2020-08-27 - All Cats are Gray in the Harbor

Minimalism is intentionally living with only the things one really needs -- those items that support a purpose. Removing the distraction of excess possessions in order to focus more on those things that matter most.

Ravn Abildgaard can't quite remember where he read that but it does sum up his general approach to owning stuff. At least the first part. Focusing on the things that matter most is probably easier when you have some kind of idea what those things are. For now, though, settling in feels important. Staying. Building some kind of life -- a silly little life of seasonal jobs and trying to think like a conspiracy theorist because surely the police isn't trying, and what have you, but they, it's his silly life. And he's building it. So there. He's had the long-dead old stove on the Vagabond replaced with a brand new one. Three cooking plates, gas. A small refridgerator. No more onion rings and tater tots at the Two if By Sea and calling that dinner. He's got responsibilities now. Kitty Pryde can't open her own cans of tuna, after all. Look at me. I'm being all domestic and responsible. Or is that domesticated? Either. Both.

And there she sits in her favourite spot, the prow of the sail boat. The black cat can see everything from there. Nothing can approach her unseen. She's queen of the ocean, sitting there. Currently licking a plate clean; tuna, always tuna. She loves tuna. Ravn tries other brands too, but it's the tuna that she loves. He feels odd about that, remembering a strange dream in which he himself was a tuna from the waist and down. The cat turned up shortly after that dream. He wonders, sometimes, if that's why she likes him. She probably thinks he's a land tuna.

She's still getting stuffed in a carrier and taken to a vet to be spayed and vaccinated. Just as soon as he gets within arms' length of her. The carrier sits ready. I'm a responsible adult and that cat is my responsibility now.

Ravn puts his booted feet up and makes himself comfortable on the deck. He uncaps himself a beer, fridge temperature. He smiles. The sun is still out. The seagulls are circling overhead still but the water of the bay is assuming an angry leaden colour, the whitecaps becoming ever more frequent. There's a storm coming, and it's not even a metaphorical one -- a summer thunder, bringing early warning that in another month or so, the tourist season will be over, the beach will be cold and quiet, and the boardwalk empty. It's remarkable, really, how much the climate of the Washington State coast resembles that of his native archipelago. Except, it's actually colder here than in Denmark, because the Chehalis transports the water of glaciers down to the sea, and that water is a hell of a lot colder than anything his native, rain drizzled homeland can supply.

Silly little life, maybe, but it's more than I used to have.

Maybe I should meet your cat.

It wasn't exactly a joke, but with dealing with the whole body-discovery-aftermath, it wasn't an immediate priority, either. After all, most cats were normal cats. That's what normal means. Almost definitely, whatever cat found Ravn was an entirely normal cat.

Almost definitely.

Aidan isn't particularly given to worry, but as the days go by, the thought still sits in the back of his mind, gradually taking hold. With tiny, tiny teeth. Like kitten bites. He's seen Ravn since then, and the Dane is demonstrably fine! But paranoia is a sometimes food, and the thought keeps coming back. Maybe I should meet his cat.

So he's come to meet the cat.

He has, therefore, come bearing gifts for both pet and owner, and feel free to apply the labels whichever way one feels most appropriate. No bag today, normal or odd: instead he's carrying a cardboard box, the kind reams of copier paper come in. Bright red jeans, worn sunshine-yellow Docs with rainbow metallic laces, and a sky-blue t-shirt patterned with a terror of tyrranosaurs in primary shades make up today's ensemble, along with a pair of oddly shaped red plastic sunglasses half-rimmed with rhinestones. They may well belong to his probably-unofficial collection of clothing and accessories older than he is, and the fact that anyone wearing them is technically looking through rose-coloured glasses is surely the only good explanation for deciding they're just the thing. Well, that and they probably do do a decent job at cutting down the sun.

He walks down the pier, looking for the boat that he last saw in person on land, and breaks into a grin when he spots it -- or more probably, spots its resident on the deck. "Knock knock!"

What a pair we make, Ravn muses, not for the first time; one man is fair and dresses like mourners at a funeral; the other man is dark and more colourful than a shipment of parrots running wild in a paint factory. He finds the contrast between them amusing and no less so for his fondness for the street magician who welcomed him into his home some weeks back.

"Speak friend and enter," he calls back, grinning and getting up to fetch another beer from the Vagabond's new refridgerator. The old one was still working, technically. It's just that it smelled like somebody left a dead raccoon in it to slowly decompose over a decade, cold or not.

On the prow, Kitty Pryde, queen of black strays, emptier of tuna cans, devourer of dropped scraps, and thief of onion rings, throws the new arrival an appraising, yellow-green glance. She's a pretty little thing, if skinny. And oh so similar in appearance to that other cat, the one staring intently at dumpsters containing dead women. All black cats look alike. At least this one isn't putting pictures into people's heads -- yet.

"Friend!" Wait, no. Not in English. "Um. Melon?" Close enough. Maybe. Aidan approaches and boards, more carefully after a brief wobble at the start, and he eyes the cat, sidelong. That cat does look uncomfortably like the other, though Ravn had mentioned the similarity before. Drawing that from his memory keeps the fact from being too unsettling. Not actually a surprise, he'd just forgotten the detail before. "How's things going? I came to meet your boat and your cat. Not necessarily in that order, though. And I brought some Stuff." The box is hefted a bit, and though he takes a fairly admiring look around the deck, his attention lands on Kitty Pryde again, and then again. "Do you mind if I talk to her? I mean, I'd ask her too except I can't without talking to her so it'd already be a bit late."

"Melon will do," Ravn confirms with a grin and offers the other man the beer. He gestures with one hand, "This is the Vagabond -- a cruise ship she is not, but more than big enough for myself and a cat. And this is Kitty Pryde, the cat in question. I'm sure she won't mind you saying hello as long as you don't try to touch her. I haven't got that privilege myself yet, and I'm the one who buys her tuna."

