meadelicta - Tumblr blog

[meadelicta]

his hands clutch onto the sides of the sink. his knuckles have gone white with the strain, yet he does not realize them slowly growing numb. there's cotton in his ears, a pressure that pulses but does not go away. his head hangs between his shoulders, tears falling onto the white porcelain, chest heaving with deep breaths. the staccato of irregular breaths wreck his chest in lieu of sobs, and he clenches his eyes shut. you told richard terrible things. you left. they know, they will know, they know. and then — they'll agree with you. counting from ten is the simplest tactic he knows to calm down, but it doesn't work. knowing he has to go back only amplifies the pressure on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. the music he played still echoes in his ears, and he's transported back to a time when richard was here. instead of the wards sitting all around the room, it would be him who was listening to kamon play vivaldi again, and there'd be a smile on his face. suddenly, that smile, even in memory, twists. into disappointment, into that shock that appeared on his face once kamon had yelled at him. at the man who had saved his life- over and over again. cruel, terrible- that's how kamon was to him that night, and maybe, it was his true colors, unlike what richard thought so highly of him. that thought makes him take a deep breath, a broken noise leaving his lips, one hand going up to his mouth to press against it. to keep it quiet, so that they don't hear. then, the door is opening, and through tears, he sees blonde hair. frankie's perfume reaches his nose, and his eyes widen. jerking a few steps back, he feels like a deer caught in the headlights. hands move to his face, to hide his tears- to act as if he's alright —- even if it's too late now. "f- frankie —-" his voice is rough when he speaks, and he does not dare look, his face remains buried in his hands. "j-just - give me a moment, okay? just- a moment- then- then-- i will be fine-"

Location: The powder room on the first floor

Date: September 7, 2005

Closed starter for @meadelicta

Tip tip tip.

It was barely a knock at the door, just Frankie's nail, red from Natalia's handiwork, tapping at the hardwood. "Kamon?"

No answer, the only noise was the unintelligible sound of Reece's voice drifting down the hall from the Great Room. Something about Richard actually hating Green Day? Frankie blocked it out, pressing her ear to the bathroom door instead. Silence.

It was the silence that terrified her. Blank nothingness, no color, no warmth. Just speaking fruitlessly into a void. It had always set her on edge for reasons she had never bothered to examine. There was a difference between quiet and silence, the former peace, the latter a wall. Frankie would scrape her fingers raw trying to climb it.

She felt blindly at the back of her head, extracting a bobby pin. She had known Kamon wasn't okay but hadn't pried, opting, not for the first time, to passively solve problems.

"I'm going to let myself in, okay?" Time for a more active approach. She pried the bobby pin open with her teeth. "So if you are, you know, in the bathroom for the bathroom, put your pants on or whatever."

It took a moment to jiggle the bobby pin into the lock just right, but there was a tell-tale click and she gently pushed the door. "You there, duck?"

[meadelicta]

the answer is surprising, even if maybe it shouldn't be. as the last one who stayed behind in woodrow, he often assumes all of them found better places to be. it always got a bit too lonely in the house, even with the staff, mrs. tristan, and, of course, richard. the wards were the one who brought the estate back into life, and with them gone, kamon sometimes felt left behind. the fight and its results makes him feel all the more terrible now in that aspect, though he tries to cling on to frankie's words, her charm, and her smile. it's a good distraction. "oh, really? you would pick woodrow over italy and all of its beauties?" a part of him wants to ask why she left then, and why she came back so little. though he keeps those comments to himself, knowing they would do no good. it's good to be near her again, even if it's under terrible circumstances. the comment about skinny dipping does make him laugh, which feels foreign to his own ears. how long has it been since he laughed at something? despite the guilt that comes from that line of thought, her presence helps him push it away. the hand around his arm, the weight of her head against his shoulder. it's grounding. it feels... nice. maybe he can convince himself he deserves it. "we should tell the municipality to add better pools then. skinny-dipping is a constitutional right." an attempt at a joke, wanting to pull a laugh out of her too. for you? anything: the comment makes him more emotional than he thought it would. with blinking eyes and the traces of shock, he is glad she is looking away from him now. slowly, he lets the tension seep away, ends of his lips curling into something more genuine, and rests his head on top of hers. a thank you, a gesture to show her how much this means to him. then, she begins to talk of italy and he listens, clings to every word, imagining every scene. instead of the pond in front of them, he imagines another world, far away from them. colorful, filled with joy, away from this monochrome, all-consuming grief. a hum, he lets her words hang in the air for a bit before replying. "i wouldn't mind learning some aguilera. maybe even on the violin?" the words are quiet, and he asks the question swimming in his mind. "can i... visit you, then? after all of this is over?" his tone's hopeful. imagining anything beyond this grief, is impossible, yet he tries. "you could show me around."

There were times where they would be on the phone, the distance between them shorter than Kamon knew, and Frankie wished she could crawl down the line and give him a hug. It had occurred to her that if she was honest, about herself, her life, that wouldn't be such wishful thinking. There was a certain cruelty to holding herself at arms reach in service to a lie.

But the lie was also what made people feel good. It was a security blanket that assured the people she cared about the most that everything was as it should be. Kamon reached for it now. Which was more unkind, keeping herself away, or shattering the illusion that made people want her near, even if she couldn't be?

