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bamon4bamily · 6 years

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TVD 9x02 (part 1) Enjoy! =)

Cut to - Matt searching for leads on the student’s location. He gets a call from Elena.

MATT: Elena, I’m glad you called, have you found anything?

ELENA: No Matt, we can’t find any medical explanation. All we know from the patient’s assessments is that they presented the same symptoms before they collapsed, severe headaches and vision loss. They also presented the same clinical diagnosis, cerebral saccular aneurysm, leading to comatose; and they all woke up at the same time. Post-assessments are even stranger, once the patients woke up there were no signs of cerebral damage, hemorrhaging or any type of aneurysm found in their study results as if nothing had happened to them. Another odd thing is that the only thing, all the patients remember, is hearing a woman’s voice just before they blacked out. Some have been discharged, others are being kept for observation. Same goes for Mystic General. But, I think it’s safe to say these incidents definitely have to do with something supernatural. It’s just terrifying to think someone can have the power to do this… Were Bonnie and Darius able to figure something out?

MATT: No, not yet, something is messing with them too, but I can’t go into that right now; I’ll let Bonnie tell you later.

ELENA: Is she O.K?

MATT: She is now.

ELENA: I hate not being able to be there with you guys, be of more help.

MATT: Trust me, Elena, you have been very helpful. We do miss you though.

ELENA: I miss you too! I’m trying to make my way over there for the weekend, so hopefully, I’ll see you guys soon.

MATT: We’d love that. Listen, I have to go, the boss is calling me; let me know if you find anything else, O.K?

ELENA: I will.

MATT: Talk soon.

ELENA: Bye Matt.

MATT: Mayor, how can I be of service?

EDWARD POWELL: Sheriff, I just wanted to know how your meeting went and if there is any progress?

MATT: Still nothing. Some students have gone missing from the Salvatore School, I suspect it’s related. I told everyone to keep a low profile, I think we might be under surveillance. In the meantime, I’m investigating the students’ case, and my friends are helping with some research.

EDWARD POWELL: The number one priority is to find those students Sheriff, we must assure they return home safely. Please keep me informed and let me know as soon as you find them. I will leave you to your duties.

MATT: Thank you, I will keep you posted.

EDWARD POWELL: Farewell Sheriff.

MATT: Goodbye Mayor.

Cut to - the study at the Salvatore school. Radka, Alaric, Bonnie, and Darius are working on their research.

RADKA: Guys, I think I found something, take a look at this (shows them an old book). There are some similarities with the recent incidents. It says here that some sort of “mystical attack” was used to disable an entire army front in England, back in the 1600s. Over 100 soldiers mysteriously dropped unconscious during battle… Then again, the same type of attack in the 1800s, WW1, WW2…

ALARIC: Maybe that linking spell? (To Darius) You know, the one in your family’s grimoire…

DARIUS: That type of linking spell would require a psychic-witch to perform it. The only known psychic-witches are Bonnie and me, (with sarcasm) and I’m pretty sure we weren’t around at that time, I’m I right Bon?

BONNIE: Well, Silas was a psychic-witch too, so maybe there are more?

DARIUS: No Bon, Silas was a witch that used psychic powers, which is different.

RADKA: O.K, I’m getting very confused here, what exactly is the difference?

DARIUS: All witchcraft is grounded in psychic energy; powerful witches can tap into that energy to enhance their powers. Psychic-witches don’t tap into that energy, they generate it… big difference.

RADKA: Wait, let me go back a step, remind me what this linking spell does?

DARIUS: It links the mind of a psychic-witch to any given number of minds, and by generating psychic energy during the spell, the psychic-witch can pretty much do anything to the minds it's linked to.

BONNIE: Including giving them an aneurysm and putting them in a coma…

DARIUS: ... Even killing them, if the psychic-witch is powerful enough.

RADKA: That’s very unsettling… but, wait. If there weren’t any psychic witches back then, how come your family made a spell that only a non-excitant species could perform? Doesn’t make sense.

DARIUS: I’m guessing they weren’t aware of it and thought any witch or psychic could perform it, reason why so many died trying…

ALARIC: Still, doesn’t make much sense… I know you two are the only psychic-witches that we know of, but, given that your family (referring to Darius) hid most of their historical documentation, we can’t eliminate the possibility that there have been others in your bloodline or in your’s Bonnie… we just don’t know about them.

DARIUS: I highly doubt that Ric, trust me, I know my family’s history and there has never been a Bannion psychic-witch other than me.

BONNIE: As for the Bennetts, grams told me I am the only one.

RADKA: So, we are back to square one… if there were no psychic-witches back then, then there is no way the incidents are connected, or that there is a linking spell or psychic-witches involved in the recent ones. This is frustrating!

ALARIC: We will figure this out Rad, I swear.

Cut to – The twin's bedroom, they are asleep, Caroline is reading on a rocking chair, keeping an eye on them. Suddenly, a voice is heard, not very clear what it says but puts Caroline into a trance state, she wakes the girls up (who are also in a trance-like state) and leaves with them.

Cut to - Damon walking into the study, it’s late.

DAMON: So, I’m guessing you’re pulling an all-nighter? Maybe now I can be useful for something other than teaching a bunch of smart mouths about vampires.

DARIUS: Actually, we could use a drink (mocking).

ALARIC: Ah, that sounds perfect right about now…

DAMON: I will gladly serve my buddies a well-deserved bourbon (opens his study bar, gets the drinks, serves Bonnie, Alaric, Radka and himself a bourbon). (To Darius) Oops, sorry “buddy”, we are out of gin (serves him a cider), I hope you’re into cider, hear that’s what the cool kids in Ireland are drinking now (gives him a smirk).

DARIUS: Then clearly, you haven’t been.

DAMON: Trust me, I have; way back when your great grandparents weren’t even on the map.

BONNIE (Trying to break the tension) O.K, so basically, we have nothing…

ALARIC: I’m still not totally convinced that there weren’t any witch-psychics back then or one now…

DARIUS: For the sake of argument, let’s say that is true. They would still need the spell, not sure about back then, but I am 100% sure that it wasn’t used for these attacks, only I have access to my family’s grimoire.

DAMON: And we are still trusting him, why? I mean, come on, he literally has all the required ingredients… I think we should be asking why not who.

DARIUS: I know you’d like nothing more Damon, but the timeline doesn’t fit, do the math. I wasn’t even in the country when the first incident happened. Granted, I am powerful, but not nearly powerful enough to be able to reach and control minds from across the Atlantic. I can see why you are usually benched, not too sharp with your investigating skills.

RADKA: Listen, it’s really late and we are all tired, we aren’t getting anywhere. Let’s get some rest and continue tomorrow.

BONNIE: I agree.

ALARIC: Yes, let’s recharge and clear our heads. Goodnight everyone. (Alaric and Radka say good night and exit).

BONNIE: (To Damon and Darius) Aren’t you guys coming?

DARIUS: If it’s fine with Damon, I’d like for us to have a little chat.

BONNIE: O.K, that’s my queue to leave, goodnight guys, and please, play nice, we are all on the same team. (Bonnie leaves).

DARIUS: So, tell me, Damon, honestly, why all this animosity?

DAMON: I think I’ve made that quite clear, I don’t trust you.

DARIUS: And why is that?

DAMON: I just don’t. Call it intuition if you like.

DARIUS: Intuition is a great gift Damon, but not quite accurate in humans. They tend to believe they have intuition, when really, all they have is mistrust, eventually leading them to such paranoia, that they end up all alone. Maybe that’s what went terribly wrong with you and Elena. (Damon lashes out and takes him by the neck, Darius uses his powers to push him off). I’d be more careful if I were you, Damon, you are human now, still as useless as before, but much more fragile…

DAMON: I know what you are trying to do, and I’m not going to play your little mind games. But, rest assured, vampire or human, if you mess with Bonnie in any way, I will rip your heart out and force feed it to your dead corpse.

DARIUS: Uff, dark! Calm down “pal”, I can’t make Bonnie do anything she doesn’t want to… but I can’t control what she desires. (Damon hits him)

DARIUS: (Incorporates) Temper, temper… that has always been your downfall, Damon, you have no self-control.

DAMON: (Composes himself) You know what? For once, you are actually right (gives him a smirk). If you need some ice, you can grab some from the kitchen. I’ll leave you to your cider… (Damon leaves, Darius looks pissed, he was expecting retaliation).

Cut to – Cave scene. Caroline and the twins are in a cell.

CAROLINE: (Confused and disoriented) Girls, are you O.K? What happened? Where are we?

LIZ: I don’t know mommy…

JOSIE: I don’t remember anything, except hearing aunt Bonnie’s voice...

CAROLINE: I thought I heard it too…

VOICE: (Sounds exactly like Bonnie) You did… don’t worry, it will be over soon.

Cut to -Salvatore School, next morning. Alaric goes to the twin’s room to wake them up and get them ready for class.

ALARIC: (As he opens the door) Rise and shine! (Sees they are not in bed)

Girls? Girls? (Looks around the room, nothing, tries the bathroom, nothing. Goes to Caroline’s room to see if they are there, knocks on the door) Care, are the girls with you? (No answer) Care? (Opens the door, the bed is made, no one inside the room. He calls Caroline’s phone, it’s in her purse which is in her dressing room. Alaric leaves the room to look for them around the mansion, calls Radka)

RADKA: Hey, what’s up?

ALARIC: Have you seen Caroline or the girls?

RADKA: No, why? Is everything O.K?

ALARIC: I can’t find them. They are not in their rooms, they are not in the kitchen, classrooms, nowhere… and Caroline’s bag and car are here, so they didn’t go out…

RADKA: Ric, we will find them, call Matt, I’ll tell everyone to look. (Runs to Bonnie’s room, knocks) Bonnie?

BONNIE: (Opens the door) Hey Radka, did I oversleep? Can’t even tell what time it is…

RADKA: Sorry to disturb you, have you heard from Caroline? We can’t find her or the girls…

BONNIE: No, I haven’t talked to her, are you sure they are not somewhere around the mansion? This is quite a huge place…

RADKA: We’ve looked everywhere, they are not in the mansion, Caroline’s phone and car are here, so she didn’t go out…

BONNIE: I’m calling Matt…

RADKA: Alaric is already on that.

BONNIE: O.K, let me put some decent clothes on, in the meantime, can you please get me some of their personal belongings, a map, candles, and we’ll meet at the library in five.

RADKA: But, Bonnie…

BONNIE: I know, just please do it.

RADKA: (Reluctantly) O.K…

Cut to – the library, Bonnie is setting up to do a locator spell. Damon walks in.

DAMON: Bon, what are you doing?

BONNIE: What does it look like I’m doing Damon?

DAMON: Are you insane? Don’t you remember what happened to you the last time? No way in hell you’re doing this!

BONNIE: I am, so please give it a rest, and help me set up.

DAMON: Absolutely not Bon-Bon! Listen, here is a better idea, why don’t we have your little friend do the spell, see how that goes first … Where is Waldo, by the way?

BONNIE: He’s on his way from downtown.

(Alaric, Sergei, and Radka walk in)

ALARIC: Bonnie, Matt is on his way, you are not doing the spell.

DAMON: Thank you!

BONNIE: Ric, we have to find them…

ALARIC: And we will, but not like this, we are not putting you in any risk.

SERGEI: If I may suggest, what if Ms. Bennet helps one of our conjurer students do the spell?

DAMON: Did you really just say, conjurer? Man, you are as old-fashioned as it gets.

BONNIE: We don’t know if the same thing will happen to them, we can’t put them in danger.

ALARIC: I agree, we don’t know if this thing only affects psychic-witches or witches in general.

(Matt walks in)

ALARIC: Matt, hey! Please tell me you found something.

MATT: Not yet. So, when did you last see Caroline and the girls?

ALARIC: Yesterday, after I tucked the girls in, Caroline stayed to keep an eye on them. Then, this morning, they were gone. Caroline’s purse, phone, and car are here. No one saw or heard anything…

MATT: Where was everyone last night?

ALARIC: Radka, Bonnie, Darius and I were in here doing research till about 2am.

SERGEI: I was in my chamber reading; took to rest at about 12 o’clock.

MATT: Damon?

DAMON: I joined them (referring to Bonnie, Alaric, etc.) for a little while, stayed for about 5 minutes with Bonnie’s wacko-psycho friend for a chit-chat, then I went to bed.

MATT: Bon, where is Darius?

BONNIE: He went into town, he should be back soon.

MATT: Damon, do you know if Darius went to bed after you?

DAMON: I don’t know Donovan, I’m not his nanny! I left him here with a black-eye and bottle of cider, that’s all I know.

BONNIE: Matt, why are you asking? Do you think Darius is involved?

DAMON: Maybe I have been underestimating you, Donovan…

MATT: No Bon, it’s just standard procedure. I have to know the whereabouts of anyone who was in contact or saw the girls and Caroline last.

DAMON: Nop, guess I haven’t …

MATT: O.K. I’m going to search the girls and Caroline’s room.

ALARIC: We already did Matt, nothing is out of order, no signs of a break-in or a struggle...

MATT: I know Ric, again, standard procedure. I’m doing this by the book, please trust me. Bonnie, let me know when Darius gets here, I need his statement too.

BONNIE: I will. What should we do in the meantime?

MATT: For now, just stay put, with your phones at hand. Ric, can you take me to the rooms, please.

ALARIC: Sure.

RADKA: I’ll come too (they leave).

Cut to – cave scene. Caroline and the girls in their cell, the girls are scared and crying.

CAROLINE: Girls, listen to me. I need you to be calm, O.K? I won’t let anything happen to you, understood?

JOSIE: Mommy, I have a very bad feeling…

LIZ: Me too…

CAROLINE: I know this is scary, but daddy and our friends will find us, very soon.

JOSIE: Why is aunt Bonnie doing this to us?

CAROLINE: Trust me Josie, your aunt Bonnie has nothing to do with this, she would never hurt us. Someone or something just wants us to think she is doing this, but she is not, O.K?

VOICE: That’s where you are wrong Care… (Bonnie walks to the cage door)

CAROLINE: Bonnie?

TO BE CONTINUED... Stay tuned for 9x02 (part 2) coming soon =)

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theairportau · 6 years

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the airport AU, part 126 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100 101, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10 111, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25

CHRISTINE

It isn’t until she actually reaches the threshold of the small bakery—notes the conspicuous lack of anyone inside; the cold darkness behind the locked door; the little placard advising patrons to come back another day—that Christine remembers that it is Sunday.

She thinks regretfully of the pastries she’d hoped to find, absent from the empty display cases just visible among the shadows. Her hand drops awkwardly from the door handle. Realization seems to reach her feet last: twisting back into motion from their unsteady stall, they launch her ungracefully away from the storefront before anyone else on the street can notice her; if the bakery had to be closed, at least it was also *empty*.

Disappointment clings like mud to her tennis shoes as she continues down the sidewalk; so much the better: walking slowly helps to eat up a bit of her suddenly-free time.

She shakes it off as she catches site of a loud patch of yellow up ahead, standing out almost garishly against pale stone and mid-morning gloom: mailboxes, at least, don’t have hours. There’s no rush, but she quickens her stride anyway, nearly skipping up to the metal box and dropping Mamma’s postcard through the slot. Perhaps her pastry plans were foiled, but that doesn’t mean the morning has to be a complete loss.

That thought, itself, helps to lift her spirits: what are a few pastries, ultimately, when she has such a greater reason to be excited this morning?

Pausing a few paces past the mailbox, Christine checks her phone. No reply from Erik. Maybe (hopefully) he’s busy with his own breakfast.

She’s wandered farther than she’d intended to; still, it only takes a few minutes to make her way back to Erik’s house, hoping that he won’t mind her arriving a *bit* early.

No sooner has she climbed the front steps than she understands why her text message has gone unanswered.

From downstairs, the same way she had a few days ago, she can hear the distinctive sound of a piano being played.

At first, she takes the muffled music for a warm up, thinking eagerly of her lesson. But—there’s some quality of it that makes her pause to listen more closely, straining her ears toward the sound, thinking suddenly of the distressed state she’d found him in on that prior particular morning.

Though the piece is clearly a different one, there are definite similarities in the way he is playing now: in the tension that seems to choke the beauty out of the piano’s voice, notes echoing harshly up from the direction of the basement.

Has he been upset by something, the way he was about the prospect of his doctor’s appointment?

As Christine stands and listens, though, distinctions become clear. That other day, Erik had played with what could only be described as franticness; despite the intricacy of the score, and the accuracy with which he’d played it, it was reduced almost more to *noise* than real *music* as he barreled through each measure, his anxieties bleeding into every hammered chord.

Now, though—passages are broken up, staggered and tentative, as if the score itself were uncertain in its progression, punctuated by inconsistent pauses and repeated phrases. Tense though it is, his playing lacks the distracted, incessant rush of before.

And there’s something else different, something about the music itself.

She doesn’t recognize the piece—wonders how well Erik himself could know it, to render it in such a manner. Still, the longer she listens, the more she feels that there’s something familiar about it. Something just out of reach. Maybe not the precise melody, or the way it is played, but rather… Rather, what *else*?

Maybe if she could hear better, instead of straining to listen through the walls; maybe if she could *see* him, she wonders, eyes flitting futilely down at the curtained basement window.

