Lost [Vesna/public]

It was like a light switch.  Only she couldn't remember what had happened in the dark.  She was suddenly here and not there, with emptiness in between.  When they found her, it was a blessing-- she would have something to hold on to, and not feel lost.  But also it was a curse.  They would relay to her what she'd done (get into fights, sleep with orderlies), as condescending as they could be.  She felt like they were talking about someone else.  Why didn't they stop her?  For all her wishing that they could, she was told that there was no difference in her behavior.  It seemed like almost an insult.  

So she had come up with a system to try and connect the dots.  She'd taken markers and had tried to remember to write what she'd done in a fugue state on her arms.  Yet therein lied the problem-- she couldn't remember to.  Instead all she'd gotten was strange art and messages, mostly smudged.  And no one noticed that happening, either.  Because she drew on herself, regardless.  At least she had a wristband to tell her who she was, afterwards.  

Now she was stuck, and afraid, and lost (but knew her name-- a start.) in someplace she'd never ended up in before.  The third ward (she didn't know there even was one).  Though she didn't know it, guards rarely passed by.  Why should they? The patients were dangerous, but completely secure.  There wasn't much to do but give them food 3 times a day.  No one was around at night.  

She soon realized that the doors she passed by had gaps in them, with light coming out.  Desperate, she dropped to the ground to look inside each one.  

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

She was near tears now.  But she wouldn't give up, maybe this wasn't even the hospital, and there was no way out unless she found one for herself.  The next, she was about to declare empty, until she'd spotted what looked to be a shoe from under the door.  Instinctively she grabbed for it-- hopefully someone would actually be in it.  She was beginning to think this was some kind of practical joke that she just wasn't in on. 

He wasn't crazy before he came to this place (Greedy? Impatient? Self-destructive? Somewhat violent and unafraid of consequences? Yes, but not crazy.), but he certainly was, now. He wasn't even a pothead like they--and the rest of the world--thought he was; it was the nicotine that was doing him in. He was up to three packs a day before he was brought here, how could they not expect him to go out of his mind?

It only took two days before he'd snapped--an orderly had the great misfortune of having taken a smoke break within Diederik's line of vision. It was no laughing matter to be jumped by a man who was 6'8" and reeling from severe withdrawal.

And so he'd landed himself in the third ward.

Which maybe was for the best, because the wreck he'd been reduced to wasn't exactly something he wanted to showcase to the world (literally, the world, gathered together in one place). He wasn't sure how many weeks had gone by, but he wasn't getting much better. Going cold turkey after several hundred years of addiction was not a pretty sight.

He'd had to remain lying near the door at all times so that he could reach the food shoved under it, as he'd been practically paralyzed. It felt like the flu from hell, plus a boatload of other unpleasant symptoms. He shook so hard, he thought he'd fly into a million pieces--and the way he coughed, one might have thought he had pertussis. He hadn't slept in what felt like days. In the agonizing wakefulness, he was gripped by a horrifying loneliness and despair, as the walls slowly closed in on him. He cried for the first time in over half a century.

And he'd gotten irritable. He was always irritable before, but nothing compared to the mood swings he experienced now. He was in the lowest pits of sadness, then his head pounded with frustration and anger--he'd exploded at another man the other day for his snoring. Now he missed having something to listen to other than his own pathetic weeping, at night.

Or at least, he usually did. This night, it seemed, was different. He was probably the only one awake to hear the footsteps echoing lightly down the dark, deserted hallways of the third ward. He was probably the only one who heard the shuffling when she dropped to the floor.

And as soon as her arm appeared through that slot in the door, he sprang up and grabbed it. It was the only other human thing he'd seen in at least a week. Through the pale light of the moon that streamed through the bars, chicken mesh, and glass on his tiny window, he could barely make out strange markings on her arms. Tattoos? Whatever, he didn't care.

"Cigarette," he wheezed, desperately, "You got a cigarette?" He'd almost forgotten how to talk; he never was very chatty.

She hadn't expected such a quick response.  Startled, she jumped slightly before having the courage to look at the hand that held on to her-- it was cold, and clammy, and on closer inspection, almost monstrously large.  There must have been two people, the voice she heard didn't correlate at all with the hand.  But she was too afraid and yet relieved to understand that.  

