Friday night. In London, Loki would be hitting the clubs, looking for one with enough people to be anonymous in the crowd, enough space to breathe, maybe a decent musical mix and bartenders who know how to take requests. Here in Los Angeles, with Pres in this mood, that doesn't seem like the approach to take. So instead the post-dinner plan involves alcohol.
     Lots of alcohol.
     One quick stop at the grocery store on the way back, and he's acquired enough ingredients for a few mixed drinks with vodka at their base. First up: White Russians, with equal proportions of Kahlua, vodka, and cream.

     There was Chinese food out at a local spot before drinks, with a hell of a lot of fried spareribs. Now there are drinks. Pres is resplendent tonight in a pair of black track pants and a white t-shirt advertising 'SAVE OUR SEAS' on the front in green and blue, and 'SOS' and a wave pattern in the same colors on the back.
     He has sprawled on the couch, and is flipping through channels. "Nothing good's on," he greets Loki as he returns. "Unless you like reruns. Why the hell am I paying this much for cable, again?"

     Loki's finally dressed back down for Los Angeles, with sandals to go with a loose button-down shirt and khakis. So maybe he doesn't have the same concept of dressing down as some people. He enters the room with a glass in each hand, and holds out a White Russian towards Pres. "Because the Man has brainwashed you into buying into the oppressive dominant culture of capitalism and unrestrained consumerism. Trade you for the remote."

     "Hah." Pres snorts, but holds the remote out, leaning forward to take the drink. "Thanks. See if you can find anything better - be my guest. Wait, you already are." He settles back, taking a swallow from the glass. "Mm. Desserty. You do know you can go out if you want to? I'm a big boy. I can amuse myself."

     Loki sits on the arm of the couch, and starts flipping, tapping the television volume down as he does so. His drink is addressed before Pres's comment is. "Yeah, I know. I'm not really in the mood for it. I prefer the London scene to clubbing in Los Angeles."
     A black and white Western gets a short pause before he keeps on clicking through the channels. He adds, dropping briefly in a perfect broadcast-standard English accent, "I don't get any stand-out points for not being a local around here."

     "Oh yeah? How's it different?" Pres seems mildly interested for a change. He smirks. "Other than you being the skinny white Yank that all the London girls can't wait to get their hands on." He swallows his drink some more - he's going through it fairly quickly. "I don't bother with clubs much myself. I don't dance, and I'd rather talk to people than have a hand down my pants."

     "Less self-conscious," Loki says. His drink's going down slower, but then, he never could hold his liquor well. "You get the same drama queens and show-offs, but you don't get the feeling like you do here that everyone in the room is trying to check themselves out in the mirror surreptitiously while you're talking to them. The music's better, too, when it's live. Lots of decent little bands circulating through the city, if you know where to find them."
     He grimaces faintly nearer the end. "I don't really do a lot of -- that kind of thing. Rather watch and listen to the music than get into bed with someone I just met. Call me old-fashioned, but I'd prefer the people I sleep with be able to remember my name in the morning."

     "Yeah, well." Pres lapses into another of his moody silences. He drinks some more, staring at the television. "...So you're liking it? Living in London, not going to college, I mean. Meeting people, doing something with your life which isn't scripted."

     Loki looks into his glass. "Yes. Not every day, not even every week sometimes, but overall? It's better than college. I may be wasting my time more often than not, but I'm doing it on my own terms."
     He slides off the arm of the couch, leaving the television stopped at a scrolling screen of titles for everything coming up on the next hour. From the Care Bears Movie to Chicks With Dicks IX. Truly, cable is a marvelous thing. "Want another one of those?"

     He finishes off his glass. "Yeah, sure. Maybe something a little stronger, next time?" Pres puts his feet up on an ottoman, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. "Find anything interesting to watch yet? I don't care what you pick," he tacks on. "We can just let it play in the background, even."

     "Nothing interesting," Loki says. He heads back into the kitchen with the glasses, and returns after the clattering and clinking of bottles with something new to offer. "It would be a Black Swedish Virgin if you had any cranberry juice. Since you don't, I just advise not drinking it too damn fast."
     He sits back down on the couch this time, picking up his drink again, and licks a streak of cream off his upper lip. "Westerns make decent background noise."

     "I don't know a Black Swedish Virgin. I think the only things I might know on that list are blacks and Swedes and they don't usually go together," Pres calls back. He takes the fresh drink when it's presented, glancing covertly at Loki and then directing his attention at the television. "Make it so, number one. So... anyway."

