Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Most little boys were interested in sports. Dinosaurs. Action figures. Rolling around in dirt. Eating dirt. Point was, James Hart had expected any number of things to capture his only son’s attention as he grew up. Toy cars. Pirates. Ninjas. Those kids’ science kits that made weird slime. Hell, even the farm animals in their countryside town. Something boyish that James could relate to. Playing catch, at least.

But no.

Instead, he’d been subjective to juvenile piano playing for the past two hours, notes pressed too hard with too much time between them. The same melodies awkwardly stumbled through while Margaret smiled with all the patience of a saint at her and James’s son.

“You’re getting so much better, Phillip,” she cooed. “All of that practice is paying off.”

Phillip looked up at his mother and smiled. He was never one for toothy smiles, and even if he was, there’d be gaps where adult teeth would soon grow in. His sandy blond waves resembled his mother’s head of hair, but the shape of his face was already modeling itself after his father. He threw his little arms around his mother’s waist; an embrace returned with equal zeal.

James used the brief respite of silence to read a few more sentences from the morning paper. Hmm, the playground was going to be renovated over the winter. Maybe he could coax Phillip outside for some fresh air before then. Get him active, build up that upper body strength on the monkey bars. Maybe get him to interact with other children.

And then the amateur musicianship resumed- and that was an insult to amateurs.

According to Margaret, sometime during James’s last business trip, Phillip had joined her on the piano stool while he she played and tried to join by smashing random keys. That had been the beginning of their lessons, and Phillip had been so excited to show his father what he’d been working tirelessly on for the last few weeks, going to far as to drag him towards the grand instrument the moment he’d stepped through the door. James had rarely seen Phillip so animated about anything, and it made for quite the sight.

If only it sounded pleasant.

“Maybe you should take a break soon,” James suggested. Really, he just wanted it to stop altogether. “We can go out in the backyard and toss a ball around.”

Phillip finished the song before he answered, “Okay. In a bit.”

Well, at least it would end soon. And if James was lucky, this fascination would die out by the end of the next business trip.

***

It did not die by the end of the next business trip.

Somehow, it had gotten worse. Every time James came home, Phillip had a new piece he’d learned and just had to repeat endlessly in a compulsive loop. Between the piano and books, Phillip filled his free hours with things that held no interest to James. More and more did Phillip retreat into these solitary activities. And less and less was Phillip receptive to alternatives.

“Why don’t you step away from the piano and come watch the game with me?”

“I can see it fine from here.”

“Let’s go fishing this weekend. I'll show you how.”

“Do we have to go the whole weekend?”

“I’ve signed you up for football.”

Phillip made an unapologetically sour face. “Why?”

James’s position on the couch allowed him to see Phillip sitting at the piano, again. His son no longer needed Margaret’s constant supervision to correct mistakes, and the fact only worsened the pinch in James’s face. If he didn’t let up, it’d lead to a migraine. On the ground, in front of the couch, Penelope and Elizabeth, five and three years old, drew doodles in sketchpads with crayons.

“Because,” James said, tone chipped, “you spend all day reading notes on a page or words in a book instead of going outside.” And being like other boys, he added to himself. “How do you expect to make it out in the world if you shut yourself away from it?”

Margaret hobbled into the living room, leaning against her cane more than usual. She sent a displeased look James’s way.

“He’s seven, James,” Margaret reminded him. “There’s no need to be quite so dramatic. If you’re really worried about him putting himself out there, you could sign him up for something he wants.”

James huffed. “Like what? He has two interests.”

“We could put him in proper music classes.”

Dear lord, hadn’t this gone on long enough? What good would Phillip get from this nonsense? Time hunched over keys was time he could be playing a team sport, making friends, learning important skills like cooperation and hard work.

“He should try new things,” he said instead.

Margaret sighed, “James-”

“No, he’s going to try a sport, and I am going to have a few hours of quiet around here.”

By now, Penelope and Elizabeth’s hands stilled, carefully turning their heads enough to watch the interaction. Phillip merely sat at the piano, picking at the sleeves of his shirt. Ugh, fantastic. He had a habit of pulling the seams out of place, and it’d only damage his clothes in the long run. James got up and stepped towards him. Phillip shied away, but James only leaned over and grabbed Phillip’s wrist to wrench it away.

“And stop that,” he scolded. “Do you want your clothes to fall apart?”

Phillip lowered his eyes. “No.”

James let go and straightened his back. “Your first football practice is Tuesday. I’ll drive you there after school.”

“...Okay.”

When Tuesday came, and James picked up Phillip and Penelope from school, the entire ride to the field was silent as a library. When they arrived, while Penelope stayed in her car seat, James took a small duffel bag from the trunk and placed it into Phillip’s arms.

