Telyn Perkins (ltperky) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-04-01 21:04:00 |
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Rhys Barbary was drunk, though this was not in itself a remarkable fact. Rhys was frequently — some would posit usually — drunk, and though it did not quite feel as natural to him as breathing (that would be Bilius), it did feel roughly as natural to him as eating pub food, which was to say: very. What was remarkable was that for once, Rhys was not drunk at Fort Freedom, at Macbeth’s, or even in Edinburgh at all; instead, a troupe of 69ers had made their way down to London on a whim, following Rupert’s suggestion that they should really go to a rally that weekend, and Rhys’s subsequent suggestion that it had been altogether too long since he’d been able to see Pollo Crumb fight a peer-induced aneurysm in person. He had resisted the urge to charm the signs to say exciting new things, but only barely. Now, a good chunk of the protesters — and, predictably, all of Fort Freedom — had retired to a nearby bar, fairly taking it over. Rhys had insisted on several victory shots with Bilius and then, upon spotting Richard Chambers, having several more. Typically, Rhys preferred Scotland to England, as Scotland was so much less close to Wales, but there were perks to London, notably the vast array of girls he hadn’t seen in years, or ever. Spotting one such specimen — and this was perfect, she was perfect, gigantic brown eyes and inquisitive brows (though Rhys did not notice that trait in particular on a conscious level), a small, soft body and a smirk on her face. She had glorious hair. Her hair was glorious. Rhys wanted nothing better than to run his fingers through it immediately. He was just about positive it would smell as good as Helen’s. So, as any man in his Rhys mind would do, he crossed the distance to her immediately, paying no heed to the fact that she was mid-conversation with someone else as he went down to one knee next to her, reaching for her hand. “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” he asked in the indoor voice of a de Mimsy-Porpington, as the bar was not particularly quiet. Telyn practically lived for victorious and effective rallies. There were few things she loved to see more than Pollo in his element and today hadn’t been a disappointment. The residual excitement that followed led to an abnormally easy time of convincing Pollo that a celebratory drink or two wasn’t a bad idea (which was saying something, indeed, considering Rupert had brought so many of their former classmates and Telyn was well aware of how Pollo felt about most of them and their lifestyle choices). As far as Telyn could tell, Pollo’s assessments on his various former classmates were mostly spot on--drank too much, didn’t exactly care about the point of the protest and most were distinctly immature; but, she would be lying if she didn’t appreciate their clear love of a good time. It was refreshing. ...Even if that ‘good time’ generally seemed to amount to excessive drinking. And so it was that, while she’d been friendly enough, she mostly kept her distance as the night went on--preferring to converse with her own friends than really get acquainted with the character flaws of the 69ers that drove Pollo mad. Really, the plan had been going quite well until one of their number was 1. interrupting her conversation with Booker, 2. on bended knee and holding her hand before she really knew what was happening and, 3. yelling at her. Presumably, this conversation would only end well. She gave the man before her a skeptical raise of one eyebrow--but didn’t immediately pull her hand away--and looked back up at Booker. “Give me a moment then, will you?” Turning her attention back to the man on one knee she replied in a voice, while audible over the din of the bar, wasn’t nearly as loud as his was, “Telyn, but you’re welcome to just call me ‘Not Interested’.” Her natural smirk formed on the last word. “And you are?” “Your future husband!” Rhys smiled, readjusting the foot that was still on the floor to better balance himself on bent knee. “It’s too bad you’re not interested, that’s going to make the marriage really awkward!” “‘Really awkward.’ Yes, that’s one way of putting it. Or ‘non-existent,’” Telyn pointed out reasonably. “I think I prefer ‘non-existent’, to be honest.” “Why are you trying to fight this, Telyn?” Rhys demanded, his voice no more sane despite its marginal return to normal indoor standards. “Listen,” and he struggled only slightly as he got to his feet, clapping a hand onto the very beefy arm of the bloke she’d been talking to and hoping he wasn’t the punching type. He looked like the punching type, but he hadn’t punched Rhys yet, which was good. “Listen, mate. Why is she trying to fight this?” Booker — who was not actually the punching type, fortunately for Rhys, though he would have carried the bloke to the other side of the pub or out of it if Telyn asked him to — raised his eyebrows slightly and, presumably because no words could explain why his friend would fight such fate (he was sure Jehan could have spoken volumes on the subject), lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. Rhys nodded, giving the bloke’s arm a pat before he returned his attention to Telyn again, raising his eyebrows in what he thought was a very persuasive expression. “Listen, Telyn, you need to let me buy you a drink. I only have 18 hours left to live.” Telyn watched all of this with a mixture of amusement and more than a little judgment--not entirely sure what to make of her, clearly drunk, ‘future husband’. (She also, for what it was worth, mused mildly about how different this whole exchange would have been had, say, Pollo been in Booker’s place at the moment). “So, to sum up: we’ve only just met, I have yet to be told your name, we’re getting married, though, in less than a day you’re going to make me a widow, and you think a drink is the way to justify all this?” Telyn clarified with pursed lips and a skeptical look. Rhys considered this for a moment, visibly, before smiling at her, one nod to punctuate the response. “Yes.” His hands went to her elbows, fingertips trying to guide her towards the bar without actually dragging her there, walking backwards heedless of the crowd to keep his eyes fixed on her face. “Hi, I’m Rhys.” Initially, she had taken a few steps forward--more because it was the less awkward option than any real desire to spend the rest of the night turning down this guy’s advances. But at his name, she stopped abruptly, crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. She had heard plenty of stories about the Hogwarts crowd and the name ‘Rhys’ tended to only be associated with the most ridiculous of them. And she had no desire to deal with that tonight (or possibly--probably--ever). “Sorry, Rhys, but I really just don’t think this is going to work out between us,” Telyn replied, clearly not too terribly apologetic about the statement. “Telyn,” Rhys chided, looking stung. He dropped his fingers from her elbows, bringing his hands to his heart. (Booker, still where he’d been before, watched the scene with a vague tinge of amusement.) “I have eighteen hours to live. Seventeen hours and fifty-six minutes, if we’re being precise.” “I have to ask,” Telyn replied with a slight tilt of her head, a bit of hair falling from behind her ear to drape over her shoulder. “Does this play normally work for you on girls?” Her tone was genuinely curious, despite the skepticism on her face. “Yes,” said Rhys, grinning wide. “I’m very endearing.” “Has it ever failed? Or am I about to be your first?” She smirked, the double entendre entirely intentional. “Definitely not my first,” Rhys parried, smirking in return. “Good,” Telyn replied with a single nod. “Then I’m sure you’ll be able to move on and find some other girl to take home tonight.” “Nope.” A brow raised momentarily in mild surprise before settling back to a more neutral expression. “Have another drink, Rhys,” she replied, beginning to turn back toward Booker. “You’ll forget about me and be on to the next in no time.” “TELYN COLDHEART,” Rhys proclaimed to the heavens (or, more accurately, the ceiling of the pub) as he fell to his knees once more at her feet, clinging to one of her hands. “FOR NEARLY 24 YEARS, I HAVE LANGUISHED,” a pause, “IN ANGUISH, WAITING FOR YOU TO WALK INTO MY LIFE.” Telyn stopped short, turning back to him with a fairly exasperated look at her hand, taken captive by his, then to his face. After a moment, “Desperate isn’t an attractive look on you, by the way.” “AND NOW,” Rhys continued, heedless of her words, “JUST AS SOON AS YOU WALK INTO MY LIFE, YOU ARE STORMING OUT!” He gave a loud, theatrical sob, and really, the volume was hardly