nysalogs | . all you have's your axe to grind . closed

[Takasugi doesn't want to hear about 'taste' from a man wearing all white in a city made of earth. But rather than argue his smile widens, and he turns towards the venue the disheveled man had tumbled from.]

Yet here you are. [What does that make Solomon? ~~An idiot. It makes him an idiot.~~

The door is only wide enough for one to pass through, one large step up Takasugi doesn't point out leading into the den. There's a desk at the entrance, where a woman stands in front of papers with rules and bans scrawled across them, yellowed with age. She gives the pair a glance with one eyebrow raised. Neither of them particularly belongs, their dress too foreign, but neither do they match.

She doesn't press it. Takasugi drops a bag if silver on the counter, enough to cover both of their admittance, and keeps walking. It isn't far to an open room, several circles of men crowded around one another playing a tile-based game.

They're all sitting on the floor, though it's more ground than foundation, dirt caked over what might have been finished wood, a hundred years ago.

Takasugi picks out a smaller group, and turns to Solomon. There's no other available seating in sight.] Watch the first game, if you don't know the rules.

It isn't hard to pick up. [Functional his suggestion may be, Takasugi's eyes gleam with something of juvenile victory - petty joy taken in inevitably staining that suit.]

[Here he is, in the flesh, because he has approximately zero friends and nothing to do...the latter being a partial lie. He could always occupy himself with Diva's triflin crap, but he's abstaining from that as often as possible. He's already been forced to retrieve her shoe from mud, listen to her pine for a gay vampire (Not Himself), not to mention the horrendous texts she's been sending him about a nasty furry.]

Indeed.

[Whatever. This isn't half as bad of a decision he's pretending it is. Barring the vicinity and decorum of the place (on the outside, at least), this should be okay. Nevermind that Takasugi's ideas of a good time is: feigning priesthood while chugging lava blood. He steps into the doorway after the cyclops, heeding that goddamn step too. Still trailing him, he won't say anything about the bag of loot or what he's just obliged the pair of them to. This place looks nothing like that temple, thankfully.

His first complaint, however: how's he supposed to memorize a weird tournament of somesort when the involved party seems suspiciously homeless? He's already pouting, pointedly focusing on the walls. He's been brought here on purpose, and not to enjoy a single thing about it.]

When you invited me, I was hoping it would involve something along the lines of when we'd first met.

[A quiet talk over some tea, maybe, rather than sake. Nothing about Takasugi's weird obsession(?) with his stabbyhand, hopefully nothing involving blood for the benefit of both of them. That excited look of his isn't at all contagious.]

Is this what you do for fun?

[Condescending...]

[Diva isn't a particularly cruel mistress, Takasugi thinks - though it's an observation he makes with dampened chagrin. He's seen (in handwave land) how she interacts with Solomon, and he assumes that's the worst of it. Really, she could stand to be more demanding. She is a queen, after all.

But even her most regrettable of subjects deserves a night without her.

In that way, and that way only, perhaps this venture could be considered a luxury.

Like hell.

Takasugi knows enough of the blonde to not expect him to look for a silver lining. As if it might somehow burn him, should he lay his eyes on such a thing.

Someday, perhaps, they'd sit and chat again - though Takasugi isn't functioning under the illusion that Solomon would be a tolerable conversation partner without at least some form of inebriation.

~~Tea in the morning, with a nice meandering conversation, is at least a level 10 relationship tier activity. Solomon is at bitch/10.~~]

Ah, thirsty? [He will, in the very least, make it a point to order some cheap alcohol for them once they're settled. Maybe for the whole group of them, several of the men aren't wearing shirts, bodies sheening with sweat in the Wyver heat.

There's little airflow here, but for an incredibly analogue fan that twirls above, like it could fall on their heads any minutes.]

It is. [He sets up his tiles, plucking quickly from his array to place his ante.] Why?

Want to pick the venue, next time?

