Second (History Plays, Book 1)

19: if i be king none of them shall live

Edward

The red eye gets us into JFK in the early hours of the morning. Kent and I have not said two words to each other since the dance and I'm well with that. Clare is sleepy and I put an arm around her shoulders protectively as make our way through the crowded airport to our driver, who has already gotten our bags from the claim before we make it there.
We pile into the limo and are at the pent house in time to stumble to our rooms for a few more hours sleep. Our step mother won't be up yet, nor will Clare's mother (my sister).
I call Dover house to let them know we made it, a sleepy Teddy asks me if I want him to wake Gaveston. I say no, leave him be. I'll call later or he can.
I collapse into my bed after that and pass out. I wake, sadly, a few hours later. The other rooms are still shut up so everyone is still sleeping. I grudgingly find a binder left with my name on it. It was my father's wish I have to do relatively little to do with the family business until I turn eighteen, and that I complete college prior to fully taking over. However, I'm still his heir and my signature is required on things, specifically since I set myself up entirely as guardian of Teddy, and I have to sign off on financial expenses such as my and Kent's schooling, and Teddy's, along with other odds and ends that I refuse proxy signatures on because I like to see how they are doing.
I never pretended to be good at this. I'm not clever, I'm not good with numbers like Clare. I've deputized her in the bulk of it, should anything happen to me, because she is good at adding things. However, I've written in Teddy as the heir to the majority of my holdings, he's legally my ward already. But I already order that papers be drawn up to pass it into his name. Not my sister's. Not even Clare's. Clare doesn't need it; she can help as much as she might want and I put a few small holdings in her name already, but seriously. She should have a life of her own. Teddy has no one else, and the thing is, he'd be good at it. He has no latent sentimentality that Clare and I do, and while he may not have the head for numbers he can learn that. One can't learn the inbred ruthlessness and decisiveness he needs to survive. He has those already. When my father met him (not long before he died) he agreed with my assessment, though at the time he cautioned me I might have actual children of my own. I'm well aware that's not likely and anyone related to me probably isn't going to be any smarter than I am.
I walk up to the pool to sit and look it over. It's forty degrees and cold in New York, but the penthouse is so warm I'm happy to be out in just a thick sweater. I am well aware I have like three more binders to go through. Merry Christmas to me. Fun ruling the world. (That's sarcasm).
I haven't allocated a whole lot to Kent yet, mostly because he's not my favorite person, but even I'm not that cruel. When we get older that's fine if he wants to help, but for now one of us ought to get to be normal. And he is normal. He's not terribly clever, and while he has our father's brute strength and general violent tendencies, but none of his calculating. Our father liked Teddy. He said "where'd you find this boy", I said "armed with multiple weapons inventing a new life for himself" and he laughed and said "keep him". That was one of our last positive conversations. That was one of our only positive conversations actually.
My father wasn't thrilled with me as a person. He knew. Oh he knew. He wasn't stupid, like the rest of them. He saw my gentleness. I'm sure he knew my sexuality as soon as I did. He knew it before, probably. He was certain he could beat that out of me, though. He was sure—he could change me. Into what he wanted. What Kent said before was true. Our father didn't want me in charge. He didn't think I could do it. He thought I was weak. Well I am. I'm just done being ashamed of it.
I sit down on one of the lounge chairs, binder in hand. I should have gotten coffee or something. But I didn't want to make the noise. When the others get up we can go look at lights and walk around Time's Square.
The door from the pent house opens. I glance up, then back down.
"I'm not much company. I've got this shit to look at," I say, as Kent comes out, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and track pants, carrying two cups of coffee. He sets them down on the edge of the fire pit then settles into a lounge chair himself.
"Are we not going to talk?" He asks, frowning at me.
"I appreciate your efforts and apologize for whatever Teddy said or did. I'll talk to him, again, there, do we need to keep talking?" I ask.
"What the hell? Dude—," he sighs deeply.
"You're the better son, you're the better brother. You even won the sexualities lottery congratu-fucking-lations, father would disown me in a heartbeat, there are we done yet?" I ask, sitting up.
"Edward—that is not what this is about okay? I'm sorry for what I said before, and the shit with Gaveston —I didn't—I didn't know okay?" He asks.
"That was the idea, brother," I say, standing up to go inside.
"I know, but it shouldn't be— Edward—I don't want to be the better son, fuck dad, honestly, fuck him. If you think he wouldn't like you for this then fuck him—you're my fucking brother, okay? You're my fucking brother, that's it,"  he says, stepping in front of me, "I'm done. We've had our differences, yeah, it's my option to think you're a stupid idiot, which is true, but we're family. If you want that dumb, grey haired, french, prick, then fucking have him, I'll fight anyone who tries to stop you okay? We're family, and that's what we fucking do."
