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Post by Iain ó Gallchobhair on Apr 18, 2010 8:42:50 GMT -5
The sky was colored grey when he went out of the house today. Wind's cold, and the thunder could be hear. Signs of rain, Iain knew it very well. But that doesn't actually stop him from doing his daily routines that is bothering his (or so the Irish had claimed to be) best friend.
Stepping through the crowds at the marketplace, he quickly searched for that certain alleyway, the familiar path he had went through for countless times and turned as soon as he found it. It took him another good amount of time before his eyes could finally caught the sight of the old building.
"Oi, Beth!" The Irish shouted as he entered the pub with as much grandeur as he could muster, though it probably was not much, given how filthy he looked like now. Sweaty and... well, anyway, not in much state to flirt with any of the pretty ladies though there were not much pretty ladies in the pub as he briefly scanned the insides.
Why must the Scot insist to stay here anyway? His pub was like... minutes away from the market, not to mention it was cold and lonely here, what with the lack of other stores and the bustling streets. And he had to go through path of dirt to get here every single day. His emerald eyes glanced towards the dirt-stained boots and he had to held back his urge to sigh dramatically in front of other customers. Speaking of customers...
This place was getting lesser customer lately, it seemed.
The boy pursed his lips and quietly made his way to one of the barstools. "Know what?" He started with a slight grin on his face. "You really should be thankful you get a regular like me. At least that way... you won't be lonely." Shifting slightly on his seat to make himself comfortable, he leaned closer to the Scot.
"So, anyways, how are you doing, handsome?"
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Post by Tòmas Macbeatha Maxwell on Apr 20, 2010 12:47:51 GMT -5
The scent of the apothecary, once unnamed with a blunt sign outside that spoke exactly of what it was, was terribly (not so, maybe?) different from the smell of natural oils and herbs and foul-smelling juices of poisonous mushrooms from a few years back. There was still that distinct aura of course, tucked away, underneath the intoxicating musk of alcohol, a place most people were off-limits to and sometimes he'd stay there, flipping through 'Ye Old Books' and a bunch of decaying documents that seemed too fragile for his rough hands.
He'd spent the night there (perhaps, three) conjuring something up for bad headaches. All the books had were for specific illnesses with long titles 'For When Your Skin Looks Like a Dried Grape', 'For When Red Spots Appear On You Skin', 'For When You Feel Hot While The Rest of The World Is Under Stable Temperature' --these days, those things could connote to just about anything but it was mostly what he went by and used. About to add stone pine into the ominous looking flask his movements were brought to a screeching halt.
Tòm steeled himself, closed his eyes and exhaled before exiting, but couldn't repress the spasms of annoyance. Clutching his right hand that was apt to those movements he stood up from the wooden stool and exited the room, making sure to close the door behind him.
There weren't a lot of people. Mostly travelers looking for a quick fix since he offered no lodgings. He had no barmaids because he didn't have enough money for daily, weekly or even monthly wages so he ran things by himself.
"I am not acknowledging you the next time that name comes out of your mouth." He bit out, addressing the only person seated by the counter. The Scotsman stood dutifully behind it, preparing a glass. He chanced a glance at his friend and grimaced and then rolled his eyes at the expression on the idiot's face.
"Yer not a regular." He said out loud and then in a muttered follow-up, "More of a nuisance, that's what."
When he looked up from preparing the drink he blinked first, sea-green eyes unexpectedly meeting Iain's face so close.
"I was perfectly fine five minutes ago and if you call me that again, I am going to throw your pretty little arse out." He narrowed his eyes and slid the drink into the Irish man's hand before turning around to prepare something stronger for himself.
He figured he'd need it anyway.
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Post by Iain ó Gallchobhair on Apr 20, 2010 21:45:15 GMT -5
Iain merely grinned wider at the Scot's words. Never looked too pleased with my presence here, don't you, Beth? His eyes happily searched for anything to complaint about (for the umpteenth time) in his area of vicinity while Tòmas was busy with his glass. And really, when the Irish said anything, it really can be anything. Be it the Scot's condition, the pub's, the weather, the fact that he nearly tripped on his way to the pub, anything, everything in particular can be used as a complaint fodder.
After all, when your main purpose of visit is to annoy the other, nothing more and nothing less, you can't be too picky, right? "You know what..." He raised his hands and counted the fingers. "You've said that for too many times. I don't know how much, never counted it." Faking an innocent face, the redhead decided to throw another question. "I don't really understand why you dislike being called Beth so much though. It's a good name and it suits you. Don't you agree with me... Beth?"
