Maybe he’d made a mistake.
In his head, this scene had played out far differently to what was currently happening. Claude was supposed to get immediately defensive, telling Aurelien he was just making it all up and being an idiot, and then Aurelien would press the attack, and Claude would finally admit he was a homophobic piece of shit, and Aurelien would be right, and he’d be proven right, and everything would be right.
Claude wasn’t supposed to break down in front of him, immediately apologetic and remorseful for what had happened. Aurelien took a step back in alarm, the second volley of accusations dying in his throat. He glanced at Dante, looking for answers in his boyfriend’s face and for the first time, finding nothing. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen at all. Aurelien was supposed to be right. Claude was supposed to be the bad guy.
And he still could be, he still very much could be. This all could be an act, a way of deflecting everything now that he’d been caught, making sure they couldn’t cast open judgement on him again without looking like terrible people. There had been something there. It couldn’t have been coincidence that the normally friendly, pleasant, personable Claudeson had turned into this frigid statue as soon as he found out he was sharing a room with a pair of boyfriends.
But Aurelien wasn’t sure. And he couldn’t be sure. He had no idea whether Claude’s reaction was genuine or not. He didn’t want it to be. But it damn well looked like it was.
Dante gave him an out, and right now, it was the only good option Aurelien could see in front of him. He took another step back, mumbling and stuttering, until eventually a few words escaped.
“I, uh… okay. Yeah. I…”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, before turning and brushing past Dante, mumbling to him.
“See you downstairs.”
Aurelien pushed the door open and he stormed down the corridor, a cloud of uncertainty following in his wake.
((Aurelien Valter continued elsewhere))
Room 704: Liberate Me Ex Inferis
Sven/Dante/Aurelien and Claude.
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
Claudeson Bademosi was adrift in a river of shame.
An influx of emotion surrounded him, battering him from all sides. He couldn't see much of anything at the moment; his hands were covering his face and the only thing that seemed pertinent were his choked sobs. It was awful. Claudeson couldn't stop the bad feelings from tumbling through him, he couldn't help the realization that he'd been an awful person to his friends and that he'd probably made everyone else feel unimportant and uncared about. There was another feeling there, too. It was something newer, something unfamiliar.
Embarrassment.
Claudeson was thrust out of the river and out of the dark hole; suddenly occurring to him that he was sitting in his hotel room on the school trip, sobbing to himself. In front of his three roommates. And for what? Why? Had he been at fault? Had his inborn prejudices (that he didn't have, couldn't have - that wasn't him, after all) shown through without his knowledge? Had he truly been an awful roommate to Aurelien and Dante? What did Sven think?
He felt shame, but the embarrassment was the presiding factor at the moment. Blinking his eyes a few times, he heard the words out of Dante's mouth, and they were familiar. He placed them, and he felt more centred. Carry each other's burdens; that's right. He sniffled, his eyes still covered by his hands, but he was able to stop the sobs.
"G-Galatians 6:2."
Taking a few moments to regain his composure, Claudeson wiped his eyes and focused on breathing, as he would during a run. In and out, slow and steady. When he finally looked unto the room, he noticed that Aurelien had departed. It was just as well. Claudeson didn't know what he had done that had outwardly frustrated the boy, but he felt awful nonetheless. Dante - bless him, was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable but trying to be kind.
As in water face reflects face, so the heart of man reflects man.
Dante was a good man. Kind, considerate to others, and patient. Claudeson felt bad about judging him. Would the Lord not want him to consider others via the character within them rather than the decisions they made? It was difficult to reconcile. But should it have been? He blinked to himself. Wait, was it really? These thoughts felt new, they felt wrong. Claudeson was confused, but he didn't let his confusion show. Instead, he just let his shoulders sag down.
"I'm very sorry, Dante," he started, his voice weak. "I have been having... some trouble, as of late."
Was Dante someone he could trust with all of this? Someone he could speak to about the darkness he'd been feeling? Maybe, but was now the time? It was not.
"I think I will be alright, in time. Don't worry about me. You should go and be with your boyfriend." The word felt hollow and wrong somehow, but Claudeson stuffed those thoughts deep down.
"Please tell him how sorry I am if I've offended him - or you. You know I would never want to do such a thing."
Claudeson's voice was stronger now, but he was still visibly drained and obviously embarrassed at his collapse. Sven still seemed off on his own planet on the bed, and didn't react or add much to the discussion.
"I think I will stay here. Perhaps a nap might do me some good."
He sighed, shaking his head. This was awful. He truly hoped that Dante - and more importantly, Aurelien - didn't think him to be an awful person. He still wasn't sure what he'd done to set Aurelien off, but hopefully it would be easily repaired the next time they spoke. Or not. He would just as happily pretend that this whole span of twenty minutes never happened.
There was that shame, again.
An influx of emotion surrounded him, battering him from all sides. He couldn't see much of anything at the moment; his hands were covering his face and the only thing that seemed pertinent were his choked sobs. It was awful. Claudeson couldn't stop the bad feelings from tumbling through him, he couldn't help the realization that he'd been an awful person to his friends and that he'd probably made everyone else feel unimportant and uncared about. There was another feeling there, too. It was something newer, something unfamiliar.
Embarrassment.
Claudeson was thrust out of the river and out of the dark hole; suddenly occurring to him that he was sitting in his hotel room on the school trip, sobbing to himself. In front of his three roommates. And for what? Why? Had he been at fault? Had his inborn prejudices (that he didn't have, couldn't have - that wasn't him, after all) shown through without his knowledge? Had he truly been an awful roommate to Aurelien and Dante? What did Sven think?
