psychoshenanigans | GRATIA // PSL

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GRATIA // PSL

So, here's what Irahl knows.

He's alone in a dark, cold cave. He has most, if not all, of his gear. No one is guarding his location. As he heads away from the spot where he came to consciousness, no one tries to stop him, and no one gets in his way. The few people he finds down there seem human, and not about to approach the nearly-seven-foot man that comes stalking out of the lower tunnels. Honestly, everyone here seems a surprised and a little astonished about his... Entire scene.

There is a way up. It's a maze of twisting corridors and confusing passageways, half of which feel too small for him. It's bigger and bigger groups of people, some of which scatter like schools of fish, and some of which have to be pushed through to get anywhere. It's climbing up into streets lit with dingy lights, graffiti-covered hallways, warehouses, weird holes in stone walls that may or may not be windows. It's alarm bells, it's people yelling at each other down the street. It's just an absurd number of stairs. A couple of people make an attempt to stop him somewhere, and it goes poorly for them.

Elsewhere, events are being set in motion where Irahl cannot see. But he's on his way out.

Eventually, more people try to stop him. At the end of another long stretch of Underground city, a group of official-looking folks are putting a real effort into blocking off the obvious exit, and some of them have weapons.

Down a side alley, into another tunnel, and then the space opens up into a... Plaza, of some sort? The floor is made of stone. The buildings surrounding it are made of stone and are hard to distinguish from one another. At at least the ceiling (also made of stone) is a lot higher than before. Cavernous. There's some kind of sculpture in the middle of it, some impressive feat of geometric stonework that gives the illusion of defying gravity despite weighing literal tons.

This is where someone finally catches him. Sounds have been echoing unhelpfully down every passageway, making it hard to tell if people are coming or going - but this series of quick footsteps comes from an upward direction before someone hits the ground about five feet in front of Irahl.

His clothes are different. His hair is better-kept. Maybe if the situation wasn't quite so tense, there'd be time to see the ways in which his face is different, the way his eyes don't have quite as vicious and sharp a gleam as they used to. But whatever Irahl can take in of him, there is Robin, having hopped down from a rooftop to put himself between him and the exit again.

"...Holy shit."

Kind of weird that he looks absolutely shocked to see the person in front of him, though.

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The intent is to focus up and defend his relative state of sobriety. But, the part of his brain capable of that is apparently sitting way in the back while the stupid side takes the wheel.

Between Vincent calling him out and the incredible mental image of baby Seth that has been gifted to him, the chuckling just gets worse. Which doesn't exactly feel great on his torn up organs, but he can't bring himself to care much about that fact beyond distantly noting it.

"...Got called a wastrel..."

By normal-people standards, it's a good round of quiet chuckling. By Irahl standards, it's a giggle-fit.

"See, I don't even know what that means. Dunno where he gets it from..."

He's happy that Irahl's having a good time, even if it is almost surely the drugs doing most of the work. The earlier comment about a baby brother gets glossed over since Vincent isn't even sure Irahl will remember this later. He pops one more fried-something into his mouth before leaning back on his hands on the bed.

"Musta been a crazy fight. But I bet he's grateful, since he didn't fuck you up too bad. He always gets so mad that no one'll humor him..."

"Staked me to the ground with swords..." he says like a vague complaint, maybe as a rebuttal to the accusation that Seth didn't fuck him up too bad.

It isn't really a complaint, though. Sure, it's an expression of the fact that being impaled wasn't fun, but it's also just the first step in a wandering train of thought that goes farther than that. He's thinking about the course of the fight, and about how Seth is going to feel pretty bad tomorrow when he can't heal.

Finally, there's the sound of his hand flopping down onto the blankets next to him in a surprisingly emotive gesture.

"...I have a boss I can stab."

So, Seth isn't the only one who's grateful for the gratuitous violence.

"Eh, that just means he likes you," Vincent says about Irahl being staked to the ground, waving his hand a little. His brother could have done much worse with those swords of his, and he's probably only gotten better at killing people since Vincent last checked in with him.

The expressive gesture, while surprising coming from Irahl, hardly puts him off. He grins back in response.

"Man, that's like a dream come true for you, ain't it? Congrats, man."

The meds must really be doing their thing, because there's a wordless sound of agreement, followed by what sounds suspiciously like a sigh of contentment. Which, if this is true, Irahl isn't currently being consumed by feelings of restlessness and discomfort, and hasn't even hit the pessimistic bracing-for-things-to-go-wrong stage.