[~~wtf kinda rating system is that??? and why is takasugi sharing alcohol with shirtless old men??? this is the worst date ever recorded...~~

On one hand, a drink would fancy this ordeal up. Theoretically make it all a little easier to handle. On the other hand, Takasugi's probably not going to order enough to sway his senses even a little bit and he'd rather not indulge in something that's going to warm him up even further. If someone were to even slightly dial up the heat, it'd be on Sauna Hellfire level.

It doesn't help that he's wearing a jacket, most likely. He thinks to move over to the bar as Takasugi poises himself to indulge in an elaborate game of Dots in a Box...not that it'd improve the quality of airflow, but it may convey a stronger message of disenchantment.]

Because it seems like bullshit.

[Really, he'd sooner expect to find Takasugi roasting skewers of sewer rats or tipping cows in his spare time for laffos. Not chumming it up with Beef Trust and 2007 Jonah Hill.]

Obviously.

[He's still just standing there with his arms crossed. A stiff protest....]

[~~If it was just 0-10 then half his CR wouldn't be on the scale! And what, a bunch of old musky daddies don't get you goin???~~

There's a particular scent that ebbs in and out, distributed by the rickety fan above. Body odor, mostly, but there's something sweet on the fringe - a special brew of wine offered by the bar. It isn't found anywhere else.

Takasugi hasn't asked what's in it. The taste is smooth, and the effects are surprisingly strong for such a dulcet flavor.] All gambling is bullshit.

[He's still smiling, looking up at that silent petulant stance like it's exactly what he'd wanted to see.

The turn passes around, and he plays his first set without glancing at the tiles. Instead he raises a hand, beacons to the woman behind the bar to bring them drinks. She delivers promptly, an unremarkable brown bottle delivered with two cups.

He pours them both full, though if Solomon wants his, he'll need to sit.] When you choose, the drinks will be on you. [Go ahead. Pick somewhere with clean walls and plush seats. Pay for it with hundreds of silver sunk into mediocre mead that leaves a head aching more than buzzing.]

[~~HE DRESSES LIKE HE'S GOING TO A BAPTISM FOR MISSIONS IN THE WOODS OF COURSE HIS IS A DISGUSTING IDEA...~~

It's disgusting, whatever that smell is. It's like being at Planet Fitness anytime between 5-9pm. He's thoroughly unimpressed -- there isn't a single thing he thinks to say that isn't a complaint, and so he remains mute. Arms crossed. Like a guy who just found out he'd been paying child support for a kid that doesn't belong to him. He'd tasked himself with crossing the border to mingle with ogres, surely Takasugi could've taken him to the equivalent of a McDonalds.

Little does he know how Top Kinky this is for Takasugi.]

Would you come?

[On the other hand, he can't imagine Takasugi willingly venturing into a place that doesn't look like and smell like a former whelping room.

He's still not enticed to roll over; not for the game, not for the alcohol. He's certain if they stay much longer, the smell of week-old human fluids will ingrain itself on their clothing -- not that he hasn't already decided to burn this suit.]

I'm moving back to the door. Feel free to join me after you've finished your...

[Uh.]

Mahjong tournament.

[All Takasugi offers is a shrug.

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't. Vague as his answer is, there's little else to do but acquiesce to the man's invitation. Somehow, he's managed to be more than an acquaintance, though Takasugi hardly enjoys his company. Solomon is nothing but a blemish on an otherwise picturesque scene, like piss in the snow.

Takasugi's never given the pristine a second glance.

Except to break it down. Wherever Solomon inevitably invites him to, he'll endeavor to make it a worse experience than ~~dont wake the sweaty daddy~~ their sojourn into this musky gambling parlor.]

Aa. [He turns away, getting back to his 'mahjong' with a sip from his drink. The second cup he offers to the man at his left (the man who plays before him).

Almost an hour passes before he joins Solomon at the door, his smile just as placid as the one he'd worn when they'd entered.] If I was running this place, I'd have kicked you out by now.

[Solomon is the Rooms Worst Cheerleader. Throughout Takasugi's tournament, he's only offering a few disinterested glances -- checking in from afar, making sure he hasn't passed out or vomited on the game. It isn't as though he spends his whole time idle by the door; he finds a char eventually, orders a couple of drinks that are only slightly below standard. The bartender even proves to be sociable for Wyver trash.

