Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2012-07-04 10:52 am
flint_garou) wrote2012-07-04 10:52 am
Entry tags:
What is real.
Holding up? I don't think I call this holding up.
4 July, 2012
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (97% full).
Flint sits in the breakroom at the table, hunched over an 18x20" sheet of paper that seems to be a drawing, humming to himself. The melody is recognisable, Metallica, crappy emo stuff that suits the young galliard's mood, and the volume's barely enough to be heard a few feet away, but Flint is humming. He's got a pen in one hand, and for the moment stares down at the paper, then towards the doorway. And there's a mostly-empty beer bottle on the table, as well, not far from where Flint sits.
Extreme sleeplessness should be taking its toll on the young Ahroun, but when Devon appears in the doorway to the break room it's only deeply shadowed eyes and pale flesh that shows anything is amiss. Obviously he's coming from the direction of Nieve's apartment, pretty much alone though his timing seems to be better when it comes to seeking food. At least for as far as company goes.
Flint looks up, nods, sorta, and sets the pen down. The drawing is pencil, jagged and broken abstract circuitry, and then Flint hurriedly picks up and sets a second sheet of paper down on top of it. "H— hi Dev," he offers. "Are." Pause. "You holding up?"
Devon's eyes flick to the movement, though he doesn't seem to have really taken in the drawing. "Yeah," he answers with a shrug. "I guess." He turns for the kitchen to fetch himself a soda. "You holding up?"
Flint chews on his lower lip, then nods. "I. Yeah. As much as—" Flint cuts himself off and shuts his mouth. Instead, the younger teen reaches for the bottle, turning it around a few times. "Only the. I. Just had one," he assures, glancing at Devon and then down at the table again. "I'm okay."
Devon nods almost absently as he opens the fridge. Things rattle around a little as he finds himself a soda. Straightening, he closes the fridge again and turns for the door back into the hall.
Flint looks over at Devon, shoulders raising in a faint shrug. "You… it's okay," Flint says. "You don't have to. To just go."
Devon pauses near the door, looking down at the can in his hand. "It's okay to stay. Except you don't really want me around. No one seemed concerned enough to call or make sure I was okay. And now that I'm back I'm not so much confined as I am getting looked at like I'm insane."
Flint looks at Devon, past Devon. "I. No. Not insane. But something?" The galliard pauses and takes a deep breath, and the effort that the words that follow come with is obvious. They're slow, but they're coherent and in order. "Neither Nieve nor Rina nor I see the monsters you're talking about. And we are worried but we don't know. What it is." Another pause, and then Flint's speech resumes more 'normal' patterns. "And. How was. Was I supposed to know to call, I. You seemed to. To— want space so. You brushed me off. If I. I tried when you were here. So I backed off." Flint chews his lower lip. "Or all I did get, was. Was you hearing, how I said things. Not what I said."
"They're there," Devon says, insistent. "I'm not crazy, I know what I've seen and heard." He goes silent to allow Flint a chance to speak uninterrupted. "Considering you constantly take what I say as an insult, you really think I'd continue pushing my presence around here? I'll I've gotten is shit, that I'm doing everything wrong. By pretty much everyone."
Flint takes in a deep, steadying breath. The moon isn't making this conversation any easier, and he gets to his feet, picks up the bottle. The last swig is taken and Flint walks it over to the recycling, then looks at Devon. "If you. If you don't mean it like that, you. You have to tell me. Otherwise, when. You tell me, that how'm I." There's another deep breath, anger that seeped into his voice pushed away. "I'm a galliard. I. I know that. It. It doesn't make talking, easier. And. And everyone sees. Broken failed words and NOTHING ELSE!" The table, when Flint gets back to it, is kicked at one leg, lightly.
Devon swings around and hurls the can at Flint, pitching it akin to any baseball. "This isn't about you," he snarls. "No one. NO ONE said anything about you or the way you speak!"
"You did," Flint snaps. The soda can pegs him in the shoulder, and he turns with it, not bothering to get it when it hits the ground. "One week. After I made cliath, you did." The galliard's rage, nearly murderous in intensity right now, is focused on the Ahroun. "But you're crazy, so. I don't expect you. You to. Remember. 'You're a Galliard,'" Flint continues, the tone changing a little when he repeats back what Devon once said, words slow. "'And you can't be bothered to speak what … normally? Seriously?' YOU DID."
