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[open] a cat's the only cat that knows how to swing
WHO: Daan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
limbical) & YOU!
WHAT: July catch-all. Event, non-event prompts, you know.
WHERE: A bank! A restaurant! Maybe the clinic!
WHEN: J-July
WARNINGS: Severe depression, alcoholism. CSA mention in the thread with Midnight, marked.
A. IN THE VAULT [event]
[With the possibility of a new place to explore reveals itself, it's only natural for the floodgates to open; there are plenty of people here, and Daan is but one of them, nosily investigating for any clues. Though typical as ever, there is nothing to reveal whatever secrets the city holds, or whoever their captors might be. No useful files, no names, nothing.
Then there are the keys.
Sorting through them is interesting at first, as he recognizes some of the names that they go to. They're names to people currently in the city. Which also means...
Yes. There is one for him too. Daan | Daniël is embossed on the tag, clearly indicating him. It's bothersome enough that the name he goes by mostly is there, but the other...
He scowls, plucks his key free without a word, and marches into the vault to find where it belongs. There are rows of safety deposit boxes, but finding the corresponding one isn't much effort at least. He opens it, and inside is a note. Something or other about sharing, which he pockets for now in case it does end up important. But the item inside...
How could he forget?
A little box is inside, which Daan delicately pulls out, his eye wide. His shoulders bunch, and he swiftly walks to a corner, as if he could steal the semblance of privacy. Lips quiver as he opens the box, revealing inside polished tools for sewing.
The sight of it almost seems to bring Daan pain and he shuts the box swiftly before he presses his forehead against the wall, shaking his head to himself. He always tries to keep his mind even and cool, even if it is a pretense, but it seems that this has successfully shaken him to his core. Absently, he whispers to himself:]
How the hell did they get this?
[And then the vault door slams shut, jolting him out of his thoughts.]
B. DRINKS ARE ON ME [post-vault]
[He couldn't rightfully call these his worst days. After all, Daan has lived through those; he's remarked that his time in this city so far has been more like a vacation in comparison, and frankly that is still true. However, that doesn't mean he isn't still miserable.
The weight of the little wooden box in his pocket indicates as such.
In one of the restaurants, Daan is behind the bar, mixing a drink for himself. By how much the whiskey bottle has been emptied certainly indicates how many he's had, but he isn't in the mood to stop. The bank and the dreams he's been cursed with both haunt him alike, along with everything else he's ever put up with, and he's had enough.
He almost misses the Pocketcat's ever closing in steps and rotten promises.
When you enter, he forms a smile that looks too sharp, almost cruel as he lifts a glass in some toast that only he knows.]
Shall I pour one for you? [And then he proceeds to drain his glass.]
C. WILDCARD [choose your own adventure]
[If you'd like a specific prompt, hit me up and I'll make it happen!]
limbical) & YOU!WHAT: July catch-all. Event, non-event prompts, you know.
WHERE: A bank! A restaurant! Maybe the clinic!
WHEN: J-July
WARNINGS: Severe depression, alcoholism. CSA mention in the thread with Midnight, marked.
A. IN THE VAULT [event]
[With the possibility of a new place to explore reveals itself, it's only natural for the floodgates to open; there are plenty of people here, and Daan is but one of them, nosily investigating for any clues. Though typical as ever, there is nothing to reveal whatever secrets the city holds, or whoever their captors might be. No useful files, no names, nothing.
Then there are the keys.
Sorting through them is interesting at first, as he recognizes some of the names that they go to. They're names to people currently in the city. Which also means...
Yes. There is one for him too. Daan | Daniël is embossed on the tag, clearly indicating him. It's bothersome enough that the name he goes by mostly is there, but the other...
He scowls, plucks his key free without a word, and marches into the vault to find where it belongs. There are rows of safety deposit boxes, but finding the corresponding one isn't much effort at least. He opens it, and inside is a note. Something or other about sharing, which he pockets for now in case it does end up important. But the item inside...
How could he forget?
A little box is inside, which Daan delicately pulls out, his eye wide. His shoulders bunch, and he swiftly walks to a corner, as if he could steal the semblance of privacy. Lips quiver as he opens the box, revealing inside polished tools for sewing.
The sight of it almost seems to bring Daan pain and he shuts the box swiftly before he presses his forehead against the wall, shaking his head to himself. He always tries to keep his mind even and cool, even if it is a pretense, but it seems that this has successfully shaken him to his core. Absently, he whispers to himself:]
How the hell did they get this?
[And then the vault door slams shut, jolting him out of his thoughts.]
B. DRINKS ARE ON ME [post-vault]
[He couldn't rightfully call these his worst days. After all, Daan has lived through those; he's remarked that his time in this city so far has been more like a vacation in comparison, and frankly that is still true. However, that doesn't mean he isn't still miserable.
The weight of the little wooden box in his pocket indicates as such.
In one of the restaurants, Daan is behind the bar, mixing a drink for himself. By how much the whiskey bottle has been emptied certainly indicates how many he's had, but he isn't in the mood to stop. The bank and the dreams he's been cursed with both haunt him alike, along with everything else he's ever put up with, and he's had enough.
He almost misses the Pocketcat's ever closing in steps and rotten promises.
When you enter, he forms a smile that looks too sharp, almost cruel as he lifts a glass in some toast that only he knows.]
Shall I pour one for you? [And then he proceeds to drain his glass.]
C. WILDCARD [choose your own adventure]
[If you'd like a specific prompt, hit me up and I'll make it happen!]
bruh midnight please have standards
What the hell is your problem?
[It's asked sharply, cat's claws and fangs, hissing and spitting. Still cautiously trying to protect himself. I have the final mask you'll ever need to wear, old sport.
Out from his pocket, he sets down the item he received from his safety deposit box. He opens it, revealing the sewing kit inside, the engraved tools with more flourish than is functionally necessary but the von Dutch household wouldn't really spare any expense.]
The first and only person I let myself love owned this. My wife. Elise.
I killed her.
[Half-true. All true. True once in Prehevil. Guilt in the Kingdom of Rondon. How does he explain how a person dies twice? Daan, can you diagnose--]
he will do that as soon as he unpacks his daddy issues, which will be (checks watch) Never
And knowing nothing, I must assume that she deserved it.
[ Midnight looks at his doctor, but is otherwise completely still. ]
Or perhaps you deserve the guilt. The grief. Is that what you want me to say?
[ Because it's out there, now. He doesn't doubt that this is about the worst thing that could happen, but he's steeled for something beyond this. A fist. Teeth. Blood.
(Honestly, he's ready to snap them both out of this little drunken fugue, but he wants to make sure that he hasn't cut the heart out of this man first before he leaves. Because it's there. He sees it, or at least the remnants of it, even if Daan doesn't.) ]
BUDDY
I don't know.
[And that is the most raw, most truthful answer he can give. Because the lack of knowledge kills him the most.]
I don't know if it was... deserved.
[Well, at least it doesn't seem like he's trying to pick a fight with Midnight now. Instead, Daan seems more defeated and exhausted than anything else.]
🤡👍
There. The part of you that still grieves. Even without answers, even when it no longer makes sense to linger, it grieves.
[ He drops his hand, puts it to his glass, and finishes his drink. ]
You were asking me what I saw. Now we both see it.
[ It takes this much to show one's heart to someone who is this determined to hide from it. If only such a demonstration was easy. Midnight wishes a lot of things were easy. ]
does it take two clowns to have a circus
So you see some fucking depressed man, is that it?
[He isn't even trying to bite with words. He's just exhausted and drunk and sad.]
it's enough for a clown car at least. a clown tandem bicycle. ✌️🥹
[ Midnight laughs, pushes his empty glass to the side, then peers at Daan. Drunk, tired, emotional. Midnight's bread and butter. He tries to treat them gently. Less like food items, more like people. (Does Daan need to lie down for a bit? Midnight has done more drunk herding than one might think, and there are plenty of booths available for a quick breather.) ]
I did my best not to lie, but I do apologize for speaking so lightly of your past. That wasn't my intention when I approached you tonight, believe me.
