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 Posted: Sat Jul 26, 2014 11:07 pm
✖ Solo: Unknowns II ✖
Shepard had dark circles under his eyes the next day. He leaned against the bakery counter as he took orders, punching the cash register numbers with his fingers as he worked. For the first time since she’d arrived, Cerise stayed at the other end of the counter, frowning at her phone with an earbud in her ear.
Cesc watched them both, working slowly at the display case in between, lining up cookies that were already lined.
He had no idea what he was meant to say. What would he have noticed, if he hadn’t been privy? Hadn’t invaded their privacy. He had no idea what he’d overheard.
… he could ask Vivi. Maybe Vivi would understand.
No. No, he couldn’t. Cerise had mentioned her.
“You feeling okay?”
Azucar’s voice drifted through, and Cesc looked up, half-ready to rejoin. But the question had not been directed at him – at Shepard, rather, who looked blearily at Azucar as though he was desperately trying to remember who he was.
“You look a little under the weather is all,” the man said, shrugging. “A coffee and a croissant, please.”
“Yeah, sure.” Shepard turned, taking out a mug. “An’ I’m fine, thanks.”
“Glad to hear it,” Azucar said, smiling. He turned, catching Cesc’s eye, and waved. “Hello, Cesc! You look a little sleepless, yourself. Everything well?”
Rhedefre smiled, nodding. He noted, out of the corner of his eye, that Shepard just turned toward him, his gaze lingering an extra moment on the Raevan. “I’m fine, thank you. You look well.”
“Your coffee does wonders,” said Azucar. “I was less well before. This is my second cup now. Perhaps you should all have a bit?”
Cerise slid her eyes up to Azucar and back down. She cradled her phone in both hands, as though shielding it from him. Her rings covered the back of the phone like some sort of spiked protection. His eyes, bright and unassuming, alighted on her momentarily as he went back to his table.
“Not a bad idea, really,” mused Cesc, more to himself than to anyone else. He looked at Shepard hopefully, but he could not place what exactly he wanted out of the man – some kind of recognition, conversation, something. To know, magically, what Shepard might need. How he felt. His own powers, he thought with some annoyance, usually tended to help him with similar things…
Cerise lifted her head and let out a sigh. She hopped off of her stool and retreated back into the kitchen.
“Oh,” he heard Vivi exclaim within, greeting Cerise. “Good morning!”
Cesc turned away, back to Shepard.
“Everything okay?” he said, testing the waters.
The Aussie frowned at him, the furrow between his eyes deepening. His eyes were stone grey and unreadable as rock. “Just told that guy everything’s fine.”
Cesc blinked. “Just making sure.”
“Well, be sure,” said Shepard.
The stag lifted his brows, turning away. He made his way to the ice cream display, righting flavor tags and washing serving spoons, finding himself work. A frustration was grinding in the back of his brain, making his movements stiff and jerky and his shoulders hard. Things had never, never been this way before. Not once! He couldn’t ask Vivi about her weeping. Couldn’t ask Shepard about Cerise. Couldn’t ask anyone about Clive’s murder.
Had there always been secrets? Had he just never known before, so calm and innocent in his little frei bubble, thinking of no one but himself?
She’ll get sick of you, Cerise said.
What the hell do you even know? Cerise said.
The blood rushed in Cesc’s ears. She hadn’t been around for five years, five goddamn years, and somehow she knew, she knew more than he did, so much more. He’d lived with his family for – how long – more than two years now, and what did he know? What was he finding out?
He looked up, suddenly aware.
Azucar was watching him, his eyes calm. He did not look away as Cesc found his eyes. There was something almost apologetic in his gaze.
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Posted: Sun Jul 27, 2014 12:51 pm
✖ Solo: Leave ✖
They were at another bar. Cerise sat sandwiched between Jamie and Michel this time, and did not hide her bad mood as she looked across the table at Shepard and Vivi and Cesc. The rest of them talked as though her glowering did not exist, although now and then Cerise spoke up for long enough to speak a word or two.
Cesc could not find it in himself to feel bad for her. It bothered him that there was pettiness within him, a whining voice that made him turn away and break eye contact whenever his eyes found hers. Who cared how she felt? Who cared?
Michel, a former magician with Cirque Augustine, was a tall, dark man with a thin melancholy face. He was not the same with Cerise as Shepard had been – he moved his arm when she touched it, and he slid to the left when she slid against him. To notice that bothered Cesc as well, annoyed him in a way that he could not quite explain.
Shepard should have done that from the beginning, shouldn’t he?
“So, he sold the house in Barcelona and took the wife to Amsterdam,” Michel was saying, finishing the story he’d begun several minutes prior. It had to do with old friends, friends Cesc had heard of but never met, and their marital issues. “And I think they are doing quite well now.”
“I talked to Helene a month or two ago,” Jamie continued. “She loves it there so much more. I think it’ll be fine for them now. But they love each other, so they were willing to do whatever it took. So romantic.”
Vivi nodded pleasantly over her drink, and Shepard made a half-noise to show that he was, at least partly, still in audience.
“It is admirable that they worked it out,” Cesc ventured, trying to keep the conversation going. “Even with everything else they had going on in their lives.”
“Amsterdam!” Cerise picked up her head and heaved a sigh over her drink. The foam on her beer fluttered with her breath. She drummed her fingers over her cheekbones as she propped her head up with both hands, her rings catching the bar’s low light. “Maybe I should go there for a bit. Haven’t seen Helene. Not in what feels like ages.”
The words made Cesc look up, his ears lifting. A small, light feeling of hope awoke in his chest, and he loathed himself for the feeling.
“Leaving so soon?” Vivi said, her voice sweet. “Why, Cerise…”
Cerise shrugged, heaving another sigh. Her mouth tipped downward. “Well, you know. Can’t stay where you’re not wanted.” She leaned against Michel, but finding his slim arm unsupportive, she threaded her arm with Jamie’s instead.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jamie said, soothing.
“Mm,” Shepard added.
“Well, these two work all the time,” complained Cerise, gesturing to Vivi and Shepard with her pinky as she lifted her beer. “And I’m sorry. But what can you do in a bakery for ten hours a day? And you guys are so far.” She dropped her head on Jamie’s shoulder.
It took everything Cesc had not to vocally agree with her, to cheer her departure on, to tell her that she was right, terribly right, and that she needed to go.
Do you need help packing? he thought darkly. With herculean effort, he unset his clenched jaw.
“Oh, but Cerise,” said Vivi. “It is that there is much to do in Gambino. You know that you could easily go do whatever you wanted in town – nobody is saying you have to stay at the bakery while we all work.”
"You work forever," said Cerise.
"It cannot be helped," replied Vivi, gently but firmly.
"You could give more responsibilities to Cesc. Take some time off," said Cerise. "You could, you know. Make an effort. Be with me some."
Cesc stayed quiet, rather than add his own piece. He had not been directly included in her complaints, so he offered no solution. How, even in this shitshow, was she succeeding in pushing him out? His bright eyes dimmed, and he busied himself by taking a long sip of water, and then pretended to be engrossed in the salt and pepper shakers at their table.
"I do not think Rhede is desirous of spending the entire day at the bakery alone," said Vivi, her smile waning. "That would not exactly be fair."
Cerise just shrugged. “It’s boring alone. And the shepherd is too busy.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked across the table at the Aussie. “And who knows where you go, Vivi.”
She turned to Jamie and then to Michel, her eyes round, her palms up. “I just – I don’t know what to do. I think Amsterdam is a much better idea. I’m out of you guys’ hair and you’ll just see me again in five years, whatever.”
“Oh, come on, Cerise…” said Jamie, rubbing Cerise’s upper arm.
“There, there,” added Michel.
“Mm,” said Shepard again.
“MM,” repeated Cerise. She was glaring daggers. Even in the low light, Cesc could see the color starting to climb on her cheeks. Her mouth, so large and happy when smiling, was tipped downward so far it looked like it might engulf her chin. “Are you eating ******** peanut butter?”
“No,” said Shepard. “I’m too busy to reply.”
“You’re a d**k,” shot Cerise. She lifted herself from the booth, her hands still encircling Jamie’s. “I don’t have to take your d**k attitude, you douchebag. Come on, Jamie. Let’s go to the ******** bar.”
The blonde stood, bewildered, half-hostage to Cerise’s grip, and went. She turned back once, grimacing at the table, but went where she was told.
Michel rubbed his temple with one hand.
“It’ll pass,” he promised Shepard, trying a wry smile. “Storms in teacups, eh?”
Vivi drummed her fingers on the table. “Let’s hope she drinks to much to speak of it further tonight, ah?”
* * *
Cerise was not too drunk when they returned to the bakery. She stomped up the stairs as though trying to break them with her feet as she went. Jamie and Michel excused themselves quietly at the door, and Shepard went directly to his room, shutting the door and snapping the lock shut.
Vivi went up the stairs quietly after Cerise, her face set and determined.
Cesc watched from the landing, feeling very foreign. Nobody spoke with him. Nobody acknowledged him. It was a drama where he did not have a part, no lines or participation – no part, of course, but the audience.
Why can’t she just leave?” he shouted in his brain, looking up the stairs. Why couldn’t she? She’d turned them all into ridiculous, immature creatures, poisoned everything she touched. Every time she opened her mouth, Cesc found darkness growing in his head, a quiet storm between his ears that would not abate. She needed to go.
Cerise’s voice upstairs began to raise. Cesc could just barely hear Vivi’s, low and controlled, running beneath it.
“No –“ Cerise was saying. “I’m leaving in the morning because I can’t stand you anymore. Why is he here? Why do you even have him here?”
The hair on the back of Cesc’s neck lifted. A flush of heat seared his cheeks and he gaped in shock --- him? Had she meant him? What would it take for her to realize it was his family now, that he was not some stray that could be – be – how dare she – how dare she –
He began to float up the stairs, shoulders tensed and fists clenched, to say his own piece. He had ears, he could hear them, and this was partly his fight.
“You have,” he heard Vivi more clearly now that he was halfway up the stairs. He had never heard her sound as she did now, hard and angry, the music gone from her tone. “No say, as I have no say, of where the Shepard goes or does not go. He wanted to come with me.”
Cesc stopped his float, his anger twisting in his heart. Shepard?
“You don’t want him! Why don’t you let him ******** go?” Cerise yelled. Cesc heard noises, movement, thuds. “You selfish b***h. You ******** whore. Let someone else have him!”
There was a note of silence. Then Vivi’s voice, cold as ice.
“We will find you a flight in the morning,” she said. “And you will not come back again.”
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Posted: Sun Jul 27, 2014 1:48 pm
✖ Solo: Leave II ✖
Cesc awoke the next morning feeling lighter than he should have. He fed and returned to the bakery at dawn, energized and ready to take on Cerise – ready to take on her unpleasantness in her last day in their home.
What beautiful words those were. How uplifting. How could he feel badly with those words swimming through his head?
She would leave, and feelings would subside, and he would be able to talk to Vivi and Shepard as he had before Cerise ever arrived. They would let it out, whatever was bothering them.
No more fights. No more.
He entered the bakery. Shepard and Vivi were within, Shepard setting chairs down beside tables and Vivi arranging loaves of bread in baskets. Cesc put on a smile as he entered, his wings and eyes bright. His family, as tired and put out as they seemed.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice buoyant.
“Morning, Rhede,” Shepard replied, taking down another chair.
“Good morning,” repeated Vivi, somewhat mechanically.
“I’m sorry,” Cesc said, beginning to help Shepard with the chairs. “About everything that’s… gone on recently.”
Shepard lifted his shoulders in a shrug, but the stony quality of his expression seemed to relax. He let out a breath and looked over at Cesc, tired but fond. “It’s okay, Rhede. s**t happens, yeh?”
Rhedefre smiled. “Always best to just clean it up after.”
The Aussie snickered. “It’s hard when it’s old friends, but what’re you gonna do?” He put down the final chair and then leaned against it, scratching the back of his head. “I’m going to take her to the airport. Not exactly the greatest choice between me and Vivi, but I come out a slim margin ahead in Cerise’s column, so I’ll do it.”
“You need some support?” asked Rhedefre, only half-joking.
Shepard lifted his eyebrows briefly and his grin became lopsided. He shook his head. “I’ve got it, you’re good. Besides, I think Vivi needs the day off, and you’ve gotta open. And, hey – you’ve already got a customer, too.”
Cesc turned toward the door as Shepard spoke, letting out a soft ‘mm?’ noise as he did so. Outside, making his way down the sidewalk, was Azucar.
He walked slowly, as though he wanted nothing from time, his feet still in flipflops, his hands still in his shorts pockets. He wore another tee, this one red and yellow, and squinted in the light of the morning sun. He was talking amiably with a tall man, middle-aged, with a salt-and-pepper moustache and a suit. They seemed totally unmatched in almost every way, like they were strangers that had begun speaking at a street corner and continued simply because they were walking in the same direction.
They both stopped by the bakery, and Azucar waved a hand to Cesc.
The Raevan opened the front door of the bakery. “Just about to finish opening, but you can still come on in, Azucar.”
“Azucar?” the taller man repeated, eyebrows lifting.
“They have a charming name for me here,” Azucar replied. “Cesc, I hate to put you out. I thought I left later than I did, and I convinced my friend here that we needed to swing by for a coffee before we went to the office. Is that possible?”
“It’s nothing,” said Cesc, waving them in. He was unable to keep a note of surprise from his voice – friend? – but he smiled nonetheless. It was always nice to see Azucar. Another sign, perhaps, that the day would be a return to normalcy, to pleasantness. “It’s, what, 6:58? Two minutes until open. Come on in.”
The two men entered the bakery and came up to the counter. Azucar ordered his usual as his friend looked at the chalkboard menu, his fingers combing his moustache. He gave a passing glance to Vivi, who quietly excused herself to the kitchen, and to Shepard, who busied himself with gathering his wallet and keys.
“I’ll have a coffee and a chocolate éclair to go,” said the man.
“An éclair! Neele, you are letting yourself go a little. Middle-age spread doesn't spread up, you know, my friend,” said Azucar pleasantly. Cesc laughed quietly, apologetically, as he handed them both their coffees.
