Monday, September 3, 2007

It was late November, and the air outside was dreadfully chill. Not near enough to winter to make too tremendous a difference in the weather, but just enough cold to force them inside. They warmed themselves by the fire, by scotch and brandy and good conversation. Somewhat indecent conversation in their day and age.

"Dean," Nyx said, after a low chuckle, "Ye might want to drag me into the store room and spank me like a wayward child."

Dris shook his head. "I'm not even going to ask." He took a long drink of ale.

"The thoughts I'm thinking." Color was high in the girl's cheeks, but her dark eyes were shimmering with nothing short of mischief.

"Oh... Do please indulge us with those thoughts." These were the days he buried his cultural accent deep and tried to forget he was Irish.

"Ye're better off not asking." Difficult to do when she insisted on letting hers slide about willy nilly. Without a care in the world.

Dean's brows lifted. He was a much broader and older man than himself, full of more muscle. He was taller and carried himself about with an air of absolute self-confidence. Dris envied him for how candid he could be, about anything, and never feel a drop of shame. "Oh," he said to Nyx, "And what thoughts are those, lover?" He envied her more, because he called her that so freely. Called her that. Not him...


Such old memories pained him, but not half as much as the dull ache that bound his spine. He hurt. All over. He felt sore from head to toe, and in a few other places that most men should never feel sore, but none of it was displeasing. Those pains actually made him smile when he stirred out of his dreams. He smiled and stretched, only to discover that the bed was empty, and then his smile faded away. He was alone again.

Dris rolled out of the bed with an exaggerated groan that was one part whine on top. He hated being alone more than anything else in the entire world. In fact, he was actually quite afraid of being alone. Left to his own thoughts and his own devices. The more he thought on how terrifying it was to find himself waking up alone, the more it dawned on him that he really wasn't. Jolen was probably asleep just down the hall. In his own room. And when he was conscious enough to realize that, he also remembered where he was.

The dream that was just beginning to fade away into that place where dreams go when they fade away made a lot more sense now. After having roamed the city, after having returned with Icarus this recent week, he had wandered by this old place. The speak easy that he and Dean used to hang out in. Dean Valentino. That was a man he would never forget, and though they had had their rough times, his memories of the man were not at all unpleasant.

Rising up off the bed, he soon realized that he was shirtless. Havoc had left him without one before leaving him entirely, going off to do whatever it is that psychotic chaos spawn's do when they aren't pinning bards to beds and wildly fucking them raw. He chuckled at the thought and scrubbed his face with the palms of both hands.

He knew this place so well that he knew he'd be able to find a spare shirt somewhere. That was to say if Jolen hadn't completely cleaned out the basement. There were any number of forgotten artifacts hidden away in the cellar. Maybe even a good aged bottle of scotch that had gone missed for too many decades. After stopping off in the bathroom to wash his face and take care of necessary morning business, he crept down the stairs of the old pub to soak in the old memories and search for something better than half of nothing to wear.

Dris was not much of a morning person. He detested coffee with an unholy passion, for many more reasons now than he cared to recount. Padding quietly on bare feet through the front room, he crept into the store room and down into the cellar to complete his search. There, as expected, he found a crate full of old clothes. There was a shirt there that fit him. One that reeked of moth balls and was splashed with a little yellow in the collar from disuse and time, but at least it fit him. No hidden bottle of scotch, though. That was a shame.

The further he explored the prouder he was of the boy he had given the deed to. Jolen had done a fine job of fixing the place up. The corners were blessedly free of cobwebs, and the curtains had been switched out for something a little more becoming an old building with too many stories to tell. The sofas were even free of dust, their upholstery lovingly scrubbed and cleaned. And if it weren't for the incidences of the previous evening, that standing upright piano against the wall would have even been pretty enough to sing praises to the high heavens and make the angels weep with envy. But as things were, a pain in the arse pixie had decided to make a mess of the wiring.

Well, Dris thought, standing in the middle of the room contemplating the piano's once known beauty, while I'm here... While he was there he might as well fix it. As a musician and a craftsman, a true bard in every right, he couldn't bear to leave the precious thing to a fate of kindling and ash. So he took one more trip into the cellar to find that hidden compartment under the stairs where he kept a spare set of tools. With those in hand, he decided to spend a little more time in this old pub putting things to rights. At least as far as the piano was concerned.

There were other things to put to rights that this morning he didn't expect to confront at all...

Quinn Norcross had quite a few things in common with his uncle. One certain thing that most people spotted straight off, was that they both had hidden accents. The major difference between them being that Dris had given up trying to keep his buried years ago, and Quinn still kept his locked away tight in a corner of his vocal cords never to see the light of day ever again.

A lot of people didn't quite understand the desire to eradicate something as non-ridiculed as an accent. There just seemed to be a genetic disposition in the family that forced certain men to want to be understood plainly and clearly without a trip of the tongue and a slur of the words getting in the way. For Dris, it had been an active thought in his younger years, something he had trained himself into. For Quinn, it had been a simple matter of spending the better half of his life packed away in a boarding school in the states.

He had been born in Canterbury, and for ten years grew up in a highly tolerant family environment. It was no small secret that his uncle Dan had brought home a bastard daughter, asked his sister (Quinn's mother) Deirdre to help him raise her, and then gone and fallen in love with another man. Quinn admired his uncle so much, that when some stupid and less fortunate hick of a boy had spoken up about how gross it was that his uncle was sleeping in the same bed with another man, he decided it was probably a fair idea to punch the boy in the face and break his nose. This little incident had then lead to a series of punishments and arguments surrounding the fact that maybe, just maybe, Quinn wasn't disciplined enough.

Words were said that probably shouldn't have been said at the time. Quinn had only been ten years old, and uncle Dan had been around more, had been more of a father figure, than his own real father True had been. So in a harsh and preteen angst turn of events, he had told his father that if he was going to be shipped off to some bloody boarding school, he might as well send him as far away as he could because he hated him. Ma and Da sent him to America, and there his accent had died.

The other thing he shared in common with his uncle, the one thing most people were starting to pick up on in this brave new world known as Rhydin, was his disposition toward enjoying the close companionship of other boys. Really close. Though he had grown up in a very open household, when he had been able to go home for the holidays, that was usually the sort of thing he kept to himself. It really wasn't anyone's business, and it really didn't help that he shared a third factor of life with his uncle.

Quinn was far too pretty for his own good. Though he didn't have flowing golden curls or shimmering blue eyes. He didn't have a cherubic or angelic face. What he had were deep brown eyes, the sort of eyes that always had a thought behind them, and thick brown hair that women always envied him for. He didn't wear it long, and even if he did he didn't run the risk of being mistaken for a woman. At least he wasn't cursed with that genetic flaw. He remembered his uncle telling stories about dresses...

What Quinn lacked for in qualities that obviously stood out, he more than made up for in the kind of features that most people overlooked. He had an award-winning smile with perfectly set white teeth, the kind of smile that deserved to be in a tooth paste ad. Not just any tooth paste ad, but every tooth paste ad that had been, should have been, and was at present being made. Ever. Or as someone else once explained: he had the kind of smile that made women wish they'd worn makeup and put on a slinky dress before leaving the house. Ever. Worked wonders on men too. Especially the ones who were responsive to that sort of thing. And for those who weren't, well, his smile had other uses apart from attracting members of either sex.

All in all, he was a group of puzzle pieces that weren't in any way spectacular individually, but when you put it all together he was a neat and tidy picture of pretty that was prone to getting himself into a lot of trouble. Even in boarding school he had been a troublemaker. Put a whole damper on the sending him there to learn discipline to begin with thing. It probably didn't help that he picked up smoking during that time too.

One of the top ten things that set him apart from his uncle was the fact that he smoked and Dris didn't. Quinn had become addicted to not only the nicotine, but also the need to constantly keep his hands occupied. Keeping a cigarette rolling around in his fingers had seemed like a pretty decent enough solution to this problem at the time, but this was before he learned about the risk of lung cancer. Though, like all addicted smokers, this small bit of dangerous information didn't seem to do a damn good thing to convince him to kick the habit.

The worst part about it all was that he had kept it a secret from his family for so terribly long. Only his youngest sister Erin knew about it, and on occasion she used that knowledge as ammunition to threaten getting him in further trouble with their mother. Little sisters could be such a pain.

In a more recent and suddenly today turn of events, there was yet something else he and his uncle shared in common. Neither of them had expected to run into each other, that's for sure. And little did Dris know that the kid he'd given the deed to the pub to had also given him, Quinn, his very own key so that he could stop by and help keep things in order whenever he liked.

This easy breezy Monday morning was just such one of those days when he decided he liked. And after three long months of playing the run around game of trying to get in touch with his uncle, he had just about given up. There's a saying about this sort of thing, that the very moment you stop looking for something, that's the moment it'll turn up. When you stop wishing for something and just forget about it entirely, that's when it'll drop on your head like a pleasant little surprise. In this case, the surprise was only half pleasant, because you see ... Quinn had walked into the pub without a name with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

It was rare that the half-dragon could be removed from his bard -- especially for the entirety of a day, much less an evening. But when friends were in need, Icarus knew where to put his priorities, and taking care of the wounded Cheruth took up the majority of his time.


