2019-07-10 - Turn Around And Face Your Own Shadow

Rivers Lavender Farm rests somewhere on the outskirts of Gray Harbor: a charmingly scruffy tract of land, nestled between a lake, some lowland mountain foothills, and an expanse of forest that creeps along the boundaries of the property, regardless of some efforts to maintain it as agricultural land.

In summer, in the late afternoon sun? It's a veritable flood of lavender.

'Rivers of the stuff!', sweeping out in curved lines from behind some old teeny-tiny once-white farmhouse, greenhouses, and potting sheds that act as its 'front'. There's only a few cars in the gravel parking lot, and not much in terms of people.

Nobody even manning the lavender-lemonade stand which... Still somehow has a pitcher of the stuff, complete with puddle of melting bucket of ice. The wind breezes on by, and it brings the scent of lavender but not the sound of activity. Only a guitar from somewhere-over-yonder.

That-a-way. Down a path lined with -- that's right: lavender -- which ends near a tall Garry oak tree surrounded by grass, and Yves sitting in the shade. No guitar. Only an old tape player. Wow, how vintage.

Genevieve got a look at the bottle at the diner, and she committed it to memory. She is new to the area, so it took a little longer than it should have for her to find it, but find it she did. She gets out of a scruffy looking jeep, the roof still on despite the warmth and sunny day. It rains on a dime here, who wants to drive on wet seats? Not this girl.

She walks along the gravel parking lot, her eyes on the sweeping lines of lavender, a bit taken aback by how much she sees. She had dreams of owning a place like this, but then her dreams brought her to Gray Harbor and got tinged a little darker, so now she just indulges herself, walking along the land so she can get an eyeful of the plants swaying in the light breeze.

The sound of music tickles at her, so she walks down the lavender-lined path, her eyes sweeping forward to catch Yves seated in the shade. She doesn't call attention to herself, but she's not exactly prowling along or being stealthy. Every so often her hand sweeps out to feel the flowers, so by the time she reaches Yves, she probably smells heavily purple herself.

"Nice place you have here."

Some minor detective work is all it takes, really. While Washington may have its fair share of lavender farms, Grey Harbour only has one: this one... And besides, ask any old timer in town? They will politely complain about the hippies up at the Rivers place. They're plucky upstarts who ain't from 'round here, after all...

Yves' foot taps along idly to the beat of the music, but his hands seem busy -- braiding grasses into something that, uh, might supposed to look like a person? Or just a series of lumps. If it's a wildflower doll, it's a terrible one.

"--eh?" For a brief, brief moment Yves looks downright puzzled, then uncertain, then almost amused as he watches her approach. "...Thanks. I stole it from an old man." Is that true? Yves gestures vaguely to the surrounding grasses, then snaps his fingers and points at Genevieve. "You here to make me an offer? Fifty million, plus residuals on production for a hundred years. My legacy will be purple and green."

"Fifty million, hmm. a bit out of my price range." Genevieve makes her way up to Yves, leaning in slightly to get a look at the doll that he's braiding. She reaches out to poke it, a sly grin on her face. "Making voodoo dolls? Did someone piss you off?" She folds her arms over her chest as she stands up straight, tilting her head up to the breeze that brings her more calming lavender scent. In truth it might be a little too much for her right now, but she won't show that.

Some of the people did complain about the hippies, but that only made Genevieve a bit more curious about the whole thing, that's the only reason she gave up some of her day to drive out here. "So how long have you been involved in this place? Is it yours, or do you just work here?" She shifts on her feet, scuffing her flip flops in the dirt, sending up a small poof of dust.

"Fine, I'll make it easier for you -- forty-four million and you're to get your entire family to shave and donate their hair to a just cause, that's my final offer."

Yves chatters on as he braids the sweetgrass and wildflower together with rough, uncertain movements -- a little puff of forget-me-nots mixing with yellow yarrow, green grasses and white lacy wild carrot... All poked, poked by Genevieve's finger!

The accusation of voodoo doll has Yves gasping, and turning to stare up at her face.

Scandalised.

"Do you take me for someone who'd use their precious energies on hatred and scorn, when there's a wellspring of love and goodwill?..."

...Oh. Oh he's teasing, certainly? That pure scandalisation and shock melting away into something of a lopsided smile, as his nose wrinkles and his brow furrows; giving Genevieve a befuddled, quizzical look. "Now you -do- sound like you're looking to buy. What's it to you? I was somewhere else, and now I am here -- just like you, Miss Genevieve -- and I don't have bacon or grits. Have you come for more palmistry?... Is the future looking grim? You need guidance - clarity - a sign for these troubling times? A hand to hold, or point a finger?"

Yves eyebrows finally go up as he looks Genevieve over, then leans back to rest on an elbow. Concerned? More serious now. "What way is the wind blowing?"

"You invite the wrath of prim French woman? My mother would have your head if you even hinted that she would have to touch anything sharp to a single hair on her head." Genevieve reaches up to touch her own hair now, grimacing as she envisions herself bald. It's not a good thought.

She meets his stare with a vaguely amused look, finding a flat place to sit, her legs crossing as he continues to speak. Her ankle bracelet glints in the sunlight as she swings the leg back and forth idly, turning her gaze back to the fields as he tries to guess why she's come. She quirks a brow, glancing back in his direction when he mentions palmistry.

"It's two things that brought me here today, one.. gossip of course. I'm new to town, so I have to investigate anything that might end up being interesting." She glances down at her palms, closing her hands into fists before she shifts a bit, shrugging a shoulder. "I won't lie and say that you weren't also a bit of a mystery, and I hate those things. Especially in a place like this one."

She shifts her blue eyes back to Yves when he gets serious, frowning before she responds. "The wind blows every which way around here, surely you've noticed that nothing acts the way it's meant to? It takes a lot of concentration and willpower not to keep trying to force order into things." She goes quiet, gazing down at her closed fist.

"Why did you wait until you were rushing out the door to give your name?"