"Here," Frankie said without hesitation. "I'd rather live here, with you and everybody else." It was so true it ached, which only further proved that for as much as Frankie tended to embrace honesty, there was a time and place for a lie to protect a person's feelings. If he asked her what she missed they would be here until dinner time. Falling asleep in Celia's bed after they stayed up too late whispering. Your choice of five different overlapping conversations at breakfast. Long car rides to and from school, running up the minutes on Angus' phone entering radio contests. Catching only half of what Mick was saying the moment they walked in the door and listening anyway.

Frankie smiled through the phantom pain of memory and waggled her eyebrows. "There's no good place for skinny-dipping at my park."

Now, the business of a cheer-up. She curled a hand around Kamon's arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. The closeness was steadying and a reminder of what she was preserving.

Could you... tell me about it?

"For you? Anything."

She had to think back, separate Florence from Rome, Sicily from Cinque de Terre, pull out the best bits overall. She was just telling a story, she told herself. There was no harm in that. "It's almost always warm, and it looks that way too, like all the buildings are colored yellow and orange with a marker. The food is insane. I probably ate my weight in pasta and they have cheese wheels bigger than your head. They're so serious about it. It's like a law that if they didn't make the cheese you can't call it Parmesan."

"There's a dance club near one of the piazzas, so when people get tired of the music there they go out into the street and sing and dance. You could come and play your violin and I'd dance all night. You'd have to learn some Aguilera though."

[meadelicta]

it feels as if he's underwater. her voice reaches his ears, but through a sort of haze. he's there, but not there at the same time. stuck in his thoughts, even more so now in her company. finding it difficult to focus back on reality, natalia's words register a few seconds later. "that- that sounds good." his voice is odd in his own ears, briefly looking up to give her a semblance of a smile. it doesn't reach his eyes, and falls back into pressed lips quickly. "he... he really did." back to staring at the floorboards, the words are painful, as any memory of richard always is now. even when it comes to thinking about him before the fight, kamon's constantly stuck between wanting to escape the memories for the pain they bring- and the guilt that comes with the selfish desire to do so. natalia playing clair de lune, and richard watching with a fond smile. kamon practicing before performances, richard nodding and telling him he'll be there. no more — those moments will be no more and kamon —- doesn't know what to do with it. what to do with himself. he's pulling at a particularly long hangnail, pulling the skin back until it almost bleeds, when the warmth of her hand covers his own. her skin feels warm against the cold skin, and he freezes. not expecting it at all. the touch grounds him more than he thought it would, and his erratic movements come to a still at once. a hitch of breath, he nods. "yeah- it's a... bad habit." turning his hand, he briefly intertwines their fingers, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. looks up to meet her eyes. the question is both surprising and not, yet unwelcome at the same time. kamon doesn't want anyone to know, doesn't want her to know at all. he cares a lot for natalia, sees her as one of his closest friends, and the fear of disappointing her, or worse, is too strong. however now, pinned like a butterfly with her realizations, he feels at a loss. "oh—- i- i mean — it's- it's difficult- without-" the words leave his lips in a stutter, and for the briefest of moments, he wonders if the truth will set him free. at least, ease some of the weight in his chest, make it a bit easier to sleep, to breathe. "without him. and —-" the rest of the words hang in the air, and he swallows. "if i- if i told you something —- could you- could you promise me—-" he speaks quickly, frightful eyes returning back to the floorboards. his hands begin to shake again. "not to hate me?"

The feeling that something was off with Kamon only grew and grew as Natalia watched him. He was so distracted. Not in his body, too far in his head. Is this what grief looked like on him? She wanted to prod, to dig into what was on his mind, but she held back, answering his question instead.

"I'm thinking… Debussy. Clair de Lune."

It was an easy choice. One of the most popular and overplayed piano classics. A piece she was positive she could play well as she once did after a few hours of painstaking practice.

"Richard really liked it," she added, giving more context for her choice. After all, this silly little talent show they were having was supposed to honor his love for the arts, right? It seemed fitting.

Green eyes caught the way Kamon was picking at his nails. Natalia didn't like it when people did that. It was a ghastly habit. But it wasn't irritation she felt as she watched him. It was... concern. So gently, she reached over and placed her hand over his, stilling his fingers.

"You shouldn’t pick at your nails," she advised. Her voice soft. Kind. With the closeness that's developed between them in their adulthood, she's learned to be less... abrasive when it came to Kamon. He was sensitive in a way that made her want to be careful, not annoyed.

"What’s up with you?" She finally asked. "I know it’s been… hard." An understatement. "These last few days. But… you seem…" She hesitated, searching for the right way to describe it. "…really removed?" It still didn't feel right to her but it was the closest she could get in the moment.