“Your cleats will be in there,” he explained, “and water bottles and anything else you’ll need.”

Phillip nodded, still silent. James walked him over to the coach, introduced himself and his son and left with a wave that was hesitantly returned. Phillip held the coach’s hand, his tiny form stone-stiff and stick-straight. James got back into the car and drove off with Penelope, the tension in his shoulders easing. Phillip probably wouldn’t like football at first, but he’d learn, and later down the line, he’d thank James for pushing him out of the comfort zone.

And hopefully, with football practice taking up Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday afternoons, Phillip would finally play the damn piano a little less.

Chapter Text

It was not very often that the entire Hart family had a special outing, but the town’s annual autumn festival proved a reliable occasion, so long as James wasn’t away on business. Gourds of all shapes, sizes and pigments rested on bales of hay. Other families and groups of friends snapped pictures of themselves in front of it with cell phones. Not far away, a pumpkin painting booth was stationed, occupied by giddy children and rowdy teens. At the center of it all, scarecrows stood tall, overseeing the merriment.

Jane held onto her sisters’ hands as they strolled past stands set up in the town’s field. James watched them from behind; one arm looped through Margaret’s, the other swaying freely with his steps. Phillip walked between his parents and his siblings; hands shoved under his armpits in a futile attempt to warm them up. A turtleneck sweater reached up to his chin, and every minute or so, he’d have to free one of his hands from their containment to scratch at the fabric irritating sensitive skin.

James rolled his eyes. Once the temperature dropped below 20 Celsius, this conflict started again. If Phillip wore the unsightly sweaters, he would be itchy. If he didn’t, he would be cold. You’d think that a boy in Year 7 would have worked out his seasonal attire by now, but alas. He even refused to wear gloves despite freezing hands because they ‘felt weird,’ whatever that meant.

“Maybe it’s time to finally get you a scarf,” James suggested. “Or at least more comfortable turtlenecks.”

Phillip ceased his scratching for the time being. He replied, “Okay.”

James surveyed the stands around. Local farmers vending produce, artists their creative wares. With the weather cooling, there had to be someone selling accessories for the upcoming winter. He skimmed over jams and honey, bracelets and necklaces, small paintings and face paint, until at last, under a sign that depicted two sweaters in a loving embrace, there was vibrant cloth.

“Hey,” James said, “we can get something now.”

He directed his family towards the promising booth. Once they were close enough to make out its merchandise better, James’s instincts were rewarded. Not just scarves, but mittens, beanies and leg warmers were also available for purchase in enough colors to satisfy any customer. Phillip drifted towards the scarves, running his fingers over them with a pensive look.

“Soft...” he murmured.

That was promising. At least the texture wouldn’t bother Phillip, and James wouldn’t need to get another scarf in a month.

Jane broke away from her sisters to run her hands all over leg warmers with fake fur stitched into them. James moved to make sure she didn’t pull at the fur enough to tear it out but stopped once he felt that the woman at his side didn’t move with him.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked Margaret, tilting his head to take in her pinched face.

“For now,” Margaret answered, “but I might need to sit down soon.”

James nodded. “Alright then, we can find a bench-”

He felt a tap on his shoulder. James turned his head to find Phillip already next to him, holding a long strip of fabric in his hands.

Pink fabric. Light, soft, girly pink. The shade of cherry blossoms.

Suddenly, James was seeing red.

“What about the blue one?” James pressed instead, eyeing the identical scarf of a much more masculine hue.

Phillip tilted his head to the side. “But I like this one more,” he said. “That’s why I picked it.”

“It’s just more for girls-”

“Oh, hush,” Margaret interrupted with an exasperated tone. “If he wants the pink one, he can have the pink one. It’s not your neck it’s going on.”

James gritted his teeth. He saw it in his mind’s eye- side eyes from parents, snickers and jabs from children Phillip’s own age. Certain words thrown at a boy too young and in his own world to understand them. The way it’d reflect on Phillip, back onto James. He was trying to raise a man. What did it say about him if his son didn’t act like that?

Unseen by James, another family approached the stand together, twin girls and their parents. One of the girls noticed the unchosen blue scarf and swiftly snatched it for herself. When she went to her father to show him her selection, he handed her the money to purchase it before returning to his appraisal of the beanie selection.

Margaret lifted the pink scarf from Phillip’s hands and lovingly wrapped it around her son’s neck. She tied it up in a gentle loop, patting it down for good measure with a smile.

“There,” Margaret said. “The color looks very nice on you.”

