victory_road | This road is going nowhere [Closed]

"What I'm finding difficult to understand," Dirk begins, "is what you want from me. You just admitted you barely know me--and you don't, by the way. But if you know Hades and what's 'best' for him so much better than I do--and don't be coy, because you do, you're his brain ghost, with thousands of years' advantage over me in every fucking way--then go ahead. Do that. Just go and fucking do it."

The lack of inflection and disaffected posture clashes with the tight set of his jaw, nevermind the undisguised resentment of his words.

"Or, I guess, you can stand there and grind my face into all this shit you know that I don't until I take a fucking hint and walk away for good and tell Emet to ask you what happened. If that's what you want. It's kinda sounding like it is. But hey, he'll be all yours again."

“My, my. So difficult. What I want is for you to approach me as if I do hold information that you want. That is: just ask. You don’t respond well whenever I thrust these little revelations upon you,” he says as he holds his hand close to Dirk, the cutiefly moving up his arm in a group away from Those Vibes.

“See? Even newborn insects know better than to approach you. I mentioned an absolutely fascinating detail, yet you act entirely incurious.”

Behind his shades, Dirk closes his eyes, holds them shut tight for a second, then two. He breathes a deep, heavy sigh--in through his nose, out through his throat.

"No. Stop projecting on your bugs for one minute. I'm not some kind of unreasonable ghoul or whatever it is you have built up in your head. And that's not me saying I want to know, I don't. Don't tell me."

Fabrication or not, the veiled reminder still stings a little. True, the cutieflies are attracted to Hythlodaeus far more than Dirk, but they aren't not landing in his hair or buzzing softly by his ear on occasion either. Of course they'd flock to Hythlodaeus. And there are plenty of alternative explanations. Dirk didn't hatch the scoresd of tiny faerie bugs. Hythlodaeus did.

But it doesn't matter, because the reminder that others find him unsociable and inaccessible, that he's cold or tedious or unpredictable or all of the above, that's not fabricated.

"What I 'don't respond well' to is you baiting me. Alluding to knowledge you have that I don't, then withholding it until I ask. It's so transparent I can see straight through to the wall behind you. Either I ask and you refuse, or I ask and you add conditions before or during your answer to prevent my objection, I can't say I didn't ask for it if you make sure I do. Even what you volunteer comes with strings attached. But I don't play that game. Either tell me, or don't."

His jaw drops slightly as he watches him.

"Unreasonable ghoul— Truly, I'm not projecting onto my bugs, being neither an infant nor an insect. They're merely drawn to those that remind them of flowers."

"...And I would never encourage the man dearest to me to your side if I thought anything truly bad about you. I apologize for giving you such an impression," he ducks his head and closes his eyes in earnestness.

"I can be a little difficult myself, inclined to play games as I am. I only want you to be able to give him that which I would give him without making you feel rushed or controlled," his hands move as he talks, his brows furrowing slightly.

"You are an immortal, as is plain to see, though young still. I know the way that you will love him will be different than my love, the love of the man who died eons ago," he falls to one knee, crouching until he's a little below eye level. He moves to take each of Dirk's hands in his own, the Cutiefly dispersing.

"I will place no conditions upon you. ...No additional ones, to be precise. I merely don't always know where to start with my advice, and knew less if you would want it. I seem to irritate you, yet in a way unlike how I irritate Hades. I would prefer to be your friend."

Dirk's inexpressive mien grows, if anything, somehow more dispassionate when Hythlodaeus disavows any self-identification with the literal hundreds of soft, buzzing 'infants.' A suitably atute (or simply empathetic) observer can even pinpoint the exact point that Dirk completely withdraws from the situation, mentally if not physically.

There's nothing remarkable about that; not to Dirk. If anything, it's tediously familiar: the separation of his temperamental self from his thinking self, the bisection, trisection, and so on of his infinitely recursive mind, now independent from the scene he's meant to be participating in. He's still listening--every word out of Hythlodaeus' mouth comes through in stereophonic high definition.

