You're different.

Serafíne

Awareness?

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 3

Serafíne

The door's open.

The door's always open, and maybe Elijah just walks in. Up the steps onto the porch, past the fucking unicycle and right on in. Maybe he knocks and if he knocks it takes someone a little while to head out front and open the door because the door's always open.

Saturday afternoon. Dee works in a bakery and Rick in a record shop and Saturday afternoon, both are off at work. Those liberal arts degrees are so worth the student debt, aren't they?

So, if he knocks Dan'll be the one to pad down the long corridor between the living room and the foyer to open the door because Sera is curled up on her green velvet couch and she's taking a nap or doodling in her songwriting notebook or taking a nap while doodling in her songwriting notebook, legs curled up, this green chenille blanket wrapped around her body, falling cross-wise from her left shoulder to her right shoulder.

Music in the room and not what you'd think. Satie, rather than the Pixies.

A fire in the fireplace. Curtains open to the backyard, the sharp brilliance of the February sun.

Hair mussed, red marks on her right cheek where she was resting her head on the arm of the chair but by the time Elijah makes it into the living room she's sitting up, the blanket falling, lean body warm and lovely beneath, dark eyes strangely sharp, for all that everything else about her says: sleep sleep sleep right now.

"Elijah. You're different."

And she knows how.

Elijah

The door is open.

The door is always open, and Elijah does walk right in. Though, as he usually does, he knocks. he knocks three times and enters anyway, as though knocking would announce his presence, as though knocking would make all the difference, but it didn't. It never made a difference because the door was always open and it was something he could really get behind. He liked that, the open door policy.

He walks in. Has a smile for Dan, something bright yet conspiratorial because there is always some conspiracy. Always something to smile about, and skiing did come easily. Maybe not always but, at that juncture, it came easily. Doesn't have to worry about student debt, or really anything aside from the mysteries of the universe and when his next final is. (He has no idea when his finals are. He just knows he will show up and take them. Will be able to gauge them by how little sleep Jenn is getting because one of them actually does care about their education).

So there he is, making his way into the living room, bag deposited somewhere out of the way ad shoes stay on because it took him an eternity to find them last time and you can't drive a motorcycle without shoes. It doesn't work.

But there is a feeling when he comes in. A feeling that is his typical unrest. That feeling of a storm coming, that feeling of the unrest in men's hearts before revolution but now, it's different. Now those hearts beat loud and push, they stretch, they reach for something. The hope, they plead, they traverse muck and mire and frigid, salty waters and strive for more. There is still that feeling, that push, that chaos in the world, but even chaos has a purpose, even if it isn't clear.

It is a lack of contentment, wherein he previously could have been aimless, shapeless form. Unrest without purpose, but now there is a drive there. Now there is intent, a ball rolling. Ideas moving. Potential swept up to kinetic and trying for more.

He's different, she informs him. He smiles, big and bright and pleased and he plops down on the floor beside her, not on the couch but adjacent to said couch.

"And I didn't die this time," he said. Not quite true. An eternity passed and time marched on and days and weeks and months ceased to matter. He could have died a thousand times for all he knows, all he cares. Maybe he did. It seems to have been for the better.

Serafíne

There is a tray on the coffee table, and on that tray is a white ceramic pot just visible beneath a knitted cozy (black and pink with the word IRONY knitted intarsia - a gift from one of the Derby Dolls) and a bottle of whiskey and a cup-and-saucer with a bit of cooling tea lightly dosed with whiskey. A little jam jar with sliced lemons, in case she wants some. The tea cup is a lovely little antique covered in pink roses, rimmed with gold that has been rubbed off here and there: time and use.

Elijah takes a seat on the floor and Sera inhales and bends down and kisses the crown of his head and inhales both his new scent and his new sensation. Smiles against his hair, her breath warm and steady.

"It's not always dying. For some people its never dying, and after the first its about - unlocking your soul, piece by piece I think. Last time I was scared that I was gonna be consumed by her, that I was going to become her? But I don't think that's it.

