The last day of summer

[gwenchan]

 

Fandom: The Iliad
Prompt: Brucomela (wacky worm); Bagnasciuga (shore); Cristallo di rocca (rock crystal); Carta assorbente (blotting paper); Dubbio (doubt);  In cima (on top); Iguana; Luna piena (full moon); Lacci delle scarpe (shoelaces); Malinconia (melancholy); Maglietta strappata (torn T-Shirt); Poltrona imbottita (plush armchair); Sandali (sandals); Zoccolo (hoof); Acqua fresca (fresh water); Gatto nelle braghe (cat in his pants); Pornografia (porn magazine); Michelle Visage
Tag: Alternative Universe_Modern

"Paris!"

Hector must have drifted into a slumber barely minutes ago when Andromache' shriek forcefully grabs him away from Morpheus’ realm. 

Cracking one eye open, he glares at his younger brother, in clear warning. He is not about to solve his mess, whatever it may be. Not today.

"I'm sorry!" Paris is saying in that apologetic tone that doesn’t bode well at all.  "I must have grabbed it by mistake."

"There are kids!"

Andromache hisses. Watching with bleary eyes, she's holding some kind of rolled magazine, which she promptly tosses at Hector.

This is the right time Hector kills his brother, who apparently thought it was a good idea to carry around a porn magazine.

“Wha - no, I don’t want to know.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“I hope so.”

Meanwhile, behind them, Ascanius is insistently asking Aeneas about "why that woman had her fingers there"? 

By the look in his eyes, Hector’s brother-in-law is pondering murder as well. 

“I’ll tell you when you are older. Now, why don’t you go play a little on the beach?”

“Can Scamandrius come too?”

In Andromache’s lap, Scamandrius claps his chubby hands in approval. 

“And uncle Hector, please!”

“Let your uncle sleep,” Creusa chides, to which Ascanius only puts on his best pout. “Please! You’re the best with sand castles.”

To no-one's surprise, Hector is already standing up.

They build sand castles on the shore, a whole town of them, and when they are finished, Ascanius carefully decorates the walls with seashells and little sticks and seaweeds the waves carried. From time to time, they stop to wave at Troilus who has climbed on top of a cliff and is enjoying the view from there. They look as he bends down and dives right into the crystalline waters.

Next to Ascanius, Scamandrius grabs his fistfuls of  sand with chubby hands to fill mols more for the intrinsic pleasure of the gesture than for a real interest in producing anything

They dig a hole, big enough to cover Scamandrius, and a ditch before the kids decide uncle Paris must get hot splayed as he is under the sun. 

Watching them fill their bucket to the brim, Hector can’t disagree. 

Splashed in cold water, Paris shrieks. Jumping to his feet, he tries to grab Ascanius, but the kid is faster, running to hide behind Hector’ legs. 

“Help! He wants to kill me!” he shouts, pointing his little finger at Paris. 

“Hector, move. My nephew and I have a question to settle.”

“You can’t catch me!"

“Ascanius,” comes Aeneas’ voice, with half his usual severity, “apologies to your uncle.”

“Yes. It wasn’t nice,” Hector echoes, jaw contracting to keep himself from laughing. “Go on.”

Cautiously, slowly, Ascanius leaves his haven.

 Paris lunges. “Got you,” he shouts, tackling the kid down in the sand and tickling on his belly and under his armpits till Ascanius is asking for pity in between laughters. 

They eat at the beach and the kids ask for ice cream.

Hector offers to accompany them before anyone else even raises the question. Andromache stands up as well, says she is coming too, but Hector has nothing of it, picking up Scamandrius to place the toddler over his shoulders. The kid smiles, delighted by the height, and kicks his feet.

"And you listen to your uncle and don't act out," Aeneas is telling Ascanius as he checks his shoelaces are well fastened. "And stay close."

The child nods, obedient, trotting at Hector's side, just as Paris stretches awake. 

"Going somewhere?" He yawns behind his hand, theatrical even in that, flicking strands of black hair from his face.

"We're going get ice cream" Ascanius promptly provides, chest puffing out. 

“Sounds great. Just a moment.”

To Hector's dismay, he doubles to retrieve his branded sandals from under the deck chair.

"Paris ..." Hector calls.

"What? It'll be as if I'm not there. Promise."

In his defence it is already something he decided to come instead of asking Hector to bring him the ice cream here.

"The shirt."

"Right. Of course."

He tosses it over his shoulders, his “artistically torn T-shirt”, a gift of some fashion designer for which he modelled a couple seasons ago. 

 “Well, let’s go then.”

There is a travelling funfair on the boardwalk, appearing overnight, bright colours faded by the salty wind and scorching sun. Above their heads, a Wacky Worm smiles down at them, once bright front teeth going yellow.

Hector shoots Paris a familiar and significant glance, the one meaning "Don't you dare spoiling them". Sheepishly, Paris lifts both hands, palms up. 

Soon enough, still, comes the tiny and polite tug at Hector's T-shirt. 

“Uncle?” Ascanius looks up in an insecure but expectant request. “Can we go for a ride? Just one?”

