THE THINGS I GAVE YOU.
» THE BANK — INTRODUCTORY NOTES
District 2 is open, bringing with it access to new and interesting locations—including the city's main bank branch. The bank is a large building with a stone exterior, wrought iron grating on the windows, and large, heavy metal doors that take surprisingly little effort to open, their hinges silent and well-oiled.
Early in the day on July 19, characters in the vicinity of the bank will hear first a low, metallic creaking sound from inside the building, like metal straining against metal. This is followed by the sharper noise of locks disengaging, and then the large, heavy doors on the front of the building swing open slightly, enough to let a person through.
Directly inside the doors is the bank lobby, and beyond that is the main banking floor, with elegant marble flooring and dimly lit chandeliers. It would appear that this was once the main commercial bank of the city, although it is now completely empty, with no tellers behind the counters and no cash in any of the drawers.
You may rifle through the tills and filing cabinets to your heart's content, but similar to the files in City Hall, there is no useful information to be found—all the papers are blank, or are empty forms without any personally identifying information. There are no monetary devices to be found either; this is, after all, not a city that operates on a cash system, so there are no coins or paper bills in any of the tills or, indeed, anywhere within the bank.
What you might be able to find, though, is a rack of delicate, burnished brass keys on a wall toward the back of the main banking hall. Each of these keys is attached to a stamped metal keychain bearing a name on one side and a number on the other. Some of these may be names you recognize, and some of them may not, but they are all names belonging to current residents of the city, and each key corresponds to a safety deposit box within the vault at the back of the building. Can you remember what you stored in that box for safekeeping? Maybe you had better go find out.
At the back of the main banking hall is a vault secured with a large circular metal door. The door is currently unlocked and propped open; it can be closed, but cannot be locked (intentionally, anyway) from either the inside or the outside. The vault contains row upon row of safety deposit boxes, each locked. Participating characters who are in possession of a key can open their own safety deposit box, but it is not currently possible to force open any safety deposit box that does not belong to them. After August 1, players will be able to use their safety deposit boxes to store their own belongings, and break-ins will become possible with prior player permission and appropriate consequences.
Below sections detail the safety deposit boxes for both choose-your-own-adventure players and randomized players! Please see the randomized matches for this event HERE.
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IT'S TRUE, PEOPLE TAKE THINGS BUT RARELY.
» SAFETY DEPOSIT BOXES — A SELF-GUIDED TOUR
For some of you, getting into your safety deposit box is quite straightforward.
You take your key from the rack behind the teller's counter and make your way back through the building and into the vault. It's cool inside, the temperature well-regulated and the air dry. On the walls are rows upon rows of safety deposit boxes, and it may take you a moment to find the one that corresponds to the number stamped on your key. Does that number mean anything to you? It may, or it may not.
When you find your box, it takes very little effort to open it. A slide of your key, a quick turn, and the safety deposit box's door springs open to reveal the metal container within. You remove the metal box from the wall and bring it over to the table in the center of the room, clearly placed there for this express purpose. Maybe there are others around, or maybe you're alone. Do you remember yet, what it was you put in here? Well, there's no time like the present to check.
You open the safety deposit box to find—something that shouldn't be there. It's yours, that much you're sure of, but you didn't bring it with you to the city. You reach into the box to pick it up, and the surge of memory is immediate, sending your mind back to your strongest memory associated with the item in your hand.
Then the vault door swings shut, trapping you inside with whoever else has the misfortune of sharing the vault with you right now. No matter what force you try, the door won't open again. There doesn't appear to even be a mechanism that unlocks the door from the inside, and from within several feet of metal and stone, no one on the outside will be able to hear you shout. It seems hopeless—how long can anyone last, trapped in a place like this?
Should you turn back to the open safety deposit box, you might notice a slip of paper resting on the bottom. The paper looks aged, like it's been in the box for quite some time, and in printed text it reads: "Nothing is yours. It is to use. It is to share. If you will not share it, you cannot use it."