It doesn't seem to have clicked for him what Aidan actually means -- literally talking to the cat, one mind to another. He settles again at the back of the boat, feet up, looking at the dark clouds on the horizon with the laid back air of a man who knows that his boat is entirely capable of weathering a summer squall, but also with a small frown shadowing his grey eyes as he watches the younger man approach the feline. "All black cats look alike, though. Pryde hasn't... you know. Acted weird. She steals anything edible that isn't nailed down but there's nothing -- unusual about her, for a stray, that I've noticed." He's not forgotten that other black cat, either.

"Melon is delicious. And your boat looks awesome. Can I see the inside part later? Have you actually gone sailing in her?" Aidan pauses, brow furrowing, and glances out toward the water. "The last time I was on a boat, it ended up on a mostly-deserted island and we had to fight the Harlem Globetrotters and this, like, giant Gilligan/Skipper/Mary-Anne combo-creature that kept throwing explosive Gingers at us. I think I'd kinda rather do not that, next time."

Setting down the box on the nearest handy surface, he accepts the offered beer, lifting it in a small toast. "Thanks," he says with a grin, and takes a sip as he moves slowly toward the cat. Not too close, not yet. "They're like tiny panthers," he agrees, "Or jaguars? Wait, what's the difference between those? I mean, aside from spelling... and pronounciation..." It sounds a little distracted by the time he gets that far, most of his focus on the cat herself as he opens the less common senses of his mind and reaches out to touch hers, to read the emotions and any overspilling images he might find there. Or, far more simply, to see whether she feels like... a cat. "Hey there," he greets her softly, "What's up, pussycat? I'm Aidan."

"I've taken her out a few times, never far -- I don't really know these waters yet." Ravn clinks his beer bottle against Aidan's in a toast, indeed, to life, seagulls and incoming thunderstorms. "You could go along sometime. Four people can sleep here comfortably -- make it six and some of them will have to be on pretty friendly terms but it can be done. Could take a trip to Seattle sometime, something, just on a nicer ride than a Greyhound."

'Pussycat' stares back at the new human in a decidedly feline fashion; ears up, eyes open, unblinking, assessing him.

Unlike that other black cat, though, her mind is a wide open book -- and being the animal that she is, a book that's very much open in the present.

new human
new smells
tuna human not worried
don't touch me
touching bad
could go for more tuna

Cat thoughts. Cat thoughts the way cat thoughts are meant to be.

Aidan finds it difficult not to agree with that last one as it passes through his consciousness. He hasn't had tuna in afew days, but now that she mentions it, he could kinda go for some. Still, this seems like a counterproductive point on which to agree with her, as she'd likely prefer all tuna be for her. He relaxes a little at the normality and appropriateness of it, and lets that emotion flow over to her a bit as well, to share it into hers: relief, relaxation, safety. The feeling people mean when they make quiet calming noises at a cat and offer a hand, the latter of which he does, though not so near as to risk touching her unless she decides to come and sniff it.

"Kitty Pryde is definitely a this-world kitty," he informs her human, with a small nod, and grins. "And that would be kickass. I'd drive my van up there, usually? But a boat would be a lot cooler. Different kinda trip, you know?" Another little pause, and he adds, "She wants more tuna. I didn't bring any of that, though. But there's the box and a couple things she could play with in it, and also some pop-tarts and a housewarming six-pack but those are for you."

"I was pretty sure you'd say that -- that she's a normal cat," Ravn agrees. He hauls the box over and peeks into it curiously. "A bossy little monster who's absolutely declared me property, but not -- you know, a real monster. Real monsters probably wouldn't leave hair balls in my bed. How about we celebrate with pop tarts, beer, and tuna, then? I've got a stash of the latter -- of course I do, I'm a good servant."

On the prow of the boat, the black cat lies back down. All is well. The new human said so. Is a safe space. One does not need to be a feline mind reader to tell what's going on in her head as she flops over on her side, sunning her tummy.

"I sent my file on the... beach thing... to Leon Gyre, and now it's with the police," the Dane interrupts himself, somewhat unprovokedly. "Is it always like that around here? That you -- something happens, and you try to process it, and then... well, that's just it? Lick your wounds, sit back, take a breather before the next horror hits the horizon? I don't know what I was hoping for -- some kind of closure, I think. I think I might have been going about this whole investigation thing the wrong way. I'm hardly Sherlock Holmes. Maybe I'm not here to play investigator but to -- I don't know, connect with people."

"I dunno, I think there might be real monsters that'd leave hairballs there too. Though, they might be more like owl pellets and you'd find bones and stuff in them. Or acidic slime. They probably wouldn't purr, though." Aidan tilts his head, considering that phrasing. "The real monsters. Not the hairballs. Those might maybe purr."

He takes a drink of his beer, looking pleased at the cat's relaxation, and wanders Ravnward. Inside the box there are, as he said, a box of pop-tarts (strawberry frosted) and a six-pack of beer (decent, local, relatively inexpensive). They rest atop a soft baby blanket, sky blue and printed with sheep, and share the space with three little pompoms of varying size and shade, a fabric mouse that looks handmade and smells of catnip, two pull rings from plastic milk containers, and an actual packaged thing that proclaims itself to be a 'Cat Dancer' and appears to consist of a length of wire with one small roll of cardboard at one end and about four at the other.

"...yeah," he says, as he nears, sitting himself down for the moment on the closest sittable surface that doesn't look likely to break anything, "At least, for me it is? It might be different for other people, maybe. But for me stuff mostly just happens and-- then it stops. Sometimes, now and then, it seems like more's going on with it, or something else happens and definitely it must've been kinda related to another thing somehow. But mostly... they happen and then they stop happening. But I'm not-- I mean, I don't really even know where to start investigating things. That's Baylee's area. Like, I came back here to investigate a thing, and I talked to a few people about it, but it's been like over a year and that's kinda as far as I got. So, I mean, it might just be me. But pop-tarts and beer and tuna sounds awesome." Another sip of the beer, and that tilt of the head. "What'd you find out about it? That you sent and all?"

