Fireworks crackle in the night sky, one colorful starburst after the next in such quick succession they light up the world below. The bangs are muted into tinny pops, as if the fireworks are all playing through the speakers of a sound system turned down low and not well maintained. It's a pyrotechnic cascade of endless variety, and not a single person in the party is looking up to see it.
     On the flat roof of an office building, men and women in evening wear carry cocktails about, rubbing shoulders with rave kids dangling their glowsticks, frat boys holding plastic cups of beer, children in paper party hats. It's a half dozen parties overlapping at once, music slipping in and out of hearing for each occasion, or overlapping in a mad jangle of children's songs and trance/punk mashups. Incompatible groups just walk right through each other whenever they meet, the giggling game of tag never colliding with the women swapping business cards in a cluster. No one looks entirely solid around the edges, and no one person has a recognizable face. It's the central casting of a dream, all extras, no one taken from specific memory.
     It's the dog that's the anomaly, a golden retriever bouncing through the crowds and demanding attention from every person it meets. Attention they're all willing to give, from five-year-olds to company accountants. When it's had enough of pets and cooing, it lopes back to where Loki is waiting, nosing at his hands. He's barefoot, worn T-shirt and cut-off jeans and nothing else, sitting on the corner of the wall around the roof with his back to the drop-off.
     "You are such an attention slut." Loki watches the crowd, ruffling the fur along the dog's head. "You'll cozy up to just anyone. But, hey, whatever keeps you happy."

     "Not inaccurate," a voice drawls from behind you. Gwilym has appeared with his usual stealth, dressed in jeans and a Black Jack Davy's t-shirt. His hair is mussed and he is barefoot, only one eye visible - as usual, the last bit.
     He keeps his hands in his pockets and doesn't invite himself to sit, peering at you instead. Absent is his usual smile. "A happier dream than usual, oes? No credit to me, I'm afraid."

     "Dogs have it easy." Loki pulls back his hands, and off the retriever goes into the crowd again, tail wagging. "They don't have to think about anything. Just go after whatever they want, and adore whoever gives it to them. I guess it keeps them happy. It also means they're vulnerable to pretty much anyone who wants to give them a hard time, but that's how the trade-off works. No protection, but generally happy."
     He draws a knee up to his chest, toes curling over the edge of the wall, and drapes an arm there. "The rest of us got cursed with intelligence, poor bastards that we are."

     "Life isn't easy." Gwilym sits down, drawing his knees up and tipping his head back to look at the sky. "Not for any of us. I promise y' that, though it probably doesn't help."
     He glances to you and then to the dog. "Intelligence is a curse. But you have earned a right to know things, Loki. So - go ahead and ask."

     There's a brisk game of tag ranging all across the roof. Right now, it's not entirely clear where the birthday party kids end and the rave kids begin, with the number of people dashing through the crowd and each other for the game. Loki watches them a moment longer, illuminated by fireworks. "I'd ask what would have happened if Aeron hadn't stepped in, but I'm pretty sure I can fill in the blanks on that one myself. So how often are you going to be in one of those moods?"
     He shifts his gaze to settle on you, indirectly. "And how do I tell when you are?"

     "Not often." Gwilym smiles, and it is a bittersweet expression. He sighs, exhaling and looking up at the ceiling. "I'm sorry."
     He lies back, hands folded under his head and one leg crossed over the other knee. "I can't tell you that. Not won't - can't. If you can't tell the difference between me as I usually am and when I'm like that, the only thing that will tell you is going to be experience and exposure. If you choose."

     "Okay." Loki scrubs a hand across his face, and when he's done, he looks about as he did before. Maybe a little more tired. "Just assume I did some yelling and then got over it, would you?"
     When he tilts his head back to watch the fireworks, the sound of the explosions comes through more clearly. "What do I do if it comes up again? DIfferently. Assuming I figure out what's going on."

     "You always have the right to say no. I'm not a rapist, y'know." Gwilym rolls over on his side, resting an elbow on the floor as he looks at you. "So ... tell me no. Tell me that you're not interested."
     He smiles lopsidedly, then rolls to face the other way. "I don't expect you t' do otherwise, you know."

     "I'll see if I have enough sense to lie about it next time." Loki drops his gaze to rest on you, skittish and prone to finding other things to look at every few seconds. "I've lost your antecedent. You don't expect me to do anything but what?"

     "Tell me no."
     He isn't looking at you; he's giving you your space. "I might argue - I can't promise not t'. When the darkness has hold of me, the only thing you can do - the only thing you should do - is say no. Well." Gwilym smiles a little, sitting up, face in shadow. "Maybe give Aeron a call."

