John "Quirkless" Hwang (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lineman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
stateofdecay2024-11-04 04:12 pm
lineman) wrote in stateofdecay2024-11-04 04:12 pm
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WHO: Emmett Wright and John Hwang
WHEN: Sunday, 11/3 evening to night
WHERE: the barn, Lundegaard Lumberyard
WHAT: Emmett and John finish the barn addition and look at the stars.
WARNINGS: None
John pulls the nail from his mouth, squinting at Emmett down the length of the barn.
Outside the barn, it is a cold, blue November evening, woodsmoke drifting lazily from some of the houses across the way, but inside the barn, John has started to sweat. A single cow runs hot, and many cows run very hot, so no need for a barn heater or even a work jacket, which John has abandoned on a bale of hay. John didn't know anything about cows until the outbreak, and what little he has learned about them has come from Emmett.
Emmett—over the past few weeks, Emmett and John have steadily expanded the barn, in between emergencies and the ordinary monotony of village life. Initially a side project, a way for John to keep his hip limber, the barn addition has taken on new significance from the oncoming horde: all the animals will have to be taken inside the walls until the horde passes. Not such a frivolous side project, after all. John thinks about remarking on this to Emmett. Something funny and snappy, the way Gideon talks, or quietly amused, like Quaid. Pocketing his nail, John crosses the barn to Emmett, planning what he'll say and how he'll say it. Make sure to smile, John thinks, fixing in his mind's eye the way Quaid smiles, eyebrows upturned to the center of his face, non-threatening, mouth sometimes half-open to show the top row of his teeth only.
"We needed the barn addition," John says abruptly, over Emmett's shoulder. He has a kind of pained expression on his face, as if someone passed Quaid's smile through a meat grinder. "Oh, hello."
This is the most John has said to Emmett since they started the project.
Emmett turns and stares at John for a moment, examining his face. He attempts to read each of his features in turn, like he's assembling a puzzle that might make sense if only he can put it together just right.
He winds up drawing a blank, unsure of what to make of his expression. So, as he often does, Emmett settles on a statement of fact instead: "Yeah, I guess it'll come in handy. Thank you for your help. Hello."
Emmett is not sure why they're saying hello, but it seems like the thing to do.
"Hello," John says again before he can stop himself. "I mean, it was good of you to agree to extend the barn with me. And somewhat ironic that it will come in handy. Except in most instances irony is unpleasant to those who experience it, but not us. Although the horde is unpleasant." John sits down on a bale of hay, feeling deflated with his over-explanation. He looks up at Emmett. "Is any of this funny to you?"
Emmett has to think about this; he frowns, contemplating their circumstances for a moment before deciding, "Ironic, sure. Funny—I don't know? All I feel is world-weary resignation these days, although I guess I could see how it could be funny." He pauses, realizing he's being a Debbie Downer again, and so adds: "Sorry. I know that's probably not the answer you're looking for. I do appreciate the help, though."
John watches the frown spread across Emmett's face and, alarmed, stands up again. Too quickly, though—he hits his head on a diagonal brace. "Oops, ow, no," he replies, "I'm not looking for a particular answer. I only thought we could talk." John blinks gormlessly, feeling their already brief, perhaps tortured conversation slipping out of his hands. "I understand talking can help alleviate feelings of resignation and weariness," he adds.
Emmett focuses first on John's head. "Are you okay?" he asks, expression softening with concern. He sighs, moving to touch his hair to make sure he doesn't have any splinters sticking out of his head.
Reflexively, John starts to flinch out of the way of Emmett's hand but forces himself to stay still and accept Emmett's touch, to be polite. Oddly, he realizes, it feels nice.
"There's not really much to talk about. What else is there to be, but resigned and weary?" Emmett asks.
"I'm not sure." John finds himself dreading the moment Emmett will take his hand away, but it does seem inevitable—perhaps there is nothing else to be but resigned and weary, in all things. "But, I think," he continues, cautious, "at some point, we have to do more than survive. Otherwise, what is the point of surviving?"
He tries to check Emmett's eyes to see if what he said was right or good but loses his nerve. "Ah. Perhaps a stupid thing to say."
"It's not stupid," Emmett replies, defensive on John's behalf. He's allowed to call himself stupid, but no one else is supposed to do the same. Not on his watch. Once Emmett seems satisfied that John's head isn't grievously injured, he gently fixes his hair and lets him go.
"The only reason I'm still around is to help other people survive. That's the point, for me. I'm happy for you if you've found a purpose beyond that, though," Emmett says earnestly.
"Hm." John laughs, looking down. "No, I have not found any other purpose."
He stares at the ground, the worn, dirty toes of Emmett's boots. "You have a very large hand," John says. Still avoiding Emmett's eyes, he scuffs the toe of his boot against the floor, moving loose pieces of straw in an aimless pattern. "When you were touching my head, it felt like the claw of a claw machine." Now John looks up, sharply embarrassed. "But as a good thing. Do you remember the movie Toy Story? The little aliens loved the claw. It was like that. I am the alien."
This, finally, elicits a fond chuckle from Emmett. "I loved Toy Story," he admits, since at one point, he was a very normal person with a very normal life, before the world collapsed. "Unfortunately this claw isn't capable of taking you to a better place."
Emmett joins him in scuffing at straw with the toe of his boot and adds, just so that he's not being a total bummer, "You know what they say about big hands, though? The bigger the hands, the better for feeding chickadees."
"Is that so?" John tilts his head, interested. "I thought the saying was about the size of one's genitalia. Perhaps this is a regional difference because I am from the city." He rattles on, pleased to have a conversational topic that does not involve the bone-deep self-pessimism that seems rooted in them both. "Not so many chickadees in Seattle. But we did have a great deal of genitalia."
His lame attempt at a joke having landed poorly, Emmett reverts to apologizing, "I'm sorry, I was just kidding. 'Cause hands… and birds… " He lifted his hands to mime making a little bird feeder with his upturned palms.
John copies Emmett, lifting his hands to cup at the air. "Birds," he repeats, his expression bland as he tries to process what Emmett means. Then—"Ah. Birds. Wonderful. You seem to be skilled with every kind of animal," John smiles. "You hand feed them?"
Emmett gives him a small smile in return. He chuckles and shakes his head. "Nah. I used to. Not so much any more. Don't want to get them to get too used to people when there's…. " (He pauses and grimaces slightly) " ...y'know. Things that look like people out there. That might hurt them. It's better to let wild things stay wild. Cute lil guys, though. You like birds, John?"
"Yes, better to let them stay wild," John nods. He suspects Emmett's grimace has something to do with the fact that staying wild also means staying alive, but he knows better than to ask to make certain. By now, they have scuffed all the loose straw away from them, although John keeps moving his foot, unaware.
"I had a love-hate relationship with birds. I loved them, they hated me." John squints, amused at his memories. "I used to move their nests. They did not like that, but they would have liked getting electrocuted even less. Difficult to convey as much to them, though."
"I'm sure they forgave you. Unless they were crows. Did you know that crows can hold a grudge for up to seventeen years?" Emmett says, happy to talk about something he likes instead of more serious topics (like his feelings, or lack thereof). Everyone loves a cool fact, right?
John does, opening his mouth slightly in surprise.
Emmett pauses, thoughtful, for a moment. It is unclear if he's trying to remember more fun bird facts, or something else. And then:
"You know, I've never heard you talk much about your life before," Emmett observes.
"Not much to say."
John blinks and moves his gaze to the right of Emmett's face, not wanting to disturb Emmett by staring too long into it. He also feels reluctant to talk about himself—he never went to college, never married, never fed birds out of his hands. The sparseness of his life triggers within him a protective feeling, as though he needs to shield his grandparents, his father, his mother, even Ophelia from criticism about the way he turned out.