Cigarettes? "No...!" She immediately responded.  She didn't smoke.  But she did alot of things she didn't do when she wasn't watching.  "...I don't think so! Where is this-- who are you...!? Do you know me? Did I promise you some?? If I did I can get them--" she patted herself down for a brief second-- no cigarettes.  "I just need time, I don't know where they went!!"

There.  That should have covered all the bases.  She hoped he got it all.  He could be an important clue.  But he also sounded very sick.  

"I don't remember, I'm sorry..." She admitted painfully.  "I don't remember..."

Oh, great. It was another loony. But a female one, and, it seemed, willing to help. Or at least, willing to be made to be willing to help.

Gritting his teeth against the rapid-fire questions, he forced himself to keep his cool. This might be the only non-hospital-staff contact he'd have for the next...well, who knew how long. And none of them could be convinced into producing one measly cigarette. A violent shudder--practically a convulsion--shook him, forcing him to release her arm. He wasn't going to last like this.

"Third ward. Diederik. You don't know me, I don't know you," he answered all of her questions shortly, as soon as his body stilled itself again. He got straight to the point, practically pleading, "Listen: I need a cigarette--I'm going to die in here...!" His voice was so strained, it sounded like it could break at any moment (it was terrible that he had survived plagues and starvation and wars and the many trials of the sea, yet it was the loss of nicotine that broke him), "Please..." He didn't have anything to offer in return, as far as he knew, but he would beg and grovel if he had to.

Third ward?  That was new to her.  At least she knew she hadn't left the compound.  There was a way out of there.  And he had a name: Diederik.  So he wasn't a weird apparition and she wasn't somehow getting crazier.

One thing just didn't add up, though.  He said he was dying, yet he wanted a cigarette?  Weren't cigarettes... Bad? Wouldn't that hasten his death? Perhaps he was dying anyway, and he just wanted to smoke one last time. "That's sad..." She mused sorrowfully, forgetting he had no idea what he was thinking, also forgetting that she was pointedly staring at him from under the door.  

"I know someone who has cigarettes." They let the Austrian girl smoke, and she would never know.  "Just give me some time to find my way out. ...And find my way back."

He didn't look so good.  And had he been crying?  She could bet it was lonely in there. "I'll be back as soon as I can... Okay?" Reluctantly, she stood back up and looked for a way out.  Finding a door at the end of the hall, she ascended the stairs to what she guessed was another ward, and farther up, into fortunately what looked familiar.  The first ward.  

She knew they wouldn't let the thin girl keep a lighter with her-- she acted out too much.  So she searched behind the attendant's desk in the dark before she heard the dull crunch of a cigarette box and the coolness of lighter plastic.  There didn't seem to be many left in the box... But it was more than one.  Satisfied, she crept back down the stairs (she was allowed to roam... The doctors figured that she might as well, if she was going to do it, regardless.  It was safer) and back to the third ward, looking under the doors again to remind herself which was which.  

"They're girl cigarettes... I hope you don't mind." She warned, sliding in the box and holding the lit lighter.  "You can keep the box but I have to return the lighter." 

((Hope this goes through-- :\))

If the normal him could see himself at the moment, he'd almost certainly be disgusted. Besides his behavior, he even looked pathetic. His eyes alone showed how far into withdrawal he'd sunken: the lines underneath them seemed to have tripled, and were accompanied by deep shadows from the insomnia. The eyes themselves, normally as murky as the greenish-brown waters from which he got his name, now shone with the sorriest kind of desperation. The desperation of an addict.

Racked by another round of coughing, he merely nodded in agreement when she said she'd be right back. He could only hope that it was the truth. 

Maybe he wouldn't have actually died by nature's hand, if he didn't get to smoke (if anything, he'd probably make up a little how much he'd dramatically ruined his health), but that didn't mean he wasn't being serious. Unlike most, he could reach the bars on the window. It would have been easy enough to fasten a noose out of his shirt and hang himself. He wasn't a patient person, he wouldn't have waited much longer for the withdrawal to run it's course.

As such, he couldn't have cared less what gender the cigarettes were for. Just as long as they had nicotine in them. Hands shaking almost too badly to get the box open, he managed to get one out and hold it up to the small flame, so that he could finally inhale what both killed him and kept him going.

Lying back again (so that he wasn't blowing smoke into her face), he exhaled with a series of coughs--just like the very first time he'd smoked, back when he thought it would save him from the plague. If only he'd known that he would have survived it, anyways. The coughs, however, were accompanied by a relief that very much seemed to run through his veins. His body relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Taking another long drag on it before turning back towards her, he knocked the ashes onto the concrete under the slot in the door (it would have been at the height of foolishness to do so on the cloth floor of the room, after all), and grunted, voice getting back to normal, "Thanks-- Thank you...Vesna," he eyed her identification bracelet. He never cared much for formal introductions. "...You a port city?" She seemed very vaguely familiar--though he was certain he'd never met her face-to-face before. He was usually acquainted with other major cities on the water, though, if not personally so.

She could practically feel the tension lift.  He still didn't seem that far from death, but maybe he was a special kind of person that cigarettes actually helped.  When he tapped out the ashes, she rubbed them into patterns into the concrete with her fingers-- by the time he was done she'd probably have a painting.  

She raised her gaze (as much as she could) when he asked about her status.  "I'm not supposed to be," She replied coyly.  "But yes. Odessa." She still seemed a bit bitter about the fact they'd pushed her into this place after all she'd been through.  She was ordinarily extremely good at protesting and revolting against power-- any power, it was like a hobby-- but this place sapped all passion.  She swirled the ash around more, like a wave.  "The 'Pearl of the Black Sea'." 

For the first time she looked away from him and into where he was barely living.  "Are you allowed to come out of there...?" It seemed a bit like trying to fit a bass into a sardine can.  "I can go around the whole place.  But only because they don't want to waste time locking me up." It was a hassle to chase her down when no one noticed anything different about her when she left.  Locking her up would be a bit like locking up a sane person.  It almost seemed like it was the case here.  

He considered that for a moment, tapping out some more ashes. "...Amsterdam," he finally replied, lying back and looking at the ceiling again, "Last time I saw you was around 1780. You probably don't remember." She was extremely young, which was what he had brought an engineer there for--to help her grow. (He glanced sideways at her; it was hard to tell from this angle, but it looked like the design...had gone extremely well.)

Even if she did somehow remember him, it was probably impossible to recognize him now, based on his past self. He'd been a much younger man, back then. Wealthy, successful, eager to see the world and make a fortune off of it... Ever since the second world war, he'd stopped caring about all that. He was too old, too tired, and too jaded.

He just shook his head 'no' when she asked if he was allowed to leave. Only for bathing...and the few times they'd tried to put him in therapy. He resisted. Violently. The restraints and tables they used weren't big enough for him, so there wasn't much they could do about it--so they stopped trying. He had a feeling that they knew just as well as him that if he just had his cigarettes, there was nothing really wrong with him--poor temper and attitude aside.

...If someone would just bring them to him, though, maybe he could get 'stable' enough that they'd put him back in the second ward. Unfortunately, she was the only non-staff-member/non-third-warder he'd seen here, so far. And he didn't know what he could offer her.

"What would it take for you to bring me more of these?" He asked bluntly, tapping a finger on the box of cigarettes. Money was what automatically came to his mind, and this was one of the few things he wouldn't mind spending it on, but they'd confiscated his wallet. Would she go for an IOU, maybe...? But if they never got out of here, what good did money do any of them, anyways?

She got a bit quieter.  "You look much different..." She eyed him just as she had a few centuries before that, some of the same But I only remember what I choose not to forget-- well, from back then..." She smiled.  "And I wouldn't forget you." But he didn't seem like the same person she'd looked up to that long ago.  

Of course, her life didn't quite turn out like his had been.  But she couldn't blame him for that.  But she did feel like she needed some guidance-- even before she came here.  There was just no direction to her life, like there had been in the USSR.  And he had experience and more, most likely.  

"I'll keep taking them as long as the owner keeps buying them.  There won't be full boxes anymore... And things happen... So I'm not sure if I won't forget a few times.  But I'll try." What did she want for it? "I'd try to get out, if I were you.  It would be much easier to get cigarettes." Couldn't people in less restricted wards escort others?  She would try that. 

He snorted lightly, taking another drag on the cigarette, "So do you. People get older." They changed. Of course, a lot of it had nothing to do with getting old, in his case. He'd never been a nice man. But he did have quite a few more redeeming traits, back then. "What you remember is probably what you oughta forget," he wheezed again, as he added to the piles and swirls of ashes. "'I only kept the bad parts of me."

It was true, though, that he had plenty of experience. He'd been alive for far too long, but even besides that, he was a practical person. He knew how to manage money (a little too well), and he understood the first and fastest steps to take, to get things done. He was a worldly businessman. So much so, that he'd been able to retire ridiculously early--though whether this was good or not was debatable. The lack of having anything productive to do (and with no desire to seek anything out, unless it made him more money that he didn't need), lead him to other, less admirable pastimes.

