All movements still, hand hovering momentarily over the kettle. She swallows thickly, the clock ticks overhead, and just like that the moment’s gone. The woman’s fingers reach for the handle, and with her free hand she wrenches open a cupboard above her head. “It was your choice to leave Capetown.” She says blandly, pointing out the obvious if only to push away the heaviness that still clings to the air and echoes his words back to her. ‘I left?…’
She doesn’t want to speak. She’s never been good at ‘just speaking’.
Not when it comes to Cyrus.
Not when it comes to anyone she’s ever loved.
So she rips open a tea bag even though he’s refused it, and drops it daintily into the mug of scalding water. She does the same with her own, even though she knows it’ll sit untouched until it goes cold. “Don’t mock me.” Vivianne dissuades her son curtly, flinching when he refers to her by title. Capobastone… For all the pride she’s taken in the position, Cyrus says the word and suddenly it sounds ugly, damning, monstrous from his mouth. Like he shouldn’t know the word at all. Like it should’ve never found such an eager home on his tongue. “And don’t call me that.” She snaps, offering no explanation for the twisting sensation in her gut.
‘I’m moving,’ he says, and finally his mother turns to face him; arms crossing over her middle as she leans back against the island counter. “So?” She asks, prompting him for more, always more. Nothing Cyrus says is ever enough for her. And the little he does say is wrong, all wrong. It’s like a condescending toss of crumbs to the hungry; brief, nonsensical words stringed together into careless sentences that he aims her way. “Unless you intend to return where I sent you or move out of Verona, what difference does it make to me? One street up or three streets down?” Vivianne knows what he’s implying, and she doesn’t like it.
Mother, I am here to stay. Mother, I intend to be a Capulet…
She knows exactly where he lives right now, down to the ugly potted-plants framing the main entrance - even though she’s choosing to feign both ignorance and wintry indifference. The message she’s trying to send is clear - Unless you return where I want you, to the safety of your aunt and uncle’s place, I will not let you into my life here. The tea’s been steeping for two minutes too long now, a curlicue ribbon of steam rising from the surface and wafting the scent of ginger and lemon into the air. She grabs his and takes a step forward.
“Vai, Cyrus. Let’s no pretend we pay each other social calls.”
She sets his mug down decisively on the edge of the counter. After-all, Vivianne’s always preferred such communications without words. So it’s an unspoken message, in and of itself; both an offering and an ultimatum —- Tell me what I want to know or this conversation’s over.
when the mug clinks against the countertop, cyrus flinches. vivianne’s ire is nothing new, of course, but, somehow, this time, she’s managed to make her voice so cold, so indifferent, so casually cruel that cyrus cannot help himself-- even knowing that she will see it, even knowing that it will mark him as the disappointment she’s always thought him to be-- he recoils infinitesimally from the sudden clatter, his shoulders tensing just long enough that he cannot deny it.
for a long while, he says nothing- as if he is afraid to acknowledge his lapse in resolve, but then he turns towards her, his blue eyes still cast down, almost in deference. “s'il vous plaît, maman,“ he mumurs, his voice just barely audible even in the dead silence of the room, “don’t do this for my sake.”
there is no emotion in his voice, no accusation nor insult. there is only his words, heavy as the heartbeat racing in her throat. there is only the silence, thick as the blood they share.
there is only the truth--- as terrible as it is.
if vivianne doesn’t want to pretend civility, then so be it. but let it be known that she’s made her choice.
he’s standing now, having pushed the stool back under the counter in the time it’s taken her to process his words. now that they are face-to-face and only feet apart, it is hard to do anything but acknowledge how tall he seems. when cyrus had left for capetown, he hadn’t even been up to her shoulders, he remembers. he’s well over a head taller than her now.
“you know, it’s funny,“ he offers up finally.
“after teatro nuovo, i wanted to do so much. i knew i could be of more use, but-” he takes in a shaky breath, “but all anyone ever did, when they saw me, was worry about you. of course, i kept telling them it would be okay, that you would be well again soon, and, even if not, that we would somehow survive in your absence-”
his voice halts suddenly. for a moment, he just blinks owlishly at her, like a child caught past their bedtime. but just when the silence is about to snap, he manages to continue.
“after all,” he says quietly, “i did.“
and then, before he can decide against it, he bows his head and leans in to press a dry kiss to his mother’s cheek.
there will be worse things yet to come for her, after all.
cyrus almost pities her. almost.
