Kalen
Months ago, Kalen bought a painting.
It
was the first in a series of paintings. One of those is a massive
painting of a tiger that is hanging downstairs. There are others that
grace these walls, but only the first one is tucked into a crate and
waiting in his living room. There was a note attached to it once, but
he has resolved to give this gift in person. Before he dies and before
Ian dies.
Perhaps there will be another note to tell Ian that
he loves him. Perhaps not. Kalen suspects that the note doesn't
matter, because he doubts that there s anyone in Denver who might not
know. Certainly not Ian.
They are not, not any longer, what
they were. There are nights that Kalen misses that, misses the taste of
Ian's skin and misses the way that it felt to be tangled up with him.
They are increasingly rare. Not because Kalen doesn't still value what
they had, but because he values more what they have now. And it may be
complicated and it may be razor-edged and it may be darker, but it is
more real.
It does not, he suspects, need a postscript.
More nights at champagne bars, perhaps. But not a postscript.
Kalen
reads while he waits for Ian. Not news in Denver, not something of
some relevance to what he is about to do. Instead he reads through
poems. There is fire, despite the fact that it is not terribly cold and
there is a bottle of wine open and a glass he has not touched poured.
He can smell the wine and the fire, and he uses those scents to pull
memories close. Drinking beers with Alexander by a different fire.
Drinking a different bottle of wine with Ramon.
Soon enough,
he expects, he might leave these things behind. These things and the
book of poems by Neruda with a note still tucked inside and the pictures
that are reminders that he is, at last, home.
Dulce et decorum est.
But
he is not, not at this moment anyway, reading Owen. He can practically
feel war looming on the horizon. He needs no such reminder now.
Tonight, and the few nights he can spare between now and whatever is
coming, are for the living. Are for living.
Ian
They
don't visit often these days. Though, truthfully, they have not had
that sort of relationship in quite some time. It doesn't make the times
they do share together less meaningful. But they have their own lives
(they have always had their own lives.) Sometimes those lives intersect
in cocktail bars and dance studios and secret meetings.
Ian
has only been to this house once before, and then for very different
reasons. He tries not to think about that day as he pulls into the
driveway and parks his car. It only halfway works, and a shadow of
discomfort creeps in to settle against his shoulders and his chest as he
walks up to the front door. He takes a breath there - tries to banish
it (that only halfway works too.)
Inside the house, the
doorbell sounds. When Kalen appears to let him in, Ian is wearing jeans
and a thin black sweater with a high collar (left open) and an off-side
zipper. The fabric clings and stretches over the shape of his arms and
torso.
He can smell the fire. The wine, soon enough. "Hey."
There's a quiet smile as he steps through the door. "You know, I forgot
to ask last time, but when did you get this place?" He gestures around
to the house, his eyes wandering over the space with a bit more
appreciation than he'd given it the first time around.
Kalen
"Hey," Kalen replies. And there is something relaxed in the way he doesn't try to put on a show.
Ian's
question brings a slight frown, because the truth is that he bought
this place because he wanted somewhere safe to meet people he could not
bring to the Office or the Chantry. He kept this place secret until he
needed it for the Order and after that...after that what was point of
secrecy. And then there had been Atreyu, so really....
"When I
thought I might have a complicated long-term information-gathering kind
of relationship with a vampire. I needed something to match my cover.
It's been useful a few times since." And for living in, though Kalen
does not really mention that he lives here most frequently of anywhere
lately. It still might be apparent to Ian, the scents and signs of
actual occupation and the way Kalen's new Resonance has seeped into the
place.
There is a whisper of a smile. "Finally actually used the pool table a few weeks ago."
Ian
Kalen mentions Wesley (at least, Ian is relatively sure that's who he means) and there's an ambiguous little "ah" at that. Calm and quiet (it at least does not seem angry.) "That's a lot of money to burn for a cover."
Granted,
Ian is no real estate agent, but he can guess at how much a place like
this is worth. Being able to buy property... that isn't something he's
ever had the luxury of considering. But he doesn't sound especially
bitter about it. More just... observational. Once upon a time, in a
crowded nightclub over drinks, Kalen mentioned quite vaguely what he did
for a living. It was the sort of answer that one might expect from
someone whose activities were not entirely legal (or perhaps just that
they shouldn't have been legal.) Ian hasn't asked him to specify since then, but perhaps he wonders now.
