Fractured Awakening || Cassian Snaps [CLOSED]

Friday, July 14, 1922
~ 9:30 PM

---

“That’s fucked up.”

“You’ve got no idea.”

Murmurs and music from the pub spilled onto the quiet street. Those with no plans to spend their night like the young and the reckless had already retired to their homes. Cassian and Freddie sat at the edge of the sidewalk, watching the occasional approach of headlights and departure of taillights while the boy regaled his friend with tales of what had transpired after he’d left them to start their new life in France.

After another evening helping at the theatre, the pair had decided to grab drinks before heading home. It had been nice to end the week chatting with the other boy. It was the first time he’d been able to talk about it with anyone—anyone who wasn’t Rosie—and he was starting to see how much he’d needed it. Cassian uncovered within himself a desire to be heard that hadn’t had room to be met when it was only him and the girl who held his whole heart.

He loved his wife…if…if she still considered herself as such, but not every conversation was a good one.

They’d struggled. They’d had hard times. Both of them had wanted the new life and freedom so much that admitting any of that felt like waving the proverbially white flag of surrender. Rosie had been so thrilled with every little triumph that he’d felt like there’d been no room to acknowledge the rest. Cassian had loved spending every minute with her, of course. Nights falling asleep next to her—before the factory consumed him and her night shifts consumed her, the tired laughs, and the little sparks of romance they’d kept together. He’d been looking forward to a future with Rosie from the day he’d allowed himself to believe she really wanted it and them as much as he did.

That didn’t make the apartments bigger, the factories less gruesome or the bills any cheaper. They hadn’t quieted his anxieties or given him any sort of confidence that he wasn’t thoroughly fucking up at every turn.

Whenever Cassian had imagined being her husband, he’d imagined a house—a real one. The boy had imagined the type of work that kept her home and happy in her garden, a few kids and the effortlessness that had spoiled him early in their relationship. Reality had been unrelenting in its pursuit of correcting him. There had been no real house but motels, tiny flats in questionable neighbourhoods, and an apartment with paper-thin walls and a treacherous old lady. The work he’d found hadn’t been enough, forcing her to find some for herself. Late work. Unsafe work.

The children?

Fucking hell.

But Rosie had been happy, and every time he’d appeared to be anything but, she’d taken it as a personal flaw. He watched her disappointment grow each time he couldn’t be enchanted by the things that thrilled her, and when he’d finally admitted that he wasn’t doing well—that he didn’t think any of it was nearly as ‘okay’—she’d thought it was a rejection of her and them.

Freddie didn’t harbour those reservations.

He listened, gave his thoughts between sips of ale and didn’t assume for a moment that it meant he loved his wife any less. That was where his nervous system breathed, inside the safety of confessions that didn’t cause hurt and devastation.

“Fucking aristos,” Freddie breathed, wiping at the moisture on his lips with the back of his hand. “Where does he get off breaking into your apartment? They think they own the world.”

“They’d have killed us if Rosie hadn’t gotten us out of there.”

“No doubt. A man like that, if he already went that far…mate, you’re lucky to be sitting here.”

Cassian nodded. He sipped his ale in silence for a moment, the heaviness of his friend’s sentence pressing into him. He really could have been dead. Leo Laurance had shown up in Allonnes with murder in his eyes. He’d felt his life slipping out of him with every pump of his heart inside his chest that forced more blood through his wounds. He’d been so sure that he would die. His greatest regret in that moment? He hadn’t been able to save her.

Maybe he’d never been able to save her. Maybe it had always been a lofty ambition but little more.

“She lost the baby,” he heard himself say.

“Shit.” Freddie dragged his hand along his face, clearly struck by the news. “Cass…I’m sorry, mate. That’s…that’s…”

“No…” he replied quietly. “I…it’s…”

Freddie turned to look at him, trying to find answers in the absence of real explanation.

Cassian swallowed roughly. The words that filled his tongue were words he’d never spoken either. Not flattering words, not pretty words – they weren’t the kind of words one expected from a loving family man. He’d spent months trying to reconcile the ugliness of the sentiment hidden inside something so weak that it brought him shame. “I’m relieved.”

His best friend’s brows knitted. Freddie leaned forward, setting down his bottle as if it might have been the reason he was no longer hearing clearly.

Warmth flooded Cassian’s face. His gaze fell, bracing for the rebuke.

“What…?”

“I’m relieved,” he repeated, finding a quiet catharsis in the repetition. “There was so much, Freddie. It was just one thing after the next. Shit pay, shit apartment. We could barely feed ourselves, let alone a whole kid. We both worked, too—had to. I wasn’t… I couldn’t make enough myself. Where would we put the baby? We couldn’t afford the childcare. Rosie…” He went quiet for another moment, but the burning inside his chest forced the words out. They’d been kept in for too long and were demanding their own opportunity to feel the cool evening breeze.

“She liked to pretend that wanting it was enough to make everything else okay…like…the baby was a good thing and that cancelled out the bad. Maybe she wasn’t pretending. Maybe she…maybe she really believed all of that.” And he was the one who lacked faith. “That we’d magically make the money stretch when before it could barely reach. We’d suddenly have more time; we wouldn’t be exhausted anymore…that…that everything going on with us…none of it mattered. That’s not…that’s never…is that a father? Barely able to feed my kid? Having to tell them we can’t afford shit? Trusting the old woman to watch him when she was the biggest snake? If she could do that to Rosie who’d been nothing but good to her…what could she have done to a baby who couldn’t talk?”

The thought sent a shiver up his spine, and he felt an anger rising that he thought he’d let go after watching the light leave Mrs. Rousseau’s eyes. His grip tightened around his bottle, the muscles remembering the way they’d tightened around her neck.

“What if her dad had shown up after he was born? He…he wouldn’t have let him live.” His voice that had already been low, grew distorted by the sudden emotion that took him. “We barely made it out of there, Freddie. What if we’d had to watch him die…?”

Remembering the little giggles, the way his hands might’ve reached for them…how he might have run to them when he was scared, then knowing in that moment that he was scared…and that…there was nothing they could do.

“If he never showed up…would the kid grow up in hiding? Learning to be afraid of public places—strangers—the idea that his family wanted him dead just for being alive?”

“…Cass…”

“He didn’t deserve that.” Cassian forced himself to meet his friend’s gaze, his expression crumbling in micro. His brows bunched together. His lower lip quivered when he drew a shaky breath. “That was never meant to be the life for my children. That was never the father I wanted to be but we couldn’t do better. Not without drawing attention, not without ending up in exactly the place we fucking ended up anyway.”

Cassian pressed the bottle against his forehead, trying to bring himself down from the sudden spike that threatened to leave him spiralling.

“I’m relieved, Freddie. I’m relieved that something in life finally slowed down and that…that with everything else we have to deal with after…a baby…isn’t one of them.”

Rosie had been starving herself—largely due to the loss—but he didn’t suspect she would have been walking on sunshine after the entire ordeal regardless. He wasn’t coping well. There was no debating it. He’d had the first sip of his potions and remembered how…good it felt…to not feel so much anymore. He wouldn’t have been able to straighten up in any manner satisfactory to Rosie, and just knowing that he was using at all—because he’d have had to tell her—would’ve sent her running anyway.

The same outcome, but with the knowledge that he had a child on the way somewhere in the world, one he might never see if he couldn’t prove that he would never touch another vial.

And wouldn’t he want to? Shouldn’t he? What sort of father couldn’t be strong enough to put away addictions for their son?
It would just be another failure to pile onto the list that had already grown a mile high.

Another silence.

Only the soft murmurs from inside the bar floated between them. A glass broke inside. A sudden roar from inebriated men. The music stopped before promptly starting again.

“I get it,” Freddie finally said. “I’m just sorry this happened. I shouldn’t have left you two before I was sure everything was fine. Cass…I never knew this—any of this—”

Cassian waved away his words. “Don’t. You didn’t do this. You ran with us when you didn’t have to and helped for as long as you could. You’re not the reason everything turned to shit.”

Freddie hesitated, his gaze sweeping over his friend who had somehow shrunk in the last few minutes. He noted the way Cassian’s shoulders pulled inward and the way his muscles sat taut.

“You know you’re not the reason either…yeah?”

Saturday, July 22, 1922
~ 1:24 PM

---

The book was warm.

Cassian hadn’t noticed at first and couldn’t say how long the message had been waiting before he did. In the first week after Rosie left, the boy had carried the book everywhere, anticipating the sudden warmth that might carry news that she was ready to come home. She’d said it would only be a little while and that they could write…but that first week had been brutal. The book never went warm, and, despite her telling him that she could, he hadn’t written either.

It didn’t feel right.

Before she’d left, she told him that she didn’t think they could heal together and that she believed the time apart would make them better—that she would be gone until they were better. What would he have looked like, flooding the book with heavy feelings and declarations of missing her before her side of the bed could go cold? Would he have been listening to the silent plea for some space to collect herself if he were still there in the notebook, pressing for and clinging to even the smallest word?

The longer he waited to write, the less right it felt to do so. Cassian started to wonder what his words might do to whatever peace he imagined she’d already found without him.

Then he stopped seeing the point.

Three weeks. Three weeks of radio silence and he didn’t think he knew what to say. Come home? She would’ve if she’d wanted to. He wished she were here and that he could hold her? He missed her? Why add pressure if she wasn’t ready and wasn’t done healing? If she came home…he had nothing to show for the time they’d spent apart.

Cassian wasn’t better. He didn’t have any concept of better or a working definition. There were no steps and there was no checklist.

The ache that had clenched his heart in her absence hadn’t gotten better; he didn’t miss her less. There wasn’t a day when Cassian woke up feeling like his world was no longer spinning too quickly and the void wasn’t closing in.

He’d simply learned to move despite it.

While the ground continued to crumble beneath him, he went to work, he helped out at the theatre, he got pulled around the country by his friends. He ate. He laughed in ways that were convincing. Sometimes, he even meant it. Was that better? He and Freddie still had potions. Not as much as on his own and trying to hide it, but enough to make the days pass easier.

That wasn’t better.

Cassian sank onto the carpet by his bed, prying open the cover. There was no excitement, only trepidation. The boy had long since stopped telling himself that it would be ‘any day now’. That only left him with the deep and terrible dread that any message that came might be the one where she let him know she wouldn’t be coming back. The anxiety that came with reading her words left his head spinning and his eyes blurring so much that he had to read the message twice.

You haven't written, and...scratches out something he can't read. Are you okay? I've thought about you every day, and I miss you terribly. You don't have to write back if you don't want to, but...can you just let me know you're okay? I love you.
- R

He…he hadn’t written.

She thought about him every day.

He read it a third time, finding it difficult to parse entire sentences full of simple words that he knew individually. Together, they made less sense. She missed him terribly and loved him, but there was nothing about coming home. Even a month back, seeing those words would have filled him with the kind of warmth that burned away all his fears. This time, it only dug the pit deeper.

“I love you” used to sound like a promise. Now…now, he didn’t know what it was meant to be. When they said it, he’d always heard, “this is us, we’re in this together; we’re staying”. “I miss you” meant coming together again—the natural remedy for missing someone.

Neither was true now and he didn’t think he’d had the time to reconcile that fact yet.

Cassian blinked down at the words, unable to let them in no matter how much his heart contorted to help them fit into its new understanding.

She could love him but stay away. Rosie could miss him but not come back.

What…did it still…was there…

How much was it meant to matter? What function did the words serve? If people could love you but leave and miss you but stay away then…then…

His chest hurt. Cassian eased the book shut, unsure he had the right words. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make it worse.

Later, he decided. His heart clenched too tightly in the moment.

Sunday, July 23, 1922
~ 6:06 PM

---

Jazz and melodies from British dance bands filled the air. The gently lapping waters of Shearwater Lake were accompanied by the louder sounds of Paul Whiteman, Art Hickman, Bert Firman and the Savoy Orpheans. The source? A small, wooden motor launch perched by the dock.

The hull was made of smooth, polished wood, painted white with trims made of varnished trim. The deck was a flattop with seats wrapped in some form of synthetic fibre on either side. Above it sat a large, beige canopy, its canvas roof stretching over wooden poles to shade the midsection. The cabin in front was a modest one, a small, enclosed space near the front fitted with a simple steering wheel and a windscreen. There was only enough space for two there, a captain and whoever he deemed fitting. But the real party was along the dock and back in the mid-section, where several partygoers lost themselves in their revelry.

