#2 - the fact today had many noises many bright light unusual walks and more basic socialization than usual - perhaps

[echo-s-land]

*suffering noises* my head...

[theairportau]

the airport AU, part 119 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100 101, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10 111, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18

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DARIUS

The smile that Darius offers in return is tinged with an unusual sadness. “I am happy here,” he agrees. “I just wish it were that simple for everyone else- here, this is our stop.” He ushers Christine off of the train, walking just behind her to be certain not to lose her as a new wave of people enter, moving the opposite direction. They emerge onto a platform that smells of old food and wet stone, and he motions for her to follow him as he heads towards the gate; once the noise of the crowd fades, he continues speaking. “I’m happy, but I know that Khan isn’t. He couldn’t bear being in Iran any longer, but spends every day missing it. I don’t know if there’s a place in the world right now where he could really be happy. Paris is isolating to him, though. And with what happened the other day, he’s only retreated more in the past few days.” He isn’t certain whether he can make Christine understand what he sees every day- has been seeing for years now. She never knew him as he was. He remembers Khan being athletic and cunning, constantly moving, always doing something- now, more often than not, Khan spends his days sitting in a chair, watching things that he doesn’t care about on television and waiting for Erik to have a problem. Without Erik as his project, Darius fears that Khan might fade into nothingness. He seems like a shadow of a person sometimes, just barely moving around the apartment. And Darius feels so helpless watching him- no word of comfort seems to make any difference. Day by day, he deteriorates, collapsing in on himself in a private struggle that Darius has no ability to aid him in. “I swear,” he sighs. “Khan will talk all day about the help that Erik should be getting, but he would never accept any help for himself. It got worse when we got to Paris, I guess, but nothing in Iran helped him, either.” He sets his jaw for a moment, attempting to clear his head. He wanted today to be about having a good time with Christine, but some issues just seem to permeate every facet of his life- and he has so few people to talk to candidly about it. He forces a smile that seems a bit more optimistic. “It’s a lot, I don’t mean to spill it all on you. Out of everyone here, I’m just sorry you got picked by the most dysfunctional trio in Paris,” he says, really only half-joking in an attempt to lighten the mood.

---

CHRISTINE

As the spartan grey concrete of the train platform slowly gives way to bright glass and steel, Christine is quiet, only giving the occasional nod when Darius looks across at her; the way she sees it, she’s said enough already. Memories nudge at the edge of her mind, but sharing them would be too presumptuous—too painful. She’s left walking a delicate line: listening closely, trying to give her friend’s worries the full attention that they merit—but at the same time, trying to keep herself from thinking too deeply on what he is telling her. She sweeps her gaze over their new surroundings, trying to distract herself from the painful knot welling up in her throat; here, too, decoration for the holidays has begun, and the sight of a strand of Christmas lights sends Christine’s eyes to the floor again.

Maybe Darius picks up on the things that she isn’t saying; or maybe he regrets the turn of conversation for his own sake, his eyes sad and distant and reminding Christine, ever so briefly, of those of the man of whom he speaks—a resemblance born of shared pain, if not shared blood. Whatever the case, he tugs his expression into a new smile; apologizes; clearly trying to shake the pall of the past few minutes. Christine has the grace to offer a small smile of her own at his joke, but the overall look speaks more of sympathy than it does amusement.

“Even if you *were*,” she rebuts, in a tone lighter than she feels, “I wouldn’t wish to have been picked by anyone else.”

---

DARIUS

Finally, the returning smile feels natural rather than forced, as they push away from the upsetting nature of their conversation. “Well. Maybe it’s a bit selfish, but we’re all certainly glad that you’re here,” he says to her, and takes a few steps to the side before stopping to look around at their surroundings. They’ve made their way properly into the mall, and here, there are no strange looks for conversation in a different language- tourists from all over the world wander the vast halls with shopping bags. The murmur of conversation is everywhere, bright bursts of laughter standing out like rays of light. People lean against railings and take pictures together, giggling and making faces; it always brightens Darius’ mood to see such crowds of people. “Paris has such wonderful decorations for Christmas,” he says, gesturing to the festive garlands that have begun to appear around the area. “I love to look at all of it, even if I don’t celebrate it. The streets are beautiful when it snows, and there are lights everywhere- it really makes a dreary season so much more tolerable,” he says, motioning for her to follow him as he starts moving through the crowd, going slowly to be certain that she doesn’t fall behind or get lost. “Even without the holidays close, this place is a lot to take in. This place has everything. So you’re not going to be the only one shopping today,” he says good-naturedly. “I haven’t been out for clothes in a long time, so we’ll both get some new things.”

