[ catch-all for miles ]

[forwardmomentum]

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! ]

Comments

[forwardmomentum]

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."

[whatdidisay]

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.

[forwardmomentum]

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."