Maybe it means you should let another hold the item you've retrieved from the box… or maybe it means you should share the weight of memory. Try to interpret the meaning in whatever way you can. But should you decide to unburden yourself, and share with someone else the weight of the item you're holding in your hands, you may find that there's a means of escape after all.
Once you free yourself from the vault, for the next several days you find yourself feeling rather honest, like you may not be able to stop yourself from confessing the truth about the item you now carry…
Characters who wish to participate in the event, but who do not wish to randomize the contents of their safety deposit boxes, can open their safety deposit boxes to find an emotionally significant item belonging to the character—player's choice as to what the item is. The only guidelines are that it should be small enough to fit reasonably in a pocket and may not have any magical or weapon properties. Similarly, players are able to choose the memories associated with the items in the safety deposit boxes. The vault door will remain closed until the characters in the vault explain to each other the significance of their items and the memory associated with them, at which point it the vault mechanisms will disengage and the door will swing open as if it had never closed to begin with. However, for the four days following the event, characters who carry their safety deposit box item on their person will feel oddly compelled to tell other characters about its significance and meaning.
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A CRASH-SITE IS SACRED, WE'RE FAITHFUL.
» SAFETY DEPOSIT BOXES — A JOINT VENTURE
For others of you, the contents of the safety deposit box may be considerably more disconcerting.
You also take your safety deposit box key from the rack behind the bank teller's counter and make your way back through the building and into the vault. It's cool inside, the temperature well-regulated and the air dry. On the walls are rows upon rows of safety deposit boxes, and it may take you a moment to find the one that corresponds to the number stamped on your key. Does that number mean anything to you? It may, or it may not.
When you find your box, it takes very little effort to open it. A slide of your key, a quick turn, and the safety deposit box's door springs open to reveal the metal container within. You remove the metal box from the wall and bring it over to the table in the center of the room, clearly placed there for this express purpose. Maybe there are others around, or maybe you're alone. Do you remember yet, what it was you put in here? Well, there's no time like the present to check.
You open the safety deposit box to find—wait, what is that? It certainly doesn't belong to you. Tucked inside the safety deposit box alongside the item is a slip of paper with another name on it, as well as a cryptic message: "Nothing is yours. It is to use. It is to share. If you will not share it, you cannot use it." The item isn't yours, but it does appear to belong to another resident of the city. Maybe your safety deposit boxes somehow got mixed up? It seems like it would be a good idea to find this person and return their property to them.
Whether you encounter the owner of the item in the vault or elsewhere in the city, when it comes time to hand the item over, two things happen. One—the doors are locked tight, refusing to allow either you or the item's owner out until you both understand what the item is and what it means to the other. To unburden your heart is the only way to free yourself.
And two—as the owner of the item explains its significance, you find yourself oddly captivated, resonating strongly with whatever emotion the item's owner most closely associates with it. You may not be able to see the memory that the other person describes, but you can certainly feel the emotions they felt—after all, the easiest way to unburden oneself is to share the load with another. Isn't that right?
Once you free yourself from your enthralled state, and once you have your own belongings returned to you, for the next several days you find yourself feeling rather honest, like you may not be able to stop yourself from confessing the truth about the item you now carry…
Characters who opted to randomize the contents of their safety deposit box during the plotting post, or who plotted a joint experience with another character, will open their safety deposit boxes to find a small, non-magical but emotionally significant item belonging to another player character in the city. They will need to find the owner of that item and return it to them—this can either be inside the bank vault or in another location within the city. Regardless of where the meeting takes place, the character holding the item will find themselves unable to leave until the character who owns the item explains its significance; as they do, the holder of the item will find themselves swept up in the emotional highs and lows of the memories associated with that item, allowing them to share all of the feelings, regrets, joys, griefs, and rages that the owner experiences in the telling. Additionally, for the four days following the event, characters who carry their safety deposit box item on their person will feel oddly compelled to tell other characters about its significance and meaning.
