So, the sun had come up hours ago somewhere behind that soggy, heavy blanket of clouds that persisted to pour down rain. So, the streets were still flooding, making for soaked, sloshing boots and dripping, clinging clothes. So, the side of his face ached and was still obvious and ugly, one bloodied eye hardly complimented by the other being bloodshot. So, he wasn't entirely sober and certainly hadn't slept.

Still, Tristaan made some sort of odd, misguidedly meticulous effort to be quiet once he finally wandered back to the Hingle. Leaving his waterlogged boots outside, he might have managed to be silent as he slipped into the coat room if it wasn't for a bit of tired, slippery fumbling and dull dripping of being too wet. The passive wasn't really thinking—too fuzzy around the edges, too exhausted, and too clocking cold to feel anything worth defining—shrugging off his soaked outer layer and leaving it on some isolated peg.

He couldn't seem to muster enough organized thought to worry about being out all night, calloused fingers running through his hair as he wavered in the closet. It was hard to say if he was still angry so much as unresolved, and while something in the back of his aching skull reminded him that he should be apologetic, he wondered if he could string enough words together to even sound sincere.

Not that Tristaan was sure he was any more lucid about his struggles as he had been hours ago in the dark ... but still. Maybe. Sort of.

Not that it mattered, either.

He just hoped he was capable of withstanding whatever earful would be waiting for him, leaning against the door frame that led to the foyer of the main room, gathering whatever mental facilities he could find, and staring at the puddle of rainwater that he was creating in his stillness.

It had become light, sometime ago, but she didn't care. Outside, birds had sung their morning songs and merchants had begun to open their doors, and she really didn't care. Sitting in the same spot she'd dumped herself in when the night was still King, Sarinah rested with her arms on the table, head down, eyes closed. The witch wasn't asleep, she couldn't sleep, but it was just to hard to stare into the dark nothingness. Drunk had turned into sober-ish whilst she sat there, cried out it felt like. Her broken heart had subsided into a dull ache, eyes feeling puffy and used up.

There were sounds outside. People, rain, wet. Everything felt like it should be drenched, maybe it was. Numbly, Sarinah opened her eyes, looking at the patterns the morning light cast on the floor under the table. There was something about them, a shape. A sillouette. Slowly, she lifted her head, turning her head, brown eyes following the shadow along the wooden floorboards, to the pooling water, to a familiar set of sodden wet feet and legs. Tears stung her red rimmed eyes and she swallowed back the croak in her voice.

"Tristaan?" The dancer asked softly, unsure of what else to say, frightened of what he had to say.

A broken hum of acknowledgement, something stuck between surprise and disappointment was the passive's first sound at his name. It was later in the day than he probably knew, but somewhere inside he had still expected the dancer to be either upstairs asleep or elsewhere busy. She was neither, downstairs and dry, though no less disheveled than himself by the looks of things. His expression might have become something not unlike a bander caught soiling the rug if it weren't for some hint of uncomfortable defiance and the swollen, bruised half mucking it all up. His toes curled against the floorboards as he hesitated, cold and sullen.

"Oes." Tristaan found his voice, awkward and quiet. He was hoarse and shivering, reluctantly closing the distance between them to hover across the table, not sitting, just dripping and staring at the wood grain instead of Sarinah.

"I didn't mean t'be ..."

Angry.

Rude.

Picking fights.

Out all night.

Drunk.

Insecure.

A passive.

Grey eyes finally dragged upwards to meet brown ones. There were too many ways to end that sentence, too many ways to fill in the blank he left, too many words for such a small beginning, so he just let it hang there, cutting it off with chattering teeth.

She followed his movement across the room, turning to face him across the table in all his drenched glory. He looked terrible, drunk and bruised, watery steps leaving a trail behind him. Where in Alioe's name had he been?



The dancer held his grey eyes with her own, silent for fear she would only start to cry if she spoke. Swallowing, she shook her head, lifting up from her seat and coming to him. Spitefully, her shin reminded her of her trip down the staircase, a nasty bruise aching as she put weight on it. Memories of the night drifted back with a slow sort of bitterness, and she shook her head to clear it, offering a small encouraging smile to the passive.

"It ent important right now hama. Come on, let's get ye dry. Your as cold as ice!" Sarinah said, the lump in her throat held back by distractions. Her vision blurred even as she reached out tentivly to take his clammy wet hand. Everything she did was like walking on thin ice, worried he would suddenly pull away and tell her it was the end. It was over. The dancer wanted to delay the afeared words.

