without the chance for last respects

[northseaflotsam]

Occasionally he hangs out in Stigmata, because it's cheap (to say the least) and you meet interesting people; but more often lately he's gravitating to another establishment, tucked away among winding streets, one that smells of old timber and new bread

Comments

[crophisownrose]

It's Sagramore's birthday--he turns forty to-day. And he still feels unsettled and unhappy, as if he can't find his footing somehow in this world, but--he can't help it--he's half-terrified to go back to his own.

And the number of people in Stigmata just seems like begging for trouble; a greater number of people to see him drunk and behaving like an idiot, just because he can't think of anything better to do. So finding another place to endure his birthday in relative peace and quiet seems like a better idea.

He wanders for a long time before he finds the tavern and slips in, almost guiltily, like a boy who isn't sure that he's old enough to drink with the men yet and is hoping no one will notice. He's too busy feeling troubled to notice Mordred right away, and once he has a bottle of brandy and a shot glass to pour it into, he settles quietly, somehow managing to fit all of his long self at a small table without much discomfort.

[northseaflotsam]

Mordred, on the other hand, hasn't missed his entrance. He delays only briefly, watching with sharp dark eyes, before he collects his drink and crosses to join Sagramore. "There you are," mildly.

[crophisownrose]

He glances up. "It's been a long time since I've seen you drink."

[northseaflotsam]

"Aye?" sliding into a seat without waiting for an invitation.

[crophisownrose]

"Drink or eat, sleep--" Sagramore pours himself a second shot--he already tipped one back while Mordred was crossing the room--his gaze dropping again. "You've lost your taste for most of it."

[northseaflotsam]

"I know. Leave it to me to make a mess of my own suicide." He pauses a moment. "I'm sorry."

[crophisownrose]

"It's all right." The shrug should indicate to anyone with a brain that it is very much not all right. "I know it's difficult--that it was." He pours a third. Shot glasses are nice in that they are small and make for quick drinking.

[northseaflotsam]

"It still is, for you. I know."

[crophisownrose]

"I'm all right. I'm quite all right."

[northseaflotsam]

"Don't lie to me," mildly. "Not here. I remember."

[crophisownrose]

"All right, igen, you already know. I'm sick and I'm old, I feel filthy, I'm tired. You already know." He drinks the fourth shot.

[northseaflotsam]

"I can't undo it, and I don't ask you to forgive me. I want you to know I'm sorry for it, that's all. And that I loved you." He curls his fingers deliberately against his own heavy glass. "I still do, if it comes to that."

[crophisownrose]

Sagramore stares morosely at his shotglass for a long moment, and then says, "It's my birthday, to-day. Why don't you give me a kiss for luck?"

[northseaflotsam]

His mouth pulls upward at one corner. Without answering he stands up, and leans over to kiss Sagramore, gently but quite thoroughly.

[crophisownrose]

This time Sagramore kisses back with deep concentration, his hand snaking up into Mordred's hair and winding tightly, lifting himself a little from his chair so that his shoulder nudges against Mordred's.

[northseaflotsam]

"There's a room upstairs," he says quietly, after a minute of this. "They don't seem to care what you do with it. Come on."

Because seriously, Sagramore is drinking that stuff like water.