He felt shame, but the embarrassment was the presiding factor at the moment. Blinking his eyes a few times, he heard the words out of Dante's mouth, and they were familiar. He placed them, and he felt more centred. Carry each other's burdens; that's right. He sniffled, his eyes still covered by his hands, but he was able to stop the sobs.
"G-Galatians 6:2."
Taking a few moments to regain his composure, Claudeson wiped his eyes and focused on breathing, as he would during a run. In and out, slow and steady. When he finally looked unto the room, he noticed that Aurelien had departed. It was just as well. Claudeson didn't know what he had done that had outwardly frustrated the boy, but he felt awful nonetheless. Dante - bless him, was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable but trying to be kind.
As in water face reflects face, so the heart of man reflects man.
Dante was a good man. Kind, considerate to others, and patient. Claudeson felt bad about judging him. Would the Lord not want him to consider others via the character within them rather than the decisions they made? It was difficult to reconcile. But should it have been? He blinked to himself. Wait, was it really? These thoughts felt new, they felt wrong. Claudeson was confused, but he didn't let his confusion show. Instead, he just let his shoulders sag down.
"I'm very sorry, Dante," he started, his voice weak. "I have been having... some trouble, as of late."
Was Dante someone he could trust with all of this? Someone he could speak to about the darkness he'd been feeling? Maybe, but was now the time? It was not.
"I think I will be alright, in time. Don't worry about me. You should go and be with your boyfriend." The word felt hollow and wrong somehow, but Claudeson stuffed those thoughts deep down.
"Please tell him how sorry I am if I've offended him - or you. You know I would never want to do such a thing."
Claudeson's voice was stronger now, but he was still visibly drained and obviously embarrassed at his collapse. Sven still seemed off on his own planet on the bed, and didn't react or add much to the discussion.
"I think I will stay here. Perhaps a nap might do me some good."
He sighed, shaking his head. This was awful. He truly hoped that Dante - and more importantly, Aurelien - didn't think him to be an awful person. He still wasn't sure what he'd done to set Aurelien off, but hopefully it would be easily repaired the next time they spoke. Or not. He would just as happily pretend that this whole span of twenty minutes never happened.
There was that shame, again.
Good thing Claude knew where that line was from, cause Dante sure didn't. He would have guessed Corinthians. Like, one of them. His memory wasn't so good for this sort of stuff. His dad used to try to drill it into his head, but it never really took, until one day Father Esposito told him it was fine if he couldn't remember the specifics, so long as he understood the message. That made sense enough to him. The lines that actually stuck with him were the ones he thought mattered, even if he couldn't remember where they came from. It seemed to get through to Claudeson, anyway, and that was good enough for him.
His smile was gentle. Claude didn't do anything wrong, but he didn't want to say Aurelien was wrong, either. He had run off his instincts. That worked for him, usually. Dante ran off his own instincts, too, but his instincts told him to believe in the best in people. Maybe he was just lucky that way. Maybe he just hadn't had to deal with people being worse than he expected, most of the time. He knew what Lion had expected, and he knew what Lion had dealt with in the past. He knew Lion just wanted to protect himself, and to protect Dante. He couldn't blame him for that. He didn't really understand, cause in the whole week that he'd technically been out cause of prom and everything he hadn't really had to deal with any shit, but it had been... like, a week. He didn't know anything. He didn't really know what Lion had been through.
So, like, maybe he was the stupid one here. He was most of the time! That was pretty okay. He didn't mind it. But Claude was hurt and Aurelien was too and stupid or not he was gonna put it back together, cause that was also what he did, most of the time. He helped. That was all he got, really.
"Good plan. Naps solve a lotta shit. 'Specially headaches." He nodded. "Uh, but if you wanna talk about whatever's up, I'll be around, alright? Like..."
It'd be super weird to ask for his number, right? Wait, he had him added on Facebook, right? Not that he really used Facebook ever, but he had everyone he knew added, and he used Messenger sometimes. That worked.
"... Hit me up on Facebook, or wherever. I'm always around to listen, man." This is the part where he'd probably put his hand on Claude's shoulder if he hadn't already decided that would be too weird. "Feels kinda dumb saying everything's gonna be alright when I dunno what's wrong. But pretend I said it anyway, cause it will be."
He grinned and got back up off the bed, glancing over to Sven, who seemed a little... uh, elsewhere. It was just kinda like that sometimes, huh? He waved.
"Alright, gonna head down now for reals. I'll see y'all later, okay? Get some rest. I'll... make sure Aurelien's calmed down before we get back."
He scratched the back of his neck. That was gonna be a conversation that he didn't really want to have, but there weren't really any other options, were there? He waved again and turned toward the door, sliding into his sneakers.
He knew Claude had said it wasn't necessary, but he told himself he'd bring something up for him to eat, just in case.
>> Dante Valerio continued in Scusare
His smile was gentle. Claude didn't do anything wrong, but he didn't want to say Aurelien was wrong, either. He had run off his instincts. That worked for him, usually. Dante ran off his own instincts, too, but his instincts told him to believe in the best in people. Maybe he was just lucky that way. Maybe he just hadn't had to deal with people being worse than he expected, most of the time. He knew what Lion had expected, and he knew what Lion had dealt with in the past. He knew Lion just wanted to protect himself, and to protect Dante. He couldn't blame him for that. He didn't really understand, cause in the whole week that he'd technically been out cause of prom and everything he hadn't really had to deal with any shit, but it had been... like, a week. He didn't know anything. He didn't really know what Lion had been through.
So, like, maybe he was the stupid one here. He was most of the time! That was pretty okay. He didn't mind it. But Claude was hurt and Aurelien was too and stupid or not he was gonna put it back together, cause that was also what he did, most of the time. He helped. That was all he got, really.
