maskormenacelogs | I seldom feel the bright relief // OTA

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I seldom feel the bright relief // OTA

WHO: Declan Lynch

dauntless_son and YOU
WHERE: De Chima
WHEN: January
WHAT: Arrival, settling in, new job, new life?
WARNINGS: None yet, will update as necessary

All Work

De Chima, Virginia, is not a place that Declan ever remembers existing. But here it is, existing, nestled on a map of Virginia that is otherwise very familiar to him. After changing clothes and taking a moment to recharge in his apartment, the first order of business is the new job. He's assured he can take a day or two to settle in more, but he requests a schedule as soon as possible. Much of his first day is spent learning the gallery itself: current installations and exhibits, upcoming events, an overview of current staff, and a run-down of projects that Declan might take on in the next few months.

There is a danger here, of course. This is the kind of job that Declan would like to do well, which sets off a clamor in his head of warnings and bursts of worst-case-scenarios, possibilities, outcomes. He spends half the afternoon shadowing his manager, learning the routine of the place as much as anything else.

Before he leaves, Declan finds himself drawn to one of the exhibits. He stands there for nearly half an hour, slowly moving from one piece to another, taking his time in front of each one. It's difficult to tell if he's appraising or simply appreciating, and it's entirely possible that he's doing both. He isn't sure he likes that someone here knew he has a history with art dealing, but maybe that's the most vanilla thing to call him. Still too exciting, but not inaccurate. He has experiencing with managing creative types and keeping their books.

At the end of his day, Declan sits quietly at a table in a cozy cafe with his binder of things to learn flipped open in front of him. He is possibly taking up more space than he needs to. What is the danger of becoming invested here? He still has reasons to keep himself safe, to keep his head down, to get along. He supposes there's nothing wrong with being a perfectly adequate (though not outstanding) gallery manager. If it starts feeling too exciting, he can look for another job. Something that won't tempt him to excel or otherwise stand out.

And No Play

Within twenty four hours of arriving in De Chima, Declan Lynch finds a Catholic church and a suit to wear to Epiphany services. The suit fits well, at least. A respectable deep charcoal. He arrives to service early and sits quietly in a pew, contemplating the body on the cross at the end of the nave, suspended above and behind the alter. His dark curls have been more or less tamed and he sits with a straight back.

That there is a church at all in town is a comfort; that it is Catholic lends some much needed familiarity and routine. As people filter into the church and the pews, Declan offers polite nods, faint and bland smiles. He sat in a place that won't be in the way as people filter in on either side of him. It doesn't bother him to be in the middle of a group of strangers. Usually he and Ronan sat on either side of Matthew during service.

Shit. There's that wicked roil in his stomach. Is Matthew alright? Is Ronan? The last thing Declan remembers is the fucking security system at the Barns.

He lets go of a slow breath and re-focuses his attention as the service begins. Declan sings every hymn, effortlessly follows every cue to genuflect and rise and sit. He takes communion, and when mass is over, he lingers again.

He just needs time to think. Or time to not think.

[if your character is church-going, feel free to strike up a conversation with Declan before or after mass]

Makes a Dull Boy

His apartment is perfectly adequate. Not as big as the townhouse, but he can manage. It's just him, after all. The first night, he doesn't sleep. He has a prescription for his sleep pills in his wallet, he hopes he can get it filled. If not, he'll have to find a doctor that will write him a new one.

Declan takes the day to run errands. There's things he'd like to have for the apartment, and he can make his current budget work until his paychecks start coming in.

At least De Chima has a wide variety of shopping options. It's not that different from Richmond or some of the NoVA urban centers; this could be his life. He can find the Declan Lynch that lives here, that lives this life.

His eyes are currently glued to his phone screen, eyebrows drawn together as he tries to orient himself with the map he has pulled up. It's his fault, really, when he collides with someone. He has the reaction time of someone used to averting small disasters and, if his victim loses their balance, he's there to help them catch it.

