Penalty Game
[Players: ishtar_marik and NPC Steven Gant.]
[The Scene: It's the NY Jets vs. the Pittsburgh Steelers game just before Thanksgiving, and two friends kick back for an evening of television, chips and beer... and a little more truth than is really comfortable. Funny how these things happen, isn't it? Dated November 18, 2007.
Phone conversation, November 18, 2007, just after 5 p.m.; Steven Gant's apartment, 336 W 46th.
"Hey, Marik-- yeah, got your message just now; been out looking for some stuff I needed-- little project of mine I've got going on. Looks like the game starts at seven, you want to pick up some-- that'd be fine, sure. I got chips, sandwich stuff, all that crap; still got my email with the directions? Good. Place's not much, but it's not too hard to find. Keep an eye out for that Heineken mural I told you about, it's just a couple buildings down."
"The parking garage's two blocks west, right, over on tenth, you can't miss it. Call me if you got any problems, okay?"
**click**
* * * * *
It was a rare thing when Marik watched sporting events. In fact he was someone who would rather play the sport than be a spectator-- the exception being Tennis. A bias, naturally, since he had played it in College. Reaching into the backseat of his car, Marik pulled of a six pack of Anchor Steam and a six pack of Alaskan Amber. Beer wasn't his favorite alcohol and in most cases he found the stuff disgusting, but if he had to drink it he was particular about what kind it was.
Taking a glance at the address written on a piece of paper, he stuffed it in his pocket and walked down the street to Steven's apartment, keeping an eye out for the mural Steven mentioned in the phone message. After a few minutes of walking Marik noted the mural; it covered the majority of the side of a building to the north in pale green and black, a cityscape dominated by an improbably huge beer-bottle.
Steven had been right when he had said that it was 'hard to miss'; regarding it for a few moments more, Marik continued to Steven's apartment.
* * *
Downstairs in his apartment, Steven twitched slightly as the door-buzzer sounded; the unfamiliar sound was jarring-- it was the first time, actually, that anyone had ever visited... that he had ever invited anyone over. He valued his privacy, cherished it jealously.
...especially lately.
But hey, there's an exception to every rule, right? He hit the buzzer by the door. "Yeah?"
"It's Marik," he said simply, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he waited to get buzzed in.
"Right on time, said the tinny voice accompanied by a whine of feedback. "There's a door over to the side down a couple of stairs, basement service entrance; hang on a sec--" There was a faint burp of sound to Marik's left as a lock unlatched. "--There. C'mon in, third door to the right."
The door opened onto a few more stairs leading down into what seemed to be a sizable converted basement of the kind common to older apartment buildings; the first door had a faded hand-lettered sign reading BUILDING SUPER taped on the metal. A second door was half open; the small, narrow room inside showed a spill of cleaning supplies, boxes of lightbulbs and so forth: obviously the Super's stockroom. The third door, though--
"Yo," said Steven cheerfully, opening the third door; light shone past him, illuminating the windowless hallway. "C'mon in."
Marik grinned, seeing as Steven had managed to open the door right before he managed to knock on it. "Hello," he responded, walking past Steven and making sure all the while not to hit the glass bottles off the side of the door frame as he went in.
The first impression a person might gain on seeing the small apartment was: chessboard. Everything was in stark black and white, with a few grays to vary the monochrome theme-- white walls, black couch, glass end-tables. A handful of geometric-patterned steel-colored throw pillows were scattered on and around the furniture, and the bookshelves that took up much of the wallspace had all been painted either charcoal or jet. A large number of photos hung on the walls, all in chrome frames; as Steven closed the door behind Marik, he waved a hand at the room. "Make yourself at home; I'll put this stuff away. Want me to open one for you?"
Marik took a look around, and although it lacked vibrant color the room itself was very organized and modern. His own place had splashes of modern furniture throughout and he could appreciate Steven's style. He nodded to the offer and walked towards the couch. “Thanks, and sure, I’ll take one.”
There was still a few minutes before the game started; a well-used large-screen TV was playing a highlights survey of the Jets' past games and comparing them to the Steelers' run for the season. From the kitchen the other man's voice continued. "Let's see, we got... chips, got salsa-- you like salsa? --ah shit, forgot, I left the bottle-opener in my pants-pocket; be right back."
