3 Loshis 2719
Benton sighed a heavy, frustrated sigh that, if he wasn't supporting the wick on one arm and himself on the other, would warrant a pinch to the bridge of his nose. Yet, with the sigh, the stiffness with which he held himself dissipated into the rain as it muted the world around them. She slipped her arms around his waist gingerly, and he in turn opened his stance to her and laid an arm around her shoulders to keep her upright like a limp and mumbling scarecrow tied to a wet and cold pole.
He wanted to talk to her more- about what he had said to her now and years ago, about what she had been up to in sober moments since they had last seen each other. But, the way she had laughed at him- here and now, holding her drunk in the rain, was not the time. He cared about her, truly- maybe not in the same way he had lusted for her years ago, but, about her well-being and achievements and hopes and dreams. He wanted to know that she was okay without him, that he had not hurt or scared her too much. By the state of her before she had seen him in the crowd, he guessed she was mostly unchanged by him, and, guiltily, he wished it was not true.
Yet, as he watched her, she was truly distraught and truly trying to understand. She was crying, wasn't she? Hidden in the veil of rain as she looked up at him. Benton reached absentmindedly to cup her face in his hand, then stopped himself with the ghost of a head shake before returning rigidly to his position of rest. Instead, she shivered against him, and he pulled her tighter into his frame.
"Don't worry too much about me," he hushed gently after watching her dizzy herself at the attempt to look at him. He patted her shoulder lightly. "You'll hurt yourself if you worry about anything other than staying upright."
"From what I remember, your daoa doesn’t care for me,” he muttered softly. He had met the protective old woman once, and she had bit threats at him and had called him a matter of perhaps well-deserved names. He also was not especially confident in his ability to get the drunken girl back to her wagon, especially as the sky above continued to darken into dusk. Aziza fluttered against him, and he snapped his gaze down.
"And you’re already shivering!” he cried faintly. Quickly, his demeanor switched from self pity and inflicted angst to a need to care. At this, he stepped back from the young witch quickly, though he kept his arm on her shoulder to steady her. He returned her gaze, though he reflected her hopeful look with a parental and stern one. Heavy drops fell from his brows and nose into his eyes and mouth. He felt it, too- the cold rain had already added a few pounds to his frame, and the cold was bitter and made him uneasy. Cold and still fuzzy from the cascade of emotions and over-stimulation of the bar, he was well over-due ready for a dry set of clothes, a fire, a cigarette, a cup of tea, and his favorite chair.
"Come on, now,” he gently declared, "We’ll go somewhere warm and dry, eh? Quieter, too.” He gazed back at the bar, music, yelps, and cheers still spilling out from inside.
"I’m just a couple blocks away. You can stay until it stops raining- until your head stop spinning, too.” It was true, his modest little apartment just a few minutes away, and, well, the ceiling kept the rain at bay most of the time. He eased her close to him again, slipping his wet arm under hers to give her something to hang onto. He eyed her with a hint of suspicion.
"That is, if you can make it there,” though he quite doubted she could make it anywhere without his help. Benton began to lead her down the street, each step careful and each turn or traverse onto uneven cobblestones slow and watchful. With the rain and St. Grumbles, the streets were quiet- those out for the holiday had barricaded themselves in, those still at home would remain. Now and again, a pedestrian would pass, running with a jacket held aloft, but Benton moved with an awareness to the drunk he held.
His apartment was on the second floor of a wide, four apartment building. The windows were black from the street- Mordecai was probably barely aware of reality in the back of some bar. Benton smiled faintly at the thought as he opened the door to the apartment. The kid was growing up much the same as he had in his formative Harbor years.
Only once inside would Benton let go of Aziza and forget her, quickly moving to shed the extra weight of his dripping waist coat and soggy shoes before he tracked the rain onto the warped wood floor, and thus into the apartment below his. It was a small, three room apartment. The larger first room was split into a fireplace and cooking area with a small collection of two lounge chairs and a sofa with several blankets and pillows surrounding it, and a lone table with two mismatched chairs, still set with the remains of some ancient vase of dried flowers and a desk with a dying candle. Two small closed rooms, but a bedroom and a closet pretending to be a washroom, sat beyond it. Benton moved to light several candles of varying colors and lengths for light around the room, then lit the uneven fireplace, and, finally, a cigarette, sucking it in as he stood close to the fire and waited for warmth to return.