[meadelicta]

moves further inside the room and sits down on one of the chairs next to her. eyes looking at the screen, he listens, gently nodding. he remembers the first time he had seen it, and then the second, and the third. it became part of the movie rotations they like to watch often, even if it leaves him rubbing the tears off of his face every time. it is a good movie, that is for certain — though he does not know if it's the right one to seek solace at a time like this. "yeah. there is a... tragic love story there." the nonstereotypical aspect of that is left unsaid between them. kamon knows mickey, and mickey knows kamon. he never- labeled himself by a particular noun, though he had told her about the fling or two back in university, with both boys and girls. he crosses his legs, leaning over towards her, pulling at one of the threads hanging from the seams. a nod, it seems much more difficult to open up the conversation now. the question's turned at him, and he fights the urge to grimace, to frown — any reaction that would make it clear how awful he is coping with it all. instead, he tries a smile. a poor attempt, perhaps, but the best one he has. "i'm... trying my best." not a lie, not the complete truth. something in between. he hums, and looks up. "i wanted to... ask how you are. after- the..." a vague gesture with his hand, the evading of his eyes before looking back at her. "would you like to talk? i'm here to listen — to listen, or anything else."

sitting up a little straighter as kamon finally stepped into the room, she looked back at the screen for a moment. "dead poets society," she said softly. "have you ever thought about how it's framed as if neil and todd are lovers and it could be seen as a tragic love story between two boys?" she thought out loud, prolonging the real reason why kamon had come to see her. she remembered being bored with the movie when richard had showed it to them when they were younger, she was too young to understand what was happening and cared more about the popcorn and gossip she and other younger wards had shared in the corner of the room, but now she had a new appreciation for it.

when kamon ask if she wanted to talk, mickey kept her face neutral, not wanting to show how much she really didn't want to talk. she knew it was strange and of course kamon would notice how off she seemed. they used to talk all the time, he was always the constant in all of her visits over the years, he was the only one who stayed home with his work the foundation. but now, now mickey knew that he and richard had a falling out and how guilty richard felt about it. "sure, we can talk," she said anyway, smiling at the boy as if this hasn't been plaguing her mind for the past thirty six hours. "how are you holding up?"

[meadelicta]

there's a wide smile on her face. frankie's signature smile, one that makes her shine. kamon had always admired her quality to bring light into any room. the way he could count on her to cheer him up, to cheer anyone up with her energy and her words. he is happy that she made a life for herself out there —- even if it's far away from them, from him. he is a firm believer that she deserves the best. and as selfish as it might be for him, he wants to hear more. of her great life away from here, to remove himself from this sorrow. the smile, the one he endlessly admires, feels out of place in the woodrow residence of the day. with the funeral still too recent in their mind, with the guilt that has carved its space in kamon's chest, it feels like it's from another world. foolishly, he wants to be in that world, even for the shortest of moments. "really?" he starts, pulling his legs underneath himself, sitting with crossed legs on the lawn chair. his voice, and overall expression are quieter, detached, yet he holds on to the slivers of hope that she brings. "would you... prefer to live here or there, then?" rests an elbow on the handles of the chair, props his head on his hand, leans towards her, his gaze switches between her face, and the lake laid out in front of them. "could you... tell me about it? how it is back there? i know you- talked about it before but... i'd love to hear it again. the weather, the people- the food. anything and everything." it'll do him good to think of the world outside of this moment. or so he believes.

Frankie paced along the pond shoreline, weaving her way around geese droppings and swampy patches of grass. It was easier than navigating Kevin from HR's ire, evident even down her scratchy AT&T phone line.

"No. Yeah. 'Course. I–" A pause, Frankie's lips parted with an unfinished thought. "I didn't know I– no, totally. No, I get it. I do. It's just, he's my dad. So."

She could feel the oil from her cheek streaking the phone screen after pressing it too tightly to her ear in a desperate bid to catch a hint of grace coming from Kevin's end.

"The leave policies are important, but I thought you might just...excuse it? This one time? I called Linda and she said she would be happy to– yeah. I mean yes, I can hold."

Frankie caught a bit of loose hair at her temple in the crook of her finger, twisting it round and round. When that failed to satisfy, the ends found their way to her mouth for a nibble. Her unfocused gaze caught sight of someone approaching from middle distance, but it didn't register against the rising panic in her chest.

"Hi!" The dangly charm on her phone clattered. "Yes, hi. I'm still here. No, no it's fine." Her steps slowed, then stopped outright. "I mean, that's technically true. But, since the bank is closed on Sundays it's really like I'm missing two days less than that."

A smile was working its way across her face of its own volition, a compulsive reaction. It was too tight at the edge. "No, no, no. That's cool, yeah. We can talk once I'm back. Okay. Thanks!"

Clack.

"Shit."

The lawn chair creaked under her collapsing weight. Her hands balled into fists, nails digging into the meat of her palms and knuckles pressed to the sockets of her eyes until she saw sparks behind her eyelids.

So. So no pay for a week. Maybe no job. That was fine! It was, just in a way she couldn't see yet. There was a silver lining somewhere. Okay, maybe more of a bronze one, but she would find it.

A shuddering inhale didn't help in the way Frankie had hoped it would.

Hey, Frankie.

Her head snapped up, that same overly-wide smile already in place. "Oh! Hey, you."

She followed Kamon's gaze out across the water. Everything was calm. The water was placid, the reeds still. Her favorite family of ducks was nowhere to be seen. Something about the tranquility only served to agitate her internal panic and Kamon's question about Italy, even casually meant, compounded things.

"Sure!" She had drunk a slushie at the park near the 7-Eleven a few streets over from the bank she may no longer be employed by just last month. "But you know what they say, there's no place like home."

