October 09, 2003.10.09.03. - the deepest regret [tristan][forrest hill, condos, cont'd from last scene... again!]
(james)
"S'plain it nex' time..."chuckled as the young Galliard wavers
(that's good Jamey-boy, contribute to the delinquency of a minor)
his own beer is settled on the table and a hand shoots out to wrap around the metis' upper arm
it's easily to discern his grip could break bone if he wanted to
(and don't you doubt it, it has)
but this time it's more of a gentle guide than anything
carefully turning wobbly Phantom towards the door of the condo"... crash'n the cou'..."
he makes sure the Cliath can balance on his own before letting go
keys retrieved from a pocket to unlock the thick, oak door"Kemp may still be here.... else I'd offer yeh th' spare room."
there's a nod for the organist to follow him inside
both Rune and Decker's rooms are also empty
but he won't offer those for various and opposite reasons
the condo is EXPENSIVELY furnished
from modern furniture to the plasma television to the aluminum fridge to the dining room full of electronics (gathering dust, since Rune's been gone) James would be hard pressed to identify much less actually use
the wave towards the plush, leather couch is absent
and he disappears down the hall to return with a thick, soft blanket and pillow
obviously, the place must belong to another packmate, and not the guttermutt Gnawer
(he's mated to the owner, even if he can't really share that, the place is as much his as Rune's at this point)
but the easy half-grin on his lips speaks that Phantom's welcome to stay as long as he needs"Bathroom down th' 'all on yeh left, raid th' fridge a' needed.... I'll say upstair t'night 'n be here come mornin'. Night."
normally, he'd retreat to the warehouse to sleep
unable to cope with the empty bed that smells so much like her
but he wouldn't leave Phantom alone in a strange place with his packmates liable to show up at any time
soon as he's sure the young guest is comfortable
he's heading back outside to the balcony and joint(tristan)
The young gnawer wavers and stands, and he’s taking the joint and already partially up when James takes over and his innate hospitality does the rest. “Night Phantom....” Tristan grins and leans back in his chair, J lifted to lips, the inhale long and slow and held as hand falls to rest against his knee. Dark gaze slides out over the balcony, toward some unseen point in the distance (where he last met up with his Fianna King) lost in thought while James takes care of Phantom.There’s a slow relaxation, muscles molding, melting into the plastic chair that proves the pretty boy kin is still a one (or two or three) hit wonder. Dusky lashes fall to partially hide dark gaze, slightly glazed with... distant thoughts – yeah, that’s it! Hand finds beer, bottle lifted to lips, and gaze shifts to door as the Ahroun returns, the J lifts, offered back to his friend.
(james)
now, on the journey inside, his attention was focused on Phantom
so he remained fairly coordinated
however, now that he's up and moving around
the several beers are moving quite happily through his bloodstream
merrily mixing with the effects of the weed
it hits him juuust about at the doorway
within which he pauses
shoulder pressing up against the frame
a huffed laugh tumbling past his lipsgot. daaaaaamn.
something of a sheepish smile is shot towards the kinsman
but that doesn't stop him from reaching for the joint
what does stop, or at the very least delay, his collection is the lack of coordination
it takes a try or two to make sure all the gears are in limbs
or... limbs in gear....
and the navigation back to his chosen chair is as uneventful as possible
table becoming a walking stick (good boy) in the transgression
and then, once safely in the plastic Gnawer recepticle, he reaches for the offered joint... er... roachit's clutched between teeth to make way for a rogue grin
vaguely amused that in his misery he should be more used to intoxication by now
melting right on back into that supportively balanced triangulated stretch of before
dark eyes close, sucking the sharp smoke deeply into his lungs
and just. for a moment. holding.(tristan)
Oh and the kinsman in question is highly amused to be watching this little spectical. No telling how many beers James had before he got here, no telling how many J’s have been smoked today – but it’s easy to tell it’s alllllllllllll come back to haunt the boy right. About. Now.Boyish grin leaks into unrepentant laughter as he watches the uncordinated collapse into the chair, rearranged limbs, roach carefully set between fingers before it finds new home between Gnawer lips. His own hand falls back into his lap, watching James through slitted gaze, glad to see him relaxed – even if it’s simply intoxication taking it’s toll.
Long arms stretch over head, pulling lean torso into full extension before collapsed relaxation is comfortably found once more. Foot props up in Phantom’s vacated chair, fingers lace behind head, tangled in curls at the base of his neck, as eyes find that distant spot over the railing again.... Silence for now, comfortable enough in it for the moment.
(james)
the silence is comfortable enough for now
simply the elegance of a confidence in presence
there are times nothing needs to be said - compared to times nothing can be
it's a time to realign oneself
with one's own soul, with a family member, with a brother, with the night itself, even the full moon high above
just a moment taken and spared to allow the dischordant energies the time to fall back into formation
for some it can take hours of meditation to cleanse the soul in such a way
for others, they can find the bodily wisdom in the spanse of a single, deep, breathtension melts
worries fade
memories pause
warmth grows that cannot be blamed on the boozeJames isn't sure which of the two categories he falls into
nor is he aware of exactly how long the silence lingers with ease
the breaths turned half-hits not counted though he's sure he's camping
soon enough, eyes the color of earth's soil venture from behind the curtain of darker lashesthe balcony window comes into view
thick glass sheltering the opaque curtains from the night's invasive view
protecting the passed-out Galliard further within
he remembers, now, a day last winter that seems a lifetime ago
when the days were beginning to get colder and harsher just before the ice storms hit
the strange, uppity Fang did something to blast the glass right on out of it's frame
and he made the most of his Rite knowledge to keep a So-Cal GlassWalker warm
offering the very sweatshirt heated by his own flesh even if she had a closet full upstairs
he spent all his earnings from a week's drumming on a new television to replace the plasma screen surely broken by his own remarks
simply because her comfort and happiness was more important than anything else he could need for himself
and they weren't sure how long it would take to get the condo repaired
everything he did was without a second thought to his own needs - her single smile reward enough
it brings a fond, wistful, and deeply sad curve to his lipswhat he would gladly sacrifice for but a moment of something more than the distant presence barely tugging at the other end of the Totem's ever-present line
"Ma'be..."
the silence filled with memories broken by the prompting word
(no, he didn't forget)
the roach is extracted from enamel's grip
a clip fashioned from the torn away, laminated top of an empty carton
and while his arm swings towards Tristan, that gaze doesn't(tristan)
Even if he’s not privy toward the thoughts that race some lazy meandering poetic path through the Gnawers mind, he seems to know bits and pieces of what is there. It’s hard not to know that the memories of things inside is what keeps him here on the balcony. After all, as enigmatic as the kin is, as cute and fun and as pet-able as a newborn kitten Tristan is, it is the balcony, and the combination of nominal escape and agonizing closeness that it provides that keeps the Ahroun hereThat, and protecting the Cliath inside.
As well as Kemp if he’s still holed up within...
And whomever might be wandering around.
Or protecting the condo from all of the above – either way, he’s here.James sees home movies behind his eyes, moments of contentment and actions without thought, and the prettyboy kin sees something mirrored in distant streets, 4 star opulence and satiation among silk sheets and spiced smoke, dark hair and lean body, rage and purity and intensity and silences broken by music that swells between two....
There is a movement from camper’s corner and fingers unlace and escape entanglement in curls to fall and extend, accepting the fashioned clip and roach and pulling it close. Of course James didn’t forget... he rarely does, though with the arch of that brow, slight, confused slightly, it seems for a moment Tristan did. Hit is taken, deep and held, as hand falls to rest, clipped roach outstretched, as gaze narrows in some breathless search for meaning...
