![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(for Larita)
October 12, 2022
To say Martin is circling the park like a hungry, pacing predator would surely be a little bit melodramatic. Hungry isn't the right word, and his overall demeanor likely doesn't suggest 'predator.' But even out here in the pleasant autumn air he feels more like a caged creature than anything. John was right to nudge him out of the flat for a while, to give them each a bit of space. John needs it; he needs it. But he doesn't have to like it.
It's miserable, is the thing, watching John struggle and suffer and sulk and knowing there is just nothing he can do. That there are no words he can find, no reassurances he can make, no tenderness he can offer that will allay the weight of the guilt that sits on John's perpetually hunched shoulders like a physical force, slowly crushing him. Knowing that if anything, his efforts to make it better are only making it worse. He hasn't felt this useless since his early days working at the Institute, so long ago he might as well have been a different person.
So he paces, trying not to check his phone every five seconds, trying not to invent excuses to run home. Trying not to hope John will ask him to return and trying not to feel hurt by the certainty that he won't. This isn't about him. He tries to enjoy the fresh brisk air, the changing colors of the leaves, the crisp smell of fall. He tries, mostly failing, to let his mind wander anywhere else from the mental image of John sitting at home alone and hating himself.
At least he imagines he must look like there's a storm cloud following him; at least, he thinks, it's likely no one will bother him. He doesn't even have the wherewithal to consider the inherent danger of considering solitude a perk, so soon after having dreamed himself so deep in the Lonely. Regardless, he isn't expecting anyone to break his surly concentration.
To say Martin is circling the park like a hungry, pacing predator would surely be a little bit melodramatic. Hungry isn't the right word, and his overall demeanor likely doesn't suggest 'predator.' But even out here in the pleasant autumn air he feels more like a caged creature than anything. John was right to nudge him out of the flat for a while, to give them each a bit of space. John needs it; he needs it. But he doesn't have to like it.
It's miserable, is the thing, watching John struggle and suffer and sulk and knowing there is just nothing he can do. That there are no words he can find, no reassurances he can make, no tenderness he can offer that will allay the weight of the guilt that sits on John's perpetually hunched shoulders like a physical force, slowly crushing him. Knowing that if anything, his efforts to make it better are only making it worse. He hasn't felt this useless since his early days working at the Institute, so long ago he might as well have been a different person.
So he paces, trying not to check his phone every five seconds, trying not to invent excuses to run home. Trying not to hope John will ask him to return and trying not to feel hurt by the certainty that he won't. This isn't about him. He tries to enjoy the fresh brisk air, the changing colors of the leaves, the crisp smell of fall. He tries, mostly failing, to let his mind wander anywhere else from the mental image of John sitting at home alone and hating himself.
At least he imagines he must look like there's a storm cloud following him; at least, he thinks, it's likely no one will bother him. He doesn't even have the wherewithal to consider the inherent danger of considering solitude a perk, so soon after having dreamed himself so deep in the Lonely. Regardless, he isn't expecting anyone to break his surly concentration.
no subject
In fairness, Petros Park isn't Lari's usual haunt, but she'd been doing some light shopping, and one of the cafes right at the park's edge is the only one where she can get the exact cruller she loves, so she'd gone there to buy it after her impromptu cosmetics purchases. That done, she'd decided to take a loop through the park while it's that perfect season between pollen and snow, with the plan to head out the south exit and take a cab to Eider Downs.
She visits it quite frequently, even if she hasn't yet begun racing for profit.
She sees Martin by chance, and for a moment, she doesn't even realize it's him. His posture is wrong; his expression is somewhere between 'sullen' and 'dismayed.' Larita aborts the motion of lifting her hand to wave to instead cross from her footpath to his, picking her way over the slightly uneven ground until she's by his side.
"Martin, my darling, whatever's the matter?" If it were nearly any other person, any other friend, Larita might approach with something closer to caution, or lead with empty pleasantry. But this is Martin, her dearest friend perhaps in the entire city — perhaps in the entire world, if she's being vulnerable. He deserves better than chitchat and waffling.
no subject
Larita's never seen him like this, though. She's always been direct, and he's always rather liked that about her. Now... now, it has him on the back foot, but despite it all he can't really find it in himself to resent it. In his deepest heart of hearts, he wants the company more than the solitary misery into which he might once have preferred to retreat.
