11I want to take a brief moment to thank both Valkyrie-Pleasant and Vintage-Woder for being such wonder reviewers; really you guys, it's great hearing from both of you (and you too, anon). It's one thing to see the hits and think oh, cool, people are reading, and another thing entirely to actually hear from you, so thank you again!
So this one's not really in anyone's "perspective" I guess. I think it's kind of self-explainatory, but I always get nervous about these things.
He inhaled sharply, not ready to walk up the steps yet; nor to sit in his living room and watch his mother as Charles explained what they were all doing there. On the plus side, at least with everyone else here, he wouldn't have to do too much talking.
Looking up the stairs, he could just make out the edge of his sister's piano, and the light from the kitchen spilled pleasantly out into the living room and down the stairs, just barely stopping in front of where he stood.
Riley tapped his shoulder as she made her own way up the stairs, trailing her hand down his arm and looking over her shoulder at him with soft eyes; she'd left her own family behind several months ago, and knew that this would not be an easy parting.
He unsteadily followed after her, making it into the living room just in time to hear his mother's soft cry of outrage.
"What? No, Sean can't go anywhere; he's just been accepted into college! And what would the CIA even want with him? He's not old enough to have specialized in anything!" He cringed softly, hiding it the best he could behind the cover of his hair.
Charles glanced over at Sean, wondering whether it was his place to tell her or not; or if Sean would even be able to find his voice. His red hair looked so vivid against his suddenly pale skin that Charles was reminded, almost unkindly, of a carnival clown's wig.
"Mom," Sean began, his throat feeling pinched, each word scraping like rough gravel as he forced them out, "I have to go with them. I have... I am specialized in something," he settled on, glancing up at her from underneath his hair, scuffing his shoes along the carpet and wiping his palms on his jeans.
She looked at him, and he knew words wouldn't work with her, wouldn't ever make her understand just what it was he could do; never allow her to see why he had to leave with Charles and Erik out into the world and away from her so much sooner than she had ever expected.
He scooped up her half-empty cup of lemonade from the coffee table and made his way into the kitchen, drinking the remaining contents as he pushed the kitchen door open wider.
Turning to look behind him once he'd placed the glass in the middle of the floor, he was satisfied that everyone had followed him in; he really didn't think he could handle saying too much right now.
"You should cover your ears," he said, looking at his mom, then towards Riley who hung towards the back of the small group.
He shook out his hands, staring the cup down with an intensity that sailed past hilarity and settled somewhere within the quadrant of insanity, and began to inhale; expanding his lungs until it felt as if his ribs would poke through them.
When he couldn't hold anymore air he stooped down as close as he could get to the glass, ready to break it; a hand tugging at the back of his shirt made him straighten himself out and look over his shoulder before he could, though.
"If you're about to do what I think you're about to do, being that close doesn't seem like such a good idea," Riley whispered to him, glancing from his face, to the glass on the floor, then towards his mom; still tugging lightly on his shirt to get him to stand farther back from the cup on the floor.
He smiled at her, trying to keep the breath in his lungs from getting out, and gently placed her hands back over her ears before nodding at her and turning back towards the cup; eyeing it once more as if it were the cause to all his problems.
And really, it kind of was; well, not the glass itself, he supposed, but it was a close enough comparison for him. Especially since his lungs were starting to burn from holding his breath for so long.
He opened his mouth just enough to let a small amount of air out, almost like whistling, hunched his shoulders over, and-
Broke the cup with a shriek that hurt everyone's ears despite their precautions.
He stared down at the shattered pieces, glad that he had hit just the cup this time and hadn't accidentally broken the kitchen window or something; and he was still staring at the pieces in complete silence when his momentary glee wore off.
Tilting his head just slightly to the left, he glanced at his mother without looking directly at her; somehow, looking at her felt like it would break some sort of temporary truce they had- like as soon as they made eye contact what he had just done would actually sink in.
And then she would probably cry and hit him and yell at him to get out of her house; but at least he'd be able to achieve the actual task of packing like they'd wanted to do, since she no doubt wouldn't want anything of his in her house. No object the freak owned would be allowed to stay, no reminder that he had ever been hers.
He sighed when she didn't look back at him, not even from the corner of her eye, she just continued to stand there staring at the shattered glass that littered her kitchen floor.
Kneeling down, he decided he might as well make himself useful one last time, before his mother got her wits about her and would find her voice to yell at him.
Scooping the larger bits into a pile idly, he cast his attention around the kitchen in search of the dust pan, only to have his attention drawn back down to his hand when he felt a sharp pain.
"Ow," he mumbled, staring at the small pile of blood that had already begun to form within the palm of his hand.
"Oh, Sean," his mother sighed, "this is why we have a broom; I honestly don't know how you'll take care of yourself without me around."
His mom's soft hands clasped his right one in theirs, pulling his hand closer to her face so she could search for any small pieces of glass in the cut; poking and prodding gently around the wound as she did so.
Sean watched her, eyes wide, studying every movement she made. This was his mother- the woman who made his favorite chocolate chip pancakes on days that he'd done something particularly noteworthy. The person who taught him how to mend a tear (though he would never admit to it), and who yelled as if the devil was chasing her whenever she saw even the smallest of bug; yelled out for him to come kill it or, during that one summer that his sister had grown especially fond of insects, to throw them outside. And she was applying a band-aid to his cut, as if he hadn't just shown her something that terrified even him.
She looked up at him, holding her hand to his cheek, and gave him a watery smile, "well, Sean, I suppose you're old enough to make your own choices now. And if they really need you, then I'm very proud of you," she said, studying him as if she'd never see him again.
She was looking at him now the same way she had only a couple of times in his life- the first time he'd gone trick-or-treating by himself; the day he'd gotten his driver's license; when he'd brought home his first girlfriend; graduated high school; been accepted into college. It was this look, he decided, that killed him more than her yelling freak to him ever would have: she was saying goodbye to him.
"Go pack your things, I'll finish cleaning this mess up," she waved him off, shooing Erik and Charles out of the kitchen as well, "Go, go, I'm sure you need to tell him essential things about what to bring that I can't know about. The CIA, my son," she said, shaking her head lightly as she shut the kitchen door behind them and grabbed the broom.
Well I'm going to end this one here because I'm tired. I honestly did not think that it would take this long just to set up them getting to the CIA. I mean, really. They still have to go to Riley's apartment, and then there's the flight there.
I should consider cutting things out if this is how it's going to be every time.