agoge | FROM: @APPLEDIE

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

[ 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.) ]

[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.

[ 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. ]

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.

Edited 2018-04-28 21:39 (UTC)

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.

[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?

[ William's glass sits neglected in his hand as he watches John dispatch his own drink. There's something mechanical in the way he lets it thunk to the table and reaches for the bottle—more mechanical than any host in the park. He wonders what's more of a mercy: stopping him or letting him keep going. ] She's your friend too, isn't she? [ Soft, inquiring. He doesn't know where they stand, where they stood.

He tries to imagine what Dolores sees when she looks at him. ] Are you sure you want to get into this? [ His impression—and it had only been a brief conversation, on a night that didn't do either of them any favors—was of a man determined not to face certain things. Always looking askance.

This is his last out. ]

[John takes a moment to chew on William's words. Though he's tired, the corners of his mouth turn in the beginnings of a smile fueled by fondness, never quite reaching the full expression.]

I suppose I would call Dolores a friend.

[Hm. It's not something he's thought about or contextualized in that way. What an inconvenient fate for someone to have.

It doesn't take long to consider the question. John does tend to run when things get difficult, when the spotlight of personal introspection shines too brightly. Fuck it. He's in the state of mind where the questions won't leave on their own. It's either scratch them away now and leave your own scar or allow the clawing of unbidden thoughts tear apart the mind from the inside out.]

I'm already this far aren't I? We can talk. [He turns the glass in his hand, rotating the wrist and watching the liquid slowly swirl against the edges.] Let's see what I remember in the morning.

Miriam. [ He corrects immediately—while his voice doesn't change in pitch or volume, something hard shows through. William holds John's gaze.

It's unlikely—as unlikely as it's going to get, anyway—someone's listening at the keyhole to their soon-to-be-slurred conversation, but this is one of the few things he knows he can do to protect her. And names travel, and time is more mutable than before, and it's not just the Regency who'd be interested in her whereabouts.

He shifts in his seat, exhales as John talks about tomorrow. ] Yeah. [ So there it is: another out. Come morning, the other man will pick and choose his truths. William regards him with an emotion that doesn't quite resolve—something between concern and distaste. ]

She's different. [ It's only half a word in his mouth, half a tremble. He smiles crookedly into his glass, then takes a drink. ] You know people—you know how you'll tell them something, and they say they understand but it's really an excuse to...talk about themselves? [ A shrug, careless. ] We all do it.

[ William seems to drift a moment, off somewhere. When his eyes return to John's, however, they're intent. ] Not her. She wants to understand.

[That hardened look is the first interesting thing from William that John has seen. He holds the gaze without flinching, looking to William with a newfound curiosity.]

You're right on both accounts. I wouldn't have pieced it together in quite that way, but now that you've articulated it I see what you mean. Miriam [He's careful to catch himself this time] digs deeply in a way I haven't seen from anyone else.

[He takes another drink, this time more slowly, thoughtful. William's sentiments that go far beyond fondness shine through with no mistake of intention.]

Which stands to reason that death is not only a subject fully on the table, but one begging to be explored. Has she asked you the same thing?

Edited 2018-05-08 18:34 (UTC)

[ The intensity in William's gaze doesn't abate, not as John talks about her—though it does change, his eyes lighter, livelier.

Digging wouldn't be his metaphor of choice, either—a task that doesn't allow you to lift your eyes, doesn't allow for a horizon and the promise it holds. ]

No. [ The third time John's returned to the question, like water circling a drain. Hearing it again—and laid out so logically despite whatever toxic cocktail's coursing through the other man's system—William thinks to wonder what it is John does, or did.

But the explanation’s simple. Not unsympathetically: ] Because I don't want to die.

[There it is, the actual answer that William has been sidestepping. In his line of work John is used to evasion, and will pose a question thousands of different ways for an eventual result. Now that the answer has come it's difficult to face. He'd hoped for an insight into Dolores rather than himself, yet in a way it still is. She's perceptive, almost inhumanly so.

It's only now with the final piece in place that John sees William's intent behind his answers. Under a bleary look of understanding John raises his glass in a grim salute toward William before momentum takes it back to his lips.]

There's not much to say about that is it? Not like it's a secret. [Even if not a secret, John wishes it were something he could more easily bury. He drops the glass an inch above the table.] Doesn't mean you don't think about death though, John. [heh] 'Specially in a place like this.

[He's not sure if it's the alcohol or the mental spiraling that makes him want to so doggedly pursue the subject.] Maybe you don't want to die, but you wonder what it would be like, how it would happen. [His movement toward the bottle once again remains mechanical, yet this time almost aggressive in its routine.] What you see.

[ He takes it better than expected—doesn't turn snarling on William for answering the question, doesn't deny it. William half-raises his glass in turn, tipping it toward the other man. For the first time in what feels like a long while, he drinks.

The way John speaks about death, not as an endpoint, a looming long-armed fate, but a series of possibilities—William glimpses, briefly, where he and Dolores might intersect. ] How you'd see. [ What a strange thought to voice. He seems momentarily taken aback by himself, cradles his glass in both hands.

What would it mean, to change your very state of being? How would the world look then? ] Do you want to die, or be [ he takes a breath, regards John with naked curiosity ] reborn?

I've been to hell once. [He waves a hand dismissively, as if anticipating something that doesn't come.] Not metaphorically like far too many people seem to say when they don't understand, but actual hell.

When you're consumed by fire you learn things about yourself, what's important and what you thought was important.

[John remembers his moment of clarity in the midst of torture, when the idea of missions and duty and all that rubbish fell away. What remained were sparks of an idea forming to a plan and a resolve like no other.]

You don't need to die to be reborn, but you do need your own hell. Something to burn away the flesh of what you once were. Strip you of nothing but knowledge and focus.

[One day John will die. And he will deserve his fate. But that doesn't mean he won't attempt to twist the ending while he's still alive.]

It seems to me if you're looking for rebirth you've already found your destruction.

[Maybe it's this place, maybe it's something in William's home. But there are certain curiosities a person doesn't explore unless already an active participant.]

Edited 2018-05-12 13:05 (UTC)

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