1x1 CLOSED Burying the Hatchet

[wren.]

hh

hh

PARRIS

Parris has never been one for stuffy upper-class parties, but when your boss, who pays you to kill people for him and has the power to make you disappear just as easily, invites you to a masquerade, you say yes.

"I am not inviting you out of the kindness of my heart," Lord Louis Bancroft had said rather unnecessarily. Although the man might appreciate Parris's lethality, they are hardly on friendly terms.

Besides, with no significant amount of property to his name beyond his small home in Forest Hill, no meaningful title, no wealthy heritage, and distinctly non-white skin, it's unlikely any rich twat would want him within twenty feet of their masquerade unless he were working in their kitchens. So, he'd grinned cheekily and proclaimed his surprise that the lord even had a heart.

He's meant to kill Mr. Fagean, a reserved gentleman and business partner to the lord, who has been stealing his money for approximately three months. While he could care less about Lord Bancroft's pockets being slightly less bountiful than they were and would never pass moral judgment on a fellow thief, a job is a job.

So, here he is, freezing his ass off outside Bancroft's ostentatiously large manor the evening of Christmas Day, waiting for dozens of tittering ladies and gentlemen dressed in their Sunday best to stop crowding the door and head inside so he can get out of the snow. Given the holiday season, holly and kissing boughs are wrapped around the fluted Greek columns, catching the warm light of the building's lanterns and casting shadows against white stucco and brick.

In their hands, the guests carry small wrapped gifts, each meant for a perfect stranger assigned by the lord. It's an odd tradition that had left Parris standing awkwardly in his house hours earlier, half-dressed, examining each of his belongings for something of value to trade. Ultimately, he'd selected a porcelain teapot decorated in gold and black paisley. Without the matching cups and saucers, he can't imagine any of the uppity partygoers will use it, but it's one of the most valuable things he owns and is keen to get rid of.

Initially, the teapot had belonged to his master, though it was used mainly by his mother pouring tea for brutes. After he'd killed the son of a bitch and his family, he stole the object on his way out. It was meant to be a trophy, but looking at it wound up dredging up memories he'd rather forget, so he'd stuffed it away in a box to collect dust. At least he's getting some use out of it now while disposing of evidence.

His hand tightens around the gift, wrinkling the brown paper protecting it, as he glides past couples and families into the garishly-decorated hall. He's never seen so many candles in his life nor so many small toys hanging from the branches of a fir tree. The music swelling through the house is at least a pleasant alternative to the fustian drivel of the guests. Gilded wall mirrors reflect blurs of velvet and silk in an assortment of colors as people come and go, only serving to make the place feel more crowded. He catches sight of himself in one, though he barely recognizes himself.

His usual muslin and wool have been swapped out for silk and velvet, his outfit consisting of white pantaloons, a black waistcoat, and a navy tailcoat. The cravat was the most challenging part of the ensemble, as he had to spend several minutes untying and retying it to achieve a decent-looking knot. Lord Bancroft gave him the golden mask covering half of his face, which feels like a sweaty prison against his skin.

Attached to his lapel is a small pin of a lily, also a gift from his patron. Each guest was provided one; each pin is meant to match only with one other person, a marker of your gift partner. Surprisingly, Lord Bancroft had refused to tell him the identity of his partner, claiming that his knowing would "spoil the fun." He doesn't imagine there's much fun to be had here, regardless of the mystery.

Surely, his partner must be Mr. Fagean? It would make his job much easier, especially with the man donning a mask like the rest of the room. He'll give him the teapot and then slip some arsenic into his champagne during tonight's feast. Two gifts in one night, neither what the man probably asked for.

code by wren.

 

[Nemopedia]

Warren Roosevelt

Male | 28 | mr.

---

Purity, prosperity, and Mother Mary. Such an ironic flower the lily was in the hands of a Roosenvelt, a name and family that was anything but pure and prosperous, a name that Mary was best to uninvite to her table, though Warren knew that the holy matron would never. Another stab of guilt.

"Indulge yourself for once," Bancroft had said, urging Warren to leave his attic. With the holidays ongoing the school was eerily quiet, bringing back the creaking whines that resembled the cries of those he couldn't save, and those that couldn't be saved. The attic especially felt hollow, the wind howling over the panels of the roof, sounding like haunting hoots of all those that meant to curse his name, carrying words that told him the Roosevelt had gotten all they deserved.