Ears twitch in the prow. There are sparkly things that announce themselves to exist for the purpose of being hunted, claimed, and shredded. When that thunderstorm comes in and one can no longer sun one's tummy outside, those pom poms are going to be the deadest pom poms ever. And the remains will probably end up buried in Ravn's bunk because hello, only a stupid cat would ruin its own sleeping nest.

Ravn cheerfully distributes beers and pop tarts. He glances at Kitty Pryde but as she fails to move, he decides that she's full up on tuna at the moment, and doesn't go to fetch her a can. Judging from the way he looks at her, the skinny stray is going to be needing wheels to move stray in a month or two. Then he leans back in his seat and looks thoughtful.

"It's pretty bad, from what people have pieced together, actually. There's definitely a serial killer who's trying to appease some hopefully very imaginary ancient Sumerian gods of the underworld. He's killed at least three people. Possibly four -- there's a fourth guy in the story about whom we only know that he's tall and thin, and about my age. The librarian who saw him said he looked a bit like me. But we don't know if he's a body we haven't found, or he is the killer. I'm thinking the police are going to keep it all very quiet, to be honest, because this guy is definitely going to kill again, and I don't think they want a town-wide panic." He sighs lightly. "I sent them everything I could deduct, about how his mind works. Whether they can make something of it... I mean, they've got their own people on it, I presume. Actual criminal psychologists, forensics, and so on. Gave them my details of course but --"

Ravn trails off a moment, then looks back at Aidan. "I don't think Gray Harbor pulled me here to play CSI. I have this idea that the town tries to give each of us what we need on some level, so we'll stick around. Grant Baxter thinks it's trying to communicate with us. Me, I think we're batteries -- it wants us to stick around until it needs us some day, and that's why people vanish or disappear -- they're used up and discarded. At least that's the theory I have at the moment. It's all very gloomy if you adopt the premise that we just have to accept it. I for one don't."

And surely a freshly killed pompom is a fair trade for tuna!

Aidan does not correct the presumption that Kitty Pryde is wholly satisfied with her current state of tunification, on the theory that if tuna-desire were truly winning over sunbeam-desire, she'd already be over here making her wishes known. Or at least over THERE making her wishes known. Nor does he seem too terribly disappointed at the lack of tuna for them, at present. Pop-tarts and beer, snackfood of champions! He gets comfortable, leaning back with one knee up, just enough heel caught on the edge of his seat to support that, and gets to sipping and nibbling while he listens.

'Serial killer' has him making a face, though the idea of appeasing (possibly imaginary) gods is interesting. "He's not actually you, though, or some weird clone or something, right? 'cause that seems like it could get awkward quick trying to sort stuff out. The, um. Is there a pattern in the people he's killed? Like, all older dudes with, I dunno, brown hair and tattoos?" Hey, he watches police procedurals sometimes!

The mention of Grant briefly brightens his expression, in a way that someone actually there at the Waffle House (as Ravn was) might well interpret as something along the lines of that's my cousin! "Yeah though. I mean, if it wanted me here to play CSI it's kinda got weird taste in playmates, 'cause, I don't even know where you get luminol. I wonder what it'd be trying to tell us if it was? I guess I could see batteries, too. But, like. Is that kinda assuming the town wants things? Or do you mean something else we dunno about yet you're using the town to represent? 'cause I guess I could see either. Or both. But if it just brought you here to be a battery and you don't wanna just accept it then isn't it kinda up to you whether you decide to play CSI or not?"

Ravn looks at Aidan as if trying to follow that line of rapid-fire inquiry is making him a little dizzy. Then he grins slightly and nods. "Yes. I guess. I mean, the thing to do here, I figure, is to do what you want -- which may coincide with what the town wants, but it also might not. And I am not here to play detective -- so on that, at least, the town and I probably agree on something. I'm happy to help where I can, but I figure that if I get any say in the matter -- it's people and stories I'm interested in. If I can help people get through this, then, score one for team humanity."

He circles back to the other line of questions and shakes his head. "No, the librarian who saw the other bloke also saw me. He did not imply that the other bloke was me. Just a frame of reference -- someone tall and thin, about thirty, like that guy. I don't know about patterns... The only thing I know for sure is that all three bodies found so far were male. But Aidan, neither you or I are criminal psychologists or forensic experts or homicide detectives, or what have you. We're entertainers. We're meant to make people smile. That's what I'm going to try to do -- make things a little better."

It is not the first time Aidan has gotten that look. He gives a slightly sheepish one back, and fills his mouth with pop-tart to hold any further questions off awhile. Probably. It's not as if he's never talked with his mouth full. He does listen to the answers, however, which may deserve more credit for the fact that he stays quiet until they're done, with just a few little nods in there for the plan and the matter of library-guy, and a smallish smile for 'team humanity'.

"Go team humanity," he declares, with a quick grin, "...I had a weird experience at Firefly a while back where we all ended up in some kinda dance-off with cheerleaders who kept exploding into kinda... strawberry-flavoured goo when we won? Only not like..." He trails off, the brightness in it faltering, and reroutes, "They weren't-- I mean I'm pretty sure they weren't really people? Anyway. The point is there were a bunch of pompoms around and it turns out I am not terrible at that, so if humanity needs people telling it to go-fight-win I can be your dude."

Sipping his beer, he thinks about the rest a moment more. "I kinda wish I felt like I was... I dunno. I'm not good at that stuff. I'm mostly good at setting things on fire and breaking things and putting people back together, only... not so good at putting people back together, anymore. I think that's true for all of us, but it sucks. 'cause before, at least I could make things really better for people, sometimes. And it's bad enough getting an axe in your chest when someone can come make it better right now, now it takes days. And I can't keep doing it, anymore. It's like it wipes something in me out until I sleep or something." The concern and undertone of unhappiness in it increase a bit as he goes, as if perhaps it hasn't been put into words before and maybe hearing it makes it worse.

The next drink is a little deeper, eyes glancing out over the water, and then he sighs, looking back to the Dane. "If I was any good at investigating stuff I'd prolly try to figure out what was up with that." A beat. "Well that and the family thing." Hm. "You're better at investigating stuff than I am, anyway."