"Pardon me," he says, appropriately contrite and mildly embarrassed. "My fault, completely. Are you alright?"

Wildcard

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"It was the Epiphany," he says, as if that explained everything. "I've been here just a couple days."

Going to church had been a much-needed anchor in the middle of a violent eddy of change. At least Catholic mass hadn't changed that much between one world and another. Christ. He's still working on adjusting to that.

It occurs to Declan that Ronan's answer might be (probably is) different.

"How long have you been here?"

Edited 2020-01-06 22:51 (UTC)

"Three years, give or take a little timefuckery. I went home a couple times." Well, and... "I guess I was here a few years before that, too, but I don't remember that shit. It's just what people tell me."

Specifically, it is what Kavinsky tells him. But Ronan won't be talking about Kavinsky just yet. He's not eager for the lecture.

"Long story short, I got here when I was seventeen and I just turned twenty."

"Twenty," he echoes. Ronan was nineteen last they spoke and losing a year - losing more than that - feels...

Declan knows better than to use the word impossible. Three years. Time fuckery. Home. It all settles in the pit of Declan's stomach like so much acid. Time fuckery.

"Okay." For a breath, that's all. "Okay," he says again. "Do you live here? In De Chima? And I'm definitely going to ask about what the fuck that was but not right now." Declan gestures toward the now-empty sidewalk where fans had been gathered earlier.

"Not here here," Ronan answers. "It's kind of a drive. I put a farm where the Barns is supposed to be. I mean, I don't remember doing it, but one or two Ronans ago put it there and I live there now."

This is not going to get any easier to digest. It's not his fault, but he's sorry anyway. Especially because Declan is wearing the kind of look on his face that makes Ronan highly uncomfortable. It's a little like the look he wore when he told Ronan their mother was never going to wake up, pack your things, time to go.

Ronan shifts from one foot to the other. "It's fucking cold, man. Let's go somewhere. You got a place nearby?"

The look on Ronan's face is uncomfortable, too; Declan can't recall many times when his brother has looked apologetic. Not at him. He sets aside the measure of one or two Ronans ago. He can only handle one at a time.

It takes Ronan mentioning the cold for Declan to remember it. He doesn't have gloves and the numbness in his fingers might be from the chill as much as this particular reunion.

"Yeah, come on."

Rather than living in government housing with several strangers as roommates, Declan managed to get an apartment alone. When they arrive, it isn't all that different from the townhouse in Alexandria. Aesthetically pleasing. Utterly forgettable. He could have been here for hours or years and it wouldn't make a difference. It's warm, at least.

Declan hangs his coat and his scarf on a peg by the door and absently pulls his shirt sleeve down over his tattoo. He doesn't like that at all, but taking a knife to it apparently isn't a viable option.

"This is it."

Unlike the townhouse, which had been left to him by Niall, this particularly humble abode is government-funded.

Well, this is disconcertingly familiar. It looks more like Declan's townhouse than the Meadows resembles the Barns. So lacking in character that it has a distinct character. The utter boringness of Declan and everything he curates.

"I can't tell if you found it like this or you've already decorated."

Ronan shrugs off his leather jacket, discarding it over the back of a chair rather than hanging it properly. He tosses his hat there, too, and combs his long - yes, long - hair back with his fingers. More Niall Lynch than ever.

Edited 2020-01-06 23:59 (UTC)

"Yes."

The long hair makes Declan do a double take. Not Niall; still Ronan. "Jesus," he mutters as he shakes off that feeling. He can't decide if it hurts to see Ronan looking so much like him or if that's how it should be. Declan's been trying to protect him from Niall's legacy for years.

He decides then that he needs to sit, so he slides onto one of the stools at the island. Declan pushes his fingers through his own hair, undoing some of the careful styling. The questions he wants to ask feel too small. He can't ask Ronan if he's okay. Declan feels so utterly out of his depth but he's never been willing to let that on in front of his brothers. Even now.

