visible_sariel | Seymour's trip to Sariel's world

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Seymour's trip to Sariel's world

The Bar door opens on a house's front walk, all sun-bleached white stone and nearby waving palm trees and long grass just short of tangling. the lane it leads to is busy, just like the one beyond it, and a short distance off there are the strains of something upbeat and jubilant--clearly, the activity in the winding streets of Castries is matched and exceeded by the celebrations on the major roads they connect to. The people going by are in bright colors; greens, blues, yellows and a hundred others, and there's laughter and a babble of languages and yes, that man is singing at the top of his voice, and wouldn't you know he's not bad.

The masquerades and the monarchs and the road march all come later. Right now, what they're walking into is the middle of an elated afternoon at everything's start, and as it's carnival Tuesday, no one's going to mind. Just the opposite, in fact.

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"...Have to look that up," Seymour murmurs. Look up the name in French. That'll go so well.

"Huh? Oh, sure, we can keep going. I mean, if that's what you wanna do."

Maybe Bar can translate it? Of course, that depends on pronunciation...

"We could... Or we could stay." Sariel is still smiling fit to light up a small room. "I know we can find a glider near here--I promised you a flight." And she intends to keep that promise, apparently. "Or--"

She's cut off by a rise in the general noise level as the music in the air changes again; something bright yellow and sparkly's rolling by, and there are suddenly dozens of scraps of colorful fabric waving above the heads of the crowd, held up by the revelers as they dance.

"Hey, a glider sounds real swe--!" Seymour begins happily.

Then he blinks and peers at the fabric waving and feels like he should be doing something. He glances at Sariel, looking lost.

"It's right down this next road--" and that puzzled expression registers. Sariel peers back at him for a second before it clicks. "Oh. The song just called for--" and then an uncertain look. "You don't know how to dance to this sort of music, do you?"

She's not holding out much hope on this one, but it's worth asking, at least.

"I...I did a tango once," Seymour explains. "But that was during a number. Dancing without a number - with, um, with normal music - is different."

Seymour is prepared to explain what the heck he's talking about.

Headtilt. Faintly puzzled glance.

"A number... of what?" It's not that she doesn't know about musical theater; she does. The idea of an entire world existing as a production of the same just... hasn't occurred to her yet. For all she knows, Seymour's from a fairly standard version of twentieth century Earth. For a given value of standard, of course.

The tango bit will click in shortly.

"A number," Seymour repeats. "A musical number. I'm...from a universe where people spontaneously break out in song and dance with unseen musical accompaniment." He projects a manner of whaddaya gonna do?

He suddenly looks pained when he adds, "Or, I was." Because he's dead. It's always a downer when he remembers that.

Blink. Blink blink. "You... oh." That one takes a minute to process. "I've never heard of a world quite like that before." At least, a world not contained within a holodeck.

The last bit, though? That makes her wince in sympathy, the smile she's been wearing dimming somewhat. "You still are though, aren't you? From that world, I mean?" She's talking point of origin more than current location, all trips through other people's doors aside. the question is whether this's apparent or not.

"I guess," Seymour says.

And suddenly he decides to tell her something he hasn't told anyone yet. "I can't do numbers in Milliways since I died. I always used to be able to."

Why's he telling her this? He nods to the surroundings, beginning to smile ever so faintly. "This makes up for that, a little."

It's not perfect, of course, but it's music and dance and movement and fun. It goes a long way to filling the void inside him.

Yup, that smile's dimmed visibly. "I'm sorry." It might not be adequate, but it's the first thing she thinks of to say.

A long second's pause, and then, "I'm glad I could help, at least a little." It's what friends do, don'tcha know? Even in unexpected ways.

Nothing is adequate, really, and Seymour is in a good enough mood to appreciate the effort. He smiles.

"So, uh, how do you dance to this?"

For a second it's an internal battle of reserved nature versus the yay, music she knows how to dance to! factor. There's a momentary flicker of uncertainty, but it's home, and it's carnival and it's everything right in the world and a little bit becoming right in someone else's, and said uncertainty evaporates fairly quickly in the face of the general mood of the day.

Yup, that smile's back at full strength again.

"To this? Oh, well... first, it's a little like this..."

Seymour doesn't mention that he danced the tango with Mr. Mushnik pretty badly.

About as badly as he dances now.

But at least he's having fun.

Sariel's willing to give him a break; he wasn't raised dancing to this sort of thing, after all.

and she's having quite a lot of fun, herself.

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Seymour's trip to Sariel's world

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