However, now that his companion was back on his feet again, Icarus was out and hunting for his psuedo-lover. Knowing the bard's habits, it wasn't difficult; perhaps it took a bit of searching, but it eventually took him toward the nameless tavern as Icarus began knotting his tie delicately with claw-capped fingers. Even in this warmer weather, he was rarely without black slacks, fingerless gloves, and a white dress shirt, all topped with that now battered fedora -- and, of course, the cane that was never separated from him. A plain, silver-headed thing that looked like it existed more for aesthetics than any other purpose.


For a moment, he was sure his cat-slit hazel eyes had caught sight of Dris slipping through the tavern door, but he soon corrected himself. No, no -- but why did he know that face? "Quinn," he murmured quietly. "Damn." The phone call from Sin came rushing back to him:

"Icarus, do you know why Dris is avoiding that nephew of his?"

"Didn't even know he had a nephew in town. Dris and I haven't really been around much lately anywa--"

"Don't play coy with me, Marcotte. Tell Dris to get it over with before I have people asking me about it who might actually cause a problem.."

The sinner's suggestion might have been wise, but apparently it was not a thing Icarus had truly taken to heart; rather, it was easier to ride the wings of ignorance and wait until the boy gave up and returned home again. After all, Quinn certainly didn't have enough contacts within Rhy'din to make his stay very -- profitable. In truth, Icarus was surprised he wasn't broke yet.

With a frown creasing his lips, the half-dragon picked up his pace and moved after Quinn and toward the nameless tavern, hoping (for once) that his instincts on Dris's whereabouts were incorrect.

Nyx shook her head and buried her face in the crook of Dean's neck. "Come now," Dris said. "You can't let the cat half way out of the bag only to stuff it back in. You'll suffocate the poor thing." After a thought, he added, "Not to mention the torture."

Dean turned blue eyes to look at him, and then turned them on the girl. His voice had a rumbling quality, a baritone that sat deep in the chest. "You're thinking of something quite naughty, lover," he said. "But I like the idea."

What in the world were they talking about? He lifted a brow, and then the other, until both were high on his forehead. His lips took on the curious shape of an O, as the often did when he was stuck on something.

Dean eased the girl back, nearly letting her tumble out of his lap, but he kept one arm looped around her back to brace her. "Say it," he insisted.

Nyx's face flushed brightly. "You. Dris. Me."

She spoke so softly, ashamed of herself for even thinking it, but he heard her clearly. Dean chuckled and said, "That's what I thought, lover." Dris, on the other hand, felt a rush of heat flood his face. Felt his eyes go wide...


This old pub still held so many memories. On the one hand he regretted having handed the deed over to a boy no older than he had been himself when memories had started being made here. But on the other hand, he was very glad to be free of them. Free of the days when his young heart had been so easily twisted and manipulated. The memories he had dreamed about last night and couldn't quite shake off even when he set himself to the task of repairing that old upright piano.

Having found a crate of old wire in the cellar, he was able to salvage up some make-shift replacement parts. It was only a small matter of pulling the piano away from the wall, opening up the back, and bending strings to his will. Not anything difficult for a musician and a craftsman. He had built dozens of such instruments from scratch over the years. Carved and molded the casings himself. All by hand. He'd learned through his own experience that to be a true master of music, he had to know the inner workings of every instrument he played as intimately as he should a lifetime lover.

That lifetime lover could have been Dean. Maybe it should have been, he thought. Maybe he had made a mistake somewhere and fate had come back, several decades later, to slap him upside the head for being such an idiot. But no. Dean hadn't been what--

He closed his eyes and shut out those thoughts. He let a field of black take control. Forced himself to think of nothing, except perhaps the frayed wires that needed cut from the heart of the piano. That should have been what he concentrated on, but something else filtered its way into his thoughts. Drifting tendrils of gray cigarette smoke, he knew the stink, that spiraled and curled about amidst the black. Too real a scent to be just a fading memory, and besides. Who did he know who smoked and would ever bother coming here?

Dris opened his eyes. They were as clear a shade a blue as could be found in the deepest, uncharted stretches of ocean. The smoke was coming from the door. Had someone come in? He turned his head to look and blinked surprise at the person he saw standing there, staring at him with mouth agape, looking as if he had just been caught with a bloody knife in his hand.

His first reaction wasn't to scold his nephew for the cigarette hovering near his mouth, as Quinn might have expected. In fact, after hearing that the lad had been looking for him, Dris was a little surprised at himself that his first reaction wasn't to bolt straight for the back door, knocking over tables and chairs, and high-tailing it down the back alleys as far as his legs could carry him. No. His first reaction surprised even him. The very first thing he did was smile.

When was the last time he had seen his sister's youngest son? He couldn't rightly recall. He hadn't been out to their cottage in a good long time, maybe even years. The lad had certainly grown. Not any taller, no, but in other ways. He could see the subtle lines creeping their way into the corners of his eyes. Still had those thoughts hiding just under the surface of brown iris, peeking out through the pupils. The last time he remembered seeing him had been--

That line of thinking washed the smile out of his face. He turned down his eyes and tried to recover the black again. The thoughts of nothing and no one. No lost loves. No family to report to. Nothing but the carefree living of a world that changed as frequently as each step he took out into it. "Well," he said, unable to drift too far away from the very painful present of all those things he fought to forget. "So, y'finally found me."

