Logs:Dance Therapy

Dance Therapy
Dramatis Personae Damien, Cyan
In Absentia Natsumi, Anahita	2024-12-20 "Even if you plant the seeds they will take time to bloom."
Location <NYC> Unspecified Skate Park
It’s one of those old skateparks that the City has planned to turn into a parking lot for the last eleven years. However, something always comes in the way. It’s run down, but well-maintained by the local community on a volunteer basis. The scraggly concrete holds one pit, and two railings -- wobbly but usable, and behind the cover of a few pitiful looking trees a mostly flat concrete area. The minor bumps and hurdles once placed here were removed as they decayed to satisfy Safety Inspectors and concerned parents. As the late evening ticks by, an unusually warm breeze for December rustles the trees before moving on, but otherwise the area is quiet. A single figure moves in the empty lot. In a City that doesn’t Sleep privacy is perhaps the hardest thing to find. And it has taken Cyan several days to find this place, and when the ideal time for not running into anyone is. For once their heavy clothes have been laid aside, piled to the side of the area with their face-masks neatly stacked on top, with what looks to be the head of a puppet-like polar bear set aside next to it. He’s had his warm up, he’s taken the precautions he can take, and right now Cyan is dancing. The music is only in his head, his eyes closed as he floats over the old concrete, elegant and precise movements, following a choreography he learned long ago. 1-2-3-4, step and jump, and- “SHIT!” he suddenly stops lifting his left foot to inspect, cursing under his breath as he inspects the piece of glass he just stepped on. Certainly Cyan was alone when he got here. Probably he was alone for some time after that, too. It's hard to say just-exactly-when he stopped being alone, because his current company made very little noise on arrival, ghosting in with the breeze and alighting like just so much more clothing to drop down into the pile alongside Cyan's own. Of course, when he gets up, it's difficult to imagine how he could possibly have attracted so very little notice -- certainly his steps are surpassing quiet, certainly he, too, moves light and elegant as air. But unlike the heap of clothing he's peeling off from he's dressed extraordinarily flamboyantly -- dressed quite eye-catchingly in cropped red jacket with intricate gold embroidery along the cuffs and hem, worn open over a violet charmeuse shirt, framing an oval mirror pendant in which the reflection always looks just a little off, and gold leather trousers tucked into black riding boots. His steps -- 1-2-3-4-, step and jump, are a light mimicry of the last of Cyan's, right up to the selfsame, "shit", though in his echoed voice this is a lilting, musical thing. It's followed by: "-- Have you hurt yourself, child?" entirely as if there's nothing at all odd about his presence here. Cyan’s gaze lands on the giant of a man, for a few seconds contemplating if what he’s experiencing is real, or if he’s further gone than he thought. Then he jumps, a look of panic streaks across his face as he tries to scramble away, still holding on to his foot, causing him to very unelegantly fall flat on his ass. “Errr, no nothing serious just-” A small bead of sweat from the dancing has formed on his forehead, sliding down his greyish skin leaving a trail of a rapidly fading blue-green sheen in its wake. “-I stepped on something, surprised me ‘s all...” He looks over to the pile of clothes, trying to calculate the most effective way to get to them without moving closer to this Very Sneaky Sparkly Giant. "You shouldn't get too close, I'm contagious." it's a barefaced lie, but it's the best he can think of right now. "You are leaking." Damien isn't retreating -- he slips closer, offering a hand out when Cyan stumbles and falls. "I am very robust. I've traveled through far less hospitable countries without even a sniffle, New York hasn't yet invented a contagion that will do me in. Unless," he's saying this with a sudden spark of intrigue that is in no way seeming to alarm him, "you aren't from this planet at all. You look very grey for a human." “Fuck if I know, “ He stares at the hand, unblinkingly, not taking his eyes off it for a single moment as he gets up to his feet. This hallucination is new. Inspired by Natsumi’s outfit yesterday probably, and some kind of fucked up psychological need for something. His imaginary friends aren’t usually this nice. “I don’t think anyone’s called me human in a very long time, if that’s what you’re asking?” Black strands of hair fall into his eyes as he gets up, and he pushes them back unceremoniously, only for them to end up standing straight up as a sort of unhappy middle ground between biology and gravity. “Why am I talking to a hallucination?” he asks out loud, mostly to himself, before sighing and shaking his head. The same green-blue sheen as from the drop on his face can be seen on his arms, fading into grey as the sweat evaporates off his skin. The once-grey singlet he’s wearing slowly returns to its actual color as he cools down. “Am I hallucinating you because I’m trying to tell myself something? Or is it just my brain getting more creative when it comes to messing with me?” "Why are you talking to a hallucination?" Damien echoes this question with an upward lilt of delight, as though someone has just asked him a particularly enchanting riddle. The hand he has been extending toward Cyan turns upward, now. He pivots -- something of a pirouette, really -- and slots himself into place alongside Cyan. "Does your brain mess with you a lot? What do you think it is trying to tell you? What is it," alone among the series of questions, this one stands out as strangely compelling, "that you desire?" “A home.” The answer comes out fast, fast enough to catch Cyan off-guard. He staggers slightly, sometimes thoughts feel like a sledgehammer to the gut. “My brain and I aren’t exactly friends.” Shaking it off he mimics Damian’s pivot, light as a feather, a soft smile on his face. If he is going to hallucinate he might as well get something out of it. “What is it that you desire o grand figment of my imagination?” "A home." Damien is lifting up the pendant he wears, tilting it to catch the unhealthy cityglow night light, and Cyan within the dreamlike off-kilter mirror -- within it, the mirror-Cyan is pivoting one time too many. There's the same kind of compelling draw to his followup question: "What makes a home, in your heart?" His smile, when it comes, is a wide fey thing, gleaming and bright. "I want your dancing. You move like the wind, it's so very enchanting." “Being wanted, being loved, being able to be around people without them getting hurt just cause you exist-“ this time too the response comes fast, followed by a heavy sigh, “-having someone look for you when you go missing.” He stops moving on his toes, looking down, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I’d trade every dance move I know away for someone to care if I go missing.” Damien has risen up onto his toes, something in his motions still a vague mimicry of Cyan's. "I am around you," he points out mildly, "and I'm not hurt. Am I?" Idly, he pokes at his own chest, as if he might suddenly discover some heretofore unnoticed injury. There's a satisfied nod after this: Nope, not hurt. "I think I am starting to see the problem." There's a very grave tone to this now -- Damien's brow is just a little furrowed, his expression intent and deeply considered. "People need to be around you to grow the caring, yes? Even if you plant the seeds they will take time to bloom. I do happen to know some very fertile soil for this type of thing." Cyan laughs with a short bark-like sound, looking up at Damien as the blue-green shimmer fades from his face, wide-pupils making his eyes look as if there’s no iris there. “You’re in my head, that doesn’t count. Fertile soil doesn’t matter for seeds made of poison. All I can do is-” he throws his hand out, gesturing at the world in general, his voice shaking, “-see if it’s me or the world who goes insane first!” "Oh! I have the most wonderful thing to tell you." Damien sounds very much in earnest, here: "The world is already quite mad. You have some catching up to do. Come, I know a lovely place that can grow most any seed. Its gardener would welcome the challenge, I think. And if it does bear fruit, there will be time yet for you to owe me that dance." He stares, then he shrugs, walking over to get his stuff, hoodie, boots, facemasks and finally plumping the big puppet-like polar bear head over his head before turning back to Damien. “Alright--” he makes an exaggerated bow, somehow miraculously managing to keep the mascot head from falling off. “--this is the most insistent you’ve ever been brain, so I’ll hear you out, but this better not be another Kansas.”