september, c

he doesn't hear the kicks at his door, because william is uncharacteristically tired. his consciousness drifts as if it's lost at sea, eyes flickering at the direction of his desk, barely making out its form. he snaps awake. either the weather today is terrible or the poor ventilation is getting to him, because it's too warm to sleep. he doubted he could even last the duration of a nap. it was then did he hear a weak kick at his door, waves, vibrations immediately coming to mind, although he thinks he already had a good idea who it was.

switching on a lamp, he peers at his watch instead of opening the door. still several hours until sunrise. the hands of his watch flicker feebly.

with that, he stands upright from his chair, throws his slightly blood stained coat aside, and opens his door abruptly.

he peers at the young boy slouching at his door solemnly, blocking his entrance. as if already beginning the diagnosis, he suddenly grabs his chin and pulls at his eyelid to get a better look at his eye as if he was interested in the ratio of iris to eyeball.

"first and foremost, where's my apology?" he is a stickler for manners and he never makes that ambiguous. the younger generation are dumb shits, at best. repetition remains a pathetic way to learn, but he believes in it diligently. 

EZRA BET-SHUL

william doesn't exactly hate ezra, but that doesn't mean he particularly likes the kid either. he fondly believes that educating children is the best and only way to make sure they would mature into semi sensible adults. so he ignores the boy's wasp like attitude and more or less carries him into his room. he nearly skids on papers that seemed to decorate his floor, but william is a professional. he won't skid just because probability dictates it so. it also helped that william wasn't exactly the most organised of people. or you could just call him plain lazy.

putting the shouty boy onto the bed, william wordlessly prepares disinfectant, despite knowing he already had bottles prepared, and he should really focus on cleaning the wound and stop it from bleeding. taking out bandages from a shelf, he smiles to himself.

"let me tell you a story," he says, still stirring chemicals together painfully slowly. william knows the boy won't pass out so easily. he sustains wounds like this every other week, after all. the shock's making him panic, but it sure to hell can't make will panic. "when i was still young and in my pretweens," he recalled fondly, holding a pipet at the mouth of the bottle. "I met a dog outside the family summer house’s shed. Now, like all sheds, it was used improperly; half stashed with crap and half filled with garden sheers. Well, the door was always locked and the windows always grimy, so who knows, after all?"

EZRA BET-SHUL
it's unlikely will will let ezra fall asleep w/o hearing all of his story, so... i'm gomen

"anyways, about the dog," she comes in like something wild, like a wind that stirs the papers on the ground, like the wind that doesn't gust or stop. she has a rattling basket in her arms and a dirty cloak on her shoulders. the door slams shut and the basket is on a desk, her sleeves are rolled up, she's already at the head of the bed.

she's no nurse - itha likes to be elbow-deep in carnage, it's revolting and peaceful. she likes the feeling of reigning something in. william's madness is a warm sea breeze and itha is the wind whistling through the moutains, frostbite and avalanche.

she smiles down at ezra sympathetically. at having heard this story nearly as many times as she has. (the blood, it doesn't bother her; its your own fault, fighting a war you can't win.) her hands are cold, pressing against ezra's forehead, smoothing his hair back.

william's lack of concern seems to bother her more than ezra's distress. calmly, she leans over and plucks the gauze from him, meets his eyes. "the dog's your uncle." now the story is ruined. now there's no reason to tell it.

WILLIAM HURST EZRA BET-SHUL womp womp im here