December 4, 2009
Late night shenanigans! Might as well be Dris's middle name. If ... he had one. Which he didn't. But with Rhydin being such a great town, almost as great as Vegas, that never sleeps.... There he was wandering through the Marketplace half drunk. Not fully drunk. Probably because at some point previously in the evening he had stopped off somewhere to puke, and started all over. He had a bottle of scotch in his hand. Lord only knew which of the many bars he visited that night it had come from.
In truth, Sinjin worried about Dris, perhaps more so than Dris's currently absent lover: his drinking was getting bad again, and while it was no concern of Sinjin, he knew what alcoholism looked like and how ugly it could be. Leaning in the mouth of a gloomy alleyway, the Spaniard sucked on the last of his cigarette as he watched the bard move down the street. No Icarus. This was his best opportunity. From the dark came Sin's voice: "Evening, Dris."
Dris was singing, of course. Swaying to the tune of something vaguely Sinatra-ish. He forgot half the words and hummed them in part. Gods only knew what that last word was that got cut off when, passing by the mouth of an alley, he discovered it had greeted him. He turned, staggered back a step, and blinked owlishly at the dark. "'Elloooo... alley?"
The sinner stepped out of the dark and gave the bard a disarming smile, pleasant as always. "What? Don't recognize your own almost-son-in-law?"
"Arienh's en-- oh." When Dris thought of children, his daughter was the first to come to mind. Not Salvador. That O shape stuck on his lips and he swayed in place, squinting up one eye to peer at Sin skeptically. "Psssssssh. Y'ain't gettin' married... Are you? Em. Right. 'Lo, Sin."
"I might as well be." Sin slung an arm around Dris's shoulders lazily. "We've been together for-- what? Four? Five years now?"
"Ye're gon' gimme 'n 'eart attack sayin' shite li'e tha'." Dris made a face and pitched right on in against the sinner's side. Hello sturdy body! That was nice. He took a swig from his bottle of scotch, then remembered to politely, if not also sloppily, offer it up to Sin in case he wanted a drink.
Sin plucked up the bottle, taking a swig as he guided Dris along, the bard tucked against him like that. "Hey, there are worse ways to die." He grinned.
He was easily led along; it was just the way Dris was. Malleable. Pliant. Totally oblivious. Sin was way too good at blocking himself off, which was nice for a change to the bard's uncontrolled and wide open senses. His arm slid around the sinner's waist all of its own accord as they meandered along. All buddy-buddy! "S'pose there might be... 'Eeeey. I know this bar uppa road 'ere? S'ladies what work there're reeeeal frien'ly. Wanna come?"
When situations like this occurred, Sin was always calm, calculated; he might be the jester some nights, the bastard or the lover another, but in the end, Sinjin Fai turned the screws. "Dris," he drawled, smiling, "I know a fantastic bar down the way a piece that I've wanted to show you for ages. This way--" He pointed down one of the road and began to drag the bard in that direction as he spoke.
"Oooh?" The bard's interest was of course immediately piqued. Not the least bit suspicious, because Dris is a big, big dummy. He wavered when steered off course, but fortunately had the sinner's support guiding him along.
There are worse ways to die, Sin thought again, feeling the weight of something against his side, the one away from Dris. "So how are things, anyway? I don't see you very often, what with Icarus being -- well, you know."
"Icarus's..." Dris made a face again, reaching for the bottle of scotch. "'e's a might bit pr'tective, eh? But things're good. S'true..." He pouted. "I don' see much o' ye. Or Sal. 'ow's 'e doin' anyhow? Y'know... Y'know 'e promised t'be 'round more af'er...? When 'is da was gone. 'e promised."
The bottle was in the sinner's other hand, far away from the bard. "I told him not to go see you, Dris." The statement came out as warmly and casually as the rest of his previous conversation; he was watching the road ahead of them with half-lidded eyes.
So he was trying to walk and reach around the sinner at the same time, which made for an awkward attempt at walking. This was more stumbling, and then somewhat falling when he tripped over his own two feet. Caught short by Sin's testimony. "Why'd y'go an' do a bloody thin' like that?"
