2021-11-20 - La Isla Bonita

A cool breeze cuts through the warm air, carrying the scent of the ocean on it, the tang of salt and the subtle scent of ocean life, the golden warmth of the sun spilling down on skin more used to the chill of a Pacific North West winter oncoming. Voices fade in and out of focus as people walk by, the chatter of a half dozen languages being spoken fluently by tourists and locals as they move over carefully laid cobblestone streets that look new, having seen only foot traffic from the cruise ships in the distance.

Colorful hotels dot the distant skyline, contrasting with the bright white of the cruise ships at the end of the piers, passengers streaming out.

Vibrant, happy locals in outrageous costumes vie for the attention of the wealthy tourists, eager to experience the sights and sounds.

Here, a woman in a bright blue wig wearing a mermaid tail dress decorated with massive holographic disks that sparkle in the evening sun, posing with a tourist couple. The man has his arms around the mermaid's waist, while the woman poses, 'offended' and trying to contain her laughter, while the mermaid has a grin on her face and one arm around the man's shoulder.

There a man in the ancient regalia of a Mayan warrior, dancing and spinning with a group of tourist children, leading them in a dance that their tiny limbs can't quite manage, but the laughter rings out across the plaza over the hawkers of 'real emeralds' and the scent of street food being prepared.

And sitting at one of the fountains in the square, her long hair falling in tight curls past her shoulders, is Perdita Leontes, her skin bare of make up, save for a hint of eyeliner, looking every bit the local girl out enjoying the carnival like atmosphere in her flowing red skirt and bright white blouse that bares both her shoulders and her stomach. She can't help but smile at the scene, taken out of one of her own memories, as it is.

And over here, looking like he must have stepped off not one of those cruise ships but somebody's very high class private yacht, is Ravn Abildgaard -- a tall, dashing figure looking elegantly casual in the way of people who can afford to dress down to achieve that kind of look. It's certainly got more colour than anything he would wear in waking life, and most certainly not acquired off the shelves in a thrift shop, either. The shades grant some amount of privacy from curious gazes -- but they fail entirely to hide the confident stride and the charisma of someone who was born on the sunny side of the street and clearly thinks this is an achievement he can be proud of, unlike the rest of you slackers.

Not quite the usual air around Ravn, that. And certainly not his usual black, low key attire, either.

He wanders up and rests a hip nonchalantly against the fountain with the easy, fluid grace that does tend to be the former thief's trademark. "So, considering I woke up on my father's yacht and I know for a fact that he never sailed it to the South Americas, and the little fact that we should be in Washington State in November . . ."

Ayep, it's dream adventure time. Now to establish who else is here, and what flavour today's monster is going to be.

The other tourists do, indeed, gaze curiously after Ravn, and not entirely because he's dressed a little unusually for the warmth in the air. He cuts a handsome figure, after all, and plenty of women, and more than a few men and more androgynous figures, look after him with either a desire to have him, to be him, or to steal that jacket from him.

Perdita has her eyes closed, soaking up the warmth, with a soft unguarded smile, the slight wall she normally has up even with those she's closest to not in evidence... until Ravn speaks... and then the smile falters, just a little. Because this isn't a dream, it's a Dream, now, and something might try and ruin a happy memory.

"It's a Dream. A few years ago I came down here for a little vacation when Eddie was closing in on me." The soft strains of music cut over the crowd. On the pier, a man drops to one knee, proposing to his boyfriend. Their friends snap photos. The answer is yes, of course, and their friends go wild and cheer. The sound of children laughing and playing carries on the breeze, mingling with the cries of eager seagulls, hoping the tourists will be dumb enough to feed them.

"Maybe someone's just being nice, and giving us a day in the sun... but we should get you some sunscreen. You'll burn really fast out here."

"I'm pretty certain this outfit comes with high-end sunscreen as well as an endless offer of hands to administer it," Ravn murmurs drily. Up close, someone who knows him fairly well will not find it hard to tell that he is not actually comfortable in this role; microtells include that deliberate way with which he moves effortlessly, the way he keeps his voice down, and the way he is ever so slightly tense. This may be closer to his natural habitat in some ways, but he escaped the pen for a reason.

"Not all dreams are horrible nightmares," he murmurs, hopefully, because as it happens, this is a part of the world he is not so familiar with, and he actually wouldn't mind at all just having a nice day remedying this. "Sometimes -- it's about getting us to use our power, or just ... because it can. But let's stay alert all the same, because there's always some kind of story that needs to play out. Did anything happen on this day that you are remembering?"

