http://payglorytoashes.livejournal.com/ (
payglorytoashes.livejournal.com) wrote in
multiversallogs2011-11-09 04:41 pm
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Entry tags:
bitterness without a name
Who: ILDE and RODOLPHUS
What: a gift!
Where: a coffee house that is not Queequeg's
When: afternoon... sometime...
Notes: if I say "girl you in danger" that's actually directed at Rodolphus
Warnings: inappropriate poetry
It is still a fine enough day that sitting outside to drink coffee is pleasant, and so Rodolphus has arranged, somewhat abruptly, to meet with Ilde, whom he still thinks of as 'the girl from the fog trip'. Sometimes, as now, 'who gave me the brooch' is appended to that.
There is something about the virtually motionless, straight-backed way he sits that simply does not look comfortable, yet one may get the impression he could easily maintain the position for hours. His manner of dress rarely varies, which was convenient in the event of Dean's funeral; it's still tailored charcoal grays and blacks, though of course, he forwent the brooch at that time. It is on right now, naturally, the same way one wears the sweater their aunt sent them when meeting that aunt. But he genuinely likes the brooch, at least as much as he likes anything, which is why there is a book lying next to his cup of expresso. It is a little worn and not, on first glance, much to look at, but there is still a trace of gilt on the leather cover, and the pages are very well preserved. The illustrations inside are black and white, a little grim, a little bold, definitely strange.
A younger man might fidget, check the time, look around, or inspect his prospective gift. Rodolphus stares off in the distance, perhaps thinking, perhaps not. He is aware of his surroundings, but they are relatively unimportant.
What: a gift!
Where: a coffee house that is not Queequeg's
When: afternoon... sometime...
Notes: if I say "girl you in danger" that's actually directed at Rodolphus
Warnings: inappropriate poetry
It is still a fine enough day that sitting outside to drink coffee is pleasant, and so Rodolphus has arranged, somewhat abruptly, to meet with Ilde, whom he still thinks of as 'the girl from the fog trip'. Sometimes, as now, 'who gave me the brooch' is appended to that.
There is something about the virtually motionless, straight-backed way he sits that simply does not look comfortable, yet one may get the impression he could easily maintain the position for hours. His manner of dress rarely varies, which was convenient in the event of Dean's funeral; it's still tailored charcoal grays and blacks, though of course, he forwent the brooch at that time. It is on right now, naturally, the same way one wears the sweater their aunt sent them when meeting that aunt. But he genuinely likes the brooch, at least as much as he likes anything, which is why there is a book lying next to his cup of expresso. It is a little worn and not, on first glance, much to look at, but there is still a trace of gilt on the leather cover, and the pages are very well preserved. The illustrations inside are black and white, a little grim, a little bold, definitely strange.
A younger man might fidget, check the time, look around, or inspect his prospective gift. Rodolphus stares off in the distance, perhaps thinking, perhaps not. He is aware of his surroundings, but they are relatively unimportant.
no subject
Now, this may not be something that he's aware of - she hasn't felt the need to mention it to him, for example, and it's largely based in an arbitrary decision made several months ago - but nevertheless the fact remains, and so she's just slightly pleased when he contacts her, rather than concerned by the fact a man she described once as looking like he might come around and peer in somebody's windows has decided out of the blue that they should have coffee.
Viewed objectively, Rodolphus is (at best) a bit disconcerting. Viewed by Ilde, who is a lot of things but approximately none of them 'objective', his stillness is oddly comforting; the performative aspects of her general interaction become unnecessary. In other words, it's almost like she actually becomes creepier around him by osmosis - Ivan told her once that he thinks she creates a charming character for public consumption, and he's not entirely wrong about that.
So she doesn't feel obligated to traditional greetings when she joins him (but when does she ever), settling opposite and setting down on the table the red feathered beret she's been wearing lately. (Not indoors, after all.) "Is the new wizard one of yours?"
Don't pretend the idea of Rodolphus and Antonin hammered together isn't funny to you, too, imaginary audience.
no subject
"Yes," he says, and the regret is both distant and delicate. He is totally remembering that time Antonin sold Barty to some hags for three galleons. In a way, though, he's still sort of impressed that Antonin got them to go as high as three. After a pause in which he tries his best to dismiss those memories (they come from an uncomfortable place), he pushes the book across the table toward Ilde. The tentacle brooch twitches and curls up tight.
no subject
('Sad-looking old books of poetry' were half her collection at home as a pretentious little girl given frequently to melancholia, which therefore also included Famous Last Words: The Ultimate Collection of Finales and Farewells as given to her by a school-friend.)
