Ari ♫ ♪ ♬ (gracenotes) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-27 21:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, arielle chiaro, miles baines |
Who: Ari & Miles
What: Ari decides to use Miles as a leaning post (sorry, Miles)
Where: Ari’s flat
When: The day after this
Rating: PG-ish
Status: Complete
Perhaps inviting him over had been the wrong thing to do. But when she'd arrived home, breathless and distressed, the empty flat with its piles of broken things suddenly seemed too large, and by the time she'd polished off her half bottle of Syrah and realized there was no more wine in the house, it was impulse that had her reaching for her communicator. Aud, she knew, would lecture about being a functional member of society. Drake wouldn't, but... No, after the conversation with Aspel, Drake was quite possibly the last person in Ivalice she wished to see. Don't think about it, she told herself, which didn't work, particularly. Bella was gone, Scarlet still half-stranger. She'd reached out to Miles, hoping for distraction, but as she sat and waited, she couldn't help second-guessing the urge. Still, she'd ignored his moods dozens of times; surely she could count on him to return the favor this once. The knock on the door came, and she went to open it. He looked worn down, too, but alive, and well enough. Winded from injuries and the stairs, no doubt. But he had come at her call with hardly any urging, and the bag in his arms surely held the requested wine, which was at least part of the reason that she said nothing at all as she threw her arms around him, though it was surely not all. He bore the attention stoically at first, unmoving while she tossed herself against him. Another time and another place, Miles might have squirmed and griped and pissed and moaned about the affection, plying his role of Exasperated Reluctant Older Brother for all it was worth. Today, however, with the taste of potions still bitter on his tongue and his body still piecing itself together (a ragged pile of bones remembering the jigsaw puzzle it was supposed to be), he relented. One arm held the wine while the other wound itself around Ari and pulled her closer, as tight an embrace as if he’d never let go: he would never have articulated it, refused to, but relief was there in his long exhale. And then the usual Miles Baines reared his head. “Good, you’re still alive,” he said blithely. “I’m tired of having to replace thieves in the Merry Women. Those casting calls are a bitch and a half—you’ve saved me some time and effort.” And there it was, the promise of easy distraction; as she reluctantly pulled away, her smile was a bit muted, but there -- more than she'd dredged up for anyone else in too long to recall. Her own role was there, like a gift, something she could pick up and slip on without much thought. "Oh," she said, "I considered dying for a minute or two, but then I thought, wouldn't want to inconvenience Miles, so here I am. Come in, don't mind the mess." She relinquished her hold on him with only slight reluctance as she stepped back into the flat. "I wouldn't recommend the couch to anyone without full armor as a window shattered all over it, but you've your pick of chairs." Her tone, like his, was some facsimile of normal; she was holding on to it with metaphorical white knuckles, knowing that if she didn't, the pretense at business as usual would fall away. And maestro at voice and inflection as Miles was, he caught that slightest tell-tale quiver, the exaggerated lightness that couldn't possibly be real—they'd been through too much for it to be real. But they were both actors, and they knew the implications of their work and how best to twist it to their advantage. Live a role long enough and it would start pressing its mark into you, osmosing into the skin and leaving its imprint on one's soul. Sometimes that could be useful. Miles stepped into the apartment where he'd been a hundred times before, working his way around broken furniture and to the den, taking in the cluttered, ruined mess. The splintered instruments were what made him draw stock-still, however, staring at the corpse of something that had once been a lute. The moment drew on, before he swallowed his shock and redirected his attention to the piles of icecream cartons and empty bottles instead. That old cheeriness was back in his voice, as he cleared off some space on the nearest trustworthy chair. "Really living a stereotype, aren't you?" he said dryly, nodding towards the icecream and wine. “What can I say?” she answered, with as much lightness as she could inject into her tone (not enough), “Some stereotypes exist for a reason.” She turned away from the wreckage of instruments, the surest sign that something was seriously amiss in her life. The losses stung, but as if from a distance, and it was too difficult to contemplate replacing them, erasing the cracks like she wished she could erase the cracks in her life. Things were things, she reminded herself. They didn’t matter. (The remains of a mandolin