     "Vodka, blackberry schnapps, cranberry juice," Loki explains. "And a splash of Sprite, but without the cranberry juice, it's almost all vodka and schnapps." He pulls up the ancient Western in the middle of a gunfight that was probably very exciting and dramatic back when television was a lot more boring and so any kind of violence would be exciting in comparison. "Apparently all foreign college students in Germany become bartenders if they can get the work visa. I stayed in Berlin for three weeks with this one guy who became a bartender just so he could get free drinks. Nice guy, if a little weird, so long as he stayed away from beer and stuck to mixed drinks."

     "Okay, well. Free drinks, I can see that. What was so weird about him?" Pres pulls his good leg up to rest his foot on the edge of the sofa, taking a reckless sip of the drink. "What happened if he had mixed drinks, for that matter? Did he turn into Mister Hyde?"

     "He was..." Loki makes a motion with his hands, drink sloshing in the glass. "Huggy. In this weird kind of sincere enthusiasm way. He would feel people up and then be honestly surprised if anyone was upset by it, and the weirder thing is how often people wouldn't be upset. He was just too nice for people to get mad at. Mostly."
     His White Russian is going down slowly, one slurp of cream and liquor at a time. "On mixed drinks, or wine, he was all himself. He just got more and more huggy until he passed out. But if he went and got drunk on beer, he turned all belligerent. Weirdest thing. You'd think someone who couldn't handle beer would know better than to move to Germany."

     "Yeeeeah, I think I'll pass on meeting that friend of yours, though at the same time, I'd say better for him to stick to mixed drinks. Fewer broken bones, less likelihood of getting tossed out of the country," Pres points out. He glances sideways at Loki, then looks at the tv again. "I bet it was pretty awkward, though. I mean, awkward enough if you're a girl, but if you're a guy..."

     Loki shrugs. "Not half so awkward as when he'd take people to bed and forget he had houseguests. I'm not the kind to freak if someone makes a pass at me, whether they like me or not. But it's hard to sleep when three people are going at it in the room next door."
     He turns a half smile on Pres. "Story of my life, on that year in Europe. Everyone else getting laid. And doing drugs. They were better about sharing the drugs. Does that taste okay without the cranberry juice?"

     "...Three people in the same bed. Ow." Pres shakes his head, taking another swig. "Yeah, it tastes fine. My mouth's numb, anyway. Drugs, huh? I haven't done those. Except prescription pain killers. I can share if you want. What'd you end up doing?" He glances at Loki covertly.

     "I didn't keep a list," Loki says, just a touch defensively. Because there is, in fact, a list tucked away somewhere on his phone with notes on when, where, and how it felt. "Just...whatever people passed around that didn't seem too dangerous. Weed's boring, acid's too weird, E is just... I'm not into that one much." He slouches back on the couch. "End of the day, I'm back to alcohol and caffeine like any other good American boy."

     "Maybe I should take a year off." Pres says it more to himself, but it's audible anyway. He takes another swig of blessed alcohol. "I'm not sure why you want to be a good American boy. Seems to me it kinda sucks. Anyway, I wasn't asking to try being an asshole, you know. I mean... I just haven't done it." He shrugs, slouching a bit. "Who else am I supposed to ask?"

     Loki finishes off his drink, and scrubs cream from the corner of his mouth with one knuckle. "No, it's fine. I can tell you what they're like if you care. Most of them I'd say it's not worth the potential hassle. That's all. I got a lot more out of being out of easy reach of my parents than I did from the wild new world of drugs."

     "Okay. Yeah, I - well, I'd like to know. I guess I won't be finding out any time soon." Pres scowls at his leg. "You know." He drinks more. "Sometimes I wish the shark'd gotten all of me."

     Loki watches Pres sidelong a minute, then says, "You really want to try some for yourself, I know a few people at USC that could hook you up. One or two of them will still be in business. Which ones do you want to hear about?" The last comment hasn't gone unheard, but it's going unremarked on for now.

     "I dunno. Doesn't seem like it's worth it, if it's by myself. I mean, that's pretty pathetic. Pres West, son of renowned marine biologist and conversationist - dammit. Conservationist - found OD'd on heroin in bathtub. Okay, so I don't plan on doing that, but still, it kinda sums it up, doesn't it?" Pres smirks self-consciously. "Not passing out at a party, or doing lines off a starlet's chest. Just... yeah, maybe. I don't know. Maybe I should just see about going back east." He drains his drink violently, glowering at the Indians on the screen. "I don't want to. But I don't want to do anything."

     Loki stands up, and takes both glasses into the kitchen with him silently. When he gets back, it's with more of the same for Pres, and another White Russian for himself. "Don't. Better to not know what you want to do at a good distance from your mother than right near her. That way you have half a chance of figuring it out without it just being what she's decided on for you."
     He closes his eyes when he sits down, for another slug of his drink. "You know I didn't do jack all for a year, right?" he says. "Bummed around Europe wasting time and money."

     Pres shifts on the sofa, reaching across Loki for the remote. "Here, gimme. I'm getting tired of those guys. You had the money to do it, though, right? I don't see a problem with that." He slurps his drink as he rolls towards Loki in his search for the remote. "What'd you do with the remote, dude?"

     Loki lifts his glass high as he looks around on the couch. "Just had it a minute ago... Check under the cushions? Yeah, I had the money for it. Dad turned out to be a lot more reasonable about it than I expected. I think he was just glad I wasn't joining a cult."

     He's definitely a bit drunk by now, though not quite slurring or the like. "Yeah, okay." Pres begins rooting around in the cushions on Loki's side, shifting his weight so he's half-kneeling on the sofa. He slides his hand under Loki's thigh in search of the remote, and pauses. "Why would he think you were joining a cult?" he asks casually. Another pause. "You're sitting on the remote."

     Loki leans forward to get his weight off the remote. "Sorry. Because it's the kind of thing he worries about. Some parents send their kids off to college and worry that they'll come home pregnant, or with a tattoo. My dad gave me all this literature on the warning signs of cult recruitment tactics, and how not to be seduced by the Republican side of the Force."

     He grabs the remote, looking a bit flushed as he sinks back onto his own side of the sofa. "Yeah, because you'd totally get pregnant. From a tattoo," Pres snarks. "But yeah, I donno. I don't see you as a Republican. Hell, I don't see myself as a Republican." He quickly takes another drink, shifting and tugging his shirt up and then back down to straighten it.

     "Good," Loki says, with a quick smirk. "That means I'm still allowed to talk to you."
     He sinks back on the sofa again, sipping at his drink. "Still no tattoos, either, or getting anyone else pregnant. And now I have a steady job. Sort of. By all rights, I should have the most relaxed dad on the west coast." He nods to the television. "So what did you want to watch?"

     "Oh, hell, I dunno. I think I need a shower." Pres drops the remote on the sofa with a thump, setting his glass down and reaching for his cane. "You can entertain yourself til I'm back, yeah?" He doesn't look at Loki, leveraging himself up with the help of the cane. "Shouldn't take long. Even if it takes longer than it fucking should, these days."

     Loki watches Pres get up, then turns his eyes back to the television. Any kind of staring can get taken the wrong way right now. "I'm capable of keeping myself from death of boredom for an hour, yeah."

     "Yeah, okay." Pres limps away quickly; quicker than usual. He seems in a certain hurry.

     Loki slumps back on the couch, and swaps channels until he finds His Girl Friday just starting. Snappier dialogue than he's feeling up to tonight, so it'll do. His drink's disappearing faster now.

     The water runs unabated for about twenty or thirty minutes. There's a certain slight amount of thumping, and at one point, what sounds like muffled voices; the water cuts out, and then there's a louder bang, followed by a thump, of something hard hitting something else hard, then something softer hitting something solid. That is followed by weak swearing.

     Loki gets up, the remote thumping down onto the couch where it'll probably disappear between couch cushions again, and heads for the bathroom. He raps on the door, and says, "Pres? Want any help in there?" He's not going to ask about need, under the circumstances.

     He doesn't answer right away, then mutters grudgingly, "Yeah. If you wouldn't mind." The door isn't locked; Pres is pulling a towel up somewhat shakenly, face flushed and awkward with humiliation. He's seated on the floor, which is somewhat damp. His cane has taken a chunk out of the shower stall glass, and while he's not bleeding, he's not looking able to leverage himself up to his feet. "Sorry," he mutters. "I'm a pathetic cripple."

     Loki's inside as soon as he gets the spoken okay. He moves the cane out of the way, and offers Pres a hand to grab. "Stop apologizing for what isn't your fault," he says, without any particular censure in the comment.