Gaze clears briefly as remembrance comes, and smile slides sheepish as grayish tendrils of scented smoke escape from full lips. “Maybe.” The word repeated, the train of thought somewhere gathered from multiple fragmented rails to pull together a cohesive thought. “Maybe I just needed to see if I could go there” the restaurant and food they’d be speaking of then.. “Now.. without him. Face the questions, the pity. Or worse, the understanding looks filled with questions and pity...” absent roll of shoulders into a shrug again. “haven’t been there since he left, even though we all know once a favorite restaurant is found hell nor high water would keep a true Gnawer away...” trailed off with a slight, bemused snort.
(james)
"Ain't been'a Julio's."countering the snort
though there's a partial grimace at his own grammatical flair
his mentors would throat him to hear such slang from educated lips
but right now it's a fuckload easier to say than haven't
and right now... he doesn't seem to really care
the return roach is waved away for Tristan to finish
there is always, endlessly, more
either on the Ahroun himself of somewhere stashed inside
seems they never run out of ways to dull the rage or smudge the memories
it's a matter of having the guts to step away from such easy and convenient escapes"Ain't been'a Hool'gans." though, after the last show, they agreed not to go back "Ain't been'a lot've place." the words are slower now, softer, slipping across the battlescar slur, analogies written in phrase that he understands the reasons, and his jaw lifts in the classic, proud profile crafted by his pack's version of anything characterized, answered, or pointed out in a nod up ".... 'n' upstair."
the last admission perhaps the subtlest
only a few days passed before he moved from the condo to the warehouse
busying himself in responsibilty and tasks to occupy his mind and body
whatever it took to pass the time until she was able to return from her Tribal dutiesthere's a difference, he realizes, between him and the kinsman
one relationship was far more public and recognized
it's a thing he recognizes in the time in Albany after his pack was no longer to be found
the endless queries and looks, the pity should the story be told (it rarely was) and the congratulations of a mission accomplished which brought nothing but regret to deepen the overwhelming grief
he could have gained rank back then, easily, on Elder's approval
but it wasn't worth the price of his pack's blood on his hands
and now he faces the same lonely nights
what has changed now is the questions are unfounded, falling from the wrong direction, or answed in misdirection's truth
none save the man beside him can acknowledge the true reason he wastes away
even his own packmates spend more time overlooking the relationship
and perhaps the weight he bears is heavier for the absence of recognition for the penalty of dishonoranother difference is that he can feel that hold feebled by distance that, indeed, she is still alive
a small portion of knowledge that inspires a notion of hope that she may one day return
but they are Garou, Warriors - never knowing what dawn will be their last
and as easily as he can feel that ghostly presence he knows it can disappear in a fraction of a moment
he will be left with nothing but memories and fears and the turmoil of constantly guessing
just like the man sitting across the table from himhead shakes, physically snapping himself out of the pit despair is casting him far too comfortably into
(tristan)
Last bit is waved away (there is always more) and so it is that the pretty boy kin finishes it off, roach flicked away in offer to the gods over the balcony railing somewhere. Maybe in appeasing them – these mythical gods who enjoy the last dregs of pot in the early morning chill of late fall – maybe by such simple gestures they’d see fit to give him one. Little answer.Just one.
How can it be too much to ask?But of course, it is. There is no mythical appearance of some all knowing being that gives him the answer he needs, he craves. Just to know, one way or the other... added to the despair in the lonely nights hours – is he destroying his relationship with his mate by his dalliance with the Purebred King? Or is he moving on to something better? Or is he moving on and getting swallowed up to drown in something far worse then he could ever imagine?
Around around around the thought train goes. Endless circles and pull him deeper still.
There’s no contest – even the kin would say the burden born is heavier on the Ahrouns shoulders, the age old deference to rank, even if he knows James sees him as equal. When not mopping the mat with him under the guise of teaching/sparring, of course.
