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open.

WHO: Marcus Rowntree and you
WHAT: We don't talk about fight club, or poor coping mechanisms.
WHEN: Throughout fantasy-August
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: A series of open prompts regarding violences and also just normal drinking, and a place for closed stuff as you like!

There are a few incidents that take place after Marcus misses the ferry back to the Gallows (only the first time by accident).

He joins a card game, once, nearly barred from doing so when he arrives and sets down the mage staff by his seat. He hasn't a lot of coin on him, but without much thought, he undoes the clasps of his jewel-set cufflinks and drops them among the gold, and later, the silver pin that holds his tie. Maybe it's a miscalculation, on his part: being a mage, and a man who dresses as he does at this little low-stakes corner of Lowtown, gambling with people's working wages and his finery, but he ignores the slow building of resentment as he continues to drink and continues to win, until he has no more spare funds with which he can raise, or with which to buy more whiskey.

It only goes awry when he goes to buy himself out, a hand catching his sleeve as he rises. Accusations of cheating, perhaps with magic, who the fuck could know. There's a world where he finds a means of deescalation, but in this one, he simply shoves this man hard enough to upend the table. And falls on him, furious.

The most he wins is blood and bruises. Perhaps you're there to break it up, or later, when he leaves the tavern, hands empty.

The next few times there's a scrap, he starts it. It doesn't often take much. Just one civilian whose eye snags on him long enough to be asked if he has something he'd like to say, or a snarl in the direction of a body brushing too closely past him. Marcus is not a seasoned brawler (although you could make the argument that he's getting in some practice), and loses just as much as he succeeds, if success is what you could call hitting someone harder than they care to themselves.

Find him standing up over whatever poor random drunkard caught the brunt of a temper that had little to do with him, or Marcus sinking still when the next blow catches him across the temple, splitting his vision into double. Or in the midst of it, the grim tangle of blows in a tavern full of yelled encouragement.

Once, a fight that doesn't get far. The tangle of fists, elbows, and snarling is dispersed with the ill-advised summoning of smoke and embers, catching both Marcus and his attacker (his target) in a gust of magical but nevertheless firepit-filthy smog that has the latter shove away the former.

He is very efficiently ejected from the tavern, this time, when two barflies just fearless enough manage to get involved and shove him out into the street, and toss his staff out after him, which clatters loudly on the stone. You could find him at that very moment, off-balance and moving to collect it, or a few minutes later, throwing up his dinner in a side-alley, only just avoiding his boots.

Not every evening spent late ends in violence, however. Most of them, even. There's one little Lowtown den that tolerates his presence, where he sits at the edge of a bar and pushes silvers across it to keep a steady supply of ale flowing in his direction.

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The next response comes at a delay, then, the sound of her breathing — out — and considering her words before she says, ever so neutrally, “Oh?”

as if she requires more of an explanation, and cannot draw her own conclusions.

"Aye."

And maybe that's the end of the conversation, or would be with most, but— "I had a few drinks and I lost track of the time. If you can tell Julius," because he'd rather not do this a second time, one of those quirks of their arrangement, and also, to clarify, "that I'll see you tomorrow."

“I can do that,” she says, but it's audible, the way she's deciding whether or not she likes that. “I've business in Kirkwall on the morrow,” after a moment. “Shall we meet in the morning, then, and have breakfast?”

And he can tell her about his exciting evening.

"I'd like that,"

because he would, not wholly thinking of how well he will like it when he wakes. That is surely a problem for future-Marcus. But to make that plan eases some tension he hadn't known completely he was holding onto. He clears his throat, offers, "I can meet you by the docks, then.

"And go to bed. It's late." This directive is playful more than serious, if potentially risky banter, given givens.

Potentially, but after a moment Petrana says—

“Well, best for an early start,” which is certainly one of those tomorrow, future Marcus problems. “Once I have finished. Goodnight, dear.”

—and it is bright and early that she will step off the ferry at the docks, skirts gathered in one fist to keep them from the water or the ground, a hat angled flatteringly over her pinned up hair and a finer dress in her usual shade of blue making plain her Hightown plans for the day.

So bright, so early. And so many stairs in his immediate future.

