[riverfront]
(danya)
Waves.
He listens to the rhythmic melody of the waves coursing past chosen leaning point on a recently refurbished railing. Thank you, Pyrell. Another push in the long line of legislature aimed at making something better of what the city now provides.
At least the railing against his hip is not chipped with flaking paint he will later be forced to pluck from jean's fibers.
(tristan)
5:30am.
If it were any other day, people would be sleeping, or just beginning to stir in the morning hours, bemoaning the fact there is work to do and not enough time to do it in, and everything must begin now if there is even a hope of keeping up... Being 5:30am on a Saturday morning, there are people stumbling home from after hours clubs, there are cabs passing by on the street full of the responsible ones not driving, and the irresponsible ones fucking and all manner of club goers in between. There are people spilling onto the sidewalk, stumbling to cheap 24 hour diners, and then stumbling out of them to go home and start the hangover process.
And then there’s the pretty boi kin. Unable to sleep (...the nightmares insist on invading the dreams...) he walks. Violin case in hand simply for something tangible to hang on too, some semblance of normality. Jeans, t-shirt, light jacket, worn boots, pretty corkscrew curls spilling over into tired gaze. Along the riverfront, along the area being slowly refurbished by the hated (and loved, depending on how you look at it) Pyrell corporation... Step after step, free hand shoved deep into his pocket.
(danya)
5:30am
While others would hammer sleep's dutiful button on their cockatrice alarm - were this any ordinary weekday - Danya is meandering his way through the city in the actions befitting a relaxation post-shift. Not yet definitely driven towards a meaningful breakfast, time spends itself in the quiet contemplation of the waters that allow this city to thrive. Perhaps he finds recollective history contained in the mumuring phrases distilled through lap of wave upon riverwalk shore.
Then, possibly, there are oracle divinities in the steam that rises to wash across his face. Scented with the apertif glaze of expensively flavored coffee. Colored with the rich beans and extracts wrought from a nameless South American plantation. Shipped, most likely, into the city at the very docks that light the pre-dawn sky mere half-mile away.
Such wordly connections seem to bother the tall man little more than the ambling passage of time. Whatever manages his thoughts gestates from a location far closer to home.
(tristan)
He’d gotten ahold on this – or so he thought. He’d been better, or so he faked. He’d done well and laughed and lived and loved and... but it all came crashing down again tonight, the nightmares in rapid sequence, leading him to walk and walk and think, and...
Smoke. That he can do. A pause in steps, and dark gaze sweeps the area – lone figure not to far away, but all else seems calm (But we all know, it’s always the darkest before the dawn) and he leans a hip against the railing. (low thrum through painted metal) and hand pulls from pockets after ritual search, cigarette shaken out of the pack that is then lifted to lips, cancerous stick propped there while pack disappears and lighter appears. Flick of trusty bic, before it too is tucked away, and flame crinkles tobacco and paper as he inhales deeply.
Nothing like that first drag. Only then does he look at the figure again... Familiar. But then again, so are most of those that frequent the Riverfront.
(danya)
Tristan dares to look again after the flicked lighter tightened his pupils. Under no such influence, the black centers of deepest green lagoons pick out, perhaps, far more detail than the musician intended to share with proverbial strangers in the night. Tristan may notice that the figure's head had turned upon sensory alertion to such close proximity.
When the night is vastly empty to the companionship of warm bodies, it takes not much to garner rapt attention.
Vibration through metal.
Flint scraping flame to life.
Burning tobacco releasing toxins to the air.
Yet it inspires no verbal ascertation if there is any recognition. Danya watches, silently.
(tristan)
Danya watches, and Tristan watches, and for the moment it seems silence will remain. Tristan is, however, rapidly accessing the faces that he’s seen and known (and loved and lost and hated and) until finally there’s a spark somewhere, matched by the flick of ashes that then drift lazily toward cement under feet.
Recognition. And, after all, it’s not like the ‘strangers in the night’ around here haven’t taken a bite out of the pretty boy on more then one occasion... may as well say hello, hm?
“Morning... Danya, isn’t it?” The voice is soft, carrying just enough to capture the distance between them and make it smaller, minute, not quite too far, not quite too close.
(danya)
"Yes." Equality in the momentary pause employed for recollection's flow. "Tristan."
Silence. Judgement. Careful extrapolation of a well-hidden game. "Are you out late or rising early." Loud enough only to carry above liquid ensemble. Polite conversation at its best.
