psychoshenanigans | Nor // AU

Entry tags:

irahl,
robin

Nor // AU

[everyone's pretty thrilled that the two odd-men-out have finally been sent up to the surface for an extended mission. the underground world gets a little peace and quiet, and the boys get to stretch their legs. the sniper is much easier to assuage when there's a sun in the sky and more than cell walls to keep him occupied.

they've found a little bar in which to bide their time; shoved between a smoke shop and a greasy restaurant, it's a prime spot for anyone who wants to kick back after their shitty day job. it's dark, it's noisy. smells kind of like sweat and the cigarettes everyone's smoking just out back. someone is almost always blocking the hallway to the restrooms with their oblivious mass. but the neon signs reflect back through the lines of glasses and bottles pretty nice, and the booze is cheap if you order the right things, and there are enough chatty pricks around to keep Robin from getting bored. Irahl, for the most part, has had the luxury of getting plastered in peace.]

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[he's not going to ask where Robin had expected it to go. instead, he clumsily tries to shrug him back... which absolutely does not work, with how Robin is leveraged against him.]

...Get off.

Is that a request?

[he cackles, letcherously. his weight pitches a little, like he's going to roll off--but Irahl will probably notice pretty fast that he's pressing his lips to the back of his neck instead. unhelpful.]

[the reaction is an automatic one. it's probably a good thing that he doesn't fully realize what's really happening before he reacts.

there's a shiver, sure... but more than that, there is the violent reflex to having a vulnerable, nervy place preyed upon.

one arm snaps around to grab a fistful of Robin's shirt at the shoulder, and he's suddenly twisting down from underneath him at the same time... using Robin's own weight to flip him over the dragon's shoulder and onto the floor.]

[and that's how Robin got drunkenly flipped over someone's shoulder, onto several knocked-over bottles of booze. thankfully, none of them break--though one of them does go rolling a ways across the carpet, and another is still wedged painfully under his ribs.]

Oooow... [writhing, trying to find the carpet with his hands--] Okay... Fine...

[and another sign of Irahl's current level of intoxication--he doesn't say a damn thing. just makes a low grunt of annoyance as he shoves himself up to his feet.

and then he's right back down again, reclaiming his seat on the edge of the bed.

Robin and the bottles can just lay there. he doesn't care. he's going to work on getting his boots off.]

Okay... I kinda deserved that...

[he finally reaches under himself, pulls the bottle of alcohol out from under his back, props himself up on one of his elbows... there he can't help but look very tempting (and somewhat defenseless), almost lounging now that there's not something pointy to lay on. a comment should probably be made about how great his whole torso looks in the shirt he's wearing. he holds out the bottle in Irahl's direction, sloshing it to make it make that liquid sound.]

But c'mon, you're not even a little interested...?

[he plucks the bottle out of Robin's hand and works it open, while leveling a heavy gaze at him--seeming for all the world to be entirely immune to Robin's cutest faces.]

In what.

[short, pointed, accusatory. and he does a good job of sounding entirely sober about it... but he takes the type of pull from the bottle that comes with being too numbed to remember the potency of what you're drinking, and he comes away from it grimacing and trying not to cough.]

[he leans up, pushes himself off the carpet to grab the bottle with his numbing fingers. his words are still miraculously well-formed, but his motions are fucked. a sure sign that he's actually getting drunk and not just pretending under a tipsy veil.

he takes a swig too. holds the bottle out for his friend again, barely clearing his throat.]

In me. [barely a pause.] I like you, Irahl.

[taking the bottle for another drink buys him a moment. helps make it seem like there isn't a pause at all.]

You like a lot of things.

[he mutters it as he returns the bottle, and he doesn't show any signs of wanting it back. instead, he's kicking off his boots and moving further back onto the mattress.

he's done. conversation over. he's going to bed.]

[he gets up. he has another long drink, sets the bottle on the nightstand. it almost glows in an aesthetically interesting way, not that either of them are interested.

he crawls in after him. he doesn't push, but he kneels on the edge of the bed, weight sinking the mattress. his back is straight. his posture's inviting. challenging, almost.]

I like you.

[his head lilts lazily around as he keeps balance. he's obviously past the part of good judgement, but his neck and his collar look so pretty...]

They don't have to know. I won't tell them. [his gaze drops, he looks distracted, laughing a little to himself.] You won't tell them...

[he doesn't exactly want to turn his back and leave himself vulnerable, but he can't keep facing him like this. eye-contact is inviting disaster.

so, he finds what serves as his side of the bed and fits himself on it very purposefully, hoping that Robin has more than enough room to himself. he rolls away enough to not be looking at him anymore. though, maybe he should just sleep on the floor instead. he's considering it.]

Go to sleep.

[and he tries to sound as final and disinterested as he can while swimming on a sea of chemicals.]

[he makes a sound of disappointment, but he doesn't let it sit for long. of course he doesn't just give up and lie down. he crawls over to Irahl, dropping down as "behind" him as he can manage and craning his neck forward to kiss and chew at his ear.

just like his nothing. his face is numb. Irahl is almost warm. the mattress isn't comfortable, but his nerves are too soaked to know the difference.]

