multiversallogs | What a night

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What a night | OPEN

Who: inkstainedsword and ANYBODY :D
What: Aimery's got the night off, so he's going exploring and barhopping. Also POKER.
Where: In bars, clubs, or the streets between Howl Barrow, Brock Marsh, and Griss Twist.
When: Veerdi (Friday) evening->night.
Notes: This is open forever, back/slowtagging absolutely welcome, and if you want to tag but aren't sure about where to set it, just IM me or sommat and we'll make it work :3
Warnings: Mutually drunk making out, Discussions of suicide and depression

A night off meant a night out. One where he doesn't have to worry about staying sober and unoccupied enough that he can head home when called, and that meant he got to range a bit further from said home. Before leaving he slicked his hair back and dressed in his going out clothes- he made a mental note to go shopping, soon, so he'd have more variety in that, though it's not like there was anything wrong with them and he didn't expect to run into many familiar faces who'd notice the repetition. He brought his longsword along this time, too, just in case.

First he made his way to Howl Barrow, where he'd been told there was a so-called 'Queer community'. Aimery had been warned about flamboyancy but the welcoming enthusiasm and degree of... free spiritedness with regard to clothing and social norms... he found in the first club he tried was overwhelming. No, he wasn't ready for those kinds of places yet, but he found a somewhat quieter bar, had some wine, and learned a few new words (were they adjectives or nouns? he couldn't tell) then headed back along the river towards slightly more familiar, and less interestingly terrifying, territory.

Griss Twist was more rowdy in a dangerous sort of way, but with a sword and a dark bruise on the bridge of his nose from the most minor broken nose ever to ward people off (funny that it had earned him much sympathy in Howl Barrow) he wasn't worried. He stopped in a few places —including nice dance club with the most fascinatingly rapid music, he'd have to make sure to visit there again— but eventually settled on finishing his evening in a comparatively quieter bar that happened to feature poker. Aimery didn't quite remember who had taught him, but he was good, and if his "beginner's luck" held until the regulars got tired, then maybe he would be able to buy that custom sword after all.

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Ivan found that going only to vampire bars repulsed him both in theory and in practice. Sustenance was all well and good (less good, if they all kept closing), but there wasn't much entertainment to be found in such places; besides, the way the wind was blowing, he could use some allies. And people watching was better in other parts of the city too.

Normally, he'd be happy to just sit in the corner and watch, but he could use a return on his cash, and he'd been playing poker since only a few decades after the modern form was invented, and he'd been lying for more than two centuries. He didn't win enough to piss off the locals, but he did win steadily enough that he was netting a profit.

Eventually, it's inevitable he and Aimery will end up at the same table.

By the time that happens, Aimery'd had enough alcohol that he was no longer being a good sport about winning and was starting to annoy the locals. His ability was still working -he tested it discreetly under the table from time to time- so he was in no danger from disgruntled losers, but when he was accused of cheating he figured that was a good opportunity to switch tables and play against someone new, just in case.

"May I join you?" he asked as he claimed a recently vacated seat at Ivan's table, making the assumption that yes, he could in fact join him. Aimery scooted his chair up and put his half-empty glass of beer on the table, looking between Ivan and the deck of cards expectantly, then pursed his lips and thumbed over his shoulder back the direction he came from, "Assuming you're not as touchy about cards as those old codgers."

Ivan smiled a bit, closed but not unfriendly. "Why not?" There are a couple other patrons, but it hadn't been a terribly chatty table up until now. "You've come to part us from our money, then?"

"I do believe that's the point of the game, isn't it?," he stated agreeably, drumming his fingers on the table and giving the rest of them a friendly look over, "And I'd hope the goal was mutual."

Because they wouldn't be playing if they expected to lose, yes?

"So it is, generally." The new addition at least had some spirit to him; perhaps this would be play, for a bit, rather than just a way to make a bit of cash.

"We're playing five-card draw. Does that suit you?" Given the variety of worlds, establishing ground rules mattered more than usual, but Ivan was flexible if hold-em or stud was the preference.

"Certainly," Aimery nodded. Five-card was what he felt most used to and comfortable with, but asking questions and playing completely naive (didn't need to play drunk this time) had served him well in the past. He leaned back in his chair and fished in his pocket for his wallet, "What's our ante?"