Eventually, the Ahroun shakes it off, or attempts too, and so does the kin, chuckling a little. “Good gaia we’re pathetic.” Light tone, self-mocking, knowing that sometimes you just got to laugh no matter how much it hurts. Belly (6-pack, baybee) crunches and pulls torso forward, elbows finding way to the table again as fingers wrap around another beer, though he doesn’t open it quite yet. Finally murmuring... “least you’re faithful.” Head shakes, curls slide to hide downcast gaze.
(james)
the expression urges a range of soft laughter from the Ahroun
knowing just as well as Tristan that sometimes, laughter is essential in the agony
Gnawers are best at accepting their lots and moving on, right? Right.
Riiiiight
then explain to him just why they're both sitting out here moping
hands rake through heavy tangle of jungle-vine dreads
some semblance of a stretch mooooostly making the best of his sprawl
halfway through gravity regains it's hold and he sinks back into the bodyheat warmed chair"Tellin' me." smirked in self-depreciation that would make even the redhead next door proud "I'm s'pose' t'be s'me grea' warr'er. N' here I am." the bottle he forgot remained in his hands used to sweep grandly across the balcony that has become their temporary kingdom "Mopin' m'self t' death ov'r a woman...."
the smirk deepens
the most amazing woman he's ever known"... the hell sorta warr'er'm I?"
barked in laughter set free because intoxication dulls reservation
what do you have if you can't laugh at yourself, right?
gaze slipslides and moves right on past the kin before finding it's way back
(focus, Jamey-boy)
studying his friend: the downcast gaze, the sheild of curls, the sink of shoulders, the hesitation to open the bottle
the infidelity isn't something he's supporting nor ostracizing Tristan for
what is one supposed to do when they aren't sure if they're still mated?
there is only so long one can wait....."She the firs' since Jenna...."
not exactly sure what he was aiming for in that comment
it just.... stumbled right on out of nowhere
it may be the justification of his faithfulness
it may be the undisputable fact that he is, indeed, dead below the waist
(you're full of shit, James: all men, all animals, have needs and urges....)
it may be the simple understanding Tristan had the reasons to stray that he, himself, doesn't(tristan)
Lips curl in half grin – far from its normal brilliance and goodness for sure, but a grin none-the-less – at the grand gestures. The great warrior sinking into the bottle with the second class gutter rat kin who’s ever bit as fucked up as his friend, for different and the same reasons. He knows that should Rune walk in that door right now James would give his left nut to show just how pleased he is to see her smile. He knows that should Diego walk in right now, he would do the same.Unfortunately, Tristan also knows that should the King show up down the street right there under that lamppost reclined and possessive as always, telling him he was looking for him, that he needs him, that all he wants is to hear him play and to delve into the depths of pleasure never before known....? Barring any warning from anyone, Tristan would be (will be) right back in his arms again...
And it kills him. A part of him dies inside knowing that he would go, that easily, he’d turn his back on any hope of salvaging a relationship if Diego should still be alive, should still want him. Gaia, what if he’s fighting right. This. Minute. To escape some fate worse then death just to get back here only to find Tristan seeking refuge with another man?
Once a dog, always a dog, no matter the duration he was chained to a single post.
There’s a nod, slight, at the comment that really doesn’t mean anything but means everything. The first since the last Mate he lost... the first in years, the.. well. The first. Diego was different, but no first. He had hoped he’d be last, however.
Head shakes as if to banish the line of thought, derail that train, curls bouncing before falling against his cheeks once more, a quick twist opening bottle, and the motion of lean form falling to recline in his chair once more used to his advantage, a good half of it drained on the way. Body forms against plastic, lips part in resounding belch, followed by sheepish grin. Doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything right off. Cept the murmured “s’cuse me.”
Finally, however, silence thickens too much, and voice falls again... “I just wish I knew. Unfortunately all i do know is that if that Fianna Kin showed up there in the lawn right now, and there was no reason you could give me to stop, I’d play a right fine Juliet to his Romeo, before escaping the balcony to elope into the delights of the nearest posh hotel...” because he is affected by his presence that much – so much that he would be hard pressed if they –both- showed up who’s arms he would be in come morning light. “once a dog, always a dog, I suppose.”