"Good plan. Naps solve a lotta shit. 'Specially headaches." He nodded. "Uh, but if you wanna talk about whatever's up, I'll be around, alright? Like..."
It'd be super weird to ask for his number, right? Wait, he had him added on Facebook, right? Not that he really used Facebook ever, but he had everyone he knew added, and he used Messenger sometimes. That worked.
"... Hit me up on Facebook, or wherever. I'm always around to listen, man." This is the part where he'd probably put his hand on Claude's shoulder if he hadn't already decided that would be too weird. "Feels kinda dumb saying everything's gonna be alright when I dunno what's wrong. But pretend I said it anyway, cause it will be."
He grinned and got back up off the bed, glancing over to Sven, who seemed a little... uh, elsewhere. It was just kinda like that sometimes, huh? He waved.
"Alright, gonna head down now for reals. I'll see y'all later, okay? Get some rest. I'll... make sure Aurelien's calmed down before we get back."
He scratched the back of his neck. That was gonna be a conversation that he didn't really want to have, but there weren't really any other options, were there? He waved again and turned toward the door, sliding into his sneakers.
He knew Claude had said it wasn't necessary, but he told himself he'd bring something up for him to eat, just in case.
>> Dante Valerio continued in Scusare
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
As the others talked or fought or kissed, Sven paid little attention as he moved about the room, paid little mind even to himself, still on the bed and seemingly still disengaged just as he was. First stop was the bedside table. Its details were strange and vague, hazy and unreal in this way where he wasn't even sure whether it had been there before just this moment or not, or whether it was even here at all. Nobody else had looked at it or set anything on it, or not while he was watching at least. There was a bland lamp upon it, ugly not in any direct or aggressive way but through its sheer generic design, something that faded into the background to the extent that it might as well not have been there.
Go back. Night before, night what of the trip, four? If this was home, Sven would've laid down in bed and taken off his sunglasses and pulled the chain on the lamp by his bed, in that order. The dark would creep in. Here, though, the lamp had one of those black plastic morningstar knobs, the ones you had to twist past more than one click sometimes, two usually he thought, or else two for off and one for on. Except it was wired to the network in a special hotel way, maybe tied to an actual switch on the wall so you didn't need to mess with the knob. Who had turned out the lights, anyways? Not Sven, he thought. He'd stayed up until someone else called for dark and then he went along with that, and then he'd set his sunglasses in their case and the case on the table, where it wasn't at this point in time, whenever that was.
Forward, then. Morning. This was the knotty bit, because either Sven sat around for a good while doing nothing or else he had his adventure with breakfast and the elevator or else something else entirely happened that he had blocked out. This presented a forking of paths. That story, by Borges, was incidentally one of those things that had stuck with Sven for a long time, something he'd read out of his ninth grade textbook because of its odd title when there had been noting to do and had been blown away by completely, unable to properly grapple with. He'd toyed with the idea of a painting adaptation, but had never been able to figure out how to properly capture and carry out the trick, because what fascinated was less the frame (though that held its own appeal) and more the story described. He couldn't remember at all how it went, now, except for one little piece.
He was drifting, now, tossed from his paths by intruding memories of a different sort, and so he steadied himself with a hand on the wall and amputated the inapplicable: had he followed a now-lost progression, he would find no further information in chasing it, and had he failed to leave the room he would not have put his sunglasses on as he was not wearing them still, and so they would be on the bedside table, where they still were not.
So, elevator, breakfast, a return. He was worried about looking like a freak, in that vague way he cared about such things and flattered himself into believing that the presence or absence of sunglasses could make any hint of difference. Which meant he'd probably taken them off again. And if they weren't in his breast pocket...
Sven stepped back into himself, immobile still upon the bed, gaze fixed on the patch of wall that had been beside Aurelien, and was loosely surprised to find that only he and Claudeson remained in the room. He reached to his right hip pocket, withdrew his sunglasses case, opened it up, flicked one arm of the glasses into position with a snap and then carefully straightened the other, then set them on his nose. The world dimmed pleasantly, and he smiled.
Go back. Night before, night what of the trip, four? If this was home, Sven would've laid down in bed and taken off his sunglasses and pulled the chain on the lamp by his bed, in that order. The dark would creep in. Here, though, the lamp had one of those black plastic morningstar knobs, the ones you had to twist past more than one click sometimes, two usually he thought, or else two for off and one for on. Except it was wired to the network in a special hotel way, maybe tied to an actual switch on the wall so you didn't need to mess with the knob. Who had turned out the lights, anyways? Not Sven, he thought. He'd stayed up until someone else called for dark and then he went along with that, and then he'd set his sunglasses in their case and the case on the table, where it wasn't at this point in time, whenever that was.
Forward, then. Morning. This was the knotty bit, because either Sven sat around for a good while doing nothing or else he had his adventure with breakfast and the elevator or else something else entirely happened that he had blocked out. This presented a forking of paths. That story, by Borges, was incidentally one of those things that had stuck with Sven for a long time, something he'd read out of his ninth grade textbook because of its odd title when there had been noting to do and had been blown away by completely, unable to properly grapple with. He'd toyed with the idea of a painting adaptation, but had never been able to figure out how to properly capture and carry out the trick, because what fascinated was less the frame (though that held its own appeal) and more the story described. He couldn't remember at all how it went, now, except for one little piece.
He was drifting, now, tossed from his paths by intruding memories of a different sort, and so he steadied himself with a hand on the wall and amputated the inapplicable: had he followed a now-lost progression, he would find no further information in chasing it, and had he failed to leave the room he would not have put his sunglasses on as he was not wearing them still, and so they would be on the bedside table, where they still were not.
