September 15, 2003.09.15.03. - not alone [tristan][port newark]
(tristan)
Time passes, as it is known to do, after the good doctor takes her leave and heads off to home or work or both, and after a good amount of dinner has been inhaled, he steps back out onto the street, and judges a good many things. The time. The weather. The need to go back home to the lonely room and lumpy couch after being spoiled the past few days.There’s still time to play, though it is not for the coinage at this hour, but more for personal enjoyment. So exploring it is.
‘His’ corner forsaken this time, for ground eating strides to take him in a different direction. To Port this time, as there is always something going on at all hours of the night. Long steps carry him through the concrete jungle until another place is found in the rain, where people mill around and hurry too and fro to get where they need to be, do what they need to do. He settles under an open air awning, though the doors of the building behind him are closed and locked, the gates shuttering it all closed nice and tight. There may be a hurricane coming, and better safe then sorry.
Under the overhang, he sinks to a crouch, opening his case and wrapping strong fingers around the neck of beloved instrument with a gentleness that speaks of a lover’s touch and long, comfortable conversations deep into the night, where nothing but darkness surrounds and secrets abound.... Standing again, he leans back against the brick, and rest finds home under strong chin, tickle of mismanaged curls spilling along jaw, tickling along cheekbones, while fingers pluck and check tune, adjusting as needed before a breath is taken.
Only then does the bow move across the strings, low melodic sounds traveling in time with the lull of raindrops splattering along cement, melancholy notes shimmering in iridescent harmony with splash of growing puddles under streetlamps glow…
(james)
they say that water carries sound
and even as it is falling from the sky above to puddles below
it seems to continue to hold that certain appeal
or, at the very least, it holds the notes of a familiar violinmusicians have the certain ability to hone in on the particular style inherant within a song
the personal flourishes and lingering trademarks each player imparts on their audial creation
long before he came to the corner from behind the building - James knew who played
there's a partial grin considering curving his lips
and even though the violist is his family, the Ahroun doesn't make an appearenceinstead - he settles along the wall just around the corner
broad shoulders supporting lanky frame
soaked to the bone dreads pillowing his head
eyes with darker circles than normal slide slowly closed
scuffed Cochran's settle a comfortable distance apart
triangulating and leveraging his weight back against the wall
arms, bare for the wifebeater, dangle until twisting to let palms flatten against the brickshe knows Tristan will be able to feel his presence soon enough
even though Luna slims in the sky above
he's more than aware how tightly and fiercly his Rage twists
(to round the corner now would drive away the few brave enough to pause and listen with the coming storm)
and that, above all other reasons, is why he simply stops to listen for awhile(tristan)
Every musician can pinpoint another’s style, and the way the melody is pulled from strings and bow has the definitive flare of ‘polished street-rat’ that marks him as James’ family. He would know his friend by the familiar tribal rhythm and rebar striking against anything nearby that will settle between thighs – plastic, metal, otherwise – just as easily.The few that brave the rain long enough to step under the awning (but never into the personal space of the musician, never hindering the fall of softly sad song) are generous for the hour and the place, and each tinkle of coin is noted with a smile, a thank you, and the continuation of moisture sodden song…
Soon, however, he feels the coiled (..rage..) form nearby, and dark eyes search for him, before pinpointing where it must be coming from to be felt so easily. Rage bleeds from around the corner, and music swells in some form of welcome before falling again into lingering silence that begs to be broken once again…
But it isn’t.
Instead, boyish grin washes over features and he thanks those that linger, shaking the hand offered by one, accepting a sodden dollar of unknown amount from another, tucking it away without looking at it. The few coins that were dropped are scooped only after the small wet crowd disperses, and voice carries around the way while he remains crouched by open case… “You can come out now…” softly chuckled… though the consideration of his waiting further warms the tones…
(james)
maybe it's a form of masochistic torture
listening to such sadness when it wells up enough it's own within the Ahroun's warrior heart
the violin seems to cry much as the sky above
yet the storm that's rising on the horizon can only be the Garou waiting just off to the side
which aches more the remaining mystery
but then the mourning notes gives way to the solitary sound of the heavy rain
though for moments more, deep umber does not show itself beneath his browsrather, the tall Garou stands in the near downpour
face tilted to the thunderous sky
hoping maybe what replenishes Gaia would also cleanse her guard"What.... n' in'erupt?"
