No one here to set me free

And here we go, "Hello, floor. Have you met my knees?"

When Wessex finally deemed it time to let him go, Sam had stumbled out of the courtyard and down the street; it was already dusk, but he found he couldn't worry about the usual bandits lurking in the shadows or whatever it was his mind usually filled in for him: all that was on his mind was the fluid leaking from between his fingers on his stomach, where the knife had been removed the wound was too large to ignore.

Without pain, it was an oddly calm panic he felt, though he knew he'd have to drink soon before he lost too much fluid, and have the wound seen to. Hopefully Zephyr would be in the house and amenable to helping him out. Sam knew he'd feel guilty about it later, after just assuring the man there would be no more drinking, but in the moment he couldn't think much beyond 'not dying'.

Finally reaching the door, he fell on it and cracked it open, forcing himself to take more steps into the house as he began to feel sluggish. "Zeph?" He called out, noticing signs of someone inside but not yet seeing his friend.

SAMUEL

zephyr

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

It's not a great time for you.

You're drunk, for one. Like, super drunk. Blood-alchohol-level-pushing-0.3% drunk, though that's really not a high content for someone like you. Not yet blackout, more's the pity, and capable of sobering up if need be but with no real desire to do so. High functioning alcoholism, that's the game you're trying to beat.

Sam will find you sitting on the couch, a bottle of rum still in your hand. Awake, more's the pity, and sitting up as he calls, blinking in confusion at the sight of his.... not-blood. "'Sup, Red," you greet him somewhat more languidly than you really ought, your foggy mind clearly incapable of piecing together what's going on. Raising your bottle, you extend it toward him. "Ya look like ya need a drink."

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you

And here we go, "Hello, floor. Have you met my knees?"

As Sam's eyes finally settled on the couch and saw Zeph, his moment of relief was cut short: immediately he could tell his friend was drunk from the posture and slightly numb look on his face. As selfish as it was (he knew Zeph had reasons to drink) he found himself particularly disappointed, needing a friend right now more than ever. Hand still on his stomach, Sam walked forwards, wincing not at pain but at the odd feeling of skin tugging away from the cut.

"..I suppose it can't hurt." He said resignedly, reaching out to take the bottle and sip at it, wrinkling his nose at the taste before giving it back and slumping onto the couch, positioning himself so the wound on his stomach wasn't under too much pressure. "Um, Zeph..." Sam looked up at him, chewed on his lip as he considered asking for what he needed...and couldn't bring himself to do it, not right now. It was clear Zeph was hurting and while he was losing fluid, without pain it was easy to calm himself down and wait, at least for a little while.

"...Are you okay?" He finally asked from where he laid on the couch, head turned to look up at Zeph from below, grey-blue eyes reflecting the lights in the room as he studied his face.

SAMUEL

zephyr

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

Whaddya know, he takes the drink. Maybe you're rubbing off on him after all, or maybe you'll see it spill out of his torn stomach and drizzle like amber blood to the floor. Wouldn't that be something of a riot?

No. No it wouldn't. The fuck is wrong with you, Zeph?

Well isn't that a loaded question you don't know how to answer? So is the one Sam asks, about whether you're okay. Furrowing your brow and reaching for the bottle back, you kick your feet onto the table and lean over to look at your friend-slash-house-guest-slash-who-the-fuck-even-knows. "I'm good. Great. Don' got a big hole in my belly- Red, why d'ya have a hole in yer belly? Shouldn' ya be, I dunno, more freaked out?"

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you

And here we go, "Hello, floor. Have you met my knees?"

It did feel somewhat like everything was moving in slow motion; Sam wasn't sure if that was an effect of his fluid loss or something to do with the scene itself, the melancholy settling in the air. While it was pretty obvious Zeph was not good nor great, he did acknowledge the fact that Sam was rather seriously injured, and he decided to jump on that chance.

"I don't feel pain, so.." Shrugging helplessly, he stared up at the ceiling. "I um, ha, um, I was stabbed, I suppose." It was not at all funny, but something about hearing Zeph say the same thing not all that long ago made Sam laugh. "I didn't want to come in and just distract from you though, because, well: you're clearly upset over something, and I need to drink, and..."

Sighing and closing his eyes, Sam tried to pretend he wasn't making a total mess of this. "..I just don't want you to feel like I don't care about you or that my problems are more important, so...we can wait on that, for a bit." Looking down, he lifted his fingers: a thick, round drop of fluid rose up and he cringed, putting his hand back down. "..A bit."