So, elevator, breakfast, a return. He was worried about looking like a freak, in that vague way he cared about such things and flattered himself into believing that the presence or absence of sunglasses could make any hint of difference. Which meant he'd probably taken them off again. And if they weren't in his breast pocket...
Sven stepped back into himself, immobile still upon the bed, gaze fixed on the patch of wall that had been beside Aurelien, and was loosely surprised to find that only he and Claudeson remained in the room. He reached to his right hip pocket, withdrew his sunglasses case, opened it up, flicked one arm of the glasses into position with a snap and then carefully straightened the other, then set them on his nose. The world dimmed pleasantly, and he smiled.
"T-thank you, Dante. I appreciate it. I am sorry, again."
Claudeson sniffled as Dante took his leave of them, apologizing back as well, which felt wrong to him because Dante had done literally nothing to offend him. Why was Dante the one who needed to apologize? Obviously he was doing so for Aurelian as well, but Claudeson felt like he was the one who should be earnestly apologizing. For his own thoughts, for his despair, for a myriad of different things that he couldn't control at all. He hadn't intended to give the two roommates a cold shoulder. Had they really done anything that awful to him?
What felt awful was that he honestly couldn't remember. They hadn't been outwardly affectionate to the point of distaste, they had always tried to be inclusive of him and Sven, and all they were truly guilty of was having a good time.
Claudeson wiped his eyes free of any moisture and sighed audibly. His breakdown had been sudden and he had been unable to control it. He had neglected to bring any of his running gear along on the trip, and so his usual outlet to hold the darkness at bay had been absent. Immediately, he vowed to go and find some form of store and purchase what he needed to. Having such an embarrassing breakdown was shameful and not befitting of someone who should be showing a strong face while essentially acting as an ambassador for his school and his church while in Washington.
"Father, forgive me."
The words were out of his mouth no sooner than Claudeson heard the snap of a glasses case and realized he wasn't entirely alone. Sven had been seated on the bed for the entire exchange, not saying a word. Claudeson grimaced and turned to look at his third roommate. Sven didn't say much at the best of times, so he wasn't entirely sure what he'd made of the whole thing. The bearded teen looked fairly pleased with himself, though.
"I am sorry that you had to see that," he hesitated for a moment, "I did not wish to make things awkward."
Claudeson sniffled as Dante took his leave of them, apologizing back as well, which felt wrong to him because Dante had done literally nothing to offend him. Why was Dante the one who needed to apologize? Obviously he was doing so for Aurelian as well, but Claudeson felt like he was the one who should be earnestly apologizing. For his own thoughts, for his despair, for a myriad of different things that he couldn't control at all. He hadn't intended to give the two roommates a cold shoulder. Had they really done anything that awful to him?
What felt awful was that he honestly couldn't remember. They hadn't been outwardly affectionate to the point of distaste, they had always tried to be inclusive of him and Sven, and all they were truly guilty of was having a good time.
Claudeson wiped his eyes free of any moisture and sighed audibly. His breakdown had been sudden and he had been unable to control it. He had neglected to bring any of his running gear along on the trip, and so his usual outlet to hold the darkness at bay had been absent. Immediately, he vowed to go and find some form of store and purchase what he needed to. Having such an embarrassing breakdown was shameful and not befitting of someone who should be showing a strong face while essentially acting as an ambassador for his school and his church while in Washington.
"Father, forgive me."
The words were out of his mouth no sooner than Claudeson heard the snap of a glasses case and realized he wasn't entirely alone. Sven had been seated on the bed for the entire exchange, not saying a word. Claudeson grimaced and turned to look at his third roommate. Sven didn't say much at the best of times, so he wasn't entirely sure what he'd made of the whole thing. The bearded teen looked fairly pleased with himself, though.
"I am sorry that you had to see that," he hesitated for a moment, "I did not wish to make things awkward."
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MurderWeasel
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- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
"Oh," Sven said, "oh, it's..."
The world looked better now, properly washed out by tinted glass and distorted by monocular perception once more. It took him a moment to sift through the freshly-returned normalcy to figure out what Claudeson was talking about, though. Right. Head in his hands, aching. Of course there was far greater complexity, but Sven lacked the acumen to bluff his way through an interaction as if he was aware of them. His head felt pressured a bit now, in fact, at the thought of that. Best to not beat around the bush.
"It's okay," he said, "I was dozi—I was spacing out."
That was an explanation close enough to what passed for reality right now to work, he hoped. Something told him something more serious was wrong; after all his sole remaining companion had invoked higher powers in response to whatever he'd done. That was in its own way slightly awkward, but mostly because Sven felt like an interloper. One's relationship with the divine had long felt intensely personal to him, but that could've just been due to his own somewhat unorthodox patchwork of beliefs and philosophies.
"I think I have some Aspirin in my bag," he continued. "If that would help."
He hoped he had some Aspirin in his bag. Or else that it wouldn't help.
The world looked better now, properly washed out by tinted glass and distorted by monocular perception once more. It took him a moment to sift through the freshly-returned normalcy to figure out what Claudeson was talking about, though. Right. Head in his hands, aching. Of course there was far greater complexity, but Sven lacked the acumen to bluff his way through an interaction as if he was aware of them. His head felt pressured a bit now, in fact, at the thought of that. Best to not beat around the bush.
"It's okay," he said, "I was dozi—I was spacing out."
That was an explanation close enough to what passed for reality right now to work, he hoped. Something told him something more serious was wrong; after all his sole remaining companion had invoked higher powers in response to whatever he'd done. That was in its own way slightly awkward, but mostly because Sven felt like an interloper. One's relationship with the divine had long felt intensely personal to him, but that could've just been due to his own somewhat unorthodox patchwork of beliefs and philosophies.
