ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Closure

Vignette - Closure
Hope springs eternal
Dramatis Personae Jason, Tag	2013-10-08 Tag says 'no'. TRIGGER WARNING: emotional abuse, non-consensual physical contact.
Location <NYC> Hope Springs Farm - Queens
This small urban farm occupies an empty lot surrounded by unremarkable residential buildings in the north end of Flushing. Where the lot meets the street, the gap offers a stunning view of a self storage facility and the freeway beyond. The farm itself is still a work in progress, but this season finds messy beds disgorging bumper crops of tomatoes, squashes, and root vegetables almost too quickly for the farm collective to harvest. The cool, damp morning finds Tag flitting between trellises laden with fantastically shaped and colored squashes, pausing to admire some of them before stuffing them into a large mauve plastic sack. He is swathed in a faded brown hoodie that looks borrowed from someone else, and jeans of washed out denim bearing stippled shapes of dragons and phoenixes that encircle his legs. Locks of bright blue hair peek out from under his hood. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and he still looks like he could gain a few kilos, but the pallor of his previous ordeal has largely faded. He pauses to rest and sits down on a stump, fishing a slender thermos from the sky blue Rainbow Dash satchel at his side. Steam rises from its mouth when he opens it and drinks. When he lowers it again, he is smiling, but it doesn’t last. His eyes, chicory blue and faintly jarring against an East Asian complexion, track a tall figure picking his way up the path from the street. The newcomer has a long mohawk that, worn down and tied back, looks like the sloppiest dye job, though it is probably in fact sectioned to resemble a yellow-and-black barricade tape when worn up. Glass spirals the precise color of the platonic beer bottle adorn his ears. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of an ancient olive drab canvas jacket whose original fabric is barely visible beneath a plethora of patches and paint. Tag puts his beverage away and rises, sack of squashes gripped in one hand as if he means to use it as a weapon. He glances around, but holds his ground and waits. The other man stops an arm's length form Tag. They stand facing each other for a moment, the slope making their eyes level despite a significant discrepancy in height. "Jason." "Tag." "How're you doing?" "Fine. There's a new girl at the house. Dancer, real exuberant. You'd like her." "Cool." Tag worries at a loose thread on the pocket of his jeans. Then, finally, "What do you want?" "Your answer. Are you coming back to me or not?" Tag's uncanny eyes search Jason's jacket, his jewellery...everything but his face. "I'm not. I don't want /or/ need a Master." Jason's laugh sounds almost like a scoff. "Yeah, right. A kitten can't change his stripes." "But /I/ can." Purple diagonal lines appear in Tag's hair. "Look...we're done. Don't be a dick about this, please. I know you're a decent guy." "No, I'm not. I'm terrible and damaged." The laugh is softer, this time. "But so are you." Tag's lips press together and his dark blue eyebrows lower. "Goodbye." He hefts the sack and slings it over one shoulder, watery eyes lingering on his ex as he turns to go. Jason's hand closes on his arm and spins him around. The unsteadiness of his burden upsets Tag's balance and he falls against Jason with a sharp intake of breath. The jacket smells like Nag Champa, pot, motor oil, and patchouli. One of Jason's long arms winds around his waist, the other twists the straps of the squash sack from Tag's hand and sets it aside. "You are mine." Gray eyes bore into him. "You still want me." "Frak." Tag's breathing is quick and labored. "Of /course/ I want you, but why the yotz does that even matter? I want a lot of things I can't have. Or shouldn't have." Jason's other hand snakes under the hood and takes hold of Tag's ponytail, forcing his head back. "You can't tell me you don't like this." "I..." Tag relaxes, his eyes sliding shut, then snapping open abruptly. "No Jason, stop, /red/, /RED!/" He twists his head away, hands pushing at Jason's chest, every color on his person paling visibly with rising panic. Jason releases him. "Something's happened to you." Grim, matter-of-fact, concerned. "No shit, Sherlock." Tears spill from Tag's eyes, and he wipes them away savagely with the sleeve of his hoodie. "Go away, Jason. I was quit when you came up here. I'm twice as quit now." "Good luck finding someone else to put up with your crazy bullshit." Even so, Jason lingers a moment longer before storming away, messy yellow-and-black French braid bobbing at the collar of his jacket like warning coloration. Tag stands as if fixed to the spot, watching Jason until he disappears from sight. Then he sinks to the ground, back braced against the stump, face pressed to dirty threadbare knees. His shoulders hitch again and again with quiet sobs as tears soak the old denim. It is a while before he moves again. Climbing wearily to his feet, he picks up the sack and returns to his task like an automaton, joyless in a garden of earthly wonders.