[ Midnight has quite a few thoughts about what Daan had to say, but discretion is the greater part of valor. Also, he's not in the habit of kicking a man while he's down. ]
honks sadly as we share the clown bike
[And it doesn't offend him. Really, right now, Daan just feels worn out. He's remarked how being stuck in this city is akin to a vacation, but really it's just a new prison. Calmer on the outside, but he is so, so far away from ever finding the truth of Elise's death now. So he turns the facts over and over in his head, wishing he could piece together the truth.
And it kills him not knowing.]
Mm. You couldn't have known where my head's been at. Practically falling off my shoulders, so to speak.
[Daan touches his own forehead with a sigh. He could get away with using Loving Whispers, but... no, that feels like a shitty idea right now after everything he's just thrown at Midnight.]
But you made sure I could speak frankly. Angrily. Trying to look out for your doctor, are you?
💀 honk... honk.....
I'll be better prepared, next time.
[ There's so much to say, but none of it fixes anything, even if words could. Mostly, it all comes off as confessions. Divulgences of a type only guilty men carry with them.
But there's something to be said about a guilty man. One that sees guilt for what it is, anyway. Better than one who doesn't understand the weight of their own sorrow at all. ]
Have you been drinking water?
[ Is what he says instead. It's necessary, at least. ]
no subject
[Being vulnerable is a difficult thing for him. Especially since there are so many questions still lingering that Daan isn't sure he'll ever have answers to.
But there is something for him to know: Midnight does have well meaning intentions, even if he should probably know better than to fall for someone like Daan.]
Only if you count the water in an old-fashioned.
no subject
[ He gestures to his glass, then... Gets on the bar. Just sort of shifts forward, turns and hops up there, sitting and reaching for the glasses backward, looking around for the water dispenser. Sorry if this was sacred ground, but Midnight is very used to getting exactly what he wants, when he wants, and what he wants is for his doctor to not turn into a kitty themed, liquor soaked raisin. ]
I'd like another drink with you at some point. I'd also like to talk to you about my mother.
[ — Ah. Midnight pauses, glass in hand, then cracks up. ]
Oh. I was doing so well.
no subject
Anyway, Daan is going to lean back a bit and give them like. An inch between them. look there's no a lot of room behind the counter]
Right. Another drink, probably when I'm not already a few in.
[Honestly, he still doesn't quite know what to make of Midnight in some respects, but ultimately he's already decided that he means well, so. There's that.
Anyway what]
What about your mother, exactly? [why are we talking about parents]
no subject
Now, this had me in quite the state when Lan Xichan handed it off to me yesterday, but after the one time, I'd already had quite my fill of divulging my past to others. The past belongs to the past, and so on. I dropped it off at my place before running errands and thought nothing more of it... But it is from my mother, so I've had it in my pocket the whole day today.
[ Midnight slips off the bar and goes back to his stool, sticking the envelope back in his pocket. ]
I just cannot stop talking about her with everyone I've encountered. I rather think it's got some Arts to it. I'll be going home after this to drop it off, but you must understand that I don't usually lead into conversation topics about my mother. I do apologize.
Now, let's see...
[ Midnight hums, thinking. The easiest way to dispel this compulsion is to reveal at least one thing about the item that Midnight would rather his conversation partner not know. For Midnight, though, that's pretty much everything, so it's taking him a moment to come up with something specific. Yes, seriously, this is how Midnight figured out the secondary effect. He just does not talk about his past, ever, so narrowing down the culprit was pretty simple. ]
no subject
[There's an annoyed sigh that escapes Daan. To Midnight's credit, he decides to have a drink of his water, though it's certainly going to take more than that to really do anything about the effects of all that drinking he'd done earlier. He pauses, rubbing along his eyepatch before he continues.]
How the fuck do you think I feel about it? Spilling my guts about my wife. I even told you about my parents to some degree, which is not a topic I'm thrilled about either. And here you are pussyfooting around what to tell me.
I'm a man who was taught to understand equal exchange. If you don't think you can bother with that, then don't tell me a single thing.
I've had my fill of... half-truths, as it were.
no subject
He honestly considers standing and leaving. It's not worth the mixed signals, much less Daan's ire, but the compulsion is there. Still... He picks up the water, drinks, then puts the glass down before speaking again. ]
This letter is one of several. At least, oh... thirty, I'd say. Twenty years' worth, more or less.