The left side of the boat was bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, the entire lake set ablaze with the sun’s final hoorah. It gave a tint to the British flag that flew by the front, adding an extra shine to the brass horn and navigation lights by the front of the hull.

The boat and the party belonged to Mason, an old mate from the theatre who’d received his university acceptance letter only a month or so back. The wooden motor launch had been their present. It wasn’t every day that their only son got into Bristol University to study something as practical and prestigious as engineering. Like his father when he’d gotten him the job at the ministry, Mason’s parents hoped this would be the end to his ‘childish pursuits’ at showbiz.

His friend had already dropped the theatre while he’d prepped for admissions, leading many to think the boy had finally settled down.

The ragtag team of dreamers had had a good laugh imagining his parents’ faces should they have attended the party themselves.

It was co-ed, carrying a healthy mixture of friends who ranged anywhere from 16 to 20. On its own, there was nothing scandalous about the composition. It was what they got up to together. Amid the beer and shandy that fuelled the merriment of the late afternoon was something a little more insidious. Laudanum. Mason’s older brother was in med school and had provided some for the occasion on the condition he not say where he’d gotten it if he were caught.

Cassian and Freddie had brought a few mixtures of their own, careful who they shared them with and without any real explanation for what they were.

It wouldn’t do to explain to a boat full of muggles the intricacies of potion brewing.

No one cared for explanations anyway.

It was a party, there was good food, good music and a good buzz making its way through Cassian’s frame. The boy stumbled his way back onto the boat, his limbs trying to find a middle ground between upright coordination and moving along to the rhythms that spilled from the gramophone. He swayed before steadying himself against a wooden beam. There, sprawled on a section of seating was Freddie, a girl leaning against either arm. They giggled loudly, enthralled by the extra layer of theatricality the boy had mustered under his drinks.

“Heeeyyyy, mate. Have you met Shara? This is Shara. Did you know she had a twin? Twin Sarah? Sarah twin?”

Cassian broke out laughing, so tickled by nothing in particular.

He knew the twins, yes.

Someone came in after him, tripping on the same sharp drop of a step that he had before crashing into his side. Instinctively, his hands reached out. A second later, a mop of wet auburn hair was shifted by an unsteady hand to reveal a pair of sparkling green eyes and a face sprinkled with freckles.

Janice.

“Easy, darling,” Cass said with a grin that had been made easier by the alcohol they’d added tiny drops of potion to.
She giggled, leaning into him before managing to steady herself despite the mild rocking of the boat. Her hands lingered a moment on his arms before she slunk into the open seat by Shara. Her fingers curled as she invited him close.

“Come sit, Cass. Tell me aaaallllll about that boring office job your daddy’s gotten you.”

“No one wants to hear that slop,” Freddie interjected with a wave of his hand. “Come sit, Mason’s bringing more drinks and this one,” he said, tickling Sarah by her ribs. The girl broke into louder, more delighted giggles. “This one will sit on your lap if you ask.” The boy paused, looking between both girls as if he were suddenly unsure. Freddie squinted. “Or was it this one?” He leaned in, nuzzling his nose against hers while she too broke into a fit of giggles.
Freddie tipped his head back against the seat. “Ahhh, who cares?”

Indeed.

Cassian couldn’t bring himself to care. A thick fog weighed heavy inside his head. It made all his thoughts fuzzy and made his body tingle. More than that, it made him feel light, like he was floating far above cloud nine.

He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t filled with longing. He just…was, and in that state of being, with adrenaline coursing through him, he felt downright invincible.

“Another time, ladies,” Cass said, putting the bottle to his head and taking a massive swig. The heat spread from his tongue down to his throat before settling cozily in his stomach. “I’m here to get this idiot.”

“What for?” Freddie complained.

“You’re next for ‘King of the Jetty’. We’re out of blokes to throw into the lake.”

Sunday, August 6, 1922
~ 9 AM

---

When he woke that morning, it had been to his parents yelling 'Happy birthday' before his mother dragged him down the stairs to blow out the candles of the cake she’d been up early to make him. He hadn’t had the heart to tell the woman that he was too old for such things…nor…did he have the desire. In the week leading up to his birthday, he’d been dreading it. His birthday was the eve of their anniversary and the biggest reminder that things weren’t okay, and Rosie still wasn’t back.
It would’ve been a year, had they made it, but they hadn’t. His wife had left their home back at the end of June. He hadn’t felt like anyone’s husband in over a month…could hardly remember the life when he was.

The boy hadn’t planned to celebrate his birthday, unable to find the joy knowing what he did, but…it had been nice waking up to what he had. His mother sang for him, and they insisted he open his presents after breakfast was cleared away.

His father had gotten him a gold wristwatch, saying he would look even sharper around the office. His mother had gotten him a pair of books she’d found on a trip to Diagon Alley: The Loom of Stars: Fate as a Magical Construct and The Obsidian Tablets of Tharsis. He couldn’t decide which he’d been more excited to read. It was a third gift that had thrown him off. A small box…in her writing. On the inside was a ring of sorts, a small trinket. The note that accompanied it explained he could sew it into something or otherwise attach it. If he squeezed it…he could…feel her heartbeat.

Cassian tried it out immediately and regretted it just as instantly.

It thumped against his palm, slow and rhythmic, transporting him to the days they’d lie in bed together, listening to the sound of each other’s hearts.

Inexplicably, the scent of cherry blossoms filled the room, floating in on a wind that didn’t exist. The boy turned young man couldn’t see the olfactory illusion for what it was. His head swivelled in both directions, as if he expected her to walk in from the kitchen with a serving tray of banana bread and a smile. He could almost hear the congratulations forcing themselves within her voice.

But there was no Rosie.

Cassian squeezed harder, for all the good it did. The hurt returned, pounding antagonistically against the soothing rhythm. His eyes moistened before he could stop them, but he quickly wiped them as his mother walked back into the living room.

“What have you got there?” she asked, sinking into the couch beside him.

His fist uncurled to reveal the small ring. “A gift from…from Rosie.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely darling!" She exclaimed, reaching for it to have a better look. “How is she? Has she said when she’ll be home?”