"Because I don't want him to see you. I want you to realize the gravity of what you've really done, Sheridan." Sin's walk slowed. The street he lead Dris down was still: all the windows were dark and empty, the sky above overcast with impending rain. Sin glanced at the bottle again, just as casual as before, and took another drink. "That boy," Sinjin murmured as he lowered the bottle, "is the last thing Carmine gave you. And I don't think you deserve it." As calm as he was, his honesty was harsh.
Well, hell. The use of that name had him pulling away from the sinner. Pushing a hand against his chest and ducking out from under his arm. Forget the bottle! Regardless of how sobering a statement that was, his name tacked on like that stabbed harder home. His brows knit fiercely together and his mouth hung open in stunned disbelief. Dris staggered up against a wall and shook his head to make sure he was hearing Sin right. "Whut...? Whut'n the name o' all the gods on 'igh're y'talkin' 'bout, Sin?"
"Two weeks ago, Jaycy walked into a ring with Salvador holding a sword of cold-forged iron. She tossed it aside and fought him with honor. However, she failed to realize that by doing so.. she gave every person watching that duel the ammunition to bring Salvador's permanent death."
Sin paused, turning his eyes toward Dris again. "Salvador, who is regarded with fear. Salvador, who they believe will murder them. Salvador, the enemy." He paused again, taking a step toward the bard without aggression. "But she didn't really give that ammunition to them, Sheridan. You did. To a community of warriors, of men and women with ill intent. Because.. you thought he would kill her?" Sinjin raised his eyebrows with a frown, sincerely curious. "Do you think Carmine's son really lacks that much honor, Sheridan? Is he really the monster?"
All this with calm -- so much calm. He only watched the bard, waited for his answer.
Oh. Well, hell. Dris quickly looked aside guiltily, as soon as the verbal barrage started with its opening lines. You could see it, though, in those blue eyes. Even in the dark. A couple dozen memories being sifted through. That morning on the couch with Jaycy. Yeah, somewhere in his befuddled half-drunken mind, he remembered that. The emphasis on the 'you' had him backing up flush against the wall as if Sin had physically struck him. "I... She..."
Shutting his eyes, the bard lifted a hand up to his own throat, remembering. "'E tried killin' me, Sin." Finding a backbone. Finding his nerve, he dropped his hand away and looked at the sinner with a frown that just never, ever belonged on his face. "I didn' know what 'e'd do, but 'e ain't 'uman! I was jus' givin' 'er the know 'ow t'defend 'erself fairly in a fight 'gainst 'im."
"Why did he attack you, Sheridan?" Sin asked simply, taking another step forward. "Because you slapped him -- because you provoked him at a time where he has to use every atom in his body restraining the urge to kill and feast? Did you even talk to him first? Your own son?"
Dris stuttered a lot of syllables here and there. It wasn't easy to be angry when he couldn't get a word in edgewise. The sinner paused again and the frown remained. "No. You didn't. You rebuked him, like you always do. You turn him away, your little monster child, and send him to the dirt. Because they're right, you think. All those people who watch him out of the corner of their eyes. They're justified -- and why not? He isn't yours. He never was."
Sin beat him to his own outburst before it could blossom fully. No, Salvador wasn't his son. In fact, it made Dris all kinds of uncomfortable whenever anyone suggested it. Like that previous tidbit about Sin being his near son-in-law. That whole marriage thing made him uncomfortable too, but that wasn't nearly as important. His mouth moved, and he tried to speak.
Sinjin stalled again, his head tipped to one side. "Did you wonder, Sheridan? Did you even consider what drove him to that point? Did you know about how the Nightmare Keeper has found him again, and how he's been torturing his waking dreams? Did you comfort him when he cried, when madness drove him to hurt the very people he cared about? Did you try to help him?" The serenity of his voice was unnerving; the honesty was unwavering. "No," he murmured quietly. "No. You slapped him. And it isn't the physical hurt that really matters; it's the message that went behind it. Your apathy."
Oooh, gods be damned he tried to say something throughout it all, but the sinner kept on going, and the more he kept saying the more steadily the bard's temper dwindled away and away until it just went poof. "My ... apathy?" What!? He was floored by that accusation!
"You don't care. You'll remember later, someday, when he dies, and you lose every connection you have left to Carmine, and you wonder what Carmine saw in him, why he cared about him. But I don't intend to wait for that. And that's why, Sheridan -- that's why I'm done with you." From his trench coat, Sinjin withdrew something familiar: a plain black cane with a silver cap at the top, worn by time.
