driftfleet | (no subject)

Who: Zhas and whoever wants in on this grumpy trainwreck.
Broadcast: None probably.
Action: All day every day.
When: Forward dated to the dust moon because SOMEONE (me) can't be patient.

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[gunning for the prestigious "first asshole to get irresponsibly drunk as soon as they land" award, there's this guy. he doesn't normally do this kind of thing, but it's been a spectacularly harrowing six months or so. he landed, took one look at this tiny town, and thought, "Nope. Not going to participate."

he has since been working hard to remove himself from the responsibility of being a functioning human being. is this a good idea? of course not. but he has reasons and he has a gnawing evil in his chest, and he'd love for one of them to just shut up for a while.

so, acquaintances will be surprised to find him out in the late evening, dressed up like a normal person and not covered in face paint. his eyes still have kind of a dim orange glow to them, but genetics can't be helped. anyone, friend or stranger, is welcome to find him either:

a. in the process of getting drunk (at the bar, hunched grumpily over his glass of bourbon)
b. getting into a fight (because the other guy... something... doesn't really matter anyway)
c. wandering the town streets (uncoordinated, content, and oblivious to a bad nosebleed)

on the bright side, the ratings he'll get from this will probably pay for his bar tab.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[well, there's blood all over his face. he's forgotten, by this point, but the question still makes him think and try to sort out what she could mean. he turns to look back up the street, in the direction he'd come from.]

Got in a fight.

[but he looks kind of happy(?) about that. is that what she meant?]

I see that.

[And doesn't judge, honestly. She's going to be seeing her own fair share of fun brawl times on this little moon if Cass gets her say, but even as she's shaking her sleeve over her free hand so she can clear some of the blood from his face, that concern isn't really alleviated all that much.]

Were are you... going to, now? Your ship?

[he makes a little noise of discomfort, probably because his face hurts even under all of that buzzing--but he doesn't pull away from being fussed over. if anything, he holds very still for her.]

No, there's stars out... [he points up. stars.] S'was gonna... See them from somewhere empty.

[The hand on his shoulder slips to his neck, angling his head just a little towards the light so she can see what she's doing better. She may need another shirt after this.]

Somewhere empty... [With no lights, maybe. Even here the light from the tiny town drowns the stars out a little, so this makes sense. Sort of. His face is covered in blood and he's very, very drunk, but still wants to see stars more than rest or sleep. Not so much sense there.] The desert is empty. You'll get sandy, though.

[There's got to be some laundry left out somewhere, right? Maybe she can borrow a blanket.]

[he tips into her hand. closes his eyes. it's not what she wanted, but he's not following direction so well right now.]

I don't have my coat so that's... okay. I can look up and... think and stuff.

[sounds nice. so nice... he looks over at her again.] Wanna come? It's better when there's someone... So I don't sink, or get lost.

[She doesn't mind it, really. She's cleaned off most of the blood, so when he leans into her hand that way she can absently stroke his cheek with her thumb without smearing it more.]

I'll stay with you.

[He really wouldn't have even had to ask, not when he's in this state. Someone has to keep an eye on him, and why shouldn't it be her? He'd been managing walking well enough so for now she'll let him do it on his own, but she expects there will eventually be stumbling.]

You drank a lot. [Understatement. But his face is clean now, and she smiles at him.] There. That's much better.

I drank... some.

[all of this feels like a dream to him, and he moves his face away again without really realizing... mostly to feel at his nose, looking down at his fingers and squinting at the bit of red that showed up there. the bleeding has mostly stopped by now, but...]

Oh. [he gets it, now, why she was doing that.] Was it bad...

[Some. Zhas pls.]

There was a lot. Must have been... very good punch.

[She does wish she had been there to keep him from getting punched, but she understands that sometimes people need that. Sometimes hitting and being hit is a thing that helps. It's not necessarily healthy, but there it is.

And now her sleeve has blood on it, so she frowns at it and reaches up to grasp the fabric near her shoulder and rip it down. The seam breaks easily, and now she has a free rag to pass him to stop the trickle of blood left.]

Don't lean head back. It's this way.

[The place she has in mind to look at the stars, she means, and she offers her hand to him to lead the way.]

[he takes the sleeve unquestioningly... but doesn't quite get why he's holding it. and then he takes her hand without thinking it's strange, because he's busy thinking...]

Think he had a robot arm.

[which sounds kind of funny, in his monotone. a moment later there's a tug on her arm as he suddenly pitches forward--tripped over the front of his own heavy boot.

--which makes him laugh. it's such an awkward, clumsy sound coming from him, half sputtered anyway, but he makes it back to his feet in better spirits.]

Maybe I had a lot... Aah. Do you know... Hange, old captain.

Still bleeding, a little. Here.

[Since he didn't figure it out on his own she brings his hand and the rag up to his nose for him, but then they're walking and then he's stumbling and. Well.

She likes the sound of his laugh. She likes the bloom of happiness in him when he laughs, the brightness as she watches him catch his balance. She wouldn't have let him fall completely, not when his body would have told her if he couldn't right himself, but it's probably best not to take chances.

He'll have to excuse the way she pulls his arm over her shoulders, but more likely the fact that she sweeps his legs up off the ground so she can carry him in her arms is the part he'll protest. Boys don't usually enjoy being carried by girls at all, she's learned.]

Hange... yes, we talked. When I... first came here. She was nice.

[things are okay when he figures out he's supposed to be pressing the sleeve to his nose. this, he can do. being scooped off of his feet, on the other hand...

he's tense for a moment, sounds uselessly confused--that arm around her shoulders stays firm, because something in him can't trust that he's not going to get dropped. reminds him of falling and of being thrown, but he never hits the ground.

...but if she gives him a moment, he'll slowly relax again. he's never really been carried by anybody, not that he can remember. maybe his brother's shoulders, when he was tiny, back when he'd beg to be up higher, but...]

...What's... going on?

We're seeing stars.

[And she isn't going to drop him. She carries him easily along the road like this is completely natural, picking a path at random that she assumes will lead them out of town and towards somewhere with less light.]

[...this is very weird. he presses the rag to his face and watches things pass by around her face, and it's kind of sickening. maybe he shouldn't be doing this, but they're moving so fast...]

Ugh... [he clears a little blood out of his throat, and tips his head forward.] ...Hey, I used to think you had to lay down with a nosebleed. I threw up blood once... Wasn't good.

[She makes a face at that, because gross. Vomiting blood is never fun. Or, you know, healthy in any way.]

Throwing up at all... is usually bad. How much drinking... did you do?

[Because now that they're talking about throwing up she's pretty sure he's got some puking in his future with or without a nosebleed adding to his nausea meter.]