Dris tried his able best to turn up a smirk, but even he could tell it was an expression shadowed with nothing but the deepest sadness and regrets. He could already feel the swell of tears starting to push their way up under his eyelids. And he realized then, he wanted to run. As far as his legs could carry him. The only problem was, they seemed to have gotten themselves stuck to the floor.

He was seven years old all over again. Keriam was growing into a lady, and she was nervous about the social event of the season. Some boy was destined to ask her to dance. Any boy who didn't ask her to dance was blind, or so Uncle Dan told her while teaching her the steps of a waltz. Quinn wrinkled his nose and crossed his arms sullenly. Erin and Arienh were giggling in the corner while they dressed up their dolls.

They were giggling because Uncle Carmine was so much taller than Keriam. He took up half the room! He was a great big bestial bear of a man who was lighter on his feet than anyone would've imagined, and Uncle Dan had paired him off with Keriam so that he could play the piano while instructing her on how to step. Uncle Carmine couldn't play the piano. He could barely even sing.

"She's gon' look purdy in 'er new dwess," Erin whispered to Arienh. They were the best of friend, his sister and his cousin. Might as well have been another sister for as close as they were. His real sister, Erin, still had a few issues with proper speech, but it really wasn't a big deal. She was only five.

"Oh aye, little starshine," Uncle Dan said. "She'll be the right belle o' the ball. All th'lads'll want a dance with 'er. An' if they don't, they're daft. Or..." He chuckled and turned a meaningful look up to the big old dancing bear. They shared a smile with each other, one they only shared with each other.

It had been well over a year since last he'd seen that smile. There were no traces of it left anywhere on his uncle's face. Not that he could see now. Not that he was likely to see ever again, Quinn suspected. All he could see was that smirk shadowed by sadness and regrets. Perhaps even an edge of guilt. If in that moment he were possessed of any supernatural mind-reading ability, he thought for sure he could hear his uncle's thoughts, and they reflected his own.

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly letting that one thought slip. The carefully written up script he had tucked into the back of his brain must have dropped behind the toilet and got itself wet. All he could see now was black ink bleeding together on a white canvas. The words weren't there anymore. Everything he had thought to say, lectures his mother had prepped him with concerning having not written in over a year, faded away.

Of course, he hadn't known. His mother hadn't known either. No one in the family had been informed of what had happened. And when Quinn had heard it from Icarus, he hadn't wanted to believe it. But here now was the proof, etched all over the lines of his uncle's face. All that sorrow filling the space in blue eyes where once had been nothing but the pure joy of living. Sorrow didn't belong there.

He had half a mind to ask him who he was and what he had done with his uncle Dan. If he didn't know that face so well, the color and set of those eyes, the wavy curl of black hair, he could have convinced himself that this wasn't the same man. The man who had a song for every occasion and could play any tune you could name for him on any instrument you wanted.

But why was he apologizing? It had been a slip of the tongue. A programmed response of offered sympathy for the worst of all things that could possibly go wrong. One of the stupidest statements in all of human history. I'm sorry, because the death of someone close was your fault? No. That never had seemed right.

"...Just don't go jumping to conclusions too early, all right? S'very important that you give him chance to talk."

Likely Mesteno would never know how much his advice had made an impact. Their first an only meeting, but sage words that stuck around awhile and rolled around in his head even now. Quinn gathered up his nerve, and remembered his burning cigarette just in time to plaster on that award-winning smile he wore so well. "Haha!" He lifted the cigarette up with that embarrassed chuckle. "Yeah, um. Look. Ma don't know about this, okay? So this is just between you and me?"

He figured the best way to get started was to pretend as if a year hadn't kept them apart after all. As if he had only seen his uncle just yesterday. And it was a keen enough lie to work with, because it felt like only yesterday anyway.

"Bad habit, boy, bad habit." With Icarus's cheerful baritone came a hand to Quinn's shoulder as he caught the door behind the boy. "Though I'm one to talk, aren't I?" The half-dragon chuckled as he slipped past Quinn with a wink and a curling smile. "I see you've caught y'uncle and me red-handed, aye?"


Icarus hooked his cane on the back of a chair, leaving it to swing there idly as he went to join the bard at his side. He made a promise, after all; a promise that he would be with Sheridan Driscol when he was finally ready and prepared to speak with his nephew. And while Dris might not exactly be ready and prepared, when had Icarus ever broke a promise? Especially where it concerned the bard.