"I think I have some Aspirin in my bag," he continued. "If that would help."
He hoped he had some Aspirin in his bag. Or else that it wouldn't help.
He considered the offer for a moment; yet another kindness bestowed upon him by people whom he had initially judged. Another pang of guilt shot through his system. The headache had been an excuse - a lie - to try and obfuscate what he was actually feeling. It was easy to say that he were suffering from such a thing because headaches came in many flavours. But to take a drug for something that he did not have? That was not an option. He had wrapped himself up in a blanket of lies, and felt as though he were still tumbling down an endless pit. He shook his head slowly.
"Ahh, thank you, but I think I will be fine." He let the words sit there; his tone wasn't altogether convincing, either. Yet Sven seemed to be almost ignorant of his outburst and what had transpired.
The curiousity drew his mood out of the chasm it had settled within for a moment. He had very rarely, if ever had a conversation with Sven. He knew what most did - the teen had suffered greatly within a tragic accident and his recovery had taken quite some time. Claudeson had volunteered some of his time to help at the fundraiser that had been put on to help the family out. It hadn't been overly large, yet he was certain that some good would have come from it.
"If I may ask - what brings you on the trip?" A fact occurred to Claudeson. "You haven't spent much time exploring the city."
He instantly felt as though he were prying, and quickly shut his mouth, as though he could walk his inquisitive words back.
"Ahh, thank you, but I think I will be fine." He let the words sit there; his tone wasn't altogether convincing, either. Yet Sven seemed to be almost ignorant of his outburst and what had transpired.
The curiousity drew his mood out of the chasm it had settled within for a moment. He had very rarely, if ever had a conversation with Sven. He knew what most did - the teen had suffered greatly within a tragic accident and his recovery had taken quite some time. Claudeson had volunteered some of his time to help at the fundraiser that had been put on to help the family out. It hadn't been overly large, yet he was certain that some good would have come from it.
"If I may ask - what brings you on the trip?" A fact occurred to Claudeson. "You haven't spent much time exploring the city."
He instantly felt as though he were prying, and quickly shut his mouth, as though he could walk his inquisitive words back.
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MurderWeasel
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Sven chuckled. The sound was mirthful, dry, inappropriate and almost obscene to his ears. He hoped that Claudeson might indulge him in this moment of misplaced joviality, as he had indulged him in so many other things, knowingly or otherwise.
"There's this saying," Sven said, "that goes, 'Wherever you go, there you are.' I can't remember who said it."
A comedy movie, he thought, or a Buddhist philosopher. Which didn't matter. Wisdom was wisdom regardless of the ground from which it sprang. So often he'd plucked meaning from the most unexpected sources—a cruel comment hissed in passing in the hall, a child's ignorant query, a cliché spoken with conviction. What mattered more than the speaker, or the words, was often who heard, and what.
Sven blinked and another path disintegrated somewhere, a burst of uneasy deja vu cutting straight through his train of thought, and he jerked, shaking his head sharply in a crude approximation of the light tilt he'd given it in another life, another time and place. The words had been so easy. He'd spoken them before, after all. He just had to conjure them back, shift these puzzle pieces once more into what he had only just assembled.
"Or something like that," he continued. "I came to spread my wings and to... confront a thing or two. But now I'm just here. And it's really the inevitable culmination of every choice I've ever made in my life, and an uncountable number made by others I'll never know besides, people who might as well not exist to me except in how they've shaped my entire existence."
There it was, coming back, so right and so wrong at the same time. The words were slick oil spilling smoothly from his mouth, his throat dry and raspy and he wanted another glass of orange juice, or else to go into the bathroom and lean over and wrap his lips around the tap and drink like a dog.
"Something like that," he said again, "or maybe I'm full of it. I've, I've," and there it was, that comfortable awkwardness and stumbling returning and settling over him like a blanket fresh from the dryer, wrapping him in its gentle and pressing embrace, "I'm not used to so, to spending so much time around people. So I try to get some rest. In the room. When everyone's out."
"There's this saying," Sven said, "that goes, 'Wherever you go, there you are.' I can't remember who said it."
A comedy movie, he thought, or a Buddhist philosopher. Which didn't matter. Wisdom was wisdom regardless of the ground from which it sprang. So often he'd plucked meaning from the most unexpected sources—a cruel comment hissed in passing in the hall, a child's ignorant query, a cliché spoken with conviction. What mattered more than the speaker, or the words, was often who heard, and what.
Sven blinked and another path disintegrated somewhere, a burst of uneasy deja vu cutting straight through his train of thought, and he jerked, shaking his head sharply in a crude approximation of the light tilt he'd given it in another life, another time and place. The words had been so easy. He'd spoken them before, after all. He just had to conjure them back, shift these puzzle pieces once more into what he had only just assembled.
"Or something like that," he continued. "I came to spread my wings and to... confront a thing or two. But now I'm just here. And it's really the inevitable culmination of every choice I've ever made in my life, and an uncountable number made by others I'll never know besides, people who might as well not exist to me except in how they've shaped my entire existence."
There it was, coming back, so right and so wrong at the same time. The words were slick oil spilling smoothly from his mouth, his throat dry and raspy and he wanted another glass of orange juice, or else to go into the bathroom and lean over and wrap his lips around the tap and drink like a dog.
"Something like that," he said again, "or maybe I'm full of it. I've, I've," and there it was, that comfortable awkwardness and stumbling returning and settling over him like a blanket fresh from the dryer, wrapping him in its gentle and pressing embrace, "I'm not used to so, to spending so much time around people. So I try to get some rest. In the room. When everyone's out."
