[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

[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.