dualislogs | [closed]

Sin’s a giant…fiend. [ It’s not the right word, too tame for such a force, but what gave a better picture to someone who’s never seen it? ] But it had nothing to do with machina: It was a summon made by the guy who ran the summoner city. People would get rid of it, but it would come back; get rid of it, come back. [ He swings a hand; forward, back, forward, back. ] Because the way people thought you took it down? It was the way you brought it back. And the ones running things knew.

[ It’s not necessary information, but it sure is an easier answer than the other two. Not impersonal, but less so than, What happened?, How’d you find out?

With those, Tidus loses the flow he’d regained in speaking about Sin, gaze lowering as he deliberately considers his words. What to say. What not to say. ]

Sin finally arrived at my city, [ he begins, slowly. ] I got swept up and ended far away from home. And when I arrived outside, Spira, it was a completely different world. Everyone thought I was crazy, or sick -- people who get close to Sin get affected by a toxin, makes them lose their memories, [ he explains, before giving a light shake of his head. ] It wasn’t that though. I really just didn’t know anything.

[ But he’s leaving something unexplained, isn’t he? Is he? Or is that because he knows there’s something he doesn’t want to share, wants to make sure that it doesn’t crop up? His shoulders twitch and his mouth pinches, eyes flickering to and fro, signs that he isn’t quite done; but he needs a moment to figure how to continue. ]

It isn’t that I have gaps in my memory, it’s just... the truth was kept from us. In Zanarkand, and in Spira. And being here, listening to people talk about their lives -- there’s so much I don’t understand. [ He raises his hands by either side of his head, extended out, giving them a shake in show of frustration of everything he doesn't get, up in here. Slowly lets them lower back by his lap. ]

It feels that way.

[Despite Sin apparently being a very physical threat — from what Harry can gather, anyway — he can't help but compare it to The Pale. Not that The Pale doesn't affect things physically, but... well, he's certainly never heard it described as a summon. He doesn't even know what that means, honestly.

DRAMA — Curious, my liege. He understands you concealed something, and now he's doing the same. 'Tis true that the boy appears to avoid direct falsehoods, and yet....

Regardless of whatever Tidus might be holding back, a man-made, city-destroying, memory-erasing force isn't a subject he'd thought they'd ever be able to theoretically bond over — especially considering he already figured their thing was sports.]

I bet. [A small, sympathetic smile flickers up.] And the second you thought you'd started getting a grip of things back home, you ended up here, right? Straight back into the unknown.

[He might be projecting a little.

With a long, final draw down to the filter, he finishes his cigarette. The butt, he drops unceremoniously into the bottom of his bottle-turned-ashtray, and his eyes drop down to it for a long moment.]

It's a lot.

[Something shakes loose in his posture. The way his eyebrows draw low, like they're trying to meet his eyes, it's as if he wants to add something. But he doesn't.]

Edited 2020-02-13 02:00 (UTC)

[ A grip on his life. It couldn’t be further from the truth, but that’s not anything Tidus wants to admit to. He can remember how dazed he had been to arrive; confused, but like a miracle had occurred. A possibility he hadn’t dared to dream, even as he knew his life was coming to an end.

A second chance.

His thoughts don’t take him any further than that. He watches the way Harry’s frame sags, the hesitance in his withdrawn gaze, and it takes that for Tidus to realise (to understand) those words went deeper for Harry than an understanding meant for him, and the line of his own shoulders loosens.

It’s not as if the loss of his situation didn’t eventually come to him too. He wonders if he can offer an man older than him any real comfort, but -- maybe it’s because of how they’ve spoken so far, maybe it’s because he doesn’t care, he wants to try -- he doesn’t wonder for long. ]

We’re not alone. Crazy as everything is, we’re all stuck in this. We’re gonna see good people go, and the Head’s gonna be breathing down our necks, but I believe we can do something. I have to. That’s all you can do, you know? You need something to stop it from going to your head. Other people. A goal.