Wow. That hurt. Underneath that was a whole assload of confusion. Some of the things Sin had said didn't make sense. He might have had a thought to ask questions, but... But that was such a final statement. He didn't even have the strength to tell him to stop freaking calling him that name!
Dris sank back against the wall again, thoroughly defeated. Who needed a sword or a gun? Who needed a gang to beat up on him? Sin knew just how to cut, and deeply, without ever lifting a finger. His mind was in turmoil over it all. It didn't seem right to think that Sal could cry; he'd never seen the boy cry. It didn't seem right to think that he had feelings; he never felt them. "I... I didn't know." He hung his head, really quite ashamed. What he felt now was almost as bad as that night... The last time Sin had paid him a visit. He felt that low, again. Nodding weakly, he turned against the wall. All right then. Time to start walking. Or scraping along the wall as the case may be. "Bye, Sin."
"Jaycy had honor," Sin murmured, the cane catching the light. "And so I'll have the same. But this is the last time -- unless you earn it." He threw the canesword down at Dris's feet. "Prove me wrong, Sheridan. Prove me wrong and start caring about your damned son. This--" He lifted the bottle again, tossing it to the ground where it shattered. "--this isn't going to fix your life. Neither will Icarus. No one will bring Carmine back. So start seeing what he left for you."
The clatter of the cane stopped his movement. That made him flinch and so did the shattering bottle. With a forearm the only thing holding him up against the wall, he hung there, suspended in time and... sniveling. "He's not..." He lifted his other arm up over his eyes, which were -- thank you so much, Sin -- swollen to the brim with tears. He was crying like the great big emotional wreck of a man that he was. Sniffling and sobbing through every choked up hush word, shaking. He shattered apart as profoundly as that damned bottle, and turned to shout through his tears. To defy every word the sinner said. "He ain't my son! And don't you dare! Don't you dare?lecture me 'bout fixin' my life. My life ended when his did, Sinjin! An' I know... I know Ica can't fix it! Why? Why'd ye 'ave t'go an' pull me outta the tub, Sin! Why couldn't y'just let me die!?"
"No, it didn't. Because you're still here. I'm not lecturing you about fixing your life, Sheridan. I'm asking you to start realizing that there are still reasons to live." Between them on the ground, the sword began to hum with power and want; Sinjin ignored it. "Ultimately, your life is your own. You'll do with it what you want, and you've turned into an awfully selfish man in that regard. But I'm asking you to start thinking about how your apathy starts to effect the people who care about you. You might not care about your life, but you can't tell me there aren't others who don't care about you.. even those you treat poorly." Sinjin set his hands in his pockets.
Dris ignored the sword too. "My life's my own? Really? Hah! That's a laugh." He threw up his hands, scoffing bitterly despite the continued onslaught of tears leaking out his eyes. "Ye've no idea what it's like fer me, Sin. My life ain't been my own since the day I was bloody born!" He took a step closer, counting them off on his fingers with harsh emphasis.
"M' mother? She wanted me t'be like 'er. T'succeed where she failed. So what'd she do? She taught me t'sing, an' t'play. T'defy what m'father wanted, an' b'tween the two of 'em she 'ad more sway." That was one. Two? "M'sister? She wanted me t'play a game with 'er. On 'er sweet sixteen. T'wear out 'er dress instead of 'erself." Three. "Tha' bloody Frenchman we met at the bar? 'E wanted t'see 'ow much a pretty young thing could drink afore 'e carted 'er up to 'is room so 'e could **** 'er. An' when 'e found out she weren't a she? That didn't matter much to 'im either." Four and five. "Lynet an' Nealie? They both wanted a piece o' the charmin' young sair Driscol at the same time. An' they got it. Nine months later they both wanted t'marry 'im. Well... That they didn't get."
Six. "Every thrice be damned pretty young face from 'ere t' th'other side o' the world... worlds... all of 'em. They all wanted a piece o' me, an' they all got it." Seven, eight... He didn't have enough fingers. "Valleana? She wanted me. She got me. Nine months later she wanted a 'usband too. An' then comes Carmine. Back intah m'life. When fer years ... years, Sin ... I thought 'e was gone fer good. Mayhaps e'en dead." And now he was.