A lump grew in his throat. The wetness he’d just wiped away returned. “She hasn’t.”

Kari lowered the ring, realising the way her son’s mood drastically dipped. “Oh, sweetheart…” She replaced the ring in his palm, curling in his fingers so they could close again. “She just needs a little more time, that’s all.” Her hand rose to cup his cheek instead. “These things can take time, but she’s obviously still thinking about you.”

“…Yeah.” He cleared his throat, blinking the tears free. “I’m…I’m gonna head down to the theatre for a while. Patrick…” he inhaled deeply, trying to dispel the growing heaviness that pushed inward. “he asked if some of us could come by today. We’re falling behind on set design.”

“Cassian…”

He slipped the ring into his pocket, springing to his feet in a flash. “Don’t worry about it, mum,” Cass said, plopping a hand atop his chest. “Even the wounded can sew set pieces and that ship won’t paint itself.”

“I suppose it could be good to have you with your friends.”

“Exactly,” he said, slipping into an imitation of the Cheshire Cat’s grin. “Wouldn’t want me cooped up and grieving. It’s a pretty special day, you know.”

She tried to smile, barely managing to curl the corners of her lips. “I know.”

He slinked an arm over her shoulder, spinning her once so they could both face the door. “Chin up, I’ll be home in time for you to take me wherever you’d like this evening. You said the ‘Dancing Peacock’ had good music, yeah?”

“Just the theatre?” she asked, ignoring his question.

Cassian’s expression softened. “Just the theatre. I’ll be right home after.” He kissed the top of her head. “You worry too much. I’m trying to be a productive member of society.”

---

Sunday, August 6, 1922
~ 3 PM

“Yo! Birthday Boy, c’mere for a sec!”

Cassian looked up from the large Lilypad he’d been painting. “Kinda busy!” he called back, expecting that if Freddie really needed him, he would come to him instead. This had been his afternoon: theatre props, lighting checks and helping some of the young actors with their lines. It had managed, in small ways, to take his mind off the emotional rollercoaster of a morning.

While he and the troupe painted side by side, he made them laugh; he entertained. He showed them the difference between mere projection and full stage command. They had a few new members, still unsure and finding their footing. He made sure they felt welcomed, displaying the kind of carefree, devil-may-care persona he’d been known for throughout the years.

Cassian watched them thaw, slowly, but enough to let the theatre work its real magic.

“Make yourself less busy. Got a surprise for you!”

A surprise? Why didn’t he like the sound of that? His best friend was as large in life as he was. When either of them used the word, it could sometimes become genuinely terrifying.

And yet.

Cassian rose with an exasperated roll of his eyes for the benefit of those around him. Some of the youngest snickered, the older ones already used to the dynamic at play.

He moved through the area backstage, careful not to step on anything that had been placed on the ground for ease. Nudging the curtain from his path, Cassian set out across the stage to join the boy who stood at the centre of the front row.

“Doesn’t look too much like an emergency out here, Frederick,” Cassian quipped, having to squint to have any hope of seeing his friend through those bright lights. He lifted a hand to cover his eyes, able to somewhat make up the boy’s lower half. “I thought Patrick said we dim these bloody things when we aren’t actively rehearsing.” The house lights were better while they worked, not the beams that could fry their way through someone’s soul and corneas if enough of them were turned to you.

“You’re right. How could I forget?” Freddie clapped his hands, and the stage lights switched off, replaced by the normal lights of the auditorium.

His friend appeared then, in full form, but he wasn’t alone.

There, in the second row, were the friends he thought he’d lost when he returned to England. They rose in sync, clapping, cheering—even whistling—as he drifted toward the very end of the stage.

“…What…?” He could hardly find the words. “What’s all this…?”

Mason…Justin…Arthur…David…even….Jessica?

When he’d walked back through the aisles of the Rosebridge Little Theatre, seeking some familiarity in the midst of the chaos, Patrick had told him that they’d fallen off. After he and Freddie left, one by one, the others had stopped coming. In the span of a year, the youth troupe had lost seven of its most experienced performers. The new recruits weren’t awful, but they weren’t yet refined by the bright lights and roaring crowds.

It all took time; time Patrick feared the theatre wouldn’t have if they continued to lose people.

They all had their reasons: their studies, jobs, and other relationships. His director didn’t have the first clue where they’d drifted, and Cassian had had to make peace with the fact that the theatre he’d once found a home in might never be the same either. It had been strange coming back to a theatre without David's and Arthur’s roughhousing. It had been strange walking through the rafters to find Mason was no longer on lights. Some days, the theatre was a little too quiet without an infamous temper tantrum from the prima donna herself.

Cass hopped down from the stage, settling at Freddie’s side.

“Heard you were planning to get the gang back together,” Justin said. “Didn’t think you’d be making star quality shit without us, did you?”

“It’s lights, Cass. I can engineer bridges and operate some lights.”

Cassian turned to Freddie. “…How did you…?”

His friend shrugged. “Mason had Justin’s number and Justin happened to know where this harpy was hiding.” He nodded toward Jessica, ensuring there were no questions about whom he referred. “The rest figured itself out.”

“You haven’t changed at all, Freddie,” she countered with an unimpressed roll of her eyes. “Won’t you ever grow up?”

Freddie grinned wide. “Oh man, you’re gonna lose it when you hear what play we’re doing, Jess.”

“I thought there were no girls in Neverland,” Arthur mused.

“Neverland?” Jessica asked with uncertainty.

"You didn't tell her?"

“Slap a beard on her; it’ll be an improvement.”

Home. Freddie had brought him what made the theatre feel so much like home. Rather, he’d brought pieces of home back to him.

Tuesday, August 8, 1922
~ 11 PM

---

The stars stared down as silent witness, their judgements and condemnation far beyond the comprehension of the boy who’d spent the better part of the evening into the night making sure that he had no braincells left by morning. He’d done responsible things before bringing himself to such a state. The day before, he’d ensured that Rosie had been sent the present he’d so carefully picked out for her.

Not too flashy, not too ostentatious. Sweet. Simple enough that it might not have her think he was trying to bulldoze her with grand gestures.

