nysalogs | . under starless skies . closed

[At least the bar smells like liquor, instead of sweaty old men. Their company for this particular gambling venture is entirely more pleasant - incidental, of course. With Solomon no longer figuratively wrinkling his nose at the idea of a casual bet, they can almost play at having a pleasant evening.

A charade that doubtlessly won't last long.] Heh. [Too bad, Solomon.]

Loser picks first next time. [He wrenches the complaint into assurance that they'll be here all night, each round feeding into the next.

This game isn't going to last much longer, if the increasingly agitated crowd around them is anything to go by. At least one beer is spilled over the counter, the thick scent of hops erupting in the air.

A final score locks the home team ahead, and time runs out along with Takasugi's drink.] Bad luck-

Now... [He sets his glass down, a certain unnecessary drama about the definitive clink of glass on wood.] I want to hear a poem.

[It's almost indistinguishable, but at least the air's breathable here. He won't spare the place any compliments, however. It's loud, full of drunken idiots....as if to make up for the lack of body odor with something almost equally as revolting.]

That isn't much of punishment. [But choosing first probably won't have any affect on his luck. He knows jack shit, and will continue to know jack shit about this sport game beyond the basics. Solomon's sitting in sobriety for the most part, sipping on his own drink as if compelled to make it last the night, as if it were tortuous to indulge.

It just matters very little, whether he does or doesn't. Were he more comfortable or had something to eat, things would be different.]

..Ah? [There it is, his batsu for having shitty instincts.] What sort of poem would you like to hear?

[It's an interesting request, but his options may be limited.]

[With the game concluded, the patrons begin to gather in clusters. The victors typically take their dare in the form of a free drink, but there are some sadists among the crowd. For 'mood', one of the losers is forced to climb atop the bar and drunkenly serenade the bartender.

As gregarious as the crowd had been, they all fall silent for the off-tune song.

Not ideal atmosphere for poetry - but Takasugi has no idea what to expect of Solomon's artistic capabilities. He's never seen the man engage with anything of the sort, though his pedigree would imply some sort of talent.] Doesn't matter, so long as you're the one who writes it.

Don't go reciting something you learned in primary school. [Coming up with verse on the spot is no easy task - dwarfed in cruelty only by the man on the bar's second verse, crooned drunkenly between gulps of beer.]

I appreciate that you believe that I can recall primary school, let alone a poem I may have learned during it.

[Some drunk asshole sing-screeching atop the bar isn't the worst thing he's ever had to endure during a night of Let's Let Takasugi Pick A Cool Place To Hang Out. It's awful though, jarring, not at all inspiring. His eyes travel to a dingy napkin holder, rise to watch a moth beat itself to death on the overhead light with some sense of envy.

After approximately twenty seconds:]

...Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My chill is deadly,
And so are you.

Orchids are white,
Ghost ones are rare,
Water is greasy,
And so is your hair.

Magnolia grows,
With buds like eggs,
Stems are slender,
And so are your legs.

Sunflowers reach,
Up to the skies,
Clouds are dark,
And so are your eyes.

[Wait a second.]

Eye...ah.

Perhaps I should have chosen a didactic cinquain, maybe a haiku. Are you satisfied, or should I start anew?

[That. That was probably done on purpose. Please tell him to shut the fuck up. Break a glass over his head and slash his throat with it.]

[More than anything else, Takasugi had expected refusal. Solomon would scoff at something so complex, no meaning in a poem won in a gamble of luck. He'd coax one from the man anyway, little effort put into the expulsion of words a victory all the same.

This is far more thrilling of a triumph.

Despite the trite formula the man follows, there's clear thought in it. Compliments mingle with derision, a hint of what they share...

Deadly.

Perhaps, if he stays sober enough to recall the wording, Takasugi will write an improved verse of this... attempt.

One foiled at the end by literary convention. He wouldn't have called attention to the accidental plural, but Solomon has brought his mistake into blaring focus.

Takasugi laughs.] I think I've heard your best. [Mercy, though the corrosive kind.] Want to place another bet?

Or just skip to the dares - I'll let you take a turn. [Please spare us both writing filler content about this game.]

[Solomon scoffs at most of what Takasugi wants, yielding from time to time is fine. Especially if he's asking for something that isn't deliberately awful. It's like a rewards system.

