nadia costa (treta) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-09-09 21:17:00 |
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All of her tense, nervous energy was gone, like a balloon popped or dam broken down for all those emotions to come pouring out. (It was the first time she’d shed tears in this city, let alone clutched someone else’s body to her like she was drowning, actually drowning.) She and her chaperones had exchanged some texts when realising they were going to miss curfew (Day would never budge on it, ever)—but frankly, some things were more important than getting locked back in her shelter in time. So when Nadia meanders her way back to the bonfire, her eyes are still red-rimmed, her tanned cheeks slightly splotchy, but there’s a radiant happiness in her now. The reunion had been so much more than she’d expected; she and Marina were strangers, but there were invisible knots tying the two of them together, their shared people and the chance to build something new out of it. To cobble something together that they’d both been missing. To be a family, or something very nearly like it, propped up by the invisible presence of both Alejo and Antón. She draws a shaky breath, filling her lungs with fresh air—the familiar scent of Bishop’s moonshine, the clamour of voices, the crisp woodsmoke. Something that reminds her of autumn, except this was still the crisping heat of summer. The woman seeks out a familiar shape: Nate cheerful by the fire, with disheveled hair and a jar of alcohol dangling near-permanently from one hand. She watches him for a moment (all casual and cheerful like he belonged, still all easy-going, Laird Quinn holding court), before drawing up by his side. Nadia reaches out and tugs gently at the man’s sleeve to announce her presence; it’s already more touch than she usually initiates with anyone, really. Nate isn’t so drunk that his attention isn’t immediately turned when someone tugs on his shirt sleeve. When he does and he sees who’s doing the tugging he’s instantly happier and if it is even possible, when he sees all that radiant happiness glowing out of her heart shine his own contentment only grows. “Hello!” the word is as bright as the smile he’s flinging her way, along with the arm that goes around her shoulders. For once, Nadia doesn’t go stiff and guarded at the sudden touch; instead, she seems to welcome it. There’s no doubt that Nate is demonstrative when he is sober and when he’s drunk his affections are thrown silly nilly in full force. He’s a happy drunk and a physical person. They’re bound to explode out from him when he’s in an exceptional mood. Being here, with his Brother and his Fiance and a world that he’s very much used to is enough to get him giddy and handsy. “Hi,” she says. When Nadia breathes out now, it’s like an interminable weight goes with it. One she hadn’t even noticed she’d been carrying, but it had been pressing her low to the ground for two years, and now some of it is gone. (Not all, but some.) “It went well?” he asks her, because he doesn’t want to assume that her looks have anything to do with what went on with Marina. “Did ye git what ye came for?” “Absolutely,” the woman sighs back. “More than I expected. It could have been awkward, you know? Feeling guilty and obligated simply because we know the same people. Not knowing what to talk about. Not wanting to be burdened with one another, perhaps, when we have no real reason to be. But she is treating me like family. The mere fact that she wants to be family, it changes everything, you know? It makes me think we can get there. We will get there. And that means I have something I did not have before. I never had a sister. Or—never had one that I remember, at least.” He’s demonstrative; on the remainder of moonshine and an emotional hangover, she’s talkative. It’s like Nadia is unspooling a long, long skein of thread back through the years, regaining some of what she used to be: a chatterbox in Portuguese and Spanish, a counterpoint to her quiet watchfulness in English. Her missing brother, the outbreak, the serial killer, the death of her shelter leader, the jungle, the Darién—right now, they’re all far away. Because at least there’s this. A crackling bonfire, a crowd of people (she always liked crowds), laughter, and Nate’s arm around her. Being a great listener has always been one of Nate’s finer traits. It’s because he enjoys hearing about all the little pleasures that unfolds and when someone invites him into that information then it becomes a shared experience. Nadia’s joy is his joy and he squeezes her in tighter, a little nudge that is a gesture that he understands and a drunken hug all mixed up in loose limbs, hands and hips. He’s so completely glad that he’s brought her. He had a feeling about it. It had been worth the third degree from Bishop to get her inside. When he’s been drinking his