SAMUEL

zephyr

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

"You got stabbed." on the list of things you expected out of Sam, being stabbed is not one. "Didja at least stab 'em back?" you wonder with that same detachment. List of expected things? Sam stabbing somewhere sits significantly lower than Sam being stabbed. But hey, it's a weird night.

Okay, you might be a drunken disaster, but even you can tell that a gaping stomach wound probably needs to be tended to sooner than later. Chuckling wryly at his sweet and poorly times concern, you reach out to attempt to pay his head, or shoulder, or hand, or something. Whatever you can reach.

"I know ya care 'bout me, Red. Ya don't gotta bleed out all over my couch t'prove it." Flopping the extended hand in a way you (incorrect) assume to be enticingly. "Here. Let's get the awkward boners outta the way, 'fore ya die on me."

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you

And here we go, "Hello, floor. Have you met my knees?"

"...No. She's a lot stronger and faster than me. I hardly had a chance and nothing to really..stab with." It was almost comical, the thought of him being able to attack Wessex; the woman had always been an invincible force. Sam felt there really was no chance of him ever overpowering her, even for a moment, and it would not be worth it if there were.

The pat on the head was...well, Sam would have been a little annoyed at the condescending nature of it, but it was clear Zeph was not in his right mind. At least it seemed like he wasn't mad about the drinking, and as much as Sam did want to be selfless and good...he did need it. He grabbed the offered hand and turned it so he could better access Zeph's wrist, tilting his head.

Before he leaned in for the bite, he looked up to Zeph: a flushed, slightly hysterical laugh left him at the mention of 'awkward boners' and he tried desperately to steer things away from that: "Maybe you can tell me what's so wrong while I drink. Because you're obviously not alright. It might be a good distraction." With that said, he couldn't wait much longer; Sam bit down.

SAMUEL

zephyr

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

She? Is this the notorious Wessex, then, or has he been attacked by someone else? From somewhere your foggy brain pulls up a memory about dismembered feet. "It weren't whoever attacked th'dickrektor, was it?" The idea if someone running amok on your docks, attacking your/I> people, fills you with an inordinate amount of aggravation.

Especially when it comes to Sam, who you want so keenly to protect.

Why he can't just acknowledge what happens when he bites you is endearingly mistifying, especially considering how many times you've gone through this ritual now. Still, thinking about your dead kid is enough to squash even the most persistent of boners, so good call there Sam. "Mmm... This time's year's not my fav'rite. Too wet. Too much shit goes wrong." Your head has fallen back and your eyes are closed, a flush creeping up your cheeks.

Okay, maybe there's still a little boner. Just a little. Perhaps.

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you

And here we go, "Hello, floor. Have you met my knees?"

The first question had Sam very confused for a few moments, obvious in the frown on his brows even as his mouth was occupied. He scanned his memory for 'dickrektors'...eventually he realised Zeph probably meant Nate, who had some kind of hilariously ill-fitting title about being the director of Social Affairs. While he wasn't sure exactly who had attacked Nate, he was pretty certain it hadn't been Wessex...he shook his head just the slightest amount, careful not to jostle around Zeph's wrist too much.

He rolled his eyes when Zeph again avoided the subject. Did he really think Sam was that stupid? Perhaps he was not the most charismatic or socially intelligent, but he knew this wasn't just the normal drunk sadness.

Reaching up to poke at Zeph's thigh, when they met eyes Sam gave him a hard look, furrowing his brows down hard. Hopefully even without his mouth, it would communicate what he wanted to: stop lying to me.

SAMUEL

zephyr

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

Except that, if we're being real, you aren't really lying. You're just choosing to omit some things - okay, most of the things in favor of an easy but nonetheless true obfuscation. This season sucks for you. The rain falls too hard, and it brings down too many memories with it.

Almost none of them good.

You roll your shoulders in a shrug at the prodding from his fingers and his eyes, trying to suppress the shiver that runs through you at the physical contact coupled with being bitten. It would be so very easy to lean over and stop him from talking with your mouth, to shut him right up and distract your both. You're pretty sure he'd let to. You know he wants you, always have.

For a long, slow moment you look him up and down, your drunken brain calculating the potential benefits of this plan. But.... no, no, it's a terrible idea. Maybe one of your worst. Definitely in the top ten, somewhere above swim with sharks on a murky day and below get married and have a family, it'll be great.