(tristan)
A nod, slight, in reply. The silence lingers and there is something underneath that escapes the kin’s notice, as he’s dealing with far worse judgments from what is in his own head at the moment. But none the less, there’s the soft self – depreciating chuckle as lean shoulders roll into a shrug. “Little of both, I suppose.”
Inhale. Slow. Exhale. The same. Hand falls to lean against the railing at his hip, ankles crossing slightly, the violin case resting against his thighs. “Couldn’t sleep, opted for a walk.” Some explanation, perhaps where none is asked for, none is required. All in the name of polite conversation. “You?”
(danya)
Silence reigns again, as the Lord kinsman occupies his mouth with another measured sip of coffee. "Walking before sleep." The smile enigmatic, sheilded by coiling curtains of flavored smoke. "I do not enjoy returning home after work without a period of relaxation between."
(tristan)
“What do you do?” Idle curiosity – and he cannot remember if he asked it before during their brief meeting weeks ago. There’s something of an amused tug at the corner of his lips, however, as dark gaze drops to his violin case. Not one to separate work and home – not one who can separate them, as it’s as much as living and breathing, and eating and drinking... a part of him, no matter where he is.
(danya)
If the man noticed the importance of the violin case, he does not show it. Instead regarding Tristan evenly with those deeply green eyes. "I am a chemist."
(tristan)
Gaze lifts again, meeting that steady, even gaze with his own dark (...tired...) eyes. Brow quirks slightly. “Wow.” A slight turn brings body in a slow pivot to face Danya a bit more. Unconscious, but done with underlying grace (He has music in his blood.). “Failed Chemistry myself in high school. Twice.” Chuckled.
(danya)
The sound of laughter is little more than a softly sighed huff of breath. How he turns to face the other man perhaps a semblance of cordial grace. While he may not have music in his blood, there is the essence of something else.
Subdued royalty and power.
It lays in the amused tilt of his jaw - for it is obvious there are few, if any, years between them. "I did not have such recess."
(tristan)
There is a thrum of recognition somewhere within – the bearing speaks volumes and makes Tristan very. nervous. Not in a bad way, at all, but the way he speaks, the soft huffed laughter, the way spine carries the scents of royal power...
He’s simply missing Rage, and an appreciation for music that makes names, and Tribe and Rank, unimportant.
His grin slides easy, however, equally amused. “Don’t think I would have passed a lot of things if not for the not so subtle hints of taking away my baby.” Violin hitched slightly upwards along thigh, before sliding to relaxation again. “but even that threat didn’t help with Chem.”
(danya)
Whatever memories his presence evokes is lost on the tall Lord. He merely ascertains what it is lain before him within the stature of the musician. "It wouldn't have mattered." So hard to discern whether he offers a moment of understanding or the barbs of mockery. Gaze drops to the violin, then dismisses it just as quickly. "We all direct our energies to the most fullfilling of pursuits."
Shoulders roll, smoothly, in a shrug beneath the cotton shirt.
(tristan)
“So they say.” Another long drag – and mockery or understanding, doesn’t seem to matter either. He’s had a fair share, a veritable smorgasbord of both really depending on who he’s talking to at the time, and about what. It, as most things, simply rolls over him, and away.
Cigarette butt is flicked away, the cherry scattering in a brief flare of orange before dying completely, and free hand tucks into his pocket again.
(danya)
The sound of his laughter rolls like mist off the waters coursing by below. Amusement flickers breif yet genuine in the back of the dark-haired man's throat. It reveals itself on the wings of an all-but-shaped smile across coffee-flavored lips.
Suddenly, those eyes lock on Tristan with unnerving intensity. "Do you believe them?"
(tristan)
brow lifts slightly, with the sound of laughter, and lips are tugged into an answering grin almost before he knows it. He is not one who will look away from an intense study – not from anyone, be it the surliest of Modi’s (....one of which who installed a washer and dryer for him....) to an alpha, to a Fianna King who begs the audience of the poorest prettyboi pauper...
And he doesn’t flinch away from this one either. He’s been asked that question before – in several different conversations about several different things.... it always boils down to the same answer. “Sometimes.”
A pause... and voice muses, slightly. “Sometimes, when what you fight for cannot be seen, or shared, or really understood, sometimes when things are so close, and are torn away again, sometimes when things keep piling on and on and on and you wonder just how many scars you’ll have before one finally finishes the job....”
A slight shrug. “Sometimes you wonder if it’s really the most fulfilling of pursuits – of if there is another you should follow instead. But then again...” The return of that slight grin, easily sliding over lips made to house such good natured expression. “Most times, I don’t give a fuck what ‘they’ think at all.”
