hot whiskey eyes

Isla

Isla isn't used to parties any more, but in fairness, that much was true far before the war. As things at the Hanged Man get rowdy, get rowdier, and then eventualy begin to burn out and settle, she finds herself at the dregs of the bonfire, sitting in the sand with her bare toes pushed into the embers, sandals abandoned nearby. It would be a lie to say she's sober, but equaly so to say that she's wasted - Isla has come full circle through inebriation, and now there's a measured sort of haze to the world that dares to bring it clarity if she looks close enough.

She's certainly looked at a lot of things tonight, too. Bodies pressed and dancing together, the flutter of Flora's thick eyelashes, the beauty of Hotaru's painted expression and the view of two silhouettes sitting together, companionable and comfortable. Huffing a sigh that blows a stray curl out of her face, she considers sprawling back to lose herself in the stars, before opting instead to slouch back on one hand. A modicum of put-togetherness that's as sloppy a lie as the hundred nice to meet yous she's said tonight.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

With a promise to meet the Valkyrie tomorrow, Sunjata finally tears himself away from her and the comfort that it had brought despite the stress of the night with so many old faces and ghosts at his doorstep. He’s certainly feeling the alcohol, not like he had with that party Danta had hosted, but enough that it takes him a moment to find Isla, leaning back on one hand by the bonfire. He towers over her from where she sits, but he only half blocks the fire when he comes to a stop in front of her, bending down enough to offer her a hand with a sweet, easy smile. “I think the party is over.” He rumbles, though it’s an obvious sight with how many people remained from the bustle of the beginning of the party.

“Wanna head out?” He asks after a moment, as if he realizes belatedly that the hand offered out to her might not have signified what he meant – trying to use his words to fill in the space of quiet chatter and the crackling of the bonfire and the people that continue to drift about around the sand.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

Isla

"Your party's over," Isla informs the Flood, having to tilt her head right back to peer up at him, not at all appreciating his height at the moment, but the sweetness of his smile makes up for it. "Mm, I suppose so. But I promised Flora I would go for a manicure with her tomorrow, so we should stay somewhere close." Is there such a thing as drunk flying? Should they do it? The answer to both is probably a resounding no.

Grasping his hand and snagging her sandals with the other, Isla draws her toes out of the embers and carefully gets to her feet, toppling a little with the sudden rush of blood to her head. "There wasn't even a single fight," she adds belatedly. "Which I suppose is good, because I didn't bring my medical bag with me."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

He’s somewhat surprised by the tone she gives him, his head tilting slightly down toward her while her own head tilts back – and perhaps it’s the alcohol, but there’s a part of him that seems to want to say well there’s no party here either, but wisely, the Flood keeps his mouth shut. “I have something to do here tomorrow as well.” He agrees instead, a pitstop at the Inn with Hotaru to finish up the quest for the House of Midnight, and hopefully it would be enough.

But he can’t quite keep the way she’d said ‘your party’s over’ out of his mind. She takes his hand regardless, though, and he helps her up, arms moving to catch her when she topples slightly. “Honestly, I’m surprised there wasn’t one.” Personally, he’d stayed away from anyone that he knew he couldn’t help but to infuriate. “Successful for Flora though, yeah?” He murmurs, looking over Isla’s head toward the Hanged Man as if he could see the young woman within, wondering if she’d celebrate her success.

“Lets go see if there’s room at the Inn?” He offers her his arm to help give her the balance she might need for the small trek down the street of Haulani.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

Isla

"Oh? Are you getting a manicure as well?" Isla asks, gently leaning into him as he catches her before straightening herself up, taking a moment to slip her sandals back onto her feet. "Same, to be honest. Torchline always seemed pretty fighty. And there were enough old ghosts here to fill a powder keg." Taking her mixed metaphors in stride, she follows his gaze to tilt her head back and look into the Hanged Man, smiling softly in agreement.

"I would say so," she agrees, letting her arm lace through his automatically at this point, trying her best to corral her feet into walking straight - though the sand absolutely makes it difficult. "You seemed to have a good night too," she adds, a touch more quietly, her eyes on the street ahead. "I'm happy for you."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

Sunjata snorts at the question, letting his previous confusion melt away into the booze in his system, squeezing her arm lightly as he shakes his head. “No. Going to finish Frey’s quest.” He doesn’t elaborate further, unsure by the confusion she’d held whether or not mentioning he was going to visit his exes room to talk about why it was her preferred place to be intimate would be received. So he hums and nods as they walk. “I’m sorry to have brought you with Remi here.” He admits with a touch more attention than he’d had originally, distracted by so many faces and so much tension in his chest.

