OTHERWORDLY.

[yoloed]

Otherwordly Meme

Sometimes all you need is a word to spark off an idea.

1. Post a comment with your character's name, canon, and any preferences you may have (no shipping, no smut, etc.)

2. Leave the comment blank or post a word or two in the body.

It may also help if you list scenarios you would like to play.

3. Reply to other people, either with words you picked out, or words they posted as prompts for a thread.

( A cleanup of the previous Otherwordly Meme. )

Comments

[serialized]

[ It's a special kind of privilege, to absolutely not know how to deal with someone persisting in talking to you when you don't want them to. Nate had learned to accommodate all sorts of behaviors, earning that laidback reputation; Jonathan is merely perplexed and uneasy. Annoyed and feeling awfully tired now. He wants to go home. He just also wants to finish the beer, which he is currently staring at like it will save him from this conversation. ]

Well, they bore me.

[ He takes a longer drink and moves further down the bar, eyes averted. As closed off as a possibly drunk guy can be.

Petre's probably had some cold reactions before. This one has happened pretty fast, and Jon isn't even looking at him anymore, eyes shut and rubbing the spot between them with his thumb. ]

[broil]

[Then it's a wonder, he decides, that something should be able to bore a boring man. But the choice for a simple beer should have been enough to give that away, shouldn't it.

That's all right. Petre is obnoxious enough to be persistent, so he picks up his own drink and walks on over to take a seat directly by Jonathan's side.]

Could do something about that headache.

[serialized]

[ His hand blocks half his face, but there's still one eye visible to convey the malevolent look he gives Petre when he sits down. Despite that, the wrath seems to be shrinking in him, being replaced by exhaustion and dread. His shoulders are going hunched where he's learning against the bar. ]

I'm trying, but it seems... awful lonely.

[ The sarcasm comes out weak, practically muttered instead of combative. Not his first choice of words, either. He would have preferred to say like it can't catch a goddamn clue, but he doesn't want to get in a fight tonight. Not even with someone as slight as Petre. ]

[broil]

[Petre doesn't get that; maybe something lost in translation, if his accent hasn't come out enough to make it obvious it could happen. His brows just remain arched and he remains unmoved, watching Jonathan like an explanation will eventually come out.

It doesn't.]

Does it?

[serialized]

[ That's unexpectedly funny, despite the sensation that his head is slowly filling with poison gas. ]

Yeah, that was me implying you're the headache. Do you not get that often? Because it seems like you would.

[ He drains the beer finally, unable to stretch it out any longer, and almost, maybe, feels a little better. ]

[broil]

[Oh.

Well, if that was supposed to offend him, it doesn't.]

I'm usually pegged for being the cure.

[serialized]

Yeah? [ His voice indicates he's sure he's going to be sorry he asked. ] What does that entail.

[ Two beers is probably fine. But not shots. There's something sad about a man lining up shots on his own anyway, which, despite Petre's presence, Jon considers himself to be. He signals the bartender. ]

[broil]

That depends on what you're into.

[He looks down, then back up at Jon's face. Whether he notices it or not isn't important; the tone is suggestive enough on its own.]

[serialized]

[ Surprising even himself, Jon laughs outright. He's not sure why it's funny to him, it just is, and he's in no mood for self-analysis on a night like this. It wasn't good laughter, there was something ugly about it, but he'll take it. ]

Yeah, no. But thanks.

[ The next beer comes and he isn't so circumspect this time about pacing. ]

[broil]

[Good thing he didn't say he's taken, Petre would be all over encouraging adultery.]

What? Don't tell me there's something wrong with me.

[serialized]

There is definitely something wrong with you, but fuck if I know what.

[ As his drink disappears, though, he seems to be more resigned to Petre's continued presence. The headache ebbs. It's probably not a great sign, having to drink to feel normal. ]

[broil]

Well - some people like that.

[This is why Petre is a headache, he supposes.]

[serialized]

Yeah, well, this is like when cats try to sit on the one person in the room allergic to them.

[ As he gradually untenses, he takes the opportunity to study Petre's face and examine his memories again. Still nothing. Less hint of any recognition than before, in fact. Jon shrugs it off mentally. ]

[broil]

You're allergic to sex.