His mouth was about to open and protest the next words, that he is a regular in contrast with what the other had said, but the muttered words stopped him. "Sure, a nuisance I am. One that you need though."
He stared curiously at the narrowing eyes, only breaking his gaze towards the other when he felt the cool glass slipping in to his palm. For a brief moment, he thought of asking for a stronger one than this, but then he was reminded of how easily drunk he got, much to his chagrin.
Lifting the glass towards his mouth, the Irish took a small sip from the content, his grin slowly changing into a smirk. "Call you what again? Handsome? But it's the truth, my dear Beth. Now, if only you'll allow me to..." His eyes gave a calculating look at the other's appearance. "To fix your hair just a little bit and get you some new clothes, in no time, ladies will flock to you."
He tapped his fingers against the wooden counter, waiting for an answer patiently. "... well?"
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Post by Tòmas Macbeatha Maxwell on Apr 25, 2010 7:22:17 GMT -5
He could swear that every goddamn time that Irish man would grin, he could hear a vein pop. Keeping himself from glowering, Tòm slapped on a strained smile as he gripped his glass from under the counter.
"Good then. One more reason why I shouldn't punch your face in." Tòm's fingers curled around the glass tighter (an attempt not to just hurl it at Iain's face) and he twitched when he heard that stupid nickname again. However, he let it slide this time, ignoring the question as a whole, bringing the drink to his lips to take a long sip and ease the blood boiling.
Only to end up choking on the whisky as the other spouted out another one of his delusions.
"What kinda idiot needs a nuisance?" He rolled his eyes and put the glass down.
His eyes had fixed themselves on the small movements, a habit of his when people were so up close but he caught himself before anything (hopefully) could be said.
"My hair is fine the way it is." Was his curt reply.
"If ya don't like it that much...I'm pretty sure you know your way out."
Tòmas turned his back on him, finding sufficient reason to do so anyway --and it definitely wasn't because of the way his insides twisted at the prospect of having ugly hair or being judged, definitely not. He waved his acknowledgement to the men seated by one of the tables, dead set on ignoring the malignant tumor that was Iain.
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Post by Iain ó Gallchobhair on Apr 25, 2010 8:49:53 GMT -5
His green eyes flickered with amusement at every movement the other made, every words he said. He had known Tòmas for quite a long time now, it didn't take him much to know that his friend was more than unhappy to see his presence here.
Letting out a stifled laugh as the Scot choked on his drink, Iain mused on an answer. Another one that will get to Tòmas' nerves. "An idiot like you, I believe." That should be good enough, no?
Raising one neatly trimmed eyebrows at the curt reply, the Irish couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. "Hmm? Of course I know my way out, Beth. I'm not against dragging your sorry ass out though." Ha! As if he could actually do that! Even at one glance, a stranger would have known his body is far from built for physical works. Or anything that requires muscle, really. He barely have any scratch on his skin, all credits go to his parents and their willingness to keep him sheltered and safe, and his pale looks doesn't help with his conditions either. No matter what way you look at it, his appearance resembles that of a sick person.
Or someone that had never stepped out of the house. Something that Tòmas is prone to, it seems. When was the last time he saw the Scot step out of his bar anyway...? Iain thought over this question for a while before deciding that whenever it was, it was a long, long time ago. "You need to stop being such a hermit, love. Go out or something. Your gloominess will keep fortune away from you." He took another sip from the glass. "And can I ask for a refill?"
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Post by Tòmas Macbeatha Maxwell on Apr 25, 2010 17:49:18 GMT -5
Tòm felt a defeated sigh escape his lips before he could catch it and shove it back down his throat where it belonged. Facing the inevitable, he shook his head and took a longer swig of his drink, emptying most of the glass in that one go.
There was never any winning on his part.
Ever.
But he liked to have hope.
Eight years and counting, his mind screamed back at him sensing another pitfall in his course of actions.
"You couldn't drag me out if you tried." The Scotsman muttered with a snicker as he downed the last of the glass' contents.
He had a good reason for not wanting him out here, which, to say the least, had almost nothing to do with his presence. Iain wasn't sickly and he could probably take the road going there easily but Tòm didn't want to be blamed for anything that could possibly happen to him along the way, because he could list a hundred things that could go wrong with just walking there. Like bandits and the gambler that wouldn't mind going the extra mile.
Resisting the urge to bash the glass against his skull, he addressed Iain's question.
"My 'gloominess' has nothing to do with fortune."
Tòm uncorked the jar and poured liquid into the glass full once again.
"You should try it, stop going out for unnecessary reasons."
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Post by Iain ó Gallchobhair on Apr 26, 2010 3:57:40 GMT -5
Flashing an annoying smirk at the Scot's sudden silence, the Irish whistled slightly. Another score down on the board. With him winning of course. There's no way he's going to lose any argument, no matter what it's about. Tòmas have to lose, and that's final. Even if the other's winning, he'll find a way to turn the tides into his favour.
"Hey, you don't need to say that out loud," Iain's cheeks puffed, his lips forming the pout he was so used to make. A part of him was a bit offended by that snicker. Really. He was not one to deny the truth but... couldn't Tòmas be a little bit more... kind with his words?
"'m flipping your kilt in front of other customer the next time you say that to me." He muttered, looking very much like a child whose toy had just been forcefully taken away.
As soon as his glass was filled, the Irish took it to his lips, taking a long sip, face a bit red from the rush of alcohol into his throat. "Oh, but..." He stood up from his stool and leaned closer towards the Scot, hands reaching out to pinch his cheeks and form a forced smile. "You should smile more and stop frowning. Customers would rather have a smile than a frown to greet them, right?"
He fell back into his seat as soon as he finished, giggling at nothing in particular. "Oh, but I do have a reason coming here." His eyes took a deep, appreciative look at the half-filled glass before raising it for yet another sip.
Looks like his visit here today will not be for long.
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Post by Tòmas Macbeatha Maxwell on Jul 4, 2010 3:23:35 GMT -5
Tòm conceded. Quietly. He was a hermit, not stupid. He could tell when that aspect of him was starting to get the best of him, albeit a little (or too) late. Maybe that was why he only had one friend. One annoying friend --but hey, at least he wasn't rotting amongst old fashioned medical books and poisonous mushrooms. If he was going to keep any semblance of friendship --or whatever it was-- between them, he would just have to grin and bear it. Minus the grinning.
"You're right. I'm sorry." He spoke without looking at him, and then added,"but you still shouldn't go out for stupid reasons."
The Scotsman decidedly ignored the statement about his kilt and drank more to keep him from lunging forward to just go ahead and strangle the guy. 'That's right. Make friends, not war.'
"Couldn't care less what 'my customers' 're thinking. They come in, they drink, by the time they ask for the third, you won't be able to distinguish a smile from a rat's ass." Instead of trying to swat the hands away, he moved to put the glass container back with its kind, evading them altogether.
He was cringing at the slightly girlish laugh when he stopped moving for a beat, trying to, for a moment, figure out the implications of the statement about Iain's (probably twisted) reasoning --and then he shrugged it off and continued on his merry way with putting the bottle back in its rightful place. Tòm turned around, to spot the pub-goers attempting to get away while he was distracted with his 'guest'.
"Hey!" He called out without much fight in his voice. When he received no response, he rounded the counter in a futile try for chase but he just wasn't up to it. The money would go to buying more supplies anyway --and he would still be dirt poor in the end no matter what he did. It didn't help that Iain was getting free refills every now and again either or, well, all the time.
He sighed, taking a bar stool for himself, merely glaring at the customer staring at him quizzically as he exited the pub.
Tòm shifted his attention to his friend, "how long do ye intend to stay then?"
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Post by Iain ó Gallchobhair on Jul 25, 2010 9:39:54 GMT -5
"Forgiven." He nodded at the apology. Shaking his head with energetically, Iain beamed a wide grin at the other. "Nope, visiting you isn't a stupid reason! You yourself in the other hand..." His voice slowly turning into a playful tone, having recovered quickly from the what, insult? the other had said to him earlier. ... Wait, no, not an insult. Actually, it's more like pointing out of an obvious fact he doesn't want to acknowledge.
He let out a long, heavy sigh at the answer, trying to sound as annoying as he can. "That's exactly why you'll never move out of this... place." He frowned, looking displeased at this. "Is it so hard to smile? It's not like you have to pay or anything to do that. It's just a few muscles having an extra work."
Turning his head at the direction where Tòmas was shouting (yep, definitely shouting) at, Iain raised an eyebrow when the other do nothing to chase the customer. Aha. Another reason why his best friend is still stuck in this rundown place when his skills can actually fetch him a place at a better, more comfortable place. "Not gonna chase the guy, slacker?" He asked, staring at the other curiously.
His head tilted slightly at the question, unexpected, like the guy who asked it, and it doesn't take him long to find an answer for it. "Ah, you don't want me to be here anymore?"
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