2020-08-05 - Barnacles Are Not Your Friend

Living on a boat sounds so very romantic. Lying on the deck at night counting the stars with a loved one. Being lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking and the cluck-cluck of the waves lapping against the hull. The morning orchestra of seagulls who incidentally wake up entirely too early and shit all over the deck. Ravn knows how this story goes. He's still going to make this boat hospitable because he happens to like boats, even if they're a hell of a lot more work than a lot of people think. And this one definitely needs some tender love and care, not to mention cleaning up, a fresh coat of paint, and a solid airing out. Seriously, what did they use it for, smoking pot?

People strolling past on the beach may hence spot a tall, blond guy wearing cargo shorts and, well, a pair of gloves, walking around a smallish sailing boat slash yacht not yet afloat; sitting on its boat trailer still, he's very obviously busy doing all the prep work on it that somebody ought to have done in the months of spring. He seems to be enjoying himself immensely in spite of the fact that scraping barnacles off a hull is hard work, tends to leave your hands bleeding -- maybe that's why gloves! -- and make you smell like something that came off the underside of a boat. Something which, incidentally, has one of the proportionally largest penises in the animal kingdom and is a bit of a dick in other aspects too.

Itzhak happens to be strolling along the beach, lit cigarette in his fingers. No, actually, he's strolling along the beach for a very specific purpose, which is to possibly find the very man scraping barnacles. Though he didn't expect the barnacles part. He slows to a stop, watching for a few minutes, dragging off his cigarette and exhaling long plumes of smoke. Himself, he's wearing a thin and clingy ribbed gray tank top and very clingy jeans, beaten almost white and soft as suede. The tank top shows off a lot of ink, plus weird fractal scarring on his right forearm, like tree branches or lightning. The scar is surface-level, but stark white, like all the melanin's been cooked out of his skin.

"'ey," he says, after watching Ravn scrape a while. "You were at the church, yeah? You okay?"

The boat-a-teer looks up from a particularly stubborn grouping of little shells; he looks a little startled as if he had not even heard the other man approaching, that's how preoccupied he was, what, with whistling and thinking and keeping his thoughts off things. Mentally sorting through files he places the other man and then smiles. "Yeah. Could be a lot worse. I didn't get shot or stabbed for one."

He gets to his feet and straightens up, turning out to be one of those pale guys who probably needs to put a shirt on when the sun gets higher or he'll burn a nice pink shade of king prawn. "I'm Ravn," he adds. "I think we have a couple of friends in common -- Lyric? Aidan? And... You know. Thanks for asking. Never had something like that happen to me before."

"Most people ain't." Itzhak strolls closer. "Yeah, I'm in a band with Lyric. Aidan I only know by reputation. I'm Rosencrantz. Itzhak." Pronounced sorta like yit-ZOK. "That kinda thing can really mess you up. Thought I'd check up on ya. Heard you bought a boat, so," he spreads his hands, cigarette trailing smoke, demonstrating that his plan all worked out.

"Well, rented with the right to buy if I end up staying in town, but yeah. She's a bit of a fixer-upper but it gives me something to do. This place gives you a lot to think about, doesn't it?" Ravn smiles broadly and pats the boat hull; it's pretty obvious that the man likes boats. Even smallish, older boats. A luxury yacht it is not.

He tilts his head, then, and throws Itzhak another look. "Rosencrantz? Like the family or the town? Anyhow, I could use a beer. You?"

No man goes to work scraping barnacles without a sixpack. It's like, Tradition. And it's sitting in the shallows of the water, to keep cool.

Itzhak squints at Ravn through smoke. "There's a town? ...sure, love a beer." He's thin himself, but lean and wiry, like a greyhound. Got the long noble nose of one, too. He comes to the edge of where the waves wash the beach, though since he's got boots on (who wears boots to the beach? him, apparently), he doesn't go further. "Toss 'er over. And hell yes, this place gives you a lot to think about. Way too much, to be honest. Best to keep busy."

The beer, as it happens to be, is Carlsberg -- who knows, maybe the Danish guy is feeling nostalgic, or possibly he just didn't recognise any of the local brands. He fishes two ocean-temperature cans out of the pack and hands one off to the other man. "Here's to places that make you wonder if you stepped into the Twilight Zone for sure." Click, fizz.