"Okay." He's said it enough now that he's not sure who he is trying to convince more, himself or Ronan. He lifts his gaze, just looking at Ronan. More Niall Lynch's son than Declan will ever be. A hairline crack in the facade.

"I don't know where to start, Ronan."

Ronan would really love for Declan to stop looking at him like that. That would be a good start.

"I'm fine," he answers, though Declan hasn't asked. "I haven't been alone the whole time. Gansey was here for about a year. Adam, too. And Sargent. They're all gone now, but it's okay. I actually haven't fucked up too bad on my own. My dreams are under control and..."

Okay, well, he can't lie.

"I got sick a few weeks ago, but only because there was a nanite glitch. The whole nightwash situation is alright otherwise. You can stop doing that thing with your face. It hasn't been a whole catastrophe."

Ronan is fine now. The nightwash incident kicks at that worry in him but he keeps himself from asking questions. It's handled. Ronan is obviously in one piece. Declan has it in him to roll his eyes.

"This is my face," he retorts. Nanites. Right. He'll dig into that when he has the wherewithal to start reading. He needs a decent night of sleep first and until he can get that prescription filled, it isn't happening.

Declan looks intently at the counter for a moment since Ronan is unnerved by his face.

"You think Matthew's okay? If we're both here..."

But Ronan says he's been here for three years. Declan saw him not that long ago. Hours, maybe. Maybe Matthew isn't alone.

"Time isn't moving back home," Ronan assures Declan. "It's like we're in a dream right now. Time in here is different from time out there. Every year I spent here wasn't even a second back home. Matthew won't notice we're gone."

Well, he'll probably notice Ronan is gone, but only because he's now a fugitive who will never see the Barns again. Another topic to avoid tackling with Declan.

"You're on vacation, got it?"

That's a small mercy at least. A humorless laugh escapes him when Ronan tries to insist that he's on vacation. For as long as Ronan has been alive, there has been no such thing.

"I apparently have nanites in me and a tattoo that glows. I am not on vacation."

And Ronan is here and known and no, there apparently hasn't been a world ending disaster, but that doesn't mean that Ronan is safe. Even after dragging Ronan across the finish line of his eighteenth birthday hadn't felt like real freedom. It just meant that Ronan had access to his trust and Declan didn't have to hover over him.

All De Chima is is yet another place to live a life that isn't entirely his own.

Ronan shrugs because, yeah, the nanites and the branding are reasonable causes for concern.

"I mean you don't have to worry about Matthew. Or me. I've got my shit handled."

Two weeks ago, he was a corpse. He does not, arguably, have his shit handled. But there is no problem here that's alleviated by the intervention of his older brother. Declan wouldn't have been any more capable of saving him from nightwash than anyone else was.

Maybe there wasn't anything Declan could have done then, but there isn't anything he wouldn't do for his brothers. He wishes he'd thought to make coffee or tea or something so that he could have a mug to hold. Instead he folds his hands together to avoid fidgeting.

"Should get you a key," he says absently. Ronan had one to the townhouse, it feels only right that he should have one to the apartment. Just in case.

Declan reaches to get something out of his pocket. What he puts on the counter isn't his keys, though. It's the ORB MASTER.

"Had this when I arrived."

Ronan snorts at the appearance of the ORBMASTER. "Of all the shit you could've brought..." Naturally, it's the least useful but most sentimental dream. Ronan reaches over and releases a burst of floating lights.

That leads to the next question he should ask. But he's not sure he wants to go there yet. When he asks, Declan will ask in return, and Ronan will have to tell him their lives are over. Which won't come as a surprise, but will nail it down with finality.

Damn it.

"Hey," he begins with some attempt at nonchalance, "did you guys make it to the Barns alright?"

Declan watches the lights. He set it off his first night here and they brought him a modicum of comfort when he couldn't sleep. It was the first gift Ronan had given him in a very long time.

The attempt at being casual does not go unnoticed and Declan's gaze cuts back to Ronan. "We did. You could have warned me more about the security system."