That does not, however, translate into somehow knowing how to respond gracefully. "O-oh," he blurts, coming to an awkward halt on the path. "Oh, er..." How does he even explain this? Was she in the dream, along with so many others? Decent odds she was. If so, he's not sure he wants to talk about John's feelings when John himself would insist he deserves no sympathy from anyone he harmed that night. And if she was spared it, it feels even more private.
So, somewhat hapless, he shrugs. "I-it's nothing," he says, as if she won't be able to see right through such a paltry, obvious lie. "Just... It's complicated," he amends lamely.
no subject
It's nothing, he tries, and then It's complicated which is at least more truthful, and Lari steps closer and rubs her hands up and down his arms. It's meant to be a gesture both grounding and soothing, reminding him that he isn't alone, that he doesn't need to be alone. She's here.
"Sweetheart, I've seen and done things that most people only read about in stories. Many of them before coming to Darrow. I think I can handle 'complicated.'"
no subject
But the thing is, that might annoy him with just about anyone but Larita. There's just something about her, the way she reassures him that she can handle this — dubious as that claim might be, in this particular case — that makes him believe her.
She means it. She doesn't ask after him because it's what people do. She really does want to know, and to help. And he knows what that's like, when for so long his relationship with John was defined in the steam pouring off delivered cups of tea. He'd thought of himself as pushy, and still does sometimes. And he could easily describe Larita as being pushy now. But Christ, if he's ever managed to match even half her intrinsic social grace, then he'd count that as a success.
"It's..." His shoulders slump a little, a small show of surrender to her offered comfort, even as his eyes wander a way, fixing grimly on the ground while he tries to get his thoughts in order. "Have you... had any particularly bad nightmares recently?" he asks cautiously, still not wanting to look at her. But he forces himself to meet her eyes as he clarifies: "It would've been just a few nights ago. October 9th." God, as much as it feels too personal to share without any good reason, he hopes desperately that she hasn't.
no subject
When they'd first met, Martin had struck her as being a bit on the shy side — unable, or perhaps unwilling, to accept Larita's full regard until he'd gotten to know her better. After only a few conversations, they'd found their rhythm, and Lari doesn't think she's imagined the way they've grown close. Which means whatever he's saying now is still related to what's troubling him. She takes the time to consider his question seriously, hand still smoothing up and down his arm.
It doesn't take very long at all. She tends to sleep like a log most nights.
"No, not that I can recall," she says. "I rarely remember my dreams. Martin, what is this about?" Another strange city-sourced event, no doubt. If it missed her, then she'll count herself lucky. It must have been terrible, to have Martin so down about it.
no subject
This still feels private. But Christ, Martin could do with someone to talk to. John would probably agree. In fact he'd probably scoff at the idea that this is private at all, when it affected so very many people, people who certainly aren't bound to keep his secrets. If it were up to John, Martin thinks a bit bitterly, word would spread and everyone would shun him.
But this is Lari. Martin can talk to her. And he can't imagine her thinking something so cruel; even if she'd been there, he couldn't imagine it. Maybe he just doesn't want to. But that is, mercifully, beside the point.
"It's John," he says finally, the name hanging somehow heavy in the air between them. "He... Sometimes, when he takes a Statement, he... he dreams with the Statement-giver. It isn't exactly him when he does it, it's like... a different part of him takes over. He'll show up in their nightmares and just... watch. It's not very pleasant. For anyone." He lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. It's hard to be even-handed. He feels like he owes it to John not to sugarcoat any of it; but he can't, he will never be able to perform objectivity about it. This is how it's always been: John refuses to grant himself an inch, so Martin grants him the whole bloody mile.
"It's sort of like... he feeds on them," Martin says, avoiding her eyes again. She knows by now a little of what John's circumstances are, the little bits here and there that have necessarily come out by knowing each other. But this is more than he usually gives. More than he likes to. He is not exactly afraid of her reaction, but if he sees it too soon, he feels certain the will to tell it truthfully will crumble out from under him. "He usually keeps odd hours to try and prevent that from happening. But he's been... having trouble. We're running out of Statements, there aren't enough people here to give them, and he's... he's hungry all the time, Lari, and he can't feed without hurting people, and it's... I can't..."