[meadelicta]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: SECONDARY KITCHEN 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: KAMON BOONMEE, THE TORMENTED. 𝐓𝐎: MEERA BATTULA, THE REBEL. [ @meerabattula ]

there's a pulsing headache behind his eyelids. his bones ache, as if he exercised for hours on end, and now, he cannot sleep. he also knows that he will be unable to. no matter how exhausted he is after the events of tonight, no matter how much he wishes to just close his eyes and disappear — kamon knows it won't happen. instead, he quietly finds his way to the secondary kitchen. he wasn't one of the wards who had to often do chores, misbehaving was hardly part of his book — though he wants to be here, nonetheless. he sees the back of meera's frame, and makes his way towards them, pushing his sleeves back, standing hip to hip, staring at the dishes in front of them both. "i'll help." no question, simply a statement. they don't like him doing things for the sake of pleasing others, being a pushover more often than not. he tries, does his best and in this very instance — pleasing her isn't at the forefront of his mind. "and before you say something — i want to wash the dishes. i need a... menial task." he doesn't say it's to get his mind off of something, but he knows they will be able to tell. of course, there is the sense of wanting to keep them company —- though it's still through the same impulse: to get his mind off of things. as impossible as it might be. "two heads are better than one. or well- four hands are better than two."

[meadelicta]

TASK 005: TALENT DAY

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: SPARE ROOM 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: KAMON BOONMEE, THE TORMENTED. 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: VIVALDI, SUMMER. VIOLIN SOLO.

kamon's the last one performing. his hands sweat like the first time he has been on stage, and his jittering worsens as he watches the wards perform. leg jumping up and down, arms crossed across his chest, fingers tapping the sides of his shirt. hyper-aware of the time that passes. it never stops. he wishes it would. back at his first performance, it was his mother looking at him from the audience. with eyes sparkling, hands clutched in front of her, nervous just as he was. then a few shows later, kamon swears he can still remember seeing glimpses of richard from the stage. with his tuft of lighter hair, and warm eyes swimming with sparks of curiosity. after the show, he met the man backstage. looked up at him from where he was hiding behind his mother, head peeping to the side. richard had looked so tall then. looming over him, yet the smile on his face let him step away from where he was hiding. richard had leaned down, and shook his hand. huge, in the palm of his own. warm. safe. it was the first time he had met him. it feels cold now, despite the temperature of the room. despite the fireplaces and heating, kamon still feels eerily cold these days. alone in the midst of people he calls friends and family. with the guilt that chokes. kamon stands up from where he is sitting, a hand wrapped around the neck of his violin. he doesn't need the sheet of music for this piece, it's short enough — and he has played it many times that he has it memorized. picking which piece to play was an arduous deal, for nothing felt right — either too sad, too angry, too quiet- or not something richard would like, or something kamon didn't feel good about playing when they were supposed to honor richard's memory. nothing worked— until this particular piece came to mind. dynamic, and something kamon had played to richard, over and over again through the years. richard had told him he could tell kamon's growth, as well as state of mind for the day through this piece. that when he was younger, he used to play it more hesitantly, and then slowly grew into it. became this man richard believed him to be. and isn't that the crux of the matter? of how there was a dissonance between reality and truth, of belief and hope. kamon didn't want to think of it, guilt too strong to bear — but he had picked this piece, knowing he would have to face those realities. some iterations of the piece were sad, and sometimes they were jolly — richard had always looked at him knowingly, as if he could tell what was going through kamon's mind while he played. tonight, even kamon does not know which version would come to surface. he raises the violin, tucks it beneath his chin, and begins to play. it starts as intense as ever, notes climbing and climbing, two sides of music pulling at each other, pushing and pulling. the sorrowful strings playing a melody that kamon could not bear to put into words. as he plays, he moves with the violin, curling in on himself, then to the side, and then another. chest heaving, as if he is running a marathon. maybe he is, running, and running — with no intention to stop. even if his eyes swim over the audience, they don't see, mouth parted as he continues, the back of his eyes stinging, the memory of richard shifting in front of his eyes, as he moves faster and plays faster. the warmth of his smile. and the twist of his face during the fight.the kind words they always exchanged. and the spat back and forth. the proud glint in richard's eyes. and the disappointed twist of his face. the man who held him that night in the hospital. the cruel words that left kamon's mouth.

his eyes grow wet with tears, teeth sinking into his lip, hard enough to pierce the skin. the rising music signals its end, and at the heights of the notes, some hairs of the bow snap. tears spill over pale cheeks, drops of water in motion as he twists and moves with the music, playing the last notes. dead. gone. thinking you hated him. he'll never come back. the voice in his head grows crueler, uncaring of the audience. at the end of the performance, kamon bows his head forward, hiding his face from the audience. shame and sorrow clouds his frame. he needs to leave, he has to. "t- thank you." it's uttered so quietly that they will need to strain to hear him. "sorry- i- i need a moment." with that, he flees, not looking up, terrified to see the faces of the wards. that he will see disappointment in them too. that they will know — they will know the greatest sin he has committed, and hate him just as he hates himself. finds the nearest bathroom, and locks the door behind him. attempts to calm down. palms pushing down into his eyesockets. to stop the crying, to stop the heaving of his chest. it does not work. he holds his breath. counts to ten. he has to go back- any moment now. or he will rouse even more suspicion. they will know- they will know and — kamon does not know what to do next.

