IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

5. Glad Eyes

Monday is Museum Day.

Apparently.

Museum Day has never been a thing in the Murphy household, but Timothée wants to go to Tate Modern and the National Gallery and Dulwich Picture Gallery, so now it's a thing.

They take the car this time. (Una's not quite sure why they take the car when they could just take the train and not pay parking, but apparently there's a strike going on. The other reason is that Frank doesn't like trains, which is an excuse he's never used before, an excuse which was probably devised in the hopes of getting out of a day walking around art galleries.)

The journey is long. Hot, as everything seems to be these days. She rolls the window down and relishes the air whipping over the body of the car as they travel down the motorway.

Timothée is in the middle this time. (Una had shoved herself into the far side of the car and sat there, purposefully radiating defiance until both Frank and Timothée seemed to get the message that she wouldn't be budging. Timothée had clambered over her legs into the middle, long limbs, smelling like sun cream, like aftershave.)

Somehow, though, even though she's pressed right up against the car door, Timothée manages to take up room. So much room. His thighs jog up and down and vibrate against the car floor, against Una. They're not quite touching her own thighs, but she can feel the heat of him. The warm smell of him. His quiet breaths, the blank stare out of the window. Her window. His face is angled towards her.

When they get there, Timothée clambers out of the car before she's even undone her seatbelt. A clammy hand on her thigh, shirt riding up and a sliver of pale skin, the bumps of a spine as he climbs over her and hops out. She wipes her hand against her thigh and rolls her eyes at the floor, letting the seat belt fling back and sliding out of the car herself.

It's a short walk to Tate Modern, only about five minutes or so, and they pass over the Millennium bridge again. Timothée doesn't say anything about ar-ee pot-air this time, but he still looks happy, trailing his fingers along the railing.

--

Una doesn't mind art galleries. Certainly doesn't love them as much as Timothée seems to, but at least she doesn't hate them as much as Frank does. She laughs at her brother, who is dragging his feet along, staring boredly at the artwork on the walls.

"You look like you're having fun," she mumbles, falling into step beside Frank, who gives her a withering look and rolls his eyes.

"I don't know how he finds this interesting," Frank replies, and the two of them look back at Timothée, almost a whole room behind them. He's only just managed to make it into this gallery, his head tilted up at a series of ropes duct taped to the ceiling. His hands are clasped behind his back and the soft expression on his face is almost enough to make Una believe that he's looking at something important. She glances back up at the ceiling and sees everything she saw before; the duct tape, the rope. Una rolls her eyes.

"Neither."

The two of them turn back around.

The National Gallery is much, much better. Una likes paintings she can look at without having to try and search for a deeper meaning, likes feeling like a part of scenes that she never could have experienced without someone thinking hmm. I'll paint that.

She just...likes it.

She's looking at The Fighting Temeraire, which is smaller than she remembers. Una likes the colours. Likes the smears of orange and and the reflections on the water. She looks at the little placard by the side and smiles, remembering coming here when she was little and sitting down for ten minutes in front of this painting, waiting for her parents to catch up.