For all of the many different people that Claudeson Bademosi had come across during his time volunteering with the homeless, helping out in his mother's congregation, or simply going to school and being exposed to a cross-section of society, he was unsure if he'd met someone quite like Sven Vee. There was something philosophical and intriguing about the boy, and yet he seemed quite... off. What Claudeson could absolutely understand was the notion of confronting one's demons. Whatever had been bothering him over the past few months had been something that he'd been almost literally running away from, so to come on this trip and see how he would be able to fare without his safety net had been enlightening, to say the least.
"I think I understand that."
It was actually quite brave of Sven to take the chance of coming here, for his own personal well-being. Confronting one's own issues took a strength of character, and considering that his classmate had managed to pull himself from a near-death experience into being able to at least spread his wings and explore a city on his own meant that Sven likely had that strength in spades. Yet his uncertain voice and his halted cadence made it very clear that Sven's strength came in ebbs and flows.
"Sometimes being around people is difficult. People wish to see exactly what they believe they will, and the truth is often different."
His thoughts went back to the exchange with Aurelian. The boy had verbally attacked him out of the blue, but had he been mistaken? Claudeson had been privately judging his roommates. He knew that. No one else would be able to say, but he knew that his own personal thoughts were impure when it came to them. So how different was perception from reality, in this case specifically?
"I do hope that I have not offended you on this trip."
Claudeson initially assumed that he hadn't, but Sven appeared to perceive things differently than most. It was very plausible that he could have done something without even knowing. Projected without intention. The mind was a powerful thing, as he was learning.
"I think I understand that."
It was actually quite brave of Sven to take the chance of coming here, for his own personal well-being. Confronting one's own issues took a strength of character, and considering that his classmate had managed to pull himself from a near-death experience into being able to at least spread his wings and explore a city on his own meant that Sven likely had that strength in spades. Yet his uncertain voice and his halted cadence made it very clear that Sven's strength came in ebbs and flows.
"Sometimes being around people is difficult. People wish to see exactly what they believe they will, and the truth is often different."
His thoughts went back to the exchange with Aurelian. The boy had verbally attacked him out of the blue, but had he been mistaken? Claudeson had been privately judging his roommates. He knew that. No one else would be able to say, but he knew that his own personal thoughts were impure when it came to them. So how different was perception from reality, in this case specifically?
"I do hope that I have not offended you on this trip."
Claudeson initially assumed that he hadn't, but Sven appeared to perceive things differently than most. It was very plausible that he could have done something without even knowing. Projected without intention. The mind was a powerful thing, as he was learning.
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MurderWeasel
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"No, no," Sven said. "Not at all."
A beat.
"I'm hard to offend."
Another.
"Usually. For, well, for most people."
That was more than a little reductive. Really, Sven was hard to offend for reasonable or logical reasons, and quite easy to rile up passively. But Claudeson was not the sort to push his buttons in that respect; Claudeson was just a normal guy, Christian, a bit tall but not enough to stand out, willing to let Sven do his own thing without forcibly interjecting himself. He could be any of a thousand kids from Tennessee, just a teenager who carried a bearing a few years older than he. What about that could possibly offend? If anything, Sven felt a loose kinship of a sort, one different from those friends from days gone by whose presence now cut at him as they continued like they always had and he no longer could.
"I, uh, I hope I haven't either. Offended. You." He paused, and should've probably not resumed but he was going now, voice and thoughts a notch out of step. "Or them."
Sven felt better with the sunglasses on. He didn't have to meet anyone's gaze, and when he looked at that same patch of wall again, maybe it was ever so slightly less obvious.
A beat.
"I'm hard to offend."
Another.
"Usually. For, well, for most people."
That was more than a little reductive. Really, Sven was hard to offend for reasonable or logical reasons, and quite easy to rile up passively. But Claudeson was not the sort to push his buttons in that respect; Claudeson was just a normal guy, Christian, a bit tall but not enough to stand out, willing to let Sven do his own thing without forcibly interjecting himself. He could be any of a thousand kids from Tennessee, just a teenager who carried a bearing a few years older than he. What about that could possibly offend? If anything, Sven felt a loose kinship of a sort, one different from those friends from days gone by whose presence now cut at him as they continued like they always had and he no longer could.
"I, uh, I hope I haven't either. Offended. You." He paused, and should've probably not resumed but he was going now, voice and thoughts a notch out of step. "Or them."
Sven felt better with the sunglasses on. He didn't have to meet anyone's gaze, and when he looked at that same patch of wall again, maybe it was ever so slightly less obvious.
Claudeson allowed himself a small smile at Sven's uncomfortable assertion. It must have been rather difficult to rebuild oneself after going through such a traumatic event as he had. Sven hadn't been overly familiar to Claudeson prior to his accident, but he recalled passing by him in the hall as though he'd been any other student. He still was any other student, though one now with a wildly different view of the world.
Vision issues notwithstanding.
"Goodness, no. You haven't been anything but pleasant company." He looked down at his fingers, picking some dry skin from his knuckle.
"I fear that it is me who has offended."
Claudeson found himself staring at the carpeted floor of the hotel room. It was dull, and fairly nondescript, but looked clean enough. The school had spared no expense, but a hotel room was simply a very simple space, meant for habitation away from home. It was not meant to be flashy, which was good. He didn't think that he deserved anything flashy.
"Do you ever feel," Claudeson found himself saying, once more trying to pull the words back, this time failing, "as though your mind and your soul are not cooperating with one another?"
He wasn't sure how else to put it. He wasn't even sure why he'd said it. But maybe Sven, of all people, might understand the conflict he felt within.
Maybe.
Vision issues notwithstanding.