I bring my hands to my face, to try to hide my tears. I'm sure it doesn't work.
"Okay? Look at me, man, when I said that stuff abut gay people—I didn't know you wanted him, all right? I didn't mean it about you. I was being stupid. That's it, I didn't—I wouldn't mean you," he sighs.
"Why?" I ask, wiping my tears from my face. I had no idea the effect his acceptance would have on me.
"When that happened, and when I saw those pictures— I looked at you and—I didn't believe it, then I saw your face. You were gutted— you were, so hurt. And I just thought that if it was true, nobody deserved to have it found out like that, least of all you didn't—and then I looked back and I saw him and to be honest I was ready to fucking deck his stupid pretty face, and he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at you. And the look on his face, he was ready to kill every person in that room if that would make you less sad. All he was going to do was protect you. And you're my brother, so, cool—whatever. I mean, I thought gays were weird but you're weird anyway, so you know, what the fuck? If he makes you happy, whatever, do it, I'm not going to stop you, I'll fight alongside you," Kent says, putting his hands on my shoulders. "I know it's pointless to say now. But you could have told me."
"I couldn't," I whisper.
"Why not?"
"Dad knew," I say, my voice shaking, as I struggle to stop crying.
"What?"
"Dad knew, I thought—I didn't tell him. But he knew. He told me it had to stop. I can't be this way I—he said he'd not have a son who was—" I wince, unable to repeat the words.
"Then fuck him. Good thing he's dead. Look at me, Edward, why should I give a shit about who you want to fuck?" He says, shaking his head.
I almost laugh at that.
"If this—dumb—violent—bitchy—-french—bastard—"
"You aren't required to like him," I laugh.
"Oh thank god—if this dumb, violent, french, bastard, is who you like, you think you need to be happy, or who you just think would be a good fuck, then go for it," he sighs.
"Why did you lie? I wasn't nice to you, I—"
"Dude, I saw your face. I wouldn't want pictures of me hooking up with a girl put up there like that, especially not if nobody knew were dating, dude—that's just messed up. There's a line okay? I'm your brother, I can give you shit, and that's one thing. I can want you to have someone, literally anyone, who isn't that little grey haired psychopath—"
"He is not that bad."
"He kind of bit my ear off that time."
"Well, you shouldn't have woken him up," I actually laugh now.
"I'm just glad to know you have a samurai guarding you while you sleep, that's a plus," he says, shrugging a little, "Okay? We're gonna have our differences, but we have to take care of each other. We're all we have."
"Okay," I whisper, as tears run down my face.
"I'm really sorry that you thought you couldn't tell me, and that I said—and did— things, that made you feel like you couldn't tell me. That's on me and I'm sorry. I'm your brother, man, I'm gonna think you're an idiot, but you're my idiot, and we have to protect each other. You can't do this alone," he says, gripping my shoulders. "You aren't alone. And I love you and I'm going to support whoever you want to fuck, short or long term, no matter how small and french and stabby and horrible—"
I sob, collapsing into his sweatshirt and gripping his strong shoulders, so much like our father's. I didn't know such unconditional acceptance of who I am would break me like it is. Maybe it's because I never expected to ever have it.
"I love you, man," Kent says, tears in his voice as well, gripping me tightly. "Through girls, and guys, we are brothers nothing is gonna change that. I'm so sorry you didn't know that before."
"I'm sorry too," I say, clinging to him and sobbing.
"You're good, man, we're good now, you're okay," he says, hugging me back tightly, his cheeks wet with tears. I press my face into his sweatshirt, our faces chapped in the rough wind, refusing to let him go because I feel that if I do, his words may disappear along with this small comfort that I now have. That someone else has told me being me is okay. That I've been given clearance to live and be loved now that the greatest of my secrets is bare. That's a hard thing to hold onto and believe in when you never dared hope you'd have it.
"Oh my god, they killed someone."
That's how our elder sister (Margret) announces herself in the doorway. Apparently the only logical reason she could see for us to be crying and hugging each other is that we just committed murder.
"I wouldn't cry after a murder," Kent says, wiping his face with his sleeves.
"Nor I, who do you take us for?" I ask.
"IT'S OKAY, there's no blood they're just crying, so no one might be dead!!!" Clare pushes past her mother, surveys the scene, and shouts that back down to Kent's mother.
"Really? Because he would cry after killing someone," Margret points at me.
"I wouldn't," Kent folds his arms.
"That's true," she nods, thoughtfully, "What did you do, then?"
"I'm going to make a phone call," I say, stalking past them.
"You okay? Anything you want to talk about?" Clare asks, watching me. I flip her off so she knows I'm fine.