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Unsteady

 
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Rosencrantz
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


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PostPosted: Mon Nov 07, 2016 8:55 pm    Post subject: Unsteady Reply with quote

Hold
Hold on.
Hold on to me.
‘Cause I’m a little unsteady.
A little unsteady…


Ian sat, apparently alone, on the small metal steps of his RV. His slate green eyes were distant, seemingly unfocused or lost in thought as he moved through the complex ritual of opening a new pack of cigarettes. They were the kind with the little tab in them, the ones you bit down on or squeezed between your thumb and your finger to break the seal inside the filter, which doused it in menthol. The kid had hated menthol at one point in his life, but as with all things, he’d learned to adjust.

Nance approached from the far side of camp, her steps almost perfectly in time to the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of a fresh hard box cigarette pack against the inside of his upturned wrist. He was careful, particular in the way that he held it, fingers gently but firmly grasping either side of the box. Never, ever leave an index finger across the bottom -- it was easier to guide, sure, but it also crushed the paper. Rookie mistake. She sat down beside him just as he was turning the box over in his hands to begin again. Tap-tap-tap.

For a time, the older woman kept her peace, her deep brown eyes peering out of a face gone to subtle wrinkling from decades of sun and years of worry. She wore no make-up, hair the same mousey chocolate brown as Ian’s pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck. Her clothes were simple, jeans that looked newish and an old checkered shirt that probably belonged to her husband, or a brother maybe. Ian took in these details from the corners of his eyes without looking at her or breaking from the rhythm of what he was doing. The only noise but for the tap-tap-tap was the soft metallic clatter of the titanium ring in his mouth where he gathered that section of his lip in his teeth.

He was silent, waiting out her inspection.

“It’s good to see you ‘round camp again, Ian,” said the lady at last. The kid nodded by way of response, and there was a break in the constant cellophane-on-skin smacking sound as he reversed the cigarette box in his fingers once more, only to begin anew.

“You’re finally starting to look healthy again,” she went on, rightfully anticipating that Ian wouldn’t have anything to say to that. Ian almost never had anything to say--not to an adult, anyway. “For awhile there it seemed like y’might disappear on us altogether.”

A bitter smile pulled the ring from between his teeth, and the teenager shook his head. The gesture caused curly dark waves to fall into his eyes, and he did nothing to move them.

Nance frowned, clucked her tongue, and it was a maternal thing, a scolding with no sting to it. "I know what you're thinking," she chided, admonishing him. “You’re a good kid,” she insisted, and it was hard to say just who it was she was trying to convince. “S’just that there are some really wild stories, is all.”

Ian shrugged, apathetic.

The tapping ceased at last. He turned the pack right side up in one hand, using the other to grasp the protruding tongue on the cellophane wrapper. Catching it between thumb and forefinger, he peeled the zipper free, separating the two pieces of the packaging from one another. Sliding the top one off the box, he left the bottom one where it was, brushing his free hand against the side of his leg to liberate himself from the clingy wrapping.

Flipping the top back, he pinched the silver foil that covered the cigarettes between two fingers, gently jerking it out of the package. Wadding it up in a temporary fist, the little ball of metallic paper was dropped onto the step beside him, alongside the bits of cellophane stuck resolutely to jeans that had belonged to at least three other people before they’d made their way into his possession. Puffing his cheeks out like a chipmunk, Ian blew gently across the newly exposed cigarette filters, clearing away the bits of tobacco that had come loose in the packing.

“So you’re all moved into Mark’s old place?” She changed the subject, trying another tactic only after it was very clear the boy had no interest in pleading his ‘good kid’ case one way or the other. Nance was leaning back on the step, looking up at the ancient RV that Ian’s cousin had grown up in. To this he nodded, never looking away from what he was doing, which at present was gently lifting one cigarette from the new pack, reversing its direction between his fingers and then carefully easing it back in between its brethren.

Nance had learned sooner than most that getting the McKenna child to talk was virtually impossible; it took an act of God or maybe Congress, or at the very least it took being of an age with Ian. To date it seemed that of the adults in camp, only Mark could actually draw the boy into conversation, though it never stopped Nance from trying. She continued talking to him, and most of the time he let her banter on uninterrupted, but every once in awhile he would actually interject.

