Logs:Skimming Stones

Skimming Stones
Dramatis Personae Damien, Steve
In Absentia Lucien	2024-07-13 "You reminded me of him from the moment you came up to me, and that's the truth."
Location <NYC> Fulton Ferry Landing - DUMBO
This historic ferry landing and the adjacent (also historic) pier one are now part of the Brooklyn Bridge Park that sprawls across the waterfront. The Brooklyn ferry does in fact still land here, but there's plenty else to draw tourists and locals alike who aren't looking to ride. The long pier affords many choice spots for photography against the backdrop of the majestic towering bridge. The restored wetlands to the west are full of wildlife, and are quite popular for birding. There are shops and food kiosks and various sports facilities all along the waterfront, as well as boat and kayak and paddle board rentals. Steve is sitting at the end of the long pier between the actual ferry terminal and the salt marshes, his feet dangling off the end. He's dressed casually, in a slightly too-tight green t-shirt with the silhouette of a faun presenting a small girl with a rose, "Green and Growing Things" scrawled in elegant cursive across the space between the figures, faded blue jeans that are also just a bit too tight, and battered combat boots that actually look like they fit him. The assemblage of items sitting beside him include a large cup of lemonade half-drunk, a pair of high-powered binoculars sitting on a faded olive drab satchel -- an honest-to-God Second World War satchel charge bag -- and his iconic shield turned concave side up like a great bowl, into which he has gathered a number of smooth, flat stones from one of the pebbly beaches nearby. He reaches without looking for one of the stones. Turns it over in his hand meditatively. Hurls it with a skillful flick of his wrist out over the river, where it skips not once, not twice, but over a dozen times before disappearing into the sluggish water. Steve is just now getting company. The tall and severe-looking man making his way out to the end of the pier does not seem to have dressed at all for the weather -- a royal purple frock coat with ornate gold braid trim over a pink silk shirt with fine lace jabot trailing from a red-and-white agate cameo of a woman with great curling sheep's horns in profile, pearlescent white tights, and thigh-high black boots polished to a shine. A silver chatelaine bag hangs from his belt, its intricate maille work appearing to shift and turn, though it may be a trick of the light, and he carries an elegant walking stick of some fine dark wood topped with a brass armillary sphere encased in glass in such a way that must surely render it nonfunctional. The stick, in its rhythmic clicking gait against the stones, makes more noise than his near-silent footfalls; the last cheerful rapport signals his steps coming to a halt not far at all from Steve. The man's head has tilted, far to the side, dark eyes wider with unaffected delight as he watches the skip-skip-skip(-skip-skip-skip-skip-skip-skip-skip-skip-skip-skip) of the stone over the water. "What an arm you have. You must have had some time to hone your craft." Steve was already turning toward the tap-tap-tap of the walking stick, but at the complement he flashes a ready smile. "Thank you! Did while away some lazy summer afternoons on the docks. Didn't used to be this impressive, though. At skipping or anything else." His eyes tick over the man's outfit in a sort of an in-place double-take. "Golly, that is a mighty impressive outfit, but it sure does look hot!" He squints thoughtfully in the direction of the lemonade stand, then looks the stranger over again. "Reckon you got it under control, though. You want to try your hand?" He picks up his shield to offer out his bounty of carefully curated skipping stones. "How lazy were they, really, if you were investing yourself into the worthy pursuits of relaxation and pleasure." Damien tips himself back upright, if only to make an elegant leg in Steve's direction. "And thank you. One of my life's great indulgences --" Though his hand is dropping to the intricate and fluid bag at his waist, his intense dark eyes are fixed steadily on Steve's, "contriving always to surround myself with beauty." His eyes only drop when Steve picks up his shield. His bounce up onto his toes is small, but comes with a warm brightening of his expression. "Why, thank you. And you've selected such lovely ones, too." He reaches out a hand, long fingers hovering over first one and then another and then another of the stones indecisively before finally picking up a smooth and pink-tinged sandstone to heft thoughtfully in his palm. "May I?" With the tip of his cane he is indicating the space on the pier beside Steve for sitting. Steve blushes lightly. "Fair point. Back then, I'd've probably talked your ear off about how capitalism ruined relaxation and -- pleasure." Drawn by Damien's hand, his eyes track to the lively maille purse affixed to his belt. Then blushes even deeper and looks down at the stones in his shield. Something in what Damien says