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aseriesofhyperfixation · 4 years

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Cry For A Wedding, Cry For A Funeral

i finally finished this ridiculous oneshot and jfc wow okay i’m a lil emotional ngl enjoy? ig? if you can? ;asldfkj best of luck WARNING: ANGST AHEAD, like so much angst, like wow i’ve outdone myself lowkey

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“Are you ready?” Frank called, straightening his tie in the mirror.

He stepped into the parlor of the basement, and to his great confusion, his triplet lay curled up in a ball on the couch. “Ernest?” Frank wasn’t quite sure what to do, seeing his brother like this, but he sat down on the couch next to him and shook his head to clear his thoughts anyway, “Ernest, buddy, what’s wrong?”

Ernest lifted his head slowly, and to Frank’s great dismay he saw that there were tears on his cheeks, although he was chuckling in exasperation, “Did you just call me buddy?”

“I, uh,” Frank sat up a little straighter, “You seemed like you needed comforting. I wanted you to be comfortable. Buddies are comfortable with each other. Right?” “I don’t think I’ve ever been more uncomfortable than I am with you calling me buddy,” Ernest paused, giving his brother a soft and shaky smile, “I just… I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can go.”

Frank nodded, as though he understood, although in reality he didn’t. His brother was in a position that they had never experienced, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

“I think you should,” He said softly, considering his words carefully, “But that’s just me. You did RSVP, it would be rude of us not to go. But I don’t know that anyone really expected you to RSVP in the first place, so maybe…” He trailed off.

Frowning, Ernest mumbled something under his breath that was probably insulting, and then he spoke a little louder, “Do you think O will be there?”

With a little shrug, Frank considered this, “You’d probably know better than I would, huh?”

“He will be,” Ernest sounded unsure of himself, although he knew he was right, “I think a decent amount of… of people like O, people like me, are going to be there. Just hidden away. Besides, it’s Beatrice. O wouldn’t miss this.”

Frank wanted to ask Ernest why he had asked Frank his opinion in the first place, when Ernest was already well aware of this, but Frank knew that Ernest was in an emotional place, and Frank didn’t want Ernest to think that Frank thought there was something wrong with Ernest being in an emotional place, because Frank knew that there was nothing wrong with Ernest or anyone else being emotional, Frank simply wasn’t used to being exposed to much outward emotion, especially from Ernest.

Ernest knew that Frank was probably wondering why Ernest had asked Frank’s opinion in the first place, when Ernest was already well aware of this, but Ernest knew that Frank probably wouldn’t say anything because Ernest was in an emotional place and Frank wouldn’t want Ernest to know that Frank knew that Ernest was emotional, because Frank would worry that Ernest would think that Frank was judging Ernest for being emotional, and Ernest knew that Frank didn’t think there was anything wrong with Ernest or anyone else being emotional, Ernest simply wasn’t usually one to exhibit much outward emotion to anyone, especially Frank.

“Maybe I can just hide out somewhere, so I’m there but they don’t see me,” Ernest proposed, considering it, “Maybe I could do that.”

His voice was shaky, as though he knew that this idea was not the best but wanted desperately for it to be good, and Frank laid his hand out carefully, palm up, so that if Ernest wanted to make contact with him he could, but if he didn’t want to be touched he wouldn’t have to be.

Ernest rested his hand against Frank’s.

“It’s up to you,” Frank brought his thumb curving upward, so that it touched the back of Ernest’s hand, “If you don’t want to go-”

“It’s not that I don’t want to!” Ernest jerked his hand away, his shoulders hunching slightly, he was closing himself off from his brother, from the world, “It’s not that I don’t want to. I don’t, of course, but I do lots of things I don’t want to do. It’s… I don’t know if I can.”

Frank shifted away, just a bit, to give his brother room to breathe, although he left his own hand in place. “Okay, I’m sorry. I said the wrong thing. I understand. But I mean it, it’s totally up to you. If you can’t go, if it’s not something you can do, no one will blame you. No one will be mad at you. They just might be a little sad, that’s all. They’ll miss you. But they won’t be angry. You’re not a bad person if you don’t go.”

“I am a bad person,” Ernest whispered, and then he let out a sob, his voice rising, “I’m a bad person! We’re bad people, Frank, all of us, but especially me. I’m a bad person, and I’m gonna die alone and no one will come to my funeral except you and Dewey and maybe Bertrand, not because he wants to be there but because he’s too nice for his own damn good. But he’s too good to come. I don’t want him to have to be at my funeral, even though I know he will because he’ll feel obligated to, because I’m not good enough for Bertrand to care about. Just ask K. She’s been telling him for years, she’s always said I’m the evil one, you’re the friendly one, and he always laughed it off but now he knows it’s true and I don’t know what to do.”