Ravn leans against the boat on the trailer; he doesn't seem to be the kind of man who minds getting dirty -- and dirty he will get, because that boat has been neglected for some time. "Well, town is a big word," he amends. "There's a village with a shopping mall just south of the Danish-German border. But yeah. It's about an hour's drive from where I live. Or my mailing address is, anyhow. Nice inn. Great bratwurst, of all things German." Casual air, laid back attitude, all down pat -- until the man's mind circles back to the events of the previous day, anyhow. "So, do people shoot up churches here often or did I get particularly unlucky?"

"L'chaim," Itzhak mutters, possibly ironically, and pops the tab on his can to take a swig. It's lovely and cool--and European!--and he sighs in appreciation. "Nice. Okay, I don't know nothin' about no shopping mall village. Far as I know we're a buncha Jews in Manhattan and Brooklyn." Oh, that explains his accent. He snorts in unamused bitter humor and tips the can up again, swallows. "Look, yeah you got unlucky, but... that's the kinda thing that happens here. If you're smart you'll keep on truckin' outta this town. Eat the deposit on the boat and take I-5 south to Oregon. This town's bad luck and bad news." And he looks like he's those things, himself, standing there with that bitter twist to his mouth, staring at Ravn's boat.

"Yeah. People keep saying that. And then, 'but you won't'. It's a regular Hotel California thing this place has going. And I guess I'm stupid enough to stick around too. Think I'm better at coping with... things like... Headless Horsemen than I am with guns, though. Stories I understand. Guns, not so much. I'm a folklorist." Ravn chuckles in the fashion of someone who's quite aware they're out of their depth, up the creek in the white water, and the paddle sits on the shelf back home. "I was hitching a ride to Portland as it were but... Yeah. Didn't mean to pry, by the way, it's just that Rosenkrantz is a kind of big name back home. Minister of Education, for one, though she's a bitch."

Itzhak comes out of whatever internal movie he was watching, glances at Ravn's face just briefly, then back to the barnacled hull. "Folklorist, that's a job?" He smirks a little, to show he's joking. "Well you oughta have lots to study here. Another guy named Dante Taylor's all about the weird stories too. Eh," and a shrug of one inked shoulder for the prying, "no big deal. Where's home? What's that accent you got on ya?"

"Danish," Ravn replies good-naturedly. "And no, it's not -- it's a degree. That's probably one of the reasons I'm wandering around where my feet take me, looking to find out what I actually want to do with my life. I did meet Dante -- once at the Two If By Sea, and once running through Sleepy Hollow yesterday." He almost manages to keep a straight face in saying that; there's just this slightly forced quality to his smile. Gray Harbor paid its regards to him already, it seems. "He's British, though -- bit fancy, isn't he? Famous writer and whatnot. Seems all right, though."

Itzhak hoists his eyebrows like 'I know, right?', an expression of rueful resignation on that narrow face. "Sleepy Hollow, huh. Wrong time of year. I think I'm offended, obviously I'm the one who looks like Ichabod Crane in this town."

He backs up a few steps from the water and sits, folding up his long legs and nestling right into the warm sand like a guy who has practice at it. The cigarette he stubs out. "Fancy, yep, that's Taylor with a capital T. Good guy, though." Itzhak folds his arms, too, in his lap, elbows on his knees and leaning forward, looking up at Ravn. "Look, I'm not gonna tell you you won't leave. People can leave. I should know, two of 'em left me to leave. It's more like..." he pauses to consider what he wants to say, and twirls a hand midair. "It's more like the place is a trap but only for certain kinds of people. Like if you want to trap a feral cat but get a possum instead. That's a terrible analogy. Maybe more like sorting bolts by size? No, that's also terrible. ..I dunno what it's like but the point is, some people leave." Then his eyebrows quirk upwards again. "Not me, though."

Ravn flops himself down to sit next to the other man, resting one gloved hand on a knee and holding his beer in the other. "Think I know what you mean. It's all bloody terrifying but it's all interesting too. Crazy feeling, really. That I belong to here. Haven't been here a week yet, already got a job and a boat and now I'm thinking about getting a cat. Give it a month, I'll probably have married someone and have a kid on the way. Town is like, an anglerfish, lures you in with the pretty stories, probably pretty scary on the inside. Also, pretty sure Ichabod Crane ended up murdered so... Maybe it's fine that we just beat his horse up and buried his skull instead."