"I do not hold grudges for up to seventeen years," John says, trying to sound light. "I try to practice forgiveness. Although if a giant man in a helmet and harness moved my house without asking me, it would probably take me at least sixteen years to soften my heart. But no more."
Emmett snorts with laughter. "All right, that's a good one," he chuckles softly, trying to think of something to ask that doesn't feel too personal, too prying.
"Did you ever see anything cool from way up there?" is what he settles on.
"Everything," John replies brightly. "Everything looks better when you are at a distance. Much calmer, quieter. Things move more slowly. The air smells crisper and fresher the higher up you go. My favorite is when I worked at night. Darkness is blue, and house lights tend to look yellow. It was a very satisfying contrast. Like a painting."
Emmett gets a distant, wistful look as he pictures this. "That sounds beautiful. Profound," he comments, able to imagine such a scene in his mind's eye. "I suppose you lucked out that you're not afraid of heights. You got a perspective that the rest of us will probably never get. Do you ever miss it?"
"I get to climb for the wind farm." The left corner of John's mouth tugs down. "But there are not many lights to see. A significant amount of darkness, which here looks black. I suppose that is a good thing—less light pollution—but it seems emptier. Less hospitable."
He stops moving his shoe. "I like being around other people," he adds suddenly. It comes out like a confession; John seems mildly horrified to admit this. "I like when I can see other people living their lives. I don't have to know them or even talk to them." Although that would be nice, John thinks. "But the world now is so much darker than it used to be."
John sniffs and clears his throat, gives the now-bare floor one final kick. "Anyway."
Emmett, at first, isn't entirely sure what to say to this; while he wants to say that he, too, likes being around other people—likes being around them—he knows that the truth is not so simple. At some point, he'd had an active social life, he'd surrounded himself with people who got him, but he'd had to move across the country to find them. And now he is back, back in the place he'd tried to escape, having become the type of person he'd never wanted to be. These days, he moves through what remains of his life like a ghost; he does get to see other people living their lives without interacting with them. And it is a dark place to be.
"You ever been to one of those dark sky preserves?" is what Emmett says finally, trying to stop his thoughts from drifting any further into the void. "My wife and I went to one once, camping with some of our friends. We went all the way up to Wood Buffalo National Park, up in the Northwest Territories of Canada. She wanted to see the Northern Lights, and we did. It was the darkest skies I'd ever seen, but also the brightest stars. Every constellation just twinkling away up there for you to take in. You really need all that darkness to make those little sparks of beauty pop. It was otherworldly."
“Never,” John shakes his head. He pictures Emmett and his wife, the woman who painted, looking at the stars together. Feels reverent to hold someone else’s memory.
“Do you think if we went outside right now, the sky would look like that?” he asks. “I suppose it’s been a long time since I looked up.”
"We could try," Emmett says, picking up his chore coat off a nearby hay bale. He's in a nostalgic mood, and now seems like as good a time as any to take a break. "You never know, we might even see something beautiful."
John follows suit, zipping himself into his jacket. The two of them make their way past quiet animals, sleeping or near-sleep, and then step outside. Sure enough, as John had said, the cold blue sky of the evening has descended into a dense, near-black. But there are also stars, he sees, not yellow like house lights but white.
"Hm." His breath comes out as a translucent skein. "Do you see any constellations?"
Emmett takes a deep breath of the night air. He finds it grounding. "Ooh! Do you see that one over there? That's Orion, the hunter. And there are his two hunting dogs—Canis Major and Canis Minor… " he points out excitedly, despite the fact that it is likely not easy to tell what he is pointing at. "And that bright blue star right over there—to the upper right of his belt—that's Bellatrix."
John squints, looking at but not seeing all that Emmett sees. Carelessly, he moves closer to Emmett, trying to position himself so that his focus and Emmett’s finger are aligned. “No, I cannot,” John says. He laughs a little, unintentionally, a small, hot puff of air. “But please, continue to show me."
WHEN: Sunday, 11/3 evening to night
WHERE: the barn, Lundegaard Lumberyard
WHAT: Emmett and John finish the barn addition and look at the stars.
WARNINGS: None
John pulls the nail from his mouth, squinting at Emmett down the length of the barn.
Outside the barn, it is a cold, blue November evening, woodsmoke drifting lazily from some of the houses across the way, but inside the barn, John has started to sweat. A single cow runs hot, and many cows run very hot, so no need for a barn heater or even a work jacket, which John has abandoned on a bale of hay. John didn't know anything about cows until the outbreak, and what little he has learned about them has come from Emmett.
Emmett—over the past few weeks, Emmett and John have steadily expanded the barn, in between emergencies and the ordinary monotony of village life. Initially a side project, a way for John to keep his hip limber, the barn addition has taken on new significance from the oncoming horde: all the animals will have to be taken inside the walls until the horde passes. Not such a frivolous side project, after all. John thinks about remarking on this to Emmett. Something funny and snappy, the way Gideon talks, or quietly amused, like Quaid. Pocketing his nail, John crosses the barn to Emmett, planning what he'll say and how he'll say it. Make sure to smile, John thinks, fixing in his mind's eye the way Quaid smiles, eyebrows upturned to the center of his face, non-threatening, mouth sometimes half-open to show the top row of his teeth only.
"We needed the barn addition," John says abruptly, over Emmett's shoulder. He has a kind of pained expression on his face, as if someone passed Quaid's smile through a meat grinder. "Oh, hello."
This is the most John has said to Emmett since they started the project.
Emmett turns and stares at John for a moment, examining his face. He attempts to read each of his features in turn, like he's assembling a puzzle that might make sense if only he can put it together just right.
He winds up drawing a blank, unsure of what to make of his expression. So, as he often does, Emmett settles on a statement of fact instead: "Yeah, I guess it'll come in handy. Thank you for your help. Hello."
Emmett is not sure why they're saying hello, but it seems like the thing to do.
"Hello," John says again before he can stop himself. "I mean, it was good of you to agree to extend the barn with me. And somewhat ironic that it will come in handy. Except in most instances irony is unpleasant to those who experience it, but not us. Although the horde is unpleasant." John sits down on a bale of hay, feeling deflated with his over-explanation. He looks up at Emmett. "Is any of this funny to you?"
Emmett has to think about this; he frowns, contemplating their circumstances for a moment before deciding, "Ironic, sure. Funny—I don't know? All I feel is world-weary resignation these days, although I guess I could see how it could be funny." He pauses, realizing he's being a Debbie Downer again, and so adds: "Sorry. I know that's probably not the answer you're looking for. I do appreciate the help, though."
John watches the frown spread across Emmett's face and, alarmed, stands up again. Too quickly, though—he hits his head on a diagonal brace. "Oops, ow, no," he replies, "I'm not looking for a particular answer. I only thought we could talk." John blinks gormlessly, feeling their already brief, perhaps tortured conversation slipping out of his hands. "I understand talking can help alleviate feelings of resignation and weariness," he adds.
Emmett focuses first on John's head. "Are you okay?" he asks, expression softening with concern. He sighs, moving to touch his hair to make sure he doesn't have any splinters sticking out of his head.
Reflexively, John starts to flinch out of the way of Emmett's hand but forces himself to stay still and accept Emmett's touch, to be polite. Oddly, he realizes, it feels nice.
"There's not really much to talk about. What else is there to be, but resigned and weary?" Emmett asks.
"I'm not sure." John finds himself dreading the moment Emmett will take his hand away, but it does seem inevitable—perhaps there is nothing else to be but resigned and weary, in all things. "But, I think," he continues, cautious, "at some point, we have to do more than survive. Otherwise, what is the point of surviving?"
