09.30.3013: The Most Awkward Ever
Summary: Nitrim, Cyrielle, and Ithaca sit down for a drink. The most awkward thing ever. Ever.
Date: 15 September 3013
Related: None
Ithaca Nitrim Cyrielle 

A Volkan dive-bar named "Volkan Alley"
Room description included in set.
September 30, 3013

What kind of bar would Nitrim choose to suggest Ithaca and Cyrielle meet at for the second time? Surely it wouldn't be some white-tableclothed mess of white shirt and black pant waiters and string quartet nonsense. No, Nitrim chooses The Volkan Alley. The local dive bar is empty and sleepy enough during the day to make for private boothed conversations amidst the black-painted, scuffed-up walls and myriad of band posters made faded by the sheer amount of smoke and fog that has been pumped into them during live shows. Gratefully, the semi-circular boots that line the main pit of the place are just as secluded as there are only three local drunks muttering to the handlebar moustached bartender as Nitrim and Ithaca arrive.

Stepping through the door, Nitrim looks to his hand in Ithaca's and gives it a little squeeze, pinching the sides of his clawed rings into her slender fingers on accident as he plucks the cigarette from his lip. "This place smells like it's been bathed in whiskey." He murmurs to her with a laugh as they approach the booth. With his hand in hers, he steps aside and releases her fingers, letting her scoot in first. "Fucking lovely, isn't it?"

Rook returns the squeeze of his hand, grunting slightly at the press of the rings against her fingers. She's wearing a gypsy-esque outfit that has a Rovehn feeling to it: corseted top with length sleeves that alternate between bands of trim and gauzy black material, and a full pleated skirt of reds, oranges, and yellows. Her hair is down, there are large hoop earrings in her ears, and bracelets of a cheap variety match the mishmash of necklaces. "Smells better than the Oubliette," she points out. It might be a step down for his lifestyle, but it's a slight step up for hers. She scoots into the booth first. "Quiet at least. No press," she adds.

Though it was a bit overwhelming, Cyrielle decided to have herself a self-guided tour of the city. Not the touristy sections where one might find museums or other educational fare. Instead she stalked the Infosphere for ideas of places to see and ventured out into them. The time of the planned meeting drew nearer and nearer… but she found herself not rushing to the planned bar. Still, she's not one to be overly late. The Hollolas finally enters, attired in something that -isn't- a skirt for once. She wears fitted trousers that appear supple enough to be leather or a fascimile thereof. Under a bodice she wears a loose blouse. It's all in warm, earthen tones. Her hair is tied into a loose braid that drapes over her shoulder. All in all, she may very well stand out simply because of the very Arborenin nature of her outfit. She's a bit twitchy as she enters, fingertips tapping against her leg as she seeks out Nitrim and Rook. It doesn't take long before she finds them, stepping over. The limp is still faintly evident, but she moves quickly. With purpose.

"The press right now can fuck themselves." Nitrim replies as he shimmies into the booth beside Rook and plants his heavy boots on the brass-painted (because the Alley wouldn't afford anything more than wood-colored brass) rung beneath the table and shrugs his coat off. Leaving the garment in a pooled wedge behind his back, he slips a cigarette case down before the two of them. "And this place is discreet and if anyone with a microphone gets through that door the bartender will be over the bar with a club." Nitrim points out with a smirk. At the sight of Cyrielle, he nods his head upwards to her and raises a tattooed arm to get her attention, motioning her over to the booth. "There she is - Cyrielle?" He greets her as she arrives, letting her pick where she sits, which side or the other. "I hope you guys don't mind me crashing your drink. I needed to get out. How'd your inspection go of the city?"

Rook watches Cyrielle make her way towards them, sizing her up perhaps, or just trying to see the woman as Nitrim does. She offers a small smile and a nod in greeting, drawing a cigarette out of the case and lighting it with a brief flash of white eyes and a flame from her palm.

Dark brown eyes are slightly wide, limned with darkness. Not of makeup, but borne of sleeplessness. Cyrielle stares at the booth a moment, biting at her lip. She slides in across from the other two: "I feel on the spot." Her words come out in a murmur- more to herself, perhaps, than the room at large. Once Rook is done with the cigarette case, the Hollolas reaches for it as well. Her movements are marginally spastic, yet very guided and precise. Like the other woman, her eyes slide to whiteness as flames flicker from her fingertips. She takes a moment to light the thing, turning it to ensure it's evenly lit. "It's…" She frowns slightly, "I'm not yet sure how I'd describe it. It's different."