---

CHRISTINE

For a moment, she envies him—able to enjoy the colourful trappings of the holiday from a safe distance; appreciating each light and piece of tinsel for its own merits, without the ache of the things that *should* have been there. At the same time, his enthusiasm helps to draw her thoughts away, reminding her of how much there still is *to* appreciate. She smiles again as she follows Darius forward into the babble of shoppers.

It’s hard to believe that this *isn’t* a routine trip for him; even putting aside the fact that he always seems to be dressed like someone out of a magazine, Darius seems as comfortable amongst the upscale shops as he does back on his own street. For her part, Christine feels out of her depth. On all sides, expensive-looking goods shine from behind walls of plate glass—with even-more-expensive-sounding names hanging overhead; a few familiar logos jump out amidst the tangle of French, but none are places that she could have afforded to consider shopping at before now. Her eyes trail across the window of each shop as they pass, and she lets herself imagine actually *buying* the things she can see on offer; reminds herself that that *isn’t* such a far-fetched idea, after all, anymore.

“I’d…like to find a jacket,” she says, her voice sounding unsure in her own ears; light glints from a display of brilliant, cut-crystal figurines, echoed in the flash of Christine’s eyes as she turns them towards Darius. “I mean…I don’t *have* to get one *here*. But… Everything else I need is really basic—just a couple of shirts, maybe a spare pair of jeans. I can find them somewhere else. I can find *a jacket* somewhere else. But…it would be nice to find, well, a *nice* one,” she finishes, sounding no more certain than she had to begin with—and doubting that she’s making half as much sense.

---

DARIUS

As clear as it may be in her voice and disposition, Darius is at a level of distraction that does not allow him to absorb Christine’s uncertainty. The suggestion of shopping for a jacket sounds like perfect fun to him; he replies with his usual cheer. “Of course!” he says. “There’s no shortage at all of places to get nice jackets here, I’m sure you’ll find something you like. Here, we can start right in here.” He leads Christine gently by the arm into the nearest clothing store, an H&M. It’s a good start, he thinks- he shops there, anyway. Plus, he has no concept of how much money Christine has. If he took a moment to consider it, he may have realized that it would be of some comfort to her that he expects Erik to have given her money. He knows as well as anyone that Erik is predisposed to give vast amounts of material wealth and to the people he cares about, occasionally in place of a functional understanding of how friendships actually work. But he isn’t thinking about the potential awkward situation that it could cause for her- he is focused on shopping, and his own budget. And the display of slim-fit patterned shirts to his left as he enters the store. The majority of the store is women’s clothing, so he points a few basic areas out to Christine and giving her instructions to meet her by the dressing rooms before disappearing into the men’s section. The sound of conversation is muted here, and blocked a bit by the music coming through the speakers. It is a bit more peaceful than the general mall outside. As much as he loves to buy new clothes, he is cautious with money. Having hired the new manager recently, he isn’t looking to go on any sort of spree, and walks in loops debating for some time- he doesn’t want to buy more than a couple things. And he already has so many pastel and printed shirts at home. He ends up with a sensible forest green collared shirt, and a more relaxed fit in slate gray to try on after a solid amount of time picking through racks and weighing options against one another. Not the most exciting things he could buy, but he does indulge a little bit, picking a black silk scarf off of the rack- there are plenty of things that it could go well with, he reasons. And right outside the dressing rooms, he finds a rotating rack of accessories- sunglasses. He stands in front of the spinning mirror, trying on nearly every pair on the rack as associates hover nearby, seemingly anxious about whether he intends to pick apart their display, and he waits for Christine to come over.

---

CHRISTINE

Christine could almost laugh when she notices the logo that Darius is steering her towards. To come so far—what will Mama say, when she learns that Christine’s first footstep into the world of ’Parisian fashion’ landed in a store that they had once lived just down the street from.