In the notebook, he’d written an equally simple message:

To the only girl I reckon I’ll ever love,
Happy anniversary, Gorgeous.
~ Cassian

The young man had gone to work, gracious in his reply to all the belated birthday wishes. With a hole the size of the galaxy opening inside his chest and a creeping numbness taking over his body, he’d filed papers. He set meetings; he rearranged schedules. At lunch, he headed to the break room with a few colleagues he’d grown fond of.

None were any the wiser of the way the boy’s very existence was twisting itself into something ugly and unbearable underneath.

Their anniversary. Rosie’s birthday. He hadn’t gotten to hold her. He hadn’t gotten to feel the warmth of her delicate skin against him. For another day—and such an important day—that smile that used to warm his universe had eluded him. The messages weren’t enough. The ring, while sweet, couldn’t compare. They all felt like gestures that gave him pieces of his wife when he selfishly wanted the whole thing.

He didn’t want practised, cursive writing on paper. It was much too difficult to hold at night. He didn’t want her heartbeat; he wanted the girl who threw his heart off its natural rhythm.

He couldn’t have any of that, but he could have something else. Alcohol was plentiful, and none of the bars he’d stopped in on after work had asked him any questions. As the night dragged on, Cassian had taken himself to many places, his memory and mind growing foggier with each new stop.

His last?

He…didn’t know.

It was dark. He’d left behind the streetlights and even the streetlamps, venturing out into the great abyss that promised to swallow him whole. That night, he didn’t chase the glamour and the flashing lights. Cassian shunned the brilliance of the bustling cities with their crowds and loud noises. Instead, he followed the lonely road, asphalt giving way to dirt as the wild grass rose on either side.

He hummed to himself as he went, swaying and staggering to an inaudible melody.

The ground came at him quickly. All it took was a tip of his head downward to look at feet he suddenly thought funny, and his entire frame tipped over. Cass hit the gravel with an unceremonious crunch and lay there with his face in the dirt for nearly five minutes. He didn’t understand what had happened or that he wasn’t upright anymore. Those things never occurred to him. What did was the absence of the stars he’d been following for miles now. With a groan, Cassian forced himself onto his back.

“There you are my lovelies. What would I do without you?”

They were taking him home, they were. To his lost love. He had one of those, believe it or not. A warm, sweet, pretty thing with the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. She was waiting for him on the other side of the stars. They were going home together.

Just wait.

Cass reached for the large bottle of ale that had hit the ground with him. By some small mercy, it hadn’t shattered. The young man wrapped it in a hug, keeping it by his chest as he inhaled softly.

“Come to me.”

His booming melody broke through the serenity of the night.

“My melancholy baby, cuddle up and don't be blue!”

He had no concept of either space or time and had no hope of realising that he remained sprawled in the middle of the road—albeit a quiet one so far from the city. It wouldn’t have mattered. Cassian was singing to his lost love.
Why was she lost? Where had she gone?

Someone had the answer. He only had the smooth lyrics of Frank Sinatra and a heart bursting with feelings he could scarcely contain. He sang his heart out, splayed there in the dirt, never missing a note even when he slurred his words.

“You know, Honey, I'm in love with yoooouuuuuuu….”

His sweet honey.

“Every cloud must have a silver lining, just wait until the sun shines through. Smile, my honey dear. While I kiss away each tear.”

The frogs and crickets, unseen as they were, joined him in his tribute. The symphonies of summer provided just the background for a haunting rendition of words he could barely understand the meaning of.

“Smile, my honey dear…Or else I shall be melancholy, toooooo.”

HONK! HONK!

The lights came out of nowhere. At least, they seemed to for the boy who’d been lost to the world around him. They approached at frightening speed, the car’s horn honking like an ornery beast losing its patience with the stationary boy.
The stars had come to him, their bright lights letting him know they’d accepted his song. Cass smiled wide, closing his eyes against the burn brilliance.

The car swerved. It nearly careened into the grass to be free of him. “Blithering idiot!!” someone called from the inside.

He stuck a hand in the air, waving at the departing beast with red eyes in the back of its head.

“Until next time darling!”

What a lovely creature.

Sunday, August 13, 1922
~ 4 PM

---

“Nearly two months? Bloody hell, mate, are you sure she’s coming back?”

David asked the question that everyone had been thinking from the moment Cassian had shared some sparse details about his marriage and ongoing separation. It was another Sunday behind the curtains, working their fingers to the bone in preparation for opening night in two weeks. Behind as they were, they were catching up. While the younger children couldn’t be relied upon to show up on Sundays, they were old enough to make their own decisions on where they went and young enough to not have the sorts of responsibilities that restrained their availability.

Patrick had entrusted Cassian with the key, and the seven of them sat atop the stage, meandering their way through several topics. They’d talked about Mason’s trouble finding a flat near the university and David’s rising family drama, and Jessica had even shared a little about her failed—or, at the very least, slow—launch into modelling. They’d been blown away to find out that Cassian had not only been married but also that he’d run off to France. The most surprising detail, it seemed, was that Rosie had left at all.

He hadn’t shared the grizzly details of the near murder, the lost baby, the dead Frenchwoman or Rosie’s eating problems. In some ways, that may have been the reason their shock and confusion was so intense.

As far as they were concerned, the lovesick teens had run away, had a time and a half in France, and then had come home to split.

The confusion was self-explanatory.

Even in the middle of it, being party to the devastation, the separation didn’t make sense for him either. Was there a point when it would? Would there ever be a day when he woke up and realised, ‘…huh, Rosie was right. We did need to be apart?' It didn’t seem likely. The distance wasn’t feeling like a good idea. He wasn’t doing some mythical healing that he still didn’t understand. He was only a boy, one who’d been reminded of how to put on masks to prevent those around him from worrying. He was still the boy who pined for his wife, although he was also becoming the boy convinced that she would never come back.

David’s question, a month ago, would’ve seen him quiet and spiralling. Now, he managed a shrug and a cheeky grin.
“I hope so,” he said, his voice belying the turmoil such speculation always brought. “I’m proper lost without her.”

He twined the rope together, reinforcing the binding as he moved down the prop’s length.

“What’re you gonna do if she doesn’t?”

“Fuck knows,” he grinned wider, tossing the rope over to Arthur as he rose to grab the feathers. “Eat burnt dinners for the rest of my life? Die of loneliness? Never know the warmth of a woman’s embrace ever again?”

Justin shoved him.