Turning away from him with a sigh, you run your other hand through your hair. "Meant it. This time'a year's... hard. Y'know, preppin' fer monsoons an' all that. Lotsa bad luck 'round this time." Oh, and you saw your son's ghost recently which sent your way over the deep end. There's that, too.

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you

And here we go, "Hello, floor. Have you met my knees?"

Sam noticed Zeph staring at him quietly for a long moment; of course with the effects of the bite on him too he wondered if the man was considering touching him, a thought at odds with the atmosphere of the room, which was melancholy and pained. The part of him that was not entirely in control, that made him press his legs together and sent butterflies up into his chest, pointed out that giving into their instincts would probably be a very good way indeed to distract from all of that.

Forcing himself to take his mind off it, he listened to what Zeph had say. Sam felt like he was still not being given the whole truth, but the word 'monsoon' threw him off enough he forgot to ask more. Mentally, he checked if he had enough fluid: it seemed he did, and the skin over his stomach was stitching itself together, his Ascended healing having kicked in now that he had drunk. Slowly, he removed his teeth from Zeph's wrist, but for the moment stayed laying with his head practically on the man's thigh.

"...What do you mean bad luck? And um..." Realising he was probably in quite close proximity to certain things, Sam shifted a little further away. "...Are you alright? After the bite, I mean. Thank you. It helped."

SAMUEL

zephyr

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

Gods the boy knows how to prod, both with his teeth and his words. Languidly you pull your wrist back from him, dropping it onto the couch beside you with the half-moan, half-grunt of the sexually frustrated and incredibly drunk. Bad luck all around, both here and everywhere else.

Maybe that's why you're not as guarded as usual, your eyes rolling shut as your head lolls back. "Bad luck like... like bad luck. Like people dyin'. Like gettin' drunk an' seein' ghosts." Vague enough for ya, Red? Because you aren't going to be particularly helpful in your current state.

Speaking of. "Mmm? Yea, alllll good. Y'know, must be people who'd love't get off on that. You oughta sell it. 'Stead'a the maps. 'Red's Fuckery Fangs'. Got a good ring."

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you

And here we go, "Hello, floor. Have you met my knees?"

"...Oh. You're seeing ghosts?" Sam asked, hoping he had extrapolated the right part of that - Zeph was the only notable drunk he knew, after all, and it was pretty obvious that the man wasn't sober at the moment; a ghost sighting would probably be enough to put him in this mood. "I don't think ghosts are a real thing; Ludo can summon souls, but...that's not the same thing, because a lot of the time I don't know if it's really them, or just Ludo pretending..." Not that he'd had any direct experience, but he'd heard enough stories.

It was a testament to how fond he was of Zephyr that he just smiled at the idea of selling away his bites, though it would never be a reality; Sam only bit, as often as circumstances allowed, those he intended or wished to be close to. "I'm afraid you'll find I only bite from you, now. It's quite...intimate. I couldn't do it with just anybody; I'm not that kind of man." The smirk remained, though Sam had gotten himself caught up staring at Zeph's face and thinking about relationships now, which was never a good path to go down.

"...Can I ask you something, um, personal?" He asked, though immediately went into the question, not sure he'd be able to put voice to it if he waited. "Why don't you ever kiss me, after I bite you..? I can...tell you want to, sometimes, and I know you said that we couldn't have a relationship, but it wouldn't be that..."

SAMUEL

zephyr

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

"He said he was a memory. I didn' see any gods." Had Ray been just that: a masquerading god? A black sheet pretending to be your son? Gods, if that was- if it was all a lie---

Nope. Nope nope nope, not going down that path.

Let's go somewhere far more pleasant: Red and his tendency to bite you and give you a very confusing boner. Way safer. Good call. And hey, look at that, he only bites you now. Realizing you've wound up in very murky waters, you say absolutely nothing in response. Instead you open one eye curiously, looking sidelong at the man across the couch. "Hmm," you murmur, hoping desperately the topic will die there.

It does not. It's an unlucky season, after all.

You suck a slow breath in through your teeth, eyes up on the ceiling. It's really not a great day for this conversation, and you can think of many things you would rather be doing. Walk on hot coals. Hug a shark. Spend a season on a fucking boat. Letting your eyes fall closed again, you exhale that deep breath. "Would it be, Red? Jus' a kiss? Jus' a fuck an' nothin' else? Ya jus' told me ya can' do that." Intimate, he said and it's not what you want.

Or maybe it is. Another set of blue eyes flashes through your mind, another smile, another pale hand. Maybe you are ready for intimacy.

Only... not with him.

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you