[Continued from here.]

He knew the Carringtons well enough by sight (well, triplets aside). Some better than others; most, not at all. He did not like a single one of them more with increased familiarity – quite the contrary.

But Darius was close in age, seemed kind of daft, and was now the eldest surviving son.

And so a cloud of cologne meandered closer and closer to Darius’ set back chair as he eyed the blocked entrance that suggested Magnus Sr. was still being harangued.

He came up behind Darius and leaned over his shoulder against the chair.

“Any good?” he said, eyes flicking to where the bottle had been secreted away again.

The voice had him instantly sit up to hide it as he glanced back. Seeing the old face that he had pretended to not know had him relaxed. "Better than anything here. What was it? Zechariah? " he teased and relaxed back in his seat staring forward in unhidden boredom.

"You come to respect him? Or pay respects? Whatever that means ." He rubbed his face a little and stretched out his legs, almost knocking a knee into the pew in front of himself.

Was that a smirk? It was gone too fast to say for certain.

“ZeCHariah,” he repeated, paying attention to how he said it in the moment. “… Clear your throat, but near the roof of the mouth.”

He recalled that he had cleared his throat a bit before he spit on him. But bygones were conveniently bygones now.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” Zechariah ‘answered,’ and there was a flicker of that smirk again.

Though he frowned sincerely after. He might have rejoiced at Menachem getting bludgeoned, but he would never have wanted him to die. Except for when he did.

“How are you taking this?”

Darius watched his features curiously then looked forward, staring at the coffin. He shrugged and quickly stole another drink of his wine, not completely hiding it this time. "I'm not lying about it at least. Brother was an ass, but most of them are. Luckily I almost never see them so.. " He shrugged and drank a little more. "It isn't much of a change. Just one less voice in that place through the door."

His eyes skittered over the other brothers about. Would he want to be one of these messy Carringtons? Certainly not. Would he have liked a life better where most of his family did not sit a boat and a long ride away?

“I have not seen my oldest brother in years,” Zechariah worked out of his mouth. “I hope the next time I see him is not in a casket, but it may well be.”

His gaze slid back to the murderer’s casket, then he arched his brows.

“But then, he is no Magnus either.”

Darius did not need to know about the brother that was.

The Carrington underneath him waved a hand to get the other man's attention. He looked up at him and lowered his voice, "I can tell you, the little I did see of him. None of this is truly a surprise." He shrugged and stood up , stretching his arms. He waved him to follow so they could talk and he could drink more openly. "You can get back when the line is shorter. If you really want to." He shrugged and looked back over.
"If your brother isn't in hiding, it's up to you when you see him again isn't it? And I guess no time like the present. " He started to walk a little so that he was out of the crowded room. "I don't think most people deserve this, some do. But then we all end up this way eventually."

Zechariah’s face stayed neutral, though the words seemed to reverberate through a cavern in him. When was the first time he had joked about Menachem’s future? What were the first signs?

They certainly had not seen the signs in him soon enough. Or perhaps they had, and then closed their eyes.

There was a palpable pause when Darius waved for him to follow. As Darius had expected, Zechariah glanced toward the crowd. He let out a breath through his nose. ‘Want’ was a strong word.

Slowly, he meandered after him.

“It is a matter of distance,” he answered. “And mismatched availability.”

Chaim had been married by his age. He also rather preferred not facing that.

“Preferably less gruesomely,” Zechariah deadpanned. “I heard something about a guerrilla firing squad?”

Darius walked to an area devoid of people and leaned against a wall and shrugged. "Is that so? I hadn't bothered to hear the details. Or maybe I wasn't listening. "He looked away in thought and scratched idly at his ungroomed chin. "It wasn't a big deal to me. The things I've heard around the house, it was probably fitting." He shrugged and looked to Zech curiously. "But why are you talking to me about this. I mean.. we're strangers after all. I am a very curious man though, so I don't mind the distraction."

There were several more compelling answers that passed through Zechariah’s mind. Instead:

“Because your brother is in a casket.”

Hm. He supposed that canceled out the distraction from said dead brother.

“Do you always drink at funerals?”

Everyone knew the proper places to drink were at bars, friends' parlors, or literally in one's own closets and tears.

Darius rose a brow as he leaned against the wall and held it out to show it was a good wine, perhaps he'd pilfered it from the cellar before coming to the funeral. "Can't one drink to numb the pain. Maybe I'm in pain..so I must drink. "He spoke dramatically and put a hand to his chest before taking a small swallow of it. "But maybe you wanted some?" He held out the bottle towards Zechariah even though he doubted he'd take it.