don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you

[hismelody]

"Well, I wonder how history will read this sonata."

With a sneer, the professor turns at last to leave, heading out to face the horde of people that S knows will surely be awaiting him by now, and S lets out a breath like he's been holding it, his careful composure giving way, tension easing in his shoulders. It's over. Or, maybe it's not quite over, but it's close enough to it, the professor having incriminated himself enough that he'll surely be going away for a long, long time. S didn't really expect otherwise, and he knew that he wasn't in any real danger here, physically speaking, but it feels like he can breathe a little easier all the same. It would, anyway, if not for the ache in his chest, phantom pain, perhaps, as his wounded heart races. He doesn't have to hide it now when he winces, eyes closing for a moment, his hand curling into a fist around the lapel of his coat as he presses it gently to the spot and tries to breathe through it.

He's gotten used to this, at least, and he's better than he was. A couple of months ago, he doubts he would have been able to manage even this much, still working up to spending more than a few minutes at a time on his feet, never mind doing so in such an intense situation. He should probably stop and rest now — unmic himself, call a cab, go home to his empty apartment, his role here having played itself out. S isn't sure if he could bear that yet, though, any of it. Not all that emptiness that awaits him even in such a small space, not having to go face other people before he does so. For the most part, he's kept it together these past couple hours. Lost his cool a few times, with too much too close to the surface for him to do otherwise, but he expected that if not worse, given what he was here to do, given what the professor knows about him. That may yet come to light anyway. He's not anticipating the professor to take any of this particularly quietly.

Right now, S can't bring himself to care, hasn't been able to for a while. Right now, having held so much back through this whole conversation, he feels far too frayed, too emotional, to deal with whatever steps come next. Strange as it is to linger in the professor's empty office, it's better than going back out into the world yet. Quietly, slowly, as if unsure of himself, he crosses to the piano and takes a seat on the bench, J's notebook still clutched in his hand. It's all he has left now, or close enough to it, that and an apartment they once shared full of memories, cherished and painful all at once. He feels the same now, staring down at the cover of the book with fondness he no longer has to try to mask. Chances are, no one's listening anymore anyway. If they are, he doesn't care.

"I'm sorry," he all but whispers, cutting through the otherwise silent room. It isn't nearly enough; he's sorry for so much. "Did you wish to become music in the hot flames, too?"

He doesn't know what J wanted. He'll never know. For all the answers he's gotten from the pages of J's journal, there's still so much he never got to find out — never got to say — and never will now, questions that will go forever unanswered, a space that will stay forever empty. S isn't sure how long he sits, heart aching, mind racing, tears prickling in his eyes, everything he's tried to hold at bay impossible to ignore now — all the questions he wants to ask, all the promises he wants to make, as if it will mean anything to make them to someone who won't be around to hear them. There's relief, a little bit, in just letting go, in no longer trying to maintain the careful, steely composure that he did while the professor was here, but mostly it just hurts. Even being as acquainted as he is with grief, even with as awful as his earlier losses have been, there's a different sort of emptiness here, no one at his side to see him through it this time, nothing and no one left for him. That was already the case — it has been for months — but there's an odd finality to it now, a page turned, a chapter ended. A movement completed, perhaps, ending on an unresolved chord.

When he gets to his feet again, he's crying openly, no longer really even conscious of the fact that someone still might hear him. I'll play your tears, he thinks, another silent promise, thumb caressing J's journal as softly as he once might have J's cheek, and as his breath hitches, tiny little sobs escaping him, he leans forward, practically doubling over, clutching the book to his chest as he tries to breathe.

It isn't until he straightens that he realizes things are different.

No longer in the professor's office, or even inside at all, S is, instead, in a park, though even through tear-blurred vision, he doesn't think he recognizes it. It is, at least, startling enough that it forces a sharp breath into his lungs, one hand letting go of its grip on the notebook so he can wipe at his eyes. At least it's quiet, hardly anyone seemingly nearby to see him in such a state. That's little comfort, though, when he has no idea where he is or how he got here. No matter how difficult these past months have been, he doesn't think he's snapped that completely. For that matter, hazy and half-panicked and probably nonsensical as the thought is, he doesn't think he's dead, either. However damaged, his heart wouldn't have given out quite that suddenly. Besides, he can feel it racing away now, quick and unsteady with fear.

Although he has no desire to be seen like this, or, worse, to explain himself, he can't just do nothing. Clearing his throat a little, he lifts his head a bit when someone seems to be approaching, though his voice comes out smaller and more uncertain than he would like. "Ah, excuse me," he says. "Can you tell me where I am, please?"

Comments

[loficharm]

Martin had started to approach the moment he saw the man there, fairly certain he hadn't been a moment ago, recognizing too easily the lost look of him that followed. He's clearly a newcomer, and even if he wasn't, Martin would be hard-pressed to simply ignore him. There are tears visible on his face, a slight shuddering that comes from unevenly drawn breath. He looks desolate, so much that Martin's heart could break just looking at him.

It's familiar, in a horrible way. And no matter how hard it is to do this, to be the welcome party, he has to try. He can't let anyone go it alone.

He opens his mouth to speak but the man speaks first, his voice timid and tremulous, the words Korean. Christ. Martin knows the language by sound, but he never learned. It was just a couple weeks ago he met Ahn, whose mere accent was enough to bring all sorts of unwanted, unconfronted memories flooding back from a very distant part of childhood. Before dad left and mum cut him off from all of that. When there was still a chance for any of it to mean something, to matter. It isn't something he thinks about much, until now, twice in one bloody month.

Which isn't productive. He needs to get his head out of his arse, as usual. He clears his throat and says a bit awkwardly, "Er, s-sorry, I'm not... Do you speak English?" Oh, please let him speak English.

[hismelody]

The question is about as unexpected as — well, everything, right now. S understands it, he knows the words and what they mean, but confused as he already is, it takes him a moment to process it. He nods, then, unable to hide the uncertainty and worry in his expression even as he tries desperately to pull himself together even a little bit. Falling apart in the empty office, with a chance of being heard but no one around to see the state he was in, was one thing, but it's another entirely to be out in the open with his grief now, speaking to a stranger.

"Some, yes," he says, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, his voice still unsteady. He hasn't had any occasion to in quite a while — probably not since his classes in high school — but it's something, at least, and hopefully enough to get by for the moment, enough to get some answers.

The sleeve of his leather coat does little to help dry his cheeks when he lifts it to his face, self-conscious, but it's better than nothing, some slim attempt at regaining a little composure before he continues, his words careful but clear. "I don't know where I am," he admits. "Can you tell me?"

[loficharm]

Martin relaxes only very slightly when the answer comes. It will make things easier only by technicality. There is no easy way to do this, and the poor man already seems so fragile. Martin lets out a heavy sigh, running his hand through his hair.

"I can," he says. "But it's... it's a lot to take in. Er..." He waffles for a moment between suggesting they find somewhere to sit and just spitting out the answer that's clearly wanted, even knowing it won't help all that much.

"This city is called Darrow," he says carefully, "and it's, erm, March, 2021. You've, well, you've been brought here by... the city itself, I guess? It sort of... takes people from other places and puts them here. Like a... magical kidnapping."

He was going for levity with that, which now feels incredibly crass and he regrets it immediately. Christ, he is never going to be good at this. Though at least he suspects there really isn't such a thing as being good at it.

"I'm sorry," he says, softening. "It happened to me about a year and a half ago, and... I know it's hard. I'll do what I can to help. M-my name's Martin." He sticks his hand out awkwardly, thinking he really wouldn't blame the man for just trying to run away from him.

[hismelody]

The words themselves, he understands. That isn't the problem. It's just that it doesn't make any sense. He's never heard of any Darrow, and that's even setting aside the rather staggering fact of 2021 being some 40 years in the future. S blinks, once, twice, and it's probably at least in part for how emotional he already was, his guard already lowered, that he can't hide how lost he looks. A lot to take in is, he thinks, putting it mildly. But then, the man — Martin — seems to know that, and as nonsensical a thought as it suddenly seems, S can't think of any reason why a stranger would lie about such a thing, and in such an absurd fashion. It sounds insane.