"And yet," Sin continued, unphased, "and yet, with all that -- with all that knowing of how cruel life and family could be -- there's a boy you know, a boy who through his interactions is convinced his lot in life is a tool. Some ask him to kill. Others to use his fae abilities until it drives him mad. He is a thing to be used, too -- that's what he's convinced, after all, and if it's proven true time and time again, how can they be wrong?"
Sin's eyes fell critical to the bard. "You're preaching to the choir, Sheridan. We've all had lives. You don't know where mine has been -- and it has been, Sheridan, oh, it's been -- but neither of us can change what's happened to us now. But we can help him. Before it's too late for him to forget that he's a person too, like we did." A moment of desperation struck him, and for a second, the calm broke into something like sorrow. "Can't you see, Dris? Please, god. He's not so different from you as you think."
Dris grit his teeth. It took all his willpower not to snarl and shout and tell the sinner to stop effing calling him that! His face was a mess of streaks, but his eyes had dried up significantly during his tirade. "He's different." He persisted. "Y'ain't un'erstandin' me. All these years, Sin... All of them. I've known. I've always known. What people want. What they're feelin'. An' I've been givin' 'em what they want. Everybody. Even Carmine! What did 'e want? 'e wanted a fam'ly. 'e wanted a son of 'is very own. Me? If I'd been as selfish as you tell me I am...? As .. apathetic ... as you say I am...? I would've told 'im t'bugger off. I didn't want another kid. I've got four ruddy failures of m'own t' account for! But I gave, Sin. I gave 'im what 'e wanted. I let 'im do it. An' what'd 'e end up with...? I ... I don't even know! Everything ye're tellin' me... I didn't know this. Th'boy ain't ne'er talked to me, Sin. An' I ain't ne'er been able ... t' feel 'im. It's like ... 'e's not there. How... How'm I supposed t'treat 'im when I don't know?"
"You ask." Sin shook his head, taking a step back; this was killing him, it was breaking him. Christ.
Dris laughed. It wasn't a ha-ha funny I'm really amused sort of laugh. It was more the shook up, emotional, self-deprecating sort of laugh. Shaking his head, he lifted a hand to grind the heel of it into his forehead and made a strangling, frustrated noise. "Y'can't ... teach an old dog new tricks," he muttered bitterly. Dropping his hand, he looked back up with a frown. "How'm I s'posed to ask when 'e don't come by? When I ne'er see 'im? Oh. That's right! Y'told 'im not t'come see me!"
"I told him after Jaycy, yes. I don't really think you left me another choice. But don't turn this on me, Sheridan; that's besides the point and you know it." Sin lifted one hand, spread it wide. "What you want to do from here is up to you. How many times can he come to you and leave beaten?" Sin lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Good night, Sheridan." He said all that he could at this point, and began to turn away.
"Don't y'turn yer back on me!" Dris took a step forward. "Don't y'come out 'ere t'lecture me an' then walk away! An' don't y'dare try an' tell me all this time 'im not comin' t'visit is my fault. I've been nothin' but kind t'that boy since the day we got 'im. Since 'e first set foot in the 'ouse. 'e 'ad free reign, 'is own room, an' I ne'er stifled 'im from doin' what 'e wanted t'do. So what is it, Sin? Even to 'im... I gave an' I gave. But 'e was ne'er 'ome, e'en when we 'ad one. Only long enough t'eat, sleep, maybe spar a little in the back yard, go t'school. But not much. I ne'er knew what t'think of 'im, an' I still don't. 'ow can I ask questions of a lad what ain't ne'er talked t'me in the first place?"
"Because you never talked to him -- you never really tried. And you can talk all you want about giving and it doesn't mean a thing." He kept walking away, even with Dris yelling at his back. "So: prove me wrong. Either way.. goodbye, Sheridan."
"**** you, Sinjin!" Dris never comes off that harsh. He even kicked something; it was probably the cane. He turned sharply on his heel to storm off the other way.
Sad to say that he hadn't even noticed the cane for what it was. So blinded by his own emotions had he been: shock, horror, guilt, sadness, depression, anger. Just to name a few. For the first time in a very long time, if ever, Sheridan Driscol wanted to punch something really, really hard.
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(Adapted from live play with thanks to Sinjin Fai.)