[ A belief you’re not so useless, that there’s nothing you can do. But he’s being distracted by what he thinks he wants to say, rolling his lips, eyes dipping only a second, but otherwise keeping on Harry. ]

What I’m saying is… this sucks, and none of us should be here. [ But… ] But I’m glad we got stuck together?

[ He pulls an unfortunate smile. ]

I'm glad we got to talk.

[ Even if it would have been better if they never did. ]

[Harry's eyes flick up again, meeting Tidus's. They hold there, beneath some wannabe neutral expression that slides from surprise to something else entirely. He's being comforted — he understands that much. It's not clear if he's touched or unnerved by that fact, however. His eyebrows are set in a kind of unreadable uptick that could mean a whole bunch of things.

He's clearly listening though.

And if that faint nod is any indication, what Tidus is saying... seems to be sticking. It's like something Kim said: he has to focus on other people's troubles. That there's relief in that. It's a sentiment he threw back in the Lieutenant's face at the time, but hearing it again? It's landing very, very differently.

His adam’s apple bobs with a sort of pigeon-like hesitation. Like there's a lump in his thro— oh no.

COMPOSURE — What the fuck is wrong with you?

Harry's chin jerks upwards as he fixes his stare onto a ceiling tile somewhere beyond Tidus's head.]

Right, right.

[If he was going for exceedingly gruff, he succeeded. The quick throat clearing makes it seem unintentional, though.]

Same here, man.

[ That’s more than enough for Tidus to see. He shifts himself, turning his body to lean against the back of the computer chair as he’d done before, if with his lower half detesting how long he’s been sitting in the same place, slight adjustments not counting. Gives himself the door to face -- not because there’s anything he doesn’t need to witness or give Harry any privacy over, but it's a change of view, isn't it?

And maybe he doesn't want to give the wrong idea about the small smile on his lips; less unfortunate now, and more glad. The possibility his words were able to mean something.

It's a good feeling. ]

You still talk to H? He knows some sports. Really likes a game called basketball -- they have it in his world, and here too. I used to go to one of the stadiums to watch different sports teams practice… I still do, [ technically, ] but it isn’t as fun as when I first got here.

[ He shares it, like talking about the weather, hands resting with their grip on the top of the chair. Intentionally getting sidetracked this time from his original point, to give Harry time (that he obviously doesn't need). ]

Anyway, you should -- Talk more, I mean. [ Tidus tips his head, a small nod to the side. ] If it’s about here or just remembering you’re both human. He’s been here a long time, and some of us worry ‘bout him. He’s always doing a lot, always working. I don’t have the head for thinking out things like cops do, [ he waves a hand by his head. smart stuff ] and I think you'd both have stuff you can talk about.

[ He looks over now, and nods again. ]

So -- yeah.

[ What a great way to conclude that. ]

[It takes Harry a long moment of ceiling staring and mental self-flagellation to reassure himself that his eyes aren't about to start leaking. Only then does he focus on what Tidus is saying. A focus that causes his brow to crease and his mind to kind of... stammer as he tries processing those words.

Is... Is Tidus really trying to set him up on a sad old man play-date?]

He's got his partner.

[He didn't mean for that to sound quite so dismissive, but... shit, he'll try again:]

I'm not — [argh] — he seems like a good guy, don't get me wrong. We talked cases a while back. Hobbies. [He nods over to the reel player.] Music, that kinda thing. But, y'know, similarities aren't always good. Not when you're dealing with two, uh... [the smallest hint of a pause] two cops.

[Two alcoholics. He's not about to intentionally out either himself or Hank on that score, but it's been a barrier. Hank strikes him as a functioning alcoholic. Harry's a late-stage one, bordering on moribund. He can't possibly be a good influence right now. He's a cautionary tale at best.]

But... sure. I can check in on him sometime.

[Check in on, and not party with. He can totally do that.

Still, this whole line of questioning and suggestion has left him with a twitchy kind of irritation. Like the photo thing, mark two. It's a reminder of how he's perceived from the outside. That time has abandoned him. That he's not cool.

He reaches for the cigarette packet again, automatic, while the problem solving part of him desperately tries to sort that. A solution to his late-onset lameness.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — So bear with me here: Tidus was hungover as shit that first time you met each other, right? So maybe—

VOLITION — We're not doing this.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Maybe you should see if he gets down.

VOLITION — You absolutely shouldn't. What does that even mean? He plays sports, remember? Sports isn't an anagram for snorts. He looks like he actually cares about his body.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Jocks snort more shit than every nerd combined, man! Hell, look at you! Beneath the Franconigerian Hardbody beats the heart of an amphetamine-fueled athlete. You ain't no exception, baby! You're the rule!

And speaking of looking at himself, it's just dawned on Harry that he's probably been sat there slack-jawed this whole time. He shuts it with a click. Clears his throat again. His muscle memory was active enough to dig out the next smoke at least, but he doesn't move to light it.]

So, uh... back to you. You seem pretty — [he holds a hand horizontal and moves it back and forth] — I dunno, straight-laced. You never...?

[ He's got his partner.

Wait, did it sound like he was saying they should hook up?

At least, no -- that's not what the problem might be by the follow-up, the clarification slipping off Tidus's tongue and back into his throat. The actual issue of the situation being...

Huh? The fact they're cops? ]

Okay. [ You don't mix cops? Tidus sounds like he accepts the explanation, while simultaneously looking puzzled by it. Himself, he would kill to talk to another blitzball player. ...Or some other metaphorical act that wasn't soured by literal deaths being broadcast out to the public.

But then Harry just spaces, and Tidus wonders, confused, what this whole...being cops thing actually meant. That he might've accidentally opened a door he shouldn't, and he's not really sure if he should ask despite the confusion furrowing his brow, that doesn't wipe off even as Harry comes back to the present.

Well, partially because he doesn't get the gesture. He looks from that to the new cigarette in the other, deciding that was the actual subject. ]

Smoke? Smoking's a death wish if you're a professional. You're not breathing, but that's two five minute rounds of swimming and getting knocked around by the other team, and you're holding in air the entire time. So.

[ He shakes his head, waves a straight hand in front of his neck. No good. ]

Never touched one. Literally!

[A bemused squint shifts from Tidus, to the cigarette pinched in his own fingers.]

Right.

[He should have figured that's where Tidus's mind would jump, but no, that's not remotely what he meant. Either Tidus doesn't expect someone like Harry (you know, an authority figure) to bring up drugs, or he just doesn't think like that in the first place. A one-time hangover isn't the same thing as tapping into the party-pipeline, is it?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Abort: the kid is lame as fuck. Total square.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — LAME?! Was Contact Mike lame? No, son. He's a pro. Homo Athleticus. And you're the fat asshole blowing second-hand smoke at him.

Something in Harry's expression changes. He looks sheepish.]

Sorry. [He presses his lips together, mouth forming a tight line as he pushes the cigarette back into the packet. It bends a little.] I should'a asked before I started, uh— [Smoking? That's what the weird finger wave seems to stand in for.] I do shit without thinking sometimes. Good for you, man.

[He sounds like he means it.]

You were a professional, right? You ever miss it?

Mmm, no, it’s cool, [ Tidus slips in at the apology, a quick shake of his head. Not that he doesn’t mind seeing a person not going for a smoke, but he wasn’t going to dictate how Harry lived his life. And he couldn’t really stick his nose up about it after his late night in bars; getting drunk just to get into fights, the second hand smoke in those.

But hey, he isn’t about to suggest he should go back for that cigarette either. Tidus lets his gaze rise to the ceiling with the question instead, pondering it for a second. ]

Sure. I mean, I miss it altogether, y’know? But...I like it isn’t here. [ He tips his head with a lean, gives a halfhearted shrug of his shoulders. ] Nowadays. I wouldn’t play it even if it were. It’d be…. wrong. [ He frowns, angling his face to look at Harry. ] Like I’m messing around when I should be caring about other things. Not going along with what the city wants.

[ Just being normal. Too normal. Getting distracted a second time. ]

Anyway, there’s no point missing what you can’t go back to. [ His voice lightens, his face brightening some just to match it. Not a smile, but a I'm fine with it. ] I’ve gotta think about the now.

Did you ever miss being a coach? What did you teach anyway? Any sports?

[It makes sense, when Tidus says it like that, but... well, Harry's never really made a habit of letting things go. Still, he hums softly, hearing it, and nods his head like he gets it.

His hands, meanwhile, haven't stilled since he returned the cigarette. His fingers are drumming along to the music on the top of his undamaged thigh. It's like he doesn't know what to do when he's not holding something.

As for his illustrious sporting career?]

I dunno. I haven't taught gym for, what, eighteen years?

[It's one of the thoughts he's been working on since arriving here. One he keeps returning to, rather than resolving. Coach Du Bois. Who the fuck was he back then?

At first, all he remembered was the squeaky sound of sneakers and the feeling of his bruised knee pressed against a mat. The stale smell of sweat and rubber. Now he has more. It's still not a complete picture, but there are half-remembered surnames on the tip of his tongue. The highs and lows of games won and lost. Very little gender sensitivity.]

I did a little of everything. Baseball, rugby, boxing... [He begins ticking off on his fingers.] Athletics, obviously — so track, high-jump, shotput... that kinda thing.

[He sighs, leans forward and slides down onto his feet, then. Rolls his shoulders as he pads past the pack of pilsner and over to the reel-player.]

Pretty sure I loved it. I grew up in Jamrock. Had a gang and everything. We used to, uh— [He huffs out a laugh - something in that space between fondness and embarrassment.] Let's just say we did a lot of petty shit. The Fifteenth Indotribe - a bunch of dumb kids set to rule Insulinde. [He shakes his head as he begins shifting his thumb down the small stack of reels sat in front of him.] Only problem was, I went and got my head turned. There was a boxer. A real underdog. Seeing him fight, I remember it felt like I opened my eyes for the first time. Like I could see a way out. [He pauses, and pulls one of the reels free. Stands looking at it for a moment.] Got obsessed, took up boxing and the rest was history.

[He ended up getting into teaching while the rest of the Indotribe simply ended. Car accidents or overdoses, mostly. Not that he's going to sour the air by telling Tidus that.

There's a click as he presses a button on the player, and a faint whir as the OO (at long last) fall silent. He begins the labourious process of swapping the reels over.]

I think I liked passing some of that focus to other kids.

[ Tidus had swivelled in the chair to follow Harry, but after that found a moment to kick his feet under him, crossed, just to give himself a different sitting position. ]

You still got any moves? [ But more importantly are the few jabs to the air he’s decided to accompany his question, quick small things to punctuate his interest. Fists lingering in place when he stops, a cheer keeping in his voice. ]

I saw one of those boxing rings when I was looking for a gym to join. Didn’t know what boxing was until then. [ And it’s been staring him in the face for a while now, but now that he thinks about it… ] I guess it’s actually strange to only have one sport? I thought this place had so many ‘cause of everyone being from everywhere, but… you know a lot too.

[ Huh. What would it have been like to be in a class like that? He can’t remember which one is meant to be baseball, which one rugby. And shotput? What even is that? Tidus wants to ask, but he also wants to ask about Jamrock; or a certain style affiliated to it.

So you know -- maybe one thing at a time. ]

[Harry throws Tidus a wolfish grin at that. He can't help it.]

I've been saving most of the moves for the dance floor... but I still got a pretty good hook, yeah. [He reaches for a sleeve and hikes it up his shoulder. Cue him absolutely shamelessly flexing.] Check it: Revacholian steel, baby!

[...It's one of the few parts of his body he hasn't managed to fuck up yet, okay? Even that chiseled jaw he prides himself on has a layer of alcohol bloat trying to camouflage it. Harrier Du Bois got guns, and his fragile ego needs people to know it.]

But, uh — [He clears his throat and lets his arm flop back down. Not embarrassed, exactly, but it's like he's trying to switch back into the version of himself that can actually talk to people like a human being.] Yeah, Elysium had hundreds of sports. [He finishes loading the reels and waves his hand.] Hell, maybe thousands if you're looking at variations. [With that, he turns and rests his back against the wall. He hasn't clicked play yet.] You sure you only had the one?

