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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"Here, hold on a second," he answers, already pushing to his feet.

It takes him a moment to strip out of his shirt, but once he's bare, he turns, putting his back to Jack. From this angle, it's hard to see him rubbing his fingers together as he pulls on his magic, but the sensation is there, power gathering and then dispersing as he touches the tattoo.

Light races along the edges of it, circling the grain of the wood in a spiral that comes together at the bolt hole, like water swirling down a drain. When it reaches the center, it spreads out again, a stylized Eye lighting up with the hole as the pupil. The hidden image lingers for a moment before fading -- a glow in the dark star burning out its sunlight.

Dylan half-turns then, glancing at Jack over his shoulder. "You see it?"

Jack frowns, feeling something coming but not sure what it is. He sets the book aside as Dylan stands and pulls his shirt off. He can feel the magic gather, a storm on the horizon that fades as quick as it comes.

His eyes go wide as he watches the light spread over the tattoo, as it lights up the Eye hidden in the tattoo. "Holy shit," he breathes. "I'm not even gonna pretend that's not fucking awesome. How does that work? Is it like... the kind of ink or whatever?"

Don't tell him 'magic'.

He's sorry, Jack, but he can't help himself.

"Magic."

While he expects that will earn him another eyeroll and another denouncement, he still flashes him a smirk as he turns to face him again. Thankfully, it fades as he reaches to pull his shirt back on and as he explains, "I know a guy who figured out the trick to making blacklight ink react to magic, too."

A moment of pause follows, something thoughtful creeping onto his face. "Obviously, it lights up when I touch it -- " With intent. " -- but I haven't actually tested whether or not it lights up when I'm just doing unrelated shit."

Clearly, that's something they should test when they're both awake and not where the tattoo will behave exactly as Dylan expects it should.

Jack does, in fact, lineface at him for a moment when he turns back around. Fuck you, sir.

It doesn't last long, though, the awe returning. "Yeah, we need to try that," Jack says, agreeing to what Dylan didn't say.

"When did you get it?"

Dylan presses his mouth into a thin line, too, though in his case, the expression is more thoughtful than anything else. He's had the tattoo for so long it feels like it's always been a part of him. He actually has to think, to pin down when he actually got it.

"I was in my early twenties," he decides, finally. A pause, and then he ventures, "I think I got it, like, right after I joined the Eye."

"Nice," Jack says. He has no frame of reference as to how it should look, but he does know it still looks awesome. "Have you thought about getting anymore?"

Jack's thought here and there about getting a tattoo once he turns 18, though he doesn't have any solid ideas on what he'd get, yet.

Dylan's eyes drop to the sketchbook still in Jack's lap. If he looks at it now, the pages are filled with tattoo ideas Dylan has had, some of them ideas he's had for himself, some work he's done for other people. The difference, somehow, is clear, despite the fact that there's nothing to clarify on the pages.

"All the time." A beat. "I honestly dunno why I haven't, to tell you the truth."

If he has reasons, they're a little fuzzy in the here and now.

Jack turns his attention back to the sketchbook, flipping through it all over again, looking at the designs. It is clear to him which is which somehow, and he turns a few pages before he speaks again.

"I've thought about getting one a couple times. Don't really know what, though," he says, still looking at the book. "And I'd've had to wait until I was 18 anyway."

And this is a time where it wouldn't have made a difference whether he had a responsible adult to help him, since New York requires people to be 18 to get one even with parent approval.

Dylan hums, eyes drifting back down to the sketchbook as Jack looks away from it. He stares at it, through it, for a moment before returning his attentions back to Jack. "Yeah, well. You figure out what you want, and I'll do the art for it. We can go do it on your birthday."

And he'll foot the bill.

Assuming that's something Jack's interested in, anyway.

Jack looks up, still grinning. "Yeah? That'd be awesome. I'll have to think about it."

Like he said he's had a few things he thought about maybe getting tattooed, but nothing's really stuck with him. He's got over six months to think about it, though. Plenty of time.

"You get commissioned by a lot of people?"

Dylan nods. Yes, he's serious, and yes, Jack has time to think about it. Better not to commit to anything here and now anyway, just in case.

A tip of his head follows at the question, the gesture a so-so. "I get a lot more requests than I actually take on? I mean, I don't mind doing art for other people, but I kind of -- I don't want it to start feeling like actual work, you know?"

He's discerning about what he actually choses to do so he doesn't get burned out.

Jack nods agreement to that. "I get it, yeah. Like.... reading for school compared to reading for fun. It's different when it's something you've gotta do."