As promised, Marcus is found on the docks, wearing clothes that will blend just fine with Hightown's common corners. Because it is how he dresses normally, and it was what he was wearing yesterday. That it is yesterday's clothes is not his favourite thing about this morning, if perhaps not the worst. The unshaven grain along his cheek and jaw will have to be passable. Hair wetted, combed with his fingers, tied back.

He will pass inspection at a distance, at least. This he told himself on leaving the inn, and again, now, as he beholds her in her blue. Moves to greet her, a hand out, a kiss to the cheek.

Accepting this as her due, Petrana smiles as she lifts her hands to his elbows, taking in his appearance in full when they part again. Well, he will do, and her own immaculate appearance will likely paper over some of the rougher edges; the eye will fill in what it expects to see at her side, for some. Not all, but some.

“It is so pleasant a morning,” it is so filthy hot and sticky with humidity that she has worked cooling enchantments into her undergarments, “I thought that we might walk, once we've made our way up.”

The elevator at the cliff-face is her usual route to Hightown from here, often but not always traveling by carriage, liable to rattle one's teeth on the way up on even an ordinary day.

Up close is rougher. Not as rough as it could be. Minor healing miracles haven't done much for the pallor of his skin or the red in his eyes but have erased the fresh bruises he'd woken up to, both those on his face and decorating his ribs. He still, anyway, feels a little kicked in. And, in spite of it, glad to see her.

"Aye," agreeably, to walking, and Marcus offers her his elbow. Neither possibility sound good, not the rattle of a carriage even on smooth Hightown streets, nor any kind of exertion beneath the bright sun, and so, aye it is.

He makes for a quiet escort on the way the elevators, and a quiet escort inside of it, but by the time they've neared the top, he's compelled to fish out a square of cotton from a pocket and wipe away the breaking of sweat from his brow, otherwise perfectly stoic in his oppressing the churn of nausea that comes with minutes of rattling. Good news: he's never drinking again.

"Business first," he asks, voice of a dryer gravel than usual as he folds up the handkerchief, "or breakfast?"

“Oh, I think breakfast,” she says, lightly, presenting a terribly good impression of someone entirely unaffected by the heat and the sound and the general aura of it being much too bright. “I have a standing reservation for my errand days, you know, it's ever so convenient.”

She is determinedly upbeat, at a brisk walk on the smooth pavers of Hightown's more orderly streets. It is, obviously, a familiar route; there is no hesitation in her steps as she leads him by—

hm.

No, perhaps he hasn't come with her to this establishment in particular many times, but this is an odd path to take for her particular preferred breakfasting. A pleasantly scenic route, certainly, the gardens that this particular street border are lovely, popular amongst Hightown's social set for their picturesque nature, picnic opportunities, and the high quality of public performance that is vetted before being allowed to perform there.

A cymbal clashes in the near distance.

It will be good to sit somewhere shady, maybe drain a small carafe of mild wine in an effort to rebalance himself, regain his appetite so that he isn't leaving the lady to eat alone, and coffee would be a fine idea too—all of these thoughts Marcus cycles through, rewards for good behaviour, as he walks with her through the blindingly bright Hightown morning.

He marks the change in trajectory without suspicion, marks the cut-glass brightness of her mood without any either. Certainly, any dissonance he experiences with either is the result of his own disorientation, and he'd do well not to remark on it—

A cymbal clashes in the near distance.

And Marcus actually just stops, a tug of inertia where she holds his elbow and he has his hand on hers. The fuck. Normally these streetside distractions and amusements would be interesting enough to draw his curiousity, but Marcus is confident in her acquiescence when he suggests, "Should we go around," flatly, squinting at the path they're on.

Petrana is still smiling when she says, “No,” pleasantly. “I wish to walk this way this morning. I wish to see who else is out so early,”

—isn't completely implausible. And certainly, she has spoken before of the uses of seeing and being seen in Hightown. She doesn't come all the way up here for her health, after all, even if it does boast a less antagonistic scent than does the dock, or Lowtown.

It could be that simple.

It could be.

But the possibility that Petrana de Cedoux is, in fact, fucking with him, happens like a lurch somewhere low in his chest, white-static confusion clarifying in the midst of trying to figure out how to articulate exactly how little he wishes to go any further in this direction. And then he stops that.

The sigh that escapes Marcus is short and sharp through his nose. "Petra," spoken in place of resuming their walk. Well-to-do Kirkwall citizens patiently stream around them, with only a couple of glances in their direction.

Edited 2022-08-30 10:36 (UTC)

The way that she sucks in a breath, bracing, perhaps speaks for the latter possibility. The way that she pivots to him, and the particular arch of her eyebrows when she says—

“I am going this way, Marcus, this morning.”

This morning, in particular.

“And you may join me, if you wish. I understand you to be quite capable of choosing where it is that you wish to be.”

It's gonna be like that.

It only makes sense that she was angry with him right away. Last night, over the crystals, and he knows a twinge of misgiving, irritation, that she is only making plain her feelings now. Said twinge is immediately swallowed. Guilt, regret, all those murky things that only kind of shows on his face.

The other sentiment there, more plainly than the rest: fair enough. Alright let's go look at some fucking cymbals. He moves to continue their walk, keeping possession of her hand in the crook of his elbow.

"There's nowhere I'd rather go," feeling vampiric in direct sunlight, her hand on his arm. He mostly means it, but it's not without a lick of dry, resigned humour.

Fair enough, his face says, and followed up with that resigned, dry assent, and Petrana had been ready to have a fight with him about it, or to make the rest of this morning significantly more unpleasant than it is even about to be—

he gives in, and she relents less than she perhaps ought and more than she otherwise might have done. Some of the tension in her hand relaxes, a grip that had only not become particularly nail-oriented because of the softness of her kid gloves, and she leads the way forward with her chin up high, smiling again.

It is occasionally a problem that Petrana is so prone to smiling when she's angry, but not one that's to be solved today. No, today: there is music, brassy and bold and nothing suited to the morning after the night before, and the ambient chatter of those who'd come out of their houses and establishments to enjoy it, and the rattle of carriages rumbling past them and it is almost certainly becoming apparent the precise nature of his punishment.

The establishment she particularly favours most weeks in Hightown enjoys its own rotating cast of musicians, and it had been her intention to request a table nearer —

but upon arrival, she makes no objection to the pair of them being ushered to her usual alcove on the second level, where it is quieter and more private.

Reaching the table, Marcus is of the interpretation he's completed a trial rather than being granted a reprieve from one. Beyond some squinting when faced with direct sun, and the tension knotted high in his back, and the fact that he does not smile unless there is something to smile over, there'd been no complaint from him as he'd escorted Petrana wherever she'd wandered.

Now, inside—well, first, he pulls out her chair, but then rounds around to his own to sit down with an air of relief that belies all that stoicism. When asked what they would like, his demand is a gruff, "Wine, and coffee after," and sets about taking out his cigarette case while Petrana orders their food.

Once they are alone—

He watches her through a fresh rise of smoke, semi-slumped in a way that might be rakish if he was less rumpled. His consideration is frank, even tactical. Places the case on the table, slides it over to her in offer.

Edited (that is actually a better wording so this worked out. also tag me) 2022-09-21 12:43 (UTC)

Petrana's eyebrow raises at wine, but she makes no protest of it — orders a tasting platter of their breakfast menu, and advises she'll speak up when the coffee arrives if they wish to order more of anything in particular.

“I do not know,” she says, as she neatly removes a cigarette from his case and lights it ably from the end of her smallest finger, “what it is that has got into you, of late, or why you seem to have forgotten at which hours the ferry is and is not available. I do know that I cannot be expected to be patient or understanding with behaviour you do not see fit to explain to me,”

she pours from the pitcher of water on their table, holding her now-lit cigarette between her fingers,

“or you will not expect it twice, certainly. You are, of course, a grown man who is by no means beholden to explain himself if he does not care to do so.”

It's just she can find someone with cymbals quite early in the morning, if that's the case.

Time for a second trial.

If that 'trial' is 'loved one speaks her mind likely from a place of care and concern alongside all the rest', which, who says it isn't, given his avoidance. Little changes in Marcus' posture, consideration of her across the table remaining even, and the copper case left on the table, although there is a little tic of displeasure somewhere in there.

