no emotion that's worth having

SAMUEL i am the ocean, crawling madly at your moon. and with one wanton whoop — The routine was beginning to settle in again. It was odd how quickly it happened, Sam finding that somewhere in the weeks after his return to the Hollowed Grounds, he went from feeling out of place and strange to feeling once more like this was his home, the once-familiar streets showing themselves to him again and life in the Grounds returning to being his own. Occasionally he would remember his time in Torchline, which now almost felt like a dream that ended a nightmare; his heart did ache for the beach and the friends he'd made there. It had been a great shame how he had had to leave, deserting Zeph, Milo, Vervain...but he had had no choice given the situation. He tried to tell himself that every time, but it was hard to resist the temptation of thinking that one day, he might go back (though the face of James, which inevitably appeared in these daydreams, was the best deterrent he could imagine). These thoughts often occurred as he did something monotonous and easy to drift away while he was doing, like dusting down the shelves. The books needed to be removed, the shelf wiped down front and back then the books themselves, then everything replaced; it wasn't uncommon for him to become completely enraptured with his thoughts during this process and finding at some point, hours later, that the shelves were clean. Humming something tuneless to himself absentmindedly, he was beginning to move the books back into the shelves, hardly in the bookstore in his mind, considering places he had been and where he had yet to go. — i melt into a sycophantic soup, & all that's left to do, is giggle, fawn, and swoon.

Zeph

Blame the portals for your lack of visits. Blame the fact that you went on a boat, that you've been busy with Vai and Felix moving in, that people were sick and you helped take over. Blame whatever you damn well please: end of the day the thing that sticks is that you haven't visited Red since he left with only a weird and concerning note, making you a patently bad friend.

But you're here now. The Hollowed Grounds continue to be just... sad, dreary and cold and a far cry from the boisterous color and sunlight of home. You've managed to snag a high-collared coat and a cozy hat, from which you glare at anyone you pa. Which makes it incredibly difficult to get directions to the bookstore. Which makes you have to be outside longer. Which makes you cold, which makes you grumpy, which...

I think the image is coming clear.

Finally you find the store. You don't bother to knock - it's a business, after all - but push your way in, exhaling a sigh of relief as the relative warmth of the store rushes into your tired bones. With your hat pulled low and your collar pulled up you're nearly unrecognizable. You make your way to a display stand while waiting for Red, pulling down a book at random and flipping through the pages as you wait for your fingers to thaw.

(No, it's not even particularly cold. Yes, you are a huge wimp.)

you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness

SAMUEL i am the ocean, crawling madly at your moon. and with one wanton whoop — Sam heard someone come in just as he was placing a book on a very high shelf in the back of the store; he focused on putting it away before he turned to look to see who it was, having to reach up quite high and balance to get in the right spot. When he finally did turn, at first he didn't think anything of it, not recognising the man in the hat and coat but not thinking much of it. He began to walk past, headed to his desk; it was only when he got close, saw the face, that he stopped and stared. "Zeph?" Sam was so shocked to see him he didn't move any further, only stood and watched the sudden surprise visitor; he had thought he might never see Zeph again after he'd left, had already mourned for the lost friendship and opportunities there. "It is you! What are you doing here?" He began to laugh, happy to see him (even if there would be things to explain) and moved a step forward to place a hand on Zeph's shoulder. — i melt into a sycophantic soup, & all that's left to do, is giggle, fawn, and swoon.

Zeph

Doesn't take long for Sam to turn up, and you can't help but exhale a sigh of relief to see him looking (relatively) well - and certainly better than the last time you crossed his path. You return the book you've grabbed to a shelf, giving the Ascended your full attention. "Hey, Red," you greet with a crooked half-smile, looking the kid up and down for any evidence of wounds or lingering sickness. "Ya look a sight better'n last time."

Sam puts a hand on your shoulder and you respond with far more gusto, pulling him into a brief, tight hug and patting him on the back. When you release him one large hand lingers, holding him steady as you peer into those bright blue eyes, reassuring yourself once again that he's okay. "Whaddya mean, what'm I doin' here? Enjoyin' th'fine scenery'a th'Grounds, a'course."

you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness

SAMUEL i am the ocean, crawling madly at your moon. and with one wanton whoop — It took Sam a moment to recall that the last time Zeph had seen him he had probably been sick, but he didn't remember much of the actual meeting; just knew that at some point in that haze there had been Zeph's voice and face, but it had faded away like everything else. "I um...I think you looked after me for a while, then, so thank you. I don't remember it, but I'm sure you did." The sudden hug was a very welcome surprise indeed and Sam welcomed it, hugging Zeph tight back and pressing his face into the mans shoulder; he had missed him terribly, the man having swiftly become not just a close friend but also an oddly father-like figure to Sam (which was, potentially, a little weird given how he'd started off feeling about Zeph, but such was life). "Oh, of course. What did you call the Spire? The big black--well. I'm sure you remember." While his voice was chipper enough, if Zeph was using Sam's eyes as an indication of his wellbeing he would be discouraged; he didn't quite meet his eyes at any point, looking mostly down at the floor, scared that somehow if he looked up there might be an obvious sign of his crime in his face. "Would you like some tea? I have some of the ones from Torchline here still..." — i melt into a sycophantic soup, & all that's left to do, is giggle, fawn, and swoon.

