Welcome to Oxentrate

Bob had a streak of getting too attached to everything he's fond of. The small deli across campus that served amazing subs. His vintage walk man that still surprisingly worked. The stray cat that lingers around the front porch of his apartment during breakfast. Work. And of course, his students.

Students. Yeah. That's what he tells himself as Elijah, his student, looks right up at him, greens shining around dark pupils that seemed to dilate whenever Bob stared just a bit too long.

Maybe his chosen solitude and the loneliness it brought had finally caught up to him. This is karma coming straight to ruin it, in the form of a fiery redhead.

"I'm grateful for the reassurance," he smiles, arms folding over his chest. He spares a glance at the stack of papers, before looking back down at his student. ".. but I know how demanding it'll be. You're free to skip out on several hours if you need to." A smile, and then a gentle squeeze of Elijah's shoulder. It's small. Safe.

"That's... okay, professor. I like helping you." He shrugs. "Anytime, really. Outside of my papers, it's not like I'm doing anything else."

The bar isn't too crowded tonight. Who would be out drinking at 9 pm. on a Wednesday, anyway? Elijah. Elijah would be. Tucked in a corner, vodka cranberry in hand, the young redhead is managing to keep to himself. On technicality, he's here early—Eugene is finishing up his latest lab. Though he's been "finishing up" for half the day, so chances are he's actually asleep.

Four unanswered texts make it feel like he's asleep.

Safe to say, Elijah is uncomfortable. Shoulders hunched, head down, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He's half debating shooting the drink down his throat just to leave faster. Elijah has to suck back a breath to steady himself. Elbows on the wooden bar, he does it. Vodka cranberry straight to the back of his throat.

"Bleh." He winces, shaking his head rapidly in a poor attempt to fight off the burning taste.

With that, he's ready to go. The redhead pushes off the bar, swinging himself around with a—

His face smacks into the back of a taller gentleman, nearly knocking his glasses entirely off his face with a frantic yelp. Even with the blurry vision, he can still spot the pink splotches of leftover drink now adorning the loose shirt of whoever is turning around.

someone: then… write?

me:

"Eager." Cherry runs her tongue along her teeth and leans forward in her seat. "If you say so." She has to play nicely. It's the only way to keep her job. Any choice in the matter is an illusion at best. She's used to that by now.

"You comfy?" A flick of her head gestures to the chair. She can't imagine why Kōtuku wouldn't adjust it. Dr. Carpenter can just fix it after. It's not such a big deal. A more cynical part of her wonders if that's part of the "act," if the ill fit is supposed to somehow put Cherry at ease, make her feel that she's not the only one out of her element. It's enough to make Cherry want to pace. She knows better than that by now.

Her eyes narrow. "You or Doc, someone's gonna get their hands all over my brain. It is what it is." The sessions are still weird to her. Foreign. Not a proper, two-way emotive conversation. She can't get a read on Kōtuku, doesn't know what she wants to hear.

"Trouble?" She repeats, thin brows raising at the idea. As if she'd venture to the eyesore of a tower just for disciplinary action. "Kore, no. I trust his way of working, which in turn means I must trust you."

A lie. Well, more so a half truth. It's evident in the way her long nails dig into the chips of wood. The indents in the grain are a different size to her own. Cleary, Dr. Carpenter maintained the same habit. Nonetheless, it is her in the chair, not him, and Kōtuku now has the privilege of watching the much shorter woman protect herself with words. Monologues to occupy scheduled time - the almost ineligible scrawl practically leaps out at her from the page.

"In your first session with Dr. Carpenter—" She's quick to stop herself, dark eyes glancing up from beneath her readers, "—or, do you call him Elijah? He does seem to prefer the informal approach."

Kōtuku cuts them both off before the question is answered, this time with a click of her tongue.

(long) pork stew

                  for  the  first  time,  james  noted  that  they  were  perhaps  two  sides  of  a  coin  being  toyed  with  between  valentina's  fingers.  they  both  did  not  want  to  be  here  and  were  left  with  no  choice.  something  hard  between  his  brows  softened  for  a  moment.  the  world  moved  around  them,  james  ignored  the  strange  looks  they  received  for  deciding  to  eat  outside,  barely  sheltered  from  the  rain—  he  sucked  on  his  cigarette  again.  the  vices  were  always  stronger.

           ❝   fine.   ❞  a  flicker  of  a  long  gone  russian  accent  wrapped  around  the  word—  that  particular  ghost  appeared  when  he  least  expected  it.  ❝   just  to  check  off  a  box,  huh?   ❞  a  teasing  smile  and  he  leaned  forward,  chest  pushed  against  the  edge  of  the  table,  ❝   you  mean  you  didn't  ask  me  out  here  cause  i'm  a  pretty  face?   ❞  glancing  to  the  empty  space  in  front  of  the  other,  he  sighed.  ❝   i'll  answer  your  questions,  in  a  minute.   ❞  he  stood  from  his  chair,  ignoring  the  tiny  drops  of  rain  trickling  off  the  awning  and  into  his  chocolate  brown  hair.  gloved  fingers  plucked  his  own  cigarette  from  his  mouth,  holding  it  instead  to  elijah's  lips--  the  other's  cigarette  still  pinched  between  his  fingers.  ❝   hold  that  for  me,  i'm  not  done.   ❞

         with  that  he  disappeared  into  the  cafe,  returning  a  few  minutes  later  with  a  steaming  cup  of  what  looked  to  bucky  as  just  about  the  sweetest  cup  of  coffee  he'd  ever  laid  eyes  on  and  set  it  in  front  of  the  other.  ❝   they  said  they're  sorry  they  forgot.   ❞  holding  out  his  hand  for  his  cigarette,  he  lifted  his  brows  slightly.  ❝   thanks  for  keeping  it  warm.   ❞  his  voice  remained  constantly  steady,  not  kind--  and  yet  not  defensive  either.  it  would  be  just  what  the  puppet  master  wanted--  to  see  the  puppets  turn  against  each  other. 

Two questions.

He's not sure whether to thank him for the offer or roll his eyes. Instead of doing either, Elijah simply leans forward. What he does extend an appreciative nod for, though, is the coffee. Chocolate chip mochaccino with an extra pump of hazelnut. Not his favorite, just something different. As he brings the steaming hot mug to taste, he finds himself uncomfortably smacking at his lips.

"Two," He repeats through a tense inhale, rolling his weary shoulders enough to earn a click. "Alright."

His thumb moves to swipe at the foam lingering on his short stubble, stubbornly clinging to the coarse hairs even after he wipes. Elijah is too busy to care. An overwhelming stream of possibilities flood his mind-- constantly searching for exactly what he could possibly need to know that he hasn't theorized already.

With a grunt, he stands up and finally gets to stretch his legs. The professor heads over to the small kitchenette (really, it's just a microwave, a minifridge, and a coffee pot), grabbing a few protein bars off the top of the fridge. "You should really take care of yourself, Elijah. Skipping meals isn't good for both your head and your body."

Elijah's soft gaze follows the stack of papers-- or more likely, the large hands that carry it. Thick fingers don't dare crinkle the pages. Instead they ease them onto the far corner of the desk with a gentle thud. The young student eagerly takes a bar. His own unsteady hands hastily tearing at the foil wrapper. Peanutty. Chocolatey. Good. He wipes at a crumb beside his dry lips before speaking.

"With Euge, yeah." He confirms. "I'm hoping it'll see us both through the psychology PH.D program."

Now with sticky residue cloying under his nails, Elijah finds himself idling. Something about the worn brown eyes seemingly studying him like a new textbook makes himself feel... small. With this being the last semester of his bachelors, time was beginning to feel even more limited with the professor. The professor in question who continues to loom above him. Elijah only dares peek from beneath his lashes.

"I know the course load is worse," He gestures to the grading papers haphazardly, "With the PH.D, I mean. But, I'm still happy to be your TA, Professor Reynolds. I'll be able to make time if that's what you're worried about."

Trying to peer through the bright lights in front, Bob locks eyes with Elijah for just a split second. The red-purple lights had shifted his green eyes into something unfamiliar; yet the green was a color burned into his mind over months and months of feuding. There's something softer. Curious. Something akin to admiration, if Bob had allowed himself to think of it.

As Brawler finishes their set, he gives the erupting crowd a wave-- throwing one of his spare guitar picks before heading backstage.

Bob takes a seat and gulps down the rest of his water, still hyped from the adrenaline of performing when he notices a heavy shift in the air-- several of the crew members backstage murmuring to themselves, low and urgent-- then towards the host, who was still lingering along the curtains.

The announcement in the next few minutes has Bob utterly confused, head darting to look at the rest of the MHD members, who were rightfully busy packing up. They're not playing. No more explanation than 'unforeseen circumstances'. This meant they were more likely to win, but it didn't feel so deserved.

He gives Yuu a look. She seemed guilty. Brown eyes dart towards Elijah far across the dressing room, already heading to the fucking door. The next band's called, but Bob could care less.

Cold air hits his skin like another blow. Wind whispering insults to his pinkened ears as he stalks forward. Of course Elijah can hear him; fat fingers' voice practically slamming past the doors he's do desperate to leave behind. Only Bob never lets him get far enough. His constant barrage of questions finally whittle him down to the core, and Elijah growls.

"Jesus Christ!" It tears through his throat, rough and raw. "What does it look like, Reynolds? I'm leaving! Forfeiting! Fucking—giving you the goddamned win!"

His arms wave wildly as he explains, face constantly contorting despite the agony it brings his still-split lip. Not once does Elijah dare look at him. There's no part of him that wants to bear witness to whatever look Bob might me casting his way. Elijah changes tact, opting to pace hurriedly back and forth instead of flee. Fog steams out of his breath with every huff.

Sure, they needed the fucking money, but none of it felt earned. Not in this way, where it was too easy-- the brunette's ego just won't take it. All that shit-talking, dogpiling all over each other just for MHD to give their win was insulting.

This was all even harder when he's suspected it had something to do with the redhead coming into the gig with his face bashed. Fists curled into tight balls as the man keeps going on and on; voice echoing in the cool night. His chest feels unbearably tight.

"That's not-- after all this shit, you just fucking give the win? We spent all these months at each other's fucking necks and you what, expect me to be happy that you guys forfeit?" Bob scoffs, jaw clenched as he lets out a mocking laugh. "Do you really think so low of me?"

Elijah Carpenter, priveleged as always. He ought to punch the guy, if someone hadn't already done it for him.

Fuck, that's the kind of thinking his dad would be proud of.

At first, Elijah sinks into it. Hard kiss pressing against his worn lips. Big hands, for once, holding his face like something worth treasuring. It's an unfamiliar sensation. It's terrifyingly addictive, even if his mouth aches from the touch. He kisses back, restrained only by the sting of the cut still plaguing him. Two hands reach upward. He's just about to caress Bob's chest when something snaps.

The weight of reality returns—smacking him right dab in the middle of another man's touch. Elijah recoils. Both his hands smack the brunette away, panicked and breathless combined. Torturous visions of someone else standing before him cloud his mind. A looming force that lurks in every dark corner.

"What the—what the fuck is wrong with you!?" His voice breaks. Agony rips through his chest with a thunderous heartbeat. From guilt or desire, he's shamefully unsure. "You can't... you can't do that to me, Reynolds."

A sob forces it's way out. Too loud, too clear to brush off. Elijah stumbles backward, palm pressing tight against his forehead as he struggles to collect his breath. His eyes dart around the parking lot—searching behind every car as if he's half expecting someone to leap out of one.