“Are you ever serious?”

“Don’t I sound serious? I wasn’t meant to be alone, Justin. My soul’s falling apart piece by piece. My future’s a blank canvas, void of hope or dreams.” He flopped back onto the ground, placing the feathers between himself and Freddie. “The heartache I feel could fill a cathedral.”

None of them knew how seriously to take him. Cassian had always had a penchant for dramatic declarations. Worse, he’d always been able to deliver them with the sort of charm that forced you to question everything you knew about human emotion. Was he truly devastated or simply enjoying the attention that talking about it offered him? Did his soul really pine for the girl who was gone, or was he more attached to the emotions he could now give into?

“I could perform entire soliloquys about my grief.”

“Alright, Shakespeare,” Freddie interrupted, grabbing a fistful of feathers. “Let’s not get carried away or we’ll be here all afternoon.”

“Say what you will; heartache sells in this business.”

Mason gave him a strange look. It was a mixture of compassion and uncertainty. “But…but you’re alright, yeah?”

“I’m not. Likely to drink myself to an early grave by Christmas at this rate.”

Freddie shot him a look.

“Cassian!” Jessica chided. “Don’t joke like that!”

“Alright, alright,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m fine. One day at a time, you know?”

"Well, if you ever need someone to talk t—"

"He doesn't."

“What’d you do to make her leave anyhow?”

“Probably wore her down with all those Victorian confessions. There’s only so much a girl can take, even a delicate flower like her.”

If only it had been that simple.

Cassian shrugged. “Who knows. Probably got tired of my shit.”

“I’d believe that,” Justin said. He ducked as Cassian threw some feathers at him. It was an unnecessary gesture when the feathers didn’t have enough weight to get far. “I’m just saying!” The boy straightened. “Always warned you those roaming eyes of yours would get you into trouble someday.”

“Well, who said he cheated?”

“You think the theatre’s Casanova would ever make it with one girl?”

“A pretty girl like that? Nah, he wouldn’t risk it.”

“She’s not that pretty.”

“Funny how no one asked you, Jess.”

“What happened to that young bird you were chasing, Mason?” Cassian asked, ready to have the spotlight removed. “She coming to opening night?”

Saturday, August 19, 1922
~ 7:20 AM

---

The theatre was quiet. Cassian had thought it strange that the door would be closed when Patrick knew they were coming in to help with rehearsals, but it had been nothing a quick and inconspicuous ‘alohomora’ couldn’t solve. Things got stranger on the inside. The silence was only part of a bigger mystery; all the lights were off. In the dim light that poured in from the door left ajar, Cass exchanged a puzzled look with Freddie.

It was already after 7 AM. At the very least the lights in the aisle and the ones backstage should have been on. The lights of the otherwise dark theatre building were always on and waiting, especially when they had the youth group coming in, which they would within the hour to begin the day’s work. It wasn’t like Patrick to forget. Children and dark places were hardly the ideal for responsible supervision.

Cass tapped Freddie on the chest once with the back of his hand. “Get the house lights on. I’ll go see if he’s around back.”

Chances were Patrick wasn’t there at all. The current state of the theatre was the biggest giveaway. The only question that remained was ‘why?’. In all the years that he’d been coming to rehearsals, his director had never been late.

Sick, unhappy, or other obligations that needed him across the country, it never mattered. Whenever he walked inside, the lights were always already on, and Patrick was often sitting in the front row, going over the script or any notes he’d made from previous sessions.

It was too difficult to see without Freddie reaching the lights yet, but he could make out the shapes of the seats.
Patrick wasn’t there.

“Pat?” Cassian called as he made his way toward the stage. “Yo! Patrick? What gives, mate? The others will be here any minute.”

No response.

Cassian found himself growing annoyed. When they’d spoken the evening before, the man had insisted on 8 AM. If he knew he was going to be out, he should’ve left the keys with him as he was growing more comfortable doing so. Cass would’ve gotten everything opened and the lights on, waiting for the troupe to arrive instead of this…dark limbo they were stumbling through.

The lights above flashed on. Freddie had found his way to the box.

Cassian paused by the door to the backstage area, his attention caught by something near the front of the stage.

“Looks like he left his stuff out here!” he called to his friend, having noted the shoulder bag the man typically sported.

So, he was here. Why hadn’t he answered when he called?

“Do you see him?” Freddie called back.

“Not yet! Maybe he’s working on something back in his office.”

Something that had him so engrossed that he hadn’t heard them calling—never mind how loud they were intentionally being. Backstage, Cassian noted the light to the back office was on. Shaking his head, he moved closer. Somewhere back in the theatre, he could hear Freddie jogging his way down, but his focus remained on the door left ajar.

“Oi, what gives?” Cass asked as he pulled the door open. “Thought you wanted some help before the others got he—what the fuck??”

Cassian staggered back out of the small director’s room and right into Freddie. He never noticed. Suddenly, his chest heaved violently, his diaphragm contracting and expanding with a level of violence that made him ill and light-headed. There were explosions inside his chest—millions of them. His heart hammered so forcefully that it threatened to break its way through his ribs.

“Shit—shit shit shit.”

“What? What is it?”

“Shit! Fucking shit fucking fuck!”

“Cassian!”

Freddie shook him, but it wasn’t enough to unscramble the fracture that occurred inside his mind. He couldn’t breathe. Despite the involuntary spasms taking place in his chest, there was neither air going in or going out. Cass pointed inside the office with one hand, the other pulling and tugging incessantly until his friend finally stepped forward to have a look for himself. Freddie spared a concerned look at the shaking boy before cautiously approaching.

“Shit, Patrick!”

Freddie rushed further into the room, provoking Cassian into action. Adrenaline took hold of him, propelling him back into the scene that had instantly erased everything from his mind but his own name.

There, lying on the floor, was their director. His jaw was tense, his teeth clenched, an indication that whatever he’d gone through hadn’t been serene. Patrick’s eyes were wide open, bulging almost, and his brows were drawn in obvious distress. The veins along his temples and his neck protruded, rising beneath his skin to create distinct pathways no longer in use.
A faint sourness lingered in the air — not yet decay, but something wrong, something still.

The ashen appearance of the man’s skin told him that he’d been gone for some time. An hour, maybe two. As Cassian kneeled next to him, he felt the coolness of his skin.