Her gaze dropped back to Ian, who was engaged in plucking a second cigarette from the pack and turning it just like the one before it, sliding it gingerly back into place. “Guess he and that pretty stylist girl are going to make a real go of it.”

The teenager’s lips pursed, his eyes narrowing. “They’ve been making a real go of it,” he countered, raking his fingers through his hair to smooth it aside before he reached for a third cigarette, and this one he kept. “They’ve been together since the winter, handfasted since Beltane. Her name is Grace.”

“Has it really been that long? My mistake,” said Nance, only just barely managing to conceal an inward smile as she bit down on her lips. Giving him a reason to defend Mark was the fastest way to get him talking. “You know how Mark’s always been with the girls…It’s hard to know when it’s serious with him.

Ian rolled his eyes, with an impatient exhale from his nose. He knew the tactic for what it was, and all the same he couldn’t prevent himself from responding. “You know what they say about really wild stories.” He put heavy emphasis on the last few words, echoing what she’d said of him just a few minutes previous. His gaze slid to her face for the first time since she sat down beside him. “What do you want, Nance?”

“You should really go see her,” she replied, dropping all pretense of ribbing the Gypsy King as she got to the point of this little exchange at last. “Have you been in even once since you got back?”

Sliding his gaze away, Ian made a quick sweep of their immediate surroundings. His attention seemed to linger in a fixed space somewhere in the middle distance, on nothing in particular, for a long moment before it moved on. It was exactly the reason he thought she’d come, and he rolled the cigarette between his fingers restlessly. He wouldn’t light it yet, not with her sitting right there beside him, but his craving for its self-destructive light redoubled even as he breathed out, willing himself to be calm.

“You know I haven’t.”

“So what’s stopping you? Go see her. It’s good for her, you know.”

Swinging his attention back to the grandmotherly-type beside him, for a moment Ian just stared. His expression was skeptical, making it overwhelmingly clear that how ‘good’ it was for anyone involved was highly debatable.

“It is,” Nance said again, insistent. “She’s been pretty lucid lately, Mark’s been by three times already.”

Silence.

“Ian, she’s your --”

“No, she isn’t.” He cut in, flatly. “There’s paperwork that saw to that, yeah?”

The woman sighed, looking disappointed, but she knew better than to start that argument if she had any chance in hell of getting the boy to do as she asked. She’d saved her strongest weapon for last, so instead all she said was “...And she’s asking for you.”

With a sigh, he shifted away from her to put the cigarette box in his pocket, trading it for a pale pink lighter. Shoving himself up off the step to a standing, he moved a few feet away. Fit the cigarette he held in between his lips, cupped one hand around the lighter to protect the flame as his thumb worked to get it lit. Gaunt cheeks hollowing out like a death mask, he dragged fiercely, his hands falling to his sides as his gaze went back to her there on the stairs.

“Fine,” he answered, defeated, and the exhale was a sigh. “I’ll go see her this week.”

(title and lyrics are X-Ambassadors, Unsteady)
_________________


'Cause our minds change on what we think is good
I wasn't raised in the hood
But I know a thing or two about pain and darkness
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Rosencrantz
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


Joined: 31 Jan 2016
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PostPosted: Sun Feb 19, 2017 4:05 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The quiet hours, those rare occasions when there wasn't that occasional rough squeeze of sudden contact, not even a voice, or a seemingly random scent of cigarette smoke to keep him company, those were the hardest. In those hours, the kid felt alone in a way he'd never understood the word before, uneasy, restless, waiting. It was during one of those stretch of quiet hours that Ian finally gave in to the nagging obligation that pulled at the corner of his mind like a needy child. He'd smoked a joint, first, because somehow he thought maybe that would make it easier, and once he was stoned enough to feel a thick layer of distance cushioning his thoughts, he'd steeled himself to the task at hand and made his way down to that very last RV on the left, let himself in to see his mother.