He laughs when Kalen mentions the pool table. "We should play. I haven't played pool in ages."
Kalen
"Fine,"
Kalen says. "Though that is significantly less curled up on a couch
than I had planned. It is, I suppose, a much less taxing diversion than
surprise camping." He doesn't sound anything but amused.
"You
should take your painting this time. I have enough errands for Grace
to run in the event of my death. I'd rather not make that list any
longer than necessary." He says this as though there are already plans
in place. Carefully drawn instructions prepared. "Besides. This way,
you avoid notes. And we both know I am ridiculously prone to being
dramatic and sentimental.
"Do you want a drink? I can make tea. There's a bar downstairs." And upstairs, though that is relatively obvious.
Ian
[Because sometimes ridiculous rolls are fun: Per+Alert, +2 diff for it being in another room, -2 for acute senses]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 5, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 3 )
Ian
"We
can't do both?" There's a wry quirk to his smile there. "I think
there's room in the universe for both pool and relaxing." Kalen offers
him a drink and Ian nods, running his hand across the wall as he starts
to make his way through the house. "I think I smell wine. Red? I'll take
some of that." There's a pause as he glances over and something quiet
comes over his expression.
"You can show me the painting after."
He suspects, though does not say, that he may not be much good for things like pool or talking after he's seen it.
So: he follows Kalen's lead. To the wine or the pool table or both.
Kalen
"I've
been in a mood to pour myself onto couches and be very still, lately."
There is a little frown. "Not in a bad way. Just...I'm guessing there
will be slightly less chance to do that soon. I figured I would rest
while I can."
Kalen heads toward the pool table by way of the
living room, pouring Ian a glass of wine and taking the glass he poured
earlier and the bottle downstairs. Downstairs sees less use. The
furniture, even the pool table, is antique. Warm wood and well
cared-for leather. The scent of lemon from wood polish and pipe
tobacco.
Kalen sets the wine bottle down and settles onto one of the love seats. "How have you been?"
Ian
He
makes a sound at that. Low and soft. The impression is, for a moment, a
little brooding. He doesn't agree or disagree with Kalen's suspicion
that there may not be much time for rest soon. He knows that might very
well be true, but there are things he will miss more. Kalen pours him a
glass of wine and Ian takes it off his hands with an easy gesture as
they make their way downstairs. He stops when they get to the lower
level, pausing with one hand out to the wall. A couple of beats pass
before he moves.
(It's the smell. See, it reminds him of somewhere else.)
How have you been?
Ian
glances over. His trajectory takes him in a lazy path toward the pool
table, where he stops, trailing a finger along the antique wood. "I
don't know that I have a good answer for that." He takes a long drink
from his wine glass, breathing in the scent of the Malbec as it rests on
his palette. When he's done he sets his eyes on Kalen's. "Elijah told
me the other day he thought I was handling things well. After I warned
him about... you know. Everything happening with the Union. He said I
seemed like I was in a good place."
He makes an odd expression
at that. Conflicting emotions, and something a little like confusion.
"I'm not, really. Handling it well. Or... anything else. Seems like a
lot of things have been... unbalancing, lately. Not all of it's bad.
It's just... the good parts remind me of how much I have to lose now."
He's quiet for a moment before turning the question back around. "How are you?"
Kalen
[Per+Empathy | WP because Ian and reasons | What's going on with you?]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 5 ) [WP]
Ian
[Noooo we have no feelings. Subterfuge?]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 4, 5, 7, 7) ( success x 2 ) [Doubling Tens]
Ian
[And the dice say: yes you do, liar.]
Ian
What's
going on with Ian? There's a question with a complicated answer. He
isn't lying when he says that he doesn't know if he has a good answer.
At this precise moment, he is... feeling a number of things. Some of
them contradictory. And perhaps the answer he gives is the closest thing
to honest that he can articulate. He's fairly calm. He has, after all,
only just arrived. None of this is pressing especially close to the
surface, but it's there. These quiet but persistent notes of anxiety.