makes his smile -- not falter, exactly, but it does turn a bit wistful. Not wistful enough to offset his blush, though. "You and me both, friend. I 'spose that's how I got into drawing, to begin with." Damien's intent deliberation in choosing one seems to ease whatever sorrow and embarrassment he's silently wrestling back down. His smile comes more easily as he puts the shield down and sweeps a welcoming hand at the space beside him. "Please. Probably shouldn't assume, but are you new in town?" There's a fluid grace in Damien's movements as he settles himself down on the edge of the pier beside Steve, tucking his walking stick carefully on the stone against his side. "Have you less to say about those subjects, now? There are so many marvels in the world but the commodification of joy -- beauty -- pleasure -- that, I think, is astonishing in no good way." He's still turning the smooth stone over, slow. "You are also an artist? How marvellous." He finally hefts the stone, flicks his wrist -- his stone does not skip nearly as far as Steve's, but makes a respectable eight so skips before sinking. "Quite new, yes. I gather I have a good many things to learn about this home of yours. Where do you find the most beauty in it?" "Nice throw!" Steve laughs, and seems to surprise himself with the sound. "Oh, I've got a lot more to say now, but I've also learned there's better ways to go about it." There's that sorrow again, but he's prepared for it this time and the smile he summons against it doesn't look forced. "I'm no master painter. Just been doodling since before I can remember." He looks over at his satchel, but then just plucks up another skipping stone. Hefts it in his hand. Turns back to Damien, smile brightening. "Welcome to the Big Apple. I've lived here almost my whole life, and I'm still learning new things about it on the regular." He shakes his head, quick. "Gosh, there's so much beauty here, I'm not sure I could choose. Growing up, I thought Broadway was the tops. When I got back after my first tour, it was Lady Liberty lighting my way home." He blushes again. "I know, I'm stereotypes all the way down. But right now? It's right here." He sweeps a hand from the pier to the marsh to the river and finally the bridge. "You should cross it on foot, if you haven't yet. The views are breathtaking." His smile pulls a little askew. "Especially when the wind is high." "That is one thing I love about cities. Like people, they grow -- and your relationship grows, too. I don't think it's possible to ever finish knowing them." Damien has been looking out over the river appreciatively. As the ripples from his stone spread and melt indistinguishable from the ripples of the current, he transfers that appreciative gaze to Steve. He follows the sweep of the bigger man's hand, nodding thoughtful as his eyes trace the curves of the bridge. "Thank you for the recommendation." He leans back, slightly, resting his palms on the warm stone; his fingers are tapping an absent unthinking rhythm somewhat along with the ripple and splash of the water below them. "I've yet to see a Broadway show -- not live, at least, but that --" He nods towards Steve's shirt, "I watched its recording until I had it near memorized." There's something a little wistful in his eyes, now, and he's at once proud and melancholy when he leans just a little in to confide: "My son was in it. He is very good, I learned." Steve nods, slow. "Yeah, that's -- exactly it. I was away for a long time, and the city changed so much that it didn't feel like home for a good while after I came back. Kinda thought I'd worked that out, but." He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. "Guess I'm not finished. Whereabouts are you from?" He turns the stone over in his hand again, lines up his shot carefully, and sends the stone skipping half-way across the wide river before it plunks down into the water. For a moment his smile is all boyish cockiness, but he's startled into some kind of complicated delight by Damien's admission. "There are so many good shows, don't even get me started." Despite this, he's starting anyway, with, "You should definitely catch Hadestown if you get the chance." He looks down at his shirt -- maybe he forgot which one he was wearing -- then back up, his expression growing more complicated and more delighted. "Oh! Who did your son play? I know some of the cast. Just truly amazing, talented folks." "Oh, quite far from here. What makes a place feel like home, to you?" Damien has half-turned, so that he can fix his curious gaze better on Steve. His smile returns wider, at the skipping or at Steve's cocky-bright response to it. "Hadestown," he echoes, nodding slow. "He played Ibeonus. Certainly the company was all very talented, but you must admit he was channeling some true magic in that characterization --" he seems just a touch less pleased with his light addition, "-- even if the overall storyline took some liberties." "World's a lot bigger now than the one I grew up in, but it's a lot smaller too. Can't be that far, can it?" Steve blows out a long