Cerise came thumping down their stairs, allowing her suitcase to thud on each stair as she dragged it down, a messenger bag slung across her body. She, too, looked sleepless and irritable, and she grunted at the man Neele and Azucar as they watched her move. Shepard waited at the side, only sweeping in to take the suitcase from Cerise – which she pulled back toward herself, her fists white-knuckled as they clenched the handle. Her rings dug into her skin as she did so, leaving red pinpricks against the base of her fingers.
Azucar and Neele exchanged glances.
“Are you leaving, Miss Cerise?” Azucar called, his voice lilting.
“Yeah, I’m getting out of this shithouse,” Cerise replied bluntly.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Azucar. “Where are you going?”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the man, and her brow furrowed as she saw Neele. She twisted her mouth shut and shrugged, starting to wheel her suitcase toward the exit. “None of your business -- Canada. Dubai.”
Cesc watched Azucar and Neele without comprehension, stunned by their sudden interest in the woman. He kept behind the counter, unsure, his hands at his side. Shepard, too, stood silently, looking from Cerise to Azucar and back again.
I don’t like the look of him, she’d said.
“I’m sorry to hear that, too,” said Azucar, still pleasant. “It took me a rather long time to find you.”
“Miss Cerise Barnier?” Neele said, his voice professional. He took out his wallet as if to pay Cesc, but he did not extract any bills or cards from the fold. Instead, he simply held it up to Cerise. Her face went ashen as she saw it.
A badge. It was a badge.
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to put off your trip until another time,” said Neele. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us. You are wanted in conjunction with the Clive Kensington murder case.”
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Posted: Tue Jul 29, 2014 10:54 am
✖ Solo: Fair's Fair ✖
Vivi sat outside, her legs stretched out and her weight behind her, on her palms. Her wide white-framed sunglasses obscured her eyes. She did not acknowledge Cesc as he slid outside to see her, even as he took a seat beside her, close but not touching. Her nose was red and her lips were unpainted and bare. She stared out at the ocean and did not speak.
Cesc looked at her, then out at the ocean, then back again. His head hurt again, like his brain was grinding against the back of his skull. It hurt more to look at Vivi.
Waves crashed on the shore, rhythmic and slow. It was like a reminder to breathe, the ebb and flow: the release of an exhalation and the steady drawing of breath.
“I spoke,” Vivi croaked into the silence, “to Jamie. She is very distraught.”
Cesc’s voice was gentle. “You seem the same.”
The Frenchwoman shrugged. She pulled herself forward, sitting straight, and wiped her hands of errant grains of sand.
“She says she does not want to hear anything of this,” said Vivi. She drew up her knees and draped her arms across them. “I doubt very much we will see much of her or Michel for a while.”
Cesc frowned. “Because of Cerise?”
Vivi shrugged again. “Jamie was very much unhappy when Clive pas… when he was murdered. She isolated herself greatly.”
“But you and Shepard had nothing to do with Cerise –“
“Even so,” sighed Vivi.
The side door to the bakery squeaked as it opened. Shepard took a few steps outside and sat on the other side of Cesc, lowering himself gingerly to the ground, as though he did not mean to disturb even what he sat upon.
“I went to the station with Granny M,” said Shepard. His hands went together. He squinted in the sunlight, but even the light did not wash away the darkness beneath his eyes. “It’s… not great.”
“Cerise killed him,” Vivi pronounced, her voice thin and hoarse. Cesc felt suddenly dizzy looking at her, the world going off-balance as adrenaline shot through his veins. “Is that it? Is that what we are meant to hear?”
“—No,” Shepard interjected, bringing back balance. Cesc could still hear the blood rushing in his head as Shepard continued. “No, she didn’t – at least, that’s not what this is about. She’s been taken in because she never gave evidence even though she was a person of interest. She was called in and skipped town when it happened, and then she stayed out of Gaia until she came back to see us. Says she didn’t want to talk to them. Now she has to.”
The color slowly began to return to Vivi’s cheeks. Cesc let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
“So that is all?” said Vivi, her voice small. “She gives the same evidence we all gave, she leaves, she does not return?”
Shepard shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“The guy, Inspector Neele, he says he got the case from the last detective. We talked to him, me and Granny M. He wants us all to come in again, refresh our statements, now that Cerise is here.”
“All of you?” Cesc repeated, leaning forward. He looked between Vivi, who looked like she’d swallowed a bad oyster, and Shepard, who looked glum and defeated and exhausted. He nodded, but Vivi stayed stock-still. Her hands were white over her knees.
“All of us,” Shepard affirmed.
“That is not in the question,” said Vivi.
“You mean ‘out of the question,’” Shepard corrected, a soft note of humor just filtering into his voice. “And it isn’t. All of us – you, me, Granny M, Jamie, Michel – we’re going to have to go through it all again.”
“What is the use?” cried Vivi, grabbing onto Cesc’s hand so firmly and suddenly that he jumped. “Why force us – our memories have not gotten sharper of that night, it will mean nothing – it is simply to be cruel --”
“Vivi,” Shepard sighed. He crumbled forward, putting his face in his hands, his fingers pressed against his eyelids. His voice was muffled and weak. “None of us want to do this. Nobody wants to ******** do this.”
“So why do we have to?” Vivi demanded. “They have had ample time to find who did this to Clive and they have not. Why wait until everyone has moved on?!”
Shepard did not reply. He stayed bent forward as he was, his face hidden. Vivi, too, did not move, frozen as she was with her hand in Cesc’s, clutching him as though he were her only lifeline.
“This is not fair,” Vivi said, but there was no strength or conviction in her voice.
Cesc gaped at them both, back and forth, back and forth. It all felt so alien, so terribly foreign, like he’d woken up in the wrong dimension, like some cosmic mistake had landed him, them, where they were now. He smoothed his thumb over Vivi’s hand, reached out and stroked the back of Shepard’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”
The words sounded hollow and false in his ears. They did not seem to fall at all on Shepard’s or Vivi’s.
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Posted: Tue Jul 29, 2014 11:51 am
✖ Solo: Bail ✖
“Idiot girl,” Granny Maplethorpe said, her hands folded on the counter of the Gaia PD county headquarters office. Cesc floated beside her, looking as proper and gathered as he could. Granny Maplethorpe, although she looked as crisp and commanding as ever she did, was also not well. It showed in the not-quite-perfect lie of her lace collar, the lack of shine in her sensible-heeled shoe, the subtle crookedness of her left earring. She stared irritably at the officer behind the counter.
“Not you,” she clarified. “Our own idiot girl, Cerise Barnier. We have bailed her out and I have waited practically an eternity to gather her.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the long-suffering attendant replied. “She’ll be out momentarily.”
“Such children they all become when they are together,” Granny Maplethorpe said again, this time more clearly to Cesc. “I expect you have seen it. Cerise told me explicitly that she does not wish to return to the bakery. I’ll have to bunk her at my house in the meanwhile – such an imposition. What was the fight about? Marbles? Mars bars? Utter children.”
Cesc suppressed an annoyed smile. Granny Maplethorpe was singularly focused, even among the seated riff-raff, the frightened teens taken in for stupid offenses, the prostitutes, and all the hubbub. Beyond, officers sat at open cubes, doing work and chatting, some at computers and some folded over photographs and files. It was a very particular organized chaos.
“Cerise can be… unpleasant,” said Cesc, choosing the word carefully. He didn’t dare allow a flicker of his own emotions to flit across his face, lest it be caught and chewed up by the efficient old woman. He did not relish the idea of seeing Cerise again, but those thoughts he kept bundled, packed rune-deep within him. Everything had become so wrong, so wholly strange to him, that he was no longer sure how he was meant to navigate any of it. He went to the station solely because Granny Maplethorpe had insisted she not go alone. A lady, like her? Alone with the police?
As though Gertrude Maplethorpe couldn't have run the entire office.
“Unpleasant?” said the old woman. “If you think it, I suppose. But unpleasantness does not equate violence or dishonesty. I swear, Vivi and Jamie – thinking her a murderer. There’s the unpleasantness.” She clicked her tongue sharply. “We will all give our evidence and then this will be over, and we will see what ‘unpleasantness’ remains.”
Cesc pulled his bottom lip into his mouth to keep his words within. He wanted to argue, but the impertinence of the desire kept his mouth closed. Granny Maplethorpe could have no idea of what she was saying.
Had it always been so hard to keep himself from speaking? He couldn't remember it being so difficult, never before in his life. Now words itched within him, scratched at his throat. They were never there when he wanted them, when he needed to use them for comfort or reassurance. These days, they only came during moments of ... well, unpleasantness.
“I am certain you are right,” he managed.
“Ah! Cesc, hello!”
A familiar voice rifled through the background noise. Cesc turned to see Azucar waving at him, his languid smile still on his face. He was escorting Cerise, but the rolling amble of his walk made it seem as though the two were simply strolling together, only coincidentally at police headquarters.
Cesc’s eyebrows lifted. Azucar looked no different in the station than he had in the bakery. The same flip-flops and colorful tee, the same baggy shorts. His hand only loosely held Cerise’s arm. He seemed genuinely happy to see Cesc. There was no artifice in his expression. It was profoundly confusing.
Cerise looked sleepless, her eyes sunken and dark. She did not meet Cesc or Granny M’s gaze.
“Azucar,” Cesc greeted. He grasped for words. ‘How are you?’ seemed somehow wrong under the circumstances.
”Azucar?” Granny Maplethorpe repeated.
“Indeed,” said Azucar, bobbing his head in a sort of half-bow at the woman. “Cesc, how lucky for you to always be in the company of lovely women! Here is another one.”
Granny Maplethorpe stared at the officer, unable to respond.
“Miss Barnier and I have had a wonderful chat,” said Azucar, slowing to a stop. “You will all file in and give your evidence on Wednesday, and she will be a beauty for me and remember her appointment this time. I have taken quite a shine to her, you know. I’m very confident I will find her again before she gets too far.”
Cerise nodded at the floor. There was a smoldering anger in her eyes, but it was powerless and ineffective. Her chin and lips were weak.
“You’re not a part of this, are you, Cesc?” Azucar continued. “My file only gives your age as two.”
Cesc shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Sir!” Azucar laughed. “No, no, ‘sir’ from you. I’ll come by and see you at the coffee shop sometime soon, then. Miss Barnier, I will see you – and all your friends – on Wednesday next.”
* * *
Cerise slammed the car door and pulled her knees to her chin in the back seat. Cesc twisted to see her from the front, his hand on the old leather of Granny Maplethorpe’s Oldsmobile. The way she sat made Cerise look like a teenager, a child in trouble, petulant and angry.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, more to the seat than to Cesc. She still had not made eye contact with him.
“Granny Maplethorpe asked me to come,” he offered, simple. He studied her face, her wide cheeks, her reddened eyes. The exhaustion, the fear, the upset – it was nothing as compared to what she had put on Vivi’s face. He searched, but could find no pity for her.
“I’m not coming back,” she asserted. “And. If they wanted me back, they should have come themselves.”
“They don’t,” Cesc replied, matter-of-fact. A quiet thrill buoyed his heart as he said it, but instantly guilt weighed the organ back down. Cerise frowned and looked toward the side window, a flare of indignation lighting her eyes.
“Why didn’t you just give your evidence then?” Cesc pressed, suddenly emboldened. Guilt prevented him from allowing any anger into his tone. He shifted in the seat, trying to capture Cerise’s eye. “Why not just get it over with and tell what you know?”
Cerise’s eyes met his at last. Her brows were drawn over her eyes, her mouth was hard, and her eyes – her eyes were dark with a storm of anger. She looked at Cesc as though he’d tried to stab her, wild and unfettered with hatred.
“Maybe I will!” she spat. “Maybe I’ll do just that. Then you’ll see how much you like it.”
Cesc drew back, startled. “What?”
A smile crawled on Cerise's face like a spider. “Go to hell.”
A click from the driver’s side door broke the opportunity for Cesc’s reply. He stared at Cerise in stunned silence, even as Granny Maplethorpe opened the driver side door and slowly sat in her seat. Although she had been the last to drive – having taken herself and Cesc to the police station to begin with – she checked all the mirrors and her own seat’s comfort before she twisted the key in the ignition.
“You’ve been released on your own recognizance,” said Granny Maplethorpe. “And now my own reputation has been staked with yours, so you shall not leave my home until you return here. Are we clear?”
Cerise shrugged in the back seat and said nothing.
“That is not a response,” said Granny Maplethorpe.
“Fine.” The word came out ground through Cerise’s teeth.
“Fine,” Granny Maplethorpe replied.
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Posted: Sat Aug 02, 2014 5:44 pm
✖ Solo: Sleepless ✖
“It was not yet dawn, but Cesc was awake.
He had not slept well. There were too many voices in his head that were not his.
Maybe I will. Then you’ll see how much you like it.
She was lying, Cesc thought, furrowing his brow. He tried to hold onto slips of sleep, of comfort. His head hurt through the fog of exhaustion and tireless thought. If he could just ignore the thoughts! Cerise was trying to get a rise out of him. She was doing whatever she could to make this all harder for him. Couldn’t that be the truth? It was all she had done for weeks now. Made things harder for him, for everyone. It was in her nature. She was simply unpleasant.
Unpleasant does not mean dishonest.
He opened his eyes. There was a weight on his chest, invisible, heavy, loathsome. What, he asked himself, had Cerise really out-and-out lied about? For all that it hurt him to hear, what was she wrong about? He had heard before that Vivi was mercurial. He did have very limited knowledge of sex and attraction.
What could she have meant by what she said?
He slid out of bed. Dawn would be coming soon, sweet and soothing dawn, just what his aching head needed. If he could not sleep, he could at least feed off of it.
The stag rubbed his eyes and floated through the landing, past the still-slumbering bakery proper, and into the kitchen. As he approached its doorway, he began to notice sounds – the hum of a mixer, the clap of metal baking sheets against the counter. It was the rhythm of the bakery pre-opening routine, familiar and comforting. He entered to see Vivi, her hair tied back and her apron on, bustling about, cutting soft lines in the loaves of baguettes, starting the day’s supply of cookies.
But it was not quite right. She was not, as she usually was during the open, humming or singing. She was not listening to music. She was not taking joy, as Vivi always took joy, in whatever she did.
