[Marco takes a seat, watches, and judges. Hypnotising people for cash. How dare he?
(Then a cold gust fills his chest and he feels judgement on himself because he hypnotises to kill and he kills to feed and how many people has it been so far he's lost count how could he have allowed himself to lose count how dare he how dare he)
He notices Jason is there when a cup of coffee slides over to him. He looks down at it and then back at the manticore, wary.
... What he hears, however, is not what he expected.] What?
I'm not... [Where did this come from? It's true he's seen better days, but he wouldn't tell a friend about it, let alone Jason.] No, no, I died... last week, I'm not too eager to try again... Two weeks? Last week.
[Every one of Jason's heightened senses seems attuned to Marco's movements, his tone of voice, even the smell of him. Now that Jason's appointed himself a concerned expert, his world has narrowed to this one task, and the uncertainty of it leaves him feeling queasy.
He sees the pause, wonders if it is just that Marco died so recently, knows that it predated that. Maybe he's seen it all along, this shadow of madness inside Marco.
He takes a drink of his own coffee, as if that'll help settle the nerves there, the uncomfortable memories that brew inside his body more than in his head.]
That's what I said in my letter, didn't I? "Concerns"? I've got the carbon copy at the castle, I could doublecheck.
[Jason takes a deep breath that starts off sounding exasperated and ends on a note decidedly more melancholy.]
You know I told you my brother - the older one, not the idiot - up and threw himself off a bridge one day, right? Well, it wasn't exactly like that. The last time I saw him, there was something about him-
[The problem is it's hard to explain, hard to put together how Marco's distractedness and off-focus led Jason to this morbid conclusion.]
You're acting like he did, that's all. Your head's not squared away and it shows. And that's all right about that but I'd rather not have any guilt on my shoulders if I could have talked you out of something stupid.
[As Jason speaks, the look in Marco's face shifts as well - from wariness, to confusion, to something between shock and fear. Is Jason implying he's out of his mind? No, not implying it - he's stating it, plain and simple.
Of course he has noticed a thing or two. His attention span, his mood, the faint impression that whatever happened to him during the Christmas masquerade never quite wore off.
But he has more important things to think about. Like keeping himself from becoming a complete monster. Like making sure the fog god stays well away from him.]
... I don't know what you're talking about. [His tone doesn't seem very convincing, though.]
Sure you don't. [Jason's no doctor, no psychiatrist. His understanding of them is that they lurk around in institutions where the incurably insane go to waste away, that there are some people up north who talk about "mental hygiene" as if it were a tenet of some offshoot cult. So he doesn't have any vocabulary to talk about madness.
But he knows it as intimately as if it were another sibling in his family. Maybe it was, an unspoken member of their generation and the one before. He can see it now and it's as if he isn't even looking at Marco, but at the twisted, gnarled wires within him.]
Look, I don't make it my business to watch what you do on the telegram board, but it's only a matter of time before everyone else starts to realize something's off too. Are you sleeping and eating, at least?
[Sleeping is one thing. He sleeps, yes, although maybe not as peacefully as he would like. More and more, he hears the Fourth God's voice in his dreams, asking him for tribute - and he's not sure what to make of it. His dreams of the arcade, on the other hand, are more comforting.
As for eating...
He certainly has been, but isn't that part of the problem? The ease with which drowning comes to him by now? The way the routine of luring some poor human into his arms and pulling them into the depths feels so natural?
It terrifies him. He knows the fog god has done something to his mind, and it terrifies him, and the only thing that brings him peace is knowing that the Fourth God is with him.]
Alright, that's something, at least. [Jason smooths the side of his hair, sighing, eyes beady and tightened on Marco.
He lets out a long breath through his teeth, not believing Marco, not really. But then again, Quentin finished his semester at school before he killed himself, didn't he? Even cleaned his laundry the afternoon before he drowned himself, as if the river was just another appointment in a mundane day.]
Look, just- it's not like I care, but if you start getting any delusions or anything or any impulses to do something, I mean- just don't, alright? I don't want that sitting on my conscience. I've done well enough keeping things off it up until now. I don't want it getting saddled down because you've been sucking at the Fourth God's teat.
First of all-- [He finally shoves the cup of coffee aside in a more explicit gesture of refusal, then sticks his finger in the air -] The Fourth God is a man.
Good! [Jason sits forward, reaching aside to make sure the coffee doesn't tip off the edge of the table.] Finally, some life in your eyes. Been long enough since you haven't been looking like you took some patent medicine and a nightcap to help it. Like a dead man, I says.
No, that'd be a sucker's game. [Jason waves a hand.] I'm just saying, it seems these days the only way you don't look like a corpse is when you're getting riled up for the Fourth God. You didn't have that much life in you when you were taking mine, even.
[He gets up and finishes off his coffee.]
Just don't hurt yourself, alright? I don't care, but I'd rather you didn't. It gives me the chills just to look at you these days.
[Marco still isn't sure how to take either Jason's concerns or the fact that he's concerned. On one hand, the man may have a point; on the other hand, Marco doesn't like the way he puts it; on the other other hand, why does he even care?
It would be simpler if things were more black-and-white than they are in this case.]
To me, it looks like you do care, whether you'd like to admit it or not.
[Jason takes Marco's cup of coffee. If Marco won't have it Jason may as well get the table bused.] Eugh. We aren't all queers here, Evangelisti. Don't flatter yourself.
[He heads back to the registers and machines, ready to take his shift back up again, and calls over his shoulder-] Or lie to yourself, for that matter!
[How nice of Jason to give Marco a reminder of why he doesn't like him at all. The word, he might be willing to excuse if it came from somebody else from Jason's time period, but he's not too inclined to take advice from someone who thinks feelings aren't for straight guys.]
Have a nice day.
[After saying that in the driest way he possibly can, he leaves.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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(Then a cold gust fills his chest and he feels judgement on himself because he hypnotises to kill and he kills to feed and how many people has it been so far he's lost count how could he have allowed himself to lose count how dare he how dare he)
He notices Jason is there when a cup of coffee slides over to him. He looks down at it and then back at the manticore, wary.
... What he hears, however, is not what he expected.] What?
I'm not... [Where did this come from? It's true he's seen better days, but he wouldn't tell a friend about it, let alone Jason.] No, no, I died... last week, I'm not too eager to try again... Two weeks? Last week.
[A pause.] Are you concerned?
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He sees the pause, wonders if it is just that Marco died so recently, knows that it predated that. Maybe he's seen it all along, this shadow of madness inside Marco.
He takes a drink of his own coffee, as if that'll help settle the nerves there, the uncomfortable memories that brew inside his body more than in his head.]
That's what I said in my letter, didn't I? "Concerns"? I've got the carbon copy at the castle, I could doublecheck.
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[Marco sighs. Of all the people he could possibly be having this conversation with, he never imagined Jason Compson would be one of them.]
Why? Why do you have these... "concerns"?
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You know I told you my brother - the older one, not the idiot - up and threw himself off a bridge one day, right? Well, it wasn't exactly like that. The last time I saw him, there was something about him-
[The problem is it's hard to explain, hard to put together how Marco's distractedness and off-focus led Jason to this morbid conclusion.]
You're acting like he did, that's all. Your head's not squared away and it shows. And that's all right about that but I'd rather not have any guilt on my shoulders if I could have talked you out of something stupid.
Do you really not notice how you are right now?
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Of course he has noticed a thing or two. His attention span, his mood, the faint impression that whatever happened to him during the Christmas masquerade never quite wore off.
But he has more important things to think about. Like keeping himself from becoming a complete monster. Like making sure the fog god stays well away from him.]
... I don't know what you're talking about. [His tone doesn't seem very convincing, though.]
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Sure you don't. [Jason's no doctor, no psychiatrist. His understanding of them is that they lurk around in institutions where the incurably insane go to waste away, that there are some people up north who talk about "mental hygiene" as if it were a tenet of some offshoot cult. So he doesn't have any vocabulary to talk about madness.
But he knows it as intimately as if it were another sibling in his family. Maybe it was, an unspoken member of their generation and the one before. He can see it now and it's as if he isn't even looking at Marco, but at the twisted, gnarled wires within him.]
Look, I don't make it my business to watch what you do on the telegram board, but it's only a matter of time before everyone else starts to realize something's off too. Are you sleeping and eating, at least?
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[Sleeping is one thing. He sleeps, yes, although maybe not as peacefully as he would like. More and more, he hears the Fourth God's voice in his dreams, asking him for tribute - and he's not sure what to make of it. His dreams of the arcade, on the other hand, are more comforting.
As for eating...
He certainly has been, but isn't that part of the problem? The ease with which drowning comes to him by now? The way the routine of luring some poor human into his arms and pulling them into the depths feels so natural?
It terrifies him. He knows the fog god has done something to his mind, and it terrifies him, and the only thing that brings him peace is knowing that the Fourth God is with him.]
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He lets out a long breath through his teeth, not believing Marco, not really. But then again, Quentin finished his semester at school before he killed himself, didn't he? Even cleaned his laundry the afternoon before he drowned himself, as if the river was just another appointment in a mundane day.]
Look, just- it's not like I care, but if you start getting any delusions or anything or any impulses to do something, I mean- just don't, alright? I don't want that sitting on my conscience. I've done well enough keeping things off it up until now. I don't want it getting saddled down because you've been sucking at the Fourth God's teat.
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You have... [He shakes his head.] You have no idea what you're talking about. At all. The Fourth God has been helping me.
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That so? And how's she been doing that? What've you been getting for all your proselytizing?
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The Stare is that look on Marco's face whenever Jason says something horrifically offensive.]
What, are you trying to provoke me now?
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[He gets up and finishes off his coffee.]
Just don't hurt yourself, alright? I don't care, but I'd rather you didn't. It gives me the chills just to look at you these days.
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It would be simpler if things were more black-and-white than they are in this case.]
To me, it looks like you do care, whether you'd like to admit it or not.
[He stands up, sighing.]
So thank you, I guess. But I'm fine.
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[He heads back to the registers and machines, ready to take his shift back up again, and calls over his shoulder-] Or lie to yourself, for that matter!
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Have a nice day.
[After saying that in the driest way he possibly can, he leaves.]