Unloading his burden of bowls onto the coffee-table, the blond opened a door to what looked like a severely-organized bedroom (blacks and whites again; Steven had apparently found a color scheme and gone with it). He came back out a few seconds later, pausing as he glanced down; incongruous in the neat apartment, a cardboard box of tools and what looked like building supplies sat beside the bedroom door. A little smile flickered across the man's face, and he nudged the box into his bedroom with one foot before shutting the door, opener in hand. "A little home improvement project," he added.
“Chips and salsa are fine,“ he said, laying his coat on the arm of the couch, and leaned back on the couch glancing remotely at the highlight reels on the TV. “Are you excited about the game?” he asked, curious not for himself but in general.
Steven shrugged in that one-shouldered way that he had, wandering back into the gally-shaped kitchen; the only real spots of color in the apartment were there, bright blue pot-holders and an oven-mitt, hanging on a hook beside the old refrigerator. "Eh-- sort of. Used to be a big Steelers fan years ago, but I've kind of gotten away from it." There was a twin pop!-hiss of carbonation, and the other man came back into the room carrying two bottles, condensation beading up cold on their slick sides. "I miss it, y'know? Lost track of things for a few years; so I thought maybe it was time to get back into watching." He sat down. "Used to be that I'd never miss a game," Steven concluded with a small frown he passed Marik his Amber.
“Life does have a way of pulling you away from the things you want. However you seem to be doing well now, with your business and your projects. Perhaps you’ll get back in the habit again,” Marik concluded, taking the beer from Steven.
The show was segueing into commercials now; the other man took a long pull of his Anchor Steam and shrugged again amiably. "Maybe. No big deal. You much of a football fan?"
"Not particularly, though I didn't seem the harm in watching one. I'd much rather play the sport then watch it, honestly."
The blond gave him a slightly horrified stare, pausing mid-swallow. "...you're shitting me. You play football? Seriously?" The idea seemed to both amuse and amaze Steven, and he sat down his bottle with a hard clack on the table. "What position?"
Amusement filled his eyes as he laughed at Steven’s apparent excitement “No- I didn’t play for any team, just with some colleagues at school. Mostly to pass the time- however I did get asked to try out; the position if memory serves me right-- I would have tried for running back.”
The other man studied him skeptically for a second or two more before grinning. "Just-- can't see you out there tackling linebackers or sliding in the mud, somehow." He picked up a handful of chips before settling back on the couch. "Me, I never was one for sports in school; too busy, I guess. Played a bit of basketball while I was, ah... Anyway; yeah. Not a football type; I like to watch it, but..." He munched in silence for a moment before shaking his head. "Football. Just can't picture it. You look more like-- dunno, a golf type? What else do you play?"
Marik grinned “Don’t let the suits and professionalism fool you. I’m quite capable of spearing a line-backer to the ground or handling myself in battles that aren’t organized institutions.” Marik took a long swig of his Alaskan and continued: “As far as other sports- I’ve run track and played tennis.”
Still eying him a little bemusedly, Steven raised a blond eyebrow and picked up his beer again. "Mm. Did some track myself, but that's it-- Oh yeah, and darts, if you can call that a sport." He waved a hand towards the corner of the room to the right of the bedroom door; a black dartboard hung there unobtrusively, just one more monochrome object in the room. "Only picked that back up over the last six months or so, they didn't let us have darts where I was bef--" He cut himself off as, in a blare of noise, the game began.
* * *
"OH yeah!" Steven cheered with what was for him remarkable enthusiasm as a tackle was made against the Jets in the first quarter. Chips in hand, he waved one at the screen. "Did you see that?"
The game had gotten off to a good start; and, though a few minutes later, the Jets made a touchdown, Steven's energy did not diminish. "Told you this'd be a decent game. You want another beer yet?"
Marik didn't show nearly as much enthusiasm, but he had picked a team to support and thus wished success in their favor. "It is shaping up to be a close game, but we have some time to go... things might change," he said, eyes focused mostly on the game and nodding. "Yes, I'll take another, thank you."
The other man nodded back, eyes fixed on the TV as he rose. "Glad I had a wide-screen to watch this on," he commented as he headed towards the kitchen, his voice filtering through the crowd noises. "One of the tenants skipped out on his rent, so I bought it from my landlord for a steal just last week; beats my old 27-inch big time." He returned a moment later, beers in hand.
