pixiethreads | Pre-Jump Earth Literature

"Yeah, have you?"

"Yep," she says. "Good, then we're even there."

"Admittedly I might've gone over it a little fast. I was mostly looking for whatever would produce the most upsetting possible essay."

She laughs.

"What upsetting essay material did you find, then?"

"...The whole play, honestly?" He laughs a little.

She smiles.

"Fair. Honestly I thought the first few acts were the most interesting, the last were - I was actually kind of disappointed in Richard for just switching to rampant murder."

"I... okay, so in the opening monologue he's almost straight-out telling the audience 'hello, my name is Richard the Evil Cripple and this is my eerily straight-out-of-a-Barrayaran-folktale Villain Motivation', but if I look past that... I really feel for him? I mean obviously I don't approve of his actions but," he gestures inarticulately, "God, I've been there. ...And my main concern at this point is getting this reaction written down in a way that will make Frank cry but not cause him to say anything about Barrayaran cultural attitudes that will end with me in therapy for leaping onto his desk and punching him in his stupid Betan face."

"Please do not leap onto his desk and punch him in his stupid Betan face," says Yvette, sounding like she would very much like to see that. "But I see what you mean. Hm. Explain a bit more? I can maybe help."

Edited 2015-11-29 21:52 (UTC)

"...I mean, you heard me," he says, with a vague wave in a direction meant to indicate their classroom. "When I say the character speaks to me, I mean—"

He glances at the vid screen where the opening monologue of the play is currently displayed, skims the lines he's thinking of to make sure he still has the wording down, and delivers them with an intensity of emotion that surpasses even his first recital.

"But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, not made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty to strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinish'ed, sent before my time into this breathing world, scarce half made up, and that so lamely and unfashionable that dogs bark at me as I halt by them—why, I, in this weak, piping time of peace, have no delight to pass away the time, unless to spy my shadow in the sun and descant on mine own deformity."

His hand thumps his chest on every emphatic 'I'; his voice twists with self-loathing, slashes the air with vicious rage, strains with anguish; and when it's over he draws a shaky breath and avoids looking at her. That was a lot more of his soul than he meant to bare.

Edited 2015-11-29 22:37 (UTC)

...

This suddenly became a lot more personal than a pre-Jump Earth literature class. Well. It already was rather personal, but - a bathtub being compared to an ocean. Both are wet. One's a lot deeper than the other.

She is tempted to say, 'That is not what I meant, that point was very clear, you did not have to belabor it' - but no. That - would not help at all right now. That would just be petty. What does one do when someone shows one their soul? She doesn't know the answer.

First step: breathe. Collect your thoughts. Okay? All settled? Good, now to work.

...

She has no idea what the fuck to do. Not a damned clue. She can think of a few points of comparison, and even more things that are - in something of the same vein of pain she can't fix, but doesn't have the eloquence in her to say them without potentially hurting him.

'I am a woman from a society that treats them as chattel,' 'I understand that because my parents had only girls my branch of the Vorlaine name will die out,' 'I am desperately trying to not drown in the ocean of propaganda surrounding my home planet and Beta Colony, I am confused and lost and barely know who I am,' 'I am so very small and everything I want to do is so much larger than I am, I don't know how I'll even begin' 'Sometimes I feel as if I've already failed, that I'm doomed to it, that there is nothing I can do and no one cares what I have to say,' 'Sometimes I just think I'm not good enough, and never will be.'

And none of these are exactly the same sorts of problems as he has, she doesn't know what it's like to be him. She probably never will. Her problems are - smaller, less grave, in comparison to his, at least as far as she can tell. But - damn it, they're both being assailed by shitty things about life and their society, why the fuck should they look at one another and say, 'Your experiences of pain and confusion differ from mine, get out, do not try to reach out to understand and be understood.'

She doesn't have a speech written by Shakespeare in front of her to cram her feelings into. Maybe there is one, but she hasn't read it yet. She makes a note to read more Shakespeare, to maybe have a reply to situations like these. Because she still doesn't. And she can't even figure out a way to cram her own feelings into something that isn't horribly out of place and sounding like she doesn't care about his problems. She feels hopelessly out of her depth with a rock tied to her foot and the inability to swim.

But she does kind of dearly want to hug him.

"Miles," she asks, voice soft. "Would you like a hug?"

Edited 2015-11-29 23:22 (UTC)

"I—I didn't mean to get quite that depressing on you," he mutters. "I'm not even a genuine mutant, for God's sake, my genes are fine, the damage is strictly teratogenic, not that this ever seems to make a difference to how people look at me."

Wait, he's trying to be less depressing. Say something else, Miles.

"It's better on Beta Colony, at least here the pity and disdain mostly only comes up when I mention what planet I'm from. And there are no alleys to get beaten up in."

No not that. God what's wrong with him. He covers his face with his hands.