accent comes out more. It has none of its Lairdly qualities.”Ah am canty 'at it happened 'at way. When Ah first saw ye, Ah said tae myself.... only th' best fur 'at a body. Ah went a wee soft for ye, sittin' there. Brown een an' jungle tan. Ah kent Ah liked ye coz Ah didnae try tae kiss ye.” If at first she doesn’t react, it’s because she’s still trying to pick her way through that heavy accent and slang, working through the knots and tangles of that sentence. That alone gives Nadia time to pause and absorb. She tries—so very, very hard—not to focus on the weight of that arm now, the warmth of his body beside her. She’d been instinctively leaning into his shoulder. She can catch the scent of whiskey, cologne, and something that’s just him, but not unpleasant (not at all). His voice by her ear, and that Scottish burr that thrills her as exotic (still not quite comprehending that others think the same of hers). His fiancee, somewhere at this bonfire, and Bunny is the sweetest of women. Nadia sighs again, and this time it’s more wistful rather than the happy contentment of earlier. She resists the urge to pull away and impose some distance between them; it would probably be wise, but she simply doesn’t want to. Human warmth is welcome right now. “Saudade,” she says after a bit of a pause, echoing a message they’d had once upon a time. “A melancholy for an absent someone that you love.” Nadia’s smile is a small and careful thing. “Or like, in this instance. A sort of vague, wistful longing for something that cannot exist.” It was the type of exchange that might frighten away most men, knowing their lover and future wife was hovering close by while he considered his consideration of another. But, that wasn’t how Nate operated. He wasn’t afraid of feelings. He’d been a puzzle to his family, a crusty bunch who sat around, figuring out how to ‘appear’. Keeping up appearances was an icky feeling. Instead he squeezed her harder. “Life is a an experience 'at brings ye roon in circles. I’m nae much of an actor,” he promises and he can’t deny that she feels just right and just so with his arm wrapped around her. You know why you came, doce de coco, and you know where you’re going to go, she thinks helplessly, as she always does, but can’t find a way to fit those words together. So there’s a thoughtful silence instead, until Nate speaks again. “Can you do with another Bevvy? Bishop put aside some of ye favorite before the ‘Bitches’ could get their claws on it,” and yes, air quotations had happened because calling the women that, even despite the various states of their undress, made him feel like a skeezy bloke. He glances over at the group of ladies who hadn’t yet been taken or hadn’t wanted to be taken. It was all such a curious dynamic here. They looked happy but… Nadia’s gaze follows his. She’d jolted the first time someone referred to those women as camp bitches in front of her; now she wonders fleetingly if that is Marina’s role here too. So much of this camp feels familiar, but then there’s some things she doesn’t recognise. That thought of Marina makes gratitude well up in Nadia’s throat again, a giddy sort of dizziness, a blood pounding in her ears. So she takes a moment to wrap her own arms around his chest in a tight-clenched hug, hands clinging to the back of his shirt. He’s much taller than she is—taller than Antón too, she realises, as her face presses into Nate’s chest and she breathes. Breathes, and tries not to examine that twisting knot in her stomach too closely. It’s uncomfortable. She won’t cross that line, because she can’t, and won’t. They’re in public, after all, and they’re friends—just friends. (Evidently gone a bit soft herself, too.) “Thank you, again, for helping her get in touch with me. It has changed everything.” Her voice is muffled against his shirt before she disengages, pulling just far enough away that it’s not intimate, that their stances won’t raise any eyebrows or cause any trouble. Not that Nate seems at all worried about anything he feels or anything that’s passed between them. “And oh, he’s very considerate. My head will probably not forgive me but I would love another. Now that I am spending the night, I don’t quite mind getting…” Her brow furrows, trying to remember how he’d referred to her last hangover, “Boak with the booze?” She’ll fall asleep in Marina’s tent tonight anyway, all quiet breaths and talking out the hours until the moonlight peters away, still catching up on all the time they hadn’t had. “I do nae want you boakin’ over Lassie. It ain’t a bonnie time, I promise.” but he does want her to get a buzz going, to feel the hardships they endure slip away so that she can enjoy the fire and his company. He’s turning, to the small deposit of jars he’d set aside under a lawn chair. They’re pregnant with cinnamon and sweetness. The heart of the still. A smooth mash mixture all for her. He