He's stuck far from home, hiding to stay safe, full of grievous wounds and painkillers, but he still seems strangely happy.

It's a far cry from how things used to be, even if the drugs are doing a bunch of the work. For a few moments, Vincent can only smile; just thinking of how bad things had been on that ship, and in some ways how much worse they'd been when they were apart... It's hard not to hope that maybe a little of this will last for Irahl even after the painkillers wear off and the glamour of having a boss you can stab has lost its shine.

He's just... Really happy for him. It helps him feel good about being here for him, even if he's still working through what that means for himself.

"Well, man... Glad you had a good day. An' I'm glad you're home."

It's almost a little too much sentiment, so he finds himself going for another box of snacks.

"My day was pretty fuckin' boring by comparison... Though I did have to run from the cops for a minute."

He drops this casually, like it's no big deal... But he does kind of want Irahl to ask about it. He's been feeling pretty stir-crazy the last few hours and it'd be nice to get some of that energy off his chest, even if the guy listening is... Again, extremely high right now.

A nice thing about his nerves being so buffered, is that he doesn't recoil when Vincent gets a little sentimental. Like everything else, it's happening at enough of a distance that he hardly notices it.

When Vincent mentions running from the cops, of course Irahl flops his head over on the pillow he's leaning back against to look over at him.

Normally, he isn't one to be interested in the stories of others, but Vincent has always been an exception to the rule, and... especially right now? As content and grateful and painless as he's feeling, looking over at Vincent makes him feel even more so.

Of course he's ready to settle in and hear what Vincent has to share.

"...Oh?"

He knows that Irahl's turned his head to look at him. He can tell that the direction of his voice has changed. A strange thought almost finds purchase in his mind, but he pushes it away. Some of it's the smell of blood still thick in the room. It's got to be.

He focuses on eating what seem to be little tubes of pickled vegetables in a bread wrap. He didn't actually mean to grab these. It's distracting enough and hard to eat that they'll do perfectly.

"Oh, yeah, well... I mean, yesterday I told my bro I was gonna be bored, so he put me on some guided... Tour? Thing? Pretty sure that motherfucker was prankin' me, so I left, an' the guards got mad 'cause I think I used the wrong exit or somethin' an set off an alarm?"

Hey, he's blind. How is he supposed to tell one fancy exit door from another?

"An' I didn't wanna deal with guys makin' me go back so I just kinda hoofed it. An' then I hid in a restaurant until they gave up."

Irahl listens dutifully, some part of his meandering brain aware of how goddamn comfortable these pillows are. Normally, he has noting but mild disdain for soft, real beds, but it feels amazing at the moment. Having a story to passively listen to isn't bad either.

He might have stayed in this passively-listening state if a couple of amusing thoughts didn't strike him. The first is imagining Vincent 'sneaking' away, then blindly fleeing. The second is imagining the aftermath.

Half of a chuckle loosely jostles him. "...How many people you think thought they saw Seth running from the cops?"

Vincent suddenly becomes a little more animated when Irahl brings this up, pointing at him to emphasize a point.

"No joke, that happened--!" He grins with a sort of chaotic sibling energy that only seems to come out when his twin is involved, "Some guy stopped me and asked if it was my day off an' I was like, 'the fuck're you talkin' about, who are you'--an' he just started stammerin' and left in a hurry? An' it wasn't 'til later I realized he thought I was my fuckin' brother."

He bites into a piece of food with particular emphasis, equally annoyed and delighted by this turn of events, and talks around it.

"Y'know, I bet people'd buy it if I put on a fancy shirt an' slicked my hair back. Spent a little more time in the sun. Carried around five swords at once."

This gets something closer to a real laugh--even if it's still strained--especially when Vincent paints a specific picture of how he would impersonate his brother. The meds are helping the possibilities seem to stretch endlessly before them.

"Would make involuntary sightseeing more entertaining for you." You know, stand there pensively and pretend to gaze at whatever important landmark of the city is being showcased on the tour. "Tell people you're on your monthly alotted recreation time."

It feels a slightly sacrilegious to poke fun at his new boss, but the guy did just poke a bunch of holes into him, so he feels like he can get away with a little.

Vincent laughs. It's a good one.

"Fuck me, you did spend all day with him. Man..."

He trails off, letting the laugh and the surrealness of the situation settle a little. It sure is nice that his best friend and his twin brother are getting along, but he's also glad that Irahl's not so gung-ho about Seth's little group that he can't make fun of the guy for being an absolute stick in the mud. He's been worried from time to time about that, while he's been alone and not occupied with something dumb like low-key running from the cops.