"You wanna know the truth, I think it's the stubbornest motherfuckers who fall into the trap." Itzhak watches the other man come sit by him, curious. Then snorts about Ravn's surely impending matrimonial doom. "Well, yeah, exactly though. Some people say this place calls to 'em. I wasn't one of those, but when I got here...it was like my whole stupid, worthless life fell into place." He looks out over the sea, past the boat on its trailer. "And now I can hear it, all right. Now it sings to me."

His voice goes soft on that--then he grunts and knocks back another swallow of beer. "That was creepy of me, so anyway, screw Sleepy Hollow."

"... No, that pretty much sums it up, actually." Ravn sips his beer as well, looking at the ocean in the fashion of someone who's still sorting through a lot of information that arrived very fast and in mis-labelled boxes, some of which were probably water damaged and one of which contained a very angry porcupine. "I mean, I have a home. Technically. And yet I'm here, on the other side of the planet, just drifting around, doing a bit of busking and hustling my way through until some day, an asshole driver in a red cap dumps me in the middle of Nowhere, Washington because he can't be having with a European shitmonkey and it feels like I've come home. It doesn't make sense, but it's real."

Itzhak laughs under his breath at that story. "Ahhh welcome to America, huh? Land of the fuckin' free." He toasts that with a lift of the beer can, drinks, rearranges all his long limbs more comfortably, leaning back with one palm in the sand. "I didn't feel this place was home for a long time," he murmurs, resting the beer can on his bony knee. "But now...now I do. Because of the people here, people I got to love, whether I wanted to or not. But not just them, though they'd be enough, and I couldn't ever explain it. It just is. Like you said. Don't make no sense, but it's real." He shrugs with those expressive eyebrows alone. "So you busk? Whaddaya play?"

"Same as you according to Lyric, though from what she tells me, you're a lot better at it." Ravn's blue eyes glitter with amusement. "She's pretty adamant that you and I have to get together sometime. Maybe she likes the sound of cats being tortured."

That gets Itzhak to turn his head, look Ravn in the eye in pleased surprise. Again, it's brief, before he's looking him in the shoulder instead--but that got a lopsided smile out of him. "You're a violinist? No kidding. How long you been playing?"

"Off and on since my parents decided it was part of a classical education at age five," Ravn murmurs. "Turns out I liked to play, though, and I like to think I got my revenge in practising at them for years. I'm not... I mean, I can do Devil Went Down to Georgia for bus fare, but I'm not about to give concerts. I mostly play for myself. Lyric tells me you're very good. I was kind of nudging her a bit earlier, hoping to get to see you guys practise sometime."

And speaking of busking, albeit belatedly, an Aidan appears. He's wearing the black Docs he most often does, which go acceptably with the tailcoat and top hat in colour, if no other quality. Probably good for him the fog hasn't quite burnt off, given the coat, but in deference to the weather he's wearing it over a grey camo tanktop and a blackwatch plaid... well, it could try to argue kilt, but 'knee-length pleated skirt' is more accurate. There's a wooden box that looks like it probably unfolds somehow on a strap over one shoulder, and a bulging tote bag with a slightly faded pattern of little cartoon cats on it dangling from the opposite hand as he approaches the dock area, looking around as if for someone. The boat trailer is biggest and most eye-catching, so he gets that before he catches the men sitting by it, flashing them a bright grin and lifting a hand as he calls, "Hey, Ravn!" He's probably even pronouncing it just about right, by now.

Itzhak wobbles the beer can in a comme ci, comme ça. Then, modestly, "Yeah, I ain't half bad. Got out of classical music a long time ago, though, went into folk. But everybody here loves when I play classical, so I been brushing up on it. Not like I'm in an orchestra and gotta behave myself on stage and wear concert black, people don't care about that here, so it's not so bad. I love classical, just got really pissed off at the culture. Hey, Devil Went Down To Georgia ain't exactly easy, that's pretty good."

Sitting in the sand next to Ravn, he looks up and squints when Aidan comes along.

Ravn raises a hand containing a beer can and waves. "Grab one, they're in the water." He makes no comment on Aidan's unusual attire but then, to his credit, he hasn't done so far in the time they've known each other -- except the bag. The chicken bag, that's gotten quite a few comments on the way. But then, to be fair, maybe a man who practically lives in black turtlenecks shouldn't comment on the sartorial choices of other people; today is the first time Aidan's seen Ravn wearing anything else. Anything else in this case being cargo shorts and, well, gloves.

"I think my parents expected me to go classical. That's why I went folk, of course. I mean, that's what parents are for, isn't it -- pissing them off." Ravn nods conspiratorially. It looks a little funny coming from a man who's thirty or close to it.

"Thanks!" Aidan says brightly, but doesn't immediately head that way, instead moving toward the pair and lifting the tote bag a bit. "I brought you thing! Housewarming gift. Boatwarming gift? Can you warm a boat before it's in the water and all?" The trailer gets a considering look; he probably didn't expect it to be on land at present. A slight shrug. Whatever! The darker of the two seated men gets a considering look, and, "Itzhak, right? I've seen you around, like, weren't you in that cooking class last summer? For the chicken parmagiana? I'm Aidan, hi. You guys talking about violin stuff?"

Itzhak continues to squint at Aidan like maybe he's not so sure if Aidan is a person or a Gray Harbor apparition. It's the top hat. And tails. And the skirt--uh, kilt. "Hey, yeah, that was forever ago," he says, cautiously. "I had to bail, didn't expect eight blenders all goin' off at once. Yeah, I'm Rosencrantz, we're talkin' about violin stuff, you're the magician, right? I heard about you." Hoid, it comes out in his accent. "Man, I was just talking about concert black, you're halfway there. If you were a girl you could just about get away with that. Not the top hat though. Unless you're the soloist. Soloists can look flashy. I dunno about a top hat though."

Nobody asked!

Ravn laughs. "I saw an Italian guy do Vivaldi's Four Seasons at the Berlin Oper once. Walked on stage in blue jeans and a tank top and a hair that was like... I mean, I don't know what the guy even looked like, he was just big black bush of hair everywhere. Played like he was having sex with that violin. At the end of the concert I think it had about one string left and that was giving too. Best damn concert of my life, and I don't even particularly like Vivaldi all that much."

He grins up at Aidan. "I guess we are. You know what it's like, gotta measure."

"It did get kinda loud," Aidan says, though he has to think about it a moment to remember that part, "I think that was right before the dancer guy sliced his hand open, too. The food came out good, though. And yeah, I'm the magician." He grins, glancing down at himself, then back up. "Nice meetin' you properly. I can't actually play any kind of instrument, though. But I can pull a rabbit out of the hat, if I have a rabbit. Which I don't, exactly. But I like top hats, and they just sit around getting neglected all the time, unless you are a magician. Or, like, Fred Astaire, I guess."

He attempts to give the tote bag to Ravn. "That concert sounds kinda awesome, though."

"UGH!" Itzhak complains, tossing both hands in the air, the beer sloshing in the can. "SURE you can get away with that kinda thing if you're some mad genius! Not me, boy, it was all 'Rosencrantz you can't wear Star Wars socks and 'Rosencrantz you can't yell about how great your solo was even if was the greatest solo you ever played in your life it's not PROFESSIONAL.' ...that concert sounds fucking amazing." But he's still mad about it. Then he offers one (thankfully non-beery) hand to Aidan. "Nice to meetcha too, pal. You rock that top hat, don't let anybody tell you otherwise. Nice skirt, too."

Ravn eyes the tote bag a moment, as if wary there might be a chicken hidden inside. He knows about Aidan and chickens and bags. Then he reaches up to accept it and indeed peek inside it, while murmuring, "I still can't help but think that's hilarious. I mean, come on. Rosencrantz. Back home people'd be thinking you're practically royalty. Or a politician. Both would get you some pretty mixed reactions."

The comment about the socks, though, nets the other man a sympathetic look and a nod which is extended towards Aidan and his top hat too. "See, that's one of the reasons I decided against trying to pursue a career in music. If I wanted to look like a penguin in a tux I'd go career music."

"Man, why are they even concentrating on your socks when you're making awesome music?" Aidan asks, "I mean, Star Wars socks are pretty cool, yeah, but it's not like they light up like a light-saber and glow or something. ...did they? 'cause that would kinda kick ass, but I can see them being like 'yeah but that's kinda distracting' then, maybe. Otherwise, though." He shakes his head, and takes the hand, shaking it and giving the New Yorker another grin. "Thanks. People try sometimes, but I got sick of it, so I mostly ignore them now. And most of them don't actually try to do anything else about it, so it works."

