his face. A traitor. "You could bring an end to this, Morris. Immediately. All you have to do is confess." Another hit, and Morris howls. He doesn't even really remember what the question was anymore. Perhaps Snyder had never really asked one. Perhaps there isn't one.

"'m'sorry," Morris sobs, just in case it was him. Just in case Snyder, like Da, had just felt the need to hit him, an irresistible target for violence. A lamb for the slaughter. "'m'sorry, 'm'sorry, Sir, p'ease, le'mme…le'mme…"

Let me make it better. Let me atone. Whatever I did to deserve this.

"Have—have mercy on me, O Lord, for I have sinned. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your love; according to your abu—bundant mercy, blot out my tra'sg'essions—"

The cane is tossed down sharply beside his head, and Morris flinches hard but continues his prayers, reciting the atonements and verses that Da and Snyder each have made him memorise. Even as Snyder walks away, shoes a sharp rhythm against the floor, his figure so imposing that Morris can feel him without needing to see him. Over his own voice, Morris hears a cabinet open, hears things being moved against rich wood.

He assumes another cane is being fetched. Or something worse. A knife, a whip, a flame—

"My Lord, forgive me, forgive me, I will withdraw the thorns from my way of life henceforth, my wickedness kept the crown of thorns on your head—"

"Quiet," Snyder says.

Morris goes silent.

He keeps his bleary gaze on the rug beneath him, the dizzying twists of patterns and swirls that seem to suck him in like he's drowning. It's just as hard to breathe. But then Snyder's shoes step into his vision — immaculate polished black leather — and Snyder is crouching, seizing Morris by the chin and lifting his head.

He's holding a handkerchief. One of his own, neatly embroidered, monogrammed.

"If you are so reluctant," Snyder tells him quietly, "To enlighten me, even as I carve you open. Then I have other methods to procure the truth."

The handkerchief is held suddenly to Morris' face, over his nose and mouth, and the air he breathes turns sweet and cold, like mint. He meets Snyder's eyes over the handkerchief in his vision, and Snyder only stares back, eyes dark, expression severe — until Morris' vision blurs only moments later. The world tilts and his brain seems to start to spin in an instant, faster and faster and faster, an endless whirlpool that vies to pull consciousness away from him.

And then Snyder pulls the handkerchief away, sharply.

Morris is left spinning, nauseous, tethered to reality only by Snyder's hand gripping his jaw. It's a feeling he can only liken to waking up after being beaten unconscious, a dazed battle for consciousness that he's losing. The chill of menthol sticks to his nostrils, the back of his throat.

"Morris," Snyder says lowly. "Where did your brother get the clothes? The food, the blankets?"

Morris can't find his tongue. It feels like an impossible task to locate it, to make it do the correct movements to say words — but Snyder slaps him across the face then, so Morris tries.

"I don'…" he slurs. "Wha'…clo's…"

"Morris. Your brother, through methods unknown, brought contraband into my facility. Clothes and food. How did he get them."

Morris wants his mamaí. His head is still spinning, eyes unable to focus on anything, and it doesn't…hurt, nothing hurts, pain feels as if it's a distant memory. But it's scary. He's scared. He wants his mamaí. Doesn't want this man touching him anymore, that awful grip on his jaw that means he can't move at all, can't turn to focus on the blurring figure over the man's shoulder.

That awful piece of cloth, stuffed over his face again to make the slowly fading dizziness reignite like a flame. As his eyes blur once again into oblivion, for a moment he is able to see the figure. A smear of pale skin, dark curls, a long dress.

"Morris," Snyder says. It echoes in Morris' head. The handkerchief is pulled away again, and in its place a hand begins to stroke his matted curls. Brushes them carefully out of his face. It's nice.

In his mind, through Snyder's words — whatever they are this time — washing through him, he finds a memory.

"Cowboy," he mumbles. And Snyder seems, for a moment, to light up. His touch gets gentler. A reward. "Kelly," he breathes. "What did he do?"

"Was…was talkin' to Os. When. Before," it's hard to remember, but Morris wants to be good. His gaze keeps sliding like he's being spun around, but he fights to find his mother again, focus on her. He wants to be good. He doesn't want to be hit again. "'Fore he left last. Cowboy said. Told 'im that…that he'd. Bring. Give…"

"Kelly brought them here," Snyder says. "He got them to Oscar."