once drowned, shaped into an ornament and still hanging on a chain about her neck like a talisman, reminded her daily what a lie that was.) “I’ll find glasses,” she said after a moment of uncomfortably somber silence. “I have some dishes that didn’t break. Probably. Take a seat.” Miles took the advice and sprawled as if he owned the place, one arm draped over the back of the chair. But there was something wrong in the exaggeratedly casual pose; his arm was still stiff and he couldn't raise it quite high enough, his once-broken ribs still sighing in discontent, too newly healed. "So what's the celebratory occasion?" he called towards the kitchen, ever aware that this moment was nothing like celebration. Ari returned from the kitchen holding two glasses and a corkscrew. “We’re alive,” she said, though her tone was hardly celebratory, and when she chose a chair of her own, she pulled her legs up under herself. Not a sign of injury, not like him, but it was almost as if she wanted to make herself as small as possible. Still, it was almost civilized, wasn’t it? Wine from glasses, not the bottle A chair, not her bed and cocoon of blankets. And after all, it wasn’t a problem if you were drinking with someone, right? That just made it a social call. Because it looked like he was still hurting, she took the corkscrew, took care of opening the bottle and pouring the wine. “So,” she said, raising her glass, “congratulations to us.” He clinked his to hers, going through the motions like an automaton might, one conditioned for dinner parties and schmoozing with his mind only half-on. "Congratulations to us," Miles said, and if his thoughts jarred back to Loch and Lionel and their grievous injuries, the only indication of it was the briefest flicker in his eye. The wine was a finely-selected vintage, as it always was with Miles; each element of his life was carefully and tastefully curated to present the most expensive, cultured facade possible, each accoutrement and accessory equating to another step away from the gutter and the orphanage. He sipped it, long and slow, with his gaze still trained on the diminished bard across from him. Something was wrong. He'd seen it since the moment she wrote to him on the network, if not when he stepped foot in this apartment. "You're moping about something." She thought if saying no, of telling him that wasn’t why she’d issued the invitation at all. Or admitting, I don’t want to talk about it or, more accurately, I don’t know how to talk about it. She didn’t say any of these things, though. Instead, perhaps because she realized that he understood her better than most people ever would, and because somewhere deep down she was so tired of feeling helpless, she said, “I see you have retained your keen powers of observation.” She took a greedy gulp of the fine vintage as though it were water and added, “I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this.” Where this appeared to mean life. “Aren’t we all.” Miles seemed content to be a blank pool in this conversation, reflecting Ari’s mood and approach back at her—it was the easy default, the instinctive rapport he fell into when he hadn’t energy enough for anything more. “Here,” and he topped her off with the wine, though his hand shook slightly at holding the weight of the bottle (it was still too full, but they’d remedy that soon enough). “I’ll aid and abet terrible coping mechanisms, if that’s what I’ve landed myself into.” “Right this moment, you are literally the best friend a girl could have.” She took another sip of wine, a bit less desperate this time. She didn’t need to nosedive into another drunken stupor, even if she was certain to get there by and by. “No lecture. I should have invited you over earlier.” Even if she was unlikely to have been capable of even this measure of normalcy days ago. Still, as a means of crawling out of her misery, this seemed a good enough first step (even if she suspected that the moment she started bawling on him, he wouldn’t be quite so understanding; best to avoid that as long as possible, really). She drank in silence for a few moments, considering the merits of the question she had been avoiding for days before she asked it of him, anyway: “Are you okay?” A pause before she added, “If you don’t want to answer, don’t.” We can pretend together. The question was innocuous but it still gave him pause, swirling the rest of his wine in the thin-stemmed glass and staring at it as if the liquid might offer some answers. Miles wouldn’t have allowed very many people to broach this subject—hadn’t expected Ari to be on that list, in fact, but now that it had happened, it didn’t feel quite so terrible as expected. “I’m fine,” he said. “Still breathing, and isn’t that the least we can ask for? Everyone pulled through.” The man’s mouth was a thin line, squeezing out those words. “I got to enjoy a very illuminating convalescence period in the clinic, strapped into a bed alongside Thomas and Rhys, and wasn’t that pleasant.” The three of them had been on the verge of clawing