They had. However, this wasn't the place to lament as Warren took a glass of champagne, cheering it with Bancroft as per a greeting before the host had pointed at a foreign figure in the distance.

"Your match, another lily, see?" The man had told him, pointing at something Bancroft expected Warren to see at this distance. He left it at that, choosing to believe the host as Warren thanked the man before fixing his own tresses, a deep autumn brown in which the lily flower pin stood out all the more starkly before pressing the present more closely against his chest. Anxiety burned in the back of his throat as Warren approached the man, one caused and rising more by the obvious signs of the man's heritage. A heritage that told Warren that his family was responsible, most likely, if not through their own expeditions, was funded by their wealth. The history that Warren had tried so hard to make amends for, but failed nonetheless as he felt the rough cotton spun embroidery that acted as a wrapper for what was within the package.

Was he ready to confront his ghosts like that? Warren knew he never would be, slow methodical steps turning into the other's direction. In dress they seemed to be on par, neither lavishly decked, but still stylishly so. Not because of a lack of means from Warren's side, but an unwillingness to spend on himself, the guilt of his family's wealth too much to allow the indulgence of glitter and glamour. Even his mask was something handcrafted by one of the students within his school, a simple papier-mâche project with a lick of paint. It even fit Warren badly, for the form of the face for the mask had been the student's own and not his, but the gesture was heart-warming and Warren had accepted it with delight, promising to wear it for the first masquerade he was to be invited.

"Lily white, shall in love delight, nor thorn nor threat stain beauty's right."* The poem rose to mind, read sometime ago, triggered by the sight of the lily pin that Warren wore as well. There was half the urge to reveal his face fully, he wanted to know who his secretive match was, but instead Warren settled for only half his face being uncovered, as seemed to be fashionable today. "Merry Christmas," he said, pushing the present forward that, ironically, also contained a lily on its embroidery, less ironically, representing the Roosenvelt insignia of their (now wasted) prosperity.

And perhaps the greatest irony of all was the present itself; the medallion of his mother, a betrothal gift from his father, but Warren had no way of knowing that irony.

*Poem: The Lilly by William Blake

 

[wren.]

hh

hh

PARRIS

There is nothing extraordinary about Warren Roosevelt's voice. It is a soft and fragile thing, as if it fears being heard. It is as if it wishes to take up the least amount of room possible. If it weren't so close, Parris could have easily lost it to the thrum of the crowd and the crooning of string instruments. It is not nasally nor buttery. It is not especially high nor especially low. It contains neither the pride nor the charm expected of its status. It is entirely mundane. It carries no weight. Certainly not enough to crush one's windpipe.

So, there must be another reason why Parris's breath is coming quicker. It must be the overbearing scent of women's perfume that has dried his throat and made him slightly dizzy. There is certainly enough of it pervading through these halls, and there are too many people for him to run. It's surrounding him, constricting him, trapping him —

"Merry Christmas."

It's too late; he has found him. Against all luck, there he is, pushing a present toward him marked with that embroidered symbol he knows all too well. The sight makes him nauseous, dredging up all sorts of memories he has tried to forget, and it doesn't help that the man in front of him shares so many of them. Does he know? Does he recognize him? No, he can't. It's been so long... almost two decades, if his math is correct. The only reason he recognizes Warren after all this time is because he'd gone looking for him when he'd first learned of his return from school.

The gossip was insidious, criticizing a man for wasting most of his fortune on freeing his slaves and building a school for the disadvantaged. It sounded ludicrous, like the hero of a fairytale his mother would have read to him as a boy. He had to find the truth; it ate at him like a tapeworm. So he found the school and staked it out, and there he was. He was much older, but he could still recognize those delicate features and how his tousled hair naturally fell around his face. As it turned out, the gossip was all true. He'd debated killing him, then. Get it all over with and make sure there was no one left who ever knew a little boy named John Thomas. Despite all sense, though, he couldn't do it. This must be his penance — time to pay the piper.

"Thank you, sir," he smiles as charmingly as he can manage. It's a wonder his hand is steady when he takes the gift from Warren's hands, careful not to let their fingers brush together as though it might burn like hellfire. "If your gift is anything as exquisite as the wrapping, I am afraid mine is not a fair trade," he chuckles, handing off his plainly-wrapped gift. The plainly-wrapped death sentence.

