faderift | [CLOSED] oh, the sweet sound of survival

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[CLOSED] oh, the sweet sound of survival

WHO: Kit Gandir, Vandelin Elris, Myrobalan Shivana, Melys, Anders, the Medicine Seller
WHAT: Kit coping badly w/ shit.
WHEN: The week after Kit gets back from Orzammar.
WHERE: All around Kirkwall.
NOTES: Probable discussion of child abuse, murder, mercy killings, death more broadly. Will update as needed.

I. THE HANGED MAN (VANDELIN)

Kit loses a game of Wicked Grace. (It's not a common occurrence, but it's been known to happen.)

The direct aftermath of the game sees Kit shelling out the last of his coin to the Antivan deckhand with a poker face like a slab of granite; with that miserable task taken care of, Kit finds a quiet corner of the Hanged Man's taproom, slouches into an empty chair, and swallows his pride.

Out comes the sending crystal; fiddling with it, he calls Vandelin.

"Hey, um." Grimacing his eyes shut, he rubs at his eyebrows. "I need a favour, salroka."

II. DARKTOWN (THE MEDICINE SELLER)

For a mind already predisposed towards dark melancholy, boredom is dangerous. Thankfully, Darktown provides plenty of opportunities to alleviate that--as well as unexpected familiar faces.

He recognizes the Medicine Seller easily; the strange elf would stand out even in Hightown, and in Darktown, his strange attire and mannerisms are a beacon for stares and trouble.

Taking a drag off the cigarette he carries, Kit threads his way through the dingy road towards him. "You turn up in the weirdest places, salroka," he says by way of greeting.

III. KIT'S HOVEL (MELYS)

The hole in his wall where the desiccated corpse had been residing for only ancestors' know how long was an eyesore when it had a body inside of it. It's still an eyesore now, but at least letting it air out has gotten rid of some of the mouldering corpse stink.

(Hopefully Vandelin has a cast iron stomach.)

The first level of his home now looks a bit like a stone mason's shop, with mortar and stone and building tools strewn about while Kit goes about making the necessary repairs to his dwelling after the ash wraith debacle. It's been over a month; time to deal with it.

The front door has been left open.

IV. THE GALLOWS (MYR)

Shortly after his call with the rest of the Other Powers project members ends, Kit can't stand the confines of his office anymore. He heads outdoors for a smoke, stares across the water back towards Kirkwall, then detours towards the training grounds. When in doubt, when you can't keep your demons at bay, best to try punching them instead.

Barring that, swinging an axe at a training dummy can't hurt.

V. DARKTOWN (ANDERS)

His appearance outside Anders' clinic isn't entirely by happenstance; recalling his last chance encounter with the (rather unpopular) Warden mage, he's taken to strolling around the area in the evenings, maybe just to discourage anyone else from trying to take a second stab at the guy living on his own.

This time when Kit shows up, it's in the middle of the day, and he's rubbing at his arm like he's injured it. "Hey, salroka," he greets Anders with what he hopes is a casual smile, "hope I don't need an appointment or anything."

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It should be clear to Vandelin upon his arrival that the situation isn't truly that dire; the Antivan deckhand and his cohort are back at their gaming table taking the clothes off the backs of a new set of would-be gamblers, and Kit has situated himself near the fire in moody silence, staring at the flames while letting his last cigarette burn down to a nub. Every so often, he lifts it to his lips to take a drag. Aside from his poor mood, he's in okay shape.

When Vandelin appears, however, he grimaces in clear, shame-faced embarrassment, and starts to heave himself up to his feet. "I'm real sorry about this," he mutters, catches sight of the bartender scowling at him beyond his man's shoulder, and waves him off in annoyance. Yeah, yeah, he'll be there in a hot minute, hold your nuggalopes, etc.

Well, at least Kit isn't being actively assaulted by anyone, but Vandelin is not reassured, especially not by the way the bartender keeps looming. He ignores the man altogether for the moment, letting him know he isn't worth concern or haste, and greets Kit with a light hand on his arm.

