Work Text:
Tristan didn't want to go home. It was a balmy night, late spring slowly giving place to the summer, and the air was fragrant with flower bloom. Midnight was nearing and the Drovers had closed, but the group of lads Tristan hung out with managed to charm or scrounge some bottles of ale and other dubious alcoholic drinks and were now having a party by the brook. Tristan didn't feel like joining in their chatter, either. He felt hollow, tired, yet restless. He was aching from the row he had with Siegfried before escaping to the Drovers. Siegfried had come home from the farm calls, irritated as he often was nowadays, and unleashed his foul mood on Tristan, the only available target. And he knew just where to aim for maximal impact, knew his little brother's insecurities and failings. Worn as he was already, Tristan could barely put up any opposition before his emotions got the better of him and he bolted rather than cry.
Tristan missed the Siegfried of his childhood, the golden big brother whose boundless energy and easy smiles made summer vacations and family holidays magic. Siegfried would play hide and seek with Tristan, read him stories, take him along on his farm calls. Tristan was so proud of having an adult for a big brother, a war hero, a man who had seemed larger than life. He worshipped Siegfried, and Siegfried apparently enjoyed spending time with his baby brother.
Then Father died, and the fun ended. Siegfried became duller, exacting, taking on the paternal role. He was stricter with Tristan than Father ever was, but there was still time for farm calls and games in the evening. And whenever the tempers started to run high between the Farnon brothers, Evelyn was there to smooth the rough waters. She could calm her adoring husband with a word and could explain his perspective to Tristan better than Siegfried ever could. She was their mediator (“Mediatrix!” Tristan could hear Siegfried's pedantic correction in his mind’s ear), their dear wife and sister, irreplaceable.
And now Evelyn was gone, and Siegfried was… extinguished. Any joy, any pleasure, was buried with her. What remained was a bleak, grim man, caring only for his work, with no kind word left for anyone, not even Tristan. Tristan could understand grief, he was mourning Evelyn himself, and it made him short-tempered and morose. It must be a hundred, a thousand times harder for Siegfried. Tristan wished he could help, but every attempt ended up in a disaster, like today.
As midnight passed, the lads started to dissipate to their homes. Tristan was the last one to go, reluctantly dragging himself to Skeldale house. He’d have to creep by Siegfried, who’d likely be asleep in the living room, drinking himself to an early grave in the attempt to dull the pain. Lord, they really were a pair, Siegfried and he, two miserable drunkards spiralling down the drain. To Tristan’s surprise, the downstairs was dark and empty, save for the slumbering dogs. Tristan tiptoed up the stairs and towards his room. There was a band of light coming from the master bedroom, the door left ajar.
Siegfried lay on the bed fully dressed, eyes closed, mouth agape, left arm outstretched and the right arm on his chest, holding the frame with Evelyn’s photo. He looked so much like their father did on his deathbed that Tristan just stood in the doorway for a heart-stopping moment, waiting to see if Sigfried’s chest would move on an inhale. When it did, Tristan choked a sob and darted into his own room, collapsed on the bed and wailed in his pillow, shivering. All the hurt, all the helplessness was released into that bag of feathers. He rolled over, gasped for air, his throat raw and cheeks wet. They could not go on like this. Tristan couldn’t lose Siegfried, too. And if Siegfried wouldn’t let Tristan help him, Tristan will find someone else to do it. Lord knows they needed at least a housekeeper, the house was turning into a refuse heap. He would post an advert tomorrow. Decided, Tristan went to wash his face before bed. On his way back, he sneaked into the master bedroom, covered Siegfried with the sheet and turned off the light. Siegfried didn’t even stir, dead to the world.