[ Jopson knows him well indeed; that is exactly Irving's usual way of things, never mind the fact his stormy moods still tend to be as abundantly obvious -- if not even more so -- while he sulks and suffers in silence as they would be if he just admitted to having a rough day.
Or week. Month. Whatever the case may be.
For the most part Irving still intends on doing just that, too, except he's reached a point where he can't keep simply swallowing it all down without some of that misery trying to come right back up again; there's too much of it, and not in measured, spaced out doses like many bitter pills often will be, but at an oppressively regular pace he's constantly exhausted just trying (not quite succeeding) to keep up with.
He sits, not trying to give off any impression of urgency, but failing as he usually does to give off any impression of casual, either, legs crossed in such a way his ankle begins bouncing restlessly, for however much he's trying to keep his hands from fidgeting. ]
I was only... wondering, [ he begins slowly, carefully, woefully unprepared and under-experienced with this sort of thing, ] after some of your own experiences here, during that first month-- though not in any lurid sort of detail, of course. And only if you don't mind sharing.
[ A pause, before (not asking to be shitty, he genuinely is interested to know the answer) he adds: ]
Did you still think of this place as sacred, even then?
[ Oh. This is a big conversation. He looks at John for a moment, trying to assess the extent of an answer that's expected of him, before he unplugs the iron (bless electrics, every single day) and sits down on the arm of the couch. He drags his bottom lip between his teeth as he thinks of how to best answer that immeasurably large question. He could start at the end, or in the middle, but he thinks it best to start at the beginning. ]
There weren't a lot of time between your death and mine [ He says as if he knows, when it's only a guess. The days began to lose any sense of real time after a certain point of delirium, ] but...a lot changed. We took a turn for the worst that only got worse. I didn't go like you did. [ He finds, as he tries to describe it, that he can't look directly at John. If he does, he won't be able to say any of it. ] Last thing I remember's being face down in the cold, alone, surrounded by dead men, or men left to die. My teeth were falling out, and my hair, and I couldn't even pick myself up to go for a tin. I don't think I'd have been able to open one if I did. The joints.
[ His voice catches, and his jaw tightens. He hasn't cried about it since the first month here, and even as he gets misty, he know he won't start crying about it now. ]
Point is, when I got here, I had to rethink what I thought I knew about a lot of things. During that first month I was sure this was heaven. Had to be--plenty of food, putting me up in a palace, telling me the things about myself that I kept hid for my whole life were something to be proud of. I've got no place saying what heaven is or isn't supposed to be, so I accepted it. But you know what I think now. What I do know is that I've seen hell, and this ain't it.
This hadn't exactly been what Irving meant, or at least intended, with his question, but the more he listens to Jopson speak -- (in increasingly pale, sober silence) -- the more he realizes this would always have to have been part of Jopson's answer, much like how Irving's faith would be an enormous part of his own.
Much like how knowing of his murder, too, has influenced things for Irving since, if not in ways quite so obvious, even to himself.
His brows knit, lips pursed tensely, the lower drawn halfway under his teeth to not so much be chewed on but simply pressed down into, the mild sting of pain helping to keep him focused. ]
I'm sorry, Thomas. [ He sets a hand down on Jopson's knee, consolatory, but also affectionate. ] That you were alone.
[ Irving may still not agree about the blessed or heavenly version of this place that Jopson does -- and it is safe enough to say even now, this early into Irving's own stay, that he never will, either -- but that hadn't at all been why he asked. The true nature of Duplicity is something that they, as mere men, can never really know for certain, and right at this moment it is also far besides the point. In asking he was only hoping to understand more, how Jopson is able to take such a positive perspective in the face of what Irving considers overwhelmingly nightmarish conditions; how he can possibly cope with it all with such aplomb and apparent effortlessness.
It even touches him, the level to which he can actually understand it. To hear Jopson say it sounds barely unlike how Irving felt in his old life, alive, seeing the world for all its best and most beautiful qualities rather than letting himself become tied down by troubles if, where, when, and how they'd always inevitably occur, except--
Inevitably those troubles catch up, build up, much like how they do and have in Duplicity as well, except here it only seems so much faster, far, far crueler. On the other hand, there is still the bounty of food, the comfort of a roof and warm bed, the luxury of hot water, the boon of technology and hope of progress, all things Irving can sympathize with being grateful for.
Even if there are other things he still can't begin to understand actually feeling proud of, because he certainly doesn't. That's been an enormous part of his struggle, in fact, the core to most of his problems, and whatever pleasure he does get from the sex (and there is pleasure, so much of it Irving can become overwhelmed by it within mere minutes) always immediately countered by shame, and guilt, and self-disgust. ]
And I am glad that you can be happy here. If nothing else.
[ Jopson's hand claps down onto Irving's, with a pat and then a squeeze, in a terribly masculine sort of acceptance of intimacy, and a silent thank-you. He hasn't told anyone else the details, but it comes easier between them, as most things do--as most things should. They are brothers, after all, in spite of the tinge of bitterness. He takes a breath to compose himself as quickly as he can, to shove all of that back in the tightly locked box he's made for it. He does finally make eye contact again when Irving speaks, and it occurs to him very suddenly that he is happy. Happier than he's been in a long time. He smiles, even though it's tight on his face for the conflicted feelings, and nods. ]
I am happy. Maybe that's it. There ain't nothing more sacred than that.
[ He smiles again, the kind of smile with teeth that he's learned as a defense mechanism, a distraction for when he's particularly uncomfortable. Irving isn't asking him any of this to know how he feels about it, not really. Cutting to the chase would save them both a lot more trouble. ]
Why are you asking, John? You've got something on your mind, and that something's not me.
[ Irving hadn't really known what to expect when it came to how Jopson might answer his question, least of all this; least of all the depths of torment Jopson had to go through, long after Irving's own suffering had been put to a swift and brutal end. He's not at all glad to have, however unwittingly, forced Jopson to relive even a fraction of that experience, in service of a question that could have been put forth in any number of different, less affecting ways than what Irving had gone with, but he is glad to now have significantly better context for understanding.
He smiles faintly himself, a small, reassuring, closed-mouth curve of his lips, but for now doesn't push Jopson on either subject -- his pain or his happiness -- because now is simply not the time for it. That hadn't occurred to him before, the sheer size and scope of what he'd asked simply presuming they might have a lively back-and-forth about it, but most people are not John Irving, who's always been more the sort of man to have answers ready on a dime for nearly any type of question one might ask of him, because he knew the rules, knew the law, knew what God has had to say on the subject.
That sort of thinking from back in his old life feels like such a luxury now, one that he can no longer afford now that he's here. In his old life Irving was spared having to think too deeply about what it all meant; spared the sorts of darkness that can infect a man's mind while out at sea (or especially out on the ice); spared from lapses in self-control, from temptation, from ever having to interrogate the depths of his own heart and mind which he'd always kept locked away and buried within his own compartmentalized box, so well hidden that not even he would ever find it...
Because he had faith.
And no, not a blind sort of faith, not everything happens for a reason or God would not allow me, you, us to suffer, because Irving certainly knows, contrary to popular belief, that God is not some magical genie who exists to serve the whims of man, to make their lives idyllic and easy; man is meant to work for his rewards (God helps those who help themselves), to suffer, endure, be tested, so that he might later emerge reborn from the deepest, darkest depths of adversity, cleansed and pure and stronger for it.
Irving's faith was like that: something that gave him strength, confidence, the ability to go on each and every day despite steadily increasing obstacles and misfortune, despite hardship after hardship, despite death and disease and starvation following them all like shadows. He did not need to convince himself that they were all certain to be rescued, certain to live, he only needed to not lose hope that they still could; to not give up until the very end.
But Duplicity is different. At least, for him it has been. And the longer he's here, the more it's begun to seem as if he's not simply just part of a minority who feels the way he does about it, but rather almost completely and entirely alone.
Irving's not the sort of man prone to feeling envy, though in him this is, arguably, not always actually the virtuous quality it might sound like it should be, as it means he can't see Jopson's happiness for what it is (a hard won freedom; something to aspire to; his Great Reward), can't see it as something to want for himself, because to let himself truly be happy with a life lived in sin is a compromise that simply seems far too great and final. He would sooner be miserable but with principles than a happy degenerate. ]
I'd only wondered... [ He hesitates, a breath escaping him slowly, then shakes his head. ] I was... curious, if it had always felt that way for you, or if you'd... struggled at all, at the beginning.
[ Jopson is, and has always been, practical. Philosophy and religion are the practice of men beyond him and his responsibilities. So the answer to Irving's queston is, to him, much the same as the last. He laces his fingers together between his knees, drags his bottom lip between his teeth as he thinks of a different way to answer it.
He knows that the most straightforward one is one that Irving isn't going to like, so he'll talk around it if he can. This doesn't need to be another spat. ]
I did struggle. Different from how you are, but you know what I think. The way I understand it, the angels saw fit to make my test different from yours. If this is how we show our quality, I won't presume to know God's mind about it more than I can see for myself. But at the start I was sure all of this temptation was a trick. Of course I was. But what I was seeing didn't match up with what I knew, so I asked questions and I paid attention.
[ He reaches for his device then, goes searching for something. When he finds it, he hands it over to Irving to read at his leisure. ]
No one is punished here for gross indecency, or for adultery, or anything of the like. No one. But you do get punished, really punished, if you push back against how they do things, or if you refuse to take whatever they throw at you. You only get fire and brimstone if you forget your place. I've not forgotten mine. I can't know what the right choices are to find peace, or why the tests are what they are. All I can hope is that I can pass on my stripes alone, at my best. And I don't think I've been anything less than my best for the people who need me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2022-03-27 04:26 pm (UTC)Or week. Month. Whatever the case may be.
For the most part Irving still intends on doing just that, too, except he's reached a point where he can't keep simply swallowing it all down without some of that misery trying to come right back up again; there's too much of it, and not in measured, spaced out doses like many bitter pills often will be, but at an oppressively regular pace he's constantly exhausted just trying (not quite succeeding) to keep up with.
He sits, not trying to give off any impression of urgency, but failing as he usually does to give off any impression of casual, either, legs crossed in such a way his ankle begins bouncing restlessly, for however much he's trying to keep his hands from fidgeting. ]
I was only... wondering, [ he begins slowly, carefully, woefully unprepared and under-experienced with this sort of thing, ] after some of your own experiences here, during that first month-- though not in any lurid sort of detail, of course. And only if you don't mind sharing.
[ A pause, before (not asking to be shitty, he genuinely is interested to know the answer) he adds: ]
Did you still think of this place as sacred, even then?
no subject
Date: 2022-03-27 05:13 pm (UTC)There weren't a lot of time between your death and mine [ He says as if he knows, when it's only a guess. The days began to lose any sense of real time after a certain point of delirium, ] but...a lot changed. We took a turn for the worst that only got worse. I didn't go like you did. [ He finds, as he tries to describe it, that he can't look directly at John. If he does, he won't be able to say any of it. ] Last thing I remember's being face down in the cold, alone, surrounded by dead men, or men left to die. My teeth were falling out, and my hair, and I couldn't even pick myself up to go for a tin. I don't think I'd have been able to open one if I did. The joints.
[ His voice catches, and his jaw tightens. He hasn't cried about it since the first month here, and even as he gets misty, he know he won't start crying about it now. ]
Point is, when I got here, I had to rethink what I thought I knew about a lot of things. During that first month I was sure this was heaven. Had to be--plenty of food, putting me up in a palace, telling me the things about myself that I kept hid for my whole life were something to be proud of. I've got no place saying what heaven is or isn't supposed to be, so I accepted it. But you know what I think now. What I do know is that I've seen hell, and this ain't it.
no subject
Date: 2022-03-27 08:09 pm (UTC)This hadn't exactly been what Irving meant, or at least intended, with his question, but the more he listens to Jopson speak -- (in increasingly pale, sober silence) -- the more he realizes this would always have to have been part of Jopson's answer, much like how Irving's faith would be an enormous part of his own.
Much like how knowing of his murder, too, has influenced things for Irving since, if not in ways quite so obvious, even to himself.
His brows knit, lips pursed tensely, the lower drawn halfway under his teeth to not so much be chewed on but simply pressed down into, the mild sting of pain helping to keep him focused. ]
I'm sorry, Thomas. [ He sets a hand down on Jopson's knee, consolatory, but also affectionate. ] That you were alone.
[ Irving may still not agree about the blessed or heavenly version of this place that Jopson does -- and it is safe enough to say even now, this early into Irving's own stay, that he never will, either -- but that hadn't at all been why he asked. The true nature of Duplicity is something that they, as mere men, can never really know for certain, and right at this moment it is also far besides the point. In asking he was only hoping to understand more, how Jopson is able to take such a positive perspective in the face of what Irving considers overwhelmingly nightmarish conditions; how he can possibly cope with it all with such aplomb and apparent effortlessness.
It even touches him, the level to which he can actually understand it. To hear Jopson say it sounds barely unlike how Irving felt in his old life, alive, seeing the world for all its best and most beautiful qualities rather than letting himself become tied down by troubles if, where, when, and how they'd always inevitably occur, except--
Inevitably those troubles catch up, build up, much like how they do and have in Duplicity as well, except here it only seems so much faster, far, far crueler. On the other hand, there is still the bounty of food, the comfort of a roof and warm bed, the luxury of hot water, the boon of technology and hope of progress, all things Irving can sympathize with being grateful for.
Even if there are other things he still can't begin to understand actually feeling proud of, because he certainly doesn't. That's been an enormous part of his struggle, in fact, the core to most of his problems, and whatever pleasure he does get from the sex (and there is pleasure, so much of it Irving can become overwhelmed by it within mere minutes) always immediately countered by shame, and guilt, and self-disgust. ]
And I am glad that you can be happy here. If nothing else.
no subject
Date: 2022-04-09 07:52 pm (UTC)I am happy. Maybe that's it. There ain't nothing more sacred than that.
[ He smiles again, the kind of smile with teeth that he's learned as a defense mechanism, a distraction for when he's particularly uncomfortable. Irving isn't asking him any of this to know how he feels about it, not really. Cutting to the chase would save them both a lot more trouble. ]
Why are you asking, John? You've got something on your mind, and that something's not me.
no subject
Date: 2022-04-12 12:29 am (UTC)He smiles faintly himself, a small, reassuring, closed-mouth curve of his lips, but for now doesn't push Jopson on either subject -- his pain or his happiness -- because now is simply not the time for it. That hadn't occurred to him before, the sheer size and scope of what he'd asked simply presuming they might have a lively back-and-forth about it, but most people are not John Irving, who's always been more the sort of man to have answers ready on a dime for nearly any type of question one might ask of him, because he knew the rules, knew the law, knew what God has had to say on the subject.
That sort of thinking from back in his old life feels like such a luxury now, one that he can no longer afford now that he's here. In his old life Irving was spared having to think too deeply about what it all meant; spared the sorts of darkness that can infect a man's mind while out at sea (or especially out on the ice); spared from lapses in self-control, from temptation, from ever having to interrogate the depths of his own heart and mind which he'd always kept locked away and buried within his own compartmentalized box, so well hidden that not even he would ever find it...
Because he had faith.
And no, not a blind sort of faith, not everything happens for a reason or God would not allow me, you, us to suffer, because Irving certainly knows, contrary to popular belief, that God is not some magical genie who exists to serve the whims of man, to make their lives idyllic and easy; man is meant to work for his rewards (God helps those who help themselves), to suffer, endure, be tested, so that he might later emerge reborn from the deepest, darkest depths of adversity, cleansed and pure and stronger for it.
Irving's faith was like that: something that gave him strength, confidence, the ability to go on each and every day despite steadily increasing obstacles and misfortune, despite hardship after hardship, despite death and disease and starvation following them all like shadows. He did not need to convince himself that they were all certain to be rescued, certain to live, he only needed to not lose hope that they still could; to not give up until the very end.
But Duplicity is different. At least, for him it has been. And the longer he's here, the more it's begun to seem as if he's not simply just part of a minority who feels the way he does about it, but rather almost completely and entirely alone.
Irving's not the sort of man prone to feeling envy, though in him this is, arguably, not always actually the virtuous quality it might sound like it should be, as it means he can't see Jopson's happiness for what it is (a hard won freedom; something to aspire to; his Great Reward), can't see it as something to want for himself, because to let himself truly be happy with a life lived in sin is a compromise that simply seems far too great and final. He would sooner be miserable but with principles than a happy degenerate. ]
I'd only wondered... [ He hesitates, a breath escaping him slowly, then shakes his head. ] I was... curious, if it had always felt that way for you, or if you'd... struggled at all, at the beginning.
[ Like how Irving has been struggling. ]
If perhaps it had to grow on you first.
no subject
Date: 2022-04-28 09:59 pm (UTC)He knows that the most straightforward one is one that Irving isn't going to like, so he'll talk around it if he can. This doesn't need to be another spat. ]
I did struggle. Different from how you are, but you know what I think. The way I understand it, the angels saw fit to make my test different from yours. If this is how we show our quality, I won't presume to know God's mind about it more than I can see for myself. But at the start I was sure all of this temptation was a trick. Of course I was. But what I was seeing didn't match up with what I knew, so I asked questions and I paid attention.
[ He reaches for his device then, goes searching for something. When he finds it, he hands it over to Irving to read at his leisure. ]
No one is punished here for gross indecency, or for adultery, or anything of the like. No one. But you do get punished, really punished, if you push back against how they do things, or if you refuse to take whatever they throw at you. You only get fire and brimstone if you forget your place. I've not forgotten mine. I can't know what the right choices are to find peace, or why the tests are what they are. All I can hope is that I can pass on my stripes alone, at my best. And I don't think I've been anything less than my best for the people who need me.