terriblepurpose | Deer Country Contact

[He laughs at "old man"; whether or not Paul means it as a term of endearment is unclear to him, but the sound is startled and delighted. He's always felt old, in a way, but having died at the age of 25 in his own world, it's not like he ever actually got to be. No one's ever called him that, in jest or affection or dead seriousness, and now that someone has, he realizes he loves it.

If Paul is reminded of someone else by saying the words, then L is reminded that a future is possible here, at a moment that matters by a person who matters.]

It happens that I like you very much, even when it's painful. Perhaps especially then, because I'm reminded of how much I actually have to lose. Most people aren't fortunate enough to really understand the value.

[From his own advanced and mature age of seventeen, twenty five is practically senescent - but more than that, it's a matter of attitude, of experience. Gurney Halleck wasn't a greybeard mumbling by an open fire, either.

He likes Lazarus' laugh, a ripple of sound surprisingly bright from someone so wan. He can feel it through his side and in his own chest, this close. He'll remember what brought it out of him.]

I like you very much, too. And I know what you mean. [He releases a puff of air.] It would easier if we didn't understand, wouldn't it? If the only thing there was in front of us was the puzzle.

But then we'd miss this.

I thought so, earlier... that it might be easier to not understand. It turns out that it's much simpler to make yourself very sick, than to truly shut that off.

[The laughter's shadow lingers in his voice, but it's tinged with a little bit of misery, now. It's been a hard night; he wonders whether he's punishing himself, or acting this way because some part of him believes he deserves a reprieve.]

Lycka puts up with a lot. She likes this, though... the space, the hunt. I think it's the only time she's really happy.

[ Somewhere in the waves, a mouse swims with unnatural grace, her corporeal form no barrier to movement. She is an Omen, a creature of the soul, so she is not foreign to this alien sea, but her shape will never know it as a home. Not like Lycka, sleek and powerful, the apex of her environment when within it - and never quite at home outside of it. ]

It's difficult. Not being able to do what you're made for.

[ Of course he's not just talking about Lycka. He's not just talking about himself, either. ]

Or trying not to do it. [ He sighs, barely. ] Humans are made to connect with one another. We can't help ourselves.

[L can't laugh at that; he can't feel anything but a little barb below his ribs, to realize that is is difficult, that what he's "made for" is so specific and distant.

It's not just the cold air, he knows he can feel the cold water on Lycka's face as she darts and dodges and takes her prey.]

Even so... what cannot adapt must die.

[He'd died. Not for lack of adapting; perhaps for mutating, adapting too much, standing out to the point of failure. He might hide his face if it was not so dark already.]

I've tried so hard to adapt...

[I want to be an island]

I don't know how to be that sort of human being. I know what I wanted... I know what I got. And I know that, on some level, Shoyo will never understand it. The same way most people will not ever understand it, my thinking was absurd, for believing that it would ever be understood.

Edited 2022-08-09 06:12 (UTC)

[ Paul listens to Lazarus talk about trying, and it's the trailing fingers of a ghost across the span of his shoulders. He hunches against the cold, tighter to Lazarus' side. ]

Someone [ Kaworu ] told me once that humans will never fully understand each other, because we're afraid of letting ourselves be known completely. That if we ever knew each other that wholly, we'd end up being the same, and there would be no distinction between us and the other.

[ They'd all be an ocean, like the one stretched out beside them, dreaming and thoughtless. Maybe that's all there is out there, past the horizon and down in the depths. ]

Maybe that's true.

[ He takes a deeper breath, holds it long enough to press against the rhythm of his heart. ]

But you're still trying. You still...you want it. And that's not absurd. It might not be perfect, but it's better than not trying at all.

[His shallow breath shudders as Paul's body constricts and crushes closer against his side. Being held tightly is comforting to him, even being held too tightly; there's a kind of peaceful resignation to it, the understanding that there are forces strong enough to shake and humble him and drain all possible fight or argument from him. Whether it's as profound and abstract as fate, or simply a set of arms that care enough to hold him, there is no firmer reminder that he is not disembodied, that some consequence grounds his existence.]

That sounds like something Kaworu would say.

[It's his blithe and askance way of saying that he doesn't quite agree. Maybe it's because he feels, now, as though he's been on both sides of it.]