This was a more relaxed Steven than usual. The shadows that tended to show under his eyes were still there, but he seemed to have taken a break from his past lapses into temper. It was something of a relief to see him this much at ease.
"That is fortunate, did you manage to get any more bargains other then the TV?" Marik asked, sitting up to grab a hand full of chips from the bowl on the table.
On the screen, the Steeler's Roethlisberger was making a short pass to Holmes. "Couple of lamps, some camera stuff..." The other man waved his bottle at the nearest photo on the wall. "I've been setting up a darkroom-- used to do a lot of photography, that kind of-- damn." He grimaced as the Jet's defense player Revis brought the play to a halt. "36 yards, not bad-- Darkroom, yeah; I rented one of the storage rooms down here." He gave Marik a faint grin. "Let me get finished setting the thing up and I'll show it off, okay? It's taking a little more work than I planned." For some reason the comment seemed to amuse Steven. "You know how that goes... a little project turns into a big one?"
"Yes, I do understand how that goes. Our business dealings together are a good example of that." Marik didn't take Steven to be into photography, but then again it took all types. "I'd be more then pleased to see your work; I've never done much in photography myself."
Marik grinned, it was interesting to watch someone so into football. He hadn't witnessed anything remotely close to this since his college days. "It looks like the Jets are working for an upset," he said, knowing good and well he'd get a reaction. " By-the-way, where were you a few years back?-- it seems like it kept you away from doing some things."
Steven stopped in mid-swallow; his hand tightened around the chips, crumbs dropping silently to the couch as he froze. After a moment or so, he slowly sat his beer-bottle down onto the table and leaned back against the black fabric, hands still unconsciously clenched. "I was in prison, actually."
Marik paused mid-sip and looked at Steven with narrowing eyes. Prison-- Marik wasn't sure on how exactly to take the news. Outwardly he was as normal as ever, but his mind was riddled with questions. In truth he could get angry and refuse further involvement, but somehow that didn't seem like the best course of action. Instead, he simply placed his beer on the table and folded his hands on his lap.
He was going to let Steven make the next move, and it had better be a convincing one.
The other man stared straight ahead, eyes tracking the movement on the screen blankly. "A few years back I... was clumsy and a little too sure of myself; made a few bad choices, too, and I paid for them." He shrugged, absentmindedly brushing away crumbs in a scatter onto the upholstery before glancing at Marik with a self-depreciating grimace. "Nothing too dramatic; I'm not a murderer or anything, just--" He spread his hands. "--just-- well. I expected too much out of somebody, and when I didn't get it, I kind of... lost my temper."
The noises of the game were oddly loud in the apartment as the two men sat in silence. After a minute or so had passed, Steven added almost under his breath: "It wouldn't go that way if it all happened now, if I had a way to do it over again."
Marik looked at Steven, his stare unwavering. Sometime he didn't realize that he stared intently at someone when hearing non-pleasant like he had just heard. In truth, he still wasn't sure what to say about it. A man made mistakes, but that excuse could only go so far.
Steven's pale eyes flickered with something that might have been anger, but his voice remained level. "Hey, nobody's perfect, y'know. And the state of New York's pretty sure I paid for my mistakes, or I wouldn't be sitting here, would I?" He picked up his beer again and turned away to look back at the screen.
"Like I said, if I had it to do all over again, it'd be... different." He half-smiled, saluting the screen. "A whole new ball game."
Marik thought for a moment longer, then let out a silent breath and grabbed his beer, refocusing back on the game. It was evident that he was on the higher road now, and if he slipped at least he was prepared for it now. "Fair enough" he said quietly,features relaxing while he turned his attention to the game again. "We're still going to win," he smirked, and took a swig of his beer.
* * *
The game was mostly over and neither he or Steven, had much to say to each other since the awkwardness from Steven's confession. In fact, he didn't bother asking; he simply got up once a commercial chimed in to grab himself another beer.
The Jets had pulled something of a surprise win, breaking a 6-game losing streak; Steven's grousing towards the end of the game had had something of a forced sound to it, and now his voice drifted into the kitchen with a certain tone of defensiveness. "I take it you don't know many ex-cons, huh?"
"No, I don't-- should I?" he asked, glancing over the table top for the bottle opener.
There was the creak of sofa-cushions, and Steven appeared at the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed and leaning on the corner of the counter. "You'd be surprised," he said with more than a little sarcasm. "You're in New York, not a monastery; not like you're surrounded by angels, Marik. We can't all be perfect. And--"
He hesitated for a second, then went on with a bitter twist to his lips. "--what's done is done. I paid for my screwups, right? So who're you to throw stones?"
"I believe you're mistaken Steven, I haven't said anything to you about it." The quick, crisp sound of the bottle cap popping off filled the brief silence. "Then again, does it matter what I think about it? You said it was in the past, did you not?"
The other man gave a shrug. "Depends on how holier-than-thou you want to be about it." He tilted his chin towards the beer and sat down his own empty bottle on the counter. "Pass me one, would you?"
Reaching over, he pulled at a bottle out of the six pack, opened it ,and handed it to Steven "I didn't walk out of the door, did I?-- things happen, as they say." Taking a long swig he maintained eye contact with Steven.
The blond took a matching swallow; cradling the bottle close, his pale gaze drifted sideways to settle on the clock over his kitchen sink as if it were the most fascinating in the world. "Heh. Y'know the funniest thing about the whole shitty mess? I don't regret what I did; I just... wish I hadn't been so goddamn careless..."
He gave Marik an odd smile, almost a grimace. "Things could've been so fucking different if I had just-- eh. Instead, I lost a few years out've my life. And now?" Steven took another swallow, tilting his head back; the overhead lights sparkled off the condensation on his beer. "Now it's all over, or that's what they told me when I got out; new life, new world, new chances." And he brought the bottle down, a smirk crossing his face. "New chances," he murmured.
Marik raised a brow and smirked back. "New chances... just be careful, Steven." He would hope that Steven was a different man, or at least wiser than whatever threw him in jail years ago. However for this point he'd be a bit skeptical of things.
Steven's smirk widened. "Angels couldn't be more careful, Marik." He drained the last of his beer, his bad humor seemingly falling away. "Hey-- want to watch the post-game show, or should I put in a movie?"
[The Scene: It's the NY Jets vs. the Pittsburgh Steelers game just before Thanksgiving, and two friends kick back for an evening of television, chips and beer... and a little more truth than is really comfortable. Funny how these things happen, isn't it? Dated November 18, 2007.
Phone conversation, November 18, 2007, just after 5 p.m.; Steven Gant's apartment, 336 W 46th.
"Hey, Marik-- yeah, got your message just now; been out looking for some stuff I needed-- little project of mine I've got going on. Looks like the game starts at seven, you want to pick up some-- that'd be fine, sure. I got chips, sandwich stuff, all that crap; still got my email with the directions? Good. Place's not much, but it's not too hard to find. Keep an eye out for that Heineken mural I told you about, it's just a couple buildings down."
"The parking garage's two blocks west, right, over on tenth, you can't miss it. Call me if you got any problems, okay?"
**click**
* * * * *
It was a rare thing when Marik watched sporting events. In fact he was someone who would rather play the sport than be a spectator-- the exception being Tennis. A bias, naturally, since he had played it in College. Reaching into the backseat of his car, Marik pulled of a six pack of Anchor Steam and a six pack of Alaskan Amber. Beer wasn't his favorite alcohol and in most cases he found the stuff disgusting, but if he had to drink it he was particular about what kind it was.
Taking a glance at the address written on a piece of paper, he stuffed it in his pocket and walked down the street to Steven's apartment, keeping an eye out for the mural Steven mentioned in the phone message. After a few minutes of walking Marik noted the mural; it covered the majority of the side of a building to the north in pale green and black, a cityscape dominated by an improbably huge beer-bottle.
Steven had been right when he had said that it was 'hard to miss'; regarding it for a few moments more, Marik continued to Steven's apartment.
* * *
Downstairs in his apartment, Steven twitched slightly as the door-buzzer sounded; the unfamiliar sound was jarring-- it was the first time, actually, that anyone had ever visited... that he had ever invited anyone over. He valued his privacy, cherished it jealously.
...especially lately.
But hey, there's an exception to every rule, right? He hit the buzzer by the door. "Yeah?"