“What…what the hell happened…?

Freddie wasn’t listening. Throwing all caution to the wind in the secluded office, his friend drew his wand and performed every healing spell he knew. Each time he did, Patrick’s face lit up, the shadows chiselled into the contours where the skin stretched with his now past agony. Nothing worked. Nothing could bring back the man who’d already crossed over to the other side. Cassian recognised the futility in the gesture. He reached for his friend, wanting to ask him to stop, when something else caught his attention.

There was something clenched in the deceased director’s hand. Cassian reached for it, his pulse dropping to nearly nothing when he realised…

“What…?” Freddie asked, lowering his wand when he saw his friend reach for something.

Cassian couldn’t speak. He held the vial up for Freddie to see, feeling something shatter inside him. It shouldn’t have been possible…but the evidence argued its veracity. Both boys knew what it was immediately but…

The vial had gone missing days earlier. Cassian had been sure that he’d put it back into his bag after he and Freddie had had a few sips, but when he’d gotten home, it wasn’t there.

Patrick…

…How?

The illness that had taken him when he’d first entered the room returned as the realisation of what happened slowly set in. An empty vial, in so little time…when the man had no true understanding of what the substance was or how strong it could be. He’d overdosed…likely without ever knowing how close he was to danger until it was too late. Worse…he’d gotten it from them – from him. It was his vial, meant only to give him and Freddie a little buzz while they went into their third day of nothing but ship painting.

He hadn’t…he didn’t mean for…

“Patrick…” he whispered.

“We…we gotta get out of here.”

“We can’t just leave him,” came his strained reply.

“Cassian, listen to me! He’s gone. We have to go!” Freddie took him by the shoulders, forcing him unsteadily back to his feet. Cass couldn’t pry his eyes off the man who’d first taught him that his voice could be its own magic. It was Patrick who’d decided to take a chance on him, despite the way he’d chronically forget the shortest lines. When he was crippled by stage fright and had made for a frightfully dreadful tree, Patrick had encouraged him anyway.

And in return…he’d…he’d killed him. Cassian looked stricken, his entire body rebelling against the reality that played out before him.

So much death…everywhere…there was…just…death.

Mrs. Rousseau’s hollow and unblinking eyes looked up at him from where Patrick’s used to be. Cassian recoiled, feeling that now familiar churning in the pit of his stomach. The old woman stared up at him from her slumped position on the ground.
It took him a moment to recognise that Freddie was still talking to him.

“Cass? Cassian, can you hear me?”

Could he?

His body was going numb, every inch soon claimed by the horror that set itself inside him.

Patrick returned, his eyes now turned upward, looking at him. Accusing him for his fate. Cassian staggered backward, tripping over his own feet without any real direction for his movements.

Freddie grabbed him firmly by the arm and yanked him from the room.

“We…we gotta tell somebody,” the redhead said, dragging his friend clear across the backstage area. “T—The police—shit—I don’t know—someone. We…he…”

Cassian couldn’t hear him.

Standing by the door to the director’s office were Patrick and Mrs. Rousseau. Their solemn stares condemned him, their malice chasing him through the room. The moment Freddie got him outside and into the fresh air, Cassian unloaded the contents of his stomach. Everything his mother had lovingly given him that morning for breakfast now splattered across the pavement.

“We can’t…” he heaved. “We have to tell someone be—before the kids get here.”

Thursday, August 24, 1922
~ 8:13 PM

---

“Alright, everybody, take five!”

There was a collective groan pouring over him from the stage. Two hours. They'd been at it for two hours and had managed to make their way through most of the script, but there were still places that needed tightening. This was one of them. Janus Flint. He was a small boy with pale eyes and a gaunt face. He’d only joined the troupe that summer, and even Cassian could admit that he’d had reservations when Patrick revealed that he would be the daring boy who refused to grow up.
He couldn’t see it. Still couldn’t see it, but it wasn’t for him to see. There was no time for recasting, and while the boy did have an understudy, Cassian had determined that it wasn’t his place to make that call.

If Patrick had seen something, then something must be there.

“We don’t have time for five!” Lillian complained. “Why do we have to stop every time he can’t get it right?”

“We’re not stopping because any one person can’t get it right,” Cassian replied, his tone floating light and airy above the turmoil that bubbled and festered beneath.

They didn’t know.

The owner of the theatre had made the call to keep the younger performers in the dark concerning Patrick’s death. He’d been inclined to agree. A week out from opening night and with so many of them putting their souls into this… It didn’t seem right to either put an immediate halt to production or to rob them of their joy. For some of them, it would be their first time on the stage. What a first time it would be to learn that the man who both screamed and laughed, who’d patted them on the back and offered rebukes, would never sit in the director’s chair, insisting they feel the line ever again.

It would only add an extra layer of cruelty that none of them deserved. He and the older performers would shoulder it. They would see the play through to the end and then see where they went from there.

But the show needed to go on.

It had been unanimous. In Patrick’s absence, Cassian would pick up the mantle. He’d been working closest with the man since the beginning of the summer. They reasoned that if anyone knew Patrick’s vision and was capable of bringing it out, it would be him.

It was the biggest joke.

Cassian had always wanted to lead a summer production, but Patrick should’ve been there. He should’ve been in a chair next to him, telling him when he’d forgotten something, reminding him of when to interject. He should’ve been there to tell him he was doing a fine job—or even a shit one. He should’ve been here.

“You’re off key near the end, Lil. Take five. Give your voice a bit of rest. Room-temperature water only. Stay away from the cooler.”

The younger girl’s face went several shades of red as she huffed her way off the stage, humiliated by her own lack of perfection. Tired eyes shifted to the others who hadn’t moved, silently questioning whether they wanted to hear what they were getting wrong, too. They didn’t. One by one, they trickled from the stage until only Janus was left.

He stood awkwardly by the centre, his right hand clinging to his left arm. He looked even smaller against the backdrop they’d gotten in place.

Cassian got up from the seat he hadn’t earned and climbed his way onto the stage. He placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning in a little to be at eye level. “Talk to me”

“All…all the seats.”

Cass lifted his gaze to take in the empty audience area. “Yeah?”

