Who: Fever, Helena, and those threading with them What:January non-event things. When: All month. Where: Across the isle. Warning(s): To be noted in threads individually
Anzu sets the full teacups down in front of Fever, and takes a seat beside her — close enough to be present, not so close as to be crowding her personal space.
He suspects he knows what this will be about. He's noticed Angel's absence. And he's been telling himself that here, disappearing in the middle of the night is probably a good thing. Or at least a neutral thing.
Maybe a little more neutral than death.
But ... a loss is a loss.
"Thou need'st speak only as much as thou wish'st, darling," he says. "And ... nu. When thou feel'st thou'rt quite done talking, I shall take my leave." He pauses. "I will call, or come by, later. But I shan't insist on staying longer than thou can'st stand."
For a moment, there's silence, only her picking up the cup to let it warm her hands. Breathing in the familiar scent. Trying a sip, to let it unlock her throat and make its way past the lump in the way.
"Angel was seen boarding the ferry."
It's hushed, unable to be said louder. Saying it aloud makes it more real, as if he's going to just show up again. Here in this apartment is where they cut his hair, giving him proof of his own identity. The memories exist everywhere.
"There wasn't a note."
It happened. It could happen to any of them. It has happened to many other souls. She's lost friends, allies. So why this time does it feel this way?
Hearing her say it makes it more real, somehow. Anzu puts down his cup of tea, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes; he doesn't bother hiding that he's tearing up.
"So it was," he says, hollowly. "I suppose even here, few are able to leave a final goodbye."
He falls silent; in part it's to let Fever speak. In part it's because he's choking up, and doesn't quite know what he'd say, anyway. He'd come to assist Fever with her grief. He wasn't expecting to be ambushed by his own.
His grief and her own sit side by side, and she sets her cup down, sinking back into the couch. All she could do was keep going through her days, sleepwalking, trying to not dwell on the truth. But it won't be changed, and Fever wonders if it is cruel, to be relieved by Anzu's obvious pain. Someone else knows that something is wrong, wrong enough that there is a distance between you and everyone else, the world behind layers of glass.
"I've had an idea what to do every time before. But not now."
"Thou ought to do nothing," Anzu says, raising an eyebrow. "Pardon me for the presumptiveness, darling, but I shall not permit thee to try to do aught. There is no body to bury, but there's a mourner left behind to sit shivah. More than one, even. And while I shan't ask thee to take on a ritual not thine own ... nu. I think thou ought to mourn, and force thyself not to work nor talk to others."
He pauses, and adds, "Zivia will understand. What's more, I quite positive she'll agree with me. She can talk to the Mayor on thy behalf and make the case. Or I can."
Far from being presumptuous, Fever is listening, letting her hands lie quiet next to her. Not working seems strange to her, not talking to others - these things had not been in her head. So many times, she's simply worked through it, told herself to keep going, figured it out. Keeping busy will fix it, attend to the problems of others, do something. And yet Anzu is saying otherwise. Saying she could think to mourn.
(And at the center, a revelation - that the concept no longer tugs at her mind in strange ways. No more being steered away from the thought. That part of her is free now.)
"I've never been able to do that before."
Not beyond adding to a list of names kept, names of those absent from her life that she would remember.
"Thou hast the luxury now," Anzu says, very seriously, "to do right by the departed, and to do right by thyself."
He pauses, looking away from Fever. Eventually, he says, without turning back to look at her, "I can keep thee company, if thou find'st it hard to be alone with thy grief. It does not do, to mourn alone. I would not condemn thee to such a fate."
A moment passes where Fever can only breathe, feeling grief grow in her, take up space - she has to swallow to keep talking, throat gone tight. This moment feels, for all its pain, safe. Safe enough for something like that to happen.
"...I'm not alone all the time. Phil's here often enough. He'll understand."
Helping him doesn't fall under the banner of work. If anything, it'll be the one way her mind won't sink and collapse on itself - knowing she is in company that does not ask her to be well and given some kind of task.
"But when he's not, I would appreciate your company. If I could come see you."
Anzu looks visibly relieved to hear that Fever has not really been alone. He smiles at Fever — the expression does not linger on his face, but for all its briefness, it is as kind and genuine as ever.
"We'll keep thee company, darling, as best we can," he says. "Of course we will. And ... ah. Thou'rt welcome to accompany me back to ours. Lyubov will be glad to see thee."