In the bag, there turns out to be a pineapple. It's a large, fresh pineapple, smelling faintly tropical as one would expect. There's also two dish towels, white and hot pink with a Hello Kitty design, and a tiny fancy-looking cardboard box that claims to be from Patisserie Vydal and will, when opened, turn out to contain four random chocolates. Hopefully that gets opened before they end up melting. "If you wanted to look like a penguin in a tux you should go, like, zoo mascot, probably."

"Okay yeah, that would be distracting, but they were just socks. They had R2-D2 on them." Alas for Itzhak's socks. He gives Ravn a funny look. "Don't think the illusion of me being royalty would last beyond me openin' my big damn mouth." Then his phone goes off with a text alert; he digs it out of one very snug hip pocket to check it. "...aight guys I gotta get going. Catch ya later." He unfolds himself back to his feet like a hinged yardstick and saunters off over the sand.

Ravn's gaze zips straight to the cartoon kitties and he bursts into laughter. "I can't believe you went out and found towels to match my cell phone! Goodness, how many thrift stores did you have to go rummage through, to find these?"

Then, at the other man's remark, the Dane nods. "Wouldn't expect anyone to shut up or act different because of a name -- it's just a name. Don't be a stranger, all right? Need to talk shop sometime."

He watches Itzhak wander off and then turns to look at Aidan and the four-inna-sixpack still sitting in the surf. "Help yourself? I think... I am going to eat this thing when I'm done scraping barnacles because at that point I'm going to be hot and sweaty and while that sounds like the set-up for an adult movie, it's actually going to mean that I will be stinky and smelly and bone tired and absolutely happy. And then I'm going to make your shower smell like some sailor died in it too." There's just a beat of a pause before he cants his head slightly. "Do people actually give you a hard time about clothes, or..?"

Aidan flat-out beams at the laughter, looking slightly proud of himself. "Technically three, but I did find a Hello Kitty wafflemaker in the first one and I thought about going with that. ...I can tell you where, if you need one. It makes waffles with ears and a bow." And he is not an eight year old girl, but this amuses him nonetheless.

"Nice," is still his verdict on R2D2 socks, even if he looks less than entirely sure how things go with royalty illusions and the verbal ruining thereof. A hand lifts in farewell to Itzhak, and he steps over to indeed snag one of those beers. "After sounds good," he says, returning and setting the box-thing down so that he can take a seat for the moment as well. "It kinda does sound like the set-up for an adult movie, yeah, at least until you bring the pineapple in. Then it sounds like a weird one. Dead sailors, even weirder, even if we're just talking scent here. 's cool though, I've got Febreze." You never do know what kind of odours one might bring home in this town, to be fair.

He opens the beer and takes a sip before answering the question. "Sometimes. Not so much as they used to? When I was younger people gave me a hard time about more stuff more often in general, but now, I dunno. More people are more chill, or maybe more of the jerks are worried I might be scarier than I look?" Which, certainly in this town, he definitely is. "But, I mean, there's always a bunch of people who think making cracks about clothes or hair or size or whatever is super witty, or I guess get threatened or something by other people not doing what they think they have to?"

"I'm just thinking... You know, less than a day ago, I was running down a path in a forest, dressed like I'd escaped from Pride and Prejudice and there was a guy on a horse wanting to take my head off. Somehow, what people are wearing seems... like a very much not important thing? I guess people will be people." Ravn sips his beer and tries to not think about the waffle maker. When does a joke go too far? About the point of the waffle maker, probably. "Besides, in this town of all places, people probably need to rely on each other a lot? I met Bennie last night, by the way -- finally ran into her. Seems awful nice. Bubbly. I can see why you like her."

"Here's better than a lot of places. I kinda figure, most of us who sparkle have enough to deal with usually? Plus kinda... well, around here you might run into, like, a skinny nine year old who could set your hair on fire or maybe cut off your ear by thinking about it, so maybe some folks who'd be dicks otherwise think twice. But some people're just like that." Aidan shrugs. "Yeah, though. Like... well, those of us who can do healing, even before things changed, we can't heal ourselves. So, like, Bennie and I used to end up healing each other, when things went down." A small pause. "Not quite so much lately," he adds, as though it's a minor realisation that needs a touch of thinking about. "She's awesome, though. I was pretty sure you'd like each other."