The Dane glances towards the pier. And winces. "That's how I got engaged," he murmurs. "She asked me, in public."

"I'm pretty sure if you dropped the jacket and gasped 'Oh no, I'll burn!' the crowd would rush toward you with umbrellas for your delicate flesh." Dita teases softly. She rises to her feet, shaking her head slightly.

"I... can't think of anything in particular. I'd honestly... forgotten a lot of this. I mostly remember the warmth, the scent and the laughter, and just... being happy and enjoying myself. I arrived like a tourist the first day, spent the second day blending in as a local... thought about leaving everything behind and just staying here, getting a mermaid costume of my own and settling down."

She smiles softly, glances back to the proposal with a soft wince. "You felt obligated to say yes, even if you didn't want to." she states, gently.

"Pretty much," Ravn murmurs, and leaves out the part where half a dozen photographers at a theatre premiere had a field day as it was, and would have had even more of one if he'd walked away right there. He doesn't dwell on it; doesn't want to remember.

A side glance under the shades to Perdita. "Not a mermaid. Gray Harbor has ruined mermaids for me, and besides, with your colours? Go full Aztec princess. Wear colourful, extravagant things. Nevermind if no actual Aztec ever dressed that way, none of these tourists will know. Hell, I'm a folklorist and a historian, and being as European as I am, I probably wouldn't be able to tell either unless you turned up in plastic."

He raises the camera to snap a picture at the ocean view out over the piers. Might as well. Who knows? Maybe when he wakes up it'll magically be on his hard drive.

There's a sympathetic expression from Perdita, and it looks like she wants to reach out and offer comfort... but knows that any emotional comfort the touch may bring would also bring physical pain.

"Not Aztec, we're on the Yucatan Peninsula, after all. Mayan." she gestures at the man, still dancing with children, adults getting in on the dance now, too. He has a small jar nearby for tips, and Perdita dips to drop one into his jar as she passes.

"Someday, I might retire here. No kids, but... be the neighborhood abuelita, bake sweets, be a bawdy old woman." She laughs softly, and the walls she keeps up seem to crumble just a bit more. "Come on. This is the tourist stuff, lemmie show you where my cousin works." She leads the way out of the plaza, past all the Americanized shops and the vendor stalls selling various treats and trinkets, though she pauses long enough to gesture at a man who's painting stamp sized landscapes of the shoreline with a toothpick to the astonished joy of tourists.

It's not too terribly far a walk from the main area, but the atmosphere is very different, quieter, with the more modern buildings giving way, almost abruptly, to more traditionally Spanish and uniquely Mexican structures, bright pinks and oranges painted cheerfully without care for what tourists might think.

Locals look at Ravn a little suspiciously, but any second looks Perdita gets are likely because she's an unfamiliar face. She pauses in front of a white, gated plaza that announces 'Flea Market', and gestures with amusement. The gates are open, and a handsome older man, a bit heavy set, with long hair pulled back in a braid, smiles politely. Inside the plaza stands a small shop, painted bright yellow, promising Mayan treasures for the ages.

Ravn glances at the plaza and the street and then at his camera; and then he hands it to Perdita with the small smile of a man who knows very well just how long it'd take before a pick pocket's deft fingers deprive him of it. He can't not stand out like a lighthouse in this place; everything about him, from his skin and eyecolour to his attire, screams rich European tourist. Might as well wear a golden exclamation point floating over his head like on some video game as far as the local thieves are concerned.

It's a dream. Does it really matter if he loses his wallet? Not really.

"As embarrassing as it is, I honestly wouldn't know," the folklorist admits as they walk. "I know the big fundamentals of the Mesoamerican myths and history, but ask me which nation lived where and I will largely stare at you with the expression of a European going nations, what are nations, you mean all brown people aren't the same."

She takes the camera easily from the tall man, snapping a candid selfie of him, as she does. If the Dream lets him have the photos, he might as well have a few of himself, right?

"To be fair if you asked me about the history of northern Europe, I'd be lost. I know a bit of British history, but... I paid a lot more attention to Ancient Aliens. Not that I believed most of it, but interspersed with the ridiculous theories, they have some good information. So there's the Olmecs, the Mayans, the Aztecs, and to the south west, the Inca. There's some similarities between the various cultures, but also differences, just like there were similarities between, say, the Romans and the Etruscans."

