onebehind | magician's apprentice | been a hell of a ride but I'm thinking it's time to grow

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magician's apprentice | been a hell of a ride but I'm thinking it's time to grow

Dylan knew, coming out of the hospital if not going in, that getting sober wasn't going to be easy. He knew he'd have bad days and good days and days in between, and every therapist he's seen since then, every meeting he's been to has only reaffirmed that. They'd also armed him with a bag of tricks to deal with everything and everything in between, but -- well, today is one of the bad ones and nothing is helping. He's been pacing the house like a madman for the better part of the day, trying to find something to hold his attention long enough that he can stop thinking about running down to the nearest liquor store. He needs to get out of his skin. He's just shy of calling his sponsor. He needs to get out of the house.

He needs to get out of the house.

Stopping midway through moving a pile of books from one side of the living room to the other, he latches onto that idea and turns it over in his head. He needs to get out of the house.

He's moving again a second later, though this time, it's with a purpose, a clarity he hasn't felt like he's had in hours, days, weeks. He goes to Jack's room, tapping lightly on the door, and then after a beat and once he's been invited in, sticks his head in. Flashing him a smile that's equal parts reassuring and strained (he's fine, they're fine, this is nothing bad, he's just a little jittery, don't mind him), he tells him, "Hey. Pack your shit."

He has an idea. It'll be good for both of them.

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Dylan's door does likewise, and so does he, dropping his bag on the bed before he goes to open his side of the door. Once their spaces are connected, only then does he take a moment to look around.

For being a magic hotel, it's really not much, though that may be because Dylan opted for something simple, since they weren't staying more than a night. The dressing of the room matches the lobby downstairs, with its white walls and dark woods, though here they have the added bonus of blue linens. They both have king beds, and there's a kitchenette with a mini-fridge and a microwave and coffee maker tucked into one corner. The bathrooms are neat, but nothing special.

What is special about their rooms are the closets, which are much bigger than they have any right to be, and the floor to ceiling window that takes up the entirety of one of the walls, looking out over the city. Dylan drifts over to the one in Jack's room, notes the lack of any kind of drapery, and then smiles. There are no drapes, sure, but they're not being blasted by the early morning sun, either.

"Wonder if that's magic or some kinda window treatment."

Jack takes a moment of his own to look around his own room, taking stock of everything before moving to the windows. He glances at Dylan as he joins him and shrugs. "Uh... maybe some of both? I mean, like... there's no curtains at all? Even if they had some kind of tint on the outside, I feel like they'd still want people to have a way to cover them if they want to sleep during the day or something."

He doesn't mean in the sense that someone might see in, considering they're 29 floors up, but more that someone might want it darker than just a tint would allow.

"Good point," Dylan allows, though he still takes another several seconds to study the window, trying to figure it out.

He relents before too much longer, however, and with a sigh, takes a step back away from the window. A glance in the direction of his room follows. "You mind if I go start getting ready for bed?"

Jack looks back at him. "Oh, yeah, I was gonna crash, too."

He might not have done magical heavy lifting like Dylan, might have gotten a nap in on the ride, but he is still tired. It's been a long day, and it is late as far as their usual time zone is concerned.

"What time do you wanna get up again?"

He figures Dylan had planned for this trip to be most of their weekend, but he also doesn't really want to sleep through all of it. He'll let Dylan dictate how long they do sleep, though, since he's the one that needs it more.

Dylan takes a quick peek at his watch, still set to Pacific Standard Time, and does the math in his head. "I dunno. Like, seven, eight hours? If we're both up before that, I don't mind getting an earlier start, but we can aim for then."

Jack just nods agreement to that. "That works," he agrees. "Night, Dad," he offers before Dylan heads back to his room.

He, in turn, heads for his own bag, finding the pajamas he packed, as well as his toothbrush. He makes short work of getting ready for bed, turning off the lights and climbing in, adjusting so he can see out the window, to watch the city as he drifts off.

It's an hour or so later that he wakes up again, chased from sleep by a dream that wasn't quite a nightmare but still wasn't entirely pleasant - and for a moment, he doesn't know where he is. It's not quiet, but the sound is wrong, the traffic too distant, the movement of light and shadow on the walls different than he's used to. He lays in bed for several long moments, trying to settle again - but he can't stop focusing on the unfamiliar.

Finally, frustrated, he climbs out of the bed, padding over to peek through the door into Dylan's room. As far as he can tell, Dylan's asleep, and Jack moves silently to the armchair in the corner, climbing in and pulling his feet up to brace against the edge of the seat, resting his head against the corner of the chair's back and side.

The rhythm of Dylan's breathing - and being able to see him - is familiar enough to chase away his discomfort, and it's not long before he's out again.

As close as they've been mentally for the better part of their evening, Jack waking up is enough to bring Dylan a little closer to consciousness. It doesn't wake him, mind, but it's enough that his bladder can and does not long after Jack falls back asleep. He gets up then, padding into the bathroom to relieve himself, and when he returns, notices Jack's silhouette curled up in the chair, the room dark enough that it is just his shadow.

Rather than ponder the magic of the window, however, he studies Jack for a long moment instead. When he seems to reach some kind of conclusion, he moves over to him and reaches out mentally, gently, even as he nudges Jack's leg with his. He wants him awake, but not painfully so.

"Hey."

Jack doesn't startle awake, the combination of magical and physical nudges enough for him to just blink up at Dylan, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Hm?" he mutters - and then remembers what he relocated to Dylan's room. He drops his hand.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I wake you up?"

"Hn," Dylan answers, eloquently. No, he didn't wake him up.

Despite that, however, he does squint at Jack for a long moment. When he seems to find what he's looking for -- or doesn't, still half-asleep, himself -- he asks, "What're you doing?"

Jack blinks up at him for a moment, and he's still drowsy enough to be honest. "Wanted to make sure you were still here."

He doesn't mean here as in the hotel but more in a general sense, that this isn't all something that could go away like he worries it will, sometimes.

"M'not gonna leave you in China," Dylan tells him, possessing of enough sense to push something soothing down the connection, if nothing else.

Jack uncurls a little, rolling his eyes as he wakes up a little more. "No, I mean..." He runs a hand over his hair. "It doesn't sound right. Like. Traffic and shit."

He pauses a beat. "It doesn't sound like home," he says, finally.

"Hm," Dylan decides after a moment's pause to listen.

He squints at Jack for a moment more, a little more of the lights coming on behind his eyes as he wakes up a little more, too. This time, when he speaks again, it's more genuinely decisive and with a step back, to allow Jack space. "Get in bed."

Something disappointed and a little petulant pings through the connection, and he frowns, pushing himself up off the chair once Dylan takes a step back. He's not actually grumbling, but there's still a sense of frustration about him as he heads back toward the door to his room.

He was fine in the chair, and he's not sure he'll ever manage to actually go back to sleep in the other room. Maybe he can turn the tv on low or something.

Dylan frowns, too, confused by his reaction. That confusion only grows as Jack heads towards the door. He slides a sideways glance at him own bed, before shaking his head faintly, lips pursing. "Where're you going?"

Jack stops and turns, pointing over his shoulder toward the connecting door. "Bed?"

Again, Dylan shoots a glance at his bed. After a beat, he points towards it. "Bed."

He wasn't suggesting Jack go back to his room, he just thought that Jack might like somewhere more comfortable to sleep. He's not opposed to sharing his space if it lets Jack actually get some rest -- and keep future him from hating past him for curling up in a chair like he was.

Jack stops, blinking at him for a moment as that computes. "Oh," he says, finally, one corner of his mouth lifting. He didn't want to assume - but he guesses he did assume - and assumed the wrong thing.

"Thanks," he says, heading back toward the other side of the bed, to nudge the blankets out of the way and climb in.

"Mm," Dylan answers, giving him an equally crooked smile in return.

That said, Dylan moves for his side of the bed and falls back into it. He takes a moment following, getting the blankets situated, and then rolls over to face Jack, one arm going around his waist to pull him close. All things considered, he figures the closeness won't be unwelcome.

Jack settles - and then settles again when Dylan pulls him close, burrowing into the blankets and pillows a little as he closes his eyes, tension seeping out of him. Considering he had never quite woken back up after falling asleep in the chair, it won't be long before he's out again.

It's not long before Dylan's out again, either.

The next time Jack wakes up, it's inexplicably in what appears to be the lobby of a theatre. Directly ahead of him, the box office stands as an island, doors leading into the house set further back on either side. Leading up to them, gold framed show posters for various magicians line the walls -- including one for Dylan, despite the fact that he's never been on stage. That may go unnoticed, however, if only because the lobby carries an air of etherealness to it, caught somewhere between liminal space and fever dream, the edges of reality vague and vaguely blurry. While strange, though, it's not entirely unpleasant.

Honestly, dreaming about theaters isn't that new to Jack, considering how into magic and everything he already is. The sense of unreality makes it obvious enough that this is a dream, though it feels different somehow. He doesn't question it too much, though, just moving past the box office.

He does take note of some of the posters, catching sight of one of Miranda's as he heads for the doors into the house, pulling them open to step inside.

How much actual control he seems to have is a bit new, considering he's never been very good at lucid dreaming and the like.

The doors open into a grand house, done in the same cherrywood and white tile as the lobby. The seats themselves are framed in gold and upholstered in red, and in one of them near the stage, Dylan sits. If you want to call what he's doing sitting, anyway.

While he is, in fact, in one of the seats, he's sitting sideways, his feet in the seat beside him. The position creates a sort of easel with his knees, and he has a sketchbook resting on them, a graphite pencil in hand as he works on something. Intent on it as he is, he doesn't seem to notice Jack -- or maybe it's more he's not particularly concerned by his arrival. Either way, however, he doesn't look up.

Jack takes his time meandering toward the stage, looking around as he goes. He's distracted enough by the decor that he doesn't notice Dylan until he's just a row or two away, and then he stops. "Oh. Hey."

Dylan being here isn't particularly weird either considering he's been in Jack's dreams before, too - or pointedly missing from them, in some cases.

Finally, Dylan looks up, and when he does, he smiles lazily.

"Hey." A beat. "Sorry, I was working on ... "

He gestures to his lap, then shifts a little, so that Jack can see the sketchbook better. On the page, there's a half-finished sketch of the Macau skyline as seen from their hotel room -- or, well, there is for a second, anyway. After a moment or two of looking at it, it shifts into a portrait of Lionel Shrike. No, maybe it's the graveyard of half-finished rides and midways outside the warehouse. Or the safe Bubu showed Jack, in half-finished detail. Or the table that Jack considered in Long's.

Dylan doesn't seem to notice that the sketch can't make up its mind, regardless of what it is at any given moment.

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