Unintentionally, however, he's twarted himself. His unease over it seems genuine, like volunteering to do drag and having your dress rip on stage. Somewhere about that level.]

Hardly.

[Hmph; he's leaning forward, elbows on the table, cradling his face, sights set on the array of alcohol on display in neat rows.]

Your game's finished, isn't it? [Sideglance. Dares...] You're allowing me to dare you to do something?

[What a goofyass cute game this bitch got tricked into playing.]

[If Solomon wants to maintain his pride, his assertion that he can compose something better than a cliche limerick, Takasugi will hold him to it. Not now, the rebuttal fading into the raucous uproar of laughter at the bar. It'll come up later - like a passive aggressive wife - when Takasugi is feeling particularly petty.

Or, when he wants to be pampered again. Between them, such an act's value is defined by its presence, rather than its content - there's no way he'll be disappointed.]

Aa. Don't waste our time being timid. [He says, but he doesn't expect much boldness from the blonde. Societal decorum, and all that - it's purely because he doesn't think Solomon has the balls for anything caustic that he allows the 'concession'.]

[Embarrassment fades as he's now contemplating reprisal in form of a challenge. He'll take several seconds, seeking the ceiling for guidance, a rusted tip bin, Takasugi himself. He can only think to demand truths -- dares tend to be so very senseless.]

I dare you to stop bringing me to these places.

[Something he could remedy himself, if he'd invite Takasugi to places more often...but spoiler alert: Solomon is boring AF and some part of himself probably enjoys being dragged out (invited, casually) to these blighted spots.

Even so, it's a redundant request.]

Au contraire, I'd like for you to serenade me.

[Without his guitar thing.]

[A redundant request... a joke. Takasugi snorts a laugh; Solomon's complaints have become as amusing as the notion that he'll ever stop bringing the proper man to such dilapidated venues. All in all, he should be thankful for this one.

It smells a lot less like puke than Takasugi's typical choices.]

Oh? [How often he's been implored to sing... Takasugi hasn't kept track, but there's a certain man, asleep in the stars, who would burn with jealousy to know he'd offered this man a song when he'd so flippantly ignored all other urging.

Takasugi isn't so kind as to consider those feelings beyond acknowledgement. A blight Solomon usually suffers himself, when complaining or concerned, but at the moment, it's working out for him.

Sort of.

Not timid, but distant, Takasugi's gaze leaves his companion, turned to nothing in particular - cast down. He'll sing, voice quiet and low, the slow half of this shitty song. A child's melody, with little meaning.

Solomon specified a desire for a love song.

The quality of Takasugi's voice isn't smooth, but he carries the tune well, even if there's a sense to it like listening to something that isn't meant to be heard.]

[He won't press further when prompted; if anything, there's just a nod. Yes, he'd like a song. Anything will do, as long as it's done in earnest -- with effort. He'll lean in slightly, attentive in anticipation. He isn't sure how often it's requested of him to do such a thing, but his confidence isn't anything to be surprised about.

He is, however, much better at singing than he would've thought. The tobacco may've impacted it some, but it isn't at all unpleasant. His eyes close in appeasement, a smile plays at his lips.

As he nears the conclusion -- or what he can infer as a slow end, a hand comes up to smooth some hair behind an ear. Appreciative, admiring. He's happy to sit in silent esteem for the time being. A tender moment within a nasty bar that reeks of fermented ass.]

[As his voice tapers into silence, Takasugi sighs. As if to catch his breath, the controlled measure of inhalation required to carry a tune doesn't suit him. The only moments he can remember focusing on pulling air into his lungs were when his body was numb - from injury or intoxication. There isn't much difference between then and now - his chest feels hollow.

Takasugi's hand drifts for his drink, fingers coiling slowly around the cool glass. Watching it, rather than looking to Solomon for a reaction, he raises the liquor to his mouth and drinks. Like the flavor is worth savoring.

It isn't. And neither is his song. If Solomon truly wants a serenade, Takasugi will oblige with his shamisen. A somber melody plucked string by string.

After a moment of silence, Takasugi returns his attention to his companion. No more dwelling on thoughts of a room empty but for them, heads lulled beneath an old song.] My turn.

This time, I want a truth. [All original rules of this betting are off.] Have you ever enjoyed a kill?

