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[fatespoken]

✏ LOGGING: This is your thread for logging, whether spontaneous or plot-related, silly or serious. His normal haunts include shifts at the Blue Light, various city bars, cafes, random encounters, etc. Prose preferred, [] are fine too.

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i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[oshutup]

This time, Peter does not offer to see the other man home, but that is only a way of cutting out a supplementary step, skipping on to simply deciding to help him at least a majority of the way there.

"Your presence isn't the problem I was referring to," he says as he gets up only to follow Amory toward the door, brow arching at the snuffing of a smolder, though he makes no comment. There isn't much to say between them if the other man persists with what Peter identifies as some marriage of defiance and denial with a resulting fringe of dislike and whatever else can be purely attributed to the degree of drinking that has gone on tonight, and only by one of them. How one defines 'much', of course, varied on who, what, and why one is. Who Peter is, is in frankest terms, Peter, and what he is, is not limited to just one thing but that in and of itself is a qualifier, and why he is, well that much they have gone over, and he has once again resigned himself to the reality that Amory will not be expressing the who, what, or why of his self any time soon. In a way that is fine.

They are not particularly close, but the obstinate focus on drinking as a solution or a fix is hard to ignore and some of the stranger but stronger bonds in stories have been forged over a concern rather than an affection. Such is the beginning of the case here, though the end has yet to out itself as the blond falls into step alongside the bartender rather than behind. Maybe it would be better to say something else, but he doesn't know what to say, and he has never been too fond of idle words, so he keeps to his silence, something he does not think of being an even greater annoyance. Irony would have it that, in truth, it is the very kind of contemplative quiet that would have had him up in ire a little over a year ago.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

Spoken words are not necessary for Peter himself to become an even greater annoyance, as his presence beside him-- the fact that there's a living, breathing body shadowing him sideways, hanging upon him as if he's teeth deep in his skin like a goddamn bloody leech, is enough to drive Amory further up that wall. His temper has always been touchy thing, and even more so when he's inebriated, unable to divide innocuous circumstances from their malignant siblings. Peter could have raised a sword to his chest, and Amory would have found it as irritating as being followed. Or so he thinks. Probably not if that circumstance was truly the case, but then again, Amory isn't exactly connecting point A to point B right now. Deductive and inductive reasoning can all go to hell.

The hasty step in his stride the moment he sets off from the booth says enough, liquid in the bottle sloshing against glass sides as he rushes toward the door. He means to walk faster, but what common sense lingers tells Amory that he's likely to fall on his face. So what he settles on is a median between walking and jogging, hoping to lose the King or at least send a message of derision. And it's his greatest hope that Peter will get the note unless he is thicker than Amory has assumed. When he does reach the door, Amory heaves it open a bit too harshly - the wood jamming against his hand, splitting open the premature blister on his index finger. There's line of red streaked against the door's edge; a gift of sorts for whoever has the early shift tomorrow.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[oshutup]

...

Well.

If Amory hopes to lose Peter through way of a median between walking and jogging, Peter will give him the benefit of the doubt, or would if he could read minds, and credit it to the drunken stupor. Okay, well, second thoughts being second, maybe he wouldn't, but the world will never know for certain. Still, his general feeling would be that no one should be able to lose anyone at such a median, save for, perhaps, people without legs. Also babies.

Needless to say, he locks the door behind them after giving the 'gift' a cursory wipe with the edge of his shirt, frowning when it does not entirely come off, but the shirt will be fine after a cleaning. Probably. Possibly. Whatever the case, he does not hurry, feeling no need to, considering Amory's less than...strenuous pace. He even stands just where he is for a moment or two, arms crossed and considering the moderately retreating figure ahead of him before following through with, well, following anyway, half inclined to place a hand on the other man's shoulder, just to get his attention. At the last second, he refrains, stuffing his hand in his pocket instead, the other lightly resting over the device in the opposite pocket of a coat a little too light for the hour's chill, but Peter has never been especially averse to a normal winter's edge. When walking beside the bartender again, he pauses before taking a quick step ahead and standing in front of him.