[meadelicta]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: WITHIN THE ESTATE, THE POND 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: KAMON BOONMEE, THE TORMENTED. 𝐓𝐎: FRANKIE WESTMACOTT, THE CHARMER. [ @franklycharmed ]

kamon takes his second stroll of the day through the gardens. the soil is soft underneath his feet, and the chill of autumn air makes him cross his arms in front of him as he walks, trying to preserve some warmth. hands, tucked under his armpits, he idly walks through the same paths he has been walking for years now. it's almost like a reflex at this point. he does not think of where he wants to go, just that he wants to walk. and walk. and walk. this much solitude also brings too much time to think, and his thoughts curl around the same memory, the same guilt that never leaves. eyes looking but not seeing, he passes through some of their favorite spots in the estate, when a familiar silhouette catches his eyes. his feet, once again, bring him to the pond without much thought. once frankie enters his line of sight, he uncurls one of his hands, and raises it in a brief wave. "hey, frankie." this used to be one of richard's favorite spots. swimming in the summer, or simply looking at the expanse of water when it was colder in the year. the memory stings, as most things do. he moves to the lawn chair next to frankie, and slowly sits down on the edge of it. "even if it is quite nice, the view doesn't beat italy, i assume. do you have park nearby, where you live?

[meadelicta]

he lingers near the doorway of the movie theatre. the air smells different here, and if he closed his eyes, he is sure it would bring him back years ago. with all of them sitting on those chairs, with richard in the middle, a smile on his face. the wards would be all around him, some buzzing with excitement for whichever movie he brought from his travels. there would be popcorn on rare occasions such as these, and sometimes it would spill all over the floors when it was a horror movie. they'd shriek, and then they'd laugh. the memory hits harder than he thought it would. the back of his eyes sting, and he has to blink a few times to shoo the tears away. kamon's tormented by the passing of time. by his mistakes, by the weight of his regrets. they never seem to leave his shoulders now. he doesn't think they ever will. mickey's voice brings him back, and he leans against the frame, until she lets him in. pushing himself away from the door, he steps further inside. "oh, which movie did you go for?" does not necessarily think it will make a difference, though wants to know, curious about which comfort move mickey chose. they have always been close, though now, with so much pain, he does not know how to comfort her. "it's been — rough. not surprising that even some of our favorite movies aren't much relief." kamon hasn't tried that just yet, though sees no reason to. already knows it can't help him. "that's why... i wanted to come see you. to see if... you'd like to talk? or- anything, really."

in all of her past visits, mickey never had trouble falling back into a routine. though, all those times, they were coming home. this time, woodrow house was like a ghost town, it's walls were full but the main member of their family was gone. it was because of this that she, and perhaps everyone in the house, has been having trouble sleeping. the first few nights, she would drink with her siblings in the hopes of easing her mind but after what happened with reece today, she decided to power through the night sober.

though, since she was sober, she was wide wake. she tried sleeping but no sleep came for her, which lead her to wander the house until she found herself in the movie theater with some movie playing quietly on the screen that she was barely paying attention to.

hearing a knock on the door, mickey looked up to see kamon step inside. "hey," she said softly with a smile. she hadn't meant to avoid kamon, they used to be so close in all the times mickey would visit over the years, but ever since she read what she did in richard's journal the day before, she has been having trouble looking him in the eyes. she hated having secrets and this secret was pretty huge. "yeah, of course. i couldn't sleep and thought maybe a movie would help, so far, it hasn't."

[meadelicta]

the reassurance washes over his shoulders, but he does not let it settle. does not let himself be comforted by it. falters in the space between them, a hand around the violin's neck, the other holding the bow. moves to set them down on the desk, giving in to her offer, even with the hesitation that clings to every moment, with a distance that never used to be between them. does not reply to her first statement, something cruel about himself at the tip of his tongue, nothing that would help or make sense right now. "alright." the words are quiet. he moves to sit down next to her, but does not meet her eyes. they are stuck on a particular floorboard, the patterns of the wood, the way it contrasts with the next piece. his hands are on his lap, and they begin to pick at his nailbeds now that there is nothing to do with them. "huh?" a noise of surprise. the question breaks his line of thought, even if it shouldn't. he shakes his head. "doesn't matter. i don't think i'll play that one." too angry, too wrong. for richard's memory, for what kamon has done. he finds it easier to change the subject. "uh- so. what about you? what will you play?"

"It's been a tough week. I don't think anyone's expecting you to be," Natalia responded simply as she walked over to an empty chair and sat down. She studied Kamon for a moment before patting the seat beside her.

"How about a small break to reset?"

It was a question she'd asked him countless times before, back when they worked together and she could sense his stress building. She'd always found it easier to coax him into a pause than to endure the sound of his knuckle-cracking or the incessant bouncing of his leg.

"What were you playing? I don't recognize it."

[meadelicta]

usually, he does not like to practice sitting, unless he is playing with an orchestra and it's a must. when he is at home, or performing somewhere much more relaxed, he will remain standing, finding it much easier to gather that strength and emotion to play, with two feet on the ground. his back is towards the entrance as he plays, eyes looking far away from the window to the ground, looking but not seeing. initially, the most difficult part of the decision was whether he would join or not. at first, he thought to refuse, too grief and guilt-stricken to think about performing, let alone in front of the other wards, some of whom he hadn't seen in person in years. then, the mere concept of rejecting to play in richard's memory felt like another betrayal. a smaller one, in comparison to what he had done, yet not one he could commit. so, he had agreed. the second difficult part is where he is stuck right now: picking which piece to play. he starts playing one and then stops. plays another score midway, and then falters. should he play one of his favorites? should he play one of richard's? it's not right- none of it sounds right. will it ever... sound right again? it is that thought that makes him miss one of the notes, and return the next one with more force than necessary. a few hairs of the bow begin to break, all of which he pays little mind to. it's a sorrowful, yet powerful melody, and it comes to an end before the familiar voice reaches his ears. kamon falters, freezing for a few seconds, trying to put that mask up again, caught in a space where he thought to be alone. even if it is natalia, who he trusts with so much of his life; the secrets he has not dared to share yet are becoming too heavy to bear. a turn on his heel, he slowly brings down the violin from his shoulder to his side. "hey — uh. sure. sure." the words are quiet and he gestures to general direction of the seats, moving to set the instrument down. "i... am not in my top form today, it seems."