He had curled back into a ball, his body shaking as he cried, but he rocked to the side so that he was leaning against Frank, and awkwardly, Frank wrapped his arms around the ball of discomfort that was his triplet.

“You’re not a bad person,” He said firmly, hushing Ernest as he started wailing in disagreement, “You’re not. You’re a good person, Ernest. And K, you know I love her, but she’s a bitch. Everyone knows that. Don’t use her opinion of you to judge your self worth. You are a good person, and you deserve to be cared about by a lot of people. You are good and kind and loved, and you deserve that love.”

Ernest did not believe his brother’s words, but he found himself comforted by them anyway.

“Are you ready?” Frank called, straightening his tie in the mirror.

He stepped into the parlor of the basement, and to his great confusion, his triplet lay curled in a ball on the couch.

Not as confusing as last time, at least.

“Not again,” He murmured to himself, as he still wasn’t quite sure what to do in this type of scenario, and he made his way over to sit beside his brother, “Ernest? Ernest, pal, it’ll be okay.”

Ernest didn’t even bother to lift his head, but Frank heard him let out a quiet snort, “Pal?”

“You didn’t like buddy,” Frank defended quickly, “I figured fifteen years wasn’t enough to change that.”

“I don’t like pal either, and fifteen years from now, if we live that long, I won’t like whatever other stupid nickname you come up with,” Ernest lifted his head just a bit, finally, only enough for Frank to see his eyebrows, and then he very quickly shifted his position so that his face was buried against Frank’s leg. Nodding, Frank brought a hand up to stroke his triplet’s hair, feeling tears begin to soak the fabric of his pants, “Okay. I’m sorry. Do you, uh, do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Ernest’s voice was muffled, “I’m fine.”

If you are not aware of this, there are two possible meanings behind the phrase “I’m fine”. Sometimes, “I’m fine” means “I’m fine”. More often, however, “I’m fine” means “I am about to fall down a deep dark hole of oblivion, and cannot possibly consider myself in a worse scenario, but I either don’t want to inconvenience the person I am talking to or do not want to acknowledge the feelings that are enveloping me in their chilled, angry grasp, and so I am going to say that I’m fine even though I am absolutely the furthest thing from it”.

Ernest meant the second of these two options.

“Of course,” Frank almost laughed at the absurdity of this, but he managed to hold himself back, “Just. Can you do this?”

“Can I?” Ernest echoed, letting out a mirthless chuckle, “Good question.”

“Ernest, it’s okay to talk about how you’re feeling.”

Historically speaking, that was untrue for these brothers, but they decided not to talk about that.

“It can’t be real, can it?” Ernest had been silent for several moments, but he spoke finally, “They… he can’t really be dead, right?”

“I’m sorry,” Frank said softly, and because he wasn’t quite sure what to do he patted his triplet on the head, being as gentle as he could manage, and repeated, “I’m sorry.”

Ernest leaned into the touch, just a bit, although it didn’t seem intentional, and then suddenly he jerked upward frantically, “The kids! They had kids! What’s going to happen to them? Are they...are they going to be there?”

“I doubt they even know about it,” Frowning, Frank mused on the thought for a moment, “That idiot banker friend of the Baudelaires, do you remember him?”

“They’re living with him?” Ernest looked disgusted by the very thought, “They’re going to catch that ridiculous cough.”

Frank shook his head, “They’re not living with him, at least not for long. He’s been placed in charge of their affairs.” “Why is a banker in charge of that?”

“Because he’s in charge of their estate,” Shrugging, Frank considered it, “It does seem a bit ridiculous. But I don’t think he even knows about the funeral, so I doubt the kids do.”

“There’s three of them, aren’t there? Two girls and a boy? Those children, they must be so frightened. So sad. It’s not fair that they don’t get to go to the funeral, that they don’t get to say goodbye,” A new track slid its way down Ernest’s cheek, and he looked away from his brother as though that would do anything to hide it.

“We didn’t get to say goodbye either,” Frank reminded him, jumping back when Ernest spun to face him again with a snarl.

“And that wasn’t right! Nothing that happened to us was right! And those kids, they, oh god, they don’t deserve this...they don’t deserve any of this! Frank, do you…” Ernest’s voice broke for just a moment, “Do you know who they’re going to?”