Late night shenanigans! Might as well be Dris's middle name. If ... he had one. Which he didn't. But with Rhydin being such a great town, almost as great as Vegas, that never sleeps.... There he was wandering through the Marketplace half drunk. Not fully drunk. Probably because at some point previously in the evening he had stopped off somewhere to puke, and started all over. He had a bottle of scotch in his hand. Lord only knew which of the many bars he visited that night it had come from.
In truth, Sinjin worried about Dris, perhaps more so than Dris's currently absent lover: his drinking was getting bad again, and while it was no concern of Sinjin, he knew what alcoholism looked like and how ugly it could be. Leaning in the mouth of a gloomy alleyway, the Spaniard sucked on the last of his cigarette as he watched the bard move down the street. No Icarus. This was his best opportunity. From the dark came Sin's voice: "Evening, Dris."
Dris was singing, of course. Swaying to the tune of something vaguely Sinatra-ish. He forgot half the words and hummed them in part. Gods only knew what that last word was that got cut off when, passing by the mouth of an alley, he discovered it had greeted him. He turned, staggered back a step, and blinked owlishly at the dark. "'Elloooo... alley?"
The sinner stepped out of the dark and gave the bard a disarming smile, pleasant as always. "What? Don't recognize your own almost-son-in-law?"
"Arienh's en-- oh." When Dris thought of children, his daughter was the first to come to mind. Not Salvador. That O shape stuck on his lips and he swayed in place, squinting up one eye to peer at Sin skeptically. "Psssssssh. Y'ain't gettin' married... Are you? Em. Right. 'Lo, Sin."
"I might as well be." Sin slung an arm around Dris's shoulders lazily. "We've been together for-- what? Four? Five years now?"
"Ye're gon' gimme 'n 'eart attack sayin' shite li'e tha'." Dris made a face and pitched right on in against the sinner's side. Hello sturdy body! That was nice. He took a swig from his bottle of scotch, then remembered to politely, if not also sloppily, offer it up to Sin in case he wanted a drink.
Sin plucked up the bottle, taking a swig as he guided Dris along, the bard tucked against him like that. "Hey, there are worse ways to die." He grinned.
He was easily led along; it was just the way Dris was. Malleable. Pliant. Totally oblivious. Sin was way too good at blocking himself off, which was nice for a change to the bard's uncontrolled and wide open senses. His arm slid around the sinner's waist all of its own accord as they meandered along. All buddy-buddy! "S'pose there might be... 'Eeeey. I know this bar uppa road 'ere? S'ladies what work there're reeeeal frien'ly. Wanna come?"
When situations like this occurred, Sin was always calm, calculated; he might be the jester some nights, the bastard or the lover another, but in the end, Sinjin Fai turned the screws. "Dris," he drawled, smiling, "I know a fantastic bar down the way a piece that I've wanted to show you for ages. This way--" He pointed down one of the road and began to drag the bard in that direction as he spoke.
"Oooh?" The bard's interest was of course immediately piqued. Not the least bit suspicious, because Dris is a big, big dummy. He wavered when steered off course, but fortunately had the sinner's support guiding him along.
There are worse ways to die, Sin thought again, feeling the weight of something against his side, the one away from Dris. "So how are things, anyway? I don't see you very often, what with Icarus being -- well, you know."
"Icarus's..." Dris made a face again, reaching for the bottle of scotch. "'e's a might bit pr'tective, eh? But things're good. S'true..." He pouted. "I don' see much o' ye. Or Sal. 'ow's 'e doin' anyhow? Y'know... Y'know 'e promised t'be 'round more af'er...? When 'is da was gone. 'e promised."
The bottle was in the sinner's other hand, far away from the bard. "I told him not to go see you, Dris." The statement came out as warmly and casually as the rest of his previous conversation; he was watching the road ahead of them with half-lidded eyes.
So he was trying to walk and reach around the sinner at the same time, which made for an awkward attempt at walking. This was more stumbling, and then somewhat falling when he tripped over his own two feet. Caught short by Sin's testimony. "Why'd y'go an' do a bloody thin' like that?"