She smiles wryly, waves to the man at the flea market, and continues on, leading the way into the city itself, which is full of people going about their evenings. Everyone smiles at Perdita and Ravn, but doesn't greet them particularly, though a few of the older women look like they might offer directions... but Perdita's sure of where she's going.

"Don't know why we're here, but we might as well enjoy, right?"

"No complaints on my end," the Dane agrees with a half-smile. "I don't insist on finding the monster just because there is a bed for it to hide under. Although I'm tempted to say that if too long passes without either of us feeling any kind of narrative, we might do ourselves the favour and 'pay' with a bit of shine -- it's often what They want, after all, and it might inspire them to not bother bringing out the big guns to get what they want."

He can't help laugh at the summary. "That's pretty much my knowledge of Mesoamerican culture summed up right there. I have some basic familiarities with the cyclic world view -- which helped me once, in a dream where we met several Aztec gods, including a fertility goddess who wanted us to kill her so that the year could progress. That makes no sense to a European mind but it certainly does to an Aztec ditto."

Maybe it is in fact that Perdita looks like she knows exactly where she's going that saves the two the worst onslaught by 'helpful' urchins and confidence artists; a number of them probably figure that someone else got to that mark first, and while they may think less than flattering things about that, they'd be fools to expose themselves by competing. Ravn is not the only well-to-do white guy in town who might follow a pair of smouldering dark eyes under dark bangs into the city. He may be unusual in that he might not end up regretting doing so, whether it's due to getting mugged, having to explain a new interesting rash to his wife, or just getting fleeced for every dollar he's got.

"They're pretty sure either you're a trick I'm about to turn, or that I'm leading you to get mugged, one." Dita says softly, with a smile. "Honestly, had a met a guy as cute as you on a day like this?" she gestures up at the sky, twirling gracefully, which makes her skirt flare out beautifully, revealing matching red shoes, "It's the kind of day you can believe in romance. I kinda wish they'd brought Hyacinth along, so the two of you could make a Dream of it together."

She pauses in front of a little cafe, 'Corazon Contento' and gestures, "Some of the best food I've ever had. I didn't eat here this day, but the room I rented wasn't too far from here. You hungry?"

The walls are painted a buttercup yellow, with swirling motifs that are chipping ever so slightly, and it looks like the sort of place the locals love that the tourists would never even think to try.

"Why not? It's a dream -- I can't even get sick from too much chili." Ravn grins lopsidedly. "I'm not good with too spicy food -- this won't surprise you, we Scandinavians aren't exactly famous for our bravery."

At least he's not British. They're decidedly famous for their fear of foreign things. Which is why they have turned curry British. Because they love it, but they don't want to have to eat foreign things. Much like white Texans and Mexican food, really.

A shoulder goes up at Perdita's explanation, though; Ravn doesn't disagree in the slightest. "If the story goes that way, well. It is what it is. I get mugged for imaginary money and an imaginary camera. Or we settle on a bed in a hotel room with a bottle of wine and pass the time telling jokes. Let's not worry too much about bad things until they actually happen." He smiles a little and looks around again. "I wouldn't mind sharing an expeience like this with Hyacinth -- but then, maybe I will get to do so sometime. Though if I do, I will -- probably not turn up in a Versace designer coat."

"We don't put chili in everything. Besides, this is a breakfast restaurant. It shouldn't even be open right now," Dita tells Ravn, opening the door and leading the way inside. Away from the tourist area, Perdita does look a little out of place, with the long red skirt like some stereotype from a romance novel cover, but... Does Perdita ever look entirely like she belongs anywhere? She seems to enjoy standing out.

The interior of the building is delightfully cooler, though not unpleasantly so, and dimmer, lit by low overhead lamps, the windows, and lamps in the corners to provide just a touch more light. The scents are delightful and the sound of laughter and conversation are just loud enough to offer privacy to each table, without making it impossible to be heard. It's another memory of hers, those buttercup yellow walls looking much nicer inside, protected from the elements, edged in dark brown and trimmed in wide white swaths that provide a pleasant brightness to the dim room. The tile floor is patterned in yellow and black, and looks old but well cared for. A hostess sweeps the pair off to a seat in a corner, with two chairs that can easily see the entrance without a problem.

"I hope you do. San Miguel de Cozumel is a place worth visiting a thousand times, to me." She slips into her seat, crossing her ankles and picking up a menu. It's in Spanish, but Perdita translates. Most of the food is breakfast items, though the Dream, or the dreamer, have slipped a few afternoon and evening options.