cast between them like craps die on the soft huff of laughter
it's the only part of the Gnawer that moves towards the kin(tristan)
There’s a soft laughter that falls on confirmation of who waits around the way, the smile that lingers one tinged with delight in seeing his friend again (it’s been a long time…to long) even if it’s tinged with a bit of worry to hear the sadness that weaves under two simple words… or rather, what sounds like two words with the way it’s slurred.Violin is placed in case, well covered before tucked away and locked into its waterproofed cocoon, hefted easily in strong fingers that can wring such delicate beauty from slender strings as the kin stands and braves the downpour to make his way around the corner, stopping to study James, his family.
There’s a moment’s contemplation, taking in the beg of darkness’ tears to cleanse the wounded soul, the glance sliding over him gathering the differences, as well as the similarities, compared with the lanky Gnawer of fond recollection. Steps slide into movement again, and soon enough his shoulder finds rest against the brick near the Ahroun, his gaze direct, steady (and filled with a lingering sadness of his own, as well as moments of stolen joy found in the midst of an exotic opulence that was quite unexpected, and cherished, tangled mass in dark, dark eyes…) before voice is offered again to rain soaked space between them. “S’been a while – and here I find both Imogen and you in the same evening…”
(james)
it's only when the footsteps round the corner that those eyes slowly open
there's the warmth of recognition - of a certain joy to see family again
strong enough to bring even a partial smile lopsided across his lips
the expression serves to momentarily cover the true mood of the Ahroun
but even if he can hide it from his packmates and their bond
he doesn't do as well a job with his kinsman
not that... he's particularly tryingit shows in the dark circles beneath the Gnawer's eyes
it shows in the way shoulders, still so strong, bear some heavy weight
it shows in the lack of bodyfat that had been put on under the Beta's generous care
there are some things that can make even a Garou look haggard in two week's timemaybe there's a reason he stayed out of sight a few moments longer
maybe all the moisture on his face isn't the rain"Las' I drop' by y'r place.... weren't there." chuckled softly "Been spen'in more time Por'side since."
the slur seems worse in the white noise of the rain
maybe it could be blamed on having dropped into a dockside bar on his way through
but with the clarity in the slits of sad umber showing - he's stone sober
if... soaking wet, but pneumonia is the least of his worries(tristan)
He isn’t trying, and the kin doesn’t miss it at all, the changes are stark, noticeable, as is the resultant worry that slides through his gaze and finds a home there. When he arrived in jersey he didn’t expect to stay, he didn’t expect to find someone who instantly would become as close as family, sometimes in spite of the (lack of) breeding shared. He didn’t expect to find home, he didn’t even know he needed a reason to stay.Until he found it all in the man standing next to him.
Wry grin dances over lips as chin ducks and gaze falls. Almost sheepish, but there’s too much lingering pain for that. “Been… gone… a lot. Hard t’be there knowin Diego ain’t.” And perhaps in that admission, there is something that recognizes the lack of Beta’s care in the Gnawer’s thin frame, and the only possible reasoning for it, and the shared pain of missing mates.
The sigh that follows is soft, lingering, aching for what he had and lost, before he lifts his gaze again and studies his friend. “So what all have I missed…” a stepping stone to begin conversation.. the things he knows lingers in the pain of sad umber, maybe in hopes that sharing the burden will alleviate some of which weights down the shoulders of his friend…
(james)
the smile that finds his face at the explanation.... it isn't the fond one that greeted the kin
instead, it's an expression of a heavy knowing
the agony of catharsis"Rune's been...." he's never been able to say this before, not in the way that Tristan will understand it ".... gone coupl'a month. Fam'ly."
the way he says it.... he doesn't know when she's coming back
the way he says it.... that she might is the only reason he hangs onhis chest fills with another breath
the gathering army for the campaign of admission
but whatever words he strung together.... dissipate in a sigh
head shakes, weighted by the drape of soaked dreads
gesture traded for the words of what may not be the right time or place"C'mon..... 'house 's nearby."
weight shifts to lead his friend through the maze of Portside alleyways and warehouses
the find someplace warm and out of the rain
he took the walk on a break of storing up the pack's hideout for the coming storm
now seems a good a time as any to return to that sweat-built shelter(tristan)
There’s a nod, slight. Single words that are instantly understood, and known not to have been spoke aloud for the same reasons he doesn’t mention Diego’s absence. Difference being, James knows his mate might come back, whereas the kin doesn’t even have that slim hope. As far as he knows, Diego is gone, his brothers found him and he is dead.Or worse.