The weed hadn't helped nearly as much as he might have hoped. If anything it made it worse, slowing the grind of his thoughts down enough that, maybe for the first time ever, he found himself actually listening to her, her words sinking in in ways they never had before. The encounter left him rattled, chewing compulsively on his lip ring, chain-smoking one cigarette right after another as the sun sank lower.

The conversation appeared to him in bits and it was disconcerting. He had gotten used to coming into existence, to being, in Mark's RV. While it wasn't yet twilight, he knew the Ian could have known he was there. Felt it, seen some trick of light out of the corner of his eye. What the hell was going on? What were they doing?

The first color that came to him was pastel green. That was mostly because it was the nightgown she was wearing. Something long and green. It wasn't pastel. It was mint. A cheap mint green nightgown with a salmon floral print on it. On the right sort of woman it would have looked Retro, but on her it looked last minute and false. Anything genuine would have had the show of age but the colors were bright and promising to carry a stain easily.

What she saying?

In a moment that felt like waking up from a terrible dream, or taking that first gasp of breath you'd been holding, slate green eyes slid left and caught the subtle transparent shimmer of existence. He reached reflexively for it, a gesture of need that was cleverly masked as stretching the fingers of his right hand. His mother rambled on, and for once, Ian wondered. Was there any truth to it? Was the woman not mad after all? It was a daunting thing to contemplate. "Ma," he cut her off in the middle of a seemingly nonsensical story about her dead husband, but the tone of his voice was surprisingly gentle, bordering on cautious. His accent had regained all of its heavy edges, matching his mother's. Maybe that's why she actually stopped talking, looking at him expectantly.

Glancing around the room, Ian's gaze lingered on the space he was fairly sure Mac occupied a long moment before he turned back to face her. "Is anyone--I mean, is he around a lot? I'd like to see him, sometime..."

They're still in the glen. He knew that at least. Even if it felt weird to be where they were, he knew it was Rhy'Din and he knew it was the glen. Still in Mark's camp, too. The world was starting to orient itself.

Was he gone?

Ian stretched. He saw fingertips go out to him and he moved over by them because there was something comforting about being near to him. Ian couldn't anchor his being in the cosmos anymore than a loaded gun, but that didn't mean that he didn't want it. Ian looked at him and then continued talking.

He was getting a sense of the conversation. One hand settled on Ian's shoulder. The impression of it was surprisingly calm.

The woman he was addressing was instantly recognizable as his mother. The eyes were different--blue like Mark's--but the features were startlingly similar. The sharp cheekbones, the lips that, even in her diminished state, seemed to draw even the most unwilling eyes. Time and tragedy had aged her, but even so it was it was clear that not all that many years separated them. Her face lit up at the inquiry. "Oh he'd love to see you, m'boy!" She crowed. "He's so proud of you. He doesn't even mind about the--" her voice dropped to an animated stage whisper, "--the being gay."

"Really? We're still going to ****ing stage whisper it?" He wasn't sure how well Ian could hear him, if at all. Mac reached up, grabbing the brim of his fedora with the intent of tugging it down over his eyes.

An unexpected and incredibly clear voice came. It said, "Boy, you take your hat off when you're inside."

"What?" Did Ian see it, did he know? When Josh twisted, the image of someone else was there. ****. Another ghost? Who the hell did this guy think he was?

Ian redirected the angle of his body, shifting in the ancient armchair while it groaned in protest, to bring himself in better contact with Josh. His brows rose at his mother's proclamation, but he didn't deny it. "...S'at so? Seems like a thing he'd mind." His gaze strayed to the space beside him, out the window to check the angle of the sun, and then back to his mom. If her claims were real, could she also see Mac?

“You should bring him by to meet us, you know," the woman was saying just then, suddenly very maternal. "A mother likes to know the man who's run off with her only child's heart." Ian's lips twitched, his gaze diverting again when Josh moved beside him. The one voice came to him but not the other. Didn't seem like mom could see him, though.

Ian wasn't reacting like he could see his father, either. Then again, it wasn't twilight. Maybe the thin veil that allowed him to be present was even more thin than his father's?