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WILDCARD.
The city is by no means small, and there are plenty of things for you to see. There's no rush in exploring, so feel free to take your time looking around and peering into various nooks and crannies and alleyways—and don't worry, you're not very likely to find anything peering back.
If none of the above prompts appeal, feel free to check out the Locations and Maps pages and write your own freestyle prompt using one or many of the available locations.
This month's event headers come from "The Things" and "The Gatherer," two poems by Brendan Constantine. The text of the paper slip comes from Ursula K. LeGuin's The Dispossessed.
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citylogs2023-07-19 08:45 pm
no subject
(Is losing empathy for oneself really the same thing as losing it for others? Whisperain may have been onto something with regard to the long-lived and their many ghosts, but in terms of the effect, rather than the cause.) ]
I will, if you're certain this is what's to be done. Of course.
[ Kaveh lives in a world of his huge passions, of grand gestures. A world where memories mean something. How wonderful it is, to care that deeply. Why wouldn't Midnight give Kaveh the room to show him what that's like? ]
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it ought to be. kaveh looks. and then, because city hall looms in the near distance, he pulls out midnight's can of beer. the mango one comes to hand. he tosses it over to him, and without another word, downs half of the cider that midnight had procured for him earlier. there's not enough alcohol content in it to burn his throat, but it scalds anyway, as if something unseasonably warm. ]
Drink. [ kaveh says, breathing out, and doesn't manage to cough. ] I don't want to be too sober for this, and you might not want to be either. [ there's a lump in kaveh's throat that won't go down. kaveh forces it anyway, and the words come. they always do: ] Because I'm about to tell you how my father died.
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Don't worry, Kaveh; Midnight will tilt his head back and drain the waterbottle dry, his mouth and throat cramping from the sudden effort, catching the other can one-handed out of the air. He swallows one last time, then pulls his own can open, taking a pull from the can before he's prepared, feeling everything go down unpleasantly, before he's prepared. They should definitely have something stronger than this. ]
I know a good bar near here, actually. We should sit.
[ He's visited this one enough to know the hard liquor selection rather thoroughly. The lighting is fine, the seating is comfortable. A very normal bar among all the other normal bars around here. It'll do. ]</small.
no subject
Near here? It's not the one with the terrible pot lights, is it?
[ but the complaint is perfunctory at best. the city hall recedes into the distance as they make their way into the bar proper. the bartop counter is an excellent place for kaveh to slide both elbows onto as he cracks open the sealed bottle of what looks to be rum. the taste promises to be anemic, but the percentage of alcohol seems promising. he offers the lip of it to midnight, first, before he takes a dredge of it himself.
ugh. kaveh winces. horrid. kaveh's finger skim the flat lines of the bottle as he considers where to start. ]
I was nine when I sent my father to his death. [ the beginning has always been such a letdown. ] Both my parents were good people; I think that was the issue. If my father hadn't been such a good person, he wouldn't have gone off based on a whim I had when I was nine, and then never came back from it.
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[ He's lying, of course. He just said he would. Lies are fun, sometimes, as long as everyone understands what the lie is.
It's not the worst rum Midnight's ever had, but not the best, either. Something good enough. Just good enough. He sighs, letting the rum sink in, hot and piercing, then looks behind him, grabs a bottle at random — a small amaretto, fine — then finds a couple bourbons on a lower shelf. He'll find a couple of glasses as well, he'll involve their beers at some point. He's pregaming. You don't start a story like that without some preparaion. ]
Go on.
no subject
it is, in fact, kaveh's fault, kaveh concludes. and it ought to be.
the rum is tacky on his tongue. kaveh's fingers scrape across the uniform, uninspired labeling. ]
I was nine when I'd learned about the interdarshan competition. [ kaveh begins at the beginning, slowly, with the care of someone who has traced the path of this story enough times to know its rise and fall and cadence, and still know to brace for it. ] That's a competition between different schools of study, where each will compete in various trials and challenges for the prize - a diadem donated by an alumnus of some fame, along with a monetary reward. I hadn't known about any of this, nor did I care, not at the age of nine - all I knew was that it was a competition, and I wanted my father, whom I looked up to, to compete and to win. I told him so.
So he did. On my whim, he competed - and of course, he lost. We're not a family blessed by some prophecy or meant for some ultimate destiny. We were a normal family of three in a city of scholars. He competed, and he lost, and he was despondent.
[ an understatement. but kaveh sifts through his memories, and finds the right words for it: ] I hadn't cared if he won or not, in truth. I'd just wanted my father to be a part of something that I felt was terribly exciting. But he took it to heart, I think. He wasn't the same after. He became listless, and depressed. He withdrew. And then, one day, he went on a research project to the desert, and he never came home.
no subject
A child blaming himself for the decisions of adults...
[ Midnight leans against the bar, looks into Kaveh's face. He's sure they both understand that's what's happening, right? ]
What's in your pocket, then?
no subject
the shrug is almost helpless in nature, as is the little self-deprecating smile tucked away along the corners of kaveh's lips. ]
Not quite.
[ midnight fills their glasses. kaveh slips a little bauble from his pocket, green, inlaid with silver and garish gold. it sits there as a singular shattered, jagged piece of a greater whole. it once would've fit well on the head of something purportedly royal. now, it barely fits a small shot glass.
it's startling, how easy the words come. kaveh resents it. ]
This is a piece of the diadem of knowledge - it's the prize for the interdarshan competition. That's what neither the child nor the adult knew that day - that the entire competition was a sham. The man who funded the competition is a researcher named Sachin. He had done his doctoral work on the nature of human conflict. He had gone out into the desert and seen all manners of human atrocities, and no matter what parameters he set for his research, no matter who he recruited and how he collected the data, the truth remained: that humanity was morally bankrupt, or so he thought. He funded the interdarshan competition with his vast wealth and bequeathed the diadem to it; he then vanished. He vanished into the diadem, you see. He had been looking for a successor to his research. He wanted to see if anyone could debunk the conclusions he had drawn.
[ kaveh breathes in. even air seems sharp for it. he takes the glass that midnight had filled for him, and downs it - like drowning. like air. ]
He found my father through the competition. He possessed part of his mind. So when my father left for the desert, he wasn't himself; he hadn't been himself. He'd died like that. I found this out when I participated in the competition myself, and had Sachin's mind come for me.
[ sachin had called him familiar. he had reached into him. it had been like an entire world upended. it was like someone reaching into the threads of your soul and weaving their name into is canvas. nothing human ought to survive that sort of thing. and sachin only targeted those who loved humanity.
slowly, in the way of an ending to a fairytale: ]
After my father died in the desert, my mother was never the same again. I watched her wither away. She was an architect, like me; she could never again draw a draft, or pick up a pencil without her hands trembling. She left the country to get away from it, the memories [ and him ]. If someone destroys two lives, we call them a criminal. Even a child understands that. [ the words, like conviction. kaveh finally lifts his head to look. the rims of his red eyes are sanguine. ] Even children can sin, Midnight.
no subject
[ Midnight fills up each glass with bourbon, watching the smooth curve of liquid catch the light as he does. He pushes Kaveh a glass when he's done, setting down the heavy glass bottle when he's done. ]
And that is something that can be logically debated. I'm not much for that, though... debate. Not when it comes to matters that come this close to the heart. [ He waves off the notion, frowns. Debate does so very little in situations like these. ] You'll simply be fighting uphill if your aim is to convince me otherwise. No... What concerns me is how you're carrying that with you.
