Sleepwake (Part 18/?)
See Part 1 for disclaimer.
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Xiaoyu blinked at Donahue.
Donahue blinked at Xiaoyu.
". . . Hi?" she offered. She smiled weakly at the gruff bartender, who was towering over her in one tall intimidating boulder of solidity. Xiaoyu felt like an errant dwarf. He, on the other hand, obviously knew his way around, had some role to play here. It made him belong in this unknown place in a way she didn't.
Yet he reacted to her tentative greeting with a startled jump, so maybe he was just as uncomfortable as Xiaoyu. The idea eased her nervousness enough to brighten her smile, warming it a few degrees closer to the thousand-watt grin Jin would've recognized. But Xiaoyu didn't feel up to a thirty-watt grin at the moment. Not enough to light a broom closet.
Donahue coughed, a low rumble in his diaphragm.
"Morning," he hazarded. With slightly more confidence, "Natalia asked me to bring these."
He set a breakfast tray of toast, jam, milk, and some fruit beside Xiaoyu's cotton mat. Xiaoyu poked at the toast. It was warm and smelled wonderfully edible, if slightly scorched.
"She said you shouldn't be eating too much yet," Donahue told her, making a hesitant attempt at conversation. Perhaps Natalia'd asked him to, Xiaoyu thought. Whoever that was. The foreign surroundings and names and faces made her grip the blanket more tightly, wishing the pillows were large enough to hug. "She's not here herself because she went out to get more orange juice for Mike," the bartender added.
"Donahue?" Xiaoyu asked, trying the syllables out with a swollen tongue.
"Uh, yeah?"
"Who's Natalia? And Mike?"
He squinted at her, confused.
"You don't know who Natalia is?"
She shook her head, regretting it when the room spun a little.
"Then how do you know me?"
Xiaoyu pointed to the nametag stuck onto his shirt. It read 'Hi! I'm:' and then had room for a name to be penned in. Donahue's signature was large and hasty. 'Bartender' was written below, a cramped afterthought.
"Oh, that," he said, his mouth turning downwards in remembered annoyance. "Mike makes everyone wear them. Don't rightly know where Natalia found herself such a-"
He paused, remembering Xiaoyu.
"That's right, you don't know who they are. Mike and Natalia own this dance club."
Xiaoyu clutched the blanket tighter.
"Why," she said, and had to clear her throat, "Why am I in a dance club?"
"I couldn't tell you. You'd best ask your friend that brought you in here, Bob."
"Bob?" Her tone was steady through brute force of will, but she could feel herself shrinking.
"Yeah," confirmed Donahue. Then a thought occurred to him, and he asked, "You don't know him either?"
"No." Steady, perhaps, but miniscule. She felt tears threatening to blur her vision, and looked away from Donahue in shame. Panic congealed in her chest, climbing up her throat. "I don't," --Oh god no, the sniffles-- "I don't remember. I don't know what happened." She knew she should've been mortified, but all Xiaoyu could feel was the rising hysteria. "I don't know where I am. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know anybody. I-"
She clamped her mouth shut and stared at Donahue with watery eyes.
If possible, Donahue looked even more panicked than she felt.
"Hold on," he said to her, "Don't worry. Just. . . hold on a minute."
She watched as he left the room in a hurry, listened to the heavy footsteps grow fainter and fainter. The sniffles turned into long, irregular breaths, and she felt her eyes sting as she swallowed, convulsively. Soon she couldn't hear Donahue at all, and sat hunched in an unwanted, smothering solitude beside her cooling toast.
* * *
Jin sat at the bar, munching on a tasteless candy bar he'd found beneath the counter. The club was closed on Saturday mornings, and Donahue was nowhere in sight, so he'd laid the money on the countertop. He counted it, added a bill, and unwrapped a second candy bar. Jin ate chocolate like alcoholics drank: with great voracity and in times of stress.
He was on his fourth bar when Hwoarang staggered into view. Sleeping in had done him some good, Jin noted. Hwoarang's motions were clumsy with the pain of migraines, but the shadows underlining his eyes had disappeared. A rope of red jade beads hung around his neck, a smooth fiery noose. Hwoarang's fingers plucked at it, as if about to pull it off, but he didn't. The beads glittered wetly, winking at Jin.
"Nice necklace," Jin commented before taking another bite and chomping with an air of contemplation.
"Go to hell," the redhead said, lacking his usual enthusiasm. Jin shrugged, swallowed, and gave Hwoarang a wan smile.
"Ah well, there's no point in rushing."
Hwoarang had been digging under the counter, but glanced up at him and held his gaze. Then, muttering, the redhead returned to his search.
"Looking for something?" Jin asked.
"Tylenol," said Hwoarang. He paused to blow a lock of hair out of his eyes. The morning light filtered about his head, setting his copper strands ablaze, like a burning chicken nest.
"You should get that cut," Jin mused.
"Fuck off," said Hwoarang. Jin considered remarking on his originality this morning, but decided it wasn't worth the trouble. It also occurred to him to tell Hwoarang that Jin, nursing his own headache, had already searched for Tylenol and hadn't found any, but reached a similar conclusion.
"Where is everyone?"
Still digging:
"No dancers in the day, Mike's half dead in his room, Natalia went out for groceries, Donahue's bringing Xiaoyu her breakfast."
"Xiaoyu?" Jin was on his feet. "She's okay? Is she awake?"
Hwoarang, who must've been still partially asleep, splayed his hand against the floor, to steady himself probably, and stared at it with hooded eyes. Jin waited impatiently for his answer.
And waited.
Finally, the Korean continued his excavation of the bar's cabinetry, albeit many times slower than before.
"You should go visit her," he said softly, not turning to face Jin. "If she's awake, she'll . . . she'll want to see you."
Mystified by Hwoarang's sudden change in temperament, Jin nodded and left for the halls that lead to the lacquered door. He ran into Donahue almost instantly.
"Hey, we're closed!" the bartender called out, "How'd you get in- Wait. Didn't you come in with that girl? The little one with pigtails?"
"Why? Did something happen to her?" asked Jin. He felt heat drain from his face. The bartender looked agitated.
"No, she- Does she know you?"
"What? Yes. Of course!"
Donahue was visibly relieved.
"Oh, good. I went looking for you, you or that rascal she can't remember. She needs to see a friend right now."
Jin remembered to breathe, did so quite quickly, and thanked the man for finding him. He started walking towards the room at a brisk pace, but ended up running. Why did Donahue look so frightened? Xiaoyu was okay now, wasn't she? But if she was fine, why didn't she remember Hwoarang? Did she still remember _him_? What if she didn't? What if-? He imagined a dozen answers before reaching the door, thought of a dozen more questions, more whatifwhatifs? It didn't seem as though he'd turned the brass knob, the door flew open so fast.
"Xiaoyu!"
Whatever thoughts he had before entering the room excused themselves politely and promptly evacuated Jin's mind.
Xiaoyu sat in the center of the floor, her head in her arms, her arms thrown around her knees. Her shoulders shuddered with muffled sobs. For a moment, Jin stood in dumb silence, overcome with helplessness. This situation was completely beyond his knowledge of her, or really his knowledge of any living person. He had seen Xiaoyu cry before, certainly; she'd soaked his shirt in her tears while simultaneously inhaling popcorn on numerous cinematic occasions. She cried when the safety officials finally took Panda away from her, placed the bear in a zoo. She cried in fear when her dear uncle had a stroke and was hospitalized, cried in joy when they learned it was minor and he'd fully recovered, cried the one time, when they weren't yet friends, Jin had suggested in frustration that she be more mature, act her age for once, and she'd turned away from him to wipe off a single angry tear. But Xiaoyu never, never cried in a fight, no matter how hard she fell, or how many bones she dislocated. So at least Jin knew that she was, physically, unharmed.
Nor did she ever cry like this. Not this lost and secret weeping.
Lacking the words to comfort her, Jin acted on what came naturally. He sat beside her, wrapped his arms over Xiaoyu's shoulders, drew her under his chin. Her reaction was instant and disturbing; she stiffened, twisted fiercely to escape his hold, her hand pushing his chest.
"It's me, it's Jin. Xiaoyu, it's me," he whispered. "It's me."
The meaning took a second to sink in, although the familiarity of his voice had immediate effect. The thrashing subsided. Xiaoyu blinked, looked up, blinked again. Her tears still clung to her eyelashes, streaking down her face to splatter on his forearm.
"Jin?"
"Yeah."
The strange quiet was broken. She sobbed loudly, the full earnest release that he'd witnessed that day the hospital called her, when they told her that no, your uncle will be just fine, he won't die, everything will be fine, see, he wants to talk to you and it'll be okay dear, it's okay.
Don't worry.
It'll all work out okay.
.
.
Author's notes:
Okay, time for some way overdue thanks. First off, big big thanks to Sam, because I just don't thank her _enough_ for her patience with my whining, for her wonderfully kind way of criticism, for her all-around inexpressible coolness ^_^. And thanks to all the nice sparkly people who review this story, even though I'm temperamental sometimes (okay, a lot) and maudlin and self-important and inconsistent and take forever to update. I'm so grateful to you all, the thought that people are waiting for the next chapter is one of the most important reasons why I write sleepwake.
And an off note regarding all the soap-opera-ish happenings: hee, when I said fluff, I meant it people!
.
.
Constructive criticism will be printed out and framed. Flames will be used to toast marshmallows. Yum.
See Part 1 for disclaimer.
.
.
Xiaoyu blinked at Donahue.
Donahue blinked at Xiaoyu.
". . . Hi?" she offered. She smiled weakly at the gruff bartender, who was towering over her in one tall intimidating boulder of solidity. Xiaoyu felt like an errant dwarf. He, on the other hand, obviously knew his way around, had some role to play here. It made him belong in this unknown place in a way she didn't.
Yet he reacted to her tentative greeting with a startled jump, so maybe he was just as uncomfortable as Xiaoyu. The idea eased her nervousness enough to brighten her smile, warming it a few degrees closer to the thousand-watt grin Jin would've recognized. But Xiaoyu didn't feel up to a thirty-watt grin at the moment. Not enough to light a broom closet.
Donahue coughed, a low rumble in his diaphragm.
"Morning," he hazarded. With slightly more confidence, "Natalia asked me to bring these."
He set a breakfast tray of toast, jam, milk, and some fruit beside Xiaoyu's cotton mat. Xiaoyu poked at the toast. It was warm and smelled wonderfully edible, if slightly scorched.
"She said you shouldn't be eating too much yet," Donahue told her, making a hesitant attempt at conversation. Perhaps Natalia'd asked him to, Xiaoyu thought. Whoever that was. The foreign surroundings and names and faces made her grip the blanket more tightly, wishing the pillows were large enough to hug. "She's not here herself because she went out to get more orange juice for Mike," the bartender added.
"Donahue?" Xiaoyu asked, trying the syllables out with a swollen tongue.
"Uh, yeah?"
"Who's Natalia? And Mike?"
He squinted at her, confused.
"You don't know who Natalia is?"
She shook her head, regretting it when the room spun a little.
"Then how do you know me?"
Xiaoyu pointed to the nametag stuck onto his shirt. It read 'Hi! I'm:' and then had room for a name to be penned in. Donahue's signature was large and hasty. 'Bartender' was written below, a cramped afterthought.
"Oh, that," he said, his mouth turning downwards in remembered annoyance. "Mike makes everyone wear them. Don't rightly know where Natalia found herself such a-"
He paused, remembering Xiaoyu.
"That's right, you don't know who they are. Mike and Natalia own this dance club."
Xiaoyu clutched the blanket tighter.
"Why," she said, and had to clear her throat, "Why am I in a dance club?"
"I couldn't tell you. You'd best ask your friend that brought you in here, Bob."
"Bob?" Her tone was steady through brute force of will, but she could feel herself shrinking.
"Yeah," confirmed Donahue. Then a thought occurred to him, and he asked, "You don't know him either?"
"No." Steady, perhaps, but miniscule. She felt tears threatening to blur her vision, and looked away from Donahue in shame. Panic congealed in her chest, climbing up her throat. "I don't," --Oh god no, the sniffles-- "I don't remember. I don't know what happened." She knew she should've been mortified, but all Xiaoyu could feel was the rising hysteria. "I don't know where I am. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know anybody. I-"
She clamped her mouth shut and stared at Donahue with watery eyes.
If possible, Donahue looked even more panicked than she felt.
"Hold on," he said to her, "Don't worry. Just. . . hold on a minute."
She watched as he left the room in a hurry, listened to the heavy footsteps grow fainter and fainter. The sniffles turned into long, irregular breaths, and she felt her eyes sting as she swallowed, convulsively. Soon she couldn't hear Donahue at all, and sat hunched in an unwanted, smothering solitude beside her cooling toast.
* * *
Jin sat at the bar, munching on a tasteless candy bar he'd found beneath the counter. The club was closed on Saturday mornings, and Donahue was nowhere in sight, so he'd laid the money on the countertop. He counted it, added a bill, and unwrapped a second candy bar. Jin ate chocolate like alcoholics drank: with great voracity and in times of stress.
He was on his fourth bar when Hwoarang staggered into view. Sleeping in had done him some good, Jin noted. Hwoarang's motions were clumsy with the pain of migraines, but the shadows underlining his eyes had disappeared. A rope of red jade beads hung around his neck, a smooth fiery noose. Hwoarang's fingers plucked at it, as if about to pull it off, but he didn't. The beads glittered wetly, winking at Jin.
"Nice necklace," Jin commented before taking another bite and chomping with an air of contemplation.
"Go to hell," the redhead said, lacking his usual enthusiasm. Jin shrugged, swallowed, and gave Hwoarang a wan smile.
"Ah well, there's no point in rushing."
Hwoarang had been digging under the counter, but glanced up at him and held his gaze. Then, muttering, the redhead returned to his search.
"Looking for something?" Jin asked.
"Tylenol," said Hwoarang. He paused to blow a lock of hair out of his eyes. The morning light filtered about his head, setting his copper strands ablaze, like a burning chicken nest.
"You should get that cut," Jin mused.
"Fuck off," said Hwoarang. Jin considered remarking on his originality this morning, but decided it wasn't worth the trouble. It also occurred to him to tell Hwoarang that Jin, nursing his own headache, had already searched for Tylenol and hadn't found any, but reached a similar conclusion.
"Where is everyone?"
Still digging:
"No dancers in the day, Mike's half dead in his room, Natalia went out for groceries, Donahue's bringing Xiaoyu her breakfast."
"Xiaoyu?" Jin was on his feet. "She's okay? Is she awake?"
Hwoarang, who must've been still partially asleep, splayed his hand against the floor, to steady himself probably, and stared at it with hooded eyes. Jin waited impatiently for his answer.
And waited.
Finally, the Korean continued his excavation of the bar's cabinetry, albeit many times slower than before.
"You should go visit her," he said softly, not turning to face Jin. "If she's awake, she'll . . . she'll want to see you."
Mystified by Hwoarang's sudden change in temperament, Jin nodded and left for the halls that lead to the lacquered door. He ran into Donahue almost instantly.
"Hey, we're closed!" the bartender called out, "How'd you get in- Wait. Didn't you come in with that girl? The little one with pigtails?"
"Why? Did something happen to her?" asked Jin. He felt heat drain from his face. The bartender looked agitated.
"No, she- Does she know you?"
"What? Yes. Of course!"
Donahue was visibly relieved.
"Oh, good. I went looking for you, you or that rascal she can't remember. She needs to see a friend right now."
Jin remembered to breathe, did so quite quickly, and thanked the man for finding him. He started walking towards the room at a brisk pace, but ended up running. Why did Donahue look so frightened? Xiaoyu was okay now, wasn't she? But if she was fine, why didn't she remember Hwoarang? Did she still remember _him_? What if she didn't? What if-? He imagined a dozen answers before reaching the door, thought of a dozen more questions, more whatifwhatifs? It didn't seem as though he'd turned the brass knob, the door flew open so fast.
"Xiaoyu!"
Whatever thoughts he had before entering the room excused themselves politely and promptly evacuated Jin's mind.
Xiaoyu sat in the center of the floor, her head in her arms, her arms thrown around her knees. Her shoulders shuddered with muffled sobs. For a moment, Jin stood in dumb silence, overcome with helplessness. This situation was completely beyond his knowledge of her, or really his knowledge of any living person. He had seen Xiaoyu cry before, certainly; she'd soaked his shirt in her tears while simultaneously inhaling popcorn on numerous cinematic occasions. She cried when the safety officials finally took Panda away from her, placed the bear in a zoo. She cried in fear when her dear uncle had a stroke and was hospitalized, cried in joy when they learned it was minor and he'd fully recovered, cried the one time, when they weren't yet friends, Jin had suggested in frustration that she be more mature, act her age for once, and she'd turned away from him to wipe off a single angry tear. But Xiaoyu never, never cried in a fight, no matter how hard she fell, or how many bones she dislocated. So at least Jin knew that she was, physically, unharmed.
Nor did she ever cry like this. Not this lost and secret weeping.
Lacking the words to comfort her, Jin acted on what came naturally. He sat beside her, wrapped his arms over Xiaoyu's shoulders, drew her under his chin. Her reaction was instant and disturbing; she stiffened, twisted fiercely to escape his hold, her hand pushing his chest.
"It's me, it's Jin. Xiaoyu, it's me," he whispered. "It's me."
The meaning took a second to sink in, although the familiarity of his voice had immediate effect. The thrashing subsided. Xiaoyu blinked, looked up, blinked again. Her tears still clung to her eyelashes, streaking down her face to splatter on his forearm.
"Jin?"
"Yeah."
The strange quiet was broken. She sobbed loudly, the full earnest release that he'd witnessed that day the hospital called her, when they told her that no, your uncle will be just fine, he won't die, everything will be fine, see, he wants to talk to you and it'll be okay dear, it's okay.
Don't worry.
It'll all work out okay.
.
.
Author's notes:
Okay, time for some way overdue thanks. First off, big big thanks to Sam, because I just don't thank her _enough_ for her patience with my whining, for her wonderfully kind way of criticism, for her all-around inexpressible coolness ^_^. And thanks to all the nice sparkly people who review this story, even though I'm temperamental sometimes (okay, a lot) and maudlin and self-important and inconsistent and take forever to update. I'm so grateful to you all, the thought that people are waiting for the next chapter is one of the most important reasons why I write sleepwake.
And an off note regarding all the soap-opera-ish happenings: hee, when I said fluff, I meant it people!
.
.
Constructive criticism will be printed out and framed. Flames will be used to toast marshmallows. Yum.