The scuffling of shoes, and a high-pitched burst of French from the opposite side of the street, breaks her concentration. Turning, Christine glances across just in time to see a small gaggle of young boys staring at her with obvious bewilderment. She hardly has the chance to return their look of surprise before they’ve all bolted down a nearby alleyway.

The same kids Darius had mentioned, maybe, she thinks as she checks her phone again—and realises with a cringe that, as she has stood listening, ten o'clock has come and gone.

Downstairs, the music reaches another halting pause, and, despite her remaining misgivings—and the urge to continue listening—Christine seizes the opportunity to ring the doorbell.

ERIK

The doorbell is a fairly foreign sound in Erik’s house, and loud all the way through. He jumps at the noise, fingers slipping on the keys, and is immediately irritated. He hasn’t had a noise complaint in quite a long time- why else would someone be at his door at this time?

His eyes widen once he manages to hastily push aside his pages of scrawled notes and look at his phone. Already past ten.

He is up from his bench immediately, pausing only to take a quick glance back at the dismal state of the room. There’s nothing he can do about it now, with her at the door- but there are more pressing things, and he takes the stairs two at a time, calling “Un moment!” as he passes by the mercifully windowless door. He snatches his mask off the dining room table- it’s a mess here, too, he thinks as he puts it on. Cigarette carton lying on the table, dishes still sitting in the sink, and that’s not even to mention the mess he is himself. He isn’t dressed to meet her at all, still in the same clothes from last night, but he can’t leave her waiting on his porch while he goes to his room and gets dressed. He picks up the tablet and goes decisively back to the door; every time she comes, his stomach rolls when he’s at the door- no matter how many times they do this, there’s always anxiety in knowing that he’s about to see her.

Until he sees her.

It’s just so good to look at her- they meet eyes almost immediately when he finally cracks the door open, and the sight of her eyes, hopeful and welcoming and quickly becoming familiar, puts his nerves at ease. Despite himself, he smiles crookedly as he ushers her inside and, as usual, shuts the door quickly behind her.

“Christine,” he greets her, still riding the wave of peace that has overtaken him- how long has it been? Only one day? It seems like so much longer since he’s seen her. “Je suis désolé, j'étais… distrait. Ah… förvirrad? Peut-être?” He shakes his head. “Jag är ledsen. Mais.” He gestures at her- to her coat, specifically, and manages, “det ser bra ut.”

He talks a bit more quickly than usual, and he has to remind himself to go quiet and give her a moment to respond to him and settle in. It’s only once he goes quiet that a bit of his self-consciousness returns- she looks lovely, dressed in her new coat. He knows that it must look like he just rolled out of bed; it takes some self-control to not apologize again, but just step back and let his eyes dart to the ground, giving her some space in the entryway to hang up her coat if she wants to.

CHRISTINE

The silence that follows the doorbell lasts just long enough for Christine to start considering whether she should try ringing it again, as if it weren’t impossible that Erik might have *not* heard the bell the first time; just long enough to prod her suspicion that something might be wrong.

But then, there’s a sudden scuffle from the direction of the basement, the flurried rush of a pair of feet scrambling to carry their owner up the stairs. In their haste, the footsteps fall much more heavily than usual, but there’s no mistaking the voice that accompanies them, calling a short plea for patience through the door—a voice which, while it does sound slightly frantic, carries no hint of anything more dire than Christine’s own regret at being late for the lesson. Tentative relief begins to unwind the tangled ball of anxiety in her chest, taking deeper root with the repeated beat of her friend’s footsteps, moving more fleetly than she’d have thought him capable of just a couple of days ago.

The door opens on a decidedly disheveled-looking Erik; if Christine herself hadn’t *just* heard the piano she might have suspected that he’d been asleep up until the moment she rang the doorbell. But none of that matters, really—not as much as the brightness in his eyes as they find her own; as the set of his shoulders, as he gestures her into the house, verging almost on *relaxed*. His wrinkled sweatshirt and rumpled hair don’t take away from how much *better* he looks than when she’d last seen him: tucked up in his electric blanket; tense and shivering, hardly able to stir from the couch. If he *had* just recently gotten out of bed, then so much better if it meant he’d had a good night’s sleep.

She returns his smile, her throat tight with the sudden realization of just how worried she’d really been.

The tablet is in Erik’s hand; Christine is grateful when he neglects it in favour of actually *speaking*, the cobbled-together blend of languages as familiar and comforting as her friend’s voice itself. Maybe—certainly—it isn’t the most efficient way of communicating; most people probably wouldn’t think it worth the gaps in understanding, or the simplicity demanded by two equally constrained vocabularies. But there’s something so precious in just *talking* to each other, no matter how simply; in *working* to make sense of each new conversation, weaving together an understanding worth far more than the sum of the words used.

Christine ducks her head, her own voice finally returning to her when Erik points out her new coat.

“Merci,” she says, grinning sheepishly at a spot somewhere in the vicinity of the third step of the upward staircase, pink tinting her face on account of the means by which the jacket had been acquired as much as the compliment itself.

If it weren’t a lesson she had already learned, she might have met his remark with one of her own—just to express how much closer to *well* he looks today, and how *glad* she is to see him so obviously feeling better. But she’s made the mistake of drawing attention to his appearance before, and it only takes a single glance at him now, his eyes turned self-consciously towards the ground, for her to think better of any such idea.

“Jag tycker mycket om den, Erik,“ she says earnestly, "Tack så mycket för den."

She can feel her flush return and deepen as she turns to reluctantly hang the jacket on one of the hooks by the door, revealing the rest of her new outfit; no matter how much Erik has said that he *wants* her to be able to buy the things she needs, she still worries that he might think of her when she actually *does*. "Och…tack också för dessa,” she says, self-consciously smoothing the hem of her skirt as she stands after removing her shoes; she doesn’t let the statement hang long in the air before pushing on to a different subject:

“Du—Tu. Tu…pas besoin…être désolé,” she assures, her tone more forthright than her halting words. “Inte mer än mig själv: jag *också* var distraherad…distrait,” she continues, with a sideways glance down towards the piano room and a small smile of amusement at her own expense.

ERIK

Her smile only gives him more energy, and his initial anxiety continues to melt away. She doesn’t even bring up what a mess he is; it only strikes him as she speaks that she is, really and truly, happy to see him. It’s not something that he’s used to feeling- he’s wanted here. It’s not relief, or surprise; it’s simple happiness- she had wanted to see him, him specifically, and she is glad to be here. It feels like so much to live up to, being wanted, but at the same time, Christine demands so little- she’s even thanking him, he realizes, again. He shakes his head. He doesn’t want her to feel as if she owes him something every time she buys a new item for herself.

“Ce n'est rien,” he says, waving a hand dismissively, and follows her glance down the stairs. He frowns, tight-lipped, and shakes his head again. “Tu as entendu? Jag är ledsen. Det är klumpigt.” If she had to hear him working that out, he wishes she’d at least heard a good part, where the music came easily, flowing like water from the tips of his fingers- she’ll have to see just what a mess it is soon, but he figures that he can at least start on some damage control. He motions to her to wait, and disappears for just a moment; he knows exactly where what he’s looking for is, in the bookshelf closest to the stairs. He slides a large accordion folder out from between books; it’s filled with pages similar to the ones downstairs, crumpled and scribbled out, but, at the very least, organized into sections. A black manila folder covers one of the compositions entirely, blocking even the edges of the pages from view. He sticks the entire thing under his arm and heads back down the stairs, motioning for Christine to follow him down to the basement. He is as ready to start as she is; he’s been playing all night, but it has felt like ramming his head into a wall. With her here, they can both make some kind of progress. And hearing her sing- it feels like exactly what he needs right now.

“Detta rum är en röra,” he warns her, pausing for a moment before he opens the door; it really is bad- paper just scattered everywhere, piles on the floor, on the music stand, some crumpled and some intact; he starts grabbing at them and stuffing them in an empty pocket of the accordion folder. “Jag är ledsen,” he mumbles again as he goes, his self-consciousness returning as he scrambles to make the room presentable again. The ends of his ears are red, and he knows his face is flushed. He is grateful for the mask once again. He does feel bad- he has invited her here, and she’s arrived to this mess. He loses track of time constantly, but it doesn’t usually matter. He never has appointments to keep with anyone, and Khan and Darius have lived with him before; they know how he gets when he’s working. They hate it, and it certainly contributed to them not living together anymore, but at least they know about it, and expect it. He has tried to present something more put-together to Christine, but here he is, dressed as if he just woke up and grabbing paper up off of the floor. He doesn’t want to look, but can’t keep himself from a furtive glance up in her direction, trying to gauge how she feels about the state of everything.

CHRISTINE

Only halfway-hidden by the mask, Erik’s frown is impossible to miss, his tone exposing whatever frustration might have been covered up by the dark, concealing fabric. But his bearing remains level, just on the right side of relaxed, the source of his agitation obvious but manageable. For once, the difference between self-criticism and self-deprecation is clear-cut and simple—and, other than a small quirk of her brow, Christine withholds any unnecessary apologies, even as her friend retreats briefly back up the stairs.

Erik’s steps are purposeful as he returns to the landing, carrying an over-sized file; she can only assume that it holds music for their lesson, and, combined with his clear eagerness to get back to his piano, a thrill of anticipation chases down Christine’s back as she follows him the rest of the way down the stairs. Though Erik pauses one last time before pushing the door open, a note of apprehension creeping back into his voice as he cautions her about the state of the room beyond, Christine can hardly hear it through her excitement—scarcely registering his words at all until she steps through the door and into a scene of mild chaos.

She lingers for a moment at the threshold, taken aback, as Erik ducks forward and begins shoveling up loose papers.

Her immediate thought is that the cats must have been involved—cats enjoy making messes, don’t they? Knocking things from tables and shelves onto the floor; climbing on top of and into boxes, with little regard for the original contents. Maybe Basile pushed over a box. Or three. Though that still wouldn’t explain the numerous papers spread across the top of the piano, nor those stacked haphazardly against the music stand, nor the pieces that no feline paw could have balled up.

For a infinitesimal moment, Erik turns his eyes from his flustered work, the subtle movement of his head catching Christine’s own gaze as he once more turns away; she wonders if the glance had been for her. Hunching low to the ground to grab a handful of sheets that have been scattered there, Erik himself seems to crumple like the pages between his fingers.

Even as her mind continues to struggle to wrap itself around a likely *reason* for the paper storm, she recognizes why he might *apologize* for it—and all of sudden she finds herself moving forward.

“Det är okej, Erik,” she says placatingly, bending to blindly scoop up a few scrunched pages of her own from under the piano, setting them on top before quickly reaching for a few more. “Oroa dig inte. Det gör inget.” Straightening, she smooths the sheets gently against the top of the piano, glancing at them first idly and then with increasing interest.

From the door, she’d been able to discern only the familiar repeating pattern of musical staves. Now, up close as she shuffles the wrinkled pages, she can see the countless markings that clutter the crisply-printed lines—snippets of untidy, half-written music, and even-longer, even-messier stretches of cancelled-out scribbles, all of it handwritten. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place like a resolving melody, Christine’s eyes flitting from the sheets in her hand, to the smattering of pages still on the floor, and finally to Erik and the steadily-filling folder that he still holds.

“Är det din?” she asks slowly, almost too embarrassed of being wrong to pose the question at all—but far more excited at the likelihood of being *right*.

ERIK

Erik grimaces at her question, almost sheepish. “Ah… oui,” he answers, frowning. The first of his composed music that she’s heard, and it’s an unfinished mess. Of course.

Finally, he gives in to the need for the tablet, too distracted by cleaning up to concentrate on Swedish. He pauses for just a few moments to type.

I used to write more often. I usually play without writing anything down lately. What you heard is unfinished and frustrating.

He thinks for a moment before typing his next sentence. He hasn’t played her anything but improvisation yet- the writing is all so close to him; he doesn’t compose over passing storms of emotion. These are the things that he lives in for some time, ruminates on for days or weeks, even years. With the amount they’ve already shared, though- with everything she knows about him- doesn’t she deserve what honesty he can give her? There are words he doesn’t know how to say, but he has always been better at conveying what he means by music. Before he can change his mind, he types out his last sentence.

I can play a real piece for you later today, after your lesson, if you want.

He hands the tablet over to her and goes back to the task of gathering paper; with both of them working, there are only a few more sheets to stuff into the accordion folder before the room looks presentable. It gets set on the bench next to him when he sits down in front of the piano again, moving as if to roll up his sleeves but thinking better of it at the last moment and simply adjusting them a bit further up his hands. In a better-tailored shirt, he doesn’t feel the need to roll his sleeves up. In a shirt like this, many sizes too large for him, the cuffs hang down and get in his way. It isn’t anything that he can’t work around. It isn’t worth exposing Christine to any level of discomfort, looking at the scarred and mangled skin of his arms for the duration of their lesson. She has already dealt with enough from him today, and he really only wants to start teaching her. In that situation, at least, he can work with some measure of certainty and confidence. He is ready to be back in control of himself and the situation.

CHRISTINE

When Christine looks up from the tablet, it’s with a smile, her head bobbing in an eager nod. The messy pages in her hand, the strained snippets she’d heard through the door, they’re intriguing enough on their own. But the thought of the folder, loaded with other compositions—compositions that Erik must consider to be more presentable, more representative of the work that she is so very keen to hear—the idea of getting to hear them, and to hear them played by *him*…the loose sheets on the floor instantly seem much easier to gather up, less distracting in the face of a far more tempting opportunity. Her friend, she discovers, has already returned to the task; she sets the tablet aside, hastening to follow.

Once the papers have been cleared, she finds her customary spot at the side of the piano, her gaze lingering one more moment on the large folder at Erik’s side.

Focused as she is on her thoughts and her hopes for today’s lesson, Christine almost misses the awkward movement of Erik’s hands—ghosting ineffectually over his wrists before shifting to tug at the ungainly cuffs of his sweatshirt—the inelegance of the motion standing out in contrast to his usual grace around a keyboard.

For a moment, she teeters at the edge of saying something.

Can she tell him that, late though they are to start her lesson, she wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes longer, to let him change into a less cumbersome shirt?

Could she be that cowardly, that cruel?

Or can she tell him that he doesn’t have to worry about her; that she isn’t bothered by the sight of his arms; that he can roll up his sleeves if he wants to?

Can she *mean* it?

Her chest tightens painfully as she thinks of the last time she saw those arms, those terrible scars: Erik curled up in his bed, drugged and drowsy after the ordeal of his doctor’s appointment, too insensible to care—or remember—that he was wearing a t-shirt. Maybe it had only been the dim shadow that had allowed her to brave the sight, robbed of detail by the evening and the heavy curtains of Erik’s bedroom—but she *had* *seen*, longer and closer than ever before, and it had been *alright*.

And she’d *felt* them—felt *worse*—just days later, after Khan had told her the story of their origin. Gingerly, her fingers had traced the ridges that stood out beneath the fabric of Erik’s shirt, on his wrist, his shoulders, pressed against the length of her own slender arm as she half-embraced him.

But does it really matter what she had dared to briefly touch through his sleeve, when revulsion had overcome her in the very next moment? It had been too much for her: to *feel* the old wounds; to suddenly understand how they got there, and the brutality that they stand testament to.

She hopes that it at least matters that, in its flight from the horrors inscribed in Erik’s wrists, the haven her hand had sought had been within the cradle of his own.

Now sitting in front of her at the piano, Erik rifles through a last few papers, the moment slipping away in a silence that gradually becomes unbreakable.

Despite his sleeves, he seems comfortable enough. To say *anything*, to draw attention to such a thing that he has already clearly chosen to ignore, would surely be the most unkind choiceof all. What is there to do—for now, at least—but to pretend that she didn’t notice?

Her own movements awkward, Christine ducks away from the piano for a moment, going to retrieve her music book.

Music. That’s what *both* of them need.

Certainly there will be plenty of scales and warm-ups before they are able to get to any true singing, but she wants him to know that she came prepared: flipping quickly though the pages, she finds the piece that she’d been instructed to study several days before, holding it open as she finally addresses her friend and teacher.

“Jag studerade den. Je…je lis?” She shrugs, attempting to patch her grammar with an uncertain smile.

(Part 127)

#/airport au

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dariusfrasier · 7 years

Text

Finding Her Father (Part 2) ~ @MacyEdwards_ @MikeAlexander1

After we left Mike’s office, we decided to walk around the campus so Macy could get a look at where her mom had met her father. We found most of the places in the pictures we had but some things had changed. After our stroll, we found a hotel and checked into a comfortable double room. Macy needed some time to think, so I headed out for a drive on my own. A couple hours later I texted Macy to ask her if she was hungry because I found a great place for dinner if she was up for it. If not, I could bring food back with me. “A place called The Velvet Cactus has to be good, right?”

———————

When Darius left, I slid a chair over to the window and just sat there, not moving. There were so many things going through my head and I couldn’t keep track of one thought to the next. I curled up in the chair, tucking my feet under me. My whole world was about to change depending on how the blood test came back. Either way, I had so many possibilities of the outcomes going through my head that I wasn’t sure which way I wanted the test to come out. After a little while, just sitting there wasn’t working for me. I grabbed my pj’s and headed to get a shower. I took my phone and turned on some music, anything to distract my thoughts.