[Robin has spent enough time around the monsters to know the sounds, and usually Irahl doesn't speak the language. he sticks tight to his human habits, walking as far on the other side of the line as he can get.

but he's drunk and antagonized, and Robin is trying very hard to push every one of his buttons.

the rumble in his chest--low and sharp--isn't a purr. it's unmistakeably a growl of warning. ...but it isn't a human sound, and that is saying something.]

[yeah, he knows the sound. he's had to do this drunk, high--he's been with enough of them to feel that pang, that warning strike, even through the midst of his intoxicated haze. he edges off. he drops into submission behind him. but, unlike the other times, he takes this one personally.

he sounds... mad? upset? it's hard to tell, with the alcohol in the way.]

Why? Why won't you let me? Am I not good enough for you?

[now it tilts dangerously towards upset. Robin's weight curls a little, tensing.]

Don't you like me?

[the growl turns into a groan, then turns into a sigh, and then he just shuts up. It's not like Robin is going to give up and go somewhere else, and he isn't just going lay there and magically get better. he knows. the only place that Robin usually goes from here is worse.

so... he tries to roll over as carefully and unobtrusively as he can, but the whole bed still jostles. he's unwieldy in tight spaces to begin with, even without the alcohol, so Robin is lucky that he doesn't get elbowed in the side of the head.

he's on his side when he settles, facing Robin--and it takes a minute more for his head to stop swimming enough for him to notice that he's much closer and looming over more than he'd like to be. so, once that gets through, he scoots back a little for a bit more space.]

All the gods... You take everything so fucking personally.

[it's mumbled. probably the closest Irahl gets to slurring.]

...I don't like anyone.

[he does. he looks up at him with this petulant look on his face, but it eases the longer he gets to see his eyes... he's hardly noticed the jostling. he's off in another world.]

I just want to do something nice...

'Nice.'

[and he moves his eyes just enough to break the direct contact. they're too close for that.]

Funny word for it.

It is nice, okay.

[his insistence is slurred and firm all at once... but he softens, of course, because he's too full of buzzing to stay sharp or mean for very long.]

It feels good. Being liked, like... that...

[he moves his hand, drunkenly tiptoeing his fingers at Irahls' scarf. fingertips grazing, mostly useless, to try and scoot it down, away from his face.]

[it gives him something else to look at, anyway. he rolls his gaze down to watch Robin drunkenly pick at his scarf. and then he closes one eye, because it's so close to his face, and focusing is extra difficult right now.

and he must be busy with something in his head, because it takes him a while before he finally says something else. when he does, it's just a low rumble--barely words, and barely related.]

...You're so weird.

[Robin is already entranced with the folds of his scarf, the shadows, the edges. he picks at it enough that he--completely by accident--brushes the tips of his fingers against Irahl's lips. they curl away when they do, sluggishly.

he stops what he's doing, coming up out of his daze.]

Huh?

I said, you're weird.

[they're at least formed as proper words now, though there isn't a whole lot of weight behind them. he's been laying down long enough to forget about most of his body. not sleepy, but settled. almost comfortable.

there's something calming about watching else's mind drift and wander like that, he has to admit.]

[he brushes his fingers along his face again. by the side of his mouth. he still feels bad, but it's getting lost--and finally registering what Irahl says makes him giggle, sluggishly.

he can feel himself getting drunker, laying down. maybe his blood's finally given up.]

You're pretty weird too...

[and it's probably that comment that alerts him to the fact that Robin is touching his face, since his own nerves aren't relaying the message very well. it's a slow-motion flinch that he pulls away with. he doesn't have much room, so he mostly just pulls his chin up, nudging away from Robin's fingers.]

I know.

[at least the crisis is over. he still wants to do anything with Irahl, desperately--but he's already got him closer than he's ever been. their knees have been touching for a while. he has beautiful eyes. he's drunk and slow and soaking in the kind of quiet attention he'd normally kill for.

he can see his throat scales, now, peeking up from the edge of his scarf. Robin goes back to picking pointlessly at the fabric, quietly marveling.]

You're just... [he doesn't know how to say it, but that doesn't stop his drunk brain from picking whatever word makes it to his tongue first.] ...Beautiful. And you're stupid and funny and I want you to just... Have me however it makes you happy.

[he drops his hand. that was probably incomprehensible. he's already forgetting what he said.]

No one does that around here, you know? No one's happy. I hate it.

[something, somewhere in all of that, hurts. it's a small, dull, faraway pang, but it's enough to be felt.

and then Irahl lifts his arm and stretches it out in Robin's direction. clumsy and seeking.

but it goes over him, bumping past his shoulder so he can reach for something behind him. and when it finally comes reeling back in, it's pulling a pillow along with it.

Irahl doesn't let go of it onto it until it's dragged over--and then squarely onto--Robin's face.

he doesn't shove it down to smother him or anything dramatic like that. there's just the numbed weight of his hand holding it in place. like it could really just stupidly cover up everything Robin had been saying.]

...You talk too much.

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