"Goodness, no. You haven't been anything but pleasant company." He looked down at his fingers, picking some dry skin from his knuckle.
"I fear that it is me who has offended."
Claudeson found himself staring at the carpeted floor of the hotel room. It was dull, and fairly nondescript, but looked clean enough. The school had spared no expense, but a hotel room was simply a very simple space, meant for habitation away from home. It was not meant to be flashy, which was good. He didn't think that he deserved anything flashy.
"Do you ever feel," Claudeson found himself saying, once more trying to pull the words back, this time failing, "as though your mind and your soul are not cooperating with one another?"
He wasn't sure how else to put it. He wasn't even sure why he'd said it. But maybe Sven, of all people, might understand the conflict he felt within.
Maybe.
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MurderWeasel
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- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
Sven was quiet for a long, long time after that one. He closed his eyes, probably invisibly behind the sunglasses, and he turned it over and over in his head.
The answer was easy, of course. It was one of the most instinctual, simple things he'd ever been asked, and that was precisely why it was difficult for him to know whether or not to take the plunge. For all he could at times be needlessly forthcoming or hesitant, Sven rarely had the opportunity to dig into the musty, cobwebbed corners of his soul and/or psyche except in the presence of licensed professionals. He liked it that way. It was easier.
He was aware that everyone around him was a teeming universe of thoughts and questions and possibilities in their own rights, and yet all the same actually acknowledging that and grappling with it directly made him profoundly uncomfortable. He was prone to bouts of solipsism, and found those to be more comfortable than the alternative. Whenever he met someone else struggling with the same big questions, not due to any quirk of fate or bizarre disease or hitherto-unknown personal tragedy but simply by virtue of being human, and therefore lost and scared and alone, all those same qualities inside of him responded and cried out in recognition and horror, and he was struck by how small and uncontrolled and unsure he really was.
He opened his eyes, and watched himself wiggle his toes through the one good one.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I do."
The answer was easy, of course. It was one of the most instinctual, simple things he'd ever been asked, and that was precisely why it was difficult for him to know whether or not to take the plunge. For all he could at times be needlessly forthcoming or hesitant, Sven rarely had the opportunity to dig into the musty, cobwebbed corners of his soul and/or psyche except in the presence of licensed professionals. He liked it that way. It was easier.
He was aware that everyone around him was a teeming universe of thoughts and questions and possibilities in their own rights, and yet all the same actually acknowledging that and grappling with it directly made him profoundly uncomfortable. He was prone to bouts of solipsism, and found those to be more comfortable than the alternative. Whenever he met someone else struggling with the same big questions, not due to any quirk of fate or bizarre disease or hitherto-unknown personal tragedy but simply by virtue of being human, and therefore lost and scared and alone, all those same qualities inside of him responded and cried out in recognition and horror, and he was struck by how small and uncontrolled and unsure he really was.
He opened his eyes, and watched himself wiggle his toes through the one good one.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I do."
The response hung in the air, embracing the same silence that had befallen the room after Claudeson had asked his question. He did understand. This was not something that he had ever verbalized, not to anyone. Never to his parents, never to his teachers, no one. Not even to God. The very same God who refused to acknowledge him; refused to answer his prayers. That refusal, that lesson - which is what his mother would have called it - was enough to strike a schism within his heart.
It made him question. It made him think.
Why would God let him feel this way all of the time? Why would God insist that he face such trials, even after he had devoted himself to service? The despair that permeated his spirit seemed to have no end, no light at the end of the tunnel. It just seemed to stretch on.
"I do too."
Claudeson didn't say anything else for a few minutes. He had to let it sink in, more to himself than to Sven. When he finally spoke, his voice felt low, defeated.
"I have spent my entire life believing in God's plan." He crawled over the words; they sounded foreign coming from his mouth. "But I'm just not sure anymore. About any of it."
He stared at the carpet again, his gaze going vacant.
"I can't seem to remember how to be happy."
A pause.
"What use is a plan that deprives someone of their happiness? It does not make any sense."
His next words were whispered, almost frightened. His eyes glistened again.
"I'm scared. Scared that maybe - this entire time - for my whole life?"
Claudeson looked back up at Sven.
"Maybe I've been wrong. About everything."
It made him question. It made him think.
Why would God let him feel this way all of the time? Why would God insist that he face such trials, even after he had devoted himself to service? The despair that permeated his spirit seemed to have no end, no light at the end of the tunnel. It just seemed to stretch on.
"I do too."
Claudeson didn't say anything else for a few minutes. He had to let it sink in, more to himself than to Sven. When he finally spoke, his voice felt low, defeated.
"I have spent my entire life believing in God's plan." He crawled over the words; they sounded foreign coming from his mouth. "But I'm just not sure anymore. About any of it."
He stared at the carpet again, his gaze going vacant.
"I can't seem to remember how to be happy."
A pause.
"What use is a plan that deprives someone of their happiness? It does not make any sense."
His next words were whispered, almost frightened. His eyes glistened again.
"I'm scared. Scared that maybe - this entire time - for my whole life?"
Claudeson looked back up at Sven.
"Maybe I've been wrong. About everything."
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
The confession hung there, quietly, taking a form of its own almost physical, almost as real in the room as either Claudeson or Sven. There was so much to unpack, but frankly Sven was unequal to the task.
If he had some great insight into these problems, he would not be sitting here having this conversation.
He could turn to the Bible himself. He could speak of Job, but to what end? Claudeson knew. More than that, the story was troubling for other reasons. Job was tried and tested and found worthy and had his position restored, but in the process many others were slain, and not a thought was spared for them. So many Christians saw themselves in Job, and Sven too had been tempted more than once, had even been encouraged following the accident. It was an easy answer, but it suggested a measure of self-importance. Who counted themselves among Job's servants slain by the Sabeans?
