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 Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 10:40 pm
Harland could tell that Alistaire had to strain every fibre of his being just to counter whatever he'd built up in himself to this point. Tearing down a wall like that would take time. A lot of time, and work, and patience. He could offer all of those things.
Could, and he would. One step at a time. Harland was so proud of Alistaire for all the progress he was making, and how hard he was trying. Harland hoped that one day, Alistaire would be able to hold or be held, and not be afraid any more.
He just needed to know that there were people who would help, instead of hurt; people who would catch him if he was falling, and cushion the impact. It couldn't be perfect, though. Harland was afraid if anything happened to hurt him, it would be impossible to revert the damage this time.
So he'd do his very best. Harland's skin grew warmer, as he felt Alistaire lean his head on his shoulder. Harland was putting a lot of himself on the line, for this to work; it wasn't an act. He was letting Alistaire walk into his life as though he belonged there, touch him as though he was the only one who should. It was difficult for Harland, too, to let Alistaire lean on him like it was the most normal thing ever. Harland glanced down at Alistaire without moving, smiling softly.
"Green looks like Christmas with red," he said, "nicer on its own. Why don't you wear more of it? Bed you'd look good in green, with your dark hair. You can lean up now, if you want. That was perfect."
Somehow, this process was exhausting.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 10:49 pm
He was still angry and still humiliated, ashamed of both what he was doing and how he'd gotten there in the first place; but at the same time, there was something strangely relaxing about Harland. Perhaps it was the fact that he was just so calm all the time, unruffled and unfazed by anything Alistaire said or did. Alistaire used to the hyperemotional, the melodramatics, the theatrics.
Harland was none of these things. Just a quiet, solid presence, and somehow that made it just a little bit easier.
"I don't have much green things," said Alistaire, and he turned his head so that his forehead was against the side of Harland's shoulder, inhaling a deep breath and then exhaling it, focusing on what he could see, which happened to be Harland's hands, folded into his lap. Focus, focus, focus. "I don't have many clothes in general."
He heard Harland's voice as though from far away, and it was with effort that Alistaire dragged his head away, his vision slightly blurred, his head spinning. He felt lightheaded, and swayed a little precariously for a moment, the rush of emotions filling in the cracks in his thoughts.
"I did it," he said, in an almost startled tone of voice.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 11:02 pm
Harland had never expected Alistaire to turn out to be this person. He still didn't really understand what was happening. He just looked at the black hair falling down over Alistaire's face, and watched as Alistaire changed angles and pressed his bare skin to Harland's shirt. Harland felt his breath catch. No matter what happened, he could never hurt Alistaire now-- not once he had this memory: he etched it into his mind.
"Why so little clothing?" Harland wondered, "I only had two shirts before I came to Deus... the 'good' shirt had fewer cigarette burns than the other one," Harland said. It was true. He had no money, before, and so he had almost no clothing to speak of. Same couple pairs of worn jeans, same couple shirts. His precious hat, his bandanna. That was it.
"Would you wear something green, if you had it?" Harland asked, curious. As Alistaire drew away, Harland felt the loss of heat like a knife. But he was so proud of Alistaire.
Harland beamed at the man. "Yeah, you did. Had it in you all along, turns out," Harland said, "but we knew that, right? That you're resilient. And stubborn," Harland said, laughing.
"In this case, it's definitely an asset."
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 11:12 pm
It took him a moment to comprehend the question, and Alistaire's cheeks heated a little. He lifted a hand and swiped it through his hair, pushing his bangs back away from his face and exhaling a long breath he hadn't really realized he'd been holding.
"I travel light," he said, lowering his hands again. "I've never seen the point in bringing too many things with you on trips and such. Deus is just another trip, so I did not find it particularly pertinent to laden myself down with useless, extraneous items."
Alistaire smoothed a hand down the front of his vest and tried to calm the skittering rhythm of his heart.
"I haven't had a day off yet," he said. "So I've had little time to shop for myself, either. I deal with the hand I've been dealt."
Even if it's a bad hand, he thought, but it went unspoken. Instead, Alistaire flicked his gaze sideways towards Harland, pressing his lips together momentarily before he said, "Perhaps, depending on what it was. Obviously I wouldn't wear anything ridiculous."
Had it in you all along.
Had he? He wasn't too sure about that, but Harland was right. He was resilient and he was stubborn. "Perhaps if I combine that with your seemingly endless optimism and I'll be cuddling up to people in no time," said Alistaire dryly, but there wasn't any anger to it.
His gaze moved to the bottle on the desk.
"I need a drink."
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 11:41 pm
They had more in common than Harland had realized. Than he ever could have realized. Their personalities, after all, seemed so fundamentally different-- it sounded instead like Harland and Alistaire had something in them that responded to each other, and recognized similarities. Maybe that was why they were getting along, now. Maybe that's why Harland was so eager to help him with his fears.