"It's Marik," he said simply, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he waited to get buzzed in.
"Right on time, said the tinny voice accompanied by a whine of feedback. "There's a door over to the side down a couple of stairs, basement service entrance; hang on a sec--" There was a faint burp of sound to Marik's left as a lock unlatched. "--There. C'mon in, third door to the right."
The door opened onto a few more stairs leading down into what seemed to be a sizable converted basement of the kind common to older apartment buildings; the first door had a faded hand-lettered sign reading BUILDING SUPER taped on the metal. A second door was half open; the small, narrow room inside showed a spill of cleaning supplies, boxes of lightbulbs and so forth: obviously the Super's stockroom. The third door, though--
"Yo," said Steven cheerfully, opening the third door; light shone past him, illuminating the windowless hallway. "C'mon in."
Marik grinned, seeing as Steven had managed to open the door right before he managed to knock on it. "Hello," he responded, walking past Steven and making sure all the while not to hit the glass bottles off the side of the door frame as he went in.
The first impression a person might gain on seeing the small apartment was: chessboard. Everything was in stark black and white, with a few grays to vary the monochrome theme-- white walls, black couch, glass end-tables. A handful of geometric-patterned steel-colored throw pillows were scattered on and around the furniture, and the bookshelves that took up much of the wallspace had all been painted either charcoal or jet. A large number of photos hung on the walls, all in chrome frames; as Steven closed the door behind Marik, he waved a hand at the room. "Make yourself at home; I'll put this stuff away. Want me to open one for you?"
Marik took a look around, and although it lacked vibrant color the room itself was very organized and modern. His own place had splashes of modern furniture throughout and he could appreciate Steven's style. He nodded to the offer and walked towards the couch. “Thanks, and sure, I’ll take one.”
There was still a few minutes before the game started; a well-used large-screen TV was playing a highlights survey of the Jets' past games and comparing them to the Steelers' run for the season. From the kitchen the other man's voice continued. "Let's see, we got... chips, got salsa-- you like salsa? --ah shit, forgot, I left the bottle-opener in my pants-pocket; be right back."
Unloading his burden of bowls onto the coffee-table, the blond opened a door to what looked like a severely-organized bedroom (blacks and whites again; Steven had apparently found a color scheme and gone with it). He came back out a few seconds later, pausing as he glanced down; incongruous in the neat apartment, a cardboard box of tools and what looked like building supplies sat beside the bedroom door. A little smile flickered across the man's face, and he nudged the box into his bedroom with one foot before shutting the door, opener in hand. "A little home improvement project," he added.
“Chips and salsa are fine,“ he said, laying his coat on the arm of the couch, and leaned back on the couch glancing remotely at the highlight reels on the TV. “Are you excited about the game?” he asked, curious not for himself but in general.
Steven shrugged in that one-shouldered way that he had, wandering back into the gally-shaped kitchen; the only real spots of color in the apartment were there, bright blue pot-holders and an oven-mitt, hanging on a hook beside the old refrigerator. "Eh-- sort of. Used to be a big Steelers fan years ago, but I've kind of gotten away from it." There was a twin pop!-hiss of carbonation, and the other man came back into the room carrying two bottles, condensation beading up cold on their slick sides. "I miss it, y'know? Lost track of things for a few years; so I thought maybe it was time to get back into watching." He sat down. "Used to be that I'd never miss a game," Steven concluded with a small frown he passed Marik his Amber.
“Life does have a way of pulling you away from the things you want. However you seem to be doing well now, with your business and your projects. Perhaps you’ll get back in the habit again,” Marik concluded, taking the beer from Steven.
The show was segueing into commercials now; the other man took a long pull of his Anchor Steam and shrugged again amiably. "Maybe. No big deal. You much of a football fan?"
"Not particularly, though I didn't seem the harm in watching one. I'd much rather play the sport then watch it, honestly."
The blond gave him a slightly horrified stare, pausing mid-swallow. "...you're shitting me. You play football? Seriously?" The idea seemed to both amuse and amaze Steven, and he sat down his bottle with a hard clack on the table. "What position?"
Amusement filled his eyes as he laughed at Steven’s apparent excitement “No- I didn’t play for any team, just with some colleagues at school. Mostly to pass the time- however I did get asked to try out; the position if memory serves me right-- I would have tried for running back.”