Watching Hythlodaeus take a knee from his detached vantage point, it seems incredible to Dirk that what he's saying could be any different than what he was saying before. Sure, it sounds better. But underneath the shine and polish...?

'I want to control you, but without your resistance.'

He doesn't really get a chance to mull it over--he's wrenched so abruptly out of his thoughts that it's like being psychically clotheslined as he's yanked back into his body, into his hands when Hythlodaeus takes them, gently, into his own. His hands are so much fucking bigger than Dirk's that it's like a child's hands in an adult's. He can feel the sparse callouses on Hythlodaeus' thumbs and index fingers--

(Callouses from what, he wonders; he can't even imagine an activity that would generate such an absurdly specific pattern.)

People don't touch him. Not like that. Not at all, actually. Especially not without warning. And not without his express permission. He doesn't have to enforce that, doesn't even try; that's just the way things are.

To have both hands suddenly held is such a shock that the sensation crawls all the way up through Dirk's skin and nerve endings and into his shoulders, where it stays as tension--his arms stiff, his back straight, his expression... unchanging. When he opens his mouth to speak, he lets out the breath he didn't even know he was holding.

".... my friend," he echoes. It's repeated flatly.

What is he saying? Why?

Wait.

No.

"That's a mistake if I've ever heard one." Wry. Funny. Better.

"And yet, it is the only true way to learn. So I shall see for myself," he punctuates that with a warm grin, giving his hands a squeeze before letting them go. "I'm fussy and particular that way. I can never take another's word, not truly."

He braces his hand on his knee as he stands slowly, deliberately.

"...So until then," he says, his voice sweet as cutiefly honey. "...And we should start making the bread. It needs time to rest before we bake it. Come help me, my wrist is still weak. Oh yes, I have a sculpture that I've neglected to show you as well."

Hythlodaeus' hands may be warm, but the sensation that accompanies the squeeze is more like a chill, a not-quite-shiver that takes place near the base of Dirk's spine. Not exactly sexy, even if his hands (and most of the rest of him) are still alight with the memory of sensation after being released.

He's still processing that while Hythlodaeus continues talking, and then standing. Which is a shame, because if he were less distracted, he would have actually had the chance to agree with Hythlodaeus on something. Instead, his awareness of a mutual stance on taking others at their words is marred by other thoughts, most of them somewhere in the vicinity of discomfort or dismay.

Why did that involve touching? What the fuck was that? How the hell does this keep happening. Whe--

"Now just wait a fucking second," he breaks in, feeling maddeningly like he's doing the verbal equivalent of grabbing Hythlodaeus by the jacket and yanking him backwards.

"I don't bake, but even I know kneading isn't the first step in that process. Have you already started this bread, or is this not actually another setup?"

He's not mad. He's just tired. And kind of frustrated. This shit is really taxing. Good god damn Christ is this taxing.

"That is right. It had to begin to bubble after mixing it together," he says, smiling at Dirk as if there was not a single thing amiss. "But it is not nearly as much kneading as other kinds of rising bread," he says, placing a comradely hand on the middle of his back and leading him inside. The kitchen is Hythlodaeus' domain by far.

Hades might have some liquor bottles or his rotom, but Hythlodaeus tempers his research with cooking. Life, after all, centers around the kitchen. As far as he's concerned, anyway. There's some paper on the table that Hythlodaeus has been drawing on, some scattered psychology books with a couple items in the A's bookmarked, a chemistry set on a low table, a minifridge with toxins and concoctions...

But aside from all of that, he leads him to a loose dough in a covered bowl.

"Have you ever kneaded dough, or shall I show you?"

Hythlodaeus' 'comradely' hand rests on Dirk's back for a couple of seconds before its presence has spurred him to increase his pace by an extra stride, establishing a short but pointed distance that has him less being 'led' and more 'leading the way' towards the kitchen, talking barely louder to accommodate how much harder he might be to hear.