Ravn can't quite resist a small chuckle at that look; it's so very familiar, just from the other side. "You know, Aidan -- get me started on one of my pet topics and I can literally lecture you for four hours on it. There was a time I got paid to lecture people for four hours on some obscure piece of historical trivia. Our part of team humanity seems to suffer from communal motormouth. It means we're enthusiastic." He nods firmly. Enthusiastic.

Aidan's words are no joking matter, though, and the copper blond gives them due attention as he nurses his beer. Only when the other man falls quiet does he comment. "You realise, most people who take an axe to the chest don't see someone who magics them better, and sit around to complain about him not doing it fast enough. Most people who take an axe to the chest either die right there, or at best they are in for a very extended hospital stay. And if this battery analogy holds then -- well, yes, you need to recharge. Even Energiser Aidan can't go on indefinitely without recharging."

He too fishes a pop tart out and starts to nibble on it. A curious pastry, these. They resemble the raspberry slices of his homeland somewhat in form and structure -- and have about as much raspberry in them as well. Glazing and sprinkles. Sugar, all of the sugar. "I'm not good at investigating. I'm good at finding possible connections between bits of information, because that's how piecing together research works. Add people to the equation and I'm screwed. However -- if you feel like taking a stroll to city hall some day, it wouldn't be the first time I've been digging around birth records and death certificates to find out how two people were connected historically. We could go try to find out about your cousin situation."

Aidan returns that nod. Enthusiastic. Yes. That is what they are. "I was gonna ask how you could talk about anything for four hours, except... well, I probably could, I just dunno what one subject I could go that long one without running out of stuff to say and ending up talking about something else. Definitely I could probably ask questions for four hours, though."

Okay, Ravn has a point about the healing issue. Multiple points, really, though Aidan isn't entirely sanguine about them even so. "I mean... well. Yeah, I know it's still a lot better than nothing, but it's also..." His fingertips slide over the can in his hand, fidgety. "Things happen, and people get hurt. Sometimes a bunch of people. And I can only help one, now? 'cause, I mean... people take axes to the chest and stuff a lot more often here than most places. Not even just 'cause it's a lumber town. And if someone breaks a leg at breakfast do I just wait 'cause what if someone else loses an arm entirely at dinner? Now I'm making it sound like meals are super perilous around here, but I'm pretty sure that's actually one of the rarest times stuff happens."

A bite of the pop-tart, well chewed, swallowed, washed down by beer. "You seem pretty okay with people to me," he says, less disbelief of the claim than simply observation. "But-- would you? 'cause I am not amazing at that kind of thing. And all I really know is, I know who my adoptive parents were, and I know that's who's on my birth certificate, and I know that's not technically who I was born to." A pause, and a smile, "And now that I have cousins from that family, anyway. So that's still pretty awesome. We can ask Grant for the pics he has, too. Of the tree thing. It'd probably help some." He goes quiet again, thoughtful. "The stuff we can do? I've been back here, um... a bit over a year? Like, a year and a season. And it's changed three times, the healing thing was the last of 'em. So far. I dunno why, and I prolly don't totally know how, I just know what I know is different. Maggi and I were thinking, a while back, maybe we could figure out how to figure out why, somehow? And how to change it back."

"I'm not familiar with US record keeping but the basics can't be too different," Ravn observes matter-of-factly. "Births get recorded. Deaths too. The tricky part is decoding whatever symbols and abbreviations are used to what meaning, but the newer the records are, the easier it gets -- and don't get me started on hand writing. Once we get into computerised records it becomes a lot easier. We should definitely give it a shot -- everyone should be allowed to know who they are and where they came from, even if they decide to turn their back on it all."

Ravn leans back in his seat and sips his beer before laughing softly. "You know, everyone keeps telling me that? I'm great with people? I don't know whether to laugh or cry about it, because I'm crap with people, Aidan. I'm great at the whole 'charming handsome stranger smiling at you like a ray of sunshine' hustle, but below that? I'm just as wound up and messed up as everyone else. I like people, but -- until I came here, I was utter shit with people. That's one of the reasons I haven't picked up and left. I don't understand why it's different here."

He pauses.

Yes, dump everything on anyone who makes the mistake of asking, why don't you.

The Dane smiles and if there is a shadow in his eyes for a moment, it's directed at himself. "I would like to know more about how all of this works too. I would like to help you with your family, because that's actually something I know how to do. As for the rest -- the more we know, the better off we are, I figure. It's not like any of us are actually getting up and moving on, is it?"

Aidan grins at the bit about dealing with people, and shakes his head. "I didn't say you were great with people, though. I said you seemed pretty okay with 'em to me. 'cause you said once people get added in you're screwed. I'm just sayin', from where I sit, it doesn't look like you're doing so bad. I mean, I'm pretty sure no one's any good with people if we can't also be kinda fucked up at the same time." He takes another thoughtful sip of his beer. "I like people too. I think it kinda matters. I dunno if I'm whatever it means to you for someone to be decent with people, but I'm good at liking people. I guess I'm okay at having people be okay with me? I mean-- I know I don't really...matter to people a lot? But most of them are mostly okay with me being around." He considers this assertion a moment, then adds, "Mostly," and has another bite of pop-tart.

There might be a touch of a shadow there, too, but Aidan shakes it off, a light toss of his head that makes the curls bounce as he brightens back up. "Anyway. Thanks. 'cause I kinda really do want to know more, and-- I appreciate the help. I mean, about family-type things. But I think you're right on the rest too. I mean, pretty much never it's worse to know how stuff works? At worst you, like, decide maybe you're not gonna eat sausage anymore. But they didn't actually change any 'cause you know, and now you can just not if it bugs you. And nah... we're probably not. Not soon, anyway."