The other man studied him skeptically for a second or two more before grinning. "Just-- can't see you out there tackling linebackers or sliding in the mud, somehow." He picked up a handful of chips before settling back on the couch. "Me, I never was one for sports in school; too busy, I guess. Played a bit of basketball while I was, ah... Anyway; yeah. Not a football type; I like to watch it, but..." He munched in silence for a moment before shaking his head. "Football. Just can't picture it. You look more like-- dunno, a golf type? What else do you play?"
Marik grinned “Don’t let the suits and professionalism fool you. I’m quite capable of spearing a line-backer to the ground or handling myself in battles that aren’t organized institutions.” Marik took a long swig of his Alaskan and continued: “As far as other sports- I’ve run track and played tennis.”
Still eying him a little bemusedly, Steven raised a blond eyebrow and picked up his beer again. "Mm. Did some track myself, but that's it-- Oh yeah, and darts, if you can call that a sport." He waved a hand towards the corner of the room to the right of the bedroom door; a black dartboard hung there unobtrusively, just one more monochrome object in the room. "Only picked that back up over the last six months or so, they didn't let us have darts where I was bef--" He cut himself off as, in a blare of noise, the game began.
* * *
"OH yeah!" Steven cheered with what was for him remarkable enthusiasm as a tackle was made against the Jets in the first quarter. Chips in hand, he waved one at the screen. "Did you see that?"
The game had gotten off to a good start; and, though a few minutes later, the Jets made a touchdown, Steven's energy did not diminish. "Told you this'd be a decent game. You want another beer yet?"
Marik didn't show nearly as much enthusiasm, but he had picked a team to support and thus wished success in their favor. "It is shaping up to be a close game, but we have some time to go... things might change," he said, eyes focused mostly on the game and nodding. "Yes, I'll take another, thank you."
The other man nodded back, eyes fixed on the TV as he rose. "Glad I had a wide-screen to watch this on," he commented as he headed towards the kitchen, his voice filtering through the crowd noises. "One of the tenants skipped out on his rent, so I bought it from my landlord for a steal just last week; beats my old 27-inch big time." He returned a moment later, beers in hand.
This was a more relaxed Steven than usual. The shadows that tended to show under his eyes were still there, but he seemed to have taken a break from his past lapses into temper. It was something of a relief to see him this much at ease.
"That is fortunate, did you manage to get any more bargains other then the TV?" Marik asked, sitting up to grab a hand full of chips from the bowl on the table.
On the screen, the Steeler's Roethlisberger was making a short pass to Holmes. "Couple of lamps, some camera stuff..." The other man waved his bottle at the nearest photo on the wall. "I've been setting up a darkroom-- used to do a lot of photography, that kind of-- damn." He grimaced as the Jet's defense player Revis brought the play to a halt. "36 yards, not bad-- Darkroom, yeah; I rented one of the storage rooms down here." He gave Marik a faint grin. "Let me get finished setting the thing up and I'll show it off, okay? It's taking a little more work than I planned." For some reason the comment seemed to amuse Steven. "You know how that goes... a little project turns into a big one?"
"Yes, I do understand how that goes. Our business dealings together are a good example of that." Marik didn't take Steven to be into photography, but then again it took all types. "I'd be more then pleased to see your work; I've never done much in photography myself."
Marik grinned, it was interesting to watch someone so into football. He hadn't witnessed anything remotely close to this since his college days. "It looks like the Jets are working for an upset," he said, knowing good and well he'd get a reaction. " By-the-way, where were you a few years back?-- it seems like it kept you away from doing some things."
Steven stopped in mid-swallow; his hand tightened around the chips, crumbs dropping silently to the couch as he froze. After a moment or so, he slowly sat his beer-bottle down onto the table and leaned back against the black fabric, hands still unconsciously clenched. "I was in prison, actually."
Marik paused mid-sip and looked at Steven with narrowing eyes. Prison-- Marik wasn't sure on how exactly to take the news. Outwardly he was as normal as ever, but his mind was riddled with questions. In truth he could get angry and refuse further involvement, but somehow that didn't seem like the best course of action. Instead, he simply placed his beer on the table and folded his hands on his lap.