The shade of the cloth was lighter than Phillip’s cold-reddened cheeks, but it managed to exacerbate them all the same. James nearly opened his mouth to say so, only to stop dead when there was a ghost of a rare smile on Phillip’s face.

James bit his tongue until he tasted iron.

“...Fine,” James grumbled. “As long as he doesn’t complain about it later.”

***

He’d almost forgotten about it, until he came back from a trip mid-winter.

The ugly turtlenecks had been traded for the equal eye-sore of a scarf, and suddenly, James could not go a single day without seeing it. Every time Phillip went out, he securely looped it around his neck, and it was still there when he returned. He scratched less, complained less, and when he was having one of his ‘moments,’ he’d soothe himself by feeling the fabric in regular strokes, and thanks to that, his preteen tantrums were also less.

After months of this, Phillip’s football team had an indoor practice to prepare for the upcoming season. James and a few of the other fathers congregated together at the sidelines while the children passed the ball around.

“Oi, James,” Beau inquired, “is Phillip’s scarf new?”

James’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “It is,” he confirmed.

“Ha, thought so. It’s...” Beau’s lips quirked upwards in a telling manner. “An interesting choice of color. He pick it out himself?”

“...No. It was a Christmas gift from Margaret.”

“Ah, makes sense. Could you imagine if he wanted to dress like a fairy?”

When the weather thawed, and the scarf was put away for the time being, James waited for his opportunity. The children were at school, Margaret was with friends, and James was alone at home, able to seize the offending cherry blossom cloth from Phillip’s room and storm out the door with it in his grasp. He slid into his car and dropped the scar onto the passenger seat before driving off.

James clenched the wheel. Every few seconds, he checked the speedometer, just in case he’d gone far beyond the speed limit without him noticing. Blood rushed his ears, roaring in repressed fury as his heart rate caught up in intensity.

This was for the best. He was looking out for Phillip, who knew nothing about how he came across to others with his sensitivity and preference for arts over athletics and proclivity towards effeminate colors. If James couldn’t change those parts about him, he could at least do damage control.

About ten minutes later, he parked at his destination. James grabbed the scarf before getting out of the car and power walking towards the unassuming, one-story building with its purpose touted in a sign above the door.

The inside contained racks of mismatched clothes and shoes and accessories, displayed lightly worn furniture and offered toys out of their boxes with chipped paint and frayed threads. But James wasn’t interested in any of that- he headed towards the checkout station, where a bored cashier had no customers to serve.

“Excuse me,” James said, putting the scarf on the counter, “I’d like to donate this.”

***

Phillip noticed sooner than James expected.

The cold autumn days arrived sooner than the year before. So, on a mid-October day, Phillip emerged from his room before heading to school, scratching at his old turtleneck again as he entered the kitchen for breakfast.

“Where’s your scarf?” Margaret wondered, keeping watchful eye over the frying eggs.

“Can’t find it,” Phillip mumbled with a pout. “But I know where I put it. It’s just not there.”

James cleared his throat. “Well, I can get you another scarf before I leave next week.”

And it would be blue, and when James put it in his hands, Phillip would narrow his eyes and say nothing.

Chapter Text

Summer in England could be absolutely dreadful, and James was reminded of this fact the moment he stepped out of the airport, waiting for a cab to take him to the airport. Almost immediately, sweat built under his collar, and his mouth dried. He hunched over his luggage, sagging with exhaustion and lamenting the remaining distance between him and home.

As the kids grew older, less dependent, he’d been sent on increasingly frequent trips. The past year or two, it seemed he was away twice as much as he was home. Sometimes, he had only two weeks before he’d be off to another country for almost a month. Luckily, he had three weeks of rest this time, and it was fortuitous timing- he'd get to spend the end of summer vacation with his family. They could go to a beach, an amusement park, ride their bikes, something fun to make memories before school started again.

Finally, he hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to the station. The ride was quiet, accompanied by easy listening jazz, and James fought the urge to nod off. He only allowed himself to nap once he settled himself in the train, fastening his travel pillow around his neck and making sure to set an alarm on his phone for twenty minutes before the train usually arrived at his stop. He chugged half a bottle of water, and then he was out like a light.

Finally, some rest and relaxation.

***

Coming home released all the tension that had been building throughout the trip. The sight of a familiar half-stone house, the verdant, unmanicured grass surrounding it and the apple trees older than most humans lining the back yard, provided a balm to the heaviness under his eyes. James’s back, his shoulders, his neck all loosened. He slotted his key into the lock and opened the door wide open.

Halfway through the threshold to the mud room, a stick-like body tackled him into a hug. It was Jane, head up to James’s chest, using more strength than should be possible in her tiny frame to squeeze all the air out of James’s stomach. James pat her head with one hand while the other closed the door behind him.