"This is exactly why I don't trust you," he's saying as they approach the kitchen properly. "This shit right here."

He stops short at the kitchen itself, where he steps aside and turns to face Hythlodaeus--both as a preventative measure to head off any further hands on him and an opportunity to watch him.

He does follow him in without any further commentary, but he's a lot more interested in Hythlodaeus' books and art than he is the cooking paraphernalia.

Is he trying to psychoanalyse me? Or him?

Which one is more pointless?

"I literally just said I don't bake."

"I'll do the rest, but if we all want lunch, you will have to knead the dough. We each do our part. It is simply how it works," he says, hands held aloft as he smiles at Dirk.

"Just three minutes, it is all I ask," he says as he turns the dough out. "Even great warriors, brilliant scientists, and humble artists must eat. And occasionally, they must make their own bread."

He flips his hair over his shoulder. "Even Hades makes the bread."

And then he gestures to the floured board. "After, I'll show you my work."

"I don't need a whole lecture about breadmaking or its purposes. Is your point that this is a cultural thing? You can actually just say that. I'm not Steven. You can just say words and they'll actually mean things."

Dirk stops his monotone monologue at that point only so he can turn on the water at the sink and wash his hands; somewhat notably, he doesn't turn on any cold water. Hot water and soap are actually what matter. But he resumes talking almost as soon as the water is off, shaking his hands out over the sink.

"I'm willing to assimilate or whatever if that's what you're trying to achieve here. That's no big deal. Or it is, but not the kind where I'm making an issue out of it. It's flex. I'm a fast learner."

Then he makes a decision he regrets. Taking the dough in both hands with more confidence than he really feels about handling it, he can tell immediately he's going to have flour and dough under his fingernails. He drops it swiftly and unceremoniously on the cutting board.

He pauses over the dull, soft sound of it landing on the flour. He's thinking. Realising another angle.

"Or is this what you meant about me giving Emet what you would be giving him? Making lunch?"

“It is cultural, of course. There is no such thing as a man who does not bake, for there is no such thing as a man who does not care for his family, friends, or lovers,” he says with a smile.

He laughs at the jab at Steven. “Forgive me, I merely wanted to speak clearly.” And then he watches him drop the dough on the board and he tilts his head ever so slightly.

“It is a component, perhaps. But I needn’t be his lover to make him lunch. This is merely a piece of home, a piece of his identity that has slipped through his fingers for eons.”

And after a moment he looks at him.

“I have gloves, if you would like.”

"....home, huh."

Is that even a good idea? Giving Emet a taste of home... literally, under the guise of caring for him and his needs.

Superficially, it makes complete sense.

But when he thinks about it--

"Yeah, I can see why you'd think that. It's probably not your fault, either, so I want to avoid sounding any more judgmental of you than I was before you said it. But your definition of caring is pretty narrow."

Dirk doesn't move to take the dough; he stands with his arms down, staring down at the oblongated shape, breathing the scent of wheat flour and yeast.

"I don't think it's possible for you to know what that really means, not when you're from a literal uthopia. I'm just going to sound cruel. But I guess I'll have to explain this. See, I was all set to go along with this when I thought this was just a cultural exchange, sort of an Amaurotine lifestyle sharing hour or what-have-you. But now that you've explained the motivation behind it... I just can't agree with the idea that providing Emet with any taste of the home he doesn't have now is 'caring' at all. It's the exact fucking opposite. "

Edited 2020-08-16 03:30 (UTC)

Hythlodaeus walks up next to him, leaning an elbow on the counter with his head on his palm. He blinks at him for a solid five seconds with his eyebrows raised. His voice is sharp and quiet.

"Oh, I apologize. See, I had thought with how well I knew Hades, the breadth of my experience and the enmeshing of our very consciousnesses might give me a little insight into that which will allow him to continue on." He licks his lower lip as he eyes the dough.

"When he leaves, when he dies, he will never have home ever again. The last living person from his home has lost his mind, and I don't believe the Underworld has any bakeries." He folds his hands together and peers at him out of the corner of his eye.