She winces at the alley comment. Yeah, that's Barrayar all right. Fuck.

She's tempted to hug him without permission but she doesn't know him well enough to guess how that would go. She doesn't.

"How do I help," she asks, a little desperately. "There's - I'm - I feel like there's nothing I can say that won't make things hurt more, I - I've known you for four days and I'd personally tell any asshole that looked at you with disdain to take a jump to hell? Because fuck those guys? I think Barrayar is getting better, even if it's, taking a while to get around to it? I get the pity and disdain from Betans too? I. Would definitely hug you, if you wanted me to, but I don't know if that would help or hurt more so I haven't been." Pause. "... We can possibly take a break from Shakespeare, trash talk Betans together?"

"I don't—I—why do you care?! Why do—why does—what is the point of trying to help me when I'm just a fucking mutie anyway and no amount of trash-talking Betans is going to change that," he says, raw-voiced and miserable, hunching down in his seat.

"Just? You're not - there is no just, if, if I settled for just being the thing Barrayar fucking assigned to me, I would be, at home, in some pretty gilded cage. I would grow up and learn, learn, I don't fucking know, embroidery maybe, play the harp, say lots of vapid things and marry the highest bidder. Maybe die before I'm forty if I were really getting into it. People are not just anything, they're people, even in idiots there's a, a, they grow and become better and learn and. You're not just anything, you're - you have beautiful diction, I was struck not by how you looked but by how well you spoke, when I first heard you. You have a hilariously twisted sense of humor! It's very dark but you have a talent for wordplay and irreverency that I can appreciate!

"I - I - why the fuck shouldn't I care, huh? Why the fuck shouldn't I look at Barrayar, look at the fucking Nexus and say, 'This should be better, what is happening here should not happen, I want to help, I want people to stop hurting'?! You do not get to, to, opt yourself out, I see you as fucking valuable and if I can fucking help you, you can bet your entire fucking fortune that I will raise hell to try! Every! Single! Time!"

By the end of this tirade her voice has raised to a point where she's almost shouting. She looks like she would like to continue, but she catches herself and takes a deep breath.

"The point," she says, in a more even tone, "is that you are already so much more than a, a - you are more than what other people see you as."

He has to sit very still for a moment and focus on breathing evenly to keep himself from bursting into tears.

...

Maybe that was a bit - strong. That was probably a bit strong. She - can't bring herself to regret it, it's too close to home, too much of her soul bared to him to try to take it back. Maybe something to cushion the words a bit, but wanting to take any of that back - no, she can't.

"... Offer for a hug's still open, anytime you'd like it."

"I... I don't..." He trails off, exhales shakily—looks up at her with a flash of a wry, haunted smile. "Uh, in case you were wondering, it's not my usual practice to unload all my private griefs on the third conversation with a new acquaintance. You just. Caught me at a bad time, let's say."

"Darn, I was waiting in rapt anticipation for what conversation four would be like," says Yvette, dry. "... But no, seriously, you seemed to need it, and if I can help -" She shrugs, looking amused. "I think you've heard my opinion there. Happy to be of service."

He takes another deep calming breath and straightens a little so he can lean forward and meet her eyes.

"I want you to know that I deeply appreciate and admire your commitment to making the world a better place," he says, his voice soft but intense. "I—when I'm being my best self, when I live up to my own ideals, I feel very similarly."

... That is a hell of a soft but intense voice he has. Directed at her. Praising her qualities. Um.

She smiles a tiny slightly shy smile, and inspects her hands because she cannot meet that gaze right now.

"Well, thank you. I uh. Am glad that it's not just me that wants to save the galaxy."

He smiles faintly, looking away.

"But sometimes... it just isn't in me to believe I can be helped, or that I should be. It's—I guess it really does come back to what I was trying to say about poor Richard. About... feeling like something in the fundamental nature of my physical and spiritual being is corrupt, broken, impure." He pauses a moment, then adds, "I judge my odds of reducing Frank to tears pretty high if I can just manage to get that out onto a vidscreen in a comprehensible essay format."

That last part earns a giggle from her.

"Reducing him to tears is important, I see." Pause, a complicated expression. "And I don't think you're - corrupt, broken, or impure. I realize that probably doesn't help, but." She waves a hand awkwardly.

"It... I don't know," he sighs. "It's... better than nothing? That sounds so inadequate, and any way I can think of to try to make it sound more positive fails catastrophically at that task. Um. It's better than nothing and I swear that's actually meaningful?"

"I will take you at your word," she agrees. Pause. "So, want to be friends, only other Barrayaran at this school?"

...Miles snorts. "What am I going to say, no? I'm sorry I dropped my heart and soul in your lap, let me just pick it all up and bugger off? Come on."

He looks her in the face again with a broad, friendly, genuine smile that only carries a little pain around the edges.

"Yes, I will absolutely be your friend, Yvette Vorlaine."

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