Maybe ghosts were personal and it just took someone like Saila to see beyond. No, that was stupid. Mac knew there was no way Ian was seeing his dad. The sensitivity that had been in the kid's voice when he let him wear his father's coat was palpable. The memory of Ian's father would have caused a greater reaction. It didn't matter how sly the kid was with him, that he hadn't seen him as a Barlow. There wasn't anyone here to act for so there wouldn't be this subtle-to-nonexistent reaction he was seeing now. Ian just didn't see him.

His mother was talking about him, then. So was his father. Mac hadn't been ready for a 'meet the parents' moment, and realized that the only other experience he had with this was when he was sixteen and went to pick up a girl who was still in the same RV as her folks. Beyond that? Parents and siblings were a problem he didn't give much of a **** about. What did he need from them? Were they going to **** him or give him anything he needed? No. They were just going to inject their opinions and if the situation was bad, the family tried to exert some influence on the relationship.

That perception of lovers and their family changed when they became their namesake. A lover. Cared for and caring. Taking punches, bullets and blood. The meeting wasn't one he expected, but what did he expect? Ian still had family.

Josh reached up and took off his hat, nodding to what was presumably his father. His mother wasn't acknowledging him, either. Maybe she needed twilight or maybe the rules were... different. Maybe Ian's dad was the sort of man that needed a full moon. Right now he was trying to gauge Ian's father, if the part of him that bristled and was protective was because he was a father or because he was homophobic.

Ian had never yet had a 'meet the parents' moment, and given the way life had turned out, he never expected to. His mother was commonly held to be crazy, and he'd ended his father's existence - such at it still was at the time - himself, so it just didn't seem like a thing that would be relevant to his life even before he'd gone and fallen for a man. Never mind a dead man. He peered thoughtfully at his mother, catching the corner of his lip ring unconsciously in his teeth.

She spoke knowingly, like not only was she aware of Mac but she'd even seen him for herself. Which couldn't possibly be true, could it? Not with the ghost standing there beside him and her still talking about Ian bringing him by. And Jay himself seemed tense, somehow - it wasn't something he could see, obviously, more an impression he could feel. Why? He rolled his hand at the wrist, flaring his fingers so that he could brush them along his lover's side, reassuring himself that Jay was there, reassuring Mac, perhaps, that he knew this was strange.

"Seems like you know a lot about 'im already, Ma." Ian commented, the fingers of the opposite hand fidgeting restlessly. He wanted a cigarette, wanted away, wanted out of this conversation. And yet... he'd sworn he wouldn't deny who he was, who he was with ever again. "How'd you learn so much?"

To be fair, the falling had happened when he was alive. They hadn't said it. Not him, not Ian, but there had been that moment in his RV the night after where they looked at each other, sated with smiles. Even if they loved each other now, it'd been the missed opportunity to say so while the two of them still had heartbeats.

Fingers drifted into him, atop of him. In some ways, it was more intimate than being alive. In other ways, more distant. There was the sense that Ian would pass him by and not commingle, even though he knew they felt each other. His right hand that gripped his hat dropped to his side as his left tightened up on the back of Ian's chair. He could feel him there. Good.

The spirits in the room, Mac and the father, were quiet and still. It was Ian and his mom who took center stage. What would she say to that?
_________________


'Cause our minds change on what we think is good
I wasn't raised in the hood
But I know a thing or two about pain and darkness
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Rosencrantz
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


Joined: 31 Jan 2016
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PostPosted: Sun Feb 19, 2017 4:08 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Oh, Ian had fallen for him while he was alive, unquestionably. The fact that he was still with him, beyond the grave, that was the part that would be eyebrow raising to many. A young kid getting in over his head and losing himself to infatuation with a powerful and charismatic leader was one thing. Committing yourself to a ghost? That was something altogether next level.

His mother's gaze seemed to go glassy, unfocused, and Ian wondered whether she was seeing something that wasn't there, hallucination or specter or maybe just the medication doing its thing. She did that sometimes, moving in and out of lucidity, in and out of consciousness. He waited, feeling Josh settle more completely alongside the chair. He moved, shifting to one side of the cushions, making room even though he knew that Jay didn't need to worry about things like where the armrest was and whether there was space enough before it.