Zeph

'I'm sure you did. Heh. Well if that isn't an odd thing to hear, causing your old withered heart to squeeze tight with some bizarre and uncomfortable cross between Awww, fuck, and Aw, fuck. Y'know. That oh-I'm-turning-soft feeling. The kind that people who tell themselves that they aren't soft but absolutely are get all the time.

Like you.

Anyway. So maybe there's a little more heat in your face then usual when you break off the hug, and maybe you quickly busy yourself with looking around the shop, grunting a laugh as Red kind of recounts your nickname for the Spire. But you come back to him soon enough, and when he doesn't meet your eyes in return it squeezes you again. You want to ask what's going on, but hold off for the moment. "Anythin' stronger?" you wonder instead, raising an eyebrow and following Sam towards wherever he's going to get the tea from.

Only when you're situated, leaning on a tabletop or counter and freed of your lingering self-consciousness do you broach the real concern you have, trying to sound nonchalant. "So. Letter ya left- what's that shit about?"

you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness

SAMUEL i am the ocean, crawling madly at your moon. and with one wanton whoop — "I don't keep alcohol around...after all, I can't get anything from it." Sam headed over to his tea tray, sorting through various bags and containers to find something he thought suitable (he enjoyed trying to match a tea to the person - for Zeph he settled on a woody, heavy tea from Torchline, dark and smooth). "Surely you can handle one drink without a shot in it?" He asked, looking back with a little smirk. He was getting out cups, busying his hands with the work, when Zeph asked him about the letter; Sam froze for a moment. He could hardly remember what he had written, he had been so away from himself throughout the illness; had he confessed to his crime in it? Trying desperately to seem nonchalant, he picked up the kettle and went to put it on the fire as he asked, eyes not on Zeph at all now: "I'm afraid I don't really remember what I put in it..the sickness really fogged up my mind. What do you mean?" — i melt into a sycophantic soup, & all that's left to do, is giggle, fawn, and swoon.

Zeph

Caaaaaan you handle a drink without a shot in it? You're not sure, though the tea does smell pleasant without the burning aroma of whiskey to cut it. Grumbling loudly in response, you settle deeper into your lean, watching with keen eyes as Sam goes about his work - for all the world just as comfortable as a clam in a cookpot. It's... weird, given how much he always said he hated this place, but you suppose you ought to be happy for him.

You're just a little worried is all. Y'know. Like a friend.

"Th'one ya sent me seemed coherent enough." The counter is a little uneven; you frown at it, as though it has personally offended you, and rub your thumb over the groove. "'I was sick, I'm leavin' Torchline forever, ya can visit but I ain't botherin' sayin' goodbye, etcetera etcetera.'"

So it turns out you're a bit more hurt than you realized by Sam's abrupt departure from your life. Big deal. Anyone would be. It definitely doesn't say anything about the abandonment issues you absolutely do not have.

Sucking in a breath, you look back up at Sam, schooling away the hurt and replacing it with annoyance. "It ain't that one I'm worried 'bout, though. It's what ya sent Milo." Your eyes narrow; how much of that missive does the kid remember? And how much of the alarming contents were anything close to true?

you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness

SAMUEL i am the ocean, crawling madly at your moon. and with one wanton whoop — Sam flinched with the kettle as Zeph recounted the letter; he was sure he hadn't said he couldn't be bothered to say goodbye. Sighing and forcing his hand down gently he turned towards Zeph, seeing now that there were perhaps some hurt feelings (which he should have expected, really). "It...it wasn't that, Zeph. Something happened." And there it was; the letter he'd sent Milo. Sam stood still, tea forgotten about for the moment, fiddling with his clothes and staring at the floor. "Yes, well. I got into some trouble...very bad trouble. In Torchline. I had to leave, or..." He thought of the anger, the hate in Amalia's eyes, the way he'd been so certain he was going to be taken to prison, executed before the town. "Things were going to go very wrong. I made a mistake and this is...this is how I have to pay for it." Sam blinked away tears, knowing that Zeph would ask what he had done. The best answer he could give, quietly and shaking in tone, was: "I hurt somebody by accident while I was sick." — i melt into a sycophantic soup, & all that's left to do, is giggle, fawn, and swoon.

