#pohlepen

@pohlepen ok firstly HIIIII MWAH MWAH MWAH!!!

"Poetic," Robert mutters with an exhale of smoke.

The embers of the cigarette burns between his fingers, the scent lingering in the air and no doubt clinging to his clothes at this point. He had tucked himself against the wall towards the entrance to an alley next to the doorway to the local dive bar. He has placed himself just perfectly to be mostly out of way, view slightly obscured, from the people coming and going.

It is a bit of a rare occasion for Robert to be driven to a moment of smoking again and yet here they are. Standing out in the slight chill of early March air with his fingertips growing cold and gaze pointedly fixed on anything aside from Frankie beside him. He knows that it is the alcohol buzzing through his system that has him discussing his feelings and what is going on in his life. Whether or not he is actively listening to whatever advice she is trying to give him is up for debate.

Robert has to physically fight back the overdramatic groan that the words summon. The sentiment holds some truth, of course, and the more logical side of him knows that. But it just so happens that he has made a habit of shoving that side of him down as far as he can in most situations like these. He does not want the truth. He simply wants to wallow a little bit and allow himself to be a bit shitty and destructive. That is how Robert has managed to function for the better part of the last couple of years without it being too bad.

He can surely manage to go even longer without taking the advice. Just a little bit longer.

"What made you think that I want the truth right now?" There is some genuine curiosity to the question. With the way he had been tucked safely into the corner seat at the bar, radiating the type of energy that makes people steer clear for the most part, he thinks that he made a pretty clear picture. He is here to get a bit too tipsy and avoid some of the more pressing matters in his life. Be just as self-destructive and stupid as most of his colleagues and neighbors thought him to be.

"I'd have slept more if I wasn't worried you were going to choke on your own vomit the second I closed my eyes," Alex grumbles, pushing her gently out of his way on his journey into the kitchen. The smell of brewing coffee sparks a memory that isn't his; dark grounds boiling over an open fire, grits clinging to his tongue when he drained a cup. It feels too old a recollection of the Waking world to belong to even the first Corinthian, which confuses him until he realises that it's a third-hand memory from someone he's been trying his best to forget these past months. For a man who's still alive, Cid's ghost has a way of lingering.

He doesn't speak again until he's drained his coffee--smooth and creamy in a clean modern mug, not a charred half-dissolved mess in a filthy metal tin. Caffeine didn't do shit for him as a nightmare, but as a man it makes him feel like there's electricity sparking under his skin. He likes it. And, unfortunately, he can't wake up without it anymore.

he hangs up.

"I'm sure of that, lass, but would you mind doing me a favour and pretending otherwise for a bit and holding still? Only I've got to feel useful somehow, eh?"

The guy holding a (thankfully clean... or just about) bar towel to her bleeding temple doesn't seem particularly bothered by the attitude; something about the smile in his strange eyes (is he wearing purple contacts? red?) says it's hard for anyone to ruffle him much. Tall and classically handsome even with the lines in his face, he doesn't quite look like he belongs in this place. Or maybe that's just because he's British. Sounds British, anyway.

something in his expression closes off; irritation, or hurt, passes over the sharp, bone-white features. the difference is hard to distinguish.

"how often you say that to persuade me to do your bidding," says dream, quietly. "and not because it is how you feel."

it is not the first time she has done it, nor the first that he has seen it for what it was. it is only the first time he has said anything about it, instead of either folding to her wishes or flatly refusing her.

dream's fingertips brush her collarbones, then up, resting against the side of frankie's face. he is mesmerised sometimes by her freckles, but right now his eyes are fixed on hers.

"do you know that you do that?"

the quiet stretches. morpheus' voice lowers; not dangerous, but slightly edged. a wound disguised as something regal.