(Untitled)

[sal_romano]

Sand, is the first thing he realizes. Consciousness has been slow in coming, like so very many mornings-after, where he’d drank just enough to keep up but not enough to get careless. He doesn’t remember drinking, but he feels like he has been. Must have been, if what his fingertips and cheek are telling him is true, that he’s laying on sand. He can

Comments

[poison_lipstick]

Saffron was barefoot as she walked along the beach, her sandals swinging from one hand. It was a nice day, hardly unheard of on the island, but she was still enjoying the fine weather, a light breeze making the skirt on the slip of a sundress she was wearing flutter slightly. It was funny - sometimes, she found herself not missing the black at all. Not when there was so much to love right there with her, something that was shocking enough in and of itself.

Even if she hadn't been well versed in spotting newcomers, the guy's clothes would have given him away. "You're a little overdressed for the beach, sugar," she said with a friendly smile once she was close enough to speak to him, tipping her head down to look over the tops of her sunglasses.

[sal_romano]

His nerves are slowly fraying themselves apart beneath the surface of exterior calm Sal can craft together out of sheer denial and focus on his sketch work. He's not sure if he's more disoriented by not waking, or by the fact that he seems to have just woken. Well, he had been drinking, he remembers now, and in central park. It's a wonder he hadn't woken up on a boat to Shanghai

[poison_lipstick]

There was something in the way he looked at her - probably only someone as able to read people as Saffron would have picked up on it, and she wasn't quite sure what it was yet, having literally just stumbled across the guy, but there was something. It would just take a little figuring out.

And just then, anyway, she was distracted by what he'd called her. "Shenme?" she said, with a little confused frown, until the name registered and she rolled her eyes. "Oh hell, not this again. Look, I'm not Joan. " Fatter Me, her brain supplied, as always. "My name's Helen, and you're on an island called Tabula Rasa."

[what?]

[sal_romano]

At her insistence that she wasn't who he'd first assumed, he looks up longer, as if to argue his point, and then stops cold. No - she's close, but she isn't identical. And this isn't the sort of joke that she'd pull. The resemblance was uncanny, but it was the details that were off. Like a copy of a painting - the different circumstances of the artist bled in to change things.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, closing the sketchbook and getting to his feet in a weary motion. "You look a lot like someone I know, and I've apparently had a long night."

An Island. The information hits him visibly, and appears to shock him silent, his amiable smile fading as he takes that in. No, it's going to take a minute.

[dancin_maxxie]

Maxxie has few routines. In fact, there's only one that really matters. Every morning, he gets up, gets dressed and goes to the little dance studio next to the big beached spaceship. He dances for a few hours, practices whatever he feels like, then goes for a short jog that inevitably ends with him stripping off his shirt and shoes and diving into the water.

It's after one such swim that he catches sight of the man on the beach, sketching away. Interest piqued, Maxxie trudges back to shore from the shallows in a path that runs him close enough to the man that a polite greeting is practically necessary.

"Hey," he greets, a touch breathless, still dripping salt water. "Makes a great subject, doesn't it?" he says, nodding back to the view.

[sal_romano]

The practice of drawing still life is one Sal's fallen out of. However many dozens of cigarette boxes or diet soda cans didn't count. The opportunity, when his schedule has suddenly opened itself out like this, is one he takes. It's the act, the focus, that's helping him slowly center himself.

He's focused enough on the conch that he misses the boy until the greeting makes him look up. He doesn't startle, quite, but there's a brief vulnerability in his surprise as he looks up into the young face looking down at his work. He has the good sense not to blush.

"When opportunity knocks," Salvatore agrees, wondering briefly what kind of island it is he's dreamed or drunk himself onto. The thought continues away uncomfortably into the consideration that perhaps he's just having a psychotic break. The papers had said... well, either they were right and he was ill, or they weren't and he wasn't. The papers weren't going to help him now.

Instead, he smiles, straightens up to be more friendly. "Are you an artist?"

[dancin_maxxie]

American, the accent tells him instantly. Funny. Handsome older guy in a suit on the beach: Maxxie would have thought he was be from home.

His expression brightens with a matching smile as he nods. He feels silly sometimes from how much he enjoys talking to other artists, but they get it. After growing up on the estates, where all anyone ever understood was being a builder or being a bully, Maxxie relishes that kind of kinship here. "Yeah, actually. Pencil, charcoal, pen. Just sketches. Is this your usual or are you just making do?"

[sal_romano]

The boy's accent is recognized in turn, but goes mostly unremarked. New York was home to as many accents as one could imagine. It was only his own professionalism and a drive to fit in as well as possible that had abolished all traces of his parent's accent from Sal's English. It had rather the reverse effect on his Italian.

He laughs a little at the question, brightening up to meet another artist. Situation doesn't really matter. "No my usual is just making do," he answers. "I work in a variety of mediums, but I work - worked," he corrects himself, "for an advertising firm. Hardly fine art."

[patriotqueen]

Guy Burgess still wore suits,but rolled up the sleeves of both his trousers and his shirt to go about in this heat. There was something comforting about them. After being on this island for such a long time, they were a little bit of England, close on his skin. The familiar hug of it, like an embrace.

It was safe to say Guy was in a melancholic mood. He had definitely seen better summers on this island. Summers in which friends didn't leave the island to go back to wherever it was they came from, summers in which friends didn't vanish unannounced, leaving without as much as a 'sorry, old chap'.

He came here for the sun set, to indulge his melancholy. He came here with a full bottle of moonshine, to drink in peace, alone, and to oblivion.

The spot he had picked to do so, was currently inhabited by a man, drawing. It didn't look like he had been on the island very long. "Hullo," he smiled. "It is a fine view, isn't it?"

[sal_romano]

It'll take more than a little heat and sand to convince Salvatore to give up his suit, either. Comfort was one thing, and confidence and old fashioned propriety was another. It's not the suit that he first notes as he glances up - it's the intent. His reply is briefly delayed by a taking in of details.

The suit is of a cut that Salvatore hasn't seen since before the war, which surprises him a little. It's obviously well fitting, and though aged - well it's an island. There's also the bottle, and and his own relative solitude in his current location.

Ah, he realizes.

"A man could get used to it," Sal answers, already starting to get up to his feet. It's already surprising him how many people are here, for an island. He briefly brushes sand from himself but without any real intent to rid himself of anything but the worst. "I can try a different vantage point, if I'm intruding."

[patriotqueen]

Guy looked at him in surprise at the gesture. It was a form of politeness, of civilized conduct that was very rare on this island. Old-fashioned, he might say, if a man hailing from the 1930s could be excused the use of such a word.

"Oh, the bottle?" he said, realising what had caused the gesture. "No, you're not intruding. You were here first, after all. Would I be wrong in assuming you haven't been on this island very long? Haven't seen you before, certainly."

[sal_romano]

The surprise is answered with a bit of a smile - it's almost self-conscious, even if he knows he can't really be expected to present an immaculate picture after sitting on the beach and sleeping in his clothes. It's something that he's used to, being carefully presentable.

"No," he stretches the word, to encompass an understanding of the strangeness of the whole situation. The admission makes him want a cigarette, and a brief self-turned gesture toward the inside pocket of his suit jacket reminds him that he's out. "Not very long at all."

He extends a hand with more confidence than he feels, after a surreptitious glance to make sure it's not too badly covered in graphite. "Salvatore. I may have been sitting here when you walked up, but I certainly wasn't here first."

[weusedtoshine]

He's lazier than he used to be, but he still likes to keep in shape, so he runs. It's easier on the wet sand, closer to the water where it doesn't shift so much, so he's running with his head down. When he glances up and notices the guy drawing, he stops, palming sweat from his forehead, trying to catch his breath.

"I always wanted to be able to draw," he says. "My kid's artistic but I could never get it together."

[sal_romano]

This approach, Sal notices, pauses to dash a few kinetic lines on the back of the opposite page to what he's working on, and leaving it as a suggestion of motion rather than anything finished. When he glances up again, the other has stopped, and he's surprised that his quiet sketching was interesting enough.

"Well it's not all ability," Salvatore answers, after waiting a few seconds so the other can catch his breath a bit more before he has to continue the conversation. He straightens, a motion that turns half into a stretch to ease his back before he catches himself doing something more casual than is really appropriate. "I'm assuming what you mean isn't that you can't draw, just that you don't consider yourself good at it?"

[weusedtoshine]

Someone like Baze, any distraction is enough distraction. He's aware that that drives Lux mad, but there's also not a lot he can do about it at thirty-three years of age.

He tilts his head, wandering a little closer.

"Man, I struggle with stick figures," he says, with a crooked grin. "My talents lie in other areas."

[sal_romano]

As the other approaches, Sal gets up to his feet politely, seeming amused.

"Understanding one's limitations is a pretty important talent," he allows. "But if you enjoy it, don't let anything get in your way."

[hereand_now]

The nights on the island are boring.

Wolf loves this place, loves the people he's met and the new friends he has, but they're still people, which means they need to sleep, but he doesn't need to. Not as much as they do, anyway, and Wolf has always been just fine on only a few hours each night. So that's when the island gets boring and when he goes walking, looking for something to fill the hours until he finally feels himself getting tired, too.

It isn't so late when he sees the man sitting on the beach, so he wanders closer, his bare feet slapping against damp sand. "Hi, Mister!" he says cheerfully, looking at the paper he's holding. "Are you drawing?"

[sal_romano]

Night time is certainly quieter - it's a better time to think. Since the sun has finally set, it seems like even the unusual amount of activity Sal's already been party to has mostly quieted. He doesn't remember meeting this many new people in one day since his first year of college. It's still not very late, but he's started to slow down, feeling the drag of hours and a poorly spent night begin to pull him down at the shoulders.

When he glances up at the voice, mouth turning up into a smile, he hesitates. Well, that's taking growing your hair out like the Beatles a whole extra step, and he's not used to seeing it - especially not on someone so big. A longer look gives Sal the opinion that it fits, however. He's already seen some unusual things today. He can cope with this, too.

He smiles, and turns the book he's sketching in so that the other doesn't have to crane his neck. "Working from reality - if this is reality," he answers, his tone conveying a subtle sort of irony. It's not that he doesn't believe it could be, just that he'

[hereand_now]

When the man turns the book toward him, Wolf takes that as an invitation and sits down beside him in the sand, peering at the picture he's been drawing. There are people back home who draw, some of the Queen's men who come to visit the Wolfs bring things with them, drawing sticks of all kinds of colours, but Wolf has never been very good at it himself. He mostly likes to draw all over, putting all the colours together at once.

"It sure is pretty," he agrees, still smiling widely. "Right here and now, the whole island is pretty! How come you're sitting out here on the beach? Are you trying to be alone?" It doesn't occur to Wolf that if the man is trying to be alone, he's interrupting. "I'm Wolf!"

[sal_romano]

The company is hardly unwelcome, since even for his enthusiasm, the other seems at least polite and mindful of Sal's space. The sketch, half completed, is of the shoreline. It's rough, impressionistic. Partially work to express volume and tone, and partially something he's just working to have something to do despite how little he's actually interested in the result