Ronan is right, though. The question begs an answer.

"Did you find Bryde?"

Ronan prods the ORBMASTER again, releasing another cloud of lazy little lights.

"Uh huh."

"Ronan."

All of Declan's exhaustion and all the time spent believing his brother has been chasing his own death somehow make it into those two syllables, along with something like a plea. It's not an answer. Not a real one.

Ronan tosses his head back with a sigh, as if he too is already exhausted by the conversation, though he knows Declan has every right to wonder. To worry. In fact, everything Declan ever cautioned him about had come true, which makes Ronan the loser of every argument they've ever had.

He hates it.

"Look, before you piss yourself, I'm not dead. Alright? We got away." Ronan throws his arms in the air and stomps a half-circle around the counter before wheeling back and gesturing widely. "Those dreamkilling fucks were there when we woke up. I don't know how the hell they found us, but there were at least sixty of them. Armed like a goddamn SWAT team. Surrounding us. We couldn't even move and they were gonna shoot us anyway."

Declan waits for the part that is supposed to reassure him. He knows exactly what kind of state Ronan is in when he wakes up from dreaming, and the thought of the dream hunters surrounding him, prepared to fire, makes him lightheaded. He takes a deep breath, lets it go, waits while Ronan gestures wildly.

"But you're not dead," he echoes, as much an affirmation to himself as to Ronan. "How did you get out?"

"Bryde showed up." Of course. "Told them to stay back because he had a bomb or something."

Ronan himself has no idea whether that was a bluff or not. Had Bryde held back because there was nothing to detonate, or because he was a good man who didn't want to massacre sixty people? Personally, Ronan prefers to believe the latter.

"Hennessy and I had swords. Magic swords. That was what we dreamed, before. They're really cool, actually." And yes, yes he knows. He knows that using a magic sword in front of sixty dreamkillers confirms his status as a dreamer. Plausible deniability out the window. He knows. "We used those for a distraction, then we fucked off with Bryde. Safe and sound."

Declan pushes his hands through his hair and leans into the counter, weight supported on his elbows. Ronan is alive, he's okay, but none of that story makes him feel particularly good about their future. People - at least sixty, apparently - know that Ronan and Hennessy are dreamers. People that want to kill dreamers.

His hands slide to the back of his neck and he laces his fingers through, staying like that for a moment. He pushes the invasive thoughts back out of his head, particularly the images of Ronan lying dead in their driveway instead of Niall.

Then he drops his hands altogether and sits up.

"I'm glad you're okay."

Though he has serious doubts about how safe Ronan will be with Bryde.

That's a gesture Ronan recognizes very well. Again, he has the uneasy feeling that Declan is prematurely mourning him, which isn't something he thought he'd be around to witness. The sight makes his stomach turn to ice.

"It was a long time ago, anyway."

Sort of.

"I've been here for-fucking-ever, and no one here gives a shit about the dreaming."

"I have a hard time believing that no one gives a shit," he says quietly. The fight's gone out of him for the moment and he looks at Ronan, grateful to see him in this fucked up place. He doesn't know if it would be better or worse if Ronan were still with Bryde, but at least Declan doesn't have to sit and wonder, babysitting two dreams while their dreamers go off to God knows where with magic swords and mysterious people.

"This place is a fucking trip."

Oh, but Ronan means it. People are so completely unconcerned about his dreaming that it actually alarms him. It's better than being hunted down by the fearful masses, obviously, but he can't believe how quickly they forgot that he almost ended the world.

Twice.

But Ronan is in no hurry to share those stories, either. Instead he asks, "So, tell me already. What did you get?"

"Other than government housing and a job?" His eyebrows draw together, wondering if there's something else he's missing.

Declan decides he needs coffee or something, so he finally gets up from the island to start a pot.

"They set me up with something at an art gallery. Can't be worse than interning." The paycheck is bound to be better. He hopes so, anyway. He wouldn't mind moving out of the apartment if he can figure out some other arrangements.

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