FROM: @APPLEDIE | @ALL

[thoughtimight]

Hello.

I was told the best way to get the answers to difficult questions is to ask, then listen carefully to the answers that people give you.

Why do some men have an aversion to shaving?

Are they afraid?

Comments

[inconstantly]

there's nothing to feel sorry for

[thoughtimight]

Do you want to die?

[PRIVATE AS SHIT OH MY GOD]

[inconstantly]

[the real answer to that question is just as raw as it is complicated]

why are you asking these things over the network when i just saw you

[thoughtimight]

You wouldn't do something simple that would help you. I don't understand. The only thing I can think of is that you don't care enough to save yourself.

I don't want to die. I don't want the people that I know to die.

You're part of something. That means the choices you make don't just affect you.

[inconstantly]

[How did she put that together so quickly? John wouldn't have put it in quite that way. In fact, he hadn't connected his recent actions with his overall pattern. But it was true. He placed very little value in his own life and often didn't think of any others connected with it. In John's mind the self destructive habits were just that, habits, repeated actions that would eventually drag him down. But that was for himself alone.]

most days i do want to die

i hope that satisfies your fucking curiosity

[And yet he couldn't. Not until the job was done.]

[thoughtimight]

It doesn't.

I don't want you to die.

[inconstantly]

being curious doesn't mean you're entitled to get what you want

[oh irony]

[thoughtimight]

I disagree.

It's a way to find out how to get what you want.

You're implying that I shouldn't be concerned about you dying.

[inconstantly]

i'm saying that you're digging too far into personal business

[thoughtimight]

And you're acting selfishly if you think you wouldn't be missed..

[inconstantly]

and you're acting selfishly for making my life all about you

[thoughtimight]

There's plenty more for me to give mind to.

I still feel sorry for you.

holy shit that icon

[inconstantly]

you knowingly open a wound as personal as someone wanting to die

and have the fucking nerve to act morally superior

my hat's off to you sunshine

@LOUISLAMOUR; private l o l

[omniavincit]

[ Prooooobably a while later: ]

You ok?

[inconstantly]

not in the slightest

hadn't expected you of all people to ask louis

[omniavincit]

I know her. I guess I feel responsible.

Anything I can do? I'm assuming you don't want to talk.

[inconstantly]

knowing someone doesn't make you responsible for them

but i could use a drink if you're offering

[omniavincit]

I could probably have told you what you were in for. [ Good thing there's no tone over text, because he'd sound almost fond. ]

I can do that. Where are you?

[inconstantly]

you would anticipate a person asking another if they wanted to die? that's almost concerningly specific

i'm in my room here which is thankfully larger than those pill box capsules back at base

my location is public, i can let you in

THE FATEFUL MEETING

[omniavincit]

[ Soon enough, there's a knock at John's door (accompanied, if he's listening closely, by a faint clinking of glass). William has a bottle—hastily dusted off, labeled in smeared ink—in one hand, a pair of glasses in the other.

His expression's braced for something—what, he doesn't know. (His face, for the record, is clean shaven.) ]

[inconstantly]

[John stumbles to the door without the caution that he likely should be having in this place, but between earlier conversation and that sound on the other side, he's fairly certain he knows who the visitor is. The door opens to reveal... a person. It's almost the only way to describe someone with an appearance as generally inoffensive as this. But still. It's good to finally attach a face to a "name."]

Louis.

[He gives a tired smile, rough voice matching his demeanor (own face still unshaven). As John steps back to allow his guest space to step inside he gestures toward the room far too opulent for his tastes.]

You can sit wherever you like, so long as I can easily reach your alcohol. I personally enjoy the sofa.

[omniavincit]

[ William smiles at the name, a quick quirk of the lips. ] John, for the purposes of the mission. [ His gaze lingers on the other man—unobtrusive as anything else about him, steady as a hand at your back. Though there's something unsparing in the eyes.

Could be worse, is his assessment. He sets the glasses on the nearest flat surface and starts pouring. ]

I pictured you older. [ Which, under other conditions, could be compliment or insult. Here and now it's just a statement of fact, William's head bowed over the drinks. He passes the first glass to John—the liquid inside's a thick, purplish red.

It's the approximate consistency of blood, an observation William isn't about to voice. ]

[inconstantly]

Well that name's bound to be confusing. [John points a finger to himself to indicate that this is his own name.] But for now you can call me Joe.

[He eyes William as he pours, a steady hand releasing what definitely does not look like wine. But alcohol was promised, so this had to be of some variety. If not, well, it was still an experience and would say far more about this man than his face.]

Are you serving me human sludge, John? [Saying his own name out loud sounds so strange. As William has chosen a table, John flops heavily onto onto of the chairs surrounding it. He takes one of the glasses, lifting it toward his company.]

Cheers.

[He throws the liquid back and holy hell is it even thicker going down than appearances would suggest. It's sour to the tongue and causes an instinctive contraction of the throat on its way down. But the alcohol content is obviously high with a belated kick once the liquid is fully downed.

Perfect.

From under the table John kicks a chair toward William in invitation.]

If you're going to join me you may as well do it all the way. That is, if the company of an old man doesn't rattle you too much.

[omniavincit]

Not at room temperature. [ Is his response to the question of human sludge—dry, without so much as a glance in the other man's direction.

It's still on his mind when he drinks—a beat after John, and not nearly as deep. The taste, fortunately, is achingly sour, not a hint of copper.

He grimaces just the same. ] I was gonna warn you, but you didn't give me a chance. [ William hooks the chair leg with his foot, drags it closer and takes a seat. He has to forcibly relax his posture, starting with his shoulders. Looking expectantly to his drinking partner: ] So.

[inconstantly]

[The thickness of the liquid makes the glass difficult to finish, like eggnog with none of the sweetness or festivities. But this still ranks higher than eggnog.

John swallows, clearing the contents of the first glass now a goal before anything else. It seems the only appropriate way to start this conversation. With that complete the bottom of the glass drops to the table with a hollow thud and John helps himself to another pour.]

That warning would have been better served with your friend. [He points to the side with an open hand to nothing in particular, indicating another time and place. It's not placing blame or holding William responsible. Just a simple statement of preference. A strange liquid that was still assuredly alcohol was far easier to face.] Does she always ask about someone's eventual demise or am I just special?