She agrees for the Inn though and he lets her lean against him as she gets her feet under her, his arm solid and guiding from where she holds it. “It was bittersweet.” He admits with a light shrug, not realizing what Flora and Isla have talked about – how much tea there was to spill about everything. “I think Ronin wants to try at being friends again?” He doesn’t really know, too drunk to think on it right at the present moment. “And I haven’t seen Hotaru since the war ended… When she told me about her son and I told her about Nate.” And they’d debated, in the waters of Torchline not too far from here actually, whether or not to drown themselves in the sea.

“Do you want me to carry you?” He asks suddenly, if it might make the walk to the Inn more comfortable.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

Isla

"Ah, that's a shame. Maybe afterwards," Isla says of Sunjata's manicure, and in her current state of inebriation, she's already choosing what colour polish she might apply to the Flood's nails. Maybe a nice midnight blue, to go with the aesthetic of the House. She's snapped out of those comparatively pleasant thoughts with the mention of Remi's name, however, Isla tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as they walk.

"You weren't to know," she murmurs. "Or at least, I hope you didn't know." Huffing out a laugh, she continues to keep her eyes on the road ahead, brows furrowed as if in concentration, though even the Remedy isn't sure how true that is. "Mm..." It's a non-committal sort of sound, taken with a sudden chaser of, "I saw the two of you talking. You looked good together."

The offer to carry her comes out of the blue, at least to Isla, and she stumbles a little with how quickly she looks up at the Flood. I think I can manage had been on her lips until that point, but apparently her feet have made liars out of her. "If you want to," she says instead.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

Maybe afterwards indeed. He doesn’t comment on it though, not as he mentions Remi and the conversation shifts and she won’t look at him and he doesn’t know why but he squeezes her arm just a little tighter against his side as they walk. “I didn’t know who was going to be there, to be honest.” He admits, huffing out his own quiet laugh alongside her own.

Then it’s his turn to pause in their walking, though mostly in a way that has him stilling as she makes that comment about how he and Hotaru looked good together. His own gaze finds the street as well, the pinpricks of the moonlight above glimmering off the stone. “Her and I have a long history.” He admits softly, before his blunt and abrupt question airs and she stumbles again. He waits for her denial, but when it doesn’t come he lets her go to step in front of her, helping her arms find their way around his neck, before he scoops her up with relative ease, tucking her against his chest and neck as he starts to walk again toward the Inn.

“She was going to marry us.” He admits quietly. “But then, like always, I ruin things. And we hurt each other quite a bit in the aftermath.” He trails off. They were disasters for each other, despite the fact that Sunjata still loved her. They’d ruined each other time and time again, and yet, it was like a wound in your mouth, unable to keep from prodding it over and over again even when you know you shouldn’t, when you know it only prolongs the healing.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

Isla

It's awkward, to feel herself tucked against the solid warmth of Sunjata's chest while discussing his past relationships. Not that it should be, because they weren't anything to each other, not really. Just business partners, occasional fuck buddies, roommates at best. It's a mantra that grows a little thin when so much alcohol has been tossed around, and even Isla, usually so stoic in her decisions, can admit that.

"So I heard," she murmurs regarding Hotaru. She's heard a lot of things about Sunjata tonight, enough that her mind keeps mashing them together like some weird playlist. That she was going to marry he and Nate, though - fuck, that's new. "It looks like you made up, though," she remarks, sighing heavily and sitting up enough to look at him properly.

"You should be with her, if she makes you happy," she says suddenly. "I just... I know everything we're doing with King's End, it's what we decided together. But I realised I just want to see you happy, and you aren't. And so if you want to pick up where you left off with Hotaru, I think you should. I'll be okay."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

He wonders belatedly what else she’s heard tonight, but he doesn’t comment on it because something about the way she clings to him seems to suggest that now is not the time when their minds are still fuzzy from the alcohol. But he holds her against him still, even as she tells him that it looked like they made up, and he doesn’t know if that’s entirely true. It isn’t until she sits up enough to look at him that he stills, brows pinching together as he looks at her and his expression shifts to one of further confusion as she continues on.

Sunjata doesn’t love easily. Especially these days. And it’s that thought that has his throat tightening as if in proof that he could never truly be happy. He’s always going to have those vast canyons of missing pieces of people that had left too soon. “I’m not.. I-” He cuts himself off, heaving a sigh and looking away from her as if he can hide himself when he speaks, because his throat suddenly feels like gravel sits within it. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be happy, Isla.” There might be times, but even now he can’t find it in him to think of a day where he doesn’t feel so empty, so hopeless. He can’t think of a day where the nightmares won’t plague him and he’ll wake up thinking that everything’s fine.