It feels like far longer than an hour, but Takasugi approaches him sooner than that. He offers him a look of feigned unexpectedness. Oh, so you remembered.........]

It's fortunate you aren't, then.

[Says the guy whose wanted nothing but to leave asap.]

Did you finally lose?

[Is it really? Takasugi's smile widens - there's no need to reply to an argument made simply to contradict him. Solomon would rather spend all night surrounded by heavily perspiring, progressively drunker men, than agree with a word he says.

They'd probably be more romantic in their inebriated flirting than Takasugi.

Not that this is a date.

The only advances made here are on one another's patience.

Takasugi slides into the chair at Solomon's side, sliding silver to the bartender to purchase another bottle of the drink he'd shared among his circle of derelicts. He settles, leaning head propped in hand near enough to the other man for the fabric of their sleeves to brush.

His breath only smells a little bit like alcohol.] Aa. After I ended up betting all we had.

But I think your suit will look good on him- [He nods towards the sweatiest of the bunch.] Don't you?

[He won, thank you, but given the situation he'd just conjured, he almost regrets it.]

Edited (hm i guess i should finish all my sentences) 2018-04-27 02:24 (UTC)

You're joking.

[A quick accusation, not at all a question. A demand to undo the past's written somewhere between the vowels. He doesn't even spare the sweaty man a proper look -- nothing past initial clarification. He's had this suit tailored, this is the first time it's seen the light of -- err, seen Wyver's evening glow? He's not prepared to donate it. Not because he can't afford another, but because it's of Takasugi's doing. He didn't consent to this-- And then it occurs to him that the samurai's completely dressed and that if did bet all they'd had, he'd be in a much sorrier state.]

...Aren't you clever.

[The belated, obvious answer to his question: No. No It Would Not.]

What did you win, then? Enough for another bottle of anise mixed with excrement?

[The two worst things to simultaneously ingest. And he was just getting along so well with the tender...]

[Stringing Solomon along for even a second is enough to drink to; Takasugi pours himself and his company glassfuls, a silent toast given to himself to the blonde's gullibility.

Though, had he gotten into dire straights, Takasugi would have absolutely bet Solomon's outfit. ~~And his body too tbh~~]

Aa. Enough to buy you something else, if you hate it.

[A suspiciously kind gesture, really. Takasugi wraps his fingers around the brim of the second glass and lifts it, reaching all up in Solomon's business to put it in front of him. Scooting the drink across the bar about 5 inches would have sufficed but

it wouldn't have been obnoxious enough.] Drink.

To our terrible company. [Mutual derision is the nicest he gets.]

[Suspiciously kind indeed. That's probably the nicest thing Takasugi's said to him yet, punctuated by the odd look he'll be receiving for it.

He must be drunk already.

He'll take the cup that's practically being forced unto him, lest it spill over the seat of his pants.]

To our revolting company...

[He'll sniff it before tasting it. Barely a sip -- he's skeptical of whatever drink Takasugi may offer him, if only because he has questionable taste. In general. It's strong, but not undrinkable. He'll help himself to a second sip before setting it safely atop the bar. His body won't allow him to reach a state of intoxication at an ordinary level, but his taste-buds have limits.]

At least you're aware.

[Of the shit company. They've agreed on something, so he's gotta stretch that convo a bit.]

Heh. [Solomon's included in the conglomerate of 'awful company' Takasugi drinks to. And he assumes he's included in Solomon's toast, as well. They'll drink their disgust as a pair.

Solomon can balk at the taste of the liquor, and Takasugi at the essence of his companion.

What happens when they're both inebriated? If, indeed, this creature at his side can even get drunk, though Takasugi would like to think Solomon doesn't lead such a gloomy life, stuck a normal idiot, instead of sometimes a drunken one.

Takasugi, at least, feels warmer. Not a pleasant sensation, in a poorly ventilated den - sweat begins to prick his hairline, clumping in the already greasy strands.

He straightens, shrugs; his yukata shifts, dipping open to his navel and barely hanging from his shoulders.

Were it not for the humidity, maybe he would lean closer, an effort to share some of that heat... and to give Solomon the gift of something to complain about. But he's not drunk enough for sticky skin against sticky skin.

Another glass poured for himself, it is.] Want to drink until you can enjoy it?

[Solomon can infer that if Takasugi isn't intoxicated at the moment -- or even slightly tipsy, that ought to change in a moment. Cues for another adaptation of fun linger between them -- emanate from Takasugi, really. He's sliding out of his yukata, talking suggestively enough for his gay ass brain to fill in the blanks according to his line of thought.

A scoff provides a fleeting placeholder.]

Do you think that's possible?

[Not to be a stick in the mud, but he has to maintain his position in being as antagonistic as possible without making an enemy out of Takasugi. Strangely enough, abrasive conversations notwithstanding, the man to his side is one of the few people occupying this bizarre planet who really understand him.

Even though they've only scratched the surface.

A finger taps the rim of his glass, pensive. His other hand settles lightly atop the samurai's thigh. There's a grip to be had, but it's all very flimsy.

Don't mind him.......]

[His surroundings haven't blurred - though perhaps the dim light doesn't look so faint anymore - but Takasugi's skull has grown heavy. He rests his chin on his palm, propped against the bar with no illusion of stability.

When he smiles, he nearly laughs, his shoulders folding just slightly.] I think...

[Solomon isn't patient enough to find out.

Warmth on his thigh suggests an entirely different method of enjoying a night out. Takasugi prefers a simple round of gambling followed by drinks in hostile silence, but he isn't opposed to feeling the man's frustrations physically.

Though the grip now is as disappointingly wilting as everything else about the man. Takasugi leans back, allowing whatever it is Solomon would like to do with this newfound position.

He doesn't expect anything to come of it.] ...you should finish your drink.

[But if Solomon does nut up and slide his hand from cloth to flesh, Takasugi will be ready. (To leave. ~~With or without him.~~)]

[That pause is an awfully long one. His head tilts closer to Takasugi's, ignoring how questionable he seems overall. The movement around his hand has him looking over once more, brows slightly furrowed -- contemplative but without concern.]

You have the worst taste in alcohol.

[On one hand, he can continue being monotonous in complaining about Takasugi's tastes in alcohol simply for the sake of doing so. On the other hand, he could down the drink just to get it out of the way. He's exercised both methods before. In the past, the latter's earned a refill.

The former's an awfully boring option, still.

Seeming to favor the material against his fingers rather than his skin, he'll go ahead and single-handedly tip the glass against his lips. He'll ascertain that advice as a challenge for the sake of it all -- the asininity of the evening. Worse has stung his throat and made him feel like upchucking.

When the glass finds a spot atop the counter, it's void of liquid.

And his face is scrunched up distastefully. Tast like NyQuil.]

[Blonde hair, wavy - Takasugi always notices that feature - shifts in the light. Reflects it, the dimness of their accommodations becoming somehow less lively when it inundates the man at his side. Like he's looking at the peaceful sway of a corpse's hair.

Solomon has about as much follow through as a dead body, at least.

Amusing, Takasugi chuckles to himself, an apparent response to Solomon's dismissal of his taste.

Fixing his gaze to watch the man drink, rather than looking only at the light framing him, is laborious, hardly worth it - but Takasugi lifts his glass to his lips as well. They drink together, both cups emptied.

But there's more in the bottle.

Solomon gets that damn refill, Takasugi serving them both the last of his selection.] Do you want to pick something better? [Or does Solomon want to leave - which little act of petulance will he choose?]

[He's impressed at his dexterity in refilling their glasses, though he's probably had enough practice. He'll hold his cup steady throughout, in spite of not really wanting..anymore...of it....]

It's all about booze with you.

[He'll keep his whims subtle, though the jump from leg to waistband shouldn't be so for his victim -- 'victim'. To be fair, it isn't all about booze, hasn't been, but they've shared drinks often enough to gripe about it.

He'll be tugging that fabric a bit looser in the meantime, Takasugi's become sloppy enough between his weird game and now where it's not much of a task.]

Aren't you bored of it?