"I like most people as long as they aren't presumptious jerks," Ravn muses, getting a tad philosophical in that fashion of a man who's sitting in cargo shorts on a beach, holding a beer. "Probably wouldn't end up swapping Twitter handles with that guy who tossed me out of his truck but, on the whole, everyone's got some kind of story and some kind of reason to be the way they are. I like some people better than other people, of course -- always got along better with people who do art, music, magic, something. It's not what you call sparkle exactly -- think it's more that people like that are already used to thinking outside the box a little, and I'm all about not spending my life in my designated box."

He looks up at the comment about healing though. "So, wait, you can't heal yourself? So, if some mad dead person on a mad dead horse runs you through with a sword, you're pretty much screwed? I mean, I'd be, but I don't do... healing things."

"I like most people too," Aidan says with a nod, settling in to rest his elbows on his thighs for the moment. He is not sitting in a way that would pass muster for most women in a skirt, but neither does it leave the fabric displaying anything untoward. It's just, well, rather unladylike, which is fine by him since it's not even close to the only way in which he fails to be like a lady. "And yeah, even a lot of the jerks have reasons they are like they are, it's just, how they are is a jerk and I mostly kinda don't want to be around that. Though, there's degrees. Like, someone who's kinda rude and grumpy but generally does the right thing, I'm more likely to be down with hanging out with them than someone who's mean to people for fun and just cares about themself." It is perhaps not the deepest of analyses, but true.

He nods confirmation: no self-healing. "Yeah. If I'm bleeding out and I'm the only one there with healing talents? Just like anyone else, as far as that goes. I'd, um. The only thing I could really do then would be try and call for help, like, telepathically? And hope someone could get there before I die." It's mostly matter-of-fact, but there's a slight uneasiness beneath it. "And by sparkle I mean, like, the people who can do the kinda stuff we can do. I don't necessarily like them better, though weirdly it seems like we kinda run into each other a lot? But also yeah, I do kinda get on well with artists usually. Artists mostly deal well with things being a little bit weird without freaking out."

"I never thought of myself as an artist as such," Ravn says, lying back on his elbows in a somewhat similar gesture; slackers on a beach, the two of them, the sun getting to work on turning dark chest hair ginger. "But yes, you're right. A lot of people aren't sunshine and roses but they're still good people. And some people are all love and rainbows but they'll knife you in the back the instant you look away. Got a feeling that if you make it six months in Gray Harbor you've got an open mind -- either because you learn to take things as they come or because some ghost on a horse lopped half your skull off with a big sword. I guess this shine thing tends to advertise itself though? Lyric talks like she can just see it when people walk past. I've never seen anything like it, wouldn't know what to look for -- but from what I can tell, she's a hell of a lot stronger at it, too." He's not traumatised by the ghostly rider, nope.

Aidan considers this a moment. "If it helps any, it's not usually the headless horseman?" It probably doesn't help any.

As for the last bit, he nods, but there's no immediate answer -- a thoughtful look, as he has another drink of the beer. "So," he says then, "the impression I have is, it kinda... different people sense it different ways? Like, for some people, shine or sparkle or shimmer or glow or whatever word they use is a metaphor, and others its kinda literal. I think probably a majority do literally see it like a light in some sense, to end up with that being the theme. Some people I think it's like a sound or a scent or just a kind of sixth or seventh or twelfth sense, like they just know. I kinda just know, and kinda see, like... an aura? If I focus right I can make out colours in it, that's how I can tell what kind of things a person can do and how well, but I have to reach out to the essence of it to see it that well. If you got it, and you do, you can see or, you know, sense it in others. And I think most people can feel vaguely how much. Like, right now, you only have a little, the aura's really faint, but that's probably gonna change if you stay here. Lyric, hers is almost as clear as they get. Here." he twists in his seat, to face Ravn better. "Focus on me, yeah? Kinda see if you can spot or, like, feel anything that's like her, but not like, I dunno, that librarian with the glasses who checked out my books when we were there." If anyone's going to be a good subject for finding the difference from 'normal' by contrast, he and Lyric are both definitely high on the list.

Ravn puts his beer down and chews his lip. He looks at Aidan for a while, sort of wondering what he's supposed to look for. The other man fails to light up like a star or be covered in glitter, or fart rainbows, or have a giant arrow pointing to him from the sky -- he just looks like, well, Aidan. And yet there's a strange feeling of familiarity, like, well, being Aidan is a good thing. A right thing. "Huh," he murmurs at length. "I mean, I'm not seeing anything. But I've got the same kind of gut feeling about you that I do about her. That you're people I should make sure to get to know better. It sounds kind of creepy to say it like that, really, but you both kind of feel like home."