There's no way Warren has recognized him so quickly; how could he? But there's no way he won't recognize the teapot. Maybe he has already recognized him? Is this a trap? Did Bancroft set this up? There's no way he'd accidentally managed to pair him with the only remnant of the past he'd left bloodied and buried. How did he find out? He never told a soul his birth name nor where he'd come from. He needs to calm down. If this is a trap, he can't let his nerves get the better of him, or he'll really be signing his death warrant.

"Your mask is quite unique," he says. It appears to be made of painted papier-mâche, poorly constructed and not at all flattering on him. It must have been a gift from one of his students. Unless he has children? He's not sure how to feel about that idea. He hadn't heard anything about his having a family, but he'd gone out of his way to try and avoid anything to do with Warren once he'd confirmed his continued existence. Bumping into him would be far too much of a risk. "Did you make it?"

He doesn't open his gift. If he holds off on it, maybe the social contract will convince Warren to open it only long after he's made an escape.

code by wren.

 

[Nemopedia]

Warren Roosevelt

Male | 28 | mr.

---

Surprise, that's what Warren assumed his partner to feel when Warren sought him out, earning a wider smile from the man who takes in the plain brown package in exchange, feeling the weight of porcelain through it. A teapot, Warren feels as his finger brushes past the nose awkwardly as he tries to cup the present without dropping it to a thousand pieces. A tea set, most likely he believed, already wondering if the kitchen had any use of it, or if the etiquette teachers may want it for class.

"Courtesy of the students," Warren responded, remembering how the oldest of them had climbed the stairs to his attic, knocking on the door of the principal's room and office before leaving their handmade presents. Warren never answered the door during those days, knowing that part of the tradition was the pretension of the holy spirit having blessed him. It was gratefulness on their part, he knew, for taking them in and allowing them to study a craft. If Warren had been a more selfish person he could place any request with the students and they would fulfil it. Had Warren been any more entitled he would have accepted their blessings and called them his students, but he couldn't rightfully do so when all he did was provide the place and the money, not teach.

Pulling off the mask, Warren revealed his face, breaking perhaps the one rule the host had instilled upon this party tonight, but the craft had barely covered his face to begin with and there felt no need to hide his identity now. Not when Bancroft had pointed out his partner to begin with. "The mask is papier-mâché, the craftsmen have their students explore its possibilities," Warren explains, eyeing the object with pride, turning the craft in his hand while examining it from all its angles before returning his attention to the stranger, "Warren Roosenvelt," he introduced himself, though he had no hands left to extend with a present in one and the mask in the other.

 

[wren.]

hh

hh

PARRIS

Curious that Warren says 'the students,' as though anyone would understand immediately that he means the students at the school he funded. Then again, perhaps most would. He has quite the reputation, so maybe it's not that arrogant to assume someone would recognize him right away. He's certainly come into contact with more than a few rich men who expect such attention the moment they walk through a door.

He swallows any response, and almost his tongue, when Warren takes off his mask. He hasn't been this close to the man in almost a decade, forced to remain at a significant distance when he'd spied on him earlier. While he's undoubtedly older, he looks remarkably young for his age. He's always been composed of gentle features, though, all sad eyes and soft smiles on a rounded face. He's handsome, he'll give him that.

More than anything, though, he's tired. The divets beneath his eyes are bruised and thin-looking, and his complexion is dull and slightly pallid, like he hasn't slept in days. The movement of the swarm around them has been pushing the smell of laudanum into his nostrils, undercut by the various perfumes of the gentry, and he's becoming increasingly sure it's coming from Warren. He must be dealing with insomnia, though the medication doesn't appear to be helping so far.

Curious.

"I know who you are," he says before he can stop himself, mentally kicking himself for it. Sure, it's disorientating and a little fascinating to see this ghost-of-his-past given flesh once more, but that's no excuse to lapse into familiarities. He's here for a specific purpose, after all. He's supposed to be figuring out the best method of disposing of Mr. Fagean, not entertaining idle chit-chat.

"You're rather infamous now, aren't you? It's not every day the son of a well-known slaver family frees all of its prisoners and then builds a school to hide away in." His tone is short, though not accusatory. He's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, though he does wonder at Warren's motivation. He destroyed the entire foundation of his family's wealth. Most would consider that an ill-advised decision.