"Because I don't want him to see you. I want you to realize the gravity of what you've really done, Sheridan." Sin's walk slowed. The street he lead Dris down was still: all the windows were dark and empty, the sky above overcast with impending rain. Sin glanced at the bottle again, just as casual as before, and took another drink. "That boy," Sinjin murmured as he lowered the bottle, "is the last thing Carmine gave you. And I don't think you deserve it." As calm as he was, his honesty was harsh.
Well, hell. The use of that name had him pulling away from the sinner. Pushing a hand against his chest and ducking out from under his arm. Forget the bottle! Regardless of how sobering a statement that was, his name tacked on like that stabbed harder home. His brows knit fiercely together and his mouth hung open in stunned disbelief. Dris staggered up against a wall and shook his head to make sure he was hearing Sin right. "Whut...? Whut'n the name o' all the gods on 'igh're y'talkin' 'bout, Sin?"
"Two weeks ago, Jaycy walked into a ring with Salvador holding a sword of cold-forged iron. She tossed it aside and fought him with honor. However, she failed to realize that by doing so.. she gave every person watching that duel the ammunition to bring Salvador's permanent death."
Sin paused, turning his eyes toward Dris again. "Salvador, who is regarded with fear. Salvador, who they believe will murder them. Salvador, the enemy." He paused again, taking a step toward the bard without aggression. "But she didn't really give that ammunition to them, Sheridan. You did. To a community of warriors, of men and women with ill intent. Because.. you thought he would kill her?" Sinjin raised his eyebrows with a frown, sincerely curious. "Do you think Carmine's son really lacks that much honor, Sheridan? Is he really the monster?"
All this with calm -- so much calm. He only watched the bard, waited for his answer.
Oh. Well, hell. Dris quickly looked aside guiltily, as soon as the verbal barrage started with its opening lines. You could see it, though, in those blue eyes. Even in the dark. A couple dozen memories being sifted through. That morning on the couch with Jaycy. Yeah, somewhere in his befuddled half-drunken mind, he remembered that. The emphasis on the 'you' had him backing up flush against the wall as if Sin had physically struck him. "I... She..."
Shutting his eyes, the bard lifted a hand up to his own throat, remembering. "'E tried killin' me, Sin." Finding a backbone. Finding his nerve, he dropped his hand away and looked at the sinner with a frown that just never, ever belonged on his face. "I didn' know what 'e'd do, but 'e ain't 'uman! I was jus' givin' 'er the know 'ow t'defend 'erself fairly in a fight 'gainst 'im."
"Why did he attack you, Sheridan?" Sin asked simply, taking another step forward. "Because you slapped him -- because you provoked him at a time where he has to use every atom in his body restraining the urge to kill and feast? Did you even talk to him first? Your own son?"
Dris stuttered a lot of syllables here and there. It wasn't easy to be angry when he couldn't get a word in edgewise. The sinner paused again and the frown remained. "No. You didn't. You rebuked him, like you always do. You turn him away, your little monster child, and send him to the dirt. Because they're right, you think. All those people who watch him out of the corner of their eyes. They're justified -- and why not? He isn't yours. He never was."
Sin beat him to his own outburst before it could blossom fully. No, Salvador wasn't his son. In fact, it made Dris all kinds of uncomfortable whenever anyone suggested it. Like that previous tidbit about Sin being his near son-in-law. That whole marriage thing made him uncomfortable too, but that wasn't nearly as important. His mouth moved, and he tried to speak.
Sinjin stalled again, his head tipped to one side. "Did you wonder, Sheridan? Did you even consider what drove him to that point? Did you know about how the Nightmare Keeper has found him again, and how he's been torturing his waking dreams? Did you comfort him when he cried, when madness drove him to hurt the very people he cared about? Did you try to help him?" The serenity of his voice was unnerving; the honesty was unwavering. "No," he murmured quietly. "No. You slapped him. And it isn't the physical hurt that really matters; it's the message that went behind it. Your apathy."
Oooh, gods be damned he tried to say something throughout it all, but the sinner kept on going, and the more he kept saying the more steadily the bard's temper dwindled away and away until it just went poof. "My ... apathy?" What!? He was floored by that accusation!
"You don't care. You'll remember later, someday, when he dies, and you lose every connection you have left to Carmine, and you wonder what Carmine saw in him, why he cared about him. But I don't intend to wait for that. And that's why, Sheridan -- that's why I'm done with you." From his trench coat, Sinjin withdrew something familiar: a plain black cane with a silver cap at the top, worn by time.