"You're happy, though. I'm glad. Wanna tell me what happened?

"That's a real question, by the way. You don't have to. I like the way you feel now. Like you're reaching."

Elijah

There is an art to tea. There is a flow to it, to the pouring of cups and doctoring the little beverages until they're personal and perfect.

"I'm not scared of my avatar anymore. I mean, I used to be. Gah, I used to be terrified of it but this… I mean, it was scary in its own way- and I totally want to talk about it," he perked up, his cheeks warm, his green eyes bright and pleased, "it was… okay, it started out that Jenn and I had a fight. I mean, it… it makes sense? That this would happen when I was at the apartment, because Jenn was there the first time, too. She was there and it was… something about our dynamic is like a push, and that was it. We'd had a fight, because I'd been kind of shady since I moved here. I don't remember a lot of it, because I remember being really… really drunk.

"I remember she'd cried, though. And I remember that it made my stomach hurt because I can't freaking lie to her, that's bullshit, and I'd been pretty closed lipped about, like, mage stuff. But I woke up and there was this mirror. And yeah, it all started with a mirror."

Serafíne

"The last time I went seeking, I fell off the stage in a bar or something and hit my head and had a seizure or something so like fifty million people called ambulances and they took me to the hospital.

"I fucking hate hospitals."

--

Dan's coming back into the living room, then. Hands Elijah a mug, in case he wants tea. Lifts up the cozy to check and see how much tea is left in the pot, then winks at Elijah and kinda withdraws. He wasn't really invited into the conversation, and its feels quiet and personal and hell, he has work to do.

On his MacBook, in the kitchen, where he can both keep guard and be handy if needed.

"What'd you see in the mirror?"

Elijah

"Me. Well, like, me if I were a dick. Me but not me- and fuck hospitals, by the way. I recognize that they're useful and helpful and shit for people but if I can avoid having to go to the hospital, I would like to."

Something tells him that he was getting off-topic. The thought meanders, sticks in his head, and Elijah, darling dove that he is, continues on.

"I remember thinking if I could tell you, you would think there was something wrong with me. But I heard that the if and the could were really just, like, excuses, ya know? It wasn't like I was physically incapable of spilling the metaphorical metaphysical beans. BUt... it wasn't me thinking it, it was something outside of me? If that makes sense? But I know that my soul's inside of me but it exists inside and outside, anyway... there's a mirror, and I was smiling, except the eyes weren't right.

"It was a push. And my reflection flipped me the fuck off and walked off. Move your ass, kid, was kind of the overarching feeling there and then this Voice-" oh, and ther is a capital in that. Something intent and purposeful. A Voice. A real, genuine voice. A Voice that spoke the world into existence, his own personal herald and that herald was not putting up with Elijah's shit voice, "that was like 'coward' but it wasn't, like, mean, but it would be like me saying Sera has a teacup.

"But once you name something. once you Name something, you give it a form and you give it a purpose and you've imbued it. You've created it, you've shaped it. It was what it was but I'm not a fucking coward-" a second passes.

"Except I can be. You know? I get fucking panicked and I get nervous and I just let things happen and react instead of doing and just fucking owning it? So, my reflection is walking away from me down this corridor that doesn't have a freaking real world analogue- because our apartment has no long, shady corridors. Dan can totally vouch for that-" he calls back "-right?-" he continues "- we don't pay enough rent to pay for a place that has room for fuckin' corridors, even if they are otherworldly ones.

"So I'm like fuck this, fuck your apprehension, you can't keep lying to Jenn, take the fucking dive. So she comes home later and I'm like we've got to talk so we talk and I pulled a Princess Elsa-" let it gooooo, let it gooooooo- "-and I show her the umbra because- have you seen it?"