(james)
the belch brought a glance, even an amused grin
the outpour, however, brings a soft sigh"Ma'be." his head tilts, contemplating the molds forming rippling stucco on the wall in this sudden speech forming rather than the man it's directed to. "Be a hyp'crite t' say y' can' wait fo'ever." cause all the Ahroun has done is wait "I dun'o where t' star' t'fine'm.... 'r what t'do save ma'be as' Er'k to use'is gift 'n' fine'm." or... what remains of him. "All I know izzat this's li'e anythin' else. Do what y'have to. When y'have to. To survi'e. S'one day at a time, Tris. Deal wi' t'morrow when it come 'cause yeh nev'r know if't will'r not. Worry bou' it when't does... jus' make sure when yeh gotta choice, make th'one yeh c'n live wit'. We dun' 'ave 'nuff time f'r more regret."
(tristan)
He has his reasons for not asking Erik to use his gift. He didn’t know Diego, and they were considering moving south because Diego wasn’t comfortable here in the Eagle territory, only comfortable with James. Diego wasn’t pack... and wasn’t likely to ever be.But the speech, carefully formed, is listened too and then that dark gaze lifts to rest heavily on James until his friend meets his eyes. The holding of that gaze is intense, no matter the softness of the words that follow... “Exactly. You think she’d appreciate you’re wasting away here dying because she’s not here, slipping ever closer to Hurano because you refuse to carry on today for fear of dealing with tomorrow?”
There’s a pause, while gaze is held, before he drops his own - respect, maybe even apology as hand spans the distance between them, finding and grasping the Ahrouns hand in his own. His friend could crush his fingers with but a thought with the strength caged within his skin. The Kin would allow it. And just as softly, the words continue. “You love her – completely, and intensely. You’d die for her without a thought. But right now, until she returns, you have to live for her the same way. To survive. One day at a time, James. She’d kick your ass 15 ways from Sunday to see you like this and you know it.”
(james)
James is aware of the reasons that Tristan wouldn't ask Blood Eagle's help
if there was a chance, it would have been done weeks ago
the simple need to help in some way or other drove the hypothetical offer
just as with the earlier time spent with Imogen on the balcony
just as with countless other times he's spent with others in past years
things that he offers are half-expected to be declined
whether they're unfeasable because things simply wouldn't work
whether they're unwanted simply because of who's offering
whether they're unnecessary because they wouldn't do a damned bit of good
it's the Hood's.... instinct.... to try anyway
for every success there is an equal failure - such things are life
he has learned to accept these chanceshe doesn't pull away when the kin's hand wraps around his own
and as easy as it would be, he doesn't look away even when the soft words hit brutally as any silver-fused Klaive
instead, there is a moment of silence, of assimilation
then liquid pools of deep umber shift and harden
sobriety seems to reacquaint itself in the burst of clarity contained in his gaze
the muscle forming yoke across his shoulders coils to bars of steel
weight shifts forward onto the balls of his feet
the deliberately dulled emotional tear suddenly ripped wide open to a whole new level of torturous fireRage. FLARES.
he could easily crush the musician's precous, priceless hand with but a thought
permanently crippling his friend and destroying his abilty to do the thing he loves most and depends on for income
with the way the tendons jump across forearm - he almost does
grip begins to tighten
hand begins to shake
in the single, terrifying, moment James' control begins to wane
his body succumbs to the mercy of the full moon shining blindingly above the errant clouds
bowing to instinct - lash out and maul what it is that salts gaping woundsbefore he can stop it, the growl throttles up from his chest and curls lips to snarl where warm grin resided mere moments ago
the first reaction is to spit venomous reply
how dare you....
