(no subject)

[ellazo]

[From: https://lastvoyages.dreamwidth.org/971736.html?thread=123086296#cmt123086296]

Lawrence does not bring glasses. He does not have glasses, for a start, and any he’d swipe from the mess hall aren’t the kind of glasses whiskey goes in. It’s less of an insult to the whiskey to drink it straight from the bottle.

Plus, Lawrence hasn’t felt fancy in years. That was a part of El Lazo’s narrative, and he didn’t get to keep it.

He saunters up to and across the deck, glancing up at the stars now and again. They’re all unfamiliar, which raises the hackles on the back of his neck, but there is a beauty to them; he can’t deny that. Lawrence isn’t what most people would call a romantic man (or even a man), but he knows beauty when he sees it. There are places way out, beyond even Pariah: plains and flats where the stars seem to stretch out all around, and a man can feel like he doesn’t have to answer for anything he’s done, because there’s no one else: just him, and stars, and his horse if he’s lucky. If he isn’t lucky, then probably there are buzzards overhead, who aren’t as good company.

Lawrence scans the deck for a man in black.

Comments

[omniavincit]

He hadn't heard the quiet until Lawrence mentioned it, and now it's inescapable—in his cabin, their bedroom, like the aftermath of a fight. The hush in the library. On deck it's a sheer silence, broken by footfalls. William's in black, naturally, his jacket gone in concession to the hour. His shirt new and a little too clean. He has a bruise under one eye, blue paling into green, that mostly makes it look like he got sucker punched by insomnia.

“On behalf of humanity, welcome to three in the morning,” he says wryly. If the bottle in his hand ever had a label—doubtful—it's gone. William unscrews the cap, takes a pull. Passes it to Lawrence. He walks to the edge of the deck and leans forward, resting his forearms on the railing, then straightens with a grimace.

“Traditionally the hour of regret.”

[ellazo]

Lawrence blows a short, sharp breath out of his nose that wants to be a laugh but hasn't quite made it there. His own vest is off, back in his cabin failing at being a pillow (not that Lawrence has spent all that many nights with his head on a pillow). He takes a drink himself. And then one more, before following William to the edge.

That's probably meaningful, but it goes over Lawrence's head.

"Much obliged, but I spent nights without sleep before," Lawrence drawls, handing the bottle back. "They were just a fair deal more lively. I can't say I regret a one."

He gestures to William's eye.

"You get that from the same one that stabbed you?"