milliways_bar | (no subject)

"There's no evidence that it's possible to give. If this is going to be the exception rather than the rule, I'll just have to believe it when I see it, that's all."

He stares ahead.

His last memory of Lee had been pleasant -- erotic, intense, and full of love. To be faced with this in the wake of that hurt.

"Of course, Lee," is all he says.

"But nobody else ever told me anything was going to be forever. And you of all people know what 'forever' is."

"And I would not use such a word lightly," he points out quietly. "But I will not insist. Time will indeed tell all."

He nods, staring back into his drink. "I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry. Mortals find the idea of eternity to be daunting, frightening. I should be more careful of the words I choose."

His mood is dark now and he flags a passing waitrat for a bottle of Atlantean.

"Oh, great, that's right. Get drunk with me. More candor--that's exactly what we need."

He pauses. "Fuck. I said that out loud."

With bottle and glass in hand, he pours himself a healthy serving.

"Yes, you did. And so long as you keep your hands off of me -- which I think will not be a problem for you in your gloom -- and keep me away from my brother, then we should be fine."

And he takes his first drink.

"Oh, for god's sake." He tangles his fingers in his hair and leans his forehead on his hand. "This is shaping up to be a royal fucking mess already."

He looks sideways at him.

"I do not know what you are talking about. I am having a drink with you -- that is all."

"Sure. Great. Whatever you say."

He takes another long swig of his own, coughing slightly. "Good god, this stuff is disgusting."

He sips at his drink.

"What are you drinking?" he asks, peering at Lee from under the curtain of his hair.

"Fucked if I know. I asked the Bar for the most heavily alcoholic thing she had that wouldn't flat-out kill me." He glances irritably down into it. "I don't think she gave it to me. For all the effect it's having, this might not even be alcoholic."

Making a decision, Námo orders a pitcher of cola and another glass. When it arrives, he pours about a shot of the Atlantean into the glass and then cuts it with the cola and ice. One mixed, he scoots it toward him.

Giving the mortal straight Atlantean would not be wise, but this would still do far more than whatever else he had been drinking.

"Alcoholic and decent taste," he points out, taking another gulp of his.

He eyes it. "That stuff can get you drunk, and you're giving it to me?"

Eyeing it further.

"What the hell. I'm already dead."

He takes a sip far more generous than he should, and his vision swims. Cut or not, that stuff is insane.

"Jesus fuck, that stuff makes a Dead Yahtzee look like chocolate milk." His words are ever-so-slightly slurred.

Námo chuckles into his glass.

"I would drink that slowly if I were you, Lee," he says with another drink of his own. His head was already buzzing, but only pleasantly. "You seemed to want drunken oblivion, and I am willing to provide it."

"I would have changed my mind about that, too," he murmurs, and looks darkly up at Namo. "Quit laughing at me."

His smile remains on his face, though it is forced now.

"You could simply not drink it, too," he snaps sweetly.

He shoves the drink aside. "Fine. I won't. I'll sit here and watch you make a drunken fool of yourself for no reason, how's that?"

He glares at Lee, very still and angry. After a few minutes, he comes to a decision.

"I suppose you will have to imagine such a thing, Lee, because I will not be here to fulfill you wish."

Námo stands up, leaving his glass but snatching the bottle.

"Forgive me for intruding upon your brooding and self-loathing, and I believe I shall go make a fool of myself for no reason somewhere else."

"Hey." His voice is sharp, and he stands as well, one hand resting on the bottle.

"Leave if you feel like you have to, but at the risk of sounding patronizing, do it without the bottle, will you?"

He's angry and he's hurt and the idea of returning to his brooding and self-loathing still seems to have a few merits, but concern prevents him from being willing to let Namo go off and get drunk alone.

"I am a big boy, Lee," he sneers angrily. "I do not need your concern for my sobriety."

He knows he is now being sullen, childish, defiant, and he snatching his hand -- and the bottle -- away from Lee. What he had drunk was already swirling in his head, and his anger was quick and volatile.

Briefly, somewhere in his mind, he wonders why it is that if they aren't fucking, they tend to be arguing, but the voice is silenced quickly before he can explore the ramifications of that thought.

He discreetly grips the edge of the table to steady himself, not wanting anyone to see how intoxicated he really is.

"Will you please not do it? Please? I'm not going to fight with you, for god's sake. Not now. I don't want to."

He sets the bottle down hard, his eyes dark.

"As you wish," he says very softly, turning his back on the man, leaving the bottle behind.

He feels as though he's been slapped. The sting is there, as though the blow were a physical one. He turns his face away, flat-out refusing to let tears well up.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispers.