restless and loud [CLOSED]

[atouchofka]

Who| Alain and Roland
What| Nightmares
Where| Training Center (D7 suites, then D4)
When| Now (couple of weeks after the Binding/Alain's arrival)
Warnings/Notes| Discussion of gore, etc.

The first few nights Alain had arrived, he had slept like the dead. Even with all the confusion of the place, even with his distress over how he'd been brought here, he was simply exhausted. If he'd dreamed then, he hadn't remembered it on waking. But as the worst of his exhaustion wore off, so did his ability to sleep. The bed was too soft, after years on the road; the dead silence of his Touch nagged at him like a loose tooth; the sounds of the place were all wrong and the lights never quite seemed to go all the way out. Worst of all, though, were the dreams.

It wasn't that surprising, really, that his dreams were troubling him. He'd always had a tendency to vivid dreaming, and there was so much to try and think his way through during the day that it was no wonder it spilled into his nights. Most of the dreams, he could manage. He was no strangers to nightmares. Nobody could be, when they lived a gunslinger's life, especially not when they lived it with the Touch. You dealt with them by lying still when you woke up, and reminding yourself that they hadn't happened - or, if they had, that they were in the past. You put them away, and you moved on.

But that was harder to do here. He couldn't tell himself the dreams weren't real, and he couldn't tell himself they were over. Waking up from them was almost worse than the nightmares themselves, because for every dream of Farson's men slaughtering his brothers like cattle or of the myriad trials Roland might have faced, there were hours spent lying awake and wondering just how much of that dream had been real. How much of it had been because of him.

For a little under two weeks, he dealt with the nightmares the same way he would have dealt with any other dreams. He turned over in the too-soft bed, wished for the soft sound of his comrades' breathing to lull him back into a sense of safety, and tried to go back to sleep. But it was starting to tell. His headaches were getting more and more frequent, his sleep increasingly disturbed. He was starting to dread evenings, dread sleeping. He hated being there, lying and listening to the unearthly sounds of a city he didn't know, knowing his place was at home but not knowing what that place was. He hated, more than anything, not knowing.

And it was that which, eventually, made him give up on lying in the not-quite-dark and waiting for sleep to come back. He finally did what he knew he should have done days ago; he rolled out of bed, bare feet silent on the carpeted floor, and went to seek out his dinh.

It was around three o'clock in the morning when he headed into the District 4 suites, still barefoot and in his pyjamas, and knocked softly on Roland's door. "Roland? Ro'?" he called, low and soft, and fidgeted, waiting for an answer. If Roland was too deeply asleep to hear, he decided, he wouldn't wake him. It could wait until morning. He could wait.

But he waited on the fourth floor, outside Roland's room, with his hands tucked into his armpits and his weight shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. And, after a little while, he knocked again. 

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[atouchofka]

Alain listens, standing a couple of paces away and looking at Roland in that grave, steady way he's always had. After Roland falls silent, he lets the quiet stretch out a few moments, then steps forwards a little way to clasp his dinh's arm. His grip is gentle, but firm; his eyes hold Roland's piercing gaze without flinching.

"Cry it all you will," he says softly. "I can't give it, when there's naught to pardon." There are better words for it, words with proper form, but he's too weary with this whole mess to try and wrangle them out of the High Speech. Instead, he just holds that eye contact, manages a little smile. "You carry it heavy, Ro'. All the history I haven't seen. I was afraid to ask. And not asking, I'd not expect you to tell me."

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland snorts, not entirely happy with that. But he'd put the matter in Alain's hands, and that is how Alain has decided to settle it. So it's settled. He puts his hand over Alain's, resting on his arm, and holds it there a moment as he turns. "I'll get the herbs. You get the rest of this started."

That busies Roland for one whole second and then he's got the little packet in his hands, and it's very nearly time. Nearly. "What exactly is it you need to know? The generalities, strategy, location, who won?" That's what people ask of such things, isn't it. Who won, who lost. That part of Roland's question is spoken with a little more to it, a little heat over the tension that's creeping into his tone. The heat fades quickly, but the tension only builds. "Or would you know the rest? How we fared, each of us, and what happened after? To tell the truth, Alain, I find myself hoping the former will be enough to set you at peace. I don't think it will."

[atouchofka]

"I don't, either." He's genuinely sorry for that, and it shows in his voice. It would be so much easier to reduce it to a matter of history, of battles won and lost, an abstract shape. But that isn't what he needs to know. That isn't what's haunting his nights, or eating away at the back of his mind.

He busies himself as much as he can with the kettle, his pose tense. At last, still looking at the stove rather than at Roland, he says quietly, "If I could forget it all, Ro', I would. If I could just stop thinking..." Sighing, he steps away from the stove, running his hands back through his hair. "Bert? Jamie? Thomas? Them, at least?"

