2019-09-12 - Margaritas and Missing Pieces

Fluttery Sparrows can only sprawl on the grass for so long, even in good company, before needing to move. Restless gave way to showering--to clean off grass-stained elbows and pastel-smudged fingers--and a long walk down toward the beach with a promise of dinner. Or, at least, drinks. Surely, this is a bad idea with classes in the morning, but nobody was getting anything done at home anyway. Hair which had still been wet when they left the house has dried on the walk over, a wild floof of vibrant color that contrasts with the grey-scale of her clothes. It might be intentional, the dull dressing to allow hair and eyes and bright red lips to pop. It might, too, just be a continued expression of mood, matching the overcast weather. Conversation dominated by absent babbling about chemistry and classmates--safe topics far from the heftier things they'd been discussing at home--cuts off abruptly as they approach Two If By Sea, as she asks Alfie, "Inside or out?"

Having traded out his button-up short-sleeve and cargo pants, Alfie is in a light blue plaid shirt that matches the shade of his eyes and some distressed gray jeans. And his regular pair of beat-up sneaks replaces his lack of shoes. His hair has been neatly combed, swept back ontop his head (the only length of which that needs to be managed). He dresses toward a specific - likely calculated - practicality of mass-produced grunge. That he doesn't show any concern for the veracity of his machine-worn clothes could in itself be another layer of irony - or just a surface level appreciation for the fashion.

When he speaks of classmates, it's passive observation rather than the mention of direct interaction. When Sparrow speaks chemistry, he shows more lively lines of questioning. "Inside," he decides when asked. He's had no shortage of fresh air, today.

"Inside," Sparrow agrees as if that had been her preference all along. While they wait to be seated, she scans as much as she can see of the room, anticipating one familiar face or another among staff, but they're moving onward to a table before her inspection meets any success. It's a small table for two, meant to leave larger tables open for larger groups during what could turn into a dinner rush. On a muggy, overcast Thursday like this? It probably won't, but better to plan ahead. Menus, specials, promises of water, and they're left alone for a moment, until the server comes by to take their orders. Sparrow probably should be looking at her menu, but she's instead staring across at Alfie. Thinking. "Does this count as our first date?"

The smile that flashes across Alfie's face when they're met by their server is just as ingenuine as the one that greets them. It's reflexive. Alfie averts his gaze as he reclaims his own expression, and as they're lead toward a table for two - just two. There's a kind of intimacy to that, that isn't even present in tables for four claimed by two. In a sense, it was meant for and was waiting for them to fill out those chairs with no request for more. Alfie sits. He holds off on ordering a drink until he has a sense of what's on offer - sending a question as to whether there's a blender on the premises back to the bar with their server.

"I'd been thinking of the road trip as a lot of dates - stuck together but separated by time in transit," he admits. The shy smile that goes with it is easy to miss, but at least honest. "But this feels right, too. More like the diner outings I'd thought about when we were younger." He shrugs. "Milkshakes, burgers, time together outside of school."

Sparrow had something to say. Really. It was right there in her bright brown eyes when her smile widened for Alfie's initial answer, but it doesn't rush on out when he's done, held back by other thoughts stirred up by those memories, all the could've-beens and never-weres. "First time we were out together was a diner," she tells him quietly but confidently. "I even stole some of your fries." Sure, they weren't really alone and she spent half the time flirting with another guy, but the other half was sharing jokes with him across the table, listing pornhub finds back and forth in public. A partial qualifier. "But this is singular and intentional. We can't call our adventure a date, not just for its plurality, but because you'll never be able to date anyone else ever for the utterly impossible to hit standard that I'll've set. If we call it a date. No one will ever live up to it. It's just not fair to all your future lovers, that they begin as disappointments before you even meet." Flashing a conspiratorial smile across the table, she adds a touch softer, leaning in a little, "Which is to say thank you. For letting me drag you out tonight. This is nice." And then she looks to her menu, at last.

"I didn't really mean to finish those fries. I think it's why I offered them up to-" Alfie pauses. Shy affection is soon replaced by a furrow of his brows like he just hit a block in his memories that wasn't there before. Subsequent relief showcases that it wasn't the case - only the anxiety. "Your brother." Summer break for the twins, and the countdown until school would start for Alfie - an education that he hasn't seemed at all partial toward, in his aimlessness.

"I do not need anyone to compare," he decides, rejecting that factor that Sparrow says should disqualify the adventure. "Knowing the sun doesn't erase the splendor of the stars." He reaches for the drinks menu as Sparrow leans in. Alfie flips the single sheet with a certain adroitness - a familiarity of working with his delicate fingers that must owe something to his years of learning to play the classics. "But I like this as the first, too," he admits. "I'd probably be high, reading instead of doing homework, if you didn't. So, thank you."

Referred to as the sun, Sparrow gets a little starry-eyed, peering past the menu at Alfie, smile downright dopey. Shamelessly so. "Pretty sure I'd be pawing you to proper distraction," she counters, letting him weigh that possibility against present circumstance. Not that he seems in any mood for comparison. Tipping the menu out a little so that he can properly see that happiness, she tilts in as well and notes, "You still owe me a poem," with the arch of one dark eyebrow. The server comes around right about then to bring them some water, report affirmatively on the existence of a blender, ask if they'd like to get a drink order in or if they have any questions. "Margaritas?" she asks Alfie before looking to the server. "Biggest pair you've got?"

"That goes without saying - when you're there with me," he admits, regarding paws toward distraction. Alfie's own smile gets a little dopey - his own eyes, a little wide and stary. But he makes no effort to counteract this. "I do," he admits, as to owing a poem. "Maybe I'm cowering. Under the pressure that what I write won't be worthy of the reward." Though, given how little he's shared of his poetry in general, maybe that's just a thin and jokey justification for greater hurdles to jump over in writing and sharing.

Margaritas? He nods, solid, confident in that choice. "I've been craving them since amateur night," he admits, as an aside to Sparrow when she makes the order. And he lifts a single eyebrow at the note that they'll be getting them in the largest available size - whether that's a fish bowl or a mason jar.

The server laughs... and cards them both. She has to. It's her job. And, let's face it, these two look especially young. Like they've been of legal drinking age for only a few months. Because they have. Sparrow promises, "We're walking home," to allay any worries about their ability to get home safe after enjoying those drinks. They'll have a couple more minutes while they drinks are made before they'll be asked about their dinner orders.

Sparrow drops her menu to the table, off to the side where it will be easily plucked up later, and leans forward with her elbows propped on the surface. It's a little late, a little out of place given the interruption for water delivery and drink orders, when she says, "Bullshit," without directly attaching it to the rest of the conversation. "You don't cower," soft-spoken but certain. "You're one of the bravest people I know. And you know I love you. So." She shrugs and, again, calls, "Bullshit." Her left hand reaches out across the table in offering, no contact made unless he makes it. "If those rules aren't fun anymore, we change them." Left corner of her lips twitching upward, she assures, "I've got a few ideas already."

Alfie's jeans are too tight for a wallet. He pats down his pockets until he finds and produces his WA state ID - a necessity, given his lack of a driver's license. It's a rare enough thing this far from the inconvenience of city driving that their server ends up looking between it and Alfie several times before she accepts it as valid and hands it back. He issues a thanks when she does, and before he pockets the ID once more. "Couldn't drive sober anyway," he adds to Sparrow's claim.

Bullshit? He blinks. He must have lost the thread of where they'd left off. That realization comes a little later, while he's playing with the corner of his food menu with his fingertips - drawing it up and back, and letting it smack lightly down against the table. He reaches and takes her hand. And he chuckles a little. "I feel a bit like a moody fanboy," he admits. "Like, this thing I liked won't feel the same when I get back to it." And for someone that has zero direction in life, as it stands, that might be a more real anxiety. "I love you too - and, uh, what kinds of ideas?"

Sparrow draws Alfie's hand closer once he's given it to her, leaning in so that she can kiss his fingers, so that she can set his knuckles against her cheek while she watches him. "I get it," she promises. "If I don't get the idea down when it starts to take shape, it's almost impossible to catch later." Which might be some of what the earlier frustration was about, that need to get the itch out before it went away. Sure doesn't seem to be bothering her now. "You owe me nothing. Art when there's art to art." She dips lower, this time, when she kisses his hand, just above his wrist this time, watching his eyes as she does. "I'll still expect poetry, though. I'll even bring a book. Something you can read to me while I offer a demonstration."

Alfie watches as Sparrow plants kisses on his fingers, and as she sets his knuckles against her cheek he brushes said fingers along, tracing without removing his knuckles from where she places them. "You'll still get a poem from me," he promises. "When I can articulate what I want to without the fear of hating the process." Like waiting will make the opposite inevitable or less likely. His gaze transfers between her own, and the slow trail of kisses as they climb to his hand and further yet to his wrist. His curiosity more than piqued with regard to what she could be referencing. His blue eyes hold a searching depth, brought into clarity from their usual distance, like a specialized telescope brought down from stargazing to fixate on something at a more immediate range. "Deal," he says.

"I won't make it easy," Sparrow promises for that agreement, like maybe he's made the wrong decision even if her smile says anything but. So pleased. So very, very pleased. She offers no further details, instead turning to brush her face more directly against his fingers, kissing his palm with her eyes closed. Only stopping when the server comes back and says, "Okay, lovebirds," as she delivers their fishbowl margaritas, so very green and intimidating. "Are you ready to order?" The redhead doesn't blush even a little bit as she straightens up to smile at the server, no shame for all that public affection or any of the more private thoughts running through her head. She just tells the woman, "You're amazing," in sincere gratitude for the margaritas then orders herself a trio of fish tacos. No appetizers. No desserts. For a girl with a notoriously large appetite, this might say something about something.

Blessedly, when the server steps away this time, it will likely be a while before any further official interruption, though that might not be a particularly comforting thought when, after she takes a brain-freezing taste of her margarita that sets her to shivering, Sparrow asks Alfie, "How can I help with this happiness thing?"

Alfie never expected easy. This much is evident in the way he nods his understanding as if he'd already known it. His breathing a little more shallow, cheeks a little more casual as he submits to the slow affection that turns his hand and plants a kiss on his soft palm - free from any sort of prolonged labor in his life, or the markings thereof. Then their server is back and he's sitting up straight, smiling as further redness seeps into his cheeks and he chuckles giddy-nervous at the playful chiding. "Jalapeno poppers," he decides, going with an appetizer - which is fitting for him. Lethargic in his motivation and momentum, but at the same time prone to wander, restless. The kind to strike out for the day only to lounge at the shore rather than at home in his room. "Thank you," he adds, for the drink delivered and order taken.

He sips from the rim of the drink, taking saltiness with the sweet and sour citrus of the drink itself. And he extends his sip as he considers the question until he's left wincing by his own brain freeze. "I wish I knew. Sometimes-" His jaw tightens. Like he's just silenced a mood killer of a sentence. He shakes his head and mentally walks off the frosty cranium.

Serious as the question is, Sparrow laughs still while she waits, when she catches that telling twitch that he'd made the same mistake she did. All that humor dissipates when he answers stops so short, though, when his expression changes in a way she hasn't seen on Alfie before. "You know there's nothing you can say that's gonna scare me off, right?" Dark brows push up into her red bangs as she adds, "Even if it's 'fuck off and stop asking me terrible questions on our very nice date,' okay?" She could probably babble out more assurances, but a pointed effort is made instead to pluck up her very impressive drink and sip some more at that. Slowly. Until her anatomy has acclimated to the chilly temperature.

Alfie nods, quick, like he really doesn't want to give the impression that Sparrow could be lumped in with any of those that he's about to mention. "When the things that you say in complete honesty stand between you and freedom, you learn to put a cap on it," he excuses. "I've only had a year at working to ditch it." He doesn't offer the apologetic smile he'd been prone to when they reunited, though. He's learned, since - mostly. "But..." he starts, trailing into what he'd nearly said. "Sometimes I worry that some of my memories weren't the only thing I lost." He shrugs. Like he means to dismiss the serious nature of that admission. As if it were a minor misunderstanding akin to pocket dialing. "Maybe purpose just isn't something I have anymore. And searching for it is like obsessing over something I can never have, and I should just fill my time with as many enjoyments as I can for the illusion of consistency." He sips. "This is a good margarita."

Sparrow cycles through a few emotion as she listens, from wanting to issue assurance on that first point, to curiosity about the second and into something a little more muddied at the end. Pensive, perhaps, but that seems only to graze the surface of something much deeper, more complicated. One thing's for certain: her smile's gone, barely resurfacing for the time it takes to agree, "Yeah," about their drinks. She sinks back in her seat, keeping her hands loosely on her oversized glass as she gets her thoughts in order, trying not to just let words come out unfiltered while they're talking about something important. "First," always a good place to start, "If you want me to just--" In the middle of this very serious conversation, she raspberries him across the table, a very intentional PBFT! deliberately directe his way. "--at you whenever you're closing up to remind you that you've already got me, not running away, splat-dead-done?" The offer's punctuated with a shrug. She can do that. Or maybe find some other concise reminder that's a little less ridiculous.

"Second?" One hand lifts from her glass to wave and wobble vaguely. "Which is actually in answer to third, but I'm going out of order, sorry." She flashes a weird smile that doesn't last long. "I don't think I know what purpose looks like. I make mine up as I go. Whatever feels right in the moment. Thread it all together for, sure. An illusion of consistency. All my empty enjoyments that I would like to think at least make other people feel better and will someday help me find direction or something. Just--" Her eyes close as her face scrunches up, as she tries to figure out how to proceed from here. "You make it sound so terrible." A proper frown forms as she opens her eyes, looking down at nothing in particular. "Which, third, okay. I guess maybe it is if you lost something I never had. Better not to ever know it at all, right?" Fuck. That did not come out right.

"It's not like I have any good reason to," Alfie says as to closing up - with the obvious unstated exception of empathic powers. "I'm paying my own way. I don't have to be concerned with appearances anymore." And though his phrasing sounds certain, it's all so new falling off the tip of his tongue. "So-" he concludes. And he PBFT's back in a deadpan that serves to make the act look as serious as it does cute - some levity to stand in contrast to the weight of his concerns. He's not exactly nursing his drink as he intakes it, though there's too much to it for him to make short work of the voluminous margarita.

"You have a sense that there's a direction, and with it, an ahead," he says, when Sparrow notes her hope of a place at the end of the clearing filled with these empty enjoyments. "I want that. Your confidence," he says. Not the same as his confidence to stand on display in a gallery. "I want to hold onto you as you move toward it so that I'll know the way even if my compass is gone. Even if the purposes that were supposed to be out there waiting for me are gone because I wasn't supposed to come back." It's both romantic and an address of some deep-rooted fears that are so rote that it doesn't take any emotional weight for Alfie to voice them.

Sparrow smiles, shallow, as if still weighed down by the conversation, just before she issues a tiny counter-pbft to his as if it were a call and response, a Polo to his Marco. An 'I love you' back. She doesn't take in enough of her margarita to keep up, too busy talking, watching, feeling to remember that drinks are for drinking and not just holding onto. Creases crinkle her forehead at his assertion that she's got some direction, some idea of forward, the downward tug at the corners of her mouth implying some disagreement. "It's not direction, Alfie." So quietly delivered across the table. "Confidence, sure, but that doesn't mean direction. It doesn't mean purpose. It doesn't mean I have any idea where I'm going or why. I just... go." Her shoulders go up high like she doesn't know how else to say it. "Whenever I slow down..." She shakes her head as her gaze skirts away. "I'm just better when I don't. Don't slow down. Don't stop. Don't think." To that, she lifts her drink, steals a salty sip, nose scrunching for the poor proportions of that tiny taste. "I say purpose is overrated." A lie that she wishes wasn't one. "Do what you want. Be happy. What else matters?"

Whenever she slows down? That trail off launches Alfie's own meandering pace. "I walk when I get the best of myself. Because I can't sleep or because I don't want to dream or face tomorrow. I set out and I keep going and sometimes I think about a man named Oscar that I used to see doing the same thing, in Seattle," he starts. "Oscar couldn't stop jogging, every night, for hours, because fear would well in his stomach like a hole whenever he'd stop for too long." He doesn't sip this time. Instead, he pushes the margarita away for a moment. "Oscar was skinnier than me, the last time I saw him. But tall. Hunched, like a flower left limp an unable to see the sun under its own weight." How he knows the depth of Oscar's felt pain is unstated. A dodge of talk of supernatural things. "I don't feel like Oscar when you take the lead. You don't make me think of Oscar." A distinction that he can't find words for, beyond comparison.

"Find happy, if happy can be found," he concludes in agreement with what he should be looking for - for a lack of anything else that might matter. "Sorry," he adds. "I'm not feeling down or anything. I don't mean to be a downer. Just, adrift, at times. Somewhere distant and alone."

Sparrow's chair slides back with a jarring sound, so loud by comparison to their quiet conversation. It earns an annoyed look from the otherwise pensive redhead as she pushes to her feet and starts right away alont the outside of that small table, that short distance bridged so that she can wrap her arms around his shoulders and press her head to his, nose down, right into his combed-back hair. "You're not," is muffled against his head. "Not a downer," to clarify. "I promise." Her lips pressed to the shaved side of his head and hold there for several seconds, until she has to sniffle, a telltale sign of more emotion than she probably wants on display while out on a date. Her head bows further, forehead where her nose had been, as she murmurs so quietly so close to his ear. "You're right," she concedes without any particular clarity about what. "I'm sorry. You're right."

Alfie straightens right up in shock at that jarring sound, but doesn't leave his chair - and doesn't concern himself with how those outside of their shared table reacts, while his curiosity and concern are both held in entirety by Sparrow as she rounds the table, searching to make sure what he said hasn't hurt her unintentionally. He's still tense, still trying to figure out the purpose in the movement as she wraps her arms around his shoulder. Her nose into his hair. Her promises into his ear. He slackens, just a little. Her sniffle draws out a tremble that's probably a dry sob, a tearless break of his mask that speaks to the unseen depths between both viewer and the detached expressions that he wears. He reaches up, hand on the forearm of one of her embracing arms in order to complete the current of that attachment. He shakes his head, either disagreeing with her declaration that he's right, or dismissing the apology. What he says, when he says it, gives little clue as to which he's meaning to express amidst the embrace until the trembles go away and he tells her, "I love you. Thank you. For being you - for being in the town I never wanted to come back to."

Sparrow holds Alfie tighter for that trembling, pressing kisses to his head in answer, a smattering of reassurances that she's still here and everything's wonderful. Another sniffle comes as she bobs her head against his in a shallow nod, unseen and ineffective. "I was waiting for you," she lies, giving herself purpose she never had, applied in retrospect. It's enough. She stands right there, just like this, for longer than is necessary to make her point, not wanting to move from that contact.

But neither poppers nor tacos take all that much time to prepare, and the server may well sense that an external intervention is needed to break things up. She leads with a gentle, "Everything okay?" as she approaches, just before she slides the food onto the table. Sparrow straightens and smiles, convincingly, even with her cheeks so very pink. "Yeah, just, uh. In love, ya know." With a dopey little shrug, she circles back to her seat and settles back in, steering the conversation away from such strange and complicated depths while they eat. Music and previous road trips and any number of other places. Happy empty things worth stringing together for a little while. Until their margaritas are gone and they slip back out into the night.