notgoingtorun | [for Blaine]

[for Blaine]

There appeared to be another epidemic of Island Weird going on. Or, at least, some sort of mass confusion. There seemed to be a lot more concerned whispering going on, at any rate, and Neal was a professional at concerned whispers. Neal largely kept his mouth shut about things, all the better to slide under the radar, but he noticed everything. It was part of his job, even if he didn't have a job here anymore.

He sat in the rec room, trying to ignore whatever weirdness was going on, and instead flipped through the pages of an art book he'd found lurking on the shelves. It was a book of Warhol paintings, and he wasn't the greatest fan of Warhol, but it was better than nothing. The bookshelf mostly tried to give him heavy texts on criminal law, anyway.

Mostly, though, Neal looked longingly at the pool table. He tried to stay away from it, but sometimes it called his name. Neal was just so tired of pretending to be someone that he wasn't -- oh, sure Neal Caffrey as a concept was someone he wasn't, but he'd never chosen to give up things he knew and loved just to keep from attracting attention. He was already being risky with his work at the casino -- no one just learned to deal cards the way he did for fun, and he and Trixa both knew it.

Trying to pass himself off as a mediocre pool player just wasn't going to happen, so he ignored the table for now, and instead flipped past another page of soup cans. Maybe next time, the bookshelf would give him something a little more classic.

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As strange as the island is on a fairly regular basis, Blaine can honestly say it's never felt weirder than in the past few days. Ever since waking up in another boy's bed - a bed he has yet to figure out how he got into - the place as a whole has felt entirely off. There's a tension in the air Blaine can't accurately describe of even pinpoint exactly, but everyone seems a little more on edge than normal.

And, however many issues Blaine has had with his brother back in Ohio, seeing the man here who shares his face is somehow oddly comforting.

Walking over, Blaine tilts his head a little to see if he can make out what it is Victor's reading, smiling a little before he arches an eyebrow. "You're really getting into this art stuff, aren't you?"

Neal looked up, letting the book settle on his lap. Pop art was fascinating but also overdone, and he was glad for the distraction.

"Well, according to the bookshelf, I either need to be really fascinated in art, or I need to learn to read German. I'll take art."

The German books were all about art, too, although they sometimes hit a little too close to home, what with that Nazi plunder and all. He'll take soup cans and Marilyn Monroe, thanks.

"Why is German so bad?" Blaine asks, taking a seat to Victor's left and relaxing for a moment. "I'm taking Italian right now. If you learn German we can join forces and pretend to be the Axis powers or something."

He's grinning as he says it, clearly joking, though the ever-present weird feeling is still buzzing right under his skin. A part of him wonders if Victor remembers him or if he's being affected by all this strangeness, too and he's just being friendly.

"We could," Neal mused. He rapped his fingers against the cover of the book. "German would be less bad if I could read it," he added. "Maybe I'll work on that next term at school."

It still felt a little weird, to be legitimately taking classes for the first time since he dropped out of high school. Well, he wasn't taking them entirely on the up-and-up, he'd have to be taking the classes as himself for that to happen. "Anything's got to be better than my atrocious progress in drawing class, that's for sure."

"Oh, have you given up on the toe-drawing venture?" Blaine asks, his grin widening at the reminder. "I thought for sure you were going to find fame and fortune with that."

All joking aside, Victor's little stick drawing had actually been pretty impressive given the method. It'd even had a cute little squiggly hat atop its head. And when Blaine had made his own attempt, he'd created something closer to a lopsided easter egg.

"I'm not progressing as quickly as I'd like," Neal said. "I was hoping for overnight inspiration, but alas." He stifled a laugh, because it was all so absurd, but it felt good to not need to be serious, to not worry what skeleton in the closet was waiting to pop out next. "Although I am trying to teach myself to draw with my left foot. Just for good measure."

He might have spent some time legitimately practicing this skill, just for fun. He was actually getting to be quite talented at it, not that it was a life skill that would actually get him anywhere.

"So you can be an ambidextrous toe artist," Blaine says with a faint smirk, warmed a little by Victor's smile and friendly demeanor. It isn't difficult for him to see the differences between this man and his brother back home. For one, Victor isn't nearly as self-involved and obnoxious, but there's just something about his face and voice that Blaine finds oddly comforting.

Taking a deep breath, Blaine sinks further back in his chair and falls silent for a moment, picking at a loose thread at the knee of his pants before he says, "So. Have you noticed anything different about this place lately?" he asks, aiming for casual, though he's somehow sure he fails spectacularly.

"If I work at it, maybe I'll be better at foot-drawing than with my hands," Neal said, shrugging his shoulders casually.

Blaine's next words felt a bit troublesome to Neal. He was clearly trying for easy conversation, but there was an anxiety underneath his words that told Neal that there was more going on than just words. He leaned forward and slipped the book onto the floor, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, I've noticed that there's something weird going on," he said. "There seem to be a lot more confused people than usual." That was one way to put it, at least.

Yet again, Blaine is struck by how different Victor is from Cooper despite the similarities in face and voice. Victor's setting aside his book and leaning forward, clearly intrigued by Blaine's horrible attempt at forced-casual inquiry whereas Cooper would've just carried on without a though, maybe listened with half an ear before finding another opportunity to talk about himself.

Lips twisting into a sheepish attempt at a smile, Blaine lets out a breath. "I think I technically count as one of them," he says. "It's a memory loss thing. Apparently. I don't remember some people."

"Oh," Neal said. "Well, that's pretty terrible." He sounded sympathetic, and it wasn't an act. Not everything he did as Victor was fake, and Neal, regardless of whose life he was inhabiting, had always been perhaps a bit too empathetic for the situations other found themselves in. It made him a special kind of con man, and he knew it.

"So it's like selective amnesia, then, if you still remember some things?" He clearly still knew who Neal was, or was pretending to be, since he wasn't mixing him up for Cooper again. "This place -- man, this place is strange. What's the point of that, even, doing this to people randomly?"

"I have no idea," Blaine admits with a soft, rueful laugh as he shakes his head. "Do you think it's like some kind of puzzle? Like I'm supposed to figure something out about myself?"

It isn't a thought that had occurred to him before, but he considers it now, brow furrowing as he tries to recall the faces of the people here he supposedly knows: the short, dark-haired girl with the dramatic air; the slender blonde with the wide, vacant eyes; and Kurt. Kurt, who he'd found himself in bed with only a few days ago. The boy he's supposedly dating. What is it all supposed to mean?

"Everyone I've forgotten is supposedly someone I knew before here. Before the island. Like, they're all friends from back home. Why would I forget them?"

He thought it over for a few moments, his fingers tapping lightly on his knees. "Maybe it's about trust?" he offered finally. "About learning who has your back, regardless of what else has ever happened in the past?" Of course, if that was really it, Neal realized he probably would have woken up and forgotten his name, his whole life, in some sort of misguided effort to teach him a lesson. "I'd be willing to bet that it's some sort of puzzle, yeah. This place seems notorious for that sort of stuff."

It doesn't seem completely out of the question, but Blaine still can't fathom why. If he's supposed to figure out who has his back and who doesn't, why does it have to be like this? Why can't he do it like anyone else? Through simple trial and error.

But more specific than not remembering the people he should, is how those people have been handling him since it started.

Or, rather. One person.

"I don't remember my boyfriend," he says, wincing a little as the words pass his lips. "I don't understand what that's supposed to teach me."

Neal shook his head. "I don't, either," he agreed. "I mean, I could make something up, but it's all bullshit, isn't it? The games this place plays?" He ran a hand through his hair, feeling frustrated for Blaine but also very, very glad that he hadn't woken up with giant chunks of his life missing. That wasn't the type of thing that Neal was likely to handle well.

It didn't help that this seemed to be a new island phenomenon. Neal hadn't been here that long, but he was an excellent listener, and he heard things, and no one seemed to have experienced this amnesia before. It made the outcome harder to predict -- normally, Neal would have been all about the challenge, but not here.

"Is there anything I can do for you, while things are all... weird?" He didn't know that there was much anyone could do, but Neal was also excellent at being a distraction.

Maybe it is just a game, Blaine thinks. Not a lesson. Maybe, like everyone else keeps saying, this place just likes to mess with people for no reason at all.

Somehow, that really doesn't make him feel better at all.

Blaine's lips twist into an awkward sort of smile at Victor's offer before he shakes his head. "I don't know," he confesses. "This is nice. Just talking. It's weird, though. Because... everyone I can't remember here, they're all someone I knew back home. But I still remember that you look like my brother. I remember him. And other people from back home, too. It's just some pieces that are fuzzy. It's... kind of scary, honestly."

"I can only imagine," Neal said. "It was strange enough to arrive here without knowing anyone, to have that all taken away..." He shook his head. "You've got it much more together than I would, I'll give you that. Or, you're just very, very talented at making it look like you're keeping pretty cool about it." Neal knew he'd be able to fake it, he could fake just about anything, but the inner turmoil would be a lot to take.

"Well, I am excellent at just talking, if you need distractions or... you know, time to not think about the weird things this place does."

Blaine's lips curve into a somewhat pained smile at that. He can't say he's been taking it exceptionally well, but he thinks he's probably taking it better than the people he can't remember. It's uncomfortable knowing there are people who know things about him he doesn't remember sharing, but he imagines it's nothing compared to having a friend not remember him.

If nothing else, though, Blaine feels lonely. And out of place in a way he hasn't in a very long time.

With a soft breath, Blaine rests his hands in his lap and shrugs. "Tell me something about you, maybe?" he says, quiet and curious. "I mean, I know you're from New York and you're an excellent toe artist, but like... I don't know. Do you have any family? Friends?"

He couldn't help but crack a smile at the reference to toe drawing. It was absurd, and hilarious, but also one of the few utterly carefree times Neal had had in recent memory. Usually, he had the long shadow of his past crimes, his lies, lurking over him, so it had been nice to just forget that all and have fun for once.

"Well, let's see," he said, slouching back in his chair as he went through his mental stack of information on Victor Moreau's alleged life. "I'm an only child, mom and dad live in upstate New York. I went to the city for college and never really looked back. There was a group of guys from work who had weekly poker nights, but other than that... you know, it was always hard to manage working 50, 60 hours a week and still keep up with other people at the same time. I guess the island was my way of forcing me to take a vacation."

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