Perdita enjoys standing out, Ravn prefers not to; if her colourfulness draws a bit of attention away from his somewhat unfortunate attire, he's certainly not going to complain. Heaven knows that if he'd managed to get to pick his own wardrobe, he'd have dressed either in his usual black jeans and shirt combination, making him look like some American drifter who'd followed the sun south -- or exactly like everyone else, which would have made him look the same, just, you know, smarter than wearing black in this climate.

"I trust you to pick something out," he suggests. "Pick something that goes with your pleasant memories. This dream seems to follow the pattern of good memories so far, let's not discourage it."

Maybe today is the one time a dream turns out to be not at all frightening? There has to be a first for everything. Even the crazy Graywood Forest dreams, while comedic, come with the terrifying undercurrent of an unseen narrator taking control, and the horror that is time-displaced Victorian corsetry.

He looks around. "You came here on your escape from Eddie? Was he really insistent enough to follow you like this, across national borders? I know Benedikte did in my case, but Benedikte was not merely angry about a grift -- she was firmly convinced I killed her. That's... incentive, after all."

"I'm not going to complain, the food here is... delicious." She murmurs, before ordering in Spanish that sounds fluent enough to non-locals but has one or two of the locals glancing at her a little curiously.

A platter of fruit and two servings of pan tostado a la Francesca arrive, along with steak quesadillas, and two black coffees, all of which smell lovely, and there's no weird ghost cows TRYING to get them to eat anything, so it's a good change.

"It wasn't just a grift. We messed each other up, pretty good. Emotionally, physically. When Eddie met me I was a teenage street walker trying to get out of the life and make good. He took me in, gave me a place to stay, paid for plastic surgeries I wanted, fillers, spoiled me rotten. It wasn't a healthy relationship, it wasn't a good one, but it was a relationship. And I fucked his son." she snorts, reaching out for her coffee and taking a drink. One or two of the locals are staring at her now, fascinated and scandalized. This is better than TV.

"I'd say he had reason to be angry, then. You broke the social contract as it were." Ravn reaches for a strawberry and nibbles on it with that infuriating, slow eating habit of his. "One might question whether you should have entered that social contract in the first place. But one might also recall that life as a street walker is not exactly lush comfort and smooth sailing, and maybe sometimes it's best to just not pass judgement."

He smiles at the waitress as she walks past. He's not going to hurt her ears by even trying the few words of Spanish he knows. He's the man who caused fits of laughter through-out a number of tabernas in the Basque Country and Catalonia, by always requesting dos cuervos and being very confused every time somebody put two shots of tequila in front of him rather than the two beers he wanted.

"I've always found it a little iffy -- when men my age and upwards have some pretty little thing, barely legal, follow them around. I can't help silently ask, is that the only way you can find companionship? By bribing it?" He shrugs. He's spent most of his life single. Maybe he shouldn't talk.

"Angry, yes. But go to therapy. Don't stalk your ex for five years..."

She rolls her eyes, then takes the tiniest nibble of her steak quesadilla, glancing around to make sure there won't be any phantasmal bovines announcing their journey to heaven.

"I shouldn't have cheated. I loved Eddie, even if we had nothing in common but sex. But I was in love with Nico. I should have broken things off with Eddie and waited a while to go public with Nico, but I was nineteen, in love, and honestly a bit spoiled after years of having almost nothing. If I couldn't have it right then, I didn't want it, and I was afraid of going back to being a street kid after living the good life." she pops a piece of dragon fruit in her mouth, making a happy little moan of pleasure.

"Looking back on the whole thing, it was pretty iffy from the start. I thought I was smarter than Eddie and had him around my little finger, but it was the other way around." The locals continue to stare at Dita, and one of them is translating for her friend, now. Perdita is either oblivious or doesn't care. Here's hoping this really is a dream.

Is that what this dream is? Confessions time for the Veil? Might as well give it a proper show, then. Ravn looks most of all amused -- because he's done a lot of strange things in his life but surprisingly few that he actually feels guilty about. "It usually works like that, from what I have seen. An older, wealthy man turns up with some pretty little thing and we ask ourselves, what has she got, how did she achieve that, how silly he must feel. And then he replaces her with another a few years later, and well -- you can call it whatever you like, I tend to call it exploitation. Yes, the girl thinks she's got it made, but the grift is on her in the end. If she's smart she's at least put away some jewellery and money for later, because the kind of man who needs to demonstrate his post-fiftieth birthday virility by sporting some ninteen-year-old arm candy is certainly not someone who worries about abandoned girlfriends later."