and such poison gathers easily across alcohol thickened tongue
the richest tones once in his eyes cloud to the darkest of tempest's blackened fury
the unconscious reach for Eagle's strength tickles it's beginnings to crackle in the air about themthen just as quickly as the lupine volcano professed eruption
the rising magma of his Rage falls away
quickly chased by his gaze that lowers in apology
movement is slow and deliberate to loosen his grip on Tristan's hand
carefully removing his touch... eventually completely
the animal within him wanted to blindly strike when finding itself backed into a corner
the man within him is what realized that his friend spoke words, however harsh, true"I know." finally. softly. he still hasn't lifted his eyes, shamed by what he knows he almost did to the last that deserved his anger, the one that fights to remain standing by his side "Only reason I survi'e today.... s'cause she may come t'morrow."
they both know if he lost her the Ahroun would have given up long ago
and with a sigh, the lanky Gnawer collects himself to stand
a hand reaching out to ruffle through Tristan's mess of curls
it may just be a silent thanks, a meek apology, or even a strange affirmation and blessing
whatever the touch meant to either of them - it isn't clarified
instead he bends to gather his pack and Phantom's keyboard and steps towards the door
whatever is left can be cleaned up tomorrow
(tristan)
Those eyes that are soft and warm harden, and rage flares, and for the first time there may be a flicker of fear somewhere within the pretty boy kin – the boy who loves completely, who would give up everything just to have the other, the more important, the warrior, his friend survive to do what he must, what he can, what the kin, by design, is unable to do.It is a thin line he walks, and he knows it, but he doesn’t back down. He’d give up his play, his one true love, the one thing he’s always had – if only to snap his friend, no. his brother out of his despair. Muscles cord, hand begins to tighten (resulting bruise to be hidden the day or two it takes to heal) and that growl near undoes the Kin’s resolve. Teeth grit under the power that ripples around them, the wash, the reach, the pure unadulterated fury in his loved ones gaze, and it takes all he is, all he has to remain sitting right there, unmoving but for the drop of his eyes in respect.
Hand is released, achingly slow. Deliberately so, and part of him is certain that the backlash will be even worse – but instead comes soft words, then even softer ruffle of fingers through curls. The swallow is thick, and his gaze doesn’t lift for fear of betraying that for a second there, he was actually frightened, but more then that – the tears that scream he feels the pain so deeply harbored, and no one understands like he does what the Ahroun is going through. He would tell him more, he’d say something else, try to get him to realize that even if she doesn’t come home, if he lost her, he needs to survive if not for any other reason then she would expect him too. He doesn’t doubt for a moment the Serpentwolf would find a way back just to kick the Gnawer’s ass for presuming it was ok to give up, at any point, for any reason.
But he’s said enough tonight. Hopefully, he got through in some small way. If not, he’ll try again another time. The touch through curls isn’t clarified, and it doesn’t need to be. It is enough that it was offered, that it exists. Hand returns to wrap around unopened bottle, loosely held, while gaze remains affixed on the label he doesn’t even see. Thoughts jumbled, as some part of him longs to lash out as well. At least James knows she’s alive. He doesn’t even have that. At least there’s a possibility that she will come home. If his brothers found him, there is nothing left of Diego to come home. A thousand comparisons that in the end mean exactly squat. They’ve both lost, they both ache, and they both mourn.
He doesn’t move for a long time, not until James goes inside, not until the door closes behind him, not until James finds some place to lay sleepless, or in a drunken stupor, or just in exhaustions rest. Seconds, minutes, hours – there is no concept of time. He knows when he’s waited enough, when it’s been silent long enough, when he can finally lift red-rimmed eyes that still water with silent mourning. Only then does he wipe away the tears, scrub the moisture from his face, and clean up the balcony. Standing, chairs are placed silently back where they belong, the garbage is collected, the leftovers... well, left for now, bagged neatly and set by the door. Single beer taken for himself, before pack is slung over his shoulder, Violin hefted in hand, and the creak of boards gives way to squeak of step, to silent steps along the asphalt, to fading steps into the sunrise.
Posted by james at October 09, 2003 12:00 AM
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