"At this rate, it's going to over-proof. Now. Would you like gloves?"

Edited 2020-08-16 04:14 (UTC)

This is the time when a normal person's eyebrows would snap together, or the corners of their mouth would pull down. Maybe their expression would set with resolve or darken with another, stronger emotion that would really fit the mood.

Dirk's face doesn't do any of that, though. And as close as Hythlodaeus is, as close as his stare is, he doesn't touch him.

Better.

He can work with this.

"I don't know what that means. But I didn't say I wouldn't do it."

Eschewing gloves, he takes the bread in his hands--it's possible he's being more forcefully than necessary, but Jane was strong too, and he distinctly remembers her putting muscle into it. She's his only model for this, but now that he's actually trying to mimic it, he's glad it was her.

At least she wasn't a literal goddamn giant like Jake fucking English.

...fuck, he should have taken the gloves.

"What you want and what I want aren't necessarily at odds, but our approaches are not and can not be the same. I don't want to fill his heart with nostalgia. I don't even know what that feels like. But it wouldn't benefit me--or, from my perspective, him."

He's starting to knead the dough— finally. Good. He begins his mental timer as they speak. He pulls up a stool and takes a seat, closing the gap in their height, at least. He can still lean on the counter like this, though.

"It refers to the amount of time the yeast has to work. If you wait too long, it won't be flat anymore," he says softly. "And then we'll have to start over."

He watches his technique. He at least has the mechanical idea of how to do it.

"As for matters of his heart, there sits a sorrow so boundless that these gestures merely serve to hold it all together just... just long enough and naught more. I would not exist if not for his soul-deep longing, after all. His concept of comfort is... Is this. He has shaped his respite with his own hands, should we not respect this?"

"Good question. Let me ask you a different one. If the emotions that make up the foundation of this lunch ritual mean nothing to me, can my taking part in this actually constitute anything resembling 'respect?'"

Fuck. Thank... well, Himself. Not for this dough, although in a way that's exactly what Dirk has to thank for this.

But while it does help to have something repetitive to do with his hands, the real relief is that he's finally fucking talking. Why did he have to make this so hard? For what? It doesn't matter, but it's still frustrating to have to go to these lengths just to have an honest conversation.

"The hypocrisy alone is disrespectful enough. It's even worse if I actually fool him into thinking that it's not. Which I can't do. Both because I'm not that kind of person and because, frankly, he already reads me like a book. I mean that literally. Anyone else? Sure. No problem. But Emet isn't stupid. He's not naive enough to believe that this was made with love or sincerity. Not from me."

.... the way the flour and flecks of remnant dough stick to his hands is distracting as shit.

"The willing assimilation, even begrudging cooperation with me is enough to pay respect to it. For all that the years have worn on him, Hades is culturally very Amaurotine, and so he values little more than coadjuvancy between peers," he says softly.

"Surely, he must know that in spite of the simple nature of this task, the proceeding moments were not." He freshens the hot towel as he nudges the bowl towards Dirk. "Now we allow it to rest for ten minutes," he says with an inscrutable smile.

"And beyond that, learning this allows you to create the most precious thing, in fact, the only thing we can truly take with us to the Underworld: fond memories."

There's... a lot to say. A lot to disagree with. And it almost happens. Dirk almost turns on Hythlodaeus to make his point. But in the end, the amount of personal revelation, the amount of personal investment necessary to take Hythlodaeus to task for it all... is a price he isn't willing to pay up front.

"Your underworld," Dirk reminds him, keeping his tone short.

"So we're talking about Emet's memories, that's fine. It's whatever. But I don't want you making assumptions about what I have planned, or what's in store for me. There's a lot you don't know, and we've already been over that more times than we ever should have needed to."

And with that, he goes to wash his hands (again), a task which takes significantly longer this time around. He's fully occupied with that until every last trace of dough, flour, and detritus is gone.