But that wasn't it. That wasn't all. Sven knew the struggle that Claudeson faced, knew it more intimately than he could ever explain, yet distorted as though seen from far underwater, or maybe looking into the bottomless blue from land. There were so many moments he too saw a plan, but it was not one he cherished or took comfort in or exulted at the prospect of.
No, the plan that whispered to Sven was dark and nihilistic, wax figurines engaged in meaningless pantomime against a backdrop of cardboard and cellophane. He was getting better and better at turning out the light and allowing the dim haze to hide the way the figures' features melted, at squinting until his remaining eye and its dubious depth perception made the stage dressing look almost real. This trip had helped with that. It was still a process. There was much to do, but Sven had finally started to think that maybe, just maybe, there was no comprehensible plan, and he couldn't describe the comfort that suspicion brought.
When he spoke, he was caught off guard.
"I don't... know as much as I'd like... about remembering," Sven said. "But...
"When it comes to plans, and right and wrong...
"I suppose...
((Sven Vee continued in SOTF V7))
If he had some great insight into these problems, he would not be sitting here having this conversation.
He could turn to the Bible himself. He could speak of Job, but to what end? Claudeson knew. More than that, the story was troubling for other reasons. Job was tried and tested and found worthy and had his position restored, but in the process many others were slain, and not a thought was spared for them. So many Christians saw themselves in Job, and Sven too had been tempted more than once, had even been encouraged following the accident. It was an easy answer, but it suggested a measure of self-importance. Who counted themselves among Job's servants slain by the Sabeans?
But that wasn't it. That wasn't all. Sven knew the struggle that Claudeson faced, knew it more intimately than he could ever explain, yet distorted as though seen from far underwater, or maybe looking into the bottomless blue from land. There were so many moments he too saw a plan, but it was not one he cherished or took comfort in or exulted at the prospect of.
No, the plan that whispered to Sven was dark and nihilistic, wax figurines engaged in meaningless pantomime against a backdrop of cardboard and cellophane. He was getting better and better at turning out the light and allowing the dim haze to hide the way the figures' features melted, at squinting until his remaining eye and its dubious depth perception made the stage dressing look almost real. This trip had helped with that. It was still a process. There was much to do, but Sven had finally started to think that maybe, just maybe, there was no comprehensible plan, and he couldn't describe the comfort that suspicion brought.
When he spoke, he was caught off guard.
"I don't... know as much as I'd like... about remembering," Sven said. "But...
"When it comes to plans, and right and wrong...
"I suppose...
((Sven Vee continued in SOTF V7))
He wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting; but at the moment Sven had actually opened his mouth and started to say something, he'd started to wonder if this whole endeavour - the trip, speaking to Sven, all of it - had been a giant mistake. The sensation of dread returned to his shoulders, impinging upon any good cheer that had built its way up. The dark cloud had returned, but this time, it didn't seem to be isolated to his own mind.
Sven tried to offer what he could, but he too seemed to be swallowed up by the cloud. Claudeson could see it, now. It wasn't originating from him, either. It was everywhere, in the hotel, in this city, on the bus, back at home, in the church. It seemed to be a physical manifestation of his own failings as as a human, as a Christian, as a good person at all. It poured all over Sven, leaving the boy's halting words unsteady, disjointed and uneven.
He supposed.
Before the darkness threatened to overtake them both, Claudeson wondered just what Sven had supposed. The room seemed to expand and contract in his perception, but maybe that was just his heartbeat. Sven was barely there and he had gone now, too. He had left but was still there.
"Yes."
The word was barely a whisper, and his eyes moistened once more, vision again obscured by the appearance of unwanted tears. He'd fought so hard to avoid tumbling down the rabbit hole into oblivion, but finally, he was too tired to fight any more. So he just let it happen; he felt himself free-falling into the abyss. Claudeson slumped down onto the chair, putting his head on the table. The only idea that gave him any solace was the idea that every hole eventually had a bottom; you could only fall so far down before it was time to head up once more.
As he allowed the darkness to overcome him, Claudeson yearned for the end - of that which ailed him; of everything, of nothing.
He just wasn't sure.
((CLAUDESON BADEMOSI PREGAME CONCLUDED; CONTINUED IN SOTF V7))
Sven tried to offer what he could, but he too seemed to be swallowed up by the cloud. Claudeson could see it, now. It wasn't originating from him, either. It was everywhere, in the hotel, in this city, on the bus, back at home, in the church. It seemed to be a physical manifestation of his own failings as as a human, as a Christian, as a good person at all. It poured all over Sven, leaving the boy's halting words unsteady, disjointed and uneven.
He supposed.
Before the darkness threatened to overtake them both, Claudeson wondered just what Sven had supposed. The room seemed to expand and contract in his perception, but maybe that was just his heartbeat. Sven was barely there and he had gone now, too. He had left but was still there.
"Yes."
The word was barely a whisper, and his eyes moistened once more, vision again obscured by the appearance of unwanted tears. He'd fought so hard to avoid tumbling down the rabbit hole into oblivion, but finally, he was too tired to fight any more. So he just let it happen; he felt himself free-falling into the abyss. Claudeson slumped down onto the chair, putting his head on the table. The only idea that gave him any solace was the idea that every hole eventually had a bottom; you could only fall so far down before it was time to head up once more.
As he allowed the darkness to overcome him, Claudeson yearned for the end - of that which ailed him; of everything, of nothing.
He just wasn't sure.
((CLAUDESON BADEMOSI PREGAME CONCLUDED; CONTINUED IN SOTF V7))