He was going to let Steven make the next move, and it had better be a convincing one.
The other man stared straight ahead, eyes tracking the movement on the screen blankly. "A few years back I... was clumsy and a little too sure of myself; made a few bad choices, too, and I paid for them." He shrugged, absentmindedly brushing away crumbs in a scatter onto the upholstery before glancing at Marik with a self-depreciating grimace. "Nothing too dramatic; I'm not a murderer or anything, just--" He spread his hands. "--just-- well. I expected too much out of somebody, and when I didn't get it, I kind of... lost my temper."
The noises of the game were oddly loud in the apartment as the two men sat in silence. After a minute or so had passed, Steven added almost under his breath: "It wouldn't go that way if it all happened now, if I had a way to do it over again."
Marik looked at Steven, his stare unwavering. Sometime he didn't realize that he stared intently at someone when hearing non-pleasant like he had just heard. In truth, he still wasn't sure what to say about it. A man made mistakes, but that excuse could only go so far.
Steven's pale eyes flickered with something that might have been anger, but his voice remained level. "Hey, nobody's perfect, y'know. And the state of New York's pretty sure I paid for my mistakes, or I wouldn't be sitting here, would I?" He picked up his beer again and turned away to look back at the screen.
"Like I said, if I had it to do all over again, it'd be... different." He half-smiled, saluting the screen. "A whole new ball game."
Marik thought for a moment longer, then let out a silent breath and grabbed his beer, refocusing back on the game. It was evident that he was on the higher road now, and if he slipped at least he was prepared for it now. "Fair enough" he said quietly,features relaxing while he turned his attention to the game again. "We're still going to win," he smirked, and took a swig of his beer.
* * *
The game was mostly over and neither he or Steven, had much to say to each other since the awkwardness from Steven's confession. In fact, he didn't bother asking; he simply got up once a commercial chimed in to grab himself another beer.
The Jets had pulled something of a surprise win, breaking a 6-game losing streak; Steven's grousing towards the end of the game had had something of a forced sound to it, and now his voice drifted into the kitchen with a certain tone of defensiveness. "I take it you don't know many ex-cons, huh?"
"No, I don't-- should I?" he asked, glancing over the table top for the bottle opener.
There was the creak of sofa-cushions, and Steven appeared at the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed and leaning on the corner of the counter. "You'd be surprised," he said with more than a little sarcasm. "You're in New York, not a monastery; not like you're surrounded by angels, Marik. We can't all be perfect. And--"
He hesitated for a second, then went on with a bitter twist to his lips. "--what's done is done. I paid for my screwups, right? So who're you to throw stones?"
"I believe you're mistaken Steven, I haven't said anything to you about it." The quick, crisp sound of the bottle cap popping off filled the brief silence. "Then again, does it matter what I think about it? You said it was in the past, did you not?"
The other man gave a shrug. "Depends on how holier-than-thou you want to be about it." He tilted his chin towards the beer and sat down his own empty bottle on the counter. "Pass me one, would you?"
Reaching over, he pulled at a bottle out of the six pack, opened it ,and handed it to Steven "I didn't walk out of the door, did I?-- things happen, as they say." Taking a long swig he maintained eye contact with Steven.
The blond took a matching swallow; cradling the bottle close, his pale gaze drifted sideways to settle on the clock over his kitchen sink as if it were the most fascinating in the world. "Heh. Y'know the funniest thing about the whole shitty mess? I don't regret what I did; I just... wish I hadn't been so goddamn careless..."
He gave Marik an odd smile, almost a grimace. "Things could've been so fucking different if I had just-- eh. Instead, I lost a few years out've my life. And now?" Steven took another swallow, tilting his head back; the overhead lights sparkled off the condensation on his beer. "Now it's all over, or that's what they told me when I got out; new life, new world, new chances." And he brought the bottle down, a smirk crossing his face. "New chances," he murmured.
Marik raised a brow and smirked back. "New chances... just be careful, Steven." He would hope that Steven was a different man, or at least wiser than whatever threw him in jail years ago. However for this point he'd be a bit skeptical of things.
Steven's smirk widened. "Angels couldn't be more careful, Marik." He drained the last of his beer, his bad humor seemingly falling away. "Hey-- want to watch the post-game show, or should I put in a movie?"