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland nods, slowly unfolding the packet of herbs and holding it out to Alain. His eyes are on Alain's hands, and his gaze is far away. Alain hasn't asked after himself, and Roland suspects he'll need to know that too, eventually, but for now he's grateful. "Cuthbert, ah..." There's a tangle in his memory there and Roland sighs, frustrated with it. It has to do with that damned horn, and the nightmare he'd had that mixed Cuthbert's final death here in Panem with the death of the other Cuthbert, there on Jericho Hill. Roland rubs at a temple, eyes closed. Having worked through that nightmare already, with help, and having had time to let it sit, he manages to maneuver through his memories deftly enough to avoid touching on anything dangerous.

"His eye," Roland murmurs. "His forehead. I-" He shakes his head. That memory's clearer than it used to be, at least, and he has no wish for his old friend to know about this chink in his mental armor. Maybe that explanation will be enough. "Cuthbert was shot. He was the first to fall, after we charged. Jamie before that, by a sniper. I have my suspicions as to who, but it makes little difference now. Thomas, even before that. Shot, and then- it doesn't matter. I lost sight of him. It was before the retreat."

Roland opens his eyes, blinks, gets himself used to looking at the kitchen again, clean even surfaces instead of dirt and ancient statues, the hum of the refrigerator instead of screams and gunfire. He focuses his gaze, looks at Alain to try and gauge his reaction. "Sit down, if you need to. I'll finish the tea."

[atouchofka]

Alain nods, setting the kettle down on the sideboard. He's watched Roland closely throughout this explanation, not without some concern. Even if he didn't know the man so well, that reaction would be worrying; that wasn't simple grief in Roland's face. So he notes it, but shuffles it away to the back of his mind. It's a riddle, to be teased apart, but it won't be solved by asking. If his guess is right, that would only make it worse.

After a moment's consideration, he does as Roland suggests, settling himself down at the kitchen table with his head in his hands as he works, slowly, through what he's been told. It's more or less what he expected, to say true. The chances of any of them surviving were slim. But they died fighting, he tells himself. It could have been worse. They died with guns in hand.

"It ended there, then?" He looks up, folding his hands together in front of him. "The retreat, then a charge... that's not a battle, that's a last stand." He sounds neither surprised, nor - to his own dull shock - particularly grieved. Again, if the war was to end there, let it have ended well. Let it have been worth telling stories of, even if there was no-one left to tell them. "I thought our chances were slim, when we saw them gathered. When they took down my posse. But I guess I still hoped."

[ka_sera_sera]

"I know you did." Roland takes a couple steps over to him, puts a hand over that familiar blonde hair, kisses his forehead. "You did well, Alain. Do you hear? You did very well." Roland straightens, lets his hand fall, and sets a mug of tea in front of Alain. It is not an entirely dignified mug, what with the cowboy hat clumsily shaped on top of its handle, but District Four's cupboard does contain worse.

Roland sits, not opposite Alain but in the chair beside. He's absently cradling his own mug, one that has a photograph of Caesar Flickerman's face printed large and exaggerated on its side. See? Much worse. "When Cuthbert was here, I never told him. I still don't know if he knew. I suppose I wanted him to believe there was still a home for him to go back to. Believing otherwise can take a toll on a man."

He lets that sit a moment. "If there were anything comforting to tell you, Alain, I would. You said you couldn't go on, not knowing. Can you, now? Now that you do know, at least the important parts? I've no wish to see you burn yourself up in grief, as some in this place have."

[atouchofka]

It's a moment before he answers. He looks down at the tea, wraps his hands around the bizarre mug, and sits there in total stillness for several seconds, not looking up. At last, still staring into the steam that winds gently up from the mug, he says quietly "It's less than I feared. I had nightmares of you all caught unawares, of Farson's men sweeping through the camp... If they died on their feet, guns in their hands, that's something. That's a knowledge I can bear."

He glances up at Roland, his smile thin and tired, and takes a sip of his tea. "Anyroad. By the looks of things, you went on. Went on a long way down the trail, with that burning in you. How can I do less?" But that raises another question in his mind, and although he tries to bite it back, he can't help blurting it out: "Did you find it? The Tower, did you reach it?"

[ka_sera_sera]

"Ah-" The question takes Roland by surprise, as it had the last time he was asked. As with last time, his eyes go wide with surprise, his mouth hangs open. Chill pricks gooseflesh across his skin. The tea in his mug sloshes, drips over the rim. The mug hits the table heavy and loud and he pulls breath into his lungs and manages the presence of mind to sweep both hands clumsily over his eyes, leans forward with elbows on the table and shoulders hunched, face covered.