He glances at their little audience. "And of course, it's a story with many variations on the theme. Older women do like to confirm that they can still draw the eye of the young studs, too." He actually winks at the waitress, the git. Oh yes, you're here for the show. Enjoy the show.

"Bugatti, remember? It's amazing how fast you can move one of those when you don't care about getting a good price." Dita grins at Ravn, then takes a bite of her toast, savoring the flavor. If they want to pay her for painful and embarrassing memories in French Toast and beautiful views, she's down.

"That's why every grift I've gone on since has been knowing the actual power dynamic, and keeping it. I know these looks aren't going to last forever, so... get it as good as I can, while I can, build up a tidy nest egg and keep fighting gravity and aging with the latest in surgical procedures as I can. I've already had a Brazilian Butt Lift, a nose job and laser resurfacing thanks to some horrible teenage acne, might as well keep going as I get older." She winks at one of the older men, then does something vaguely obscene with a strawberry, her expression playful. "So what about you? Going to ditch Hya for your neighbor as your sugar mama?"

Ravn meticulously cuts a tiny bit of toast and spears it on his fork, only to nibble on it like a man who's never gone hungry in his life; no wonder he stays so thin without doing much else for a work-out besides walking a lot. With obvious amusement he tilts his head and then asks, "Aren't I supposed to grow into one of those rich, older guys who become sugar daddies for girls like you?"

A bit more seriously, "I think perhaps one of the reasons I was willing to entertain the idea of Hyacinth and I is that neither of us needs the other, particularly not that way. I want to live like a college student, fine by her. I don't need to ask her for anything, nor she me. And if most of the People Who Matter on the Pacific West Coast thinks she's found herself some drifter who's massively impressed with her wealth and too intimidated or embarrassing to drag along for formal occasions, fine by me. Hyacinth drags Vyvyan Vydal along for anything that requires a tie -- which is good, because he enjoys it. And I'll be down town, slinging beers with Itzhak Rosencrantz and hearing all about his newest conquest on a race track somewhere near Spokane."

He winks at the waitress again. Let her make of that what she will -- the European guy in the designer jacket is clearly involved in a very complex triangle, no quadrangle drama -- quintet if you add Perdita. Somebody call whoever passes for Jerry Springer around here.

"There are no other girls like me." Perdita replies, enjoying the strawberry, quirking an eyebrow at Ravn as she does, "Itzhak has conquests? Or do you mean, like... actual racing conquests, not, like... Nascar rough trade?" She takes another sip of her coffee, smiling as she does.

The waitress, old enough to be Ravn's aunt, at least, blushes a little and swats at him with a menu, without actually touching him, as she goes to help some new arrivals, who are, amusingly enough, the newly engaged couple from the shore.

"Besides, it should be a cycle. Sugar baby to sugar mama, sugar baby to sugar daddy. And so the student becomes the teacher, and all that. So long as everyone's a consenting adult with healthy expectations and a heart sturdy enough to handle it."

"Oh, I meant it quite literally and in exactly the way you thought." Ravn's grey eyes sparkle with amusement. "I've learned a lot about alternative lifestyles from him -- even if I'm rather too set in my ways to try out those things myself. He told me once, as a joke, that you haven't made it in Gray Harbor until you've slept with him or de la Vega, or both. But it's one of those jokes with a kernel of truth because bloody hell, they both get chased a lot. It always cracks me up to watch people make absolute bloody fools of themselves, to get the attention of either or the other, or both."

He glances at the waitress. Have some more amusement. "Of course, for a while rumour was that Rosencrantz was cheating on de la Vega, with me. Which is pretty damned hilarious when you think about it -- I'm far too straight and vanilla for a bloke like that."

The Dane chuckles. "Funny thing, though -- I've had more offers of, shall we say, casual acquaintances after it became a known thing that I am seeing Hyacinth socially." He makes air quotes at that last bit. "I kid you not, that's what her lawyer cousin called it -- seeing her socially. I passed pretty much unnoticed under the female radar before that. Something about someone being taken seems to only make them more interesting. People are strange."

"Eh, there's worse things than Nascar rough trade." Perdita grins, then shrugs slightly, "I think Itzhak thought I was going to steal Ruiz, for a minute when I first moved to town, but I don't hook up with guys who already have someone, it invariably leads to hard feelings down the line, I don't do cops, and I don't hook up with regular smokers, either." her nose wrinkles a little, "One of the side effects of going from a t based endocrine system to an e based system? I can smell his cologne." She gestures at a man across the restaurant. "It's a nice scent, and I know it's not strong, but I can smell it from here."