"Rain's bad." He mumbled without any particular protest, perfectly willing to go along with any conversation but the obvious one, gnawing on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying too much. Tristaan was cold, was tired, was definitely tired of his face aching ... though, from his current perspective, it was easier to deal with his anything else instead of mustering the willingness to deal with what was unspoken between them.

The passive let his eyes drift away from Sarinah's face to the stairs, acquiescing to being led, "Streets might flood, by th'looks of th'rest of town." His hoarse, distant tone revealed he'd done a lot of walking, as if just how clocking soaked he was wasn't evidence enough, "At least we've got an upstairs."

He didn't shy away from the touch of her hand, ignoring the bruises on his knuckles from the night before with an exhale from between clenched teeth.

Sarinah looked at his hand for a moment, frowning at the bruises, before glancing at the doorway.

"Flood huh? Ent really sure if a seaside town can flood kov, but your right. At least we have an upstairs." Leading him carefully, the dancer made her way up, climbing each step slowly, free hand resting on the wall. It was a long way down to fall, and Alioe knew, it hurt. The brunette really didn't want to see Tristaan take a tumble. Once they reached the landing, she guided him through the piano room, into their oversized and somewhat empty looking bedroom. Letting go of his hand, Sarinah moved towards the bathroom, snatching a dry towel from the folded pile by the door.

"Here, its dry and its warm." She said gently, wrapping it around his shoulders as she moved around him, stopping to face the miserable man again when she reached the front. Her brown eyes looked up at him, but not into his own. They studied the horrible mess which was his eye and head. With a featherlight touch, she reached for his chin, turning his head slightly.

"Should clean that..." The dancers voice came out quietly, unsure. Dropping her hands, she looked down at them awkwardly. A pregnant sort of silence began to form, and the raven haired woman wasn't sure how to break it. Taking a breath, she looked at the doorway.

"Ye want anything? A warm drink, whiskey? I can go down and make some tea. Or if you want, you can just sleep, get warm." Moving away, desperate for something to do, she folded down his side of the bed, straightening the sheet underneath and fixing his pillow.

"There's a spare blanket in the draw underneath, and you've got clean clothes over by the window..." She was rambling and she knew it, but she was at a loss for words. Or rather, two many of them stirred around in her mind, wanting to fall out of her mouth in a chaotic disaster.

The passive frowned as Sarinah examined his face, biting his lower lip with the darkening of his expression. He still felt that the ugly bruise had been just as much her fault as it had been his choice. His jaw clenched visibly at her words, but he refrained from saying anything. What he felt was clear enough on his face.

With a sharp inhale, he fumbled to peel himself free of his cold, clinging clothes wordlessly, struggling against the gears of thought that turned. Not angry so much as frustrated, he made use of the towel without watching the dancer wander around the room in an obvious attempt to hold the reality of actual conversation away for even a few more moments. Tristaan was belligerently content to let the weighted silence grow heavy as he sought to finally be dry with the help of the towel,

"Ye chen I ent sleepin'." He ventured after laying out his wet clothes over an empty box and sitting on the edge of the down-turned side of the bed, fingers straying to his hair, "It'd jus' be wastin' more time for you t'be yellin'."

His tone of voice was rather deadpan, distant and far from taunting. It was surely what she wanted, what he'd somehow pretended to be prepared for ... but really wasn't. As far as he knew, Sarinah had every right to be angry, considering he'd purposefully picked a fight with a man who obviously knew no boundaries and then been gone all night to gods knew where in the clocking rain. Sure, he saw things differently, but that didn't mean he expected to be understood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zrfzjx8J0NM

"Yelling?" Sarinah asked softly, watching him as he sat on the edge of the bed. Tears blurred her vision again, and this time she didn't stop them. Kneeling down on the floor in front of the passive, she reached for his hand, shaking her head as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Hama, I ent gonna yell. I promise. I'm sorry, for everything. For whatever I did to upset ye. I'll do whatever ye want me to. Sell the place, give ye back your money, work as a barmaid. I'll wear neck to toe dresses, I'll never so much as look at anyone else. Please Tristaan," Her voice broke and she squeezed his hand.

"Please hama, I'll do anything. Just tell me, tell me what I've done wrong and I'll fix it. Just don't leave..." Resting her forehead on her arm, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to gain some control. Sniffing, she looked up at him with a watery gaze, desperate.

"Please don't leave me."

To say that Tristaan was somehow disappointed by the witch's reaction would have been a slight twisting of the truth, and yet there was a moment of awkward silence in which the passive stumbled between frustration and surprise. Part of him had wanted her to be angry so he could be angry. But she wasn't. She was crying instead.

He wasn't sure if he was in the right place for the way this was going.

"I—" His frown deepened as he looked down at her, words only slightly slurred in his sudden rushed confusion, scrambling to catch up, "Sarinah, I ent plannin' on goin' anywhere. I jus' ... I needed t'go somewhere else. Jus' t'think. S'all. I don't want t'leave or nothin'."

He sighed. He'd never be anything but a passive, but that seemed too daunting to even attempt to explain. It was angering, frustrating, and emasculating to feel so helpless, regardless of what he wanted. Sarinah couldn't understand, at least, he just couldn't see how. She saw what she wanted to, as evidenced by her painfully irresistible tears.

"You jus' ... an' I can't ... I'm not ..." Tristaan mumbled distractedly, trying to put thoughts together, "There's jus' one of me. I ent ever gonna be able t'take on th'whole Harbor jus' because you can't treat folks different when you should be. An' even if I was, it ent like I'll ever be right for it anyway."

The dancer closed her eyes, swallowing hard as a small measure of relief washed over her. It still upset her, still hurt, but at least he wasn't just coming back to say goodbye.



Opening her eyes again, the dancer frowned, sniffing again.

"I can hama, and I will. Ye ent ever had to take anyone on. All ye had to do was talk to me." Rubbing her thumb across his knuckles gently, she paused.

"Ye ent talked to me in days." Shaking her head, she looked up at his troubled grey eyes.

"Why are ye saying ye ent gonna ever be right for it? Right for what hama? For the harbor?"

Tristaan sighed, more like a groan, sliding his hands from Sarinah's to lean back on his elbows against the bed. He considered how to answer, considered whether or not he had an answer, considered just how appropriate what he could say would be. Staring at the ceiling, his voice was quiet and pained,

"Talk t'you? When some stranger's standin' there lettin' me know t'my face he'd be happy t'step in an' take th'reigns if I ent doin' you right in his opinion? Talk t'you when you're treatin' him less like a long-lost friend an' more like somethin' else? Ne, I ent got anythin' t'say t'that. I shouldn't have t'do that."

The passive scowled, fingers curling into the sheets, "I ent had anythin' worth sayin' s'all. Ne, I ent right for th'Harbor. For this place. For wherever. For you. I'm no wick. It'll always jus' be pretendin'. I ent—"

He couldn't own anything resembling a business. Not legally.

He couldn't keep Sarinah as his own. Not legally.

He couldn't be free in the same way as anyone else. Not legally.

It was so tiring to pretend, but it was all he knew how to play—this game. Sometimes, it felt real and enjoyable, but it was like glass. Threats from free men like Viktor weren't easy to shrug off and ignore when you were, deep down, nothing more than a broken, cursed passive. He had nothing to offer, as far as he was concerned, though he desperately wished he did.

How was he supposed to explain that? Tristaan didn't know how to tell anyone, not really—other passives understood without words. What did she want to hear?

"I don't know what t'say, macha." It wasn't like his walk or his time with Carmine had exactly been enlightening. He still didn't have any answers.

Looking dejectly at him as the passive pulled away to lean back on the bed, Sarinah sat back on her calves, feeling a thread of anger winding its way into her panic and distress. How much longer did she have to grovel over something she didn't even know she'd done. How much longer did his insecurity have to be her fault?



Taking a deep breath, the dancer moved back to lean against the crates by the window, hugging her knees and looking up at him with still wet eyes.

"For starters, since when does that matter? You know I ent going anywhere, I'm yours. Viktor said things that I didn't feel, and you should know that. Even if he wanted to step in, ye know I wouldn't let him, I wouldn't take him. I ent in love with Viktor, or anyone else. I am in love with you, Tristaan. Just. You." Getting herself worked up now, the dancer continued with a slightly clipper tone.

"An' I treated him no different to anyone else. I gave him a hug, I spoke to him, and I said goodbye to him. You saw what you wanted to see, not what actually happened. It hurts to know, you think I would do that to you. Vrunta, I know I put it on sometimes, its hard to drop an act once you've done it for so long, but trust me kov, what you saw was nothing." Pouting slightly, she turned her eyes to the floor, speaking quietly.

"If I'd really been treatin' him like somethin' else...ye would have known about it."



Still pouting at the floor, Sarinah sighed.

"Why this again? Why now? You were fine, for so long. Things were fantastic. An' now, you've turned around, back in on yourself. It was that tsuster the other night, wasn't it. The passive? Why Tristaan? Just because he calls you a...a scrap..doesn't make you one again. How can you call this pretending? How can you call your life with the Crows, pretending?" Looking up at him with teary eyes, she shook her head.

