- I -

         ". . . and there was nothing I could do. Oh God. Even thinking about it now . . . I didn't know what to do. I don't know what to do now. I really don't."
         "That's because you're not thinking clearly. There's always plenty for you to do, if you just stopped and thought about it long enough."
         "You're not helping."
         "I'm doing more for you than you are for yourself."
         "That's not it. That's not the point."
         "Then what is? I don't know what you want to hear from me, honestly."
         "No. No you wouldn't. You don't . . . you never understand, you can't relate to any of us. You never could."
         "Hm. No. I think what you don't understand is that I understand all of this far better than you ever will. It's all simple emotion, when you come down to it. The core of everything. You can't get away from it."
         "It's not that simple."
         "Ah, no it's not. It's even simpler."

* * * * *

         "There's a party goin' on around here-"
         as the doorbell chimes placidly.
         The pleasantly jarring noise jerks Tristian out of whatever subtle reverie he had been attempting to immerse himself into. He blinks, focusing on his surroundings, seeing the same spartan, sparse, spare furnishings that made up his home, all of it blurring and then falling into focus, like someone drawing the pieces with string and then pulling the knot tight. One simple twist. A cascade of sight. He shifts on his couch, nearly bumping the CD player that was settled on the table next to him, the music pounding its insistent rhythm out to him. Sighing inwardly, he reaches over and adjusts the precarious position, and then as a seeming afterthought turns the thing off entirely.
         Someone's at the door. He knows who it is. He knows what it's for. It's begun then. He's actually going through with it. An unbelievable achievement for him, but not anyone else. Only he's that stunted, that stubborn. Or perhaps there's another word for it. He's not sure.
         In the end, Tristian finds himself wishing that the doorbell had never rang. This time by himself, he finds he enjoys it more, just sitting there and being alone with his thoughts, whirling along whatever free association pathway he chooses to take. Not caring about anything, not being pulled by anything else. Forever free, for that brief span. Floating. Not worrying. No weight at all.
         It's enough to make him not want to answer the door. Just let it go. Don't bother. But that very feeling is what he finds so dangerous about himself lately. Why he has to go and answer the door.
         Impatiently, angrily, the bell sounds again.
         "Okay, okay," Tristian mutters to himself, giving a slow, brief smile, shaking his head to go along with the emotion. He stands up and crosses over to the doorway, marveling at how he seems to give great import these days to even something so simplistic as answering the door. Too much time thinking. That's what it does to you. Rolls you to a stop and then you just stand there, lost in thought, not even able to take a step forward without analyzing the consequences. Maybe tonight will change that, he thinks. Maybe he'll discover a side to himself that he never quite realized. But probably not.
         There's a shadow beyond the door, waiting for him. He opens the door, congratulating himself for not hesitating in the act. The man behind the door steps in almost faster than he can open it, almost stepping past Tristian in his haste to get inside. But he's not in any hurry, he just seems that way. A bundle of energy, that's what he is, moving back and forth all the time, darting and weaving.
         He stops in front of Tristian and gives him a grin that Tristian can't help but return. "About damn time. Do you know how cold it is out there," and for emphasis he rubs his arms. He's wearing clothes that could only be described as casually formal, far from his usual apparel, but then he's far from his usual haunts. Both of them are, but then Tristian is never actually sure where he really belongs. It's not that he's torn between two worlds, it's that he's not sure if either of them wants him.
         It is cold out, actually. The open door is letting the air leak in, and the temperature is slowly but surely dropping. The sun is making the shadows long. His friend's shadow is freakishly exaggerated, seeming to stretch on forever, a stick man in a taffy pull. Tristian can't see his own shadow. Figures. He gestures his friend in and then shuts the door firmly, locking the cold outside. It seems to linger in his bones, and with a shudder he shakes it away, hoping his friend doesn't see the motion.
         "Have a seat, Joe. We've got a few minutes, nobody ever shows up on time anyway, from what I hear."
         "Fashionably late, eh?" Joseph Brown says with a knowing smile, settling himself down next to the CD player. His eyes stray over to the album cover of the music that was on before. His eyebrows go up in a mildly surprised gesture. "You're still listening to this stuff? Geez, Tristian, I'd've thought you'd have better taste than that."
         Tristian shrugs as he settles down on the other side of the couch. "It's something to listen to." He smiles easily now. "So you come into my house and insult my music, Joe? Is that how you repay my hospitality?"
         "Hospitality?" and Brown lifts one mocking eyebrow at Tristian, staring at him from a sideways angle. "Is that the same hospitality that kept me waiting out in the bitter cold for so many long minutes." He laughs a little and settles back deeper into the couch, already seeming to be completely at home. He was always like that. Perhaps that's one of the reasons he and Tristian always got along so well, Tristian never felt at home anywhere and if he can't feel that way, then he'll enjoy seeing that emotion in someone else. "No, in that case you can keep your damn hospitality, Tristian. Another couple of minutes and I would have just gone to the blasted party myself."
         "Except you don't know to get there," Tristian points out, trying to get himself relaxed into conversation, the give and take. He still feels on edge, overly alert, like something is going to come crashing through his wall any second. It's still an eerie feeling, no matter how used he gets to it.
         Brown gives a sly smile this time. "Oh I'd figure it out. I'm resourceful like that." He cocks his head to the side and then props one elbow on the arm of the couch, resting his head on the palm of his hand. "Though I'm surprised you even invited me."
         Tristian gives a shrug that might signify it was nothing or who the hell cares. The jury is divided. In the end, Tristian really doesn't know himself, it's just some strange feeling he has inside of him, something that drives him and this is where it's driving him to. Why or when or how just aren't important in times like these.
         "Didn't want to go alone, I guess," Tristian admits after a moment of silence. Sometimes he feels uncomfortable with the sound of his own voice. He smiles almost shyly, an expression that seems foreign on his face. "Not really a party person anyway, really. I figured if I went by myself I wouldn't make it there at all."
         "So you want me to kick you in the ass and get you there," Brown breaks in, grinning broadly. He stands up, almost bouncing to his feet. "Say no more, Tristian. I'll have you there and partying in no time. Hell, you need to get out and relax more lately anyway."
         "Thanks, pal," Tristian says as he stands up, his voice slightly dry. He feels the urge to glance at an imaginary watch, just for the effect, just for the motion. He touches his belt almost semiconsciously and draws his coat tighter around his body. If Brown notices the movement, he makes no mention of it.
         "I take it that's the signal that we're going to leave now," Brown remarks a bit sardonically. "Just who's throwing this party anyway?"
         Tristian narrows his eyes, almost seeming to draw his face in closer together in an attempt to answer the question, as if squeezing it out of his body. "Some friends from school, from way back. We've kept in touch, somewhat and they try to drag me out every once in a while."
         "Good for them," Brown says, ignoring Tristian's baleful glare. "You sit home by yourself too much when you should be out enjoying yourself."
         "Perhaps I like keeping to myself," Tristian notes quietly, without all that much conviction. There really isn't any way to explain it to Brown, to even explain it satisfactorily to himself, in terms that might make sense, in words that could somehow convey what he found himself feeling all the time. Time. Distance. It all factored in some how but he was holding the pieces the wrong way, trying to fit two round holes together and not even bothering with the square pegs. Getting it totally wrong. Trying to change his tone, he gives Brown a look he hopes is mildly mischievous and comments, "And anyway, when did you decide to start sounding like mother?"
         Brown stares around the room for a moment, lifting himself up on the balls of his feet, turning his head left and right. He settles back down again and turns to Tristian. "Well I don't see her around here anyway so I guess I'm elected for the job. Someone has to." While talking, the two of them have crossed over to the entryway, with Tristian getting ready to open the door to step outside. Brown reaches over suddenly and fingers Tristian's coat, "And just was the last time you cleaned this young-"
         His speech stops, just cuts off. He is staring at what the lifting of Tristian's coat has revealed, and his eyes are slowing travelling from the stubby plastic metal hybrid hanging from his belt to Tristian's face. There's a question in Brown's eyes.
         "Aw, geez, Tristian," he finally says, having now dropped like the coat like it had been covered in crawling insects, faint disgust curling his upper lip, "why the hell are you bringing that?"
         "Hm?" Tristian asks, glancing down at the device as if he was seeing it for the first time. "Oh. That." A brief shrug, against the ambiguous nonverbal answer. "Just habit, I guess." Followed by an equally ambiguous verbal answer. Typical. Typical.
         Brown is shaking his head now, but he's also taken a step back from Tristian. His expression is frustration, bordering on exasperation. This argument has rattled around in his head for a while, it's touching matters that he's been thinking about. Part of him is worried for his friend, for reasons that he can't quite reach out and articulate. "We're going to a goddamn party, Tristian, not a war. You don't see me going in uniform now, do you?" There is small shaking anger in his voice, for a very good reason.
         Tristian doesn't say anything for a long moment and Brown isn't sure what is going to happen. Then Tristian merely sighs and says, in a low voice, "Are you quite done?" There's some actual steel in his voice for once, as if he's found a cause he can actually defend. Figures.
         Brown thinks for a second that he might be able to stare down Tristian, that he might be able to put his foot down and use stubborn force to get the outcome in his favor. But he stares at Tristian and realizes that he has no chance. Tristian doesn't care, if Brown doesn't go to the party, Tristian will simply sit home and spend the night by himself. It doesn't matter to him. Either way, he'll survive.
         Brown suppresses a shudder and runs a mildly nervous hand through his hair. Going to go grey at this rate. This night isn't getting off to a good start at all. "Okay, Tristian," he finally says, closing his eyes briefly and relaxing. It would have been like running full tilt into a brick wall, Brown knows now. Facing down Tristian would have been pointless. Just running into walls. You hurt yourself and the wall could care less. "Have it your way. But at least leave the damn thing in the car. Please?" He tries to inject a note of pleading into his voice, thinking that Tristian might hear that and relent just a bit. Just a small bit. He's not looking for major victories. He's not out to change the way anyone lives. Just a small compromise that might pay off in the long run. At least for the night. To make it go smoother. The ingredients for disaster are already mixing in the bowl, he's seen this recipe before. He's seen it happen.
         "We'll see," is all Tristian says and there's actual amusement in his eyes, something twinkling and dancing in an almost childlike fashion. Brown sighs again. No, this night isn't starting well at all. But he resolves to make the best of it. That's why people tend to keep him around, to remind them that it's never all bad. Let Tristian play his little games and carry his little toys. Joseph Brown is going to enjoy himself tonight, if it damn well kills him.
         Not that it really matters if it does, he laughs to himself, letting a bit of that laugh escape into the air. Tristian glances at him sharply, as if one of them might be going mad but says nothing else.
         Instead, he opens the door, they step through and are gone.