partynauseous

“Wild—with just a touch of madness thrown into the mix to liven things up.”

Dion could feel the heat off the other’s fingers, a tantalizing tingle that was electric between the fine thread of space separating nearly tangled hands. Strange as it was, he couldn’t quite beat the compulsion to hold onto the glass, there was something almost hypnotic about the other’s eyes. It was infectious, and the trace of a smile poked at the corners of roguish lips. Utterly mesmerized. Maybe it was just that he couldn’t quite discern if he was looking into the exotic eyes of a man dressed like a woman, or a woman with boyish features. Either way, it was compelling— this was androgyny done right. 

“Ah that they do, don’t they.” Dion murmured softly, hand belatedly falling away, but not before stealing a dragging touch. “Warning heeded.” Blinking, the former god of chaos who’d mellowed out as of late kept up the eye contact. There was something nagging at him still, something so very familiar. He’d taken the other fully in, the eyes, the hair, the body, the clothes, the posture, the gesturing, the infliction on their tone and none of it sparked true to what he recognized, but there was something. 

An energy maybe. 

A presence.

“Is it so impossible?” Dion whispered, gaze circling around the other’s face. He could not place where or why or how he knew this attractive stranger, but he could tell that whoever they are, they were missing something— something chaotic, fun, nothing like that relaxing drink he’d just handed over. With a startled jerk, Dion whipped forward (practically falling over the bar) and caught the hand that held the glass just before it made purchase against the plush of a lip. “Wait— don’t ruin your palate with this grape juice.” A beat, eyes locked and held for a riveting minute. “I have something better for you.”

Rather than actually wrestle the glass away (like the stubborn, perfectionist part of him desired) he let his hand fall away, leaving the choice of whether to taste it or not up to the intriguing stranger and turning instead to fetch another bottle. Something with a little bit more fire. The bottle was appropriately red, a deep burgundy. “It’s a little mad, got more bite than that— ” he inched his head towards the previous glass, “but I think you can handle it.” Fingers tightened around the cork, but he didn’t pop it, just held the eye contact with a challenging look. “But just so we’re clear, this’ll knock most people out. Do you dare?”

Surprised when the owner of the bar continued to engage them in conversation, practically ignoring the activity going on around them in favor of directing all of his attention - both professional and personal - on them, Klara instinctively shuffled closer, pressing against the edge of the counter as they wrestled with their confusion, hoping to slap it back into place once they reached some kind of conclusion about this male whose very presence reminded them of home; not so much a place as it was a plane of existence - something with which they might have shared. If only they could recall exactly where they knew him from and why his presence should incite such a strong, nostalgic feeling within them when they themselves failed to recover memories believed to be significant to their previous identity. 

Perhaps, if they were to learn his name, the last puzzle piece to this mystery would fall into place and they would finally be able to solve the riddle of his existence and what it might mean to them - if anything.  “What should I call you?” Klara boldly, almost challengingly, held the man’s gaze, fingertips gently tapping against the wine glass in a staccato rhythm - in concert with the steady thump of their heartbeat.

                          Anxiety?

                      No. 

               Not anxiety.

       This was something else.

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it impossible.” Just implausible. Trying to ignore the heat of their skin where his eyes touched them - a warm blush overspread their cheeks, threatening to derail their unyieldingly calm demeanor ( an irony in itself, given their past designation ) - they lifted the glass of merlot to their lips for an experimental taste, intending to luxuriate in the richness of a flavor they were certain they’d never experienced before, a blend of complementary ingredients that would each add something unique to the flavor. Or so they believed - naturally, they wouldn’t know until the wine actually touched their tongue. But judging from its scent and the confidence of its creator, their suspicions probably weren’t that far off. 

“Aye love, ain’t chargin’ ya for this one.” Why didn’t anyone take that at face value? Was a free drink really so unexpected? Holy Zeus, had nobody heard of taste testers!? Nevertheless, despite all that mental questioning and verbal insistence, Dion didn’t immediately relinquish the wine glass when the other’s fingers slid around his. Instead he leaned forward, elbows propped up on the obsidian counter. “Worried about my business are you?”

There was something about this one, something that called out to him like a distant memory.

                                                                                   But he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Squinting — like that would help — the former god of chaos finally let go of the glass, but only after eyes met. “No strings,” Dion parroted, sultry smooth like the wine. One half of his mouth twisted into a smile, the other half barely clung to serious. There was something so familiar about this stranger, but he’d never seen that face before. Dion — though atrocious with names and heavily reliant on generic monikers — had an uncanny knack for faces; being androgynous enough he couldn’t decipher (or decide) which way the gender leaned, Dion was confident he would have remembered that face.

         Still he asked, “Do I know you?”

Cliche perhaps, but it was birthed of genuine curiosity and (surprisingly) not a cheap need to get in someone’s pants. Watching the stranger closely as they drank, Dion found himself invested in knowing more than just how the wine was. It turned his smile flirtatious. “If my master plan is getting attractive people to talk to me, then I suppose it’s working.”

Inclined to believe him - he didn’t possess the aura of a liar, from what they could tell; but outrageousness ... that was an entirely different story - Klara glanced from that appealing face to the hand still attached to the glass, just above their own, their fingers almost intertwining. A close call if ever there was one. “Worried? No,” they replied, a candidness about their tone that added credence to their words. “I merely wanted to return the favor ... ” of a free drink - “Fair warnings work best in that capacity.” Any warning would, they were sure.

When they felt the intensity of his gaze on them - it felt as though they’d come under microscopic study - the maniae who’d found themselves stripped of everything, including madness, returned the scrutiny with a narrow-eyed, suspicious look of their own. Now that they thought about it, the familiarity with which this male gave off reminded them of something - a faint memory determined to pierce through the obscurity that had so easily overtaken their mind; the humans’ doing, no doubt. Not only had they given Klara a body to contain the spirit of madness that had swept across the land, inducing insanity with nothing more than their incorporeal presence, but they’d gone so far as to drain them of every last drop of madness they could generate, unleashing it on other creatures in their misguided efforts to see if manufacturing a drug with such a powerful ingredient was possible. 

         The humans had taken everything from them.

    And it hurt, this dark, barren void that had taken the place of their madness - an emptiness that grew with every passing day.

“Doubt it,” they answered simply, wondering if perhaps they’d known this ... being in their former life - but as a spirit and not as a weak, lowly human. “You see, I tend to drive people mad with just my presence alone.” Well, they used to. Klara doubted they would manage to obtain the same kind of results now. “And you look quite sane to me - unless you’re an expert at hiding it.” They couldn’t exactly discount that possibility either.