newest wave of her invective earns another twist of his features ; no longer vaguely bored & mildly irked , now hovering on the precipice of a real storm . beneath the 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 fabric of his shirt , shoulders slide & rearrange , muscles gathering like he’s anticipating a physical punch / temple & jaw flex , tick in tandem with each other . it’s the BLAME that does it , the one she weighs squarely on his shoulders : go on , then , she says , & there’s a part of him that wants to . yes , otto , for fuck’s sake , it is your fault . instead , he shrugs ── casual as he can 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 , despite the way he stews over the guilt she levels at him so easily . ❛ cut the dramatics . ❜ momentarily , he pauses / gathers a breath that he’ll huff out just as quickly , wish that it sailed on a cloud of nicotine that might have a chance at calming whatever rattles the inside of his chest . ❛ nobody’s fuckin’ saying ── christ , otto . ❜ bitten - off sonance takes turns roiling mollifying , then defensive / a half - assed apology , inhaled when he makes the SNAP DECISION that he doesn’t want to extend it . ❛ it’s not just about who i’m friends with , though , is it ? we both know that . ❜ somewhere , beyond the grave , vincent’s ghost must thrum with the silent acknowledgement . ❛ ‘cos you don’t act like this with anyone else , not really . which makes me think it isn’t even about grace . s’about vincent , isn’t it ? not like YOU have a leg to stand on there . ❜ slow , so fucking slow , molasses moves quicker than julius does when he tilts his head , scrubs one hand across his features . delivered with a 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖊𝖑 wrench of the mouth , one that a younger brother would be devastatingly proud of : ❛ one thing to be friends with his ex - girlfriend , sure , but another to be FUCKING his best friend . how is greg , anyway ? ❜
Otto, for her part, sits through all of it. Lets him huff and puff and twitch and tick and shift. She listens to the half-assed, unfinished apology and the silent blame that he throws right back at her. The gaps between his words say plenty on their own, and she is well-versed in the unspoken language of Julius. ( His being the silent language she speaks second best, preceded only by the aforementioned dead brother whose ticks and mannerisms she learned out of a sense of self-preservation she’s not sure she still has. ) It’s fair to say--and somewhere deep down, she knows--that it’s not fair to cast the blame on him. Her actions are her own, her choices are her own, and the way she has internalized anything to do with Vincent is, at times, wildly unfair to the rest of the people who knew him. The ones still standing. It’s different with all of them, the way it manifests, but particularly around the family, her resentment has turned cold and biting. And for Julius’ part, perhaps he’s right: maybe it’s less to do with Grace herself and more to do with the ever-present ghost that accompanies her. Maybe, had he not been the way he was, died the way he did, tortured her as he chose, this all would have been long gone. But, simply put, that’s not how it went. And there’s a thousand things, ripples in the never-steady lake surface of Otto’s life, that are impacted by it now. Even through his accusations--which again, if she were less afraid of her own feelings, she might realize held a weight of truth--she stays steady. Until the end. Until he yanks Greg into the picture--a spitting, acidic truth that she’s worked hard to keep from her siblings. Evidently, to no avail. Of course, public affection will do that, but she’d just sort of assumed they’d all missed it and if they hadn’t, it wouldn’t come up, but... clearly, stupidly, ignorantly, she’d been wrong. Hands stop fidgeting in her lap, stilling suddenly and without warning. Her shoulders tense, pulled tight together as if a real attack has been leveled against her. Jaw clenches so tight that it hurts. And for a moment, she just stares at him. He’s prodding, gunning for a reaction, surely. She knows that. She also knows it’s working. “As if you have any room to preach to me about relationship choices, Julius.” It comes out slow and mean, sharper than she really means it to. “Seen Parkinson lately? Started any more fights with actual friends over bitches who never gave a fuck about you?” Regret. Immediate and scathing, it blooms in her veins and takes root. She inhales hard through her nose and looks away. “I didn’t mean--just--fuck.” This isn’t the hill she wants to die on. Not by a long shot. “The Greg thing is fucking complicated, okay? I realize it’s... weird or whatever. But it’s not a cut and dry as you’re making it out to be.” A beat of quiet as she haphazardly dashes for humor, something to make light. “Since when do you care who I fuck, anyway?”