It sounds right, maybe. Morris can't do much else but nod, eyelids heavy, mind still swirling like a bathtub filled with water that he's drowning in.

He wants his mamaí. Swears he can see her above the water, staring down at him, not moving as it all falls away.

He wakes up in a bed.

"Mamaí," he mumbles immediately, as soon as he's found his tongue again. "M..mm…m'mmy…?"

"What?" Oscar says, from beside him in bed. His voice sounds strange, deep. It's dark, and Morris can't see. His eyes will barely open. It's freezing cold, like it always is in the farmhouse.

"Mamaí," Morris repeats.

Oscar releases a breath that seems to shake. "Christ," he breathes. In the narrow bed they share, he shuffles closer. "She ain't here, Mo."

That doesn't make any sense. Not only because Ma is always here, but because Morris had only just seen her. She wouldn't have left. She never leaves Morris.

"Jus'," Morris slurs. He scrunches his eyes shut hard and opens them again, but all he can see is a muddle of a room that's much too crowded for their bedroom. "Jus'…mamaí was jus'…"

She was just here. Morris fights to sit up — doesn't understand why Oscar seems instantly so panicked at him doing so, hands hovering around him — and looks around the room. Doesn't recognise an inch of it, but he immediately recognises his mother again, as vague a figure as she is, all the way on the other side of the room. She's wearing her long cardigan, has her hair up in an untidy pile of dark curls. Morris tries to go to her, but his legs don't seem to work, and Oscar keeps a firm hold on his wrist, tight enough that Morris is sure it should hurt. But it doesn't. Nothing does.

"I wan' mamaí," he urges. Oscar's grip gets tighter.

"She ain't here, Mo."

Morris can feel his eyes start to burn, fighting to keep them on his mother, but his vision twists and then she's gone — moved somewhere else, a figure in the corner of his vision that he can't seem to catch. "Can see her—"

"No, you can't—"

"I can—"

"Mo, she's dead. She ain't here. She's dead."

The world seems to stop.

And then it starts tilting again — in the other way this time. Like Morris had reached the apex of a leap and began to fall.

"No," he whispers. His stomach is turning, vision blurring more, but this time it's with tears. "No, she…why…why would you even—say that?"

"Fuckin'—'cause it's true, Mo. Ma's dead. You know that. You—" he stops himself suddenly, like he'd been about to say something that he thinks it's best Morris doesn't hear. He swallows. Morris starts to cry. "Jesus. Fuck. What the fuck did Snyder do to you?"

It's a rhetorical question, asked to the air, but Morris' chest still aches because he doesn't know. He can only sob, feeling as if everything is suddenly crumbling around him, and as it crumbles, his back begins to burn like a fire catching. His jaw begins to ache, fingerprints bruised into it. He weeps as Oscar pulls him carefully back into the bed and lays beside him, pulling a blanket around them both, just like he did when they were really on the farm. When Ma was really alive.

"'m'sorry," Morris sobs. He still doesn't really know where he is, but he knows Oscar is here. Knows Ma isn't. Oscar pulls him closer like they're kids and wraps an arm around Morris as tightly as he dares when Morris' back is an open wound.

"'s'okay," he whispers back, voice scratchy and soft. Deep like he's more a man than a boy. "I got you, Mo. 'm'here."

Morris falls back into oblivion and dreams of nothing.

Day 12 of @ailesswhumptober

Isolation/sensory deprivation- "can you feel me? I'm right here."

cw. Claustrophobia, dissociation, references to child abuse

(My longest one yet!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morris never meant to tell Snyder that Os hated small spaces.

But it was one of those casual conversations in his office that almost made Morris think about Snyder as some kind of friend. His heart had stuttered in his chest with panic when the guard had first called down to the dorm to get him but upon being shoved into the office he'd been greeted with a sandwich, with real fucking meat in it, and a glass of milk.

Snyder was sat on the far side of his desk, his own meal in front of him, steak and potato's and veg, and a glass of something that smelt like the shit da used to drink by the bottle.

"Sit down Morris, I didn't invite you to stand there."

"Sorry, mr Snyder."

He sat down, the plate of food in front of him. Snyder cut a sliver of steak and looked up again. Stared at him for a moment. Expectant.

"I know you grew up poor Delancey, but I trust you've had enough food that you know how to eat it-"

"Yes. Sorry. Weren’t sure it was for me-"

"I have to teach you not to interrupt as well, apparently." His tone was sharp.

Fuck. "Sorry."

Snyder stared at him a moment longer then turned his attention back to his own lunch. he scoffed slightly, but didn't look over at Morris again, too busy catching a green bean on the end of the fork. He only leant back once he took the mouthful, chewing thoughtfully while he stared at Morris, eyes bright and assessing.

Morris had to try and shrug off his gaze as he reached for the sandwich, trying to remember all the ways ma told him to eat polite and chew with his mouth closed. The bread was soft.

It was hard not to feel on edge. Being invited to Snyder's office was never over anything good.

But Christ Morris was hungry.

Morris was sure Snyder waited until he had taken a bite to ask him question just to be a dick. It was the kind of thing Morris assumed he'd find funny, the kind of thing that reminded him Snyder was in his early twenties at best, only a few years older than Oscar when it came down to it.

"Is it good?"

Morris nodded. Knew better than to speak around the food. The memory of da whacking him round the head at the dinner table at home when he did it was all the reminder he needed. He could still hear his voice ringing, that southern drawl snapping at him to 'have some fuckin' manners'.

He swallowed. "Yeah. S' good."

It wasn't a lie, the bread was fresh and there was butter and ham. The glass of milk was cold.

"Do you know why I asked you here Morris."

He was never sure what the right answer was to Snyder's questions. But it felt the appropriate time to put the sandwich back on his plate, Snyder hadn't touched his own food since the initial fork-full.

"No, sir."

"Your brother had been particularly," he hesitated, searching for a word and seemingly in no particular hurry to find it, "difficult, recently,"

Morris hadn't really noticed any changes, Oscar was as Oscar as he ever was, but he was always good at hiding these things from Morris, he realised as he got older. With every year and birthday he realised he never reached quite as old as Oscar seemed.

"You know why I've been placing you and Oscar on different tasks, don't you?"

Morris didn't, he had been wondering since the start of the week when him and Oscar had been sent to opposite ends of the refuge, with Morris cleaning in the chapel and Oscar down the other end, doing fuck knows what. Morris never really asked. Oscar was his older brother, older and responsible and fine, so it didn’t matter whether Morris asked.

But he didn't know and he knew Snyder knew that. But he shook his head anyway.

Snyder smiled slightly. "In an attempt to break the little codependent habit you and your brother have, I've been trying to seperate you. seems you're doing better without him than he is without you."

And an ugly satisfaction curled in Morris's gut that almost immediately made him feel sick with the guilt of it.

"Os has always looked after me."

"Oh I'm aware. I'm just surprised he can't seem to clear out a cleaning cupboard without nearly passing out-"

Morris spoke without thinking.

"Yeah but he ain't never liked small spaces. Don't think it's got nothin' to do with me."

Something in Snyder's eye glinted, a vague shift to his posture that made Morris want to sink back in his seat and out from under his stare. Snyder's eyes were intense, cold. being directly under them was intimidating.

"Your brother's claustorohobic?"

"He's- what's that mean?"

Snyder's lip twitched, amused. "Scared of small spaces, Morris, like you described."

Morris bit the inside of his cheek till he tasted iron, washing out the taste of ham and butter and bread that wasn't stale to replace it with something copper. Like he'd put a nickel under his tongue.

"Yes, sir."

For a moment Snyder let the silence sit. And then he finally leant back in his chair, satisfied in a way that made Morris nervous.

"Finish your food, Delancey," he said as he picked up his knife and fork again. "Or there won't be a meal for anyone in the morning."

This time the sandwich tasted like sand in his mouth.

…

The next night Oscar never came back to the dorm room. Morris had spent a couple of hours sitting and waiting, had even asked around in the group of boys if anyone had seen him, and the longer he didn't show up the more on edge Morris found himself getting.

It was a last resort to ask one of the guards, because inevitably they'd tell Snyder and Morris didn't know if he could suffer any more of his direct attention.