"You were, like, the exception to the last rule, but you were so oblivious it was painful." Perdita laughs, finishing off the toast and moving on to her quesadilla now.

"But yeah, being taken increases your apparent value. It's like... I never wanted any of my sister's toys until she was playing with them because it showed me how fun they were. I grew out of it... mostly... but it's like Hya's Vanna White, posing gracefully in a gorgeous gown and a diamond encrusted prosthetic and it makes you go 'Well if SHE wants him, he MUST be worth something.'"

"I'm not oblivious. I'm . . . from another planet." Ravn can't help a chuckle. Oblivious doesn't really begin to cover it for him. "I do take the hint when someone leans in over the table, looks me deeply in the eyes and asks me what the dating scene in this town is like, though. It usually means they want to know where to go, to find girls. And that for some reason they think I'd be the guy to ask."

He spears a bit of kiwi. At this rate, he's going to take a day or three to empty that plate. "I don't envy you that sense of smell. I have problems enough with anxiety and neuropathy as it is, don't need to add worrying what perfume someone wears to the plate. I also couldn't tell you what perfume Hyacinth wears if I tried; I honestly never notice. I don't disagree that she is beautiful, but it's not what matters to me. I do realise what a horrible cliché that sounds like but it's how it is -- I am attracted to personalities. Sometimes, under a rare blue moon, I meet someone where I feel -- safe. Sometimes, as a friend. Sometimes, romantically. But I'm honestly quite god-awful boyfriend material -- I'm the kind of alley cat who stays out all night or disappears for three days, can't tell you where he went, and has all sorts of stuff going on the side that he's not telling you about either."

Yet a glance to the waitress and then, with laughter in his voice, "And by things on the side I mean dreams, writing and research projects. I do realise how that sounded -- about five seconds after I said it."

"Obliviously from another planet." Perdita offers with a soft, fond smile.

Ravn's comment about the dating scene gets another soft snort, and she glances over at the next table, "¿Puedes creerle?" she asks, grinning, before shaking her head, "They were probably hitting on you, sweetie. Honestly, just... assume everyone's hitting on you, it's safer that way."

"I've been alone so long I don't know if I could even properly date, anymore. If I'm going to be settled in Gray Harbor, I should at least give it a shot, because eventually I will run out of eligible bachelors, but... Sex is easy. Letting people in is hard." The poor waitress bursts into laughter now and hurries off, blushing, to the back.

"Beats me. I dated my fiancee, and you know where that went." Ravn shrugs. "I mean, I should ask Hyacinth out some day. I know that I should. I don't think she expects me to because she knows very well what I'm like. And I get stuck on what the hell to suggest because frankly, if she wants to go have dinner at Chez Too Fancy In French she can just go do so -- and if she wants company who can appreciate the place, she's got several friends who would love to go. I on the other hand would be counting the minutes until my escape."

Maybe some year or other they will get around to eating crabs on the pier. But just as they were working up to it, twelve weeks zipped past at high speed, and now the seasonal food joints are closed for the winter.

"I find -- do you even want to date most people?" From the look on the man's face it's an earnest enough question. "I look at most women and I -- don't? Some I want to sit down and have a beer with, talk about whatever's going on. But date, romantically? The whole complicated negotiations about space and boundaries and things they want, and the things they don't tell you they want, and whatever else is involved? I know I don't. Which is probably why Hyacinth and I get along -- there were never any negotiations, she tells me what she wants and then I can say yes or no."

"I love Chez Too Fancy In French." Dita quips, finishing off a piece of her quesadilla, "I... haven't had food this good, this authentic, since my abuelita came to stay right before my parents split up, and she and my father's mother got into a huge argument about whose kid was at fault for the marital problems and they were each defending the other's kid." Why is she smiling fondly? That sounds awful. "They finally agreed it was Báte, though."

"Most people and dating? No. But... I'll admit, part of me wants to date. To be wooed, romanced, swept off my feet. Whether it's some redneck showing up with a six pack and some pillows in the back of his truck to go watch fireworks or a millionaire sweeping me away to Saint-Tropez for a weekend in the gulf on his yacht... though if I'm honest, the yacht appeals to the poor Bay kid who didn't have friends to take her out in their boats a bit more than a drunken make out session, a little bit."

"We live in a society that ties a woman's worth directly to whether or not she's desirable, and... feeling desired is nice. I don't need it as validation anymore, but I still like to know I'm a fucking gorgeous goddess that anyone, man, woman or those who lie outside the narrow confines of the gender binary, could be into."

