[open] I can't pretend that I'm concrete

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: a tired fuckboy makes poor but at least non-treasonous choices
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Some self-sabotagey behavior, will warn as needed.

As the months of nightmares drag on, even overusing the hookah isn't enough to return Benedict to any semblance of decent sleep or proper sanity. He realizes, now more than ever, that he's lonely; strangely, it's the most he's felt it since he lived in Minrathous, when he had everything a spoiled boy could want and no one to share it with.

I. Near nightly, he takes the ferry over to Kirkwall to rove the streets of Lowtown and drink his way around, spending most evenings sitting silently tucked away at a table, watching the increasingly cranky pub patrons, none of whom have been sleeping well. His aims aren't necessarily innocent: periodically he'll catch the eye of a handsome stranger and beckon him with a gaze, hoping for a distraction, a burst of dopamine, and the eventual relief of sleep.
It's not impossible that said handsome stranger is someone he's seen around in the Gallows, and at times he might even be drunk enough that they're not a stranger at all.

II. Sometimes the fishing yields a catch, and more often than not it's handled in this or that dark deserted alley, made known to passersby only through the occasional panting gasp or quiet moan. It's not uncommon to see him sitting nearby afterwards, smoking and scuffed up, his eyes rimmed red from fatigue and possibly pain.
It also occasionally happens that he's still here in the morning, dozing on a crate, burned-out cigarette in hand and pockets empty. He knows better than to bring too much coin with him, at least.

III. Most nights, he catches the ferry back and crawls into bed before the hour can grow too unMakerly. There are times, however, when he just barely misses it, or didn't even try, and at these times he'll sit and sip at a bottle of wine, watching the water or the night's other denizens, until it starts running again and he can go back to get some sleep before the day begins properly. He has yet to be late to work, especially by Byerly's standards-- if he slithers in before noon, he still considers it a victory.

Comments

II

[armd]

"Oh," Abby says, half-dismissive, "It's you."

But not in the way where she feels content with leaving the interaction at that and continuing on, as much as she had been trying to make for one of the last trips back. Benedict looks... horrible. He's perched on an empty barrel with a spliff tucked neatly between his fingers, eyes red-ringed by the dim light of the lit end.

What are her and Benedict, anyway. Colleagues who get along? Are they friendly enough that Abby can ask him, "You okay?" even when he's clearly fucking not?

She adds, "Ferry's soon," but he looks plastered (both to the barrel-edge, and in general).

[altusimperius]

Of all the people Bene would hope to see step out of the gloom on a night such as this, Abby is unfortunately not one of them: but it's her in the end, and even if he doesn't verbally echo her 'oh, it's you', the sentiment is clear enough in his eyes.

"Night or morning?" he asks, his words slurring slightly as he rubs at his eyes. He's been spaced out for a while, it could be either.

[armd]

Abby, who is currently in desperate need for life to feel normal, finds Benedict giving her a calculated Look over the end of his dart to be something of a relief.

"Still night." Oof. Been that kind of evening, huh. "Long day?"

[altusimperius]

His sigh sounds like disappointment; the whole night still lies ahead of them. He nods to her question, rising stiffly to his feet and tossing his cigarette to the ground in the same motion, where he crushes it out with his toe.

"Long month," he clarifies, pauses, and corrects: "...months."

[armd]

"Yeah." She can't really summon the energy to sound anything other than tired. He's right. The nightmares have been getting worse. It even seems like they're getting longer too, like they've found a better way to pad themselves out with more and more increasingly fucked up content.

Conversationally, "Last night I had a dream about shelving books in the library. It was awesome."

Wasn't scary in the slightest; blissfully boring.

[altusimperius]

"That sounds wonderful."

He hunches slightly as he walks, head hanging from fatigue, the opposite of his usual proud posture.
"Smoking used to help me sleep deeply enough I didn't remember my dreams," he mumbles, "now nothing does. I wonder if someone's trying to sabotage us. ...again."

[armd]

"Maybe," Abby has to admit. It's gotta be on the table considering everything else that has happened this year, right. She looks sideways at him, just in case he trips up over his own feet and needs somebody to stop him from hitting the ground. It'd be insult to injury, for him.

"Is... that why you're down here smoking?"

[altusimperius]

"I'm down here to get fucked up," Benedict answers dully, without looking at her. "Pass the time. Stay awake until I can't anymore, and be too tired to dream." He might normally be a bit more circumspect in his phrasing, but exhaustion has worked its way to the core of his being.

[armd]

Abby hmms, understanding. If he thinks she's going to offer something scathing in response, he's wrong. Offhandedly, "I used to do that with my exercise routine. Work out until I couldn't keep my eyes open, I mean."

Maybe he should start doing pushups. She's not gonna say that, but...

iii

[laruetheday]

Clarisse has seen Benedict around before—he's hard to miss, since his vibes are so tragically hot and tragically fuckboy-esque in a way that reminds her of Apollo in a really unfortunate way—but they haven't spoken until now. (To be fair, Clarisse has not gone out of her way to speak to most people in Riftwatch, because she's rude and she sucks.)

She notices him and his wine, as she jogs up to the dock, but she's really more focused on the fact that the ferry is nowhere in sight, which means she's missed it for the night.

"Shit," she growls, loud in the silence aside from the water hitting the wooden posts. "It left already?"

[altusimperius]

"Looks like it," comes the dull response, from someone who would certainly make more of an effort if he knew he was considered Tragically Hot.

"Hope you dressed warm." He glances up from his wine to look over the stranger, someone he similarly has seen around before but has not formally met, his gaze giving the impression that he's judging her no matter what she's wearing.

[laruetheday]

"Warm enough." Look, she has a coat, she's fine.

Being judged doesn't seem to bother Clarisse, or at least not enough to make her leave. She leans up against a post and watches him, equally as scrutinizing.