Yves pauses to consider for a moment -- then nods his head. "Yeah, sure; I'd invite a French woman to scream at me, why not. We're talking about Lady Godiva style hair here, right?... Don't worry, Joan set the scene and Jean Seberg perfected it, it'll be worth it." That lazy, lop-sided smile has returned along with a teasing tone -- and while Yves looks like he avoids the hairdresser at all costs, he seems fine with teasing Genevieve over a snip as she sits down.

Glance to her ankle bracelet - distracted, from both his own teasing and possibly... What Genevieve is saying... About being here...

"You hate me?" Said with a gentle undertone, like that's the main takeaway here.

...Is he stoned?

The little half-braided doll sits on the grass besides him, its unfinished ends rustling in the breeze. All around them, the scent of lavender and sweetgrass -- of burning leaves in the distance -- of summer, serene.

And yet... As Yves looks back up at her, his expression has grown serious to the point of sombre.

"The wind does what it wants, and won't answer to nobody -- I was hoping you had some answers for me, because I can't tell you nothing -- could hardly even tell you my name, as you've pointed out -- so when it comes to mysteries?... I dunno, Genevieve. Everything in its own time, right? Could be we're not supposed to force anything - order or concentration. Why you so sure things gotta be a certain way, or any way at all?"

"Brave man, most see a French woman simmering her temper and they run. My father does, every single time." Genevieve wrinkles her nose at the mention of Lady Godiva, shaking her head as she exhales out a soft laugh. "Her hair isn't quite that long, but it's long."

She notices his distraction, watching his gaze drift, and one can almost see his mind drift as well. He asks if she hates him, and she has to fight to keep her expression even. She thinks he's joking at first, but the tone of his voice and his serious expression making her sit up straighter. "Why would I hate you?"

Her hands are still fists, and she clenches them, her expression turning slightly sullen. "So you're the wind?" She eases her exasperation slightly by sighing, her eyes on the purple fields. "The wind can be explained. This.. whatever this is in this town, it can probably be explained as well." She looks back at Yves, eyebrows lofted slightly. "There is an order to everything, I can feel it. You can't? Are you one of those who just believes in chaos?"

"Do I look like your father?" Yves quips, a hand raising to paw at his eyes and cheeks, suddenly afraid that-- what, he's wrinkled? Hardly. That air of teasing remains, rising a tough as Genevieve laughs softly... But that idle amusement is a temporary thing.

Yves seems to default to sombre concern.

"...For being a mystery. You said you hate those."

The braided doll is lifted up again and fiddled with, although Yves' attention has shifted to focus on Genevieve's hands -- a furrow to his brow, curious and troubled in the same breath. He watches her fists for a long series of moments, then turns and looks at her face again.

"Is that how you see the world -- only as order on one side, and chaos on the other?..."

His eyes widen, bright and cool blue; mirroring the summer sky above the lavender fields -- only, somehow, sad? Concerned, strangely sympathetic to what Genevieve says, like he were afraid for her on some level. A beat, then he reaches out and brushes the unbraided limbs of the wildflower doll against her fists. "What has happened?"

"Not even a little bit." Genevieve is quiet, looking abashed as Yves looks concerned. She doesn't want him to look like that, her visit was supposed to be a friendly one. "How did we get here?" The question probably doesn't require an answer, watching him as he watches her hands. "I do hate mysteries, so I came out here to fix that. If you're not a mystery, I won't ..hate you."

Laughter escapes her, pealing before it ebbs into soft giggles. "I see the world in vignettes. Nobody seems to be what they really are, especially here in Gray Harbor. I hate that. I like when things make sense. It doesn't make sense here, so it's easier to just.. try to put things into a wide arc. Chaos goes here, order goes here. You're firmly on the side of chaos right now."

She realizes her hands are still clenched into fists when the doll brushes against her knuckles, and she relaxes her fingers, flexing them. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Eh, maybe you would. How long have you been here?" She laughs, but it's not merry this time, bitterness riding the emotion before she focuses on Yves. "Have you seen things you can't understand or explain?"

Yves' sad ghost of a smile broadens a little, turning a shade apologetic as Genevieve looks abashed and explains, and he remains silent. From his place sitting on the grass, the dappled light through the Garry oak pines has cast everything in almost watery shade; greenish, and ever-moving in the wind.

"Vignettes?..." The question is lightly asked, then brushed away in the wind. Yves attention shifts, turning to look at Genevieve's hands as they unfurl from fists. "...I might not believe you, but I'll believe you believe it to be so..."

He pauses for a moment, turning again to look up -- not to her face at first, but the boughs of the tree above. Yves has heard her questions, hasn't he? Enough seconds tick on that it seems like he may not answer-- but finally, a stirring as he looks back to her face. "I was born here."

Another beat, then another, and the serious, sombre cast of of Yves' expression seems to lighten, brighten as he studies Genevieve's face. "It feels to me like I walk through an unexplainable world. Do you understand it all?"

Genevieve nods, drifting a bit closer, casting a shadow on Yves as she speaks. "You see one face, and then you see another. You trust one thing, and then that thing turns out to be something completely different. It's here, it's something here that does it. I.. can't even make sense enough to explain." She shakes out her hands, as she tries to shake the emotion off, but doesn't seem to have great results.

She isn't impatient, she watches him get lost in the nature around them, studying him as he studies the branches and the leaves, waiting.

"You were born here?" A twist of amusement threads into her tone, her face reflecting it with a smile. "I'm not surprised. That isn't me being rude by the by, you just seem..oddly comfortable here." She glances around, frowning before she shrugs her shoulder, jerking the movement almost irritably.

"The only thing that I understand is that this place is dangerous most times, and I'm not sure I can protect myself from it." She gestures at Yves, moving as if she might sit. "Can you?"

As Yves listens, he draws the little grass doll in again -- half-heartedly braiding its limbs, although they unfurl time and time again, causing him to start over. No irritation there -- only somber curiosity, mixed with a touch of concern as Genevieve speaks.

