Log:Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone
The Martyr's knock is tentative. His hair is perfectly combed with citrus pomade and he's wearing aftershave that smells of fougere with a hint of clove. He's older even than his last time in the facility, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes a little more pronounced, but not a lot older by his guess, though odds are he's nearly two decades older than he was hen he was killed. He's dressed in the black trousers with the deep pleats, a black dress shirt, a purple tie, and a waistcoat in a matching purple with black musical notation on it. He has a bottle of Glenlivet.
The Bon-Vivant changes things here fairly often -- variation in the length and style of his hair, in his clothing -- but it's day-to-day, intentional. Bar the appearance of the Pegasus tattoo after the Icarus story, the particulars of age and height and physique and colouring and general, well, BV-lookin'-ness never seem to shift, and they haven't this time, either. The form that opens the door still looks about 10-15 years older than the one Hector last saw, and the current length of hair, both head and facial, still says 'younger Blaise' more than 'older Zane', or at least it does today. He's clearly decided right now was 'lying around comfortably time' or similar, as he's in those silk pajama pants paired with an intricately patterned silk robe, barefoot.
The presence he sees there gets a blink and a sudden, if slightly briefer than usual, brilliant smile, and he steps back, drawing the door along in clear 'come in' fashion. "Lookin' good," he says by way of greeting, taking a sweeping glance, and he waits until Dare actually gets a chance to step inside before accosting him with a hug. There are more books lying around in here than usual, and a tray of what probably used to be more various snacks than it currently is, along with an almost-entirely empty glass next to a familiar currently-mostly-full unlabeled bottle of something in the whiskey family. Usually it lives on his bedside table, but he appears to have been hanging out in his little sitting area at present instead.
The Martyr looks him over, "I'm older again, but you're still taller." Then he's inside the room, hugging Fizz back in relief. "Have you gone all scholarly?" He is beaming. "God, it's good to see you. I'm always worried I've been too much of a dick to hug."
The Bon-Vivant laughs, putting an extra squeeze into the hug. "Nah. First off, Zane never thought Hector was a dick. And second... still think trying not to hold what people's else-selves do against them here's important. And, uh..." He glances toward the sitting area, with the books, and looks very faintly embarrassed a moment, "...not *all* scholarly, it's just... thinking like Blaise and then thinking like Zane's got a kind of whiplash." He takes half a step back, the better to study Dare thoughtfully. "How're you doing, this time?"
The Martyr chuckles, "I can see how that would be the case. It's a big shift." He miles at him, all sunshine and warmth, "Really good. I'm balanced again." He rubs the back of his neck, "I was a real mess after Angel, but everything just sort of snapped back into place." He smiles sheepishly, "Caleb forgave me right off. Hugged me in front of everybody and everything. You see him yet? Or Cassandra? She's back safe. And Conner who was Morrison came out of his room." He perks up, "Felicity got a door? She's Flick now.
"I just kinda needed to spend a while having it not feel like swimming through molasses when I try to think," Fizz says, still seeming a little bit sheepish for some reason or another.
He wraps his arm around Dare's shoulders to give them another squeeze, and then uses it to urge him toward the couch. "C'mere, have a seat. I have-- things. There's still a beignet, though it's gonna be cold now. And that's awesome, being balanced again. I was a little bit worried, before." He really does look a bit relieved by that, and leans in to impulsively give the shorter man's cheek a kiss. "I've seen Boet and Cass but not really anyone else, yet. How's Flick taking it? Is everyone else okay? I did a... door survey when we got here, and it looked okay..."
The Martyr curls his own arm around his waist, "It drove Cheer a little crazy, the way is was so hard to think as Kimmy. I miss being bright as Finn, but my edge dulled. Luckily not quite that much." He looks down, "I was a mess. I think I swung to far to one side of my duality, then the other. I'm swinging more comfortable in the middle again." He tilts his head to catch his eye, "You helped, I think. The Wake for Alanna. Being God's together again, and out there this time? It was bad for a while, but I found y inner light and I was all right again. I think I'm getting used to dying too."
He looks terribly proud, "Flick is taking it like a champ. Way better than I did. Briar is amazing. Senni and Cash had what looked like an ugly break up, but Cash and Briar are still together. I'm with Cash and Flick for the long haul too I think, and he and Flick are working things out, so we'll see."He munches a beignet, and his face goes still, "Cheer was pretty upset Raul lost his door, and... When I went to check on her today, her door was blank." he blinks several times fast, "I'm... trying to wrap my head around it.
"Rita." It's a very quiet correction, coming along with a nod of acknowledgement for what's being said, and a tiny, still-sad smile. The idea of getting used to dying is one that does something a little odd to his expression, though whatever it does inside his head, he seems to let it go for now, instead saying, "Glad it did help. It helped me, too. And yeah, I kinda miss being as bright as Blaise. No pun intended, but it can stay."
He tries to follow along with the relationship update, small nods punctuating each bit, and there's a clear question in his expression once Dare gets to the we'll see. Whatever it is gets wiped away by a stricken look when there's mention of Cheer's door being blank. "What? But yesterday it--" His arm unwinds so he can push up from the couch and head for the door. Clearly, this is a thing he needs to see himself, even if he doesn't want to.
The Martyr nods, "Rita. I'm sorry. She really was wonderful." He begins to weep, "Yesterday she was still here. Today she isn't." He starts to rise, but then just pours the whiskey. A large portion for both of them. He's thinking of her cookies nd her cheerfulness and the sky diving and the regal Sekmet and... Yeah. Tumblers of whiskey it is."
It doesn't take terribly long. Across the hall and a handful of doors up, and Fizz is standing in front of the one that's blank now and wasn't yesterday, blank now and shouldn't be. He presses a hand flat against it, sliding over the woodgrain where the image of the woman on the cliff no longer is, then turns the knob and pushes it open. No bar, no kitchenette, no shovel, no personality, no Cheer. He stares at it a few seconds, then pulls the door shut again and takes a fast walk down the hall, taking inventory again, certain doors focused on in particular but none ignored.
He ends up at his own again, then inside, letting it fall shut behind him as he heads back to the couch and drops onto it, staring at nothing for a moment. "How-- but it's always been-- hasn't it always been--?" Several blinks, which fail to do anything useful against his eyes welling up, unless one counts freeing a tear he wipes roughly away with the back of a hand. It brings him back to where he is, at least, and he shifts to lean in against Dare, wrapping the arm around him again. Though it's not quite the same way, this time.
The Martyr is waiting for him with the tumblers, eyes terribly said, "At least I told her I loved her this time." He sets them down again to hod Fizz properly and bury his face in his neck.
The Bon-Vivant wraps the other arm around Dare as well, and buries his face in the other man's hair with a sharp inhalation that suggests if the tears aren't winning already, they're about to be. "I didn't even see her this time," he says softly, "and after..." Another squeeze, stronger and not entirely intentional. "I'm glad. That you told her. At least."
The Martyr strokes Fizz's hair, his own face wet, "I know, I know. It was a mess. I'm so sorry, Fizz. I think... she may have been spiraling. I kept coming and holdng her and getting her to try to eat something besides vodka and telling her i loved her, but maybe... it was all getting too much for her."
"I should have knocked." BV's voice is quiet and muffled, but after a moment, there's another tiny nod, more felt in that position than seen. "You were there, at least." And that's something. He's quiet for several moments, though the rhythm of breathing suggests there's crying. Eventually he asks, "Should we do a wake, again? Something that'd suit her...?" A tiny pause. "Don't disappear." As though it were a promise any of them could make.
The Martyr keep stroking his hair and back, crying sofftly himself, "I'm sorry you didn't get to see her. We should get drunk and do something really supid in the Anywhere room. I think she'd like that. Maybe not drunk bungee jumping, but, I don't know, parachuting? Hang Gliding?" He sighs, "I am going to try very hard not to disapear, but I can't promise."
"I'm not sure either of those are less stupid than drunk bungee jumping, but y'know what, fuck it," Fizz says, returning the stroking. It's not definite that he's thinking about that at all, but it's getting done regardless. "She really liked the hang-gliding. But it somehow seems like..." He trails off a moment, taking a somewhat sniffly breath. "Para-gliding, maybe? 'cause I don't think we got to that one. I know I didn't yet." And 'while drunk' might not be the best time for life-threatening novelty, but something about 'new' feels right.
There's another moment before he allows even more softly, "I know. None of us can."
The Martyr snorts, "I'm pretty sure drunk bungee jumping leads to technicolor yawns. We didn's paraglide either. We talked about parachutes but nevere went. She taught me to hang glide.... Maybe bungee jumping, then drunk dancing round a fire? It should be something new. she loved new." He gives him a gentle squeeze, "I love you, you know. Even when you're being reclusive."
The Bon-Vivant gives a breath of a laugh, uncharacteristically small. "What, you don't think drunk gliding or falling do? Pretty sure we oughta just build that expectation in and be pleased if it ends up not happening. But... yeah, we could do that too. And that's what I was thinking. A new thing."
The squeeze is returned, with unfortunately another sniff. "...weird to think of myself being reclusive. Love you too, though. Even if I guess I'm being kinda reclusive." It brings back an earlier thought, though, one that had been pre-empted by the more immediate issue, and he lifts his head a little, moving a hand long enough to drag the back across his eyes before he puts it back. "...with everything sounding all complicated with Briar and Senni and Chance and Flick and you and all, are we still," a tiny pause, brow furrowing, and a small shrug as he abandons trying to figure out a label and settles for, "Well. Like, should I be sticking to hugs?"
The Martyr's fingers delicately toy with Fizz's hair, "I'd like to be with you still. Even without Cheer and with my new relationships. If you still want to? I know you and Cassandra are pretty serious, and I don't know where you and caleb are. I do know that you're incredibly important to me. Friends or lovers, it's still love, but if you are asking me? The answer's yes."
The ring on Fizz's left ring finger likely confirms the Cassandra portion fairly well, as does the way the small, slightly-relieved smile briefly brightens when she's mentioned. Briefly, because it fades again at the next bit, with a flicker of a glance away. That's not what he's inclined to focus on just at the moment, however. "Yeah, I was asking," he says, and the small smile returns, slightly less so. "And good. Okay, then. I figure it's better to be sure, right?" And in that case, he's going to kiss him properly, if currently a fairly restrained sort of properly, given that he's still in pretty strong danger of starting up crying again if he thinks in the wrong direction.
The Martyr nods, "Can't hurt to ask." He kisses him slow and very much like he means it, fingers tangled in his hair, though given the solemnity of the situation, he doesn't push it, "So a proper send off, yes? And then we'll see what we see."