( oh, they're circling back round to that topic. whilst it's not worse than the one they'd ended up on, marc can't say he's especially thrilled, and he does somewhat regret coming out with the remark, especially with the way she forms fists at her side, uncertain in much the same way he'd been moments before.
he finds he minds the fists less than the way his own hand had hovered at his nose. more familiar. )
Similar. ( he relents, half-clarifying, half-correcting — it's not what he'd said, but it's what he'd meant. ) He was from Czechoslovakia.
( even if he still thinks the familiarity of her name is strange, he doesn't, shouldn't assume they're from the same earth, that they're from the same time, or that events even occurred in the same way. it's one reason — not the only one, and certainly not the largest — that explains why he doesn't say why elias left for the states, and allows him to neatly sidestep the fact that talking about his father isn't something that comes easily outside of barebones, nuggets of information that don't really say anything about him. ) He left in the late sixties.
( the reason why of 'czechoslovakia' and not 'the czech republic' — he'd left long before the velvet divorce; it'd been the prague spring, dubček's arrest and the process of so-called normalisation. elias had never spoken about any of it, not to marc, not directly, not beyond chastising the way that marc chose to respond to anti-semitism with violence, the way that he implored him to be the better person.
marc had always hated it. had always seen it as weakness, right until he hadn't. they'd never reconciled, never spoken in the 18 years between estrangement and elias's passing, and marc's opinion of his father has shifted drastically, from singular blame of their issues to placing elias on a pedestal as the kindest, gentlest, best man marc's ever known.
his gaze slides away from her, to the shelf closest the wall she's leant against, and he pauses. instant coffee, some kind of crap he recognises — vaguely, distantly — from some awful, stuck-in-the-90s hellhole he'd ended up in during his twenties, but it'll do in a pinch. all goes down the same way.
his fingers curl round a glass jar, and he holds it as if weighing it, but it's not about the coffee, it's— ) He didn't talk about it. ( the "either" goes unsaid. )
sliding marvel timeline 🙃
he finds he minds the fists less than the way his own hand had hovered at his nose. more familiar. )
Similar. ( he relents, half-clarifying, half-correcting — it's not what he'd said, but it's what he'd meant. ) He was from Czechoslovakia.
( even if he still thinks the familiarity of her name is strange, he doesn't, shouldn't assume they're from the same earth, that they're from the same time, or that events even occurred in the same way. it's one reason — not the only one, and certainly not the largest — that explains why he doesn't say why elias left for the states, and allows him to neatly sidestep the fact that talking about his father isn't something that comes easily outside of barebones, nuggets of information that don't really say anything about him. ) He left in the late sixties.
( the reason why of 'czechoslovakia' and not 'the czech republic' — he'd left long before the velvet divorce; it'd been the prague spring, dubček's arrest and the process of so-called normalisation. elias had never spoken about any of it, not to marc, not directly, not beyond chastising the way that marc chose to respond to anti-semitism with violence, the way that he implored him to be the better person.
marc had always hated it. had always seen it as weakness, right until he hadn't. they'd never reconciled, never spoken in the 18 years between estrangement and elias's passing, and marc's opinion of his father has shifted drastically, from singular blame of their issues to placing elias on a pedestal as the kindest, gentlest, best man marc's ever known.
his gaze slides away from her, to the shelf closest the wall she's leant against, and he pauses. instant coffee, some kind of crap he recognises — vaguely, distantly — from some awful, stuck-in-the-90s hellhole he'd ended up in during his twenties, but it'll do in a pinch. all goes down the same way.
his fingers curl round a glass jar, and he holds it as if weighing it, but it's not about the coffee, it's— ) He didn't talk about it. ( the "either" goes unsaid. )