I believe that most of us basically want the same things: to be secure, to have esteem, to be loved. But I've never come across two people who defined those things the same way.

[Care enough to worship me.

Care enough to use me.

Care enough to destroy me.

He smiles palely against Paul's shoulder.]

I was born beneath the promise of a highly flawed life. Exceeding expectations isn't too difficult, when there are in fact none at all. You don't know what that's like... it's not your fault.

[Paul couldn't know, could he, what it's like to have slipped into the world accidentally and irregularly. He can't imagine what it's like to be wrapped in resentment before any sort of blanket, a bastard orphan constantly hungry in a world that made more sense before he so rudely interrupted it.

Not that an ascended birth and every expectation doesn't come with its own set of questions and griefs.]

Is it easier, in general, to forgive what you don't understand? When we're the hardest on ourselves... I'd think that knowing someone and finding that they're the same would make them the most unforgivable.

[ Deprivation has shaped the man next to him like a plant sprouting inside a bottle, its leaves fanning out to brush the glass around it, its stalk dependent on the curved neck at its base. When the bottle broke, Lazarus slumped out of it, and Paul has watched him slowly drag himself back up inch by inch for months.

Paul doesn't know what it's like to have gone without as Lazarus has, to have been plucked from shallow, unloving soil and transplanted in a strange garden (a locked room, with a puzzle on the door). But he feels the marks it left on Lazarus down to his own bones, especially like this, so closely tangled together. And he doesn't know something about the ache, even if not the same way. ]

It is something Kaworu said.

[ Easily conceded. He stays huddled, their breathing coming into sync again without him thinking much of it, chests rising and falling in tandem with each other, with the waves. ]

Or maybe you can try to learn how to forgive those parts of yourself in another person before you can forgive them in yourself. [ He hums, quietly, and digs his heels into the sand. ] Maybe that's why I'm not angry with you.

[ There it is. The subject they circled away from, but the one that's never really left. ]

We are different, in many ways, but there's part of you that's like a part of me that no one else has. The - drive, the need. The sense of purpose, and seeing a puzzle, and needing to know the answer, whatever it is, whatever it takes.

[If L knew those small and innate things he was leaving on Paul by Bonding with him, he might have declined, might have thought it not worthwhile. His is the stalk that requires support, the bones that beg through others for nutrients and structure.

Help me; I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I can't help you; let me help you.

He laughs, a wavering sound, when Paul says that it's truly something Kaworu said. As a detective, he loves to be right, and it feeds him.

He sobers at something more uncomfortably relevant.]

I forgive you, too.

[For the sand, for the violence, for the allegiance. There's more in his shallow breath than there has been in months. He clings a little more, for a bare moment, before seeming to straighten, as though moving on, or at least acknowledging what's truly important.]

We do share a part. I've struggled to define what it is, and I'm still not sure, but... you're talking about a question that needs answering. We both can't ignore that; we both must answer it, mustn't we?

[He wants so badly for it to be true, so he can not be alone.]

It's not an easy way to be. I'd understand if you couldn't be like that.

[ Lazarus forgives him, just like that. Something brittle seems to break off in Paul's throat, a jagged accretion of tension he has to swallow quickly, the salt wind pricking at his eyes. It's his turn to cling back, in the sorry pair they make, wobbling in drunkenness deeper than liquor could ever drown them. ]

Even if I -

[ Even if. That's been what has haunted him, hasn't it? Not if only, shaped by yearning for the unrealized possibilities of the past, but even if, the resignation to the inevitability of what had happened. What had to happen, by their natures.

Even if he'd known to ask Lazarus to stop, he wouldn't have, because he couldn't deny him what he needed so badly. Even if he'd known what would come of stepping on that ship, he would have done it, so that he could intervene. The if onlys still exist - if only he had raised his hand against God sooner on the sead, if only he had known to hold the threat of the flame against his hallowed head before he had the chance to scourge Lazarus to ash - but the truth of them both would remain the same. ]

You told me that the world needs people with conviction. [ A scratching, hesitant edge to his voice. ] Even if I could be different - I want to be that kind of person. Even if it's hard.