He wanted to talk to her more- about what he had said to her now and years ago, about what she had been up to in sober moments since they had last seen each other. But, the way she had laughed at him- here and now, holding her drunk in the rain, was not the time. He cared about her, truly- maybe not in the same way he had lusted for her years ago, but, about her well-being and achievements and hopes and dreams. He wanted to know that she was okay without him, that he had not hurt or scared her too much. By the state of her before she had seen him in the crowd, he guessed she was mostly unchanged by him, and, guiltily, he wished it was not true.
Yet, as he watched her, she was truly distraught and truly trying to understand. She was crying, wasn't she? Hidden in the veil of rain as she looked up at him. Benton reached absentmindedly to cup her face in his hand, then stopped himself with the ghost of a head shake before returning rigidly to his position of rest. Instead, she shivered against him, and he pulled her tighter into his frame.
"Don't worry too much about me," he hushed gently after watching her dizzy herself at the attempt to look at him. He patted her shoulder lightly. "You'll hurt yourself if you worry about anything other than staying upright."
"From what I remember, your daoa doesn’t care for me,” he muttered softly. He had met the protective old woman once, and she had bit threats at him and had called him a matter of perhaps well-deserved names. He also was not especially confident in his ability to get the drunken girl back to her wagon, especially as the sky above continued to darken into dusk. Aziza fluttered against him, and he snapped his gaze down.
"And you’re already shivering!” he cried faintly. Quickly, his demeanor switched from self pity and inflicted angst to a need to care. At this, he stepped back from the young witch quickly, though he kept his arm on her shoulder to steady her. He returned her gaze, though he reflected her hopeful look with a parental and stern one. Heavy drops fell from his brows and nose into his eyes and mouth. He felt it, too- the cold rain had already added a few pounds to his frame, and the cold was bitter and made him uneasy. Cold and still fuzzy from the cascade of emotions and over-stimulation of the bar, he was well over-due ready for a dry set of clothes, a fire, a cigarette, a cup of tea, and his favorite chair.
"Come on, now,” he gently declared, "We’ll go somewhere warm and dry, eh? Quieter, too.” He gazed back at the bar, music, yelps, and cheers still spilling out from inside.
"I’m just a couple blocks away. You can stay until it stops raining- until your head stop spinning, too.” It was true, his modest little apartment just a few minutes away, and, well, the ceiling kept the rain at bay most of the time. He eased her close to him again, slipping his wet arm under hers to give her something to hang onto. He eyed her with a hint of suspicion.
"That is, if you can make it there,” though he quite doubted she could make it anywhere without his help. Benton began to lead her down the street, each step careful and each turn or traverse onto uneven cobblestones slow and watchful. With the rain and St. Grumbles, the streets were quiet- those out for the holiday had barricaded themselves in, those still at home would remain. Now and again, a pedestrian would pass, running with a jacket held aloft, but Benton moved with an awareness to the drunk he held.
His apartment was on the second floor of a wide, four apartment building. The windows were black from the street- Mordecai was probably barely aware of reality in the back of some bar. Benton smiled faintly at the thought as he opened the door to the apartment. The kid was growing up much the same as he had in his formative Harbor years.
Only once inside would Benton let go of Aziza and forget her, quickly moving to shed the extra weight of his dripping waist coat and soggy shoes before he tracked the rain onto the warped wood floor, and thus into the apartment below his. It was a small, three room apartment. The larger first room was split into a fireplace and cooking area with a small collection of two lounge chairs and a sofa with several blankets and pillows surrounding it, and a lone table with two mismatched chairs, still set with the remains of some ancient vase of dried flowers and a desk with a dying candle. Two small closed rooms, but a bedroom and a closet pretending to be a washroom, sat beyond it. Benton moved to light several candles of varying colors and lengths for light around the room, then lit the uneven fireplace, and, finally, a cigarette, sucking it in as he stood close to the fire and waited for warmth to return.