Wow. That hurt. Underneath that was a whole assload of confusion. Some of the things Sin had said didn't make sense. He might have had a thought to ask questions, but... But that was such a final statement. He didn't even have the strength to tell him to stop freaking calling him that name!
Dris sank back against the wall again, thoroughly defeated. Who needed a sword or a gun? Who needed a gang to beat up on him? Sin knew just how to cut, and deeply, without ever lifting a finger. His mind was in turmoil over it all. It didn't seem right to think that Sal could cry; he'd never seen the boy cry. It didn't seem right to think that he had feelings; he never felt them. "I... I didn't know." He hung his head, really quite ashamed. What he felt now was almost as bad as that night... The last time Sin had paid him a visit. He felt that low, again. Nodding weakly, he turned against the wall. All right then. Time to start walking. Or scraping along the wall as the case may be. "Bye, Sin."
"Jaycy had honor," Sin murmured, the cane catching the light. "And so I'll have the same. But this is the last time -- unless you earn it." He threw the canesword down at Dris's feet. "Prove me wrong, Sheridan. Prove me wrong and start caring about your damned son. This--" He lifted the bottle again, tossing it to the ground where it shattered. "--this isn't going to fix your life. Neither will Icarus. No one will bring Carmine back. So start seeing what he left for you."
The clatter of the cane stopped his movement. That made him flinch and so did the shattering bottle. With a forearm the only thing holding him up against the wall, he hung there, suspended in time and... sniveling. "He's not..." He lifted his other arm up over his eyes, which were -- thank you so much, Sin -- swollen to the brim with tears. He was crying like the great big emotional wreck of a man that he was. Sniffling and sobbing through every choked up hush word, shaking. He shattered apart as profoundly as that damned bottle, and turned to shout through his tears. To defy every word the sinner said. "He ain't my son! And don't you dare! Don't you dare?lecture me 'bout fixin' my life. My life ended when his did, Sinjin! An' I know... I know Ica can't fix it! Why? Why'd ye 'ave t'go an' pull me outta the tub, Sin! Why couldn't y'just let me die!?"
"No, it didn't. Because you're still here. I'm not lecturing you about fixing your life, Sheridan. I'm asking you to start realizing that there are still reasons to live." Between them on the ground, the sword began to hum with power and want; Sinjin ignored it. "Ultimately, your life is your own. You'll do with it what you want, and you've turned into an awfully selfish man in that regard. But I'm asking you to start thinking about how your apathy starts to effect the people who care about you. You might not care about your life, but you can't tell me there aren't others who don't care about you.. even those you treat poorly." Sinjin set his hands in his pockets.
Dris ignored the sword too. "My life's my own? Really? Hah! That's a laugh." He threw up his hands, scoffing bitterly despite the continued onslaught of tears leaking out his eyes. "Ye've no idea what it's like fer me, Sin. My life ain't been my own since the day I was bloody born!" He took a step closer, counting them off on his fingers with harsh emphasis.
"M' mother? She wanted me t'be like 'er. T'succeed where she failed. So what'd she do? She taught me t'sing, an' t'play. T'defy what m'father wanted, an' b'tween the two of 'em she 'ad more sway." That was one. Two? "M'sister? She wanted me t'play a game with 'er. On 'er sweet sixteen. T'wear out 'er dress instead of 'erself." Three. "Tha' bloody Frenchman we met at the bar? 'E wanted t'see 'ow much a pretty young thing could drink afore 'e carted 'er up to 'is room so 'e could **** 'er. An' when 'e found out she weren't a she? That didn't matter much to 'im either." Four and five. "Lynet an' Nealie? They both wanted a piece o' the charmin' young sair Driscol at the same time. An' they got it. Nine months later they both wanted t'marry 'im. Well... That they didn't get."
Six. "Every thrice be damned pretty young face from 'ere t' th'other side o' the world... worlds... all of 'em. They all wanted a piece o' me, an' they all got it." Seven, eight... He didn't have enough fingers. "Valleana? She wanted me. She got me. Nine months later she wanted a 'usband too. An' then comes Carmine. Back intah m'life. When fer years ... years, Sin ... I thought 'e was gone fer good. Mayhaps e'en dead." And now he was.
