Logs:Madness That Way Lies

Madness That Way Lies
Dramatis Personae Ryan, Steve
In Absentia	2021-11-29 "I'm not going to get into an 'exhausting friend' contest."
Location <PRV> Black House - Ridgewood
This stately townhouse has a cheerful yellow brick exterior, its front entrance spectacularly inaccessible but affording residents a commanding view of the quiet street below. Inside it's bright and airy and almost entirely empty of furniture. It has the pristine, sterile look that comes with professional renovation, but here and there the obvious custom touches -- whether from the previous residents or at the new owner's request -- shine through. The first floor is expansive, with a longish open floor plan that's quickly falling out of fashion. One entire wall of the living room consists of tessellated geometric mirrors, reflecting the truly massive and functional fireplace and even larger mosaic stone hearth. Beyond this the dining room and kitchen are conjoined; the space left for the as yet absent dining table looks vast and strange. A small half bath is tucked at the rear of this space, beside which the back door leads down into a small backyard with a patio sheltered by a quaint little pavilion and a strip of a garden along one side. The staircase winding through the heart of the house is lit by a generous skylight, and runs parallel the main hallway of the second floor, which joins two comfortably sized bedrooms room, with an expansive and luxurious full bath in between and not one but two hallway closets. On the top floor is a massive bedroom with as much glass as wall and its own full, if smallish, bathroom. French doors one one side of this attic room lead out onto a roof deck, whose stairs lead down into the backyard far below. It's a pleasant afternoon, mild and sunny -- though that's harder to tell here inside Blackhaus with all the shades drawn close, the many lights on instead of taking advantage of its plentiful windows. Perhaps Ryan has decided lately he hates the environment after all, though more likely it's something to do with the small knot of wannabe twitter paparazzi lurking across the street with their cameraphones. In here it's a bit of a chaos. On the sound system Sibelius's violin concerto is playing; Obie and Zenobia seem keen on mirroring the stormy sparring dynamic between orchestra and soloist in their tussle over a long green squeaky snake, crashing around the living room with a lot of clatter-growl-sqeaksqueaksqueak between them. In the kitchen, Ryan has nominally been cooking -- or preparing to cook -- there's sliced green tomatoes, okra, and plates of seasoned cornmeal battering, presumably the heavy skillets and oil waiting mean some frying is going to take place. Somewhere along the way though, he's gotten sidetracked, wincing, his eyes scrunched shut and shoulders pressed up toward his ears as he leaves to go retrieve a pair of yogurt-filled Kongs from the freezer, mid-rant: "--should have fucking stabbed all those squeakers out oh my God -- or just actually given her to you like I meant to -- dogs yo you want to trade? this is way better than snake!" He's bribing the high-pitched toy away from the tussling canines with the frozen treats, moving it High Up Out Of Reach to a shelf once they're happily off in their beds slurping and returning to the kitchen. Staring at his food like he doesn't quite remember what it was for. Steve has been sitting at the kitchen counter opposite the temporarily interrupted food prep, casual in a green and blue plaid flannel and comfortable blue jeans, his shield propped up against the stool at his feet and a cup of black coffee near at hand. He gives a sympathetic wince at Ryan's plight -- though he's presumably not best pleased with the noise himself -- as he turns in his seat to watch his host settle the dogs. "Don't think they like toys half as well without ear-piercing squeaks. Though those green snakes do seem very popular." He's just lifted his mug again but stops. Does a double take. "Meant to?" His pale blue eyes skate back toward Zenobia. Frowns. "Have you been having trouble with her beyond just -- her being a young, large, and highly energetic young dog made of solid muscle and exuberance?" Now he does take another sip of his coffee, looking at the tomatoes, then back up at Ryan. "I'd offer you a hand, but I'm not sure you'd want a Yankee besmirching your fried green tomatoes and I sure as heck don't know what to do with okra." "The ear splitting ones are their favorites," Ryan agrees, still tense as he washes his hands, though slightly less scrunched about the face. "Huh?" This is immediately followed by a deep blush and a duck of his head. "Oh, nothing, she was just supposed to be -- nevermind, it was fucking stupid, I was fucking -- stupid. Anyway, you just fry the okra, it's not like. Some kinda deep mystery we're hiding. Honestly this is the best holiday, I can cave to my deep-seated urges to fry everything like I want to anyway." Steve blinks. Looks back at the huge brindle pit bull. Back at Ryan. "She was supposed to be...?" His frown clears