[Lately, more and more, he finds himself having these Disney-esque moments when he suddenly realizes how handsome Takasugi is, usually supplemented by something else. A decidedly kind act, a children's song, the way he finds allure in his monstrous chassis; not once has Takasugi seemed to fear him, and while he may be one of the more violent individuals he's ever met...

Something about opposites attracting. He thinks to reach over and brush the hair from his eyes, but refrains. Too much cheese in one moment can turn unsavory on a dime....]

You should know the answer to that.

[That isn't how this game is played, however, even as it seems Takasugi's pressing on with his own rules.]

I have, just the same as you.

[To lessen the hypocrisy of it all, though he'd passed that decades ago. Solomon's a delusional fuck up.]

[Light and dark they may be, in aesthetics and in the shrouds they wear - too steeped in niceties or too indulgent in filth. But Takasugi wouldn't consider them opposites in the slightest. After all, here's Solomon, indulging in a samurai who smells sharply of liquor, his hair clinging to the angles of his face - and Takasugi allows the verneer of humanity that's thrust upon him.

Different, but more like two sides of the same coin.

The answer Takasugi had assumed - had wanted - confirmed, a smile cuts across his face. Drink still hanging from his hand, fingers tight on the rim, he leans back.] What was it you relished?

The sound of bones cracking? The feeling of ruptured organs? Or the look on their face? Perhaps simply being rid of someone- [He delves for more information like he's reading a grocery list. All while fixing Solomon with a heavier gaze; eyes full of hunger. The way a man looks before he drags someone to bed, already visualizing what they'd look like shuddering under his hands.

Takasugi's ventured to such fantasies, though his are full of blade and viscera, rather than subtle touches and laden breaths.]

[You know all the times Solomon accidentally got horny over minuscule things that shouldn't have left such an impact? He's fairly certain Takasugi's sporting something vulgar as he regales him with those multiple choice options. He'd have quieted him with a finger if he didn't like the sound of it so much.

And then, plainly:]

Having done it is enough.

[Being rid of someone, he wanted to rework his own response. It's a release of sorts -- something he probably doesn't have to embellish on, though Takasugi may enjoy it.

Because he'd enjoy it...

And, while they're at a skeevy bar, he isn't drunk enough to talk at length about murder. Asinine, considering their company. Too embarrassed to elaborate, that sentiment isn't so prominent in reaching over, a hand splaying over the closest thigh as if to quell something in him, inside himself just the same.]

Is that sufficient?

[From an oversized insect, glistening with swamp muck and its own blood to lumps of fur blackened by swarming flies, Takasugi has seen Solomon sow carnage in his path. For all the man's poise, he wouldn't call it graceful - there's something dissonant in the way he indulges.

Perhaps because its beast against beast, the most base exchange.

When he kills humans, it isn't with so much fervor. More like weeding - to be rid of something indeed...

He had wanted to hear more than a simple confirmation; Takasugi shakes his head. They don't have enough time, and Solomon doesn't have the words, to satisfy with exposition alone. It'd take an ill-advised trip into the night, two men indulging in murder simply to see the gleam in the other's eye.

Not a terrible dare idea.

But it's Solomon's turn. Takasugi's hand descends to rest on top of the warmth that's found purchase on his thigh. Fingers lace, an affectionate gesture ill fitting with their conversation.] For now.

Go on.

[He's certain he was insufficient, but the grip curling into his own is enough of a distraction, his words prompt a grin. Takasugi's better at painting gruesome pictures through word and action. Solomon isn't inclined to detail such vulgarities. The act is enough. To know he isn't being judged for it does little to inspire much else.

To him, flexing a thumb over the outer-edge of his hand, offering slips of affection through this exchange is entirely normal. Pleasant.]

Tell me about your biggest regret thus far.

[Bonus points if it doesn't have to do with murder, or lack of. Missed opportunities, so to speak.]

[He'd expected something trite - as shallow in meaning as the brush of their fingers. An exchange of warmth Takasugi no longer feels; his hand's gone cold, and his blood aches in his veins. Eyes that had slipped to nowhere in particular drag to stare into Solomon's; his grip slackens.

He doesn't see a damn thing in those eyes.

In contrast, his own face bears too much. Takasugi can feel the strain of his eyes, wide - angry. His lips twitch, and his Adam's apple rises.

