wιll graнaм (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
glumshoe) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2015-03-08 10:48 am
glumshoe) wrote in entrancelogs2015-03-08 10:48 am
[ open ] had a drink about an hour ago and it's gone straight to my head
Who: Will Graham (notyourteacup) and YOU!
Where: The fifth floor bar, Will's room (floor 1, room 9), and anywhere that is a straight line between those two points.
When: backdated to around Feb 25th and running onward
Rating: PG-13 (drinking, rumination on death by a guy that just died...)
Summary: Things got bad, and then things got worse, and then public intoxication seemed like a good idea?
The Story:
To The Bar And Back.
[ Doing what's easy didn't come easy, but Will's sure managing it. Days (Will could not tell how many, he didn't want to know how many, and every time an ember of the thought entered his brain it was doused with more drink, yet more fuel for the house to keep burning down) after, he'd gotten over feeling conflicted about being sorry for himself. Embracing the true fatalistic streak inside him was as much about coping as rejecting everything that led to this point, a constant state of forces canceling each other out. It'd never been anything but a Sisyphian task from the outset. Will's hand at playing puppet master got necks wound in the ropes, the weight of collateral substantial enough to hang Will from it. Justifiably.
If death is the final frontier, Will is a man without land left to map. It's a hateful stillness in him, in thrall to the void and having seen but not remembered it crawling in through the eyes, settling into the hollow spaces behind them, bigger spaces than before. Grown past the boundary of just his imagination because he pushed the boundaries, he birthed the Will Graham that Hannibal wanted to see and shouldn't have expected the hungering dark to leave. Didn't expect to live at all. Except Wonderland. Of course.
He never had drunk in public before or done much of anything outside the confines of his space, wanting to be beholden to none. But he does, and he doesn't even have the decency to be a fun drunk. Just sullen, silent, filling the dizzying absence surrounding with order after order of whiskey and stumbling outside when the bartender gets to looking too sad in his direction. He'd scrub his eyes, a dim shine peeking out of the shadowed hollows where they should be, and trudge back downstairs to make token gestures toward eating (bread, toast if he's feeling fancy and when does he at all) while the dogs stir.
The newest edition to their number is somehow the most attentive, and while Daisy and Callum snuffle and whine and ultimately let themselves be driven back off the bed, Cinnamon isn't so easily deterred. Much like the looksake he must have been all but psychically screaming his anguish over when the spaniel wandered out of the closet door, left ajar, and refused to leave his side.
Nights (Will could not tell how many, he didn't want to know how many) were spent alongside her, filling a hole Will dug and threw Evelyn's body into. ]
[ closed to Zed Martin ] The Mix-up.
[ Sometimes (Will could tell this is the only time), the path skews without his knowledge, sobriety not required. The door should have been locked. If there were signs that were supposed to redirect him to his room that night, he lost them in a bottle, shoving inside room 3 and forgetting to be confused when a litter of pups don't meet him. He doesn't want the company tonight, or any. ]
notyourteacup) and YOU!Where: The fifth floor bar, Will's room (floor 1, room 9), and anywhere that is a straight line between those two points.
When: backdated to around Feb 25th and running onward
Rating: PG-13 (drinking, rumination on death by a guy that just died...)
Summary: Things got bad, and then things got worse, and then public intoxication seemed like a good idea?
The Story:
To The Bar And Back.
[ Doing what's easy didn't come easy, but Will's sure managing it. Days (Will could not tell how many, he didn't want to know how many, and every time an ember of the thought entered his brain it was doused with more drink, yet more fuel for the house to keep burning down) after, he'd gotten over feeling conflicted about being sorry for himself. Embracing the true fatalistic streak inside him was as much about coping as rejecting everything that led to this point, a constant state of forces canceling each other out. It'd never been anything but a Sisyphian task from the outset. Will's hand at playing puppet master got necks wound in the ropes, the weight of collateral substantial enough to hang Will from it. Justifiably.
If death is the final frontier, Will is a man without land left to map. It's a hateful stillness in him, in thrall to the void and having seen but not remembered it crawling in through the eyes, settling into the hollow spaces behind them, bigger spaces than before. Grown past the boundary of just his imagination because he pushed the boundaries, he birthed the Will Graham that Hannibal wanted to see and shouldn't have expected the hungering dark to leave. Didn't expect to live at all. Except Wonderland. Of course.
He never had drunk in public before or done much of anything outside the confines of his space, wanting to be beholden to none. But he does, and he doesn't even have the decency to be a fun drunk. Just sullen, silent, filling the dizzying absence surrounding with order after order of whiskey and stumbling outside when the bartender gets to looking too sad in his direction. He'd scrub his eyes, a dim shine peeking out of the shadowed hollows where they should be, and trudge back downstairs to make token gestures toward eating (bread, toast if he's feeling fancy and when does he at all) while the dogs stir.
The newest edition to their number is somehow the most attentive, and while Daisy and Callum snuffle and whine and ultimately let themselves be driven back off the bed, Cinnamon isn't so easily deterred. Much like the looksake he must have been all but psychically screaming his anguish over when the spaniel wandered out of the closet door, left ajar, and refused to leave his side.
Nights (Will could not tell how many, he didn't want to know how many) were spent alongside her, filling a hole Will dug and threw Evelyn's body into. ]
[ closed to Zed Martin ] The Mix-up.
[ Sometimes (Will could tell this is the only time), the path skews without his knowledge, sobriety not required. The door should have been locked. If there were signs that were supposed to redirect him to his room that night, he lost them in a bottle, shoving inside room 3 and forgetting to be confused when a litter of pups don't meet him. He doesn't want the company tonight, or any. ]
gentle screaming
Mind set to wander, his feet follow suit with just as much grace, which is to say none at all. He's the cork bobbing along the fire water's stream until some clever fingers pluck him out. It's the first he can recall of the Pie Maker touching - anything, really, that wasn't a kitchen implement or his own ribs in a nice self-emotional heimlich.
He should thank Ned for rescuing him from going too far downstream, but let's face it, he's already dismounted the waterfall and is dashing himself on the rocks. As long as a whiskey comes with it. ]
You're - open late.
[ The bar kicked him out after a certain hour. But Will does drag himself in and fold himself into the nearest chair with a functioning back, some inkling of thoughtfulness left toward not making Ned peel him off the ground if he sat and fell off a barstool. As he did earlier in the night. He has a spectacular bruise on his tailbone he can't feel and probably won't til the morning. ]
Been terrible 'bout talking to you.
Should've. Should've.
no subject
The Pie Maker almost envies Will, who has the luxury of sacrificing inhibitions to forget or distract, because if Ned drinks he'll touch people or things and someone will learn, someone will know. His fear keeps him vigilant but there are times when he wishes he could do the same, just to stop feeling.]
It's okay.
[He moves around the counter delicately, grateful Will selected a chair he won't fall out of in the event he completely loses his balance. Ned checks some of his late-night pot pies with a glance and pours a glass of water, pressing it into Will's fumbling hand before sitting in the chair next to him, hands clasped in his lap between his knees, shoulders up, a half-frown tugging on his mouth.]
It's fine. I'm used to it.
[There is no self-deprecation present in his voice, just statement of fact. Ned keeps to himself regardless of anyone else's decision to be in his company, bright spots in his day when he thinks he'd rather be alone, always lying to himself.
It's easier on everyone for him not to be noticed.]
...Please drink that.
no subject
There was no recovery; Will doubts he made it to the ER. Closure was short and brutal and final. Will's deaths mirror one another, amplified into infinity. At least here something may be undone with time and Wonderland's benevolent sadism.
Curling over the glass, Will cradles it between both hands, biting at the insides of his lips in a half-hearted attempt at sobering a little after he's already shamed himself in Ned's eyes. Ostensibly by being a shit friend and getting all his friends killed, but mainly by existing.
So he doesn't argue, drinking bit by bit, about the rate that alcohol leaves his stomach and makes room for more liquid. Self pity is not something he engages in, but the urge to croak I fucked up over and over is overwhelming in oceans already turbulent, warring to see which emotion gets to pound him next. ]
'Smy problem. Problem with me. Ignoring people or throwing 'm into the fire.
Useful kindling. Didn't do any good.
[ Hannibal got away. ]
no subject
I do the same thing, you know.
[Ned supplements hastily, because Will is not alone.]
I push people away because I'm afraid that I might get hurt, or they might get hurt, or both, and it comes from a place that's dark and scared and wants to trust, but it can't. I can't. [He laces his fingers together carefully, tightly.] So you build bridges out of matches and then you burn them.
[Sensing that the crux of the situation is not simply being the victim of a self-destructive nature but kicking oneself over said nature (despite the precedent that says things will go poorly every time because that's just how they go), the Pie Maker's gaze focuses on something between Will's cup of water and his face.]
...you had a fight with her, didn't you?