"Do you have any respect for the wicks that took you in, that cared for you, that made you one of them. Made you who you are? A Red Crow? Do you have any respect for me? Because none of this has been 'pretend' for me." Tears had started again, but this time without the sobbing or the hysterics. Just tears.

"It's been hard, and its been painful and its been a whirlwind. But thats life kov! I know your past is horrible and deep, but your letting it consume everything everyone has ever given you. Everything us 'wicks' have given you. Are you going to just let it all go and turn into the same drunken tsuter that crawled into our place and attacked you? Shot me? Is that who you want to be Tristaan?"

"It matters now because this is th'Harbor." Tristaan grunted, tilting his head away from the ceiling and narrowing his eyes at the lovely witch, "There's men who'll shoot a kov over a bad game of cards jus' as much as over a rosh, if that's what they want. Ent anyone here gonna stop 'em, either. Ent like there's Seventen here. It matters t'me 'cuz it ent like I know who I can trust 'sides you an' sometimes Sparkles. I don't have friends here."

His expression hardened, stubbled, weathered lines of his face coming together darkly in a way that only seemed to magnify his ugly, swollen bruise and glaringly, discolored eye.



With a groan, the passive stopped propping himself up on his elbows, practically crumpling onto the bed. Sarinah's tearful words reminded him painfully why he had long ago made the decision to keep things to himself. For a brief moment, a twinge of regret stung his thoughts as if the weight of all his decisions until now suddenly fell full-force upon his chest.

A calloused hand strayed to the bruises along his side, and he laid there in uncomfortable silence for an even more uncomfortable span of time.

"I'm not a wick. I'll always be a passive. I can't run away from that. I can't bury it deep enough. I can't hide it behind enough layers." His eyes were closed, voice grinding and pained but quiet, "I'm not ... I don't feel like I'm pretendin' with you, Sarinah, an' that's hard. I ... I ent been here before, an', oes, all it takes is a word'r'two t'remind me jus' how fragile what I think I have really is."

There was a paranoia he didn't know how to explain, a guilt and a fear of losing everything simply because of who he was. How did someone put that into words?

"I care plenty for th'Crow who took me in, but I drifted because I couldn't feel at home, because I still felt dangerous, because I still felt broken. They're more fami t'me than my own, whoever they are still in Muffey. I know that. It's just—"

His own fingers prodded sore ribs purposefully, and Tristaan's voice caught in his throat with a sharp inhale of pain. The passive bit his lip and fell quiet again, eyes still closed.

"I ent like that one. He'n'I've made enough diff'rent choices, even if we're trapped on th'same path, marked as it is in our flesh. I don't want t'be that way, but ... It's hard t'jus' let go an' say everythin'll be fine."

"I don't know how t'feel that way." Grey eyes studied the ceiling again, "I don't know how t'feel safe. I ent ever had so much security in one place."

It was easier to expect it to be taken away at any time, just like his whole life had been as a child.

Sarinah didn't speak as Tristaan explained his view of the harbor, looking at him over her folded arms. She knew what he said was true, her thigh still ached from its now healed gunshot wound. His hardened features only served to remind her of the man he had turned into, not the man he had been, and it tore at her heart. Looking at the floor again, she set her jaw as he fell back on the bed, waiting for the next tyrade blaming her for his horrible time in the harbour.



The dancer shifted her gaze back to his prone form again, listening with a quiet sniffle here and there. He spoke of the Crow and drifting because it didn't feel like home. When would anything feel like home for him? And the drunk passive in their place...he didn't have to be that way. No one needed to be that way. She moved to wipe her eyes and her cheeks, pushing her thick hair out of her face as she did so. The sharp intake of air from the bed caught all her attention, wincing in sympathy. Getting up off the floor, she approached the bed cautiously, looking down at him.



Moving slowly, the dancer sat beside him, keeping her hands to herself, rearranging her black skirt with a slight jingle, looking down at it absently. Sitting quietly for a while, she finally spoke.

"So let me help you. Tristaan, Viktor aside, ye haven't spoken to me in days. Days. I feel like I've been living with a ghost. If ye can't talk to me," She paused, finally looking at his face.

"Who can ye talk to?"

The passive groaned, but it was something more defeated and tired than reluctant and angry. He shifted willingly as Sarinah settled on the bed beside him, rolling onto his side to curl around the witch like a sleepy animal. It was his bruised side, which was unpleasant, but it hurt less than laying on the ugly swelling of his face. It also meant the witch didn't have a choice in her view, rescued slightly by Tristaan keeping his eyes closed.

His knees brushed hers and his hand spread in her direction with a sigh, "I don't know what t'say. How can I start explainin' so you could understand? It ent like I understand most of th'time anyways."

He grew quiet, but whether it was hesitance or thoughtfulness was hard to tell.

"I'm afraid t'be comfortable, content. Th'only time I felt that way, I was either a child or with th'Crow. There ent anythin' in between. If I really am cursed, that must be it."

Unwilling to stare into the bruised and swollen face of her lover, Sarinah looked at her skirt, stared at the gold trinkets in the morning light. She saw the movement of his hand, and without hesistation, reached out to hold it lightly with her own.

"Your afraid to be content? Ye know hama, I might just be a silly witch with a sordid background, but I do understand a little of what ye mean. Ye are afraid that if you take a moment to relax, to accept that what's happening is real and isn't going to slip though your fingers the moment you turn away, that its all going to come crashing down like some bad dream and ye'll wake up cold, hurt and alone." It might not have been what Tristaan had meant exactly, but it seemed like a fair assumtion to the dancer. Sitting quietly for a while, the dancer finally looked up at him.

"So...what do you want to do? What is going to make you feel better hama? I'm tired of cryin' and tired of hurting. I don't want to make ye feel worse, and I don't want to fight." Her voice sounded weary, defeated...as though she was just looking for something - anything - she could hold onto as a solution. Even a temporary one.

"Do?" He allowed the single word to escape slowly, numbly from between his teeth, "Alioe, I don't know. Ent figured that out my whole life an' I'm damn sure I've had plenty of time on my own t'do it."

His tone was quiet, worn, and self-depreciating. Broken and tired, Tristaan wasn't very good at fixing much when it came to his own life. Inanimate objects were easier. The passive didn't say anything for a few moments, curled up as he was, staring at their hands,

"I don't know if there's anythin' t'fight about, Sarinah. I don't know how t'keep from thinkin' how easy it'd be t'let me go if y'wanted to. I ent sure how t'not be afraid I'll jus' get caught for what I am. Sometimes, it's easy t'forget. Othertimes, that's all I see."

He shrugged, "That's why I ent ever stayed anywhere. Why I drifted from th'Crows. I don't want t'keep doin' that. I'll jus' keep runnin' if I do, an' I'm tired."

Sarinah sighed, shifting to lay down on the bed beside the drunk, wet, tired passive, still holding his hand. Reaching out with her free hand, she stroked a lock of hair away from his bruised and battered eye.

"I ent going to let you go hama. I would follow ye to the ends of Vita and back, even if ye didn't want me to." Pausing, she looked at him, considering her words carefully.

"Ye don't need to run love, hama. I know I can't begin to understand how ye feel, but I can understand how I feel and how this place, the Rose, how it feels. It doesn't care who ye are kov. Here, ye can be the King himself, ye chen? I want to be with ye till we are old and grey and fallin' to pieces, with bochi and their bochi running around our feet. I ent in a hurry kov, I can wait for ye till the stars fall out of the sky. Let me be here for ye, talk to me, find others ye can talk to if ye have to...but hama...please don't be afraid of what we have. It's everything to me, more than everything. My life would be nothing without you. Without ye, it would be...it would be so easy to just..." Sighing, she smiled wanely.

"To just let go."

Tristaan's eyes had drifted closed once the lovely witch settled next to him. He didn't flinch when her hand brushed the swollen, tender side of his face so much as sigh, listening quietly. He even ventured a brief smile at the beginning of her words, only for it to fade with a hint of exhaustion,

"Hmm," hummed the passive, tone of voice distractedly amused though he understood the depths of Sarinah's words, "That sounds like an awful lot of bochi. This business of yours'd better take off so we can get started, then."

He laughed groggily, not opening his eyes, shifting back into a mixture of teasing and seriousness, "Oh, now, you'd be fine without me, macha ... you'd have your pick of th'Harbor then. Not that I want that, of course. Jus' sayin'." Tristaan shifted closer, willing his eyes to open and meet hers, "It ent jus' a fear of what we have. It's more'n'that, but I can't really think on how t'put it all in words most of th'time."

Obviously, his insecurities ran much deeper than a single relationship, considering he'd made it a point to try to flee from them all.

Sarinah smiled slightly at the small change in the passive. There he was, there was the Tristaan Greymoor she knew from Vienda. As he moved closer, she rested her hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"I ent picking anyone but you hama." Laying down face to face, she sighed quietly.

"I understand kov. Ent always easy to say what you feel. I'm no stranger to that. It's okay." The brunette witch said in an almost whisper. She didn't care anymore. All that mattered is that he was here, with her again.