So it was with a reassuring squeeze to Dris's shoulder and a kiss to his cheek that he remained nearby. "Though it's about time, I should wonder.." He glanced from the boy to his uncle, observing Dris knowingly through cat-slit hazel eyes. I'm here and I will be here, they seemed to say. But how had that ever changed?

Laughter and a devil-may-care attitude. He had taught his nephew well. That might have been enough to make him smile again, but it wasn't. When Icarus came in, he thought even that would have been enough. But with the touch to his shoulder and the look in his eyes everything drifted away, and his thoughts flooded back into another time. Another place...

Icarus had a small cottage on the outskirts of town. There was a large yard in the back that made for a decent landing spot for dragons. Two stories high. He had taken the bard there months ago. Offered him a place to stay and welcomed him into his home after Dris had burned down his own. They didn't call it home frequently. They traveled quite a lot together. But slowly they were starting to build memories. Memories the musician wasn't entirely certain he wanted to create. But it was a pleasant distraction.

Most of the time.

"Mm. Got somethin' to tell you..." Icarus dropped his cane aside to wrap the bard in his arms properly, keeping him there a moment-- though likely not too long. After all, the half-dragon was a heater and it was summer. He could at least be considerate of that! "Y'got a young lad in town lookin' for you."

He didn't care that it was summer. Icarus could light him on fire and he wouldn't complain, so long as he was being held. The bard was a glutton for affection. This news, however, was somewhat disconcerting. "Young lad? Looking for me?" Well that sounded all kinds of ominous.

"Aye. Y'nephew. Quinn, by the name. Set him up in one of th'houses I own in town." If Dris wanted the affection then of course Icarus would give it! But at the moment, he was looking at the bard, gauging him for a reaction.

"Quinn?" Wait, wait, wait! This was shock-worthy news. He pushed himself out of the half-dragon's arms and looked at him wide-eyed. "My nephew Quinn? Deirdre's son Quinn? Quinn Norcross Quinn?" Are we talking about the same nephew?

"Uhh-- cute little thing, brown hair, light build?" Of coooourse Icarus had been looking! And Dris gave him a weird look. "What? Just 'cause he's y'nephew doesn't mean I can't look!" He huffed!

Dris opened his mouth and lifted a hand, took a breath in preparation to say something, but then just bit down on whatever it was he might have to say instead. Teeth clicked together, arm dropped, and he just shook his head with a disapproving frown.

Icarus's shoulders slumped in a distinctive sulk. "Not like I did anything," he murmured dejectedly, scooting away long enough to go fish up a pair of pants. "In any case... he's in town and lookin' to see you. Said his sister was comin' soon too." Pants on, Icarus looked away with an expression Dris probably recognized-- the 'how do I explain this..?' look.

And it's like he just then noticed the half-dragon had been naked, because he blinked. Had lost himself a moment there to admiring bare ass and-- oh there's pants on now! Ahem. Back to the subject at hand. "Which one?" See. He's trusted Ica's word on that: I didn't do anything.

"Hell if I know. But Dris. He-- he didn't know about Carmine." Icarus looked back at the bard quietly. "When he sees y'.. he's gonna have questions." Which explained why the half dragon didn't bring him home tonight.

That statement defeated any further questions the bard might have had himself. Hearing that name spoken hit him like a spear in the chest. All previous disapproval, curiosity, and whatever other emotions might have surfaced: obliterated. He dropped onto the seat of the couch with a distant: "Oh." And that was all.

It occurred to him, then, that there were eyes on him. Brown eyes and cat-slit eyes. Two men staring at him and waiting for him to say or do anything. He had been standing with his hand on the open belly of the upright piano. Fingers coiled in frayed wires, so tight that he might have made his hand bleed as his arm had the night before.

He sucked in a breath and pulled his hand away to inspect it. No. No bleeding. Not cuts and bruises. Just the bandages Havoc had wrapped his arm up in last night. The old shirt he had salvaged from the cellar. The slacks he had worn for possibly a week straight. Dris wasn't as neat and tidy as he had been, but at least he was clean.

A tear rolled out of the corner of one eye, but he didn't notice it until it slid into the corner of his mouth. Wrapped a fake smile around it when he turned to look at Quinn. Keep a brave face, Dris. "Don't worry about that, lad," he said quietly. About the cigarette. That wasn't a concern and shouldn't be. Not right now.

"Y'want somethin' t'drink?" he asked. Drifted away from the piano and headed across the room toward the small bar. He felt like he was walking through liquid. Everything was moving too slow. Even the wafting curl of smoke he passed through seemed thicker and sharper than it should have been. "I'm goin' t'need one."

A nice strong drink, he decided. Surely the boy who now owned this bar had an old bottle of scotch behind the counter. Never mind the fact that his family was prone to scolding him about drinking. There was a history of alcoholism, and death by liver failure not far down the line. At least, he thought, that sort of pain was more bearable than the other they were likely going to drag up.