"Maybe settlin' in a little wouldn't be the worst," he said, "and what, does that mean I've got t' get your opinion on it then? Not sure what constitutes ridiculous." Harland was clearly musing about green gifts, and looking at Alistaire as if trying to assess what would look nice on him.
Harland laughed at Alistaire's dry tone. He saluted the man casually. "Gold medal in cuddling," he began, "goes toooo Alistaire," he finished. He was grinning very broadly, again.
He pushed up off the bed and grabbed the glasses from the box he'd carried them in. "Allow me?" he asked, offering to pour a drink.
He'd just drink very, very slowly, if he did. "Guess it's no fun to drink alone, huh?" he asked, shaking his head, his wavy and finally dry hair slipping across his shoulders.
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 6:43 am
He lifted a shoulder, twisting his hands together. "I've never really found a place to settle into," he said, a little dryly, though there was an odd note of bitterness to his voice. "Nor found a place I like enough to relax in. Though I suppose Deus is my last stop, so I might as well."
He tugged at the hem of his vest, smoothing it down. "As you can tell, I like things...nice," said Alistaire, casting a slightly amused look at Harland, a small smirk on his face. "I don't particularly care for anything Ian wears, and I like...to look good."
Alistaire could not stop the red that crept up the back of his neck, spreading across his face and his cheeks. He looked quickly back down at his hands, gripping one another to keep them from shaking.
Thankfully, a distraction came in the form of the Harland and the whiskey. Alistaire reached out to take one of the glasses, holding it out and waiting for it to be filled with the amber liquid. He didn't usually take comfort in doing something that would remove his inhibitions and his ability to make coherent decisions, but maybe Harland was right.
Maybe it was no fun drinking alone.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd drank with someone other than his brother, and that had been a long time ago.
"Perhaps," said Alistaire evasively, though there was still a red flush on his face as though he were embarrassed about something and didn't want to admit it. "Just pour the damn drink, Mr. Belle."
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 11:10 am
Harland tried not to look surprised, or to let it show so much, when Alistaire mentioned that he'd never found a place to settle into. Harland was pretty much the same. Never had any money, never really had a home after his mum died, so he never had any possessions. Moving into Deus was basically done with a single cardboard box, not even all full.
"Nice, huh. Understood," Harland said, smiling. He looked away as Alistaire mentioned Ian, and said he didn't care for what Ian wore. Harland didn't say anything, because he didn't trust his voice. He kept his hands against the bed, trying to breathe even and deep and slow. He loved how Ian dressed. That wasn't surprising.
It was a welcome excuse to busy himself, pouring a couple fingers of whiskey into each glass and handing one to Alistaire. "Of course, your majesty," Harland joked, bending down onto one knee as he handed the glass over, bowing his head so that waves of sunny hair cascaded down and obscured his face. He was grinning, and when he looked up to make eye contact with Alistaire he laughed.
He took a seat on the bed again, not quite touching Alistaire. He raised his glass to the man. "To the strength inside you," Harland said, warmly. "Slainte mhaith."
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 11:28 am
He wasn't quite sure anymore if he was mentioning Ian on purpose or not; whether he wanted to gauge the reactions, watch the emotions flicker openly across Harland's face, mingled looks of affection and pain in those warm green eyes of his. Having never felt what Harland apparently felt for his brother, it was an entirely foreign concept, strange and unsettling, and he wanted to analyze it, figure it out, determine what did and did not cause a reaction.
Alistaire took his glass back, his expression exasperated, but he wrapped his fingers around it and examined it for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet the other's. His face was still pink, and he still felt tense; but the easy smile and the cheerful, encouraging glint in Harland's expression were both confusing, relaxing, and annoying all at once.
He didn't know which one was better to feel. Alistaire lifted a brow.
"To overcoming obstacles," he said lightly, and tapped his cup against Harland's before lifting it to his lips, taking a swallow. The whiskey burned down his throat, a pleasant heat, and he took another drink, his eyes moving back to Harland.
"What language was that?"
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 11:36 am
Harland never really forgot anything, he just replaced it with new information, or buried it where he could turn a blind eye. It would be exhausting never to be able to change what he thought, live every moment simultaneously. In this way, he had managed to 'forget' that Alistaire had ever been cold and calculating with him. He'd managed to decide that that part of him was over, even if that could hardly be true. His face was always so open, of course Alistaire would see the pain on his face. Harland didn't know what to do about that, or about how he felt. It seemed like today, things were getting to him on a level they normally didn't. He was so sad, and he didn't really understand why.