     Pres takes the hand, though the other hand is focused on trying to hold the towel in place. He's struggling not to show anything on his face, but it's clear he's a bit shaken; he looks ridiculously young like this, almost close to tears. His scar is vehemently visible - an actual indentation about half an inch deep in his calf, about four inches long and a quarter or a third of an inch wide. "It's just so stupid," he mutters. "...I shouldn't need help."

     Loki wraps his hand around Pres's wrist, and hauls up, one foot braced against a cabinet so that he doesn't slip on the wet floor and make things even worse. "Yeah, it's stupid. But that's the way it is." He can't help but look concerned, but he's channeling most of that into focusing on getting Pres standing up again. "I don't really have inspirational sayings. People just need help, sometimes."

     "Yeah, I guess." Pres doesn't look happy; his grip is strong, though, and his balance is good when he's not reliant on the bad leg. "...The physical therapist says I might actually get to the point where I'm - not handicapped anymore. A cripple. Maybe."

     Loki doesn't let go right away, waiting to let Pres decide when he's steady. "Did they give any sort of time line on that?"

     "No. There's some problem, the muscle's not regrowing as fast as they want. They want to operate, but ... mumsie won't let them. Thinks it's too soon." Pres looks bitter. "It's been two fucking years." He turns to grab his sweat pants from the counter. They've got a bit of damp on them, but he braces himself against the sink and pulls them on anyway, not looking at Loki. "I can't pay for the operation on my own, so I have to wait until mumsie says yes. The grandparents won't go behind her back on this one."

     A flat, angry look appears on Loki's face. He looks away, shaking it off. "Fuck." He doesn't have anything pithier to add when that sums up his opinion on the news so well.

     "Yeah. So I'm the crippled kid in my classes." Pres pulls his cane out from the hole in the shower stall, glowering at it. "People whisper about it and sometimes people ask to see my scar. Which is still better than the pity and the people who come up to me talking to me as if I'm retarded. 'Are yew loooost?' No, I'm not fuckin' lost. I can't walk so good, there's nothing wrong with my mind, what's wrong with yours?"
     He turns, not looking at Loki. "Anyway, c'mon. We'll miss the movie or something. Sorry you had to see this. I've turned into a whiner."

     "Saw the movie before," Loki says. He leaves the bathroom. Not offering help on the way, now that Pres is back on his feet. One hand goes up, and just ends up running back through his hair. "You want another drink? I got all this amaretto, and I haven't even cracked the bottle yet. I'll see if I can remember how the recipe for the Multiple Orgasm goes."

     Pres blushes, stumping out towards the living room. "Yeah, sure. Sounds great. I'm gonna - see what else is on. At least alcohol's better'n aspirin, right?"

     "You can say that again." Loki sorts through bottles in the kitchen. Vodka, Kahlua, amaretto, Bailey's... So there's no half-and-half. Using half as much cream just makes it a drink with more kick. He returns with two new glasses to pass one to Pres. "Better than the chocolate shakes you can get at Denny's."

     He takes the glass, nodding and sniffing it, then taking a mouthful. One hand digs into the cushions until he comes up with the remote; he jams a thumb onto the channel selector. "Russian roulette. Bring the bottles too," Pres tells Loki with a hint of a smirk. "We either watch ten minutes of wherever it lands, or we drink a shot."

     Loki hauls the bottles out with a sharp, fast grin. "Starting the rotation on any channel with 'Family' in the name is going to end up with us both passed out on the couch."

     "You say it like that's a problem," Pres drawls, grinning a bit in return. He closes his eyes, aims the remote, and ... zap! It's an old Lassie rerun. "Drink," he says immediately, glugging the drink he's got. "I can't stand Lassie. God. Only thing worse would be Leave it to Beaver." He offers the remote. "Your turn."

     Loki throws back a swig, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then takes the remote. "Wheel of Cable, turn, turn, turn, show us the channel that we should spurn." He closes his eyes, clicks through, and stops. On golf. "I vote drink. Ten minutes of golf will put me to sleep."

     "Yeah." He polishes off the glass, licking liquor and cream off his lips. "Just say no to golf. A good walk spoiled. And this is what mumsie wants me to spend the rest of my life doing? No thanks." Pres takes the remote, pressing the button again. This time, it stops - on a televangelist. "Oh FUCK no."

     Loki goes to refill Pres's glass, leaning half over him to get it done. Another iteration of the Screaming Orgasm, lighter on the cream. "Congratulations, you've managed to beat out Lassie. Give that remote back and I'll see if I can find something that doesn't leave brain scars." He sits back to have another drink from his own glass.

