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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For a brief moment, Irahl considers soundlessly lifting the basket straight up off the table at the last second. Fortunately, he's too stoic for quite that much trolling... also, he imagines the spilled drinks that would follow Vincent grasping around in increased annoyance, and that's not a risk that he's willing to take.

So, Vincent gets his victory fries.

But then this smugness leads to Vincent continuing to slander the name of Irahl's culinary creations. He first replies with a dubious hum as if he has any practical idea of what defines a dumpling, before muttering under his breath.

"Didn't know you were so close-minded."

Vincent's completely undeserved smugness is interrupted. He frowns with a potato wedge still sticking out of his mouth.

"Nah, I just know potatoes," he begins to argue, pulling the rest of the fry into his mouth before saying the next logical thing, "They grow under dirt. An' I grew under dirt. Potato expert."

He gestures between himself and... Probably the fries. Is he trying to say he's got some kind of special connection to spud-based foods because of his growing up in an underground society? Yes. And it's dumb, he knows it's stupid, but he's intentionally trying to be absurd in the hopes of getting a chuckle out of all this.

"Once you start addin' stuff that ain't potato it ain't a potato wedge no more."

Okay, that is pretty good. Irahl is disappointed that he hadn't thought to make the comparison himself, honestly. So, Vincent gets his wish and manages to break Irahl's stoicism into a relenting chuckle. He wins this round fair and square.

"Fine. You can have potatoes," he concedes. Vincent can be the potato expert all he wants. He has earned it, apparently.

Meanwhile, Irahl finally notices that his glass of ice has melted considerably, so reaches over to take a drink and then begin carefully maneuvering some of the half-melted cubes into his glass of alcohol... which of course is meant to be served neat, but he has no reservations about blasphemously shoveling ice into it anyway.

He takes this admission as if it was a hard-earned compliment, the pointlessly self-satisfied look returning to his face as Irahl moves his ice from cup to cup. He finally picks all his cards back up and, after feeling his way around his choices again, decides to play something.

"I did kinda like those rice an' protein ones though. Think they'd want the recipe?"

More time passes between idle discussion of food and restaurants and whatever other bullshit comes up between rounds of cards. They're a few more drinks in by the time the early beginnings of a dinner crowd begin arriving, mostly folks who got off work early or plan on meeting other people here later.

The card games paused at some point; Vincent's gotten up and down enough times for drinks and appetizers that he's sort of... Drifted in Irahl's direction over the last couple of hours and is now sitting much closer to him than he'd originally started. He's leaning lazily on the table now, head propped up, feeling delightfully buzzed and completely oblivious to anything other than his friend.

"Man..." He comments, probably not actually related to whatever they'd been talking about before, "Glad you like whatever that drink is. I told 'em to make it spicy but I had no idea if they had anythin' like that here..."

One comment of, "want my secret recipe, you have to play me for it," and they have a framework of banter that can keep them occupied off and on for at least another hour.

By the time that game has come and gone, as well as two baskets of greasy bar food and a few drinks that have alternated between repeats of the spicy mixed cocktail and the hard liquor that he keeps sullying with ice, Irahl's skeleton has lost a significant amount of its integrity. Normally, he slouches forward over his drink when this happens, so the fact that he has instead been leaning back and sliding lower in his seat is actually pretty significant.

He's in a city that could not be farther from what he knows and prefers, and yet Vincent still makes him feel comfortable enough to be lounging so thoroughly.

He's so relaxed that it takes him a buzzed couple of seconds to process the little swerve in the conversation when it happens, and another few to find himself surprised by it.

"Hmm? ...Thought it was just a special?"

"...A special..."

The joke about just getting whatever the special is left Vincent's mind about half a century ago, so it takes him a moment of puzzled silence to realize why Irahl would even think that. But once it clicks, he also realizes he never exactly explained himself either.

While it's nice that talking to Irahl feels effortless, it's just as much of a relief to know they can leave long pauses and thoughtful silences between their words without ruining the conversation. Which is good, because the pauses are only going to get longer the more he drinks.

"Oh, no, this ain't a special. I asked 'em to make somethin' spicy 'cause I know you liked that... That one back in the Boozehole. Y'know. With the gold."

Despite not being used to having a favorite drink to begin with, Irahl is somehow even less used to having someone intentionally remember and order said favorite drink for him.

Such a small thing really shouldn't be a big shock to the system, especially when his brain and body both feel pretty hazy right now, but there is something about it that does in fact strike him in a way that he doesn't expect.

Lucky for him, they're both leaving pauses between their comments already, so this pause doesn't sound any different than his usual ones.

"...Huh."

Vincent is the rare kind of man for whom kindness comes effortlessly and often as a first instinct, so it doesn't really occur to him that something as simple as remembering someone's favorite anything would be a challenging concept. He may have been raised in a shithole, but even a total asshole can remember a drink their friend likes if they're paying attention.

"...Huh?" He responds back in question, confused about Irahl's reaction and half-wondering if he's missed something again.

"Nothing," Irahl says, as the fact that he said anything out loud at all settles in.

Unfortunately, the fact that he says something out loud again is also a mistake. Irahl very rarely ever says 'nothing' out loud, especially if it really is nothing. Anyone who has ever met him knows that he would either idly deflect with sarcasm or just literally say nothing.

So, there's obviously something. He knows, Vincent knows, and he knows that Vincent knows. But the truth is objectively small and pointless, so not worth circling around.

He looks for the most convenient off-ramp.

"Think it has a name, or she made it up on the spot?"

And normally, Vincent might be more inclined to take that off-ramp because doesn't like conflict and it's obvious that Irahl's trying to steer away from it... But he's feeling emboldened by both the alcohol and the fact that they've just had a whole day of being indisputably best friends.

"Nah, hang on..." He stops them, pointing and gesturing in a sort-of-circle, "What's nothin'? Whaddya mean?"

He's not offended; if anything, he seems confused and maybe a little curious about his friend's unusual reaction.

People with eyeballs can see the way that Irahl closes his eyes for a second or two when Vincent applies the brakes instead of following him down this perfectly respectable conversational path. He doesn't sigh, though. Because as he has been saying in his head, it's just a stupid small thing that really isn't worth a reaction--one way or the other.

So, he just... sounds as absolutely ambivalent and casual about the whole thing as he possibly can.

"Nothing," he reiterates. "Didn't know I had a favorite drink."

That's the least-uncomfortable way to answer that he can think of. But the fact that he doesn't just immediately think up a sarcastic answer is probably telling.

Vincent kind of takes this at face value first, filled both with relief and with a certain quiet delight that Irahl's just learned he has a favorite drink. The rest of the implications won't settle in until after he's already started smiling and verbalizing his first and most natural reaction.

"Then congrats, man. Learned somethin' new."

He raises his glass a little in sort-of a 'cheers' gesture before he finishes off the latest of his own drinks.

Irahl is happy to take this win and call it good. What he said was true, after all. So, he lifts his glass to silently return the gesture even if Vincent can't see it, and takes an appreciative sip of what is apparently his favorite drink.

He's hoping that he can settle right back into the buzzed lull that he'd slipped into before, and not think about much aside from whether or not they're going to get another round of greasy bar snacks.

There's a misleadingly comfortable silence that settles over the table as Vincent 'gazes' idly across the bar at nothing, seemingly satisfied with the topic's conclusion.

He's not, really. Something about Irahl's response to this whole thing was just strange enough that it keeps chewing on him, albeit sluggishly. He at least has the context to assume that Irahl must not have had many people in his life who've payed attention to things that he likes, though that thought makes him a little sad.

But stronger than that is his slow-dawning realization that Irahl really didn't realize he liked that drink so much. And then a couple other things suddenly connect and his expression twists into incredulity.

"Wait, wait..." He sets his empty glass down with a punctuating sound, though it's entirely on accident. "S'that why you were confused about the ice thing?"

Misleading indeed. The fact that Irahl blinks and his eyebrows raise a bit says that he's startled when Vincent suddenly reanimates and plunks his glass down.

And it turns out that Vincent is correct on all fronts. Irahl had no idea that he'd liked a drink enough for it to become significantly noticeable to another person, just as he had no idea that he has been fixated on ice cubes every chance he's been able to get them. He knows that he'd abused the luxury of it on the ship, but he hadn't put much thought into it. It had just been a novelty that he hadn't been able to get back home very often. Neither the delight that it brought him nor the fact that others were never quite as enthused had ever registered.

In fact, he had done such a poor job of noticing these little things about himself that it still doesn't click.

"...Ice thing?"

Vincent, now that he's here, has no problems rolling into a better explanation.

"When I got you the ice cup at the beginnin' an' you were all, 'what's this for?' You know?"

He turns his head vaguely in Irahl's direction, but it's mostly so that he can gesture at where the cup is probably still sitting on the table.

"An' I used to bring you ice water all the time? You love ice, dude."

If he'd been sober, he probably would have only replied with another flat, 'huh.'

But, since he's not, he actually comes back with a subtly incredulous, "I do?"

He even straightens up a little and leans forward on his elbows, as if that might wake him up and help him think. He feels like he needs as much brainpower as he can access right now, as several things strike him at once about this.

Firstly, there's disbelief. However, no counterpoint comes to mind, so what Vincent is insisting must be true. Secondly, the fact that Vincent had somehow both noticed and remembered this in the first place is pretty mind-blowing. And finally, the greatest shock of all is realizing that Vincent has apparently been purposefully getting him ice for what seems like this whole time and he'd had no idea.

He just... he has no idea what to do with this. He has never been faced with this kind of long-term... courtesy? Is that what this is? As much as he hadn't known how to recognize it, he knows even less what to do about it now that it has been brought to his attention.

Vincent, again, may have approached this with a little more grace if he wasn't kind of drunk. Instead, he continues forward without quite the caution this probably deserves.

"I think you do. You seem to really like crunchin' 'em, so..."

Irahl seems to like it so much that Vincent eventually started doing it too, from time to time, even though he's not really an ice guy. But it had a bit of novel charm on those days in space when basically anything nice or out-of-the-ordinary was instantly turned into a lifeline.

But, as always with Vincent, self-doubt eventually catches up with him. He lifts his hand and leans back just a little, as if to give the topic just an inch or two of space.

"Unless... I really misread somethin'...?"

See, Irahl might have gotten away with sitting there and covering up any awkwardness with silence, but Vincent goes and doubts himself in a way that requires Irahl to say something. He could continue to sit in silence if he really wanted to, but that would absolutely seem to be confirming Vincent's worry.

So, he speaks up, even though he does sound like he's still figuring things out as words are leaving his mouth. The alcohol is not helping with the lag.

"No, guess you're right... Just never thought about it. Guess it makes sense though."

He pauses then to scratch the back of his head through his braid, which is a very rare sign of hesitancy from him, before continuing.

"So, that's... the cup of ice. Without water. That's why."

"Yeah, yeah yeah..."

If he were talking to Robin, he'd probably never live this down. At the very least, Robin would be so... Needlingly insistent about it, asking questions and trying to get to the heart of it all, or reacting with one of his strange bursts of overexuberance that are cute from a distance but tend to make Irahl feel alien and pinned-down when he's the direct subject.

Vincent isn't like that. He's gentle, as he is with most things. His mood seems to pick up a little as Irahl uses more than one word to reassure him he isn't disastrously off the mark, but he's not here to make a big deal out of it now that they're nearly on the same page.

"Well, now ya' know..." he says with a small laugh, hand going back to his empty glass out of habit, "An' now you know what to order at bars, too."

Yet another moment where Irahl is extremely grateful that Vincent is not literally any other person that he has ever met. There's nothing to bristle against here. He can just... kind of bristle to himself as a phantom reaction to needling that hasn't happened, and no one has to know about it (aside from any patrons who have been keeping tabs on the two giant best friends out of the corner of their eye).

Even without direct awkwardness actually cornering him anywhere, Irahl still sees an out in the form of humor and casually dives for it.

"--Ice," he says with mock-certainty, finishing Vincent's thought. "Got it."

The humor lands perfectly, Vincent laughs. If he's noticed that Irahl was getting awkward about all this, he either hasn't noticed or doesn't care enough to make that fact known.

"Hey, it'd make you a cheap date!" he jokes, lifting his glass and trying to drink out of it. He realizes too late that it's empty and makes a disappointed sound up into the bottom of his glass.

Maybe he should get more. But the area between himself and the bar has been slowly and progressively busier as more people get off work and the happy hour specials hit the menus. He knows it's only a matter of time before one of his trips results in someone's drink getting spilled or someone getting mad at him for one reason or another.

Even though Robin isn't here, Irahl still somehow fears that the guy will wiggle out of the woodwork to hound him at the mere utterance of Vincent's joke. A shiver runs through him.

It's this nameless little pang--plus noticing Vincent's disappointment--that prompts him into the very uncharacteristic thing he says next.

"Want another?"

Irahl never offers to get drinks for other people. He doesn't even get drinks for himself.

However, he likes Vincent, and scooting out of the booth and away from the tail end of the conversation seems appealing right now. It maybe won't seem all that strange to Vincent, with how communal and casually-helpful they'd been living up on the Eclipse, but it might have permanently killed Robin from shock had he witnessed it.

Irahl maybe would have just stood up to go get another round without saying anything, which is more his style, but he does actually need the thing with which to pay for drinks in order to do so.

Vincent remains oblivious to any contextual discomfort caused by his joke, distracted as he is by his lack of drink--and then by Irahl's offer to go up and get one.

"Would'ja?" He asks, only the slightest bit surprised... It could be that he's surprised Irahl would go interact with someone long enough to get a drink, but it'd be more accurate to say he's surprised someone's offering to do something for him at all.

He thinks about it for the couple of seconds his brain needs to decide that thinking is hard and not all that fun right now. He sets his glass down with a grateful smile and pushes it towards his friend.

"Just one more, sure. Same thing I've been havin'. Oh, and--"

Thank the gods he's still functional enough to remember to fish out that diamond-shaped card and hold it out for Irahl.

"If they ask for money, give 'em this. An' just make sure they give it back after."

Irahl wordlessly accepts the mission by taking the card and scooting out of the booth, and away he goes.

He hasn't loomed up to his feet and reentered the world at large for a couple of hours now, so he pauses there like an ominous specter for a few seconds while he waits for his alcohol-laced blood to reach both his legs and his brain in adequate amounts. Vincent is enormous, but he'd bumbled through the space in an at least partially endearing manner. Irahl, on the other hand, moves up to the bar like a contract killer reporting in to receive his bounty.

Without so much as glancing at the other people trying to enjoy themselves, he finds the nearest opening at the bar and silently waits there for the bartender's attention.

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