IC: CONTACT (THE PINES)

[royalpassport]

❝ This is Jefferson. If I don't pick up, it's probably because I don't want to talk to you. ❞

[ Voice | Action | Passive Aggressive Post-It Notes | Message Board Texts ]

Comments

[sybaritic]

It's hard for Eliot not to get behind a lack of wallowing, even if wallowing is absolutely what he himself would be doing right now, with as much hedonism as he could realistically cram into a single human body and then some, but...well, he thought this was going to be a lot more difficult, so he's cautiously optimistic as he follows Jefferson into the sewing room formerly known as the study.

Which is. Where that starts to give way mostly to just caution, inasmuch as even Eliot has to subscribe to the idea that repeating the same action over, and over, with the expectation of a different result is--he knows what it is. Knows it a little bit, in fact, from previous wallowing sessions: if he found a new vice to distract himself, surely this one would be the one that made him less constantly and terminally miserable. Magic, or sex, or drugs, or eating every stupid feeling, or a lot of other things that never helped for very long anyway.

He turns the spare chair around and perches on it with his legs straddling the sides and feet tucked around the bottom rungs, long arms draped over the back with his chin on top of them. "Creative projects are infinitely superior to wallowing, I'm coming with you on that one."

A pause. By now he knows their fake relationship isn't really anything to go by, but--it does remain true that in this one, he has no more real ability how to gently inquire after a person's mental health. Pretty much every time he's tried to check in with one of his friends about Alice has been an unmitigated disaster.

It's too important not to try, though, even if he fucks it up. "So...you feel better? I mean--it's okay, if you're not. I'm here for you, you know that, right?"

[royalpassport]

Jefferson's movements are a little jerky as he fusses around his work station, making sure he has everything in place before he starts to dig through his fabrics for something he can deem acceptable. It's been a while since he's made a hat-- several months-- but he's made so many over the decades that he knows he hasn't lost his touch. His hands have been trained so completely that he can do it automatically, without sparing a thought.

It's almost soothing.

He spares Eliot a quick glance, corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile, before he lays down the fabric and begins cutting. There's a slight tremor in his hands, and he notes-- with some frustration-- that it's making his cut a little sloppy. Imperfect. Determined, he keeps at it anyway.

Eliot's question gives him some pause, and as much as he wants to nod and claim he feels better, he can't bring himself to just slip into that comfortable lie. He opens his mouth, he really tries to say it, but instead, Jefferson finds himself looking down at the half-cut fabric and the shears in his hand, and he's just shaking his head.

"I don't-- I don't feel any better." He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, wishing he could find the right words to convey that it's just... always going to be like this. There's no feeling better, really. Just fleeting ups and a whole lot of downs. He resumes his cutting, until it's time to move on to the next step. "But I'll fix things. You don't have to stay."