breath. Braces his hands on the pier and leans back, too. "Home feels like..." He swallows hard. "Family. Didn't have much family left, when I woke up here. Sorry to be a bummer, it's -- I've made my peace with it." Maybe he was going to explain this further, but he's just staring at Damien in open astonishment. "Luci -- Lucien Tessier?! He's my --" He closes his mouth. Opens it again. Closes it again. "I mean, he's like --" He shakes his head sharply, as if hoping to dislodge the words he's trying to find. "-- we used to be very close. He said he never knew his father." He's studying Damien more closely now. "Where on God's green Earth have you been?" "I am sorry about your family, and do hope you have had a chance to make some anew. It cannot be easy, to be alone in a strange new world." If Steve is being a bummer it doesn't really show -- Damien is radiating a thoughtful interest, still. This lights into a quiet delight, oddly less surprised than maybe he should be for this coincidence. "You know him? Used to be -- goodness but I'm hearing that a lot, around here." He turns his face back to the river, pushing himself back up and resting forward now with elbows on knees. "He told you true. I have been a good many places, but it was not until very recently I even knew of his existence. I came here straightaway when I learned, but --" His hands turn up in front of himself. "There is so much more to family, as I'm sure you know, than an accident of birth, and I -- have very little idea where to start in building a connection with so much of his life already gone. If he is even interested in one -- which is his choice to make." "Luci is my family." For all the trouble Steve was having with this statement before, it comes easily now, if kind of resigned. "Not my only family, but --" In this position, his tight shrug looks like a kind of deflating. "Well, I surely do know that." He smiles sadly. "Luci's pretty good at building those sorts of connections, actually. My entire life was already gone when the Tessiers took me in. I doubt I'll ever understand what he went through to put me back together, but he did." He sits up, too. Considers Damien thoughtfully. "Maybe I ought to be a bit more skeptical when some fella I don't know from Adam's off ox turns up claiming to be my -- Luci's long-lost father, but..." He picks up his shield and offers Damien his pick of lovely skipping stones again. "You reminded me of him from the moment you came up to me, and that's the truth. I can't put my finger on why, but maybe he'll pick up on it, too, whatever it is. I don't know if he'll want a relationship with you in any event, but I suspect he'll be too curious to write you off completely." He rocks the bowl of his shield lightly from side to side, the smooth rocks clicking against each other as they slide but making startlingly little noise against the metal. "He's just. Been having a rough time. You probably noticed that already." "That is its own sort of magic, isn't it." Damien's voice has softened here, his head briefly dipping. "It's a touch heretical but sometimes I feel it might be the only true source of it. Connection. With each other, with the earth --" His eyes flick to the side at the clacking, and though still deliberate he is a little faster this time in picking his rock, broad and flat and dark grey with faintly lighter speckles. "It's strange. I've been hearing so many things about this man who is not-quite my son -- so many people sing his praises. Yet, this --" He indicates Steve with a graceful waggle of the rock in his hand, "feels in some way like the most I've truly learned about him." He looks down, turning the rock over in his hand, and this time flicks it just a bit harder -- it still drops just shy of Steve's first through and considerably shy of his second, not quite a dozen splishes before the final plonk. "I did notice. It's been a bit of a struggle. Wanting to help, wanting to give him space." Another quick and curious glance at Steve. "He is your family. But -- you aren't close anymore?" Steve gives a sort of thoughtfully non-committal nod, though he doesn't sound at all dubious when he replies, "Well, I don't know about heresy, but I'm pretty sure he would agree with that." His eyes go wide-wide at Damien's throw. "Holy mackerel!" Looks at Damien. Looks out at the water again, where the stone's ripples are dissolving into the river's flow. "I know technique's a big part of this but gosh. You must be stronger than you...look." His fingers tighten on the edges of the shield. Then relax. "He spent so much time and effort trying to get into my head, maybe I got into his just a bit, too." The upturn of his hand is a graceful, understated shrug -- though not quite as graceful or understated as those from whom he learned the gesture. "Guess that's why I feel especially helpless about not being able to help him. Already did, even before I let him down. Been letting a lot of folks down. Don't really understand where I went wrong, but I respect that he doesn't want me around." "Looks are very often misleading." Damien