There was a streak of flour on her face. Her eyes were red and puffy. She turned around, startled at Cesc’s approach, and nearly dropped the tray in her hands.
“Rhedefre!” she gasped, her hand leaving a white print on her chest over her heart. “Mon Dieu,it is that I did not expect you! Is it time for you to eat already?”
She tried for a faint smile, opening the oven and sliding in the tray.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Cesc admitted. “It’s a little early, but I thought I’d go out and wait for the dawn anyway.”
Vivi straightened, going to the mixer and taking out a bowl of dough. She peeked in, tasted a fingerful, and then reset the mixing speed. Cesc watched her industry without helping, his eyes on her instead of her tasks.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes watching the cookie dough with intent, as though it might disappear or disintegrate if she looked away. Her voice was soft, distant. “Sleeping is hard these days, mm?”
Cesc’s eyes softened. He reached out, rubbing her upper arm, his touch gentle. “Too many thoughts.”
“Yes,” said Vivi again. “Much too many. And the dreams…”
His hand stopped on her shoulder, squeezing. His heart tightened, and his voice was low. “You can tell me, if you want.”
Vivi stopped the mixer. She reached forward, unlocking the mixing bowl, but her movements froze there. She stared at the silver bowl as though she’d forgotten what to do with it. She breathed in deep, once, twice.
“Do you ever…” she said, softly. “Do you ever dream of your … past life, Rhedefre? Of the white stag?”
Cesc blinked in surprise. It was not what he had expected.
“N-no,” he replied, his hand falling from Vivi’s shoulder to scratch his jaw. He rubbed the back of his neck, throwing his memories back. “No, I do not think that I ever have.”
“I do,” said Vivi. “I dream of him all of the time these days, you know, all of the time. I see him running with the soul bottle through the jungle, all of the rain – all the things from my memory.” She looked down, her voice softening. “Do you not think it terrible? These are the only things I remember of you, before…”
Cesc opened and closed his mouth. He rubbed his neck and made an indistinct noise, unsure of what to say. “I don’t … I can’t –“ He marshaled his thoughts, taking a breath, and tried again. He thought of Ronan, of the poor, frightened, and lost bat that they had tried to save. How helpless he’d felt then. How helpless and frightened and disappointed Ronan’s face had been.
It was not something to see a creature die. It was consolation to save the soul, as only Raevan guardians could do. But it did not take away the emotions felt, being present at...
“I think of him,” said Cesc quietly. “I suppose I consider him a father. I know in my heart, somehow, that all he must have felt was gratitude. And I know that I feel it as well, for you, for going through those moments. It brought me here, with you.”
Vivi smiled. Her hand dropped from the silver bowl and cradled itself in Cesc’s larger one. She nodded, but her eyes were wet and her smile shivered.
“I am miserable,” she whispered. “I am miserable thinking of Clive again.”
She took a step forward, putting her opposite hand on Cesc’s shoulder, her face in his chest. She repeated it again, against the fabric of his thin cotton shirt, into his heart. “I hate this. I hate these thoughts. I hate them.”
Wetness seeped through the cloth as Vivi’s shoulders began to shake. Cesc’s throat constricted and the blood drained from his face as he enveloped her, his cheek against her temple, his wings pulled forward in an attempt to cover her.
Deep inside his skull, he heard a murmur.
Maybe I will. Then you’ll see how much you like it.
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Posted: Sun Aug 03, 2014 1:15 pm
✖ Solo: Getaway ✖
Cesc sat outside of Granny Maplethorpe’s house, sitting stick-straight on a wooden porch chair. It was warm enough that the glass of water she’d placed on the small side table beside him was sweating, beads of water slowly trailing its contours. The ice within the glass tinked softly as the heat shifted them without touch. There reigned a silence that was not wholly comfortable.
Gertrude Maplethorpe’s home was a fifteen minute walk (or float) from the bakery, a small pale gingerbread-looking structure with pale green trimming. It looked a well-ordered, humble structure. Its short ceilings seemed to convey a sort of British, well-bred, quiet embarrassment at having two stories – from the outside, it looked as though it might only be one. Cesc came to the house four days a week for his lessons, sitting at a table with a cream-colored lace tablecloth and study books that looked at least thirty years old, marked up from when Granny Maplethorpe ‘modernized’ their lessons. The inside was impeccably neat and tastefully, but not ostentatiously, decorated. There was a perfect marriage between the home and its principle occupant.
Said occupant sat across from Cesc on the porch, her ankles crossed, reading a piece of paper he had delivered to her.
“I see,” she said, nodding, more to herself than Cesc. “My time for evidence is scheduled for 11:30, if all goes according to schedule. Cerise’s will be first at 9 o’clock. Well. So inconvenient. Why not schedule us together? I was the one to bring her from the station. You would think an observant detective would have noticed.”
She folded the letter carefully back into thirds and held it out for Cesc to take. “I suppose the police have their reasons.” She said the word police with a marked distaste, the same way she pronounced the words teenagers and tattoos. She shook her head, her well-ordered hair moving as one unit. “But to send only one letter? Why did I not receive my own? Supposing I was scatterbrained, what should I have done?”
“Your address is listed as the bakery’s address, Granny,” replied Cesc. “Shepard and Vivi told me to take it to you after it came in.”
“Well,” Granny allowed, “A call would have been just as effective.”
Her thin blue eyes slanted at him. Cesc lowered his gaze to the ground as he spoke, a prickly feeling spreading across the back of his neck as the hair began to stand. He cleared his throat, but Granny Maplethorpe gave him no time to reply. She leaned very slightly forward, and although she was a slight and fragile figure, she always managed to look imposing when she desired. “Unless, of course, you have some reason to desire a visit to my home?”
Cesc cleared his throat again.
“I’m sorry, Rhedefre, how rude of me. Have you inhaled a gnat?”
“I, ah –“
“My goodness,” said Granny Maplethorpe with some exasperation. “I would bemoan your education had I not known from whom it came! Speak up. Nobody listens to stammering.”
“I came to see Cerise,” said Cesc, his voice ringing clear. He folded his hands, resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck to smooth down his hair.
Granny Maplethorpe smiled, a polite expression. “I see. Well. I thought as much.”
“I just want to talk with her,” Cesc continued. “I think there’s too much secrecy going on. I just think it would be best to set things straight.”
Maybe I will. His mind flashed the image of Cerise’s smile in the car. How lovely he’d thought her smile when he first saw her. Now when he pictured her, she seemed spoilt, like a ripe fruit left too long outside.
“If you can do as much without being impertinent, do so at once,” the old woman was saying. “You cannot force a girl to take you into confidence. Anyhow, she will have to be straight with the police one way or another. You should know that Vivi has called her to make amends. I believe a touch of frostiness does remain, but the olive branch has been extended.”
Cesc did not answer at once. He thought of that morning, the feel of Vivi’s hair against his cheek, the shudder of her shoulders. His brain set the image against that of Cerise smiling, her glee at his discomfort and shock. It sent a shock of anger through him. Why should Vivi apologize? What possible reason?
Maybe I will, Cerise echoed in his skull again. His jaw set.
“That’s good of her,” he said, polite. He and Granny Maplethorpe looked at each other for a long moment, each wearing smiles that did not reach their eyes.
“Well.” Granny Maplethorpe rose, brushing her lap, smoothing out her skirt. “I will fetch her for you. Sulking thing! She has been lounging in the spare room like a lazy man’s laundry. Draped over every possible seating. Never moves where she ought to be.”
She shook her white head, opening the screen door and letting herself in. The screen door shut behind her with a soft clack.
Cesc rose to follow her, taking a deep breath. He kept the air in his lungs for a few moments before he exhaled. He didn’t want much. He could be civil. Just an question, a simple explanation, that was all. What did Cerise have against Shepard and Vivi? Had she bluffed to get a rise out of him? He could give her the satisfaction of knowing she had. He could give her that. She could win, if only she would show her hand.
Cesc folded the envelope in half and started into the house. A noise called him back, something indistinct but significant, wood against wood, then a soft thudding sound. His ears turned, perking, toward the noise. He was born of a prey animal. His instinct was tireless in letting him know what needed investigating.
He floated down the porch steps and circled the house.
Immediately, he saw the reason for the noise. The side window was open, the screen half-dislodged. Cerise had one leg out of it, a bag on the ground. She swung, her strength showing, and then dropped almost noiselessly onto the grass.
She passed a hand through her hair, looked up at the window, and then swung up her bag to her shoulder. Cerise turned, and, seeing Cesc, made a shrill and unintelligible noise.
“You are ******** kidding me,” she snarled, throwing up her hands. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Cesc felt his cheeks grow hot, his natural politeness at having come across a scene to which he was not invited mixing with indignation. They warred within him for a moment, his mouth only answering her accusation with sputtering, and then the anger swelled, pushing words out of his mouth.
“What am I – what the ******** are you doing?!” Cesc barked back, his voice thick with shock. “Are you trying to run? Again?”
A flush engulfed Cerise’s features. “No—“ she said, unconvincing, like a child caught with crumbs around her mouth. “I’m just – “
”Get back in that goddamn house,” Cesc seethed, pointing. His head pounded with the force of his emotions, his shoulders tight, his jaw clicking as he spoke. He had never, never once in his life, spoken to another creature in this way. Part of him was terrified, pulling at his moving tongue like reigns on a runaway horse. “Get back in there and give your evidence like you should have five years ago.”
Cerise’s mouth twisted, angry, embarrassed, frustrated. Her eyes opened wide and her nostrils flared as he spoke. Her fists opened and closed, opened and closed. Cesc’s wings flared out in response. He suddenly didn’t care about Cerise, about her threats, about anything she had to say at all. All he wanted was for all of it to be over. There was nothing in him that wanted to yield to her.
The truth would come out. It would. For better or worse. But she would not win.
“What – what on earth is going on out here?!” Granny Mapelthorpe’s voice cut between them, the woman’s head poking outside of her side window, her hands like eagle’s talons on her windowsill. “My window! Cerise! You come back in here at once!”
“You want me to give my evidence? Fine.” said Cerise.
“You keep threatening to do exactly what I want you to do,” shot Cesc, his eyes sparking. “What do you think is going to happen if you try to leave? Like we can’t call it in?”
“Both of you, stop it this instant!” Granny Maplethorpe hissed from the window. Cerise and Rhedefre both looked up at her and did not look back at each other. Cerise spat an unintelligible reply, her eyes thin and dark. She threw up her hands and slapped them back down onto her thighs. She looked toward Cesc and then toward Granny Maplethorpe, cornered. Defeated, she climbed back into the window, squeezing past Granny Maplethorpe as the woman stepped aside.
“Now, the both of you, apologize! If you mean to act like children, I will treat you as such,” Granny Maplethorpe demanded, her gaze slicing between the two. Cesc stood outside, his fingers trembling with anger in his fists.
“No,” he heard himself say.
Granny Maplethorpe’s lips parted in surprise. “Rhedefre!”
“No,” he said again. This time, he suited motion to word, his short wings flapping and lifting him away.
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Posted: Mon Aug 04, 2014 12:28 pm
✖ Solo: Alright ✖
Cesc stood at the bakery counter and tried to be pleasant. He greeted customers, filled orders, made recommendations. He tried. But he was not, as he generally was, sunny and social.
He’d behaved badly. His shift started, and now he could not go back and apologize.
Granny Maplethorpe must be livid. She’d been right to be. He’d behaved like a child. Practically stamped his nonexistent foot and thrown a tantrum. Geezus. He was supposed to be better than that. Calmer. More collected. Wasn’t that who he was? He was the calm one. Even-keeled. He hadn’t lost his temper since…
… since the jungle…
… and that had worked so well for him then, hadn’t it?
Cesc shook his head. He wanted, so badly, to be in the right. He’d had a right to be upset, hadn’t he? How could Cerise try to disappear again, after all the grief she’d caused? Selfish, that’s what she was. So determined to escape her own unpleasantness that she was fine putting everyone else through hell. Wasn’t that the main issue here, the real issue?
He flicked on the milk steamer. The shrill sound of it echoed the frustration reverberating in his skull.
Even if she was in the wrong, did that excuse him? Be the bigger man. Don’t react on emotions alone. Put yourself in someone else’s position. Weren’t these the lessons he’d been taught his whole life?
The stag hung on the coffee machine. He was tired. Tired of himself. Tired of constantly feeling, thinking, conjecturing. Tired of walking in on situations he wasn’t meant to see. Tired of being the only ‘other’, the only extra piece to this terrible puzzle. Tired of the stony, silent suffering in Shepard’s eyes. The downward slant of Vivi’s lips. The severity in Granny Maplethorpe’s tone. He was tired, and he didn’t know how he meant to ever feel better.
“Are you alright, Cesc?”
Cesc lifted his head. His eyes met with a pair of yellow-green ones.
Azucar leaned against the counter, languid.
The sight of the man made Cesc jump, his ears twitching upward. Azucar had materialized as though he’d been summoned. He wasn’t quite certain how to treat Azucar. He had never lied to any of them about his job or what he was doing at the bakery. And although Cerise had always distrusted him, he had never made himself unpleasant.
“—oh! Hello. No, I’m fine,” Cesc said, shutting off the steamer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
Azucar waved a hand, as though shooing a fly. “No, I have been here just a little time. There is no worry.”
The stag cracked a half-smile at the man, relaxing. It was hard to be tense when Azucar spoke. He was, Cesc realized, the way Cesc had always thought of himself – how he’d hoped himself to be, at least. Even-keeled. Calm. There was even a similarity in their voices – a low and lilting Spanish tone, but Azucar’s perfected in its comforting and rolling melody, like honey into tea.
He smiled at Cesc now, slow and easy. “Un café? Am I still allowed to ask, or is that not allowed now that our relationship has become professional?”
Cesc shook his head. “Don’t be silly. You only did your job.”
Azucar laughed, putting a hand over his heart. “That’s very broad-minded of you! I worried. It would be my loss, you know, if I were no longer allowed in this bakery.”
“No, no,” said the stag. He turned for the coffee pot, filling a mug and sliding it along the counter. Azucar pulled out his slim wallet, taking out a few bills, and slid them back. He was so unhurried.