"...One face, and then the other -- what about it bothers you, Genevieve? People wear all sorts of masks; for colleagues, family, friends, lovers - unless you're not talking about masks?..."

At the ping of amusement in her voice, Yves almost smiles -- looking away, back up at the tree again to consider the branches, eventually adding: "You think you're uncomfortable, because you were born elsewhere? I want to know what that place has got which this place doesn't."

Another pause, then Yves turns to look at her as Genevieve moves to sit -- dipping his head to indicate it's alright. As for the dangerousness... His lips compress into a serious line, and for a while he just... Studies her. Uncertain? No. Just concerned, perhaps.

Yves' hands stop braiding, and he reaches out to briefly touch the back of Genevieve's hand. "Tell me about what's happened, that you need protection from?"

Genevieve takes a seat, drawing her legs up so that she is gazing at Yves over her knees, a frown on her face. "It isn't like a mask. It's like.. something from this place crawls inside of you and makes you different. I've only been here almost two months, and I watch how it changes people. Some, it tears them down, rips them apart, and they claw to find purchase. They rely on any substance that will make them forget, or remember."

"I..haven't dealt with this my whole life, back in Georgia, I thought I was crazy." She turns her head, gazing at Yves. "I didn't talk about it, because I didn't want to be sent away from my family. The ease that people talk about it here, it's a little unnerving."

She meets his concern with a blank look, and when he reaches out to touch her hand, she glances down at it before she reaches out, attempting to take the grass doll. "Would you believe that in my dreams I'm stalked by the big, bad wolf? That.. he taunts me with all of the worries and makes me feel small and helpless for his own amusement?" She looks at Yves through her lashes, tense and uncertain, like a doe ready to bolt.

The sunlight through the trees hasn't changed much - it still casts a dappled light around them, a sort of vaulted dome of vivid green oak leaves - but Yves' expression has darkened as Genevieve describes things -- no surprise there on his face, not really, but a tired kind of sorrow has been cast. Finally, there's a dip of his head and Yves leans forward - elbows resting on his knees, propping himself up as he twists the braided doll between his fingers and, finally, nods.

"The shadow." Simply said, before he turns and looks ... very serious, watching Genevieve's face carefully. "It follows whoever stands in the light."

As the braided doll is reached for, Yves offers it over freely. It's not until Genevieve starts describing her dreams that his expression shifts -- the corners of his lips tensing into a lopsided, bittersweet kind of smile.

"...It sounds like you need a woodsmen -- or better yet, your own axe."

The smile is short-lived though, returning to something more sorrowful and serious in no time. Yves' hand lifts, pushing his hair back out of his eyes as he looks at her, nodding once again. "Of course I believe you. "

Some relief shows on her face. She's still new enough to the area that describing her experiences fills her with worry. The men with the straitjackets could pop out at any time, after all. Her fingers turn the doll this way and that, she fidgets because she can't find any other outlet for her nerves.

"Do you think a woodsman would help? I already dragged someone into my horror, and my biggest fear has already been realized. It hurt someone I care about." Genevieve aims a wan smile at Yves, nodding her head as she uses her fingers to brush her hair from her face. "Thank you."

She exhales out a breath and leans back a bit, balancing herself on one hand. "I came out here to be friendly, see the lavender and figure out why you were being so secretive at the diner and .." She shakes her head, harsh laughter spilling from her lips. "..instead we start talking about the thing that I really don't want to remember. Fancy that?"

She glances out toward the sea of purple. "Why lavender?"

Yves is either very chill - great at hiding his non-chill and remaining composed - not really getting the weight of what Genevieve is talking about - or just, maybe, a bit stoned? While he may seem a glum around the edges -- the silent, somber type when he's not joking around -- Yves really seems ... unsurprised. Accepting, even.

Even if he does take a little while to consider things and come back with an answer.

The doll is roughly made - just a simple series of braids, none too great. It'll probably unravel if the ends aren't tied off -- but the grasses smell sweet, and there are little purple, red and of course lavender flowers mixed in.

"Hurting the people we care about is inevitable -- even when we've got the best intentions, or the greatest plans in place, it's going to happen. What's really important? Because a person's character, it gets all tarnished by the mistakes we make -- but if we want to shine, we got to step up and take care of the people we've wronged. That's strength, don't you reckon Genevieve? Not to never make a mistake, but to step up and make amends."

Yves nods once, then pats down his shirt, his jeans -- looking, and failing to find something. A glance over near the tape player, which continues to play something that sounds like Spanish guitar. Very folksy.

"But don't get worked up, Genevieve-vee-vee -- you're all perfectly friendly -- if anyone's at fault here, it's me and my lack of hospitality... 'cause I don't got much of anything."

A beat... then Yves burst out with a peel of laughter -- eyes bright as he looks back to her. "Only lavender!"

...but not an explanation why? Apparently not.

That unshakable calm can do two things to a person. It can calm them or it will rile them. Genevieve has a temper, and somewhere deep down she wants to shake Yves, she might not even know why. It might seem playful when she tosses the doll at him, part of the sweet thing unraveling as it soars through the air.

"You know, despite you being incredibly ..frustrating.. you have a point." She begrudgingly admits, looking away from him, embarrassed by her outburst. "People will judge someone by all of the mistakes they made, they rarely think about why their made, or appreciate the effort to fix them." She finally looks back at Yves, huffing out a sigh. "Why do you do that? Why do you...why are you.." She tries to find her words, but is still worked up, despite him saying she shouldn't be. "Is this your defense against.." She trails off, her cheeks puffing up as she blows out a sigh.

The laughter startles her, it's the biggest shift of emotion she's had from him since she arrived. "Okay. Now you have to explain." Does he?

Unshakable?! Well, it's just not been shook yet -- but every person's got a weakness, right?