"...Anyway, all that to say, met a nice restaurant owner an' promised her I'd come back an' eat there before we go. An' not just hide from the cops inside."

Edited 2024-11-08 02:32 (UTC)

"Made a friend already..." Irahl trails off wonderingly.

The sound of it is lightly incredulous, because of course Vincent would somehow find a way to make friends while running from the cops, and also dumbfounded because Irahl has no idea how he does it. That talent is so far outside his own suite of skills that it's like some kind of dark magic to him.

Normally, he's better at hiding the fact that he is also impressed by and admires this fact about Vincent, but in this state, that's mixed into his tone somewhere as well.

"Guess we got no choice."

Vincent really likes the way Irahl says that. He likes that Irahl pays attention to him and that he'd find anything about him even remotely admirable. There's a delay before he answers, because the thought he'd had earlier circles back and lets him know with a sudden clarity that he's... Attracted to his friend in a way that's not really a "friend" way. And probably not even a "best friend" way.

It's not so cut-and-dry that everything suddenly falls into place; it's not like a switch flips and now everything is different. And a rush of excuses and other explanations quickly fill its place. It's got to be all the blood, it's been a long day, and... Irahl's clearly not in his right mind. He's not about to-- Not that he'd--

Externally, Vincent looks surprised, starts blushing, and turns his face away.

"Jeez, is it... It's hot in here, I'mma open a window..."

As he slides off the bed to go do exactly that, he realizes that was... Probably the least-convincing delivery in all of human history, and just starts praying that Irahl is too high to notice or remember.

"I was, uh," Quick, stall! Seem normal! "I was gonna take you tonight, but I guess cocktails don't really go with the whole, you know, hole in your liver..."

The good news is, Irahl assumes that Vincent must have caught some of the complimentary nature of his comment, and is just reacting that way because he's embarrassed. The bad news is that he's still feeling just as affectionate and high on a good day and good drugs, which won't make Vincent's life any easier.

So, he chuckles a little, but otherwise doesn't show anything too telling one way or the other.

"Tomorrow. If I wake up on time." Forget the punctured liver part, he's foolishly confident that he'll be well enough tomorrow--if he doesn't sleep past the entire day--to go out for drinks with his friend.

Edited 2024-11-08 04:12 (UTC)

Well, he's not not embarrassed, so Irahl's read of the situation is valid. After fumbling to find the latch, he shoves the window open to let some air in and hopefully dissipate some of the smell he's far-too-ready to blame for the thoughts he just had.

Though Irahl's agreeing to go--maybe even for some kind of breakfast--doesn't do anything to muffle the overwhelming fondness Vincent keeps feeling for him.

"You think you're gonna wake up an' be good to go, huh...?" He asks, finally feeling the color drain from his face enough to risk heading back in the direction of the bed, "I mean, we'll see... But we got plenty of time, that ship don't fly back for another five days. An' that's assumin' my brother ain't got other plans..."

Schedules. Planning. Nice, boring, very hard to accidentally make endearing. This feels like a safer space to play in. Vincent fishes around and picks up a couple of the containers that haven't really been picked through to go put them back in the fridge.

"So you can sleep in tomorrow, is what I'm sayin'. Unless he expects you to show up to more tests with a busted shoulder an' half your blood."

"Whole day off. Doctor's orders," he states matter-of-factly.

Apparently going out for drinks doesn't violate the constant rest order that he had also been given, though. With how he's lying there, covered in clusters of stitches and scattered wounds--both bandaged and unbandaged--he must be feeling artificially confident in his own resiliency.

"Haven't celebrated a new job in ages."

Drugs or not, the fact that Irahl wants to celebrate anything is pretty significant. Even if there's some sarcasm involved, it's a rare sight, and the fact that Vincent has seen it several times between here and space is nothing short of miraculous. Forget the two through-and-through wounds. He feels great. He's ready to party.

Vincent busies himself putting things away, but Irahl can hear him chuckle from behind the refrigerator door.

"Not since you picked up that part-time gig at the bar," he jokes, "Though I don't think this lady'd appreciate me tryin'a make a couch out of her seats."

Ah yes, the craft project from his later days in space that was both ill-fated and only a good idea while he was drunk. He closes the fridge, heads back to the bed, and bravely sits back down on the edge of it now that it seems like Irahl didn't notice (or doesn't care about, or has forgotten) his weird swerve from a second ago.