“Keep the change,” said Azucar. He took his coffee and did not move from the counter, his breath moving the steam that rose off the beverage. Cesc stood, waiting. He wasn’t sure for what.
“Do you…” he said, “… want anything else?”
“Oh, no,” the detective replied. “I thought if I stand here long enough, you might tell me what’s bothering you. People don’t really love silence if they can fill it usually.”
Cesc let out a helpless laugh. “Really!”
Azucar nodded. “Absolutely.”
The stag passed his tongue over his teeth, nodding. “Is this for the case, or…?”
Azucar shook his head. “No, that’s not why I’m here. All off the record.” He shrugged, a slow and lazy motion, and sipped his coffee. “I made things less than happy for you lately, and you haven’t been anything but nice to me. So, well. I thought I would check on the man who gave me a free coffee once.”
Cesc looked down at his hands and back at Azucar, considering. The words rushed through his head, desperate to be released, but caution pulled him back. When had he had a real conversation with Azucar, really?
“It’s not fun with Miss Barnier still being here, I gather,” prompted Azucar, his dark brows lifting in consideration. He inclined his head. “Here as in Gambino – I know that she is not here.”
“No…” allowed the stag. “It isn’t what I’d call the greatest.”
Azucar winked. “Has she tried to run yet?”
Cesc let out his breath in a short, caught sound. “—she –“
Azucar waved his hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I said off the record. Don’t worry, she will be there tomorrow to give her evidence, I can assure you of that. That much, you need not worry about. That’s all I meant to tell you. The department – I promise, we are not as dumb as we look.”
Humor lifted the corner of Cesc’s mouth. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…”
The detective laughed, his smile brightening his eyes. “Things are hard right now, I know. I’m sorry for that. You’re a good guy. I’ve seen you with the customers and everything – they all seem to like you pretty well. Just remember: you had nothing to do with all this stuff. You’re going to be alright.”
Cesc nodded, trying to take heart. He smiled and thanked Azucar, but the words he said were not the words he meant.
It’s not me I’m worried about.
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Posted: Thu Aug 07, 2014 6:18 pm
✖ Solo: One More Day ✖
Shepard was slow as he came down the stairs, the rhythm of his feet on the wood uneven and heavy. Cesc stacked chairs, his own motions losing their momentum as his ears picked up the sound. He paused at the table at the far end of the bakery and looked through a forest of chair legs for the Aussie’s arrival.
“Hey,” Shepard said as he appeared, his hands in his jean pockets. His eyes were dark and the bags beneath them darker, and his shoulders sloped as if they were carrying something.
“Hey,” said Cesc.
“Listen, we’re going out to this bar tonight…” Shepard started. “We got Jamie and Michel and Cerise to come out, just want to talk about what’s going to happen tomorrow morning.”
Cesc’s ears ticked. “—Cerise.”
“Yeh,” said Shepard, putting the heel of his hand to his eye and rubbing. “It should be okay, I think. Vivi said she talked to her earlier.”
Cesc felt his cheeks beginning to warm. “About that –“
Shepard blinked slowly at Cesc, his breath exhaling loudly from his nose. His shoulders sagged further. His voice was flat. “What.”
“I was… really rude to Cerise earlier,” said Cesc, rubbing the fingers of one hand into the other, as though to massage the spiky, tingling feeling of guilt out of his fingers. “Very, ah, rude.”
Shepard paused, inclining his head at Cesc. He took in a breath, scrubbing his hands over his short hair. “Great. Awesome.”
“I wanted to apologize,” Cesc continued, his words picking up speed, trying to drown out the half-heartedness of the words. Yes, he’d been a child, but no, he still couldn’t fully reconcile how he’d acted and how he should have acted. Cerise was irritating, she was crazy, she was thoughtless and inconsiderate. But no matter how darkly he thought of her, he couldn’t justify himself being an a*****e.
Not for her. For him.
“That – yeah. If you were a d**k, go man up,” replied Shepard. He shifted his weight, running his tongue over his teeth. It took a long moment for him to continue. “You want to come, like… now?”
“Is that alright?” Rhedefre straightened. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was going to have to ask for permission.
Shepard’s answer did not come as quickly as Cesc would have liked. He looked down at his shoes and shrugged and said. “Well, alright.”
* * *
The bar was loud and packed and dimly lit. It was one of Cerise’s choices, Cesc could see immediately – she favored more dive types than lounge bars, places where it was hard to make conversation but easy to let loose. This place, Moosehead, had a few billiards tables and fewer lights, booths with the vinyl ripped and stand-up tables. The bartenders were constantly slammed but well up to the task, and the menu was stocked with fried finger food and other standards.
Jamie was picking at what looked like popcorn shrimp when the trio arrived, Cesc leading the group, Shepard behind, and Vivi last. Jamie, who looked pale and drawn and tense, let loose just enough to smile at Cesc as he approached.
“Oh, good, good,” she said as he slid into the booth, reaching across and taking both his hands in hers. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Cesc smiled at her gently. “It’s good to see you, Jamie.”
“It’s just nice to have someone here from – outside this,” she sighed, her oily fingers squeezing his hands. Some color returned to her cheeks as she looked at him. “You’re like a still point on a rocky boat right now.”
“I’m sorry you have to go through this,” said Cesc, his thumbs soft over her knuckles. “Vivi was very worried you might not… want to talk.”
Jamie shook her head. She let go of Cesc’s hands and returned to her shrimp. “Yeah. I know it’s a bad way to deal with it. I just…” Her eyes filled. “I hate thinking of all this stuff. It’s nobody’s fault. I should be better about it by now. Five years. Yikes.”
Cesc’s smile slowly faded. “It doesn’t seem like that’s time enough for anyone.”
Jamie opened her mouth to reply as Shepard and Vivi sat down, each murmuring a soft hello. She smiled tightly at Shepard and then patted the seat next to her for Vivi, but as the Frenchwoman rose to take it, Michel and Cerise returned to the table, each with a beer in their hands. Cesc looked at Michel and nodded but could not turn his eyes to the woman next to him.
It didn’t bode well for his apology, he thought.
“Hello, hello, you have finally arrived!” said Michel. “I brought a pitcher, provisions for what we must discuss – Cesc, hello! I did not know that you would be here. Are you taking the meeting minutes?” The Frenchman smiled his wan smile as he set down the beer pitcher and glasses, distributing all around.
Cerise said nothing. Vivi stood and pulled her into a hug, but Cerise’s arms were limp in it. She flitted her eyes over Shepard and gave him a ghost of a nod, and Cesc – to Cesc, she did nothing, looking through him entirely. And although he had not been able to successfully meet her eye, either, her lack of acknowledgement flinted a fire of annoyance in his heart, his jaw tightening.
The likelihood of a successful apology, he thought, was decreasing by the moment.
* * *
It was not a pleasant talk.
In fact, it was hardly a talk. Cesc had assumed that he would learn something, that they would talk about Clive Kensington, about their evidence – but nothing of the sort occurred. It was all logistics: who was riding in with whom, who wanted to go first and second and third and so on. They skirted the issue entirely. They could have been talking about a joint job interview, for all it was worth.
For some reason he could not place, it deeply annoyed Cesc.
Cerise was all but silent the entire time. Vivi attempted now and then to draw her into conversation, but Cerise would shrug or simply stare at her until one or the other looked away. Jamie spoke mechanically. Only Shepard and Michel really made definite plans.
“And of course,” Michel was saying, “we will have to come to a place like this afterward, when it is all done.” He lifted his beer, now dangerously low in the glass. “We can drink until we remember none of it! Not even Clive’s name.”
“Don’t talk like that,” snapped Jamie. “It’s not funny.”
“I’m not. Not going to be coming here. Or anywhere.” Cerise said into her arms. “I’m not even going to be in Gambino. The second they let me out? I’m gone.”
“Do not say that,” said Vivi. “Cerise, it is not worth it.”
Michel faltered in his toast. Shepard raised his glass and clinked his, half-hearted.
“Are you toasting my leaving?” Cerise straightened, her ears red. “For ******** sake, really?!”
“Of course not. Geezus.” said Shepard, setting his beer back down on the table. “Calm down. Just didn’t want to leave him hanging.”
Cerise threw up her hands. “Right.”
“Cerise!” hissed Jamie from the other end of the table. “Please! Can we just not do this this tonight? We should be talking about Clive, not trying to forget about him completely.”
Michel scoffed into his beer. “Yes, we have been talking much about him tonight, have we not? What a memorial this is!”
“Shut up.” Cerise scowled. “Where was this all when I wanted to reminisce all last month, exactly? Everyone was all ‘oh, we’ve moved on!’ Like none of it mattered!”
“Well, bravo! You certainly made sure everyone couldn’t help but reminisce now!” Michel shot back. He held up his beer to her, a mock toast. “Now it is illegal not to do so!”
“Guys…” Shepard started, holding up his hands. “This isn’t helping s**t.”
“You. You can shut up, too.” Cerise held out a finger. “You started all of this.”
“I did! I started all of it?” Shepard’s eyebrows went up. “That sounds accurate.” <******** this. ******** all of this. I’m gone the second I can be tomorrow.”
Cesc’s gaze pingponged from one person to another as they spoke, his fists clenching under the table. As Cerise stopped speaking, he heard another voice, angry and thoughtless, speak: his own.
“Tomorrow? That’s nice of you to wait that long, considering you tried to go today.”
Silence reigned at the booth.
All eyes turned toward Cerise. Cerise’s gaze was leveled, livid, at Cesc. Her mouth was open.
“You little p***k,” she spat through her teeth. She stood, slamming her palms on the table, and then shoved herself into the bar crowd, away.
Cesc stared after, his jaw slack, his hands hovering at the table’s edge.
“Rhedefre!” Vivi gasped. She rose and quickly darted after Cerise into the mass of people.
Michel was the first to find his voice.
“This is a ******** joke,” he said dryly, draining his beer.
“She tried to run? Again?” Jamie leaned forward on the table, smoothing both of her hands over her hair and ponytail. Her face was white again, and her fingers looked like they had frozen, moving slow and uncoordinated. She put her hands over her mouth, and Cesc saw her shoulders begin to tremble, her eyes dark with anger.
Shepard leaned back in the booth, his fingers slowly pulling down his face. He stood. He did not look at Cesc.
“I’m sick of this s**t,” he announced. “And I’m getting a shot.”
“Wait for me.” Michel rose.
Cesc sat the table, dumbfounded. He opened his mouth and then closed it. He looked half-desperate at Jamie.
“I – I’m sorry,” he said, lamely. “I don’t know why I –“
“—told everyone that she’s a rule-dodging ********?” Jamie finished. She was slowly ripping up a napkin, rolling the pieces into pills between her fingers. She shrugged, defeated, exasperated. “Who cares. Whatever.”
“I’m really sorry,” Cesc repeated. “I shouldn’t have said anything. She didn’t actually go.”
“Nobody cares, Cesc,” Jamie said, sharply. “Just forget it, ********! It’s not you. It’s not your fault. This just all sucks. That’s just another layer of how much it all <******** sucks, okay? So just stop. Stop it.”
Cesc swallowed hard, slowly rising from the table. He nodded. He wanted to say it again, I’m sorry, but the words were starting to annoy him and he knew they were misplaced, badly timed, and to the wrong person. Why couldn't he have started the night off with them? Why was he so hell-bent on making this so much worse for everyone, for himself?
“I’ll leave you alone,” he said. The words presented themselves on his tongue again. I’m sorry, but he choked them back.
He pulled away from the table, dodging milling people, muttering the words over and over as he searched the crowd. He spotted Michel and Shepard throwing back shots, wedged in against the bar, their faces worn and hard under one of the few lights.
I’m sorry, the words continued, soft, as he tried to find Cerise, scanning around himself for her hair, listening for her voice.
Close to the women’s restroom, he found it.
“--- don’t even care anymore,” Cerise was saying, her voice cracking. Cesc ducked around a drunk and wobbling man, trying to locate her. He could see her, half of her face, from behind a talking couple, and could just barely discern Vivi’s hair from the back. There was something in Cerise’s voice that caught Cesc’s heart – was she weeping? Had he made her cry?
“I cared then. About all of you assholes. I really did.”
“Cerise.” Vivi’s voice was small. “You must stop.”
“I did. But I don’t anymore. Do you understand, Vivi?”
Cesc pressed his way around the couple, but Vivi and Cerise were too deep into the hallway of the women’s restroom, with traffic pushing the stag slowly outward rather than in. The door into it swung open and shut as women came in and let themselves out, splashing light onto the two. Cerise was holding both of Vivi’s hands, her grip tough enough that Vivi’s fingers were splayed out from under her grip, unnatural.
“Stop it,” Vivi said again. Her voice became more urgent.
“Do you understand?” Cerise said, drawing her head closer to Vivi’s. “I’m not responsible anymore.”
“What are you talking about?” Vivi tried to pull away, but Cerise’s grip kept her firm, her many rings digging into the Frenchwoman’s fingers. Even as far away as Cesc was, even in the semi-darkness, he could see the stark-white her fingers were turning. The blood drained from his face, but something kept him from approaching. Vivi, it was Vivi’s face, the way a cloud passed over it, the way a storm entered her eyes, angry and wet. It floored him, paralyzed him.
“You know what I mean,” Cerise said.
“I don’t,” Vivi insisted. She pulled away again, this time dislodging herself. She cried out as one of Cerise’s rings caught against her skin, and she held her trembling fingers in her opposite hand.
“Say what you want,” Cerise spat. “But I’m through with you. All of you.”
“Hey, buddy, get out of the line! This is for the lady’s room,” a drunk woman informed Cesc, nudging him away from the line. “What’re you trynna do, get a glimpse or somethin’?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Cesc saw Vivi and Cerise split away from one another. There was hardly a pause before Cerise left first, bumping his shoulder as she went, moving forward and through the crowd as though she were on rails. Vivi exited in her wake, her hands together, composed but withdrawn.
For a moment, it looked as though she, too, meant to walk by Cesc. She stood beside him, looked through him, her eyes unfocused, like she didn’t recognize him. Then she spoke, quiet.
“What… what is wrong with her?” she said, her voice small and lost.