Yves' reflexes are... Well, maybe he /is/ stoned, because when that braided doll is tossed his way, it boinks him in the noggin before he has a chance to grab at at its fraying limbs. Brief scuttling motions as he tries and fails to grab it as it tumbles down his head-shouler-chest, and in the end Yves' reaction is just to poof back down so he lays defeated in the grass, unravelling doll by his side.

A waft of lavender rolls in on the breeze; warm, sweet and astringent. Yves quits looking up at the green canopy, and tilts his head to look at Genevieve instead.

"Sounds like you know the wrong kinda people, if they're always judging you like that." A beat -- then his arms stretch up and over, propping his head up as he watches her. "That why you making new friends?"

That lopsided smile has returned, lazy and ... teasing? Maybe. It only grows the more Genevieve huffs and sighs and describes him -- but at the mention of a defence, and a need to explain the lavender? His smile wanes, taking on a slightly more sombre cast -- a bittersweet, morose kind of smile.

"...Do I really frustrate you that much?... I'm afraid whatever explanation I'll give, you'll only be disappointed in what you find in me, Genevieve."

It's her turn to laugh when he falls back on the ground, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as it peals around them.

"Sorry." Is she though? She looks sincere enough, leaning down to grab the doll, her slender fingers reassembling it so she can tie the ends off.

"On the contrary, Yves. I know a lot of people, the thing is, they live in Georgia and I'm not in Georgia anymore. I'm trying to make new friends because I want to stay here." Genevieve sets the doll down once it is repaired, rolling it over in the grass. "I'm afraid if I don't find new friends, I'll run away when things get rough. People are an anchor, aren't they?"

The smile fades away again and Genevieve sighs. She might have to throw the doll again. Really.

"Yes, you do. I've never met someone so contrary in my life, and that's saying something." She sits up, leaning forward slightly. "Why don't you try me? Tell me about this, and you and perhaps you can help anchor me?"

The apology only garners a brief bloom of a smile from Yves, as if he is both doubtful and accepting at the same time. In Genevieve's hands, the little grass dolly is easily re-braided, although its body does want to turn back to nothing more than a bundle of grass and flower. It'll take a little work to emerge as a person-figure.

"What made you go and leave all your kith and kin in sunny South, for the mist and mystery of the North West?... All we've got up here is pine, lavender, apples and-- ah, weed..."

Yves' smile haunts his expression again -- coming and going as swiftly as clouds overhead. He looks towards the repaired dolly, nodding his head; sombre again, like the words 'running away' have struck some forlorn chord.

"People? They can be an anchor point, sure - but if you're the boat, then you carry your own mainstay." He pauses for a moment - the pale of his eyes looking misty, as he reaches out and pets the little grass doll on the head. "...I went sailing a few times, off the coast of Palermo - place called the Tyrrhenian Sea, isn't that a word? 'Tyrrhenian'. I never wanted to drop anchor - I wanted to carry on, endless, over the waves forever - but in the end, the captain stopped humouring me, and my heart sunk with the anchor chain..."

There is a pause... Then Yves turns and looks up at Genevieve, his expression hazy - bright, far away, glimmering for a moment like sunshine on waves as they break against some coastal rocks.

"What is it you want to know, Genevieve?"

"I knew a woman in Savannah, she was from here. Her name was Louise, and if it wasn't for her, I would have thought I was insane." Genevieve turns to look at Yves, drawing her legs closer, her arms wrapping around them as her chin rests on her knees. "I could do things that other people could not, and I couldn't talk about it, until Louise saw me for what I was." She makes a face, gazing down at the ground. "She talked about Gray Harbor, and it made me want to see it for myself. It felt right coming here."

Genevieve looks up at Yves when he mentions weed, pressing her lips together so she doesn't smile. "Funny you should mention that.." She doesn't say why though, instead she sighs again. "You read too much into things, yes, I should be my own mainstay, but having friends doesn't have to be a bad thing, in fact, many people think it's a good thing."

"I want to know why you decided on Lavender. I want to know why you're half here and half not. I want to know why I felt a draw to come talk to you, and I want to know if you're bullshitting me right now."

She smiles, the movement sharp and amused. "Not necessarily in that order, mind."

Yves remains lounging on the grass, hands still behind his head and his body stretched out - giving him the impression, however unlikely, of some kind of lazy cat. Watching Genevieve curl up on herself as she tells her tale, his expression ... doesn't change much, save for a gentle shadowing, a solemn air, a flicker of concern, like a sympathy pain.

He nods once. "Yeah. You gotta follow your feelings, your intuition."

Then silence, until she mentions he reads into things too much --- that gets a very quiet sound from him: 'Aah!' just a puff of breath, though if he's hurt or incredulous or simply amused, it's hard to tell. A hand moves to rub at his face, shielding away any expression.

When his hand raises, he still keeps his eyes shut -- musing up his hair, scratching at his scalp as he hummmms low and takes his sweet-damned-time considering Genevieve's questions. Foot bopping to the tempo of the low folksy guitar music that still plays. As he ponders, a bumblebee drifts in from the lavender fields, doing lazy circles around him and Genevieve.

"...If I'm not all here, where do you reckon I am?... Lavender trade's good - the farm works good - got a good crew, making it run good - it's all good."

Is it though? Yves seems so, matter of fact about it... His foot stops beating, and he suddenly stirrs -- opening his eyes, dragging his body up to lean on his elbow - hair falling in his face as he turns to look up at Genevieve again. "What do you reckon I'd be bullshitting you about? You came to this farm looking for me -- I've got nothing, but what you see in front of you... And questions. Who's messed with you so bad, that you reckon I'm gonna mess with you? All I want in the world... Well, let's just say I'm a woodsman, not a wolf. Don't you like my clearing?"