Whoa-whoa!

[ He leans back as Harry produces the weaponry as if they're danger, a massive grin on his face, and he does have to admit: Harry has got some solid meat to him. But this was the same guy who was keeping a fast pace despite gut and injuries.

Guy should totally give up the smokes and drink. ]

Yup, just the one. Inside and outta Zanarkand. [ Now that he's actually turned to see it than just hear the music, Tidus is watching the reel player instead, interested to see how it works; a little distracted as he goes on. ] But things might be different now with Sin gone. Yuna told me people are trying to uncover their history now, and there's people called sphere hunters. Your memories can turn into them, and apparently there's things you can do with them, or sell them if the content's good. And some people are using machines more.

[ For his talk about leaving the past in the past, he's gleeful as he shares the overhaul of Spira taking place -- the bits and pieces of it that he knows. ]

Who knows what'll happen now? That world's really gonna change.

Memory spheres, huh?

[Harry snorts softly, then shakes his head. He's pulling a kind of mock-bewildered expression - something to quickly illustrate just how alien a concept that is to a guy like him.

He likes the idea of it, though. That memories could be quite literally recaptured like that. There's a physicality to it that appeals even to the savage art critic buried deep inside his skull.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — My mind lets go a thousand things, like dates of wars and deaths of kings...

Cool, thanks. It sure does.

But more importantly:]

Good to know there's a pricetag on that, too. [He winks, giving a rueful smile.] The golem of the capital keeps on feeding.

[He leans across and clicks the play button like he didn't just make this political again. There's a quiet, rumbling buzz as the speakers come alive.

With a quick gesture to said speakers,]

Guillaume le Million. [That smile turns in another grin. If the name doesn't rhyme, you're not pronouncing it properly.] Revachol's second greatest disco artist.

[ It’s the kind of political commentary to shoot over any sheltered kid's head, Tidus meeting it with a quizzical smile, a matching brow -- not sure of the problem, and not getting the opportunity to ask. Nor his second about disco and is that what this is called?, when the first word not the artist’s name gets said.

Revachol? The same Revachol he's only heard about today? ]

Wait, these are from home? Your home, where you’re from?

[ He’s pointing at the player, as if it’s necessary. As if there will be any other confusion than his own. ]

This ain't. [He pats the edge of player like its a dog, not a beaten-down second-hand relic.] Or if it is, I don't know the brand. Speed's a little wrong, but a reel's a reel, so it'll do for now. I ever manage to save more than booze money, first thing I'm doing is putting a request in for a Harmon Wowshi. [A beat.] Y'know, a boombox.

[He doesn't even wanna think about how much this place would overcharge for something like that, but... he misses blasting things while he's out and about. Here, he wants to relive Revachol's disco history, he's stuck doing it in his pig-pen.]

Back home, I got one for four Reál... which is one less than the cheapest bottle of wine.

[Yep, alcohol's apparently his go-to unit of measurement. Go figure.]

These, though? [He taps the small stack of cylinders beside the player and gives a small, affirmative nod. Smiles in a way that's just a little hopeful.] Why, you like 'em?

It's -- different, [ Tidus offers, in that raised pitch of someone trying to find something amicable and quick to say (and it's exactly that). It is different (and odd), but actually giving it more thought than that can be saved for later. He waves the hand still out. ]

That's not what I'm talking about. Did you find 'em in the city? Where'd you get them? [ Wait. Let him clarify this better: ] There's just stuff from your home here?

[ Is that a thing? ]

[That hopeful smile Harry's wearing winces into something closer to a grimace. Disco... isn't exactly popular in Revachol, either. It hasn't been since the twenties and thirties, back when The New was a thing, and everyone called each other baby. Harry's what you call an 'outdated disco-holdover'. He'd been holding out for the possibility that without all of the historical context, Tidus might actually be able to appreciate it.

"Different" stings a little, okay?