"10 mark buy-in." Which had kept the casual players away. "Bottom card in the deck isn't replaced, no more than four cards in a row to a player. It's mainly just a simple, friendly game."

Somehow, not very assuring coming from Ivan.

No, no it wasn't very assuring. That got Aimery's eyebrows up proper. 10 marks to start? That was risky, but between what he'd earned and what he'd obtained, he could handle it. At worst, if he lost, he could regain it with some convenient bumping-into after the game. He shrugged and laid 10 marks in the middle of the table with the rest of the buy-ins before laying his wallet in front of him, trying to show he was willing to bet more (putting it away immediately might imply he was expecting to fold after the first hand).

"So. Do you like to chat over your cards, or do you need your concentration?" Ivan read him as confident but not cocky, which could make for an interesting few hands.

"I tend to chatter, yes, but if the rest of you don't, I could try to be quiet," Aimery pursed his lips in an attempt to not smile, but just had to shrug and add, "Concentration won't make cards change, after all."

But talking certainly threw people off from time to time, when he was lucky.

"I don't mind, myself." And Ivan seems to be setting the table's tone. "What did you do to annoy your last table?"

"Who said I annoyed them?" Oh right it... might've been plenty obvious. There was indiscreet grumbling before he relocated. Aimery chewed his lip then shrugged yet again, in a somewhat more exaggerated manner. "I won. Vigorously."

"Excellent," Ivan says, "I love a challenge." Either the challenge of a good player, or of catching someone cheating; he isn't terribly picky as to which.

"Then it should be an enjoyable game," he said with complete earnestness before grinning and indulging in a swig of his beer.

"Who's dealing? It's best if I don't, after I've had a few," and he'd clearly reached that point," I tend to fumble and bend up the cards." Aimery drunkenly demonstrated his poor shuffling technique on a nonexistent deck as he spoke.

"We're going around, but we can skip you, if you prefer." It is, evidently, Ivan's turn. Shuffling doesn't take much of his concentration after so long. He has a glass of wine, but seems to be sober.

"Well, small talk, let's see. Where did you come from, before here?"

"Bete Noire, a magical city not unlike this one, including the fondness for kidnapping people," Aimery answered somewhat bitterly, though he wasn't sure which part he was bitter about. "But originally I'm from Warwick, England, around the year 1203. And you?"

"1203? That's a bit of an outlier." He begins to deal the first hand. "Bristol, embarrassingly enough. 2010." It's not really a lie, except by omission; it's the answer to the first sense of the question, presented as if it's the second. The slight hint of Welsh to his accent might, to a good ear, suggest an origin other than Bristol; it would take a truly extraordinary ear to guess that his English wasn't native.

"Indeed. I had quite the catching up to do." His wasn't a good enough ear to catch the subtle difference in accent, even if he'd been sober. Language had changed a great deal in those eight hundred years and he'd lived a sheltered life- all English accents sounded strange to him when compared to his own 'normal', anglo-french one.

He was quite for a moment as he started picking up his cards; his hand was acceptable, he could work with it, but it wasn't the best, and he frowned slightly at them before asking, "Why is Bristol embarrassing? I'd heard it was a fine port. Did it get taken over by-"

Aimery glanced at the other patrons while he course-corrected his sentence to drop racial mentions. The others probably wouldn't have known who he meant anyway. "By smugglers or burn down or something?"

Ivan smiles wryly at whatever Aimery'd been censoring. "No, it's just gone boring and provincial in its old age. Give me Paris any day." 1203 was interesting - that was terribly old, even by his standards. Of course, Aimery hasn't been alive for centuries, presumably, but even so. He seems remarkably adaptable, and Ivan guesses there's more to him than meets the eye.

It had become provincial, in a negative way? The reasonable, sober part of Aimery's brain recognized that Ivan probably wasn't intending anything derogatory and it was merely a language issue —Provencal being the language of the region his father was from— but the phrasing still made him bristle slightly due to a combination of alcohol and lingering affection for his heritage.

"You dislike that Bristol has become more provincial, yet would choose a French city? Because Paris is less boring?" Aimery shuffled at and stared hard at his cards as he added, "My father was from a town near Limoges, in Aquitaine."

"I've nothing against France," he says, mildly, "I meant provincial in the vernacular sense, as the antonym of cosmopolitan." The world got bigger, and Bristol got smaller in relative terms.