Aidan doesn't look creeped out, at any rate! There's a faint sort of hopeful and expectant look as he's studied -- he did say he wasn't sure about his talents as a teacher, so it may relate as much to his own ability to explain in a way that's useful to work with as the eventual results -- and he waits. There are days he's covered in glitter, though even those without a shred of Glimmer ability can generally see it when he is, and as yet he has not managed to produce a single rainbow from within his person, alas. Though that might be a winner of a magic trick if he worked it out. So he just waits, looking... Aidanish.

The first part of the verdict does make him look slightly... not disappointed, quite, but as though he isn't sure what the right next thing to try might be, and wishes he were, or that this had been it. So the addition about the gut feeling brightens him back up and adds an extra notch to it, as he leans forward a degree or two. "That's probably it! That's probably what it is, for you. Keep an eye... well, I mean, I guess, keep a gut out for that? Which people it shows up for, and when? And you can ask me or Lyric or someone else who'd know if the people you feel it with have it, and more or less how much, and maybe it'll help you kinda... calibrate it?" A small pause. "It makes sense, I think. I mean, in a way, it's the same thing making you belong to this place, right?"

Keep a gut out. Ravn tries to not laugh out loud at the mental image, suddenly picturing himself trying desperately to gain weight in order to acquire a proper beer gut. For some reason he can't help think of that trucker, the 'European shitmonkey, get the fuck out of my truck' guy. He certainly had one.

Then he nods. "I certainly will. And if you're both right, I should get better at this thing pretty quick, too. And well... Even if I don't. I mean." The Dane flails a little. "Let's say I don't. I've still found somewhere there's people who can do the same kind of thing. People I can talk to about it without worrying that one of them is going to excuse themselves for a moment to walk out back and place a phone call about a nice padded room and a long-sleeved vest. That counts for a lot. So does feeling that I have some kind of purpose here, even if I'm still working out what it is. Even if you look at the coincidences -- what are the odds of me running into people who do sleight of hand, people who play the violin, people who feel the way I do about things, just like that? I don't mind if I stay a complete hack compared to you and Lyric. I'd mind not being able to defend myself in one of those Dream things, and I am going to wring my brain to come up with some way to make myself useful in them but it's not an ego thing. I'm not the kind of man who needs to be best at everything."

Except talking. He's pretty damn good at monologuing.

"I dunno how quick exactly, but... I do think it's likely you will. I was already pretty strong when I got back," Aidan says, and somewhere deep in the back of his mind (Strength is good. Strength will be needed.) and a tiny hitch of the rhythm of his voice, "but there's definitely stuff I can do now I couldn't then--" (Remember that we wished to see you grow.) He breaks off, paling just faintly, and turns his head to look at the water, the expression rendered more neutral by another sip of the beer.

(Your friends will fear it.)

He glances at the beer, and then shakes his head once, pushing the wave of paranoia away. The lies. "Um. Yeah, though. It'll probably come, and if you don't, it's not always the only way to deal with a thing. I mean. I think-- you know that thing about the hammer, right? But sometimes it's a screw or it didn't even need to go into a thing or-- or whatever." He makes a face. "Not one of my better analogies but, you know. And it is like three thousand percent better being able to talk about this kinda shit and not get a 72 hour hold or worse out of it, for sure. But my point's like, sometimes, you don't end up needing something big. Being creative can be as good as being straight-up powerful, if you come up with the right idea."

He finishes off the beer, looks at it with a tiny sigh, and then finds the grin again, closing his eyes and leaning back, legs stretching out and face tipped up toward the sun, both arms supporting for half a second and then just one as the other comes up to keep his hat in place. "'s gonna be a nice day. I better get over to Boardwalk and see if I can catch some crowds." He sits back up and starts to his feet, reclaiming the wooden box. "Catch you when I head back, maybe. If not, text me when you go shower, if I'm heading back I'll bring you a churro or something."

"Sounds like a deal," Ravn agrees, ignorant of the misery that his friend is going through. "And I'll do you the favour of not inviting any barnacles or seagulls home. I'll even go for a swim here before I hit your shower, get the worst off in advance."

It's such a nice day. The seagulls are circling. The sun is shining. The waves lick against the shore. Everything Is Fine.

It's probably going to end in disaster about five minutes from now.