Genevieve doesn't swipe at the air when the bee comes near, blue eyes watch the lazy circle it turns before flying back out toward the flowers and the pollen. Her questions are answered, probably not in the way she might have wanted, but there it is. "I don't know where you are, but let me try to explain why I asked." She leans back on her hands again, stretching out her legs, her head tilted up to catch some sun. "It's like when you watch one of those silly movies. The main action is going on.." One hand comes up, swiping as if she's painting a picture from a movie, wild and erratic. "..then there is a cut scene, and it's the calm. The juxtaposition. Show you the hand dealt, but make you wonder if it's going to beat the other hands. You're here but you're so clearly not ... here."

She shrugs, it made sense to her. "Do you grow your own pot here?" She crosses her legs at the ankle and wrinkles her nose.

"I did come to see you. I came looking for you because you smelled purple, and you managed to peg me just by looking at my hands. Could that be bullshittery? Yeah, it really could. " She huffs out a sound, her eyes narrowing. "Some people enjoy confusing other people. Making them question who they are. I'm not saying you're that type, but you are a type of something."

At his assertion that he is a woodsman and not a wolf, she just looks at him. She glances away after, not answering his last question. Two can play at that game.

Summer sun shines on, complete with the gentle rustle of breeze through the trees - the buzz of wandering bumblebees - the scent of lavender and summer, bright and warm. Yves watches Genevieve bask in that little strip of a sunbeam, his own expression shielded in a bit of greenish shadow.

"I dunno if I do follow you, Genevieve -- growing up, the only movies I got to watch were golden age musicals - Oklahoma, Sound of Music - everything else was considered too sinful, and I'm still behind."

...is he being serious? Yves gives off every impression that he is, indeed, being serious.

At the mention of pot, though...

Yves just smiles at her, and turns -- laying back down in the grass, feet bopping to the warped guitar from the tape player as he stares up at the leaves above. When Genevieve continues and describes him as being purple, that smile broadens into something lopsided -- a glance given her way at the memory of palmistry.

"Don't you believe? That people can just, get each other?" His eyebrows raise, and while his hair may get in his eyes he does remain holding Genevieve's gaze, even after she turns away.

For a little while it's quiet, save for the jingle-jangle of the folksy guitar, then: "I don't mean to be a drag, cause you any pain -- I know this place is fucked up. I'm fucked up - maybe that's why it doesn't rattle me so much on the outside, because on the inside... I promise you Genevieve, I don't get any joy from confusing people -- I don't want you to be anything except what you are, really, essentially. We gotta be free; don't we? You know what that feels like, don't you?"

Merde.

Genevieve felt like she had actually managed to order her thoughts into words that made sense, and the one time she has managed that, the person didn't get the reference. FML.

Once again, Yves does not answer a question, and Genevieve is getting used to that. The smile, the way he lazily reclines afterwards, it pretty much answers the question for her. She picks long grass from the ground, weaving them slowly. "No. I think that sometimes people might understand someone else, but I don't think it's instant." She pauses her weaving, holding up a hand. "Did you really get all of that from my hand?" Then offhandedly, because she feels like it. "I grow my own too, and I sell it. If you have any interesting strains.."

"You're not causing me pain, Yves." Then he goes on and she frowns as he says he's fucked up. "You think we're free?" Her eyebrows loft, and for a moment she looks as if she tasted something sweet, yet bitter at the same time. The grimace on her face doesn't stay, it's as brief as the cloud that covers the sun. There one moment, gone the next. "You're not fucked up, you're like everyone else here. Coping. But free? I don't think anyone is free Yves."

Yves, lounging there in the shade, gives off every impression of being 100% oblivious.

Well, to any references at least -- that smile he gave may've been an answer, but he's not giving a wink or a nudge to drive the suggestion home. What kind of clock does this kid run on, anyway? One which is quite possibly stopped -- or at least, set to some other time, way out of sync...

"How else do you think I could've, ah, pegged you like you said? If I weren't able to read something about you, otherwise lost in the chaotic static noise between us?..."

Yves' eyebrows go up, then he smiles lopsidedly and bobs his head to the side. "All flowers in time, bends towards the sun."

That's his answer for her saying she sells weed?

Maybe he -is- stoned...

Yves' smile tightens as Genevieve's expression takes on a bittersweet tone; something sympathetic in his eyes, perhaps even worried. "I think freedom is an option." Finally, a direct answer! Said with conviction - which is almost immediately interrupted with a wince as she continues . A bumblebee is disrupted, as Yves shakes his head firmly. "You're wrong."

About freedom? He doesn't clarify.

Genevieve shifts so that she's on her knees for a moment and then she settles, sitting on her haunches. The shift could have been to get comfortable, or because she's about to indulge herself in another temper spike. She doesn't look like she's about to throw the doll again, her expression clear and almost resigned.

"You could have cheated." Yes, she said cheated. She regards him steadily and then that static noise, she tries to peek through it. Maybe he'll make more sense this way. She can see that he shines, not that she'd mention that.

If nothing else, her attempt might get a rise out of him.

"Freedom is only an option if you have the strength to be free. I don't think that I do, I don't think a lot of people in this town do." Genevieve raises her eyebrows, leaning in slightly. "If we did, we wouldn't stay here where the nightmares are the worst, would we?" She willfully decides that freedom is the thing she's wrong about, and if she's wrong about that. Shit.

None of that tempestuous energy seems to be reflected on Yves -- he remains, seemingly calm, yes. On the surface, Yves lounges in the dappled shade and watches Genevieve with the languid, idle observance of a very well fed house cat.

"I could have cheated." He agrees with a nod, then rolls his shoulder against the grass. "But I didn't. I just followed what I felt was right, and... I was."

He almost smiles...

But inside, behind a veil of artifice and composure... Well, there's a certain melancholy about Yves' internal emotional landscape: ripening wheat left untended, overburdened and bending towards the ground. Shifting in the winds, but stubbornly rooted where he grows. There may be the occasional smile and jovial teasing, and that feels like /part/ of Yves, sincere in its own way - but not the whole picture. There is, even now, a sense of something 'missing'. A lack, a loss. What he is not is scared - there is not even a hint of fear or anxiety, not a speck -- and while there is a sense of fondness and interest in his current circumstance with Genevieve, there is also an inkling of separation, longing, preoccupied concern.

Looking up at the leaves, Yves' pale eyes squint... And he turns, watching Genevieve side-on. Something a touch challenging there, maybe even proud? That almost-smile remains.

"Genevieve-vee-vee, you gotta know... I /came/ here, on my own free will." His hand raises, and he weaves it through the air - fingers wiggling as he watches her. "I chose to be here - I /choose/ to be here - and what greater test strength can a person have, then to turn around and face their own shadow?... I don't buy it, this stuff about freedom is an option for the strong - freedom is for everyone, and this is your time to shine. Have faith - the strength will follow."

Of course Yves is going to be self-satisfied.

Genevieve's eyes might be on Yves as he speaks, but she's seeing a different landscape. There is no flinch or movement as her tentative reach bears fruit, until she comes back to herself. She blinks, and meets his gaze, hers bemused.

"That was rude of me." She dips her head, her chin pointed to her chest. "I'm sorry." But when she looks back up at him, her expression clear now, she sees that challenging look and that almost-smile and she responds without thinking, smiling back. "Of course you're here of your own free will. So I'll ask another question that you'll either deflect or bluntly answer. "What makes you stronger when you face your demons? Is it because you're choosing the way you taste your danger? Perhaps you like screaming into the void too?"

She snorts, laughing softly as she settles back on her ass, shrugging. "I came here because of shine, but I don't think it's going to bring strength of freedom. You might have the stones to face your shadow, but I don't. I'd be happy if I never saw that wolf again."

Self satisfied?!... ...maybe, just a tiny-little bit.
Perhaps Yves doesn't even realise its there.

There -is- there sense that Yves is realising a... thing or two about Genevieve. When she apologises? He laughs. Laughs! He laughs, a rich peal of sound, bright and brassy as a newly forged bell. The energy of the thing has him rolling over on the grass and propelling himself up;

"Don't you know it's a sin, to apologise when you don't mean it? 'cause if you /mean't/ it, you've got the smarts to know you shouldn't've done it in the first place..."

...Is Yves going to get mad?

No! No -- he's hopped up now, but that action results only in him jumping up and down, dislodging dried grass and crushed wildflower petals from his body. It is only semi-successful. There's bits o' stuff in his hair. Maybe even a small beetle. Yves lifts his hands up-up-up in some distorted yoga move, oblivious to his exposed belly with its mostly-hidden tattoos shown, chatting along idly as he stretches.

"You've really got me working hard today, huh? You know what they say, 'what doesn't kill us...' -- they're mine, would't it be rude if I didn't get to know them? Because essentially, isn't that the /point/?" Yves twists back-and-forth, standing on his tiptoes for a moment -- then his back goes 'crick!', and he snaps his fingers, pointing at Genevieve. "You're wrong - but that's your right - and I'm looking for a lot of things, but not a fight. Not a fight with you, no, not a fight with -you-..."

Sing-song voice over, and Yves jerks his head towards the lavender, and just starts... Ambling off. Not looking where he's going.

"I've got a collective gathering soon, and I'm supposed to lead it, so... You want some lemonade, before you give me your number and I let you run free on the farm? It's got lavender syrup - you'll love it."

Genevieve leans back on her hands, frowning when he starts to laugh. She gets more and more irritated the more he laughs, almost looking as if she might start to yell. Then suddenly, her expression clears and she just stares at him. "I do mean it. It was rude, and inexcusable, and I should .. well I did ask, and you didn't answer me." She is explaining herself now, great. The scowl comes back.

When he hops up, she stares up at him, the tattoos making her head tilt, for a moment his words aren't even heard, then they start to flood in.

"I don't want to fight either. I told you, I came to be friendly, and ..." She trails off, she made a real fuck up with the friendly here. She gets to her feet, following after, glancing back at the radio and then back to Yves. "Give.. I.. syrup? Gathering??" She looks more and more confused as she walks, her brow furrowed. "Are.. you dismissing me?"

Yves' stretching continues even as the general air around Genevieve heats up with that flickering irritation and-- ah, it's gone! Gone, and Yves is shaking his arms out and running his fingers through his hair. Not smooth process.

"You should, what?..." He glances back over his shoulder belatedly, his fingers working at some knot in his hair as he observes Genevieve. Oblivious, by all appearances, to both her staring and her attempt to explain herself.

Yves seems, in a nutshell, very faintly bemused.

Like he doesn't understand - or expects her to understand something? He's not clarifying. Instead, Yves leans down without looking, so she can brush a hand over the semi-spherical spread of a lavender bush.

"What did you ask me, again?" This is not, in the slightest way, an answer to her question about dismissal. The attempt to detangle his hair is abandoned, and instead a sprig of lavender is plucked and lifted up; rolled between his fingers, so that the purple buds twist beneath his nose and thwack against his mouth. For a few moments he just watches her, then; "You're really hurting, huh."

"Apologize?" Genevieve was following Yves when he was walking away, she felt dismissed, and she was going to step away when they reached the break in the path. Then he stops, and gazes back at her like she said something confusing, so her eyes narrow slightly. They face each other, him looking bemused and her looking like she is ready for escape.

"Did I stutter?" She asks, because she does believe that is what he's asking, about the dismissal. She opens her mouth to repeat her question, but then he comments and she exhales slowly, a frown on her face. "I'm not hurt." She moves closer, as if she expects him to start walking again, and perhaps she'll follow to a point. "What kind of gathering are you getting ready for?" Then again, quieter this time. "Was that a dismissal?" She, at least, sounds vaguely amused at the last.

Yves continues to watch Genevieve, even as that 'escape!' vibe rises -- the sprig of lavender tapped against his mouth. What, is he going to eat it? No move to open his mouth to bite down, or answer her... Instead he hears her out in silent - possibly stoned or simply slow - contemplation.

"...Why did you do what you did, Genevieve?"

Another beat, where it seems like he may change his tack and walk back towards her -- but instead, when Yves does take action, it's to briefly look towards a rather scruffy looking farm building closer to the house. "We've got a production meeting - talk about yield, introduce seasonal workers - Bethany will end up talking too much, and convince Dakota to break out the hard cider..." His nose wrinkles for a moment... Then snap: attention back to Genevieve.

"You don't have to be upset, at the thought of a dismissal -- you're free, to go, to come..." A pause, then Yves steps backwards -- taking a path not towards the farmhouse, but in the opposite direction. Rows of lavender, and in the near distance the dark band on conifers that make up Firefly Forest -- but between here and there? A few more Garry oaks, and just visible through the lavender beds there is the flicker of water through reeds. Lake edge, maybe.

Yves makes no attempt to take the tape player, which still emits the tinny sounds of folksy guitar over in the shade.

"Why've you come here?" ... For a moment the question hangs in the air, like Yves is rather bluntly demanding a repeat to the reason she'd visit the farm - but before long, he speaks up again - voice light, harmonious. "To follow the draw of all that glitters - you said some woman in Georgia told you 'bout this place, but I don't get the feeling that she's in your life any more..."

"I.. " Genevieve meets his gaze for a brief moment, and then she turns away from it, as if she can't answer him while she looks at him. ".. sometimes I don't even realize that I'm doing it. I don't want to know, but I do want to know. I don't like puzzles." She follows his gaze to the building, listening to him as he answers her question. She blinks when his focus finds her again.

"There you go being disingenuous again." She lets out a soft sound of announce as he changes direction again, but she follows. A small part of her asks her why she is, and she really can't answer.

"I told you I came to be friendly, to see your.." Then he speaks again and she frowns at him, reaching out in an attempt to stop his movement so she can talk to him and not at him. "I didn't follow it, I was drawn in. Obviously you know now that.." She stubbornly still doesn't want to say that she shines, her lips pressed thin. "Louise is still in my life, she just doesn't have any of her own any more."

Yves' eyebrows go up a tick, but only after Genevieve looks away from him -- surprised by her answer, perhaps. At the mention of puzzles he frowns - head bowing as she looks back to him, calls him disingenuous. Sandy soil is scuffed under the toe of Yves' boot, and he seems ready to lead on in silence as he listens...

But Genevieve stops him, and he turns to look up at her face again; a sombre cast to his expression, eyes laden with some kind of solemn reflection. How has that happened? Such swift descent into sorrow - heavy as summer rain, cool and fast as he looks her over.

A hand raises, so he can push his hair out of his face - sprig of lavender deposited there, perhaps without him realising. It flutters in the breeze as Yves studies Genevieve, a note of expectation there. Like he anticipates she'll answer further... Then, a prompt:

"You have a spectral sister?"

"Odd way of putting it, yes. Louise obviously has family and friends to haunt, but I see her occasionally." Genevieve looks back at Yves when he asks his question, frowning when she finds him studying her. "Pourquoi es-tu comme ça?" That question is probably rhetorical. She folds her arms over her chest to keep herself from doing something she'll regret later.

"Why do you let simple things drag you into sorrow?" That question isn't rhetorical. She looks at him like she genuinely doesn't understand, but she wants to.

"Louise. Does she greet you, in your dreams? Does she, say how, things are or how you can--?"

There is an upsurge of energy around Yves, a certain lyrical quality of his voice that gives away the intensity of interest -- and is almost immediately held back, like piano strings suddenly dampened. No reverb - only a small, lopsided smile which remains in itself, sorrowful.

"Je ne sais pas..." Eventually with a cadence and effort that really does suggest Yves doesn't have much of a working knowledge of French -- but open enough that it's ambiguous to exactly what he's answering.

Yves hands are lifted, held out in front of him as if to hold something or display nothing -- a little shrug, maybe? Like he himself can't compute.

Instead, he lets out one exasperated peal of laughter, and his hands drop. Walking a few paces backwards, slowly ambling down the path that leads through the lavender and towards the lake -- watching Genevieve, rather than his step. Careful now, Yves!

"'I didn't follow it - I was drawn in.'"

"She warns me sometimes. She has opinions on people and things and.. places." Louise had some strong opinions about Gray Harbor. She told Genevieve some of them, but she held a lot back. Just like Yves is holding back right now.

Genevieve kicks at the dirt, and it puffs briefly in the air, her eyes on his hands. When he starts to laugh she rolls her eyes, and takes a deep breath, stepping slowly after him as he walks backward toward the lake. "Drawn in to sorrow. Drawn in to.." She makes a vague gesture toward her temple. "Drawn into whatever is going on around here? Drawn into your own depression? Comfortable there?" She's being rude now, and she knows it, but she gets her strongest reactions from Yves when she's rude.

"Stand still before you topple into the lake." She gently chastises, even if a big part of her is kind of wanting to push him into the water.

"You trust her, completely?" Softly asked -- something inquisitive there, but perhaps teasing too - even if there is a general air of sorrow one must wade through. Is Yves mourning for Louise, a ghost he doesn't even know? Could be.

Sandy dust raises up in the breeze around them, dry and warm in the summer air -- lavender swaying, the scent astringent and bright. Yves hands swing at his side as Genevieve gestures to her temple -- his sad smile broadening, a shoulder shrugged.

That 'maybe' feels more like a yes, but Yves leaves it ambiguous.

Continuing even as Genevieve goads him -- watching her in silence as he continues to walk backwards -- lavender on one side of the path, then a short expanse of wildflower and eventually reeds that mark the bank of the lake. No effort to take heed of her words of warning. Sunlight glitters on the ripples of the lake, and Yves ambiguous smile remains.

"What is going on around here, Genevieve - do you even know yet?"

"As much as I trust anyone." Genevieve aims a look at Yves, and that look says that she maybe doesn't trust him much either, despite what she's seen in his mind.

If it looks like a challenge, and feels like a challenge, it's a challenge. Genevieve quickens her step, moving toward Yves, her movements telegraphing her intention. She's gonna push him into the water. The thought of it makes her laugh, and for a moment there is levity to the conversation and the situation, and then she trips, falling unceremoniously to the ground.

She doesn't look surprised by this, or very bothered, the only thing she injured was her pride. She makes a noise as she gets to her feet, shrugging in his direction.

"I have no idea what is going on around here, you've been here longer. Are you asking me because you don't know, or are you asking me because you want to tell me?" She frowns at him, holding out a hand for him to take. "Don't fall in the water."

"But enough to follow her advice."

Yves notes, his head tilting -- wind catching his hair, tangling it up in the air and sending it across his eyes. No move to clear it away -- although he watches her through the gaps, that sad smile still on his face; playful edge, albeit subtle in response to her laughter. Are they dancing? Yves side-steps as if he expects to start waltzing with Genevieve to unheard music.

It's just... She moves in and then, ah, trips. Bad luck, or sandy soil and loose rocks?

"Aah--" Gone is the smile. Genevieve may not have bruised her pride, but Yves seems concerned she may've bruised herself -- reaching out, side-stepping as she stands on her own accord, but still offering a hand should she need it.

His brow furrows, then Yves looks bemused again -- blinking and lifting an elbow in a useless attempt to brush his hair from his eyes. "What makes you think I've been here long enough to know anything?..." A beat, then his voice drops -- serious, sombre and sonorous. "They told me I was born here - but most of what I was told, it's been lost to the wind." A beat, then he glimpses back over his shoulder - out to the lake, watching the sunlight rippling across the water. "I don't need you to tell me not to fall in - I want you to tell me, because I want to know how you see things."

"If it wasn't for Louise, I believe I'd be in a institution somewhere. They'd call me crazy, because I could feel things, do things." Genevieve gazes at the hand that he offers, taking it, and the same thing trips through her head. They look like they're dancing around each other, they are dancing around each other. Their words, the movements, it's all a dance at this point. She keeps making the wrong steps.

"I'm okay. Just.." She sighs and moves in closer, frowning as she runs her fingers into his hair to get it out of his face, and his eyes. She catches the change in his voice, gazing at him steadily, before she takes her hands out of his personal space. "There are people who have been here their whole life and they don't know what's going on."

She steps away when he glances over his shoulder, putting distance between them as her hands rub over her biceps, though it's not cold. "How I see things? Be specific." She holds up a hand before he can speak, stepping closer again. "Be very specific, Yves. How do I see what?"

At the mention of an institution, Yves wrinkles his nose briefly -- helping to hoist Genevieve up, his hand cool yet slightly rough with calloused fingertips and sandy dirt, probably from braiding that wildflower doll. Lord knows it doesn't seem like he does much in terms of 'hard work' around here.

"You're fortunate to've had a guide, to have a guiding voice."

Softly said, then Yves silences -- watching Genevieve as she reaches to brush his hair back. No flinching, not even a shred of anxiety -- the concern on his face seems to be for her alone, although the compression of his lips gives his expression a stern cast as he looks out at the lake. Good or bad? Only after she's stepped away does he nod, once - remaining fixed where he stands by the lake's edge.

"Not everyone sees things in the same light as you... And do you envy them -- or do you hold them in contempt?"

Like those are the only options. At Genevieve's own question Yves turns back. This time, he's smiling again: eyes bright, almost playful. "I am the worst... What do you even call it? Not a teacher, tutor -- instructor! I never went to school, so I don't know the specific difference -- so, to be specific? In general? Damn. That's a big ask... What's your intuition sense? That's what I'm talking about. /How/ do you see this place?"

Lopsided smile remains as he starts to side-step, crouching down by the lake briefly to pluck a long spear-shaped leaf of grass. -- examining it as he speaks. "I felt you looking at something, under the oak tree - something in me, maybe - were you ever going to tell me what you saw?"

"Sometimes I wonder. If I had never met Louise, I might be in an institution, but I never would have heard of this place." Genevieve shrugs at his question, but she isn't quiet for long. "I think it depends on the person. For you, I feel a little contempt, because despite everything I saw, I still think you're being playful, and confusing, just to be those things."

It's almost as if he proves her right when he turns again, but she smiles with him, even if she doesn't feel as playful as he does. "I see it as a challenge, and that's why I'm still right where I'm standing. You're a challenge too. I came out to see your flowers, maybe make a friend, and I've thrown things at you and tried to push you in a lake. Oops?"

"I don't know if I should tell you what I saw. Not yet at least." Genevieve takes a few steps back, turning to look out at the lavender. "I apologized for that, and despite what you think, I did mean it. Shouldn't you be getting to your gathering?"

"You think so?... You seem resilient, Genevieve. I reckon you'd've figured out a way to survive in Georgia, and besides; maybe'd you'd've met some other wayfaring stranger, who'd whisper tales of Gray Harbor - or the mountains of Wrexham, or Weston West Virginia - even if just in your dreams..."

What do those places even have in common?

Yves fades out -- looking up from the grass in his hands, back to her face after she mentions 'contempt'. There is a soft 'ooph' sound from him, but no interruption -- instead he listens, his fingers smoothing over the blade of grass slowly -- eyebrows raised, as she confesses to the push-in-lake plan.

As if he didn't know.

"I only know how to be how I am..." What's that have to do with anything? Yves licks his lips, squinting at Genevieve for a moment -- gearing him up to say something?... Or move. He moves, starts to move -- back towards the path, "Now, I believe you Genevieve - and you're welcome to stay, explore - you are free, after all, you are free - if I miss you, where can I find you in town?"

"Freedom, thank you. If you miss me, use the number I left you." Genevieve looks like she's going to take that freedom, walking toward the lake as he walks toward the path.

"Bud and Buds. It's a shop, on Elm Street. You're welcome to come there."

She moves to the side of the lake, taking a seat. She leans forward, letting her fingers make ripples in the water as she lets herself get lost in thought.