[ Midnight snorts, but it's out of derision this time. Inwardly directed. Stupid. A fool. The one he acts, but writ too large. ]
She really wanted me home. For twenty years... Not that I knew that.
[ Midnight drinks again, looks at the glass. Stupid. This couldn't be liquor now. He should've asked for another. ]
I couldn't bring myself to open them. Twenty years ago, I ran away from home. What's the point of reaching out after that long? What could we possibly still have in common? Nothing, really. So I never opened them. This is the last letter I got before leaving the country. Think I might've put it out with my burnables. Not sure how it got here.
[ ... So, some unopened letters, an estranged son, a runaway. Pretty standard fare, honestly. Midnight sucks at his teeth. It's not enough. Not enough for the compulsion, not nearly enough for a fair exchange. ]
no subject
Daan holds his glass of water, even if he'd rather it was more of his cocktails.]
Why did you leave home?
[So many reasons. Should he even ask? Does Daan want to know? Daan's already bore his heart in such an ugly way, and basically demanded the same, that's on him, that's on Daan.]
no subject
Because everything was perfectly all right at home, but I had fervent dreams of homelessness that ended in a red light district two weeks and six train tickets away from home.
[ As quick as that flame of anger flashes, it dies. ]
I got terribly lucky, by the way. Never ended up in bed with anyone I didn't choose for myself, in some way. Wasn't on the streets long enough for that.
[ ... Oddly enough, that's enough for the compulsion to break. Midnight grins, sharklike, as he feels it fade. There. City-mandated period of self-pity complete. Not even a scratch. It's like it never happened. ]
no subject
How fortunate for you. Not all have even that as a luxury.
[Daan did anything he could to survive. Anything.]
I take it that's enough to satisfy the little curse that was given to us?
no subject
[ Awful. In trying to avoid a sore spot, Midnight had danced his way into an inflammation. A lesion. He pushes away from the bar, his attention to the side, but grabs on and pulls himself back in. It's what he gets for trying to be clever. And acidic. And terribly petty, in ways he knows he can be.
(It's strange to think how people can spend full days with him, suspecting nothing. Like it's not even there. Sylvian caught him offguard once. Never again.) ]
In interest of being fully honest... My home life wasn't perfect, but I'd prefer to talk about it when it's actually relevant with what's at hand, and not at the whim of some faceless god's game.
[ Words he could say with his usual confident bravado, especially if he was speaking with a woman, but... No. He's tired. Exhausted, actually. He puts his elbows on the bar, takes another sip of water, but it's that want for a nail that a kingdom is lost; he hangs his head, closes his eyes, and breathes. Just for a few seconds. He can be fully fucking tired for a few seconds. ]
My apologies. I have the capacity to be careful. I promise.
no subject
...If nothing else, I know the feeling of being some faceless god's plaything.
[He finishes his water, even if he wishes it had more bite.]
To your credit, I haven't been making it easy for you. I wanted to... I don't know. Fight, make you leave. Prove myself right in some fucked up way.
The logic of an intoxicated, messed up man. I'm sure you've had your fair share.
Sorry about the wait, August was very busy for me!
[ All of the above. Too much, sometimes. In some of his frailer moments, not enough. ]
Would you still like me to leave? [ Midnight lifts his head after a moment, looks Daan in the eye. He's not fully stable, not just yet, but his metaphorical fangs have blunted for now. He can be careful. He can. He promised. ] I wouldn't mind another drink, but only if you're up to the task.
oh you're fine!! life, uhh... finds a way
[Look. He gets it. He really does.]
...No, it's fine. I can manage to make you another. Suppose I'll give my liver a break personally. You want the same thing?
just like mold, cockroaches, and midnight's grip on life 👍
If you would.
[ Midnight takes a sip from his own water glass, but sets it aside. Preparations for later. ]
I'd like to get one of these meetings right, eventually. A proper drink, a proper chat. Something normal, if such a thing could be manufactured in a place like this.
[ This isn't actually Midnight asking for a date, even if it sounds a bit like one. Just a yearning for some semblance of a quo. ]