exsiliumlogs | beneath the stars came falling on our heads

[ She's just trying to get him to talk about something other than Max. For now. He needs to calm down, much as he's able, before he can make more sense to her. Maybe coffee isn't the best for that, but there's nothing against feeling alive, either.

The coffee takes time to brew, though, so once that is set up and she is to wait, Anne finds the bottle of wine she had been drinking from earlier and pours them each a glass of a red wine, so she doesn't walk back into the living room empty handed. ]

Well here you are not required to hold up the world, but to drink and forget your troubles.

[ A pointed look at his bag as she bends over to hand him his glass. ]

Where have been you been laying your head?

Thank you.

( Quietly, and though he might not be much for drinking normally, he is grateful for the wine. ) Oh, that's j-just, um. It's m-my uniform, I j-just finished p-patrolling.

( A smile, albeit wobbly, and he distracts himself from it with some wine. He should still be patrolling, really, but he couldn't keep his mind on it. He was barely doing anything useful, standing on rooftops and trying desperately to gather up his thoughts, and even that was not a success. ) I'm staying w-with uh, Scott? Or sometimes I um, sleep at the st-- studio.

[ He has a uniform? Well, how odd! Vigilantes were outside the law, why would they bother with a uniform. Now she's staring very openly at the bag while having a drink of her wine, then oh yeah he's talking again and back to him. Smile. Sympathetic smile. Yes, perfect. ]

Your friend Scott will not allow you to stay with him every night? But it must be cold at the...studio.

He w-would, b-but um. Usually I d-don't finish um, finish p-patrol until late? I d-don't want to um, to d-disturb-- yep.

( Noticing how she's looking at the bag, and he leans down, tugging at the zip and drawing out the mask. So what if she doesn't think much of Atlas? There isn't much to him, anyway. Atlas is a fraud. Holding it out to her, he shrugs a little, something lost and hopeless in it. )

[ Oh boy. She sits down next to him, setting her glass on the coffee table so that she can reach for the mask. Everything about him right now is pathetic, it's sad to see how much effect Max's rejection took. Truly she does hope he moves on... Not out of malice for the woman, but more out of respect for both of them. This sort of lingering can only add cracks upon the soul. ]

A part of your uniform? How beautiful.

[ Experimentally, Anne tries holding it up to her own face. ]

Does it suit?

( Somehow, she managed to pull a little smile from him, though he nods very gravely. ) See, it w-works uh, m-much better on you.

( After just a moment of hesitation, he flips his bag open a little more, so that the rest of it is a little more visible, the armour, the black and red and gold. )

We, um. Your uniform k-kinda-- it's m-meant to symbolize something. So p-people know who you are. M-make criminals fear you and-- and civilians uh, they t-trust you.

( It's sacred, and it's essential, and he's looking at it now like he doesn't even know what to do with it any more. )

[ She leans over to peer at the bag, still with the mask on her face and a smile pulling at her lips. ]

Do you wish for me to model this for you as well? I do not think I am fit for breeches.

It uh, m-might be a little t-tall. And heavy.

( Almost with a laugh. Almost. Instead he draws out a piece of armour, one of the guards for his forearms. After a moment of inspecting it, running his hand over the metal, ) My n-name's Atlas.

( She can know, now. It seems stupid to evade it. )

[ She's quiet at first, holding the mask in place for only a few moments longer before lowly lowering it to peek over. ]

A titan, not a god?

M-my sisters are all t-- t-titans. Phoebe, Selene and Asteria. Atlas w-was uh, their w-war leader. He-- he w-was meant t-to p-protect them, I figure.

( And maybe it was fitting that the titans were doomed. Donny shakes his head a little bit. ) P-people, um. They n-never suspect Atlas c-could be me, because, uh. Atlas is--

( Trying to grasp it, to explain it. ) I c-can be b-better than I am, when I'm Atlas.

( But it's still not enough, never had been. Never would be, he knew. Max had always tried to tell him that he and Atlas were the same thing, didn't have to be divided, but Max couldn't even stand to see him any more. )

Better?

[ She rests the mask in her lap, and reaches again for her wine. ]

How else can a uniform help you so?

Atlas d-doesn't-- t-talk.

( Closing his eyes at his stammer, because it just seems to make this worse. ) P-people, um. They r-respect the m-mask, and--

( Quietly, he sighs. ) You kn-- know Adonis. ( She knows how useless he is, how stupid, how hard it is for him to string together a conversation and how painful it is for him to operate around anyone. )

But you are Atlas, you just said this to me. If you are both, then it is always.

[ She leans over ~~all up in his space~~, the mask sliding off of her skirts in the process. ]

I wonder if you think too much on words. Of speaking. Words are not the only thing needed to convey beauty, they are merely a tool. There is no reason to fear a tool, when you know how to use it. This is part of courtesy, which you have asked me to assist with.

( Well hi there, Anne. He's going to just quietly reach for the wine, cradling it in his hand, though his focus is trained entirely on her.

He wonders how much she understands, really, when she is beautiful and intelligent and eloquent, when she is charming and engaging, and wonders how she thinks any of these tools are really his to use. Words are a tool when you can speak, and he is caught wrestling with the sounds before he can fathom the word itself. )

You uh, m-make it sound-- s-simple.

The most beautiful things are the most complex, and also the most simple. You are an artist, you know this in your heart, so I know I am most able to teach you. But you must be willing...

[ Oh! There goes the coffee timer. Anne wastes no time in suddenly pulling away with a 'But a moment', standing with a flourish and gliding off to the kitchen, leaving him to his struggle with words and names. ]

I am.

( Quiet, but sincere. Earnest, that's how Max has described him before, but there's that edge of something hopeless in it. He's willing, but he doesn't know if there's a point. He doesn't grasp it.

When she stands he's left a little in the wake of it, blinking and scooping up his mask, smoothing over the metal, warming it under his touch. ) I'm w-willing.

( But is he able, and is there a purpose to it? Would it be a waste of time and energy, the same kind of waste and drain that he had been to Max. Anne isn't Max, obviously, but--

There's always so much to consider. )

[ The entire pot of coffee is set upon a tray with cups, sugar cubes, pieces of chocolate, some milk, and shavings of ginger. Everything is arranged as nicely as she can make it in a short time, forming the small chocolate bars into the shapes of flowers at each corner, sugar sprinkled atop each one to add a bit of sparkle for a moment.

Upon returning, the tray is set down atop the coffee table, and she pours the coffee into both cups. ]

However you may like it, Master Casey.

( Holy crap. When Anne Boleyn does hospitality, she does it right. He's sort of intrigued by the ginger, tilting his head a little, and his mouth quirks with a little smile at the flowers before the spark is lost under the weight of everything else again. ) Wow.

( This is very impressive. He takes a sip of his wine before setting it down. ) This l-looks, um, looks amazing.

( At least he's genuine. ) Thank you.

[ She releases a small chuckle, thinking it flattery as would be expected. But it's rather simple compared to many Tudor feasts, really. This is just a quick snack!

Anne settles back down beside him, and for this time she takes ginger instead of chocolate in the cup. ]

I have come to be fond of coffee; Much more-so than tea. I know not when people started drinking that, and why so many are eager to introduce it to me, but it falls far and leaves me forgetting. These flavors here, they cling to my tongue as sweetly as good poetry.

It's, um. I g-guess-- like a stereotype about England? It's l-like um, the n-- n-national uh, d-drink. ( Quiet, sort of flat, and he's watching how she uses the ginger, copying out of curiousity to see what it'll be like. ) There's um, d-different-- different types of t-tea? And stuff. Lavender and uh, chamomile are g-good if you c-can't sleep. Or um, p-peppermint. It's g-good for when you have a sore stomach, t-too. Ih uh, if you ever-- ever g-get a chance, it's really g-good iced? With um, honey.
( Sheepish, adding a little sugar to his tea. ) Or chai, you might-- m-might like that one. Ginger, and stuff.

( All the while he's been speaking softly, a little unfocused, because it's easier to let his mind settle on anything that isn't Max, any tangent. ) Sorry. I'm-- rambling.

[ Some words she doesn't understand, but the whole of it she does, even through his rambling while she nods and sips her tea. She must chuckle a little at both the comment of it being the 'national drink' and at his apology, only shaking her head and resting a hand to his wrist momentarily in comfort. ]

I can assure you that none in England drink such a thing, but I suppose much changes in the future.

M-much.

( Agreeing, definitely. Oh, although-- ) And uh, you c-can have hot chocolate? With chilli p-powder and cinnamon.

( And then, a quiet huff. Stop talking about food, Casey. )

[ Well it seems to be calming him down...at times. At other times she's not so sure. He's clearly distracted, and no attempts seem to be working for very long.

She lets the silence hang there for a time so that she can enjoy some chocolate with her coffee, before speaking again. She is thinking, fondly, of Thomas Wyatt. ]

It is difficult to unlock a woman's heart... Try as you might, you will never succeed until she gives you the key. Why she may not is not always easy to decipher, for the locks are complex out of necessity.

( He's glad for the silence, and he's glad for her words, as much as they feel like a blow. He sets his coffee back down, as he speaks, because he feels like there's something Anne needs to understand. ) I'm-- I knew I w-was, uh. N-never g-going to unlock.

( A moment skips where he's struggling to find the words, to speak, to do what she says is so simple and so complicated, but the words themselves hurt. ) I'm not-- I'm kn-know I'm um, n-not-- w-what p-people want. ( His breath catches. ) Max should b-be happy.

( She deserves the best, someone who'll make her happy, but that doesn't stop it from hurting, and he hates himself for being so childish. )

[ Anne merely shrugs in turn, like she's been told she shouldn't have too much sugar with her coffee. ]

Whyfor could you not make her happy, or any woman? It is her choice, for certain, what she wants. But you cannot speak for all women, and for all hearts. You can, in fact, speak only for your own.

Many a-woman would be glad for a man to support them, a man with a face that belonged to Adonis for true, one who appreciates both art and food, who shows them how oft he thinks of them, and what he is willing to do for them. Many a-woman would not be lucky enough to receive even that much, so you see you are above what is expected.

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