He smiles, and adds, "I've many good memories from Paris, as well. I was being genuine." As he ever is.

Continuing to compliment France didn't win Ivan any favors with Aimery, but at least it was clear it was a language issue. He shrugged and glanced up at the other man, offering a faint smile in return, "Apologies, I'm new to English. I'm pleased Paris survived and flourished though... even if it is in France."

Not that it would be anywhere else other than France, but he had to get at least one pseudo-dig in, dind't he?

"London flourished too, don't worry." Ivan may speak English well, but he's clearly not English by his opinions of France. "More than 800 years after you, they're still both knocking about, being themselves."

At one of those nicer dance clubs, tucked behind the haze of colored lights and reverberating bass, is a young man dressed like nearly every other guy in the club, dark-colored top and jeans, and if it weren't for the fit and the too-nice watch, he'd blend right in. Anonymity is novel luxury for Jack, and one he has taken to indulging in Baedal. He didn't come with an entourage, or even arm candy. He isn't giving anyone his real name. He's just another clubber, out drinking and dancing and marveling at the idea of not being recognized. When he finally runs for office and politics necessitate putting his face and name everywhere he can manage, this won't be possible, but for however many more weeks or months before that happens, it is an acceptable risk.

And he needs this, tonight more than most. His career is going well, you could say, if by "going well" you meant he's gaining power and influence, but what he's using that influence for is skewing his candidate's campaign in the direction of human supremacy, constructing a quiet reputation for himself as anti-xenian and anti-polytheist at the cost of real people's freedoms. When it pays off – if it pays off, if the Candlelighters even notice and if he can do any good once they do – maybe then it will feel like he did the right thing.

Right now, though, it feels like shit. And that's fine. That's how it ought to feel. He can be that person, he can handle it, but not for every minute of the day. He needs to be someone else– or no one at all, just disappear into the motion of the crowd and the rush of alcohol in his veins, if only for a few hours.

When he sees Aimery, he almost doesn't stop. It's dark, it would be easy enough to slip back onto the dance floor without being seen– but the thing about disappearing is, he has to do it alone. And he gets tired of that, too.

"I'm buying this time," he says by way of greeting as he sidles up next to Aimery, leaning an elbow on the bar. "And whatever you're having, have two – you have some catching up to do."

Edited 2011-09-11 06:16 (UTC)

And of course, not knowing that Jack wasn't using his real name, Aimery just had to greet him with it.

"Jack!" he called in pleasant surprise. The bartender was actually in the midst of pouring Aimery a shot of whiskey when Jack insisted upon a second one, and looked to Aimery with eyebrows raised. Aimery nodded at him and turned to face Jack, settling his own elbow on the counter and grinning warmly at him, "Who am I to deny such generosity? This is a happy coincidence. You look well."

Jack manages to smile instead of grimace at being addressed. At least it's a common enough name.

"Hm, that's the trick." Looking well, that is. (Implying that he isn't?) But he doesn't dwell on that statement long enough to lend it clarity, nor does the lazy amusement in his expression falter. "I wouldn't have pegged this for your scene," he says more because he hadn't been expecting to run into anyone he knew than because he knows especially a lot about Aimery's tastes. "Expanding your horizons?"

"Something like that," he chuckled before holding up one finger in a hold-on-a-moment gesture then turning to grab one of his shots and hold up the glass as if to toast Jack, then downed it in one go. He shivered and cringed a little afterwards, then was back to grinning.

"I'd call this loitering at the edges, not expanding. Sometimes I just..." He shrugged, trying to find a shorthand way of explaining why he liked that Jack hadn't expected to see him in a club like that. "Sometimes I tire of wearing a suit."

Edited 2011-09-15 09:04 (UTC)

"That I can understand." It's why he's out, too, or near enough. He swishes his own drink in his glass, then tosses it back like water and adds, "Come on," gesturing to the dance floor. "You can't loiter forever." Not when you're clubbing with Jack Benjamin.

Assuming Aimery doesn't protest too much (and if he does, Jack is not above using a little persuasiveness and charm), he leads them out onto the floor. He doesn't dance with the other man, per se, save a few tips and pointers early on if needed, but he stays near enough to watch, and occasionally even manufactures something to watch, picking up women and nudging said dance partners in Aimery's direction. The physical distance keeps him comfortable, but more than that, he enjoys the exercise in self-restraint.