slightly. "I would have adopted her if no one else had been interested, since she is a bit of a handful. But I'm glad she ended up in a loving home. Now..." His expression has gone solemn. "You'd best stop insulting my friend, or I might have to call you out, and I'd hate to give those folks out there more fodder than they've already got." He warps both hands around his mug and props his elbows on the counter. "Growing up, my best friend was --" A slight hesitation. A slight dip of his head. "Well, I didn't go to temple with him, and he wasn't all that observant, but I still get the impression Hanukkah has gotten a lot more popular since then." He brightens a little, turning one hand up toward the skillets. "If you ever want an excuse to fry everything when there isn't a convenient holiday to hand, I'm happy to supply my appetite." "Nothing," Ryan replies -- just a little bit more sharply, this time. "I mean -- I don't know. You'd been getting on with her so well at the shelter and it was Christmas and I thought I'd get all her food and toys and shit and surprise you but then I thought fuck that's the dumbest goddamn -- after everything maybe you'd think I was -- I don't know I overthought it and then we had a new dog." He's scrubbing his hands through his hair through all this, not looking at Steve, and when he catches himself at it goes in some irritation to wash them again, muttering a quiet fuck under his breath as he does so. Steve sips his coffee, watching Ryan carefully through this somewhat agitated explanation. He waits until the water stops running, and when he does speak his voice is extremely gentle and a little worried. "Hey. Look, it's not dumb. I think it's sweet, actually." Even more hesitant, now. "Maybe at the time I might've thought..." A little more worried. His head shakes, quick. "I don't know what I would've thought. It wasn't exactly --" He blushes fiercely, embarrassed but not displeased by the thought coloring his cheeks before it's drowned in a cold spill of grief and the quieter current of guilt beneath it. He takes a slow breath and a quick gulp of coffee. "Like to think you would've said if you meant the gesture as anything more than a very thoughtful Christmas gift." An almost infinitesimal pause, sorrow jangling louder and sharper. "Like to think I would've asked, if I was worried." For a moment he vacillates on an unspoken "but", two fears of different quality and strength warring inside him. It's a short battle. "But I might not have, for fear I'd upset you, and I think it's a disservice to you. To assume you'd have been upset." The quirk of his mouth is rueful. "Then you wouldn't have been the only one overthinking this." Ryan fixes his eyes on Steve with a great intensity, dropping still-damp palms to brace on the counter as he leans in just slightly toward the other man as he speaks. One side of his mouth twitches, a little rueful as well. "Oh, I get upset 'bout a lotta things, yeah? Usually me hurting my own damn feelings." His gaze hasn't wavered, uncomfortably keen when he continues: "Does that mean you wouldn't be overthinking it now?" Steve immediately draws breath to reply. Stops himself, but only for an instant, then forges ahead anyway. "Maybe I've got too much faith in myself, but I don't think so, no." He's a little surprised by something here, though it's hard to say what exactly. "Upsetting people and getting upset -- these things can happen even when everyone involved is being open, conscientious, and kind. I know that." He meets Ryan's gaze unflinching despite the concern lurking behind his words. "Guess I got twisted up about it because you'd gotten upset at me in a way that I didn't understand." His voice softens, his affection plain. "I can deal with being confused, I can deal with your anger, but -- you could've been hurt, and I don't just mean your feelings. And maybe I couldn't have avoided that, but I could have tried harder to understand." "I'm not Dawson, I wasn't ever --" When Ryan looks away it's sudden, sharp, his gaze dropping like now the weight of Steve's is too much to hold. There's a faint ripple in the air around them, something tinged with unease and distress. "Sorry. I just -- wanted you to like me. It shouldn't have been any more complicated than that. Sometimes I just make things more complicated than that and it wasn't your fault." Steve does not flinch, but he does look down into his coffee. "I'm sorry. Didn't bring that up to --" Ryan can sense the sharp stab of grief and the attending anger, both long familiar by now. "I do like you, and I want to understand, whether it was my fault or not." His brows furrow, mostly thoughtful but a bit frustrated, a bit apprehensive. "Don't expect it hurts you any less if it isn't my fault. Don't expect it hurts you any less if it's yours. Complicated or not, I won't write you off. Never did, and I don't mean to start." He raises his eyes to Ryan again, hopeful, warm, and certain. "But I'd like to do better than that. I'd like to know if or how I can help when you -- make things more complicated than they need to