"Parris Beaumont," he introduces, a strange thrill racing down his spine. While Warren won't understand the significance of this moment, he can at least find private satisfaction in declaring John Thomas dead to the very man that saved his life. "I would chat longer, but I'm afraid I have business here to attend to. It was nice to meet you, sir. Enjoy your night."

He bows curtly before swiftly gliding past him into the throngs of people, eager to escape his sight and for Warren to vanish from his own. So long as the man is around, he's liable to get distracted, and he can't afford that right now. Right now, he needs to find this damned Mr. Fagean.

code by wren.

 

[Nemopedia]

Warren Roosevelt

Male | 28 | mr.

---

For the upper class to be known was as natural as breathing. To be part of that rare elite came with a notoriety. Yet to have it so bluntly stated was bewildering and Warren couldn't hide that surprise, his eyes blinking slowly in response, not only at the word 'prisoners' as much as his reputation. It wasn't the fame he had hoped for or over which anyone wishes to gain fame over, but it was his family legacy, the shameful stain part of his unerasable history.

The hint of a vendetta didn't escape Warren either, who gulps unconsciously at the bitter truth.

"You are welcome to visit! The school is located in Sutton, my family house! I would love to show you around," the male made sure to have those words follow after Parris, raising his voice just above the constant murmur of the crowd before he found himself alone within said mass, the present in hands.

"Mr. Roosevelt, is that you?" a voice pipes up from behind, and the familiar figure of another masked invitee fills up his space and attention before it is shifted towards the present in hands, "and already found your partner? Lucky as always, open up!"

With little to object, other than a passing greeting towards the acquaintance, Warren carefully sets the package on the table, making sure to look for the seams as he slowly unwraps the present without tearing the paper and finding a familiar pot in hands.

The rest of the party goes dark for Warren, as his legs give way and gravity does the rest.

 

[wren.]

hh

hh

PARRIS

Parris's search is cut short when the distinctive and niggling sound of porcelain shattering rings out, dragging a collective gasp out of the crowd. Their eyes point toward where he'd just come from, their bodies moving like a herd toward the source of the noise. Intrigued, he follows until he finds the source of their concern: Warren has collapsed. There are a couple people, possible acquaintances, looking him over for damage and attempting to rouse him. Surrounding Warren is the remains of a familiar teapot, the wrapping paper it was being housed in now open on the small table in front of him. For some reason, the sight makes his chest twinge, and he rubs at it.

People are muttering around him, speculating what might have happened. Of course, most of them blame it on drug use. Either way, the men attending to Warren eventually haul him up and carry him outside, presumably taking him home. Once he's out of sight, the crowd bores quickly and resumes with their festivities, though Parris stands there a moment longer, staring at the dusty porcelain now being swept up by one of the servants. What had Warren thought before he fainted? Has he realized who Parris is? He has to know now, right? Should Parris start watching his back? Will he ever even see Warren again? Should he even be giving this incident this much thought?

No. He shouldn't. He has a job to do, and he's already let Warren Roosevelt take up too much of his time. He already had eight years of it.

​

The hit goes off without a hitch. Once he's able to locate Mr. Fagaen — a stout man with a crisp-looking mustache — it's just a matter of finding a moment to slip a vial of arsenic into his drink. Pretty soon, the man is collapsing as Warren did, foaming at the mouth and twitching violently until he goes still. People scream and panic as they always do, and it's easy for him to slip out amidst the chaos into the chilly night. Will Bancroft have planned for this panic, prepared some speech to subdue their spirits into continuing their evening, or will he announce the party over now? He couldn't have accounted for Warren's incident, and it must be difficult to continue a party where two men have been injured or killed.

Either way, it's no longer his problem. He heads home, deciding to collect his money tomorrow when he can disguise himself as a servant and meander around without causing suspicion. He takes the mask off, scrubbing at his tired eyes and glaring at anyone in the alleyways that looks like they might give him trouble. Along the way, he buries the now empty vial he'd brought with him into the snow beneath some dense bushes. By the time the snow has melted enough for someone with a keen eye to spot it, there'll be no way to figure out who had used it nor who had died from it.