each others’ eyes out by the end of it, only held back by the casts and pulleys binding their limbs. “And! I’m getting married tomorrow. More cause for celebration.” Miles drained the rest of his glass. “Oh,” Ari said, “that’s tomorrow.” Was it Friday? “I’ve been drinking too much as a substitute for…” she gestured vaguely, finally finished with, “thinking. The days blur together.” She took another sip of wine, then, as though holding it in any longer was unbearable, said, “I watched someone die. Two people.” Another greedy gulp of wine, though her tone was strangely even, as though she was discussing someone else. “Very important people, as it turns out.” I’m such an idiot. “And then suddenly they… weren’t dead. I still don’t know what happened, though I suppose I… must have done… something. That gets fuzzy, too.” Another drink. Her glass was empty -- when had that happened. “So,” she said, “congratulations on the wedding.” Miles blinked. Looked at her, then looked again. The alcohol was already muddling him, surely. “They were, and then they weren’t?” he repeated. “That’s right,” Ari said. Then, as she picked up the bottle with a hand far too steady for such conversation, she added, “I don’t know. I was… not doing well. But I was singing. Something. It shouldn’t have done that, but I had no idea what else to do.” His glass lowered, and Miles now levelled a completely serious stare at the bard. “Are you telling me,” he said slowly, “that you have found a cure for death?” There was a slight hint of laughter in his voice, but it didn’t sound truly amused: more incredulous, shocked, a yelp to cover his disbelief. Ari wasn’t joking; he could tell that she wasn’t. “Apparently. I don’t know,” she repeated. “That… wasn’t actually the point. Never mind.” The thought came, for the first time: “I should probably figure out where that scroll came from.” She had been far too muddled to consider it previously, but perhaps rational thought was returning. And perhaps the non-point was easier than the point to contemplate. “So what was the—” It came slightly delayed, but Miles was a sharp tool in the shed, and so the understanding of the point settled in later, a veil draping itself over the conversation. He made a thoughtful hm, now picking through his words like one might sift gold from mud. “Sorry they died. Must’ve been rotten at the time. But it all worked out swimmingly, then, didn’t it?” “Swimmingly,” she echoed. “My life is clearly perfect.” She was halfway through her second glass, and was finally starting to relax. What am I supposed to do now? she didn’t ask. Miles wasn’t the sort to dispense advice on this sort of thing, though she suspected he knew better than most of her friends exactly what sort of feeling might make it seem impossible to live without someone. But, none of her business, she knew. They were both people who kept some things close to the chest. “Just like yours,” she said. “Aren’t we the lucky ones?” “Indeed. About to be happily wedded, me.” He drank again, each sip punctuating their sentences. Then: “Frankly, I don’t even see why you’re moping, precisely,” Miles said. It was exactly the sort of flippant, dismissive comment he’d honed to an unpleasant edge over the years (but for those who knew him, the faint bluster revealed itself). “I think this calls for a bigger bottle. Just count your bloody blessings that they’re all right and then go enjoy your life, Arielle. We made it. As soon as I’m fully back on my feet, I’m planning on taking the most luxurious damned vacation I can afford and getting the hell out of this Faram-forsaken city for some time. Enjoy yourself.” “I think I can agree on the bigger bottle,” she said, even managing to make a face at him for the seemingly callous remark. But she did feel at least a little better, even if the urge to drink hadn’t gone entirely away. “We’ll toast our many ‘bloody blessings’ as we go.” Fortunately, he had been wise in bringing more than one. And though they both played it off as the end of the issue -- which it wasn’t -- and his claim of not understanding the problem seemed genuine -- which, perhaps, it was -- he could not fool her with callousness, for when they tipsily made their way to the door many hours later and she latched on to him once more, pressing her face against his shirt and muttering, “Thank you,” he let her use him as a leaning post even if he was none too steady on his feet himself. The alcohol had done its work and so Miles was pliable, resting his chin against the top of her head, temporarily content to savour the closeness for what it was: comfort. When he had finally extricated himself from her grasp and began the descent down four flights of stairs with exaggerated care, she found that she felt just a little better. She closed the door, locked it, then swayed her own way over to her bed, falling onto it and dragging the blanket over her head to block out the light she hadn’t bothered to extinguish. Her life, like her flat, was still a royal mess, but for tonight, she would sleep easy. |