"Well you are a Galliard," Devon yells back. His own temper is reined in tightly, but for the volume, no less dangerous than Flint's. "Kavi has better flow and measure when he talks!" He points a finger at the younger cliath, eyes narrowing. "And this isn't even ABOUT YOU! So get off the fucking soap box for once and listen! S'also what you're supposed to do, right?! Shut the fuck up and listen?!"
Flint takes another deep breath, attention turning away from Devon to put the drawings in a folder, movements slow, deliberate. "I did. I told you. THERE IS NOTHING THERE! Real to you. Fine," Flint snaps. "Not actually real. No monsters. Whatever the fuck happened to you, it. It got in your head." The folder is picked up, and Flint takes several steps towards the door, and inadvertently towards Devon, chin jutting up.
Devon says nothing until the Galliard is closer. Then he snaps. A hand swings out to slap the folder from Flint's hand. "I am NOT CRAZY," he spits out, his other hand coming up to trap the smaller boy around the throat and drive him backward. "They were there, I saw them. Just because you didn't see anything doesn't mean it wasn't there!"
The galliard snaps into crinos, nearly frothing, but still, for the moment, in control of himself, and pushes away Devon's arm, moves to do the reverse. ~I didn't see,~ Requiem snarls. ~Rina didn't. Pirate Trader-rhya didn't. Bridge Builder-rhya didn't. NO ONE SAW BUT YOU.~
Devon slams into Crinos himself, face pressing close to the Galliard's. ~That DOESN'T MEAN that IT WASN'T THERE! YOU hear things all the FUCKING TIME that aren't there!~
Requiem snarls right back at the Ahroun, then worms a step backwards, shoving his way past the other and to the door of the breakroom, shouldering past Red-Hands when necessary, folder of drawings kicked to underneath the computers and out of the way and then forgotten. ~Big. Moon,~ he snaps, before shoving out, and into the hallway.
Red-Hands shoves the table and chairs in the direction of the couch, a final snarling effort made once the Galliard has departed. He shifts to homid after, giving a chair a last kick before turning for the door himself. And presumably Nieve's apartment.
Ex can be spotted in the doorway to the cubs bunkroom for half a second before she bolts back inside.
Requiem doesn't shift back down to homid until he actually reaches his apartment door. And even when he does, the galliard's practically frothing. The door slams behind him.
4 July, 2012
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (97% full).
Flint sits in the breakroom at the table, hunched over an 18x20" sheet of paper that seems to be a drawing, humming to himself. The melody is recognisable, Metallica, crappy emo stuff that suits the young galliard's mood, and the volume's barely enough to be heard a few feet away, but Flint is humming. He's got a pen in one hand, and for the moment stares down at the paper, then towards the doorway. And there's a mostly-empty beer bottle on the table, as well, not far from where Flint sits.
Extreme sleeplessness should be taking its toll on the young Ahroun, but when Devon appears in the doorway to the break room it's only deeply shadowed eyes and pale flesh that shows anything is amiss. Obviously he's coming from the direction of Nieve's apartment, pretty much alone though his timing seems to be better when it comes to seeking food. At least for as far as company goes.
Flint looks up, nods, sorta, and sets the pen down. The drawing is pencil, jagged and broken abstract circuitry, and then Flint hurriedly picks up and sets a second sheet of paper down on top of it. "H— hi Dev," he offers. "Are." Pause. "You holding up?"
Devon's eyes flick to the movement, though he doesn't seem to have really taken in the drawing. "Yeah," he answers with a shrug. "I guess." He turns for the kitchen to fetch himself a soda. "You holding up?"
Flint chews on his lower lip, then nods. "I. Yeah. As much as—" Flint cuts himself off and shuts his mouth. Instead, the younger teen reaches for the bottle, turning it around a few times. "Only the. I. Just had one," he assures, glancing at Devon and then down at the table again. "I'm okay."
Devon nods almost absently as he opens the fridge. Things rattle around a little as he finds himself a soda. Straightening, he closes the fridge again and turns for the door back into the hall.
Flint looks over at Devon, shoulders raising in a faint shrug. "You… it's okay," Flint says. "You don't have to. To just go."
Devon pauses near the door, looking down at the can in his hand. "It's okay to stay. Except you don't really want me around. No one seemed concerned enough to call or make sure I was okay. And now that I'm back I'm not so much confined as I am getting looked at like I'm insane."