He realizes he's staring down at the pattern on the surface of the table. Following it with his eyes. In the same moment, he realizes his breath is beginning to steady, and so is the rest of him. His head lifts from his hands. He blinks at Alain, his face mildly surprised, voice a little quieter than usual but perfectly calm. "If you've any more questions about that day, or the days after, ask them now. I'll answer you any time, understand, but I'd rather do the telling of this all at once, if I've a choice about it."

[atouchofka]

Alain moves on instinct to support his friend, his own mug hastily put back on the table as he leans over to clasp Roland's shoulder, trying to catch his eyes. He doesn't know what he expected the answer to be, but one thing he does know: he expected an answer, not this. Whatever this is. Roland looks as if he's having some kind of seizure, and it reminds Alain horribly of the times he's seen his dinh seized in similar ways. His throat tightens, and for the moment before Roland looks back up at him, he forgets to breathe.

That breath comes out all in a rush when Roland speaks, and Alain pulls away cautiously, as if he expects Roland to fall back into that state at any moment. He doesn't ask whether Roland's all right. That feels like a disingenuous question, one which would only waste both their time. Instead, he turns to pick his tea back up, biting his lip, and sits there quietly for a moment. "Were you alone long?" he asks at last. "After we died?"

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland picks his mug back up and frowns, confused, as the surface of the tea ripples, small waves twitching across its surface. He huffs out a breath and stands, chair scraping across the floor, and rubs his hands over his hips until they steady. "Oh aye," he mutters, distracted, and starts to pace. Then he looks up and focuses on Alain once more, his voice a little more attentive.

"There were people. Here and there. None like you." Roland shakes his head, reaching the wall and turning around to pace in the other direction. "There was someone. Susannah." With the name his long face lights up in a smile, which he turns briefly toward his friend in the here and now. The smile's made almost as much of relief to have come across someone he can remember safely, summon back the time in his mind when she'd shared this tower with him, as it's made of love for the woman herself. "Reminded me of you sometimes. Don't worry for me Alain. Are you worried? I don't recall you worrying over my solitude before. But there was always the two of you, before."

[atouchofka]

"Ah, Ro'." Alain smiles back, rather sadly, watching his friend pace. "I've been worried for you and Bert both since the day we met. Someone had to be, for the two of you never were."

That isn't really answering the question in hand, and he knows it. Truth is, he doesn't want to answer what's really being asked, because the answer is no. No, "worried" doesn't begin to cover it. The thought of Roland alone, without anyone to balance him out or see him through the dark pits his mind sometimes takes him to, is horrific. And it's clouded further by worry over the here and now, for the way Roland's acting is hardly reassuring.

[ka_sera_sera]

"Ah, we do alright for ourselves, don't we? It's Bert who needs the worrying, but with the two of us..." Roland's steps slow as he trails off, runs a hand over his mouth. Breathes.

"You ought to worry less, here in Panem." That last word Roland says with a bit of force, an emphasis all for his own benefit, rather than Alain's. "It'll wear you thin, just as my mishandling since you got in this city have worn you thin. Don't feed your worry, if you can, take joy where you can find it. Have you done that, Alain? Will you?"

[atouchofka]

It would be kind to lie. To say that he has, and he will. And perhaps, to someone else, Alain might lie, but this is Roland, and he can no more lie to him than fly. Still, he looks grieved to have to answer "I've found little enough joy to take. Curiosity, aye, and some relief, but naught by way of joy." His smile is faint and rather apologetic. "When I see it, I'll take it."

[ka_sera_sera]

That's enough for Roland to put some effort into shaking this feeling off, at least long enough to walk over and slide an arm around Alain's shoulders. Roland's gaze now is more aware, more focused, though his skin still feels a little clammy and cold. Should've taken the time to grab a jacket. "Glad to hear it. Drink your tea, Alain. And perhaps next Signless and I go out you could come along, borrow what happiness we have till you find your own."

He pauses to frown down at the table. Signless has little enough of that these days, doesn't he? "Or mayhap you can help each other. Full of horrors as this place can be, it isn't always so."

The hand on Alain's shoulder squeezes, and he tries to pull Alain a little more against him. "If nothing else, old friend, I-" He can't say he's happy of Alain's entrance into Panem. He can't. Looking into that round, familiar face is still too frightening.

"I'm glad to be with you," is what Roland decides on, because 'frightening' doesn't mean he has to lie. "I'm very glad of it."

[atouchofka]

Alain tenses for the briefest of moments, then lets himself be pulled against Roland's side, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Many things have changed, and it's almost strange to find Roland smells the same as he always did; that heavy mix of sweat and leather that's clung to his skin since even before they earned their guns. Still the same Roland, even with all that now lies between them. The thought's oddly painful.

"Aye," he says quietly, and smiles. "Aye. I'm glad of it, too." It makes this captivity a reprieve rather than a prison, even with all the horror it brings. It means that, for the time being at least, he can know all isn't lost.

Still the same Roland. And he got to live, even if nobody else did. That's worth some gladness.