"It's no trouble to me. I don't know what they thought they were going to do if you didn't happen to have a crystal on you. That's just poor logistics on their part." He'll save the pressing for details until they're alone. Concerned and a little upset though he might be about Kit's reticence regarding the mission, Vandelin doesn't want to embarrass him further in front of anyone else. Maker knows, he would probably have tried to fight his way out of the taven with fireballs before he'd have asked anyone for help in Kit's position--but Kit is a saner and more reasonable man than Vandelin will ever be, as a general rule.

He finally deigns to give the glowering bartender his attention, and conceals his slight internal panic at the prospect of figuring out how this transaction is supposed to work. "How much do I owe you?"

The bartender names an amount--it's a biggish sum for a bar tab, likely because Kit agreed to pay for a round of drinks for the folks he was playing against, but nothing that would realistically set him back a full day's pay or anything. Still, it's more than he had on him, and this is a damn embarrassing moment, and as he hangs out near Vandelin's elbow while he and the bartender sort out the bill.

Once it's taken care of, Kit gives the bartender another sullen look, then turns to follow Vandelin out of the Hanged Man and onto the dimly illuminated night time streets of Lowtown. "Tell me how much I owe you, I'll make sure you get it from my strongbox tomorrow," he says, shame making it near impossible for him to make eye contact with Vandelin while they walk in the general direction of Kit's shoddy apartment.

Don't worry about it, he could say, or I don't care about the money, something like that, and he almost does, but he knows it would only compound that shame if he were to make his lover feel like a charity case. He doesn't have to insist on that out of his own stubborn pride.

"Just a sovereign and some change, whenever you get to it," he says. It doesn't have to be a thing, but once Kit does pay him back, it'll be an excuse to call the entire matter case closed and cease all discussion of it, and there goes another possible avenue for Vandelin to help him. Neither of them is looking at the other as they approach the Darktown border.

"Sounds like you had a good time up until the fucker won," he says. It's not sarcasm, not at all, but perhaps it's bait.

Edited 2017-10-17 05:52 (UTC)

The corners of Kit's mouth twist into something almost like his trademark lopsided smile, but there's not much mirth in the expression. "Yeah," he says; already he can feel the old instinct to put distance between himself and the man at his side kicking in, and falters at how best to overcome it.

For a time, his only solution is to say nothing at all, though as they walk he reaches out to clasp Vandelin's hand once. He gives it a squeeze, meets his eyes in quiet sincerity, then lets go and tucks his hands into his pockets. Short of actual words, it will have to be sufficient for now, at least until they've got some privacy.

The rest of the walk to his apartment is uneventful, short of a few shady sorts who size the pair up in a glance and decide that their brand of trouble is probably not worth it. There's no Chuck to be seen as they approach the front door. "I got the locks fixed, finally," he tells Vandelin--meaning there's finally a lock on the door. Getting it open, the place smells a bit like plaster and mortar, but at least the hole in the wall where that desiccated corpse had been found is now patched up.

There's also a new table and a couple wooden chairs near the window. "Make yourself at home," he invites, then, "want a drink?" They've just come from the Hanged Man, sure, but Kit doesn't look like he wears stone cold sobriety very well right now. He heads over to a rickety cabinet to fetch out a dusty bottle of brandy.

He laces their fingers together when Kit takes his hand, squeezes back. I'm with you. He would keep their hands entwined if Kit would allow it, but that can come later.

The lock and the new furniture (and Chuck's absence) are a pleasant surprise, though Vandelin's sharp assessment does not miss that hole in the wall, and he is not about to assume that the story behind it is a harmless all's-well-that-ends-well one. He files it away to ask about at a more opportune time.

"A drink?" Vandelin still hasn't quite gathered that this is an ordinary thing for people to offer guests. He's only in the past year been exposed to anything that isn't the sour, watered-down special-occasion wine bought by the cheap barrel and kept under lock and key by the templar in charge of the cellars. He's never quite understood why Kit always asks him if he wants one, and he's never wanted to look foolish by asking. "If you're having one, I guess I will."