"I can understand that." Ravn and nibbles his kiwi. "I can take you out on the bay, come spring. I mean, I have the boat, beer can be acquired, and making out is not a requirement. If you'd like to go sailing, let's go sailing -- I live on a boat because I like to go sailing. It's not a fancy yacht but it'll get you to sea well enough. It got here from Finland that way, back in the seventies, after all."

He finally gets around to trying the quesadilla -- and like everything else on his plate it seems to meet with the kind of quiet, cautious approval that is the height of Ravn's excitement about most things; he's been called a cold fish on occasion and not entirely without justification. "Can't argue with you on society. Hell, I've spent more time explaining why I wasn't dating and not unhappy about it, than I have actually dating. A lot of people project their own fear of being alone on to me in that regard. As if it's something terrible and they don't know whether to pity me or educate me, but a Real Man surely can get himself a girl."

"That sounds fun. I'm more than a little irritated that we lost most of our summer... but this almost makes up for it." She gestures at the restaurant with a smile. "Almost."

The quesadilla is made with excellent ingredients. Home made tortillas, finely sliced steak sprinkled just enough to get a bit with every bite but not enough to overwhelm the queso fresco, and enough spice to be sure you're eating Mexican food, though the cheese cuts the heat with every bite, keeping things nice and mild.

"Toxic masculinity is a fucking trip. Men should be allowed to be as delicate and feminine as they want, or as butch and macho manly man as they like, and nobody should give them shit for it."

"We are -- but on the condition that we stop giving a fig what other people think." Ravn nibbles on a bit of the cheese; he really is a very picky eater, to the point where the words 'eating disorder' probably have come up a few times in his teenage years. "Which is sometimes easier said than done, and sometimes requires you to pick up and disappear to the other side of the planet, that is true."

He shrugs. "On the whole? People should do what they want, and other people shouldn't give them shit for it. But the world's never worked like that."

"Honey, I escaped the cult of masculinity. You're technically allowed, in the same way women are technically allowed to stop shaving our legs and armpits or have facial hair. There's just... major social and even financial backlash if it happens." Perdita watches Ravn eat with veiled amusement, taking another sip of her coffee, before the waitress refills both mugs.

"But I agree. We should all, however our identities fall, be able to be who we want, and others should respect it, even if they don't understand it. I have faith we'll get there eventually, it just... takes time."

"There is." Ravn smiles at the waitress; he may not speak Spanish but thank you for coffee is fairly universal. "It does matter how you feel about it, though. I don't care if other men think me a pushover. I am a pushover -- punch me in the shoulder and I'll be curled up on the floor. And I am a spindly nerd who thinks books tend to be more interesting than girls. So there's not a lot anyone can tell me that isn't simply a fact -- and which I don't feel particularly bad about."

He taps his lip with a gloved finger. "Not that I don't haven't heard it all. My family and parents certainly were all about appearances and traditional roles. I am grateful I didn't grow up gay or trans in that kind of household. Because they sure as hell would not have tolerated it, and I'd likely have ended up in some bizarre conversion therapy."

There's a slight wince from Perdita at the mention of conversion therapy, "Had I stuck around... that might have been where I ended up... and unfortunately minors can't opt out of that shit, still. If the parents want it, they do it, in states where it's still legal." stiletto nails dig into her palm for a moment, before she relaxes her hands.

"To be fair, books are pretty interesting."

Ravn regards his companion over the rim of his coffee cup. "I got sent to Herlufsholm. It's a boarding school in Denmark -- our equivalent to Eton or similar. If your family is wealthy -- that's where you go. Not all the kids are the children of millionaires -- they take anyone who will pay, and it's the best school in the country so, it's not a complete echo chamber. But it's close enough. And you have to wear a school uniform and follow very strict rules. In the end, I'd run away so many times I struck a bargain with my father that he'd let me attend a regular, public school in my home town instead, and I'd stop running away."

He smirks. "I did keep my promise. For a few years. But the point I wanted to make is -- I got away because being adventurous and independent are still qualities that are viewed as positive, if inconvenient in kids. If I'd wanted to wear a dress or kiss boys? I'd have been sent abroad, out of sight, to some very real conversion therapy, because that would be entirely not acceptable to at least my parents. Denmark's not a particularly backwater country in this regard -- we have gay ministers of parliament, hell, the previous US ambassador to Denmark was a gay man. But the gentry, the parts that's still stuck in 1849, has some very strict ideas of what's acceptable. They get along just fine with your Christian evangelicals."