[ He nods downward. ]
Didn't need that to remind you. You've made it here with that weight. How long can you go on?
no subject
kaveh ducks his head. guilts sits comfortably where it ought too. shame does, too. but neither of those are new. so he pushes through: ]
Precedence is something that can be logically argued. But I'd imagine we don't want to get into that debate either. I do have something to say to that, however: that Midnight, we don't grow up from our mistakes. We merely grow into them.
[ into the shape of them, the shape that is best to carry them onwards.
kaveh tips his head back, and takes another, long drink. the bourbon burns. the bar seems too-bright in its aftermath. kaveh breathes, and turns. uncertainty lilts in the corners of his mouth. ]
... your turn, I think. Unless you'd like to run out of here before the talking bug gets you, too.
no subject
It's fleeting, though. Midnight gives a soft laugh in response to the challenge, takes up his own bourbon and sips. ]
An eye for an eye. These things need to be equal.
[ Even if he hates being forthcoming. He pauses, then takes the small envelope from his pocket, letting the weight of the paper sit in his hand. ]
This is from my mother. She addressed it to me. This is my name.
[ He turns the envelope so Kaveh can see, in his mother's lovely, firm handwriting, the name "Yoru". It's not a dramatic motion, surprisingly, and when he turns the envelope back to his own eyes, his focus is thoughtful, distant, but not overly concerned. He was serious when he said he found these sorts of stories dull. ]
I haven't been "Yoru" in a long time, though. "Yoru" was a child. I left him behind, along with my mother, when I ran away from home. Doesn't have much to do with me now.
[ Which is how he'd like to end that thought, but the city demands more than distant apathy. He continues instead, a laugh bubbling behind his voice, taking up space in the hollow between his words and his heart. ]
I sometimes think that I should have stayed. Faced what was planned for me. Stayed with her, even when she... left me to my fate.
[ He sighs as the words escape from behind his tongue, slipping between his teeth. What a terrible part of the story. Not at all pretty or flattering, not at all tasteful, considering what happened to Kaveh's parents. The audacity of this city, honestly. ]
I love her. I do. [ He closes his eyes briefly. ] Twenty years of letters I never read, and I miss her so badly that I forget where I am, sometimes. In spite of everything.
[ ... He's opened this one, though. The seal was ripped a bit clumsily, as though his fingers forgot what they were doing halfway through. ]
no subject
there's nothing that anyone ought to say in the face of it. the love, and the grief. kaveh lowers his head. his gaze traces over the slanted loops of the handwriting on that letter. he thinks of the letters from his own mother, the ones that he puts off reading until he's on day four of no sleep and bled himself into a corner. he thinks of midnight and his hollow laugh. ]
She has beautiful handwriting. [ because he is kaveh of the kshahrewar, first and foremost, and you noticed these things. then: ] What exactly was planned for you? What did you escape?
no subject
[ It's a joke. A gentle one.
He never, ever planned on talking about this, on the one hand, so it takes him a beat, the lift of his bourbon to his lips and a careful exhalation through his nose, to collect his thoughts. On the other hand, he knows exactly what the shape of the problem is and always was. There's no uncertainty here. He knows what happened. ]
My position where I'm from, my heritage and inheritance, is a complex subject. Certainly not one I could expound on in a day. Not in a way this city would enjoy, I think.
Suffice to say, though. [ He scoops up the bourbon again, tops up his glass, then puts it down within Kaveh's grasp. ] I was running from my father. My mother may have supported his decisions for me, but he was the one who had particular expectations for my future.
[ What are those expectations? Hypergryph, please fucking tell me. In the meantime, this is what I know Midnight is thinking about: Sarkaz are a people of death, and vampires understand the generations of bitter sorrow in their blood better than any their kind. These aren't things one can express with words, even if Midnight has more than a few to work with. Love and grief. A Sarkaz must take up his brother's sword. ]
As a vampire, I am... inclined toward acts of violence. There was death in his plans for me. It's tradition among my kind.
[ This is probably the first time Midnight's specified his subspecies. Sure, he'll admit he's a Sarkaz, but a vampire... He's careful with how he places that information. Sleight of hand. It's here in front of Kaveh like it's nothing, but in public, it disappears. A hot breath on winter air.
He pauses, but not from a loss of words. He's sitting with his own thoughts, as he often does. ]
I know I can be cruel, but I've never wanted to hurt anyone in my life. Not once. So I ran.
no subject
and then, because this is kaveh, the look on his face clearly loops back to this very transparent thought: that all this time, he's assumed that midnight was just a very strange human who could see in the dark, had slightly pointer teeth, and sharp edges to his ears. ]
Oh.
[ oh, kaveh's brain supplies a winding, tipsy beat later. the bourbon in his hands find its way back up to his lips in rote, mechanical form as he considers this very new thought.
well, kaveh thinks, i suppose that this means you aren't a particularly good vampire, then. this, he doesn't say, because kaveh has a sense of what ought and ought not to be said. what he say is thus: ]
Well, I suppose that this means you aren't a particularly good vampire, then.
[ ... wait.
the mind-mouth filter checks itself, observes the gaping hole in its sieve, and shrugs the shrug of the entirely dispossessed. kaveh considers himself, then midnight, and grimaces. ] No, sorry, I hadn't meant to say that. [ kaveh's fingers picks along the rim of his glass. he says: ] It's just that, well - as far as I can tell, you decided not to hurt a single person in your life, so you simply decided to hurt yourself instead.
no subject
That second observation, however, gives him pause. He looks at Kaveh, previous train of thought completely derailed. ]
I... wasn't aware I gave that impression.
[ Is the most polite, distant way he can express his current thoughts. Truthful. Did he show something he didn't mean to? Was it just extrapolation? Perhaps he's just surprised to hear those words at all. If he hurts himself, it's in a way he no longer sees as harm. Even now, he thinks: Was it something I said? What was it? Which was the part that was supposed to hurt?
How very strange. Midnight's used to understanding the particulars of the image he projects to the world, even the parts that are unintentional. However, Kaveh's proven himself to be rather incisive with his observations. Dismissing the thought, even if it's mistaken, doesn't sit right with him. ]
no subject
there really isn't, he thinks, any other way to describe it, the lack of emotion on midnight's face. it ought to be concerning. but kaveh, his head pillowed in his arms, thinks - ] It isn't... well, that isn't the impression you wanted to give, I think. If you were that way both inside and out, you wouldn't be so surprised by it right now.
no subject
I'm... not sure what you mean by that, but I do hope you won't think much of it. I can assure you that I don't enjoy pain. I don't actively seek it out.
[ But he knows he has other vices. Overwork. Pride. A covetous grip on his secrets, the ones that burn into his hands. But he keeps them close to avoid these sorts of conversations. Where did the mask slip? Not now, obviously, so when?
He can place the precise source of his surprise, now that he's had time to think: for decades, he was a host. An entertainer. They called it the water trade, long ago. Ukiyo-e, paintings of the world that floats. An illusion, a reflection on the water. An image of reality, not reality itself. A fantasy does not hurt. A fantasy does not feel pain.
Midnight, for a little over a decade, was the best at what he did. The king. It was his job to be that dream. To never feel pain. He can't recall, exactly, the last decision he made that harmed himself. It was at odds with the objective.
(He doesn't consider what he carries with him because they're simply there. Heavy, but he's used to the weight. Those secrets haven't hurt in a long time.) ]
me, watching kaveh's drunken ramblings give midnight a minor crisis:
[ says kaveh, whose golden lashes have cast themselves sometime in the last thirty seconds into the blood red sea of his eyes and haven't quite managed to trawl them out again. in the dim lighting, midnight's silhouette is a marble facade. cold, kaveh thinks, but he doesn't know much about vampires so perhaps that is but a mere stereotype. there are creatures who don't adhere to the same cycle of life and death as the creatures that make up teyvat. kaveh is aware of this. he is also aware of how little he knows.
about that. about this. the alcohol, however, has warmed him where it's left midnight cold. kaveh raises his hand. he watches the arc of its motion towards the light, and then, outstretched, towards the man at the counter. ] Midnight, give me your hand. No, the other one. [ and then, in that self-same tone: ] Here's what I mean - of course you don't run around seeking pain. Nobody does, not really. But if you can't stand seeing someone else hurt, and the hurt must go somewhere - it might as well go to you, doesn't it. It just isn't much of a choice.
i wish standing man emoji was an emotion one could describe in words other than standing man emoji
Oh, that.