"Look, obviously you're bothered by something. Fine. I'm not going to ask, but you should go home." He pauses, casting a glance to the side as if there is someone walking by, but no one else is around, not as far as the eye can tell. The deviation is a second only though, and then northern sky fixes itself back upon the person who is not exactly a friend but certainly not an enemy either, someone who has proven in his own way to find a use for diligent work and a person who keeps much of the things that fill in the blanks close to the vest. It is curious. It is hardly any of his business. But here he is, and it is true enough that some things happen more without reason than with it.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

Remember, Peter. With all the alcohol that's seeped into his brain, including a glass or four he may have had prior to sitting down, it's lucky that he hasn't taken the immediate action of falling flat on his face. (Though that would have made lovely picture on the employee of the month wall, assuming that they had one.) Being able to actually determine a destination, to decide between two ends-- the Colosseum before home, is a testament to his micrometer of lucidity. But that micrometer isn't enough for him to acknowledge that his pace is relative to snail's pace, if we're talking about a game of pursuit and capture. The point remains that he hasn't fallen on his face. Yet.

Speaking about the winter's chill, Amory's own shoulders are thinly sheltered aside for his only long-sleeve layer. What may be a brisk wind to Peter, is likely a biting chill for Amory, cold pricking against skin not yet accustomed to an winter as season. It's either that his brain is too preoccupied with trying to forge sense from pink elephants, or that warmth from spirits have managed to pervade even his furthest extremities. Or maybe he's chosen not to mention it, swallowing up his discomfort as he would never swallow his pride, firm steps marching toward his chosen destination. It wasn't like he hadn't heard Peter's words, and surely he must have, considering that Peter's voice was the single sound against a vaulted midnight sky. But hearing wasn't equivalent to listening, and even with those words pointed at him, Amory chooses to step forth in ignorance, syllables as empty as the air that circles around him.

Suffocating.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[oshutup]

That the other man turns to go without a word is not surprising, but Peter finds reason enough to follow even still, lips pressed in a thin line characteristic of a majority of his expressions, even some of his smiles, not that he wears one now. Amory's insistent silence does nothing to dissuade the High King from his decided pursuit, eyes never wavering from the focus even as he reconsiders his own words, shaping and reshaping, thinking and rethinking.

"Amory." It is only a name, but sometimes a name is everything. A name can be stop and a name can be please and a name can be listen. A name can be anything as soon as everything, in fact, and so it holds that semblance now, anchored between them like a line that loops two separates together until they appear circular and seamless, not separate but integrated, involved. If he needs a word for what he has chosen to be, Peter supposes 'involved' might very well do.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

Just as his voice frames the air, the High King's presence is the center-point of this landscape; all color, sound, and light as amorphous figures suspended in suffocation by the ink of the hour. Amory can't ignore Peter regardless if ignorance is what he chooses, for as long as those assured lines of his character remain, Peter would never be a person capable of simply being ignored. It is why Amory hesitates, only for a breath of a second, his head edging over his shoulder to catch Peter's glance- the narrowing of his eyes intercepting Peter's characteristic thin-lined look.

"I told you once already," he speaks, the tone of his voice stretched taunt, then tightening into contracted sound. It seems to be only anger, but how strangely it carries itself with a weight that seems possibly palpable. "I told you I don't need your help, kid. Fuck your concern and all your damn insistence. Fuck you, Peter Pevensie."

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[oshutup]

"I heard you," he replies, unperturbed by the anger, ever aware of the heavy anchor invisibly linked to it, dragging behind the harshness of consonants and vowels that aim only to discourage the outside force, which, at present, is Peter himself. Trading loose barbs for something of more stoic origin, the blond has noted that breath of a second only because in one lifetime he learned sometimes a breath of a second is all one has. So noted, he tailors his own tone, though that should not be misconstrued as veiling, less a matter of strategy and more one of accuracy to what he means to say. The bristling that happens at the category of 'kid', much like the breath of a glance is there too, but only for its own second. It may be enough to have been noticed, however.