(there can be many, many things worse then death, and a multitude of those possibilities can, and have run through his mind more often then not…)There’s a soft sigh, and he answers in kind, even as shoulder pulls from the wall, pulling tall frame upright as he falls into step with James. Free hand clasps briefly on the Gnawer’s shoulder, lingering just a moment (shared pain) with a slight squeeze (silent understanding) before simply falling, while the kin follows his lead.
(james)
the walk isn't long
he hand that reached up and lay over the one on muscular shoulder
that seemed to linger longer
the Ahroun knows the shortcuts through Eagle's territory
soon enough the heavy lock is pried from the door
the iron gate swinging open on a grinding squeal of hinges
(never. ever. oiled.)
the kinsman warned to walk where he does
and the path set towards the building within a building
the two story housing that serves as their space within the warehouseupstairs, the living area is comfortable enough
track lighting, table, couple couches and chairs
quick check serves to prove none of the other Garou are around
Tristan's waved to sit, and the Ahroun returns with a six pack and several large towels
there's a change of clothes for the kin in the stack, too
the way is pointed out to nearest bathroomby the time Tristan returns
James is in a dry pair of sweats in which the bottom elastic was gone long ago
he's on the couch, head over knees to work one of the towels through thick dreads
long curve of his back making the ashed scars stand out like peltmark stripes on tanned skin(tristan)
The touch lingers, and there are volumes unsaid in the simple rest of rage-warmed hands against his rain-chilled own… He follows carefully, noting the way to walk, chuckling with a soft.. “Bluntling?” in question of the rather meandering path, having been introduced to the Theurge and (his really goooood sheeeeeeet) heard the stories, but that’s all that’s said until things are gathered, violin set aside out of the way and he disappears into the bathroom with a soft “thanks…”Changing doesn’t take long, and soon enough bare feet herald his return, his towels hung up but for the one draped around bare shoulders and tangled in hands that rubs through curls vigorously, resulting in even more tangles then the normal disarray of curls. He can’t help the soft chuckle seeing dreds submitted to a more careful drying then his own hair as he settles to sit next to his friend and reach for a beer, opening one and touching it to James’s thigh, waiting till it’s grabbed before grabbing his own and tossing back more then half of it.
“well. Aren’t we a couple of drowned rats.” Wryly grinned.
(james)
that.... actually gets the methodical drying of dreads to stop
his head twists, and deep umber peeks out from beneath a fold of the towel
in fact, there may also be a rather amused grin just beneath it
it's held as he takes the offered beer
(ya don't say....)
but only after a long pull and a long shot of tossing the towel onto a side chair, does he speak"Don' 'no' were'ven to begin."
(tristan)
Which, of course, was the desired reaction. There’s a wink, before lanky form is settling back into the couch, close enough for his shoulder to brush against his friends, the little seconds of touch, of reconnection, that assures that he is there, and isn’t going anywhere – from both directions. Sometimes, it’s simple needed – those few brushes, the affirmation. James holds the very soul of beast beneath his skin, a pack animal who’s been lone too long, and Tristan grew up with the same, and revels in any and all touch. The brushes are natural, intentional, tender, affectionate.He nods, slightly, and there’s a slow smirk. “th’beginnin?” even as he cringes away in mock fear of deserved swipe. A moment, and fingers lift to trace over badly healed jaw, arching a brow. “bout with this, and meander on from there anywhere the words take ya…”
(james)
there's no swipe aimed at the taller kin
though there is a low growl which would be terrifying in any other world
but between them, now, it's more playful than anything
a Gnawer packed up with a bunch of Get...James needs this
the easy physical interaction that means nothing more than it is
being able to let his guard down enough to simply be himself without threat
they say that Bone Gnawers are nothing more than mutts roaming the streets
but there is still the primal lupine in them that survives solely on pack
and to the Ahroun - Tristan is as much pack as those that share his totemdark scars press into the backing pillows as the Garou leans back with a sigh
badly healed jaw lifts until those eyes gaze as the track-lit ceiling
it takes a minute to draw the words together again, but he starts at the beginningRune, Johanna, the bane, Barny, Tucker, Kemp.... and Carmen
by the end his voice is all but inaudible
behind closed eyes he can see the scene replaying itself
(which face does he see.... which little girl)
and the memories that have resurfaced with it are tearing the full moon apart(Tristan)
James needs this. So does Tristan.