The countenance of a man with many regrets, and one that reigns over them all.] Being weak.

[An honest, if vague answer, delivered in a voice pulled terse so as not to shake.

What inspired truthfulness? He doesn't know, even as the answer slips from his lips. Solomon understands - shares - in his bestial condition, but that's a sign of strength. Not the glaring lack of it that they're both aware of, that they dance around.

It's a damning admission, and he doesn't expect, nor want, comfort.

A hard reset would be better. ~~So about that little murder spree~~]

[There isn't a venue for him to overlook that change in mood. Takasugi's entire demeanor changes, he very nearly feels guilty for bringing it up at all.

Nearly, because it's nice, once in a blue moon, to garner such a specific, contrite, rare response from him. Though it's got absolutely nothing to do with him, it's something to behold. His hand withdraws, not offering any comfort (luckily) beyond a parting graze of his knuckles.

He'll drain what remains of his cup with that very same hand. Prying further isn't a viable option. He can only imagine.]

I see. [Professionally detached, like a psychologist.] A bitter place for our game to end, isn't it?

[The initial flash of heat vanishes, leaving Takasugi with nothing but a chill. From the icy venue itself to the way it feels as if his blood has stopped in his veins, he's sitting over-aware of how frigid everything is.

His hands are too heavy to reach for any more alcohol; the warmth provided by liquor settling in his stomach has turned to a sickening disquiet. Dry lips part, an acidic taste jerking him back to motion.

To swallow the bile that had welled up in his throat.] Who says it's over? [He debates the end of their exchange and rises, circling the table to stand in wait at Solomon's side.] It's my turn - I've got a dare for you.

[With that, his smirk returns, but there's little life to it.

So about that little murder spree.] Come outside.

[For a moment, this whole thing seems like it'll end up in him having to fireman carry his buddy home. Must be nice, etcetc. A natural response would be physicality, even as he may be rejected for it, but Takasugi's up and at his side before long, wanting to prolong their terrible game.]

I haven't even accepted.

[But there's no room for real protest either; he's got that look about him, and in all of his aggravation and grievances -- well, he's not sure when he started favoring Takasugi's feelings.

Without the faintest idea as to what's in store for him, he'll slide off his stool and move in accordance to the man, allowing himself to be lead into this god awful dare quite literally.]

[Lingering just a moment longer than necessary, Takasugi's shoulder brushes Solomon's when he rises. Too brief to feel any warmth, and completely unacknowledged, the contact settles the muscles pulled taut in his throat.

Color returns to his face as he leaves that table - the local itself now steeped in what the blonde had dredged up. It's made a mess of the whole bar, the whole evening, the whole of him.

He sways more than usual as he moves to the door, overwhelmed not by the alcohol but by the lingering pangs of that regret.

The step he takes into the frigid moonlight is careful, deliberate - he's determined to keep his balance. Solomon has put up his quaint, cursory refusal, which means an excuse to stop this game of theirs isn't far off.

Silently, as if he's forgotten about his proposition himself, Takasugi makes his slow procession down the street. When he reaches an alley that links their road to another busy one, he slips into it.

Solomon will find him leaning against the wall, looking up to the sky.]

Find someone out there- [A Shaft™ head tilt towards the street at the opposite end of the corridor.] -and bring them back here.

I'll wait.

And watch you kill them. [He's missing his typical cadence of careless sadism. In it's place - nothing.]

Edited 2018-11-17 00:23 (UTC)

[A soundless departure, far more graceful than his company, willing enough tho their destination has yet been determined. They'll be heading home, he supposes. Their little game can continue anywhere, Takasugi's presumably drunk, so he isn't looking ahead to any one thing.

He also isn't offering aid because. It's Takasugi and he's handling himself well enough...like a cat with a twisted angle, disappearing into a backalley and all. He'll linger at the entrance, follow the strays upward gaze and...

Sigh outright. Solomon's a man of subtleties. This is far from his brand: a main concern.]

You haven't always been such a violent drunk, have you?

[The preamble leading up to this isn't entirely lost on him, but he isn't so eager to cater to something like this just because Takasugi's feeling rough. The guy's violent overall, the query is more of a stalling agent -- politely declining...]

. under starless skies . closed

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this is an emo tag

whys he so gangster