A bright, airy foyer. There are simple heavy-cotton curtains on the windows to keep the cold out; they are not decorative in any way, probably deliberately so. The windows themselves are new, the sills freshly stained and the glass bright and clear. Bookshelves are built into the walls, and a few books dwell on them, looking lonely. A workbench has been set up in this room, well-laden with glass flasks and tubing in an elaborate arrangement. As in the rest of the house, the floors are softly gleaming hardwood. To the left is the kitchen, and to the right the living room. A flight of stairs leads to the second floor.
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair hangs loose to just past his waist, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He seems to have gone for Entirely Unsubtle in his choice of attire today; he's in a cropped baby-blue t-shirt which shows off the nicely developed lines of his torso. Across the front of the shirt, perky white letters declare "Boy Toy." Below it, he appears to have been virtually poured into a pair of little black rubber shorts. A pair of likely useless patch pockets on the back of the pants draw attention to just how nicely his rear fills them out, and as for the front... er, it's quite nicely filled out as well. His feet are bare but for a few shiny little toerings, there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets all on one wrist, and several piercings line the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops.
A gentleman and a scholar, this one. Neither tall nor short, he's got a solid, broad build, and is currently about as lean as he's ever likely to get in this life. He's probably from a variety of European stock; his face is open and gentle, his nose just large enough to be interesting. He wears a short, neat beard, trimmed close, and gold-wire-rimmed spectacles with expensively slim lenses. Behind the specs, his eyes are a light, tawny brown, almost golden. His hands are a scholar's: large and dexterous, inkstained, callused where his pen rests on his right ring finger. Callused in new places, lately, from rougher work than turning pages. His hair is dark, somewhere between auburn and brown, and nicely thick and shiny. It's usually worn in a glossy waist-length braid. The color is broken by a thick streak of startling, pure-white hair that starts above his left temple and runs all the way down the length of his hair. So much white makes him look older, perhaps in his late thirties.
He's wearing jeans that are worn thin and tattered at the knees, washed nearly white everywhere except the seams, which retain traces of the original blue. His shirt is a cotton, dark green button-down affair with the cuffs rolled to the elbow and buttoned, and his shoes are light workboots. Always within reach, if not actually in hand, is a wooden staff as tall as he is.
It's a decent hour of the morning when a knock sounds on the front door -- rhythmic like the knocker has something of the percussionist in his soul, but manages to cut it off before getting into a full-fledged door solo.
It takes a while for the door to get opened. Eventually, though, it does, and Justin squints at Ren. His hair is unbound, and his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing quite a bit more bare torso than is his wont. He's not wearing his glasses, but when he registers who it is, and how this visitor is dressed, he fumbles them out of his breast pocket and puts them on. "Gracious Gaia," he mutters when he gets a good look at Ren's outfit. "Come on in, it's far too bright out there."
Serendipity grins, amused, and slips past the mage, walking right on in almost before the invitation. "Morning, Justin. Have an int'resting night?" he inquires, looking him over with curiosity and a touch more appreciation than usual. "...Disheveled looks good on you."
Justin shuts the door gratefully and slowly trails after Ren. He grunts. "It doesn't feel all that good." Locating his rocking chair, he settles himself carefully into it and takes up a big mug of tea from where it sat on the floor. This he regards as if it were bitter medicine and not sugared rosehip water. "What's up? Make free of the kitchen if you like."
"Y'know you got melons in your tree?" Ren inquires, gesturing vaguely toward the front yard, and heads to the rocking chairs, pulling one to a position suitable for a little tete a tete with Justin and getting comfortable in it. "Thanks, but I already had breakfast. Came t' talk to you."
Justin half-chuckles. "Are there? I'm not surprised..." He takes his glasses off again with the air of a man with a migraine, then looks at Ren, his eyes soft and unfocused. "About what? No, wait," he adds glumly, "I think I can guess. Kal?"
Serendipity half-smiles. "You're good," he confirms lightly. "...I told him he'd hafta talk to you t'day if he didn't yesterday. He's less'n thrilled with the idea. You're prolly gonna hafta go to him." He pauses. "Which you will, 'cause you're The Responsible Adult." It's spoken like a matter of fact, not an inducement or any kind. "Anyway, longer you guys put it off, messier it's gonna get. So. D'you want him?" He's crosslegged on his chair, looking reasonably comfortable and conversationally calm. Also not quite obscene.
Justin sighs, a little painfully. "Why is that the first question everybody asks me?"
Serendipity studies Justin a moment. "'cause it's the one he cares about," he replies. "'least, that's why =I'm= asking. An' prolly because it colours all the rest."
Justin studies the surface of his tea, possibly to avoid having to study the stuffing of Ren's eensy rubber shorts. "Well, look," he says, wearily, "to me, that's not the issue that's relevant. To me, the relevant issue is, would my sleeping with Kal completely wreck his chances of a successful apprenticeship?"
Serendipity shakes his head a little. "Yeah, that's important, but it's not the most important to him. Whether you end up deciding to get romantically involved with him or not... do you =want= to? Don't hedge, a'ight? I =know= there's other issues involved."
Justin looks, slowly, up from his tea to give Ren a look best described as sullen. His obvious hangover isn't doing wonders for his mood. "And if I said no? What would it solve? What would it solve if I said yes? What does it /matter/, Ren?"
Serendipity glances out the window, looking at the outside world. "It matters a lot. If you don't, there's no point considering anything else that might be in th' way. If you do... there is." He drums his fingers lightly on the arm of the rocking chair for a moment, then looks at Justin. "He doesn't believe he's beautiful. You know that, yeah?"
Justin drops his gaze, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow. "Aye, I know," he murmurs. "I don't understand what goes through the lad's head when he looks in a mirror. You'd think that with the clothes he likes to wear," he gestures vaguely at Ren, by way of demonstration, "he'd have an inkling."
Serendipity hehs. "It's just fashion," he replies, managing to sound a lot like Kal, if more in emphasis and tone than voice, exactly, and then as himself again, "...an' if you're wearin' those clothes an' people are staring at it, is it 'cause you're beautiful, or is it 'cause you're wearin' the latest hot thing?" He arches a brow slightly, then shrugs a little and leans back in the chair. "An' what I'm asking 'bout wantin' him... it's not whether all other things bein' equal, you'd go for it if he wanted a tumble. I mean, I know you're old," he teases airily, "but last I checked you weren't straight, blind, an' insane. But you =know= that's not what he wants from you, right?"
Justin scratches his beard, frowning in puzzlement at Ren. The language of fashion is far more alien than Latin, to this wizard. "I suppose," he concedes. Ren wins a faint smile for his teasing, and he glances away, too. "He's beautiful, and tempestuous, and brilliant. I think I might be interested, all other things being equal. That's just it, though, they're /not/ equal, they're very much unequal, and that's what disturbs me..." The puzzled frown returns. "No, I don't know that. Hells, Ren, I don't know /what/ he wants from me."
Serendipity hesitates, and then sighs. "When you talk t' him, I didn't explain mosta this, okay? ...he wants you to be serious about him. He wants you to love him. He wants you to at =least= want him; I think he thinks he repulses you, the way that whole thing went," he says wryly. "He's..." another hesitation, "a lot more innocent'n he likes t' seem, some ways, y'know."
"I /am/ serious about him," Justin protests, but softly, with a wince. "I'm very serious about him. And he doesn't repulse me. I don't understand in the least how he could think that. I've done my best, Ren, my level absolute best and I'm failing with him." His voice dips, and he presses a hand to his forehead, wincing again.
Serendipity reaches out and rubs the back of Justin's hand lightly, a sympathetic touch. He half-smiles crookedly. "Wrong kinda serious," he replies softly, "He wants t' be your boyfriend, see. Are you =that= kinda serious about him?" A glance out the window again. "Know you've done your best... an' you're not failing. He wants t' learn, right? An' he's =attached= t' you. That's not failure. As for how he could think he repulses you..." Ren runs a hand through his hair, and glances at the ceiling. "...he feels things strong. An' he's a terrene teenager from a wealthy place. Doesn't even matter that he knows there's lots of other reasons involved, you pushed him away, so he's obviously not good 'nough, see?"
"Uhm, well, no, I don't," Justin confesses wearily. "But that's the way it is, I guess." He lowers his hand, looking at Ren helplessly. "I don't know what to do. I can't talk to him. I don't mean, I can't talk to him, but that we don't communicate. I talk to him and it's like he has a special filter to make everything I say the opposite of what I meant. I'm trying so /hard/."
Serendipity nods a little. "'f it helps any, he's trying too," he offers, and thinks a second. "...don't think he'd like this 'nalogy, but. You ever know a stray dog?"
Justin nods, very slowly and carefully, and dares a sip of his tea, while watching Ren curiously.
Serendipity nods back in acknowledgement. "'kay. So we're not talkin' a wolf, here; dogs an' people belong together. It's parta what they are. But you get a town stray who's useta bein' yelled at to get outta people's garbage, bein' chased an' havin' things thrown at him by kids, he's gonna get wary, yeah? Gonna get useta that bein' the way things are. So then you come t' town, an' you decide, here's a dog needs some kindness. At first he's not gonna let you come near, 'cause you might kick him. Gonna run away an' spook if he sees you catch him in the garbage. When he starts lettin' you approach some, he's gonna growl when he gets worried, maybe snap at you. Eventually, if you're patient, he'll realise you don't mean him any harm, an' he'll let you stroke him some, feed him an' all. He'll still be jumpy a while, but all the same. An' he'll take t' followin' you around. An' he'll wanna follow you home. But maybe you're stayin' in an inn where they don't like animals. So you close the door an' don't let him in. Maybe next time you see him, he's happy t' see you; maybe he's kinda wary again. The thing is, the growling an' snapping, the running away, he's workin' with what he knows, which's people're gonna scare an' hurt him. And that it's safer t' assume that than t' figure they wanna give you a steak. And sometimes people not actin' the way your life says they're s'posta? Can be scarier'n the shit you're used to." He shrugs a little, looking somewhat uncertain. "Make any sense?"
Justin slouches back in his chair by infinitesimal degrees, his frown deepening by same. By the time Ren is done, he's slumped back, the bottom edge of the mug resting on his bare (and fuzzy) belly. It's a curiously contemplative pose. "It does," he murmurs. "God's teeth, does it makes sense."
"He's goin' on the assumption you're not romantically interested in him, now," Ren says fairly softly, after a moment or two. "Makes it easier if you're not, or if you don't think you can handle bein' teacher an' lover both. He knows it won't kill 'im, but, y'know, it can feel like it. Either way you decide... what you gotta try t' get him t' =know= is you care about him, an' he hasn't fucked everything up. Least, that's what I think."
Justin mmms deep in his chest. "That's simple enough to start with," he murmurs. "True, too. I can start there." He rubs a hand over his face, then hitches himself to a more respectable sitting position. "Thanks, Ren. I needed this information."
"Thought you might," Ren replies a touch more cheerfully, "...an' you're welcome. Just... be careful, yeah? Know you got the best intentions, an' everyone'll survive in the end, but the fewer things blow up along the way the better." He grins, just a little, and uncrosses his legs, stretching them out all the way before letting his feet hit the floor.
Justin grins crookedly. "Keeping things from blowing up is the whole reason I'm in this situation." He winces again, and takes a careful drink of tea. "I'm sorry, Ren, but I think I must excuse myself to wallow in misery some more."
Serendipity laughs once, softly, and stands. "'s fair. I got people to go irritate. Try an' get better enough t' see him t'day if you can, though, yeah? Sooner the better. Oh, an' some willowbark and honey an' juice with an egg in it's good for a hangover, by th' way." He flashes Justin a bright grin for a moment, and starts for the door. "Slicea melon couldn't hurt, either. G'luck!" With that, he sees himself out.