“I’m always going to love her, but…” It’s the few and far between brutal honesties that Sunjata can offer right now, whether or not he should. “I don’t even know if… It’s the same for her. Or if it’s just toying with old wounds just to feel something again.” His head tilts slightly to look back at her, an expression that’s unreadable as his jaw sets tight.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

Isla

Isla doesn't expect Sunjata's words to hurt, and only later will she realise she's hurting for him, rather than because of any feelings the remarks have provoked in herself. Even after seasons spent together, the conversations they've shared, the wounds they've picked at and bandaged for each other, Isla realises that she still hasn't ever really reached Sunjata, except perhaps in those worst moments in the dead of night, when nightmares make the world too raw to raise a mask against.

Reaching up, she lets her fingers ghost along his stubbled jaw, as if to tilt his head back to look at her properly. Is that something you want? To find out if it's the same for her? dances on the tip of her tongue, but so, so selfishly, she doesn't know if she wants to hear the answer. Especially not tonight.

"You deserve to feel without hurting yourself, Sunjata," she says eventually, slipping her arms around him as if to draw him as closely into an embrace as possible given their current positions. "I know you don't believe it. But I do." He deserves to be more than this, to shrug off the mantle of Flood, of Frey's demigod, traitor to Safrin and the Old Gods. He deserves to be more than a closed book bound with scar tissue.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

He doesn’t know if there will be a time where Isla will end up reaching all the crevices of him – having closed himself off so much that after this most recent disaster for him, he shrugged it back on like an old coat. But her hand is warm as it graces along his jaw, his head tilting back with it, meeting those pebble blues with almost guarded ones of his own. And he doesn’t expect her words to hurt when they do, but it feels like that rusted knife that hasn’t left his chest starts to twist and turn again.

His brows pinch, even as the rest of his expression tries desperately to remain unphased in the face of being looked upon. And it remains that way when he finds his gravelly, accented voice returning to the open air between them. “I know I do.” He admits, stupidly. But he doesn’t know how to feel without the hurt. That to feel anything at all included the pain alongside it. To him, ever since he was a boy, the feelings were interchangeable. And it was the biggest part of why Shaju despised him so.

He felt too much. And it’s what guided him through his life up until this point, trying to appease those that he cared about in the hopes of keeping the pain away. And now? Now all he has are the scars he wears as proof that his life had never been kind to him, shoulders that scream with tension like a kicked dog incapable of remembering what safety even felt like.

Because for every high the Flood has had, the lows have been twice the size, and he hasn't found himself cresting above the waves in far too long.

"I think it's impossible." He whispers instead.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

Isla

It's a start, and to hear the admission is almost enough to have her throat growing tight, Isla releasing a shaky breath that wants to be a laugh but doesn't quite make it. She's aware, suddenly, of how close the Inn has become, and one of her arms slips from around Sunjata's neck to reach out and catch at the door, as if to stop him from opening it just yet. "I think you're tired," she whispers back. "Too tired, right now, for it to feel anything but impossible."

She knows, because it's the same exhaustion that rakes its claws through her when she least suspects it, when she thinks she's gained some mastery over her grief only for a name or a face - or the sight of the Flood wrapped up with someone - to take her breath from her all over again. "But it might not always be like that," she adds, letting her fingers slip away from the door again.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

He is tired, he supposes. Not too tired to try and think it through again and again. But it’s a subject he doesn’t want to dwell on – especially when it comes to spending the night in an unfamiliar place, where he knows he won’t get the rest he wants already. They haven’t even made it into the Inn yet, his gaze slipping from her to drift toward the door that she blocks with a hand, and he hums a quiet agreement without actually feeling it, as her hand comes away from the doorknob. He adjusts his hold on her, using his scar-free hand to open the door and step inside, heading straight for the inn keeper behind the counter.

Recognition sparks in the keep’s eyes and Sunjata slips that mask back into place – far easier when not looking at Isla, but she’d likely see the cracks in how the charming, roguish smile that crosses his face has no chance of meeting his eyes. “I know you’re probably quite full tonight,” given the Hanged Man’s party, of course “any chance you have an extra room to spare?” He asks, wondering if his prior status as Governor (and the times he’d personally blocked up Haulani with sandbags for the monsoon season) would give him any perks.

It appears to have worked, however, because the keep nods and hands him a key and Sunjata murmurs a grateful thank you to him as he turns away from it to let the mask fall, heading to the stairs to take them up toward a higher level, for a room on the corner with windows that overlook the moonlit ocean. He sets Isla down right before he sticks the key into the knob to open it, holding the door for her to slip in. “I wasn’t expecting such a nice spot so last minute.” Sunjata murmurs absently, stepping in after Isla and closing and locking the door behind them.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do