* * *
Cesc sat in the booth with his arm around Vivi, his hand on her back. She sat across from Jamie and spoke with her friend, both women wearing thin and painted smiles as they tried to talk about anything other than what was on their minds. Cesc, for his part, did not attempt a smile. He did not join in the conversation except for regular noises of soft assent. He watched out of the corner of his eye for Cerise or Shepard or Michel – once he saw her take a shot with them, but her manner was different, looser and laughing.
More than once, listening to Vivi’s soft laugh, Cesc wondered if he’d dreamed the encounter between her and Cerise, if he’d fallen asleep or hallucinated. More than once, he ticked his eyes down to her hand, which she kept in her lap as she spoke, a small paper napkin folded around one of her fingers where it had been cut.
Hours passed. People began to leave the bar, showing the spaces for what they were, dingy and scuffed and smaller than they’d seemed. The noise of billiard balls smacking into each other began to slow, and all the din of people talking thinned. Vivi yawned and rubbed her eyes. Jamie stood.
“I’m going to find Michel and get home,” she said, tugging on her ponytail. She leaned over the table, hugging Vivi over the space. “I’m sorry it’s been a s**t night. One more day?”
“One more day,” Vivi replied, returning Jamie’s hug with a single arm before sitting back down beside Cesc. Jamie kissed her hand and put it to Cesc’s forehead, smiling briefly at him as she turned toward the bar, easily picking out the tall, dark man talking animatedly and drunkenly to the bartender and Shepard.
Michel waved on his way out, bringing Shepard back to the booth, so drunk they both walked as though one leg was longer than the other. Shepard smiled and slurred and sat heavily down at the booth, leaning on Cesc.
“Good night, good night all,” Michel said, waving and wrapping an arm around Jamie as they staggered out of the bar together.
“Guys, y’ready too?” Shepard managed, rubbing the wood of the table with one flat and flopping hand. “W’can go, too. Lessgo.”
“Where’s Cerise?” asked Vivi, standing, pulling Shepard with her. “I saw her with you earlier, did she leave?”
A wave of anger crashed over Cesc. Why did it matter? Why on earth did it matter where Cerise was or wasn’t? After all she’d done – after everything – after how she spoke to Vivi –
A thought snapped through Cesc’s head. What if she ran?
He pressed the thought back down, stern and annoyed. She was threatening everyone now, not just him. Threatening them with whatever she had. With the evidence she knew. She’d go through with it all. She had to show her hand now.
One more day.
“I dunno,” said Shepard. “Started talking to some other people, I dunno. She’s fine.”
“She seemed fine?” Vivi pressed.
“I’m sure she was,” Cesc replied instantly. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Vivi nodded, drawing in a breath. She shrugged her shoulders. “Yes. Yes, you’re right -- I’ll just go to the bathroom first.”
“Yeah,” said Shep, following suit, trundling down the hallway to the restrooms. “Great idea. Great. Gotta piss.”
“Try to hit the toilet!” Cesc called after him, leaning against the wall.
He leaned his head back, his eyes closed. His thoughts crawled. He tried to quiet them, tired of them, tired of the replay of them. He focused, instead, on sounds. He could hear the shuffle-step of Shepard’s unsteady gait into the bathroom, his warbling singing, the flush of the toilet, even the running water as he washed his hands. He pulled himself up, his ears flicking gently. The wood was so thin.
Was it only a few hours ago that he’d seen Cerise and Vivi argue in that hallway?
Shepard came back out, wiping his hands on his jeans, his shoulder against the hall as he slowly came back.
“Y’ready?” he called to Cesc.
“Just waiting on Vivi – ah, Vivi!” said the stag, gesturing behind Shepard. The Frenchwoman was just exiting the bathroom, slowly shutting the door behind her as though making sure it would not slam.“You ready?”
The hair on the back of his neck stood as he saw her more fully. “Vivi?”
Vivi went down the hallway, her face white, her legs shaking. Her eyes were black and wide in the paleness of her face, her hand slowly trailing along the wall. She moved like she was in a dream, like she was deathly drunk. She looked at Shepard, her mouth open in a gasp, and slowly sank to the floor.
“Vivi!” Cesc dashed forward, gathering her as she slid down. Her hands, shaking and uncoordinated, found his shoulder. Like liquid, she fell past his grasp.
“Rhedefre,” she gaped. “Rhedefre, help. Help. It’s Cerise. In the bathroom.” Her voice shivered. Her face became grey. She gulped in breath, over and over, over and over. “In the bathroom! I think – I think she may be dead.”
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Posted: Sat Aug 09, 2014 10:08 am
✖ Solo: Behind the Door ✖
It was up to Cesc to open the bathroom door.
Vivi sat in the hallway and dry heaved, a crumpled mess of limbs. Her hands were splayed on the floor, her hair in her face. Shepard draped over her, drunk and lost, looking left and right, his breath coming in fast. His face was young, far too young, his eyes like a child’s, looking for purchase and reassurance anywhere he could find it.
The bar owner was pacing and swearing, over and over. He kept asking, like the answer would be different each time: “Are you sure? Are you sure?”
Cesc opened the bathroom door.
The moment he saw her, he was sure.
She lay on the ground, contorted. Her fingers, beneath the glittering of her rings, were faintly blue. Her eyes were half-open, her lips parted. There was blood and froth in her teeth. Her hair was haloed around her head.
He had never before seen death, not death like this. There was no loss. No action that could stop it. It was final and graceless and horrible. And there was nothing, nothing, nothing he could imagine that would make it deserved. The words that would not come before spilled from Cesc like vomit.
“I’m sorry,” he retched. “I’m sorry. Cerise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
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Posted: Sat Aug 09, 2014 11:23 am
✖ Solo: Wandering ✖
Cesc was not hungry at dawn. He was not entirely certain he would ever be hungry again. He was not entirely certain he deserved to eat.
Everything was painted on the inside of his eyelids. Thoughts swirled in his head, pictures and memories. How was it over? How had any of it happened in the first place? He was tired. Tired of his current existence.
Inspector Neele came to the bar with the police. They took pictures. They took Cerise and zipped her into a bag and rolled her away. Vivi wept and wept and wept until they told her to go home, as though home existed in some comforting alternate reality. Shepard sat and answered questions with his hands in his lap, but was deemed too drunk to be worth anything.
Cesc, though. Cesc was sober. He could answer anything about the night.
Yes, he had seen Cerise earlier. Yes, there was alcohol involved. No, he hadn’t seen when she went into the bathroom. No, he wasn’t sure what the time was when he’d last seen her.
Yes, there had been some arguments beforehand. Yes, he could say who was there when they happened.
He rattled off names and numbers and addresses. Then he was let loose. Inspector Neele dropped them off at the bakery. Vivi and Shepard sat on the sofa. Vivi wailed and curled into a ball and Shepard draped over her, eyes glazed.
Why did he need to see this? Why was he a part of this? It was too much. Cesc came to them, eyes welled, and put his head to theirs and calmed them until they slept. His aura enveloped them, soothed his guardians like weeping children, until Vivi’s sobs became hiccups and then the slow steady breath of sleep.
Now the stag needed to feed, although he did not want to. Had no interest in doing so.
Cesc looked up Alex’s number in the Lab contact sheet. Then Zul’s. He thought about going to Second Chances. Or to Zurine. To Luka. Xiu. Reks. Anya.
He turned down each one in turn. He couldn’t even think of the reasons why. I don’t want to, his brain would whisper over the tempest of his thoughts. Don’t make me think. I don’t want to. I just don’t want to.
He thought of the jungle. Of Anya’s wound, of Rivener’s shrieks, of the mud and blood and poison and blackness. How could that have all been better than the sight of Cerise on a dirty porcelain floor?
He gripped his hair by the root. Stop, he warned himself. Stop thinking.
The jungle had ended. That terror stopped, eventually. The humidity finally made it out of his veins, out of his head. Hadn’t it? He just needed to endure.
I don’t want to, he thought desperately. I don’t want to do this again. I don’t want to.
His eyes alighted on another name, another address.
He floated out of the bakery just as dawn began to rise through the trees.
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Posted: Sun Aug 10, 2014 7:17 am
✖ RP: A Comfortable Place ✖ Cesc waited, unsure, outside an apartment complex he’d never seen before. His finger hovered over a buzzer. His mind filled with thoughts.
1) It was too early.
2) He was still dressed in the clothes from the bar.
3) He smelled like smoke and alcohol.
4) He hadn’t shaved.
5) It was still too early to bother anyone else, especially what practically amounted to strangers.
He didn’t move. His finger remained frozen where it was. The early morning sun beat against his back like an encouraging hand. All he could think about was the bus in the jungle, the weeping face of another Raevan, the unsteadiness of his hands leading him to safety. To a place where he could sleep. A woman in pigtails who looked worriedly over the broken and bleeding mess of them all and tried to help.
He pressed the buzzer.
There was a marked delay from when the buzzer sounded.
Seagulls flew overhead, squawking in hushed tones as though even they wished not to wake the inhabitants -- or perhaps muted by the offending noise of Cesc's arrival.
After nearly two minutes, the buzz and click of the door opening came through and he was given entry to the building's main floor. Apartment 10 on the third floor. That's where they were.
Cesc didn't move as he waited for a reply. For two minutes, he stood still, his wings folded neatly against his back. He might have waited an hour like that, never pressing the buzzer again.
The door clicked and Cesc floated inside. He found an elevator. Pressed the right button. Kept his thoughts at bay before they tugged him back, back through the door and back toward the ocean filled with an immense and blood-deep shame. Why WAS he bothering these people? He raked his fingers through his hair and tried to look presentable.
He didn't know.
But he knocked on the door of apartment number ten, regardless.
The delay with the buzzer was inexorably longer than the one following his knock. A dog barked immediately. Behind the door, soft sounds of clattering chains and an undone lock heralded its opening.
She was in her pajamas.
Anita rubbed her eyes and held the door half open. Behind her, closer to the center of the room, Cruz floated lazily by the sofa with one arm anchoring himself. The other held onto the dog's leash which was hidden beneath a cloth bandanna.
"Hey," the croc's guardian croaked despite smiling. It was a sleepy smile, but genuine.
"I'm sorry--" Cesc said immediately, like a reflex. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to wake you -- bad sense of that --" He gestured to himself, trying out a faint smile. "Made of dawn and everything, so..."
He was not himself, and he knew it was evident. His eyes were not clear, his mouth was not happy, his speech was not fluid. He knew he needed to explain his presence, but there was nothing in him that gave up explanation.
"I don't..." he started, sounding aimless. "I don't know why I'm here, actually."
Anita's brows creased at the apology instead of a hello. Their dog shifted and tried to approach but Cruz held him fast. Tango whined but, with enough shushing from the frei, he sat down and merely panted.
Her mouth opened. Cesc continued. She closed it again and kept her smile that was growing more concerned with each word.
"Want to come in?" Cruz asked before Anita was able to.
She looked over her shoulder at him. They exchanged glances; Cruz's eyes widened and flickered toward Cesc in a silent plea.
"Yeah, please," Anita opened the door more and stepped to the side. Her bare feet slapped quietly on the wooden floor, heavy and clumsy, "c'mon in. Sorry about, uh," she gestured vaguely to Tango, "dog."
Cesc floated in, his head bowed. He smiled that same faint smile at Anita as he passed, and waved limply at Cruz as he entered. "Cruz, hi."
"Oh, no," he said, absent. "I like dogs. They're ..." He paused, lost for words, like he had been so often as a newborn. "They're good."
He looked around himself, around the apartment. It was a comfortable space, filled with an air of love and affection. There was no familiarity in it for Cesc, bare acquaintance as he was to its occupants, but he could sense that much nonetheless. It was a good place, a safe place, unmarred by secrets or murder or death. It had life in it. Laughter. A pretty dog, a friendly woman, a frei who by all accounts seemed as gracious and pleasant as Vivi described him in the past.
He was polite, regardless of his disheveled appearance: "You have a beautiful home."
His next remark, however, was less expected. "Is everything good? You both? You're..." He gestured vaguely between Anita and Cruz. "... both good?"
The door was closed with a muted thunk. Anita didn't bother locking up again for now.
Cruz returned Cesc's wave with a much brighter smile than either of them. He had to dig his nails back into the sofa to keep Tango from taking advantage of the sudden loosened grip.
"That's good," Anita chuckled quietly, "Just let him sniff your hand and all. You know."
Tango was already extending his nose as far as he could with Cruz holding him back.
"Oh, thank you. Uh, yeah. Yeah, we're-- great," Anita smiled a little brighter but her brows were still curved over half lidded eyes.
A quick glance to Cruz affirmed this; the croc nodded quickly in agreement and allowed his smile to broaden. "Very good."
"Want some water?" she offered to both raevans as she approached the kitchenette in the far corner, "Rhede?" His name was said as clumsily as the rhythm of her step, unfamiliar and hesitant.
"Oh, yes, thank you," said Cesc, slowly sinking toward the couch. He put out his hand for Tango, smiling at the dog, and then began to pet him between the ears. He felt his shoulders relaxing as he did so. Dogs. He liked dogs. Most animals. They were uncomplicated. They gave freely of themselves.
He looked up at Cruz, his smile still dazed, and then back to Anita. "I'm glad to hear it. You're both, ah... you're both friends with Shepard, right?"
Tango instantly eased after sniffing Cesc's hand. His eyes glazed contentedly, ears slacked to make way for affection, and the way his jaw hung open was like a pleasant smile. Cruz slowly allowed his grip to slack and, before long, Tango was slowly wagging his tail and behaving.
"Good boy," the croc purred while scratching him between the shoulders.
Anita retrieved three glasses, all for water. The two frei's were given their glasses before she bothered with her own; Cruz's was room temperature and Cesc's was chilled without ice.
"Mhm," she answered a bit absently. Both of their smiles held on. "Vivi, too, but we don't see her as much." Anita scoffed lightly as she returned to ready her own glass. "Sorry we haven't seen more of you. Did we-- get properly introduced?"
Cesc kept looking at Tango, rubbing the dog's ears. The sharp, shocked quality of his expression was slowly fading into a look of worn care, his bright eyes less glassy, his smile less vacant. He took the water and drank deeply before he replied. He hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been.
