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. ]
no subject
She swallows, trying to get control of her breathing. Her tears are still flowing without her permission, but she presses into the touch on her shoulder like an attention-starved pet.
She shrinks back a moment later when another wave of bitter self-loathing makes her nauseous.]
....no. No, I am very not.
no subject
[ This is his fault somehow. It's slowly dawning on his slowed mind that he's not where he thought he was; Occam's Razor suggests that the answer is he's not in his room. He sways dangerously backward, heel catching on some unseen object and what little he can see of the world tosses in treacherous waters. What did he do. What did she do. He's spilling again - his oil is gettin geverywhere and she's going to burn with him - ]
I don't belong here.
no subject
She wants him to leave because she's riding the residual waves of his certainty that he's going to ruin anything that he touches. But there's that part of her that's trying violently to shake that off, and it's what makes her reach out for his arm again.]
-- not your fault.
[Not really. Not this time, this one specific incidence.]