"Somehow, your insults get less and less effective the more you try to use them," he informs rather than suggests, as if it is a fact, and as far as Peter can tell, personally, it might as well be.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

"And your attempt at playing adult gets less and less effective the more you try at it," he retorts, voice snapping back at a tempo that leaves no doubt to exactly what is fueling his venom. If not echoed in his voice, it's defined in his stance, shoulders drawn back and muscles rigid as he turns half-circle to face Peter. "Let me tell you something," he double-checks the enunciation of his words. None of that languid pronunciation for him; he won't drag his words through the mud until he has a few shots more.

"My father doesn't look a day over thirty-five, and trust me, I'm being generous. Do you know how old he really is?" a single step forward, "Two thousand ninety-one. But that's fucking irrelevant because to everyone else, he's barely out of his twenties. An adult back in his day, a relative youth in ours. Do you think everyone respects him? Do you think he's treated as he should be treated? Hardly."

He shakes of his head, stringing it onto another one of those dry, insipid laughs. In fact, Amory Felix lies. The way in which his father carries himself has always reflected years beyond his form; an unmistakable personage that has led both men and businesses throughout the folding of years. In the last three decades, he's played the role of a lawyer, a real-estate investor, a historian, and a winery owner, amongst other things and all at the same time. To claim that he hadn't garnered respect in each venue would be a blatant lie.

Of course Peter didn't need to know that.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[orderofthelion]

A year ago, Peter would have punched Amory, more than once---well, to be more precise, a little over a year ago, a year and an unlikely rebellion and some months time ago. Looking at it now, it feels closer to a lifetime itself, the messy in-between stringing together an Age of Gold and his present period of grace. As the saying goes, however, that was then, and this is now; an over simplification to be sure, but it does the job, means exactly what it spells and nothing additional. It is that type of unencumbered candor that permeates itself through his entire frame, and keeps the temper he still has in comparative check. Helpful is the suspicion that Amory is too drunk to remember what anger the blond might have spared his way, and even more helpful still is that he would, as far as Peter can tell, never admit to being struck by any of his disapproval. He has shown that much, so far, but as it is, this is not one of the times that is about Peter's own age, which, though not irrelevant, is also just not the point of anything here at all.

Amory is taking wild swings, and as wild swings are wont to, they are missing even as they betray truths or at least half-truths about him that Peter knows he would not otherwise be privy to. Combination drunk and irritable and Amory; it's interesting, and it occurs to the High King that, like most people who he has seen vest themselves in a character that shields another reality, the bartender carries some mix of fear and bitterness, the kind sometimes born of disappointment and more often of hurt. He has no hard copy history to back up the inferences, but not all of the things he learned in Narnia had to do with aptly wielding a broad sword or politely refusing courtiers, so on and so forth. Much of it is just the kind of thing another person can and has in their own life learned on Earth or a distant star.

It has to do with people, and that broad of a statement has a frightening amount of context and content that can get involved, but suffice to say, that for all his sometimes-social dryness, private shadows are no stranger to him. Besides, it is not as though Amory has made any particular secret of his drinking. Peter was honest when he said he was not the only one who had noticed, the difference being that he has been one to speak to it, not in small part, he would admit, because he prefers to have their competent barkeep...well, competent.

"That is something," he half nods and half sighs, a casual thread to those three words that keeps it from being something that could be mistaken for mockery, but again he does not make any move to call off his intervention, rare but fully invested. It is possible--it is likely--that a secret part of him (even secret from Peter himself, the eternal subconscious of his oldest and youngest moment) recognizes that it matters to let someone know they are being noticed, that the actions they take have consequences and that someone else is going to mind about it, even if the doer himself does not, or, more accurately, professes not to. Such is something of the matter here, and anyone who knows the eldest Pevensie sibling could tell anyone else: when he gets an idea into his head, when he decides something, he is immovable enough, come armies or, as is the case now, Amory.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