Fortunately, he makes it home in one piece, and he's quick to toss the mask into his storage chest before stripping down to his nightshirt and collapsing into bed. Sleep does not come easy to him, but that's nothing new. He sighs, burying his face in his pillow and seeing how long he can suffocate himself before the burning in his lungs becomes too much. Against everything, he thinks about Warren. He must be awake by now. What is he doing? Plotting his own revenge plan? Warren was never the violent type when they were children, and the meek impression he'd just left him suggests that hasn't changed. Still, people can surprise you.

He rolls over toward the pile of finery he'd left on his floor, the lily pin shining in the moonlight that spills in from the nearby window, taunting him. He snorts and forces himself to stop thinking.

​

When did he become suicidal? He must be, showing up at Warren's school like this. He scowls at the familiar building, counts each of its ghosts. Don't think about it.

He heads inside.

code by wren.

 

[Nemopedia]

Warren Roosevelt

Male | 28 | mr.

---

The Roosevelt Estate, back when it was still a family home, used to be green sloping hills of joy and fresh air, with a private rose garden that also contained morning glories and other summer flowers that made for the loveliest shades in a bustling town. Warren dreamt of those days, of the days of carefreeness where the sky was like the worries in his life, cloudless and unblemished and bright. A perfect day for tea, paired with a fine porcelain set that he had stolen from the cupboard to share with his friend John in secrecy, for his father never liked him to fraternise with the servants.

By the time Warren woke up he knew that this was all wistful dreaming from his side. Untrue as much as that it was wilful ignorance, for even back then Warren knew from his heart of hearts the darkness that lurked within the Roosevelt Estate that went unpronounced.

"The colonel has written to you," madame Preston, the head housekeeper and also the trainer of all of her fellow housekeepers, had informed him when the principal of the Roosevelt Academy finally deigned to come downstairs from his attic. For days he had locked himself up in his attic, delirious and sleepless, before finally descending into a deep sleep that lasted for a full day before the sound of the returning students woke him up once more.

"Good morning mr. Roosevelt!" their clear voices sounded, full innocence and excitement at the sight of their benefactor. Warren just nodded back to each of them, not trusting his voice quite yet as he left the letter of his uncle unopened in his hand, his coat barely hanging around his shoulders as he enjoyed the cool winter air to bite into his skin, the steady stream of students lifting up his spirits as much as it awakened him until he drops the letter entirely, surprised at a certain other figure mixed into the crowd.

"Mister Beaumont!" Warren calls, the first words he crowed after days, and his voice is as hoarse and dry as he expects it to be after days in the attic, but the excitement is all the same and his face lights up momentarily before fatigue overtakes him and he grabs the balustrade of the stair as not to alarm any of his students, his shoulders shrugging to straighten his coat before waving the esteemed guest over.

"I'm about to break my fast, will you join me?" The man invites Parris, the memory of the teapot returned already buried away in the depths of the memories that Warren can't progress quite yet.

 

[wren.]

hh

hh

PARRIS

What is he hoping to achieve by coming here? He's not even sure. He'd tried so hard to forget about those first ten years or so of his life, especially about the young boy who had weathered them with him. They've both been battered and bruised, though Warren had much more to protect himself with than he ever did, a fact he can't help but resent him for.

Seeing him after all these years, and so briefly, so unsatisfyingly, well. Their encounter has left a niggling sense of something needing completion. Closure, that's what he needs. Perhaps it's what both of them need. As cautious as he lives, constantly looking over his shoulder, perhaps a part of him needs Warren to hold a knife to his throat to give him a reason to sink one in his heart. What better place to feel the warmth of Warren's blood gush through his fingers than the home where it all started?

He nearly freezes when he spots Warren beside the entrance, seemingly in the middle of greeting his students as they file inside for their daily routine. At least Warren looks equally baffled to see him, the coat clinging desperately to his shoulders nearly slipping from them entirely, something fluttering from his hand. His voice is haggard when he calls his name, as though he hasn't used it in a while. He's unsure what name to ascribe to the feeling the idea inspires in him. The enthusiastic grin he gives him, though, is bewildering. Has he really not realized who Parris is? Even after such a telling gift? He can't just not care.

Before he can overthink, Warren sways, and he finds himself stepping forward instinctively to steady him, strangely affected by the idea of him falling down the stairs and dying of a simple concussion. He's too far from him to be of any assistance, and Warren catches himself on the banister, anyway. Between the medicine he'd smelled on him at the ball, the fainting, and now this swaying, it's evident that Warren must be sick in some manner. Is it a recent development or something more chronic?