“Hey, there,” James greeted, basking in the affection. “Miss me?”

Jane nodded enthusiastically. When James pecked a kiss to the top of her head, Jane returned one to his cheek. With the exchange completed, Jane released her father and allowed him to step farther inside the mud room, his legs almost immediately bombarded by furry little beasts that purred as they brushed against him. He gave each of them a scratch behind their pointed ears before removing his shoes and lugging his suitcases into the living room.

Penelope and Elizabeth stood in front of the television, waving white Wii remotes wildly as they haphazardly matched the movements of the colorful, dancing characters on the screen. Margaret watched from her recliner, knitting the beginnings of something with purple yarn. Jane sat on the floor, eyes flickering between her sisters and the scoreboard on the screen. James circled behind his girls, cautious of any swinging hands, to reach his wife. Margaret smiled upon seeing him with her quiet grace that had matured like the finest wines.

“Welcome home,” she said. Margaret tried to rise from her seat, but the immediate grimace prompted James to push her back down by the shoulders.

“Don’t force yourself,” he told her. James hunched down to hug her, inhaling the sweet scent of cranberries. He basked in the warmth of Margaret’s embrace before adding, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. You’ve been away so much lately.”

“I know, but it’s just the nature of the job.” James paused for a moment, then asked, “Where’s Phillip?”

“He’s at his job.”

James pulled away, eyebrows brought together into furrowed confusion.

“What job?”

Margaret made a similar face to him. “His job at Robert’s farm. Did he not tell you about it?”

“Evidently not. How long has he been working there?”

“Only a couple of weeks.”

James hadn’t even heard that Phillip was looking for a part-time job, let alone that he had gotten one weeks ago, while James was on his trip. He’d checked in with his family several times, and never once did his son breathe a word of it. It was confusing, to say the least.

It also was a surprise. Phillip could be difficult to motivate into things he wasn’t interested in. Some days, James had to drag him all the way to the football field when he was just starting out. He seemed content with reading and the piano- it never stopped, of course it never stopped, but at least it was pleasant to listen to- and not much with other people or hobbies. James had only lightly prodded Phillip about getting himself pocket money and planned on pressing more while he was home, but...

It seemed he didn’t need to anymore.

“When does his shift end?” James wondered. “I’ll pick him up myself.”

***

It’d been quite some time since James had driven the short trek over to Robert’s farm, but he needed no GPS to remember his way there. His arms turned the wheel in the direction his mind knew well. Wheels treaded over dirt road, lightly jostling the car. Trees shaded the vehicle from the melting sun. The AC huffed cold air best it could, barely chilling flushed skin.

Up ahead, the roof of a faded red barn came into view. Once he was close enough, James parked at the side of the road and strolled the rest of the way on foot. Roosters screeched in a cacophonous conversation. Manure, unpleasant to most noses, registered as just another odor to James. Footprints were left in the dirt behind him, capturing snapshots of his sole as he approached a white picket fence lined with electrical wire. He stood before the fence’s locked door and pressed the button situated above the keypad. It buzzed. James waited.

A crackle. It came from a speaker on the other side of the door.

“Who is it?” a gruff voice demanded.

“It’s James,” James answered. “I’m here to pick up Phillip.”

The crackle sounded again. “Ah, James. You’re right on time. Let me buzz you in.”

When James heard the telltale buzz, he twisted the knob’s door and entered the farm property. The barn could be seen in its entire aged glory, the rusted weathervane squeaking as the wind forced it to move. Rows of crops stretched farther than James’s eyes could see. The roosters he heard before strutted around their closed-off corner of land, marked by the coop where more roosters and chickens resided. Somewhere, he knew, there was also a place for the pigs, but it wasn’t visible where he stood.

From the barn, an old farmer emerged and headed towards James, a minor limp in his gait. James met him halfway and shook his dry, calloused palm.

“Hey, Robert,” James said. “How have you been?”

“Fine, fine,” Robert grumbled. “Same old. You’re here for Phillip, yeah? I’ll bring you to where he is.”

Robert led James farther into the property. They walked away from the barn, past the chicken coop and horse stables and still beyond where the cows grazed grass. James had never gone beyond that point.

“I was surprised to hear that Phillip got a job at your place,” James admitted. “I didn’t know he was even interested in this kind of work.”

“You didn’t? Well, he’s being doin’ great so far. Listens to instructions. Carries them out without needing to be told twice. Pretty efficient once he gets the hang of things.”

James nodded along. “That’s good to hear.” At least he knew Phillip was taking farm work seriously.