"My Underworld. The only one that I am truly aware of and attuned to," he adds. He watches him meticulously wash his hands and makes a mental note to offer gloves for the next kneading.

"I have no assumptions about what you might have planned," he says as he takes a seat on a floor cushion. He sorts through his stack of drawings, ranging from life drawings of his cutiefly or tropius, to heretofore unseen erotic horsemen, to some that look like Hades jammed through a twink filter. "And it would be inappropriate for me, as a dead man, to comment on the living."

Not that it would actually stop him.

"...And to be fair, we've only gone over it because you've wanted to reinforce the idea. But that is neither here nor there. You are a private man after a fashion. Come. Let us enjoy that which we have in common."

In Hythlodaeus' full defence, he did offer gloves. More than once, in fact. He just happened to do so while Dirk's attention was occupied elsewhere.

Which also wasn't his fault, no more than any of the other times he's stepped directly onto one of the innumerable mines Dirk's psyche has buried in and around just about every topic under the sun.

Dirk doesn't really respond, instead devoting his concentration to his own thoughts as he straps his fingerless black gloves onto each hand again. Once he's done, however, he does make his way to where Hythlodaeus is seated and finds a spot for his own ass.

"You haven't gotten to the point of calling me a total joykill yet. I'm impressed."

"I don't find you a joykill," he says in utter earnestness.

"...Are you a joykill?" he asks, managing to stuff some genuine surprise into the tail end of that.

He shuffles the drawings, landing on one of the more nostalgic ones. It is a clearly a scene from his memory, of Hades gazing through the window looking about twenty years younger, yet as his own "before" picture in a protein powder advertisement.

Yet the other things are still in full view if Dirk does not wish to stroll down memory lane. There are unmarked vials not six feet away, a stack of presumably now stolen library books, and a small carved wooden box.

Dirk has never wanted to look at anything less in his life than Emet drawn as some kind of willowy, waifish boyman. He will, however, pretend(?) to be interested in Hythlodaeus' choice of reading material--something could probably be said about Dirk's inability to distinguish work and play.

And he would disagree immediately with whatever that something is.

"That's the metaversal consensus. I'm not saying I necessarily agree, but I'm letting you know now. Feel free to bail whenever it gets to be too much. It won't hurt my feelings or nothing."

And with that, he reaches past the art to snag a psychology book, flipping it open to a bookmarked page.

"I tend to see things differently than my peers," he says with a little shrug. "And others have implied similar of Hades." And yet, he has gone nowhere.

Hythlodaeus will absolutely not press the twink Hades picture, his eyes instead following Dirk's hands. He makes no move to stop him, as curiosity should be encouraged and rewarded. Dirk has a 50/50 chance of ending up on the entry for ASPD or ASD. Hythlodaeus shuffles the drawings again, leaving a fairytale-esque one of the cutieflies rendered in soft charcoal on top.

"Curious books, with half of the diagnostic criteria being comprised of flawed flags and merciless marks written as if they were unaware of the society that formed them. I don't take them much too seriously, but they are useful enough to understand the impacts of this imperfect world on those with neither the time nor resources to address and heal."

Dirk is aware of Hythlodaeus' actions in his peripheral vision, tucking his observation away in his own mental filing system. He actually half expects the man to try and redirect him or distract him using the sheaf of drawings, but nothing of the sort happens. Not yet, anyway.

The pages he's opened to cover 'antisocial personality disorder.'

Dirk has a superficial awareness of the term, mostly in the context of pre-apocalyptic Earth's various social media platforms. Sometimes he got restless enough to try re-excavating the fossilised corpses of those titans out of the ancient internet, mostly in search of more of his Bro's lore and legacy. He's only half listening to Hythlodaeus' opinions on the book's contents, really. Not so much because he's busy reading but because he just doesn't care all that much about the whys and wheres of ideas that have nothing to do with reality. So there's something of a lag before he responds, and when he does it's only tangentially related.

".... I knew a guy like this."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject