Neal snorts (elegantly) before snagging them a table with good sight lines. The waitress comes and goes with menus, taking drink orders with her and leaving silence behind for a few long seconds.
Neal gathers himself for a moment.
"Someone told me you can do magic with it. Your music."
There are so many ways he could dance around directness, trying to get more information without showing that's what he's doing. But he's tired. He's tired mentally, he's tired in that hollow place at the base of his chest that only ever seems half-full. "Do you use it a lot?"
It's not like it's a secret. He talks about being a bard openly, proudly, cheerfully, to anyone in the ADI. But when Neal brings it up, it feels like he's just been exposed, and he can't help the guilty look on his face, the way his gaze shifts down, and his shoulders hunch a little, like he'd really rather hide right now.
"Yeah, um, I guess."
He uses it all the time. Just about every day, really. Nothing big, most of the time, just little tricks, anything to fill the emptiness inside.
That's a guilty kid 'yes' if Neal has ever heard one. Or said one. He's done both.
Neal draws in a deep breath, trying to figure out how to put this without being accusatory. There really isn't a way. "Were you the reason for that... party in the street, back on Halloween?"
He hesitates, unsure of just how to respond. Of course he's responsible, and he's not about to lie to Neal's face... if for no other reason than Gil caught him in the act, anyway, and so did Eric, so it's not like playing dumb would get him very far. People know. Hell, Neal obviously knows, so what's the point in lying right to his face?
But he still can't bring himself to outright cop to it. So he just confirms it with a roundabout, cowardly non-answer:
"Why, did... did something bad happen that night?"
Because it was just a party. It was supposed to be fun.
That's a relief. Jeff reaches for his coffee, though he isn't in any hurry to drink it. The mug just feels nice against his chilly fingers.
"I just wanted to... to make people happy." Okay, that's a pretty charitable interpretation of that night. People were happy, sure. They were experiencing highs so high they couldn't stand it. The terror was there, in people's eyes, in their sobbing laughter, in the hysterics that began to spread the longer anyone was caught in his orbit.
"Or. I mean. To... be in the mood for a-- a party. It's just--" He shrugs, his gaze shifting to the other patrons, and the staff, in all their... normalcy. "--it's just a thing I can do. Help people let go and stop being so afraid of... feeling. I guess."
Jeff shakes his head. "No." He says that too quickly, too decisively, for it to be the truth. Is the worry something that haunts and plagues his every waking moment? Definitely not. It doesn't even bother him while he's singing, most of the time. It's usually only when the reality of his actions start to creep into his line of sight that he begins to... doubt. Or in those quiet moments when he can't distract himself with anything else.
Or when he thinks about Ziggy, and all the things that led it into his head.
"I mean," he adds, with less resolve than he intends, "it's-- it's harmless."
Well, that was convincing. Neal almost drawls that out as a response, but he holds himself back.
He's curious, though. There's always a motivating factor, no matter who a person is or what they're doing. So--
"What do you get from it?"
He's not talking in terms of powers--he means personal reward. Jeff is young, dumb, enthusiastic, and probably as selfish as all young men tend to be. It wouldn't surprise Neal in the least to find it really had nothing to do with anyone else at all.
Well, you see, back home, people loved me for it. They practically worshiped me. Do you know what it's like to be at the head of a congregation, to be the high priest of a bacchanal, the light burning at the heart of it, the minor god they scramble to venerate in pure, ecstatic revelry?
"I dunno," he shrugs. He'd like to leave it at that, just stonewall Neal out of any real answers, hide behind his usual selfish junkie bullshit. A little worm of guilt is gnawing away at his insides, and he doesn't really know why, but he looks at Neal and all he can think of is Mike, and all the things he wishes he'd said the last time he'd talked to his brother.
Have you ever had a crowd cling to every word, every note, every sound you bless them with? Have you ever been so beautiful and tempting that even a being of pure magic and abstraction was drawn to your song?
Jeff blinks, and he frowns down at his untouched drink. Someone's hung lights outside, a festive border just on the other side of the window, and he only now catches the splash of colors on his mug, on his fingers. Jeff watches them dully, wishing he could feel any of that holiday cheer. Instead, all he has is the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and all the words he wants to say climbing up his throat.
It's love, it's obsession, it's desire. It's the greatest high there is, and I would give anything, even my soul, to feel even a fraction of that again, because I'm a fucking monster--
There's so many ugly truths on the tip of his tongue.
"I was... I was almost somebody back home," he admits, in that clumsy, uncertain way he struggles to say anything real. "For a while, it was like, everyone I met just... fell in love with me." The words are coming faster now, and he doesn't know if he can stop them. "Which is fucking weird, right, I mean look at me, I'm a fucking-- a fucking-- I'm a mess. But the more I sang, the more people loved me, so I kept doing it."
Almost somebody. Those words hit hard, in a particular soft spot he keeps for young cons and kids.
"It's not weird," Neal says, taking a sip of too-hot coffee. "Maybe you're chaotic, but you're also charismatic. Genuine. People get drawn to that."
A soft sound of amusement. "You've got genuine up on me. I'm horrified that these words are passing my lips, but when I was your age I was already lying for a living."
He flashes a wry smile at Neal. He doesn't know if he'd consider himself genuine, but it's a nice thought.
"Most jobs are all about lying anyway, right?" There's that Gen X cynicism. "I was probably lying, too, anyway. I mean, selling some... fantasy that wasn't real. I dunno. I just loved the feeling of everyone looking at me, listening to me, um... losing their minds over my music. Whole clubs full of people. They knew about the magic, like, I wasn't tricking anyone. It was part of the fun."
"I wouldn't say that. About most jobs." Neal turns his cup in increments on the table, studying Jeff and something past him at the same time. "Of course it depends on the type of job, and there will always be some smiling through your teeth on bad days... But I think 'fulfilling' is a job where you don't have to lie more days than you do."
He hesitates, then says, "Does it... do you ever do it on request, for people? Sing like that, with the magic?"
Neal grimaces, immediately ashamed of himself. Using his abilities here puts Jeff at risk. That release, that euphoria, it isn't worth getting someone hurt. "Forget I asked that. It's not important."
He gives a faint smile at the notion of fulfillment. That's what he's dedicated his short life to pursuing, after all. He played until his fingers hurt, and well past it. He skipped out on homework and studying and other unimportant bullshit to perform and make a name for his band. He dropped out of high school. He didn't even look at any colleges. He stayed up nights and worked days and kept going and going until people knew who he was.
He invited a demon into his head.
He'd give up his life if it meant sharing his music with the world. That's where the pursuit of a fulfilling career almost took him, and he's pretty sure he'd do it all over again, given the choice.
That's fucked up, right? He shouldn't feel that way. And he wonders if Neal's going through some similar mental hurdles, considering the question he asks, and how quickly he retracts it.
Still, Jeff barely even hesitates before he answers. "Yeah. I do-- or... or I did. Back home, all the time." Jeff hesitates before admitting, "It's not as easy here. It's all... I dunno, twisted--" Spinning, spiraling, coiling. "--and, um. Tangled. Magic's weird here."
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That's the kind of intel one picks up after spending... one whole month sort of working in Admin.
With his guitar in hand, Jeff follows after Neal. Boy is it a fucking relief when they step inside the heated cafe.
"I'm never gonna get used to the winter here."
His poor Southern Californian blood isn't meant for this weather.
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Neal gathers himself for a moment.
"Someone told me you can do magic with it. Your music."
There are so many ways he could dance around directness, trying to get more information without showing that's what he's doing. But he's tired. He's tired mentally, he's tired in that hollow place at the base of his chest that only ever seems half-full. "Do you use it a lot?"
no subject
It's not like it's a secret. He talks about being a bard openly, proudly, cheerfully, to anyone in the ADI. But when Neal brings it up, it feels like he's just been exposed, and he can't help the guilty look on his face, the way his gaze shifts down, and his shoulders hunch a little, like he'd really rather hide right now.
"Yeah, um, I guess."