necessary now, as much of the pub had fallen quiet at the man crying out on his knees. “AND IT WOULD BE AN HONOUR TO WATCH YOUR PERFECT ARSE SWAY AS YOU WALK AWAY, BUT I CANNOT,” another, less loud sob, given through a wide grin as he clasped her hand tighter, “I CANNOT GIVE YOU UP WITHOUT A FIGHT.” There were so many ways Telyn could have (wanted to) react. She was buzzing with a mixture of not-entirely-pleasant surprise, a large amount of irritation (with an added dose of mild anxiety) that the majority of the pub seemed to be watching the ‘show’ now and, for fuck’s sake, what he’d just said (dear God, she had no desire to hear Richard’s commentary after this shit), and, for the first time in this conversation, she felt hesitant in responding. She didn’t like being thrown and certainly wasn’t used to the sensation either. She found comfort in knowing what to expect, in regularities; this was entirely out of her realm of expectations. If she showed any of this, it was significantly less pronounced than what she felt; though, she did noticeably pause before responding. She didn’t dare look away from Rhys--knowing that she would only find more anxiety in acknowledging exactly how many people were there. “You aren’t giving me much reason to want to stay,” she replied, her voice far quieter than his. “Telyn Coldheart, Telyn of the beautiful hair and brown eyes, Telyn of the perfect breasts, will you marry me?” Rhys asked. It was likely fortunate that he couldn’t see the look on Pollo’s face as the man in question made his way through the crowd to wait at its edge, ready to jump in if Telyn needed him, though it was also doubtful Rhys would have acted any differently had he noticed. Despite not wanting to actually look around her, Telyn peripherally noticed Pollo’s movement and regained her footing to some extent--finding comfort in knowing he was nearby. She gave Rhys a look of feigned pity, “Apparently I wasn’t clear before, but, I’m afraid the answer’s no.” “By no, do you mean maybe?” “By ‘no’, I mean, you should probably find someone else to spend--” Telyn shifted the wrist of the hand he still held slightly to look at her watch before looking back to Rhys, “--your final seventeen and a half hours with.” “No,” Rhys said, instilling the syllable with all the passion he could manage while sporting a shit-eating grin. “It must be—” And, in that moment, he was cut off by a set of long, bony fingers suddenly digging into his crotch as Musichetta crouched behind him. Pollo could let Telyn fight her own fights all he wanted, Booker could represent the weight-lifting pacifists in the corner, but Chetta did not take kindly to strange, stupid Hufflepuffs publicly embarrassing and sexually harassing her friends. The noise Rhys made was not entirely human as he looked over his shoulder at the other woman, who he did not recognize as her face split into a wide, terrifying smile. “I’ll let go when you do, kroshechnaya chlen,” she said sweetly. Which Rhys did, without protest, visibly contracting around the pain when Musichetta let go and stood behind him. Telyn’s eyes snapped to Chetta, a mixture of relief and slight disappointment on her face. She appreciated Chetta’s unwillingness to sit back and watch her friends suffer (and was thankful to have the attention off her, to some extent), but she also wasn’t one to think physical violence was a good solution to a problem. She caught Chetta’s eye and nodded in thanks before crouching in front of Rhys, “Word of advice: going straight to wedding vows will only land you girls who are utterly mad.” She subtly pulled a small vial from her purse and pressed it into his hand, adding quietly for just him to hear this time, “Take it; it’ll help.” Telyn was far too much of a planner to not go to a rally or protest with pain potions and basic healing remedies--just in case things went south. Rhys flashed her a smile, already recovering from the (minor!) setback. “So, just to be clear: we marry at dawn?” With a roll of her eyes, Telyn smirked again, “Not this dawn or any soon thereafter.” She stood and met Pollo’s eye before, finally, turning back to Booker. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then!” Rhys called, standing and offering an unsteady bow to the eyes still on him before, grin splitting his face, he made his way back over to Bilius, and other folk unlikely to put his balls in a deathgrip. |