     "Next time I see him, I'll ask for a phone number." Loki pulls up another knee, arms draped around both. "While I hate to point out the obvious, have I shown any particular skill at saying no to you to date?" He spins his watch around his wrist, restless and unfocused in the energy. "I'm not good at saying no. Setting boundaries. Winning arguments. I sort of figured you'd noticed that by now."

     "Well, oes. But you don't get better at anything by stopping," Gwilym retorts lazily. "It's practice which makes things work better, innit? For this as much as anything else. Nothing comes easily - you might have a talent for something, but..."
     He shrugs, draping his forearms across his knees. "What do you want me to say?"

     "How should I know?" Loki looks away, chin sinking onto his knees. "Not like it matters, does it? Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll try. Same as usual. Fuck if I can tell what you want even when you tell me, half the time."

     "It matters." Gwilym sighs, letting his chin rest on his knee as he looks at you. "If you've ever thought that what you want does not matter t' me, then we've missed a fairly important turn along the route, Loki."

     "It didn't matter much that I didn't want the gifts you gave me, did it?" There's no bitterness in Loki's tone, though there's an edge of frost. "But I got over that. I'm learning how to work with them, even if I'm not great at it yet. So what does anything else I want matter either? There's a job you tagged me to do, and I'll figure out how to do it. I'm not made of glass. Whether I like what's going on or not, I'll cope."

     "Oes, well, we've been over that." Gwilym sounds tired, and he looks over at you. "You know why I did it. You don't understand why I chose you, maybe, but I told you the reasons. More than that, I can't do. I've apologized, and ... well, I'm sorry if it isn't good enough." He rakes a hand back through his hair.
     "All I can do is ask y' what I've asked. What do you want?"

     "I'm not asking for apologies. I'm pointing out where I got the impression that 'want' wasn't exactly very important. Not when it was coming from me." Loki drops his arms, and turns on the wall to dangle his legs off the other side. It's a parking lot, down there. Not very interesting, but it's a place to fix his eyes. "I want to get a grip on what you've already given me, and I'm doing a lousy job at it. I want you, and apparently that's a bad idea too. I want to be a good drummer in a great band, and that I actually have nailed right now. Shocking change of pace from the standard."
     He looks back over his shoulder at you. "After that it all turns into impossibilities and trivialities. I could go for a cup of coffee."

     "Wanting me isn't a bad idea. It's just not entirely a good idea, either," Gwilym admits. He sighs, running a hand back through his hair. "I won't lie to y' and say otherwise, although I could be flippant and say it's always a good idea. But I am who and what I am, Loki."
     He passes a hand through the air - even in dreams, he can still do that. He holds out coffee. Mocha latte, triple-shot, with cinnamon sprinkles and whipped cream. "Coffee is the one thing I can do without side effects, I s'pose," he offers with a lopsided smile.

     Loki takes the coffee, and trades you a thin, quick smile for it. "Getting involved with you is a lot like getting a puppy. Always more work and trouble than it seemed like at the beginning."
     He knocks back a long slug of the latte, eyes closed. The smear of whipped cream across his upper lip is brushed away--mostly--with the back of his hand. "Thanks." Another sip, and he looks back to you again. "So I learned that there are some catches to saying yes to you without paying attention to what's going on. No lasting harm done, and it's probably the kind of thing it's better to learn early than late."

     "Oes, well. I don't take shites on the floor, at least." Gwilym settles back, folding his hands under his head again. "Paying attention helps. I'd blame my parents, but they'd beat my arse if they found out..."

     "No daily walks, you don't roll in things that smell... You don't come when called, either." Loki laughs shortly. "Fuck me, I got a cat. What's that saying? Dogs have owners, cats have staff." He drops down on his elbows to watch the fireworks in the sky. "Paying attention. I'll try. I hate fucking things up."

     "It wasn't your fault, y'know," Gwilym says quietly. "I know it's hard to believe it, but it was me, not y'. All right?" He stands, looking at the sky. "...Maybe I should go, oes?"

     "As you like." Loki wraps both hands around the coffee. "I'll see you when I see you."

     "It isn't a question of like. We'll speak again soon, oes?" Gwilym's smile holds a flash of something akin to pain; but then it's gone. And so is he, as abruptly as he came, leaving nothing in his wake.
     Well. Except coffee. Mocha. With whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles.

Posted by rowan at May 07, 2009 06:07 PM