is, though, looking just a bit pleased with Steve's surprise, his eyes a little wider, expression a little brighter, at that exclamation. He plucks his walking stick back up, though only to lay it across his lap, playing absently with the sphere at its head. "What help would you give him, now? If you could?" Steve huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah. I really shoulda learned that better by now." He considers the question longer than most people would probably consider reasonable, poking restlessly through the stones all the while. "The thing of it is, I don't know what he needs. Guess I'd want to help him figure that out, or at least figure out what the heck's going on." He gives up pretending to select a rock and tips his head back to blink up at the sky. The blue reflected in the tears he's fiercely determined not to shed make the color of his eyes look unusually intense. "I'm sorry, this ah." He laughs again, breathily. "This is awful embarrassing, not to mention rude. It's just. Been a helluva year, and I miss him so damn much." "Embarrassing? Rude?" Damien has been looking with an oddly intense fascination at Steve's tear-bright eyes but this apology draws him slightly aback -- he looks clearly quite puzzled at this. "Your feelings are among the most personal gifts you can offer. Especially if you are not normally one to share your tears lightly." He pulls his gaze away from Steve, looking now up at the sky as well. "Did he tell you? That he does not want you around?" Steve is still blinking, but at Damien's explanation a tear does finally break loose. He takes a deep breath, then another, and manages to not cry audibly, at least. He is blushing, though. Again. "Pretty sure most folks would be uncomfortable if someone they just met started crying in front of them. I'm glad you're not." He tugs a handkerchief from his pocket and dries his eyes. "He didn't say it in so many words, but he did run from me, last time I saw him. I mean, he finished making me breakfast, then ran. But still." "Oh!" Damien has produced a handkerchief from somewhere on his person, but it vanishes again just as quickly when Steve pulls his out. "Does he usually make breakfast for --" he's starting, but answers his own question halfway through with: "I suppose he does run a hotel, perhaps that just comes with the territory." Steve blinks at Damien -- just confusion now, the not-crying ship having already sailed. "I don't think that had anything to do with the hotel because -- it's a long story." Though as soon as this is out of his mouth he's frowning thoughtfully. "He did also send me a birthday cake. And a birthday present, which is actually why I'm here and not..." His frown eases away. "Oh." "Is the cake also a type of farewell message?" Damien sounds almost too painfully earnest here -- is he quite sincere? He's looking very sincere, something about the intensity of his gaze suggesting he is taking diligent mental notes here. "I am terribly sorry. It sounds like quite an impasse. Perhaps," he is hitting on this very seriously, "you should also send him a cake. To remember you by." "No, it's not..." Steve's perplexity is deepening. "...I don't think it was a farewell cake. I just realized it might be a sign he still wants me in his life." He runs a hand through his hair. "The present was definitely ah...emotionally significant. I frankly still don't know where to put it in my head. Or where to put it in the warehouse." He gives a dry chuckle. "If I tried to return the favor, the cake would probably turn out just a bit too dense, and I love him too much to subject him to that kinda thing." He tilts his head at Damien curiously. "I'm getting the sense we come from pretty different cultures, but that's common enough in this city." "I am quite a decent baker," Damien offers lightly. "My parents were innkeepers, as well. Perhaps hospitality is in the blood." He is hopping lightly to his feet. From his perch, legs dangling off the edge of the pier, it seems like getting back up to his feet should be at least a little ungainly of an effort but there's a dancelike fluidity to his movement that extends to the hand he offers to Steve. "Would you like some tips? I am unsure if we can find all the ingredients I would use at home, but, I am sure we can improvise something to bring some joy into his day." "Oh boy!" Coming from most people in the Year of Our Lord 2024, this would probably be sarcastic, but Steve's startled enthusiasm sounds completely sincere. "I would love that!" He shoulders his satchel and accepts Damien's hand up, but pushes off carefully with a heel braced on the pier -- he is heavier than he looks -- to regain his feet. "Used to having help with that sorta thing. I got all kinds of ingredients at home, and I know where to get plenty more." He tips his shield gently with the toe of one boot, spilling the skipping stones into a neat pile at the corner of the pier for someone else to discover. Then repeats the same motion much harder, flipping the shield up smartly to his hand. "I'm not half bad at improvising."