for Zane

[the_second_noel]

The largest road of Carcosa circles downwards and inwards, as do all the other roads.

On that road, a human man wanders against the steady foot-traffic of the city's other inhabitants. He's unfed, unwashed, and unshaven, with thousand-yard eyes; he watches the others as they pass him, trying to stay focused on the here and now. Some of the creatures are less human-looking than others. Even the most humanoid among them have a quality that puts one's teeth on edge. You could almost press the visual into your skin and pinch yourself awake.

The figures are grotesque: more shapes than figures. More patterns than shapes. There's sweat in the man's eyes. He waves a hand in front of them to fend off an unseen gaze; his fingernails catch, and he pulls and keeps pulling, the images in front of him tearing away in long strips like burnt skin. It will take him a few moments to remember that this is impossible. In the meantime, he's crouched in front of a hotel wall, peeling off strips of brittle yellow wallpaper.

Comments

[sukeltaja]

There's a shift, a ripple in the ocean that's not wrong but it doesn't belong. A pebble from another lake gently tossed. Ashes scattered. Foreign. Different. Thomas Zane notices right away, can sense it even beyond the shadows and the neon, dingy streets that Alan has created to help him navigate. It's his hotel, after all, except when it isn't.

He doesn't make it a point to investigate. He assumes it's the sherrif he's ran from, but when he rounds the corner and there's a distinct lack of humming from where he's sensed it, he does get curious.

A body's got a right to be curious, after all.

He's barefoot, poet's shirt mostly open, a perfectly chilled negroni in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other as he moves. Shadows largely ignore him--he's not Alan, he's something else, they're not for him, not designed, those are others lurking about--and it doesn't take him long to see the source of that tiny little ripple.

he stands there for a few moments, watching as those slender, nearly-starved hands pick at the already yellowing wallpaper, paper and glue a testament to a long forgotten golden age. Tom's head cants to the side.

"Memories met for the first time
Secrets whispered
To find a long lost doorway home
Or be led to parts unknown
And forever disappear beyond this veil?"

[the_second_noel]

There's an identifiable moment of realisation in the man -- that he's in a hall and not a street, with a man instead of a Dalí menagerie -- but there's no corresponding moment of surprise. He just stops peeling, and looks at the paper in his hand while Tom rhymes at him.

He only spares Tom a tight-lipped glance, there and gone again.

"Al-" his voice cracks from disuse, but he keeps muttering anyway. "Already disappeared beyond one fuckin' veil, pal."

Things here feel off, something's changed -- but it'd be weirder by now if something didn't feel off.

[sukeltaja]

"Well that won't do," Tom points out, upper lip jutting upwards for a moment before his face flattens altogether in one smooth motion. He transitions easily into a smile, shaking his head.

"You should put that down and pick this" --the hand with the cigarette has a second glass now as he edits it in with ease-- "up. Relax a little."

[the_second_noel]

You know what, sure. Fuck it. The man has just spotted a dusty couch on a weirdly-placed balcony, and so long as there are drinks and cushions, he's going to have some drinks and cushions.

He takes the glass brusquely, and doesn't attempt to hide the fact that he's suspiciously sniffing it as he shambles over to sit down.

He doesn't recognise Tom. Yet. Pretty soon he'll think he does, and he'll think this shadowy building is familiar to him, and until then he'll keep reminding himself of what not to talk about, make it an alarm noise instead of a name -- he knows what he can't say about it, if only because he's told himself for years that he can't. Sometimes he remembers the reason, but all he really has to remember is the alarm.

He pats the couch before he sits, to make sure it isn't sharper or more violent than it looks.

[sukeltaja]

"It's just set dressing," Tom assures, watching the other with morbid fascination as he picks himself up and starts to wander. His frown deepens, face expressive, following the living curiousity. This was the ripple. the nudge. This isn't Alan or Alan's character, and this isn't Mr. Door or the sheriff, and this isn't Mr. Scratch.

"How about that," he mumbles, and then moves over to loosely touch the other's shoulder. A light tap, ready to move in case he jumps.

"Got a place with a better seat, handsome. You wanna follow me?"

[the_second_noel]

Roland. The man is doing two things on his couch, neither of which is drinking: his lips are moving, with the air of one about to go on stage and afraid he'll forget his lines, and he's glancing about, trying to take the place in without risking getting absorbed in any particular detail. He'll ask. It'll be wrong. Getting absorbed in something is one of the ways he might drop and forget it's not real. Even these few minutes is more lead-in than he usually gets any more.