Now that they're alone, he reaches out again, approaching to rest a hand on Kit's shoulder as if gauging how much comforting touch is welcome.

Kit stills at the gentle touch to his shoulder, but doesn't immediately turn to lean into it. It's a peculiar feeling to both want to feel Vandelin's arms around him, and want to be as far away from him as possible, all at the same time; sodding ancestors, why can't anything be simple?

"Did you talk to Myr?" he begins quietly at last, and turns to face Vandelin with a look on his face that's hard to read. He purses his lips, eyes darting to where he left his jacket and smokes, but doesn't go for them, not yet. "About the warehouse."

He doesn't push for more, giving Kit's shoulder a little rub and then letting his hand drop again. If he were in Kit's shoes, he's not sure if he'd allow overt comfort either, if it meant having to acknowledge that he wanted or needed it. But he'd seek it out eventually, finding it easier on his own terms, and he resolves to let Kit do that if he wants.

The question is unexpected. He doesn't know what Myr has to do with any of this, or what a warehouse has to do with a mission to Orzammar. It's possible that more had happened in his absence than he expected, but he hasn't had much time to speak to Myr since his return, and nothing had come up in their long-distance crystal conversations that would seem to match the gravity in Kit's expression.

"No," he says, guarded and more concerned than ever. "I've heard nothing about it. What warehouse?"

"I've heard nothing about it. What warehouse?"

Kit watches him unhappily for a moment. Then he tells him about it, because what else can be done, in that moment?

The telling of it leaves his face dull and neutral by the time he reaches the end of the grim series of events, but he isn't finished speaking. He takes hold of a mostly clean glass from the old cabinet and pours some of the brandy into it, takes a sip from it. He begins again with, "The job Yngvi needed help with--these casteless dwarves--" casteless, like him, "--had been forced to mine red lyrium--"

His voice fails him. He takes another drink.

He listens. Vandelin doesn't interrupt people, not when he's angry, not when he's horrified, and certainly not ever when he wouldn't trust his voice not to break if he did. He's never been an optimist, but in spite of everything, he's still been an idealist. He's expected more from the world than this. He's thought that human nature--humans being the ones who most often proved him wrong--still had better angels.

Later, in the safety of his own quarters, he can grieve as much for that stupid naive hope as for those elven children and the man who died for them. And for the casteless, pent up in their smothering underground alienages to become living evidence that nowhere in Thedas is free from monstrosity. There is no standing against that tide, small and singular as Kit is, his goodness a flickering cigarette light in the midst of a storm at sea. And if he can't fight it, Vandelin doesn't know who can.

He reaches for the bottle and pours himself a glass.

"Who forced them?" he asks finally, when he's sure his voice can stay steady.

When Kit speaks, he doesn't answer Vandelin's question. Instead, with his eyes dull and distant and fixed on some point well beyond the wall of his hovel, he says, "We had to kill them."

For a time he lets those words hang heavy and silent between them without any elaboration. It's clear enough he means the casteless dwarves; anyone exposed to red lyrium for that extended period of time, forced to interact with it in such close proximity, wouldn't have wanted to live, given the choice. Kit makes a noise down in his throat, a pained sound like a cough and a sigh. "One of them was--I knew him." He lifts the glass, swallows down a mouthful of brandy.

Listening is one thing, but comforting is another, and it's never come naturally to Vandelin. That's always the point at which he quietly excuses himself and leaves his unfortunate companion to their own devices, because there's nothing worse than an empty platitude, and he doesn't feel equipped for anything more. But he can't duck out on Kit now, not like this, and for once, he wouldn't if he could.

He can't imagine this, and not for lack of firsthand experience with red lyrium. There's nothing in his own experience for him to draw on and understand how Kit must feel. His gaze falters visibly, his hand twitching as if to reach for Kit and then reconsidering, though the urge to touch him is almost desperate. He gives in to it, at a loss for anything else--reaches for Kit's hand and holds it tight.