Feeling the hand on his shoulder, he stepped aside and made plenty of room for the other man to pass. He recognized the face and odd hands before he recognized the voice and the words that put a frown on his face. "Red-handed?" Quinn repeated that statement quizzically. What could that possibly mean?

He sent a look over at his uncle and wondered: have they been avoiding me? Some small and childish part of him wanted to be angry about that assumption. This was his uncle. They were family! Why would he avoid him? And then, looking at the distant expression on Dan's face, he knew.

The frown faded away instantly. Replaced by something more sad and sympathetic. Replaced by a memory. It might not be the same pain his uncle was feeling, but he knew it hurt. Him being here probably hurt. He suddenly hated himself for being the one who had volunteered to come out here and find him. To talk to him. To find out...

Seamus he had recognized instantly from the stories his uncle used to tell. Short man with prematurely graying hair. Didn't look right on a so young face. A face younger than his own! But not half as pretty as many people had a mind to tell him. Walked with a limp. Owned the bar he had stopped by to interrogate about the whereabouts of his uncle. The Rambling Rose Tavern.

Irina he had also heard about, but didn't immediately recognize until Seamus had said her name. Platinum blonde hair? He should've recognized her. Strange the way she had reacted when she heard he was the musician's nephew, but cute in a way. She was a pretty girl. Uncle Dan hadn't skimped on the details and the exaggerations. That's for sure.

The man he didn't recognize was the one who had burst in the door that evening. "Oi! Seamus!" he had announced. Shorter than himself. He could tell even from a distance. He was dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, with black suspenders and tie, as well as a fedora. Man looked as if he were an important businessman, but the words that came out of his mouth only made him sound lecherous. "Where are the strippers, 'ey? I heard Sinjin was cartin' in the goods!" He flashed a wild smile, knocking the door shut behind him with his cane.

"They came yesterday," Seamus said. "They was stupid, too. Wouldn' leave when I said to, an' I had t'knee one of 'em in th'balls." After a nod, he added: "Hey, ye met Dris's nephew?"

That's when he knew this was someone he didn't know. The name Irina provided certainly didn't ring a bell. Icarus. Nor did the physical description he drank in when he looked the man over. Because of this, he uttered an uncertain, "Hello?"

Icarus looked him over and supplied a wink. After a swarthy comment made to Irina, he stepped closer to inspect him better. The body language and the attitude clued him in on a few things that he wasn't certain he was comfortable with. "Oh-- Dris's nephew? Right shame that is." He offered a jaunty bow, then said, "Icarus Marcotte, at yours, lad."

His brows lifted. He wasn't any less confused here. "Em. Right." Uncertain about bowing himself, he at least offered a hand for the shaking. "Quinn Norcross. Pleasure, Icarus. But, em... Shame why?" Inquiring minds really want to know! "And ... you know my uncle how?"

It was Seamus who provided the answer. "They fuck a lot."

"Oh." With that confession out in the air, his hand dropped. He felt as if a ghostly cold one had slapped him across the face. Even imagined he looked positively stunned, what with the way his mouth was hanging open and he was staring, with raised brows and wide eyes, at this man.

Icarus took his hand anyway. The man's hands ended in claws, which was strange. Then again, Quinn hadn't been in town very long and hadn't seen too very many of the local residents. But he had heard stories. "Oh, I'm a friend of your un--" he meant to say. Quick on catching Seamus's blunt interjection, he confirmed it. "And that. Yes, that."

Quinn was stuck on anything to say. He only stared and continued to look positively confused. Icarus continued to speak. "Are you in town to see him, then?" He asked, flicking a gold onto the bar for Seamus.

"Well, yes. He sort of dropped off the face of the earth. Universe. Whatever. And-- I'm sorry. The two of you are lovers?" This did not make sense! The last he knew, Carmine was his uncle's lover!

"I suppose you could call us that." Icarus considered, tapping his chin with a clawed fingertip. "Here, you can come home with me t'night then and see 'im."

He looked around at Seamus and Irina for further confirmation on this news. Though he knew it had already been supplied by the former's previous statement. So he asked, "How long have you been together?" At the moment he decided to ignore the mention of going home with this man. This strange stranger.

"We're not together, really-- but we've been in each other's company since-- August? ...an' travelin' with each other for a good few months now. Why d'you ask, lad?" He queried, picking up his scotch.

"August..." Nodding slowly, but with a furrow of his brows. That sounded about right. "That's about when we lost touch. Em... It's just that... Last any of us heard, he was still with Carmine." So what happened there?

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a paranoid look from Seamus. The sort of look that crosses a person's face, drains the pallor out of their skin, when the proverbial bomb is about to be dropped. Quinn suddenly didn't want to be there. He wanted to be back home and completely ignorant of everything he was about to learn.