Somehow, the fact that it does makes it a little more plausible. Even if he had utterly lost his mind somehow, or even lost consciousness somehow, S doesn't think he could have imagined anything like being magically kidnapped into the future.

Just considering it that bluntly makes him feel all the more overwhelmed. He suspects it shows, the moment it hits him, but he can't just say nothing. Neither can he ignore what's been said. So, at least at first, he does the only thing that makes sense. He reaches out with his free right hand, the other still clutching the notebook, to shake the one that's been offered to him. "I'm Sihyun," he replies, still unable to hide his uncertainty. "I've never heard of anywhere called Darrow."

[loficharm]

"Nice to meet you, Sihyun," Martin says, making sure he has the pronunciation right, and offering a small smile which he hopes is reassuring. Sihyun seems to be taking this... about as well as can be expected right now, which probably means he's in a bit of shock. Martin had run the whole gamut of reactions when he'd arrived, experienced the five stages of grief in about a half hour, and he remembers anything approaching calm was more like dissociation. But it's better than panic, for now at least.

"I don't think anyone has," he goes on, taking his hand back and slipping both into his pockets with a little shrug. "It's... well, this is going to sound crazy, and it is, but I don't think it's actually anywhere. It's kind of like the city is the whole world. I mean there's... things come and go, but we can't leave. I've... tried. It's not very fun."

Especially not when you're a scared little boy, he thinks grimly, but learning about all the weird shit Darrow can do to you is a much later stage than Sihyun's currently at.

"You'll have a home and your basic needs provided for," Martin says. "And there are a lot of us here, so you're not alone. It's... it's not as bad as it could be. But it's going to take a while to settle in. I remember how hard it was." He keeps a close eye on Sihyun, his tone turning gentler as he says, "I'll help you, however I can."

[hismelody]

"Thank you," S says, barely even sure which part he's responding to, too overwhelmed to even begin to process all of what he's just been told yet, but grateful all the same. Not many people would stop to help a crying stranger, he thinks. At least, in his shock, the tears have stopped coming, his thoughts sufficiently focused elsewhere now, though when he realizes again that he's still holding fast to J's notebook, he spares it a brief glance then slips it into the pocket of his coat. There will be more time later to grieve. He already knows too well that it never really goes anywhere, just changes shape and size, sometimes able to be pushed aside for a while. Something of this scope, daunting enough to make his head spin, is more than capable of that.

A city that's its own whole world. A place that's impossible to leave. Housing and needs provided for, which is a strange concept in its own right — something that he can't help but think, almost a little hysterically, would have served him well when he first struck out on his own a few years ago, though he can't really regret any of the time spent in that cramped studio. But that's a line of thought he can't continue with now, and, apparently, somewhere he can't return to anyway.

That hurts. Being surrounded by memories did, too, but at least it was something to hold onto. Now, there is — well, from the sound of it, just him and what he has on his person, and he still doesn't understand any of it, but he also still doesn't see any particular reason to doubt what he's being told. This would all be much too extreme for some sort of cruel joke, and it wouldn't explain how he came to be here anyway, an apparent world away from where he just was.

"For all of your help," he adds after a moment. "I'm still not sure I understand, but... I appreciate it."

[loficharm]

Martin notes the attention Sihyun spares to the notebook he's been clutching, the slight care he takes to slip it into his coat. He hadn't really had anything on him when he'd arrived, all of it taken by his unexpected passage through the Buried; at least the notebook seems like an important possession to have clung onto.

He stutters slightly at the expression of gratitude, when he feels like he's only really doing the done thing, and has barely just begun, besides. "O-of course," he says before softening again. "In my experience, it takes a long time to really understand it. We all have to help each other. And... it just gets easier, after a while."

He knows all too well how hard that would've been for him to swallow on his first day. Before he'd known John was here. So much has changed for him now in ways he'd never really allowed himself to imagine, and it is very easy for him to talk about how this is all fine, really now that he's gotten everything he wanted — he and John together, and having discussed their private mutual hope that they're never sent back. It's a thought that still gives him no end of guilt, but to them, there is no bloody comparison between this occasionally troublesome cage and the world that had been trying so very hard to destroy them, itself, or both. It isn't really fair to offer that perspective to someone who is new and lost and, presumably, just wants to return to what is familiar. Who presumably has left something, someone, behind.

