thisavrou_log | [ catch-all for miles ]

[ catch-all for miles ]

Who: Miles and YOU
When: anywhere from the beginning of the month to..... eh (wobbles hand)
Where: the bar, sanitation, the vor cabin, WHEREVER YOU WANT
What: Miles being a miserable depressive sadsack and then getting better! Making amends for being a shit during the event! Teaching the new guy how to not break the septic system! Whatever your heart desires!
Warnings: TBA

The last couple of weeks have been disaster. Miles had been so caught up in the effects of the exuo and the eclipse that he'd lost control of himself more than once, instigating a few fights and severely paying for it afterward. The broken arm will heal fine, but the cracked ribs are going to be a pain for a little while yet. Not to mention the whole nearly being sacrificed in the name of bringing back a little sunlight. That? That he can live without.

But the worst thing about it was the knowledge that something -- something was messing with his brain, and he still doesn't fully understand what or why or even how. It'd made him lose himself, hit that edge dangerously close and slip right off it. In Miles' line of work, he can't afford that -- and he's not sure he can live without his line of work. It all gets very...tangled up sometimes.

He's exhausted, after it all winds down. The -- effect, whatever it was, it had him going so hard for so long that as soon as it wore off, Miles crashed hard. His post-mania funks are never pretty, but this one's especially black, made only worse by the stinging memory of some of the things he'd said. He can't get that much privacy in his cabin with Ivan and Gregor, but he tucks a sheet under Ivan's mattress to create a makeshift curtain and resolutely hole up as far in the corner as he can in a miserable little pile of Miles Naismith Vorkosigan.

It wears off after a few days, much to Ivan and Gregor's relief as well as his own. Once the black clouds have passed, though, Miles drags himself out of bed. Time to get back his forward momentum. Time to get back to work. He's got double duty, after all, at the bar and in sanitation, and last he checked, he's got a new guy to train. Hopefully the place is still running alright. Miles feels a bit bad about not being consistent about showing up for work, but now that he's determined to get his shit back together, he makes a project out of cleaning out the whole damn bar and rearranging it, and as for sanitation -- well, he'll make an action plan when he gets down there.

[ this is a catch-all, so feel free to tag in with whatever or request a starter if needed! ]

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"I don't," Ivan says very seriously, leveling Miles with a look that almost harkens back to their pre-fight banter as he points at his cousin, glass still clutched in the pointing hand, "want to know whatever else the Cetagadans decided to do with cats. I don't even like cats." Except when used to great advantage when picking up girls, but somehow he feels hey look at this tree full of kittens -- don't pick one or they'll die is as great of a substitute line. Not that there's many women on this ship anyway. That's distressing, Ivan decides, and he doesn't like it.

He doesn't like the way this conversation is shaking out, either. It's a good thing there's maple mead -- nothing like a good distraction in the form of drinkable hell. Ivan takes a large than required sip of it, remarkably and surprisingly does not cough or gag when it hits his mouth, and swallows -- pointedly ignoring the feeling that his body is going to hate him tomorrow. "Yeah," he offers, closing his eyes and letting his head thunk against the wall. "Shit, Miles, you know I wouldn't--"

Except that he did, and it makes him want to curl up somewhere and die. Kind of like what his cousin does during his bad times.

Edited (EDITING IS MY QUIRK GODDAMN IT. LOVE ME.) 2015-10-17 16:45 (UTC)

"I know," Miles says quickly, his voice coming out oddly strained, and he drops himself back onto his bunk with a stifled wheeze, a dribble of maple mead spilling over the side of his glass. Maybe having this conversation was a mistake. No -- not a mistake, he bats that thought back immediately. A very uncomfortable necessity, but they've got something to wash it down with, at least.

Miles' fingers go to his side almost unconsciously, gingerly probing at his own cracked ribs, and the reminder of the fight chills him. He'd be lying if he said it didn't discomfit him, for Ivan to have injured him like that, but it isn't as though it was unprovoked. "It's not -- " He pauses that thought to gulp down a mouthful of maple mead, and shudders. "It's not really your fault."

The laugh that escapes Ivan is harsh and biting, not at all like his usual one. Not his fault. Yeah, he knows his usual refrain, and it sounds harsh and wrong in Miles's mouth when it comes to this. But unlike other times, where Ivan can claim his absolute non-involvement, he's responsible. He knows he is.