"Good with people equates liking people. You know what, I'll buy that definition. That way, we're both good with people in our own way. I do like people -- you know, in not too large numbers, and maybe not staring at me directly." Ravn cants his head and then nods slightly with a small, cheeky grin. "I can put on the act, like I said -- but if it's me people are looking at, instead of Random Guy With a Violin, I'm less excited about it. I thought about taking a teaching position on a more permanent basis some years ago, but having a class room full of people hanging on my every word made me deeply uncomfortable."

Then he leans forward on his seat and points his beer bottle at the younger man. "You're wrong on that account, though. People like me -- and you, it sounds like -- don't exist at the centre of a crowd of admirers competing for our attention except when we're performing, and then it's not us but the role we play. But we're important to the people we actually do connect with. If you and I hadn't sort of fallen into chatting at the library that day, who knows? I might have written a blog post about that funny little town where everyone warns you to leave and then gotten on a bus to Portland in the evening, instead of setting up on your couch. The funny little town that no doubt made sure we would sort of wander into one another around a couple of geriatric computers and start talking because we do have a lot in common and odds were that we'd hit it off just fine. Which we did. Anyhow, the point I'm trying to make is that personally, I'd rather have a few good friends than be on mildly pleasant if largely disinterested terms with half the town."

Aidan does grin again at the mention of putting on the (rather literal) act. "It's weird if people are staring at me when I'm not doing anything," he says, wearing what he's wearing, and after a beat allows, "I mean, if they're not just checking out my shirt or something. It's like... I dunno. I've kinda had enough of people staring at me for bad things, and if I dunno why they are, it gets-- worrying. I really don't mind that much if I know it's something okay, though."

He breaks off an edge of the pop-tart and eats it, glancing over toward the cat, then back. There's something in his expression that looks less than entirely convinced that he is indeed wrong; a tiny rustle of the curls. Still, the specifics of how their first encounter may have mattered, and even more so the affirmation of hitting it off and implication of-- if not necessarily current, at least potential good-friendness, those do seem to genuinely bolster whatever bit of mood the topic puts on thinner ice. "I would too," he says, "I'm just pretty good at being on mildly good if largely disinterested terms with people, I guess. Which is a lot better than bad but really interested ones, at least!" That definitely comes out a touch brighter than it really ought to. But it's not wrong. "People who actually care is definitely best, though. Really friends."

"Yes, exactly. When you put on a colourful shirt and a top hat and give people a show they are not looking at you -- they're watching the performer and his act. And when I juggle glasses at the bar, or play a few reels at a bus stop, no one's looking at me either. None of them are looking at the actual, real Aidan or Ravn." The Dane scoops up a pop-tart of his own and nibbles on it, picking off small pieces with his fingers rather than biting from it. "I enjoy performing, don't get me wrong on that -- I enjoy it very much. But I don't confuse people looking at the act for people looking at the man performing it. Those are very different things, and that's how I tend to deal with people a lot too, at least until I know them a lot better."

Kitty Pryde stretches and manages to expose even more tummy to the sunshine and the looming shade of purple on the horizon. She's making the most of the hours before the storm hits, possibly anticipating having to spend time below deck later in order to escape the rain. Possibly plotting to leave even more hairballs in Ravn's bed.

Aidan nibbles around the edge of his pop-tart, sometimes breaking a bit off as before, and sometimes just going for it directly, eating first the plainest bits of pastry until he has essentially a sandwich of frosted pastry over strawberry filling over plain pastry. It takes exactly enough concentration: not enough to be truly difficult, but enough to let him think things over without letting all his focus rest on them and be drawn off down dimly lit tangential alleys. Plus, there's just something satisfying about it, particularly nipping bits of the back layer off while trying not to break the front layer. And an excuse, intentional or not, for momentary pauses before replying.

"Probably if they didn't notice the performer they wouldn't notice at all," he says, thinking this over. "Not everyone, but. I think maybe it's easier to keep people from looking at a person properly than getting them to do it. I mean. I'm pretty sure maybe I don't do it as much as I should, either? But... also you kinda never know people a lot better until you look at them, do you? So that's kinda a problem. And if you try and get around it by looking when they're not that's tiring and kinda lopsided. And maybe you won't be so interested in them then, if they're not really trying yet or you're doing good at getting in the way of their view if they do." This bears more consideration, and thus, also more tart-deconstruction. And a drink of the beer.

"I call it being functionally invisible. It's been -- kind of my thing for a few years. Getting people to look at my tricks or my busking but not seeing me. I can't -- I freeze up if people look and see me, rather than the act." Ravn looks at the impending storm and the shades of blue and leaden purple painting themselves on the horizon. The bay forms a natural harbour -- which is no doubt why Gray Harbor is here, the people who settled here no doubt noticed this natural advantage -- and there is little reason to concern. The oncoming thunderstorm is just one of nature's little seasonal dramas. Tomorrow, the air will smell of fresh rain and ozone, and the shallower bits of ocean will be murky with silt and plant matter stirred up by the motions of the waves. A few whitecaps are beginnning to turn slightly frothy out there. The real entertainment is still hours off.

He shakes his head. "I've been arguing with Rosencrantz a few times about it. It's not that he pushes me towards performing, not at all -- he respects that it's something I can't do. But at the same time, he doesn't understand, and I don't think I can make him. Or maybe it's me who can't understand how it may not be a big deal whether you can walk onto a stage or not, because to me, it does feel like a big deal. We argue about it some -- about what makes a real musician. To me, it takes more than just being able to do the technical playing. We'll probably keep arguing about that as long as we're within three counties of each other."

Aidan loves a good storm he has the option of shelter from, even after the one just over a year ago that-- well, it could just be a coincidence of timing that the Dream came then, and if you let yourself associate what you were doing when a Dream happened with the Dream itself all the time around here, sooner or later there'd be nothing left to enjoy. The trailer's likely a less impressive place to watch it than a boat, but it'll be good enough.

