FROM: @APPLEDIE | @ALL

[thoughtimight]

Hello.

I was told the best way to get the answers to difficult questions is to ask, then listen carefully to the answers that people give you.

Why do some men have an aversion to shaving?

Are they afraid?

Comments

[omniavincit]

[ The intensity in William's gaze doesn't abate, not as John talks about her—though it does change, his eyes lighter, livelier.

Digging wouldn't be his metaphor of choice, either—a task that doesn't allow you to lift your eyes, doesn't allow for a horizon and the promise it holds. ]

No. [ The third time John's returned to the question, like water circling a drain. Hearing it again—and laid out so logically despite whatever toxic cocktail's coursing through the other man's system—William thinks to wonder what it is John does, or did.

But the explanation’s simple. Not unsympathetically: ] Because I don't want to die.

[inconstantly]

[There it is, the actual answer that William has been sidestepping. In his line of work John is used to evasion, and will pose a question thousands of different ways for an eventual result. Now that the answer has come it's difficult to face. He'd hoped for an insight into Dolores rather than himself, yet in a way it still is. She's perceptive, almost inhumanly so.

It's only now with the final piece in place that John sees William's intent behind his answers. Under a bleary look of understanding John raises his glass in a grim salute toward William before momentum takes it back to his lips.]

There's not much to say about that is it? Not like it's a secret. [Even if not a secret, John wishes it were something he could more easily bury. He drops the glass an inch above the table.] Doesn't mean you don't think about death though, John. [heh] 'Specially in a place like this.

[He's not sure if it's the alcohol or the mental spiraling that makes him want to so doggedly pursue the subject.] Maybe you don't want to die, but you wonder what it would be like, how it would happen. [His movement toward the bottle once again remains mechanical, yet this time almost aggressive in its routine.] What you see.

[omniavincit]

[ He takes it better than expected—doesn't turn snarling on William for answering the question, doesn't deny it. William half-raises his glass in turn, tipping it toward the other man. For the first time in what feels like a long while, he drinks.

The way John speaks about death, not as an endpoint, a looming long-armed fate, but a series of possibilities—William glimpses, briefly, where he and Dolores might intersect. ] How you'd see. [ What a strange thought to voice. He seems momentarily taken aback by himself, cradles his glass in both hands.

What would it mean, to change your very state of being? How would the world look then? ] Do you want to die, or be [ he takes a breath, regards John with naked curiosity ] reborn?

[inconstantly]

I've been to hell once. [He waves a hand dismissively, as if anticipating something that doesn't come.] Not metaphorically like far too many people seem to say when they don't understand, but actual hell.

When you're consumed by fire you learn things about yourself, what's important and what you thought was important.

[John remembers his moment of clarity in the midst of torture, when the idea of missions and duty and all that rubbish fell away. What remained were sparks of an idea forming to a plan and a resolve like no other.]

You don't need to die to be reborn, but you do need your own hell. Something to burn away the flesh of what you once were. Strip you of nothing but knowledge and focus.

[One day John will die. And he will deserve his fate. But that doesn't mean he won't attempt to twist the ending while he's still alive.]

It seems to me if you're looking for rebirth you've already found your destruction.

[Maybe it's this place, maybe it's something in William's home. But there are certain curiosities a person doesn't explore unless already an active participant.]