"Been here long?" Like how long have you been sitting here drinking wine, my dude?

[altusimperius]

"Uh," he stalls, thinking on it with a deep squint, then shrugs. If he's missed the ferry, then, "...guess so." He takes a swig from the bottle and, finding that its contents are nearly gone, has to tip his head back a little extra to get the rest. Then he sets the empty bottle on the ground with an air of resolving to forget it ever existed.

"You're with Riftwatch," he observes dully.

[laruetheday]

Her eyes flick to the empty bottle as he sets it down, but... fair enough. Man, Clarisse would've grabbed a bottle too, had she known she'd be stuck here all night.

She nods, a little surprised that he recognizes her. "Clarisse. I'm in Forces."

[altusimperius]

"Benedict." He gives a little wave without moving from his seat, but the temptation is there to go find more refreshment. "Diplomacy clerk. I work for Byerly."
He gazes out at the harbor for a while, letting his mind wander, before idly asking: "you a Rifter?"

[laruetheday]

Diplomacy is not Clarisse's thing. Most of her appearances at war council meetings back home consisted of saying shit like "just attack already" while everyone else argued politics and strategy. Still, it has its place... she guesses.

"I am. Is that a problem?" Every time somebody asks her that, she can't help feeling like she's being blamed for something she had nothing to do with. Not that this guy's implying that, but it's hard to relax when the word Rifter sounds like a curse depending on who's saying it.

[altusimperius]

Though he looks slightly taken aback by the pointedness of the question, it doesn't stall Benedict for long, and he gives a tired little smirk as he shrugs one shoulder.
"Nah." He walks in silence a moment before adding, "Rifters' perspectives tend to be different." It's a good thing, really.

I

[dastardly]

Josias spots Benedict long before Benedict spots him. No fault of Benedict's, of course, as he's not actually Josias when he first enters the tavern, nor when he leaves one of the back rooms a little later on, arrangements shaken on and business for the evening concluded. That Benedict is still alone the second time is somewhat surprising, and Josias has enough good humour and energy from an evening well-spent to think why not to the opportunity apparently presenting itself.

When he returns to the tavern the third time, he's shed the nondescript dark clothes and mask of the Tiger, cloaked instead in the other disguise of the well-dressed meek merchant's son. Stood at the bar, he radiates nervousness and anxiety, the sense that he should not be here almost palpable. It's enough for even the tavern's drunken crowd to begin unconsciously avoiding him - and for those looking for easy prey to start paying attention.

Either way, hard not to notice.

[altusimperius]

Notice Benedict does, and he takes his turn watching Josias for a time, an exasperated smirk planted on his face; the idiot should know better than to come alone to a place like this, and yet.

It's only after he sees the motion toward the bar of a particularly unsavory fellow whose attention has been pinioned on Josias-- which is rather unfair, by the way, since it's the kind of unsavory fellow he himself has been looking for-- when Benedict decides to act, coming forward with purpose to take the seat before the other man can. He holds up a finger to the tavern keep, ordering another.

"This doesn't seem like your style," he remarks in an undertone to Josias.

[dastardly]

Josias all but physically jumps as Benedict speaks to him, staring at him near to terrified for a long moment before recognition dawns. As it does, he crumples slightly into something more embarrassed than relieved, and tosses back his own drink - a shot of something strong and dark which makes him cough a little before he speaks.

"I think I am lost," he admits, a touch of frustration in his tone. He orders another of the same as the keep returns with Benedict's drink, clearly looking for the alcohol to steady his nerves as quickly as possible. "This town is very different to home."

[altusimperius]

Jumping a little in return-- he wasn't that loud, was he?-- Benedict quickly settles back into his weary lounge against the bartop, resting his cheek on one hand.

"Easily remedied," he remarks, "congratulations, Signore di Jaconissa, you've found yourself in Kirkwall's arsehole." He takes a sip of his newly-arrived drink, heavy-lidded eyes closing in a long blink.
"This is where you go to get fucked through a wall by a stranger until you pass out or die. ...or to fuck someone else, I guess." He stares into his cup. "You've got a few takers already, if that's your aim."

[dastardly]

It's a good thing the barkeep has not returned with Josias' next drink yet, as he looks like he might choke. He starts to turn his head, as if to look for the takers Benedict is referring to, then thinks better of it and instead goes stock still.

Personally, he thinks a couple of them are more interested in his purse, but perhaps Benedict is viewing the place via his own set of blinkers.

"People do that here?" He manages to keep his voice low, but the strain of pushing the words out threads it a little squeaky. Even more so as realisation seems to dawn, eyes widening further.

"Are you--" He cuts off, unable to complete the sentence in its summation of the obvious, cheeks flushing.

[altusimperius]

The question yields a grim smile, a partial nod to the first question becoming a meaningful arching of the eyebrows to the second. He doesn't answer verbally, just lets Josias draw his own inference, which by this point is likely obvious.

[dastardly]

The inference is drawn immediately at the pointed lack of response, and, seemingly against his conscious will, Josias' gaze is drawn too - down the length of Benedict's body, then back up again to his face.

His drink arrives, breaking him out of the moment far more smoothly than the impeding stutter of self-realisation would have done. It still arrives, of course, blush now climbing his ears as he knocks the alcohol back before the barkeep can even leave. The glass is refilled immediately.

"I... apologise for interrupting your evening, then," he stammers out, looking anywhere but at Benedict.

[altusimperius]

Bene laughs lightly and shakes his head, straightening up to stretch his arms out from the bar.
"You didn't interrupt anything," he sighs, "and, you know. If it's that bad, I can walk you somewhere a little more your style." Nobody should be in a get-fucked-through-a-wall establishment who hasn't signed up for the experience, after all.