“They’re…they’re gonna be filled with people, aren’t they? Everyone watching—n—not just us. What if…what if I forget something? What if I can’t get that note?”

“What if you nail it?”

Janus looked at him, uncertain of the answer.

“What if you go out there, pour everything you have into it and you realise that, like Peter Pan, when you step on this stage, you’ll never lose?”

“I…”

“You wanna see something?”

Janus hesitated then nodded.

Cassian moved to the curtain, poking his head behind it into the backstage area. “I need everyone in the seats for a sec. Shouldn’t take long—I know, I know, horrible.” Their protests were noted while he waved them back into the auditorium. “Lights!” he called, and they went out, shrouding everywhere but the stage in darkness. He waited a moment for everyone to find a seat before moving back to the boy.

“Tell me where Lillian is sitting.”

“…Huh?”

“Go ahead, pick her out.”

The boy lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the intensity of the stage lights. “I…I can’t see anything.” His own words dawned on him slowly as he turned to look at Cassian again. “I can’t…I can’t see anyone.”

“Are you sure they’re there? Will it matter? The moment is for you and your friends who’ve been working so hard all summer. On opening night, I don’t want you to worry about the people in the seats you can’t see.” Cassian straightened. “What made you join the theatre, Janus?”

“Me?” His eyes widened a little, the boy obviously taken aback by the question. “I guess…I guess I like the singing and dancing and pretending. Mam said she thinks I’d be good at it on account of how I’m always pretending with my little sister.”

Cassian nodded. “That’s all you need. Sing for your sister.”

“She’s…she’s not here.”

“How do you know? You can’t see.”

“But—”

Cassian placed a finger over his lips, shushing the protest before it could be given any real life. “Be Peter Pan because it’s fun and silly and he’s a bit of an idiot who knows how to have a good time, not because you’re worried a hidden pair of eyes might be judging you. Do it because you’ve got something tingling in your bones and wanna let it out. Do it because those lights are waiting for you to outshine them. You get it?”

“I…maybe…”

Janus looked back out to the audience, seeing nothing but brilliant light.

“Let me hear the note again.”

“Hm?”

Cassian nudged him back to his mark, the small X written on the floor. “For your sister in the backrow excitedly pointing you out to your mother.”

Janus inhaled softly, then nodded. Cass gestured for the small orchestra to begin playing again. He sang the part that countered the boy’s. The beat swelled. The cymbal clashed. A pause. Just a beat, then Janus opened his mouth and magic spilled into the auditorium.

In that moment, he saw what Patrick had seen.

Friday, August 25, 1922
~ 9:00 PM

---

Opening night.

Cassian was an organised wreck. It all felt surreal. Less than a week ago, he’d discovered the body of his director in his office, slumped in the shadow of agony. Less than a week to finish up with preparations; less than a week to make sure the performers were ready. They’d had to stay late the night before, tightening everything, going over everything. He hadn’t slept. Cassian hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since that day.

He could hardly bring himself to eat and found himself spacing out more often than not. His week at work had seen a major reduction in his productivity despite his presence. Running, he knew, wasn’t the answer. He’d learned that he needed to keep showing up, no matter what, so that was what he continued doing.

After everyone had left the night before, he’d remained behind with Freddie to conjure everything they hadn’t been able to complete manually. They finished the costumes; they finished the bloody ship. The mechanical jaws of the crocodile had hinges that finally worked as intended.

All night they’d worked. All day he’d worked. Now, he stood in the rafters, staring down at the children who’d come such a long way from when rehearsals started at the beginning of summer.

Adrenaline kept him upright while his body begged for permission to fail.

No potions. No liquor. None of them had been able to bring themselves to touch the stuff, knowing what they did. They were lost while pretending they knew exactly where they were going, refusing to let the man’s work fade.

It deserved the applause. It deserved to be the talk of households if only for a few days. He would collapse after, but not before.

Cassian leaned against the railing, adrenaline tightening his muscles. Every pause that shouldn’t exist, each time he thought he heard a note played on an instrument that shouldn’t be there, it made his heart leap into the back of his throat. They were, admittedly, small things, easily overlooked by an audience who didn’t know the production so intimately, but each felt like another area he’d failed. Patrick wouldn’t have allowed such mistakes. He’d have seen the cracks and ironed them out. How had he missed them? What could he have done?

It was the audience that pulled him from his rumination. They laughed. They cheered. They gasped. The younger children who’d been brought along squealed in delight, screamed in fear and spoke to the actors as if they believed they might answer. One particularly spunky little girl declared that they should take off Captain Hook’s head to the roaring amusement of those around her. It got a smile out of him. It was small and tentative, but there.

His parents were down there, too. He wasn’t performing, but the fact he’d had any hand in it was enough to earn their time that Friday night.

It only added to his anxiety.

He worried over whether his father might see the hard work and be able to appreciate it beyond a ‘passing frivolity’. He wondered whether he would see…the good and the spark inside each actor. Cassian silently hoped that his father might witness some of the magic for himself and realise that this was work, too. Real, honest, exciting work that others sitting around him already admired.

Freddie stood beside him, his own elbows propping him onto the railing. He hadn’t slept much either. They’d fallen into a strange limbo, locked into a truth only they could know. It left them restless, in different ways, but not so different that they couldn’t find solace in the company of each other.

The curtains closed and the lights came on, indicating the end of what he prayed the audience would see as a thrilling night. When it reopened, all the actors stood along the stage, bowing and curtsying as the audience stood up with a roar of impressed applause. It was loud enough that the rafters seemed to shake, and for the first time all evening, Cassian felt himself breathe.

It…it was over—at least for the night.

They’d made it through opening night and had proven that they could make it through the nights that remained.
Freddie offered him a small grin and a congratulatory pat on the back, but the moment was invaded by a sudden flash of light. The beam froze the pair. Below, they heard someone say.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a special round of applause for our brilliant director, Cassian McCormick! He didn’t hesitate to step in for his senior who’s regrettably absent this evening but will be thrilled to know how well our play’s been received.”

He nearly shrank, but his friend nudged him with his shoulder, forcing him upright. Cass smiled the way he knew how, waving down at the audience that had already broken out into another set of booming applause. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t see them.

It didn’t feel right, but he knew it was expected.

Someone had to be the face of the youth troupe, and it could no longer be the dead man.