As Darius vanishes between a display shelf and a rack of coats, though, Christine is rather grateful for the familiarity of her surroundings.

She adjusts her purse on her shoulder, turning to scan the stacks of neatly-folded blouses on the nearest table; the rows of skirts and dresses hanging just beyond. She wanders forward, idly skimming through the rows.

It’s uncanny, really: other than the specific pieces of clothing on display—and the abundance of euro symbols—she could nearly be back in Gothenburg.  

Back in Gothenburg, in those days when Paris was only the most misty dream; before she ever needed it to *be* more than that.

“Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle?”

Christine startles, a soft, “—Va?” escaping as she turns her gaze away from the small cluster of mannequins that she suddenly realises she’s been staring at; a young woman with short-cropped black hair and a lanyard returns her gaze.

“Puis-je vous aider?” repeats the girl, perhaps two or three years younger than Christine herself; she gives a meaningful glance towards the display of mannequins, and Christine shakes her head, suddenly understanding.

“Ne–non. Non, merci,” Christine says, taking an apologetic step backwards. “Um… Ça va.”

The other girl purses her lips, but only gives a shrug before moving off towards a pair of young teenagers who seem on a mission to unfold every t-shirt within grasping range.

Christine glances up at the mannequins again, actually focusing on them this time. The nearest wears a furry-looking sludge-coloured sweater over glossy red pants that practically sparkle in the bright lights of the store. Her nose wrinkling in a mixture of amusement and distaste, she leaves the questionably-attired figure behind, and forges forward  into the grove of clothing racks, determined to begin her exploration in earnest.

It doesn’t take long to spot the assortment of jackets that hang at one corner of the store; more difficult is resisting the impulse to seek out the clearance rack instead. It’s a strangely discomfiting feeling, simply *considering* spending more money than strictly necessary, and she tarries—assuaging her conscience by picking up a couple of shirts with comforting red stickers on their tags, along with a flower-dotted skirt that’s nearly as cheap as anything she could have bought secondhand.

Her first instinct, when she finally allows herself to consider the jackets, is to find something on the order of the one that she’d had before; after all, it had always been a favourite of hers, with its light, silky fabric, precisely the shade of a clear morning.

But she discards the idea nearly as quickly as it comes to her; it’s too easy now to picture that pale blue nylon shot-through with red.

Something different, then. Something that won’t bring to mind blood and panic.

Browsing through the racks, she quickly finds several options that practically *define* ’different’: jackets that are close-fitting and sharply-tailored, rigid where the old one was yielding,  as opposite to it in style as they are in colour. Without letting herself look at its tag, she pulls one from its hanger—faux leather with a wide collar, in a purple so dark that it’s nearly black—and carries it over to a nearby mirror; holds it up against her shoulders.

It does look different; that she can’t deny. She tilts her head to the side, smoothing a hand across the dimpled leatherette. Its dark shade makes her hair look even brighter by comparison, and the rugged material feels solid, secure.

But as much as it doesn’t remind her of her old jacket, it doesn’t remind her of *herself* either.

Her lip quirks as she gives her reflection one last glance before turning back to the clothing rack.

And then, after digging through a few more rows of jackets, she finds it.

The cut isn’t so different from that of the purple one—but the soft, dove-grey suede from which it is sewn is entirely distinct. A strip of imitation lambskin rounds the cuffs and collar: silky curls that brush against Christine’s fingertips as she reaches to take it from the rack, her purse strap slipping from her shoulder in anticipation.

She doesn’t wait to get to the mirror before shrugging the soft garment on over her sweater dress; she doesn’t have to see her reflection to know that the jacket is *her*. But she makes herself *see* it—lets herself be *convinced*—before she allows herself to check the price.

Her smile shakes a bit when she reads, ’70 EURO’.

She looks into the mirror again.

This is what Erik *wanted* her to do with his money. Even before he offered to help her pay for anything (and everything) else, hadn’t he insisted specifically upon replacing the jacket that she’d sacrificed on his account?

She peels the jacket from her shoulders, her grip on the soft fabric light and noncommittal as she carries it back towards the display.

The other clothes that she has picked out still lay where she left them, on a shelf beside the rack.