Immediately, Icarus's expression sobered as his did his tone; he set the scotch aside. "Well... Carmine left him late last year. Around the time we started becoming friends ... and in the early months this year, Carmine was killed," he murmured quietly. Touchy subject, it seemed.

The bomb dropped, and it hit Quinn square on the head. He felt the blood leave his face and take the color with it...

The very same color he saw in his uncle's face today. Not just his face, but all over. He always remembered Uncle Dan being pale, but this was worse. This wasn't the typical Irish white that made him beautiful. This was a sickly pale that clung tight to the bones and ripped a man's heart clean out of his chest. If only he knew.

In earlier days, a year ago perhaps, he would have certainly chided his uncle for wanting to indulge in a drink. But this was the sort of subject that deserved it. So instead of trying to persuade him to drink something less prone to destroying the liver, he cleared his throat and nodded. "Y-yeah. I'll just ... have whatever you're having." Of course, if he knew his uncle was going for scotch he never would have said that.

Once again, and hopefully not too late, he remembered to plaster on that award-winning smile that ran in the family. He finally closed the door, and decided it was a good idea to turn over the sign so that it read "Closed" instead of "Open." Just for good measure, he turned the lock.

Heading over to the bar himself, he fetched out an ashtray and crushed out his cigarette. There was no hiding his bad habit today. He could feel the pack of Camel's squirming around in his pocket. A good dozen remaining cigarettes that were destined to be fill his lungs with cancerous tar within the next however many hours it took for them to make with this talk.

Quinn wasn't entirely certain he liked Icarus. His first impression of the man had been that he was a lecherous hump who had attached himself to-- Well. For lack of a better word, his uncle was a slut. He'd heard quite a few stories. Regardless of his thoughts on the man with the claws and the cane, he was here and didn't look as if he intended on leaving any time soon. It also seemed, obviously, from the kiss, that his presence here was more than welcome as a supporting role. He was probably a bigger help than Quinn wanted to admit, truth be told. If it weren't for him keeping the subject on track, he would have likely steered clear of it and tried to pretend that nothing was wrong. In some small way, he was grateful. And he expressed that with a wan smile that he passed over to the man. As if to say: Thank you for being here for him.

The question was then, how best to work with this situation? There were three of them, and the tables were small. The sofas were probably more comfortable, but he didn't really like the idea of Icarus and his uncle cozying up on the one while he sat across from them on the other. So he picked a table. Carried the ashtray with him over to it and set it down while his uncle rummaged behind the counter for glasses and a bottle.

Icarus did not pretend to be something he wasn't. He was a man highly indulged in physical pleasures, intent on grasping life by the horns and riding it until they both fell. However invested he may be into making life as blissful as possibly, he was also compassionate -- he also, in his own ways, remembered..


Icarus remained silent and distant for a long moment, rocking on his heels and considering the weight of his own words. Eventually, he turned toward the bard again. “Dris..” He sighed some and pushed closer, clawed fingertips reaching to lift the bard's chin-- to meet his eyes. “I like where things are now and I think it's what we both need-- and if that doesn't change, fuck all, I'm good with that. I don't know any man that will complain to sex or affection. What I meant back there was.. was if something were ever to happen, and if you were ever to-- to, I don't know, suddenly go head-over-heels or whatever-- that I won't hurt you. On the other side of the coin, if you wanted to end this shit right here and now, I wouldn't hurt you then either. I'd.. well, I'd let us go our separate ways and be real good friends with my hand again.” His eyes suddenly filled with a mischievous light and he offered a quiet but sincere smile. Leaning down, he kissed the bard on his forehead-- a chaste, feather-light touch-- before he released Dris's chin completely.

Easy enough. His hands fell limp when his chin was lifted. Blue eyes were shimmering with moisture, but he looked into Ica's own strange eyes intently. Soaked in every word. A few of those words caused him to twitch a wavering smile. Like he was uncertain of the expression and what it should mean. Smiles are usually happy and amused sorts of things. When let go, he closed his eyes a moment. A tear pressed between the eyelashes and rolled down his cheek. Then he pulled in a deep breath and exhaled it, long and staggering, before opening his eyes again. “Thing is ... don't take this the wrong way, but ... tha's what I'm afraid of.”


He shook the thought off in time to catch Quinn's smile; he returned a reassuring one of his own. It's what I do. It's why I'm here. Whatever lecherous humor Icarus kept on the forefront of his mind had obviously began to die down as he moved to sit at the table with the bard's nephew. He was calm, collected, and those cat-slit hazel eyes of his seemed plagued with thought. He pulled the fedora off his head and left it aside, uncaring of the dark horns which curled up just above his hair. "I owe you an apology," he admitted, leaning back in his chair. "I-- kept meaning to speak with you more. Sit down with you and talk about things, n'make your stay here a little easier. Just-- never happened." First there was the dracolich -- and then his own birthday was coming up, which meant Icarus spent a good portion of his time struggling for control. "So I'm sorry for that." Icarus, ultimately, was an accommodating man -- a man with the desire to please everyone who mattered..