But he also understands better now why so many of the people he'd first met had been intent on reassurance. It's fine to commiserate on the unique difficulty of this situation, but there's a limit to how useful that is. Newcomers ought to be comforted and cared for, shown they aren't alone. He'd needed that more than he even knew, really.

"That may feel hard to believe right now," he adds with a faint, apologetic laugh, "but..." There's not really a good way to end that sentence that isn't just reiterating everything. He shrugs.

"I can take you to the train station. That's where they keep our, erm... welcome materials. Which is sort of its own whole drama, but..." He sighs and gestures vaguely. Seeing all that had actually been more horrifying to him than his arrival in some ways, but it really depends on the person. And it is a logical first step.

[hismelody]

It is hard to believe right now, but S finds that it makes sense, too. Most things are like that, in his experience. They don't get better, but they get easier, the weight of a burden becoming familiar after a time, not lighter but less unwieldy as a person becomes used to carrying it. Losing his parents was like that, though at least then, he had his best friend to see him through it, which unquestionably helped. Losing J the first time around, when he left, was like that too, if only in part because he never stopped hoping they might be able to reconcile. The sadness turned a bit numb rather than raw. It is, he supposes, a little bit like the wound on his chest, the scar there indelible, but still not nearly as it was.

Still, even if he weren't currently trying to process quite literally life-altering news, even if he weren't in the middle of trying to pull himself together following a very inadvertently public breakdown after one of the most stressful days of his life, he wouldn't be about to say any of that. He's good at making himself come across otherwise, but he's always been reserved, ever since he was a child. There's only ever been one person he's shared such things with, and that person is long gone. That's sort of the problem.

In a way, though, he's apparently long gone now, too. As disorienting as all of this is — impossible, except that it's right in front of him — that's easier to focus on than what he just left behind, if only because he still feels so painfully fragile, his composure embarrassingly tenuous. He's sure he must look a mess, for that matter, flushed and tear-streaked, but there's nothing to be done about that now. What he can do is try to make some sense of this, inasmuch as there's any sense to be made of it at all. Having help on that front makes more difference than he knows how to admit, even if he wishes he didn't need it.

"If you don't mind," he says, the words still feeling unfamiliar in his mouth. It's been a long time since he took English, and he never thought he would need this much of it. Lucky, he thinks, to have a better grasp on it than he thought he would have after all this time, though he supposes having no other real options in this situation, it could just be the result of desperation, long-buried memories being drawn back to the surface now that there's a need for them. "So... there's a train station, but you can't leave?"

[loficharm]

"Yeah," Martin sighs, gesturing for Sihyun to follow him as he starts to walk toward the station. "I actually arrived on the train. Apparently that's somewhat common; that's why the welcome packets are kept there, I guess, though... I don't know if there's anyone making those decisions, or it all just works out somehow. A lot of things just work out somehow. Like how the trains leave but we can't board them; if we did, they'd end up taking us right back somehow. If you follow the tracks or any other path out, you'll end up turned around. I imagine everyone has tried to get out at least once, and there are a thousand reasons why it won't work, and we've all just had to... get used to it."

This with a resigned shrug and a slight roll of his eyes. A lot of getting used to Darrow really does seem to come down to accepting that it's all a bit stupid, he thinks — things that shouldn't work do and things that should don't, you can be turned into a child, set home for the space of a bad dream, have your body and memories altered, but... ultimately no one understands how or why any of it happening. When he really thinks about it, he imagines this is how John must feel all the time.

"My boyfriend is sort of in the business of knowing things," he says, lightening a little at the mention of John. He's aware that's an oddly vague way to put it, but there's really no sense beating around the bush. And it's not as if it's weirder than all the rest. "But he can't make heads of tails of this place. It's sort of equal parts infuriating and... not so bad, when you get down to it. S-sorry," he blurts, suddenly remembering Sihyun said he spoke some English. Sheepish, he says apologetically, "I'm babbling. I do that, sometimes."