InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "And that's my final answer!"

Fisher Majors (hearitbleed) wrote in halcyon_halls,
@ 2008-11-18 21:42:00

Entry tags:

fisher, james

Week 22- Thursday
Who: James and Fisher
What: Drinking until we can't feel feelings anymore
Where: The Local Dive
When: Night

It was Thirsty Thursday, and Fisher felt he deserved a little numbness. He had agreed not to imbibe alcohol as part of his condition for being at Halcyon, all expenses paid, but... fuck that. The old man (who Fisher did not even know) had no clue what life was like in Fisher's shoes. He didn't deal with random dead people asking favors of him, or with the strange looks received when Fisher told said needy spirits to shut up. There were students here who had it worse, that was true. But it didn't make Fisher's situation suck any less. Besides, he wasn't drinking to get totally smashed. He just needed to relax. That and find something to do. He'd come in too late in the semester, so he didn't have classes yet to occupy his time.

The bartender set down a shotglass in front of Fisher, tossed in three ice cubes and poured in two ounces of straight scotch from one of those tiny portion-nozzled bottles. Fisher nodded a thanks, then sipped. He could've gulped it down, but rehab had benefitted him enough for him to know that yes, he had had a drinking problem and it hadn't solved anything. So it was best not to try and drown yourself.

Fisher's garb was subdued tonight, decked out in his Gears of War hoodie and downplayed zipper pants. Fisher liked emo clothing- the style was far too ridiculous to resist, and before living like a hobo he had access to a lot of money. Coming from a wealthy family had its advantages. Luckily he'd managed to keep most of his clothing, despite having nowhere to live for months at a time. He'd decided not to get all decked out tonight, just in case the locals at the bar did not approve of rich boys who dressed like they knew a damn thing about hardship. (It didn't matter that this former rich boy actually did know hardship- when you wear clothing that costs more than some people make in a week, you lose the right to complain about anything.) So tonight there were no hanging chains on his pants, not eyeliner around his eyes and his long, unruly hair was at the very least pushed behind his ears.

As he took another sip of his poison, he sighed contentedly and readied himself for a peaceful night alone.

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jamesownsit
2008-11-18 09:30 pm UTC (link)

There were two major differences in James appearance at this place tonight and Fisher's appearance. The first was that James was in fact drinking to get smashed. Actually, he had been drinking to get smashed ever since his last class had ended. He had already had nearly an entire bottle of Patron on his own before leaving his dorm and though he still wasn't quite wasted, or at least wasn't walking like he was just yet, he certainly wasn't anywhere near sober.

The second difference was that James wore Etro from head to toe. His ensemble looked like something straight off of the runways and his coat alone cost more than $1300 and anyone that didn't like it or had something to say about it could go fuck themselves. He may even be inclined to provide the lube if they so desired. Wealth did not automatically preclude one from hardship. Any ignorant bastard that thought otherwise simply wasn't worth James' time. End of story.

He entered the bar with a bit of a clatter, a girl that was quite a bit more intoxicated than he was on one arm and a cigarette dangling between two fingers of the hand of the other. He'd met her in the last bar he had gone to, the one that they had been asked to leave. Already he had forgotten her name, her age, her race, her face. She was of no real interest to him but when you screamed of money, you were bound to pick up a straggler or two. Once they were inside, he had intended upon ditching her, and it just so happened that Fisher, unfortunately, would be his excuse for doing so.

Having strolled halfway into the bar, the girl beside him having stumbled there along with him, his eyes fell upon the familiar figure who, in his mind, owed him one. "Oh look! It's my good buddy, Fisher!" He announced, his arm tugged quite forcefully from the viper's grip to gesture in the boy's general direction. "I've got to catch up with him, love, so how about you be a doll and go find someone else to subject to your constant simpering?" Okay, so that was perhaps not the most tactful way of putting things but that was neither here nor there right now.

Without invitation, the girl left behind him looking floored that she was ditched for such a person as Fisher, then shooting a few angry glares in his direction before she wandered off, James sauntered on over to the table and had himself a seat, unbuttoning his coat as he sat down, his feet propping themselves up in another chair that remained unoccupied. "Fucking hot in here, huh?" He asked, and then leaned up to push his coat back down off of his shoulders.

"Hey bartender! We need another glass over here and a bottle of whatever it is my good friend here has been nursing tonight." He shot a charming smile in Fisher's direction as he tossed a c-note down on the table to cover the tab. "Chat with any interesting dead people lately?" He asked, as serious as could be, and then he busted out laughing like that was the funniest, most clever thing he had ever heard.

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hearitbleed
2008-11-19 08:31 am UTC (link)

There was a commotion by the door, causing Fisher to look up from his drink. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he whispered angrily as James stumbled into the bar. When he heard his own name shouted to every patron who was still sonscious enough to hear, he turned that awful shade of red that no pale man should ever turn. Bending lower over the bar, Fisher hoped he could simply disappear like on of his ghost friends. "Oh, God..." he moaned.

As James sat down and made himself comfortable, Fisher gave him his most insincere smile in the hope against hopes that James was still sober enough to realize he wasn't wanted. Of courswe, it didn't work. But the smile was stopped short anyway when Fisher got a whiff of James. Not an altogether unpleasant aroma- a lovely, spiced cologne with a huge dash of whatever alcohol they use to preserve the dead. Apparently, James had been drinking formaldahyde, or its alcoholic equivilant. In abundance.

"God," Fisher couched, rearing his head back. "Pickling yourself?" His voice was low, so no one with a normal sense of hearing could hear. ('Luckily' for Fisher, James did not have normal senses.) As the bottle of scotch was placed in front of the two of them, along with another glass, Fisher looked around for the girl James had obviously been meaning to ditch. She was long gone (after an angry glare at him, and what the hell did Fisher ever do to her?), so why was James still sitting with him?

As James burst out laughing, Fisher did not know whether to laugh with him or knock him out. But he remembered their last scuffle all too well, and remember that James was a craaazy motherfucker. "Yes," he answered seriously to the question, shuddering a little. He'd encountered Sasha and it had changed him, and not for the good. In fact, that was kind of why he was here... "What the fuck are you doing?" Fisher demanded suddenly. "Your little bit of jailbait is gone, you obviously have enough cash to drink youself to death, and that is clearly what you wish to do. So why are you bothering me? Because last time I recalled, you don't even like me and I'm just as happy with you never darkening my doorstep again."