Stained glass memories

Jude

Thread by thread, I come apart
If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece

Her eyes remind him of no one, and it's a relief so strong it's nearly intoxicating. Nothing like Maeve's striking green or Phoebe's honey brown. Too feminine in shape and too bright a shade to be his father's ocean blues. She is soft, and familiar in a half-forgotten sort of way, and Jude's hands tighten around the mug between them with a sorrowful wanting that feels like swallowing glass. She used to read the best bedtime stories. He'd felt a little too old for them at the time, but every time she speaks it reminds him of dimly lit rooms and soft hands on his forehead, and he thought he'd burned out the desire for those sorts of things years ago.

Maybe it's because he can't name an older woman in his life at all. Maybe it's the crumbling of his composure at her gentle denial. Either way, he has to release the mug to grip the fabric of his pants beneath the island's surface to find any sort of control. Not that the film of tears and clenched jaw get the memo. Though none fall, it feels like a lost battle to have let them gather at all.

"No, s'okay. I knew it was a long shot." Clearing his throat again the boy blinks quickly and hunches his shoulders as if he can ward away the idea of other people. But he can't lie to her, just like he could never lie to either of his moms. "It could only be two others but I think one of them is missing too. Maybe dead." Also dead, his brain sing-songs cruelly, as if he could ever forget. "It's more likely he left them with Hadama. I just...don't really want to see him." A hushed confession that he didn't need to add, but it's nice to talk to someone who seems to have their life more in control than Jude's - though that's not hard to achieve.