"Well, dearest, thou'rt welcome to have no real plans for the day by ours," Anzu says, gently. "I'll call Leyb, ask him to put the kettle on. But thou'rt perfectly welcome to sit and read and pay us not no mind. I just, ah ..." he's the one who trails off this time, but after a moment or two, he finds the words, "I'd rather not leave a mourner alone, especially not a friend."
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no subject
Anzu sets the full teacups down in front of Fever, and takes a seat beside her — close enough to be present, not so close as to be crowding her personal space.
He suspects he knows what this will be about. He's noticed Angel's absence. And he's been telling himself that here, disappearing in the middle of the night is probably a good thing. Or at least a neutral thing.
Maybe a little more neutral than death.
But ... a loss is a loss.
"Thou need'st speak only as much as thou wish'st, darling," he says. "And ... nu. When thou feel'st thou'rt quite done talking, I shall take my leave." He pauses. "I will call, or come by, later. But I shan't insist on staying longer than thou can'st stand."
no subject
"Angel was seen boarding the ferry."
It's hushed, unable to be said louder. Saying it aloud makes it more real, as if he's going to just show up again. Here in this apartment is where they cut his hair, giving him proof of his own identity. The memories exist everywhere.
"There wasn't a note."
It happened. It could happen to any of them. It has happened to many other souls. She's lost friends, allies. So why this time does it feel this way?
no subject
Hearing her say it makes it more real, somehow. Anzu puts down his cup of tea, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes; he doesn't bother hiding that he's tearing up.
"So it was," he says, hollowly. "I suppose even here, few are able to leave a final goodbye."
He falls silent; in part it's to let Fever speak. In part it's because he's choking up, and doesn't quite know what he'd say, anyway. He'd come to assist Fever with her grief. He wasn't expecting to be ambushed by his own.
no subject
His grief and her own sit side by side, and she sets her cup down, sinking back into the couch. All she could do was keep going through her days, sleepwalking, trying to not dwell on the truth. But it won't be changed, and Fever wonders if it is cruel, to be relieved by Anzu's obvious pain. Someone else knows that something is wrong, wrong enough that there is a distance between you and everyone else, the world behind layers of glass.
"I've had an idea what to do every time before. But not now."
no subject
"Thou ought to do nothing," Anzu says, raising an eyebrow. "Pardon me for the presumptiveness, darling, but I shall not permit thee to try to do aught. There is no body to bury, but there's a mourner left behind to sit shivah. More than one, even. And while I shan't ask thee to take on a ritual not thine own ... nu. I think thou ought to mourn, and force thyself not to work nor talk to others."
He pauses, and adds, "Zivia will understand. What's more, I quite positive she'll agree with me. She can talk to the Mayor on thy behalf and make the case. Or I can."
no subject
(And at the center, a revelation - that the concept no longer tugs at her mind in strange ways. No more being steered away from the thought. That part of her is free now.)
"I've never been able to do that before."
Not beyond adding to a list of names kept, names of those absent from her life that she would remember.
no subject
"Thou hast the luxury now," Anzu says, very seriously, "to do right by the departed, and to do right by thyself."
He pauses, looking away from Fever. Eventually, he says, without turning back to look at her, "I can keep thee company, if thou find'st it hard to be alone with thy grief. It does not do, to mourn alone. I would not condemn thee to such a fate."
no subject
"...I'm not alone all the time. Phil's here often enough. He'll understand."
Helping him doesn't fall under the banner of work. If anything, it'll be the one way her mind won't sink and collapse on itself - knowing she is in company that does not ask her to be well and given some kind of task.
"But when he's not, I would appreciate your company. If I could come see you."
Lyubov too, if she's there.
no subject
Anzu looks visibly relieved to hear that Fever has not really been alone. He smiles at Fever — the expression does not linger on his face, but for all its briefness, it is as kind and genuine as ever.
"We'll keep thee company, darling, as best we can," he says. "Of course we will. And ... ah. Thou'rt welcome to accompany me back to ours. Lyubov will be glad to see thee."
no subject
"I'd like that very much. I didn't exactly have plans for the rest of the day or anything. Just..."
Fever trails off, uncertain of how to continue her sentence.
no subject
"Well, dearest, thou'rt welcome to have no real plans for the day by ours," Anzu says, gently. "I'll call Leyb, ask him to put the kettle on. But thou'rt perfectly welcome to sit and read and pay us not no mind. I just, ah ..." he's the one who trails off this time, but after a moment or two, he finds the words, "I'd rather not leave a mourner alone, especially not a friend."