"Then at least they had one person who cared about their suffering. At least they knew that before they died."

He looks down at Vandelin's hand gripping his; the touch grounds him unexpectedly in the here and now in a way that only emotional intimacy can manage. Old instinct makes him want to draw away from it, but he forces himself to be still, to instead feel the warmth of Vandelin's skin against his, and through it, his lover's earnest desire to help. To comfort.

"Then at least they had one person who cared about their suffering. At least they knew that before they died."

(Is Vandelin talking about the casteless dead, or him?)

Kit sets his brandy down, then turns to rest his hand gently against the side of Vandelin's neck and draw him down for a brief kiss. It's short, but the embrace that he pulls Vandelin into next is not.

This is the only kind of comfort Vandelin knows how to give, even if he hasn't had occasion to do it since he was a child, folding Myr into his arms and silently promising the Maker to be good and pious and obedient if it would somehow bring Uncle Iolan back.

Kit fits differently into his embrace, and there's no comfort to be found anymore in earnest childhood naivete. But Van holds him tight all the same, lips pressed to Kit's temple, one small hand rubbing soft and rhythmic over his back.

"You did everything you could," he murmurs, barely audible. "You always do."

"You did everything you could. You always do."

Kit doesn't know if he agrees. Still, he chuckles softly, the sound muffled by Vandelin's neck and shoulder, and gives his lover a gentle squeeze around the midsection. "Thanks, salroka," he says, and however little he believes the words that have been shared with him, his gratitude for the vote of confidence is sincere.

Slowly he draws back and takes a steadying breath, ready to regain his composure and put this unsightly episode of vulnerability behind him. "I'm all right, I'm all right," he's quick to assure Vandelin, letting his hand rest fondly against his cheek for a moment, before drawing it back; it's not true, but he needs it to be. Instead, he shifts the focus away from himself, frowning. "I'm damn sorry for dropping what happened at the warehouse on you like that."

Whether Kit is all right or not, Vandelin would never begrudge him the pretending. It's what he would do, were the tables turned, and he would want Kit to allow him that same coping mechanism. He presses one last kiss to the heel of Kit's palm, a gesture of more fondness than comfort, and lets it go.

He doesn't know what to say, though, when the concern is turned round on him. Momentarily, he flounders. "Do you think I'd rather not have known?" he asks. "I wish to Andraste's pyre I'd been there to do something instead of on that useless expedition, but there's nothing for that. If nothing else, at least I know now. And I'd rather have heard it from you than anyone else."

"...And I'd rather have heard it from you than anyone else."

He ducks his head, abashed, and smiles wistfully and the tops of his dirty boots. "Well," he says, but nothing else follows, like the words and the feelings just won't come together and form a coherent whole. Instead, after a pause, he just pushes a hand over the top of his bald head and exhales into the dark.

"I'm exhausted." It's dim in here, but for the candle, and he should probably sort out wood for the stove before he even thinks about crashing for the night. Pensively, he looks to Vandelin. "Do you want to stay over tonight?"

The ripple of relief when Kit asks him that is part and parcel of what Vandelin keeps trying to conceal, what he isn't sure he should be feeling at all, lest it open up avenues of unwanted vulnerability. But it is there nonetheless, and yes, he wants to stay. He would like nothing more than to stay.

"Depends," he says, with a faint quirk of a smile. "How likely am I to trip over Chuck when I get up to make breakfast in the morning?"

Edited 2017-10-30 01:30 (UTC)

"Well I did install locks," Kit answers him, a shadow of his usual lopsided smile on his face, and chuckles a little. "He's a crafty sod though, might find his way in anyway."

He reaches out again to smooth a hand down Vandelin's arm, comfortably quiet. Then he sighs again and suggests, "I'm just going to get the wood stove set up for the night; you can go on to bed, if you want."

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[CLOSED] oh, the sweet sound of survival

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