"Oh don't Nitrim replies, flashing a broad smile over to Cyrielle as he leans out to nudge her shoulder. See? Nitrim's not sweating it. He's sweating not having shots, though, which he signals by waving to the bartender. There's not a wide variety of liquor, so as Nitrim pinches his fingers together in the width of a shotglass, the bartender knows just what to do. Bottle. Shots. Tray. It's an easy dance that is quickly delivered, and the bartender scoots to get the hell away so that he can go back to talking pit-fighting bets with the locals.

Glancing to the two of them, Nitrim picks out a cigarette for himself, and with a flash of white eyes, he lights the tip of it and waves the unspent ash away from his fingertips as he reaches out for his shot. A flake of ash lands in the shotglass, prompting a frown from the man while he digs the black stain out with a fingernail. "Ithaca, Cyrielle wants to get some shots at the boneyards, so I told her I'd take her out there." Nitrim offers to the hacker to his right. "I say this, of course, because I'm suddenly feeling awkward, like I should slip the fuck away because I might be about to be talked about as if I'm not here."

Taking the shot, he holds it out for the three to tap together. "After the drink, we talk. Fair?"

"Boneyards?" Rook asks, unfamiliar with the term. She takes her glass and lifts it to clink lightly to the others. "What's that?" She tips back the shot, smacking her lips and setting the shotglass back down on the table with a little clunk. She takes a drag off her cigarette, blowing the smoke away from the others.

Tap, tap, tap. Cyrielle's knee bounces lightly under the table, boot etching out a staccato upon the beaten and battered floor. She casts a somewhat baleful glance at Nitrim when he shoves her shoulder. She looks back down to the cigarette between her fingers, turning it slowly. There's a sidelong glance to the bartender as the shots are brought and she offers a brief little jerk of her head in acknowledgement. Taking her own glass, she lifts it to tap against the other two. "I think everyone feels awkward," she says, voice edging upwards in tone at the end. Less questioning and more on the verge of hysterical. "I'm not sure what the boneyards are either… yet." Glass is lifted, contents eyed, and she knocks it back in a fell swoop before setting the small vessel before her.

The shotglass taps to the top of the table before Nitrim as he swallows down the burning liquor. Eyes lidding closed, his lips part in a wide, wolfish grimmace as he breathes out the fumes, allowing his lungs to take in air that doesn't burn. Minding his lungs as always, however, he slips the cigarette back between his lip. "It's a mecca of bones left behind by the drakes. It's like a museum of the creatures that used to walk the ash." Nitrim replies, looking to Rook with a tilted brow. "It's where I got that section of claw that sits on my bookshelf from." He clarifies, referring to an old piece that he collected likely long ago.

Settling into the awkward, Nitrim reaches out for the bottle to grip it by the neck and turns the mouth of the bottle to his shotglass, filling it once more. Looking up, he scans their faces in an unasked question, and offer to refill. "Ithaca." Nitrim says quietly, eyes shifting between the two of them as if stepping into a pool and not knowing what the temperature is. "Cyrielle told me that she'd like to meet up with you, make friends and throw a few shots back. She thinks that politics are mostly worthless." Nitrim murmurs to Ithaca, then looks over to Cyrielle, curiosity creeping into the corner of his eyes, trying to kick-start the conversation.

Rook shakes her head at the refill. She's still rehabbing from her Red-Eye addiction and too much alcohol just makes her crave the drops at the moment. "Politics?" she asks. "Think people need to change things themselves, not rely on politics."

There's a brief jerk of chin in response to the offer for a refill. Cyrielle pushes her glass nearer, to make the process easier. As a small group enters the bar, she glances over. Watching them a moment, it's clear she's still listening to what's being said. "That's about it," she offers in reply to Rook, looking back to those she shares the booth with. "Most nobles waste the opportunities they have and look down on everyone, rather than remembering that their purpose is to serve…"

Pouring another shot for Cyrielle, Nitrim looks over her shoulder to the group of people arriving and scans their faces, looking for faces he recognizes and people he's recently seen hiding in bushes with a camera in hand. Looking away to the center of the table slowly, he sets the bottle down and remains silent, taking up the shotglass and tilting it back, taking in another snort.

Rook looks to Nitrim. She's not good at the whole conversations thing, and he knows it. Probably why he's here, for moral support. "So," she murmurs. "You two fucked." Yep, reaaally bad at this. Or maybe hoping for a couple spittakes to lighten the mood.

Nitrim doubles over, head lurching towards the table suddenly as the cigarette smoke mixes in with the last of his shot, coughing in loud, half-laughed hacks as his forearm covers his lips. Jevon Khournas was wise to teach him table manners.

What color Cyrielle has in her features drains. She freezes in her spot for a moment. Soon, however, she's in motion again. The shot is drained and she's rising from her seat. "I… I need a moment. I'll be back." And she's shuffling away for whatever serves as the lady's room here.

Rook looks utterly amused as she THUMPS Nitrim on the back hard to stop his coughing. "That was fun," she quips. She looks after Cyrielle. "Gonna do that everytime? How bad were you?" she asks jokingly.

Recollecting his lungs, Nitrim's red-face from oxygen deprivation, a choked cough BLARTS out of his lungs as he's slapped on the back. Eyes wide, he holds his cigarette out and rubs at his throat, eyes watering from the whole ordeal. He looks to Cyrielle limping away and slips an arm around Rook's shoulders. "She was great. She's a fucking cool girl, Ithaca." He smirks to Rook and gives a sharp uptick of his head to Cyrielle, eyes focusing as he has a moment of understanding as to what Cyrielle is off to do. His toe taps against the pillar in the center of the booth. "I swear to Six, you two, you don't want me chiseling out an ice breaker. We all need to loosen up, everything is fine."

Rook shrugs. "You have things in common. Not sure if I do," she admits, a little sheepishly, as she rubs at the back of her neck under the fall of her hair and chews on her lower lip.

It's a small wash closet, but that's enough. Cyrielle returns a few moments later. Her eyes are moving this way and that as she makes her way back to the booth. Though there's still a faint limp, she's moving at a quicker pace. As if ignoring it… or capable of ignoring it. She slides back into the booth, landing hard on the seat. "Yes, we fucked. Since you're not setting me on fire or electrocuting me, I'd guess it's okay. For now." Swallowing, she glances to Nitrim. Reaching for the bottle, she pours herself another shot. The other two glasses are filled also. They can opt to drink or not, but she's not going to be the only one with liquor before her. She looks to the glass, turns it half an angle. With a brush of her thumb, she smears away some condensation on the table's surface. "Maybe we can…" she lifts the glass, "can…" With her other hand, a cloth is grabbed and she scrubs at the water spot. "can exchange notes sometime."

Shot downed. Finally. But she's not done working on that spot, blending out the edges to smooth it into the table's surface.

Nitrim reaches for his shotglass, his eyes glancing over to Rook as Cyri suggests the two of them sharing notes. His eyes lid and his lips flail into a little laugh as he brings the shotglass to his lips. "You know, for the reasonable price of forty dollars to Black Diamond Press you guys won't have to share notes, allegedly." Nitrim murmurs sarcastically against the shotglass before he flips his head back, taking another one for the night's tally. Holding the rest of the smoke in his lungs, he exhales a small cloud over the shotglass as he sets it down once more. "I know this is ridiculously out of taste here but I don't know how to have this conversation when I'm not naked, you guys." He looks up and his head swivels between the two of them. "How about you guys head back to the Spyre with me, I'll strip down, and you guys take turns TK-throwing oranges at my shins?" He tries to get a laugh. TRIES…

That gets a little snort of a laugh out of Ithaca, and she turns the glass in her hand a few times without drinking. She glances across the table at Cyrielle, then back at Nitrim. "So, do we set ground rules or something?" she asks helplessly, looking very out of her element.

"No oranges in the balls or the nose. I don't want that broken-nose thing," Nitrim breathes out, pointing to the bridge of his nose. "You've seen that actor with that little diamond-shaped thing on the bridge of his no-yeah fuck that noise."

"Surprised that you've not broken your nose before," Cyrielle murmurs, frowning at the surface of the table. Her foot still taps below. At least the tables are at such a height that she can't jiggle the table itself. "I think it's a required rite of passage in The Beacon for men." Her jaw grits slightly and she reaches for the tray, moving it to sit over the spot she was working on. "I'm not sure I'd have any right placing rules."

"You were supposed to laugh at that, Cyri." Nitrim replies, reaching out for the empty shotglass before him. With a finger to the rim, he spins it and leaves it wobbling along in front of him on the tabletop. Fighting against his desire to drift into awkwardness, he looks between the two of them. "Okay, yes or no answer, the both of you. Two questions." Nitrim offers, tapping the beak of the claw ring to gather a slight bit of attention. "Are we all, at the moment, wishing this wasn't so awkward and really deep inside want the three of us to chill and get along?"

Rook tosses back that second shot as the awkward seems to grow. She seems to be deferring to Nitrim to do the talking in this situation. At his question she nods. "Yes."

Cyrielle's hand snaps out fairly quickly to stop Nitrim's glass from spinning. Jaw tenses as she shifts in her seat. She settles the shot glass back into place before looking up at the two across the table from her. As if perhaps suddenly remember that they are there and a question - or two - was just posed. "Yes." Beat. "To both things."

"Now…" Nitrim lowers his voice, hoping to the SIX that the other group that arrived isn't press and doesn't have a directional microphone. He smoothes his hands over the table and settles back, propping a shin over his knee beneath the table. "At the end of the day, who's fucking who means nothing in life, because we're friends, we're willing to care for all three of our well-being, and if this weren't such a weird first all around we'd probably be throwing back shots with Zakk Pryde and getting some tattoos, right?" He looks between their faces, another yes or no question, apparently. "We all serve the same ethics. We're all lost souls."

Rook dips her head a bit, curling her hands around the little shotglass as if for comfort. "Right," she says quietly.

No microphones in sight. At least from Cyrielle's point of view, as one would assume if she saw any recording devices she would alert the other two. It's not as if she wants to become the focus of tabloid attentions. As Nitrim speaks, she shifts. Another shot is poured and downed before the bottle is even replaced. Tap, tap, tap, tap. "One would hope, yes," she says, lifting eyes from the table's surface to study the Khournas lordling for a moment. "It still doesn't quite lessen how bloody odd this all is."

"And do any of us right now want status, who's a lord or who's not to be an issue right now?" Nitrim asks quietly, his blonde brow tilting as he reaches for the bottle and pours another.

Rook shakes her head slightly, as if concerned about answering that question truthfully. Where she's from, asking to be on the level with a noble even in conversation can be bad news.

There's a snort from Cyrielle, who doesn't even look up. What has her attention now? The tray that covers the water spot. She's a bit more spastic than even her usual self on AMP. Usually, she just uses it as an excitable focus and drive for photography or to get through a difficult event. Now… "I'd rather it never be an -issue-."

"-can't believe I'm about to say this." Nitrim murmurs to himself, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath. For a few seconds, his chest rises and falls before he pours each of them a shot. "I didn't think that this would be that awkward but I think Rook doesn't want to act like she wants to be assertive in front of a noble, and Cyri I don't think you want to damage my relationship with Rook because everyone at this table knows my friendships, my relationships, Rook, Cyri, my family, the Ca-" Nitrm stops himself, whoa there whiskey. "-are important to me."

Quickly, Nitrim throws the shot back, as if trying to burn some liquid direction into his veins. "So we have a few options, because I think this is horrible and I know you guys would get along fine. One: I leave you guys with money for a hotel room and food and you guys hang out for the night, just hang, see a show, share photography and horror movies and gods-help-me read that fucking book and laugh about how ridiculous I am." He pauses. "Two: We get stupid drunk until we start talking so that it'll come out that no one's really got a problem with this and you two are just trying to avoid stepping on toes." He reaches for his cigarette in the tray, tapping the ashes away. "Three: We slip back to the Spyre, slip out of our clothes or not, watch a fucking horror movie and laugh about this in the morning." He slows, pausing, asking himself if he really wants to go there. It takes him a drag of his cigarette to decide. "Or Four: We go back and get a really good idea of what the other's not seeing behind the curtain because it's just sex, not a division of ownership."

Leaving those cards on the table, Nitrim brushes a hand over the hairs on the back of his neck and slips out of the booth. Cigarette in hand, he presses a kiss to Ithaca's cheek, then another to Cyrielle's, and then slips the cigarette between his lips. "You guys…this isn't no thing." He murmurs to them, tilting his head in the direction of the men's room. "You guys talk. I'll be back in a few." With that…he slips away to see a man about a horse.

Rook grimaces at a few of his suggestions, and frowns at his back as he leaves. She lets out a long-suffering sigh before she looks back at Cyrielle, sort of, not quite meeting her eyes, hands folded in her lap. "I'm sorry. Not good at this," she admits. "Afraid." She gestures at the woman, then the direction he left. "Don't want to lose him," she says softly. "Don't care if he has sex, it's everything else. Scares me. But will try."

So many words. So many suggestions. Cyrielle goes still - deathly still - and stares at Nitrim for a long moment. Perhaps she's considering smacking him around a bit? Hands go to her hairline, fingers delving into it as she forgets the braid it's tied in. Elbows thump lightly on the table as they support her head when she hunches over. Her voice, when she speaks, is somewhat muffled. "If I tried to … I dunno, claim him just for myself… I'd be a pretty fuckin terrible person." Fingers tangle as she fights to stay focused. "He loves you and cares about you. How shitty would a person have to be to tell someone, 'Hey, I want you to get rid of something important to you.'" She snorts softly.

"Need you to be nice to him. Soliel…" Rook says the name very quietly, nervously, "…was cruel. Mean. Treated him badly. Won't tolerate that. Be kind, and I'll be ok." She swallows. "And his apartments are my space. Not there. Ok?"

"I…" Cyrielle disentangles her fingers from her hair, leaving it a mess. "I wouldn't do anything to him that would knowingly be hurtful." Her voice softens a bit and she draws in a slow breath. The next request leads to parted lips and a furrowed brow. Her initial response dies- either squashed or lost in the distraction of hair gone messy. She starts undoing the braid and smoothing out tangled locks. "Alright."

Rook nods a little, seemingly satisfied with the concession. "Ok then. We're good. In private at least. Dunno what to do about public." She closes her eyes and rubs at her temples, bracing her elbows on the tabletop. She's never been in a relationship before, let alone one with a noble, and she has no idea how this is all supposed to work.

This is territory Cyrielle knows at least. "Public is no big deal…" A pause as she fusses with a slight tangle in her hair. "Well, generally… Public is up to him." Her eyes rise to Rook, considering. "You're his chosen citizen partner.. a Companion. Once the… ah… tabloids tire of him, I'll likely just be seen as… a potential courtship?" She gives a little shrug. "Public is easier I think." A glance towards where the Khournas went and her jaw tenses slightly.

Ithaca dips her head. "Ok. Ok then. I think that's good. Just want him to be happy." She lets out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

"That's all I want for him," Cyrielle says, dropping her hair once satisfied with the results. She pours another drink, downing it. She leans back in her seat, eyes closing as she lets the warmth of the liquor set in.

"He wants us to be friends," Rook says quietly. "I'm bad at that. Lived alone most of my life. Don't know where to start," she admits, grimacing. She gestures at herself. "Didn't talk to people much." That much is evident from the short, terse sentences with a myriad of dropped words. "Didn't leave apartment much." She had the world at her fingertips with her computers.

"Mmm…" There's the liquor, blending with the AMP. Cyrielle's lips curl slightly at the corners. "I'm not good at friends either." She's just a good mirror in noble affairs. "I spent a long time… in the woods with my mentor." She shrugs, sitting up to look towaards the other woman. "I'm not gonna demand or force anything. We could at least try, I suppose."

The door to the restroom opens and Nitrim steps through, wringing his hands made reddened by the stinging water from the tap. Dried, but never too dried due to shitty paper towel technology, he keeps his eyes to the spanse of six feet of floor in front of him as he returns to the table. Opting to not slip back in, he lets them talk and simply watches their conversation unfold. He pours a shot for the road and slugs it back.

Rook nods. "Go somewhere, just us, and try to talk." She glances towards where Nitrim went and looks a bit longingly. "Tomorrow? Meet somewhere." Right now she just wants to go home and curl up in his arms and sleep. This has been a lot for her to take in for one night.

"That's fine," Cyrielle says with a slight nod. "I don't know where… we'll figure it out." She's getting antsy again. Jittery. Getting to her feet, she steps away from the booth. Lips part, but all that ultimately passes them is a light breath of air. Unsure what else to say - or could be said - she just gives a slight nod and starts a path for the door.

Nitrim watches from his perch, and it is in that moment that the man realizes that…this hasn't gone so well. Chewing quietly at his lip, he reaches for his coat and sighs softly to himself, leaving a syrupy, empty shot glass aside. "You're always telling me I overcomplicate things, Rook." He says to her, brushing a hand through his hair as he frowns to Cyrielle's back.

Rook slips out of the booth, and she moves to slip her hand into his. "Always. But will be ok. Will try to be friends." She isn't smiling, and it won't be overnight, but they'll get there. "Take me home, please," she whispers.

Watcing Cyrielle depart, Nitrim frowns and then looks to Rook. He brings the back of her hand to his lips for a kiss, then leans in to press a stolen kiss to the corner of her mouth. Eyes lined with something pathetic, something like a ray of guilt or having crossed-too-far, he squeezes her hand and starts for the door. "Yeah, let's go home." He murmurs to her as he starts to walk. "Just remember she doesn't want to be treated like a noble and…I don't know…"

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License