The woman shook her head, raked limp brown waves from her eyes, focused on him once more. "I don't see why I have to explain it to you so many times," she said suddenly, impatient. "Your father told me all about it. He looks after you, you know." Ian's jaw twitched, fingers tensing at his sides as he put effort into not balling up his fists. "And why would he do that? If he's really been here all this time like you said, he can't have much..." He trailed off, shifting uneasily. Squaring his shoulders, he just asked her outright. "Is Da' a ghost?" He looked around the room. "All this time you've insisted he was still here and everyone's thought you mad for it. But he is, isn't he. You really do still see him."

"I see the mother****." Was that the last bit of evidence? The last little bit Ian needed to hear to know that his mother hadn't been entirely demented? Mac hadn't known, not exactly, this mental struggle with reality Ian had with his mom. She seemed off, sure, but everyone was their own brand of crazy after being on the road their whole lives.

She was her own brand of crazy. Josh wasn't going to say that something sound and calm rested there, or that the dad wasn't some overbearing presence. It was all true. His dad lingered like an omen and his mother could have given a loose, wild cackle and no one would have thought differently of her for having done it. All he could think about was how much he wanted a cigarette and then maybe a joint. The initial disorientation, nevermind the experience, was making him feel lightheaded and strange.

"What'd you come here for?" Maybe he was asking Ian a question he wasn't ready to answer.

Ian's gaze snapped to the side, then. He'd just barely been able to keep track of Mac's outline out of the corner of his eye, but of course when he actually looked that way, the man was gone, insubstantial, barely more than a shimmer where the dust motes didn't dance as freely in the afternoon sun filtering through a shuttered window. He swallowed roughly, no longer able to fight the urge for flight, and got very suddenly to his feet. "Nevermind, Ma," he said hurriedly, intending to soothe her. Her face was distorting in that way it did sometimes when she was winding up for one of her fits.

Impulsively, he closed the distance between them, bent to kiss his mother's cheek. "I'll bring Josh by sometime soon and introduce you formally, alright? You're right, I love him. I'm sorry. For... everything." He spoke in a quiet, urgent whisper, pitched not to prevent Josh from overhearing but to prevent the nurse who was in the back room, ostensibly giving them privacy. He separated himself from her, straightening, and gave her a tight smile. His nerves were wound so tight that he thought he might explode if he didn't get out of the RV immediately.

His mother started to protest, but her words died on her lips when her son actually kissed her. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened. There were tears in her eyes and a wide smile on her face as she gave him a big, over-exaggerated wave. "Bye then! See you soon!" She called in a startling, disconnected singsong.

Turning his back on not just the room but maybe the revelations that had occurred inside it, Ian hauled the door open and hurried down the stairs, all but slamming it behind him without really meaning to. His heart was pounding in his chest, his vision swam blurrily, and he came to a sudden stop, swaying on his feet. Struggling to regain his composure, the kid dug his cigarettes out of his pocket. The shaking in his hands made it difficult, but he ultimately got one out of the pack, got it pressed to his lips, and on the third or fourth try, got it lit.

Sucking down acrid smoke by the lungful, on the third drag his breathing finally normalized. "You're telling me my Da's been about this whole time? ***' hell." He took another drag and then offered the half-burned cigarette out to the air beside him. Belatedly, he answered the ghost's question. "Few days back, Nancy - one of the moms around here," he gestured vaguely, "-told me Ma's been askin' for me."

"Sooner than later," he didn't quite mutter it. His voice was enough that Ian would have heard him, would have known what he was saying. Ian was promising to bring him by, and that was curious if only because twilight was so close. It could have been then, almost right then. There didn't have to be waiting or replanning or anything.

Something had shifted, Ian was adjusting the evening and he couldn't even ****ing ask him why. Not really, not yet. He'd had to figure out some goddamn patience.

The tension was electric in the air. It had to be if he could feel it.

His mother was waving and something about it told him they should stay. The world was moving. Ian was drawing him. The further he got away the more he had to hurry to get back to his side. The world could get like a blackout if the distance was too great. Pouring down the stairs after him, there were forty questions in his mouth. Ian was like a ****ing leaf, trembling and trying to keep his **** together. It sort of reminded him of how he felt the first time he'd shot someone. Shaking, cigarette smoke and talking to himself.

Almost the same. Josh was real and Ian wasn't talking to himself.

"I mean, there was someone there," he reached up, checking his fedora before he put it on, back to front. The brim settled with pressure on his forehead. The cigarette was offered ad he caught it in the air, dragging it into his mouth for a pull, "I'd bet it was your Da'." Mac would have been vague or dismissive if Ian had been someone else. No, not here. This was a place to straight shoot and figure this **** out.

It would have made more sense to just stay and let it happen, sure. Lots of things would have made more sense. The kid wasn't processing on all cylinders just yet, overwhelmed as he was by the sheer gravity of the moment. His father dead, but not gone. Just like Mac. His mother not insane, or not entirely, only differently gifted than her family. Just like him. The dead and the living bound together indefinitely, permanently. History repeating itself in an alarmingly perfect parallel.

It made his breath short in his chest every time he thought back over it, years of increasingly thick layers of emotional distance all of a sudden peeling up at the corners, threatening to roll back like a set of blinds in a cartoon. Ian felt sick. He squeezed his eyes closed, giving up the cigarette when it was taken from him. I mean there was someone there. I'd bet it was your Da'. ****, what an agonizing revelation.

"That could be me," he said quietly. Hooking a thumb back over his shoulder at the trailer he'd stepped away from to indicate what he meant. "Five years they've been shoving her full of godknowswhat ****in' pills and telling her that everything she feels is wrong, that she's just sick and sad and broken." He pulled his fingers through his hair, snarling the dark curls that were so like his mother's. "****. That is me."

He watched Ian agonize and absorb. He felt like a fly on the wall instead of an active participant. Ian didn't need to hear him talk or to be told what he thought and felt about it. He was peripheral for the moment and he could feel it. Ian's thoughts and feelings were thick in the air.

Mac stiffened, pulling on the cigarette and then looked away. Something about staring at a guy who was on the verge of crying made him uncomfortable. He had the instinct to tell him to pull it together and if it weren't for the fact Ian always had it pulled together, he would have. Josh thought the kid needed to come undone, if only just a little bit.

Finally, he offered up the cigarette to him, his fingertips holding it gently. At some point twilight had started to come to them. Mac had become unavoidably more substantial. "Going through the same thing doesn't mean you're the same person. I'm not my ****ing dad and you're not your ****ing mom. And? You're in love and doing things that most people your age wouldn't dream. Most are ****ing around in their room, making **** for money and passing the time with jerking off. I'm here, we're in goddamn love for better or worse and we've got purpose."

Needed to, yes. Would? Not a chance. This was as close as he got to vulnerable, and standing there in the middle of the camp, out in the open? That was not a place he was about to come apart. The kid took a final breath that shook on the inhale, and let it out slowly.

By the time all the air had left his lungs, the stoicism was back, that hollow distance -- that separation -- in slate green eyes that was his most familiar expression had returned. It was a testament to how much in love he was with Mac that he'd allowed even this smallest slip in his armor to show in the first place.

The cigarette appeared between them, and as Ian focused on it he realized he could see the outline of the hand that held it. A faint smile cracked his lips, dragging the ring along his teeth with that barely perceptible metallic scrape. He took it back, not by claiming the cigarette itself, but by wrapping his fingers around that hand and bringing all of it to his mouth. Ian wrapped his lips around the filter, his jaw lightly grazing the edge of Jay's palm, and then he hollowed out his cheeks, making a death mask of his face as he breathed in.

Releasing that hand at length, his gaze shifted towards the sound of that voice, finding the outline of his lover's face as it slowly started filling in. He gave a nod then, both to acknowledge the uncharacteristic effort it had taken for Jay to attempt to be soothing and to reassure the man that his boyfriend wasn't going to fall apart. "True," he agreed, taking a step closer as he slipped one hand lightly over the other's hip. "We are in goddamn love, and we do have purpose."

---

(adapted from live play with MacIntosh)
_________________


'Cause our minds change on what we think is good
I wasn't raised in the hood
But I know a thing or two about pain and darkness
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