tragic_mask | (no subject)

"I'm fond of cider, too," he says. "Autumn's my favorite time of the year, with the harvest and the apples... do you have a favorite time?"

"I like the wintertime," she says. "It's undervalued-- but there's a certain beauty to the nakedness of dead trees against the sky. And... people are different in the winter, too. More closed into themselves."

"I like the feeling of transition," he says softly. "Youth and summer passing away, and there's nothing anyone can do to keep the cold of winter from coming. The inevitable march toward the end."

"Certainly... fatalistic," she says. "The movement from life to death."

"I hope I'm not too depressing," he says. "But it seems I'm in very good company for that--given your work, of course, not that you yourself are depressing. In fact I find you quite cheerful, in your way."

She shoots him a look, seeing if he really believes it.

"Yeah, that's my attempt at... not being what people expect me to be. You know. Mournful."

He certainly looks sincere.

"You'll need a sense of humor, with work like that," he says. "A very dark sense of humor, probably, but that's my favorite kind."

"I do my best," she says.

"I know, and I love it," he says. "You don't seem to have fallen into despair--not all sunshine and brightness either, but that would be unnatural. It wouldn't suit you at all."

"I agree," she says. "Which is-- not to put too fine a point on it-- why I mostly keep company with others who aren't sunshiney, either." She pauses. "It's a good thing, by the way. Too much sunshine is... off-putting."

"It's also generally unnatural," he says. "A cover, for something darker. Something they're in denial about. It's much healthier to just accept it."

She nods. "Pent-up tragedy... that stuff's the darkest."

"They put all their strength into avoiding it altogether," he says, "so that when they can't avoid it, they crumble and cannot be repaired. People are too sheltered, too eager to avoid suffering."

"Faking it is a popular hobby these days," she agrees.

"It's a bit of a specialty of mine," he admits, "but not in the same way, thankfully."

"In what way?" she says, with an eyebrow quirk.

"Faking it?" he asks. "Haven't we been doing that for most of our vacation? Well, trying to."

"Yeah," she admits. "You're definitely better at it than I am."

"I'm not sure it's something to be proud of," he says, "that I am able to live the illusion of a life."

"Well... it's certainly been nice being with you, here, pretending," she says with a small smile.

"It hasn't all been pretending," he murmurs, and stubs his cigarette out on the bricks of a building they are walking past.

She looks up at him.

"So which parts are real?"

"What I said about my brothers," he says. "My preference for apple pie over pumpkin. And my feelings for you."

She's silent for a moment. Then: "It's good to know that's genuine."

"It would be cruel to be dishonest about that," he says. "And it was my reason for coming here with you, after all."