Say When (A New Year's Brunch)

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot had been warned by various people that New Year's often brings some kind of supernatural mischief to Darrow, and this news had only made him more determined to stick to his plan. No power of god or man or eldritch entity place-spirit or army of fish people will prevent him from throwing a damn party. 

It made sense, really, and part of him wishes he'd done something like this before now. He needn't frame it as a sort of surrender to this imprisonment, but rather just indulging in something frivolous because, as far as his understanding of the metaphysics goes, none of this really counts. So why shouldn't he enjoy it? He's been here long enough to decorate the apartment some, and it really is a marvel the amount of things available through Nile. There's more comfortable furniture, potted plants, and a series of apothecary cabinets and display cases for magical components that give the whole place the air of some eccentric explorer's gallery of curiosities. 

He's even managed to get enough appliances that the little kitchen is decently functional, and has spent a few days stocking up and preparing for what he hopes will a successful brunch. He has enough eggs to feed an army. There will be copious crepes. There will be mimosas for days. 

Eliot's used to working through a wicked hangover this time of year, so he built that into consideration in his prep time. Thanks to the night's adventure, though, he spends his downtime sober and scrubbing mer-blood off of himself, and still feels a bit frazzled by the time the first guests arrive.

[It's time for brunch! Brunch is a state of mind, not an actual timeframe, so please feel free to have your pups show up whenever in the day, honestly. Tag in, tag around, chase the memory of merman horror away with a mimosa, air your grievances and dirty laundry in the neutral ground of Eliot's apartment. This is a safe space. For Drama.]

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[loficharm]

Martin stands there, his gaze still downturned at the dregs of his mimosa, letting Michael's advice sink in before he even considers a response. No, of course, John has never said these things. Not point-blank, not even obliquely. People have forced him to confront this before as though it ought to provide him some sort of hope, and it's difficult not to resent it. It is never so easy as just allowing himself to think maybe. As though the only thing missing in their situation is a bloody discussion, oh, why didn't I think of that.

But he can't explain all that. He can't explain about the tapes and what he said on them and how he knows John has listened to every one, and he certainly can't explain that a lack of discussion is evidence considering his own pointed unavailability that filled in space where John might have addressed any of it. Most of all he can't just go into a whole damn diatribe about John's asexuality and the murky state of his capacity for romantic attraction because that isn't anyone's goddamn business, least of all his own.

But the thing that really needles him this time, more than any other moment this has come up, is that he has a harder time shaking it off than usual, a harder time resenting it than he did last night. Because Michael is right: Martin's entire life has been a perpetual state of going through the motions, and it's only recently that anyone's had cause or willingness or interest to tell him he deserves better. And that person was John.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up, and downs what little remains of his drink.

"Maybe you're right," he says tiredly as he resets his glasses, because as hedging goes, that at least feels marginally like the answer Michael is going for. "Just..." He risks one more glance toward John, then faces Michael directly. "We only just became friends, if I'm honest," he says, because if they're going by the first time they actually had the audacity to use that word with each other was here, just a day over two months ago. "I really, really don't want to mess with that."

[littleorphanalien]

"Fuck, you genuinely sound like me," Michael says, because he'd been the same. "Alex wanted to start over, as friends, and when I got here, I was a fucking mess and I wanted the same, so we did start that way. Friends, no kissing, barely hugging, and learning about each other. We became best friends."

And then this place turned them into the teenagers that hooked up, with no memory of anything else.

So maybe the universe is bound to step in, if it's meant to happen. "Look, if that's what's most important to you, I get that, I do. I'm just of the opinion that you should never shut doors if you want something." Says a man who indulges in acetone and liquor like it's going out of style, and he reaches for his mimosa for a punctuating sip.

[loficharm]

Martin relaxes a bit, relieved that Michael understands where he's coming from. That certainly makes it easier to appreciate his ongoing encouragement.

"Yeah," he says, managing a little smile. "Well, nothing's shut. Guess I'll just have to see if anything comes through."

He doubts it, but it's nice to imagine there's a shred of hope, even if that mostly feels like a mistake.

"I need a top-up," he says, gesturing with his empty glass. "You?"