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"How's your dad?" Olberic asks, taking a bite of his food. It's certainly new, but not bad by any means.
"Divorced," Cyrus says bluntly, poking at his rice.
Ruby smacks his hands when he stands the chopsticks in it. "We divorced when he was 9," she explains. "He wanted the freedom, I wanted his money. He still comes over for New Years."
"His new wife's kind of an ass," Cyrus comments, now scooping some tomato egg dish into his half-empty bowl. "Now, personally I couldn't care less—"
"That's fair," Olberic concedes. "Do you miss him?"
"Only a little." Cyrus reaches for the dish Ruby had called 肉餅. "You want some?"
"Yes, please." Olberic examines the slice of meat mince pie... thing... it's definitely not a pie, since it has no crust, but it definitely looks like a pie, or a frisbee.
He thinks of throwing the dish like a frisbee for the dogs and nearly laughs out loud.
Cyrus raises an eyebrow. "I know what you're thinking," he says quietly. "Don't."
"What about your parents?" Ruby asks Olberic cheerfully.
Olberic shrugs. "My dad's dead. Got run over by a drunk driver while jogging with his mates."
"Oh, dear," Ruby says quietly.
Olberic shrugs. "It's fine. Happened before I was born. Besides, it inspired one of my sisters to become a lawyer so she could convict assholes like that."
Cyrus takes a long drink from his soda. The look on his face declares that he wishes it was something alcoholic instead.
"Well," Ruby says softly, "the people who love you are always here with you. You know," she continues with a slight hint of mischief in her tone, "our house has always been a hovel for trickery and spirit. Maybe your dad will pay you a visit here tonight."
"He said he'd find a way to tell me if I was doing anything very right or very wrong."
"Alright, I'm done," Cyrus declares, setting down his chopsticks and standing up.
Ruby says something that makes Cyrus sigh and grab his empty bowl.
Olberic comes to when something blocks out the moonlight, or sunlight, or whatever beaming through the window.
That something lifts his laptop, closes it with a click, and puts it in charge.
Huh.
The something continues, pulling the covers over his shoulders.
Olberic forces his eyes open this time.
"Go back to sleep, lad," Frederic Eisenberg says, patting him on the shoulder.
"Pa?" Olberic tries to sit up, but the blankets seem heavier than lead. "Pa, where are you going?"
"Just for a run with the mates," Frederic soothes, ruffling Olberic's hair. "I'll be back before ye know I'm gone."
He turns to go. Olberic tries to catch his wrist, but misses. "Let me come with you," he tries.
"Ye ain't old enough, son," Frederic says. "Can't cross the road on yer own. Maybe some other time."
"Don't go." Olberic hasn't begged ever in his life. He's asked very nicely before. Maybe some light pleading and puppy eyes. But begging? That's something new, and it scares him.
Frederic sighs and closes the door, coming to sit next to him on the bed. The mattress dips. "I guess I can stay awhile."
The room is silent for a while before Olberic speaks quietly.
"So, am I doing things very right or very wrong?"
Frederic chuckles. "Lad, no one ever knows whether they're right or wrong. Either you're where you wanna be, or you're not. Now, I know I'm pretty close. I've got a pretty wife, smart daughters, and I've got ye perfect little thing."
"So you're happy?" Olberic asks.
"I'd say I'm pretty happy, aye," Frederic responds. "Sure, there are times yer ma and I fight. There are times yer sisters disappoint me. But in the end? I've still got ye all."
Olberic nods, finally able to sit up. He draws his knees up to his chest, unable to look Frederic in the eyes, although he does get pretty close. "Am I?"
Frederic smiles. "Well, ye've got yer ma, yer sisters, and some damn good mates, eh?"
Olberic nods, looking away to stare at the foot of the bed that he knows doesn't belong to him. "Am I going in the right direction? With Cyrus?"
Frederic shrugs. "I dunno, lad. Yer the one who knows him. Cyrus is that... English lad whose bed yer sleeping in?"
Olberic nods, fidgeting with a corner of the cover. "He said he wouldn't let me and my back problems sleep on the sofa."
"Then you clearly mean a lot to him," Frederic points out softly. Olberic nods.
"He means a lot to me too," he admits softly. "I... earlier, I was taking photos of him while he was dancing."
"Go on," Frederic encourages. "I'm listening."
"He..." Olberic pauses, trying to put the chaos of the day into words. "He says he used to love dancing, when he was younger, but he gave up on his dreams to study. He became a professor at Harvard, and he says he feels fulfilled in his life, but..."
"But it's not how he wanted his life to turn out," Frederic finishes. "Some people just have that happen to them. Your mother wanted to be a fashion designer," he reminds.
"I know," Olberic says, a little upset on her behalf. "And now she's a social worker."
"Why were you photographing Cyrus?" Frederic asks. His hand has somehow found its way to Olberic's shoulder. It hasn't left since.
"Well, since technology is so advanced nowadays, I just think... he can still chase his dreams while keeping his job," Olberic explains. "I wanted to post his things on social media, see if anyone's interested. There are a lot of people who can be a successful influencer while still having a day job, right?"
Frederic hums in assent. "Well, you know more about that than I do. And what does he think about that?"
"He doesn't know yet," Olberic admits. "I'm thinking of editing everything, cutting a video, picking some better photos, before I show him. Maybe he'll be more convinced if he sees how serious about this I am."
Frederic nods. "You have heart, son," he says. "You have heart and courage and guts. I like that in you. Yer just like me, in that."
"Really?" Olberic says quietly.
Frederic nods.
"If you ask me, son," he says gently, "you have the right heart, the right direction, the right people. You're right where you need to be. You just need time."
Olberic nods quietly.
"Well, just give yer ma a call if you need," Frederic says. "I've gotta go."
"You'll come back, right?" Olberic asks, feeling unnecessarily small.
Frederic chuckles. "Course I will. I'll be back for breakfast. Love you, kiddo. Back to sleep, now."
The blankets settle over him again, and the bed lifts. The world blurs at the edges.
"You have got to stop working so bloody late," Cyrus scolds over a strange breakfast of something he calls "fried bastard" and boiled eggs marinated in soy sauce. "I came in last night after the chairs started moving and you, you had your laptop on and you were asleep! Seriously, you cannot keep overworking yourself."
"You're one to fucking talk," Olberic counters, with his perfectly normal breakfast of eggs and toast. "Wait, the chairs started moving?"
The creak of the house settling jolted Cyrus awake, enough for him to fall off the couch.
"Dammit," he hissed, wrapping the blanket around himself.
As he poured himself a cold glass of water, though, he heard the house creaking again.
"Shut up," he mumbled, before he turned around fully.
The chairs had not been there 5 seconds ago. They had been tucked under the table and now they were everywhere
"Oh, piss off," he shouted at the ghost and hurried upstairs.
He was halfway up said stairs before he remembered who was occupying his bed.
Sighing, he pushed open the door regardless.
Olberic was dead asleep, laptop still open, still on.
Cyrus sighed, closed Olberic's computer with a click and managed to find the charging port with only 5 attempts.
"Bloody hell," he complained, climbing into bed beside Olberic.
He was at the edge for a little bit before he found himself gravitating towards the centre, towards Olberic.
"Never mind," Cyrus declares, focused on removing the yolk from his egg.
Olberic chuckles.