[Not what the man means, but Petre makes sure he pokes that in like a stick anyway.

He likes being looked at, though, even if it's with apparent indifference. Eye contact is always a way in.]

[serialized]

I'm allergic to pushy weirdos. Also, engaged.

[ Though his mood darkens a little again when he says so. More and more, he's not sure when, or if, they'll get married. Not as long as he's like this, drinking at odd hours of the night, talking to strangers he doesn't like the look of. His gaze turns inward, drifts. ]

[broil]

[Oop, there's the E word.]

Hm.

Funny how long it took you to bring that up.

[serialized]

Yeah, I see how mentioning at all was a mistake.

[ Because other questions come to mind, like "where are they" and "what are you doing here alone at this time of the night," that kind of thing. Jon looks away, annoyed, and gets out his wallet to count out a tip. Best to get out of here while he still feels normalish. ]

[broil]

Not necessarily.

[He tilts his head and sees him reaching for the wallet, so hurried to get out as soon as possible. Looks like mentioning his significant other only made him realize this is no place for him, which is a bigger shame. Still Petre continues as though they're just halfway through the conversation, shifting his balance slightly.]

What's your name?

[serialized]

[ The unease is coming back, in a more mundane form than whatever inexplicable bullshit was going on before. He's just not used to this kind of attention from anyone, let alone a weirdly young-looking, some-flavor-of-European dude. Jon shakes his head at Petre as he stands, sliding some bills under a coaster. ]

Bob Ross. You?

[broil]

[Petre smiles, and it's like he's going to laugh, but doesn't.]

Petre Dodrescu.

[serialized]

[ The drop in his stomach is mundane this time too, all the worse for being belated; the last name means nothing to him, and the first name, it takes him a moment to translate what he hears into the memory of a name typed on a page as the police ask him do you know anyone with this name? He's never heard the name said in anything other than an American accent.

He stares at the shelf of bottles behind the bar, at his own hand on the counter, and is still as sickness takes hold of him.

It's completely implausible. It's a horrible coincidence. That's all it can possibly be. Except he listened to Jon's conversation, and he's been so weirdly persistent. He can't tell whether he's paranoid or stupid, if two beers on top of mental bizarreness is wrecking his judgment. Jon finally looks back at Petre with all the reluctance of someone turning their gaze onto a gruesome car accident. ]

Is that a common name, where you're from?

[ The dull detachment with which he asks is nothing like calm. He sounds almost lost, hostility subsumed by shock. ]

[broil]

[He seems none the wiser, concentrated on his own drink now that he's convinced Jon is going to turn away and go back to his strange and mundane life. Brows arch and his gaze turns to him when he realizes that won't be the case, mouth full of alcohol before he swallows it without so much as a hiss.

Is it a common name?]

I guess. I'm from Romania.

[Not that his home country means much to him; he hardly holds any memories of anything called home.]

Ever been?

[serialized]

No.

[ He should say more than that to maintain some semblance of normality, but his mind is racing. The police have never let him see actual texts from the phone, and there were so few people to be found who knew what Nate was doing the last few months of his life. ]

What brings you to the U.S.?

[ It's a stilted gesture at conversation, when a moment ago he was so eager to leave. Jon takes his phone out, numbly checking for messages and then, before he can talk himself out of it, turning the sound down. Not that that makes taking a picture of Petre any more subtle, but that's what he's trying to do. ]

[broil]

[Buzzed as he is, he still sees the man taking out his phone for no apparent reasons, feels the nervousness in his words as he speaks up. And then he thinks back to the last thing he saw him doing with the phone, which was talk about someone having his throat torn out.]

... I thought you were in a hurry.

[serialized]

I thought you were interested.

[ The disgust he feels at himself for using that is steadying, almost calming. A reminder that you sometimes have to crawl through shit to reach your goal, even though he's not certain at all there's any goal to be reached here. He manages to pull an expression into place that's nominally a smile (it shares some characteristics of a grimace) and tilts the phone, taking a picture of Petre.

The police will probably yell at him for this. So he won't go to them. He'll go to the apartment manager or the night clerk or Nate's coworkers. Or at least, he thinks he will. Once there's less alcohol in his system, he'll do no such thing. ]