     Pres looks up at Loki, looking about to say something. He doesn't, of course. "Yeah," he mumbles, taking the glass. "Okay." He looks into the glass, flushed, then at the tv as he hands over the remote. "See what you get. Something good, maybe."

     Loki closes his eyes. Flip flip flip. He opens his eyes and says, "Ten minutes of...okay, I'm not sure if that's just bad acting because it's a made-for-TV movie, or if it's an exceptionally well-acted porn movie where they haven't taken their clothes off yet. Vote?"

     One eye opens cautiously. "...Leave it on for ten minutes. If it's porn, it's better acting than I've seen." Pres slouches a little, letting his hand flop onto the sofa. "After ten minutes, we can always try again, right?" His speech is a little slurred. "Or we could play something else."

     The remote goes in neutral territory, occupying a couch cushion between the two of them. "I'm open to suggestions." Loki stretches his legs out, sliding down on the couch as he watches. "Television's overrated, anyway."

     "There's always truth or dare," Pres mumbles, watching the actors on the screen. "Whup - she's getting undressed? Oh, false alarm. Bra commercial."

     Loki covers a tiny yawn with the back of his hand, and has a sip from his drink. "Even odds it's a stalker movie. They were playing ominous music when the couple was just holding hands. I'm lousy at truth and dare, but I'll play if you want. It's some kind of a classic."

     "We don't have to play." Pres grins lopsidedly. "I don't think I ever have, to be honest."

     "I haven't played since junior high. But back then, I didn't have access to adult beverages. Which I'm told improve the game." Loki holds up his glass by way of demonstration. There's a smear of Screaming Orgasm across the side of his mouth. "You know the basic rules, right? There's also spin the bottle, but that loses all the suspense with two people."

     Pres goes a bit red, looking at the screen as the girl on it turns to the window at some sound. "Yeah, with only two people, less suspense," he mumbles. "At that point, we might as well just skip to making out, right?" He looks at Loki, focusing on the smear of cream. "Oh, hold on." He leans in a little, lifting one hand. It wobbles slightly as he brings his hand up to the side of Loki's mouth, thumb coming cautiously - and unsteadily - into contact. "You've got... you know... something..."

     "Most drinking games work better with a group." Loki turns his head at the comment, as Pres's hand comes up. "--oh. Yeah. Thanks." A tongue flick catches most of the smear there, doesn't actually hit the thumb. "Got it?"

     He makes a sound in the back of his throat, then nods, dropping back into his side of the seat. "Yeah. Mostly," he answers gruffly. He turns to stare at the television, not really noticing as the girl starts climbing out of her window. "You still have a little - just. Anyway. I don't have any ideas. Sorry." He grabs one of the cushions, sprawling back against the arm of the sofa and holding the cushion in his lap with his glass on top of it.

     One leg half drawn up onto the couch, Loki shifts around to look at Pres. His sandals have already disappeared under the couch and behind the spread of bottles. "I think it's been about ten minutes. We can change the channel. Or do something else."

     His drink's somehow diminished to half gone. The cushion's very securely in his lap; his entire groin is hidden under lace ruffles. Pres nods, reaching for the remote one-handed and rooting around. "Yeah, okay. I'll look for it. Something else. Uh. Do you have any ideas?" He's still looking at the television, only not.

     "Iron Chef? Cartoons? Porn? I don't know." Loki pulls his other leg up, curled up in his corner of the couch, and looks at the television, rubbing at the corner of his mouth with one hand. He's mostly just spreading that last bit of the smear around. "Or we could just spin it randomly until we either find something we like or pass out from all the shots."

     "Yeah, I donno. I don't think I want a hangover." Pres looks tired and depressed, all of a sudden. "I think I'm gonna go to bed, if that's okay." He looks into his glass, then downs the rest of it. "You can stay up, if you want. It - won't bother me." He holds the cushion in place, setting the glass down and reaching for his cane with that hand.

     Loki leans over to prod Pres lightly in the shoulder with one finger. "Hey. Let me know if you want anything, okay?" He settles back on his side of the couch, picking up his glass.

     Pres gives Loki a brooding look. "If I get up the nerve." He turns to stump slowly towards his bedroom. The cushion falls to the floor halfway, abandoned.

Posted by rowan at March 01, 2009 10:18 AM