So he did what he always did: he was happy at his sadness until the happy won out. Harland didn't want Alistaire to feel tense, but he wasn't sure how to fix it except to be as relaxed as he could be. So he did that; relaxed. Harland took a small sip of his own drink, the familiar taste reminding him again of the things he could not forget. He ignored them, and took a second equally small sip. He watched Alistaire for any signs that the whiskey was intolerable, but saw no such sign.
That made Harland grin even wider again, and wink at Alistaire. "Impressive, the whiskey doesn't bother ye?" he asked.
He paused, surprised Alistaire had asked. No one asked about it; it was just one of Harland's quirks. One of the things he did. "Irish. Irish Gaelic, officially, but we don't call it that back home," he said. "It's what I grew up speakin', but it never had a place in the rest of the world," Harland elaborated. As a child, he'd only spoken to his mother in Irish. His father hadn't liked that. How his Texan father and his Irish mother ever survived together was a mystery to adult Harland; they were both such intense people, they must have fought endlessly.
Harland didn't remember it. They were both so religious, that was what he remembered.
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 11:50 am
Harland was watching him, which Alistaire found simultaneously annoying and exasperating; though he couldn't say much, because he was watching Harland as well, figuring out his reactions and his moods and his emotions like they were a puzzle to put together, the pieces in his hands.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. "It's a tad strong," said Alistaire, but he took another swallow anyway, letting it course down his throat, searing heat and spices and fire. Maybe if he let his inhibitions fall, he might be able to be more relaxed, to let go of what he was holding onto.
He didn't mention the fact that, unlike Ian, he was not particularly good at holding his liquor, mostly because Alistaire would stubbornly deny Ian being better at anything than he was.
"Irish," Alistaire repeated, frowning slightly. "Not a very common language, is it? And forgive me for saying, but you...aren't you from the states?" he asked, with a flicker of his gaze back to the man. Though come to think of it, the red-blonde hair, the freckles...Alistaire's gaze narrowed on the freckles, his eyes moving from one to the other with a studious expression before he looked away, taking another swallow.
"It's...pretty," he said, looking ahead and not at Harland, wordlessly holding out his now empty cup for a refill.
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 12:00 pm
Harland smiled; he loved talking about his home, the place where he was raised. "A dying language, to some. A language stubbornly holding on, to others. The language of poets, of passion, and the underdog," Harland said, swishing his drink around. A drop of water would open the flavour up, but he didn't have that luxury at the moment.
He knew, by now, that he couldn't hold his liquor anymore. Going cold turkey at Deus had slaughtered his resistance to alcohol, and Ian had made him painfully aware of that. He was pacing himself accordingly. "Nah, I'm not," he said, laughing briefly, "born and raised in Connemara. It's in the North of Ireland. One of the largest still-remaining Gaeltacht there; Irish-speaking communities," he explained.
"But my Da was Texan, spent most of elementary and then highschool there," he said. "Till he died, then home. Then back to New York for a while, when my ma... well, I had no reason to stay in Ireland," he said. Why couldn't he focus on the reason?
Whitewashed memories. His mother had excommunicated him. She'd always been so religious, after all. She wasn't quite ready to accept him, not when his father had died and Harland had gone 'crazy' in her eyes. Marked by the devil. Harland's mouth quirked up in a smile as he thought about how he used to call Ian the devil.
Marked by the devil, indeed. Harland was still working slowly on his drink, apparently a lot more slowly than Alistaire. He was startled by the compliment, and his face flushed bright red. He smiled, and said: "Go raibh maith agat; means thank you, as Gaelige. In Irish." Harland set his glass down and poured Alistaire more.
"Hey, I thought of this game just now. Ever seen it? With your hands out, like..." Harland showed him, holding his hands out flat so that his palms were down, twisting so he faced Alistaire. "You know?" he asked. Like kids played. He wondered if it would help Alistaire with the physical connection part. Get used to it a little more. For fun, without so much affection. The game where the person with their hands underneath tried to hit the top person's hands, and if the person on top managed to fake out the one on the bottom, they switched roles.
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 12:14 pm
The more Harland talked, the less tension there was in Alistaire's shoulders; a combination of the alcohol and Harland's easygoing presence made him feel more relaxed, and Alistaire tapped a gloved finger against the side of his glass in an almost thoughtful language.
"So does that make you a passionate underdog poet?" he asked, a little dryly, but there wasn't any sarcasm in his tone, which surprised even himself. His eyes moved almost restlessly back to Harland, a faint frown on Alistaire's mouth tugging his lips downwards.
"I've never been out of Canada," he said. "Well, except a few brief visits to the states, and then to here."
So open, he thought, eyeing the bright red flush to Harland's cheeks as he poured more whiskey into his glass. His emotions are tucked away, but not very far; they're right there, just below the surface. A small word here, a small word there...