Zeph

"What kinda trouble?" you demand gruffly, trying to ignore the burn of hurt that still sears somewhere in your belly. The last time someone left you a letter like that her body never washed to shore- but whatever. Sam ain't dead, so you got that going for you, which is nice.

You try to relax your fidgeting on the countertop, only to bark a laugh of surprise and disbelief when the deep dark secret is revealed. Catching yourself quickly you shake your head, trying to cover your mouth with the back of your hand. "Sorry, Red, I jus- you? Hurt somebody?"

Another shake of your head, and you can feel tension leaving you. You thought... well, truth be told you don't know what you thought, but now you're utterly confident this is a misunderstanding and overreaction on Sam's part. "Aw, c'mon, I saw ya sick. Worst ya coulda done was give 'em a nasty scratch, or a bad hickey."

you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness

SAMUEL i am the ocean, crawling madly at your moon. and with one wanton whoop — Sam was expecting Zeph to understand from his voice the gravity and seriousness of the situation, just how grim and dark the truth was; the laugh was a surprise, and one that nearly offended him, the bookmaker looking up with a face that could only be described as 'grumpy' which would likely only further add to Zeph's doubt that he could have hurt anybody. "No, Zeph. It was more than that." At first Sam had wanted to avoid this entirely, to not tell anyone, but now he found himself wanting to prove to Zeph that he could do something like that - that he was bad enough, messed up enough. As the familiar thick choking feeling came to his throat, he knew what he was doing wasn't healthy, wouldn't be good...but he kept doing it anyway, already picturing his friends face as he said it. "I ki-killed someone. By accident, but I still did it. On the beach. S...someone saw, too, so I had to leave. So they wouldn't arrest me." — i melt into a sycophantic soup, & all that's left to do, is giggle, fawn, and swoon.

Zeph

In your defense, Sam has a pattern of making himself and the things he does seem like The Absolute Worst. In his mind, at least. So while you school your amusement appropriately, you still aren't particularly convinced by his grumpy face and protests.

You turn so your hip is against the counter, waiting for Sam to elaborate. At first your face is carefully neutral, though as he goes on a small frown tightens the lines between your brows. It's the only indication of your thoughts, however, until you speak again. "What happened, Red?" you question gently, arms crossed over your chest. You haven't heard of Sam having murdered someone, and figure that sort of news would get around. Does the 'Biter know?"

you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness

SAMUEL i am the ocean, crawling madly at your moon. and with one wanton whoop — It felt better to see Zeph taking him seriously, though Sam still had to speak around a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes, knowing what he would have to admit to. This could very well be the end of his relationship with Zeph, someone who had meant a lot to him in a short time; he wasn't ready to lose more, but he couldn't lie either. "I was sick...and when I was sick, I was just constantly so thirsty." It had been awful. Constant dryness and feeling almost unable to speak, weak and needy for blood every second of the day, the impulses he usually tried to supress in the forefront of his mind. "I was on the beach and there was this man...um...J..James?" Everything from that time was such a blur it was hard to keep it all straight - he glanced at Zeph to look for any recognition, then cast his eyes to the floor for the rest of it. "He offered for me to drink from him. Um, because of the...well, what it does to people. So I did, but..." His hands came up to push into his hair, pulling a little, just enough so he could feel the pressure on his scalp. "I didn't...I didn't know how to stop. It was just...it was the only good thing I'd had in months, but it felt like years, and nothing felt real, and...and he..." Sam shook his head and his hands went to wrap around himself. He was sure Zeph could figure out the rest. "I don't know if Sunjata knows. Amalia saw me." — i melt into a sycophantic soup, & all that's left to do, is giggle, fawn, and swoon.

Zeph

You listen in silence. Sure, there's a flicker of recognition at the mention of James, and your eyes widen - momentarily - in surprise, but for the most part you are carefully stoic, your expression schooled, your almond eyes revealing nothing, as calm as you might have been if he was telling you about a particularly dull encounter with an old woman on a Leafchange afternoon.

Inside, you're losing your gods-damned mind.

You're patient. You're calm. You've seen some shit in your time. Death... you aren't a stranger to death, nor murder, if we're being real. And you've seen kids a lot stronger break under a lot less. It's only when he seems to be done that you exhale a long, slow breath, unclenching your arms and raking one hand thoughtfully through your hair while the other comes to rest on the countertop. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck-a-duck. What a fucking clusterfuck.

"Right. K. Here's what we're gonna do." Straightening, you begin to pace, moving back and forth from counter to books. "I'll talk to Jata, get this mess cleared up. Ya fucked up. It happens. An' then y'can come back t'Torchline, an' stay outta th'way'a all this war nonsense."

you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness