[ Oh, right. Couch. Ephemera sways a bit but follows obediently. Drake's got the alcohol, after all, and it feels good to sit down, actually. Now that he's done it. The couch is nice and soft and solid, and yep, this was a good idea. ]
I get some. After fights. If I win. Or if I get my ass kicked.
[ Not all the time, but often enough. Ephemera pauses. ]
I like them. The fighters. You should meet them. They're nice.
[ Drake flops down onto the couch beside Ephemera and pours himself another double that gets downed while the other man is speaking, then some to sip and braces the bottle between the couch cushions for either of them to grab. He's sitting mostly sideways, one arm up on the back of it, facing the other man to keep an eye on him.
He doesn't quite feel it yet, but should be caught up in no time. As for meeting the fighters, he hums. ]
I'd like to come by, I just can't pay admission right now. Soon?
[ Ephemera shifts to grab a pillow, hugging it to his chest. Drake is on his good side, which is good. Means there's no question. Nobody sneaking up on him. And if they do this right, there won't be any dreams. No memories at all. ]
Soon, [ he agrees, nice and easy. ] Arjun, he does capoeira. He kicked me in the head last time.
[ It takes a second for it to click what that is, then Drake remembers. And maybe this stuff is kicking in faster than he thought. He sips from his glass anyway, propping his head up on his fist. ]
...I don't think I've ever seen anyone do capoeira seriously. Did he beat you?
Nah. [ Ephemera shakes his head a little, expression softening. He likes Arjun. Maybe one of these days he'll take the man up on his offer to get a drink afterward. ] He's not....ah. He doesn't fight to fight. You know? He doesn't go hard enough.
[ It's pretty clear that Arjun's never been in life or death fight. He's quick and clever, and good at what he does, but he holds back from the brutal hits that would win him the day against someone like Ephemera.
Ephemera snags the bottle. Pours himself another one. ]
[ Drake notes the expression, thinking that it's good Ephemera has people he likes here even if they're his opponents. The name doesn't ring any bells so he's probably not one of the Displaced, which makes him a better challenge, too. Fairer. No distractions. ]
When I can afford it, tell me a night he's fighting. I'm curious.
[ He swirls the terrible liquid in his glass and takes another drink. ]
Yeah? I've been there, it's a nice place. Better than the Snake Eye -- I worked at a bar back home. Bouncer, barback. sometimes I had to help out bartending... I was hoping for something different here though. Mix it up.
[ Ephemera isn't so good at this part, coming up with normal jobs. He's good at fighting and soldiering and one of those was a viable option here. The civilian world is a strange one to him, and he doesn't understand all of the rules. Stands out too much for most things anyway. His scars aren't an asset around here like they were in prison and he's got no armor to retreat into.
Besides. The fight clubs are familiar. He fits there, and the money's not bad.
[ Drake shrugs -- he hasn't put all that much thought into it, honestly, since there's no Guard and he can't be a cop or anything, but he wants to be useful for more than just a paycheck. Joining Damian's group might scratch that itch, but still. ]
Something that helps people.
[ He finishes off what's in his glass. ]
I saw you responded to that post, too. About making a difference... you joining up?
[ Yeah. Helping. Ephemera hums at that, eying his own glass for a moment and then emptying it. He's drunk enough that the edges of the moment are gone or at least pushed back under the surface. The dream—ah, why does that matter? It happened and now it's done, and he's got company that's easier to parse. If he's lucky, he won't dream again when he passes out.
He rests his chin on the pillow, watching Drake. The room is starting to swim, but that's all right. ]
Maybe.
[ Probably. He feels like he ought to try and do something good. Try and balance the scales if he's able. ]
[ It takes Ephemera a moment to work the concept through his head. Right. Drake used to be an undercover cop. Was probably good at it. Would know what to look for. Ephemera ran with the Insurrection but that doesn't mean all that much. He'd wanted to believe in the cause. That'd blinded him to a lot of things. And part of him worries it'll end the same way. That's clearly a sign he needs to drink more. ]
Uh. Good. That's good.
[ He goes for the bottle. Doesn't bother with the glass this time.]
[ Ephemera goes straight for the bottle and Drake tilts his head, then leans over and sets his own glass down on the table. There isn't all that much left so he's not too worried, but he's still keeping a close (if slightly intoxicated) eye on the other man. ]
I did. That's not his name and he's younger than I expected, but seems to have a good head on his shoulders for this sort of thing. And he's already talked with Morningstar, which I wasn't sure about beforehand. He's just not great at dealing with people, or explaining himself.
[ The alcohol goes down easy. Not so much of a kick now. More of a warm sensation, a slow numbness easing out through all of him. Even his hands have stopped aching. Ephemera leans his head against the couch a little, watching the room twist. He feels unmoored, all the edges smoothed over, and nearly drops the bottle.
He blinks. Sets it down firmly, so it won't spill.
Hafid. Right. They're talking about Hafid, whose name is really something else. ]
Depends what you mean. I believe he wants to do exactly what he says. We'll see how he manages it, what his methods are.
[ It reminds him of when they were talking about Maketh and Henry, way back when they'd first arrived in Hadriel. But this isn't the same person. But through the haze of alcohol seeping into his limbs and fuzzing his thoughts, it's hard to remember that. ]
[ Ephemera's expression has gone distant again. He hugs the pillow. Digs his nails into the surface of it. He feels better now, warm and pleasantly numb. He's got Drake here and even though he doesn't remember knowing the man, Drake is solid and maybe it's foolish to feel safe around him, maybe that's a very stupid thing to do, but he doesn't want to be alone in his thoughts or in the apartment. And Drake came, in the end. He came when Ephemera texted him at whatever ungodly hour this is.
[ Gently, Drake takes the bottle back. Considers whether or not he can finish it off himself and decides that's a bad idea, but takes a drink and sets it back between them. ]
That is good, yeah.
[ If they were sober he'd ask Ephemera about Morningstar, but. They're not. He leans back into the couch cushions, keeps his hands to himself, and tries to think of something to talk about that's simple enough. That isn't whatever's wrong, or vigilante groups, or the insanity of this place.
He can't come up with anything. His gaze settles on the streaks of paint on Ephemera -- there's even a smudge on his jaw. ]
Ephemera shakes his head a little. He fell into that zone he does sometimes when he's painting or in the middle of a fight; the world fell away and there was only one action, and then another. Everything physical, no conscious thought. And he'd painted like that for a while as the image formed, and it wasn't until he was done that he realized he'd been painting Washington.
Not a direct copy. An idea, or maybe a metaphor; he's too drunk now to think of the right words. The painting had felt necessary right up until he'd gotten to a stopping point and he'd realized what he'd put up on the wall.
Should have painted over it. Should have splashed black over the whole goddamn mess.
Should have. Didn't. ]
Had one of those. Dream. Things.
[ It was fine. It was completely fine. Ephemera waves his hand vaguely. The room is going a bit sideways. ]
[ Ephemera waves his hand again, closing his eyes for a moment. He remembers the paintings in Drake's memory; clearly Ephemera's style, even some of the same subjects, but the pieces themselves had been strange. The purpose unknown. He'd panted them on the walls of the apartment he thinks they shared. They were close, Drake said. And they fought together. Drake carried his shield. Drake showed up in the middle of the night when Ephemera called him drunk. Just came, and drank with him.
That's nice, Ephemera thinks. That's nice. ]
Doesn't matter. You want another drink?
[ Ephemera opens his good eye. He can't quite remember where the bottle went, but it can't be far. ]
Drake breathes out, nods. Yes, he wants another drink. He wants to get drunk enough to forget the ache in his chest, just enjoy the other man's company regardless of what he remembers. Over a week here and all this bullshit and he hasn't gotten really, truly drunk yet... he lifts the bottle again and takes a long swallow. He's got nowhere to be in the morning, it's fine.
He should say something. So this isn't an awkward silence, so the questions don't pile up. Drake puts on a smirk, sloshing the tiny amount of liquor left in the bottle. ]
[ Ephemera cracks a smile at that. Part of him wants to shift and lean against Drake, share in the proximity because there was a time that felt safe and good with other people. And he does trust Drake, though the reasons are strange and difficult to explain when he tries to reach for them. Not so long ago he would have retreated back to his own space, defended it with violence if he had to.
Things are different now. It's happened quickly, the ground shifting beneath him, and now this is where they all stand. ]
Won't get sick.
[ He probably will, but Drake doesn't need to worry about that. ]
[ Drake just gives an amused huff, holding the bottle out of Ephemera's reach. The other man doesn't exactly forget that Drake knew him, but doesn't necessarily realize what that entails either. Just how many times they've been drunk together, or that he's cared for Ephemera in this state before. Knows his tolerance. Knows he's a bit past it now. ]
You sure? You're trashed, I can tell.
[ He goes to gesture, remembers he's holding the bottle, and drinks from it instead. ]
Remember I was a professional at judging how drunk people are.
[ Yeah, he's drunk. But drunk is good tonight. Ephemera huffs, tossing the pillow at Drake. Not hard. This can be good. He used to like getting drunk, doing it with his family. Sometimes even with a friend or two he made along the way. It can be good. ]
It's good, right?
[ He hopes it's good, at least in a small way. The alcohol. Maybe the moment. Getting drunk used to be fun and he thinks Drake should have nice things, even if the reasons are getting slippery. Ephemera leans his head against the couch, watching Drake. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I get some. After fights. If I win. Or if I get my ass kicked.
[ Not all the time, but often enough. Ephemera pauses. ]
I like them. The fighters. You should meet them. They're nice.
[ To his surprise, he means it. ]
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He doesn't quite feel it yet, but should be caught up in no time. As for meeting the fighters, he hums. ]
I'd like to come by, I just can't pay admission right now. Soon?
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Soon, [ he agrees, nice and easy. ] Arjun, he does capoeira. He kicked me in the head last time.
[ It was pretty cool. ]
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...I don't think I've ever seen anyone do capoeira seriously. Did he beat you?
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[ It's pretty clear that Arjun's never been in life or death fight. He's quick and clever, and good at what he does, but he holds back from the brutal hits that would win him the day against someone like Ephemera.
Ephemera snags the bottle. Pours himself another one. ]
He's good, though. It's like dancing.
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When I can afford it, tell me a night he's fighting. I'm curious.
[ He swirls the terrible liquid in his glass and takes another drink. ]
How much do you make off the ring anyway?
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[ He brightens a little at the thought. People should have a good time when they can. Small pleasures. Things like that. ]
Enough to cover rent. Mostly. Work at the, uh, Red Wings, too. The bar.
[ It's a goddamn miracle he hasn't been fired yet, but that's a thing too. ]
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[ Ephemera isn't so good at this part, coming up with normal jobs. He's good at fighting and soldiering and one of those was a viable option here. The civilian world is a strange one to him, and he doesn't understand all of the rules. Stands out too much for most things anyway. His scars aren't an asset around here like they were in prison and he's got no armor to retreat into.
Besides. The fight clubs are familiar. He fits there, and the money's not bad.
Ephemera tips his head to the side. ]
What kinda different?
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Something that helps people.
[ He finishes off what's in his glass. ]
I saw you responded to that post, too. About making a difference... you joining up?
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He rests his chin on the pillow, watching Drake. The room is starting to swim, but that's all right. ]
Maybe.
[ Probably. He feels like he ought to try and do something good. Try and balance the scales if he's able. ]
Sounds. Uh. Like the Insurrection. They weren't—
[ He waves his hand vaguely. ]
Maybe they're different here.
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[ Since he's confident that he's been accepted, at this point. Next stop, Morningstar. ]
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Uh. Good. That's good.
[ He goes for the bottle. Doesn't bother with the glass this time.]
You met him? Hafid?
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I did. That's not his name and he's younger than I expected, but seems to have a good head on his shoulders for this sort of thing. And he's already talked with Morningstar, which I wasn't sure about beforehand. He's just not great at dealing with people, or explaining himself.
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He blinks. Sets it down firmly, so it won't spill.
Hafid. Right. They're talking about Hafid, whose name is really something else. ]
You trust him?
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Depends what you mean. I believe he wants to do exactly what he says. We'll see how he manages it, what his methods are.
[ It reminds him of when they were talking about Maketh and Henry, way back when they'd first arrived in Hadriel. But this isn't the same person. But through the haze of alcohol seeping into his limbs and fuzzing his thoughts, it's hard to remember that. ]
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[ Ephemera's expression has gone distant again. He hugs the pillow. Digs his nails into the surface of it. He feels better now, warm and pleasantly numb. He's got Drake here and even though he doesn't remember knowing the man, Drake is solid and maybe it's foolish to feel safe around him, maybe that's a very stupid thing to do, but he doesn't want to be alone in his thoughts or in the apartment. And Drake came, in the end. He came when Ephemera texted him at whatever ungodly hour this is.
So maybe that's okay. ]
That's good. That's good.
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That is good, yeah.
[ If they were sober he'd ask Ephemera about Morningstar, but. They're not. He leans back into the couch cushions, keeps his hands to himself, and tries to think of something to talk about that's simple enough. That isn't whatever's wrong, or vigilante groups, or the insanity of this place.
He can't come up with anything. His gaze settles on the streaks of paint on Ephemera -- there's even a smudge on his jaw. ]
What were you painting?
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Ephemera shakes his head a little. He fell into that zone he does sometimes when he's painting or in the middle of a fight; the world fell away and there was only one action, and then another. Everything physical, no conscious thought. And he'd painted like that for a while as the image formed, and it wasn't until he was done that he realized he'd been painting Washington.
Not a direct copy. An idea, or maybe a metaphor; he's too drunk now to think of the right words. The painting had felt necessary right up until he'd gotten to a stopping point and he'd realized what he'd put up on the wall.
Should have painted over it. Should have splashed black over the whole goddamn mess.
Should have. Didn't. ]
Had one of those. Dream. Things.
[ It was fine. It was completely fine. Ephemera waves his hand vaguely. The room is going a bit sideways. ]
Wasn't any good. Should paint over it.
[ He'll do that in the morning. ]
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[ And he's drunk, but he means that. Maybe shouldn't have said it. Maybe shouldn't have had so much to drink.
Fuck it. ]
Somebody in yours or the other way around?
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[ Ephemera waves his hand again, closing his eyes for a moment. He remembers the paintings in Drake's memory; clearly Ephemera's style, even some of the same subjects, but the pieces themselves had been strange. The purpose unknown. He'd panted them on the walls of the apartment he thinks they shared. They were close, Drake said. And they fought together. Drake carried his shield. Drake showed up in the middle of the night when Ephemera called him drunk. Just came, and drank with him.
That's nice, Ephemera thinks. That's nice. ]
Doesn't matter. You want another drink?
[ Ephemera opens his good eye. He can't quite remember where the bottle went, but it can't be far. ]
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Drake breathes out, nods. Yes, he wants another drink. He wants to get drunk enough to forget the ache in his chest, just enjoy the other man's company regardless of what he remembers. Over a week here and all this bullshit and he hasn't gotten really, truly drunk yet... he lifts the bottle again and takes a long swallow. He's got nowhere to be in the morning, it's fine.
He should say something. So this isn't an awkward silence, so the questions don't pile up. Drake puts on a smirk, sloshing the tiny amount of liquor left in the bottle. ]
If only to keep you from making yourself sick.
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Things are different now. It's happened quickly, the ground shifting beneath him, and now this is where they all stand. ]
Won't get sick.
[ He probably will, but Drake doesn't need to worry about that. ]
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You sure? You're trashed, I can tell.
[ He goes to gesture, remembers he's holding the bottle, and drinks from it instead. ]
Remember I was a professional at judging how drunk people are.
[ That sounded natural, right? ]
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It's good, right?
[ He hopes it's good, at least in a small way. The alcohol. Maybe the moment. Getting drunk used to be fun and he thinks Drake should have nice things, even if the reasons are getting slippery. Ephemera leans his head against the couch, watching Drake. ]
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