[ Disorderly, disparate. Nasha Town spreads around them like trinkets in a toybox, and amidst the chaos and chatter, the bells and whistles, The Flagship nestles like a not-quite-neutral ground for the restless and the weary－
－and, apparently, the distressed.
It's a very picturesque sort of distressed, Clive might admit. Gold-spun hair cascading over a hunched shoulder, bright eyes red-rimmed, long lashes made heavy with tears; the young man wears his melancholy with the sort of storybook grace that most would hope to have when they need to hunch over a bartop and have a good cry.
And it might have been easy to leave it at that, to leave someone's pain well enough alone, but. Well.
Sister, the young man says, making Clive's heart lurch. The sort of thing that feels like fingers pressing into an open nerve. Clive is halfway onto his feet when Demyan gives that nail in the coffin a hard push, securing it into place with the sort of shrewdness Clive never really needed.
So－ that's how Aether will find a rather tall, imposing-looking man by his side, cast in black and red leather from the top of his crow-dark hair to the tips of his well-traveled boots. ]
...Forgive me for barging into your space. [ His voice is warm. Like gravel rolling over sun-baked sand. ] May I join you?
[ Aether blinks through a film of tears, beads of saline still clinging to the ends of his lashes. He is, admittedly, one of the rare kinds of people whose bright, honey-gold eyes only seem to sparkle more when they are watery, but all crying is inelegant, even when the weeping is done by an elegant person. The blond has to sniffle pathetically, struggling through his more-than-slightly inebriated haze to focus on the large man that has — in his understanding of the world — very suddenly materialized by his side.
(Clive has actually been seated at the same bar with him for at least the past ten minutes.)
For a moment, Aether almost mistakes Clive for his friend Wriothesley — it's only a passing resemblance, the same dark hair and large build and black and red sort of suit — but the man's features come into focus after a moment, and the traveler soon realizes that he's being addressed by a complete stranger instead.
Despite soft appearances, Aether is cynical, by nature. Oh, he likes the warmth of this man's voice, the sweet concern underlying his rugged features. But this is Nasha Town. He supposes that this will end in a scam, a financial proposition, or murder.
Even so, he sighs and relents. ]
You can. If you want. You might as well.
[ He, himself, is the sort of person who might approach a crying stranger to ask why they are crying, so it's not as if he doesn't understand Clive's curiosity. Even so, Aether seems to respond with the nascent anxiety of someone who feels pressured to pull himself together; he wipes his tears on the backs of his knuckles, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple to try and nurse his pounding headache. (The headache is from crying and not from drinking.) ]
[ Distantly, Clive is aware that he looks the part of a sellsword with ill intentions: travel-worn and dust-streaked, the steel length of his broadsword draped along his back like a second spine. He's also aware of the optics of approaching someone who has half a bottle of hard liquor ravaging their system－ there are one or two uncharitable sets of eyes leering at him from across the tavern－ but the deed is done, and the rest is up to fate.
Water, he mouths to Demyan, who obliges with the placid smile of a man drawing his boundaries in the sand. Good luck, his silence says.
A silly thing to wish Clive. He's not the one that needs it. ]
Well. [ Softly, as his weight settles on the stool adjacent. ] If it means so little, you might be willing to share.
[ Testing the waters. Apathy doesn't suit the pretty young man and his soft-gold glow; Clive tips his head, watching gloved hands streak moisture along a face flushed from crying, and thinks about how he's been here before, on the other side of things. Fingers buried in crow-black hair, elbows on a hard surface, wondering why it was that he was still breathing.
Is it sympathy that knots his heart? Not pity, certainly. A glimmer of understanding, more like. He slides the condensation-slick glass of water closer to the stranger, offering it without expectation. ]
[ He knows he shouldn't — he knows he really shouldn't — but Aether can't help himself.
...Through his drunkenness, and through his tears, the traveler actually laughs.
It's just — he knows that Clive meant it sincerely, with all gravitas and poetry attached, but there is just something about such a silly play-pretend proposition coming out of that intimidating, dust-streaked face that takes the guarded young man completely off-guard. Where did this man come from, and what is his story, to say such absurd and earnest things...?