"I think-- to me kinda if you say a real musician I think someone who's probably pretty damn good at the technical part but also they, like... really feel it, and it makes you feel it. Like, a robot could be technically perfect but it wouldn't be a 'real musician' to me until it really felt like they had, you know, soul in it," he muses, head slightly cocked. "But, I dunno that has anything to do with performing like doing performances or not. Like it could be in your kitchen for no one but maybe the cat, doesn't have to be center stage at Carnegie Hall or something." A thoughtful look, and a tiny nod, "But. I think I kinda see where that crosses over? 'cause performing that way, you kinda also gotta let people see some of you." He sips his beer, and nods again, seeming perhaps satisfied with this. "Magic's easier that way, I guess. It's meant to be about making people see what isn't there, and not see what is."

"That's exactly what I mean." Ravn looks relieved. "Good lord, I am going to steal that analogy right off you. Because I have been trying to explain this to Itzhak several times and he looks at me like I'm speaking Swahili and he's repressing the urge to slap the stupid out of me. I do know how to play. If I have to be honest, I'm pretty decent at it. But stick me and my violin in front of an audience, you'll be watching Robot number Twenty-Eight perfunctorily hack its way through whatever piece. And it'll be about as soulful as one of those production line robots doing paint jobs on cars. The paint job may be pretty, but it's exactly the same every time, nothing personal, nothing human. To me, a real musician can communicate the soul -- just as you say."

Aidan nets himself a lopsided smile. "See, I can do stage magic just fine. Because of that, because it's all misdirection. If the audience is actually looking at you, you're definitely doing it wrong. I can be as smooth and smiling and suggestive as the next guy while I cheat the hell out of a card trick. But it's not me."

Grant doesn't really call so much as show up where the world takes him. The skae punk is ambling down the docks careful not to go in unexpectedly, and keeping a vague eye on things, skateboard hooked into his fingers in nothing but his broken in skate shorts, his Vans, and his t-shirt hanging out of his back pocket. There are a few scars, and there's a half sleeve tattoo of a seahorse on one arm, and there's another of an embossed heart-shaped coin slot like one would find on a bubble gum machine on left pectoral. His neck, without the shirt has a ever fading scar that goes all the way around his neck as if his head was put back on, and a quarter on a string hanging around his neck with a medical ID tag that looks like a dogtag.

Ear to ear grin he strolls up the docks, "Cuz! Ravn, what up Tuna man?"

"Well, I mean, mostly they should be looking at you! Unless you're trying to disappear or someting, I mean. Just, yeah, they should be looking at the parts of you you want them to look at, and thinking about what you're asking them to think about right then. Out loud, or just suggesting otherwise."

He shifts position a little in his chair, weight easing onto one hip so that he can curl both legs up, the sides of his boots balanced on the edge of the seat and the other boot respectively, and he eats the last bite of his pop-tart, washing it down with another drink. "...yeah. Misdirection. Don't forget the part of my definition that doesn't need you having an audience for the music thing, though. Though... also for me if I'm not performing I don't so much want them not to see me, mostly? It just kinda happens mostly. And it's safer sometimes, maybe."

That has him looking contemplative again, as he takes one more sip, an expression that is promptly and thoroughly interrupted by the greeting. "Cuz!" he calls back brightly, giving Grant a brilliant grin, and lifting the bottle in a sort of salute. "I like your tatts. 'Sup?"

"The sky?" Ravn waves to Grant. "Come on out, I promise she won't sink. Just, if you're one of those folks who read the memories of objects, don't do it -- somebody called her the Good Ship Discowhore, and it's surprisingly apt for what she looked like before I got started fixing her up." A gloved hand reaches for a beer and holds it up, waving it slightly like a lure. "Come stop us from getting all existential out here, we're about ready to start debating whether anyone does in fact watch when a tree plays a violin in the forest."

Grant hesitates when Ravn says be careful. His expression fade to a What's up now? and the warning comes and he looks to Aidan and puts a hand on the boat and leaps it like he's dropping in with his board. He murmurs, "Fuck yes I'm reading the boat." There's a pause and a half of a grin with a snicker, "Shit, it's kinda like my place only with shit music and weird people."

So much for that. he does greet Aidan with an unnecessarily complex handshake that ends in a hug, because he's fam. He offers the same to Ravn and smiles, "I'll teach you in time. It's fun, and...thanks." He finds a place to park his ass and his head tilts, "Itzil get stuck int eh woods again or something?"

"...well, now I'm kinda all tempted to take a look too," Aidan admits, and is mostly dissuaded from giving in to this temptation immediately by getting Fancy Handshaked, which he's absolutely up for but somewhat handicapped in by holding that can of beer in one hand. And not in any way knowing the order of operations Grant intends for things. This does not mean he isn't definitely going to try to follow... and as it turns out, he manages it remarkably well! One might almost suspect him of using his glimmer to predict where the skater's going next, but there's no little tingle of it for either of them.

There might be, though, after the shake and hug are soundly complete, Grant's claiming a seat of his very own somewhere, and Aidan gives in to the nagging temptation. Look, it's like he said about hot dogs, earlier. He reaches out to touch a probably-safe-or-at-least-almost-definitely-cleaned-and-repainted bit of the boat within stretching distance. He blinks a couple times, brows lifting, and glances in one direction, then another, before there's a tiny snicker there too, and a look toward the cabin that travels onward to Bax. "I think I've crashed places like your place," he informs the purple-haired man, and then makes a face. "That dude was way too old for those chicks, though." In better thoughts, "Also I'd definitely watch if a tree in the forest started playing violin."

"Oi. Just because some Seattle paper thinks I'm making out with Rosencrantz on the deck here doesn't mean that I actually am," Ravn says with a grin. "He doesn't come around every day. And when he does, we mostly talk music. And break cameras long distance. Well, Rosencrantz does that, I don't have the reach or the ability."

He shakes his head at the two younger men. "Honestly? With the things the current owner told me this guy got up to, I'm glad I can't do that. I don't want to go to sleep in a bunk thinking about how a guy used to screw fifteen-year-olds after drugging them out of their little heads. I'd want to go get up and set the bunk and myself on fire."

Grant wobbles his head to Aidan, "Well pretty much all of us graduated around the same t-" And Ravn has to point out the ugly part of the details and the Baxter boy looks distressed "Okay we... need to just burn the boat into the bay and... No." He waves his hands to abate argument and says calmly, "I have a couch, you'll be fine, and no fel-.... no atrocities against other people have been committed on it. ..." He looks to Aidan and says seriously, "I'm a need you to like rip that memory out of my head like a weed later and replace it with gummi bears, cuz."

"At least some of them were definitely more like college, I'm pretty sure, but yeah it's still pretty fucked up. The decor and the music and the snack plates and the game of musical chairs I caught was kinda funny, though... 'cause a boat doesn't have a whole lot of chairs and you can't remove most of the other stuff to sit on..." He pauses, considering a moment. "The emotions attached to the memories I got in that batch were pretty okay, at least. I mean. Might've been worse ones when people were less high later, though. Anyway, he could come back to my couch too but it's not the boat's fault and Ravn already, like, bleached her, right?"

He's quiet a moment. "There's a thing I heard people can do I never tried, but I could maybe. Like, same as you can read memory residue off of things? You can wipe it off of them. I could try to get rid of it if you want." Grant gets an apologetic look, "Pretty sure it doesn't work for things in your head though."

"I didn't just bleach her, I did everything short of setting her on fire. It's not the Vagabond's fault, she's a good boat." Ravn pats the sail boat's railing affectionately, possessively. "I am thinking about buying her. I mean, if I end up staying here -- and let's be honest, I'm not getting out anytime soon, am I? I can kind of see myself living here ten months out of twelve. She's a good boat. One man can sail her, though two would be easier. She's the right size, too -- I don't want one of those catamarans that feel like a floating mansion, plenty room for a man and his cat here. Only thing she doesn't have is a shower."

Grant murmurs "And she definiately needs one." Cause woah. Taking a deep breath he looks to Aidan and considers this, blinks, and looks around at the boat. "Weeee can try? I mean I might...okay I am going to need that beer after and like a burger but I'm game to try if he's cool with it. Releasing the demons out of the vessel. Let it rest." Looking to Ravn he clarifies, "Not sink, just not be contaminated with the most heinous of party fouls."

"And my trailer's got one of those," Aidan chimes in. Shower. Not... any of the other potentials. Well, okay, it's got a man, most of the time. "Where're you gonna live the other two months? And which two?" Grant gets a little nod, though also an apologetic, "I dunno if there's a burger. There's still some pop-tarts, though? And, yeah." A look to Ravn. "Up to you if you want us to see if we can do it."

Ravn taps his lip with a gloved finger. "You know, why not? I mean, I trust you two to not sink her, like Grant is saying. What harm can it do? I would hate for someone who reads objects to get on board and get a look at some of those things without warning. Blank slates are good."

A grin spreads across his face. "Tell you what, you do this, burgers are on me."

Grant looks around at the deck remiss to grab onto it and frowns. he is focusing with his eyes closed. Breathe, Jedi dude. Breathe. "Yeah a'ight. We can try." And good lord he is focusing on the individual elements, all the small things that go into making memory and there is, unbelievable as it is bits of dust, salt, little bits of flaked oxidation in the small crevices of the deck where they are at and even stains! All the little particles lifting up up UP carries off in the wind like those baby spiders in Charlotte's Web. This might be the cleanest the boat has ever been. All the memories are absolutely there but hey something was removed! There's a furrowing of his brow and Bax admits, "I have no idea what I'm doing." Looking around the boat is... shiny and newer looking? It gets a thoughtful Huh!

"I'm pretty sure I couldn't fuck it up bad enough to sink us," Aidan agrees, which is surely reassuring, and he looks the boat over thoughtfully from stem to stern. Then, like Grant, he closes his eyes a moment, and breathes. More than usual, it looks as though he's really concentrating as he reaches to touch the same spot he touched before, but this time lets the contact linger longer. Is there any sort of attempt to link powers up somehow with his cousin? If so, does it actually do anything? Does the attempt to get the memories gone do anything? There's really no sign either way. When he opens his eyes, though, and looks around-- well, he has no idea what to expect, but does the boat kind of... look cleaner? "I think maybe it worked? It felt like it might've." And things look nice! "I could try reading it some more to be sure..."

"The real question to be asked here," Ravn grouses although smiling as he does so, "is why I went to all that effort with a rag and elbow grease. I don't know how you're doing this, but it certainly looks cleaner. And I thought I'd done such a good job, too. Give it a shot, reading? That is, if you're not too traumatised from the first time around. I imagine that there are things involving big hairdos and hotpants one could really live without knowing for sure."

Grant is looking honestly impressed at the place and also...confused? "Woah... fuck dude, my room isn't even this clean. I didn't know this was a thing!" Somewhere Bob Ross, patron Saint of Happy Accidents, is smiling. Looking back to Ravn the grin turns wry with the idea of mischief there, "There's a lot we can do with this. Guys you know what this means???" Does he? Well he's excited and if nothing else the grin and the laugh are infectious. "Aidan did it work?"

"Mine neither!" Which Ravn knows, unless the trailer had a strange and mystical overhaul in the last... since he most recently borrowed the shower. Aidan grins back at Grant, cocking his head at the shift of his cousin's to wryness and the first question. "No. What's it mean?" he asks, but as for the other inquiry... well, there's only one way to know.

Another look around, and a faint sense of bracing as he reaches out to touch that spot again. He squints a little behind those sunglasses, and after a moment, offers, "I... think it worked? I mean, I'm not getting a read like I did before. It kinda feels like..." A pause. What does it feel like? "...like when you look away from a bright light you just glanced at and it's like the ghost of the shape of it is kinda still there but you didn't look long so you don't really see it? I dunno if it got all of it, we might wanna try again in, like, the cabin or something, later? But I think here at least it's-- yeah, I think it worked." It's maybe not perfect, but its enough to make him grin again. They did good!