Another sidebar, to both of them, a delight in his eyes and a smile, impish and filled with an innocent wonder written clear across his features. He straightens his posture, hands clasp in front of him, but he realizes this isn't the story, this isn't the important part, and he clears his throat and moves on, "anyway, it's... the view from the apartment is really what sells it. There are stars everywhere and you can see the little spiders holding the place together and there's electricity and light and it's like the world is becoming, and I show Jenn.

"And there's a mirror. Another mirror, but this mirror, this actual mirror, shows the same corridor I'd seen before and there's a light at the end and you can't touch things between the layers of the universe, at least I haven't figured out how to do that, at least I don't think I'd figured out how to do that. It... anyway, space is just kind of a thing. So we're talking and the world goes slow and I can push through the mirror, because there isn't anything there, and the mirror... themirror wasn't a mirror, but it was a doorway to a number of other doorways

"And aren't mirrors always doorways? I mean, reflections and whatnot... anyway, so I go through."

Serafíne

It's really just his story and Elijah's in the middle of the story and so it's Sera who accepts the mug and from Dan, reaching up and out to him, reaching with a half-smile that has her blanket spilling off her left shoulder to just pool around her waist. She's wearing an old Siouxsie Sioux t-shirt, found in some bargain bin at Buffalo Exchange, so worn that it has become threadbare in places.
And she sits up a bit. Lifts her head and reaches out for the teapot to pour Elijah a mug of tea. As the hot liquid fills the ceramic mug: the Cheshire Cat appears around his grin, which is always visible, when the mug is hot and when it is cold.

Sera gives Elijah's tea a bit of whiskey too, and a lemon wedge. Why not?

It's good that way. Not precisely magic, but better than loads of other not-magic things.

When the mug is on the coffee table in front of him she lays back down and nestles her golden head on the rolled arm of her velveteen sofa and listens.

Listens.

Her dark eyes on his profile, her left hand on his right shoulder.

"I never really think about names and words, you know? Or doorways, which is especially strange - " given that she feels, sometimes, like thresholds, like places-between. "But it makes sense, you know, that the mirror would be a doorway for you. What happened next?"

--

Sera has never seen the umbra.

Elijah

It does make sense that mirrors would be doorways for him. Lock and key. Roadmaps. Places he could be if he could allow himself to be there- Elijah is a creature whose world hinges on the sympathetic. As above, so below. Amusing, really, since he aligns the other worlds with smoke and suddenly finds himself accosted by mirrors. They go together, like some grand trick where you find out there was no trick at all.

He takes the cup in hand, holding it close so his hands can just take in the warmth. Savor the sensation, put a little whiskey and lemon in, because whiskey was just another flavor to add to the mix. He raises the drink to his lips, closes his eyes and just inhales. He likes it, doesn't have a drink yet, but knows he likes it because his senses are delighted at that juncture. He exhales and the air shifts. He continues with the story.

"So, I go through, and it's the corridor and there's all these doors, tons of them. They're all lined up at the end and the one at the very end, the one where the reflection went? It's still open. It's bright and I start to head that way and the door is closing and I'm like-

"Why am I even following this guy? I mean, it's me. It's my reflection, but what am I going to do when I get there? Look myself in the eye and tell me-that-isn't-me that I did it. That I told Jenn, that I was scared and nervous but I fucking did it? Like, I'm fucking beholden to some other person, like I owe an explanation when I don't owe anything. I needed the push but I'm not seven. This isn't like second grade when you have those reading logs and you tell your teacher that you finished Call of the Wild.

"That person might have looked like me, but that person wasn't me. Everything was going dark and all those doors were closed except the obvious one, but… it didn't mater. Doors are closed because we don't open them. Things are going out and I've got to move my ass because you don't always have the luxury of hemming and hawing about crap… and so, I pick a door, figure fuck chasing after someone who isn't there, and I take a doorknob.

"And it's weird, the things you remember. I remember taking it and it was one of those little egg-shaped oval doorknobs. I don't remember the handle, but I remember feeling it was warm, and warm became more-than-warm. Like, melting hot and it's giving way into being nothing and the door just gives, flies open and gives way into possibilities because… well, just because. For all I know, it could have been waiting lifetimes to be opened. Lifetimes of being passed over and it just gives.

"And all I can smell is sea salt and water and it's so dark, so very dark and all I can think is tidal waves and fucking Katrina and how that smell always… always sticks to things and how… looking back, I'm thankful for it, because…. I just go in, and there's no floor, no nothing, just water and-"

He inhales sharp and deep and the memory is stiff and he can feel water in his lungs again and this time it doesn't scare him. This time he can smell sea salt and water and can't think of a lifetime buried under the waves. He can think of something other than screaming and the worlds between being torn to pieces. Right now, his thoughts go to something different.

His world shifted. Built new associations. Kept the Name but changed definition.

"-there's water. And I just think I don't want to drown and it's fucking terrifying and the shore is there and I. Can't. Swim. I've never been able to swim, but all I can think about is that dead bodies float so if I go slack I shouldn't sink. Shouldn't get eaten by the tide but… it's not… it's not something I should be afraid of. And there aren't any walls and there aren't any physical barriers but I can hear the voice again- and…

"And it is like what the fuck is your problem? Because I'm just sitting there and I'm not going to the shore and I'm not going down and all I'm thinking about is that I don't want to drown… but… But there's a world to explore. There's so many things to see, and being afraid, letting the sea carry me wherever it wants to? That's… that's crap. No. Either move for the shore or go down under the waves but do it on your own time, do something. "

He laughs at this point, takes a drink of tea and actually tastes it. Doesn't feel salt in his lungs even though the mention of it makes his heart pound.

"So I'm sitting here having a fucking argument with my soul and, as it turns out, it's way fuckin' smarter than me. Like… if Socrates was a dude, and Socrates had no patience for bullshit.

"But I'm just sitting there being scared and I'm thinking I don't want to drown and it hits me that… if I do drown, I want to at least drown of my own freaking volition and not because I just sat on my ass and let the world happen. I had an opportunity, I was literally in a different freaking world, and the ocean is beyond vast and I just know that I'm not going to be fucking ruled by the fact that I'm scared. I'm not gonna pull a Hamlet, but conscience doth make cowards of us all doesn't quite apply here. It's my will, and I should fucking exercise it, you know?"

"This is an opportunity. Fear gives you a chance to test your metal and so I just… you know… kind of struggle down and take a deep breath because I figure I should explore. Go down, it's nothing but potential down there so… like… go for it.

"And time passes and it… It doesn't matter how long passed, because it just went, you know? So, I wake up and I'm on my couch again I'm not, like, pining over the doors I didn't open, or wondering what my asshead reflection is doing. I'm just, like, there. And it happened."

Serafíne

Sera listens.

And listens and listens and listens.

Her golden head slides down from the scrolled arm of the couch, and she scooches down and rearranges her body so she can cradle her head in her matched palms and watch him closer and closer still. Listen to him with her body as much as her mind. Feel the passion radiant off him. Feel the world slice itself open to him in a very different way than it has ever sliced itself open to her.

She's so close, then. Close enough that she can see the tendons in his temple, their attachment to his jaw, close enough that she can breathe in time with him, ride the waves of his wonder and his brilliance, the sudden verbosity, the surety, the revelation.

--

"You're amazing, Elijah. I'm so fucking proud of you."

Elijah

She listens. And listens and listens and she listens.

That's important, you see, because she listens. She doesn't wait for him to finish, doesn't wait for her turn to talk, she's actually listening, taking it in, feeling how close she is and he turns, adjusts because she's so close, leans forward and kisses her on the forehead like he wanted to, like it's an expression of joy. Like it's the only natural consequence to what she said.

He smiles, feels a different warmth creep over him.

"That means a lot to me, Sera, thank you," like it bleeds out. Like it's a gift, like he means it because he's not a liar, and he's not a coward. Even though he does lie, sometimes. Even though he is afraid, sometimes.