be. And who knows..." He glances over at where Zenobia is gamely trying to slorp her frozen treat. Shrugs, a just a faint hitch of broad shoulders. "Maybe it'll help me avoid overthinking about your overthinking." "No, it's not -- not your fault, I just. Maybe not half wrong, actually, his crazy and my crazy weren't so... Fuck." It comes out as half a whisper, a sudden brighter sting of tears glimmering in Ryan's eyes and a small sharp breath of laugh accompanying this. Ryan's eyes open wider, turned down toward the counter, where his hands have folded together tight, fingers clenching hard against each other. "Haven't written me off yet," comes with an almost savage cheer, "everyone's got their breaking points." His smile and voice both stretch a little thinner. "Admit the fame and money have stretched some people's more generously than they used to be but still. Somewhere in the middle of ricocheting between jail and whirlwind fake romance and another blowup fight over fucking nothing probably even the most patient of people eventually gon' take stock and realize there way less exhausting friends to keep 'round." Sudden, intent: "You should take the dog, though. You really liked her. She still likes you." Steve does flinch at the word "crazy", and there's quiet tender indignation when he says, "You are not --" His hand tightens around the handle of his mug, then quickly relaxes. "I thought he wasn't, either. Looked it up, but then I thought, well everyone has ups and downs, and some people just have higher highs and lower lows. Thought I was being charitable, broad-minded, even." His lips compress. The anger is different this time, twined with remorse. "But it's different, isn't it? And you're not just -- more intense or short-tempered or dramatic." He looks down at Ryan's hands. "So, maybe I'm being cocky. It's a problem for me. Not just charging into fights that are too big, but forgetting how it hurts the people who love me when I do that without so much as a word, much less a request for help, until they have to put me back together -- literally or figuratively." "I'm not going to get into an 'exhausting friend' contest. Madness that way --" A flash of embarrassment, too brief to color his cheeks. "Wouldn't be productive. I don't know what it's like for you, in there." He taps his own left temple, then indicates Ryan's. "But I do know what it's like to hurt my friends because I ah...'have no chill.'" His hand tighten on the handle of the mug again, and he just sets it down this time. "Can't predict the future, but you know full well I'm not patient, and I'm still here. Because I want to be, yes, but also because I made a decision not to give up on you even when I'm mad, or hurt, or don't know what to do." He looks over at Zenobia again. "I'd love to, but in the spirit of not diving head-first into things without consulting the people they might impact? I should clear that with Sam. Probably best if you cleared it with Jax and Spence, too." "Oh, I'm very dramatic, that's not all the BPD." There's a quick flash of smile that crosses Ryan's face at this, easier than the last. His shoulders don't unclench. "-- god, please don't google that, the internet will tell you to run away screaming." His tears are falling now, and he turns his head to wipe his cheek against one sleeve. "Feel like such a fucking fraud sometimes," he admits. "I can't go anywhere without kids thanking me for the openness of my music, being so honest in the public eye about who I am but there's so much shit I'd never talk about, the public would eat me alive." A pause, a crooked grin: "And that's before even getting to the terrorism." He's remembering his food, now. Going to start dredging the tomatoes through their cornbread crust. "-- in a fucked up way it actually helps that you're a mess. On my bad days I tell myself you're actually the secular American saint people say you are and goddamn but that guy would not have the time of day for me. Steve Rogers, though? Might be a trainwreck but here he still is." Steve's frown looks perplexed, but when he does speak -- eyes widening ever so slightly at Ryan's tears -- the trailing edge of that confusion is rapidly eclipsed by sympathy, more worry, and his more usual brand of anger again. "Hey. You aren't --" He stops, jaw clenching hard. "I think I get why you feel that way. But your music is open, at the cost of real danger to not just your career but your life, to say nothing of the cruelties you endure." Though his actual tone is more or less even, his anger rises sharply. "Not wanting to expose yourself to more of that doesn't make you a fraud." The twitch at the corner of his mouth now is about consonant with the small, weary amusement that attends, "My public persona is far less honest than yours, but even that isn't what most people think it is -- what they think Captain America should be. Might be biased, but I think Cap would like you just fine." The turbulence of his emotional landscape quiets, his smile less reserved now as he watches Ryan work. "And, trainwreck or no, I'm glad still here, too."