Thunderlight

(Cont.) Why, Then, Do They Not Eat Cake?

"You really should just focus on healing," Mott suggests, nodding to his injuries. Even if they're faded compared to before, they're still unsightly and incredibly painful looking. "Just stay in here and rest tomorrow, okay?"

"You know I can't do that," Lenny denies, bumping into his shoulder affectionately. "I can't just laze around in here while you're doing so much work to try and help these people. It wouldn't be right."

Mott takes a bite of his food and says nothing, deliberately ignoring the return of the aching gnaw in his chest. Why is this feeling coming back to him now? He wasn't even thinking of the curator's note or the Zekrom quest! In fact, he'd been entirely content to forget all about those things. So why can't he stick to being happy?

His emotions have been fluctuating all day. One minute, he'll feel on top of the world, like his father had never thrown him out of that carriage all those months ago, and then the next he feels like a stranger in his own body. He goes from his highest highest to his lowest lows at the drop of a hat. Whenever he's at his highest, he feels pleasantly numb to the rest of the world. But at his lowest, he feels it all crashing down on him with keen and torturous perception.

Sometimes, there's nothing he wants to do more than help his uncle. But sometimes, just the thought of associating himself with the man makes his skin crawl.

But what else is he going to do? He has nowhere else to go. He won't—can't—return to his doomed Zekrom quest. If he tried to beg his father for grace, he'd be berated straight out the door, and the thought of seeing his father make's him queasy.

This is his only option. He won't be made to feel guilty about this.

If only he could get himself on board with that.

"My, my, Montgomery, you're back bright and early!" Uncle Theobald commends, clasping his hands together in delight. Leaning forward to glance at the accounting books Mott works with, he says, "Quite good work ethic you have!"

Mott still isn't used to being praised by family, so he can only manage a stiff nod.

"Really, I couldn't ask for a better helper. We've already seen an increase in profits with you around!" Uncle Theobald claps a friendly hand on his back. Mott doesn't know how to react to that. He offers an awkward and painful smile. "At this rate, you'll be back in the family and have the crest in no time at all."

At that, Mott actually perks up. "You think so?"

"Why, certainly," his uncle responds smoothly. "With all the help you've given me, I'd be honored to speak to your father on your behalf."

Mott's heart skips a beat. He's not sure why, but it doesn't feel like it's precisely due to excitement. He ignores this thought so he can answer his uncle. "That would be great," he says, because it would be. Objectively, it would be great to be reaccepted into the Alcott family. Logically, too. And... several other reasons.

So, yeah. It would be great.

This is what he wants.

Uncle Theobald nods to himself for a moment before his gaze slides back to Mott. "That is, of course, assuming your productivity continues."

"It will," he assures on reflex, much more used to this kind of treatment from family. Constantly having to affirm his capabilities to family members is a familiar chore. "In fact, I was just about to go into town and oversee the tax collection myself."

"Very good, very good," his uncle says, although he doesn't sound particularly pleased. He glances once more at the books. He looks up at Mott, a flare of impatience in his eyes. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get on it!"

It's not a long walk to the town, but for whatever reason, Mott feels drained by the time he gets there. Most of the tax collectors are already hard at work, their bags filled to the brim. One of them is playing tug-of-war with an elderly lady over a scraggly old blanket. She stubbornly refuses to release it no matter how much they insist. Impatiently, Mott walks over and swipes it away.

The old woman stares up at him with disbelief that soon hardens itself into crestfallen resignation. She mutters, "We shoulda known betta than to trust an Alcott."

He steadfastly ignores her, turning to the nearest tax collector. "Let's wrap this up quickly." Turning away and muttering to himself, he says, "I can't stand being here any longer."

The night grows dark as the tax collectors' work comes to a close. Their pouches are overflowing with money and goods, but Mott finds no satisfaction in it. Townsfolk shuffle into their huts, weary and gaunt, closing their rickety doors behind them. With no other people to collect from, the work comes to a halt.

"Good work," he robotically commends, ignoring the hollowness gnawing at him. "Go home; we'll collect more tomorrow."

Murmurs of consent and agreement rise up from the collectors, and they gradually disperse. Soon enough, Mott is alone in the dark, empty streets. He stares at the flickering torch light illuminating the dirty huts around him, lost in thought.

There's a soft sound behind him—a pained sound. He turns.

Immediately, hot fingers of horror creep up his spine.

It's Lenny.

"Lenny," he croaks, his throat suddenly dry. How long has he been standing there? How much did he see? "What are you doing? You should be resting."

Lenny stares at him. Mott stares back, taking in the state of his bandages. Some of them are bleeding around the arms; probably the wounds were exacerbated by the box Lenny is carrying in his hands. It makes Mott's heart lurch, and he takes a step forward.

Lenny takes a flinching step back.

Mott halts. Lenny's eyes flicker with something unplaceable. Then they shift down, pointedly staring at the tax collector's bag slung around him.

His heart stops.

"Listen, I can explain—"

Lenny doesn't wait to hear it. With an entirely blank expression, Lenny drops the box to the ground, the contents spilling out messily. He turns and walks away.

"Lenny, wait!" Mott shouts, chasing after him. He steps in something sticky. Looking down, he sees Lenny's box at his feet, he sees cream on his foot. Trying to shake it off, he yells, "Lenny!"

Lenny doesn't stop. He doesn't even pause. No matter how much Mott calls for him, he doesn't return. Well, fine. Fine! Screw him; he can go straight to hell! Mott has a great new life that doesn't involve Lenny at all. And he's happy with it. He really is. He could never see Lenny again, and that would be okay. Really.

The cream is drying on his foot. Aggravated, he makes a sound of frustration, vigorously and fruitlessly trying to shake the crusted cream  off. All he accomplishes is kicking the box aside, revealing the destroyed contents inside.

It's a cake. On the top, scribbled in clumsy, earnest letters, is a short message paired with a smiley face: you're the best!