To a point, anyway. It's easy enough to tell, if you're paying attention, who Jack is and isn't interested in, but if that isn't clear enough, after a few more drinks and dances he swings in close to Aimery's ear and says against the lingering bass from the last song, "Come back with me."

'Back' not 'home' because the flat he intends to bring Aimery to is little more than a crash pad, a one-bedroom tucked into the forgotten corner of some nameless building. It's discreet; that is its sole purpose.

Aimery's brief resistance to dancing was due his thinking they were to dance together, though once on the floor he caught on. He'd danced with women on his own earlier, but dancing while Jack looked on and made subtle, implicit suggestions as to how and with whom by guiding them to him, was different from that. He was no exhibitionist when it came to real intimacy (was actually horrified by the notion) and leading them on by dancing so interestedly made him feel ever-so-slightly guilty, yet it was absolutely worth it; that smooth directing and the looks he and Jack shared over shoulders and glasses seemed like long distance foreplay to him, something new and exciting when compared to the usual drunken flirting and blunt invitation.

So when Jack asked him to come back with him, Aimery nodded wordlessly, then took his dance partner by the hand and kissed her knuckles in goodnight and apology (and because he wanted to kiss Jack yet understood it would likely break the rules of whatever game they were playing) before following him out. Aimery was quiet and kept his hands to himself on the way, too, playing along, and that they had an actual destination was a welcome, pleasant change. Alleys wouldn't do for Jack's apparent need for discretion and Aimery wasn't about to complain.

"This place is lovely," he commented as he followed him inside. It really was beautiful, it's reason clear enough given their circumstances, and he couldn't help but smile at his own lightly flushed reflection as he headed over to the couch to lean one hip against it slightly, steadying himself. A moment of unsureity hit and he tried to cover it by casually unwrapping his scarf from around his neck and wetting his lips with his tongue, then turning his gaze to Jack and asking, "Bedroom?"

Jack was clearly so much better than him at one night stands... but boy did he want to learn.

That Aimery is both aware of Jack's little game and willing to play along earns him more points in his favor than he knows. It's habit by now to simply do these things – get friends drunk, throw women at them, ignore how questionable a practice it is to treat said women like accessories and men like his own personal eye candy – simply because it numbs the ache, but the friends in question aren't always aware of the part they play. He likes it, though, when they are.

After clicking the lock shut on the door, he strolls along close behind Aimery, his eyes following the other man's movements in the mirror. (It's there for a reason, after all.) Now that they're no longer in public, Jack is not only uninterested but apparently incapable of keeping his hands to himself. One moves to catch the end of Aimery's scarf, 'helping' get rid of that, head tilted and eying the newly exposed stretch of skin like he has plans for it (...and for the rest of him).

-Oh right, talking. "Upstairs," he replies without any immediate sign that he plans to move that direction, but after a beat he does, hooking a finger between the bottom two buttons of the other man's shirt to tug him along.

Oh, Aimery liked that look. With the low neck of his shirt and no scarf to cover it, there was plenty of skin for Jack to look over, too, smooth and pale apart from one small scar and the upper edges of another, much larger one. Their visibility didn't bother him; he was too focused, too eager —to a degree that usually came well after clothes had come off— to worry about how his various scars might affect Jack's perception of him. Besides, those were battle wounds, marks to be proud of even if he couldn't remember all the details of their acquisition.

His smile broadened when Jack tugged him along, he hesitated long enough to pluck the scarf from Jack's grasp and carelessly discard it behind him on the couch (not like he'd be needing it anytime soon). Then Aimery followed him closely, trailing his hand up the other man's arm a ways then back down to lightly cup the hand holding his shirt. It was Jack's place, Jack's game they were playing, and he was trying to let him lead and pace them, but from the way Aimery leaned in, watched Jack more than where he was walking, and the eagerly-tentative I'm not holding it here but fyi you don't have to let go pressure he had on Jack's hand, it may have been clear that he had half a mind to get things started on stairs instead of waiting.

Aimery's self control lasted the stairs before he stopped in the hallway outside the bedroom. He stepped in towards him, not quite pressing against but moving closer to, and raised his free hand to stroke along Jack's jaw with one finger, making sure his face was turned to him, then leaned in for a heated kiss. Like his others, it didn't bother him that the scar along his wrist was in plain sight due to the riding up of his sleeve- at that moment it was nothing more to him than some kind of seam running up the inside of his arm.

