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ph_logs2024-03-05 05:57 pm
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ph_logs2024-03-05 05:57 pm
Entry tags:
Mingle - Emergency Potluck
Pumpkin Hollow Community Bulletin
WELCOME POTLUCK
Greetings, residents! Those more observant sorts among you may have noticed a large influx of very crowded ferries. In order to welcome our new residents en masse, Town Hall is holding a potluck in Town Square. Please bring a dish if you are able and make a new friend!
All of our newest arrivals need only bring themselves. We look forward to welcoming you all into our community, and may your lanterns always be lit.
This event is open to all! In light of our new influx of prospective players following the Great Sail Migration, we've decided to offer a small public event to tide everyone over until the TDM this weekend.
cw-ish, just in case: outdated non-derotagory terminology for PTSD
Anzu takes note of John's posture, of the defensive way he hugs himself. He's seen a lot of veterans of combat, many of them as young as John, if not younger—all the ones he's familiar with, the ones he's treated and lived with for over a decade, came by their shellshock and combat fatigue through urban guerilla warfare first, but as far as he's concerned? Shellshock is shellshock.
"It is a very strange place, nu?" he says. "And, ah. Often a rather overwhelming one."
He raises both eyebrows at John, and adds, "dearest, would'st thou prefer we relocate somewhere where thou stands with thy back shielded? And somewhere ... ah, sheltered from the noise of the crowd."
Really, the latter is something he'd prefer, too—he did not arrive on Marrow Isle with his emergency earplugs. And his auditory processing has always been janky.
But he wants to talk to John more, especially in light of that glance between him and Lev—Anzu doesn't know John well enough to read anything specific in his expression—not yet. But he can guess. Maybe the shellshock's not the only thing he could advise on. Maybe he'd be of more use advising on the other thing, than on shellshock.
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It clicks, and while John's not having that particular problem at the moment, the offer of a wall at his back, coming from a place of understanding that particular fear, is oddly touching.
"...yeah." he admits, and a tension he hasn't been aware of until now eases out of his back, letting him roll his shoulders and unfold his arms. The consideration without judgment...he feels strangely held by it.
"Yeah, that--I'd be all for that, actually. Thanks, man."
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Anzu smiles at John, and takes Lev's hand, holding his other hand out to John.
"Come on then, darling," he says, "I see a couple of handy side-alleys, if thou wish'st not to walk too far. Or, nu, we could go elsewhere altogether—I'll let thee take the lead, since I have no idea what exactly might make thee feel, ah. Less exposed. And thou'rt welcome to take mine hand or not, as thou wish'st."
His tone is gentle and concerned; it's clear he won't be offended if John's not the sort to find comfort in touch. But there's also a faint high-strung note there—he's worried.
It's not a precise worry, targeted at something in particular. It's more a general kind of worry, his own instinctual wariness. Maybe the potluck with its noisy crowds is getting to him more than he'd assumed.
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The problem is the want is bottomless now, and he has to try and control it or he's going to fall apart.
John's fingers clench, relax, clench again.
Then he reaches out and slides his hand into Anzu's, keeping his grip measured so he doesn't end up clinging like a child, or clinging hard enough to hurt.
"Pick wherever feels good. I'm easy." he assures him with a lopsided, good natured smile even as his fingers burn with the contact.
Yeah, Anzu--he knows that tone. He'll take this tiny measure of comfort here, and Anzu can go wherever he feels most at ease to find his own.
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Anzu gives John a sidelong look — he's just met John, so he doesn't yet know the other man's tells, nor when and where John's likely to tell white lies about how well he's doing, what he wants, what he thinks he needs. But he's old enough and has lived through enough interesting times that he can't help but suspect John might be a little too eager to do what's most convenient for other people, and what's the least threatening, the least likely to be misinterpreted on some grey flimsy foolscap or other, the least likely to lead to another one-sixtieth of a death sentence written with a blotchy biro by someone who can't be bothered to ask how to spell his name.
Or he could be projecting. He's no longer haunted daily by the fear of the asylum and of being given estates out in the country and sent away for his health (i.e. asylum for the boyars and courtiers, more comfortable as far as creature comforts go and just as miserable socially), and it's been a decade since he's had to watch his step daily, since he's had to be the ambassador for all like him, among people who kept him around as a sort of talisman to shake in the face of anyone who dared criticise the Tzarist regime.
He's had time to forget, but he hasn't forgotten.
But right now is a bad time to dither and second-guess, he decides, and so he leads John to the edge of the square, to a little cul-de-sac with an wrought iron bench (the back towards a blank stone wall) and an inexplicable disused bird bath. His husband follows behind them — and from his expression, Anzu deduces that he's not alone in his concern. Which isn't, really, a surprise.
He lets go of John's hand and sits down on the bench, trying to disguise his relief at being off his feet.
"At least here, one can hear oneself think, nu, darling?" he says to John, raising an eyebrow. "This place, it did not look quite so lively when I arrived."
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He'll feel like a jackass if he takes the seat when Lev could be cuddled up to his mister--John would embarrass himself anyway.
Instead, he leans against the nearby birdbath, heavy enough to support the weight of his hip...and putting himself between the two of them and the open street, albeit just off to the side. He can still move to throw himself in front of them if he has to, without being obnoxious about it...
And as he crosses his arms comfortably against his chest, a significant amount of tension finally starts to slip out of him like cool water running off a melting block of ice.
"Weird thing is, I'm kinda used to the crowds." he huffs with barely there, humorless laughter. "Left for a minute, then came back, but I was doing time before that. Three years hard labor for a whole mess of charges--not sure if that translates. I know you 'n Lev don't come from a world remotely like mine."
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Anzu tilts his head back and gives John a long, piercing look — but there's sympathy in it, too. Then he sighs.
"Ah, darling," he says, ruefully. "No, it translates just fine. Katorga. By us we say sent to kozlostan, nu? To the country of the goats, or such bastards as one would call goats. One of the reasons the old tzar got his head lopped off."
He and Lev do sit close together, with their arms around each other — but they both look at John attentively, meaning to include him in this moment somehow.
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He relaxes into it a little more with a sigh, nodding at Anzu's assertion. He hates that it's a thing, but enjoys the universality of it: the language can be odd, the concepts can seem foreign, but some things are the same all over. Still, some of the things he's heard from Lev and now Anzu make him curious, and being here with just the two of them, the air feeling a little easier to draw in...
"In my world, there's only one czar that I ever heard of being killed, and I think he got shot." he admits. "If you don't mind me asking--and you can tell me to piss off if you want--are you guys Russian? Or is that even a place where you come from?"