Alistaire was slightly taken aback by the change in topic; he wasn't sure he wanted to go back to working, back to being reminded of just how unnatural he was for being unable to do much more than touch someone's hand briefly. A dull red flush crept over Alistaire's cheeks and he downed the whiskey in one long swallow before setting down his cup, twisting to face Harland.
He felt a little lightheaded, perhaps slightly dizzy, but definitely not drunk. His eyes moved in bemusement to Harland's hands.
"I don't...recall such a game," Alistaire said, but it wasn't annoyed, merely a quiet curiosity. "How..."
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 12:21 pm
"Never was any good with words," Harland said, shaking his head, smiling. Definitely not a poet, himself. He didn't consider himself that way, anyway; he always thought he was a little clumsy.
"You've never been out of it, I've never really been to it," he said, laughing. At most, maybe passed through its airports. That hardly counted, in his opinion. "Not much for long travels?" he asked.
Harland hoped it was different enough from working that Alistaire might allow it. Even for a second. Besides, Harland was suddenly acutely aware of how much he'd tell Alistaire if Alistaire only asked. In fact, he didn't even have to expressly ask the questions; Harland would volunteer the information freely, if a nerve was touched here or there, a root exposed.
Harland didn't want to think about Ian.
"It's... ye place your hands under mine, without touchin' em, palms upwards. Then ye need to sorta ... like this," Harland used one of his own hands to show both roles respectively. Try to hit the top hand, recoil. "If ye keep hittin' my hands, then we'll never change roles. If I manage to get th' jump on ye and ye miss, though, we switch," he explained.
"What do ye say? Give it a try, or maybe another time?" he asked. He smiled, and looked all for the world like a puppy that wanted a stick thrown so that it could chase it. Harland picked his glass up from the floor and took another small sip. He felt warm, but not drunk.
He had to be careful to keep it that way. He didn't want to come undone, not tonight.
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 12:30 pm
"You do just fine with words," said Alistaire without thinking. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, tugging on a dark lock that had fallen next to his face. "I haven't heard anything to the contrary to suggest a lack of education. Perhaps not a poet, but passionate, at least from what I've seen, so one out of three of those is at least true."
He pulled absently at one of his gloves. "Never had the time to travel," he said vaguely, his mind drifting a little. "I would like to visit Europe one day, should the Fates allow...ahh, but we're forever entombed here at Deus," he added, Alistaire smiling rather sardonically. "And here is where we'll stay."
His eyes flickered back to Harland's hands as he demonstrated. It seemed simple enough, and it would be easy enough to pull back his hands away if it got too close for comfort.
His fingers twitched. "Another drink, first," he said, and without waiting for Harland, leaned across him and plucked up the bottle, pouring a generous helping into his glass. It was stupid, really, to be drinking, not to mention dangerous. He'd always prided himself on his control, on his careful consideration of the situation around him.
But then he was reminded, yet again, that this aversion to touch - this unnatural fear of his meant that something was wrong with him, and he wanted to forget that, forget that there was a splintered and fractured part of him that was not perfect.
He took a long swallow, the whiskey scorching, and then set his half-empty glass down on the floor by his feet. Alistaire lifted his hands, tugging off first the right handed glove and then the next until both of his hands were bare, and then, with a deep breath, held them out tentatively over Harland's.
"I can do it," he said, almost a snap, his face flushed.
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 12:44 pm
Harland turned bright red again, as Alistaire gave him what he deemed a high compliment. He lost his voice, with a warm feeling overwhelming him. It made him happy to talk about his home, the one he'd left behind. "Take a portal to Europe? Some days off," he suggested, and thought about it. Here's where we'll stay, Alistaire'd said.
Maybe he meant everyone, all the Hunters. They'd be there till they died. That much was probably true; Harland assumed death would come sooner than later. He was going to enjoy it till then. Death Division had a loyal recruit in him.
"The bit that gets lost in aging Whiskey's called the angel's share," Harland volunteered that tidbit. He had a lot of those locked up in his infinite memory.
If Harland knew what Alistaire thought of that part of himself, thought that it was splintered or fractured or wrong, Harland would have reassured him that he didn't view it that way-- or if it was something broken, then it was already on its way to being mended. He liked to believe there was nothing that couldn't be mended.
He knew for a fact that was untrue.
Harland grinned, and shifted; he was kind of excited to play this game, actually. He was surprised when Alistaire put his hands on top, though, instead of on the bottom. "That means I'm goin' t' try to hit your hands, ye ken?" Harland made sure Alistaire knew, and understood that he would likely give no warning.
Then again, Alistaire was probably a lot faster than him. Harland had always kind of sucked at this game.
Like really sucked at it. But that was kind of the point, for the Cowboy. It was a challenge with odds he already knew, and he wanted that for his new friend. Wanted Alistaire to have the control.
But hey, don't get him wrong. If Alistaire was going to put his hands on top, Harland would happily play the game.
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