I had just stepped out of the shower when my phone dinged. I wrapped a towel around myself and read Darius’ message. I smiled and replied, “I hope it is. Would you rather go out or eat here? I’m fine with either. I just stepped out of the shower so I can dress for either. Whatever you want to do is perfectly fine with me.” Honestly, I was hoping that just the food and company would distract me for the night.

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If she had just showered for the night, I had a feeling she’d rather stay in. “I’ll pick up food and bring it back with me. Anything special you like or don’t like when it’s Mexican food?” I wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep, but maybe we could eat and find something to watch on tv that would get her mind off what was happening tomorrow. I sent her a link to the online menu so she could see what they offered.

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I clicked the link and looked over the menu. So many things sounded so good. I wasn’t sure I could make up my mind on just one. Finally I settled on the Crawfish Banditos and the Chopped Taco Salad. I wasn’t sure if I was going to eat everything, but it all sounded good just the same. I sent the text to Darius letting him know what I wanted. “I’ll pay you back when you get here. Oh, and if they have something sweet, maybe even chocolate? Please?” I hit send and settled back into my chair. Though it was too dark to see out the window, it wouldn’t have mattered, my thoughts carried me far away again.

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I couldn’t help but smile at her order for food. At least she still had a healthy appetite. I drove over to the restaurant and headed inside. I ordered Macy’s food and decided on fish tacos for myself. Then I got the cinnamon churros with extra chocolate dipping sauce for dessert. I took a seat while I waited and looked around. It was one of the quirkiest looking restaurants I had ever seen. I sent Macy a few pics of it from my phone just before our order was up. Once I got in the car, I texted her to let her know I was on my way.

———————

The sound of my phone brought me out of my thoughts. The pictures of the restaurant made me smile, “It looks like a fun place to be. Maybe if we have time and like the food, we should swing in there for lunch or something on our way home tomorrow.” I set my phone to the side and smiled. I got up and moved the table around so we could find a good movie to watch while we ate. I wasn’t sure if there was anything good on, but it was better than sitting there and letting my thoughts get carried away. By now, I had imagined a thousand things that could go wrong with either way the test went. Only, maybe, like 25 things that could go right.

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I pulled out my keycard before getting out of the car with the food. Her text about possibly stopping by the restaurant again tomorrow made me smile. At least she was thinking beyond the morning. I nodded to the reception desk staff as I headed to the elevator to our room humming to myself.

When I got to the room, I let myself in after knocking lightly. I didn’t want to startle Macy. “Hey, you,” I smiled as I saw her scrolling through channel listings on the tv. Been at that a long time,” I chuckled when she looked at me with slight exasperation. I carried our food over to the table she had arranged. “This works great for a dining table. Good idea.” I started pulling our food out.

———————

I smiled, “Thanks, I figured it would be easier than eating on the bed. As for the channel surfing, I was trying to find a movie, a good one, but I wasn’t having much luck. Although, I did scroll past a scary movie or two that was suppose to start soon. I guess that’s all everyone is playing since we are so close to Halloween.” I handed him the remote and got up to grab some ice and cups for our drinks. “I wasn’t sure if you would want to watch a scary movie or not, so I scrolled past them. One was The Conjuring and the other was some vampire movie. You pick. I think there were a couple funny ones along the way too. So, whatever you’re in the mood for sounds good to me.”

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I took the cups from her hands and sat her down. “Mace, you’re rambling. Take a deep breath for me.” I waited for her to stop looking at me funny and finally take a breath. “Doesn’t matter what we watch, right? We just need a distraction. The Conjuring works.” I poured her a soda. “Drink.” I found The Conjuring and then put our food on plates. “Here you go, Catwoman. Bon appetit.” I set the food in front of her and then sat beside her. If we could just get through tonight, maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad.

—————————-

I couldn't help but laugh a little as I sat down. We ate in silence for a few moments. I took a sip of my drink and sighed, “I'm sorry. I know I'm a wreck. I just have so many thoughts going through my head. I was freaking out. I still am. No matter how much I try not to, my mind races to a different outcome. A shower didn’t help. Music didn't help. Nothing is working. I don't know what else to do to keep myself calm.”

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I let her talk as much as she needed to while we ate. Well...I ate and she picked at her food eating more slowly than I did. “There’s not much if anything I can do or say to help. No one could possibly know what you’re going through unless they had also had this happen to them.” I took a drink and tried to gather my thoughts. “What if we found someplace where you could shift and run to get some of that tension out of your system?” It was a long shot, but worth a try, right? “Or maybe I should just get out of here and give you some time to yourself tonight. Swing by and pick you up in the morning.” I was grasping at straws, but didn’t know what else to say.

———————————

I thought about his suggestions and nodded. “I think going for a run sounds like a good idea. But do you think we can find a safe place around here? I mean we don't really know this area all that well. Where would we go?” I really did think shifting and running would help ease some of the tension. I just didn't want either of us to get hurt.

---------------------------------

“How about you eat and let me figure that out?” I put my almost empty plate aside, wiped my mouth and kissed her cheek before getting up and grabbing my phone. I could feel her watching me as I did some searching. “Hey. Eyes on your food.” I scrolled through a few links before finding what I hoped was the perfect spot. “Got it. There’s a park about 20 minutes from here. You ok with swamps? The Bluebonnet Swamp has over 100 acres including nature trails.” I wandered back over and showed her a few pictures and an overview map. “Should be quiet at night since it’s closed to the public.”

---------------------------------

I looked over the pictures and nodded, pushing my still full plate away. “Looks perfect. Ready to go? Or do you need to get ready?” The more I thought about shifting and running, being free even for a few hours, seemed like an amazing idea. No thoughts or feelings just for a little while. It was a welcome distraction.

---------------------------------

I glanced from her to her uneaten food, grateful that our room had a mini fridge and a small microwave. Yay for junior suites, right? “I’ll make you a deal. If you promise to eat some more when we get back, we can go right now.” I knew after a run she’d be hungry naturally thanks to our metabolism. She eagerly agreed and made quick work of putting the food in the fridge and then washing up in the bathroom. “Besides you still have that chocolate I promised you for dessert.” I checked the directions on my phone once more before escorting her out to the car.

Minutes later we were on our way to the park. Macy was wound up tighter than a drum and her nervous energy was practically shaking the car. It was mostly a quiet ride. I was focused on the road and she was lost in her head, staring out the window. I pulled into a parking lot not too far from the park, but not close enough for anyone to get suspicious. After turning off the engine and pocketing the keys, I turned to her. “Mace, I think you need to run full out. Not the usually playing we do. But a true run. If you want to do that alone, I’m cool with waiting for you. If you want company, that’s fine too.”

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I thought about what Darius said. I knew that the run would help, at least a little. But did I want to do it alone? I looked at him and offered the best smile I could, “I think you're right about a true run. I really think that's going to be the only thing that really helps. As far as being alone, honestly that's up to you. If you would like to join me, I wouldn't mind. If you would rather wait or even run your own way, that's fine too.” I opened the door. The air felt so good on my skin. I closed my eyes and inhaled.

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“Go on. You need this. I’ll be here waiting for you. Take all the time you need.” She turned back to look at me after stepping out of the car. “Are you sure?” I nodded. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through, Catwoman. I promise I’ll be right here. If you need me, just call out. Okay?” I thought she was going to change her mind, but I think she realized how much she needed to do this.

—————————

I turned back to Darius and smiled a little, “I'll be back soon.” He nodded, and I closed the door. I made my way to the edge of a group of bushes and stepped into them, just out of sight. I undressed and folded my clothes, hiding them under one of the bushes. I took a deep breath and let the other me take control. It wasn't long before I was darting out from the covering of the bushes and running through the park.

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I watched her until she disappeared behind some bushes. Then I opened my driver’s side door and pivoted in my seat so I could hear her if she called out or sense her if she got lost on her way back. I really couldn’t imagine what she was going through. Maybe, if my biological parents had wanted anything to do with me I could have, but that didn’t happen. From what little time we spent with him, Mike seemed like a nice man. He was my boss’ brother-in-law which was only kinda awkward. At least he didn’t know I worked for her. Not yet anyway. I was kinda surprised that he took things so calmly, but maybe he had suspicions about Macy’s mom’s disappearance all along? I shook my head. All this speculating was gonna bring up more questions than answers. I pulled out my phone and checked my email humming to myself as I waited.

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Running felt amazing. Nothing else was breaking through to me, no thoughts or feelings. Nothing broke through except the wind on my fur and smells around me. I gave in to the need to run and took off. I let myself get swept away and just be for a little while.

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I glanced at my watch. It had only been about twenty minutes. I looked out into the darkness and tried to focus on her scent and any sounds. I found it, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. I grinned and sent Clea an email thanking her for keeping an eye on George for me since I wouldn't be back until tomorrow. Then I emailed Leo and asked him how that last project for the hotel was doing. I knew he had a still pretty new baby at home and was hoping he wasn’t taking on too much work. After that, I pulled up my ebook app and started reading a graphic novel I got from the library.

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I ran for a little while longer before deciding to make my way back. I took my time. I wasn’t in a hurry and took my time returning. When I reached the bushes with my clothes, I changed back and got dressed. Darius had been right. A run was exactly what I needed. I piled my hair on top of my head and made my way back to the car.

———————————

When I heard her rustling behind the bushes as she got dressed, I quietly swung my legs back inside the car and closed my door. A few minutes later she walked back over and got in. I tucked my phone back in my pocket and waited a bit before saying anything. “Better?” I hoped the answer was yes, but knew there was a chance it wouldn’t be.

———————————-

I turned to him and smiled as I got into the car, “Much better, thank you for suggesting it. It was nice not thinking or feeling for a little while.” I closed the door and leaned back in the seat, sighing contentedly. I looked over at him and blushed when he was staring, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

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I shook my head and smiled. “Just making sure you’re really okay and not just saying that because you think I want to hear it.” I reached over and plucked a dried leaf from her shoulder. “Think you can eat something when we get back or sleep a little?” I turned the car on and started to pull out of the parking space. “Or I can just drive around until you fall asleep. That works for fussy babies on tv, right?” I tried not to laugh at her expression.

——————————-

I had to fight sticking my tongue out at him as I buckled up. “I think I can eat something when we get back. All that running worked up an appetite and cleared my head. No matter how much I overthink it or even underthink it, it’s not going to change the outcome. If he is my dad, he’s either going to want to be in my life or not. I can’t force him and I shouldn’t have to. Right?”

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“Can’t argue with that, Mace. I kinda like the guy so far. And I can vouch for his sister-in-law….who would be your aunt? I think?” I laughed and drove us back to the hotel. A little while later we were sitting on the beds with reheated leftovers watching some movie with lots of car chases. I glanced over at Macy. She did seem calmer and more….settled. I wouldn’t say relaxed just yet. Once we finished our food, I dumped our trash and decided to take a quick shower. “Be out in a few, Catwoman.” I grabbed my stuff and ducked into the bathroom. A run would have felt good, but hot water would too.

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Once I was left on my own again, I pulled out my phone and messaged my mom. After a few minutes and no response, I set my phone on the table and found another movie. I was doing my best to stay out of my head. I had meant what I said, there was nothing I could do to change the results. They were going to be whatever they were. I wasn’t going to stress out trying to figure out my next two steps when right now I needed to concentrate about the one I needed to take first. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths to keep myself calm. What would it be like having a dad?

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The shower felt amazing. I didn’t realize how tense my shoulders had gotten. After drying off and putting my pajama pants on, I did some shoulder rolls and stretches. Once I felt more like myself, I rejoined her in the bedroom. When I saw her eyes closed, I stopped in mid-step, not sure if Macy was awake or not.

———————

When I heard Darius open the door, but didn’t hear anything else, I opened my eyes and smiled, “Hey, feel any better?” I wasn’t sure if he felt bad, but I also knew that I hadn’t exactly been the easiest person to deal with today. A lot had happened today, and he was my rock through it all. I knew I couldn’t have asked for a better friend to be with me through all of this. I couldn’t help but laugh when I thought about our rocky beginning. Things could have gone a totally different way.

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“I’m good,” I chuckled as I made my way over to the opposite bed. “Hot water is a miracle cure. Think you can get some sleep? We can put the sleep timer on the tv if you want to watch until you nod off.” I wasn’t sure how tired she was or if she was still nervous about the test in the morning. When she sighed and thought about it, I put my clothes away and set tomorrow's clothes out on the dresser. I had a habit of always being ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Something I had never been able to shake.

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I thought about his question and nodded, “I think trying to sleep would be a good idea. If I can or not, we shall see.” I laughed a little bit. “I keep telling myself that I can’t control the results, so I shouldn’t worry. And the more I think about it, I don’t think it’s really worry. I think it’s more...more that I’m curious to see what the results are. I’m anxious for them.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to him or myself. I rolled over and faced him as he laid in the other bed, “I think that once the test is done and the results are in, I’ll be a lot better just knowing if my search is over or just beginning.”

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I thought about what she said as she started to yawn. “Sounds like pretty good advice, Catwoman. Think you’ll try to listen to yourself this time?” I teased as she giggled sleepily. “Try to sleep. I’m right here if you need me. Night.” I reached up to turn the light off, then turned on my back and stared at the ceiling until I heard her breathing deepen. Once I knew she was asleep, I finally drifted off.

———————

I slept sounder then I thought was possible considering the way my mind kept playing out different outcomes. But at least I slept. When I woke, Darius was still asleep. I quietly slipped out of bed and gathered my things. I didn’t want to look at the time, I knew it would just make it go slower. I took everything into the bathroom and decided to take a shower. I was sure that the run last night, plus a full stomach helped me sleep as well as I did. I was hoping a nice hot shower would boost my mood the rest of the way.

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Once I heard the shower running, I turned over in bed and stretched. As far as I could tell, Macy actually got some sleep last night. I woke up a few times, but she was still breathing deeply. I got up and straightened our beds before grabbing my clothes and getting dressed. It was still pretty early, but I knew that diner we liked the other day was open 24/7 so I thought we could head there and get something to eat before meeting Mike at the clinic. By the time I was dressed, the shower had stopped. I took a seat on my bed to find out if Macy wanted breakfast.

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The shower felt great. I dried off and got dressed. I decided against fixing my makeup and just ran a brush through my hair and pulled it up and off my face. I gathered my clothes and quietly opened the door. I almost jumped when I walked out and Darius was sitting on the bed, waiting. I laughed, “I thought you were still sleeping. Sorry if I woke you up.”

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“You didn’t,” I said with a grin. “I know it’s still early, but I thought we could head back over to that diner we liked and get some breakfast. You have to drink plenty of water for a blood test, right? Just let me wash up a little and we can go when your ready.” I got up and gave her a one armed hug before ducking into the bathroom. I was awake, but a little cold water on the face never hurt anyone, right?

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I set about gathering my stuff up, not that I had a lot of things to gather. I smiled when I realized that Darius had beaten me to fixing our beds. I made sure that all the trash was together and nothing was under the beds or stuck in a corner. I threw my clothes into the suitcase I had and set it by the door. Once I was sure everything was gathered, I sat down and waited for Darius.

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After washing up and brushing my teeth, I checked the bathroom to make sure nothing of ours was left behind. When I stepped back into the room, Macy was sitting patiently waiting for me. “Hey,” I smiled at her. “Ready to get out of here and get something to eat?” I moved over to my bed and shoved my toothbrush and toothpaste in my bag before slinging it over my shoulder. “Want me to take your bag?”

————————-

I shook my head as I stood, “No, thank you though. It will give me something to do.” I scooped up my bag and smiled, “Ready when you are.” We made our way to the front desk and checked out. Neither of us said much. We loaded the bags when we got to the car and then headed to the diner. “Any idea what you are going to order?” I had remembered looking over the menu, but couldn't remember what sounded good for breakfast.

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“The pancakes were really good, but I think I might go with an omelet this time. Extra protein.” A few minutes later we pulled into the diner parking lot. I got out of the car and walked around to open Macy’s door. “Hungry?” I grinned as I offered my hand and helped her out of the car. She just laughed and shook her head before walking into the diner with me. “Good morning, love birds!” chirped the same waitress we had before. I smirked and tried not to look at Macy as we were ushered to our table.

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I couldn’t help but giggle at the waitress. Love birds? Us? If she only knew the truth. We sat down and ordered our drinks and began looking over the menu. I was hungry, but I didn’t know what for. Pancakes did sound good, but I wanted chocolate chip pancakes. “Do you think they make chocolate chip pancakes? You said something about pancakes and that sounds good, but I want chocolate.” I laughed as he grinned at me. “What?”

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“You really are out of it. Yesterday I had the chocolate chip banana pancakes with a side of bacon.” I shook my head laughing and took a drink of water. The look on her face was priceless. By the time our waitress brought our coffee and juice, Macy had mostly stopped being flustered. I ordered a cheese omelet with ham and sausage as well as a side of hash browns. Macy got her chocolate chip pancakes. We thanked the waitress and practically inhaled our coffee. I think we both needed the caffeine. “So….after you take the blood test do you want to see or do anything else or just head back?”

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I thought about Darius’ question for a moment. Was there anything I wanted to see or do? I sighed a little, that was a loaded question. “I’m not sure. I don’t know much about this area and you have George waiting at home for you. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I mean you’ve already done so much. So, if you are ready to head home, we can go. Besides, if he is my dad, I’ll be in this area a lot, right?” I wasn’t sure if that last part was true. Just because a blood test said I was his daughter, didn’t mean he would want anything to do with me. And I wasn’t about to force anyone to be in my life, no matter how much I wanted to get to know them.