[It's never been about the alcohol - and Solomon knows that. Or, he doesn't, and he's a bigger idiot than Takasugi had given him credit for. That sort of upheaval leaves a tart taste in Takasugi's mouth (maybe it's the weird liquor tho), and he swallows the last of his drink with lips pressed thin.

Being refreshed in such a dank parlor is impossible, but Takasugi feels something close to that.

Boredom mentioned. Now fix it.

And it seems like Solomon is setting to remind Takasugi why he invites the eyesore anywhere. He feels the rush of air on his stomach - perhaps that's where the pleasant sensation had come from - and slips forward from his seat.

His arms rise to rest on Solomon's shoulders, hips swaying into the man's leg. Too close for a hand to travel between their flushed bodies without being glaringly obvious.

It isn't so much of a protest as it is a challenge. He lets his weight lean into the blonde, his head lulling towards the man's shoulder.] ...it's all boring.

[Woah.

Honesty.]

[At first, he's not sure if Takasugi's object to the whole thing. If so, he's not gonna force it. Nevermind that they're in public, at a bar, and many factors play into countering any sort of controversial touch.

He'll go to take his drink in the second it takes for Takasugi to draw himself close. It isn't consumed; he's readily distracted by that closeness. The once-intrusive hand winds its way around his companion's middle, brows tense with ambivalence.]

Ah.

[For a moment, he thought to offer the drink to Takasugi, but he appears to be all set. It finds a place at that bar once more, and his newly freed hand sinks into the back of his nasty, greasy hair.]

Shall I bring you home?

[Being steadied isn't what Takasugi was after, wrapping himself around Solomon's shoulders. He'd wanted the proximity, the scent of the man cutting through the rankness of the parlor, but not the intimacy. A hand dragging down his chest and deeper means nothing more than their argument (over... what? nothing he can remember) switching courts.

His furrowed brow is obscured by hair mussed across his face.

And he chuckles, shoulders shaking into Solomon's chest.

How the hell would you take him home, idiot? Do you even know where it is-

Takasugi's laugh dies into a hum; he keens his head to the side, tugging against a grip he knows will relent.

Choose your own adventure:

1) Solomon lets go:

2) Solomon doesn't let go:

1) His arms melt away, brushing down Solomon's chest as he disconnects. There's no rush of comfortable, cool air, only a renewed feeling of wetness as the humidity seeps into the widening space between them. Wordlessly, Takasugi turns from the bar and ambles towards the door. Out, and into Wyver's winding streets.

It's a defining characteristic of the city, for every path through it to include enough turns to make any foreigner think they're following the wandering of a lost man. Takasugi knows his way, but he doesn't make it fast. And he never checks to see if Solomon is following.

He won't acknowledge the man until he's opening the door (warped wood, with moss overtaking it) to a small, multi-story hovel. Apartments, in a way, though running water is scant and an actual bedframe is unheard of. He turns, stares.

Gonna come upstairs?

2) The tag ended way up there sorry. Its ur turn now.]

Edited 2018-05-07 23:55 (UTC)

[Gonna have to go with option 2 here since u put so much effort into it...

The joak goes overhead. He is, however, prompt in rising to his feet, shooting that refilled glass a look of burden before it's entirely disregarded. He's sliding off that stool to trail after Takasugi. Whether or not he's capable of taking himself home remains to be seen.

There are several instances where he's fairly certain Takasugi has no clue where he is to begin with and may very well end up face-planting. Most of their march isn't paved, after all. Even so, he doesn't end up having to intervene, though the journey wanes his patience. He's about to give in, lead the leader elsewhere, toward the nearest hotel, but apparently he lives in this grotto before them.

Its appearance has him testing the back of his head for grime. A response he's yet to experience. Very good.]

...You can't be serious.

[Honestly, this is entirely predictable. If Takasugi were to lead him to a sprawling estate, he'd be shocked. This is perfect for him. Perfect as much as unappealing in every way.

It suits him.]

That primitive tavern was more charming than this.

[Let him complain for a lil bit...]

Edited (i keep forgetting to pick an icon) 2018-05-08 02:21 (UTC)

[He's entirely serious, and not gratifying that question with any sort of response. Takasugi leans into the door, a hand resting across wood with gouges deeper than splinters flecked all over its surface. His balance isn't off, but the shade of the indoors is a welcome coolness, even in its muskiness.]

Aa.

It's terrible.

[There's no pride to be taken in stairs made of rejected pieces of firewood, vines knotted over them making for an unsteady climb to his third story abode.

He has a key, but from the way dirt falls from the lock when he wrenches the deadbolt open, there's probably little need for it. One solid gust of wind and the door might fall in.

Inside there's one large room, a wooden table set with several candles the largest piece of furniture. A pair of mismatched chairs accompany it, implying he ever has visitors (he doesn't). The 'kitchen' space is just a counter and a hot plate that looks like it could burn the whole place down.

The rest is sparse, two windowsills deep set enough to sit in, with drapes that bear a rich pattern too fine for the rest of the hovel.

Takasugi passes through all of it, through an open doorway blocked only by another set of drapes. Inside is a futon, several blankets unkempt on it, with a low, one drawer bedside table off kilter near its head.

There's plenty to complain about. Is this heaven for you, Solomon?] Come here- [Wherever Solomon is, maybe stunned into silence by disgust, Takasugi will beckon for him with a lazily raised hand, fingers curling once.]

[Funny enough, Solomon's never been one to make a big deal out of aesthetics. Physically or otherwise. Contrary to his posh behavior, most of his vapid discordance regarding EVERYTHING that has to do with Takasugi is simply because of that; it's related to him. Somewhere along the lines, being contrary to everything he enjoys became normal.

This then becomes a difficult thing to keep up when they've reached an agreement.

He'll hum in response, proceed onward. His quarters are unexpectedly shitty, unfit for even a barn animal. It nearly makes him feel bad. They may've reached the same conclusion, but at the same time, Takasugi probably enjoys living in squalor.

He's abnormal. Perhaps as much as he himself. Maybe even more.

Still following, he'll brush the drapes aside with the back of a hand -- the same one testing his hair for grime. Being formally beckoned is what has him finally hesitating, if only for a beat. While this is the most basic of basic bedrooms, he's aware of where this may lead. Takasugi doesn't come off as someone who requires a bodily comfort to ease into sleep.

And still, he goes.]

This isn't a place for anyone to live.

[A compelling statement. Again, it's hard to score an argument when the host's already agreed. When he's near enough, he'll curl a hand over the back of Takasugi's beckoning finger -- the knuckles of that hand, to be more specific and less awkward. Romantique.]

[If he was truly living in squalor, maybe Takasugi would regard his conditions with more familiarity. Sleeping in a row of bodies, some of which turn to corpses in the night, he'd been calmer. More exhausted, falling dreamless and waking to frantic movement so common the urgency had drained from it; there's life in that existence.

Here, he has nothing more than the way the misty Wyver sun splays over the grime of his windows, painting pictures in shadow that gouges deep into the floorboards. Everything is still, the dusty too heavy to disrupt as he passes through.

Not comfortable.

Not uncomfortable.

Adrift.

Having another share that space with him doesn't imbue him with any purpose, it doesn't make the hovel open up into some quaint dwelling to be shared.

But he isn't bored.

Solomon's complaining sounds suspiciously dulled. If he's on the cusp of sympathy, Takasugi doesn't want it. He'll spit in the face of anything other than inane criticisms, and questions that are on the brink of understanding something.

Teetering on the precipice of knowing each other, but not-

Annoying.

Everything about the bastard is annoying.

There's life in hatred, even the most diluted sort.

Takasugi's arm twitches, instinct to jerk away quelled by alcohol or by a desire he doesn't care to recognize. He curls his grip into the man's, pulling him closer, bringing their linked hands to his lips.

He bites more than he kisses, dragging teeth and lip over knuckles.]

It's good enough for fucking. [Romancé.]

its like mahjong but not, because idk how to play mahjong

its like chess but idk how to play chess so it's checkers

its like shogi but idk how to play so its chess but you dont know that so its checkers

its dont wake daddy

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject