milliways_bar | (no subject)

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One year ago, on this date, Sara was a crumpled sobbing mess on the lake shore, clutching a red spandex costume to her chest.

This year, she's not doing anything so dramatic.

A candle is lit and she stares out at the continuing destruction, almost entranced.

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"Houseplants have better tolerance than he does." She loves him but it is the sad truth. "And no, you're not allowed to humiliate him."

"Sara, you know I wouldn't do that." He grins and sips the drink. There are no coconuts in Middle Earth. He finds he quite enjoys the flavor.

"You, I would trust on that matter." She takes the time to actually savor this round.

So does he, leaning close to her and watching the candle pleasantly.

It's possible he forgets about actually drinking her under the table. This is nicer.

It's not always getting people under the table that is the fun part.

"This place," Faramir muses after a time, "is very complicated."

They get another round of vodka. Only after Sara downs her shot does she share her profound wisdom, born of much experience in Milliways.

"No shit."

"Yeah... you see dead people but not living ones, even."

His mind is pleasantly cotton-filled.

"I'm living." She blinks. "Least I was when I came in. Am I dead?"

"No. But lots of people are. My brother is," he says informatively, "and so is his girlfriend." Which is a little weird, but hey, why should the party stop just because your heartbeat does?

"One of my brothers is dead and here. Two are dead and not here. I miss them." Clearly, this calls for more alcohol. "One of my friends decided to marry a god."

"A god? Fascinating. Which god?" CLEARLY this requires more alcohol.

"Fertility." There might have been a touch of slurring there. "Celtic pantheon. Jack's very sweet. Gives good apples."

This is very important.

"Well, if you're going to marry a god, that would be the one to pick," Faramir chuckles. He is perhaps leaning a little more heavily on the table now, and by "leaning" the narrative means "Sprawling."

"You're drunk. Don't go anywhere." Says the woman imitating modern art.

"Why not?"

Not that he doesn't like it here...

"Because the table might get lonely." Clearly. Wouldn't do to hurt the furniture's feelings.

"Ooooh. Aw." Sad frown. "Can't have that, can we? That'd be... cruel."

He pets the table a little.

"Very cruel and you're not supposed to be cruel. That was your father's specialty. The asshole." In vodka veritas!

Faramir goes very still, and very quiet.

Even when drunk, Sara has a sixth sense about having screwed up.

"Shouldn't have said that," she says. Doesn't mean it's not true.

Faramir closes his eyes. "No. He was... you're right. He could be very cruel." It's nearly a whisper. "He did not know how to... love. He had treasures, hoarded them like a king." He looks hard at the candle.

Three days from now, two years ago, he'd lit a candle of his own for a vision he had known was truth.

"You didn't deserve that, Faramir. None of it."

"He's gone now," pointed out the perpetual optimist, though not without a twinge of real pain that could be heard in his voice -- whether out of a sense of loss, or something resembling self-pity... or what he would call self-pity, though simply to be hurt by another's actions, especially one's father's, is not so selfish and nonconstructive a thing as he tells himself it is.

"So's mine. He came here and I hated him and I wouldn't see him. Now he's gone and now I remember him beating me when I was younger and goddammit why do they do that? Why do they hurt us? They're supposed to love us."

Doesn't really matter who 'they' is, does it?