Unbalanced isn't a bad word for it. He seems... less secure than usual.
Less certain of his center of gravity (emotionally speaking.)
There's
something else. Elijah wasn't completely off-base in saying that he was
handling things surprisingly well. He isn't, see. But he is somewhat distracted
by something. Something that's occupying about as much emotional real
estate in his head and his heart as whatever fear he feels over the
prospect of an impending war. That's... not insignificant.
Kalen
Kalen
curls up with his wine, watching Ian drift around the room. "I'm here,
if you want to talk about it." He smiles a little. "And also if you
don't. I could understand being in either of those places." Kalen's
eyes drift briefly down to his wineglass. Takes in the way the wine
moves and the light shifts as he lazily swirls the glass with a motion
of his wrist. Once, whatever thoughts sprung into his head would have
been spoken aloud, would have been offered. But whatever Kalen is
thinking, he does not speak it. There are no declarations, no
pronouncements, not secrets spilled before he can catch his breath.
His
head rises again when Ian turns the question on him and he laughs.
Nothing in that sound is edged or bitter, and it likely does little to
prepare Ian for what he says. "I think I finally care if I die. I
mean...I have a home and a family and I'm in love. I never thought that
I could have this life. I always thought that it would ruin
everything, that I would lose something. That I couldn't balance any
love beyond the abstract and duty.
"I don't think that I have
to give up the whole of what I might experience anymore. I talked about
infinite possibility so many times without daring to reach out and
touch any part of that." He smiles. "And maybe there isn't much time
now. I don't know. But...even if that's true...I have never been this
happy before. Or this terrified. But I'm definitely not sorry.
"So...the
answer to your question is mostly that I have no goddamned idea, but I
suspect fantastic. Among a host of other things."
Ian
Kalen
makes an offer - gives Ian a chance to talk if he wishes it. Ian
regards him with an expression that seems a little undecided, but he
doesn't immediately offer anything. Instead he leaves space for Kalen to
talk about his own feelings, and his response is... well, to be fair,
Ian tries not to have expectations of Kalen, these days. He's grown
accustomed to the idea that whatever Kalen says will inevitably sound as
though he reached up and plucked it from the sky. So the confession
isn't exactly met with surprise, but it takes a long moment for Ian to
respond. He tilts his head and draws his eyebrows together in an
expression that borders both brooding and thoughtful.
There's a thread of anxiety there, as well. At the mention of death.
"I'm glad if you're happy," he finally offers. "The past few times we've talked, you seemed... different. What changed?"
He
sets his wine glass carefully on the edge of the pool table and moves
to set the game up, racking the balls up with this familiar gesture that
suggests - while it may not be an activity he bothers with much lately -
he has played pool a few times before.
Kalen
"I
was trying to decide what to do, before," Kalen says quietly. "I mean,
I had just realised how far apart I was from a lot of the people here.
After everything with Sid and then Serafine...Alyssa leaving...I
just...I was reminded that whatever I wanted to believe, Denver wasn't
someplace that we could all lay aside our very different experiences and
dreams. It had seemed like that, for awhile.
"I thought I
would just accept that I couldn't be close to everyone here, that I
could withdraw a little and repair my relationship with the Order. And
they apologized to me, they tried to bring me closer to them again. And
then Orrin told me his plan." Kalen looks away. "And so I had to
decide whether I was willing to throw away my connections to the Order
for a bunch of people who barely trusted me, if at all, and who were
never really going to agree with me or understand me.
"As it
turns out, what you all do or do not feel for me has no bearing on my
love for you. And however much I wanted to go back to the Order, my
desire to be with people who have some understanding of what I am
capable of has no influence on my judgement of what is and is not
acceptable to allow.
"I made my choice. I thought it would
make me unhappy, but it didn't. I still have no idea what I will be
without them, if it comes to that." Kalen looks back over to Ian and
smiles a little. Tentative. Hopeful. "But I rather look forward to
finding out."