Christ, not this. Tears do start welling up and he screws his eyes shut to try and stop them, pressing the heel of his hand to one eye in frustration as he barrels on: "The other night, it was like he... he got so hungry that he pulled everyone in, even people he's never met before. We were all in this awful shared nightmare, everyone reliving some kind of trauma or other, and he was at the center of it. I... I had to... I had to find him, in the dream, and it was like he was trapped there too, like he'd just shut himself away, he was so afraid and he couldn't make it stop, and I managed to wake him up but now..."
Something finally gives, and he lets himself slump forward, accepting the hug Larita's been hinting at the whole time she's been clasping his arms. He's so bloody tired.
"He won't forgive himself," Martin says, muffled against her shoulder. "I can't even argue that he should. And I can't help him. I don't know what to do." He sucks in a breath and trembles a little under the weight of finally sharing it all, wondering if he's finished, before some final necessary words sneak out of him: "God, I'm so glad you weren't there."
no subject
She tries to understand what he's telling her: John eats 'Statements,' which he can take from people, and he can dream with these people. It either happens when he takes these Statements, or perhaps after he has, she's not clear, and she's not certain it even matters. The problem seems to be that he hasn't been 'eating,' so the force inside him that requires these Statements then pulled an unknown amount of people into a dream with him, so it could glut itself. It sounds like John hadn't meant for it to happen — had in fact been doing everything in his power to avoid it up to that point — but it'd happened all the same, and now he's tearing himself up about it. And dear, dear Martin obviously wants to help somehow, but if John isn't willing to forgive himself, then how on Earth is Martin supposed to help him do that?
I can't even argue that he should, Martin says, and Larita shakes her head against his before he murmurs his relief that she wasn't there.
"I think I am, too," she admits. She takes a deep breath and leans back to look at him. "Martin. You say you can't argue that John should forgive himself; why can't you?" It seems important, first and foremost, to find out this much.
no subject
And anyway, her question deserves a proper answer.
"Because he—" Mortifyingly, his voice cracks a little, and a few tears finally make their escape, and he no longer has the energy to try to stop them. "I've tried. It's all I want for him, but... he can't. It's— he's hurt people. Before, where we came from, and... and here, as well. That's just a fact. That he didn't mean to, o-or want to, or... That doesn't matter. Not to him."
He stares at the ground. A few tears land on his shoe and he shuts his eyes, though it's not enough to stop them. He's never talked about this, not to anyone apart from John, and it's only now he's realizing what an incredibly heavy weight that's been. It may not be a weight he feels very often, these occasions usually being few and far between, but it's still there.
"The guilt is too important," he says softly. "It... it's what makes him who he is. It's what keeps him human. It took me a long time to understand that he felt that way, and now I... I can't argue with him about it. I won't. It's not mine to fix, or... or even to understand, honestly."
The words burn a little. Any satisfaction he might feel for recognizing how far he's come, that he can acknowledge this and respect it, is too easily flushed out by how much it still eats at him.
"And I hate that," he admits, finally meeting Lari's eyes again. "I bloody hate it. It's awful. I hate seeing him this way. But I can't help him. He just needs time. So." He shrugs and manages a watery, mostly humorless laugh. "I decided to take myself for a walk and blow off a little steam. It is going really well, as you can see."
no subject
"You know, I can't say I could argue, either," she admits. "Holding onto our humanity is really one of the only things that keeps us human, isn't it?" She could tell him, right now, about her first husband. She could tell him about just how hard she'd had to seize her humanity in those days and weeks leading up to and following what she'd done.
Would that be helpful, here? Would it remind Martin that, no matter the person, 'humanity' can be easily discarded, and it's up to them to hang on as tightly to it as they can? Would it comfort him to hear from someone else that, yes, perhaps John is doing the right thing in marinating in his guilt?
Lari takes a breath and hugs him again.
"I think you're right," she says. "Perhaps he does need some time. And you certainly need to blow off some steam." She looks, briefly, playfully, scheming. "Come along with me, Darling; I know just the thing."
no subject
He isn't expecting her to suggest something, though. Perhaps it feels impossible. 'Just the thing' surely doesn't exist. But her manner and mood are so infectious, and when he sees her grinning playfully, it's... he can't help but laugh, a little wet but certainly lighter than he would've expected.