He looks up again. "I'm glad you get to do it regularly though? Even though you're not, like..."

In a career that involves art, he means, though he doesn't feel like he needs to finish that since they were just talking about it - and since they're literally in each other's heads right now.

"Exactly," Dylan confirms. "But yeah, me, too. It's ... "

It's good to be able to draw on a regular basis, whether or not he's doing it for money. It's also good to be able to do design work for other magicians, be it costumes or tricks, since he can't be on stage. He's not sure how he'd fare if he didn't have that creative outlet, that connection to the family business.

"Are there other designs you can actually show me?" he asks - because he doesn't expect Dylan to give up anyone's secrets but he's curious all the same. If Dylan says no, he's not going to be mad about it, but he figured he would ask since he has the sketchbook already.

Raking his tongue over his teeth, Dylan effects a thoughtful look. When he seems to reach some sort of conclusion, he shakes his head faintly. "Lemme -- lemme get back to you on that? Maybe when we're actually awake?"

He's sure there has to be something he can offer up, but he's not entirely sure what.

Jack nods. Fair enough. "Yeah, sure."

He's always going to be curious about anything in the business, so he'll take whatever Dylan can show him.

"So, like... if everything with your dad hadn't happened, do you think you'd've done stage stuff? Or still mostly the design part?" Or both, he guesses, since it's not like magicians can't design their own tricks.

Like the smell of cooking food permeating a kitchen, a sense of longing and regret rolls off of Dylan in measures. He doesn't bother to try and tamp down on it, for as futile as it would be at this point. Thankfully, a wave of resolve flows in a second after it, grim and solid.

He won't be taking questions on that, at this time, but he does answer, "I'd definitely be doing a little of both. Set myself up doing a show at the New Victory in New York. Dad, he -- that's where he did his shows, when he wasn't doing pop up shit in the park, or ... "

Or dropping himself into the river in a safe.

Jack wouldn't push on that anyway, already resisting the urge to apologize for bringing up something else that gives Dylan negative emotions - but he has permission to ask, and he can't help but be curious.

"The New Victory's cool," Jack returns. "I've been in it a couple times when they've taken us to see the student matinees or whatever. I didn't know your dad performed there, though."

"At night, yeah," Dylan confirms, nodding. "They do a lot of shit for a younger audience during the day, but." He shrugs. Truth be told, his father probably did some daytime performances, too. Stage magic has never really been something age banded.

"Awesome," he returns simply.

"What's like... your favorite kind of trick? Like, um... escape stuff? Or mentalist stuff? Stuff like that."

He knows Dylan's good at designing tricks that involve rigs and so on, yeah, but he's curious about what discipline Dylan favors in general.

He takes a moment to consider that, and when he reaches some kind of conclusion, he gestures for the sketchbook. When Jack passes it over, he thumbs to the back where he finds a handful of blank pages that weren't there before, and carefully, he pulls one out. Once he has it free, he starts folding it casually, having seemingly decided to do something with his hands as they talk. In truth, though, it's part of the trick.

"Now, bear in mind, if this weren't all in my head, I'd be doing this practically. Actual origami paper -- " Or flash paper. He'll see why here in a second. " -- and shit, rather than sketchbook paper."

Jack leans forward to return the sketchbook - and then stays leaning forward, actually scooting forward a little in his seat so he can watch more closely. He absolutely recognizes it as part of the trick - as part of Dylan's answer to his question.

"I mean, paper's paper," Jack offers. It'll do, he means.

He glances up from his work, which seems to be coming together in the shape of a rose, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"You know as well as I do that's bullshit." Paper is not just paper in their profession. "But yeah, it'll do." He pauses, expressing shifting into something a little more thoughtful. "Though, I guess I could've made the sketchbook pages into some of the nice origami paper I've got."

Hindsight is twenty-twenty. He's not going to change it now, however, for fear that that might muddle the performance.

Jack rolls his eyes, waving him off. "You know what I mean." He shrugs as Dylan goes on - but he doesn't comment again himself, content in watching the rose take shape.

"I know what you mean, but I'm trying to make conversation," Dylan shoots back, making a face at him. If he'd had more time, he might have had a bit prepared as a distraction, but right now, he's improvising. So sue him if it's not that good. The magic part will be better, he promises.

That in mind, finishing up the flower, he holds it up, twirling it between his fingers so Jack can get a good look at it. Then, a second later and in a literal flash, the rose is on fire. When it dies down, it's a real rose between Dylan's fingers, and he holds it out to Jack to take, for inspection.

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