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

[Feel free to surprise us! If you want to plot something out or run an idea by me, I'm at

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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.

Ronan rolls his eyes so magnificently that his entire body arcs with the motion before he leans forward and props both elbows on the counter. "Not that," he sighs. "Your power, man. What power did you get?"

"What power?"

In the very brief talk he got before being set loose on the world, Declan can't remember mention of that. He remembers the file folder someone gave to him before he left the government facility, but he doesn't remember if he took the time to flip through it or not. Rookie mistake.

Had he missed something?

Ronan kneads at his forehead with a knuckle, praying for the patience to deal with Declan's lying habit.

He doesn't quite succeed.

"You're not seriously gonna keep this secret from me. Come the fuck on."

For once, the lack of information is pure oversight on Declan's part.

"No one said anything about--"

He cuts himself off with a heavy, I'm-already-done-with-this-shit sigh. He heads back through the apartment to is bedroom. The folder is sitting on his nightstand, untouched, and Declan grabs it before he heads back into the kitchen.

Declan flips open the file as it lands. The first few pages on top are just medical records (he doesn't like that). He flips to another page - information about his apartment, his new job.

Impatient with the (honestly reasonable) pace of Declan's page-turning, Ronan elbows his way in to take over the task. He spent an awfully long time flipping through his own file before setting it on fire, once upon a time, so he knows exactly what he's looking for.

When they finally land on the page that describes Declan's new ability, however, Ronan goes very, very still.

"...Oh."

Well, that's awkward.

Declan rolls his eyes but he lets Ronan take over scanning through his file. He doesn't know what reaction he's expecting, but the one he gets makes the pit of his stomach drop out.

"What?"

He nudges Ronan over so he can look at the page in question; his eyebrows draw together as he reads.

Ronan retreats, giving Declan ample space for some alone time with his file.

For most of his life, he'd never realized how alienating their magical family must have been for Declan, the single human among them. It had only truly struck him on his eighteenth birthday, when his brothers were preparing to leave Singer's Falls for good - for what they assumed would be a new life. An appropriately ordinary one.

The increasingly lonely truth of Declan's existence made itself known to Ronan over the course of the following year, and he's still not sure what to do with the information. It had been Declan's choice to keep it all from him, to wear normalcy like armor.

But this seems like an excessively cruel joke.

Ronan attempts to break the tension with a softer one: "Does this make you my Kryptonite?"

Transported to a world where the transportation itself might have the side effect of giving him some kind of power, and the cosmic joke is that the power is really a non-power. Declan almost laughs but the humor dies with a drop of quietly bitter bile. Not a dreamer, not a dream, and apparently now only able to stop other people from manifesting anything special about themselves.

Funny.

Declan flips the file closed and pushes away from the counter so he can find a mug. He gets down two, in case Ronan is inclined to have coffee.

"Haven't I always been?" he answers. Declan Lynch, the liar that Ronan could not abide. The keeper that he didn't want. The protector he'd only ever resented. He dreamt Matthew as the antithesis of everything little Ronan had imagined Declan to be. No fun, so he made a brother that would always play; too serious, so he made a brother that always smiles; unlikable, so he made a brother that everyone could like.

Rather than focusing on himself for too long, he asks, "You still dream. Get anything else when they brought you over?"

"Sort of."

Though talking about it now makes Ronan feel like an asshole. What the hell, universe? Why couldn't Declan be a dreamer here, at least?

"It's more like I'm not tied down anymore."

But is that a change, or something he just didn't know how to do before? Bryde seemed to be capable of being anywhere anytime he was needed. All-seeing, all-knowing, endless running commentary on the collective unconscious.

Ronan scrubs a hand down his face and clarifies with some difficulty, "Lindenmere isn't a place anymore. It's just... me. I'm the dream. And I can make anyone a dreamer. I can be in their head and help them bring stuff out."

Declan frowns as he listens, but it's more of an introspective, concerned sort of expression rather than something outright disapproving. He seems to consider that information for a moment, quiet and staring off at nothing in particular.

When he looks up, he tries to push down his worry.

"And you're alright?"

Because it sounds like Ronan has become more easy to abuse, the danger of losing himself more real. Worst case scenarios run through his head as automatically as breathing. Damage control, protection, complications, consequences.

And some flicker of him wonders what it would feel like to be a dreamer.

Ronan meets Declan's eyes, anticipating the worry he finds there. Even he recognizes the cause for concern. The legend come true, a wish-granting something that can now be possessed by anyone. For someone devoted to maintaining Ronan's status as Ronan Lynch and not the Greywaren, it must be a nightmare.

"Yeah."

Declan is a little too late.

"I like it, actually. Not being alone."

Declan's nightmares are real; he can't shape them, just watch them play out, helpless to turn back the momentum. He runs his thumb along the lip of the mug and nods, if only to let Ronan know he hasn't completely retreated into his head about this. How could he not be worried? How could he not consider all the worst things he's seen during a life with Niall and Ronan?

But Ronan had always been his own, not beholden to other people. He never got caught up the way Niall did in a world that would (and had, in their father's case) eat him alive. Not that dreams were any safer, but--

"It's probably much too late to tell you to be careful." He knows that. He knows Ronan. Everything Declan has tried to protect him from has manifested, not just back in their world but here, too.

Edited (typo) 2020-01-08 00:35 (UTC)

This is where Ronan would have previously leveled a flat stare at Declan and snapped back a shitty remark. But no, too much has happened - here and back home - for him to dismiss Declan's warnings, however unnecessary.

"I'm picky about my dreamers," Ronan assures him, though he and Declan probably don't share the same criteria. What Ronan deems worthy has never proven to be particularly good for him.

"That's a start."

He tries to be generous with that; Ronan is still alive, still himself, and if being picky helped with that then it's a step in the right direction. Declan thinks he needs to be more than just picky, given Ronan's general tendency to just throw his heart ahead of him and follow after it.

Declan drinks his coffee. There are words sitting between them that he doesn't know how to nudge toward Ronan. Despite everything, he loves Ronan. And he feels like he should say it that simply. But love has been dangerous for both of them. He should've said it before Ronan went off to find Bryde.

"This is where I'm working." He takes a business card out of his pocket and leaves it on the counter. He'd mentioned an art gallery, but he'd never said which one. Ronan probably could have found him without much difficulty, but now he knows the concrete place. "My number's the same."

If Ronan still has the phone he arrived with. Or if he remembers it.

Ronan regards the business card with a flicker of disdain. Not because it's Declan's, but because it's a business card, which feels like an awfully impersonal method of passing information. He is not a mere associate, after all.

He pockets it, anyway.

"I still don't answer my phone," Ronan warns. "But you can find the Meadows exactly where the Barns would be. There's not even a security system."

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