Quattuor

Jane observed as Flynn did, though possessing a quality of contempt which he would never comprehend; she scoffed at the display. However, the fact of the matter was not that Jane was unable to feel grief; though she constantly strove to maintain that image of emptyness, Jane was no shell. For how could she be? No one was ever truly able to accomplish being as perpetually unfeeling; in a world such as ours. Remorselessness was a fallacy created by people who are in fact, truly hurt. In many cases, a defense mechanism. No, Jane could feel quite strongly, and most of all things, she could process the flesh tearing, white heat of loss. Therefore, this was peculiar. Jane had never been alone in the sense that, at this moment, she was utterly unaffected, and all others in proximity were suffering so. For the whole of her past, it had always been situationally vice-versa, and so the irony was strikingly amusing to her.  Jane struggled not to burst into laughter during service. Instead, an almost unnoticeable smirk turned up on her lips. Flynn, having been anxiously awaiting the start of the eulogies, though his soul felt barren, nearly leaped up from his illegal seating when he took notice of the rosy faced, portly priest; who ambled along up to the pulpit, so as to give the attendants a moment to compose themselves, and offer full attention. He seemed quite nervous, although Flynn was quite certain no one was more so than he; but he also understood this was the first time he, or any resident of Lima, Ohio, had ever been a fraction of anything of this magnitude.
Yet, Sir Theodore was a magnanimous man; and nothing...not even the powerful dark sway of death could detatch him from that.
Jane was curious. Not only did she find him odd and jittery, she also could not find why- and she was consumed with the notion that- he was positively the most destroyed person in attendance. She needed not see it in his tears, for there was something seemingly proud and dignified about his demeanor. Suddenly, he was on his feet, rushing up to speak as if his pace would conceal him from the somber, yet critical faces.
Flynn made haste, for this was why he had come, and it was imperative that he use his limited time wisely. Silence fell over the seas before him, for the most part, as the scattered cries were still present, though he did not expect that to dissolve. He cleared his throat, and began his improvisation, he had not prewritten a single line; the left the preparation to his heart.
"I wish I had known him as long as some of you did, the lucky ones, right?" Flynn began softly but certainly, trying to make eye contact without losing his nerve. "I'm no man to even...begin to elaborate on what I thought of him. My vocabulary isn't really extensive enough to accomplish that." Flynn shifted his weight, glancing over at her briefly. She appeared bored.
Jane was. Memorial services were not in honor of the deceased, actually, they were arranged with mostly the living in mind.
"However, to be honest, for the last week I've lain awake every night for hours...wondering hopelessly, just how I could continue living with myself, if I gave in to the pretense that I had absolutely nothing to say here. How could any of you that knew him?" A murmur went through the disturbed crowd, Flynn's eyes shot quickly over to the priest who now sat, apparently unmoved in the front row. He made a gesture that suggested Flynn wrap it up.
"A-and I know I can't take up much time here, and ya know- normally I'd find things like this ridiculous, because if there's anything Sir Rothbourne taught me, its...that you must offer love and praise to their ears, to someone's beating heart...I'm done, cause...talking someone up is entirely useless if you have always neglected them, while they maintained the phase of flesh and bone, heart and soul-" Flynn sighed and stopped abruptly, waving a clammy hand and finally giving up. He stepped down, making his way back down the aisle to the seat beside a seemingly nonchalant Jane. However, she was waiting patiently for the Taylors to take their turn, for she was not joining them, and when they did: a struggling Mrs. Taylor taking her time as she went, Jane turned swiftly to Flynn without hesitation and asked in a murmur, “How did you know him?”
Flynn shook with surprise, “W-what?”
Slowly and more enunciated, she repeated. He watched her warily.
“He taught me how to draw.” Flynn thought it sounded meaningless.
“Oh.” Jane had expected a more passionate response.
“And you?” He offered, burning to know. His throat felt dry.
“I didn’t.”
An awkward silence hung over them, Flynn could not have that. There was still so much he ached to know.
“Who are you here with? Them?” He nodded towards the Taylors, who appeared positively helpless.
“They’re my parents, if I can call them that. Mrs. Taylor, she’s his youngest daughter,” Jane referred to the mess of a woman still speaking. “I never met him...when they adopted me, he’d already moved to-”
“Alaska.” They said in unison.
He nodded knowingly, as she stifled a giggle. He turned to her, taking in her face and drinking her voice. “Huh?”
“This is all so funny...I’m in the family, and I’ve never even heard his voice. You...a jock from Ohio, get a scholarship to some ritzy art school in Alaska and you spend the last four years under his wing? It’s absurd.” She threw a hand over her grin.
Flynn sat, stupefied by the accuracy of her assumptions, “That’s not really funny.” Flynn challenged her. “Sometimes people laugh at irony...but then sometimes, it can be sort of painful and ridiculous...like the fact that a bluebird cannot see the color blue; or that the man in there was your grandfather, and I knew him...loved him better than you did.” Flynn finished calmly.
“He wasn’t my real grandfather.” Jane spat in defense.
Flynn raised a brow, “Well I wasn’t his son...but I feel like I was...am.”
Jane scoffed, and rolled her eyes. They were large and shadowy, over-saturated with fiery scorn serving as a mask for some melancholy within, “And I don’t feel like anyone.” She stood huffily and left his side.