It's not too long a laugh, at least, or too mocking. Just a bit of a startled, disbelieving sound, and when next Aether wipes his tears, his eyes come away clean. ]
You're already the size of a wall, so that's not hard to imagine —
[ A slightly choked sound, like another suppressed sob, and then Aether takes a deeper breath, trying to steady himself and sober up a little. It's very hard. His head is pounding and the room is spinning, but he's still mostly aware of himself. He's fairly sure he'd still be able to be a threat in a fight, if he can just figure out where his sword is. ]
Sorry. I shouldn't tease. We've just met. [ He shakes his head again, pursing his small lips. ] I'm a bad drunk.
Edited (i return from november with 42 edits) 2025-12-01 04:03 (UTC)
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－and, apparently, the distressed.
It's a very picturesque sort of distressed, Clive might admit. Gold-spun hair cascading over a hunched shoulder, bright eyes red-rimmed, long lashes made heavy with tears; the young man wears his melancholy with the sort of storybook grace that most would hope to have when they need to hunch over a bartop and have a good cry.
And it might have been easy to leave it at that, to leave someone's pain well enough alone, but. Well.
Sister, the young man says, making Clive's heart lurch. The sort of thing that feels like fingers pressing into an open nerve. Clive is halfway onto his feet when Demyan gives that nail in the coffin a hard push, securing it into place with the sort of shrewdness Clive never really needed.
So－ that's how Aether will find a rather tall, imposing-looking man by his side, cast in black and red leather from the top of his crow-dark hair to the tips of his well-traveled boots. ]
...Forgive me for barging into your space. [ His voice is warm. Like gravel rolling over sun-baked sand. ] May I join you?
no subject
(Clive has actually been seated at the same bar with him for at least the past ten minutes.)
For a moment, Aether almost mistakes Clive for his friend Wriothesley — it's only a passing resemblance, the same dark hair and large build and black and red sort of suit — but the man's features come into focus after a moment, and the traveler soon realizes that he's being addressed by a complete stranger instead.
Despite soft appearances, Aether is cynical, by nature. Oh, he likes the warmth of this man's voice, the sweet concern underlying his rugged features. But this is Nasha Town. He supposes that this will end in a scam, a financial proposition, or murder.
Even so, he sighs and relents. ]
You can. If you want. You might as well.
[ He, himself, is the sort of person who might approach a crying stranger to ask why they are crying, so it's not as if he doesn't understand Clive's curiosity. Even so, Aether seems to respond with the nascent anxiety of someone who feels pressured to pull himself together; he wipes his tears on the backs of his knuckles, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple to try and nurse his pounding headache. (The headache is from crying and not from drinking.) ]
...It doesn't really matter anymore anyway.
no subject
Water, he mouths to Demyan, who obliges with the placid smile of a man drawing his boundaries in the sand. Good luck, his silence says.
A silly thing to wish Clive. He's not the one that needs it. ]
Well. [ Softly, as his weight settles on the stool adjacent. ] If it means so little, you might be willing to share.
[ Testing the waters. Apathy doesn't suit the pretty young man and his soft-gold glow; Clive tips his head, watching gloved hands streak moisture along a face flushed from crying, and thinks about how he's been here before, on the other side of things. Fingers buried in crow-black hair, elbows on a hard surface, wondering why it was that he was still breathing.
Is it sympathy that knots his heart? Not pity, certainly. A glimmer of understanding, more like. He slides the condensation-slick glass of water closer to the stranger, offering it without expectation. ]
Think of it like speaking to a wall.
no subject
...Through his drunkenness, and through his tears, the traveler actually laughs.
It's just — he knows that Clive meant it sincerely, with all gravitas and poetry attached, but there is just something about such a silly play-pretend proposition coming out of that intimidating, dust-streaked face that takes the guarded young man completely off-guard. Where did this man come from, and what is his story, to say such absurd and earnest things...?
It's not too long a laugh, at least, or too mocking. Just a bit of a startled, disbelieving sound, and when next Aether wipes his tears, his eyes come away clean. ]
You're already the size of a wall, so that's not hard to imagine —
[ A slightly choked sound, like another suppressed sob, and then Aether takes a deeper breath, trying to steady himself and sober up a little. It's very hard. His head is pounding and the room is spinning, but he's still mostly aware of himself. He's fairly sure he'd still be able to be a threat in a fight, if he can just figure out where his sword is. ]
Sorry. I shouldn't tease. We've just met. [ He shakes his head again, pursing his small lips. ] I'm a bad drunk.