LOCATION: Music Room DATE: Wednesday, September 7th, 2005 (Around noon) Closed starter for @meadelicta

It didn’t surprise Natalia in the slightest to find Kamon in the Music Room when she arrived at the door. Knowing him, he was likely preparing to perform a piece on the violin tonight. Natalia could still recall the evenings when she would listen to him practice after their work day at the Foundation concluded. It was always soothing to her.

Not making her presence known just yet, she watched him for a moment. While she didn't expect any of the wards to be in high spirits considering the reason they were all gathered in this house, Kamon felt particularly... off to her since she'd arrived. At first, she wrote it off as the pain of Richard’s death weighing on him like the rest of them. But he only seemed to grow more detached as the days went on. It was strange to her seeing as he'd always been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. She assumed he'd be openly weeping in the Great Room, playing therapist alongside Celia, or offering people his shoulder to cry on as they got further into the week. But no, he was just... quiet.

"Room for another in here?" She asked, making her presence known as she stepped over the threshold of the Music Room.

[meadelicta]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: SOMEWHERE IN THE ESTATE, EVENING 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: KAMON BOONMEE, THE TORMENTED. 𝐓𝐎: MICKEY JACQUEMIN, THE NOSTALGIC. [ @themickey ]

kamon can't sleep much, and at some hours, not at all. since that courier showed up in front of his door and his world turned upside down, everything feels nervewracking. the grief is always there, a pain that latches on, only made worse by the torment of reality. the last few days are gone in a haze, and he tries to do his best to keep what happened a secret, while also trying to hide his guilt. it takes a herculean amount of effort, for he had always worn his heart on his sleeve. it is also odd, existing around the wards again, all at once, suddenly seeing them at every corner, after years of living here without them. oh, how he wished they all met again under better circumstances, though that becomes the least of his worries. there is- a lot going on, and it feels impossible to keep track of it all. one of those worries, something that gets stuck in his head, is how mickey has been behaving, distant, odd — and kamon has chalked it up to the news of her breakup, which only makes him feel more worried. it is exactly why he decides to seek her out, to try to figure out if there is anything he can do. even the mere idea of being able to help is better than rolling in his bed. it takes a bit of time, though having lived in this house almost his entire life, kamon finds her after a while. the door is ajar, and his knuckles rap on the wooden surface before it's slowly pushed open. "mickey- hey —" he starts, gingerly taking a step inside. "are you free? do you have some time to... talk?"

[meadelicta]

TASK 001: RICHARD'S PASSING

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: KAMON'S BROOKLYN FLAT 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: MRS. BERNICE TRISTAN 𝐓𝐎: KAMON BOONMEE, THE TORMENTED.

( death, illness, depression, self-loathing tw )

the elevator's broken. the dingy staircase up five floors makes all of the couriers glare at him when they reach his door. it's another reason why kamon does not consider ordering food home, even if it's quite common now, as he lives near the heart of the city, and restaurants all offer hotline services. instead, he either eats outside or grabs a quick snack. while he used to like cooking, he can't bring himself to do that now, not when everything feels as if it's hanging in the air. this new place is hardly a home, and he does not know how to make it one. nor does he know if he wants to. when there's a knock on his door, he does not know what to expect. the courier does not outright glare at him either, and kamon ducks his head and thanks him as he takes the envelope in his hands. the paper is heavy, of high quality, those that richard liked to have on each one of their desks. kamon has written hundreds of letters with these papers. however, the sight of the familiar stationary does not bring him any peace. reading mrs. tristan's cursive writing on top of the envelope only makes the foreboding feeling worse. stones sink to the bottom of his stomach, and he rushes to the living room, where there is better light, and he rips the side of the envelope open. he's near the windowsill when he reads those words. his heart beats so loud that it echoes in his own ears, cold seeps into his bones. his hands begin to shake, yet he does not realize it. time shifts, and he's a child again. standing in that hospital corridor, being told that his mother is gone. however, this time, there is no warmth of a hand on his shoulder. richard's not there to console him, to bring him into his embrace, to let him push his tears into his cashmere sweater. no, richard's gone. it sounds — it sounds like a cruel joke, something that cannot be real. the man has always had such a stable place in kamon's life, he cannot fathom him being gone. tears have fallen down his eyes as he leans against the window, too dizzy, too torn to stand up straight. how could this happen? richard was- he was healthy. unlike his mother, no warnings came from the doctors to prepare themselves. not that any death is easy to process, though this feels so sudden that his knees shake, and he slips down, sitting on the cold floorboards. no cushion to aid in his fall, nothing to soften the truth of cruel reality. what makes it even crueler is the last conversation they had. the last time he looked into richard's eyes, and there was no love mirrored in his own. no, for the first time in his life, he had tried to speak against richard's wishes, and made a mess of it all.