"D'ya want anythin'? If you wanna be up early, you should probably..." He'd started reaching to feel if Irahl's wearing armor or a blood-soaked shirt he should really get out of, but his fingers brush against... A surprisingly soft and high thread count. He trails off, distractedly pinching at Irahl's shirt.

"The fuck are you wearing?" He asks, confused.

The futile effort of trying to calculate the likelihood of waking up at any time that could be remotely considered 'early' is interrupted with a confusing question. He blearily looks down at Vincent's hand.

"Shirt," he answers with dull confusion. It takes him too many medicated seconds to realize the actual relevance of the question, finally adding on, "Your brother's."

If Irahl feels strangely about any element of this current situation, it is quickly overwritten with a stupid little, 'heh.'

"Think he'll want it back?"

It has not escaped him that Seth had been deeply under the effects of painkillers when he'd first agreed to let him borrow the shirt. And the fact that he himself is currently under the effects of painkillers makes it too easy to be entertained by the mental image of dutifully giving the poor bloodstained thing back the next time he sees him.

Vincent gives the traditional "oh!" when Irahl reveals the shirt's mystery--because yeah, that suddenly makes a lot more sense. And now that it's pointed out, he can smell it. Underneath all the blood stains, this thing's definitely been in Seth's house.

Which is part of what gives him pause when Irahl asks his silly question. Seth's always been very weird about his things. He rubs the fabric between his fingers a little more, as if he could ascertain something about it's quality or condition by doing so. He can't, he's the least qualified person to talk about clothes out of all three of them.

"Depends on his mood," he eventually answers, smirking a little, "Either he'd rather burn it than take it back, or he'll be on your fuckin' case for the rest of your life about it. He'll show up to your funeral and take it off your corpse if he has to."

He's joking, but... He's also not joking, as per usual.

This sort danger is apparently right up Irahl's alley at the moment, judging by the easy little chuckle under his breath. He's probably imagining the hypotheticals, and probably with more violence than what Vincent had described.

"Guess we'll see if he remembers or not."

Then, since Vincent is conveniently right there, it's easy for Irahl to reach up and nudge his arm with the back of his hand.

"Hey. You ever see your brother on heavy painkillers?"

Vincent has "borrowed" a few things from his brother over the course of his lifetime, and that's probably half the reason for Seth's intensity when it comes to his items being returned... But while he thinks they're all funny stories, they can wait.

Irahl nudges his arm, Vincent instinctively reaches back to touch the side of his shoulder... And has to think.

"...No, don't... Think I actually have..." He can imagine it, but not from any particular memory or anything. His smirk starts turning into a grin. "...You did say you kicked his ass."

Vincent's grin is especially contagious right now, and the feedback loop of Irahl bumping his friend's arm and getting a hand on his shoulder in return continues to Irahl settling his hand more solidly on Vincent's arm.

"Stabbed him twice. Once in the back. See if I still have a job tomorrow."

But that's not the important part. What really matters is being able to share with Vincent what his brother and Irahl's new boss is like while stoned on painkillers. He is giving Vincent a gift.

"...He's exactly the same. But with his eyes closed."

Vincent doesn't come off to outsiders as a very touchy-feely guy, but he really is. The impulse has gotten a little stronger since losing the use of his eyes and needing to rely on other senses to understand the space around him, but even before then, Vincent just likes having physical human contact.

So it's very comforting that they're just... Touching each other's arms like this. Doesn't exactly make it easier to ignore the weird thought he'd just had, but it's getting easier for Vincent to just keep assuming something that something is wrong with him and not think about it and that's that.

And the gift helps. What a gift it is. He pauses to picture it--really visualize this in his mind's eye--and soon a little chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh as the idea of his brother stoned out of his gourd becomes a reality for him.

"I just... Soo, I'm sure he's tryin'a keep it cool an' concentrate an' he just fuckin'... Forgot that his eyes were closed..." He shakes his head into his free hand (the one not at Irahl's shoulder), "He's so fuckin' weird!"

Irahl doesn't typically consider the laughter of others particularly contagious, but Vincent is an exception, of course. As the mental image successfully lands and cracks Vincent up, Irahl's soft, aimless chuckling just keeps going even though it sounds like it hurts.

"Thought he was sleeping until he called us wastrels."

The image itself is pretty funny, but the whole rest of the day--maybe beyond--is catching up with him all at once. He has been so careful since arriving in this inexplicable part of the world, a little bit of catharsis goes a long way.

Whether genuinely humorous or the morbid sort of absurd, it's all striking him as a little bit hilarious right now... even if the wincing is getting worse.

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