"Okay," he says, allowing her to draw him along. He could ask what she has in mind or where they're headed, but he decides against it. It's nicer to just trust her; to walk with her, if nothing else. Besides, he has the sense that Larita likes a good surprise.
Of course, when they arrive, he realizes he probably ought to have seen it coming.
"You can't be serious," he says, staring at the car before them.
no subject
The car before them is the sleek thing she's grown so very fond of since first seeing it, the color of a fresh plum, with black bars accenting its surface. She looks at it fondly, like it's a real creature that can understand her appreciation of it, before turning to look at Martin again.
"Now, I'm aware that I tend to stand apart from people even in this day and age, but driving has always been an effective way of coping for me." For her, it's the thrill of escape, the sensation of leaving her problems far behind in the wake of dust and engine exhaust, the feeling that she's accomplishing something just by moving forward, even if that forward ends up being in a long oval.
"For you, Dear Martin, I'm hoping it at least provides you with a pleasant, exciting distraction." She gently guides him towards the driver's side door and pulls it open for him like a valet.
no subject
"Lari, I can't," he protests. "I mean, I— I don't know how." It's not entirely true. He did learn to drive, but it's been a long while. He could never afford a car and never really needed one in London, certainly hasn't needed one here. But even when he did learn, it was in a British car, and more to the point, not a beautiful, expensive car that belongs to a dear friend. Still, he doesn't like the taste of even a half-lie, and he sheepishly amends, "Not in an American car, anyway."
Trying to pull himself together, he adds, "Are you sure you don't want to just... take me along somewhere?" He hadn't exactly wanted to get into the car with her at the speeds she tends to go — not that he doesn't trust her skill, more that he fears his own squeamishness — but that would be far preferable to what she seems to actually be suggesting.
no subject
Despite her words, there's a lack of pushiness to her tone: if Martin truly doesn't want to do this, she'll take him around the track herself. But there's something to be said for all the bits and bobs involved in driving that help to distract the mind, and that's ultimately what she wants for him: to get his mind off of all this business with John and hope he feels a bit better for it.
no subject
And he trusts Larita. If she wants him to do this, believes he can, then... there's not so much harm in trying, is there? Well, apart from the possibility that he ruins her nice car, or does injury to one or both of them. But she's right, it is safer here than just out on the road. And one car works about the same as another. And it's always easier to actually do a thing than to think about doing it. He knows that from experience, even if he's having trouble believing it now.
So, with no small amount of self-directed surprise, he swallows his fears and says, "O-okay. Okay. I'll give it a try."
This feels insane, but even just agreeing to it has him letting out a slightly hysterical giggle, which is better than the dour mood Larita found him in. Nervous and uncertain, as though he half-expects to be called out or corrected, he climbs into the driver's seat, disorienting as it is on what he perceives as the 'wrong side.' Immediately, he has to fumble for how to push the seat back a bit. His legs are short, but he needs slightly more breathing room than Lari, and he grunts as he adjusts the seat awkwardly. This, at least, he can handle.
no subject
They're still in the garage, but every car is backed into their spots for ease of exit, so all Martin has to do is drive forward and follow the signs to the track. There's a painted line along the floor, a facsimile of lanes to make sure nobody renting a car or the track for the day will accidentally bump into anyone else coming or going.
"Now, when I first started driving, I found it helpful to use parts of the car's body as sort of... landmarks for my location in the road," she says. "My spatial awareness has gotten very good, mind you, being a career racer, but if you line up this part of the car with the right edge of whatever road you're on, you'll find yourself quite comfortably in the lane you belong in."
She indicates each location as she explains, not intending to condescend but rather to give him the opportunity to orient himself in a way that hopefully doesn't feel stressful, since this is his first time driving, to his perception, on the wrong side of the road and on the wrong side of the car.
no subject
Everything is still an uneasy mirror of what he's used to, but with these parameters in place, he has something specific to focus on — namely, keeping the car lined up properly with the lines on the road. Surely he can follow that well enough.
"Okay," he says, mostly a whisper to bolster himself as he looks to make sure he knows where the pedals are. That, at least, he's pretty sure he knows. "And this is the... brake, and the gas," he hazards, looking to her for confirmation. "And..." He looks, reflexively, to his left, then with an embarrassed chuckle to his right for the gear shift. "Right."