[ His fingers are curled in Lazarus' sleeve. His own wanting still can't touch the edges of Lazarus' own, but oh, how he wants. ]

I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. You know that? I wouldn't- I wouldn't still be me, if you hadn't still thought I could be. You brought me back, Lazarus. You need to know that.

[He waits, listening attentively, for the condition. It doesn't come; the words seem to die in Paul's throat, and he nods all the same, understanding all the same. Sometimes, the challenge of words isn't worth it and the silence just speaks louder.]

It's more than believing in something. It's knowing something to be true, even if everyone around you is saying it can't possibly be. It's being stronger than the notion that you might just be crazy, a... notion that might be loud and relentless and repeated until it sounds true.

[And he knows, as he speaks, that he might not be stronger, that there are days he didn't, that his own doubt might have created just enough of a falter for Light to pull ahead of an impending stalemate and seal his fate. At the same time, even a humble stepping stone has value if it can elevate someone who might not fail in their conviction.]

You brought yourself back, and you must accept that it's the case, but... if I helped in any way, I can't think of a better possible use for my time. You should know that, as well.

[ When Lazarus speaks of it being more than believing in something, but the knowledge of its truth, and the unending insistence on seeing that truth through, Paul feels clarity like a play of light across the surface waters of his mind that aligns to reveal the depths of past memories.

All the times that Lazarus insisted on his suspicion of the Emperor, in the face of what must have felt like the entire world casting doubt on his perception of reality. What it would feel like to be proved so wholly right, in such a terrible way. The hungry gap left in the wake of a goal achieved after so much sacrifice, then one more triumph - and then the flame, and the oblivion, and the return.

No wonder Lazarus is out here like this.

But then: Lazarus has insisted on Paul's worthwhileness as intently as he insisted on the Emperor's lack. He had from nearly the start, before he ever even came to know the Emperor as a danger, and Paul feels another hot, jumbled surge of feeling on this chill night. ]

If I say I steered the ship, will you accept you were the lighthouse?

[ Paul said he wouldn't let Lazarus drown, but it was the other way around, all this time. ]

And speaking of steering...we should get away from these rocks.

[ Get him somewhere warm, put a cup of steaming, sugary drink in his hands. The little human gestures, when there's nothing else, in the closed sanctuary of a safe house. ]

Lighthouses belong on rocks, though, don't they?

[There's a lump in his throat; he's always liked lighthouses. The dry-humored joke is an attempt to offset the fact that it means a great deal to him to be recognized as guide and warning alike.

Quietly and privately is fine. He actually prefers it to widespread recognition and accolades. This feels deeper, more honest and true.]

That being said, I'd like nothing better... who knew it could get this cold this time of year, even by the sea?

We only have to take the metaphor so far.

[ Paul half-laughs, nudging against Lazarus' side in the broken tension. It's a better joke than he expected; or maybe it's that he didn't expect one at all, in the wake of all of this.

He disentangles himself carefully from Lazarus' side, coming up on feet a hair less steady than he likes them to be, and smiles wanly down at his teacher. The hand he offers him is warm and open, unlit by flame or agony, bloodless and clean. ]

Come on, old man. Let's get out of here.

What matters is the truth, and that goes as far as it does. Invariably. Perpetually.

[He glances up blearily, vision still double, reaching out with measured care to take Paul's hand. It only takes him two and a half tries.]

Call me "old man," more. I could get used to it.

[I'll be here a long time, he might as well have said, and it's alright for you to get used to it, too.]

You had better.

[ Because I'll keep saying it, he might as well say back in turn. He doesn't keep holding Lazarus' hand after he's drawn him to his feet, nor does he loop his arm around Paul's shoulders, but he lingers close as his Omen emerges from the surf and makes a graceful, impossible leap to his front pocket.

Paul readjusts the blanket draped around Lazarus, which is suspiciously like an excuse to be close, and nods up the beach. ]

The truth is - I'm counting on you, all right? So -

[ So come with him up the beach when he starts walking. So stay around, or come back if you go. So here they are, still side by side, and that's something, even if it's not everything. ]

[L recognizes the call to rise to something. However capable he feels, he's heartened by Paul's confidence in him, his need for him to deliver, giving a slightly sloppy, slightly sleepy nod in response.

He accompanies, staying close, never straying ahead enough to lead or falling back enough to follow. Side-by-side, in fact, they will remain.]

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