Though, he still wasn’t sure what Phillip was actually doing around the farm. If it wasn’t the chickens or the pigs or the horses or the cows, or anything that was in the barn, then he was stumped. He almost began to wonder if there were more crops than what he’d seen before- that could teach Phillip a lot of important skills- when a rainbow of color on the ground he’d never seen before peeked into his field of view.

Hold on, those were...

“I didn’t know you grew flowers,” James remarked.

“For a few years now,” Robert explained. “We ship them off to local flower shops. It was starting to get to be a lot for Debbie, so we’re grateful for the help until we can get a more full-time worker.”

...So that was how it was.

The flowers did not go on as far as the crops, but they still occupied a sizeable square of land. Debbie, Robert’s wife of several decades, tended to petunias, a growing wall of sunflowers behind her, taller than even James himself. Debbie noticed the approaching persons, smiling at the men as she wiped dirt caked hands against soiled overalls.

“James!” she chirped. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I came back home fairly early,” James said. “Thought I’d pick up Phillip myself and say hi.”

Debbie hobbled over to James and brought him into a hug. He tried not to grimace at how it surely dirtied his clothes, but fortunately, no one could see his face.

“Well,” Debbie said, “I’m always glad to see you. Maybe you should stay a bit. We’ll get you and Phillip some lemonade.”

“That’s really not-” But he was already being dragged by the wrist towards the sunflowers.

“Phillip’s been lovely,” Debbie gushed. “He’s very good to the flowers.”

On the other side of the sunflowers, Phillip pruned sickly leaves of hydrangeas. He wore a simple T-shirt and jeans that had been stained light brown. His head bounced along to unheard music played through cyan headphones. Even so, he wasn’t distracted in his task at all. He gently handled the plants as he cut diseased parts with sharp shears, stuffing them into a burlap sack to dispose of later. He only paused in his task to stick his nose into the flowers and sniff deeply.

Behind his back, Jame’s fist clenched.

Debbie waltzed up to Phillip and tapped the teen’s shoulder. Phillip whipped his head towards her, a tad startled but otherwise unperturbed. He lowered his headphones to his neck, allowing the rock sounds to escape out into the open air.

“You’re done for today,” Debbie told him, “and look who came to pick you up!”

Phillip’s eyes drifted over Debbie’s shoulder, finding James a meter away. His eyes widened a fraction as the rest of him froze.

“Oh,” Phillip said. “I see.”

***

Once they were back in the car, James did not immediately enter the key in the ignition. A moment of silence hung in the air. Phillip picked at his shoulder-length sleeves.

“Stop doing that,” James commanded.

Phillip lowered his hands to his lap and squeezed them together. The smell of dirt and pollen wafted from him, diffusing throughout the car’s confined space.

“So,” James then said, “flowers.”

Phillip replied, “They needed some help. You were saying that I should start making money-”

“Flowers?” Now that they were alone, bile rose in James’s throat. “All of the things that can be done on a farm, and you decide to take care of some flowers?”

Phillip’s eyes narrowed. He always looked quite a bit like James, but like this, the resemblance strengthened.

“It’s what they needed help with,” Phillip defended. His arms drew themselves to each other, hands gripping his elbows. “And I like working with the flowers. It’s a job and they pay me decently. What is the problem?”

“It’s humiliating is the problem,” James spat, low and intense. “It’s bad enough when you can’t get along with boys your own age. Do you know how people talk about you behind your back? Could you imagine what they’d say if they knew you were doing something so effeminate?”

“Why the hell do you care?” Phillip grumbled. “You’re not home to hear any of it.”

That one stung. James ignored it.

“I’m trying to think of what’s best for you, why can’t you grasp that?”

“Well, I don’t need you to. I already know what they think about me.”

“Then why-”

“I don’t care. Why would I want the approval of mouth-breathing husks?”

James pinched the bridge of his nose. Phillip had really no idea. The way he conducted himself, it would go beyond their little town. Judgmental eyes watched from every nook and cranny of the world, rural or city. If he couldn’t behave like a real man, be a real man, then he’d only set himself up for failure.

And James did not raise failures.

“I know exactly where I put that pink scarf,” Phillip said, clear as day. “I remember even now. And then, it wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t lose it at all.”

To that, James had nothing to say.

Phillip rambled on, “Can I have one thing without you trying to get in the way? I can’t like books in peace, I can’t play the piano as much as I want to, I can’t even wear a color. I feel like you only ever come home to criticize something else you decide you don’t like about me. I’m literally covered in dirt, but that isn’t man enough for you because I touched some petals. And you think I don’t know anything about how I come off, but you aren’t the one getting your locker vandalized.”