only takes one back, hands it to her with the top unscrewed. “So, did she know where he might be?” he asks her, curious and hopeful that she’ll have a dreamy reunion like he had. The question brightens her up, bringing another liveliness to Nadia’s expression. Separated from his side, she wraps her hands around the jar and clutches it to her chest. “San Antonio,” Nadia says immediately, not even drinking yet, just so glad to talk. This is good news, and everyone loves sharing good news. “Marina saw him just a couple months ago, and he should still be there. I asked if we could simply go get him, but there are… complications. Dangers in that city.” Nadia isn’t about to go blabbing the details; there’s a warning in her eyes now, something similar to that careful No that bridged her and Nate after her interview. A cautionary sign, a slippery slope, a secret that isn’t hers to tell. “But he is alive. With two whole years and an outbreak between us, I was never certain—most people did not survive the outbreak—but now that I know someone has seen him recently, I am convinced he is still alive. And that alone gives me so much hope, Nate. Maybe I cannot go storming in and bringing him back like… like Rambo, but it will happen. We are that much closer now.” Hope is still such a fresh and unfamiliar feeling. Her entire life had narrowed down to a pinpoint, tunnel vision honing in on survival and the next meal, the next city, the next set of bullets. Now, instead, there’s a possible future. “That’s stoatin bark! An I’m glad tae hear it.” he’s pulling her in and lifting her, spinning her around to the hoots and hollers of the men and woman that are surrounding them. Such emotional drunken outbursts are welcome around the fire. The motion comes as a surprise to her, though, leading to a yelp as she hangs on even tighter to the jar lest she accidentally dump it all over Nate’s head, and then when she’s dropped on her feet again Nadia is a little giddy, breathless. When he’s spun her around to get her properly dizzy and to sploosh enough moonshine from out of her jar he sets her down and considers a fact, “'At doesnae pure techt you're leavin' me, diz it? Leavin' for San Antonio?” This is a genuine concern of his, not something he’s pretending at in the middle of the moment. Good folks are hard to find, especially nowadays. Of course he’d understand, but it doesn’t mean he would like watching her go - even if San Antonio isn’t awfully far. It’s still far enough. “Oh, no, not at all. I considered it,” because if there was any chance of simply showing up on Alejo’s doorstep and saying hello, of course she would have gone running and come dragging him back, “but I got the impression that it would be a bad idea indeed. Unsafe. So I am staying here, I think.” Nadia is reminded of home again: all this casual contact, the cousins and ex-boyfriends who wouldn’t think twice of flinging her over their shoulder or body-tackling her onto the white sands. She hadn’t even realised how closed-off she’d made herself—a fortress with a draw-bridge and ramparts, her body language all shuttered and tightly-wound—until her new friends started broaching those walls. “I mean, not here here, but in Austin. Are you really considering moving from the Capitol?” She had started sipping at the moonshine again to protect it from further spillage, and it’s kicking in again. This stuff is awfully potent, and Nadia never had the best of tolerances in the first place. Her low voice is chattier, words rolling on and on without stopping to pause and reassess and second-guess her English. It’s the best way to practice a language, she thinks. “I want tae be here here. I searched for Bishop for two years. Most ay ‘at time I was on my own. He was my only goal.” It’s difficult to remember that he’d thought Bunny was dead. He’d been haunted by her death for all that time, had grieved her, had mourned her and now? It was shameful that he hadn’t gotten in closer, made sure that it was her shriveled, clawed up corpse that he was leaving behind. When he’d first saw her he’d thought she was illusion or an angel. It was that startling for her to have come back to him. He still can’t believe it sometimes, especially when he wakes and she’s not there - in the bathroom or off to do her work- and it takes him a moment to remember that she wasn’t just a dream. It’s a purgatory in ways he’s afraid to vocalize. The joy he feels is unmatched but he’s floating and wandering and the worry he feels is sometimes a full out and out panic, anxiety that melts through him, disables him when she’s not with him and he’s afraid he might have to grieve for her all over. Nadia registers what he’s saying, and nods. He’s found Bishop and Bunny. Just a few weeks back, that would have made her bitter, tight-lipped with an ugly envy over other people’s happiness. Now, today, hot on the heels of her exuberant meeting with Marina and the hope it’s sparked in her, Nadia is content to share. “But Ah want tae work on my oral history. I want tae finish the interviews. Finish my project and ah think if I move here, then I won’t have nearly the capacity to include a’fowk than I do right noo.” “A’fowk?” Nadia repeats, absently. She’s been getting better and better at piecing together Nate’s brogue, though it still falls apart sometimes, and moreso when he’s been drinking. “Does that mean people?” “Folk.” He tries again, repeats it as if it’s the most obvious translation to his heinous accent. His brogue is akin to slurring when he’s been into his cups too deeply and when there is moonshine on the menu and Whisky in his tent, he’s a blabbering mess of highland memories. “Hoo’d ya learn to speak s’well?” he asks her, guzzling the jar he’s been working on, the jar he’s spilled most of on the ground with all his affection toward her the last few minutes. Her own has been better-guarded, but there’s still liquid wetting Nadia’s sleeve, the sugary drink sticky against her hands and smelling of apple. “I don’t think it’s that good,” Nadia says, a little embarrassed but also a little pleased. She takes another self-conscious sip of her drink. “We learn it in school, you know. Plus so many things on the internet are – were – in English. I was always very good at understanding and writing it, scored very high on all my tests, but my speaking was absolutely awful. It was only very recently, on the two-year trip up here, that I was practicing it daily with Antón....” Her voice trails off. Antón. That’s one big unknown. Another person lost along the way, and a possibility that she’s always looked away from, considering Alejo swallows up all of her attention. “What countries have you visited?” Nadia asks, suddenly sidling over to another topic, her tipsy brain latching onto other subjects. She’s like an eager little listener, thirsty for his own knowledge and stories. “You are from Europe, but it sounds like your documentaries took you all over. I wound up seeing most of Central and South America on the way, but it is not the same.” “I love South America.” he gushes. He’d been to many places and the food is some of his favorite. He licks his lips subconsciously. He misses fresh food. It’s a terrible thing to lament now that he gets so much more variety being in the Capitol but to put it short, he can’t help being impatient for her to start her growing project. Back home, Nadia had always had that faint, distant, unrealistic hope that someday, someday I’ll travel and see the rest of the world—all gone now, of course. But at least there are people’s stories and experiences to fill in the gaps. She’s starting to understand his oral history project better, now. “It’s better tae ask where I haven’t been.” He clicks his tongue in thought, gazes up at the blackened sky as if there’s a list up that way that he can just recite from. With his liquored up mind it’s not easy to name every country. “Most coontries in South an’ Central America, United States, most ay every where in Europe. The furthest I’ve been is Saudi Arabia. Nay bide….. New Zealand.” He scratches his head. “I’ve been all over.” Another click of the tongue indicates that right now it is impossible for him to name off where he has gone, what he has seen. “I gart a home in Kentucky. I think that’s where I was gonna settle.” She’s on the verge of asking Why Kentucky?, but she already knows the answer. Bunny and Bishop, of course. Home is where the heart is. “New Zealand. What was New Zealand like?” Her smile is sheepish, self-aware: “I used to watch Xena: Warrior Princess quite a bit. She was a hero, I swear.” “A heroo of yours?” he asks, looking at her, speculating just how in tune with the Xena spirit she could have been. He nods as if he agrees with this. It fits her. “I see it.” It’s this exact moment that a gaggle of geese ascend upon them. These girls, in their fishnets and pumps have been waiting patiently to nab him, to talk to him about interviews and now that he’d talked with Nora, somehow, inexplicably they want to be part of the project and polish his Oscar. - (He no longer has it.) They’re like locusts and Nate seems to be swallowed up in the group of them. “I’ll see you later!” he manages to call out but when they are gone, all that is left of him is his empty moonshine jar. Nadia watches them go: amused, surprised, still a bit tipsy. The bonfire is wavery around her, hazy with heat and the sound of about a hundred raucous drunken people. She absentmindedly readjusts the empty jar he’d left behind, picking it up and depositing it with its other abandoned fellows, nudging them into something like a line. Left to her own devices, the woman takes a deep breath. She’s still clutching her own jar of alcohol, half-full, when she turns to roam the rest of the fire and find someone else she knows. |