he had yelled at him, told him that there was an image of kamon that he created, and the real kamon who could not ever reach that potential. that he was someone else, who did not want that life or position of power. that was not who he was — no matter how richard thought him to be. then he had left, slamming down the door of richard's office, the room that had become a solace for him for almost twenty years. the room where he learned new languages, where he learned the ins and outs of the foundation, the room where he hid when he did not know where else to go, and studied on the sofa next to the window, quietly, finding peace in the background noises of richard's writing and reading. he had slammed that door closed, and it would never open again. his last words to richard were not about how much he loves him, and how grateful he is for everything — but truths twisted so much to hurt, to do damage to mask his own pain. that night kamon was nowhere near the kind man he wanted himself to be. maybe he had never deserved richard's attention in the first place. curled over mrs. tristan's letter that night, kamon breaks. curls into himself, drops of tears marring the paper, making the ink blur. he doesn't know how long he sits there, though it's only with the first lights of the sun that he lifts his head, and leaves this poor facsimile of a home. the very least he can do is be there — even if he knows he cannot change the past. there is nothing he can do. and he hates himself for it.

[meadelicta]

KAMON BOONMEE ( POOM PHURIPAN SAPSANGSAWAT ) is a THIRTY year-old VOLUNTEER MANAGER in BROOKLYN, NYC. They were brought under Richard’s care when they were only ELEVEN. They are known as THE TORMENTED because they are COMPASSIONATE but also SELF-CRITICAL. Let’s see what choice they make regarding the fate of Woodrow House.

BASIC INFORMATION

full name: kamon boonmee

nickname(s): mon, monnie

date of birth: june 26th, 1975

age: thirty

occupation: volunteer manager

current residence: a studio flat in brooklyn, scarcely decorated since he moved in two weeks ago. his belongings are scattered between his room in woodrow and his new flat.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

hair: dark brown, almost black, usually styled away from his forehead, with a strand or two falling down to his eyes. if it's a particularly long day, by evening, it usually falls back into its natural shape due to how much he runs his hands through it. during the mornings or when he is feeling particularly down, he doesn't bother styling it.

eyes: dark brown. he wears his heart on his sleeve most of the time, and it's easy to figure out what he's feeling from the way his eyes go wide or tearful.

height: 1.78cm / 5'10"

notable features: there are a few beauty marks on his face, one near the tip of his nose, one on his chin, and a lot of other ones around his neck. there's a scar near his hairline, above his right eyebrow where he fell from a tree when he was a kid.

PERSONALITY & BEHAVIOR:

strengths: compassionate, empathetic, kind.

weaknesses: self-critical, non-confrontational, overthinker.

quirks: when he's nervous, it's easy to figure out from his mannerisms; cracking of his knuckles, moving his leg up and down. cannot stop moving in one way or another, picks at his nails, and bites his lips. if there is a paper cup in front of him, as time flows, it will be torn into little shreds. on the other end of the spectrum, when he is excited and happy about a particular thing, he also cannot stop moving, but it's less erratic, more so wanting to share that joy. he is a tactile person, and likes reaching out, a hand on a friend's shoulder, tapping his fingers on a nearby surface, talking with his hands more.

vices: he does have a sweet tooth, though has learned how to curb it in the woodrow household, and usually settles with the fruit. every once in a while, he used to steal from richard's secret candy stash. a worse habit is that he smokes sometimes. usually not around the house, and not where richard could see, for he did not want to disappoint him. his nicotine addiction gets worse under stress, and after richard's death, he has been smoking more and more, not particularly caring he will get caught during it.

INTEREST & HOBBIES:

interests: music, art (german romanticism), loves watching dramas, and can be found crying at them every, even though he will swear he was not.

hobbies: cooking, trying out new recipes, reading old books, visiting museums, sightseeing, going to concerts.

special skills/talents: kamon is particularly talented at playing the violin. that's also how he has met richard, and while he did not pursue a professional career in it, he always kept it up as a hobby. every couple of months, when his friend's orchestra is a violinist too short, he agrees to show up for a few performances.

BECOMING A WARD — illness, death tw

kamon is born as the only child to a working mother. he becomes all she has, and in turn, she is his entire family. when she realizes she is pregnant, she is young; only in her early twenties, recently moved into a livable place for her name, a rental with one bedroom, and a job where she makes a little more than a livable wage. she is alone, she always has been, having run away from her home to follow her own dreams. a baby is not in her plans, and the father makes it clear he does not want to be in the picture. she finds herself at a crossroads, and decides to accept kamon as a gift from a higher being. luck's been on her side on her journey alone out in nyc, and believes that she can make this work too. money's tight, raising a kid on a teacher's salary is near impossible, though she does her best. her friends help now and then, and despite the financial problems here and there, kamon grows up in a household filled with love. yes, sometimes he has to do more chores around the house than a boy his age should, or walk himself home when she cannot leave school just yet, but they do make it work. a close friend of her mother's being a music teacher, he takes up playing the violin when he is quite young, and they realize he is very talented with the instrument. despite not having the money to hire tutors or the best equipment, his talent shines through. slowly, he participates in various shows here and there, and it's one of those charity performances that kamon catches richard's eye. an eight-year-old, sitting near the corner of the stage, playing the violin with a type of maturity and emotion that's rare to see. that's when kamon first falls under richard's radar. though it takes a few years of seeing each other at a performance and then another, for him to actually take part in his life. although it's hard to wrap his head around as a child, kamon realizes that something is wrong. her mother needs more help around the house now, and starts to disappear, leaving him in the care of her friends. at first, he thinks it's a one-time ordeal, though with how often it happens, he realizes that there is more that he does not know. then there is the fact that she looks sickly, coughing into her palm when she thinks he cannot see, and he realizes there are also some days in which she takes time off from work. all of these add up, and he knows he is right about his suspicions. it's a difficult conversation, not one that kamon can fully grasp. there are a lot of words about how she is sick, and that she is getting worse, despite how much the doctors are doing their best. they both cry, and she tries to reassure him, his face pressing into her chest, small hands clinging onto the back of her shirt. he sees richard next at the hospital. she is still alive when kamon sits by her bedside, feet curled under himself, a children's book on his lap, eyes looking but not seeing. the man sits down next to him and tells him that he will take care of him for a bit until his mother gets better. she doesn't get better. they lose her a few months later.