She picks them up, shifting the grey jacket into her other arm, before scanning for the dressing rooms where Darius asked her to meet him.

---

DARIUS

Still oblivious to any turmoil going on in Christine’s mind, Darius turns at the sound of her footsteps, a ridiculous pair of blue-tinted sunglasses taking up far too much of his face. “What do you think of this new style?” he asks, tossing his shirts over his shoulder to strike a pose- narrowly missing hitting the rack itself. He turns back and mutters “sorry” at it, then looks back at her and flicks the glasses down his nose enough to peer over them at her. “Ah, you found a jacket! Look at that. It’s nice,” he says cheerfully, and removes the glasses from his face altogether. The hovering employee walks away as he puts them back and turns away from the display. He hasn’t managed to mess it up- or to knock it over completely. “Looks soft. Is there anything else you need in here?” he asks. “I don’t have to try anything on, I shop here enough that I don’t need to try these things on.

The coat does suit her- its gentle gray color only accentuates the clear blue of her eyes; it truly looks Nordic, with the muted colors and lambskin. Whatever Christine’s doubts may be, Darius immediately makes the connection between her and the coat; it just seems to make sense to him that she would buy it, given that she’s looking for a coat, anyway. He doesn’t pause to consider the price.

---

CHRISTINE

Christine keeps her grip loose on the jacket as she walks, still pretending as if she might simply change her mind and return it to the nearest rack at any moment—still wary of the whisper that tells her that she *should*.

She knows there’s no *rational* reason for it, for any of it: no reason for the nagging feeling of dread that rolls like an undertow beneath her pleased expression; no reason for her to put the jacket back, or to feign that she might do so.

The jacket is perfect. Just her style; just what she *needs*. Nothing like she’d imagined, and yet exactly what she was hoping for.

Other than the price, at least—but, thanks to Erik, she shouldn’t worry about that either.

‘Shouldn’t’. Easier said than done.

Yet, even as a part of her balks at each footstep that carries her farther away from the winter-wear department, her light touch only just keeping the jacket from slipping from her bent elbow, there is another that twists its invisible fingers ever-tighter into the faux-suede treasure—small and tentative, but wonderfully selfish and unworried, smiling a smile that is kept secret only from her own fretful conscience.

The grin—and her nervousness—cracks into a laugh when Christine finally finds Darius: he may have the *style* of somebody in a magazine, but perhaps not the *grace* to go along with it; she bites her lip, muffling her amusement as her friend turns back around.

“Thanks,” she replies to his comments, adjusting the jacket to give him a better view of it, “it seemed really nice. And I do really need it.” She bites her tongue before she’s able to comment on the price.

She glances at the various pieces of clothing that Darius holds. “I found a couple of other things, but I don’t really need to try them on; just some t-shirts. And…” she separates the skirt from her own small pile of items, “I don’t think that I need *this* one, anyway; I can just put it back. There isn’t really anything else I need here."

---

DARIUS

“Great!” Darius says, cheerful as ever. “It all looks wonderful, you do need some new things. It just feels nice to wear new things sometimes.” He glances around the store; the music is loud, and the lighting is beginning to give him a bit of a headache- like he’s been looking at a screen for too long. “Okay, then. I like shopping, but it can be exhausting, can’t it? Here, we’ll check out and go get a coffee or something, think about whether we want to go anywhere else.” His hand brushes her shoulder briefly as if to whisk her along as he heads towards the checkout; he’s satisfied with what he has, and she seems content with her purchases. He turns back to her again as he walks. “They’re used to people who can’t speak perfect French here, it’s a popular tourist mall, but of course you can ask me if you need any help with the cashier,” he tells her over his shoulder. “I could do the transaction for you, but it’s probably good practice to try, right? And even better in a touristy area where they expect it.” The line isn’t terribly long, and an array of amusing products make the wait seem short- bargain skin care products, cheap makeup and jewelry, and even more sunglasses for Darius to examine. He plops a floppy black wool hat on Christine’s head, and laughs, his voice bright. “Look at that. Fancy. But it’ll squish your hair,” he says, removing it just as quickly and setting it back on the shelf before a cashier finally calls him over to pay. He takes one last look back at Christine before he heads over, and reassures her- “just call over if you need me!”

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(Part 120)