"I -- actually, I don't think so," he said. "We sort of met in the jungle, I suppose. I'm Rhedefre. You can call me Cesc, or Rhede, whatever is easiest. I suppose I really know you more by reputation." He smiled at Anita. "Anita, the one who managed to not get anyone in her team too injured. And Cruz --" The 'z' was replaced with a hard 's' sound, the former letter impossible to form in Cesc's mouth."-- the kissing crocodile who helped Iorek and led me to the bus."
His smile faded. "... I'm sorry to only see you all in bad times. I hope we can remedy that sometime."
Cruz watched Cesc carefully as he sipped at his own water. With Tango subdued and content to amble around between the three of them, he perched upon the back of the sofa with his glass. The frei held it in both hands and kept his lips on the edge of the glass even when not drinking.
Ice clinked into Anita's water, settling and cracking with the change in temperature. At their explained reputations, she couldn't help but scoff. "That was kind of a fluke, wasn't it?" The scar on her own arm was a testament to that. Melisande's bite and ruffled feathers, more so.
She raised the glass to her lips just as Cesc apologized again, then slowly set it back down without drinking. "Yeah. Of course." Anita offered a lopsided smile. "Any time."
"You good?" Cruz lowered his glass. His smile didn't falter but, like Anita, his brows offered more insight -- worry.
Cesc shook his head. He looked up at Anita, his eyes earnest and clear. "No," he said, his smile small and sad. "It wasn't a fluke."
He looked back down at his water, the smile slowly slipping from his face, his fingers drumming slickly over the cup's sides. He blinked heavily, and his mouth curved downward. For a moment, he looked unhappy and older, lines in his face where they had no place being.
"No," he said. "We had -- Shepard and Vivi had -- a friend, she..." He couldn't make out the words quite right, couldn't bring the truth out. It wasn't his place to say. Wasn't his truth. Wasn't his friend. He'd hated her. He'd hated her and treated her just that way, and now she was gone. He could not apologize, nor take it back, nor make amends. It was final, cut in stone, seared in flesh. It would never heal. He'd hated her. "It's not good."
He took another drink of water and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I should go be with them. I don't know why I... woke you both... you didn't know her."
Anita shrugged and looked down at her water with a humble smile. She missed the change in Cesc's expression -- but Cruz didn't.
The croc's smile dipped when the stag's did. Hers followed at the sound of his voice.
"Oh," was all Anita mustered.
Cruz reached out for Cesc's arm as the dawn frei took another sip. His fingertips just barely brushed his shirt when he apologized again.
"No, it's okay. We're happy to have you." Cruz nodded with Anita's assurance. He finally made contact with Cesc's arm, palm rested. Anita spoke where he could not. "Sorry to hear that, that's..." she huffed, "that's rough."
Clearly neither of them understood the scope of the situation. Their friend 'passed away' like Clive 'passed away'.
"You can stay a bit if you want to. Or, uh--" Anita fumbled, "--do you want a ride?"
"No, no." Cesc leaned forward, putting his cup on the table. He felt like there were spines on the couch, like the apartment was trying to urge him to leave. Why had he brought in his own... unpleasantness? This was a good place. A safe place. He needed to leave before he tracked in anything else, any bad luck, any sorrow. These people, sweet and kind and normal people, they didn't deserve it...
... although, really, that didn't seem to be too much of a consideration, who deserved it or didn't...
"I like the walk. It's alright." He smiled, a touch of helplessness around the expression. "I'm sorry I woke you. Thank you for being kind."
Cruz watched them both worriedly. The stag's body language was very similar to how he found him in the jungle -- only this time his injury was on the inside. Even Tango picked up on it, nosing Cesc's fingers slightly in a big for more affection. A pleasant distraction.
"If you're sure..." Anita's smile wavered, though she willed it not to. "You're okay. Really."
'Okay' was Anita's blanket term for goodness, Cruz knew. He was okay. They were okay. Everything was okay. Except for the thing that was wrong. Things would be okay is what she really meant, as far as the croc could tell, but being told it in the present sense was always reassuring to him. He hoped it was the same for Cesc, too.
"It's a nice walk," her voice and smile were more awake the longer they spoke of sobering things, "If you or Shep or Vivi want to stop by, you know you're all more than welcomed."
"Yes," Cruz agreed firmly after finishing his water. "Should come over again. Tango likes you."
Cesc patted the dog affectionately, scratching behind on ear. He thought of Grumpaws, his ancient cat. The hateful thing, he'd stayed on the armchair all yesterday, watching them all warily, doing nothing to help or soothe. A dog. Much better to have a dog. "I like Tango, too."
He lifted himself then, his smile a little stronger. Nothing was better, not really, but it was nice -- helpful -- settling to hear someone say that it would be. Maybe, somehow, things would find a way of being okay. Like the jungle, eventually, had been.
"And yes, thank you -- I'll let them know... I'm sure they'll be happy to come by, after..." He let the sentence trail off. He wasn't sure how to finish it, anyway.
Rhedefre floated to the door. "Thank you again. It's good to see you all well."
They both smiled at that. Anyone who liked Tango was good in their books. He even seemed to wag his tail in appreciation.
After... 'the funeral', their minds filled in the blank for Cesc. They didn't need to ask questions. He had enough on his mind.
Cruz took hold of Tango's collar again. This time he wasn't overeager and complied without a fuss.
"It'll be good to see 'em," Anita nodded. She walked to the door with Cesc and opened it for him with some hesitance. "Say hi for us?"
Cesc nodded as he went over the threshold. He felt a mild sort of guilt, although he felt generally better, stronger, like he'd pinched off a piece of their strength and peace for himself, and given them his worry in return. He had to go home. Then he had to go to the station. And that was his reality.
Anita and Cruz, though... he didn't know. They didn't have to do anything, not that he knew. Nothing like this.
"I will," he said. "And thank you again."
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Posted: Sun Aug 10, 2014 7:21 am
✖ Solo: Home Again ✖
The door creaked as Cesc let himself back into the bakery. The scent of coffee let him know that Shepard and Vivi had woken. He shut the door and saw them, their hands cradling mugs like eggs, around one of the bakery tables. The rest of the tables remained set as though for close, and the sign on Vermillion’s front reading ‘CLOSED, thank you, come again’ in cursive font.
“Hey…” the stag called, entering.
He had never felt it before, what he felt in returning to his own home. His own home! Once so safe and pleasant as Anita and Cruz’s apartment. Now it was wrecked, filled with loss and grief, so sharp and unknowable, searing through his head. Cesc’s brows immediately drew together as he crossed the threshold, trying to keep the feeling at bay.
“Oh, Rhede,” sighed Vivi. She rose and came to him, taking his hand in both of hers. “Where were you?”
“Just…” Cesc looked down. “Just… feeding.”
Vivi did not press him. She tried to smile instead, putting one hand on the side of his face.
“Merci,” she said. “I slept… better than I thought.”
“Yeh, good trick there, Rhede,” Shepard said. He was massaging his temples, inhaling the steam off of his coffee. “Appreciate it.”
“What a nightmare…” Vivi dropped into her chair, heavy. She put her hands over her eyes and shivered. “What a terrible thing. I cannot…”
Shepard shook his head, wordless. Cesc saw the muscle in his jaw jump.
Vivi rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers. They came away wet. “There is this. Inspector Neele wants us to speak to him today. And then there is – Clive, too, that we must discuss.”
Shepard slowly put his head down on his folded arms. “Yes,” he breathed.
Vivi drew in a shaking breath. “Alright. Alright...”
Cesc paused. He drew up a chair and floated low, his hand on Vivi’s shoulder. There was nothing, no anger, no fear, nothing else still lingering inside him. He was empty, carved hollow by the sight of death and the sight of his family suffering. His head ached with loss he could not alleviate.
He asked what he meant to weeks ago, but had no strength to do so.
“What happened?”
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Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2014 12:24 pm
✖ Solo: The Ballad of Shepard and Vivi ✖
The Ballad of Shepard and Vivi
February, 2008
The sun hung low in the Australian skyline, and Shepard Ryan was already drunk. He was drunk and uncomfortable, reclining with the back of his head on a picnic table, crushing a half-eaten package of TimTams. His friend, Reggie, was trying to prove he could do cartwheels in sand and failing miserably.
“Get the ******** out of there,” said Shepard, throwing a crumbling cookie in Reggie’s direction. “I’ll be ******** if this’s my night. Watchin’ you tumblin’ like a ********’ loon. Get up.”
Reggie stood, clapping the sand from his hands. “Whaddya wanna do then? Tell me one thing better and I’ll do it, y’drunk piece of s**t.”
Shepard laughed. “Don’t care.”
“Y’got a test tomorrow, don’t you? Get some ******** sleep tonight then, y’drunk.”
Shepard shot another cookie at him. “******** the test.”
Reggie caught the cookie and jammed it in his mouth. “Oh, s**t! Margie told me, she said there’s that circus thing. You wanna see it?”
Shepard Ryan laughed. “Just said I don’t want to see your a** tumblin’ about and you offer a circus? C’mon.”
Reggie put his hands on his hips. “Circus tumblin’ is a lot better than mine.”
* * * * *
“This was a dumb idea,” moaned Shepard, sitting low in his seat. He put his feet up, flip-flops against the seat in front of him. On stage, a tall man folded a bicycle in half, waved his hand over it, and turned it into a unicycle, to the delight of the crowd. Shepard yawned while others clapped. His voice was as loud as it had been outdoors. “The beer line was a ******** mile, and they only gave me one.”
“Excuse me?” The woman in front of them turned, getting a faceful of Shepard’s grimy shoe. She reeled backward, swatting it away. “Could you please get that filth off of my seat and be <******** off,” murmured Shepard, waving a hand.
Reggie rolled his eyes. “You’re such an a*****e.”
The lights dimmed as the tall man bowed and went away. Shepard clapped perfunctorily and without rhythm, his eyes narrowed at Reggie. A woman took the stage next, a petite figure, with a narrow waist and long black hair. She wore a red corset and burlesque costume, gloves on her hands. She smiled at the crowd, cheeky, and climbed up the center pole of the big top, unburdened by a rope or harness.
“Mm,” Shepard mused. “She’s hot.”
“SHH!” The woman in front of them implored. Shepard straightened, taking his feet off of her chair, and leaned forward.
“Fuuuuuckin’ hoooooooot,” he intoned at the back of the woman’s head. She made angry clucking noises, her ears red, but did not turn.
The woman on stage reached the top of the pole, where a small platform waited. She stepped out onto it, and a red cloth descended from the ceiling. Wrapping her wrist within it, she stepped off the platform and swung – her body taut, her smile genuine, her legs long and extended. She floated out and over the audience, and Shepard’s mouth closed itself.
He sat back and watched her preform.
* * * * *
Shepard came back again the next night. He took his one beer without complaint and took his seat without setting his feet on the next one. He was still drunk.
After the show, he tried to bluff his way back stage.
“I’m lookin’ for the girl,” he told one of the guards. “The hot one – the one with the black hair. You know. The one with the red cloth.”
“Get the ******** out of here,” said the guard.
* * * *
Shepard slammed the screen door as he got back to the house. His elder sister Margie waved at him as she went out, golden hair tied up in a knot.
“Got a date?” Shepard asked.
“Of course. Tonight’s menu is Reggie,” she said, winking as she passed.
“Aw, c’mon – don’t do that – you’re gonna eat that ******** alive!” said Shepard helplessly as she passed, his hands up.
“I know! I hope he’s good!” she laughed, wagging her fingers at him as she skipped down the front stairs. From within the house, Shepard could hear his father grousing in a half-yell.
“Shepard, you drunk piece of s**t, is that you? You’ve got a goddamn test tomorrow, go the ******** to sleep! Where the hell have you been? Get down here and let me smell your breath, y’little s**t!”
Shepard sighed. He turned around and went back out again.
* * * * *
Shepard was going crazy. There was no way around it.
He went again to the circus and watched the black haired girl preform. He knew nothing about her. Nothing. Only how she moved, fearless, into the crowd. Only how she smiled. She was so genuine. So powerful. She moved where she wanted, she leapt without worry. There was no hesitation, no fear of the fall in her.
He envied her. He wanted to speak to her.
The circus had five shows. He watched all five, night by night.
* * * * *
He started to walk home. He took slow steps out of the big top and felt his heartbeat in his chest and thought, no, no, I don’t want to go home.
He was sick of home. Sick of his father. Sick of studies he had no passion for. Sick of his sister, his friends, his booze, himself. What was he doing with himself? Taking the path of least resistance. Drinking himself into complacency with it. He was becoming more of an a*****e every day. Becoming more like his dad. Some days he wanted to throw things, trash things. Like his dad. Just try it out. See how it felt. See if it made him feel any better.
What a mess.
Who wanted to be like that? Like that deadbeat dickhead, yelling at everyone. Margie could listen to him with perfect indifference as she went in and out, doing what and whomever she pleased. Lucky, beautiful Margie. She knew she could leave whenever she chose. She enjoyed being queen of that shitpile.
Shepard found it harder and harder to drag himself to and from home every day. It was like he was swimming against currents, no matter where he went. And now his arms were tired.
He just wanted to sink.
He turned around, looking back at the circus.
One more try.
* * * * *
Shepard fumbled with security, trying to get his words right. He was still, as he always was, a little drunk.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just looking to talk to anyone. This is a great show.”
“Isn’t it?” A tall man, dark-skinned and bright-eyed, was listening to him behind the guard. He looked highly amused. Shepard recognized him instantly – the ringleader, his makeup still on, his tophat in his hands. He waved Shepard in past the guard and laced his arm around Shepard’s shoulders. “This is always fun for me. Tell me what you want, drunk guy. Whose number?”
Shepard shook his head. “I want to come with you.”
The ringleader’s painted eyebrows went up. “That’s newish. You want to run away and join the circus?” <******** yes – I’m sorry. Yes. I do.”
The ringleader lifted his shoulders. “You don’t have to apologize to me, I’m not physically harmed by swearing. Why do you want to come with us?”
Shepard’s vision swam. Part of him had expected to get kicked out by now.
“You’re so free,” he said. “You guys. I don’t know how you do it. You all look so free. I – I want that. I’ve got to have that. I hate everything here. I’m sorry. That sounds really childish. But I mean it. You – the girl that flies on the red cloth thing, all of you, you’re so free.”
The ringleader barked a laugh. “Well, thanks. We do have a schedule. How do you know we’re not faking it?”
Shepard shook his head, firm. “You’re not.”
“Well, Desperate Guy – that is your name, right? Can you do anything that would be useful to us? Seems like you drink pretty good.” The ringleader prodded him in the shoulder with one finger. Shepard tried not to sway with it. “Are you a gymnast, or a strongman or anything?”
“No,” said Shepard, somewhat guilty. “But I can – I can make stuff. Sets, carpentry, fabrication – that stuff, I’ve done that stuff my whole life.”
“Oh?” the ringleader rubbed his chin. “Damn, that actually is useful. I can’t laugh you out of here yet. I’d have to see pictures or samples, obviously. If you suck, I can laugh at you again. If you don’t… how much would I have to pay you?”
Shepard looked at him, his eyes clear. “Whatever you want. I don’t care.” His voice was begging. “Let me come with you, that’s all I want. I want to get out of here.”
“Alright, alright, less of that, please,” said the ringleader, dusting Shepard off of him. “Examples. Give me examples, and I’ll give you a shot while we’re still in Australia. Sound fair? If you suck, I laugh at you. And I call the girl who flies on the red cloth and she laughs at you, too.” He paused, smiling broadly. “I have to warn you – she probably will no matter what.”
He put out a hand and shook Shepard’s, firm. “I’m Clive.”
* * * * *
“What’re you doing with those?” Margie asked Shepard as he lifted a box of woodworking out of the garage. She sat on her motorcycle and tied up her hair and eyed him with only the mildest curiosity. She dropped her eyes to her nails and frowned as she noticed a chip in one.
“Trying to get the ******** out of this hellhole,” replied Shepard with a grunt.
“Let me know if that works,” she said with a shrug.
* * * * *
“Well…” said Clive, with what sounded like a touch of disappointment in his voice, “You don’t suck.”
Shepard smiled. Clive drummed his fingers over the edge of the cardboard box that Shepard gave him, his mouth screwed tightly in his face. He looked quite different without his stage makeup, his eyes brighter and sharper, his mouth clever. There was good humor in his face but mischief that played in his expression.
“Alright,” he said at last. “We’ll give you a little tryout. Just while we’re still in Australia.” He took one of the pictures, holding it in two fingers, like he meant to toss it at Shepard’s face. “… but I don’t mess with foxes around my henhouse, do you hear?”
Shepard raised his eyebrows. “What?”
Clive smiled, broad. “Don’t play dumb. But I’m warning you. Foxes usually get pecked to death, anyway, and not in the way they want.”
* * * * *
It turned out the girl that flew on the red cloth did not speak very much English. Shepard tried to speak with her the first day. She rattled French at him in a laughing tone, her dark eyes profoundly amused. She looked him up and down, open, and then turned toward her blonde friend and related something that was clearly very amusing to both.
“I’m Shepard Ryan,” he told her.
She waved her hand at him and went away. Her blonde friend, still laughing, shook her head at him.
“I am Jamie,” she said. “You must be the desperate one Clive told us about.”
Shepard had the decency to flush. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Who’s your friend?” He nodded after the dark-haired girl.
“Out of your league,” Jamie said, still laughing.
* * * * *
“Shepard,” he told her again, this time at dinner, where he managed to slip in a seat beside her. She tossed her hair and looked at him as though she wasn’t entirely sure he’d had the gall to speak directly to her. Her mouth, brilliant and red, broke into a wide and foreign smile. “My name. Shepard Ryan.”
She spoke again in French he did not understand. He frowned, and tried to pantomime, pointing at himself. “My name. I am. Shepard.”
She nodded and said another phrase that meant nothing to him. Frustration mounted in his chest.
This had been a stupid, stupid idea.
* * * * *
Work in the circus was ceaseless, unrelenting. Working with his hands was different than working in the grad school that had begun calling his cell phone daily. He wondered if they’d started calling him at home. He’d left his father a message, late one night, that explained little. He was going out for a while. He’d be back sometime.
Shepard could hear in his head what his father must’ve said. <******** good-for-nothing. Drunk piece of s**t. Told you he’d make nothing of himself. He hoped Margie wasn’t home. He’d called her to tell her it had worked, that he was getting the ******** out of dodge. She’d laughed.
He had a knack for that, making women laugh at him.
He worked hard. It was impossible to dwell on depression while working in the circus. There was too much, too much sound, too many other people also working ceaselessly, too much commotion, too many clocks counting down to the next performances. The athletes rehearsed even after shows.
They didn’t like him, not at first. Clive was the only one who spoke to him. Everyone else seemed to speak languages he did not understand – French, Spanish, Russian. The ones who had English used it sparingly. He sat with an old lady with critical blue eyes who seemed more interested in murmuring to her tea than him one day. It was the best conversation he’d been a part of all week.
* * * * *
Clive sat next to Shepard one day, three weeks after the Aussie started working.
“How do you like it here?” Clive asked. He dusted off a bench in the makeshift wood shop and sat himself down. Shepard was busy fixing a set piece that had snapped in transit, his fellow shopmates taking their usual break – exactly when he came back from his.
“It’s good,” Shepard said.
Clive lifted a hand. “You don’t find it a touch…” His hand swam in the air. “… isolating?”
“I’m the rookie,” the Aussie said with a shrug. “Got to get hazed.”
Clive sat up, smiling crookedly. “You seem like a good enough man. You know that it will take a long time, don’t you?”
Shepard shrugged. “Wanted to be free,” he said. “This is better than where I was.”
Clive laughed. “You’re quite a hopeless little s**t, aren’t you?”
He stood, straightening his shirt and heading for the door. Shepard held up a hand, stopping him.
“Hey,” he said. “Does the – the red girl – does she speak English?”
“Not well,” said Clive, with a smile. “But probably more than she is to you.”
* * * * *
“Shepard.” Shepard was trying again. “My name is Shepard.”
The dark-haired girl smiled and spoke again to him in French. Shepard shook his head.
“No, Clive told me you speak some English. I know you know what I’m saying. My name is Shepard.”
She laughed and shook her head. Her friend beside her, a redhead with wild hair and a smile too big for her face, who always kept her arm linked with hers, leaned forward to him.
“I am Cerise,” the friend said. “And she says there are no sheep here for you, the shepherd.”
Shepard looked from friend to friend. For the first time, he laughed.
* * * * *
Shepard hooked the bolt of red cloth to the tallest height of the big top. He was harnessed, floating above, secure, but his palms still felt sweaty as he checked all the links and safeties. He hated this part of the job.
He looked over the empty seats. Was this what she saw, the dark-haired girl? This was her view, every show? She wasn’t harnessed, not during performances. She stood alone, with only the red cloth. She wrapped herself in it and flew. So perfectly and completely unconcerned.
He checked her safeties again and again. The cloth would not drop her, would it? It could never drop her.
* * * * *
“We’re leaving Australia tomorrow,” said Clive pleasantly, balancing his chair back on two legs. Shepard sat with his palms together, his face stone. Clive traced his face, looking for signs of apprehension, and felt none.
“Tell me,” he said. “If I cut you loose, keep you in Australia – what would you do?”
Shepard shrugged. “Do what I did before, I guess.”
Clive inclined his head. “Does that really mesh with what you told me? About wanting to be free? To be out of here?” His eyes softened, although his mouth was still curved sharply. “You really were quite desperate, you know.”
Shepard wet his lips and drew in a breath. “I don’t know what… I don’t know. I don’t want to go home.”
“What’s so terrible about home?” Clive asked.
Shepard looked down. “Nothing, not really. Just no … no life there.”
“Nothing but the greys, is it?” Clive smiled. “Well, no matter, Desperate Guy. I have it on good authority that you work hard, stay sober, and keep your nose out of the henhouse. And Vivi says you check her safeties about seven times more than you need to, generally, so I know you at least have an eye for detail. And I’m curious about you, Desperate Guy. You seem like a good little pickup for me. I like strays.”
Shepard snorted, but unbent enough to smile.
“Come on, come on, you can look happy and relieved – you know what that is, don’t you? A smile, a release in the shoulders. Like this.” Clive became rubber, his limbs loosening, his smile becoming goofy.
Shepard laughed.
“There we go,” said Clive, patting him on the back. “Much better.”
And he left, leaving Shepard to smile alone.
Shepard looked at his fingers, then up at the ceiling. There was a strange feeling in his chest, in his arms, down to his fingers. Something living and squirming and strange, something pleasant and warm, restless. Something that had slept too long. He was still smiling a long time after he thought it necessary.
So, her name was Vivi.
* * * * *
He saw her looking up at him as he rechecked her safeties, two weeks later, him floating high above the empty big-top. Shepard slowly lowered himself down to the ground, foot by foot, looking down at her. She did not move, although she had ample time to, her arms at her waist, her eyes fixed upon him.
He halted inches above the ground, still sitting back in his harness.
“Shepard,” he said again, for the thousandth time. “My name. It’s Shepard.”
“The Shepard!” She exclaimed. She spoke as if to someone else, although, for the first time, there was nobody else around. Her smile changed, sweetened. “I think he is afraid of the heights.”
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Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2014 3:17 pm
✖ Solo: The Ballad of Shepard and Vivi II ✖
The Ballad of Shepard and Vivi II
July, 2009
Shepard was restless.
The show opening was in less than an hour and he’d been behind schedule all day, and no matter how hard he tried to calm down, he couldn’t get rid of the feeling of adrenaline that stayed in his arms and fingers. He rolled from heel to toe, heel to toe, waiting on the sidelines.
Beside him, Cerise was checking and rechecking her costume, tugging on the boning in her waist, fluffing her hair.
“How is the makeup?” She asked Shepard, pursing her lips. He looked over at her.
“Looks good.”
“You promise? I feel like she rushed through it today.” Cerise pouted. “I hate going out when it’s not perfect. Ruins the whole effect. The magic.”
“I promise you look good,” said Shepard solemnly. Cerise prodded him in the ribs, her gloved fingers wiggling as she tried to get a laugh out of the man.
“Magical, even?” Cerise teased.
“Mm.”
“Oh, loosen up!” She said with a smile. “You’re out of the weeds. Everything’s on schedule.”
She prodded him one extra time, this time with more of an affectionate squeeze, and then flounced off to her entrance spot. Behind her, Vivi and Jamie entered, Vivi in a short black wig, Jamie in a short red.
“She likes you,” said Vivi, smiling at Shepard.
“Enormously,” added Jamie. Both women’s smiles were insufferably bright. Shepard snorted and shooed them on stage.
Clive wandered behind, whip and tophat in hand. He winked at Shepard as he went.
“Never the one you want, is it?” he said as he passed.
* * * * *
Clive kicked up his feet in the dining tent. He took off his hat and scrubbed his hands through his short hair.
“I need,” said he, “perhaps twelve beers.”
Jamie sat comfortably next to him, putting up her legs with his. Vivi sat on the other side of her, and in their still-worn wigs, they managed to look sibling-similar. They still wore their makeup, and their faces were aglow from their exertion.
“I will drink four of those beers,” said Jamie.
“Ah, two, two for me,” chimed in Vivi.
Shepard sat and then instantly rose. “Oh, sorry, did I miss it? Am I the waiter?”
Vivi laughed and stood. “I will go with you. Even in your hands, twelve is perhaps too many.”
Shepard nodded. He hated going anywhere alone with Vivi. She came to him, in that way that she walked, the way she seemed to swim through the air – he would check, now and again, to make sure that her feet really did touch the ground. But that, too, was no reality check: he would lose himself in the strange wonder that was the cycle of her movement, the way her legs carried her.
He didn’t know where to look when they walked together. He felt too aware of himself and his movements, and plaguing thoughts made him wonder if he looked too long or too hard at her, if he was walking the way he normally walked, if he was too close or too far away.
She was as she presented herself. She was as he saw her the first night, a drunk idiot in a crowd. She was unfettered and free, she laughed without inhibition. He knew her now. That was who she was. She loved easily, she played and practiced and made sport of everything.
Shepard had a terrible time trying to talk with her when they were alone. He wanted desperately for her to like him. Over the year, it had gotten easier – her English improved as his French did, but there were still difficulties, still barriers on his side.
“Twelve beers, twelve beers,” Vivi said cheerily. She slanted a look up at her. “Are you disappointed, mon ami?”
Shepard lifted a brow at her. “Disappointed?”
Disappointed. In his own inability to talk, perhaps.
His mind drifted to his sister, back in Australia. If he’d been born with Margie’s sense of conquest, perhaps this would have been easier. It wasn’t as though he’d never seen Vivi tempt or be tempted, never seen her leave a party with a man she’d met that night, or watched her coo at Clive or Michel or any of her fellow performers. And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t done the same with women, all in her view, simple and easy and unaffected. Sex, lust, that was all on the table. Vivi was no untouchable goddess – she was all that was sensual and tactile and right, she lived to be adored by fingers and eyes.
But when he stepped to her, tried to do the same to her, there was nothing. Shepard was held back, saddled.
“Yes,” said Vivi with a laugh. “Disappointed I am not Cerise. She is quite late, that one – I am certain she would have come with you, if you’d have liked. Perhaps you could have gotten lost on the way to the cooler together, mm?” She winked.
Shepard looked away from her. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not disappointed.”
Not for that reason, at least.
* * * * *
Clive was murmuring against Jamie’s hair when they returned. Shepard carried a case of beer, and Vivi held one open bottle, from which she was drinking. Jamie was laughing, leaning against the ringleader – she pulled away and took her beer. Michel, Cerise, and others had joined the group.
Shepard looked at Clive with some envy. How did he do all that he did? Clive sat between Cerise and Jamie now, his arm slung easily around both sets of shoulders. He spoke animatedly to the group, his eyes alive with the story. He laughed in the middle of his words, and the effect was charming. He was a ringleader. It was an obvious and easy choice to make his living so.
Vivi split away from Shepard and sat beside Cerise, curling toward her, setting her chin on Clive’s hand that rested on her shoulder.
Shepard opened a beer on the side of the table. His mouth was bitter before he took a sip.
* * * * *
“Shepard Ryan,” greeted Clive one morning as he came by the shop. He was dressed in street clothes, a simple t-shirt, his legs even longer in his dark jeans. He smiled brilliantly as he entered, peering over Shepard’s shoulder to see what he was working on – a little wooden bird, part of the set for the next city’s acts. “Looking good.”