But that was not what occupied his mind, at the moment. All he wanted to know was how to make a fair deal with her.

"If I could smoke, they'd let me out," he explained, shortly, "Otherwise, I am a lunatic." If she just brought him some cigarettes for...maybe a few weeks, they'd see that he was normal. Relatively so. "But that's what I want. What do you want--not gonna ask for something for nothing." He felt like there was a communication error; of course he wanted to get out. If he could, he wouldn't be asking for her help. It never occurred to him that she would want to escort him. Why would she? As far as he knew, there was no rule against it, probably because it was assumed that nobody wanted to escort a third-warder.

Sighing, she amended, or tried to, "That's not what I... I don't know.  It's not just how you look." She was sure he could look better, if given the chance, instead of giving up. "What's wrong with remembering the good things?" Is that what happened when people got old? Did they become depressing cynics?  

Too many people--including this man-- had a habit of treating her like some child, not knowing that she'd been through much of the same things.  Perhaps she was like a child, and couldn't see it.  But she didn't feel like one.  

"You don't think people can do something for another for nothing, either?" What was wrong with him?  Well, there was that embarrassment of having to ask someone to keep an eye on her--she was an adult, after all.  "I just... Need someone around, okay...? That's what I want, don't worry about it." She busied herself with the ash again, for a moment, not looking back up at him.  "I can probably get you out tomorrow... I don't know for how long, but I could." Hopefully that would make him forget about the 'equal exchange'.

Snorting again, he grinned around the cigarette, revealing the awful state of his teeth, "You're saying I look bad, now?" He hadn't actually been talking about his appearance--though perhaps he should have been. He fell back to smoking quietly, though, when she asked why. It seemed at first that he wasn't going to answer. 

Finally, he mumbled, "...I don't like nostalgia, much." More correctly, he didn't like remembering anything, period. That's what he devoted most of his energy into, those days: trying not to remember. The bad memories depressed him, the good ones made him wonder what happened to himself and the world. It was much easier to be shallow and just not think about anything.

And it was that shallowness that often made him forget what basic kindness was. For a moment, he eyed her strangely, but then, shrugging, he agreed, "Okay." Whatever. If that made her happy, it wasn't exactly any skin off his bones. He didn't inquire into why she needed someone around--prying into other people's business was one thing he didn't do. Though he was vaguely curious. But he had a hunch that, if there was some sort of reason why she 'needed' someone around, he'd probably find out why, one way or the other.

After taking one last draw on what was left of his cigarette, he used it to point at her swirling ash-drawing, "De sterrennacht. The Starry Night." He blew on the lit end of the stub, making the embers glow, while holding it near the ashes like some moon or star. "That's what it looks like," he stated matter-of-factly, before grinding the butt out on a tiny clear patch of concrete. The little star disappeared. The only light now came from the moon sliding through the window like quicksilver.

"...I'm going to sleep, now." For the first time in what seemed like aeons. "You probably should, too." Wasn't she tired? Maybe she was an insomniac.

Vesna laughed-- not something novel, but it was, in this place.  "No, No, you're beautiful-- I want to take you out to a nice restaurant and show you off to my business colleagues."

She understood what he meant, but didn't know quite what to say.  She hadn't yet even figured it out for herself.  Was it cowardly, to not look back on the past? Was it acceptable? Was it even right? All she knew was it depended on the side one looked back through.  "You don't seem very future-bound, though..." She mused aloud.  He didn't seem to care about his looked, and seemed to be slowly decaying from smoking... He didn't like the past but refused to see the future? 

But she wasn't going to badger him about it when he'd agreed so easily to keep watch over her.  Of course, he didn't know that was his duty yet. 

"You think so...?" It was a hefty compliment to give to a mess of ash.  "I've never seen it in person." But she soon remembered it was nighttime, not that she hadn't been aware of the dark, but having been unaware for an indefinite amount of time, it was odd to wake up from a consciousness sleep only to go to sleep again.  Although, if she wasn't in her bed by morning, they would go looking.  "Okay." She reclaimed the lighter and pocketed it, murmuring before standing, "I'll see you out tomorrow... Diederik." The last time she'd known him she'd called him 'Mr. Van Aemstel'.  It would take getting used to.  