Peter's age may not be the immediate point of the conversation, but as haphazard dots and patterns often interlock themselves with independent circumstances, it certainly has become a point. Currently, it's the sharp-tongued spur lodged in Amory's temper; venom brimming beneath anger, delineated in a smoldering scowl layered against sheets of night. It's a look perfected and practiced, measured and utilized in only appropriate circumstances, choice situations, which make it one of the rarer entries in Amory Felix's catalog of evil eyes. For the mere act of advising him-- guidance, advice, suggestion, direction, being amongst a category of nouns that will always drag him along kicking and screaming. He hates being told what to do. He hates being advised, especially by one who's face still echoes angles of youth, the softer curve of a cheek unpressed by time- features that even the older one is criminal of. Amory isn't that much older physically, but those few years mark an important difference. Important, in the sense that even as his manager, even as someone mentally older, Peter has no right to tell him to go home. It's an upturn of that age-old phrase "Respect your elders," incorporated into the set of values that order his pride.

When off work, Peter Pevensie has no rule over him.

"You have no right to advise me. No right to tell me to go home," he sucks in a breath of air, a tempered space between silence and rancor that continues to fight its way through. A showcase of anger won't lose the King, nor will derision, and Amory feels the last ends of his nerves snapping, dissolving into the miasma of his cresting nausea and temper.

"Just be quiet, Kid."

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[orderofthelion]

It is something that Peter Pevensie has any rule over Amory Felix at all, work or not, really, just saying. Very interesting. But again, with no particular aptitude for that niche of telepathy, well, it's fortunate for the barkeep that Peter thus misses out on this likely inadvertent note of admittance. This is not, as far as Peter is concerned, of much immediate importance, however.

"Perhaps not," he admits, almost too amiably. "But that won't stop me, no more than someone's advice will stop you from running head first into whatever is that's bothering you." To Peter, that is what it seems that Amory is doing, avoiding, avoiding, avoiding, but avoidance only works for so long before, like most things under tension, the thread snaps and frays beyond repair. It is something worth worry, worth the act of running metaphorically into a wall face-first over and over with the hopes of changing anything at all.

And Peter does not like to idle away when action is an alternative. Not all action garners desired results, and some ends up without any results entirely, but the adage of never knowing until one tries applies here in full. For all their often mutual dryness, wryness, and the unspoken, unwritten agreement to give each other generous berths of personal space, this does not automate out all traces of care and good intention. Certainly, the High King never gives word to it, but that can be said of his care for even the people closest to him. Bypassing the talk, there remains only the thing of making something happen, or keeping it from happening.

Tonight, he supposes, is a little bit of both.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

He tastes it even before the words slip, silver glancing across his tongue to gather in the blunt ridges of his molars. It’s like the tang of metal, a simile that carries equal force in the distribution of weight over his shoulders, a lead-lined mantle. In usual succession follows the cold, spreading like the cob-webbing of ice through muscles and veins. Stereotype says it should be warmth, as if the mind’s image of energy as activity, like the many moving parts of a machine, inspires the same in the preternatural sense. It’s more the sensation of frozen hands against bare flesh, whites of a nail’s edge lodged deep into skin. Why the sensation feels as it does, Amory has no explanation, even wondering once if it was the transliteration of a metaphorical burden. A constant that reminded men who held the infinite in their palms that they were still only men. Or it could be a warning call for what's about to happen. For the wall is crumbling, chunks and bits and pieces of power, of magic as people like to call it; a thin stream at first but crashing through suddenly as a tidal wave.

"You think you're an adult. An adult stuck in the body of a brat. But it's all pointless. You're not King, Pevensie. You're not even a man, no matter the truth. No one sees that, all they see is what you appear to be." he breaks off, severing his words with contained laughter, "You should just forget about all that. Forget about Narnia, forget about being a man. You're just a fucking kid."

He's too muddled to notice the thread snap, gathered pressure sinking back as suddenly as it came. It now rests behind the tired walls, but the deed has already been done, and the deed is irrevocable.