Ravn's lopsided grin doesn't diminish. "I guess that means I do owe you two burgers. Do we even have a McDonald's or similar in town, or does that mean hitting the ..." he pauses and glances from one to the other. "The bear diner. Grizzly, black, doesn't matter, as long as we avoid the omelettes, right? And maybe asking Gina about anything whatsoever, because she rather thinks I'm an arrogant brat, I feel."

He has no way of telling if those imprints of teenage acting out anno 1982 persists. What he does have, though, is a sharp eye for dirt. He is the guy who bought little housefly stickers and put them at the bottom of the urinals of the Twofer's restroom for gents. Why? Because it's been statistically proven that even drunk men have better aim when they have something to aim at, and he's the one who washes the floor. The Vagabond looks cleaner. This makes her owner -- well, leaser, technically -- a very happy yachter.

"Lightburn? Wicked." There's a grin there shaking his head, and then snappoints, "After image!...maybe."He has to thin on that one. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, "It meeeeans if we need some extra cash man we could get into detailing cars or something. Powerwash a couple decks. Not actually a bad gig. It pays alright." Big aspirations there.

Looking at Ravn he says, quiet officially, "In and Out burger is far superior than the mass produced little wimpy patty. I'll eat at Gina's though. I dunno why people complain about the omelettes though I mean they're ...edible. Hungry enough I'll do two." Of course he'll also eat anything for $10. How his boyfriend puts up with this, who knows. He is not turning down food. "I like Ms. Gina. She's hilarious. I mean I'm down if you guys want to go across town. Seemed like there was a moment happening before we went into the stain removal biz."

"After image!" Aidan echoes brightly, pointing a finger of his beer-less hand back at Grant, "That's the thing. Lightburn sounds cooler, though. Like, you'd definitely call a band Lightburn before you called it After Image. ...that'd be an album, maybe."

He finishes off the beer, and glances around for the proper place to relegate the can, though he's distracted by Grant's Master Plan. "Oh! We should try that. I mean, once it gets colder there's a lot less people out on the Boardwalk, so." And look how happy it just made Ravn, too. They can bring joy to the world!

As far as the omelettes, though, his cousin gets a dubious look. "I mean they're not poisonous but I kinda think edible is pushing it. Anyway why would you eat that when literally anything else on the menu is really good, and, like, on the menu?" A small pause. "Well, why would you eat it more than once, anyway." Odds he's tried it too? "But yeah, I like the Grizzly. I dunno why she changed the name but it's gonna take forever to get used to that."

"Look, I had to go order the damned thing after you warned me against it," Ravn says with a grin. "It was literally the first thing in Gray Harbor I got warned off -- not all the mysterious stuff or the hauntings or the murders, but the bloody omelette. And I'm not ordering it again. But I survived, I did not throw up in Gina's lap, and it was technically food, and I'm positive it was within health regulations, just, no, no, no, not again, absolutely not, never, nada, not happening." Sounds like he's pretty passionate on that account. "I'm absolutely up for giving her burgers a shot, though. Never really was a great fan of Mickey Dee -- tastes a bit too much like cardboard with corn starch."

He glances at Grant at the comment about moments and shakes his head. "We were just talking about performing. Aidan and I both do a bit of busking -- well, Aidan does, I have actually not done anything along the lines of it since I arrived in town. Might have to practise soon or I'll lose my touch entirely."

Grant turns to Aidan and boggles, "It's always been the Grizzly bear Diner. The menu's wrong." His head tilts to Ravn, and his brow creases, and one arches. There is... a pause. There is some process going on busking. Finally decides to just ask, "Wait you said music or-" his eyebrow waggle. Hey though could have said hustling! He takes a drink and says with scientific authority on the matter, "I have slept with a drummer on and off for years and I can say... this absolutely does not convey musical talent. I dance, but do not, as they say my fine fellows 'jam'." Taking another drink he promises, "I can refer a great drummer though!"

"Dude," Aidan says to Ravn, cocking his head at the Dane and arching one brow. It is a complete sentence on its own. "I mean I guess it's a good thing I didn't warn you against murders or something then? But I mean generally I figure no one's unknowingly gonna order one of those." Still, it makes him grin brightly again at Rav's newfound passion, even if it's for ??? Bear Diner Omelette Avoidance.

"Anyway I like McDonald's, especially 'cause they got that dollar menu and sometimes that's really handy? But the diner's better." And as to that, he blinks at Grant, head cocking again. "I mean, yeah, it was the Grizzly, and that's a way better name than Black Bear, but you don't, like, accidentally change your sign and menus and shit, right? So that's what I'm sayin', I don't get why she changed it. Maybe she's just messing with us?" If anyone in town might go so far as changing a restaurant's name everywhere she could just to fuck with people, Gina's surely high on the list, after all.

He lifts a finger to clarify, "I'm a magician. I mean, for busking? I do magic. I mean I like music but I'm kinda a half-okay dancer sometimes and I like singing and people don't always tell me to stop when I do but that's pretty much it." Considering a moment, he adds, "...so I guess I can kinda second you don't get to contract it that way? But that's kinda too bad, 'cause I'd kinda like to be musical."

"Not sure about the name," Ravn chips in. "I've heard both. I don't remember either, for obvious reasons of being the new kid in town. But I do remember walking in on Leon and Maggi Gyre arguing about whether their place is called the Poorhouse or the Pourhouse -- o or u. I do find it a little suspicious that these arguments began at the same time somebody appointed me Swedish chef and all that jazz. Did you know that crap goes all the way to Denmark? People who were literally the kids next door think I'm Swedish. I had that tech guru at the police department check -- Mac the Knife, whatever her real name is."

He leaves out the part where at least one past acquaintance was rather judgemental regarding his sex life. That's not important.

Instead, Grant gets a rather brilliant grin. "I've done some busking with my violin, sure, but what I'm good at is grifting. The three cups game, that sort of thing. Ripping people off while they try to figure out how I'm ripping them off. So yeah, you were absolutely thinking the right thing. We were talking about how magic and sleight of hand is easier than music because when you pay music, you have to show the audience your soul. But when you swipe the nut out under somebody's nose, them not paying attention to you is the whole point."