"That only works when it actually isn't." He points out, and then takes another long drink of the mead. "The trick of it is not getting involved in the first place. I was. So, you know." It's his fault. He's not stupid, he knows it is. Although he does appreciate the attempt to convince him otherwise.

This time when Miles winces, it's at that laugh, that sense of discomfort growing in his chest. He buries it in his own cup, hissing instead of coughing as the mead burns down his throat, and kicks his legs off the edge of the bed. He bites his lip together and stays quiet for a few moments.

"You and I both know," he says finally, staring at the rim of his glass rather than at Ivan, "that if you really wanted to hurt me, you'd've done a lot worse."

"Yeah," he concedes, finishing what remains of his drink in one go. That was a bad idea, and Ivan coughs, doubling over slightly. "Good god, I'd forgotten how strong this shit is. I can't believe your family survived for how many generations on this?"

That's avoiding the point, however, and Ivan grimaces -- now recovered from the coughing fit. "What I said, about. About everything." And another drink, just to reiterate that he's not doing this sober. "You of all people know that just because I say something doesn't mean it's true."

"Not much to do up in the hills," Miles concedes distantly, unable to motivate himself enough to say anything cleverer. He follows suit to Ivan, though he only manages to choke down about half the glass before he has to stop to cough and sputter, immediately regretting the impulse at the sharp, sudden pain in his side. A grave mistake, chugging maple mead with a pair of cracked ribs. Miles half doubles over, coughing painfully for a few more seconds before he finally regains himself, wincing. He tips his head back against the wall and stares up at the underside of Ivan's bunk.

"I do trust you, you know." Another sip from the glass, this one more careful. His voice is quiet. "Quite a lot, actually. I mean it."

He swallows, his throat stinging from maple mead, though his mouth is dry. He and Ivan don't...talk like this. There's always been an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they are, generally speaking, too manly -- all right, proud -- to engage on such an emotional level on a frequent basis. It's about pride for Miles, anyway. It always is. But, he supposes, they're about due for a little uncomfortable genuineness. Ivan has the right idea about the cons of sobriety in this situation.

"There's at least fifteen jokes about what your hillfolk get up to, Miles, don't give me that." Ha, ha, they're so funny. Ivan looks, when Miles starts coughing, like he's reading to push himself up and out of his slouch to help his cousin. But then he recovers, and Ivan leans back against the wall, trying to attempt an air of disinterest. And failing.

How on earth is he supposed to respond to that? He and Miles... they don't do feelings. They have them, but they don't talk about them. It's probably a Vor thing, because Aunt Cordelia will talk about feelings at the drop of a hat. "Yeah." Ivan says, and empties his glass, only to waste no time in refilling it. "I know. And I know that you wouldn't get me killed."

Ivan considers that, takes another drink, and amends it. "Not without nearly killing yourself trying to prevent it." He hangs around with Miles and death is always lurking somewhere around the corner. That's just how it is with Miles, but Ivan knows that his cousin wouldn't just let it happen to him.

Miles wheezes out a breath at that, a feeling like his chest is caving in flitting through him. "You're damn right," he says, but his voice almost catches on the last word and he decides to make another concentrated effort at downing the rest of his glass. This time he actually succeeds, swallowing it down with nothing more than a sharp breath sucked in, although he does shudder. No stopping now.

"You know I don't...drag you in on purpose," he says, leaning over with a wince to refill his glass. He pauses, pressing his lips together. No, that's not right. "I don't do it for fun," he amends, raking his free hand through his hair. It's been getting long in the last couple of months on the Moira. He takes another drink before he speaks again, his throat burning. God, this stuff is harsh. "It's just that when things get down to the wire and I need a hand, I -- need someone I know I can trust to have my back."

Maybe there's a better way to spend their time than drinking the drink straight from hell, but if there is one, Ivan sure as hell doesn't know it. It makes this conversation go better, smoother, unlike the drink itself. It's stupidly reassuring, hearing Miles confirm what Ivan knows -- just because he knows it instinctively doesn't mean it isn't nice to hear his cousin admit to it.

Even so, the sincerity that escapes Ivan when he responds takes himself aback. "Always." Yeah, okay, that calls for another drink, which Ivan follows up with another larger than called for gulp that sends him spluttering from the burn. "God, you'd think this'd numb your mouth and throat after a while," he mutters, setting his glass aside for a moment so he can give Miles the full amount of his definitely tipsy, edging towards drunken attention. "Someone has to, you know. Just to make sure you don't fling yourself over the edge. You're family, Miles. One of the few I've actually got."

So don't think that he doesn't value you for one damn minute.

Miles' mouth twitches, but he hides it in his glass, taking another long gulp even as his throat burns. His stomach is starting to protest, so he relents, but thanks to his featherweight tolerance he's already starting to feel it, his consciousness going fuzzy around the edges.

"Oh, it does -- but by that point you usually can't feel your face, either."

Having Ivan's full attention turned on him is a little rattling, and Miles shifts uncomfortably on the bed. But he can't do Ivan the disservice of looking away, either, not in this moment of honesty, which he'd started, in all fairness. His expression subdues into something almost helpless, his mouth opening to say something in response, but only a sigh rushes out. Thank god he can feel himself slip-sliding into drunk territory, because this is getting uncomfortable. Damn it, Ivan, I wasn't even going to go there...

"I'm not going to -- " Miles gestures helplessly, at a loss as he looks at Ivan. No, that isn't right. His throat works, trying to buy himself a little time to find the right words, to quash the tightness in his chest. "You know that's not what I'm aiming for."

"Something to look forward to," Ivan says, raising his glass to Miles in a toast with a thin smile, finishing off that glass too. He can't speak for a moment after, face twisting into several hilarious expressions while he tries to grapple with the consequences of that moment of impulse. Good god, he's made a mistake.

After a spluttering recovery, Ivan makes an attempt at reclaiming the thread of the conversation. "I know. But even you don't have perfect aim." He frowns slightly, and sets his glass aside. "Watching your back is more than just making sure no one stabs you in it. And I wouldn't, I wouldn't want anyone else to talk me into the shit you have." If only because Miles is the only person that could. Don't think he's forgotten the lightflyer incident, Miles. He's pretty sure that shaved ten years off his life in one go.

Miles can't stifle the crooked grin that creeps into his expressions at the series of looks on Ivan's faces. Ah, maple mead. Nothing else on Barrayar like it -- or anywhere else, as far as he's had. Miles nurses at the lip of his glass, slower this time, but everything about him is feeling slower. Good, because the thinly masked worry in Ivan's voice at even you don't have perfect aim makes his chest tighten.

"Always knew I was special," Miles chirps with a slight slur to his voice in an attempt to offset the growing emotional tension, but it doesn't quite work. He watches Ivan, the distance between his hand and his glass. Keep drinking, you idiot. We're in for a ride by now.

"So," he says, stalling for a moment as he tries to get his throat working properly. Is he hitting that numb-above-the-shoulders stage already? A little premature, he thinks. Morbid curiosity propels him on. "What else is involved in watching my back, then?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ivan mutters, exaggerating the roll of his eyes. "Special's not the word I was going for." Stupid cousin. Stupid frigging brilliant cousin. That calls for another drink, Ivan decided, and gave up trying to keep himself from indulging. He's already -- okay, he can't remember how many glasses he's in already, which is a start. With another long drink, not as fast as before, Ivan attempt to pull himself together for the things that they don't talk about.

Right. He can do this. "For starters? Doing all your grunt work." Not that he minds, although he'd certainly protest. "Pulling you out of trouble you've gotten yourself into. In the off chance you can't talk yourself out of it, mind." Which he's notoriously good at, so Ivan's really only had to offer a few tugs in their twenty five years of knowing each other.

Miles is listening, but the sound in the whole room seems to have acquired a strange, tinny quality to his ears -- as he tilts his head back and forth, it's accompanied by a soft rushing, like someone's oscillating the audio from right to left and back again. Is he that drunk already? No, he can't possibly be, he's only had...what, two? And he's only just finishing this glass. He sucks at his itching teeth thoughtfully. Nah. Just tired, that's all.

"Ha. I thought you liked grunt work," Miles comments, sliding to his feet, at which point the room abruptly does a thirty-degree tilt, and he lurches forward unexpectedly, nearly dropping the glass. He catches himself quickly, although the recoil on that nearly sends him stumbling back toward the bed. This'd be a lot easier if he had two arms to balance himself with. Ah, right. This is maple mead. He is most definitely drunk.

Miles strategically totters over to the keg and drops himself into a sitting position on the floor next to it, although he miscalculates the velocity of his fall and his ass hits the ground hard, earning a pained grunt at the shock of pain that shoots up his spine and rattles his cracked ribs. The pain is dulled now, though, courtesy of Miles' rural ancestors. God bless hillfolk.

"I only ever give you the easy stuff," he argues, fumbling with the tap to refill his glass, but when he looks back at Ivan there's a heaviness on his face. "I've never asked you to do something I wouldn't do myself. At least -- that I can recall. Memory's a bit fuzzy at the moment."

There's no small amount of concern on Ivan's face as he watches Miles struggle with being upright, and winces at his cousin's pained grunt. He'd get up and help, but he has a sinking feeling he'd only make it worse. Anyway, it looks as if Miles has it all worked out anyway, like he normally does. Sitting back down from the attempt to get up and help, aborted once it was clear Miles was making his way over and due to the sudden sensation that he was back on a boat on Vorkosigan Surleau with Uncle Aral in charge of sailing.

Ugh. Another drink, just for the reminder of ending up in a cold lake multiple times a day. How did Aunt Cordelia handle it?

"Your easy and the rest of the universe's easy aren't exactly on the same wavelength. It's okay." Just so they're clarifying that. "No, you haven't. 'S something I appreciate." He does, he really honestly does. Because Ivan would do it, of course he would. Even if he would rather be halfway across the nexus. "You know-- you know that I'll do it, when you ask. That won't change."

It is very important, Ivan thinks, that Miles knows this. Which is how he really knows that he's edging past tipsy and straight into drunk.

Somehow Miles always forgets how quickly maple mead catches up to him. It has a tendency to linger in the gut, as if lurking in the shadows, rather than dripping steadily into the bloodstream and then one's head like all other alcohol -- then it comes up and smashes into you like a tidal wave. It's like being run into with a brick wall, and not the other way around. Miles takes one sip from his fresh glass -- his third? -- and almost immediately regrets it, setting it down with a heavy thunk on the floor as the room does another abrupt turn.

"I think I need to sit down now," Miles informs his cousin, except that he's already sitting on the floor, so he lets himself topple gently over backwards until he's flat on his back, looking up at Ivan next to him. Funny, he's not really used to looking at Ivan from this angle. Oh, from below, sure, but not quite so sideways or nearly upside down. Miles lets out a senseless giggle at the disjointed thought. He finds he can breathe a little easier like this. Good.

"You," Miles says, lifting an arm to point an unsteady finger at his cousin, "are a good man, Ivan Xav Vorpatril." His breath exits him in a sigh, the arm dropping slackly back to his side, and his face sobers somewhat, or at least loses some of the drunken glee to it. His eyes are still a little glassy, his face slack. "More than I deserve, I think."

Ivan only raises one brow at his suddenly flat cousin, an amused grin spreading over his face at the sight his cousin makes. His stupid, brilliant cousin. "Sure is sitting, Miles," Ivan helpfully adds, although he's slouched against the wall by this point rather than sitting against it.

At Miles' heartfelt declaration however, Ivan feels as if someone's punched him. It's unexpected and unprecedented, since normally when they get shitfaced they have the good sense to stay away from the heartfelt topics like what they think of each other. "And you, Miles Naismith Vorkosigan," he says in return with a serious air and a serious gesture, glass full of maple mead pointed at him. "Get exactly what you deserve." That didn't come out right, so Ivan fumbles for an attempt to make it sound better. "Which means that I'm not too good for you, coz."

That's better.

The serious weight of Ivan's words, his expression do not escape Miles; he can't help but feel it, not pressing him down but keeping hm anchored, some solid ground to set his feet on every so often when he needs a break from freefall. Warmth spreads through him, though whether it's scarcely acknowledged affection or just the maple mead he's not sure. Maybe both.

Miles smothers a stupid, drunken giggle against his hands as he presses them to his face, the room swaying gently. His head is suddenly an overwhelming rush of emotion, making him giddy with it, and he has to sit -- well, lie there just sucking in a good breath or two for a moment until it passes. Frigging maple mead. Frigging Ivan.

"Just so, Ivan." Miles concedes with a lopsided grin, and rolls onto his side to grasp the edge of his bed in an effort to pull himself into a sitting position. "Just so." He sways hard, halfway to his knees, and his hand misses the bedpost he aims to grab to catch himself, and he lurches forward and falls back to the floor at Ivan's knees. Miles swallows another reflexive giggle. "Think I'll stay here for the time being."

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[ catch-all for miles ]

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