A mite tricky.
Sunday, 22 January 2012 10:30![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouSo long as it doesn't become disappearing cake.
22 January, 2012
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (6% full).
Stepping in as Kevin opens the door for him, Iakovos lifts the bag of groceries. "Where's the kitchen, Kevin-rhya?" he asks, after bowing his head to the Adren. Apparently, he remembered the name.
"Well…" Kevin says. "There's several. This is all apartments in here, so everyone's got their own…" He tails off, with a frown, as if he suspects he may have said something he shouldn't. "You better come in," he decides.
The stairwell door opens, letting Flint into the lobby. "Oh, hey Kevin," the boy calls out, pausing after he's shut the door to the stairwell behind him. A glance towards the door, and Iakovos, and the cub pauses half a step further before moving into the lobby proper.
"Thanks. Where's the best place to put communal food, then? Down here?" Iakovos asks amiably enough, offering the bag to Kevin so he can see it isn't full of C4. Unless it's C4 shaped into cookies, muffins and baklava.
Kevin closes the door behind Iakovos. "You can leave it with me," he offers, "and I'll dole it out among the needy and deserving. Thank you," he adds belatedly. "It's very kind. Though it's rare that we're reduced to starvation rations here. You get fed enough, don't you, Flinty?" he asks the cub, turning to him with a smile.
"Yep," Flint says, in fact enthusiastically as he makes his way over to the pair, pausing several feet away and ducking a nod "Sure do." The boy doesn't look terribly underfed, either. Just a little.
"It's habit. Kinfolk feed Garou, where I was raised," Iakovos replies mildly, accepting the advice. "But if it isn't needed at the tenement, I'll refrain." He turns towards Flint now, offering the cub a polite smile.
Kevin goes a little pink. "I'm not trying to sound ungrateful or anything," he says awkwardly. "Just I don't want to see you going on short commons just to make sure we're fed. Anyway. Come and sit down, have a coffee or something, it's horrible weather out there. I'm sorry I had to go last time you were visiting. Flint, you come sit down too. I'll take any excuse to stop watching Bury knocking eight bells out of poor old Yeovil…"
Flint grins at Iakovos a bit, before moving over towards the couches, looking at the seating area and back to Kevin before the boy sits down, crosslegged. A glance out the door and the boy nods. "Damn rain," he mutters. "Wet and cold." He shakes his head. "Unreasonable weather if you ask me, but. I hate cold anyway."
"No problem, Kevin-rhya," Iakovos replies politely. "I don't starve my my kids to provide for the Nation, I can promise that." He seems like he might say more, but his cellphone chirps. Drawing it out to read the email that just arrived, he frowns. "I apologise, rhyas. It seems my son needs me."
"Oh," Kevin says, sounding a little disappointed. "Well… you must come back sometime soon and we'll talk properly. Sure I can't tempt you with a coffee before you go?"
There's a rueful smile from the kinsman now. "I would like to be tempted, but my son just sent an SOS email. I'd better go and make sure he and my daughters are okay. I'll return later though; perhaps then."
Flint watches Iakovos go, half a faint smile passing across his face, though it's disappointed as well, before he glances back to Kevin. "Coffee does sound good," the boy decides, pushing himself to feet halfway.
"Well, all the more for us," Kevin points out philosophically. "Not to mention muffins, and cookies, and… what the deuce is this stuff?" he asks, poking with one curious finger at the baklava.
"'s long as it doesn't meet the fate of Riley's cake," Flint says, with a grin. "Disappearing cake." The contents of the bag are examined, the baklava getting an equally curious look from the cub. "I dunno, but it looks good," he concludes, grinning.
"Try some?" Kevin offers, like a king suggesting that his food taster should take the first bite of a sweetmeat presented to him by a nobleman of dubious loyalty.
Flint gives the ragabash a half dubious look, but it doesn't last long at all. After wiping his hands off on his pants — as if that makes them somehow any cleaner or more fit to touch food — the cub reaches into the bag, pulling out a piece of the baklava. "Sticky," is the only comment given, before it turns into various mmfs and sounds of eating, and a wide grin.
Kevin has meantime pulled out a thermos flask of coffee and poured two cups out. "So," he says conversationally. "How are you getting on, now? How are you faring with other peoples' lessons? Any teachers or subjects you're finding particularly easy, or difficult?" He selects some baklava for himself, and goes quiet as he chews on the unexpectedly sticky concoction.
Flint pauses, finishing chewing and then licking the residue of the baklava from the few fingers he'd held it in, before wiping his fingers on his jeans. Again. "Good, for the most part," Flint says, sitting back onto the couch before taking the proffered cup of coffee and taking a sip. "Most've lessons are good. Kavi-rhya's been working with me some on…" a pause, and a half grimace, "controlling my Rage, more. Recognising it, and all. That's…" The boy's relative distaste for it, overall, is obvious.
Kevin doesn't fail to pick up on it. Swallowing the glutinous baklava, he asks, "Finding that a mite tricky, are we?"
"Little," the boy admits, half shrugging it off, half not. "It's hard, sometimes. Getting better at it, but." Flint takes another sip of his coffee, looking over at Kevin, quiet.
"Anything particular get your goat?" Kevin asks. "What makes it really hard for you to keep the lid on and stop yourself ripping someone or something a new asshole?"
Flint pauses, considering this. "Dunno. Stuff about my mom, stuff related…" The cub leans over, and sets the cup of coffee, half empty, on the table, before folding his hands in his lap. "Mostly, it's little stuff. Devon says I shouldn't be hung up on any of it, a lot."
The mention of Devon makes the corner of Kevin's mouth twitch. "Devon says a lot of things," he responds drily. "Shouldn't and couldn't are all very well, but if you are hung up on it, trying to pretend you're not, or guilt-tripping yourself for letting it affect you, are the last things you want to do. Could lead to disaster if your cork pops. Admit your weaknesses, work on fixing them, and in the meantime, figure out a way around them as best you can. Is my advice."
"Sometimes… 's like," Flint pauses, considering his wording. "I should be able to let go of it a lot easier than I am. Working on it, yeah, though," the cub says, with a faint, half-nervous grin.
"You mentioned your mom," Kevin prompts the cub. "Lord knows I still have issues around mine. Anything in particular with yours that pushes your buttons? Anything you'd like to bend my ear about?"
Hands fold in the boy's lap again, careful. "Yeah," Flint says. "She. It's ridiculous sometimes, but I'm just mad at her in general. Even if here's better, it still pushes my buttons about stuff before," the cub continues. "Little stuff that reminds me." He sighs, then looks over at the ragabash again.
"Yeah," Kevin says, "I always got the impression you and your mom weren't exactly on the same page. Now, see, my mom and I were yay close." He crosses two fingers and holds them up in front of Flint. "Which means, I've not seen her now for over seven years, and frankly it still rips me up if I let myself think about it. So consider. Which of us is in the better position, mm?" He raises one eyebrow at Flint, and sips his coffee pensively.
Flint nods, the cub frowning just a little. "Yeah," he says, quiet. "Things like… fault, guilt, too. I dunno." He pauses, reaching over for the previously set aside coffee now that he's a little more sure of himself, and the talking. "I mean, I grew up with a giant guilt trip over my head, about everything. It's hard, not to guilt-trip myself." A deep breath follows, hands gripping the cup of coffee now.
"Guilt's a tricky one," Kevin agrees. "I don't know what I can do to help you get over the feeling that you're going to be judged for what you do. Especially because, in a way, you are. The Garou Nation is one judgemental moth… one judgmental son of a bitch," he observes, "and there's no denying it. But if you keep your nose clean — unlike me — or at the very least don't get caught — unlike me — you can go far."
A slow nod follows, and Flint takes a long sip from the coffee cup. "That…" words fail, and the boy simply nods again. "It's irrational guilt for the most part, too. Stuff that still doesn't matter anymore. But I just. It feels like a… hairtrigger, sometimes." Head tilts to one side. "The other day, when Sadie said something about family staying together, that's what set stuff off, then. Didn't even… need to be part of the conversation."
"Just because something's irrational," Kevin reminds Flint, "doesn't mean it doesn't affect you. Often it affects you more, because you get mad at yourself for letting something affect you when it shouldn't. I know I do, anyway."
Flint nods, grinning a little. "Guilty, there," the boy says, with some hint that the choice of wording is a joke, if a self-disparaging one. "I do, yeah. And then I get mad, and it affects me more…" brows furrow, as though it's something Flint hadn't quite realised before.
"And so the vicious circle goes on," Kevin sighs, putting his feet back up on the coffee table and finishing his drink. "This giving you any food for thought, Flint?" Flint this time, not Flinty.
"Yeah, thanks Kevin," the cub says, quiet as he considers things. "Some, and maybe, at least, to try not to get so mad at myself over shit that happens."
"Okay then, off with you," Kevin says cheerfully. "I've got a soccer match to finish watching, assuming no more callers show up tonight."
Flint grins, pushing himself to his feet after a moment of nodding. "'Kay," Flint says, nodding to Kevin. "I'll see ya', and all." Thumbs are shoved in the boy's pockets and he makes his way to the stairwell. "Thank you."
22 January, 2012
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (6% full).
Stepping in as Kevin opens the door for him, Iakovos lifts the bag of groceries. "Where's the kitchen, Kevin-rhya?" he asks, after bowing his head to the Adren. Apparently, he remembered the name.
"Well…" Kevin says. "There's several. This is all apartments in here, so everyone's got their own…" He tails off, with a frown, as if he suspects he may have said something he shouldn't. "You better come in," he decides.
The stairwell door opens, letting Flint into the lobby. "Oh, hey Kevin," the boy calls out, pausing after he's shut the door to the stairwell behind him. A glance towards the door, and Iakovos, and the cub pauses half a step further before moving into the lobby proper.
"Thanks. Where's the best place to put communal food, then? Down here?" Iakovos asks amiably enough, offering the bag to Kevin so he can see it isn't full of C4. Unless it's C4 shaped into cookies, muffins and baklava.
Kevin closes the door behind Iakovos. "You can leave it with me," he offers, "and I'll dole it out among the needy and deserving. Thank you," he adds belatedly. "It's very kind. Though it's rare that we're reduced to starvation rations here. You get fed enough, don't you, Flinty?" he asks the cub, turning to him with a smile.
"Yep," Flint says, in fact enthusiastically as he makes his way over to the pair, pausing several feet away and ducking a nod "Sure do." The boy doesn't look terribly underfed, either. Just a little.
"It's habit. Kinfolk feed Garou, where I was raised," Iakovos replies mildly, accepting the advice. "But if it isn't needed at the tenement, I'll refrain." He turns towards Flint now, offering the cub a polite smile.
Kevin goes a little pink. "I'm not trying to sound ungrateful or anything," he says awkwardly. "Just I don't want to see you going on short commons just to make sure we're fed. Anyway. Come and sit down, have a coffee or something, it's horrible weather out there. I'm sorry I had to go last time you were visiting. Flint, you come sit down too. I'll take any excuse to stop watching Bury knocking eight bells out of poor old Yeovil…"
Flint grins at Iakovos a bit, before moving over towards the couches, looking at the seating area and back to Kevin before the boy sits down, crosslegged. A glance out the door and the boy nods. "Damn rain," he mutters. "Wet and cold." He shakes his head. "Unreasonable weather if you ask me, but. I hate cold anyway."
"No problem, Kevin-rhya," Iakovos replies politely. "I don't starve my my kids to provide for the Nation, I can promise that." He seems like he might say more, but his cellphone chirps. Drawing it out to read the email that just arrived, he frowns. "I apologise, rhyas. It seems my son needs me."
"Oh," Kevin says, sounding a little disappointed. "Well… you must come back sometime soon and we'll talk properly. Sure I can't tempt you with a coffee before you go?"
There's a rueful smile from the kinsman now. "I would like to be tempted, but my son just sent an SOS email. I'd better go and make sure he and my daughters are okay. I'll return later though; perhaps then."
Flint watches Iakovos go, half a faint smile passing across his face, though it's disappointed as well, before he glances back to Kevin. "Coffee does sound good," the boy decides, pushing himself to feet halfway.
"Well, all the more for us," Kevin points out philosophically. "Not to mention muffins, and cookies, and… what the deuce is this stuff?" he asks, poking with one curious finger at the baklava.
"'s long as it doesn't meet the fate of Riley's cake," Flint says, with a grin. "Disappearing cake." The contents of the bag are examined, the baklava getting an equally curious look from the cub. "I dunno, but it looks good," he concludes, grinning.
"Try some?" Kevin offers, like a king suggesting that his food taster should take the first bite of a sweetmeat presented to him by a nobleman of dubious loyalty.
Flint gives the ragabash a half dubious look, but it doesn't last long at all. After wiping his hands off on his pants — as if that makes them somehow any cleaner or more fit to touch food — the cub reaches into the bag, pulling out a piece of the baklava. "Sticky," is the only comment given, before it turns into various mmfs and sounds of eating, and a wide grin.
Kevin has meantime pulled out a thermos flask of coffee and poured two cups out. "So," he says conversationally. "How are you getting on, now? How are you faring with other peoples' lessons? Any teachers or subjects you're finding particularly easy, or difficult?" He selects some baklava for himself, and goes quiet as he chews on the unexpectedly sticky concoction.
Flint pauses, finishing chewing and then licking the residue of the baklava from the few fingers he'd held it in, before wiping his fingers on his jeans. Again. "Good, for the most part," Flint says, sitting back onto the couch before taking the proffered cup of coffee and taking a sip. "Most've lessons are good. Kavi-rhya's been working with me some on…" a pause, and a half grimace, "controlling my Rage, more. Recognising it, and all. That's…" The boy's relative distaste for it, overall, is obvious.
Kevin doesn't fail to pick up on it. Swallowing the glutinous baklava, he asks, "Finding that a mite tricky, are we?"
"Little," the boy admits, half shrugging it off, half not. "It's hard, sometimes. Getting better at it, but." Flint takes another sip of his coffee, looking over at Kevin, quiet.
"Anything particular get your goat?" Kevin asks. "What makes it really hard for you to keep the lid on and stop yourself ripping someone or something a new asshole?"
Flint pauses, considering this. "Dunno. Stuff about my mom, stuff related…" The cub leans over, and sets the cup of coffee, half empty, on the table, before folding his hands in his lap. "Mostly, it's little stuff. Devon says I shouldn't be hung up on any of it, a lot."
The mention of Devon makes the corner of Kevin's mouth twitch. "Devon says a lot of things," he responds drily. "Shouldn't and couldn't are all very well, but if you are hung up on it, trying to pretend you're not, or guilt-tripping yourself for letting it affect you, are the last things you want to do. Could lead to disaster if your cork pops. Admit your weaknesses, work on fixing them, and in the meantime, figure out a way around them as best you can. Is my advice."
"Sometimes… 's like," Flint pauses, considering his wording. "I should be able to let go of it a lot easier than I am. Working on it, yeah, though," the cub says, with a faint, half-nervous grin.
"You mentioned your mom," Kevin prompts the cub. "Lord knows I still have issues around mine. Anything in particular with yours that pushes your buttons? Anything you'd like to bend my ear about?"
Hands fold in the boy's lap again, careful. "Yeah," Flint says. "She. It's ridiculous sometimes, but I'm just mad at her in general. Even if here's better, it still pushes my buttons about stuff before," the cub continues. "Little stuff that reminds me." He sighs, then looks over at the ragabash again.
"Yeah," Kevin says, "I always got the impression you and your mom weren't exactly on the same page. Now, see, my mom and I were yay close." He crosses two fingers and holds them up in front of Flint. "Which means, I've not seen her now for over seven years, and frankly it still rips me up if I let myself think about it. So consider. Which of us is in the better position, mm?" He raises one eyebrow at Flint, and sips his coffee pensively.
Flint nods, the cub frowning just a little. "Yeah," he says, quiet. "Things like… fault, guilt, too. I dunno." He pauses, reaching over for the previously set aside coffee now that he's a little more sure of himself, and the talking. "I mean, I grew up with a giant guilt trip over my head, about everything. It's hard, not to guilt-trip myself." A deep breath follows, hands gripping the cup of coffee now.
"Guilt's a tricky one," Kevin agrees. "I don't know what I can do to help you get over the feeling that you're going to be judged for what you do. Especially because, in a way, you are. The Garou Nation is one judgemental moth… one judgmental son of a bitch," he observes, "and there's no denying it. But if you keep your nose clean — unlike me — or at the very least don't get caught — unlike me — you can go far."
A slow nod follows, and Flint takes a long sip from the coffee cup. "That…" words fail, and the boy simply nods again. "It's irrational guilt for the most part, too. Stuff that still doesn't matter anymore. But I just. It feels like a… hairtrigger, sometimes." Head tilts to one side. "The other day, when Sadie said something about family staying together, that's what set stuff off, then. Didn't even… need to be part of the conversation."
"Just because something's irrational," Kevin reminds Flint, "doesn't mean it doesn't affect you. Often it affects you more, because you get mad at yourself for letting something affect you when it shouldn't. I know I do, anyway."
Flint nods, grinning a little. "Guilty, there," the boy says, with some hint that the choice of wording is a joke, if a self-disparaging one. "I do, yeah. And then I get mad, and it affects me more…" brows furrow, as though it's something Flint hadn't quite realised before.
"And so the vicious circle goes on," Kevin sighs, putting his feet back up on the coffee table and finishing his drink. "This giving you any food for thought, Flint?" Flint this time, not Flinty.
"Yeah, thanks Kevin," the cub says, quiet as he considers things. "Some, and maybe, at least, to try not to get so mad at myself over shit that happens."
"Okay then, off with you," Kevin says cheerfully. "I've got a soccer match to finish watching, assuming no more callers show up tonight."
Flint grins, pushing himself to his feet after a moment of nodding. "'Kay," Flint says, nodding to Kevin. "I'll see ya', and all." Thumbs are shoved in the boy's pockets and he makes his way to the stairwell. "Thank you."