Ian
He listens. There's a moment where he picks up a
cue, feeling the weight in his hands, but his focus isn't really on what
he's doing and he sets it down a moment later. Kalen starts to talk
about the Order, and Ian walks around the table and comes to sit beside
Kalen on the sofa. He rests his weight on the edge of the cushion and
sets his hands behind him.
"I'm sorry about the Order. The
position they put you in. I don't really know what it's like to be part
of a Tradition, but it's tough... losing something like that." He
doesn't elaborate, but that's less because he doesn't know how to say
what he means than because he doesn't quite want to. (There are some
words that have too much resonance for him, sometimes.) "You're handling
it pretty well, I think. I guess sometimes change can be good.
Renewing."
He's trying, see? To understand all this from Kalen's perspective.
"For
the record, I don't think you have an entirely accurate view of how
people feel about you. But I doubt I'll be able to convince you of
that."
Kalen
"Alexander tried, very hard, to
convince me that I should not punish you all for being my friends.
I...." Kalen smiles a little and his voice softens. "My friends for
the past...all of my friends, really, have been other Mages. Some were
mentors, many of those were of the Order. Some were people that I
worked with. Those were all people who had trained me or who had
trained with me. If I told them I had something and I needed to do it
alone, they'd have let me.
"Hell. Sometimes they volunteered me for that." Kalen reaches out to rest a hand on Ian's arm. The touch is light. Brief.
"And,
before I came here, my only other friend was Ramon. And he would
have...." Kalen frowns a little. "He did, does, wish I wouldn't do
this. I wish, sometimes, that I could just stop. That I could never
have to kill anyone again. But that...that just isn't in my nature.
Not the walking away from violence, that is very much who I am, but the
not intervening in it. And if I am going to intervene, I don't have
much choice, at least at times, about what I do.
"I was simply
unprepared for any other response. I didn't understand. I still
don't, not really. So...I have no doubt that my views are inaccurate as
concerns this. I'm not sure you can convince me of what is true."
Kalen smiles. "But I trust you. I trust Alexander. And you both say
that. I may not understand, but I do not have to understand to believe
you."
Ian
"That kind of trust takes time to
build up. It isn't a black and white thing. But I think the fact that
people were worried about your safety is proof enough how much you
matter to them. You didn't see anyone making a fuss over me and Jae-shin
walking into the lion's den, and that was pretty fucking dangerous."
There's a rueful quality to his smirk there. What Kalen sees as an issue
of trust, Ian sees as something else entirely.
"Granted, I at
least remembered to bring backup. But the point is, no one was worried
about me. Because I don't make friends the way you do. When you're in
danger, people get scared. Everyone wants to protect the things they
care about."
Ian sets his hand on Kalen's knee as he leans
forward. The contact is gently anchoring. For a moment he gives just the
faintest squeeze before he stands up.
"If you aren't in the mood for pool, we can do something else."
Kalen
"I was
worried. I just didn't stop you. Making a fuss was hardly going to
help you. You know what you're capable of. You know what your limits
are. I assumed that if you needed more help you would have asked.
Maybe not me, at exactly that moment, but someone."
Kalen
gives a little amused huff and lets Ian go. Lets that more intimate
thread go. "Well. Other than possibly dancing, I can't think of what
that would be."
Ian
"Not everyone is that
evolved," Ian counters, his tone ambiguous. He retrieves his wine and
tips the glass against his lips, finishing off the contents. There's a
long pause before he says, "We can look at the painting, if you still
want to show it to me."
Perhaps he's lost whatever urge toward friendly competitiveness had caused him to suggest the game in the first place.
Kalen
"Yeah,"
Kalen says quietly. "Okay." He picks up his glass, still barely
touched, and heads back up the stairs. He cannot imagine why he
wouldn't want to show it to Ian. Maybe, at first, before he'd admitted
it existed. But Ian knew about it now, so there wasn't anything left to
be gained by hiding it.
And he did, really, want Ian to have it.
Kalen
doesn't settle on the couch in the living room, just leans into it with
one hip, wine glass in hand, and lets Ian have at unmasking the
painting. It is wrapped in a blanket, but the crate is open on one end.
Hardly so fragile that it won't survive transport in this state.