“Afraid of what?“ The soft pad of his thumb reached in to swipe away the tear; maybe instinctual, maybe compassionately. Hazel eyes had yet to leave the man's face, curious and concerned.

He was trembling some. A messy tangle of emotions and thoughts does that to a guy. He reached up to catch Ica's hand. A new tear only slipped out after the first. Slow falling from one eye, then another. “All of it. I'm scared t'death that I could fall 'ead-over-'eels for ye. I've ... gods, I've never met anyone like you.” He gave that hand a tug. Please sit? “Nobody ... nobody's ever been effected by my music the way you are.” And there he was able to chuckle soft. "Y'don't know 'ow great a feelin' that is t'me, do ye?”

His brow furrowed when the bard began to cry; it didn't take much coaxing for him to sit down beside Dris and let him keep that hand, though the other still did reach to wipe away tears. “I-- I don't know, no. But I do understand, Dris. I wasn't kidding when I said you had.. something beautiful. What you can play and express is.. beyond art. Beyond.. beyond a lot of things I can explain.” He squeezed the bard's hand with a quiet, reassuring smile. Don't be afraid, Dris. Don't leap at it either, but.. don't be afraid. Take life as it comes and we'll take it easy. Figure out shit as we get there."

"Figure out shit as we get there."

Maybe they were on the same wavelength. No. That wasn't it at all. He was busy dodging around his nephew, sliding steps around him to search for the bottle he wanted while they both occupied space behind the small bar. Once Quinn retreated, he was more at ease again. More capable of letting old thoughts and old memories flit in and out and interfere with the here and now.

The half-dragon's brow furrowed quietly and he moved toward the couch, moving to wrap a warm arm around the bard, bringing him in close and comforting. For the moment, he didn't say a word-- just held him. He knew that pain, had felt it over months of company with the bard.. and he would, as usual, do his damnedest to fix it.

But maybe he didn't want to be fixed.

Dris closed his eyes instantly, and being the glutton for comfort and affection that he was leaned heavily against the half-dragon. Even turned his head to set it on Ica's shoulder. He wouldn't cry. Wouldn't let himself rain tears all over the place again. Probably why he held his breath. But when he let it out, started breathing again and talking, the hurt was clear in his words. "I ... never told 'em." Guilt! "I should've, but I ... I couldn't."

Ah. There it was. Tucked safe and deep on the back of the shelf under the counter. He collected the bottle of scotch and three tumblers. Lovingly polished glassware clinked together and clutched tightly by the fingers of one hand. He carried those items with him across the room. Felt the air tug and pull at him sluggishly, felt time fade away.

"Let it go," he encouraged quietly, running one hand gently down the length of the bard's spine as he felt, heard the hurt in his voice-- of tears restrained. "I told him-- told him what I could, love. I'll be here when you talk to him, if you want me." Promised. He'd be a pillar of support for the bard in any cirumstance, this being one of them.

And here the words were different. Here: Icarus spoke the words he couldn't bring himself to say. Or words he couldn't think of to say. Words were lost on him entirely, and it was a bad sign when someone as sociable and open as Sheridan Driscol had nothing at all to say.

He set the bottle and the three glasses on the center of the table. Silently he unstoppered the bottle. Poured that burning amber liquid into those three glasses. Filled them all nearly completely to the rim. He listened to the exchange. Soaked in the melancholy that washed over him from both sides. Sucked that in with a shaken breath, and when the glasses were filled picked up his own and stepped away. Stepped back to a more distant place where he couldn't feel them. If only he could shut them out, as-- No. Best not think on that. He closed his eyes and bolted down that entire glass of scotch fast.

"Please." Yes, that's a comforting idea. He'd really like for Ica to be there when, and if, he confronts Quinn in person. But that if was a big issue. "I don't wan' t'see 'im." The same thing he'd said about Salvador. "But if 'e's 'ere lookin' for me... I guess there's no avoidin' 'im anymore."

And now he was here. There was no more dodging and hiding to be done. He could have run when he had seen him, but what good would that have done?

This entire situation made him uncomfortable, and he couldn't hide it well. Dris was a restless creature by nature. Needed to move. Needed to dance. Needed to glide his fingers over guitar strings or piano keys. Needed to forget. Instead, he paced.

Icarus was here. As promised. Icarus could talk for him. If need be. What could he say to his nephew that wasn't lined with guilt and misery? "I'm sorry, Quinn." Though what he was apologizing for, he had no idea. "Sorry Dee sent y'here. Y'shouldn't've had t'come."