"I went to Alexandria Bay Schools. One campus, K-12, about 200 kids in the entire high school grade range. We... really should have swapped lives, I think you'd have enjoyed growing up in my stead a lot more." She laughs, shaking her head slightly at the thought. "I don't know if I'd look as good without my natural golden glow, though."

Perdita leans back in her seat, smiling a little sadly, "We'll get there, eventually... to where people are celebrated for who they are instead of criminalized or forced through torture therapy to conform. Until then, we keep fighting. Even the things on this side of the Veil aren't homophobic or racist. They hate and/or toy with all of us equally, right?" she asks the man at the next table, who just smiiiiiles a little too wide. Okay, that's mildly disturbing.

"The dolorphages are delightfully equal oppportunity in that they'll hit you any way that hurts, and they won't care what it is." Ravn smirks a little, and then glances at that man too; is that the one running this strange, non-nightmarish dream that seems almost too good to be true? Might be just here to gather ammunition for future experiences -- but since when have they needed to actually do that? What happened to just plucking whatever they needed right out of people's heads?

He praises whatever Veil god gets the credit that his coffee at least is not diluted with all kinds of weird dessert-like things. "I'll admit, it's been a consideration of mine. Do I want to raise children in that kind of family? But until somebody informs me they want to have kids, I am not going to think about it much. It's one of the things I love about our little shiny community in Gray Harbor, though. When things under the bed literally do try to eat you, then it's not really a big deal what colour someone's skin is, or what gender they are. It's a good reminder what really matters."

There's a slight flicker of 'oh dear god' from Dita's expression as she smiles back at the man, then turns away back to her conversation, "That's... why I have a strange man asleep on my couch, who I'm probably going to let stay with me if his friends don't have space for him. Because providing he's not, you know... axe murderer, I'm... not liking the idea of living there alone as much as I thought I would." Even if she does probably have some sort of jet pack parachute escape combo on her roof.

"Kids... like I said. I like the idea of being the neighborhood granny who hands out those yummy strawberry candies or something. Less so raising actual children."

"I'm not good with kids. I have no idea how to talk to kids. I'd probably be like my own father. Every other month I'd decide I need to Be There for my kid and drag him off somewhere in the wilderness or on some adventure that he and his asthma really didn't appreciate -- and then get disappointed and forget about him for another month." Ravn shrugs. "Not saying I disliked my father -- I bloody well barely knew him."

He glances around the restaurant and then chuckles. "Is this dream or memory? When you were here, was it this quiet? It seems funny to me that the wait staff really does seem to have nothing else to do than not very subtly listening in on us. Real wait staff doesn't care much -- I've worked in enough diners and similar to know. People there have other priorities than what those assholes at table three wants, unless it's about wheedling a better tip out of them."

"I..." Perdita glances around the room again and slowly comes to realize that a lot of the faces aren't quite as familiar as they seemed, before. There's something subtly off, subtly Other, like they're things merely wearing human guises, now, in ways they weren't before, "I think we should probably get to go boxes and get back to the dock. Memory's going all... sideways into Bad Dreams, now. No offense, you're a lovely crowd." Perdita smiles her most placating smile, now. "The day ended with me hooking up with the hot Mayan Warrior, so... maybe if I link up with him, the dream will end?"

"We should probably go find this dreamy Eagle Knight and see if we can get him some action," Ravn agrees, neglecting that Eagle Knights were an Aztec phenomenon. He smiles beatifically at the man with the too-wide smile before pulling out his chair and standing up. "Oh my, will you look at the time. Why, I think it's about the time I need to head back to my yacht, maybe get mugged once or twice along the way, have a pleasant evening on the bay with a bottle of tequila."

Subtle.

The too wide smile doesn't quite go away, but it once more resumes normal human proportions. Apparently, it was time to move it along. Even the Dream Creatures think Ravn's too slow an eater, apparently. Dita pays, and tips generously, for the food, things are boxed, and the pair are free to head off into the sunset... figuratively speaking, hopefully.

"What a lovely meal that was... you know, right up to the end..." Perdita murmurs with a smile, shaking her head slightly. "That was definitely not one of my memories. This next part, though, that's fun. Well, for me. I hope they don't just... make you watch, because that would be awkward for both of us."

Ravn can't help laugh. And once he's done laughing he promises, in a most sincere fashion, "I will sleep like a baby. Meaning, I'll wake up every three hours and scream loud enough to ruin the mood."