[ Whatever sureness he's feeling, it ebbs and flows. An instinct that fights against knowledge. It's a conversation that Nathan doesn't fucking want to have, even if it's the right one to have. So much of this is like living as a photo-negative -- there's something dramatic and shameful about having said things are better with company, words real and tangible now that they've been spoken out-loud. It knocks against the memory of his sister, that sharp twist of missing family he's put-off since being here. Here, in a new city. Here, in this new place, with freedom he didn't fucking earn.
God, who gives a shit. Frustration and distant, vicious anger roils. The urge to leave heightens. All of it settles, tempered by the rock-solid awareness that he'd be being a piece of shit if he just decided to go. A muscle in his jaw tenses and untenses. Arms fold, then refold over chest.
Didn't owe me anything. Nathan looks up -- flat, unimpressed. Too-strong, probably, than that remark needs, but it's a convenient escape valve. He fucking owed you, California. Don't argue about this shit.
For the most part, Nathan looks down at his feet. Frowning, thinking it over. There are a few false starts -- a few short inhales, like he's gearing up to speak. None really land. ]
Ask me something else.
[ Looks up, then, through short lashes. Makes eye contact.
Yeah, maybe it's unfair. Yeah, maybe Ian won't. He'll press -- he'd be in his rights to. But it's not a demand, or a choppy cut-off, even if on the surface it reads as one. It's a request. One shitty fucking human being to another. ]
[ A story tells itself over Nathan's features. There are complex plotlines in a language he doesn't understand, aches and pains, beginnings and ends. He feels guilty, almost, for asking — the journey's peaks that hit anger and tense his shoulders probably help explain the frown he wears the other 90% of the times Ian's seen him.
Must be still fucking with him.
Ian wonders if that's what he looks like to people outside of his own head when they ask him questions he doesn't want to answer. Whether he hides it better or worse.
They make eye contact. He gets it. There's a woman's ashes mixed into the water in a lake in Weaverville. ]
Alright.
[ An acknowledgement, just to preface his thoughtful pause. You give him an inch and he'll take a mile; maybe Nathan's already balanced the scales by answering that first question. If he's offering another, though, Ian's loathe to give up the opportunity. Hard as it was to crawl into this weird headspace, he's equally reluctant to end it for some reason.
You get on someone else's wavelength, and it's just... He doesn't do that very often. Tuning in. Broadcasting back. ]
You actually keeping it together as good as you wanna make it seem?
[ Because Ian's never seen him drunk in a bathroom. Never actually seen him do anything that speaks of a man a few bad days away from spiralling out into the next fucking galaxy. ]
[ He considers that. A heavy silence. Nathan still stares down at his shoes. ]
Here?
[ Nathan exhales. It sounds more than a little wry. ]
Dunno. [ A signpost, more than it is a true answer or even dismissive, in that way Nathan's gotten used to wielding perceived ambivalence like a close-guarded weapon. ] Different life, different rules. [ No magic. ] Think a lot about my dog, sometimes. [ But that doesn't mean anything. You can miss things and still be haunted by that pull, the acute knowledge that being here might be an extension of life in a new direction. By the skin of his fucking teeth, he's here. Who else can say they avoided the next 97 years of fucking isolation and misery?
He's already tried casting. First day here, holed up in the fucking bathroom. But nothing serious, nothing that would've cost anything; everyone tells him it doesn't work.
Wants to try it anyway. Every day. Staring at the ceiling and putting the math together in his head and spending hours before sleep takes him, scouring the network, reading about celestial bodies and how things work here, how magic might if he could just...
Like it'd be any different for him. He exhales, long and low, thumbing at the corner of his own mouth. ]
Hanging by a fucking thread, man.
[ But it's holding. He's holding, and it's not going to waver. Even if it does -- the shame of it will be his own, something else to add to the pile of words he'll never voice.
Nathan's chin finally tips upwards. Straight-on, back in-line. Equilibrium. ]
[ You know what, he seems like a dog guy. Like one of those dudes who's only company is a golden retriever or something, and he makes conversations with it while building boats in his woodworking shop and listening to Johnny Cash. Just a first impression, not even a fair one, probably not an accurate one. It's the feeling he puts out.
There's a soft breath, an exhale, puffed — a laugh, but with no conviction. No real humor, either, just... jaded amusement, maybe. ]
You wanna know something fucked up?
[ A low and lilting murmur, and it's accompanied by a little arch to one eyebrow and a conceding bob to one shoulder. He doesn't wait longer than a beat before just plowing on ahead a little apologetically. ]
That actually kinda makes me feel a little better.
[ No offense, and it's not that misery loves company thing. He's not taking any joy in Nathan's suffering. It's just... good to know that it's not him being deficient somehow. That he's not just a pathetic piece of shit while everyone else with similar baggage is out there pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.
Maybe not even everyone. Maybe just Nathan, but he's been like the human incarnate of stoicism and squared shoulders. Even so. The only falter Ian's ever seen is after a fucking arm fell out of the sky, and he doesn't really think that one should count.
And since he's already venturing toward wry admissions, he'll slowly drawl out another one. ]
I'm not sure we're ever gonna have a normal fucking conversation.
[ No golden retriever. He never got the hang of building boats, but he's been learning. Was learning. Johnny Cash is alright, but it's not one of the three dusty records he's got in the basement. One outta three ain't bad.
No offense taken. Nathan's expression goes through a short series of changes -- brows lift, mouth pulls. There's a reflected amusement in there, that same shade of jaded in tone that might, if you squint, look friendly. Like camaraderie, even, as Nathan exhales through his nose. Shakes his head.
A normal conversation. Nathan's attention returns to his glass, which is about two-thirds full. He stares at it, then tips his chin. Nods at it. ]
This is a fucking terrible beer.
[ Probably because it's made out of everything but hops. Nathan sounds mildly accusatory anyway. ]
You know that, right.
[ This approaching a normal conversation topic, yet? ]
[ If Nathan Lowell had to miss any sort of beverage that wasn't tar-black coffee, it wouldn't be PBR. A short, irritated look passes to Ian, but then, the same look is fixed onto his beer. So. At least they've clarified that it isn't personal.
[ His expression turns wry, faintly pleased. Nothing quite like bonding over how shitty PBR is after bonding over how their lives are falling apart and they're barely keeping it together and they could have a breakdown at literally any point.
Fuck PBR though. ]
Alright, nailed it, got one in the bag. I think I'm gonna quit while I'm ahead.
[ He declares, straightening up and clapping Nathan on the shoulder as he passes by. ]
I'm gonna go to my couch and pretend like that somehow counts as leaving.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
God, who gives a shit. Frustration and distant, vicious anger roils. The urge to leave heightens. All of it settles, tempered by the rock-solid awareness that he'd be being a piece of shit if he just decided to go. A muscle in his jaw tenses and untenses. Arms fold, then refold over chest.
Didn't owe me anything. Nathan looks up -- flat, unimpressed. Too-strong, probably, than that remark needs, but it's a convenient escape valve. He fucking owed you, California. Don't argue about this shit.
For the most part, Nathan looks down at his feet. Frowning, thinking it over. There are a few false starts -- a few short inhales, like he's gearing up to speak. None really land. ]
Ask me something else.
[ Looks up, then, through short lashes. Makes eye contact.
Yeah, maybe it's unfair. Yeah, maybe Ian won't. He'll press -- he'd be in his rights to. But it's not a demand, or a choppy cut-off, even if on the surface it reads as one. It's a request. One shitty fucking human being to another. ]
no subject
Must be still fucking with him.
Ian wonders if that's what he looks like to people outside of his own head when they ask him questions he doesn't want to answer. Whether he hides it better or worse.
They make eye contact.
He gets it.
There's a woman's ashes mixed into the water in a lake in Weaverville. ]
Alright.
[ An acknowledgement, just to preface his thoughtful pause. You give him an inch and he'll take a mile; maybe Nathan's already balanced the scales by answering that first question. If he's offering another, though, Ian's loathe to give up the opportunity. Hard as it was to crawl into this weird headspace, he's equally reluctant to end it for some reason.
You get on someone else's wavelength, and it's just... He doesn't do that very often. Tuning in. Broadcasting back. ]
You actually keeping it together as good as you wanna make it seem?
[ Because Ian's never seen him drunk in a bathroom. Never actually seen him do anything that speaks of a man a few bad days away from spiralling out into the next fucking galaxy. ]
no subject
Here?
[ Nathan exhales. It sounds more than a little wry. ]
Dunno. [ A signpost, more than it is a true answer or even dismissive, in that way Nathan's gotten used to wielding perceived ambivalence like a close-guarded weapon. ] Different life, different rules. [ No magic. ] Think a lot about my dog, sometimes. [ But that doesn't mean anything. You can miss things and still be haunted by that pull, the acute knowledge that being here might be an extension of life in a new direction. By the skin of his fucking teeth, he's here. Who else can say they avoided the next 97 years of fucking isolation and misery?
He's already tried casting. First day here, holed up in the fucking bathroom. But nothing serious, nothing that would've cost anything; everyone tells him it doesn't work.
Wants to try it anyway. Every day. Staring at the ceiling and putting the math together in his head and spending hours before sleep takes him, scouring the network, reading about celestial bodies and how things work here, how magic might if he could just...
Like it'd be any different for him. He exhales, long and low, thumbing at the corner of his own mouth. ]
Hanging by a fucking thread, man.
[ But it's holding. He's holding, and it's not going to waver. Even if it does -- the shame of it will be his own, something else to add to the pile of words he'll never voice.
Nathan's chin finally tips upwards. Straight-on, back in-line. Equilibrium. ]
no subject
There's a soft breath, an exhale, puffed — a laugh, but with no conviction. No real humor, either, just... jaded amusement, maybe. ]
You wanna know something fucked up?
[ A low and lilting murmur, and it's accompanied by a little arch to one eyebrow and a conceding bob to one shoulder. He doesn't wait longer than a beat before just plowing on ahead a little apologetically. ]
That actually kinda makes me feel a little better.
[ No offense, and it's not that misery loves company thing. He's not taking any joy in Nathan's suffering. It's just... good to know that it's not him being deficient somehow. That he's not just a pathetic piece of shit while everyone else with similar baggage is out there pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.
Maybe not even everyone. Maybe just Nathan, but he's been like the human incarnate of stoicism and squared shoulders. Even so. The only falter Ian's ever seen is after a fucking arm fell out of the sky, and he doesn't really think that one should count.
And since he's already venturing toward wry admissions, he'll slowly drawl out another one. ]
I'm not sure we're ever gonna have a normal fucking conversation.
no subject
No offense taken. Nathan's expression goes through a short series of changes -- brows lift, mouth pulls. There's a reflected amusement in there, that same shade of jaded in tone that might, if you squint, look friendly. Like camaraderie, even, as Nathan exhales through his nose. Shakes his head.
A normal conversation. Nathan's attention returns to his glass, which is about two-thirds full. He stares at it, then tips his chin. Nods at it. ]
This is a fucking terrible beer.
[ Probably because it's made out of everything but hops. Nathan sounds mildly accusatory anyway. ]
You know that, right.
[ This approaching a normal conversation topic, yet? ]
no subject
Looks like they understand each other well enough. They're at least in the same book if they're not on the same page.
Enough for him to have no reservations about saying: ]
Fuck you, my beer's alright.
[ He won't stretch and say great, but. ]
At least it's not PBR.
no subject
Nathan shrugs, lifts his glass. ]
Got that right.
[ He's going to drink it anyway. ]
no subject
Fuck PBR though. ]
Alright, nailed it, got one in the bag. I think I'm gonna quit while I'm ahead.
[ He declares, straightening up and clapping Nathan on the shoulder as he passes by. ]
I'm gonna go to my couch and pretend like that somehow counts as leaving.