LIFE AS A WARD

the time between richard taking him under his wing and his mother's passing goes quickly. kamon is both there and not at the same time, going through the motions, doing what he's told, and trying to understand everything that's going on. in simple terms, his entire life is turned upside down. when he is shown his new room in the estate, he can swear it's as big as the entirety of his old home. living in the woodrow house is the polar opposite of the one-bedroom flat he and his mother lived in back in the city. there are no chores, no grocery runs, no laundry or dishes. the spaces feel too much, too big, too quiet, and he usually likes to spend his time anywhere but in the empty room. in the first couple of months, he is quiet, stuck within his shell, trying to come to terms with jarring concepts such as death, and the fact he will never see his mother again. she was all he had, and kamon suddenly feels alone in the entire world. it is richard's who brings him out of that shell. grief is never-ending, though, under his care in the woodrow house, kamon slowly unravels to become the kind and compassionate young man he was destined to be. in turn, he latches onto richard, blooms under his attention, and strives to make him proud through the years. his aim becomes to help others just as richard has helped him. kamon does his best to be a picture-perfect child, and whenever he can, he joins richard in his meetings regarding the foundation. it comes like second nature to him, to talk to people in need, to get to know them, to figure out what they can do to make their lives a bit easier. he is gentle and agreeable, which is why most people find it easy to talk to him. after graduating, richard slowly begins to give him higher roles within the organization, even if all kamon wants to do is to continue doing groundwork, talk with the actual people in need, not join meetings and get buried in paperwork.

AESTHETIC

kamon prefers neutral colors, browns, beiges, softer whites. he is somewhat inspired by richard's fashion, but slightly more younger and a hip version. a lot of sweaters of neutral colors, and white shirts tucked into his slacks. he wears a thin golden necklace around his neck with a small star pendant that used to belong to his mother. kamon never takes it off, even when he sleeps. there are also a few piercings on his left ear, though he goes for small, unnoticeable studs that are also gold. these he used to rotate often, though since richard's passing, he has only been wearing one that was gifted by him, and has never taken it off since.

EDUCATION

kamon chose to continue receiving schooling on woodrow grounds. it made everything much easier, to continue staying at home, and to learn and do as much work as possible regarding the foundation. when it comes to tertiary education, he went to kingsbury college to major in social work. it seemed like the perfect choice, to learn more about charity work, to make himself more suitable to help those through the woodrow foundation. after his graduation, he received a more official title in the foundation.

EXTRACURRICULARS 

his favorite extracurricular is, unsurprisingly, music. besides the violin, he can also play the piano and knows his way around a guitar. he also composes from time to time. when it comes to sports, none of the traditional ones ever really stuck, but he enjoys hiking quite a lot. it's often that he can be found walking around the grounds to clear his mind, no matter the time. it can be at five am one morning, or at midnight, it depends on whenever the urge hits. he knows his way around the gardens quite well now, and sometimes wanders off grounds when he feels like he needs a longer hike.

THEIR LIFE NOW

even before richard's passing and after their fight, kamon felt an emptiness he had not felt for so long. his entire life was woodrow, and leaving felt like a rug has been pulled underneath his feet. he moved into a new space, a studio flat in brooklyn, very similar to one of his mother's, though completely alone for the first time in years. it was his own doing, this much he knew. the fight had been messy, even if his intention was anything but. all kamon wanted was to convince richard he was more suitable for a smaller role, despite what the man clearly wanted for him. kamon had climbed the stairs of management in the foundation in the last couple of years, and he knew richard was preparing him to take a bigger role. it was not what he wanted, nor what he thought he could do. cruel words were thrown, and kamon cannot forget one of his last words to the man. he had yelled at him, told him that he was making kamon out to be someone he wasn't, an idealized version of him that was not true at all. he left, and he regrets everything that he had done that night. even if he knows he had to tell richard all of those things, and that he had to come clean at one point, kamon wishes he had done it all differently. if he had just stayed- for a couple of weeks more, maybe he would have been there to help. now, their last memory is stained, and he feels like he has failed the man he loved like a father, the man who saved him over and over again through the years. to him, his last words were filled with cruelty and anger, and there is nothing he can do to change that.

[meadelicta]

you are the grief i remember you as

fortesa latifi // fleabag // j. estanislao lopez // @promqueendyke // okechukwu nzelu // glennon doyle melton.

[meadelicta]

"Can you let me have some good memories?" Poom Phuripan as Joe in My Stand-In (2024)