Warren's invitation seems friendly, but perhaps he means to get him alone. Maybe he'll poison his tea in an ironic twist of how he'd disposed of Fagean's so recently. The air from his nose leaves him as smoke in the cold. "That sounds lovely," he responds flatly, almost despondent. He tries to smile, but he's not quite sure he managed it by the time he's joined the man's side. "You look ill," he states, "Everyone was worried when you fainted at the ball." Well, more like morbidly curious in the way those sharp-eyed vultures tend to be.

"I know it is none of my business," he adds, "But perhaps you should be recuperating instead of standing out in the cold like this."

code by wren.

 

[Nemopedia]

Warren Roosevelt

Male | 28 | mr.

---

"Oh, are you joining us, principal?" one of the students tugged at Warren's shirt, eager and delighted at the prospect of dining together, "how very rare! I will tell Agatha to deck in for two more!" the child professed and was already dashing down the hall before Warren could say anything, leaving him with a befuddled chuckle instead as he turned to mr. Beaumont, the expression of his new friend stern as ever, or as far as Warren had known him.

"I'm quite fine, thank you. I'm so very sorry for worrying everyone, it tends to happen, a rush of blood, and all that," Warren waved away the concern, his voice jovial as he tried to avoid the actual underlying issue, or rather, he tried to forget it. "Madame Preston, the head housekeeper, knows, but don't you dare mention anything to Agatha. She will throw such a fuss and that will spoil the meal for the students," Warren continued, his hand pointed into the direction of the great hallway as he led Parris in after the rest of the students who were heading for breakfast as well.

"The students serve up a marvellous English full, so you must try something of everything and load them with praises afterwards, else I fear I will have to contain myself in my bed for another week!"

The jokes kept on coming, a few students coming between with a cheeky quip that Warren didn't come down much for breakfast to begin with, others expressing their delight that the principal had recovered at last from the bout of mysterious illness that had gotten him.

"Now, I can't just dance with the fairies!" Warren had exclaimed at one particular tongue in the cheek, "besides who will dance with you perfect angels if not me?" he rebutted, flicking one of them on the nose as giggles could be heard and they all joined the long dining table set, the seat at the head empty and so was one at the right, reserved for Warren and his guest.

"Sit, sit!" Warren invited Parris, sliding into the seat at the head before folding his hands together, elbow propped onto the table and turning his eyes at the man once more expectantly.

"Will our guest of honour bless our meal?" he asked when it was finally quiet, a dozen pairs of eyes including his own all focusing on the stranger that was invited to dine with them today.

 

[wren.]

hh

hh

PARRIS

Warren's excuse is poor, but Parris simply purses his lips and remains silent. He has no reason to be concerned about Warren's well-being. If the man wants to keep pushing away the evil of the world and drink himself into an early grave, well. He's an adult, isn't he?

"I have no problem indulging myself in free food," he smirks, following Warren toward what he assumes to be the mess hall, where the familiar chaos of rambunctious children is emanating louder and louder. When was the last time he had a full meal? Usually, he fills himself with bread and potatoes. Something to hold him over and keep him feeling full, even if it's not the most nutritious. If he's lucky, sometimes he can swipe some meat and vegetables from the markets and make himself some stew.

Parris stands awkwardly with Warren as his students surround him, chattering away excitedly, trying to feign a polite smile. Still, with as tense as he feels, he likely doesn't come across as approachable. It doesn't help that a lot of the kids are already eyeing him warily. At least Warren's practiced charm and grace make up for his awkwardness.

He takes the seat beside Warren as invited, offering a small thanks, stomach growling as he looks at all of the well-prepared food spread out before them. He's more than content to fade into the background of this little scenario but, of course, Warren has to make him the center of attention. "Oh! Um," he coughs into the bend of his elbow. He can't even remember the last time he's said or even been around for grace. It has to have been when he was a boy, back when his parents were still alive and the three of them would join with the other servants to eat what scraps they were given to keep them alive but no more.

He claps his hands together and bows his head in the way he vaguely remembers he should, shooting off the most generic but socially acceptable speech. "Lord God, Heavenly Father, bless us and these Thy gifts which we receive from Thy bountiful goodness, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen." It's a load of horseshit, of course. God never gave him anything but scars and blood crusting beneath his fingernails; anything good he's ever had, he's had to tear from other people's hands.