If he avoids nothing else about this experience, let it be being reminded by either of his partners that he's a grown man. He taps off some ash a little earlier than necessary onto a small empty side dish that probably serves a different function than that. Minor agitations.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Petrana tilts her head and studies him for a moment, and—

“I see. Well,”

snapping a napkin open to lay it across her lap,

“then I suppose that is all that needs to be said about that.”

She can hardly protest a decision to apologise rather than explain when she's only said it's entirely his decision—

There is the impulse to let that stand.

Because Marcus is certainly not above enduring and sharing in an unhappy meal with minimal talking, especially in the service of deferring conversation to some mythical better time. Undirected resentment winds his jaw closed tighter and tenser, listening to the bright sounds of the eatery around them, the distant music, concentrating on the pattern of smoke, the scent of it.

It lasts for a moment, before he gives a slightly doggish huff of sigh and says, "Petra—"

Which is a great moment for the server to come by with the glass carafe of wine, something clear and sweet and summery. They make their exit quickly after pouring their glasses, which may or may not be due to the ambient tension, and Marcus sets his cigarette aside. Reaches, frost lacing across the glass where his fingers touch it, cooling the liquid inside with a minor enchantment.

Finishes half of it. It's probably not fortification for the day so much as defense against the previous evening, but it's not not that either. "I don't know that I have a good explanation," is honest. "But if I've vexed you—that wasn't my intent. The opposite of it."

Petrana does not set her cigarette aside; she regards him through the smoke that rises from it and that she breathes out, irritation setting her mouth small and thin and warring with the impulse to let his apology be enough, and pursue nothing further for the worry of how much further it might go. Except that she had rather fight with him, frankly—

but it is not with that intent that she says, “I don't know how you imagine you could not have vexed me,” and it is honest, a true thing and not only said to wound. “I do not find it reassuring to have you so absent, without a word of your obvious—”

She takes a breath, and it comes out acrid smoke.

“Something is amiss with you, and you had rather share it with half Kirkwall than me. What is to please me, in that?”

Fights are good to have, sometimes, and he has several bruises beneath over-warm layers of clothing to attest to this claim. His reluctance to spar with Petrana in particular, though, has him settle quiet in place amidst their shared smoke and the distance music, gaze dropped to the table cloth in quiet thought. The question of explanation.

The word 'obvious', even more than 'absent' or 'amiss', does something to lay a crack in prideful containment, sentence snipped mercifully snipped away. He is quiet only because he is searching for the simplest terms he can put something that feels complex into.

"Nights have been difficult," he says, finally, reaching to flick ash into a receptacle. "And comfort hard to reach for."

Her words are measured, beneath a sharp gaze, saying, “It is not only yourself you deny comfort.”

And she might leave it at that, only, but she doesn't— cannot resist, a beat later, “And I think it unkind that you should think otherwise. Of me.”

Of Julius, too, but they are not one and the same and she shouldn't speak for him. Particularly not when she's minded to speak with such edge in it.

"I thought,"

and Marcus hesitates, then takes a breath of smoke as if to fortify himself for whatever thing he's doing to say next, and when he does say it, it's not without some apology for how asinine it sounds also to him,

"that it would be alright, you having one another."

Asinine because they've been doing this for long enough that Marcus knows how it doesn't work that way, not really. None of them replace another in this strange, dynamic little tangle of personalities, love split—'evenly' is the wrong word, just split, the way arteries split, and just as vital. But still.

"I don't mean to say that anything you've done or are makes it difficult for me to reach to. The difficulty lies with me only."

Were it not so clear from the tone of his voice that he's aware of exactly how what he's saying sounds, the look that Petrana levels at him for it might have been— wordier. More detailed aloud in his mistake. It isn't necessarily better in any substantial way that she clearly presumes he can take most of it read from just her face.

“That you wish to handle a matter yourself,” she says, eventually, “is not in itself unacceptable. It is cruelly unkind to pretend that it will go unseen, or that I shall not care. I am not merely vexed. It is not a matter of fleeting pique. It is an injury that someone who I love thinks so little of me that it is a surprise to you, now, that I will care.”

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luaithre - 2022-10-11 04:09 (UTC) - Expand

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