[ He runs a thumb over Kaveh's knuckles. Thoughtfully, mindlessly. Simple. He likes holding hands. He likes Kaveh. ]
I'll give you that. [ He blinks slowly. The liquor is seeping in as well, but he's been drunker before. ] I can't say that it hurts, though. Really.
[ Or perhaps it's always hurt and he just lives with it now. Well. Knowing that doesn't make it go away. Unproductive. Best to put that thought aside. ]
If it makes you feel better... I did make plans to see my mother. The circumstances changed a bit. If we escape, I'll follow through with those plans. I'll see her again.
[ Accompanied by a bit of a smile. He's looking forward to that, actually. It's... nervewracking, but it's fine, at least. Relatively. Better than before. ]
HAHAH
in truth, he had been searching for this: the confirmation, that midnight's hands aren't quite as cold as they look. ]
Me? [ kaveh laughs into his elbow. ] See, you're doing it again. It'll make me feel better regardless, but shouldn't it be done to make you feel better? Well, I do hope that you see her. At least one mother out there ought to get a visit from their child.
[ the thought sobers him. not enough to lift his head. but kaveh finally, relenting, lets midnight's hand go. ] Though I oddly believe that it doesn't hurt. You seem like the sort to get numb to it. You're taking your drink rather well.
no subject
Anyway. ]
Your happiness is my happiness, my darling. [ And the wretched truth is that this is absolutely true. Simple things, simple pleasures. The thought of seeing his mother again makes him happy. If the thought of Midnight being happy makes Kaveh happy, well, then he has no choice but to be happy. Or rather, it makes him feel warm to think that he had some small part in someone else's happiness. It's always been that simple.
He draws his drink to himself, drains it, then fills both their glasses. He was going to get creative, but this evening is feeling like a straight bourbon kind of evening. ]
I do. I practiced.
[ The drinking, and holding things tight to himself. It's one of the two, at least. ]
no subject
Oh. [ kaveh says, brightly, nearly as bright as the world has become in its wake. the smile is a little thing, tucked into the corner like a stowaway. ] You'll need to prepare yourself for less of it, then. Happiness, that is.
[ because kaveh, in truth, hasn't been happy in a very long time. the rest of the glass goes. the taste lingers like something terrible. ] Who did you practice for anyway?
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I'll make you happy, my darling.
[ Very casual, very confident. Easy as saying that the sun shines, the rain falls.
In answer to the question, Midnight shrugs, sips at his bourbon. ]
The drinking? Hosts are paid on commission, in drinks sold. People like drinking with their hosts. I wasn't very good at it. Now I am.
[ Midnight leans on the bar, close to Kaveh's straw woven head, golden and warm. Now that that nasty business is over, he's sinking back into the comfort of company, of liquor. It's good. It's nice. Happiness comes with practice as well, he's found. ]
Would you like another drink? It's on me.
[ This is a joke, but Midnight would pay for Kaveh's drink if he could. All the drinks in the world, if it would make him smile. ]
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sequentially: an entire automatic drinks-dispensing system is designed on the back of a napkin. kaveh insists this will replace midnight, who is not terrible at pouring drinks, but certainly, his contraption would be better. it would also laugh at him less.
...
THEY'RE NEVER TALKING ABOUT THIS NIGHT AGAIN, YOU HEAR HIM. NEVER. ]