6/1/10 - Alyssa

=LG= Oak Meadow Park - Los Gatos - California
The Los Gatos Creek winds alongside the park, heading north from the Lexington Reservoir; it dams briefly just north of the park at the Vasona Reservoir, and then continuing on to San Jose. A trail follows the creek, fairly heavily used. Boats and fishing feature at the lake while here, just to the south, Oak Meadow Park stretches in verdant green.

The lawn is lush and broad; picnic areas fringing the western edge space between a basketball court and a bocce ball area. A playground next to the parking lot at the southeast corner contains a real, decommissioned jet from the fifties. It's small, perhaps, that hardly stops the kids from climbing. To the north are restrooms and a snack shop, as well as a carousel and a train that heads north toward the lake. Only two dollars to ride on either!

"So I left this stupid, five-hour long voicemail on his phone," Brent is saying without looking at his companion. His attention, instead, is on the sketchbook open on the picnic table in front of him, the stick of charcoal in his hand, and the carousel that he is sketching out in shades of powdered black. A bit of cloud cover keeps the sky from being over-sunny, but it's warm enough that he's opted for khaki shorts and sandals to go along with his habitual t-shirt. His cane is propped up against the table nearby. "Said I didn't want to be friends. And -- a lot of other really dumb stuff that doesn't really have a place in the world outside of the movies."

Across from him at the picnic table, but to one side so she doesn't impede his view of the carousel, Brent's companion is in a tank top and board shorts, glossy curls a tumble-down mess out of a high pony tail. "Have you heard anything since?" Aly asks, stopping her sketching -- hers is a riot of color, watercolor pencils today's medium of choice -- and turning to look over her shoulder. Her sunglasses, perched atop her head, reflect Brent back at himself.

"No." Brent looks up, but it's to take in another glance of carousel, studying movement and form before returning to his sketchbook. "So. That's that." His hands are already a mess of blackened fingertips, so it hardly does any more damage when he drags two fingers purposefully across the paper to smudge in an area. "He's done, I'm done. I mean, if it's not worth the risk for him, why should I bother?" He holds his body carefully and with more precision that is his wont. "He doesn't care about me the way I care about him. It happens."

"Oh," is a little quiet, a little defeated -- an Aly can't help but hope. "That sucks, Brent, and I'm sorry. But-- that took a lotta guts, to call. To decide to say all that stuff instead of just," she waves her hand, pencil still braced between her fingers. "Deciding friends was enough."

"It took a lot of stupidity to call," Brent says, somewhat resigned. "The least he could do is actually call me back just to say 'No.'" He stops there, charcoal poised, quietly stifling that edge of bitterness. "Then again, I can't really blame him. I wouldn't want my ex showing up at my proverbial doorstep every other day to beg me to take him back." He sets the charcoal back down against the paper, but doesn't move to sketch out anything. "I should have more self-respect."

"Hey," Aly says, turning to plant her hand -- yes, with the pencil still in it -- on the table, to brace herself as she doesn't -quite- go so far as to climb over. "It's not like you-- okay, well, I didn't hear the message, so I don't know if you /did/ beg. But bein' able to say: this either has to be something, or it has to be nothing, it hurts too much to be this maybe in the middle-- I don't think that's stupid."

"It's not exactly the first time I've asked him to come back," Brent says, half under his breath. "I was the one to say 'let's be friends' in the first place. I -- thought it'd be better than nothing." He shakes his head with a quiet exhale that puffs out his cheeks slightly.

Alyssa chews on her bottom lip for a moment, expression drawn slightly pensive as she mulls over Brent's words. Finally, despite her own, she asks, "And-- was it? I mean-- I guess it wasn't, because you made the call. But sometimes--" she lifts her other hand, the one not supporting her weight, and moves it like-- well, like one half of a scale.

Brent's jaw shifts crookedly and with a movement that suggests he's chewing on his tongue as he looks down at his work. "I want the whole thing. I want everything. He thinks that I want a fairy tale, but I just want -- the whole, messy package. And he doesn't." The sweep of his charcoal stick is a little pointed. "So."

"So." Aly's expression falls slightly, and she turns back to the carousel on a slow slide. She doesn't go back to sketching right away, though, but scratches her head with the slightly dulled point of her pencil. "I get that," she says after a moment, squinting against the sun and watching the movement of the wooden horses rather than turning back to look at him again.

"I'm not going to wait anymore." Finally, something small and crooked works its way into a smile. "I'm a catch. I don't need to wait." There is some measure of reassurance in the words, but not enough to completely dilute the fact that he has enough self-worth to actually believe it.

Alyssa laughs, and tips her head back to pin Brent with a look, upside-down and brief as it is before she pulls back up again. "You are /totally/ a catch, Brent Hannigan," Aly assures, laughter still a bright note in her voice. "And don't let one-- whatever we are calling him today -- convince you different."

"I do the boyfriend thing /really/ well," Brent adds, smile twitching wider. He takes a cleansing breath. "But how have you been, kiddo?"

"I /bet/ you do," is Aly's answer back, and though Brent can't see it, her smile goes a little bit crooked. "Oh, well, you know. I gave myself the long weekend off, which was pretty great." She tap taps her pencil against the pad of paper once more braced against her knees, and mms quietly.

"Do anything exciting?" Brent does actually glance at her now that the conversation has grown safe enough to draw his eyes away from his work.

"Met with a couple of my friends, Sunday, at that place in Santa Cruz--" it presumably has a name, but I am not going to make it up. Aly adds a bit of color, shades in something over heere. "Had terrible teenager stupidity threatened as gossip, ended up asking Nick if he was secretly evil-- which he isn't, by the way, or so he claims."

"I think that part of being secretly evil is denying that you are," Brent points out helpfully. He shifts his charcoal stick between his fingers, leaving them even more smudged. "Terrible teenager stupidity?" he probes.

"Well, Kitty also vouches for him, and I trust her-- well, okay, he could be /really secretly/, but--" Aly scrunches her nose, and ducks her head rather than turning again. "We know each other from school. I wasn't /always/ this paragon of super amazing fantastic judgement, you know."

"Ahhh. /School friends/." Brent sounds a little knowing in his comprehension. "Yes. Was she just visiting?"

"Yeah," Aly answers with a laugh, "/school friends/." She scrubs two fingers across her nose, winces a little as the contact reminds her of the first of this summer's freckle-producing light burns, and settles back against the bench with a sigh. "Nah. She works up at," accompanied by a gesture, probably Titanward. (Maybe not. Who knows about her sense of direction.) "Just came back from a vacation, though."

Brent's eyebrows hitch upwards at that particular piece of news. "She works at Titan?" he clarifies.

Alyssa rubs the back of her neck, and turns around to scrunchyface back at Brent. "Yeah."

"Mm." That is noncommittal if ever there was a noncommittal noise. "Is that -- weird?"

"Not really?" Aly shrugs, and drops her hand back against the table. "I mean, it's not like we really talk about work /anyway/, so it's not like-- something we gotta talk around."

"Mm." This is more committed -- maybe even in the direction of a quiet twist of envy as Brent looks back down to his sketchbook. He draws his gaze across his work, taking in this and that, this neat gesture, this poor stroke. "Things still aren't okay with Ilad."

That produces a wince, genuine even in its brevity. "Gosh. I'm sorry, Brent. I haven't talked to him since--" everything "--but we were never really /friends/. Just-- classes. At the dojo."

Brent waves away her apology. "Not your fault. It's just -- awkward. I finished his painting, though." He smiles in a slight way. "Had to take it off the stretchers and roll it up to get it out the door."

"Yeah?" Aly asks, perking up a little bit more at the prospect of talking about one of Brent's paintings. "And?"

"He liked it." Brent does take a moment to consider before he says, "I think it was a bit -- over-ambitious. I tried to stuff too many ideas into it. But I thought it was pretty good."

"Good," is pronounced, before Aly turns back to her sketchbook, flips to a clean page, then swings around on the bench so she's facing Brent with her elbows braced on the table, either side of the clean paper. "Too many ideas?" she asks, proooobing.

"Well, I did all this research into the Sea of Galilee and Israel and everything and -- there's a lot of history," Brent explains. He sets down his charcoal to give his hands freedom to gesture as he speaks. "And then there was him to consider, and all put together it was -- a lot."

Alyssa's breath catches in a snort that is just shy of a laugh, and her smile is quick and bright as she says, "Okay, yeah, I can see how that's a lot-- but he liked it, though, and you sound like you were happy with it--?" she eyebrow-lifts to confirm.

"Yeah," Brent confirms. "A little overstuffed, like I said, but I was happy with it." He rubs at an itch on the side of his nose, which of course means he winds up with charcoal smudged on his chin. "And -- well. It was a big piece. So -- big commission." His expression twists ruefully. "I tried to give it to him for free."

Aly's expression goes a little familiarly fond at the smudge of charcoal, but she doesn't point it out. (Later. Later.) "I can guess about how well that went over," she says, on a breath of another laugh.

"Probably for the best that I accept money for my work if I want to paint for a living," Brent says on a low breath of a sigh that is still somewhat laughlike.

"It definitely helps!" Aly agrees, though she dips her head slightly to pay attention to her page. (Is she sketching Brent? Probably.)

If Brent notices, he doesn't say anything. Perhaps he is just used to artists modeling for each other. (Or he is just oblivious.) "It feels weird, sometimes," he admits. "At least the work that I really put a lot into. Like -- okay, I know this is dumb -- but like selling out."

He's probably used to Aly doing this, at least. She looks up for a moment, mouth skewing sideways slightly as she thinks. "Yeah, I think I get that, a little. I'm so used to just /doing/ it-- but it's what you want to do, right? Try to make a living as an artist?"

"Yeah," Brent says. "I mean -- that's the whole point of moving to San Francisco, right?"

Alyssa chews on her bottom lip, and taps the blunt end of her pencil against the page. "Right. And-- I get that, though. That feeling."

"I hope you're getting my good profile," Brent comments, offhand and unrelated. "Yeah. I'll get over it. I mean, at the same time, it's a /good/ feeling. Getting paid for what you love doing."

From pensive, Aly transitions quickly, with a bright bubble of laughter. "It /is/, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Brent picks up his charcoal again and flips to a fresh page in his sketchbook. Suddenly shy, he says in a slow, almost hesitant voice, "So. There might be this -- casual thing."

Alyssa's legs are not so long as Brent's, but still: she stretches a leg out under the table, to poke at Brent's leg with her toe. "Iiiiiis there?" she asks, careful-curious. "--anyone I know?"

"Nah," Brent says, failing to poke back. "He's a friend of mine in San Francisco. Simon. He kind of -- well." Brent sketches out a few strokes of smudged black. "Offered. And we have fun together, and we both know what it is, so."

There is a smile, a little one, and Aly swipes the pad of her thumb against the side of her nose. "That's good!" she says after a moment's thought, and laughs. (Just a little.) "I'm glad you're having fun."

"He's really--" Brent sucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "--young. I mean -- he's twenty-three, it's not that big of a difference, he's just--" His lips curve slowly. "He's a casual sort of guy."

"And you mock me for my age," is more than a little teasing, but Aly's eyes go a little wide as she says, "Woah, woah, hang on-- what day is it? I mean, like, the date?"

"...date?"

"Yes, Brent, the /date/."

"We just -- hang out." Brent shifts a little guiltily. "I mean -- we already -- you know." A little quicker, he adds, "It was before the voicemail. You know. Jean-Paul and I were being friends."

Alyssa waves a hand, a nonono hand. "No, I don't mean-- I just realized something, and I -- meant today. What's /today/'s date."

"/Oh/." Brent looks somewhat relieved, but he has to shift gears for a moment to think of it. "It's the first. June first."

"No /way/," Aly denies, with a little butt-wiggle in her seat. "Okay. Wow. Thanks. Um. Where were we?"

"Yes way," Brent says, rather on reflex. Californian what? "What's so important about June first?"

"Nothing," is absolutely, utterly honest-- but there is still a little wiggle. Just a little. "Other than it's four days in front of the fifth."

"The fifth being...?"

Alyssa swings both her feet, and manages to loose a flip-flop as it catches on the ground. (She ignores it.) "My birthday."

"Your /birthday/." Brent's smile breaks out like sunshine. "We have to do something! This will be your -- twelfth birthday, right?"

"My /birthday/," Aly answers, with a smile just as bright -- though it tips over into exasperated affection within moments. "Ha, ha, ha, /so funny/."

"I'm very funny," Brent agrees.

Alyssa kicks Brent under the table, which is horribly ineffective: she mostly just plants her foot against his leg, and shoves. "/Hilarious/. You are also /obnoxious/."

"Ow." Brent looks maligned. /Maligned/. "I think I'm hilarious and adorable, actually."

"They are not mutually exclusive!"

"The point is that I'm not obnoxious," Brent insists. Innocently.

"You can be adorable and obnoxious at the same time, Brent," Aly /aggrieves/.

"But I'm not," Brent continues. "Because I'm not obnoxious."

"How old am I gonna be?"

"Fifteen?"

"Obnoxious."

Brent smiles, wide and sincere, and then says with absolute confidence, "Twenty-two."

Aly lights up, her smile an answer to his even before she says, "Okay. You're forgiven."

"You're such a pushover," Brent says with fond affection.

"Little bit," comes paired with a lifted hand, thumb and index finger held just a little way apart.

"You know what I think we should do?" Brent suddenly asks.

"What do you think we should do?" Aly asks, eyes anticipatory-wide.

"I think," Brent says, almost grave, and very wise, "that we should get ice cream."

If eyes could go wider, Aly's would: she swings her feet, and grins at Brent across the table. "I was /just/ thinking that."

"Were you?" Brent leans over the table and drops his voice. "Were you /really/?"

Alyssa sets both elbows on the table, and leans across to not-quite-meet Brent near the middle. "I /was/," she answers, equally low.

Brent straightens up with brisk, sunny energy. "Then clearly we should go get ice cream." He snaps his sketchbook shut and shuffles his materials away in whatever pouch he brought along for the purpose, then picks himself up to his feet. The cane is still there, still used, but it is clear he is coming to the end of its utility.

It only takes that declaration before Aly, too, packs up her things, many-colored pencils scooped up and dropped into a box, her sketchbook flipped shut. Both are tucked into a bag at her feet, once solid blue but now covered in miscellaneous patches, doodles, etc. "I approve this plan," she says as she gets to her feet, then climbs up onto the bench seat and swings her bag up over her head, so its strap lies across from shoulder to hip.

Brent has no helpful bags, but he tucks both sketchbook and pouch under his arm easily. Plan approved, all that is left is to enact it! Hopefully ice cream will not melt all over them.

If it does, though, that's okay. Ice cream is one of the good kinds of summer-sticky.

I don't want to ask about the bad kinds.

Forgetting you've used spray-on sunscreen, and then licking the sticky ice cream off your hands. :(

Source: http://xmm-brent.livejournal.com/30736.html