Alfie is Alfred Pennyworth (iquakewithfear) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-01-05 14:26:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | alfred pennyworth, dream |
Who: Alfie and Tristan
What: A concert
Where: in the park
When: New Year's Eve
Warnings: None
The day had passed quickly enough, filled with some coffee, a bit of sketching as he sat on the couch, and then drifting off to sleep, into a dream filled with warmth and tropical beaches. He woke smiling, the entire apartment dark except for the orange street lights filtering in from outside. It took several long moments before he could wake up enough to find a light and turn it on. Another few passed while he searched for something that could tell him the time.
He finally stumbled into his bedroom, his computer sitting open on his bed, and showing Alfie’s last email on the screen when it lit back to life. Genny’s room was still dark and quiet, and the clock on his computer told him that it was inching later into the evening. Still groggy from sleep, he barely thought about it as he dug around his room for something to wear, layering several shirts before shrugging into his coat and heading out toward the park.
The concert in the park was an annual affair, and Alfie hadn’t been lying when she said it was a nostalgic event. The snow had let up, and the park’s bare trees were blanketed in twinkling white lights. There were heat machines blowing into the center of the park, where simple white chairs were filled to capacity for the concert, which would be followed by fireworks. Alfie, dressed in a warm, designer coat and hat, hadn’t requested special seating. She was sitting near the back, preferring the music softer, at a distance, and she was on the edge of the aisle. The orchestra on the stage was playing My Way, and Alfie smiled fondly. Nostalgia, indeed.
Tristan walked up from behind the performance, not knowing where exactly in the park the performance was, and wandering around for a while before following the sounds of music and the glow of the lights. He lingered at the back for a few songs before thinking to look at the crowd. He was at enough of an angle to see Alfie sitting there near the back, sighing to himself before pulling his coat tighter around himself and heading up the aisle. He’d seen the seat next to her was free, and with a quiet “excuse me” and a bit of awkward climbing over her, he settled into the chair.
He didn’t say anything else, giving his attention to the stage and the music until a break between songs. It was only then that he turned to her and offered her a small smile. “Didn’t have anything better to do.”
“Of course,” she said, because she would hardly presume to think he’d come for her. But her smile didn’t match her words, not quite, and she motioned toward the stage. “This is my fourth year seeing this concert,” she told him. “Funnily, I thought this year would be different. I expected things, you see, with friends and family having crossed over.” She looked over at him. “And yet here I am.” She paused, and she looked back toward the stage. “With you. So I was correct. This year is different.”
Tristan sat quietly through another song, thinking about Alfie’s words before turning back to her in a quiet moment. “Every year is different, but sometimes you have to make it be. Just because people have crossed over doesn’t automatically mean they’re going to flock to you and make things different for you.” He went quiet for a moment, glancing toward the stage where the musicians were still settling for the next song. “If it’s worth it, do it yourself.” He was cut off by the music as the song started, and he looked at her a little longer before he turned to watch the stage.
She chuckled, and it was an old sound. “And when that does not work, Tchaikovsky? When the family you considered yours grows without you, grows apart? When the family you doggedly claimed seems distant, if accepting, what then?” She looked back toward the stage, toward where the music was beginning anew. “Have you known love? The kind of love that goes beyond that initial blush of passion and turns into something almost symbiotic?” She looked at him again. “What do you pour your energy into once that is gone, my beautiful artist?” she asked. “It is a challenge,” she said, looking back toward the stage a moment later. “One that is harder than I realized in my youth.”
Tristan made a face, scowling at the stage and addressing her words without looking at her. “When it doesn’t work, you make your own family. Family doesn’t have to be blood.” The statement was layered with an intensity that Tristan tried to not show about many things. He let the next song pass, thinking about family and love. Instead of answering, he asked a question of his own. “So after living as long as you keep telling me you have, you haven’t found anything else that’s worth your passion? And you’re letting yourself be defined by another person?” His tone snuck toward disappointed, as if he’d expected more from her.
“So young, and yet so critical,” she said, not offended by his words and tone. “You do not listen. I made family, I came here, to this place, for my family. But the young grow and leave. It is the way of life, you see. Children only belong to their parents for a time, and my family, though not related by blood, has family of their own now. Confidences that were shared with me are now for others, and I am happy for them.” She looked over at him, expression gently indulgent. “It is the way things are meant to be, but it does not mean I am not left feeling alone, especially during this season.”
Tristan looked over at her, expression bordering on offended even if hers wasn’t. “You’re not alone.” He hadn’t been forced to attend the concert, was sitting next to her of his own free will. “They find other people, you find other people too.” His voice dipped as the next song was announced, his words more for himself than her. “Not fucking dead yet. Not close.”
She laughed again, quieter this time, not wanting to interrupt the music. “You tell me that often enough, and I might begin to believe you,” she said. “Are you certain you’re up for such a thing?” she asked, looking over at him fondly.
He rolled his eyes at her, leaning over just enough so that he didn’t have to raise his voice and disturb the audience members around them. “Not if you’re not going to try to be less frustrating.”
“What would that require?” she asked, looking at the stage and not glancing his way at all. “I want to ensure I can do it, before I commit to trying.” The corners of her lips were quirked in an almost smile.
He swore under his breath, shaking his head and keeping his attention on the stage as well. “I don’t know. Stop talking like you’re not going to make it through the week. Like there’s no one left in your life at all...”
“Is there something left in my life, I wonder?” she asked, the smile deepening widening as she looked straight ahead. The music around them climbed, and it almost covered their words, but not quite.
He finally looked over at her, expression annoyed and frustrated, leaning in so he didn’t raise his voice more than he should, even though he was tempted to. “Stop it. I know you’re trying to get a reaction from me now. I don’t have to be here if you’re going to be like that.”
She smiled, and she reached over and took one of his hands between two of her gloved ones. “It is nice to see so much emotion, I admit,” she told him, and she patted the back of his hand. “What reaction do I want?” she asked him, looking over at him and away from the stage entirely.
He was a little startled by her hands around his, but he allowed it, curling his fingers around hers a bit. “I have no idea what you want most of the time. Maybe just to annoy me, I don’t know.” He mostly kept his eyes on the stage, but slanted a glance over in her direction as he sighed.
“If I say that I am too old to merely want to annoy you, will you make that displeased face at me?” she asked, the smile on her lips much younger than her years. “I want to see you make the best of everything, my Tchaikovsky. I want to see the world recognize your talent. I want to help you reach as high as you may reach.” She looked back at the stage. “If I annoy you in the process, perhaps it is a bonus.”
Tristan did indeed make a displeased face in her direction, but kept quiet for a moment as she finished speaking. His expression evened out as he went thoughtful, quiet for a rather long time before he spoke softly. “Not everyone is meant for reaching too high. I’d be glad just to keep our rent paid and the heat on through the winter. Which we will, thanks to you.”
“I am made for nothing, if not for reaching too high. I will reach high for you, Tchaikovsky,” she said, squeezing his hand again and nodding toward the stage. “Listen, and quit frowning at me,” she concluded with a smile.