what is love?
Got a twitter, look!
twitter.com/greedchan
Anyway, this is Inu's easter present. xDD;;; We should have had this out a month ago.
SORRY BB
BUT HERE IT IS
AND IT'S NOT THAT GOOD
BUT I HOPE YOU'LL ENJOY IT?
Title: What is Love?
Author:greedchan
Characters // Pairings: Kimbley, Miles // KiMiles
Rating: ????
Wordcount: 859
Type: ????
Warnings: None
Summary: Miles always gets a little carried away.
All Zolf really expected was a drink. Not even a good one.
Usually, he didn't go to such unclassy places. Lowly pubs and strip clubs were only useful to gather information. And he certainly didn't drink often. A glass of wine or an expensive merlot were as far as he went. Intoxication impaired the senses far too much.
He'd expected a drink, but he'd gotten so much more than that.
Taking Miles with him had been rather a spur-of-the-moment thing. He didn't tend to bring him many places, really. Miles seemed content to glare at him from the small room Kimbley had shut him in, but tonight he'd dragged him out.
Things had gone as smoothly as they could. He'd ordered a glass of a sweet white wine, something modest whose color couldn't seep into his newly laundered threepiece. Miles, however...
Miles had ordered six drinks. Six, and it was five PM. Not only that, but after those six were gone (two lemon drops, a shot of fireball, a glass of a light lager beer, and two glasses of whiskey, in that order), he just kept going. It made no sense. Kimbley was usually the more wild of the pair -- he was willing ot blow people's brains out to get his way, he was known to kill men just because he felt like it -- but this was just ridiculous.
Zolf watched in half disbelief as Miles lifted a shot of straight vodka to his lips. How could he... it made zero sense. Weren't soldiers supposed to be somewhat sensible? He certainly was, and he wasn't even a soldier anymore.
It went on for about two hours, upon which time found them at around seven in the evening, which Zolf considered to be a time which was a little more appropriate to drink at. Miles was still at it, which was mind-blowing. Kimbley wasn't a lightweight, but he was pretty sure he'd be totally out by then if it were him. As it was, though, Miles was starting to get a little rowdy. He had thrown himself into Zolf's lap, one hand curled not gently around his ponytail, and the other clutched around a stout glass of whiskey. He was, unexplicably, singing the lyrics to the Littlest Hobo theme. Zolf didn't want to ask, but he did lean over a little, speaking into Miles' ear.
"You know," he said slowly. Being this close, he could see Miles' eyes through the dark glasses, and their red shade was glazed and drowsy. "If you want to sing so much, go do the karaoke." He eased the glass out of Miles' hand, reaching up to get the hand off his hair.
"But I want -- hey! Give that -- giv'it back," slurred the whitehaired man, waving one hand weakly. Zolf pushed him off lightly, but Miles still tumbled to the floor, one hand catching Kimbley's sleeve as he did. The alchemist managed to deposit the whiskey on the bar before he was jerked down nearly on top of him. As it was, Zolf braced one foot against the stool Miles had vacated sometime earlier and sighed. This was just getting out of hand.
"All right, Piney, come along," he coaxed, dropping his foot to the floor and hauling Miles up to plop him on the stool opposite. "You have to go sing something fabulous."
"...But I want a drink," said Miles stupidly.
"I'll buy you a beer if you go do it right now," he added quickly, and Miles got up and stumbled off.
Five minutes later found Miles tapping the head of a dingy old microphone in the corner, swaying on unsteady feet. Kimbley was lounging a little ways away, sipping at a colourful sort of drink and watching with mild interest. The music started, and Kimbley stared as Miles lifted the mic, opening his mouth stupidly.
Notes rolled over the little stage in the corner and Kimbley blinked. He knew this song.
Which had to be a bad sign, considering he hadn't sat down and listened to any music since before the war.
"Oh, I don't know why you're not there
I give you my love, but you don't care
So what is right, and what is wrong?
Gimme a sign
WHAT IS LOVE?
BABY DON'T HURT ME
DON'T HURT ME NO MORE
WHAT IS LOVE?"
Kimbley literally dropped his glass. It shattered around his feet, and that would need dry-cleaning, but he didn't particularly care right now. Since when did Miles ever sing this song? Since when did Miles know this song?!
Three minutes of pure Haddaway torture went by excruciatingly slowly, and then Miles stumbled back from the mic with the stupidest grin on his face. "That wasn't quite the fabulousness I was going for, Piney," said Zolf seriously, watching Miles tread obliviously over the broken glass of the drink he'd let go. "But good job."
"Where's my beer?"
