Dirge For That Ungrateful One I Lost (open)

[ployboy]

Who: Tim Drake, "Shovel" the shovel, the dead, and you
What: Maintenance on the graveyard, with a dash of Mexican custom-- dia de los muertos, frozen hellscape, year.... two
When: Let's say October 21- 22.
Where: Milton churchyard

Content Warnings: we doing themes of depression, talk of death, and real janky grief (also very possible but not guaranteed: suicidality, culture bashing, religious themes. and religion bashing. will add to thread headers as needed
To add: the writer is very mexican and it means a lot to me to share some appreciation for the celebration with this character even though he's a punkass. Lyrics from Janitzio. Also I'm slow-slow this month.


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The thing is, he could be getting a few more hours of sleep. With daylight escaping them, Tim figures that he'll be all caught up in paying for his sleep debt by the end of the week; after the light show of the Aurora, the dark of night is only getting darker. Even mornings are getting eaten up by shadows. It creates a conundrum.

Aurora means electricity. That means that Tim can do work that he can actually boast some competency in. It's still light out, and Tim could be sleeping because night will come soon.

But no.

Some moron had to remind him about Shovel, (the shovel) and then Tim went to dig out Shovel from his rat's nest of a bedroom and now he's here. In the churchyard.

Again.

It makes sense (to him).

It majorly sucks to commemorate a year's passing by keeping company with the dead. But it is what it is. And some part of Tim might even argue that the tending to graves is appropriate. Of course, Tim just likes to argue for argument's sake; this is, frankly, likely incredibly inappropriate.

This year, again, Tim (and Shovel), dig out headstones from the snow even though it's snowing. He's learned the graveyard now, at least, and he doesn't trip over buried memorials.

He's also now got two working arms. He's limping along the frost trying to scrape out names of the deceased who got the privilege of a name etched into stone before it gets too dark. But he's got two working arms this time, so, like.

That works.

He works in black gloves and black furs.

Second verse. Same as the first.

"Don't even," he growls. Whether it's a friendly dog-ish dare or a warning is entirely up to the poor sucker who approaches.

"Yeah, it's a little early. But to be honest, I don't think that they care."

So then why, Tim. Why. For god's sake, why.

"Feliz Día de Muertos," he grumbles and (shockingly) the Spanish is fair. "Now go grab a shovel."

Comments

[ployboy]

And there it is. Game recognizes game as the mannerisms, miniscule gestures and the lack of, slot into place. Tim nods in both sympathy and this new, deeper understanding. His returning smile isn't bleeding the criticism of the first; the smile is coy, encouraging.

Anything to help them out of this hole they dug themselves into.

"Same," he muses aloud- "but I do hear my ex a lot." And because he's him and this is his life, Tim nearly sputters as he adds, "She's fine! She's fine! But I think the trick of making us hear those things... is to bring the skeletons out of the closet."

Timothy Drake-Wayne, emancipated and now, at eighteen, majority shareholder of Wayne Enterprises, says nothing that people don't already know.

"You can't do that if the source of those voices didn't make... the impact on your life that you maybe wished they did-" his hand goes up, palm signaling a stop to the protest that's to come. Tim's just a moody teen, what is he supposed to know? So he explains,

and shrugs as if to shrug off the weight of all the dead from his shoulders,

"I do reach-out. It's what took me to Moscow, and that's how I can handle Russian in the first place. Kind of. But-- it- it's a bigger problem than a lot of people are willing to admit, I guess. Not the voices." (That's an Aurora special.) "But the lack of voices. From the people who are expected to be there with you. For you."

In Tim's defense: this jerk started it.

He looks tiredly up the plot of the cemetery: there's a lot to do.

"Maybe your father's a stickler for the rules like mine. Can't cross into this world until the second of November. And only if the passport gets stamped before the deadlines."

[sputnik]

It's strange, this meeting — unlike many he's ever had. Standing in the middle of a church graveyard, stumbling right into a conversation. The stark-opposite of every scheduled meeting he'd have back home, ones that often came with cameras or rehearsed scripts. You play the part, and he'd played his well.