A friend in need – a Gnawer provides.
The one who usually is the provider needs tonight, and Tristan wouldn’t be anywhere else – in fact, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, no matter the painful stories that now fall from the Ahroun’s lips. He doesn’t interrupt through the entire painful tale, though gaze snaps up at the last, and he studies James as Carmen’s story is told and there is no mistake should he look that tears fill the dark gaze, before hiding behind lids as chin falls to chest, fingers picking at the label of his beer while he gets emotion back into control.He was awfully fond of the little girl, and hated when their lessons together were cut short when he left. His swallow is thick, and for a few moments feels like he will not manage to get the lump from his throat. It’s not helped any knowing James’ story as well, and knowing how the thought of loosing the little girl is further tearing him apart…
Instead of words, there is only silence, until arm lifts from between them, and settles around the Ahroun’s shoulders, fingers sliding into dreds and tipping head to his shoulder where his own falls to rest. Sometimes, there simply are no words, try as one might to find them, desperately wanting to put this all into some kind of perspective. But there is no possible way to justify the loss suffered, the little girls in James’ life that have gone, the Mate that has been away and left him to deal with it all on his own…. A gnawer in a pack of get.
“I’m sorry…. N’I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”
Even if he couldn’t have done a thing but be here… he’s upset that he was unable to offer what support he could – but it is all offered now, as easily as breath.
(james)
guilt
at times, there is no more powerful an enemy
he couldn't save his own little girl
he couldn't save Carmen, either
he could only provide the weapons to do what had to be doneothers need, a Hood provides..... but not like this
there are things a Garou will never be proud of doing
regardless of whether or not it is in the name of Gaia
beer's forgotten as there's no resistance to the pull
dreads fall cool and wet across Tristan's shoulder
he didn't have to look to see the tears that had formed
when he's been alone at night, without the Get or Fang to witness the probable weakness
he's shed enough sorrow for the both of themhe had been so close to getting past the loss of his own daughter
but this..... this brings those carefully built walls crashing down again"I miss'er..."
there's no clarity of whom he's speaking
at this point, it probably doesn't matter".... n I'm sorry too...."
(tristan)
There’s no clarity, but no, it doesn’t matter. The ache is open and oozing and red and raw and it’s enough to weaken the strongest man.There are times he hates what he is, and knowing what he knows, and fighting the fight of the one left behind to pick up the pieces, the ones left behind to worry, the ones in danger of being taken as little Carmen was taken. How he aches with the pain of his friend, his own pang of loss falling in crystalline drops to tangle with the cool wetness of tangled dreds against skin. The breath taken is slow, shuddering through his chest, as he says the only thing he can…
“I know.”
And he does – more then is ever said, he understands, and the ache is raw and tight, harsh and real… so very. Fucking. Real. No one should have to do this, no one should have to go through what his friend suffers, has suffered over and over again. No. one. But they do, over and over, making sense of it the only way they can, and doing their best to carry on and fight another day.
Face hides in the damp dreds breath taken again, a little (…less…) steadier then the last. He doesn’t have anything he can truly add to any of it, wishing for all the world he could take all the pain away, fix it all.. he’d been so close to coming to terms with his past only to have it thrust into his face again, Wyrm determined to crush him in it’s destroying grasp – but not if the kin can help it… if there’s anyway to stop the downward spiral – he will.
His voice softer then before, though it doesn’t take much to make it through as close as they are “…but I’m here now… know I don’t quite have the curves your used too – but I got strong nuff shoulders to take whatever ya need t’let out. N’I ain’t goin nowhere. Some’ow, we’ll make it through together.” He’s full aware that the words may mean nothing, or everything, or something in between – it’s not so much them, but the feelin behind’em he wants t’convey.
James is not alone.
Posted by james at September 15, 2003 12:00 AM
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