James stalled for a moment. “I didn’t hear anything about-”

“Because I didn’t tell anyone about it, because then you’d hear about it!” Phillip threw his hands up. “That’s the problem! That’s why I didn’t tell you about this job, either. Because if you knew, then you’d react like you always do, and I’m sick of dealing with it.” He breathed heavily, his face flushed and his eyes glistening. “I’m not giving up this job. I’ll stay as long as they need me.”

The silence returned, ringing louder in James’s ears than before. His hands twitched. His throat demanded to scream, because how dare his son admit to keeping secrets, of such blatant disrespect. But he swallowed that bitterness, poisoning the simmering blood beneath his skin.

He settled for jamming the key into the ignition and turned it on with more force than necessary.

“Don’t go telling other people about it,” he warned.

Phillip rolled his eyes. “Who would I even tell?”

And they said nothing else as they drove home.

Chapter Text

Nothing satisfied James’s soul quite like tea and scones with good company, especially when they were homemade. He bit into soft, cakey goodness slathered with blueberry jam, and chased it down with scalding, raspberry liquid. All the while, classical music played quietly through a small speaker connected to a phone. He hadn’t seen a Bluetooth speaker in use before. It was quite fascinating.

“Do you like the scones?” Therese inquired, pouring another porcelain cup of tea for herself.

James nodded. “Excellent, as always. Thank you.”

“Yes,” Edward agreed, “life would be much duller without your lovely baking.”

Edward kissed his wife on the cheek before having another bite of his scone with clotted cream lightly layered on it. James sat across from his old friend at the dining table, with Margaret on his right. It’d been a while since all four of them gathered together, but since the whole Hart family was visiting London, James and Margaret figured they may as well stop by for tea while they were there.

“How has Phillip been?” Therese asked. “He’s almost done with uni, right?”

“He is,” James confirmed. “Just one month left.”

“That must be exciting. Are there any plans to celebrate?”

“He wants to see a theatre show,” Margaret answered. “We’re going to talk more about it when we stop by his campus.”

Edward hummed. “Well, it’s good to reward him for the work he’s been putting in. How is he otherwise?”

“Same as ever,” James replied. “Mostly just focusing on his studies, mentioning the occasional book he reads and whatever new song he’s trying to learn on the piano.”

Edward nodded along. “Consistency is good. Do give him my well wishes when you see him.”

“We will,” Margaret said. Then, she sipped her tea and sighed. “It’s hard to believe that he’s grown up now. I still remember when he first wanted to learn the piano.”

“They do grow up so fast, don’t they?” Therese mused as she smiled. “The girls have been gone for a few years now. I can hardly keep up with what they’re up to.”

Indeed, James thought to himself with another bite of a scone, it’s been difficult to know what’s going on at all.

It wasn’t his fault, he told himself. It was Phillip’s, for not giving him a smidge of a chance when there was something new in his life. The last few years, most updates were given second-hand through Margaret, no matter if James had been home or abroad for it.

And he had been home more.

“He’s so quiet,” James remarked with sour humor, “I’m already at that stage.”

Margaret sent him a brief, pointed glance.

“Phillip can certainly be in his own head,” Edward agreed. “I can only hope it doesn’t get him in trouble one of these days.”

***

Phillip’s attempts to stay ahead of his schoolwork occupied him until the evening, so he met the rest of his family at the little Italian place they planned to have dinner at. When he arrived, everyone took turns entrapping him in tight arms. James went last, and he didn’t comment on how he only received a weak pat on the back in return, when Margaret and the girls received at least some awkward attempt at a mutual hug.

James’s eyes strained as he tried to read the menu under the restaurant’s dim lighting. He spent a minute figuring out how to turn on his phone’s flashlight function before turning it onto the menu, illuminating the words to legibility. Skimming over the pasta options, he decided on the linguini and moved on to the wine selection to contemplate what would best pair with it.

“How have you been faring with school?” Margaret asked Phillip, similarly shining a light on her own menu. “I hope you aren’t working yourself too hard.”

“I’ve been... okay,” Phillip replied, mumbling in the Londoner accent he’d been picking up while in the city. “A bit overwhelmed, so I went to the school’s counseling services.”

Counseling services? For being a bit overwhelmed?

“Did it help?” Margaret asked.

“A bit.” Phillip picked at the corner of the menu, the movement of his common tick slower than usual. “Though she, uh...” His face scrunched up. “Never mind.”

Penelope’s eyes flickered towards him. If James had blinked, he might’ve missed it entirely.

“’She’ what?” Elizabeth inquired politely.