Ian
He
brings the empty wine glass with him, setting it down once they reach
the living room (likely he intends to refill it.) There's an open crate
sitting in the room, and when Kalen makes no effort to remove the
painting - stands back and gives Ian space to do so himself - Ian walks
over and begins to carefully remove it from its casing. It is very
similar to the manner in which he unwrapped the gift Kalen gave him last
Christmas: slow and precise and painstakingly delicate. When he manages
to free it from the blanket, he regards the image before him with a
muted sort of awe, leaving it laid out atop the crate so he doesn't have
to touch it.
It's quiet, his reaction. He studies the
painting for a long moment. Gets lost in it. The more he looks at it,
the more the hairs on the back of his neck seem to stand on end.
"It's..." he trails off, uncertain how to articulate what he's feeling. "Who painted this?"
Kalen
Kalen watches Ian unwrap the painting. Gives him time and space to regard it. Takes a single sip of wine.
"Tadashi
Hayakawa," Kalen says. "Grace and I were at the opening reception for
the show here. It reminded me of you." He isn't concerned, apparently,
with the lack of a definite verbal response. Kalen understands getting
lost in things. Being at a loss for the words to describe things.
"I thought you should have it."
Ian
"I can't take this, Kalen. It's..."
Arguably the nicest thing anyone's ever given him.
"Too
much," he finally manages. He doesn't know how much the painting cost,
but he remembers Kalen admitting, somewhat sheepishly, that it was more
than he once paid for a car. Somehow that reality seems much more
immediate to Ian now that he's standing here looking at it. Now that the
painting is a real thing and not just an idea. And the truth is, if
this were any other painting he would probably refuse outright. Tell
Kalen that he should give it to somebody else. Or keep it and add it to
his own collection.
It isn't any other painting though. It's this one. And Kalen was right.
The
truth is, now that Ian's seen it, he can't seem to stop looking at it.
Not even as he's telling Kalen that he can't take it. Kalen offers it up
as though it's just some thing he saw and thought Ian should have. Like
a nice bottle of wine or a new jacket. But it is much more than that, and Ian finally does tear his eyes away to meet Kalen's gaze. "This is the kind of thing you get for someone you..."
He doesn't finish that sentence.
Instead he sits back on the couch and puts his head in his hands.
Kalen
"Love?"
Kalen asks softly. Gently. "Yes. Differently than I used to. But
yes." There is something in his tone that is almost an apology.
"Whatever
we were. Whatever we aren't now. I think of you as family. I assumed
you knew." He sighs and takes another sip of his wine. "I know you
think that a lot of things come easily to me. And some of them do. But
I think, more than you really know and maybe more than I really know, I
am more willing to take the risks with you and for you that I won't for
other people.
"Because I have had very, very few real
friends. Sometimes I'm not really even certain I understand friendship.
But, for what it's worth, I am reasonably sure that is what this is."
There is a little, lopsided smile. "I'm sorry that I'm probably
terrible at it."
Ian
He wants to say something to that.
Instead
the muscles in his back give this roll of shuddering tension and he
exhales roughly inside the cupped wall of his hands. Kalen can only make
out slivers of Ian's expression, but he can see enough to know that his
eyes are closed.
There is a sudden, stilted moment of silence following this.
Then
Ian just starts to cry. It happens in these contained little gasps, as
though whatever control he normally has over his emotions is slipping
away in these depressingly inexorable increments. And he tries,
see. He tries not to make any noise. Not to make a fucking scene. But
it happens anyway. He makes this strained sob into his hands and finally
gives up on trying to cover his face. Instead he rests his forehead
against one hand and lets the other one drop uselessly to his knee.
There are so many things to say, and he cannot find the words to say any of them.
Kalen
Kalen
gives Ian a few seconds, but when it becomes clear that Ian isn't
really going to manage to regain something more like his usual
equilibrium, he reaches out to rest one hand between Ian's shoulder
blades. He doesn't tell Ian that everything will be okay. He doesn't
tell him that he understands. Instead, all he says, very quietly, is,
"I'm here."
Ian
The truth is, there are so
many pieces of this story that Kalen doesn't even know, and maybe on a
better night Ian would have told him. Maybe if it had only been one of those things, or even a few of them...
