[Somewhere between two hundred thirty and two hundred thirty-two, the alcohol hit Akira like a truck. He'd clap if he didn't have an iron grip on his bottle of alcohol.]
But to be honest, I lost track after 200~
[Wink! It's not enough to kick Solomon's ass. Akira has to sass him to hell and back too.]
[Oh? Oh?! He knew he could get Solomon laughing with the right combination of bullshit and alcohol, but this? This is so much more than Akira was expecting. This is...]
...Solomon. You're kinda...
[mmmmMMMmmmn. Akira self-censors with the lip of his bottle. He has some semblance of a brain left.]
[It's like a tense spring's been loosened in the form of drunken giggling, Solomon wiping at one of his eyes with his palm as he looks over towards Akira, face colored between how he tries to catch his breath and how many shots he just took in rapid succession.]
I --- ahahah, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--- give me a second...
[It's fine, it's fine?! Akira needs a second to kick his brain back into gear anyway, but like— that's hard when Solomon is looking at him with a face like that. Is he doing this shit on purpose? Is he messing with him again?? His poor heart can't take this.
Akira pulls up his wrist and taps his invisible watch.]
Time's up. Are you doing this on purpose?
[Don't ask Akira what he's accusing Solomon of doing. It's likely he's already forgotten.]
Your face is so... so... [HNNNNNNGH] ...face-y. Stop that.
[His grin is slightly cheeky, like he isn't also tipsy and slowly waiting for the worst of it to drag his inhibitions away. He takes another unwise, uncoordinated swig, tilting his head slightly. It's all smile, and it reaches ear to ear, rapidly unfiltering.]
[He's not drunk, you're drunk!! Why does he feel like he's being accused of a crime here? Cradling his bottle in his arms, Akira turns aside and steals another swig all the while leering at Solomon like he suspects he might snatch his precious booze.]
But you are. You're way drunk. I can tell 'cuz you're actually smiling for real.
[No, Solomon's just messing with him. His face is fine! Just— just to be sure, Akira staggers upright and catches his face in the mirror. Oh. Oh. He's more than just flushed. What greets Akira in the mirror is a goddamn tomato.]
It's not my fault! It's just— ish just...
[What does he do? How does he worm his way out of this. Quickly, deflect!]
You did this. You actually look kinda cute for once. You and your stupid face.
[Akira flops back onto the couch and petulantly turns away from Solomon, face buried in his bent knees. No talk, he angy.]
[Ah gods, he can't.... the laughter just bubbles, everything feels like a joke. The heat's settled over his brain like a thick fog, even as he lets his bottle clatter in an attempt to put his bottle down. Thankfully, it doesn't spill.]
A cute stupid face.
You could call it a cupid face. [heheheheheheheheheheheheheheheheh]
[That laugh takes a whisk to his brain and batters his thoughts it to a slurry, but it's charming, so charming, like the peals of a little bell on a kitten's collar. He's about to accuse Solomon of trying to seduce him and steal his 232 demons when he makes that downright abominable pun.]
Cupid face...?
[What a lame pun. A terrible joke. Akira swears he hears Solomon winding up to laugh at his stupid joke all over again only to realize in horror that he's the one laughing.]
Heh... h-heh...
[Akira clamps his hand hard over his mouth. Laughter seeps out between the gaps of his fingers.]
That's so... that's so...! Not funny at all! Hahaha!
[And so they continued, on and on like this, for the next 45 minutes - flirting and joking and bullying back and forth in increasingly garbled speech until they both blacked out cold on the couch.
The scent of incense hangs heavy in the echoing of glass and the weight of alcohol.]
[Akira awakens, in whatever state of hangover and regret he may find himself.
This isn't where he fell asleep.
The room is dark and cold. The furniture is sparse, with most of it crowding one wall furthest from the door. What small cracks of light spill in come from a tiny latticed window, far above his head.
There are crumpled pictures drawn, letters and numbers practiced in fumbling, immature writing, in a language Akira does not know. Books falling apart at the seams from how often they've been read litter the space.
It's quiet. The outside air smells... strange. Acrid. But the sun is warm, in what bits come through.
Murmurings come, from behind the doors, from beyond the window. You feel fear. You want to curl in tighter. Maybe to look out the window. Carefully. Carefully.
Do not let the voices hear you. Do not let them see you.]
[Imagine Akira's surprise when he wakes to find himself in a space so opposite of the one he'd fallen asleep in. There's no joy in this place, no merriment, no pinecone and patchouli gently wafting through the air. His temples ache, but at least that much was to be expected. The rest is wholly and unnervingly unfamiliar.
This fear, primal and raw, is not his own. Even in an apparent fugue state, Akira recognizes that much. Hide. He needs to hide, but where can he in a confined space like this? Behind what little furniture there is, maybe? Despite himself, despite that creeping fear, Akira chances a glimpse at what lies beyond the window.]
[He'll attempt to stand. Why does the window seem so far away? He doesn't feel any different from normal, but trying to sneak up to the window makes him suddenly aware of how small he is.
He hears the muttering. He hears breathing. Frightened, but forcefully tempered breathing. The haze of the space shows someone else on the bed.
A little boy, hair a shocking white and clothes incredibly plain, staring down into the covers with his knees tightly hugged to his chest. Unaware of Akira, but very aware of the noises, given how anything louder that approaches gets him to try and press himself as close to the wall as possible, in the shadow that is cast over them both from what little light shines in.
He listens. He's frightened. But he listens. He listens.
There's moaning and wailing in the distance. A sound like horses, like passing soldiers. The knocking on distant doors forces a flinch. The acrid scent persists.]
[No matter how tall Akira stands, the window seems no closer. Getting up on the tips of his toes feels so pointless. It's when he turns his eyes off the window that he jolts, realizing he's no longer alone, or... had there been someone with him from the start?
Akira pads over to the boy, his hair a familiar snow white. His chest tightens. His stomach flips. I know this boy. Why does he look so sad?
Akira settles on his knees beside him, dropping into a whisper. His hand finds the boy's shoulder.]
...Hey. What's wrong?
[Quiet, so the passing soldiers don't hear them. Quiet, so his words reach only the one they were intended for.]
[Duh. So says his tone. He can't be more than seven, maybe eight, though he's a scrawny little twig of a boy and very pale.]
It's easy to tell if it's just for the sick ones. If you use your ears real good. 'Cause you can hear the wheels of the carts. They're heavy.
They don't break the doors for those ones, though.
[There's the muffled sound of raising voices above, perhaps from another building. Wood being slammed with forceful hits before a door gives way. A panicking scream, bargaining tones with no clear words, the whinnying of horses.
Solomon glances up towards the window, the same brassy colored eyes that show such intense emotion, bright and vibrant. Like it's a different person entirely that sits before Akira.]
I... I wanna see whose house they broke, when they go. It sounds too close.
[...Hah. Cheeky from a young age, eh? There's little time to dwell on that when the black death is deathening just beyond the window, but if it were that simple, Solomon wouldn't be hiding away in this ramshackle space, would he?
Who else would they be taking away alongside the dead, and for that matter, why? He recognizes that look in Solomon's eyes, bright and deep, and it fills him with dread. The words that follow solidify that fear.]
No, Solomon.
[Even if he weren't a pale slip of a boy, barely old enough to sass him properly, Akira wouldn't want him taking that risk. He's hiding for a reason, isn't he? And what is a child going to do to defend himself if he draws the eye of one of those soldiers?
Akira's hands settle on Solomon's shoulders and hold him firm.]
Don't. You can look after the soldiers leave. I'll go with you, alright?
[Out of this hovel and away to a place free of danger. Dream or no, that's what this boy deserves.]
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[Akira takes a drink just for funsies, or is he mocking Solomon? What do the cocky laughter and shit-eating grin suggest?]
A little lower~ Just a little~
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Two hundred thirty.
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[Solomon was so merciful, and in return, Akira's giving him hell. Is there no justice for the elderly?]
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Down goes another, hard to swallow. Give him a second.]
Two hundred thirty-two.
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[Somewhere between two hundred thirty and two hundred thirty-two, the alcohol hit Akira like a truck. He'd clap if he didn't have an iron grip on his bottle of alcohol.]
But to be honest, I lost track after 200~
[Wink! It's not enough to kick Solomon's ass. Akira has to sass him to hell and back too.]
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He just. Looks at Akira. Looks very, very hard at Akira, from where he is currently nursing his own bottle.
And then he just leans forward, hand against his head as he stumbles into a fit of messy laughter.]
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...Solomon. You're kinda...
[mmmmMMMmmmn. Akira self-censors with the lip of his bottle. He has some semblance of a brain left.]
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I --- ahahah, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--- give me a second...
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Akira pulls up his wrist and taps his invisible watch.]
Time's up. Are you doing this on purpose?
[Don't ask Akira what he's accusing Solomon of doing. It's likely he's already forgotten.]
Your face is so... so... [HNNNNNNGH] ...face-y. Stop that.
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[His grin is slightly cheeky, like he isn't also tipsy and slowly waiting for the worst of it to drag his inhibitions away. He takes another unwise, uncoordinated swig, tilting his head slightly. It's all smile, and it reaches ear to ear, rapidly unfiltering.]
Kawaii, Akira-chan.
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[He's not drunk, you're drunk!! Why does he feel like he's being accused of a crime here? Cradling his bottle in his arms, Akira turns aside and steals another swig all the while leering at Solomon like he suspects he might snatch his precious booze.]
But you are. You're way drunk. I can tell 'cuz you're actually smiling for real.
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And your face is all flushed now. Are you embarrassed?
A-ki-ra-chaaan.