Kimbley groaned. This was never going to end...
twitter.com/greedchan
Anyway, this is Inu's easter present. xDD;;; We should have had this out a month ago.
SORRY BB
BUT HERE IT IS
AND IT'S NOT THAT GOOD
BUT I HOPE YOU'LL ENJOY IT?
Title: What is Love?
Author:greedchan
Characters // Pairings: Kimbley, Miles // KiMiles
Rating: ????
Wordcount: 859
Type: ????
Warnings: None
Summary: Miles always gets a little carried away.
All Zolf really expected was a drink. Not even a good one.
Usually, he didn't go to such unclassy places. Lowly pubs and strip clubs were only useful to gather information. And he certainly didn't drink often. A glass of wine or an expensive merlot were as far as he went. Intoxication impaired the senses far too much.
He'd expected a drink, but he'd gotten so much more than that.
Taking Miles with him had been rather a spur-of-the-moment thing. He didn't tend to bring him many places, really. Miles seemed content to glare at him from the small room Kimbley had shut him in, but tonight he'd dragged him out.
Things had gone as smoothly as they could. He'd ordered a glass of a sweet white wine, something modest whose color couldn't seep into his newly laundered threepiece. Miles, however...
Miles had ordered six drinks. Six, and it was five PM. Not only that, but after those six were gone (two lemon drops, a shot of fireball, a glass of a light lager beer, and two glasses of whiskey, in that order), he just kept going. It made no sense. Kimbley was usually the more wild of the pair -- he was willing ot blow people's brains out to get his way, he was known to kill men just because he felt like it -- but this was just ridiculous.
Zolf watched in half disbelief as Miles lifted a shot of straight vodka to his lips. How could he... it made zero sense. Weren't soldiers supposed to be somewhat sensible? He certainly was, and he wasn't even a soldier anymore.
It went on for about two hours, upon which time found them at around seven in the evening, which Zolf considered to be a time which was a little more appropriate to drink at. Miles was still at it, which was mind-blowing. Kimbley wasn't a lightweight, but he was pretty sure he'd be totally out by then if it were him. As it was, though, Miles was starting to get a little rowdy. He had thrown himself into Zolf's lap, one hand curled not gently around his ponytail, and the other clutched around a stout glass of whiskey. He was, unexplicably, singing the lyrics to the Littlest Hobo theme. Zolf didn't want to ask, but he did lean over a little, speaking into Miles' ear.
"You know," he said slowly. Being this close, he could see Miles' eyes through the dark glasses, and their red shade was glazed and drowsy. "If you want to sing so much, go do the karaoke." He eased the glass out of Miles' hand, reaching up to get the hand off his hair.
"But I want -- hey! Give that -- giv'it back," slurred the whitehaired man, waving one hand weakly. Zolf pushed him off lightly, but Miles still tumbled to the floor, one hand catching Kimbley's sleeve as he did. The alchemist managed to deposit the whiskey on the bar before he was jerked down nearly on top of him. As it was, Zolf braced one foot against the stool Miles had vacated sometime earlier and sighed. This was just getting out of hand.
"All right, Piney, come along," he coaxed, dropping his foot to the floor and hauling Miles up to plop him on the stool opposite. "You have to go sing something fabulous."
"...But I want a drink," said Miles stupidly.
"I'll buy you a beer if you go do it right now," he added quickly, and Miles got up and stumbled off.
Five minutes later found Miles tapping the head of a dingy old microphone in the corner, swaying on unsteady feet. Kimbley was lounging a little ways away, sipping at a colourful sort of drink and watching with mild interest. The music started, and Kimbley stared as Miles lifted the mic, opening his mouth stupidly.
Notes rolled over the little stage in the corner and Kimbley blinked. He knew this song.
Which had to be a bad sign, considering he hadn't sat down and listened to any music since before the war.
"Oh, I don't know why you're not there
I give you my love, but you don't care
So what is right, and what is wrong?
Gimme a sign
WHAT IS LOVE?
BABY DON'T HURT ME
DON'T HURT ME NO MORE
WHAT IS LOVE?"
Kimbley literally dropped his glass. It shattered around his feet, and that would need dry-cleaning, but he didn't particularly care right now. Since when did Miles ever sing this song? Since when did Miles know this song?!
Three minutes of pure Haddaway torture went by excruciatingly slowly, and then Miles stumbled back from the mic with the stupidest grin on his face. "That wasn't quite the fabulousness I was going for, Piney," said Zolf seriously, watching Miles tread obliviously over the broken glass of the drink he'd let go. "But good job."
"Where's my beer?"
Kimbley groaned. This was never going to end...