“Clive Kensington,” said Shepard, not quite turning to him.
“You know, you’re kind of a triumph for me,” said Clive, taking a seat in the nearest chair, leaning back on it as he always did. “I hope you realize that.”
Shepard lifted his chin. “Hm?”
“Oh, yes. Back when you were Desperate Guy, I thought you’d last a week or two, tops. I really picked you up to see how hard you were going to try for Vivi,” said Clive with a laugh. He picked up one of the finished birds at Shepard’s left, admiring the metal wings and wooden body, turning it over in his hand. “We thought you’d probably flop, or if she was into it, get laid and go. But it’s been how long? You’ve worked hard, been fun, and never really made your move.”
Shepard’s shoulders tensed. He lifted his eyes to Clive, unsure of what to say.
“I don’t mean that as a negative. I don’t mean that as an insult,” said Clive. “I’m just impressed.” He set the bird down. “You’re a handsome man. You have an accent the ladies like. I’ve seen you with women.” Clive’s smile grew. “I’ve heard reviews. You know your way around.”
A smile just touched Shepard’s face as he looked down, shaking his head. “******** off, mate.”
Clive laughed, a heavy, pleasing sound. “No, you ******** off. Why not give Cerise a try, or Jamie, if you won’t go for Vivi?” His eyes were mischievous. “Both, if you want. Simultaneously.”
Shepard laughed, but the sound was not wholly easy. “I’m good, Clive, thanks.”
Clive rose. “Well, just letting you know, I think you’ve played the shrinking violet long enough. These times, they aren’t forever, and faint heart never won fair lady, as the saying goes.” He laughed again, starting for the door. “You’re a good egg, Shepard Ryan – I think I’ll take you with me again, one day.”
Shepard swiveled on his chair to look at him, the half-made bird in his hand. “With you again?”
Clive shrugged carelessly. “Oh, you know – if ever this all disappears. We won’t doom you to go back to Oz.”
* * * * *
Vivi came across the circus rehearsal room floor, dressed in warmups, slowly winding athletic tape around her fingers. Her hair was in a ponytail, her face fresh and free of makeup. The room, usually filled uncomfortably full, was startlingly empty this early in the morning. There was still the smell of sweat mixed with chalk and rubber in the air, an impossible smell to get rid of, no matter how often it was cleaned or moved.
She went to her rope, put chalk on her fingers, and began to climb.
Halfway up, she flipped and turned herself, looking toward the entrance.
“It is creepy if the Shepard watches me without saying hello!” she called.
“I’m not watching you,” said Shepard, coming out of the entryway, his hands in his pockets. “I’m –“
“—just lurking for the fun?” Vivi laughed, righting herself. She slid down the rope.
“No, no.” Shepard smiled. “Just thinking of an entrance line.”
Vivi cocked her head. Her smile was still pleased, and her eyes were soft. She did not approach Shepard, but swayed on the rope where she was, as though she were sitting on an invisible swing. She hummed. “The Shepard, we are friends, are we not?”
Shepard nodded. “I like to think so, yeah.”
“Why is it, then, that the Shepard does not speak to me so freely as he does the others, ah?” Vivi swung toward him, extending a toe to prod him. “Is it that he is afraid of me?”
Shepard pushed her foot back gently, aiding her sway. He smiled. “No. Although you are pretty scary.”
Vivi threw back her head. “Am I! I have heard such before. I am like the monster in the shadows, ready always to pounce!” She swung herself back toward him, foot out. “It has taken the Shepard some months to overcome the fear of my pouncing, has it not?”
Shepard pressed her foot away from him again as it neared, letting out a low laugh. “Maybe that’s it.”
“It must be! I can think of no other reason,” she said. “I hear many stories that he converses much more easily with Cerise, or with Jamie, or Michel, or Clive! With me, the Shepard, he is taciturn and stony.” She pulled up her mouth into a grimace, lowered her brows into a frown, making a farce of a face at Shepard. He laughed in spite of himself.
He caught her foot again as she swayed toward him. This time, he did not let it go, keeping her close. Vivi stayed as she was, smiling at him. His heart thudded in his chest, rattling his ribs. His breath was quick and shallow. He looked at her, at her smile, at the dark, warm happiness in her eyes.
“Tell me,” she said. “Does the Shepard dislike me?”
The words came out of Shepard before he could stop them, hear them, do anything but feel them.
“I love you,” he said.
The smile popped from Vivi’s face like it had been a bubble. She started, and her foot fell from Shepard’s grasp, letting her sway back, back, back away from him. There was a quick sound, pat-pat-pat-pat, rhythmic and quick, as she put her feet on the ground, stopping the motion before it arced back toward him. It was a full moment before her smile returned.
“No,” she said at last, firm. “No, you do not.”
Shepard looked at her, blank, his heart still wild in his chest.
“No,” Vivi said again. She smiled at him, taking a step forward. “What on earth would that do for the Shepard – give him a night, a month, a year to be happy with that love? No, it will not do.” Her smile softened, compassionate. “He knows I have not a steady heart. The Shepard, he knows this, he has seen this, yes?”
Shepard nodded, slow and mechanical.
“Would he rather not be a friend?” asked Vivi. “A friend I can keep, I know, much longer than some months.” Her voice lowered. “I know this, I know the Shepard, he has been unhappy before. A friend, he needs a friend more than a lover, does he not?”
Shepard tried to nod again, but the movement was quick and jerky. He felt strange and stupid and half-dreaming, he felt like he had dropped a glass and watched it shatter and was now desperately trying to sweep away the pieces without calling attention to them. He was naked and awkward and wrong, and Vivi’s eyes had pity in them. He wanted, in that moment, to loathe her.
“Right,” he said. He put his hands in his pockets, and half-nodded, and made his escape.
* * * * *
“Someone’s had a long face for way, way too long,” said Cerise, perching on Shepard’s back in the wood shop. She put her chin on his shoulder, totally unmoved as he staggered back a half-step to account for her weight.
“Geezus!” he gasped. “A little warning next time!”
Cerise laughed. “What’s warning? I wanted the element of surprise!”
“You’re lucky the blade wasn’t on or something,” grumbled Shepard. “Geezus.”
Cerise’s expression was impish as she looked up at Shepard’s profile. “I have it on good authority. You need cheering.” Her arms tightened around his shoulders. “I’m good at cheering, y’know.”
Shepard hiked up her legs on his waist, carrying her to another station. Nothing was a secret in a circus for long. Not that his had really been a secret. “Whose authority?”
“The highest authority!” cried Cerise. She kissed his neck, sweet, lingering. “Clive’s.”
Shepard pulled his neck aside. “Clive, huh? How does he know all this s**t?”
Cerise wiggled against Shepard, comfortable as a cat. “Oh, he’s got his ways. Eyes and ears everywhere, you know.”
Shepard shook his head. “******** Clive.”
* * * * *
Michel was in Clive’s room when Shepard entered. The sight caused Shepard to jump slightly, and to his surprise, Michel jumped as well. Although he was doing nothing but sitting in one of Clive’s chair, a faintly guilty expression crossed the Frenchman’s face, and it was a moment before his shoulders relaxed with the rest of him.
“Shepard!” said Michel. “I did not expect you.”
“In Clive’s room?” Shepard replied. “Same back at you.”
Michel laughed, putting a hand to his mouth. “Yes, much more likely it to be one of the girls, any of them.” He shook his head. “I do not think there is one city, one continent on this planet where he has not tried his luck with some success.”
Shepard grimaced. “… huh. Vivid.”
Michel took in Shepard for a long moment, his dark eyes trailing. He spoke consideringly, almost carefully: “What are you here for?”
“Just wanted to tell Clive to stop telling people I need cheerin’ up,” said Shepard. “Don’t worry about it.”
Michel’s face slowly warmed itself into a smile. “Oh, I will be sure not to.”
* * * * *
It was a full month before he could sit next to Vivi without feeling that someone was looking at him with some pity. Vivi invited him to often, tried harder than usual to engage him in conversation, singled him out when there was any chance of them being together. It annoyed Shepard, made him feel babysat and coddled.
“You don’t need to do that,” he told her one day, when she’d asked for his help specifically amongst all the set-makers, beckoning him out the door and to her act area.
“To speak?” Vivi replied, her eyebrows raised.
“No, to – the other thing. To check if I’m okay all the time.” Shepard’s eyes were dark, and he did not quite meet hers. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”
Vivi was silent for a few seconds as they walked.
“The Shepard,” she sighed, sounding defeated “He is a imbecile.”
Shepard started, staring at her in surprise. He almost wanted to laugh. “What?!”
“Do you not think it? He does not speak to an object of desire and believes his feelings well expressed. He agrees to having a friend and then is surprised when she engages him – what does the Shepard believe of friends? Are they all unsociable and taciturn as he is?” Vivi shook her head. Her face was bright, and she eyed him from the side. “I have not this talent of quietness! I will make him a poor friend, I fear.”
Shepard lifted his hands and then let them drop. “That is not what I’m talkin’ about, yeh? C’mon.”
Vivi continued to shake her head, grave. “No, I am afraid it is! The poor Shepard. He will have to listen to endless attempts at conversation. It will be a life of misery.”
Shepard snorted. Vivi heaved a sigh, and Shepard shoved her, one-handed, to the side. She erupted in a laugh as she rebalanced herself.
“Fine,” Shepard said. He failed at an attempt not to smile. “Fine.”
They continued their walk, and Clive rounded a corner, seeing the duo. He lifted a hand in salutation, and Shepard saw Vivi’s eyes brighten. Her smile ticked, pleased.
“Clive!” She called.
“Well, isn’t this a lovely sight,” said Clive. He kept his arm up as Vivi approached him, and only let it down when she was near enough to put it around her. “Looks like you got your smile back, Shepard!”
* * * * *
She never smiled like that for him, did she? Shepard lay awake in his bed and wondered, his hands on his chest, monitoring the steady beat of his heart. Vivi, she had a smile that was all for Clive.
All the women did, every one of them. Didn’t they? It was terrible to notice.
Shepard rolled in his bed. The thought was startlingly annoying.
* * * * *
“So, I hear you want me to stop telling people of your miseries,” Clive said the next day, catching Shepard by the back of the shirt as the man went to complete the final checks for the evening’s performance. Shepard hung back, matched his gait to Clive’s.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said.
Clive lifted his arms and looked heavenward in a ‘what-else-can-I-do?’ motion. “Well, if you insist absolutely, I can give it a try. Not that we can stop gossiping. This is a small community. We must absolutely gossip with and about one another, you know.” He leaned toward Shepard, grasping the Aussie’s opposite shoulder in a strange sort of half-hug. “But no hard feelings, I suppose?”
“None whatever,” replied Shepard. He looked at Clive’s hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. There was a part of him that wanted to sweep it off.
Clive smiled. “I think you’re lying.”
“Nope,” said Shepard. His expression was clear.
The ringleader gave a shrug. “It’s my night off tonight. Join me in the audience? It’s been a while since you watched, I’m fairly certain.”
Shepard scratched his jaw, considering. He considered, letting out a breath. “Alright. But only if I get to drink.”
Clive smiled, pleased. “I thought you might need to be half-drunk for it. Shots are on me. There’s something I’d like to talk with you about, anyway, and it’s probably better if you’re drunk for it. ”
* * * * *
Clive stood in the back room, behind the curtain, a bottle of absinthe in his hands. He stood next to the next act, Granny Gertrude Maplethorpe, who picked at her costume with some distaste and irritably stirred a pot of tea that stood on a rolling server beside her. Shepard watched her as he approached.
He was not in the mood to watch the circus, just as he hadn’t been in the mood the first time he’d ever seen it. Just the same as that first night, Shepard Ryan felt that what he needed to be was drunk and alone, but he was assured that he would only get half of that desired equation that evening.
Shepard was resigned. He would watch the show with Clive. He would hear whatever the man had to say. But there was no need to be sober for it.
“Such a ridiculous thing, dressing me as a gypsy,” Granny Maplethorpe was muttering. “As though you have to be a nomad or somesuch to have insight into the unknown. It’s insulting.”
“You’re insulting,” murmured Clive in response, pouring himself a shot. He brightened as he saw Shepard approach. “Ah, there you are!”
“Drinking backstage,” huffed Granny Maplethorpe. “Ridiculous how lax we’ve become here, our standards.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Clive again, his voice soothing. Backstage was less full at this part of the night, with most of the cast having taken their places for the opening number. Only Clive, Vivi, Cerise, Jamie, Shepard, and Granny Maplethorpe remained in that particular area, with only Clive and Shepard out of costume. Clive held out the absinthe to Shepard. “Have a shot?”
“Of that?” Shepard took the bottle, unscrewing the top and sniffing it. His head went back immediately. The smell was ripe, pungent, unpleasant. “******** no, I hate absinthe. Y’got whiskey?”
“Whiskey…” rumbled Granny Maplethorpe. Outside, the music began to swell. Vivi and Jamie waited on the edge of the curtain, waiting for their mark to enter. Michel checked his cape and took his place.
“Not an absinthe guy? What a wanker. You can get yourself a beer,” said Clive, throwing back his own drink. “I’ll see you at the box, then.”
* * * * *
The beer line was long, and they only gave him one.
Shepard Ryan made his way up through the crowd to Clive’s seats, trying not to slosh as he went. He’d missed the opening, Granny Maplethorpe’s predictions of random audience members’ futures, and Michel’s magic show. He knew what was next, and despite how much he had come to loathe this weakest part of his heart, he could not, would not, miss the next act.
The lights dimmed, and a bolt of red cloth was spotlighted in the center of the stage.
Shepard lowered himself heavily beside Clive. Clive’s eyes were closed, his head lolled to the side of his shoulder.
“Sorry I’m late,” Shepard said lowly. He tried not to smile at the sight of the ever-active ringleader snoozing. “Either it’s been a hell of a performing night or y’don’t hold your absinthe like you do other drinks, yeah?”
He nudged the ringleader with one arm, but Clive only slumped lower.
On the stage, Vivi was wrapping herself in the red cloth, but Shepard was no longer watching.
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