[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

[dastardly]

Josias looks back to his drink, turning the base of the glass against the wood of the bar. But it's clearly a shyness in his posture now, not anything more extreme.

"Many, is, ah." He shrugs, as if that actually finishes the sentence. "We don't talk in these ways." Keeping count, retaining more detail of dalliances than the act itself. That way led to complications and political gameplay, blackmail, other nastiness. Most of the social circles he'd turned within in Antiva - even the ones his father dragged him into - had no desire for that kind of nonsense to encroach on their entertainment. Fun was for fun, even with someone as meek and often awkward as Josias di Jaconissa.

"But yes, men and women."

[altusimperius]

By 'many men' Benedict had meant 'have you been with men at all', but it occurs to him that not everyone's upbringing has relied so heavily on requiring a marriage, an heir, and not fucking around and destroying one's reputation in the meantime. Perhaps he's the less experienced of the two of them-- it's likely, in fact-- and the thought doesn't sit well when he's trying to be suave.

"--sorry," he fumbles, the word spilling out before he can think of anything else to say. Then, having spoiled the whole game, the wheels in his boozey mind turning too slowly, he falls silent; what's supposed to come next, a casual 'how bout it'?

[dastardly]

It's always interesting, to see when and how the layers of others crack or peel away. That this is where Benedict seems to stumble is for a moment surprising, given the boldness of the man who had called him cucciolo, who had so brazenly spoken about being fucked into a wall. But then, over-confidence was a common coping mechanism, compensation for a lack. A further seed of curiosity: what did the Tevinters do with their sons?

The silence is allowed to sit, because Josias is the one to make an awkward lull, not save it. But he can grant a mercy, here and there.

"I would prefer a bed," he says, mostly into his glass.

[altusimperius]

The silence lingers long enough for Benedict to have fully begun to stew in it, his confidence dwindling by the millisecond, and he's beginning to wonder if he should just slink away and let Josias have the bar--
--then, like a clap of thunder, everything changes.

"What about lots of pillows?" Spoken like he has a place in mind (spoiler: he does).

[dastardly]

Josias considers this. He takes a while to do so, looking more like he's mulling over a theoretical problem than an actuality being proposed by an interested young man. Finally, and with more sniffiness than anyone would likely see from him sober:

"It would do."

[altusimperius]

This is, it would seem, the right answer.

“Then follow me,” Benedict says with an impish smile, tossing some coins onto the bar to pay for their drinks before hopping to his feet, preparing to make an exit.

It’s back across the harbor then, into the Gallows and up the stairs of the old Templar tower, to a chamber that looks for all intents and purposes like a hookah lounge. Benedict sinks down onto a pillow and unearths a wooden box, out of which he procures enough elfroot to prepare the device for a verifiable Good Time. Water from a pitcher, and flame from a snap of his fingers, and the hookah is in the process of coming to life.

[dastardly]

It's an awfully long way to go, especially with a ferry trip in the middle of it. If Josias were actually drunk, that particular part might have been messy enough to disrupt the whole plan, and as they climb the stairs he contemplates if that might've been a better choice. Surely Benedict is sobering up by now, fresh air and exercise, and while Josias hadn't wanted him completely wasted, some blurring around the edges would allow him to make the experience more enjoyable for both of them.

The concern's allayed by the box of elfroot emerging. Not that anyone would describe him as 'unconcerned', to look at him. He remains hovering at the doorway, looking around the room as if he's found himself lost again.

"Are these your rooms?"

[altusimperius]

As fully unconcerned as Josias is pensive, Benedict flops down onto one of the pillows and begins to work at one of the hoses, priming it for use. He smiles over it at his guest, lifting one shoulder in an evasive shrug-- whether or not the room actually belongs to him hasn't been relevant for years. Nobody's moved the hookah, so it might as well be his.