Under Tom's hand, his shoulder goes from tense to tenser. His mouth closes and tightens again. He gives Tom a look that's pretty dead, but for a hateful spark right there in the back. It's a look that would be appropriate if Tom had killed his whole family in front of him or something, but it's a weird look to give a stranger.

He grins, and the look doesn't change.

"Askin' what I want's pretty funny."

[sukeltaja]

"I wasn't aware I was joking." Thomas Zane seems genuinely impressed as he looks over the other, watches his every movement. Probably, he shouldn't do it with a slightly manic grin on his face and a strangely delighted look on his face, but he's never been good at schooling his emotions unless he's playing some sort of role.

This isn't a role. This is a puzzle, a little blip. And this man, as handsome as he is--and he is handsome--is clearly going through something. He's reminded of Alan, panicking, alarmed, trapped in the writers room as Zane worked hard on coaxing him out, helping him hone his skills. Maybe this is a similar scenario.

He takes a long drag off of his cigarette.

[the_second_noel]

Sorry buddy, the manic delight isn't exactly imbuing this man with more trust.

His eyes flicker to the cigarette. Awed and terrified as he is of the King, even in a funny mood -- and yes, if it wasn't clear, the King is what he assumes is wearing Tom's face right now -- he decides to push his luck, because things can't get...

...no, that's absurd on its face, things can always get worse. But there's a small chance that he might face the worse things with a cigarette.

A tilt of his head towards it. "Gimme one of those, I'll come with." Beat. "And a light. And nothing fucked up in it."

It's not like he actually has leverage, but it's fun to pretend.

[sukeltaja]

"Sure, and you can tell me your name, too."

He's always had a second smoke in his hands. He's never had a second smoke in his hands. Tom edits the hard parts out, trims the fat for pacing issues, makes sure it's less of an arduous journey to paint the pretty picture.

Black Pyramid Cigarettes, the perfect treat for someone who's beat. Purchase today. Beautiful little commercial.

Tom hands the second, already lit one over.

[the_second_noel]

Both his eyes and his nostrils widen briefly at Tom's request. He's distracted by it. He doesn't go under, despite the distraction. It's something he'll realise in a moment. Then he snatches the cigarette and glowers, thrown off balance: the King can only be trying to needle him, and he's succeeded.

It's a double-whammy, isn't it? Not just Tom's request, but also the skipped note in the back of the man's head: he's spent what feels like years spotting changes and hanging onto details (and missing them, and losing them), and now he's sure something isn't what it was, or now was what it wasn't before. Did it happen before, minutes ago, or is this the first time? It's a feeling as imprecise as deja-vu and it makes his stomach curl.

(It's strange too, though he doesn't pinpoint why: that it's like hearing a close but different cover of a song he knows well.)

He drags greedily on the cigarette, demanding calm out of it. Inside his head, he fumbles around the syllables of names that have come uncoupled from context.

Just choose one. Don't sound uncertain.

"Noel," rasps the man after a gap of time, smoke lifting out of his mouth like steam on a cold day.

[sukeltaja]

Noel doesn't sound right. Nothing sounds right right now, though, not from him, shaking hands and tired eyes and ah, that's the problem, Tom thinks suddenly. There it is. Noel's not used to this place, not yet. Noel's not used to anything other than comfort and safety and normalcy or the flipside, stranded out here all on his own without a beacon.

There's more nuance--always is, always will be--but Tom can file it down. Spin it into a script. Guide him, with a lamp and a diving suit. He needs to get him to room 665.

"I'm Tom Zane." He throws his hands up wide, cigarette in one and drink in the other like a beatified saint. "Welcome to the Oceanview Hotel. Do you like it?"

[the_second_noel]

Noel(?) gives Tom a long, searching stare. Back on Earth he was more subtle when he tried to figure out someone's angle, but there's not really a point to that here. It'd be energy wasted.

"Tryin' something new, are we," he says at last, none tone with left discomfort, doing whatever the polar opposite of the concept of yes-anding is.

...But he stands, with a grunt, because he did say he'd follow, and boy oh boy has he learned to pick his battles. His movements are small and contained, his posture closed, his head a little sunk. It's the look of a man who instinctually tries not to draw attention to himself.