Logs:Quidquid Latet Apparebit

Quidquid Latet Apparebit
Dramatis Personae DJ, Gaétan, Sera
In Absentia Lucien, Matt	2024-03-23 "I think he would have liked more flare and less solemnity."
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
St. Martin de Porres Catholic Church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the altar, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. Inside the church the memorial service has only recently ended. There are still quite a large number of friends and family and a small handful of those who are neither -- a few stray fans, a few people who nobody seems to claim or recognize. Elie has been basking in the attention and perhaps still will be for some time, but Gaétan has fled the tears and the condolences. Probably this small ledge of roof is not meant to be a place to hang out, but he's propped open a window and climbed outside. There's faint traces of dust flecked on his Very Expensive Suit where he climbed out, and probably more gathering now that he's set himself down cross-legged. He's looking blankly down at the sidewalk below, the foot traffic out enjoying the glorious afternoon. After a moment he draws a small silver flask from a pocket, uncapping it for a quick swig. Gaétan might be fooled into thinking he's bought himself a little reprieve, but soon enough there's a soft scrabble at the window and a moment later Sera hoists herself up and out onto the ledge, too. She's got her power locked firmly down, but is even more ill-dressed for this venture than he, given her dress is constructed from layers of delicately gathered black silk tulle. At least she's ditched her heels somewhere in the process, though the roof slates will not likely do her stockings any favors. She thunks down beside him and, as if it would compensate for this unladylike comportment somehow, rearranges her voluminous skirts carefully to cover her legs before beckoning for his flask. "Dog." Is this a greeting? Gaétan is gesturing with the mouth of the flask toward the sidewalk, where a slim Ibizan hound is trotting along impatiently in front of a young woman absorbed in her phone. His eyes track the path of the slender dog as he holds the flask out to Sera. "Been trying to decide how he'd feel about this. He wasn't even Catholic but he did like a good ritual." Sera's eyes track the gesture unerringly to Dog, and she doesn't quite smile but there's a tug at the corners of her eyes. "Pointy." She takes the flask and tips it back, wincing at the burn. "I think he'd like it." This doesn't sound exceptionally confident, but neither does it sound wholly like wishful thinking. She takes another sip and passes the flask back. "Well. I think he would have liked more flare and less solemnity." There are quiet footsteps just beyond the window, and it opens once more. DJ does not join the teenagers on the roof, palms bracing against the sill. "Hey -- sorry. I know these can be a lot. Especially after your other brother..." This trails off for just a second. "I think your mom's going to be down there a while but if either of you want a lift home I could take you down." "I think either way he'd have felt a little embarrassed about all the fuss." Gaétan takes another swig and is reflexively starting to offer the flask to DJ when he speaks. He frowns at the man a moment later, and hesitates just a beat before passing it to Sera again. "Was kind of dreading the thought of going back down there," he admits. He's grimacing after this, deep. "Had kind of thought less funerals was one of the whole points of coming to this world." Sera starts to tentatively lean against Gaétan's side -- then straightens up again with DJ's arrival, smoothing her skirts down primly. "I think mom might be upset if we dipped out early, but we can probably use my power as an excuse." Then, upon reflection, she adds, "Maybe it's not an 'excuse', it is pretty exhausting. Weirdly I didn't go to a lot of these, back -- in my birth world." She turns a little pink when she finds herself holding the flask, glancing from it to DJ and back. When no frowning or finger wagging is evident though, she drinks again without any further indication of guilt. She seems to be in the process of echoing Gaétan's second (third?) thought about offering DJ the flask when something he says derails her. "My other brother?" Her power balloons out, and though she's still got a reasonable grip on its actual effects, the other two can feel a faint tightness in their chests and a small rising panic and a deep grief that may or may not be much like their own. DJ just shakes his head at the almost-offer of the flask, his denial: "Thanks, but I'm driving," offered deadpan. "Matt's still down there, I'm sure your mom will understand." There's a small plasticky click as his mechanical hand shifts its grip on the sill. "I just mean Lucien -- our," amends uncertainly to, "your," before settling on, "-- at home. It was pretty unexpected there, too." His mouth twitches slightly thinner, and though his own grief is a profound and heavy thing his voice has the quiet resignation of someone who has been to far too many funerals. "At least as unexpected as these things could be, there." "Luci -- uh, your Lucien?" This perhaps wasn't intended to come out as a question. It starts off as a kind of automatic clarification but halfway through there's an uncertain sinking in Gaétan as he looks at Sera. He'd been also-automatically reaching to curl an arm around her shoulders but now he's shifting back to look at her more properly, a worried flutter inside him. "Did they -- never -- tell you?" "Tell me --?" In the time that it takes Sera to turn from Gaétan to DJ, her expression has gone from blank to opaque. It's hard to say whether she's picked up Gaétan's Sinking Feeling or arrived at one of her own, but either way she's struggling not to drag him down farther with her. "But he dropped me off right before..." She looks to Gaétan as if it would somehow change things if he backed her up, and takes another swig before returning the flask to him. "They never told me." She stares down at the street below, and the sharp tug of her power eases with an effort. "What happened to him?" "Oh --" That grief, deep and old, is tearing open just a little bit more raw for a moment. DJ takes a deep breath, pushes it back down. "I'm so sorry. I thought --" He shakes his head slow. "He died. During all the -- it was very sudden. They said heart attack, but with all the assistance he was giving us, it was hard not to imagine --" His lips press together, his head bowing. "He was a good man, too. Both of them." "That was a heart attack just like I'm --" Gaétan doesn't finish this thought, but his shoulders have gotten much more tense. He takes a very long gulp from the flask. "I'm pretty sure his -- your -- brother killed him. Once the rift closed and it was safe, I thought they'd have -- tabarnak. I'm so sorry, this is -- not a good time to be finding all this out." Sera's arms start to wind around herself, but she forces them back down and sits up straight. "Why would my Matthieu --" She tips her head back as if to address the unfinished question to the heavens, but probably she's just trying to keep from crying. "He didn't want me to say goodbye to anyone, not even mama. It all made sense when he talked me through it. Then I was here and nothing made sense. I know our family wasn't perfect." She blinks away the unshed tears, her power still locked down tight. "But I couldn't imagine him sending me to a different universe just to get me away from them." "What? No, Matthieu --" DJ's outrage is extremely fleeting. It gives way swiftly to a cooler kind of contemplation and from there, for a moment, a blossoming expanding of his emotional landscape that is softer and pricklier all at once in its protective bristling. The second layer of feeling withdraws, quiet, and DJ turns his eyes down toward the street. "Lot of things I couldn't imagine, once. He loved you so much, and if he thought it was safer to be here, with --" He exhales slowly. A moment later he's out on the roof ledge beside the teenagers, offering out a hand. "C'mon. We can still get somewhere quieter."