One corner of his mouth curled upward wryly; she had it backwards, "That's my line." If they were in that make-believe situation, anyways. He would have been the sleazy businessman past his prime, and she would have been the gorgeous young trophy wife, that he would have showed off. ...Mostly to his idiot stuck-up brother, just to rub in his face how much he failed at the game of wooing girls.

"...No, I don't," he admitted easily (he was always honest), when she put it out there that he wasn't future-bound. He was only present-bound. He didn't need his career or his drive anymore, and he didn't have any inhibitions--a dangerous mix. All of the voids in his life were filled with sex, drugs, and alcohol. Bad temporary solutions to long-term emotional problems he didn't care to face.

Which was part of why he was convinced he would kill himself in that cell, not an hour ago. The lack of all the things that kept his thoughts and memories sufficiently numbed, was forcing him to feel them all, at once. It hit just as hard as the withdrawal.

And thus, he was glad she found him. Glad was a strange word to describe him; it rarely applied. But at this moment it did, in his own, solemn way. He didn't say anything when she revealed to have never seen one of Van Gogh's most beautiful works--he expected that a lot of people had never seen it. Probably never would. It was a damn shame.

Briefly, the thought crossed his mind: get her tickets. But he'd admittedly forgotten what museum it was in now, himself. And the notion passed as quickly as it came; he wasn't about to waste money like that on a person he'd just barely met. The fact that it came at all, was strange.

"Ja," he murmured simply in confirmation, watching her get. Once she was gone, he tore up a small strip of the edging on the padded wall, slipping the box of cigarettes underneath it. Wouldn't do any good to have them confiscated. And it was probably for the best that she'd taken the lighter back; if left with him, he'd smoke the whole stash in one go. Once that impossible temptation was out of sight, he laid back once more, glanced at the starry ashes, and closed his eyes peacefully at last.

She had almost forgotten the next morning (woken up by the Austrian girl's distress over her cigarettes) what she was going to do, and had surprised one of the orderlies with her request after taking the lighter again, in the ruckus.  She had to lie and say they were good friends (it wasn't that far off.... But friends were usually friendlier than he) to be taken back to the third ward with someone who had a key.

After being asked several times if she was sure about taking him out, she wasn't sure if she was avoiding suspicion with the way she automatically agreed.  Reaching the third ward, and his what could only be called compartment, she was taken aback for moment when she saw that the ash was still there.  Unable to dwell on what it meant to her, she scuffed it out with her shoe before the orderly could see.  The door was opened, whether he was ready to greet the artificial sunlight or not.

He was sleeping. And he probably would have kept sleeping, well into the afternoon--maybe even the evening. He was making good on a considerable sleep debt. Thus, his immediate reaction to being woken up was irritation. Scowling, he ran a hand over his face and through his hair, before opening one unamused eye, to see what they wanted this time.

...Oh, right. Time to get out of this rat hole.

Standing up, stretching and rubbing the stubble that they didn't let him shave often enough, he ducked under and out of the door. So that he could actually see their faces, and vice-versa. "Hej," he mumbled a greeting to Vesna, looking (down) at her properly for the first time. Well, good morning, indeed. He threw a glare at the orderly, "...What, you gonna lock it behind me, too?" He stepped aside, as if to say 'be my guest'.

"Have him back by 6pm," the orderly directed at Vesna, "Grounds, basement, and the ground floor are off-limits." Giving one weary last look to the Dutchman, he hurried off.

As soon as he was out of sight, Diederik ducked back into the cell to retrieve the hidden cigarettes. The jitters were setting in again. With a great deal of inward satisfaction, he closed the heavy door with a resounding clang, standing free on the other side. Free, with a pack of smokes and a sexy young woman he was obligated to stick around with all day. Life suddenly got perfect. "Well, I guess angels really do exist," he grunted, tapping a cigarette out. "Got a light?"

She hadn't realized exactly how tall he was.  She thought it was just an over-exaggeration from her youth... But apparently not.  Fighting the urge to say 'fee-fi-fo-fum' she settled for a "good morning".  He probably hadn't seen a woman that wasn't old since he got there.  "Hey, don't look so surprised, don't we know each other well?" (ever since the films came first to her before all her sisters, she'd wanted to act.  Too bad she was awful at it, even when she needed to.) Did it count as a good deed to free a supposed dangerous person from a cell? 

It was too bad they'd be keeping a closer eye on her because of him.  But she agreed.  So much freedom wasn't really a good thing, sometimes.  

"I hope not," She frowned jokingly, holding a flame up for him.  "All angels did was tell Mary she was pregnant and let everyone know that Jesus ran away." They didn't cover the new testament in Hebrew school. 

"It's your first day of freedom, where do you want to be?"

Not well enough. How long had it been since he'd seen a woman he wanted to look at more than once? Too long, judging by how many times he looked at her, now. He wasn't much of an actor, either, though--you couldn't act if you couldn't lie. So he chose not to say anything. It was, in his experience, one of the best options available to people (but which they rarely took). Probably why they thought he was--what was it, again? Selectively mute.

"Hn," he ho-humed around the cigarette as he leaned over momentarily to get it lit. After blowing a few smoke rings, and getting himself steadied (it was like his morning coffee), he amended, "Genies, then." And it was apparently time for his third wish.

"Anywhere," he knocked the ashes directly on the floor. It wasn't entirely true; he could think of a lot of places he really wanted to be (by the ocean, for starters), but none of them were in this place. ...Except maybe her bed, but that was very likely not an available option. So anywhere was okay. He wasn't that picky, really.

She put the lighter back into her pocket, and looped her arm in his, starting to step forward. "I'm not supposed to let you just walk off, remember?" All this was foolproof.  At least if something happened he'd be there with common sense, and if something happened *to* him, or between them, it didn't seem like he'd hold it over her.  But she couldn't wander off when attached to him.  Looking up at him, she was troubled with the idea of explaining the situation for a brief moment, but then rejected the idea again.  

Had he gone quieter?  "So tell me about yourself." She began in the silence.  "What did you do, before this? Do you have family? Do they come see you?" She doubted he was married, but he seemed old enough for other things to apply. "Do you have children? Do you have hobbies?" So much to learn in such little time.  She didn't like to feel as if she was walking with a stranger.  

She still didn't know where to take him.  He probably wouldn't enjoy the art room, and the living quarters were boring.  But at least she could show him what he had to look forward (but not too forward) to.  

He couldn't remember the last time a woman had linked arms with him... Probably never. Most couldn't reach, and even back when it was more popular to do so, few ladies wanted to be escorted by a crass sailor. So it was a rather strange new experience for him. He just kept smoking and didn't say anything,

Until it was suddenly time to play twenty questions.

"Retired," he answered shortly, in quick succession, "Two younger brothers. No, I told them to piss off." Niels only came around to nag him, and Broos wasn't good for anything in a padded cell. You couldn't physically assault someone for laughs from behind a reinforced door. Choking on the smoke from her next question, he coughed out a hoarse, "God, no--" Well...there were quite a few 'New Amsterdam's running around (New York didn't call himself that anymore, did he not count?), and he hadn't exactly been careful, back in the day. "...Probably." He wasn't exactly the world's greatest dad, if they were his.

Clearing his throat, he continued, "No. Drinking, smoking, sex, and some drugs. That's all I do." None of which counted as hobbies. If nothing else, he wasn't afraid to admit to his multiple vices. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure what he did when he wasn't doing those things. "...I had a pug, too." Had being the key term. He wasn't sure what they'd done with her, after taking him away.

Retired at a relatively young age? Rich or lazy. 
Able to afford drugs? Rich. Definitely.  She put that on the back burner to think about later.  She had alot of debt-- not that she intended to take advantage of anyone.  He didn't seem the type that would allow that, anyways. 

"Why don't you want your family to visit you?" It would be one thing if they just never showed, but.... 'told them to piss off'? What did that say? "Are they here? We could go see them!"

"Is that true?" At last, though, something familiar.  "I have the same... Hobbies." She told him, laughing slightly at the honesty.  Could it just be bragging? He didn't seem like the type.  He didn't seem like the type for many things. "Plus and minus a few more, of course." 

Not knowing what to say about the dog (it seemed like he did care about it), and, not knowing if it had died, or gone missing, or some other bad thing, she just patted his arm sympathetically.  

"They were annoying me," he replied honestly, and yet agreed immediately, "Yeah, we could." He didn't exactly seem cheered by it. More...like he would have followed up with stereotypically evil cackling, if he were the type to do so. He had no problem with seeing his brothers when he wasn't writhing in agony on the ground from withdrawal. Tormenting them was one of his few pleasures in life.