"And yet," Sin continued, unphased, "and yet, with all that -- with all that knowing of how cruel life and family could be -- there's a boy you know, a boy who through his interactions is convinced his lot in life is a tool. Some ask him to kill. Others to use his fae abilities until it drives him mad. He is a thing to be used, too -- that's what he's convinced, after all, and if it's proven true time and time again, how can they be wrong?"
Sin's eyes fell critical to the bard. "You're preaching to the choir, Sheridan. We've all had lives. You don't know where mine has been -- and it has been, Sheridan, oh, it's been -- but neither of us can change what's happened to us now. But we can help him. Before it's too late for him to forget that he's a person too, like we did." A moment of desperation struck him, and for a second, the calm broke into something like sorrow. "Can't you see, Dris? Please, god. He's not so different from you as you think."
Dris grit his teeth. It took all his willpower not to snarl and shout and tell the sinner to stop effing calling him that! His face was a mess of streaks, but his eyes had dried up significantly during his tirade. "He's different." He persisted. "Y'ain't un'erstandin' me. All these years, Sin... All of them. I've known. I've always known. What people want. What they're feelin'. An' I've been givin' 'em what they want. Everybody. Even Carmine! What did 'e want? 'e wanted a fam'ly. 'e wanted a son of 'is very own. Me? If I'd been as selfish as you tell me I am...? As .. apathetic ... as you say I am...? I would've told 'im t'bugger off. I didn't want another kid. I've got four ruddy failures of m'own t' account for! But I gave, Sin. I gave 'im what 'e wanted. I let 'im do it. An' what'd 'e end up with...? I ... I don't even know! Everything ye're tellin' me... I didn't know this. Th'boy ain't ne'er talked to me, Sin. An' I ain't ne'er been able ... t' feel 'im. It's like ... 'e's not there. How... How'm I supposed t'treat 'im when I don't know?"
"You ask." Sin shook his head, taking a step back; this was killing him, it was breaking him. Christ.
Dris laughed. It wasn't a ha-ha funny I'm really amused sort of laugh. It was more the shook up, emotional, self-deprecating sort of laugh. Shaking his head, he lifted a hand to grind the heel of it into his forehead and made a strangling, frustrated noise. "Y'can't ... teach an old dog new tricks," he muttered bitterly. Dropping his hand, he looked back up with a frown. "How'm I s'posed to ask when 'e don't come by? When I ne'er see 'im? Oh. That's right! Y'told 'im not t'come see me!"
"I told him after Jaycy, yes. I don't really think you left me another choice. But don't turn this on me, Sheridan; that's besides the point and you know it." Sin lifted one hand, spread it wide. "What you want to do from here is up to you. How many times can he come to you and leave beaten?" Sin lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Good night, Sheridan." He said all that he could at this point, and began to turn away.
"Don't y'turn yer back on me!" Dris took a step forward. "Don't y'come out 'ere t'lecture me an' then walk away! An' don't y'dare try an' tell me all this time 'im not comin' t'visit is my fault. I've been nothin' but kind t'that boy since the day we got 'im. Since 'e first set foot in the 'ouse. 'e 'ad free reign, 'is own room, an' I ne'er stifled 'im from doin' what 'e wanted t'do. So what is it, Sin? Even to 'im... I gave an' I gave. But 'e was ne'er 'ome, e'en when we 'ad one. Only long enough t'eat, sleep, maybe spar a little in the back yard, go t'school. But not much. I ne'er knew what t'think of 'im, an' I still don't. 'ow can I ask questions of a lad what ain't ne'er talked t'me in the first place?"
"Because you never talked to him -- you never really tried. And you can talk all you want about giving and it doesn't mean a thing." He kept walking away, even with Dris yelling at his back. "So: prove me wrong. Either way.. goodbye, Sheridan."
"**** you, Sinjin!" Dris never comes off that harsh. He even kicked something; it was probably the cane. He turned sharply on his heel to storm off the other way.
Sad to say that he hadn't even noticed the cane for what it was. So blinded by his own emotions had he been: shock, horror, guilt, sadness, depression, anger. Just to name a few. For the first time in a very long time, if ever, Sheridan Driscol wanted to punch something really, really hard.
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(Adapted from live play with thanks to Sinjin Fai.)