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I stayed quiet while our waitress set down our food and refilled our coffee. I thanked her and gestured for Macy to go ahead and take a bite. I could hear her stomach rumbling even if no one else could. “Clea has been watching George for me. No hurry there.” I dug into my omelet and drank some of my juice. “Thought you might want some time to yourself to try to….I don’t know….absorb everything? Think about everything? Primal scream?” I laughed after the last comment to remind her I was kidding.

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I shook my head as I took a sip of my drink, laughing a little. “I’m not sure where to even start processing things. I’m doing my best to try and keep a level head, but honestly I’m freaking out. Like majorly. I know I’m supposed to be taking this one step at a time, but I keep going back to the same question. Or rather set of questions. And I can’t answer them. At least not right now. I have the same questions racing through my mind, but I can’t answer any of them, I can’t skip the steps that need to be taken. No matter how much I wish I could.” I sat back and sighed, taking another sip of my drink. “I feel like...like my whole life has been a bunch of misguided steps, ones that I didn’t have a choice in making. Now, I have choices and the first one I made, looking for my dad, has put me right back where I was.” I sat up and took a few bites of food.

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I let Macy talk and focused on my food. What could I possibly say to her that would help? I couldn’t begin to imagine what she was going through. I just hope it turned out better than finding out about my parents had. I pushed my plate away and grabbed my juice. “Hang on. I’m confused how looking for your dad brings you right back to where you started. We have some candidates and we’re getting closer. Isn’t that progress?” I took a look at my watch. We had to get going pretty soon for our appointment. At least Macy seemed to be drinking enough for the blood test and had managed to eat most of her food.

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midoriyasbones · 8 years

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Vivirdian’s Story

So I’ve been hinting at the monstrous chapter all week on this account and I think I’m finally to post part one of Vivirdian’s story. However I’ve got 15,000 words to review, which is... a lot. So it may not be up tonight, but it SHOULD be up, if not by tomorrow, by the end of the weekend. Until then I’m giving you the most refined section of the story so far, which is 7189 words long. Enjoy and let me know what you think! Please send this to any Brave New World friends who don’t follow me!

Vivirdian’s Story

Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.

As a young boy, Vivirdian grew up having no real idea of what he wanted to do with his life. Everybody he knew had a good idea by the time they completed their primary formal educations. Judiallo wanted to be a teacher, and everyone agreed she’d be a wonderful teacher. Meyalian wanted to study farming and help develop new and more efficient ways to harvest melons. Everyone approved, saying he could do anything he put his mind too. Everybody just knew what they were meant to do, everybody but Vivirdian. In school they’d get asked all the time what they wanted to be and everybody had a confident, concrete response. They just knew what their passion was and they knew what areas would suite them best, all except Vivirdian. Every single time that dreaded question was asked he would get flustered and mumble out a soft ‘I know not’ and promptly change the subject. Despite everybody’s reassurances that it was perfectly fine not to know he was still embarrassed by it. Everyone he knew had found their place in the universe, but Vivirdian was beginning to wonder if he even had one at this point.

When he confided this thought to his mother she waved him away with a little laugh. “Oh Vivi, you’re going to be a dancer. Is that not what you have been doing all your life?”

This was true. As a young boy his mother placed him in beginning dance classes and he never had the heart to tell her he didn’t enjoy them nearly as much as he told her he did. It just wasn’t what he felt called to do, but he wasn’t even sure what he was called to do. He didn’t know what that felt like, he only knew that it didn’t feel like this. But he stuck with dance. He faithfully attended rehearsals, performed in parades, and competed in small scale local competitions because even if it wasn’t his passion, it was his ticket to finding out what his passion was. But it wasn’t as if he was completely indifferent to the sport, because he certainly wasn’t. He loved dancing and moving his body to the beat of music.

Vivirdian grew up in a small farming settlement that mostly grew certain kinds of melons and vegetables. There were only around 100 or so kids in the town and everybody knew everyone. It was nice in that life was quiet. They lived peacefully away from the bigger problems of the world. But with a small town came small opportunities. The future prospects for most people were narrowed to farming or other manual and domestic careers. For many that was enough, that was all they needed to be happy, but not Vivirdian. He didn’t feel content in this small dinky town. He felt like he was always searching for something more, something he’d only find in another place. But as few opportunities as there were here there were even fewer ways out, and dance was the most feasible way for Vivirdian.

He began spending most of his days in the studio, focusing on his technique and balance, working his way to the top. He quickly built up a reputation as a formidable athlete with an impeccable work ethic, capturing the eye of his instructors. Finally, after working endlessly towards this goal he reached it. His instructors helped him apply for Darius Laurel Academy of Dance in Eternia City, the capital of Ambrusia. This was it, this was his way out. He could hardly sleep after submitting his video application, anxious to learn the results. It took an entire cycle before finally he was given a response. He was invited to audition for a scholarship and admittance into their school for the new semester. He could hardly contain his excitement, telling anyone who would hold still long enough to listen. He was going to the city and he was going to be free.

He practiced his moves in every free moment, not wanting to take a single risk. How would the audition work? Nobody from his settlement had ever gone to the city before. What was it even like? He had a few photos and information from the library, but he’d been living a very cloistered, sheltered life here in Rubianna and the city was so different. What if it was too much? What if there were so many things that he never found his passion? No, he couldn’t think like that, he couldn’t psych himself out. Everything would be fine if he just danced the way he had been taught. He’d make the cut and then he’d be able to explore the world.

Finally the blessed day arrived. He packed up his things in the family’s old battered suitcase and waited with his family in the station to catch a Hover Track headed north. What seemed like half the town of Rubianna showed up to send him off. They carried banners and hugged him, congratulating him on his success and wishing him luck at his audition. He felt a little overwhelmed at the support from his community and the assurances that they’d be proud of him no matter what. He felt a little guilty as his mother gave him a last hug, kissing the tips of ears. Here everybody was cheering him on to pursue his dream, or what they thought was his dream.

“You’re going to become the world’s greatest dancer,” She had whispered in his ears, clutching him tight to her chest one last time. “You’re living up to your name sake you know.”

One of his ears twitched at those words. His name, a very old Rubian word that was rarely used outside of the southern settlements, meant ‘Life in flight’. He sighed, inhaling his mother’s scent one last time before hearing the announcer call his car number. He pressed his hands to the glass and waved one last time to his family as the cart rose up to the track. Just before the tracks cut off his line of sight he saw his mother turn away to cry into his father’s shoulder. He felt tears of his own well up in his eyes.

It was the last time he’d see most of them in person ever again.

He ended up spending the first half of the train ride sleeping, wanting to get used to the time change in Eternia, but when the hover track hit a bump he woke up with a start. Outside it was raining. Soft water droplets speckled the glass and dripped down the outside walls of the train, disappearing to the ground far below the tracks. Most of the other travelers, mostly Ambrusians dressed in business attire commuting from one settlement to the next, were fast asleep. He figured he might as well try to doze off again, but he couldn’t. He was too full of nervous energy. According to the clock he would be arriving in Eternia in just half a sun. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to get comfy, but all he felt was jittery. Finally he gave up on sleep and tried to find a way to keep himself busy for the rest of the evening.

The hover car itself was nothing special, not like the big fancy ones he saw the royal family use on the Broadcast. It was just a long hallway with seats lining the edges and large spacious windows. That gave a wonderful view of the rolling forests below them. Soft crystals served as a light source, though they were dimmed for the night at this time. His luggage was safely tucked away beneath his seat and his coat draped over his shoulders as a blanket. He reached beneath his seat and grasped the rough handle of his suitcase and pulled it out, hoping to find something to keep him entertained.

He’d packed a three of his favorite books (Avians of Ambrusia and a mystery novel from his youth) but the setting sun was robbing him of all his reading light. There was a scrap book his family and friends had put together but without light he wouldn’t be able to make out the pictures. Eventually he decided to stretch out on the cart floor. When he got overwhelmed stretching out his body helped him focus more on the present. To get the most out of stretching he was forced to control his breathing, focus on how the tendons flexed and pulled at his muscles, making sure he wasn’t overdoing it.

He propped his foot up on the seat and slid his opposite leg, lowering himself slowly to the carpeted floor until he could feel the burn in his hips. He let himself sink lower until… there. That was perfect. He took in a deep breath of air mentally counting the moments in his mind as he leaned forward.

His sister, Emadia, used to help him stretch out every day before and after school, helping him balance as he used bands to pull his foot upwards to the ceilings of their small cottage. She was the town’s only athletic medical specialist and was more than happy to help her baby brother. When his foot was high enough she’d run her gentle fingers over the delicate skin, ensuring the muscles were stretching the right way to avoid an injury that could set his progress back by entire cycles.

“Ya aviada pico, gulla, careful, my little bird,” She would say as she pressed his back forward a bit to help even out his weight. “If you rely too much on your dominant leg you risk straining or tearing it.”

He’d nod and shift his weight accordingly, thinking more of the gleaming city skylines he’d seen in school that day than of his stretching.

He wasn’t exactly the universe’s most skilled dancer, far from it actually. He wasn’t coordinated or graceful or strong, he wasn’t even that flexible really. All his skill he’d earned through just sticking with his classes. Yes, he had two Southern Settlement Championship titles to his name, but the south doesn’t have too many dancers to begin with and even fewer places to learn dance. To be honest he wasn’t sure how he even won those awards. They’d been in the symbolistic dance category, a genre of dance that focused purely on dances for festivals and ceremonies. It wasn’t a very popular division as most of the dances were comprised of very traditional steps and music. Most people preferred the exciting upbeat routines in the jambi or kanyadan division. But Vivirdian didn’t really see the appeal for it. Both divisions were focused on flexibility, stunting, or partner work, skills that did not come easily for him. He liked the steady movements of the symbolistic dances.

His instructor began giving him private lessons to help make up for the talent he didn’t posses. After all hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard. He’d have a new skill for Vivirdian to master as soon as they’d learned the last. He’d push Vivirdian to the limit in every practice, almost as if he was trying to find the breaking point, but Vivirdian didn’t have a breaking point. He was too invested in this to get discouraged by anything short of sudden limb amputation. When he stumbled in a new trick, tripped during a routine, or fell out of a turn he just stood back up and went at it again.

Come to think of it turns were always his work area. It was hard to get the power need to rotate and balance at the same time. It was a delicate balance and required more concentration than he had some days. If he pushed up with too much force he risked falling out of the turn or losing control. If he was too weak he wouldn’t be able to complete the move. The past few suns he’d worked on his turns relentlessly at every opportunity he could. It wasn’t uncommon to see him standing in front of their glass front cabinet (the closest things to a full length mirror they had in their house) and repeat the same turn again and again until he could hit it right.

And every time his mother saw him practicing she’d stop whatever she was doing and watch him, a look of pride swelling on her face. Every time he finished a move she’d clap and cheer for him. He would always give her a scolding look for disturbing his concentration, but really he was grateful for her support. Rubianna wasn’t exactly known for producing stunning talent and most parents weren’t very keen on encouraging pursuits in areas of the arts. With so few chances to break out and with so much work to do around the home it was considered wasteful to send your kid to an art, music, or dance class when they could be out in the fields. But his parents paid no mind to the disapproving looks they got when they introduced Vivirdian, still in his practicewear, and announced proudly that their son was a two time champion in symbolistic dance. Vivirdian was lucky to have parents like his.

He really was, they were so understanding and supporting of whatever far out dreams their children had. When Emadia had expressed her desire to attend a school of advanced study at a nearby settlement’s school of physical medicine and development they helped her earn the money needed to attend. Other parents would have talked their child into seeing the sense of staying on the farm. Why invest so much money and time into a farfetched career that may never repay the favor especially when there were plenty of perfectly fine job options right there in Rubiana?

He already missed his parents. Thinking about how much they had helped him, paying for extra lessons, calling him in sick for school when he’d really been at a competition. How they always smiled when he danced and bragged about him to all their friends. They didn’t force him to work in the fields like most other parents. As long as he helped out when he could they were fine with him skipping on melon pickling or weeding.

And he was leaving his family, his warm bed, his hometown, for a chance at a dream he didn’t even want. He essentially used his parents to get to the city for the slight chance of finding something that gave him a purpose. Everybody else had one. He just wanted to find his passion. His parents had been so supportive and even if he did attend the academy he was eventually going to let them down by leaving the program when he found his true calling.

If he found his true calling that was. No, he would find it. He needed to find it. No way was he going back to spend the rest of his life in a melon patch. He didn’t even like melons. They were too sweet for him.

He let out all the air in his lungs, sitting up straight again and switched his legs to stretch out his other side. Might as well stay loose. Who knew what the day held for him.

When Vivirdian arrived in Eternia City Station the next evening he spotted the representative from the Darius Laurel Academy immediately. For one he was tall, towering over just about everyone who passed by. For another he had the lightest skin Vivirdian had ever seen, light enough that he could make out the faint outline of veins beneath it. He knew people in the north did have much lighter skin than those in the south, but he hadn’t known it was quite this light. His copper colored hair glinted in the artificial lighting of the station and he held up the sign bearing the Darius Laurel insignia. He beamed at him as he wheeled his suitcase forward.

“Darius Laurel candidate?” She asked brightly. Her voice was slightly accented, though he couldn’t pinpoint from where exactly. Certainly not from any part of the south that was for sure.

He nodded, managing a nervous smile. “I’m Vivirdian Cohen, from the Rubianna.”

He set down her sign and whipped out a small glass square, thinner than a sheet of paper. Vivirdian’s eyebrows shot up as he tapped the screen and it lit up, words flashing across the screen. He touched little pictures of letters that had popped up at the base of the object and he watched in awe as they appeared at the top. Then the screen changed to show his dancer’s portrait, the one they’d gotten done just for the application. Next to his picture was a display of statistics. His weight, his height, distinguishing features, and a brief summary of his achievements.

“Yes, I think you are the only border this year for auditions from the south.” He said after a few moments of deliberation over the glass thing. “Most of the others from the north and west arrived two suns ago to acclimate before auditions, but I imagine there are not too many hover tracks headed from Rubianna to Eternia city.”

“What is that?” Vivirdian asked in awe, pointing to the strange object.

“Oh, this?” He said, raising an eyebrow and lifting the glass square. “It is a Helio Glass, have you not seen one before?”

He shook his head, staring in open mouthed wonder. Back home in Rubianna they didn’t have many electronic devices, they had no need for them. It wasn’t as if they had the systems in place to support the Access, they barely got the feed required to view the Broadcast every week. He’d heard of the advanced technology found in more developed areas, but he’d never seen one in person.

“If you get into the academy you will be given one to assist with your studies.” He said, putting the pad back in his Darius Laurel Academy of Dance bag. “My name is Lumen. I am currently enrolled in the advanced apprenticeship program at the Darius Laurel Academy and for the audition process I will be your mentor. If you will follow me I will show you to the vehicle we will be riding back to the boarding house at Darius.”

Vivirdian followed Lumen closely, not wanting to get lost in the huge crowd of people moving through Eternia City Hover Track Station. He felt the urge to reach out and grab Lumen’s hand, just to be sure, but didn’t think that would go over very well. After all he was 10 now, 11 in a few common months. He could not let himself be seen as a baby.

Lumen led Vivirdian over to where a few other children his age are standing with suitcases and sleepy eyes. He could tell from their medium complexions and bright shades of hair that most of them came from the east. There were a few light skinned northerners though. He smiled tentatively at a boy who only stared at him. Vivirdian looked away quickly, feeling his ears burn red. Was he not supposed to smile at strangers? He wasn’t sure about the customs of other settlements, but in Rubianna it had been custom to smile or even wave at everybody one met whether you knew their name or not. Was that not something they did in other places?

Vivirdian could feel the boy staring at him but didn’t dare turn around to look. He instead kept his eyes trained on Lumen who was talking to a stern looking woman, pointing at something on her Helio Glass. She nodded briskly and tapped something with her fingers, waving Lumen away. He walked over to where another group of older kids in similar ‘Darius Laurel Academy of Dance’ shirt stood and began chatting amiably with them. Most appear to be his age, though some are slightly older or younger. He realized they all must be students or apprentices training at the academy.

“Isn’t this just so surreal?” Gushed a girl beside him. “We dream all our lives about coming here, train day and night just to get selected, and here we are.”

He glanced over at her. He could tell from her bright, pastel pink hair and pale skin that she came from the north. Her hair was pulled back into a long pony tail, held back by a big bow.

“I mean guess,” He murmured quietly.

“I am sure your enthusiasm will return to you after we dance out some of our nerves,” She said sympathetically. “I am Jey, by the way. I hail from Opalle settlement not too far from Eternia. What about you?”

“Vivirdian Cohen, I’m from Rubianna.” He said, looking up at Jey. She wore a soft lilac shaded knit dress that went down to her knees. Her bag read ‘Opalle Center for Creative Movement’ it glittery letters and he could see the strap of a dance leotard peeking out beneath the dress. Her bright gray eyes widened instantly. “No way! You are the Vivirdian? The Vivirdian who has two symbolistic titles to his name?”

At this some of his teammates turn around, curious to see what the fuss was about. Vivirdian bit his lip and nodded slowly, staring at her in shock and wondering why she, or anybody else here, would know his name. She squealed, clapping her hands together excitedly.

“I saw your performance last year on the Access video storage!” She grinned, speaking rapidly, words tripping up over her tongue. “You were amazing! I cannot believe I am speaking to you. This is so unreal, oh my suns! Tore! You will not believe who this is!”

Suddenly kids crowded around him, asking questions about his dancing. How could control his body through his routines? How could he stand moving so slowly for so long? Did he ever get bored of the traditional steps? How did he get the power to perform his leaps? He tried answering their questions, feeling a little overwhelmed. His body control came from having to stay up in trees for so long during the orchard seasons when you can only judge the ripeness of the fruits by hanging upside down on branches above to get a clear view of the top. If it’s green it’s not ready, but if it’s orange it is. He actually liked moving slowly because it gave him more time to assess his movements and make sure he wasn’t getting off task and no, the traditional steps weren’t boring to him. Each had a special meaning and action that he loved interpreting. His leaps, well, he’d always been great at jumps. His legs were strong from working in fields, and again, to reach those branches he’d had to leap up high from the ground and then wrap his hands around the thick limbs. Then he’d have to hoist himself up and grapple the branches with his legs to climb up and get a good foot hold.

“Candidates!” The woman snaps and the kids turn their attention to her. “Before we leave for the boarding house I am going to call your names just to ensure you are all here safe and sound. Please say ‘here’ or ‘present’ when your name is called. Let us see… Rell Alvu?”

A boy with lightly tanned skin and soft blue hair piped up. “Here!”

The woman continues to read off names from a list on her Helio Glass. Mostly the names are single or double syllables, few are longer than that. Names in the upper, more developed settlements tend to be shorter, usually short forms of longer more traditional names. They’re definitely more modernized too, some even being just words that Vivirdian had no idea could be names, like Havoc and Day. He blinked in surprise when he first heard them. It’s not that they’re bad, he’s just not used to them yet. When his own name is called (“Vivirdian Cohen?”) he sees that the other candidates find his name to be just as odd to them and theirs were to him. A few mouth his name slowly, furrowing their brows and glancing around in confusion.

He cleared his throat and said weakly “Here,”. He felt the eyes of the other candidates flicker to him. This wasn’t a big deal, so why did he feel so panicky all of a sudden? He knew it wasn’t exactly common to see a dancer from the south, but it wasn’t something to gawk at.

He glanced up, just to see if they were still looking at him. They weren’t. He breathed a sigh of relief. Of course they wouldn’t be looking at him. They had more important things to focus on. He reminded himself if this as they walked to a bus to be taken to the boarding home. The boarding house itself is a huge mansion that lies on the sprawling grounds of Darius Laurel. The caretaker's, an elderly couple named the Jensens, inform them that the house once belonged to the founders of the academy several hundred years ago. It serves as the place of residence for all the first year students attending Darius Laurel academies.

Oh and that was the other thing, the Darius Laurel Academy isn’t just a dance school. It’s an advanced studies academy. Not only is there a Darius Laurel Academy of Dance, but there is also a Darius Laurel Academy of Art, Music, and Science. Each are dedicating to educating young Ambrusians in more extensive skills that they may have trouble finding lessons for in other settlements. The older students live in other boarding houses and dorms scattered across the campus and are encouraged to mix with the other academy kids. Something about diversity and well rounded friend groups, but when Vivirdian looked around the campus on their tour he didn’t see much diversity in friend groups. Kids in leotards stuck with other kids in leotards. Those hauling big instrument cases, large textbooks, and art folders huddled around like characters.

“If you are accepted into the dance academy you will attend your dance classes with your fellow candidates,” Mrs. Jensen said as they strolled through a sunny park that separated the school from the boarding homes and dorms. “But you will attend your academic classes with students from all four sections of the Darius Laurel students. You can also sign up for advanced courses in the other academies if you chose, not that I think many of you will.”

A few kids chuckled, but Vivirdian made a mental note to sign up for at least one course in each academy. The arts program in Rubianna had been practically nonexistent and while he doubted that’s where his passion was it was worth it to try.

The Jensens lead the small group of candidates through the campus. It was huge, much larger than even the upper school in Rubianna. It was comprised of several buildings that made up different parts of the school. There was a building for the music school, the art school, the science school, and the dance school each complete with the facilities to cater to their young charges. For example the science building was full of lab rooms, lecture halls, and a large library, the largest academic institution library in the world according to the Jensens. The music department and arts department were two identical buildings connected by a skybridge that crossed over a large courtyard. The dance building was the smallest, and contained several spacious studios, a large performance stage, and a tumbling facility. Vivirdian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the bright blue mats and foam pits.

“Never seen a tumbling mat before?” Jey asked with a little snicker, but it was more playful than malicious.

“Not one like this.” He breathed, staring longingly at the springy trampolines. In Rubianna they didn’t have this kind of equipment. He’d learned all his acrobatic moves on an old, battered mat from the local school’s movement classes.

After touring the special buildings they were given a tour of the academic facility that would ‘enrich the education of a young dancer and allow them to pursue any career after graduation’. The school was in an old building and looked like your traditional boarding school. It was probably built well before Vivirdian’s great grandparents’ grandparents were born, probably before that even. It was drafty, and some of the floorboards creaked a bit, and the keypads to open the doors weren’t always reliable as Mrs. Jensen proved when they were locked in the school’s cafeteria.

“Of course you will not be eating in here during the audition process,” She said, her voice becoming more shrill with anxiety as she kept tapping frantically at the keypad. “All your meals will be either at the boarding home or over in the studios.”

Vivirdian stifled his laughter as he watched her frantically try to remain calm whilst attempting to get the doors to work. Maybe he shouldn’t have laughed, but it was a ridiculous sight to him and it made him appreciate the simplistic way of life he was used to in Rubianna. They didn’t have many automatic doors, just the old fashioned hinge and handle. He’d heard of all this technology in the city spoken of with a tone of reverence and awe, but now he saw that despite how impressive it sounded it was just a hunk of metal when it didn’t work. Better to have a more reliable if somehow less convenient way of life.

“It is not funny!” Jey hissed in a frightened whisper. “If she cannot get the door to open again we shall be trapped here until somebody can release us!”

“My apologies,” Vivirdian mumbled softly.

“No need to apologize,” Sniffed a boy with a tone of mock sympathy. “You southern simpletons would not be able to comprehend such complex machines.”

Vivirdian felt rage well up inside of him. He longed to lash out against this boy, teach him a thing or two about ‘southern simpletons’, but he repressed it. He hadn’t been given the rules lecture yet, but he was sure it barred him from punching a fellow candidate even if that candidate was being a brat. He settled for a glare instead, making eye contact for a moment before turning away listening to Jey scold them for being ‘rude and intolerant of other’s ways of life’.

He’d show them. He’d show them all.

The next morning Vivirdian was handed what Mr. Jensen called a ‘bib number’ It read ‘89’ in big print and in smaller letters below his name and settlement.

Vivirdian Cohen

Rubianna

He carefully pinned it his front and headed down to the commons area where other kids are congregating. Most are as pale as Lumen. They vaguely remind Vivirdian of a congregation of those life sized circulatory system skeletons come to life and wearing leotards and shorts. Their hair is a mix of odd shades, ranging from bright yellow to vivid lilac to deep ocean blue. The north and east have those odd shades, leaving the more natural shades of brown, red, blonde, and the rare black or gray. His own hair sticks out both in this group of kids and back home. It’s a brilliant shade of white, brighter than snow and a little long compared to the others.

He stood out in a few more ways from his peers here. Most of these young dancers have a uniform body shape, tall and slender with supple limbs. He is a little short, not by much, but it’s definitely noticeable. His shoulders and hips are broad and he’s much more muscular from working in the fields. As far as he can tell he’s the only one with a deep skin tone as well. He spots a few dancers sporting medium complexion, but their skin is still much fairer compared to his own.

He suddenly felt a little intimidated as he waded through the sea of young dancers, each a perfect pale doll. They wear bright leotards and tights with fresh shoes and neatly combed hair. He looks down at his appearance and finally understands what his mother meant when she complained about being underdressed for an occasion. He was just wearing an old white shirt with his favorite pair of black shorts. His shoes are nearly a year old. He can see the seams coming apart at the soles, threatening to fall apart any day now. He decides that his appearance shouldn’t matter. At the end of the day they were giving slots to those who could dance, not color coordinate their outfits. He still makes a mental note to ask Lumen where he can purchase a new set of dancing shoes.

The stern looking instructor swooped on them from a hallway, snapping at them for being loud. She instructed them all to follow her to a studio to begin warm ups. The candidates have mutually decided that she is not one to cross and follow her instructions, chittering quietly with one another as they walk through the halls. Vivirdian walked alone, staring at the floor, speaking with no one. He stayed silent as they grouped up in numerical order in a studio and began stretching out for warm ups. He couldn’t risk getting distracted.

“Congratulations,” The woman said, looking at each and every candidate with beady eyes. “You are currently part of the 100 candidates we hand selected from over 5,000 video applications we received for this audition season. This number will be slowly reduced throughout the week until we are left with only 24 students, 12 girls and 12 boys. Furthermore there will be two partial scholarships and one full scholarship available for dancers who demonstrate flawless technique, commanding stage presence, and an advanced skill set. Earning a slot on our roster will be difficult enough, earning a scholarship will be near impossible. Prepare yourselves, the events of today will be the most important of your young dancing careers.”

Only after that little speech did she introduce herself as the head of Artistic Direction and preferred if you called her Ms. Bussel, not Miss Bussel, not Mrs. Bussel, Ms. Bussel. She was tall like many of the mentors Vivirdian had seen, with pale skin and skin that was beginning to wrinkle. She wore a long black skirt over her leotard and her silvery hair was pulled back into a tight bun held together with quite an alarming number of pins. She led them through warm ups, displaying an impressive amount of flexibility for someone so aged.

They were each partnered up for stretches with somebody according to their size, and since Vivirdian was the smallest boy he ended up being paired with the smallest girl: Jey. It meant spending a lot of time with Jey, time that when not spent dancing was filled with her chatter. She didn’t seem to mind that Vivirdian didn’t talk much, and Vivirdian didn’t mind that she did. She talked a lot about her life back home in Opalle. Through her mostly one-sided conversation Vivirdian learned a lot about life beyond the southern settlements.

Apparently dance and the arts were much bigger up here than he thought they were. Jey had been horrified when he informed her that he was the only one of his family to dance and that most of his family were farmers and had never even picked up a brush. When she asked why they hadn’t studied art in school he had to explain that art just wasn’t a subject offered in the local Rubianna school. Since school days were already cut short during the harvest season to allow kids to head home and help out with the melon picking, they didn’t need to clutter up the day with unnecessary lessons like music, art or dance. If you really wanted to study those topics there were ways you could such as clubs or other recreational venues, not there were many of either of those options in a small place like Rubianna otherwise.

As they went through partner work Jey informed him that in the more developed settlements everyone was required to take up an extracurricular study of some sort. Dance was a popular choice since it was easy to do. If you can move you can dance. She also said that dance offered the most opportunities to get out of class for competitions, recitals, and costume fittings.

“And obviously that attracts a lot of kids,” Jey said fixing her bun in one of the large mirrors.

“Less chatter more stretching Jey,” Jey’s mentor chastised, a smile playing at her lips. Jey’s mentor was a senior named Via who was soft spoken but she was not afraid to call one of them out when they messed up in their duet, but she was patient too.

“Right! My apologies!” Jey said lifting her back leg for Vivirdian. Vivirdian guided her foot up back to her free hand and placed a supporting hand under her thigh, helping her balance and lock out as she pulled her leg up into a needle stretch. She then pulled her foot even farther to overextend her leg and get a bigger stretch. Vivirdian realized Jey was incredibly flexible even by dancer standards.

As Vivirdian looked around the room he realized just how behind the other candidates he was. His body was more built for working in fields and other forms of manual labor rather than bending and stretching. As a dancer it did give him the benefit of being more durable. His body could stand more wear and tear than the slender forms of his instructor, but here it was working against him. He simply couldn’t twist or bend his body in ways the other candidates could. It wasn’t physically possible, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

After a little while more of stretching and warmups Ms. Bussel called for a break and Vivirdian let out a sigh of relief. His feet were stinging from dancing so much. He slipped down to sit on the floor and rubbed his feet through the fabric of his shoes.

“If your feet hurt it might be because the box of your shoe is dying.” Jey said sitting beside him.

Vivirdian looked down and saw with dismay that she was right. There were new creases in the box of his shoe from the stress of dancing in the exact same pair for so long. The seams were splitting and the box wasn’t able to support him when he went up on his toes. He slipped it off and frowned, turning the worn shoe over in his hand.

“I don’t have another pair,” He said quietly and Jey gaped at him.

“Why did you fail to bring another pair?” She asked in a horrified whisper. “Especially if these were in such bad condition to begin with? Surely even in a place like Rubianna you can find some.”

“It’s not that I didn’t bring another pair,” He scowled, annoyance pricking at the back of his neck. “It’s that I physically don’t have another pair. Rubianna doesn’t have very many dance supply stores as it is an underdeveloped settlement.”

He turned away from her, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d only been here a day and he just wanted to go home, finding his passion be damned. Nobody at home cared that they didn’t have advanced technology, nobody was obsessed with dance shoes, and nobody made fun of anyone for where they came from. He supposed part of it had to do that not many people were from anywhere else, but it wasn’t as if they poked fun at the few strangers they did get either.

Jey seemed to realize she’d struck a nerve. Her face softened a bit and she rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. “My apologies Vivirdian, I did not mean for it to sound like a jab at your place of upbringing.”

He felt a bit of his frustration and anger melt away. “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

“You know,” Jey scooted next to him and put her foot next to Vivirdian’s for comparison. The white fabric of her new shoes made the dirt stick out in Vivirdian’s old ones. “My feet look to be the same size as yours. You could try wearing some of my shoes.”

“You sure?” He asked as she grabbed her bag and rummaged around inside.

“Of course!” She grinned producing a pair of new white slipper. She scooched down and began to untie the shoe on this feet and slip on the new ones. “We are friends, and that means we help each other.”

He pondered this, flexing and pointing his feet to see how these new shoes fit. Jey had been right, they were about the same size. She nodded approvingly as his toes wiggled in the box of the shoe.

“But aren’t we competing against each other?” He asked, getting to his feet to test them out.

“I mean,” She chewed her lip in thought, scrunching up her freckled nose. “Technically we are, but that should not prevent me from helping somebody when I can.”

“Oh,” Vivirdian mumbled, performing a turn. “Thanks Jey. They feel great.”

“You are welcome!” She beamed standing up and twirling to make her sheer skirt flutter up as she moved.

Just then Ms. Bussel called them over, marking the end of their stretching and warm ups.

“First we will be learning one dance together as a group,” Ms. Bussel said cooly. “Then each of you will perform this dance in front of several judges who will determine whether or not you are a good fit for the Darius Laurel Academy of Dance. As I said, we are looking for hard workers with good technique as opposed to who can perform the most turns or the most difficult jumps. Because of that we’ve chosen a genre that reflects the qualities we are looking for as opposed to the gaudy, flashy styles of today’s modernized dance world. You will each be learning a symbolistic routine, the Yam Waltz!”

A murmur ran through the group of candidates at Ms. Bussel’s words. Symbolistic dance was not well liked as a genre as it was generally without leaps or super fast movements. As a result many kids avoided learning symbolistic dances even though it was probably the easiest division if you didn’t mind moving slowly and reworking the same traditional movements over and over again with little to no variation. Many kids voiced their displeasure in this through soft grumbling to neighbors, but Vivirdian did not partake in it. For the first time since arriving at Darius Laurel his heart began to soar. He was good at symbolistic dances, two championship titles good. Without all the fancy tricks and weird steps he was on an even playing field with these candidates who actually had the talent. He might just have a chance at doing this after all.

#voltron #klance #klance fic #bnw #brave new world

0 notes

theairportau · 7 years

Text

the airport AU, part 120 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

CHRISTINE

Darius turns, and, still smiling, Christine hurries to follow. Despite their destination, her feet feel much lighter. The path towards the checkout counter still stretches ahead with all the uncertain promise of a frozen lake—but despite her worry, it doesn’t crack underfoot, and each step forward reassures her about the ones to follow. By the time the small cluster of cash registers comes into sight, Christine has changed her mind about leaving the skirt. And when Darius suggests that checking out would be a good opportunity to practise her French, her relief is nearly complete.

She nods in quick agreement at the idea, trying not to look *too* grateful as she says, “Yeah, I ought to try to do it myself. First, at least."

As they join the checkout queue, she keeps herself from looking too closely at the items that line it. The owner at her old shop had once gone on an improvement kick and read a few books on the psychology of store design; Christine remembers how the older woman had explained it to her and the other girls: the way the items closest to the register are chosen to snare the attention of people waiting in line, to entertain them until their turn at the register—and to hopefully accompany them there. Her arms already full—and unwilling to test her conscience any further—she finds it entertaining enough to simply watch Darius.

It strikes her suddenly how *normal* the moment is—shopping in a mall like anyone else, without worrying too much about what she’s buying; waiting in line with a friend, the way her old co-workers probably did whenever they’d gone out together. Darius laughs as he crowns her curls with the large, almost-silly hat, and the laugh she gives in return is as comfortable as if he were her own brother instead of someone she only met days ago. When the cashier calls him away, she nearly wishes that she’d chosen to stay with him instead of checking out on her own.

In the handful of moments before the other cashier beckons her, Christine’s thoughts go to Erik: Darius essentially *is* family to him, but she doubts that he’s experienced even a handful of such moments himself.

Even as she feels certain that the bright, noisy, crowded atmosphere of the mall would hold any appeal to Erik, she wishes that he could somehow be there with them—that he could just have a piece of this *feeling*.

The cashier is older than the girl who offered to help her before—a young man with sandy hair, who smiles and says something cordial-sounding as Christine hands her bundle of items across the counter. There must be some uncertainty in the nod she gives in response—or maybe a nod just isn’t a fitting answer to whatever he has said: without missing a beat, the cashier speaks again, this time in what she knows enough merely to *recognize* as English.

"Oh, non,” Christine says, her tone apologetic, “je ne peux pas parler en–an–anglais; je suis *suédoise*.” Though he seems mildly surprised, the cashier gives an understanding smile, and a nod of his own, and continues with ringing up her purchases.

The rest of the transaction goes more smoothly than she might have hoped. Even when she hands the cashier €100 more than necessary, it only takes a moment for her to make herself understood; along with the actual change from her purchases, she’s able to add a manageable mix of tens and twenties to her wallet.

Zipping her purse back up, she gathers up her bags with a sincere, “Merci!”

“Bonne journée,” the cashier nods pleasantly, before turning to wave over the next customer.

Darius is already waiting by the door—the other cashier having moved through two other transactions in the time it took for Christine’s own. As she walks up to him, she pulls the jacket out of its bag, shrugging it over her shoulders. It clashes with the dark green knit of her dress, but neither the dress nor the mall itself is overly warm, and now that she’s found such a lovely jacket she wants to *wear* it. Besides, as the cashier counted out her change she’d gotten an idea.

“I’m ready to go,” Christine says brightly, tugging at the front edges of the jacket to straighten it. “I decided to get the skirt after all, so I don’t really need to buy any other clothes at the moment. Before we go, though, could you do me a favour?” Shifting the bags in her other hand, she digs her phone out of her purse. “Could you take a picture of me in it?”

---

DARIUS

Darius can’t help the excitement that washes over his face at the idea of taking pictures. “Of course!” he exclaims, and ushers her over towards a quieter corner, where he has he stand a few feet away while he takes at least ten different shots of her standing in her new coat, even pausing at one point to brush a piece of lint off of her collar before backing up again to take a few more. “You should show that kind old woman you talk to,” he says happily. “If she doesn’t use computers, we can even print them out and mail them to her, it’s plenty easy to do that, it just takes a little longer… that should be enough pictures for you to take a good one. But wait,” he says, moving his hand as she goes to retrieve her phone, “we should take a couple together! Here, come stand next to me!” He ushers Christine close to his side and holds the phone up to take a few more photos, beaming into the camera. It feels wonderful, to be out with a friend and doing something so normal. He hasn’t had a friend close to his age in such a long time. He’s used to the malls and the crowds, but only ever alone, feeling somewhat out of place as packs of teenagers roam together and families hold hands walking down the aisles. It really makes a difference to be with somebody. Khan doesn’t like going to malls or anything like that- if he needs anything, he goes directly to the store he wants and directly home. It isn’t often that an outing is actually fun. He passes her phone back to her after a few pictures. “I want to at least show you what the surface looks like around here a little bit,” he says. “Not exactly a tour of Paris if you don’t even see sunlight. There’s a park right nearby, we can drink a coffee and have a snack there, it’s getting close to midday,” he says, leading them back into the flow of people, headed up towards the mall’s exit.

---

CHRISTINE

A few yards away, the interior of the store is hung with over-sized images of sleekly-dressed models, elegantly showing off jackets and scarves and dresses of their own; in contrast, Christine practically trips forward into her impromptu photo-shoot. She isn’t exactly *surprised* by the whirlwind that replaces her friend the moment he hears the word ’picture’—but she hadn’t been *expecting* it, either, and it takes her a moment to regain her balance as he darts around with her phone. If she feels unsteady for a moment, though, it’s a *good* kind of unsteadiness—like the dizzy reel of a carnival ride; as he snaps her requested pictures, there’s no need for Darius to remind her to ‘smile’. (And no need to ruin the pleasant moment with attempts to explain the intricacies of what Mama does and doesn’t know.)

Christine trusts Darius, and is content when he pronounces that the pictures he’s taken should be enough; is happy just to have those few photos, and reaches to take back her phone with a grateful grin—only to be knocked off balance yet again.

She follows Darius’ gesture to his side, her eyes darting upward towards the phone as he turns it to face them; their smiling faces beam back from the glossy screen, and, in her own eyes, Christine can catches a flash of the surprise that hasn’t yet faded. The image seizes, freezing for a fraction of a second, the moment imprinted instantly on the memory of the phone, and by the time Darius is able to hit the button a second time Christine’s smile has grown even brighter.

She’d forgotten how *fun* it could be, just taking pictures with a friend.

When he finally *really* returns her phone, and they begin to walk again, it’s all she can do to put her phone back in her purse instead of immediately looking at the photos.

“I’m *ready* to go out there now,” she says cheerfully, gesturing at her new jacket, “And maybe I’ll actually *get* to see some sunlight this time!"

Luckily, the nicer weather from earlier that morning has held, and Christine and Darius emerge from the mall into a crisp, clear autumn day, the sun reflecting like gold against the yellow trees.

Every which way she looks, her eye seems to land on interesting things, places that she’s never been or seen before. Leaving the glass-paneled facade of the shopping center behind, Darius leads her up a narrow road that traces the edge of an expansive construction site; the mall had seemed massive to begin with, but now Christine realises that the building they’d been inside must be only the first phase of a much larger project, the yet-in-progress development sprawling across a cluttered lot on the other side of the fence that lines her and Darius’ path. On the opposite side of the street, a great Gothic church rises up before them, like some sort of ironic counterpoint to the newborn modernity of the shopping center. Christine cranes her head back as they step over the toes of the great building, which Darius points out as L’église Saint-Eustache, her eyes drawn to meet those of the gargoyles that stare down from the soaring limestone edifice.

The walk to the park ends up being both longer and shorter than she would have guessed; Christine could have spent hours walking down that sett-paved street, and still she would have regretted its eventual end.

That isn’t to say, though, that the *park* is a disappointment to her when they reach it: lying in the shadow of the magnificent dome of the Bourse de Commerce, it’s a comparatively simple space, consisting mainly of a sparsely-treed stretch of grass broken up by a number of paths and raised benches—but after days of seeing only stone and asphalt, the autumn-dulled green of the patch-worked lawn seems like a special marvel.

Here, too, there are signs of on-going construction and renovation. She supposes that the location of the park must make it a popular one in milder seasons—but a fair few people are scattered across the grass and benches even now, clearly determined to enjoy the break from the rain; across the way, through a cluster of shrubbery, she hears the sounds of children playing.

Darius knows his way around here as well as he has everywhere else he’s taken her, and before long they’re standing in line in a small cafe at the edge of the park, with the plan to grab a snack and drink to carry out and enjoy in the open air. With her newly-changed money, there’s no hassle for Christine as she orders and pays for a pastry and tea. Stepping aside to let Darius make his own order—and to give a moment for the harried employees to work their way through the rush of midday customers—she’s finally able to spare the attention to look back at the new photos of her phone..

At the first sight of the ones of herself with Darius, Christine feels the tug of another smile pulling at her face; it only warms further as she scrolls through each photo—thinking of a day when her phone might hold many such pictures, each a happy memory between herself and her friends.

As much as she’d like to devote more time to that pleasant thought, though, there’s something she needs to do; she hadn’t asked for the pictures for no reason. Flipping backwards through the photos, she finds those of her on her own—standing against a blank wall outside the H&M, happily swathed in her new grey jacket. Quickly, she weeds through them—brushing aside the first few, her eyes too-wide and shoulders hunched awkwardly; another in which she’d blinked; another taken in the middle of an answer to something Darius had said. She finally settles on one of the very last pictures to be taken: her pose neutral, relaxed but for the fingers caught twisted in the faux-lambskin trim of the jacket, her smile bright and proud.

The interface of the phone is thankfully very intuitive, and it only takes a moment or two for her to figure out how to attach a photo to a text message.

'Hej, Erik! Hoppas det går bra idag. Också—tack för min ny jacka! :)’

As she hits ‘send’, she feels a familiar flicker of worry that she might be disturbing his rest (even if it seems incredibly unlikely that he would still be *asleep* at such a late hour). But even more than that, she wants to *include* him in the outing in some way—and how better than to remind and thank him for his own contribution to it?

---

DARIUS

For Darius, watching Christine is more fun than watching his surroundings. He’s used to Paris by now- the commotion and the construction, flocks of tourists and locals trying to get through. Tehran had been similar, in that way, at least. It was busy. He knows that Christine’s experience has been quite different, and her pale eyes seem wonderstruck. He can almost see the workings of her brain, trying to process so much sensory information. It must be overwhelming. He is confident in where he’s going- in this area of the city, at least- so he doesn’t need to pay that much attention to anything else.

He’s definitely feeling hungry, though, and is grateful when he sees the familiar cafe set up on the edge of the park- a bit overpriced, but nothing more than one would expect in a touristy area. He absent-mindedly orders a drink with a shot of espresso, and a slice of pumpkin bread to eat at one of the benches, his attention still mostly on Christine, who has moved off to the side to wait for her order. When he turns fully to the barista, prepared to give her his money, he pauses, and smiles. Her sleeves are rolled up, and brilliant tattoos of translucent jellyfish flow up both of her forearms; he looks up at her and mentions them, telling her that they’re lovely as he passes his payment over to her.

She smiles in return. “You got any?” she asks, tapping numbers into the register almost without looking at it, with the ease and experience of someone who has worked in the same place for a long time.

Darius shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

She doesn’t ask for further explanation; just smiles and goes about making his drink. He walks over to Christine and touches her arm lightly, gesturing to the barista with some enthusiasm, unaware that she’s texting Erik.

“I like her tattoos. It’s so interesting, what people put on them. I wish I could get one sometimes,” he says, mostly for the sake of making idle talk as they wait for their drinks and food.

Khan’s sleep is plagued by nightmares- the inescapable feeling of bones crumbling and cracking under his hands, no matter how tenderly he attempts to touch something; a young man’s face, unnaturally blue with bulging eyes, blood just managing to trickle out of his mouth, which is wide open in a noiseless scream- hardly more than a child, but Khan’s hands are on him, and he knows that this boy will never make another noise. No screams, no laughter, no last words. It goes on and on- he won’t stop struggling, a beached fish, flailing for his life, and Khan’s relentless grip won’t fail.

He wakes up with tears in his eyes, and lies perfectly still for a long time, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling. Trying not to think about anything.

Finally, his concern for Erik begins to overtake the lingering traces of his dreams; if he had to take that on, to give sleep to his companion, perhaps it was worth it.

His feet are noiseless on the carpeted floor, and he peers cautiously into Erik’s room, the door still left a bit ajar, just in time to see the screen light up. Luckily, the phone is on silent; in the brief moment of light, he sees Erik’s face near the edge of the bed, his lips just barely parted and his brow relaxed- at peace.

It isn’t often that he gets to see Erik in any state of peace. He has hardly moved since Khan left the room, still curled up impossibly small in his enormous bed, his breathing still even and deep. The light from the phone, however, also illuminates the angry red irritation of the cut across Erik’s face. It’s not exactly a surprise to Khan- wearing a mask over an injury isn’t an ideal way to help it heal- but he makes a mental note to get a better look at it. There is very little that is actually worth waking Erik over when he manages to fall into a decent sleep. Overall, it’s a relief- it has always been a relief, seeing him manage to relax. Back in Iran, his ordeal hadn’t felt over until he’d seen Erik in a hospital bed, fixed to so many machines but at peace for the very first time. It had been a feeling beyond description back then.

He never could have imagined in those days that years later, he’d still be struggling to get this impossible man to let his guard down and get some rest.

He turns reluctantly away from the door- no good to stand and stare at him, and risk coughing or sneezing in the doorway or something, and wake him up. He shuffles back to the guest room and takes his own phone off the nightstand, figuring that he’d better let Darius know the situation.

I’m awake. Was up late. Erik is doing well. Still asleep.

He sends the text and brings the phone with him to the kitchen, where he sets about preparing food for when Erik wakes up. He won’t get away with not eating while Khan is around.

---

CHRISTINE

“Oh?” Christine looks up with an interested smile, sliding her phone back into her bag. She glances back across at the barista, not having noticed the tattoos in her distraction while paying for her order; though the distance blurs the design ever so slightly in her vision, she can tell that they do appear to be particularly nice. There isn’t time for her to react with more than an appreciative hum, as one of the other employees calls for Christine to come pick up her drink—followed quickly by Darius’—but she turns to him to continue the conversation as they carry their snacks and cups out of the cafe.

“Why don’t you, if you want one?” she asks, pausing a moment to hold the door open with her shoulder as another customer passes on her own way inside. It’s the sort of question that Christine ordinarily might not have asked, painfully aware of how easily the answer might be, “because I can’t afford it”; but she’d spent enough time around her former co-workers to know that tattoos can be had quite cheaply, or even free—and anyway, Darius’ tone doesn’t speak of that kind of concern.

---

DARIUS

Darius directs them to a little wrought iron table to the side of the cafe once they exit, ready for a break after the morning’s shopping. He tucks his bags underneath his chair and takes a long sip of his drink before addressing her question.

“It’s kind of a religious thing? I don’t know. It’s not technically forbidden, but tattoos weren’t really looked on as a good thing when I was growing up. And they’re so permanent, it’s a hard thing for me to commit to. I know Khan wouldn’t approve. Of course, I’m always doing things Khan doesn’t necessarily approve of, but not things that last for the rest of my life. I don’t think I even know what I’d want if I did get one,” he admits, shrugging. “And obviously, Khan doesn’t have any. Erik has one professionally done one, though. He has a big hawk on one of his arms. And he used to do a lot of tattooing himself- it drove Khan crazy, he was always really worried about infections. I was too, to be honest, but he told us over and over again that he’d be careful. I guess that if you use a regular needle and some ink, you can tattoo yourself. Those ones are all pretty much faded away now, though. At least, any that I knew of. He had a Scorpio sign on one wrist, and Sagittarius on the other. He always tries to get Khan to acknowledge astrology,” he says, a bit of a laugh in his voice as he takes another sip from his drink.

He looks up from the table, and gestures to Christine. “Now what about you, though? Have you ever wanted any?”

---

CHRISTINE

It surprises her to learn that *Erik* would have tattoos—let alone a professional one; that he would have sat and bared any part of himself to a stranger with a needle in hand. She can’t find anything to say about the revelation, though—her thoughts turning too-easily to the more noticeable aspects of his arms, of his wrists, as well as to the deeper pattern of risky behaviour—and she lets the information pass without comment.

Darius’ question is safer ground. Christine shakes her head as she unwraps the wax paper folded around her pastry. “I’ve never really given it much thought, I guess. They’re really common back home, but, for me, there’s just…always been more important things to worry about. And, I mean, it’s probably better that way, considering the line of work I’m trying to get into,” she grins behind her paper cup.

It’s *nearly* the whole truth. Between scrimping and saving and planning for the future, few things could have seemed more foolish of an investment. Even without those concerns, though, she knows she probably would have kept her distance from any tattoo needles.

When the other shop girls had pricked designs into their ankles, they’d done so with a cluster of friends around to hold their hands and help them laugh through the pain. When her schoolmates had pressed their noses against tattoo parlour windows, making semi-imaginary choices from the flash on display on the walls, they’d been similarly accompanied. Alone–and with no great desire to emulate people who were perfectly happy to leave her on the sidelines—Christine had never really seen the appeal.

But it’s a nice morning, and Darius doesn’t need to listen to her complain about things that are firmly in the past. It doesn’t matter anymore: she’s moved on to more important lessons, and, if all goes according to plan, she need never share a cash register with her former co-workers again.

More worthy of thought are the new companions—the *friends*—that she has found *here*.

---

(Part 121)

#/airport AU

14 notes · View notes

theairportau · 7 years

Text

the airport AU, part 119 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

---

DARIUS

The smile that Darius offers in return is tinged with an unusual sadness. “I am happy here,” he agrees. “I just wish it were that simple for everyone else- here, this is our stop.” He ushers Christine off of the train, walking just behind her to be certain not to lose her as a new wave of people enter, moving the opposite direction. They emerge onto a platform that smells of old food and wet stone, and he motions for her to follow him as he heads towards the gate; once the noise of the crowd fades, he continues speaking. “I’m happy, but I know that Khan isn’t. He couldn’t bear being in Iran any longer, but spends every day missing it. I don’t know if there’s a place in the world right now where he could really be happy. Paris is isolating to him, though. And with what happened the other day, he’s only retreated more in the past few days.” He isn’t certain whether he can make Christine understand what he sees every day- has been seeing for years now. She never knew him as he was. He remembers Khan being athletic and cunning, constantly moving, always doing something- now, more often than not, Khan spends his days sitting in a chair, watching things that he doesn’t care about on television and waiting for Erik to have a problem. Without Erik as his project, Darius fears that Khan might fade into nothingness. He seems like a shadow of a person sometimes, just barely moving around the apartment. And Darius feels so helpless watching him- no word of comfort seems to make any difference. Day by day, he deteriorates, collapsing in on himself in a private struggle that Darius has no ability to aid him in. “I swear,” he sighs. “Khan will talk all day about the help that Erik should be getting, but he would never accept any help for himself. It got worse when we got to Paris, I guess, but nothing in Iran helped him, either.” He sets his jaw for a moment, attempting to clear his head. He wanted today to be about having a good time with Christine, but some issues just seem to permeate every facet of his life- and he has so few people to talk to candidly about it. He forces a smile that seems a bit more optimistic. “It’s a lot, I don’t mean to spill it all on you. Out of everyone here, I’m just sorry you got picked by the most dysfunctional trio in Paris,” he says, really only half-joking in an attempt to lighten the mood.