But Oscar wasn't here.

He was clinging to the hope that when one of the guards, or Snyder if he was feeling like it tonight, took rolecall before the boys were sent to sleep that they'd notice.

And then Snyder walked in the room, cane in one hand and clipboard in the other, and the boys had all lined up by their bed silently, and Morris had affirmed he was there when his name was called.

and then Snyder skipped directly over Oscar.

Morris has to bite his tongue. For the second time in two days he tasted blood. He pressed his teeth harder and stared at a crack in the wood on the floor beneath him-

"Morris did you hear what I said?

Snyder's cane was on the floor next to his feet. All at once his heart was in his chest. He could feel his ribs creaking.

"No, sir."

"I said your brother won't be joining you tonight."

Morris felt sick. Hadn't yet looked up from the wooden slats on the floor, splinters throughout the room. He could feels the eyes of all the boys in the room on them.

"Aren't you curious as to why, Morris?"

"Why, sir."

"I'm trying to help him. A young man still so scared of the dark? Of small spaces? I'm meant to be releasing upstanding young men. Not children."

Morris tasted bile in the back of his throat. He could already hear the whispers that would come later. They weren’t meant to know this about Oscar.

"Would you like to come and see him?"

It was more than da ever offered when Oscar was locked in his bedroom at home for days at a time. When Morris was tiny and would whisper outside his room and wait for Oscar to answer, if he would answer. The first few hours were always the worst, Oscar's awful yelling that tore up his throat so bad that he only stopped when he couldn't yell no more. Slamming his hands on the door and begging when he heard footsteps walk past the door only to be ignored by ma or da or Morris on those days he was too scared to find out what da would do to him if he knew he'd been talking to Oscar.

The silence was the worst part.

Oscar going quiet for hours at a time.

At least if he was sobbing, loud and breathless and so bad it sounded like he was choking on each inhale, Morris knew he was alive.

"Yeah. Yeah please."

Snyder's expression didn't shift, and Morris couldn't read it.

"Come along then. Boys, the rest of you, bed."

Morris could still feels the stares as he followed Snyder out of the room as the others scrambled for their beds. he knew the second the door was closed behind them the whispers would start.

Snyder was silent as they walked through the halls of the refuge. It was disconcerting how quiet it was aside from the sound of Snyder's polished shoes on the floor. The hallways long and empty and dark, not bustling with young boys and coughs and sniffles and crying and arguing and fights-

The stairs as they got further down were covered in even thicker layers of dust, and Morris knew it wouldn't be long till he could feel it when he breathed. He would've stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dark if it weren't for the fact that Snyder didn't.

They were almost at solitary and the panic that crept up his throat at the sight of it was unrelenting. And then they walked past it.

A storage closet at the end of the hall.

He could hear Oscar's laboured inhales from here. The door rattling as he slammed against it, so far from everything, so removed.

"Mr Snyder-"

"The best way to overcome our fears, Morris, is to face them. I'm only doing what's best for him.

Then Oscar's voice broke as he yelled out again. He sounded so young, like he had back in the farm.

"Da! Da please- fuck I- I swear I'll stay outta the way just lemme- please-"

Snyder was smiling. Didn't shift his gaze from the door.

"I wasn't expecting him to call for your father, and of course from this I can come to my own conclusions. But I always like having confirmation that I'm right."

Morris sort of. half nodded, knew what Snyder was asking even without the question. He could feel his heart beating in the hollow of his chest.

Christ Oscar sounded so young. He wasn’t meant to sound so young. So scared. It made Morris nervous, the unfamiliarity of it all.

"Da would lock him in," he said, real quiet, like he was telling a secret. And it was, in a way. "Back on the farm. Days sometimes. Just so he was outta the way. Couldn't bother no one."

"A cruel man, your father." Snyder was casual, as if they couldn't hear Oscar. "Did he ever do the same to you?"

"No. No he hit me but they-" his eyes burned. "They didn' want Os. So sometimes they'd just. Put him away."

It was something from childhood Morris remembered and had never questioned much, till now. And the thought made him feel sick.

He ran back the memories again, hazy at best like most on the farm, but there were so many things that just. didn't involve Oscar.