He uses it all the time. Just about every day, really. Nothing big, most of the time, just little tricks, anything to fill the emptiness inside.
no subject
Neal draws in a deep breath, trying to figure out how to put this without being accusatory. There really isn't a way. "Were you the reason for that... party in the street, back on Halloween?"
no subject
But he still can't bring himself to outright cop to it. So he just confirms it with a roundabout, cowardly non-answer:
"Why, did... did something bad happen that night?"
Because it was just a party. It was supposed to be fun.
no subject
The bad was the next morning.
Neal hesitates. Gets interrupted by the waitress returning with their drinks. He manages a small smile in her direction before she moves away again.
When she’s far enough away, Neal says, “What did you… do?”
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"I just wanted to... to make people happy." Okay, that's a pretty charitable interpretation of that night. People were happy, sure. They were experiencing highs so high they couldn't stand it. The terror was there, in people's eyes, in their sobbing laughter, in the hysterics that began to spread the longer anyone was caught in his orbit.
"Or. I mean. To... be in the mood for a-- a party. It's just--" He shrugs, his gaze shifting to the other patrons, and the staff, in all their... normalcy. "--it's just a thing I can do. Help people let go and stop being so afraid of... feeling. I guess."
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Maybe not that night, at least.
He studies Jeff's face for a moment. "It doesn't worry you? What could happen if you keep... doing what you can do?"
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Or when he thinks about Ziggy, and all the things that led it into his head.
"I mean," he adds, with less resolve than he intends, "it's-- it's harmless."
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He's curious, though. There's always a motivating factor, no matter who a person is or what they're doing. So--
"What do you get from it?"
He's not talking in terms of powers--he means personal reward. Jeff is young, dumb, enthusiastic, and probably as selfish as all young men tend to be. It wouldn't surprise Neal in the least to find it really had nothing to do with anyone else at all.
no subject
Jeff blinks, and he frowns down at his untouched drink. Someone's hung lights outside, a festive border just on the other side of the window, and he only now catches the splash of colors on his mug, on his fingers. Jeff watches them dully, wishing he could feel any of that holiday cheer. Instead, all he has is the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and all the words he wants to say climbing up his throat.
There's so many ugly truths on the tip of his tongue.
"I was... I was almost somebody back home," he admits, in that clumsy, uncertain way he struggles to say anything real. "For a while, it was like, everyone I met just... fell in love with me." The words are coming faster now, and he doesn't know if he can stop them. "Which is fucking weird, right, I mean look at me, I'm a fucking-- a fucking-- I'm a mess. But the more I sang, the more people loved me, so I kept doing it."
no subject
"It's not weird," Neal says, taking a sip of too-hot coffee. "Maybe you're chaotic, but you're also charismatic. Genuine. People get drawn to that."
A soft sound of amusement. "You've got genuine up on me. I'm horrified that these words are passing my lips, but when I was your age I was already lying for a living."
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"Most jobs are all about lying anyway, right?" There's that Gen X cynicism. "I was probably lying, too, anyway. I mean, selling some... fantasy that wasn't real. I dunno. I just loved the feeling of everyone looking at me, listening to me, um... losing their minds over my music. Whole clubs full of people. They knew about the magic, like, I wasn't tricking anyone. It was part of the fun."
no subject
He hesitates, then says, "Does it... do you ever do it on request, for people? Sing like that, with the magic?"
Neal grimaces, immediately ashamed of himself. Using his abilities here puts Jeff at risk. That release, that euphoria, it isn't worth getting someone hurt. "Forget I asked that. It's not important."
no subject
He invited a demon into his head.
He'd give up his life if it meant sharing his music with the world. That's where the pursuit of a fulfilling career almost took him, and he's pretty sure he'd do it all over again, given the choice.
That's fucked up, right? He shouldn't feel that way. And he wonders if Neal's going through some similar mental hurdles, considering the question he asks, and how quickly he retracts it.
Still, Jeff barely even hesitates before he answers. "Yeah. I do-- or... or I did. Back home, all the time." Jeff hesitates before admitting, "It's not as easy here. It's all... I dunno, twisted--" Spinning, spiraling, coiling. "--and, um. Tangled. Magic's weird here."