---

CHRISTINE

As the spartan grey concrete of the train platform slowly gives way to bright glass and steel, Christine is quiet, only giving the occasional nod when Darius looks across at her; the way she sees it, she’s said enough already. Memories nudge at the edge of her mind, but sharing them would be too presumptuous—too painful. She’s left walking a delicate line: listening closely, trying to give her friend’s worries the full attention that they merit—but at the same time, trying to keep herself from thinking too deeply on what he is telling her. She sweeps her gaze over their new surroundings, trying to distract herself from the painful knot welling up in her throat; here, too, decoration for the holidays has begun, and the sight of a strand of Christmas lights sends Christine’s eyes to the floor again.

Maybe Darius picks up on the things that she isn’t saying; or maybe he regrets the turn of conversation for his own sake, his eyes sad and distant and reminding Christine, ever so briefly, of those of the man of whom he speaks—a resemblance born of shared pain, if not shared blood. Whatever the case, he tugs his expression into a new smile; apologizes; clearly trying to shake the pall of the past few minutes. Christine has the grace to offer a small smile of her own at his joke, but the overall look speaks more of sympathy than it does amusement.

“Even if you *were*,” she rebuts, in a tone lighter than she feels, “I wouldn’t wish to have been picked by anyone else.”

---

DARIUS

Finally, the returning smile feels natural rather than forced, as they push away from the upsetting nature of their conversation. “Well. Maybe it’s a bit selfish, but we’re all certainly glad that you’re here,” he says to her, and takes a few steps to the side before stopping to look around at their surroundings. They’ve made their way properly into the mall, and here, there are no strange looks for conversation in a different language- tourists from all over the world wander the vast halls with shopping bags. The murmur of conversation is everywhere, bright bursts of laughter standing out like rays of light. People lean against railings and take pictures together, giggling and making faces; it always brightens Darius’ mood to see such crowds of people. “Paris has such wonderful decorations for Christmas,” he says, gesturing to the festive garlands that have begun to appear around the area. “I love to look at all of it, even if I don’t celebrate it. The streets are beautiful when it snows, and there are lights everywhere- it really makes a dreary season so much more tolerable,” he says, motioning for her to follow him as he starts moving through the crowd, going slowly to be certain that she doesn’t fall behind or get lost. “Even without the holidays close, this place is a lot to take in. This place has everything. So you’re not going to be the only one shopping today,” he says good-naturedly. “I haven’t been out for clothes in a long time, so we’ll both get some new things.”

---

CHRISTINE

For a moment, she envies him—able to enjoy the colourful trappings of the holiday from a safe distance; appreciating each light and piece of tinsel for its own merits, without the ache of the things that *should* have been there. At the same time, his enthusiasm helps to draw her thoughts away, reminding her of how much there still is *to* appreciate. She smiles again as she follows Darius forward into the babble of shoppers.

It’s hard to believe that this *isn’t* a routine trip for him; even putting aside the fact that he always seems to be dressed like someone out of a magazine, Darius seems as comfortable amongst the upscale shops as he does back on his own street. For her part, Christine feels out of her depth. On all sides, expensive-looking goods shine from behind walls of plate glass—with even-more-expensive-sounding names hanging overhead; a few familiar logos jump out amidst the tangle of French, but none are places that she could have afforded to consider shopping at before now. Her eyes trail across the window of each shop as they pass, and she lets herself imagine actually *buying* the things she can see on offer; reminds herself that that *isn’t* such a far-fetched idea, after all, anymore.

“I’d…like to find a jacket,” she says, her voice sounding unsure in her own ears; light glints from a display of brilliant, cut-crystal figurines, echoed in the flash of Christine’s eyes as she turns them towards Darius. “I mean…I don’t *have* to get one *here*. But… Everything else I need is really basic—just a couple of shirts, maybe a spare pair of jeans. I can find them somewhere else. I can find *a jacket* somewhere else. But…it would be nice to find, well, a *nice* one,” she finishes, sounding no more certain than she had to begin with—and doubting that she’s making half as much sense.

---

DARIUS

As clear as it may be in her voice and disposition, Darius is at a level of distraction that does not allow him to absorb Christine’s uncertainty. The suggestion of shopping for a jacket sounds like perfect fun to him; he replies with his usual cheer. “Of course!” he says. “There’s no shortage at all of places to get nice jackets here, I’m sure you’ll find something you like. Here, we can start right in here.” He leads Christine gently by the arm into the nearest clothing store, an H&M. It’s a good start, he thinks- he shops there, anyway. Plus, he has no concept of how much money Christine has. If he took a moment to consider it, he may have realized that it would be of some comfort to her that he expects Erik to have given her money. He knows as well as anyone that Erik is predisposed to give vast amounts of material wealth and to the people he cares about, occasionally in place of a functional understanding of how friendships actually work. But he isn’t thinking about the potential awkward situation that it could cause for her- he is focused on shopping, and his own budget. And the display of slim-fit patterned shirts to his left as he enters the store. The majority of the store is women’s clothing, so he points a few basic areas out to Christine and giving her instructions to meet her by the dressing rooms before disappearing into the men’s section. The sound of conversation is muted here, and blocked a bit by the music coming through the speakers. It is a bit more peaceful than the general mall outside. As much as he loves to buy new clothes, he is cautious with money. Having hired the new manager recently, he isn’t looking to go on any sort of spree, and walks in loops debating for some time- he doesn’t want to buy more than a couple things. And he already has so many pastel and printed shirts at home. He ends up with a sensible forest green collared shirt, and a more relaxed fit in slate gray to try on after a solid amount of time picking through racks and weighing options against one another. Not the most exciting things he could buy, but he does indulge a little bit, picking a black silk scarf off of the rack- there are plenty of things that it could go well with, he reasons. And right outside the dressing rooms, he finds a rotating rack of accessories- sunglasses. He stands in front of the spinning mirror, trying on nearly every pair on the rack as associates hover nearby, seemingly anxious about whether he intends to pick apart their display, and he waits for Christine to come over.

---

CHRISTINE

Christine could almost laugh when she notices the logo that Darius is steering her towards. To come so far—what will Mama say, when she learns that Christine’s first footstep into the world of ’Parisian fashion’ landed in a store that they had once lived just down the street from.

As Darius vanishes between a display shelf and a rack of coats, though, Christine is rather grateful for the familiarity of her surroundings.

She adjusts her purse on her shoulder, turning to scan the stacks of neatly-folded blouses on the nearest table; the rows of skirts and dresses hanging just beyond. She wanders forward, idly skimming through the rows.

It’s uncanny, really: other than the specific pieces of clothing on display—and the abundance of euro symbols—she could nearly be back in Gothenburg.

Back in Gothenburg, in those days when Paris was only the most misty dream; before she ever needed it to *be* more than that.

“Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle?”

Christine startles, a soft, “—Va?” escaping as she turns her gaze away from the small cluster of mannequins that she suddenly realises she’s been staring at; a young woman with short-cropped black hair and a lanyard returns her gaze.

“Puis-je vous aider?” repeats the girl, perhaps two or three years younger than Christine herself; she gives a meaningful glance towards the display of mannequins, and Christine shakes her head, suddenly understanding.

“Ne–non. Non, merci,” Christine says, taking an apologetic step backwards. “Um… Ça va.”

The other girl purses her lips, but only gives a shrug before moving off towards a pair of young teenagers who seem on a mission to unfold every t-shirt within grasping range.

Christine glances up at the mannequins again, actually focusing on them this time. The nearest wears a furry-looking sludge-coloured sweater over glossy red pants that practically sparkle in the bright lights of the store. Her nose wrinkling in a mixture of amusement and distaste, she leaves the questionably-attired figure behind, and forges forward into the grove of clothing racks, determined to begin her exploration in earnest.

It doesn’t take long to spot the assortment of jackets that hang at one corner of the store; more difficult is resisting the impulse to seek out the clearance rack instead. It’s a strangely discomfiting feeling, simply *considering* spending more money than strictly necessary, and she tarries—assuaging her conscience by picking up a couple of shirts with comforting red stickers on their tags, along with a flower-dotted skirt that’s nearly as cheap as anything she could have bought secondhand.

Her first instinct, when she finally allows herself to consider the jackets, is to find something on the order of the one that she’d had before; after all, it had always been a favourite of hers, with its light, silky fabric, precisely the shade of a clear morning.

But she discards the idea nearly as quickly as it comes to her; it’s too easy now to picture that pale blue nylon shot-through with red.

Something different, then. Something that won’t bring to mind blood and panic.

Browsing through the racks, she quickly finds several options that practically *define* ’different’: jackets that are close-fitting and sharply-tailored, rigid where the old one was yielding, as opposite to it in style as they are in colour. Without letting herself look at its tag, she pulls one from its hanger—faux leather with a wide collar, in a purple so dark that it’s nearly black—and carries it over to a nearby mirror; holds it up against her shoulders.

It does look different; that she can’t deny. She tilts her head to the side, smoothing a hand across the dimpled leatherette. Its dark shade makes her hair look even brighter by comparison, and the rugged material feels solid, secure.

But as much as it doesn’t remind her of her old jacket, it doesn’t remind her of *herself* either.

Her lip quirks as she gives her reflection one last glance before turning back to the clothing rack.

And then, after digging through a few more rows of jackets, she finds it.

The cut isn’t so different from that of the purple one—but the soft, dove-grey suede from which it is sewn is entirely distinct. A strip of imitation lambskin rounds the cuffs and collar: silky curls that brush against Christine’s fingertips as she reaches to take it from the rack, her purse strap slipping from her shoulder in anticipation.

She doesn’t wait to get to the mirror before shrugging the soft garment on over her sweater dress; she doesn’t have to see her reflection to know that the jacket is *her*. But she makes herself *see* it—lets herself be *convinced*—before she allows herself to check the price.

Her smile shakes a bit when she reads, ’70 EURO’.

She looks into the mirror again.

This is what Erik *wanted* her to do with his money. Even before he offered to help her pay for anything (and everything) else, hadn’t he insisted specifically upon replacing the jacket that she’d sacrificed on his account?

She peels the jacket from her shoulders, her grip on the soft fabric light and noncommittal as she carries it back towards the display.

The other clothes that she has picked out still lay where she left them, on a shelf beside the rack.

She picks them up, shifting the grey jacket into her other arm, before scanning for the dressing rooms where Darius asked her to meet him.

---

DARIUS

Still oblivious to any turmoil going on in Christine’s mind, Darius turns at the sound of her footsteps, a ridiculous pair of blue-tinted sunglasses taking up far too much of his face. “What do you think of this new style?” he asks, tossing his shirts over his shoulder to strike a pose- narrowly missing hitting the rack itself. He turns back and mutters “sorry” at it, then looks back at her and flicks the glasses down his nose enough to peer over them at her. “Ah, you found a jacket! Look at that. It’s nice,” he says cheerfully, and removes the glasses from his face altogether. The hovering employee walks away as he puts them back and turns away from the display. He hasn’t managed to mess it up- or to knock it over completely. “Looks soft. Is there anything else you need in here?” he asks. “I don’t have to try anything on, I shop here enough that I don’t need to try these things on.

The coat does suit her- its gentle gray color only accentuates the clear blue of her eyes; it truly looks Nordic, with the muted colors and lambskin. Whatever Christine’s doubts may be, Darius immediately makes the connection between her and the coat; it just seems to make sense to him that she would buy it, given that she’s looking for a coat, anyway. He doesn’t pause to consider the price.

---

CHRISTINE

Christine keeps her grip loose on the jacket as she walks, still pretending as if she might simply change her mind and return it to the nearest rack at any moment—still wary of the whisper that tells her that she *should*.

She knows there’s no *rational* reason for it, for any of it: no reason for the nagging feeling of dread that rolls like an undertow beneath her pleased expression; no reason for her to put the jacket back, or to feign that she might do so.

The jacket is perfect. Just her style; just what she *needs*. Nothing like she’d imagined, and yet exactly what she was hoping for.

Other than the price, at least—but, thanks to Erik, she shouldn’t worry about that either.

‘Shouldn’t’. Easier said than done.

Yet, even as a part of her balks at each footstep that carries her farther away from the winter-wear department, her light touch only just keeping the jacket from slipping from her bent elbow, there is another that twists its invisible fingers ever-tighter into the faux-suede treasure—small and tentative, but wonderfully selfish and unworried, smiling a smile that is kept secret only from her own fretful conscience.

The grin—and her nervousness—cracks into a laugh when Christine finally finds Darius: he may have the *style* of somebody in a magazine, but perhaps not the *grace* to go along with it; she bites her lip, muffling her amusement as her friend turns back around.

“Thanks,” she replies to his comments, adjusting the jacket to give him a better view of it, “it seemed really nice. And I do really need it.” She bites her tongue before she’s able to comment on the price.

She glances at the various pieces of clothing that Darius holds. “I found a couple of other things, but I don’t really need to try them on; just some t-shirts. And…” she separates the skirt from her own small pile of items, “I don’t think that I need *this* one, anyway; I can just put it back. There isn’t really anything else I need here."

---

DARIUS

“Great!” Darius says, cheerful as ever. “It all looks wonderful, you do need some new things. It just feels nice to wear new things sometimes.” He glances around the store; the music is loud, and the lighting is beginning to give him a bit of a headache- like he’s been looking at a screen for too long. “Okay, then. I like shopping, but it can be exhausting, can’t it? Here, we’ll check out and go get a coffee or something, think about whether we want to go anywhere else.” His hand brushes her shoulder briefly as if to whisk her along as he heads towards the checkout; he’s satisfied with what he has, and she seems content with her purchases. He turns back to her again as he walks. “They’re used to people who can’t speak perfect French here, it’s a popular tourist mall, but of course you can ask me if you need any help with the cashier,” he tells her over his shoulder. “I could do the transaction for you, but it’s probably good practice to try, right? And even better in a touristy area where they expect it.” The line isn’t terribly long, and an array of amusing products make the wait seem short- bargain skin care products, cheap makeup and jewelry, and even more sunglasses for Darius to examine. He plops a floppy black wool hat on Christine’s head, and laughs, his voice bright. “Look at that. Fancy. But it’ll squish your hair,” he says, removing it just as quickly and setting it back on the shelf before a cashier finally calls him over to pay. He takes one last look back at Christine before he heads over, and reassures her- “just call over if you need me!”

---

(Part 120)

#/airport au

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theairportau · 7 years

Text

the airport AU, part 117 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

---

ERIK

Once the plans are settled, Erik wastes no time in turning the water to near-full heat and stepping in, entire body heaving with a massive sigh. While taking a shower is one of the only times he doesn’t seem to ever feel cold- he scalds himself with the water, and it feels almost like burning off a layer of his skin. His back first, and then the water thrumming on the back of his aching head. It stings as it runs in rivulets down his face, but the heat and the steam are so powerful, so effective at removing all the mess of the past couple days. He loses track of time standing there, letting the water hit the back of his neck with his eyes closed and arms hanging limply at his sides. He swears that he could fall asleep standing there, and that is what ultimately spurs him to get on with washing himself- he really could. If there’s anywhere he doesn’t want to have someone assist him, it’s his shower, and he isn’t fond of water when he doesn’t have a hand on the spout. He isn’t sure how long it’s been by the time he steps out of the shower in a cloud of steam and wraps himself in his towel, but what little sky he can see through the blinds is totally dark, no trace of daytime left. It’s getting dark earlier and earlier, these days.

The shower and fresh clothes manage to do at least a little bit for his mood. He retrieves his medication and some antibiotic ointment from a drawer beside the sink, drinks from the faucet to swallow his pill, and rubs the ointment into the infected wound without checking a mirror. It’s good enough. He just doesn’t have the energy tonight to look at himself.

Standing in the doorway back to his bedroom, the first thing he finds himself looking at is the book where he had pressed Christine’s letter earlier on. A wave of nauseous guilt comes over him; he hadn’t told her that afternoon- he opens the book and examines the extent of the damages, but some of that guilt settles as he looks the note over. There are a few runs in the ink, but everything is still legible. All of her painstaking work is still there- it’s a little bit damaged, but still there.