"So, uh, what... have you all been learning?" he asks of the children, hanging back from making his plate until they've done it first. He might be many things, one of them a thief, but he wouldn't steal from children.

code by wren.

 

[Nemopedia]

Warren Roosevelt

Male | 28 | mr.

---

With his hands folded and the words flowing Warren caught himself thinking, wondering if God never grew bored of hearing the same words over and over. The same format, repetition and sins and gratitude. At some point all prayers sounded the same to Warren, whose eyes locked with one of the students across the table who quickly pointed at the principal when the prayers were done.

"The principal never closed his eyes!" he called, to which Warren chuckled awkwardly, caught red handed, but not without a counter.

"How could you tell? Shouldn't your eyes be closed during prayer?" Warren gently returned the question, Parris' question following soon after as the student had no answer to give, having effectively outed himself.

"Since Jonathan outed himself, he should start," Warren good-naturedly decided, earning a collective groan at the table as Jonathan got up from his chair prim and proper, his face still red from embarrassment but his face so sternly set that Warren had to hold back another laugh.

"Baking, sir!" Jonathan announced like he was an army officer, the behaviour undoubtedly copied from observing the regiments settled nearby, "I hope Nellie will allow me to touch the dough!" the boy continued, his claim entirely sincere, but evoking a different image within Warren entirely who felt the tea go down the wrong pipe. This is what he gets for not praying properly, clearly. Holy retribution.

 

[wren.]

hh

hh

PARRIS

It's been a long time since Parris has been around a group of children for longer than it takes to pass by a rowdy group playing in the street, and even longer since he's been sat down for a meal with another living person. It's rather surreal, all this domesticity. Warren isn't these children's father, but he might as well be for how much they clearly admire him, and how well he responds to them.

He can't help the small smile that tugs at his lips at the innocent joviality of it all, this Jonathan boy particularly amusing in his exuberance. He suppresses a laugh at the boy's stiff posture and unnecessarily loud voice, like he's responding to a drill sergeant instead of his principal. His odd choice of words makes Warren suddenly choke on his tea, drawing everyone's surprised eyes.

Parris blinks at him, confused at first before he realizes what must have happened. He snorts, shaking his head like a disapproving parent, though he doesn't bother to hide his sly grin. "Seriously Warren," he clucks. Honestly, he's surprised his own mind didn't go there. He realizes too late that he's speaking too casually to be appropriate for someone meant to be a stranger, so he clears his throat and uses the children as a distraction.

"Thank you, Jonathan. I'm sure you'll get there one day." Okay, now he's thinking about the euphemism again, dammit. "Baking is a great skill to have as an adult, though I admit I've never mastered it. So long as I can make something edible, that's good enough for me."

With the children having finished filling their plates, he takes a decent portion of the remaining food for himself. It's not often that he's faced with a plethora of free food, and it's making his stomach growl just to look at. Of course, he tries not to take too much, lest he look like a glutton. He ignores the stares of the children as he works, a skill he has perfected over the course of his life. Although some of them are surely judging him in their heads, it's refreshing to know that most of them are simply curious about the dark-skinned stranger in their midst, and not conspiring behind his back to harm him like their parents might.

It's easy enough to ignore when they're so excited to share their exploits, anyway. He's envious of their energy. Surely there was a significant time in his life when he was equally easily-impressed and fascinated by every little thing the world had to offer him, but it's so distant he can barely remember it. "It sounds like you all are learning a lot here. I'm glad that your principal hasn't been slacking in providing a proper education," he says, tossing Warren a teasing glance as he takes a bite of ham. As if he has any experience with a proper education.

code by wren.

 

[Nemopedia]

Warren Roosevelt

Male | 28 | mr.

---

Jonathan was positively glowing at the praise given by Parris, not noticing the struggling Warren who motioned for the young boy to finish his breakfast while covering his mouth with a napkin that one of the students sitting next to him offered.

"I'm sure you have your own expertise, Beaumont," Warren spoke, strained, his throat still recovering, but wishing to move the conversation on. It was a question that gnawed at everyones curiosity as even the students who were busy serving turned their attention to the man, pausing their activities in fear of missing out the answer.