Flint looks at Devon, past Devon. "I. No. Not insane. But something?" The galliard pauses and takes a deep breath, and the effort that the words that follow come with is obvious. They're slow, but they're coherent and in order. "Neither Nieve nor Rina nor I see the monsters you're talking about. And we are worried but we don't know. What it is." Another pause, and then Flint's speech resumes more 'normal' patterns. "And. How was. Was I supposed to know to call, I. You seemed to. To— want space so. You brushed me off. If I. I tried when you were here. So I backed off." Flint chews his lower lip. "Or all I did get, was. Was you hearing, how I said things. Not what I said."
"They're there," Devon says, insistent. "I'm not crazy, I know what I've seen and heard." He goes silent to allow Flint a chance to speak uninterrupted. "Considering you constantly take what I say as an insult, you really think I'd continue pushing my presence around here? I'll I've gotten is shit, that I'm doing everything wrong. By pretty much everyone."
Flint takes in a deep, steadying breath. The moon isn't making this conversation any easier, and he gets to his feet, picks up the bottle. The last swig is taken and Flint walks it over to the recycling, then looks at Devon. "If you. If you don't mean it like that, you. You have to tell me. Otherwise, when. You tell me, that how'm I." There's another deep breath, anger that seeped into his voice pushed away. "I'm a galliard. I. I know that. It. It doesn't make talking, easier. And. And everyone sees. Broken failed words and NOTHING ELSE!" The table, when Flint gets back to it, is kicked at one leg, lightly.
Devon swings around and hurls the can at Flint, pitching it akin to any baseball. "This isn't about you," he snarls. "No one. NO ONE said anything about you or the way you speak!"
"You did," Flint snaps. The soda can pegs him in the shoulder, and he turns with it, not bothering to get it when it hits the ground. "One week. After I made cliath, you did." The galliard's rage, nearly murderous in intensity right now, is focused on the Ahroun. "But you're crazy, so. I don't expect you. You to. Remember. 'You're a Galliard,'" Flint continues, the tone changing a little when he repeats back what Devon once said, words slow. "'And you can't be bothered to speak what … normally? Seriously?' YOU DID."
"Well you are a Galliard," Devon yells back. His own temper is reined in tightly, but for the volume, no less dangerous than Flint's. "Kavi has better flow and measure when he talks!" He points a finger at the younger cliath, eyes narrowing. "And this isn't even ABOUT YOU! So get off the fucking soap box for once and listen! S'also what you're supposed to do, right?! Shut the fuck up and listen?!"
Flint takes another deep breath, attention turning away from Devon to put the drawings in a folder, movements slow, deliberate. "I did. I told you. THERE IS NOTHING THERE! Real to you. Fine," Flint snaps. "Not actually real. No monsters. Whatever the fuck happened to you, it. It got in your head." The folder is picked up, and Flint takes several steps towards the door, and inadvertently towards Devon, chin jutting up.
Devon says nothing until the Galliard is closer. Then he snaps. A hand swings out to slap the folder from Flint's hand. "I am NOT CRAZY," he spits out, his other hand coming up to trap the smaller boy around the throat and drive him backward. "They were there, I saw them. Just because you didn't see anything doesn't mean it wasn't there!"
The galliard snaps into crinos, nearly frothing, but still, for the moment, in control of himself, and pushes away Devon's arm, moves to do the reverse. ~I didn't see,~ Requiem snarls. ~Rina didn't. Pirate Trader-rhya didn't. Bridge Builder-rhya didn't. NO ONE SAW BUT YOU.~
Devon slams into Crinos himself, face pressing close to the Galliard's. ~That DOESN'T MEAN that IT WASN'T THERE! YOU hear things all the FUCKING TIME that aren't there!~
Requiem snarls right back at the Ahroun, then worms a step backwards, shoving his way past the other and to the door of the breakroom, shouldering past Red-Hands when necessary, folder of drawings kicked to underneath the computers and out of the way and then forgotten. ~Big. Moon,~ he snaps, before shoving out, and into the hallway.
Red-Hands shoves the table and chairs in the direction of the couch, a final snarling effort made once the Galliard has departed. He shifts to homid after, giving a chair a last kick before turning for the door himself. And presumably Nieve's apartment.
Ex can be spotted in the doorway to the cubs bunkroom for half a second before she bolts back inside.
Requiem doesn't shift back down to homid until he actually reaches his apartment door. And even when he does, the galliard's practically frothing. The door slams behind him.