Frank knew.

“I don’t know.” Ernest hissed, “You’re lying to me. Who are they going to?”

“I don’t know!” Frank insisted, and after a moment under Ernest’s glare, a look in his eyes so desperate that Frank quailed ever so slightly, he relented, “I’ve...heard a rumor. But I don’t know anything for sure.”

“We should take them!” The look in Ernest’s eyes changed, ever so slightly, still desperate but now more frantic than Frank had ever seen them, “We could give them a good home! They’d like living in a hotel, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t that be a fun place for kids to grow up? And we could take care of them, we could do it, watch out for them, keep them safe from...from all the things that no one kept us safe from.”

“We can’t do that.” “We can!” Ernest was on his feet now, pacing in front of his brother, “We can, Frank, we have to! We owe it to them. We owe it to those children and we owe it to B and we owe it to, to, to-”

He crumpled onto the floor.

Voice dripping with pity, Frank gazed down at his triplet, “We can’t. You know we can’t.”

Ernest let out a hollow sob.

“I’m sorry, Ernest, I am,” Frank rose to his feet, extending a hand out to his brother, an offering.

Raising his head, Ernest looked at his triplet’s hand coolly, although he was still crying, he had managed to quiet himself. He stared, hard, and then shook his head, “At least I know I’m evil.”

He stood without taking Frank’s hand, grabbed the jacket that lay over the back of the couch, and walked to the door, throwing his brother one last glance before he disappeared.

Frank did not want to believe that his brother meant what he had said, but he knew that he did, and with a sigh, he followed.

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sunshinesteviee · 5 years

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Dad!Tom with a twin boys that look exactly like him & they try to do everything daddy does

j;asldfkjs i’m deceased this idea is too cute

Twins ran in Tom’s family, and of course, your first time around you’d had two little boys. At two years old, your twins Nathan and Connor were picking up on everything that the people around them were doing. Especially their dad. It seemed as though they were an exact replica of their dad, not only in their looks with the dark brown curls and a cute button nose, but in the ways that they copied him and picked up his mannerism. Tom didn’t always notice all of the little things they picked up on, but you did. How could you not when it was all of the things you loved about Tom.

Days when Tom was home, the boys would toddle behind their dad, following him around from room to room. It didn’t matter what Tom was doing, and oftentimes it was something boring, but the boys didn’t care, they just wanted to do what their daddy was doing. Any time he stopped to pet Tessa, the boys followed suit, patting Tessa’s head as gently as they could. They picked up on the way Tom kissed you in the kitchen every morning, and would reach their arms up to be picked up only to place a sloppy baby kiss to your lips. A few times they’d been to set while Tom was working, watching him do jumps and flips as Spider-Man, and they attempted to do the same, jumping around as if they were in on it too.

They also liked to repeat things Tom said, and that wasn’t always a good thing. Before the boys were born, both you and Tom liked to swear quite a bit. You’d managed to cut back for the most part, trying to keep it to the times you weren’t around your babies. Tom did his best, but he accidentally let a swear slip a few times around the boys. Any time you heard one of the words come out of his mouth, you’d immediately tell him off, and hope that the little ones hadn’t heard it. You thought you’d gotten away with it until one day, a ‘fuck!’ slipped out of Tom’s mouth as the boys sat in their highchairs for lunch. You scolded Tom, but didn’t think much of it until you heard Nathan’s little voice call out from the other side of the kitchen, “Fuck!”

Tom’s eyes widened instantly as your head snapped to him, “Thomas!”

Smiling sheepishly, Tom bit down on his bottom lip, “I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to, I-”

He was cut off by Connor this time, his little finger sticking out to point at you as he tried to copy Tom’s voice, “Love.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at this as you looked at your husband again, “See?! I told you they pick up on everything you do. Now they swear and think my name is ‘love.’”

Tom laughed, kissing your cheek as he crossed the kitchen, crouching in front of his boys, “Don’t repeat the word Daddy just said, okay? And only Daddy gets to call Mumma ‘love.’”

It wasn’t really clear that the twins understood what Tom was saying, but Tom continued to speak to them anyway. You watched with admiration as he tried to tell them that he was Daddy and you were Mumma. Finally, Connor lifted his finger again, jabbing it in your direction, “Mumma,” followed by his finger bumping into Tom’s nose, “Dada.”

#dad!tom #tom holland #tom blurbs #blurbs

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