“I said never mind,” Phillip answered, still hard in expression. “It was just a suggestion she gave me.”

“And?” Jane drawled while he dipped a complimentary dinner roll in oil. “What did she suggest? How to actually relax for once?” She snickered to herself at her own jab.

Phillip only tensed further. “Obviously, she suggested some techniques, but I meant she suggested why I was probably having trouble.”

“Oh, son,” Margaret said, “if there’s anything going on, you can tell us.”

Phillip’s tightness slackened, but only slightly. “It’s just a hypothesis. I’m not sure yet.”

“Even if it’s just a guess,” Elizabeth responded, “you’re still welcome to say it.”

Phillip shrugged, and he said nothing more. Penelope had her eyes trained on the menu the whole time. James was about to speak again, to tell Phillip to stop being so vague about matters, but it was then that the waiter arrived to take their order.

“Oh my god!” Jane exclaimed as she stared at her phone. “Melanie Greene is coming to London on her tour in a couple months!” She pouted at her mother and father, batting her lashes as she begged, “Can I go? Please? Please? Please? Please-”

And Phillip’s dodgy behavior was forgotten about.

***

Phillip had found a flat in London while he was studying there, and once school was over with, thus began the family mission of moving his belongings from the dorm to his new residence. The heaviest boxes and cumbersome furniture were left to Phillip and James to carry inside while the girls brought in lighter items and Margaret unpacked boxes while sitting in a lawn folding chair. The box cutter laid beside her feet as she pulled out kitchen utensils and placed them nearby on the floor.

James brought a particularly hefty box into Phillip’s new room; barren save for its carboard cousins and unbuilt bedframe with the plastic-wrapped mattress sitting nearby. The walls, a soft grey; hardwood floor beneath his shoes; a single window framed on either side by short, blush-colored drapes.

James wrinkled his nose at them. They really stuck out against the grey in a terrible way.

He dropped the box onto the ground with a loud thud. James rubbed his aching back as Phillip entered with another box, the word “ROOM” spelled out in sharpie. Phillip stretched a moment after he put it down.

“Are these all your books?” James asked, looking down at what he’d just carried in himself. “It was very heavy.”

“Uh,” Phillip said, thinking, “could be, but I also have a box with a bunch of papers.”

They continued on with the move. Once everything was inside, James called a sushi place for some takeout. Boxes were cut open, their guts ripped out and messily strewn across the floor. The girls remained in the living room, trying to connect the skeletons of shelves and a couch while Margaret read the instructions aloud with the same cadence as a bedtime story.

“Jane,” Margaret softly said, “I don’t think that’s where the screw goes.”

Jane blinked and looked at the wooden planks in her hands. She replied, “Oh,” and re-adjusted them to form the correct shape.

James wandered his way back into the bedroom. Phillip occupied himself with the bones of the bedframe, looking between them and the open instruction manual on the floor. Most boxes remained unopen, nothing unpacked. An un-built desk and dresser shied away in the corner.

“Do you want help getting your stuff sorted?” James asked.

“Hmm?” Phillip hummed, absentminded. “Oh, yeah. Could you help make the desk and dresser?” He connected the joints of the frame and felt around the floor for the screws. “I’ll take care of this and then help you.”

James started with the desk, as it seemed to have less parts. He separated the different sized pieces into groups of their lookalikes before opening its manual. He followed the directions, double and triple checking each step that he was correct before moving on. Bit by bit, a four-legged form took shape, topped by a sleek wood plane painted white. A few small drawers were attached to its underside, leaving James fairly more confident that he could handle the dresser.

“Alright,” James grunted as he brought the glorified table to its feet. “Desk’s done.”

“Thanks,” Phillip mumbled, almost to himself. “The bed frame is almost finished, too. Could you get started on the dresser?”

“Sure.”

It was silent work, even after Phillip freed the fresh mattress from its plastic preserver and lugged it into the frame, its new home, and proceeded to join James in his efforts to build the dresser. This lack of conversation wasn’t unfamiliar to James. It was Phillip, after all, the quietest book worm when without black and white keys to play endlessly. It would hardly have surprised James if Phillip barely established any connections beyond passing acquaintances while at school.

But still, something pinched in James’s chest. Since Phillip went to uni (before that really, since around the flower incident, but James would hardly desire to think on that more), it seemed like almost no words had been exchanged between them for three years, unless a third party was involved- mostly Margaret. The girls had no issue in approaching James for a talk or to tell him news in their life, including Elizabeth, who often mirrored Phillip’s introversion. It had always been a solely Phillip problem, exacerbated by distance and dragged on so long that this had been the most quality time they’d spent in years.