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[No, Solomon's just messing with him. His face is fine! Just— just to be sure, Akira staggers upright and catches his face in the mirror. Oh. Oh. He's more than just flushed. What greets Akira in the mirror is a goddamn tomato.]
It's not my fault! It's just— ish just...
[What does he do? How does he worm his way out of this. Quickly, deflect!]
You did this. You actually look kinda cute for once. You and your stupid face.
[Akira flops back onto the couch and petulantly turns away from Solomon, face buried in his bent knees. No talk, he angy.]
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A cute stupid face.
You could call it a cupid face. [heheheheheheheheheheheheheheheheh]
Maybe I'm guilty as charged, officer~
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Cupid face...?
[What a lame pun. A terrible joke. Akira swears he hears Solomon winding up to laugh at his stupid joke all over again only to realize in horror that he's the one laughing.]
Heh... h-heh...
[Akira clamps his hand hard over his mouth. Laughter seeps out between the gaps of his fingers.]
That's so... that's so...! Not funny at all! Hahaha!
1/2
The scent of incense hangs heavy in the echoing of glass and the weight of alcohol.]
/2
This isn't where he fell asleep.
The room is dark and cold. The furniture is sparse, with most of it crowding one wall furthest from the door. What small cracks of light spill in come from a tiny latticed window, far above his head.
There are crumpled pictures drawn, letters and numbers practiced in fumbling, immature writing, in a language Akira does not know. Books falling apart at the seams from how often they've been read litter the space.
It's quiet. The outside air smells... strange. Acrid. But the sun is warm, in what bits come through.
Murmurings come, from behind the doors, from beyond the window. You feel fear. You want to curl in tighter. Maybe to look out the window. Carefully. Carefully.
Do not let the voices hear you. Do not let them see you.]
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This fear, primal and raw, is not his own. Even in an apparent fugue state, Akira recognizes that much. Hide. He needs to hide, but where can he in a confined space like this? Behind what little furniture there is, maybe? Despite himself, despite that creeping fear, Akira chances a glimpse at what lies beyond the window.]
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He hears the muttering. He hears breathing. Frightened, but forcefully tempered breathing. The haze of the space shows someone else on the bed.
A little boy, hair a shocking white and clothes incredibly plain, staring down into the covers with his knees tightly hugged to his chest. Unaware of Akira, but very aware of the noises, given how anything louder that approaches gets him to try and press himself as close to the wall as possible, in the shadow that is cast over them both from what little light shines in.
He listens. He's frightened. But he listens. He listens.
There's moaning and wailing in the distance. A sound like horses, like passing soldiers. The knocking on distant doors forces a flinch. The acrid scent persists.]
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Akira pads over to the boy, his hair a familiar snow white. His chest tightens. His stomach flips. I know this boy. Why does he look so sad?
Akira settles on his knees beside him, dropping into a whisper. His hand finds the boy's shoulder.]
...Hey. What's wrong?
[Quiet, so the passing soldiers don't hear them. Quiet, so his words reach only the one they were intended for.]
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He glances up at the window, the over to the door, a very tense pause, before the boy's shoulders relax with a pouting look to Akira.]
You gotta be careful. They're takin' people away again.
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But... why?
[And are they after Solomon too? He won't abide by that. He won't let them take him. But this is a dream, not reality, isn't it? What can he do?
...That's thinking too far ahead. For now, Akira focuses only on what Solomon has to say.]
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[Duh. So says his tone. He can't be more than seven, maybe eight, though he's a scrawny little twig of a boy and very pale.]
It's easy to tell if it's just for the sick ones. If you use your ears real good. 'Cause you can hear the wheels of the carts. They're heavy.
They don't break the doors for those ones, though.
[There's the muffled sound of raising voices above, perhaps from another building. Wood being slammed with forceful hits before a door gives way. A panicking scream, bargaining tones with no clear words, the whinnying of horses.
Solomon glances up towards the window, the same brassy colored eyes that show such intense emotion, bright and vibrant. Like it's a different person entirely that sits before Akira.]
I... I wanna see whose house they broke, when they go. It sounds too close.
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Who else would they be taking away alongside the dead, and for that matter, why? He recognizes that look in Solomon's eyes, bright and deep, and it fills him with dread. The words that follow solidify that fear.]
No, Solomon.
[Even if he weren't a pale slip of a boy, barely old enough to sass him properly, Akira wouldn't want him taking that risk. He's hiding for a reason, isn't he? And what is a child going to do to defend himself if he draws the eye of one of those soldiers?
Akira's hands settle on Solomon's shoulders and hold him firm.]
Don't. You can look after the soldiers leave. I'll go with you, alright?
[Out of this hovel and away to a place free of danger. Dream or no, that's what this boy deserves.]
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His brows furrow.]
Huh?
Are you gonna lift me to the window?
[Despite the sounds above, those bright eyes shine, framed by a boyish grin.]
You don't gotta. I can do it allll on my own.
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