He tries to check Emmett's eyes to see if what he said was right or good but loses his nerve. "Ah. Perhaps a stupid thing to say."
"It's not stupid," Emmett replies, defensive on John's behalf. He's allowed to call himself stupid, but no one else is supposed to do the same. Not on his watch. Once Emmett seems satisfied that John's head isn't grievously injured, he gently fixes his hair and lets him go.
"The only reason I'm still around is to help other people survive. That's the point, for me. I'm happy for you if you've found a purpose beyond that, though," Emmett says earnestly.
"Hm." John laughs, looking down. "No, I have not found any other purpose."
He stares at the ground, the worn, dirty toes of Emmett's boots. "You have a very large hand," John says. Still avoiding Emmett's eyes, he scuffs the toe of his boot against the floor, moving loose pieces of straw in an aimless pattern. "When you were touching my head, it felt like the claw of a claw machine." Now John looks up, sharply embarrassed. "But as a good thing. Do you remember the movie Toy Story? The little aliens loved the claw. It was like that. I am the alien."
This, finally, elicits a fond chuckle from Emmett. "I loved Toy Story," he admits, since at one point, he was a very normal person with a very normal life, before the world collapsed. "Unfortunately this claw isn't capable of taking you to a better place."
Emmett joins him in scuffing at straw with the toe of his boot and adds, just so that he's not being a total bummer, "You know what they say about big hands, though? The bigger the hands, the better for feeding chickadees."
"Is that so?" John tilts his head, interested. "I thought the saying was about the size of one's genitalia. Perhaps this is a regional difference because I am from the city." He rattles on, pleased to have a conversational topic that does not involve the bone-deep self-pessimism that seems rooted in them both. "Not so many chickadees in Seattle. But we did have a great deal of genitalia."
His lame attempt at a joke having landed poorly, Emmett reverts to apologizing, "I'm sorry, I was just kidding. 'Cause hands… and birds… " He lifted his hands to mime making a little bird feeder with his upturned palms.
John copies Emmett, lifting his hands to cup at the air. "Birds," he repeats, his expression bland as he tries to process what Emmett means. Then—"Ah. Birds. Wonderful. You seem to be skilled with every kind of animal," John smiles. "You hand feed them?"
Emmett gives him a small smile in return. He chuckles and shakes his head. "Nah. I used to. Not so much any more. Don't want to get them to get too used to people when there's…. " (He pauses and grimaces slightly) " ...y'know. Things that look like people out there. That might hurt them. It's better to let wild things stay wild. Cute lil guys, though. You like birds, John?"
"Yes, better to let them stay wild," John nods. He suspects Emmett's grimace has something to do with the fact that staying wild also means staying alive, but he knows better than to ask to make certain. By now, they have scuffed all the loose straw away from them, although John keeps moving his foot, unaware.
"I had a love-hate relationship with birds. I loved them, they hated me." John squints, amused at his memories. "I used to move their nests. They did not like that, but they would have liked getting electrocuted even less. Difficult to convey as much to them, though."
"I'm sure they forgave you. Unless they were crows. Did you know that crows can hold a grudge for up to seventeen years?" Emmett says, happy to talk about something he likes instead of more serious topics (like his feelings, or lack thereof). Everyone loves a cool fact, right?
John does, opening his mouth slightly in surprise.
Emmett pauses, thoughtful, for a moment. It is unclear if he's trying to remember more fun bird facts, or something else. And then:
"You know, I've never heard you talk much about your life before," Emmett observes.
"Not much to say."
John blinks and moves his gaze to the right of Emmett's face, not wanting to disturb Emmett by staring too long into it. He also feels reluctant to talk about himself—he never went to college, never married, never fed birds out of his hands. The sparseness of his life triggers within him a protective feeling, as though he needs to shield his grandparents, his father, his mother, even Ophelia from criticism about the way he turned out.
"I do not hold grudges for up to seventeen years," John says, trying to sound light. "I try to practice forgiveness. Although if a giant man in a helmet and harness moved my house without asking me, it would probably take me at least sixteen years to soften my heart. But no more."
Emmett snorts with laughter. "All right, that's a good one," he chuckles softly, trying to think of something to ask that doesn't feel too personal, too prying.
"Did you ever see anything cool from way up there?" is what he settles on.
"Everything," John replies brightly. "Everything looks better when you are at a distance. Much calmer, quieter. Things move more slowly. The air smells crisper and fresher the higher up you go. My favorite is when I worked at night. Darkness is blue, and house lights tend to look yellow. It was a very satisfying contrast. Like a painting."
Emmett gets a distant, wistful look as he pictures this. "That sounds beautiful. Profound," he comments, able to imagine such a scene in his mind's eye. "I suppose you lucked out that you're not afraid of heights. You got a perspective that the rest of us will probably never get. Do you ever miss it?"
"I get to climb for the wind farm." The left corner of John's mouth tugs down. "But there are not many lights to see. A significant amount of darkness, which here looks black. I suppose that is a good thing—less light pollution—but it seems emptier. Less hospitable."
He stops moving his shoe. "I like being around other people," he adds suddenly. It comes out like a confession; John seems mildly horrified to admit this. "I like when I can see other people living their lives. I don't have to know them or even talk to them." Although that would be nice, John thinks. "But the world now is so much darker than it used to be."
John sniffs and clears his throat, gives the now-bare floor one final kick. "Anyway."
Emmett, at first, isn't entirely sure what to say to this; while he wants to say that he, too, likes being around other people—likes being around them—he knows that the truth is not so simple. At some point, he'd had an active social life, he'd surrounded himself with people who got him, but he'd had to move across the country to find them. And now he is back, back in the place he'd tried to escape, having become the type of person he'd never wanted to be. These days, he moves through what remains of his life like a ghost; he does get to see other people living their lives without interacting with them. And it is a dark place to be.
"You ever been to one of those dark sky preserves?" is what Emmett says finally, trying to stop his thoughts from drifting any further into the void. "My wife and I went to one once, camping with some of our friends. We went all the way up to Wood Buffalo National Park, up in the Northwest Territories of Canada. She wanted to see the Northern Lights, and we did. It was the darkest skies I'd ever seen, but also the brightest stars. Every constellation just twinkling away up there for you to take in. You really need all that darkness to make those little sparks of beauty pop. It was otherworldly."
“Never,” John shakes his head. He pictures Emmett and his wife, the woman who painted, looking at the stars together. Feels reverent to hold someone else’s memory.
“Do you think if we went outside right now, the sky would look like that?” he asks. “I suppose it’s been a long time since I looked up.”
"We could try," Emmett says, picking up his chore coat off a nearby hay bale. He's in a nostalgic mood, and now seems like as good a time as any to take a break. "You never know, we might even see something beautiful."
John follows suit, zipping himself into his jacket. The two of them make their way past quiet animals, sleeping or near-sleep, and then step outside. Sure enough, as John had said, the cold blue sky of the evening has descended into a dense, near-black. But there are also stars, he sees, not yellow like house lights but white.
"Hm." His breath comes out as a translucent skein. "Do you see any constellations?"
Emmett takes a deep breath of the night air. He finds it grounding. "Ooh! Do you see that one over there? That's Orion, the hunter. And there are his two hunting dogs—Canis Major and Canis Minor… " he points out excitedly, despite the fact that it is likely not easy to tell what he is pointing at. "And that bright blue star right over there—to the upper right of his belt—that's Bellatrix."
John squints, looking at but not seeing all that Emmett sees. Carelessly, he moves closer to Emmett, trying to position himself so that his focus and Emmett’s finger are aligned. “No, I cannot,” John says. He laughs a little, unintentionally, a small, hot puff of air. “But please, continue to show me."