Scamandrius voices his approval as well, in his way, bouncing up and down. 

“Please?”

“It’s the last day,” Paris adds, eyes almost as bright as the children’s. Behind him a sign reminds everyone kids younger than four must be accompanied. “My treat.”

He makes to take his wallet but Hector stops him. “No need.”

It has yet to come the day he accepts any favour from his brother. “Careful, please” he warns, crouching to put Scamandrius down. Smiling broadly, taking one child per hand, Paris waves it off.

“Of course, trust me! I'll be a role model.”

Surprisingly, he is.

***

It’s fresh in the café, shadowy and dark except from the blades of sunlights streaming through the blinds. Old wooden stools line up at the counter, and wicker chairs round plastic tables. 

In a corner someone has placed an old, plush armchair, the kind their grandmothers’ used to have at their house when they were little. A hand-written sign reminds everyone to “not sit”, but by the hollowness of the sitting, it mustn't have been very effective. 

It’s ice-cream for the kids - and Paris, who spends a good five minutes deciding on the flavours only to revert to the usual strawberry-and-chocolate he always favours, with a cherry on top - and rich, creamy coffee for Hector. He drinks it slowly, enjoying the shade, while feeding Scamandrius spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream. Ascanius’ drips all over his fingers, rivers of mint and lemon running down his wrist and forearm.

“What’s the matter?” Paris inquires, nudging him a little. “Something wrong with the ice cream? You don’t like it?”

”No, no.”

Shrugging, the boy licks some from his cone, clearly distracted. 

“So, next week you leave. Aren’t you excited?” Paris insists, while behind them two girls are engaged in a heated conversation about a certain Michelle Visage. Probably Paris knows who she is.

”A bit.”

Wistfully, he watches the ice cream slowly melting away. His big eyes are liquid with melancholy.

“I don’t want to leave,” he murmurs, serious all of sudden. “Can’t I stay here with you?” 

Clicking down his empty cup, Hector shakes his head. “I’m afraid your parents wouldn’t agree. They’d miss you. And you’ll love Italy.”

”But what if I can’t make any friends,” Ascanius insists, forehead scrunched in doubt.

“Well, that’s absolutely impossible,” Paris exclaims. “How can’t they want to be friends with you?”

“I don’t speak the language.”

”You’ll learn in no time. Like drinking a glass of fresh water.”

“Will you come visit me?”

”Absolutely,” Paris proclaims, giving the greatest show of crossing his heart. Hector is more down to Earth.

“Every time we can.”

***

In the evening the boardwalk fills with stands and stalls, full with trinkets and cheap knicks-knacks; there’s trinkets, seashells, and crystals,  amber shards, quartzes, and perfect polished rock crystals with no functions except being pretty. 

Munching mixed fried in cones of blotting paper, children flock around a group of jugglers. One acrobat walks on her hands while catching clubs with extremely prehensile feet and a clown does an amusing show of trying to get rid of the cat who decided to elect his pants as its new favourite place.

A little further, a horseling which must have seen better days, and a better environment than his enclosure, thumps one hoof in the dirty straw, over and over. 

Ascanius frowns, squeezing his father’s hand and pointing at the pony. “Why its owner keep it like that? Can’t he see that it’s not happy?”

 As if it has heard him, the pony lets out a long sigh and shakes his massive head against the flies. Raised with horses in the family's riding school and taught to ride before he could walk, Ascanius gives a black look to the man who must be the pony's owner and he's currently promoting "A ride! Only ten lires!"

“Because for some people animals are only objects, not creatures with feelings-” Aeneas answers, seriously. 

Music is coming from the beach - a concert of some local band which has grabbed quite the attention, teens in various states of undress dancing as the full moon mirrors in the dark water among the lights of the numerous ships and boats crowding the coast. Holding Scamandrius, Andromache counts them one by one for the toddler’s joy. 

Ascanius yawns, and does his best to hide it, but there’s no denying he’s well past his usual bed-time and he’ll be soon sleeping standing up. Creusa scoops him in her arms, huffing for the weight.

“Better go. I still need to finish packing the last suitcase," she says, low, to everyone's agreement. A tiring day awaits them tomorrow and in less than month Aeneas will be leaving for Rome with his family.

"Yes. Same here," Andromache confirms. Paris attempts to stay around longer, maybe with Troilus, are short lived 

In the hotel hall, the domestic iguana snoozes in its terrarium, a giant construction occupying a whole wall. Two groups of tourists with a night fly wait for their buses, aimlessly wandering around.

Hector grabs Paris before he can escape to his room.

"The fly is at ten. We need to leave at eight. Did you set the alarm?" 

"I don't need to.”

Last time he said it, they managed to take the fly by the skin of their teeth. Hector swore next time he’ll leave Paris on his own. He didn’t fool anyone.

“Set the alarm.”

“He’s not going to hear it,” Aeneas comments, like a bird of bad omen which reminds Hector of his sister, Cassandra. 

But he’s right. Paris would be able to sleep through five alarms. Troilus’ insistence he’ll take care to wake him doesn’t assure Hector one bit.

Walking to the reception, he prays they will give him an extra key without too much of a fuss.