As Tidus tries to clarify, Harry's hand edges over to the player again, thumb sloooowly sliding down on the volume knob sticking out from it. Guillaume le Million's velvet voice creeps ever downwards.]

I mean... sure? [He pulls his hand from the player to reach up and smooth down his facial hair. It's... absolutely a self-conscious gesture.] These babies came with me, but it's not like you don't see any of it on the shelves. [With a soft snort:] Hell, I saw some Man from Hjelmdall merch up in a pawn-shop last week. Pretty sure that drivel's a Revachol original.

[ Harry actually had music on him? Tidus can’t fathom why, but the reason’s unnecessary to ask when he instead thinks: What was he holding before he came here? What could he have right now?

There was Brotherhood, his sword, but he of course he wouldn’t have that; as if the Head would let him keep a weapon. The memory spheres of his father... but he left them on the airship before they went inside Sin. There was no point in bringing them when he was finally going to see his old man for real.

And...it wouldn’t have mattered if he had, or if the Heart would’ve allowed him the sword, would it? He wouldn’t have had them. He couldn't have had them.

He couldn’t even hold Yuna. How could he hold a blade, or even one of his father's memory spheres?

His gaze drops from the player and Harry, hardly listening, but still the words catch in his ears -- in a pawn-shop last week -- enough for him to recognise what Harry is saying. Head snapping up, he speaks without caring about tone, an insistence to it that borders on a plea. Is a plea, hopeful and hoping. ]

Can you show me sometime? The pawn-shop -- can you take me?

[Harry - breaking out of his reverie around disco's heyday - blinks stupidly at what strikes him a sudden, blindingly sincere request. There was a mood change there and he missed it.]

The pawn-shop? [Good old repetition to pad out the time required for his brain to play catch up.] Uh... sure. Yeah, man. No problem.

[His eyes drift over to the phone he left sat on his mess of bed sheets. It strikes him that he has no idea what time it is, and therefore no idea whether or not the place would even be open.]

Sometime after work, maybe?

[He'd suggest before, first thing in the morning, but dragging Tidus around in the midst of some brutal hangover sounds hellish, frankly.]

[ Harry agrees, and for all that Tidus wanted him to, joy doesn’t exactly succeed it, but a feeling akin to a buzzing in his chest, or stomach. Somewhere in there.

But -- what will he find? Anything? Music from Zanarkand? Trinkets, any signs that his home used to once … be. Existed. A life he was ready to forget. ]

Yeah.

[ His reply as lightheaded as the rest of him, Tidus untucks his legs from under himself, a small ache in his calves as his feet meet the ground. There’s a stiffer ache in the rest of him, and it takes a second for his blood to circulate in all the right places, his mind to figure out some string of words. ]

I should get going. I… thanks for this, Harry. Our chat. You, uh… you can tell me what’s a good day for everything. [ His nods his head aside, remembering somehow to lower his voice; remembering maybe a little too late. ] The other thing too.

[ --The feeling, it's ether apprehension or anticipation.

Both similar, but he can't tell which. ]

[It doesn't take much for Harry to put himself in Tidus's shoes, and guess why his tone changed all of the sudden. Not now he's had a moment to think, anyway.

Although he sees his heraldic bird as a cockatoo of all things, a magpie might better represent the man he's become. At least in that he's arrived here having hoarded every piece of shrapnel that struck him as interesting. Tidus likely didn't have the fortune of coming in with a jacket overstuffed with books, reels and useless plastic figurines.

Yet for all he can sympathize on that particular score, he still gets an unpleasant lurch as Tidus announces his departure.

INLAND EMPIRE — He's leaving?

Harry simply stares for a moment, jaw set firmly. Then he nods, because object permanence is a thing and he's an adult and people leave all the time. That's normal.]

Sure. [Casual. Cool. He's not a co-dependent piece of shit.] I'll call you.

[He pushes himself away from the wall and gives a wide, sweeping gesture as he approaches the door. A come on, hop to it.]

You look after yourself, okay?

[closed]

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cw for drug mentions/heavier focus on alcoholism

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