It's approximately as out of the blue as the brooch she gave him and at least twenty-five percent less inappropriate, so she looks up from examining the illustrations and almost smiles. "If you'd waited a month, you'd have hit my birthday." ...but that is a companionable joke, since no one here even knows said birthday (and some of them would probably be slightly startled by how old she's going to be on it), and she adds, "Thank you," a beat later.
no subject
"I will remember," he says in that casual way that is also inescapably serious, even if he only means to state it as a fact. As opposed to a promise/threat. "If we are both still alive." ... he says that the exact same way too.
no subject
It's an odd thing to think about - she'd had to figure out how old she was from the date when she got out of Prometheus, time in captivity blurring until she sometimes thought she'd imagined anything else, and before then her birthdays were proper events, masterminded by her father, and she doesn't know why the memory that sticks out on this occasion is when she was five and Léa cried because of the mime. So she doesn't keep thinking about that, sipping her sufficiently-sweetened tea and saying, instead: "I used to get books ever year, like this- poetry, older editions, antique and secondhand so there'd sometimes be something written inside. To soandso with love, or a little message that only meant something to the person who wrote it and the first person who read it. Or particular pages dog-eared and certain passages underlined. It's the best thing."
That might actually be the most she's ever said to him.
no subject
"History," he supplies, looking through her for a moment. After so many years, Rodolphus is accustomed not to brooding upon his vast marital failures in public or in the company of others, and so he doesn't. It's just so clearly going on below the surface anyway. "Do you have a favorite?"
It is both a polite conversation question and of genuine interest to him.
no subject
"I don't think I ever loved that gently. And I’ve never flown toward a burning house, hoping, maybe my faith lay in that single thing left, in that smoldering filigree. I never reminisce a sorrow that delicately shaped. But sometimes I feel someone remembering me that way: translucent, crazy, awake only at night. He’s regretting his fingertips were not wide or soft enough. He’s mourning me now. He’s imagining me eating away at someone else’s light. And that’s perfect. That’s exactly how he always wanted to love me."
It's not the whole thing, but it's a substantial chunk of it and the ability to recite it so neatly off-the-cuff in a café presumably reflects how much she likes it, how many times she's traced the words with her fingertips while she was reading. It's the kind of poetry she'd like hers to be able to stand beside.
no subject
"Where is that from?" He finally asks, reaching inside his coat to retrieve a small notebook in which to, presumably, write down the answer. It's not his main journal, just the one that goes with him, and has lots of cramped, precise handwriting filling every page with meticulous (boring) detail of god knows what.
no subject
(Top of the list is usually 'I could always be doing something worse'. Poetry and tentacles are downright well-fucking-behaved.)
"Olena Kalytiak Davis," she says, then, "O-L-E-N-A K-A-L-Y-T-I-A-K Davis. 'Angels and Moths'. It's in one of her collections, but I don't remember which one."
no subject
"I suppose the chances of finding any of her work are small," he says, laying down his pen and taking his cup again, "but nonetheless."
Inexpressive is of course the default for him, yet now there is something more obviously hooded in his eyes, the distance more deliberate than before. According to his mysterious internal rules, he is free to discuss poetry, just not his ~feelings~ about it, but clearly, the quoted passage struck him.
no subject
(and this is my terrorism lipstick, she writes.)
The hesitation at the end is over author; she settles on ? at length, explaining, "I heard this one recited," when she offers him the paper. Then, "People don't talk to me about poetry any more."
They might do, if she tried it now, but it's one of those things that got relegated to 'my old life' and it's a pleasant surprise to have someone ask what she likes and seem interested in the answer. Ilde sometimes tends to respond a little bit more than is entirely comfortable to encouragement.
no subject
"Hellsing is very busy, but I would enjoy talking about poetry. Though I have not had opportunity to do much of that before, and am not widely read."
no subject
"I write down the things I remember," she shrugs, because it's relevant. "Poetry- segments of stories. Sheet music." The prose gets inadvertently paraphrased more often than she realizes, but she memorised enough poetry in her teens that that tends to be more consistently accurate, and she's physically incapable of screwing up the music. "Dorothy Parker is good for that; she wrote a lot of short, sharp poems that stick in your mind."
no subject
This is Baedal, however.
"Perhaps, if you have the time, you could record some for me," he says, that typical lack of inflection somewhat flattening out the possible subtext. Probably he means Dorothy Parker, but actually he'd be okay with anything else too.
no subject
(She wonders only fleetingly what her choices will say about her.)
After a beat, "I write it, as well- I like them. Words." She also tends to be irritatingly pedantic about the meanings thereof, which isn't as unrelated to this as it might immediately seem.
no subject
"I would be interested in whatever writing you have to share." The sheer stubborn neutrality of it is almost comical, and is punctuated by another sip of expresso. And in the interest of polite sharing, he adds, "I used to keep journals."
As if he still doesn't. But he ain't sharing that.
no subject
"I wonder what makes people write things down." She considers her tea for a moment, then adds, "Besides being told to do it."