Edited 2011-09-29 23:01 (UTC)

The tiniest smirk curls at the corner of Jack's lips, watching the delicate balance of Aimery's self control, and when it breaks that seems to spark something in him. Much as he does like to take the lead, it's the combination of that acquiescence and the hint of a challenge that Aimery (and more than a few before him, one in particular) presents that gets him. He leans back into the kiss with a sudden hunger, the hand that had been only lingering at the front of his shirt now working open buttons and sliding in across the exposed skin.

He doesn't see the scars – he'd noticed the one on Aimery's chest and hadn't been bothered by it, but as the rest become visible, he's too busy maneuvering them back into the bedroom, the sharp edges of his more dominant (and frankly intense) side starting to show. More tactile than visual now and too focused to bother with details regardless, it doesn't occur to him to even glance at Aimery's wrists.

It does, however, occur to him to grab one, a playful grapple as he pulls back half an inch to breathe, his thumb pushing the fabric away to travel up the long stripe of raised skin–

–until he realizes what it is.

His stomach tightens.

"Fuck–" He jerks back like he's been bit and pushes Aimery away in the same motion, tension snapping through his muscles. That's– suddenly he isn't thinking or breathing right, just cursing under his breath and backing away.

As Jack started unbuttoning his shirt, Aimery let go of his hand and draped one arm around his neck, moving the hand that had been stroking Jack's chin up into his hair. He let Jack guide them into the bedroom and direct their bodies while Aimery tried to dominate their kissing- he had an oral fixation and knew well how to use his mouth and tongue to drive himself and his partner to pleasant frustration, while on the other hand backing around in the dark, in a strange apartment, with his eyes closed, while drunk and aroused, was not his specialty. Let them both focus on what they liked and were good at, he figured, and Jack certainly seemed to be good at leading.

Then one moment he was grinning against Jack's lips and peering at him with heavy lidded eyes, and the next he was roughly shoved away, making him stumble back, blinking in shock.

"Jack?" he asked, voice thick with confusion, giving not one moment's thought to the way his sleeve was shoved up or how his shirt hung open so that most of his scars were on display. "Are you alright?"

"Don't," he snaps, raising a hand to warn Aimery off, whether or not the other man had even considered approaching. He can't keep the arm steady, and it's hard to tell if that's a sign of vulnerability or hostility. (Or both.) Pulling both arms back in to hide it, he rakes his fingers back through his hair, yanking on the ends.

This would be easier if he wasn't already drunk. If his head wasn't already a mess of deeply repressed want finally unleashed, his carefully constructed restraint already in shambles. What capability he has for self-control is now scrambling to catch up, reeling from the abrupt change of gears, and there's nothing else to anchor him.

His eyes stay on Aimery. Looking at the scars, all of them but that one in particular, and then at the rest of him, too. It's so obvious, he doesn't know why he didn't think– not that Aimery bears much physical resemblance, but Jack has his habits, his preferences, that instinctive tendency to zero in on certain qualities in a person and respond in a certain way. It's the same pattern. He sees someone out of their element and he has to charm them, seduce them, build up their hopes and dominate their attention – and be able to cut them down to nothing again when he's done. Just like Joseph. It's just like Joseph.

He feels sick. "I'm fine."

That warning bark was enough to make Aimery hold up his hands and take another step back, his calves bumping into the bed and stopping further retreat. He stared back at Jack, confusion turning to deep concern mixed with fear. Was it him? Had he done something? His first thought was his castration- had he been so fixated on is mouth and hand that he hadn't realized where his other hand had gone- No. No one had had a problem with that so far, and surely if it was that, there would've been more anger than hurt on Jack's face.

Aimery grabbed the edges of his shirt and covered his chest back up in case that was the problem, folding his arms in front of himself almost protectively. Not that Jack could hurt him even if he wanted to. That realization helped, wiping away most of his fear (Aimery could walk away at any time, Jack had no power over and couldn't touch him unless he allowed it) and giving him the courage to ask, albeit hesitantly, "Are you? Did... did I do something wrong?"

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What a night | OPEN

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belated edit cos i realized this tag didn't really... do... anything.

trigger warning: suicide

trigger warning: suicide

trigger warning: suicide

trigger warning: suicide