[ It’s true they’ve left the alley behind, and it’s true they’ve wandered their way toward sighting Sen across the room.
Sen, who appears the same, and altered. Diminished; unwell. (Sen who never should have been taken, or kept away, but there's no altering the fact now.) (He is here. That's something. He's here, and just might stay.) Sen, whose presence still alters the light of any room, and whose words bring relief with every winding phrase.
What happened.
What is happening? It isn't Rin's business, and if Sen wished to share, he would.
Still, half-formed worries nag. (And so, Rin nags. Not precisely intending to, and almost surprised at themself, but unable to wholly refrain.)
Still, Rin would like to... Fix it. To ferret out some solution, and there must be a solution; with enough determined seeking, there always is. Rin’s brought together so many broken pieces, fragments of self, of half-cocked business plans, of improbable dreams. They've turned the tail ends of nothing into a properly legitimate business, a nightclub and a haven and the nearest thing they’ve known to a secure place in the world. Why, then, should this problem be beyond them?
A trouble is, Sen hasn't asked. Or responded well to Rin’s attempts to pry. And Rin is reluctant to push harder (and risk, perhaps, pushing Senan away).
There will be time. (There has to be time. Please.) There will be time, and talk, and perhaps the problem and solution both await within the near-oncoming future.
Sen’s message catches them watching, attention perhaps yes, a little bit too fixed on Sen. And after reading (a series of emotion registered quietly, without outward show and difficult, oh, difficult to piece apart) they make a show of rolling their eyes, head shaking once. Expression studiously neutral, they raise a finger, wag it twice at Sen. Shift into a grin and remain right where they are, beginning to type. ]
Sha’n’t. c:
It is the purview of a Pissbucket - particularly when they preside over a premises - to hover as they please.
Perhaps I am only overlooking the floor, hm? Perhaps I’ve come to gauge the mingled crowd, or greet the night’s opening act.
Or is it that I wish to remind you how adamantly I - your Rin, or/and this other Rin, or/and any guise of Rin that might exist - remain within some form of reach?
An object lesson, Sen; an incontrovertible display. Your fate on-view: a pretty picture, eh?
I allow that time and circumstance work changes on us. Certain alterations are no more than glancing; the back alley encounter will fade quickly, its ripples scarcely amounting. Others… There are influences that might be called endemic. Unforgettable. Present in their reach through every iteration.
(You do my past self too much credit if you think some form of me hasn’t considered the questionable merits of dealing in any substance you can picture. The road between then and now has been paved with plenty of mis-starts and dubious intentions.)
I must insist upon one certitude: You are not and never have been a mongrel. You know I don’t keep dogs, and therefore I refuse to allow that you might be one.
No dog could manage such eloquence. Nor any mere man. No, such wild and resolving ramblings are the purview solely of a Sen. [ … ] My Sen, if I may speak so bold.
Or, perhaps, my once and future Sen.
[ ’Familiar as a childhood home,’ Sen had written. A phrase that fluttered warmth in vines on reading. A phrase that recurs now again, again, firefly gleaming recurrent, soft and beguiling. ]
no subject
Sen, who appears the same, and altered. Diminished; unwell. (Sen who never should have been taken, or kept away, but there's no altering the fact now.) (He is here. That's something. He's here, and just might stay.) Sen, whose presence still alters the light of any room, and whose words bring relief with every winding phrase.
What happened.
What is happening? It isn't Rin's business, and if Sen wished to share, he would.
Still, half-formed worries nag. (And so, Rin nags. Not precisely intending to, and almost surprised at themself, but unable to wholly refrain.)
Still, Rin would like to... Fix it. To ferret out some solution, and there must be a solution; with enough determined seeking, there always is. Rin’s brought together so many broken pieces, fragments of self, of half-cocked business plans, of improbable dreams. They've turned the tail ends of nothing into a properly legitimate business, a nightclub and a haven and the nearest thing they’ve known to a secure place in the world. Why, then, should this problem be beyond them?
A trouble is, Sen hasn't asked. Or responded well to Rin’s attempts to pry. And Rin is reluctant to push harder (and risk, perhaps, pushing Senan away).
There will be time. (There has to be time. Please.) There will be time, and talk, and perhaps the problem and solution both await within the near-oncoming future.
Sen’s message catches them watching, attention perhaps yes, a little bit too fixed on Sen. And after reading (a series of emotion registered quietly, without outward show and difficult, oh, difficult to piece apart) they make a show of rolling their eyes, head shaking once. Expression studiously neutral, they raise a finger, wag it twice at Sen. Shift into a grin and remain right where they are, beginning to type. ]
Sha’n’t. c:
It is the purview of a Pissbucket - particularly when they preside over a premises - to hover as they please.
Perhaps I am only overlooking the floor, hm? Perhaps I’ve come to gauge the mingled crowd, or greet the night’s opening act.
Or is it that I wish to remind you how adamantly I - your Rin, or/and this other Rin, or/and any guise of Rin that might exist - remain within some form of reach?
An object lesson, Sen; an incontrovertible display. Your fate on-view: a pretty picture, eh?
I allow that time and circumstance work changes on us. Certain alterations are no more than glancing; the back alley encounter will fade quickly, its ripples scarcely amounting. Others… There are influences that might be called endemic. Unforgettable. Present in their reach through every iteration.
(You do my past self too much credit if you think some form of me hasn’t considered the questionable merits of dealing in any substance you can picture. The road between then and now has been paved with plenty of mis-starts and dubious intentions.)
I must insist upon one certitude: You are not and never have been a mongrel. You know I don’t keep dogs, and therefore I refuse to allow that you might be one.
No dog could manage such eloquence. Nor any mere man. No, such wild and resolving ramblings are the purview solely of a Sen. [ … ] My Sen, if I may speak so bold.
Or, perhaps, my once and future Sen.
[ ’Familiar as a childhood home,’ Sen had written. A phrase that fluttered warmth in vines on reading. A phrase that recurs now again, again, firefly gleaming recurrent, soft and beguiling. ]