There was one particular memory slowly piecing itself together, like it had been triggered by the sound of Oscar’s fist on the door. Morris had been tiny, Christ not much bigger than four or five, and had sleepily dawdled down the cold hallway of the farm house crawled in with ma and da in the middle of the night because Oscar was in the next room over and wouldn't stop banging on the wall. morris couldn't sleep. So he'd told da. And da had said he'd get him to stop.

Da had clambered out of bed, dragged a hand down his face and came back five minutes later.

Morris was already curled into ma's side, asleep.

He didn’t even remember complaining about Oscar till now.

His vision darkened a little at the edges.

"Let him out?"

Snyder barely spared him a glance at the question.

"Not until morning. How is he going to overcome anything if I give into his endless yelling."

"Please, he's-"

"Nearly 18 now Morris. God, sometimes I wonder how you boys would survive to adulthood if I weren't around."

"Can I see him?" His voice came out a croak.

And for a moment Snyder hesitated, and Morris thought he might actually say yes.

"Wait here." He said instead and Morris wasn't brave enough to disobey Snyder when he said things like that. He wished he was.

"Oscar?” Snyder called out, just a little louder than usual.

The banging stopped.

Then the begging started.

Morris shouldn't be here to hear it. He knew he shouldn't, every fibre of his body, every bone and muscle was telling him to sprint back up the stairs, back to the safety of the dorm room where he didn't have to hear this. This mockery of his older brother. It made him uncomfortable down to the marrow his bones; it was wrong.

"Da, da I'm sorry- please jus'- lemme out. Please. I'll be good i swear. I swear- please-"

Snyder didn't answer. Morris was watching his back but could picture the expression on his face.

Oscars voice wavered. Uncertain at the lack of response.

"Da? Da are you-"

"I'm here."

Morris pressed a hand to his mouth to stop himself from making a sound. The lump in the back of his throat was painful and the burning in the backs of his eyes was turning into a pounding headache-

"Da, pl-" a sob. "Please. I don'- what'd I-"

"I'm turning the doorknob. Can you feel it turning.”

"Yeah. Fuck. yeah. Please-"

"I'm right here, Oscar."

"M' sorry. An’ I- I been prayin' like you said. An' I ain't- ain't talked to Mo-" he went quiet. Just for a moment. Morris noticed Snyder had let go of the door knob. "Da?

Snyder had turned around, face expressionless, hand on his cane.

"Da! Da please come back!” The door rattled. “Fuck. Da - Mo-"

Snyder was close enough to slap a hand around Morris's face. Fingernails digging into his cheek. A hissed "not a word," as he all but dragged Morris back toward the stairs

As if Morris would've been able to bring himself to do anything even if Snyder wasn't there.

In there, that person in that room, crying and yelling and so scared. That wasn't Os. It couldn't be. So Morris would wait until Snyder brought him back.

Just like he would on the farm when Oscar acted like nothing had happened, and Morris had his big brother come back home.

when did you stop loving daisy?

(did you ever?)

POST: LONG ISLAND, NY. AUG 1922

This is an impossible question to answer. You must understand how much of myself I put into her and thus how much of myself I lost the day I realized it wasn't going to happen. Can you imagine that? Building the whole of your world and your vision of yourself on the opinion of the one person on Earth you thought you truly understood, the very first person in your life to want nothing more than to bring you peace—just for that same person to change and withdraw as you, in an effort to retain their attention, concentrated and refined yourself into exactly what you thought they needed?

For once in my life I had someone I could understand, until I didn't. And for a moment I thought for sure that without her I had nothing, that I was nothing and I would die nothing, but—

—well, that's simply not the case. Now, here, anyway. In another life maybe I pursued her until my body gave out and I rotted away to reveal I'd been hollow all along. I still feel that way sometimes, on foggy nights when the green light at the end of her dock cuts through my room.

Only now I don't face it alone. And thank god for that.

I'll always have a fondness for Daisy. I don't think I could fully extract her from myself if I tried, as many times as I've reinvented myself. I don't think that's a bad thing. She's good, you see, old sport. She really is. I don't blame her for my giving up, and you shouldn't either.

I would write more, but I have more letters to answer, a past to put away, a present to appreciate, and I'm already being called to tomorrow.

Sincerely and emphatically,

Jay Gatsby