Well, if you wanted something done...

“Are you excited to be living on your own?” James asked.

Phillip took a moment to respond. “I am,” he said. “It’ll be nice to have my own space.”

He didn’t elaborate. Or continue the conversation in any way.

“More space for your books?” James prompted, trying for a lighter ribbing.

“And the keyboard,” Phillip added, and he punctuated it with a blank glance James’s way. “I can even plug my headphones into it, so no one can complain about the noise.”

That last remark sounded pointed.

“It’s good not to disturb the neighbors,” he agreed. “You don’t want to get noise complaints so soon after moving in.”

Phillip stared for a pause, then returned his attention to the scattered body of the dresser.

James felt his face twitch. “What do you want from me?” he demanded.

“What do you even mean?” Phillip bemoaned, looking at him again with a mix of confusion and exasperation. “I just want to be done with this.”

“We hardly talk anymore, and here I am trying-”

“Can’t we talk after we finish building this?” Phillip gestured to the still mangled clothing cupboard.

“Why can’t we talk while we build it?”

Now Phillip made a truly disbelieving face. “Because it’s inefficient. It’s distracting. And now we’re even more distracted because of you.”

James inhaled his frustration. “Well, if you’d just have a conversation with me-”

“Later-”

“Later, he says! After almost not breathing a word to me for ages.” James did not notice it then, but the playful giggles from the next room subsided quickly. “Have we even spoken while alone in a room together since you went off to London?”

“Am I supposed to be keeping track of that?”

And for a moment, James was truly dumbfounded, and he wondered what he’d done to deserve such a son. Red rage crept into the corner of his vision. His heart hammered wildly, and the screw in his hand was harder to grip when tremors rose from bone to muscle to skin.

“Look,” Phillip huffed with a roll of his eyes, “I’m sorry I can’t read your mind and operate exactly how you want me to, but can you at least try to do things my way when it’s about me? We’re moving my stuff into my flat, why do I need to-”

“I am doing this as a favor,” James seethed, “and I can easily leave right now.”

Phillip blinked. “Okay. Leave then.”

“...What?”

“You said you can leave, and at this point, you’re just slowing me down.” There was a clinical tone to the way Phillip presented his reasoning. Impersonal, as if the person he spoke to wasn’t one of his own parents who’d raised him, provided for him, done his best for him. “And, in case you forgot what I just said, this is my flat. I can choose who gets to be in here.”

James, speechless, merely stood and tossed the screwdriver to the ground. His feet marched harshly out the bedroom and blazed through the living room, despite the eight watching eyes.

“James-” he heard Margaret call out.

“Call me when you’re done,” James interrupted. “I’ll pick you up.”

The last thing he wanted was to learn how badly his temper could be pushed like this.

***

When they were on the train back to their countryside town, as the girls nodded off into a nap or watched something on their laptops, James felt the mighty glare of his beloved wife, a treatment reserved for those who’d really crossed a line in her eyes.

“What was that about?” she questioned, hushed. “Could you not get through the day without starting something?”

“Why are you so sure I'm the one who started something?" James challenged, equally hushed. He and his wife were hunched close together, their words only clearly reaching one another’s ears.

The look he received in return was unamused. “Because Phillip recounted quite literally every single word of your conversation.”

James scoffed. “I doubt that. He probably skewed the details.”

Margaret heaved a heavy sigh. “I can’t keep watching you two go at it like this.”

“We don’t-”

“The piano.”

“I complain one time-”

“The scarf.”

“That was ages-”

“He told me about what you said about his flower job, too. About all of it. Is it any wonder that he clams up when you’re in the same room? What is he allowed to do?”

“I just...” Jame released his own sigh. “I just wished he was more like other boys his age.”

Margaret’s stare went right into his soul. “More like yourself as a boy, you mean. Or maybe just more like yourself.”

James said nothing. Margaret pulled back.

“Phillip did have a bit of extra news,” she announced. “He wanted me to pass it along to you. Do you remember how he was seeing a counselor at uni?”

James raised an eyebrow. “Vaguely.”

“Apparently, she suggested he get tested for autism. He went through with it, and he ended up with a diagnosis.”

It hung in the air, that six-letter word. It rang like clamoring bells, threatening to give James tinnitus in his greying age.

“I see,” he said. “So that’s how it is, then.”

“I know it’s been sprung on you,” Margaret replied, “but you can just say ‘okay.’ You don’t have to sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re unhappy about it. It’s not about you.”

On a logical level, that was true. It was not James’s diagnosis. It was Phillip’s. It affected Phillip first and foremost. It did not revolve around James.

Yet, above all reason, it felt like it did.