(danya)
There is knowledge behind his smile. A glimmerling of something which treads uncannily beyond the pretense of slimly curving lips. It reflects itself within the dark lagoons of his eyes.... how interesting these turns of phrase from simple prompt. "Sounds like you're speaking of something more than music."
(tristan)
The chuckle is soft, amused, as he stretches back over the bar a little, muscles protesting the movement, before lean form stills again into comfortable lean. “Music, Life, life and music... half a dozen little things in between. It’s all the same really. But at least scars are sexy. Or so ‘they’ say.” The grin finds something of a permanent home across full lips, now.
(danya)
"Music." Dark eyes slant towards the musician, almost sly in their presentation of slitted color. "Or duty."
Attention drops to the reinforced case, some amusement coloring ghosted smile. "I highly doubt it fights back to the point of leaving scars on its player - at least any "they" would notice."
(tristan)
Brow quirks, slightly at the sly presentation, and he chuckles again. “Duty. Though don’t get me wrong, the violin can be a vicious, heartless, cruel master... but yes. “they” hardly notice such things....”
(danya)
The game, perhaps, won. For now. Information filed away in the back of the chemist's mind. "Passion and ambition, I've found, are the most masochistic of mistresses." Glance shifts, a brow forms question as it raises towards hairline. "However you seem more jaded at far more...... concrete...... masters. Or..." How deeply that gaze penetrates "... their lack of attentions."
(tristan)
The game won, perhaps. Some sound of agreement in the back of his throat, mused, really, more then clearly articulated, before lean form bends, the violin placed carefully at his feet, as fingers start the search of pockets anew. Lighter and cigarette found, again, and pack is offered toward Danya easily enough as he props cigarette between his own lips.
“Jaded, hm?” He gives the word some thought, rolling it over his tongue, along his mind, through his thoughts a long moment before shoulders shrug. “To be perfectly honest...” and why wouldn’t he be completely honest with a virtual stranger. “I don’t know. Concrete masters, or lack of attention, or perhaps just the realizations of my own mortality have finally sunken in... or I’m just getting old. But that last just doesn’t sit well at all with me, so we’ll not speak of that possibility – alright?” chuckled, again.
(danya)
So carefully, deep green regards the curly-haired man beside him. Whatever emotions play through his mind are not legible on the canvas of his face. Perhaps this is nothing more than intrinsic study created to fill the time between work and rest.
"Too bad you do not seem appreciated enough to disperse such morbid thoughts." Mused. Whispered.
A sigh from lips waiting beneath predator's gaze.
(tristan)
He is well used to such scrutinizing study – it seems at some points in his life he is always under a microscopic gaze of someone, and still he doesn’t flinch away from it, doesn’t lower his gaze, other then to watch the wavering flame touch the end of cigarette, pack and lighter tucked away again.
However, at the words, he shakes his head. Curls slide along his jaw in mismanaged disarray. “It’s not that...” At least... not really. Is it? Brow furrows slightly – things are complicated in this dance of words, as predators gaze rests unwaveringly (....god the memories....) and there’s that soft musing breath again that slides into a chuckle. “I’m appreciated... but at least a couple. That’s all I really need... these morbid thoughts don’t stem from under-appreciation from my brother and boy.”
Of course – there’s really now easy explanation of where they do stem from, is there?
(danya)
"Yet they are still strong enough to consume you." Placed so strategically after the other's inner diatribe. "How unfortunate." You are so easily distracted from your own worth. There is no compassion held in dark veridian eyes. Whatever the scrutiny surmized, he does not pass the judgement in his gaze.
"Perhaps the sun will bring you warmth."
Incinerate your weakness - pray there is something left behind.
Whatever the conundrum of phrases inspired, Tristan is left to his own thoughts beside the river. Waiting by himself for the arrival of a new day. The tall Lord deposits empty cup in a trashcan, and steadily disappears into what's left of the night.
(tristan)
There is no compassion, no warmth, and perhaps he expected some. Or even worse, expected exactly what was received. Either way, the judgment is not passed, the scrutiny ends, and the tall Lord walks away.
There’s no reply from the lowly Gnawer kin, who’s worth seems to be in question mostly within himself, other then the slight shake of his head. Fingers lift and slide through the curls, and then fall to rest along the chilled metal of the railing he leans on again.
But before the sun has a chance to bring warmth, a smooth bend sees fingers wrapping around the handle of his violin, the cigarette flicked away into the night, and long steps carrying him ‘home’ once again. To his brother. His boy. His pack. His duty.
(His nightmares.)