He doesn’t even check the time when he goes into the living room to get his laptop; it’s irrelevant. He’ll need all of the time he can get to manage a proper night’s sleep, and he’s more than tired enough to try. He sets his laptop on his desk chair in his room, at right about the level of his head, and turns it onto some mindless cooking competition show that he can try to watch as he falls asleep. And upon second thought, he reaches inside the book on his desk and retrieves Christine’s letter. He sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the words without really reading them, tracing the letters with the tips of his fingers. He hardly recognizes the softness inside him when he looks over those words again, all of her gratitude and kindness- and she’d worked so hard, writing it all in a language that she hardly knows, just for his ease of reading it. It takes him a long few moments to set it down on his bedside table, and one hand lingers on it for a moment before he wraps himself in blankets and unpauses the show on his laptop, hoping that some level of distraction will pull him out of himself, just a little bit. His eyes fade closed after only a few moments, and the sound grows more and more distant and dreamlike, and his jaw clenches of its own accord, as if his body predicts moreso than his mind the fitful throes of another long and punishing night.

---

CHRISTINE

When Christine’s eyes open the next morning, it is with an immediate sigh of disappointment—her hope for a change in the weather dashed by the murky darkness outside the window.

Fortunately, after a few more minutes of half-sleep and a drowsy glance at her phone’s clock, she realises that the sun simply hasn’t *risen yet*.

With nowhere to be for a few hours yet, and sleep still draped like a warm, muffling blanket around her mind, there seems no harm in giving the daylight a chance to catch up. The cotton pillowcase crinkles softly against her ear as she settles into a sleepy vigil, her eyes flickering closed again even as she tries to focus them on the window.

A little while later, wakening to find the first pink rays of dawn shimmering through the curtains, she smiles at the clear sign of what will surely be a bright day.

---

ERIK

What settles in isn’t the slow and creeping dread of typical nightmares. It strikes far more quickly, leaving Erik stunned and, even more than that, paralyzed. He can’t remember the dreams; one after another, they come on, they tear him from his sleep, and they vanish again, leaving him with a lingering sense of panic that leaves him lying frozen in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, but taking away every concrete image that he can place the fear on. He stares into the darkness of his room, past the glow of the laptop screen. Absolutely empty. When did he come to despise being alone so much?

Has he always hated it this much?

He manages to unfurl his trembling hands and reaches for the phone plugged in on his nightstand. In his state, half-awake and scarcely able to catch his breath for the fear still settled in his chest, he sends a message to Khan.

Come over.

Naturally, he doesn’t expect the man to show up at two o’clock in the morning, bearing a shoulder bag full of books and his laptop only a few minutes after receiving the text. But Erik has never failed to underestimate Khan.

In his hazy half-sleep his eyes are only half-lidded as he stares at Khan, who stands by the edge of the bed, frowning down at him.

“I meant tomorrow,” Erik mumbles, blinking wearily and wrapping the cocoon of blankets tighter around his shoulders.

Khan shrugs. “I was awake anyway.” It’s impossible to see much of Erik, other than his oddly glowing eyes, catching the light of the open laptop. It makes it difficult to read him, and the gravelly tone of his voice doesn’t help with interpretation. “Do you want me to leave?”

Erik sighs, head settling down on his pillow again. “It’s late. Stay. You should sleep.”

Khan regards Erik for a few long moments. He has settled his head back into the pillows, and his breaths are already longer- even in the middle of their short conversation, he is losing his battle to stay awake. He drifts off, and rather than going to the guest room, Khan sits at Erik’s desk, pulls his laptop out of its bag, and settles in for a long few hours. Just through the rest of the night- it’s better in the day, sometimes. He can wake up, at least, and see the normal room around him. For the night, Khan will keep a quiet vigil; he does not wake Erik- when he hears the too-familiar murmurs of a beginning nightmare, he waits for it to pass. It is not severe enough to wake him for- and when it is severe, he wakes himself, and all Khan can do is talk to him quietly. Ask him questions about the videos streaming on his laptop. Anything commonplace to take his mind out of where it is. They pass long hours in an exhausting pattern, but eventually, something seems to give- an hour passes in silence, and then another, and though Khan is still on his toes, and utterly fatigued, he believes that Erik might finally be able to sleep. A glance around the curtains shows a gradual lightening of the sky; dawn is just beginning, though the sun hasn’t quite broken the horizon yet. In these quiet hours, before the rest of the world wakes, he manages to fall asleep, somewhat at peace, and Khan draws the curtain just a little bit, just enough to let the smallest amount of light come in, before he makes his way down to the guest room.

---

CHRISTINE

The rising sun finally draws Christine out of bed; she has an appointment to keep.

Ten o'clock, Erik had said. She stretches; glances at the clock on her phone, then at the hotel’s sparse breakfast menu; wonders absently, as her fingers comb apart the strands of her braid, whether she should be waiting for a message, or if Darius will be expecting her to just meet him as arranged.

She dresses quickly while waiting for room service, and once her pastry and tea have arrived she carries them over to the bright window, dragging the desk chair behind her; after so many gloomy days, her mouth waters as much for the sunlight as for the simple breakfast. Outside, others seem to have had the same thought: further along the street, she notices figures moving behind the railings of balconies that she has so often seen vacant; squinting, she thinks she can even see a mug being raised, a fork moving across the plate of another person likewise enjoying their breakfast in the rare sunshine, even despite the late autumn chill.

Probably Erik’s balcony is playing host to its own collection of hungry, bewhiskered patrons; Christine smiles over a sip of her tea, imagining the cats curling up in the sun after cleaning their bowls.

(At the same time, she dares to hope that Basile and the others might instead have to be patient this morning—that *Erik* might be the one yet curled up in a warm slumber; free of the shadows of his mind, if not those of his cloistered house.)

By the time she brushes the last crumbs from her fingertips, there’s still been no word from Darius, nor sight of him in the street below. Setting her plate aside, Christine picks up her phone, shifting it between her hands. It *is* still a bit early, and the apartment is only a few minutes away; he might even still be asleep. She sets her phone on the windowsill, deciding to wait, and watch—and enjoy the sun—a few minutes longer.

---

KHAN, DARIUS

Khan does not go directly to sleep; down the street, he knows that Darius is just waking up, doing the same thing as he is. Erik talks about salah as if it is an inconvenience, which is irritating to Khan, for whom it is indisputably one of the best parts of his day. The quiet reverence of performing wudu, and a few moments to focus on nothing but his devotion. There is a sense of community in it- knowing that all over Paris, people who share the same experiences with him are doing the same thing. It is only after Fajr has passed that Khan crawls into bed, feeling significantly more at peace than he had beforehand. There is always the creeping concern for Erik in the back of his mind, but at this point, he has done all that he can. His presence in the room would only risk waking him up, which is the last thing he wants to do at the moment. He does, however, keep the doors to both rooms open. Better to hear if anything happens. He shuts his eyes and it hardly takes any time at all for him to fall asleep, tired as he is from staying up all night.

Darius wakes for the second time later on, having gone back to sleep after Fajr. He had been getting ready for bed when Khan left the house, and knows better than to look for him; instead, he lounges around in his bedroom, enjoying the day off. The freedom of having a manager is new to him. It is odd to hear the sounds of the restaurant preparing for service down below, and smell the food without being in the kitchen- but it’s a good thing, he tells himself. It has been his goal the whole time, to have enough success that he can back away just a little bit, enough to enjoy time to himself.

And he is excited to go out with Christine. Showing someone around the city for the first time is bound to be fun, and she has been such good company so far. He buttons on a powder blue shirt, takes a pastry from the kitchen, and leaves around 9:30, taking his favorite leather jacket with him- he’ll be a few minutes early to the hotel, but he doesn’t mind sitting if he needs to. When he gets there, the lobby is a bit crowded with people checking out, so he goes immediately to the sitting area off to the side and sends a text to Christine.

Good morning, I just got to the lobby! Don’t rush, I’m early!

He is, in fact, only early by a few minutes, but he doesn’t know how long Christine takes to get ready. He leans back in his chair and opens up a games on his phone, perfectly content to sit and wait.

---

CHRISTINE

Christine jumps at the sudden chime of her phone, pulling her gaze away from an older couple walking a small, fluffy dog down the opposite side of the street; she’s even more surprised when she reads that Darius has *already arrived*. But even if she *should* be disappointed in herself for not having spotted him, all she can manage to feel at that moment is excitement for the day ahead.

‘I’ll be right down!’ she quickly texts back, dropping her phone on the bed as she scrambles to tidy up her room service dishes.

She decides to leave her coat behind for the day: it would only be a matter of time before the heavy wool became uncomfortable beneath the bright sun, and she doesn’t want to be stuck lugging it all over the city. She can only hope that, in such fair weather, the thick weave of her sweater dress will be warm enough.

The gamble is one that she shouldn’t *have* to take: she *brought* more to Paris with her than just a heavy winter coat. But where is her cardigan now? Still back at Erik’s? Certainly it isn’t *here*, where it could actually be of *use* to her. And she doesn’t even want to *think* about what happened to her *jacket*.

The chance to buy some more clothes today won’t come a moment too soon.

The thought makes her pause, her hand on the door handle.

She thinks of the money in her purse, the money that Erik had given her for her new clothes (among other things).

Is it really *safe* to carry so much with her?

But is it safe to *leave* it, either?

After a moment of flurried consideration—her mind echoing with Mama’s warnings about big cities and purse-snatchers—she digs the thick wad of folded cash from the bottom of her purse. Peeling off an extra note to add to the one already in her wallet, she stuffs the remainder first into a sock and then into the depths of the dirty laundry in her backpack. The maids have so far left her clothing undisturbed; any who came in *now* would probably just be relieved to see the scattered mess finally *contained*.

Feeling better—and pausing to make doubly sure that the door is locked—she hastens downstairs to meet Darius.

---

DARIUS

The line at the front desk dwindles as Darius sits there, absently swiping away tiles on his screen. An employee eventually comes over and asks if he needs anything, but he only smiles and lets them know that he’s waiting for someone. They seem content to let him sit there as long as he likes, and after just a few minutes, he glances up from the screen in time to see her headed down the stairs in the main lobby.

“Christine!” he calls cheerfully, stuffing his phone back in his pocket and standing up, opening his arms wide as he greets her. They haven’t even known each other long, but it feels like some time since he last saw her. Certainly, a lot has happened- that must be it; the sheer volume of things that have changed in the couple of days that he has gone without spending time with her.

He strides across the lobby to meet her with a warm hug. “It’s a beautiful day, we’re lucky- probably one of the last nice ones before winter really sets in. I can’t wait to show you around, really- we can’t cover it all in one day, obviously, but, well. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone out like this.” He grins at her with genuine excitement, a stark contrast to Erik’s rare and measured smiles. It has been a long time, though. Running a business and looking after Khan- though Khan would resent the phrase looking after- leaves him with little time to talk to anyone his age. As far as friends go, he usually stays in with either Khan or Erik, and neither of them have any desire to explore the city. Though their reasons vary greatly, the result is the same- Darius never really goes anywhere, with the recent exception of his date with Rachelle. And even that had stayed close to their street. Having Christine around has been so pleasant, and he wants her to enjoy the day as much as he’s already certain that he will.

“Have you had a good morning?” he asks, calming himself a bit from his initial joyful rush at her (though failing to stop talking, given an audience). “It’s been a calm one for me. Khan went to Erik’s house, so it was even quieter than usual. Nice, though.”

---

CHRISTINE

It seems suddenly ridiculous that she could have ever worried about the weather, knowing that she would have such sunny companionship; she steps back as Darius releases her from the hug, a matching grin spreading across her own face. Off to the side, the cheerful stream of Swedish has drawn more than one curious gaze, and Christine’s nose wrinkles in further amusement; it’s lucky that they share a language—she can’t imagine Darius trying to confine all of his enthusiasm to a tablet screen. Though…there are times that it might make it easier to get a word in edgewise, she thinks good-humouredly, as she answers his question with a nod.

Her thoughts still for a moment when he mentions Erik. But it’s what *he* himself had told her, isn’t it?: that he would have Khan come over to spend the day with him. Her smile eases, and she nods again.

“It’s been nice for me as well,” she agrees, “I was very glad to actually see the sun this morning!“

As she talks, they begin to drift towards the door; there’s no reason to loiter in the hotel lobby, with such a nice day waiting outside.

"It makes me wish that I didn’t have stuff I need to buy: it doesn’t seem right to waste any of this weather *indoors*.”

She pauses, stopping several paces short of the door; a man with a large suitcase, who had been walking behind the pair, huffs and steps around them.

“Actually, Darius,” Christine says, with an apologetic grin that doesn’t quite manage to conceal her sudden nervousness, “there’s just—I need to ask the clerk something, before we leave. Back in a blink.” Not waiting for an answer, she turns, and crosses quickly back to the front desk.

---

DARIUS

Prevented from speaking by her abrupt departure, Darius lets out a short “oh- okay” as he watches her make her way across the lobby. It’s no bother to him, just a surprise, and he nods apologetically to the man who they’d inadvertently cut off in front of them.

He steps to the side and leans against the wall next to the door, pulling his phone back out to check messages. His eyes peer over the edge of the screen and around the lobby. Still admittedly a bit shaken by the events of a few days ago, with Khan on the metro, he can’t help the observation that Swedish draws looks that are more curious than hostile- not always the case when he speaks his language in public.

The thought is fleeting, though. He records it, but the day is too bright outside to dwell on it right now. Perhaps he’ll bring it up to Khan later. His gaze goes back to his phone, and lights up when it vibrates, Rachelle’s name popping up at the top of the screen with a simple and cheerful “good morning” addressed to him.

He smiles to himself as he texts back. Getting up a little late today?

His phone buzzes with a nearly instantaneous response. Don’t judge me on my day off, kid.

He laughs to himself and types a quick explanation that he’s out with Christine before pocketing his phone again. He uses it, but both Khan and his father have always insisted that things like phones be used sparingly when he’s in the company of other people. He doesn’t want Christine to feel like his attention is elsewhere, and he mentally maps their day as he idles by the doorway, giving hardly a thought to what she could be asking about.

---

CHRISTINE

“Oh—bonjour, mademoiselle,” the clerk says as he catches sight of Christine, his cordial smile still tinged by the awkwardness of the previous morning. The memory of the young man’s fumbling attempt at hospitality puts Christine a bit more at ease as she comes to a stop in front of the desk; briefly, she meets his gaze with her own nervous grin, then casts a sidelong glance at the fruit bowl at the other end of the long counter.

“Merci pour l'orange. C'était délicieux,” she says kindly, lifting her eyes just enough to see a bit of the tension leave the clerk’s expression. It hardly matters that *she* hadn’t been the one to actually eat the orange—that it may have not even *been* eaten at all. The clerk nods in acknowledgment of her words, his shoulders straightening assuredly.

“Ah,” he says after a moment, clearing his throat, “Comment puis-je vous aider?”

Right.

“S'il vous plaît…kan du växla pengar?” Christine asks quietly, ducking her gaze towards her purse as she hoists it up onto the counter in front of her.

Things in France may be more expensive than they were in Sweden, but after years of hassling with customers over 1000kr notes back home, she doubts that the Parisian cashiers will be any happier at the sight of the current contents of her wallet.

It isn’t safe to carry such large bills, either, is it? Mama would have said so—advice that had never been relevant before now: anyone who happened to catch a flash of one of them might think that her purse contained other such riches.

Yes, *that’s* the reason she wants to trade the banknotes for something less conspicuous—why her question is spoken in an undertone; why she bows her shoulders forward as she opens her purse, in a subtle attempt to shield it from view.

(But the lobby is nearly empty now, and she certainly doesn’t think that *Darius* would ever steal from anyone. And maybe, truthfully, her choice is more to do with the continued sense that she doesn’t *deserve* her great windfall—that others, should they learn of it, might share that same judgement.)

“Je suis désolé, mademoiselle,” the clerk answers a bit hopelessly, “Je ne parle—”

Christine cuts him off with a shake of her head and an apologetic gesture. “Givetvis. Öh…” her brow creases as she digs through her purse and her restricted vocabulary. “Pou—? Pouvez-vous! Pouvez-vous…"

She leans farther forward towards the counter as she slips the pair of 100-euro notes from her wallet; the man’s eyebrows raise slightly at the sight of the money, and it’s nearly enough to make Christine regret her entire course of action.

"Pouvez-vous…öh…faire…argent…petit?” she strings together desperately, casting a surreptitious glance backward at Darius, who is still engrossed in his phone.

“…Changement…?” the clerk suggests uncertainly after a moment; Christine’s face lights up, recognizing the word from her reading.

“Ja! Oui, s'il vous plaît!” she nods, pushing the banknotes forward across the desk. But the clerk just shakes his head, shrugging and saying something apologetic-sounding that she is unable to understand.

“Je ne comprends pas…?”

The clerk gives a sympathetic sigh, gesturing hopelessly towards the cash register in a manner that is all too familiar to her, “Je ne peux pas. Je suis désolé.”

“Oh…” she says, nodding as she awkwardly folds the money back into her purse. “Je comprends. Ça va. Merci.”

“Je suis désolé,” he says again, clearly wishing that he could help; Christine answers with another shake of her head and a repeated ’ça va’, hastily rebuilding her smile before nodding a farewell.

At the other side off the lobby, Darius has abandoned his phone; she surveys him carefully as she crosses the tile floor, irrationally anxious at the thought that he might have overheard any of her failed transaction.

“Heh, I’m not sure what precisely you said in that phone call, Darius,” she quips with exaggerated brightness, “but I’m afraid that it seems to have made all of the employees terrified of me!” As she speaks, she leans forward, pushing the door open, eager for the chance to leave her concerns behind in the lobby.

---

(Part 118)

#/airport AU

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