Well, well, well. Maybe not so much an angel, then, if she shared similar hobbies. Plus and minus what, though? If she also smoked, he couldn't smell it--his own ever-present stench of smog made it impossible to make out anything else. Drugs and alcohol were up in the air, though would it be a bad stereotype to assume the latter solely based on nationality...? As for sex...well, it was probably good that he didn't pry. Otherwise, he almost certainly would have outright asked.

As it was, he just mumbled something about birds of a feather, while flicking the finished cigarette to the ground and grinding it out under his heel. When she patted his arm, he glanced at it and almost said 'what?' Was there a mosquito or something? But when he recognized the gesture for what it was, he just blinked at her quizzically, eyebrows drawn.

Continuing on in complete silence for a good minute or two, he stopped suddenly, mid-stride. Staring at the ground, he ran his free hand through his hair a few times, exhaling audibly. Finally, returning both hands to his pockets, he said quietly, "Dark blue. That's my favorite color. I'm 40 years old, 6'8". I like the accordion. I get stressed walking down stairs, because I think I'll fall. I put french fries on salad. I hate liars. ...And my most favorite thing is the ocean."

Still not quite looking at her (he wasn't accustomed to doing this much talking, or expressing these things to people), he held out a hand, as if to say your turn. "...We're supposed to 'know each other well', or something--" Be friends, and all that shit. Well, he wouldn't lie about it if they asked, so it might as well be true.

"I guess it seems like telling them to 'piss off'... Seems a bit extreme for that." Then again, she lived with all women.  And the one sibling that was here of hers... Would have had a heart attack if she'd told her to piss off.  They didn't see eye to eye on most things, either.  

When he suddenly turned on her, she immediately withdrew her hand, holding it up with as much surprise as he had rounded on her with.  It was almost like surprising a large animal-- did she have to assure him it was okay, just like one?  But he kept walking, and she kept both her hands at her sides.  She'd never known anyone that quiet.  Or tall.  He was a bit like a tree, in those regards.  Quiet and tall.  

They way he stopped and laboriously combed his hair made what he was about to do seem to take intense mental preparation.  But he just spoke.  And she found herself smiling at it, and not really knowing why.  When he gestured towards her, she thought for a minute before answering, "I'm 24 years old.  A bit over 6 feet, in good shoes.  I haven't decided my favorite color, yet." She had 16 more years to do that, apparently.  "I like to paint, and sculpt, and things like that..." She wouldn't call herself an artist-- she could barely make a living.   "One night I got a tattoo of an anchor on the right of my chest, where my heart is.  Then I learned that the heart is on the other side... But it was too expensive to remove, so it's still there." She wasn't very smart.  But it was easier to demonstrate than to just say it.  "And I grew up with the ocean... I haven't seen enough things to decide that it's my favorite of all the things that have ever been" that would have to come in another 16 years.  "but I love it." 

He snorted, "Wait until you meet them." Not so much Broos, he was usually highly amusing. It was Niels who was the annoying one. He always felt like telling him to piss off.

As she talked, he listened carefully, absorbing the information--he was a good listener...when he actually gave a hoot about what was being said. When she was done, he continued walking. A corner of his mouth twitched upward at the tattoo story, "When I was a kid, I was scared shitless 'cause everyone was dying from the plague. But I heard smoking wards it off." He snorted lightly, "'Course it doesn't. I know that now...still can't stop smoking, though. Three packs a day." It was such a stupid mistake, for a prevention that had never even worked. And now the kids in his city started smoking at around the same age as he did. It was kind of cruelly ironic.

As for the ocean... He automatically brought his fingers to his mouth, but, remembering there was no cigarette there, he dragged them through his bangs again, instead. "...I've been everywhere." At first, when he was young, the new places seemed beautiful, exciting, full of wealth and promise. He had a thirst for adventure. "And everywhere only makes me wanna go back to the ocean." He slunk back to the waters, learning that no place was ever as good as the waves that could take him away from it again.

She'd have to see? Well, now she was a bit afraid to see.

Feeling better when he didn't look at her like she was an idiot-- finding it funny was fine-- she listened to his story and had the same reaction.  "That's alot better than not knowing where your heart is, I think." She didn't know exactly what that many cigarettes would do to his health, but not having them seemed to do worse, so she didn't comment on it.  

Her laughter died at his talk about the ocean.  He was probably right.  There were times when she wanted to escape, desperately.  Sometimes she did.  But she always came back.  So why didn't he?  "....Why...?"