But this... unplanned, a little raw, talks of dead absent fathers and being left behind. It's so different. It's not bad. Despite the dull ache up under his sternum, it's not bad. Konstantin realises he likes the fact that the kid might feel safe enough to open up to him a little. Maybe it could've been for anybody, but he'll take it. He's the one who's here, now. (And he's not running away; that's different, too.)

He cocks his head slightly as he listens, and he does listen, gives Tim's words his full attention. No mind that they're coming from a moody teen. Konstantin's never had anyone else tell him things like this, before. He listens.

He smiles, a little grimly, and a little sadly.

"Maybe you're right. I guess we'll see what happens on the second of November." It'd be stupid to hold onto hope about it, but some stupid, young part of himself does all the same. Of course, there's the fact that—

"You know, I wouldn't even recognise his voice if I heard it. I don't remember what he sounds like."

Beat.

"But I'll listen out for it."

Not too long ago, he'd have been ashamed to say that out loud. To let himself be vulnerable in even the slightest way. As a child, he learned very quickly to stop listening out for his father's footsteps at the door, to stop waiting for a phone call or a letter. He grew to hate that kind of weakness in himself.

"One of your dads was in Moscow?"

[ployboy]

There's commiseration that pulls at Tim's lips, the big secret that he's forgetting or has forgotten his mother's voice among so many things. He never really shared continents with her, and rare and precious times together had begun to all blend into gray and dreary nothingness even before Jack left his life. But to put voice to the fact-

and the resentment under it, that Tim's helpless to bury-

would be nothing but some punitive punishment to a man who's putting forward this much effort to not pelt Tim with words which amount to Get Away. Stay Away.

One of your dads brings the (highly) unsolicited image of Bruce and Jack's bastardization of co parenting, and Tim blinks furiously to scrub the notion outta his brain.

"Norilsk," Tim points out, holds onto like the lifeline to his sanity that it is.

Something he hadn't known, had to be told by Mikalek- the powerful oligarch he had royally pissed off and who he-- fears, still. He guesses.

Tim works at keeping both the story and his expression straight.

(There's anger at not knowing, but that's as much a permanent part of his life as the old burns on his back are.)

"My dad- bio dad-"

(Because even with the anger, Tim Drake can't bring himself to be anything less than grateful to Bruce Wayne.)

He pulls at Shovel and starts off to newer, whiter, pastures- his body is feeling like a rock, it's so frozen, and the lack of movement no matter how brief is heck on his joints. He calls back, "He was a grad student then, and he always studied anthropology."

Archaeology.

One is more synonymous with theft than the other.

"I found some journals of his last su- the summer before coming here."

Oh, doesn't he wish.

Tim gives the tale a solid end. "Some of his research there ended up influencing the business he and Mom had back then. Pharmaceuticals. Guy I met up with in Moscow had wanted to reach out; he was still on that track and I guess he felt nostalgic or whatever. Gave my organization funds to expand into the country- fun times."

Not-

"Talked about hockey a lot."

[sputnik]

Norilsk, he knows it well, even if it's been years since he came anywhere close to the city. Isolated and industrial and not at all the place for starry-eyed young dreamers. But Russia's still home, and he tips towards the conversation with some deep-rooted warmth as he listens.

(Not that it counters how cold it really is out here, even for him — and especially for his awful little passenger, a thing that can't take such harsh temperatures.) He knows he should head back in soon. Somehow though, he'd rather talk with the kid for a little longer instead of leave. The conversation's interesting, even if he's only putting together a few pieces from what's given, little snippets here and there. (Tim's organisation? Something he inherited from his late father?)

It all also makes him miss his mother all over again, but it's not a bad feeling. She's in Moscow now. It's where he was supposed to be heading before... before this place happened. This is a good reminder of that, now. Moscow's still real, his mother is, too. (Assuming nothing bad happened to her because of him, of course. He can't think about that. Only about reaching her again, somehow, someday. Maybe she's already found Aleksei, and they're both waiting for him. Maybe there's actually a version of reality somewhere out there in which he's able to return home.)

"Your father sounds like he was one smart man."

His studies, a pharmaceutical company. Must have had some decent money, too.

"We Russians do love our hockey," he grins, quirking a brow over at Tim. "You ever play?"