He's overwhelmed. That much, at least, is obvious.
Tears
slide down from his eyes to fall in an erratic pattern against the
carpet. Some of them drop onto his knees. When Kalen touches his back,
he gives this little start, like he wasn't expecting it, and for a
second his body shies away. Maybe Kalen will stop there. Maybe he'll set
his hand down anyway. It isn't so much a rejection as an unconscious
instinct, but these things are not always easy to read.
The sounds, at least, get softer.
"I'm
sorry I was so horrible to you," he finally manages, his voice hoarse
and thick. He's apologized once before, and maybe Kalen doesn't need to
hear it, but Ian seems to want to say it. Though it does not even
remotely come close to what he's feeling. "I'm sorry I'm so fucked up."
Kalen
The
pressure of Kalen's hand lightens a little when Ian spooks a bit at the
contact, but when he isn't so much shrugged off Kalen lets his hand
rest a little more heavily against Ian's back.
"I know. I
know. It's okay. I'm okay. I was upset yes, but I'm not anymore."
Kalen pauses. Sets down his wine glass. Leans a little closer to Ian.
"Listen.
I'm not going to tell you that you're okay right now. You don't have
to be. I'm here. I've got you. Whatever this, whatever is going
on...I'm here. And if...if that's not what you want, there are other
rooms here. You can be alone with this if that's really what you want.
"Whatever you need. Just tell me."
Ian
He
doesn't spook again when Kalen's hand comes to rest more firmly against
his back. And he's quiet while Kalen utters those soft reassurances.
He's grateful, for a moment, that Kalen doesn't try to offer any of his
usual notes of optimism. And though he does not fully respond to what
Kalen does offer, neither does he lash out or try to shake him off.
He doesn't get up and leave either.
Instead he just sits there for a moment, tears tracing a silent path down his cheeks.
"I need the world to hold still," he murmurs, quietly. "I need you all to be safe."
But
the world doesn't hold still. It never has, and it never will. If it
did, he would not be sitting here right now crying on Kalen's sofa.
"Thank you," he finally says. "For the painting."
Kalen
I need the world to hold still. I need you all to be safe.
That, Kalen can understand.
He
doesn't really try to say anything else by way of reassurance. There
are some things that are difficult to convey. He lets his hand stay
between Ian's shoulder blades. He considers murmuring poems instead of
prayers, but he doesn't think he can ground Ian that way.
Just this, right now, will have to be enough.
"You're welcome."
Ian
He
lifts his spine a little. The tension in his muscles gives this unhappy
flare of resistance at the movement, but he ignores it. There's a blink
as he lets his eyes readjust, then he sniffs and tries to wipe some of
the wetness away from his face with the back of his sleeve.
The
whole thing feels like something out of a different time. Like he's
suddenly twelve again, crying about Delia Parker making fun of his
father's accent. He's aware, see, of how it probably looks. Like he's
weak. Like he can't hold his shit together. Like he just lost it over a
fucking painting.
Logically, he knows that Kalen would never
think any of those things, but it still makes him briefly angry - this
quiet little flash of frustration as he swipes his hand over his eyes.
(Angry at himself, that is.)
"I can't have any more wine," he admits, reluctantly. He doesn't explain why. "Do you want to come beat me at pool now?"
Kalen
"Sure,"
Kalen says, his voice still quiet. "I will come beat you at pool." He
runs his hand up along Ian's back, squeezes his shoulder, and then
withdraws his hand and rises.
"The pool table dates back to
before the turn of the twentieth century," he says. And then, rather
than addressing what just happened, he tells Ian the story, such as he
knows it, of the pool table as they head downstairs. Calmly. Quietly.
Steadily.
It isn't a prayer. It isn't a poem. It isn't a tea ceremony. It isn't udon. It isn't roasting marshmallows.
One
day he will figure out what he will share with Ian in these moments.
One day. For tonight, Ian gets a tiny, laser-focused history lesson.
Ian
[Dex 4 + Streetwise 0 - and the winner is...]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (7, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
Kalen
[Dex 3 + Streetwise 2]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )
Ian
[Apparently the dice disagree about Ian being only passably good at pool.]
