Girlish laughter bubbles from her lips, oozing out of her effortlessly. Her breath reeks of alcohol, and so do her borrowed clothes. She drinks with abandon, having long since left the poque table where she and Flynn had drained every loute from the pockets of the gamblers.
In truth, Milan did not pay much attention to Flynn when he dedicated a whole game to her learning. She was a bit.. preoccupied. Preoccupied with drinking, falling prey to a striking hazel gaze, and drinking some more. Her eyes flutter closed as she traces the lines where his hand was once resting on her leg as he leaned closer to show her exactly what his moves were. It feels empty now, without a reassuring weight to settle there. She frowns, turning her distracted attention back to him and trying desperately to hear what he's saying.
"-our chances were easily one out of a near dozen, but still he'd been able to-"
Pretty eyes, pretty hair, pretty pretty face. Curse his pretty lips. Why aren't they on her by now? Perhaps God does pick his darlings... Wait-
She blinks, unnerved by her own mind. Her hand, grasping an entirely spent pint glass, falls to the counter with a dull thud.
She did not just think about kissing him.
She blinks again, willing away the clouds murking up her sense of reason. Still, they cling to the edges of her consciousness like a plague, not so easily deterred by simple remedies. All the intrusive thought serves to do is remind her that she is solely and wholly intoxicated. She gently pushes away the crystal glass in front of her, frowning at the foul taste in her mouth.
Is it.. vomit?
Oh, God.
"Milan!" Flynn's exclamation snaps her attention back to him, and she swallows profusely, barely keeping the vomit at bay. "By all that is holy- you have had entirely too much drink, woman!"
She nods in muddled agreement before blurting out in a rushed slur, "Excuse me one moment I just need-"
Milan brushes past him, fleeing the room and bursting into a small lavatory. The contents of her night find themselves hurled into a waste bin, her stomach unsettled and throat raw. Everything seems to smear into junctures and snippets of time; in the following moments there is a subtle presence beside her, and then gentle hands lead her back to a small table in a shadowed corner of the room. Hazel eyes seize her attention once more, and she blinks back into reality.
"I've ordered a basket of dinner rolls to help settle your stomach," Flynn comments.
Milan murmurs a thank you, writhing in her own discomfiture.
"I thought royals could handle their drink? Is this why they kicked you out, m'lady?" He simpers, a ridiculous smirk on his ridiculous face.
"They didn't kick me out, mind you," she remarks. "I left out of my own volition."
"Oh, did you now?" He inquires, brow peaked in curiosity.
"Yes, you obtuse cow." He rumbles out a throaty laugh at that, and she glares. "Is that so funny? I hated it there, it was positively suffocating."
"I don't doubt so. I wouldn't last a mere hour at court," he says with a shrug, leaning back as the server slides the dish of buttered wheat rolls in front of them. Milan hastily snags one, ripping it in two and savoring the aroma of warmed bread. "So, what compelled you to ditch rose petal baths and satin skirts?"
"It's more than that," she counters with a mouth full of dough. "I was bound to a path made by someone else's hands, with a course that I would never be able to change unless I carved a new one by myself."
"So what, your life was laid out for you? Could that really be so bad?" Flynn presses.
Milan huffs, growing tired of his questions. "I once had a lover, too; a young man of no noble background. In fact, he was a stable hand - and the only reason I ever put up with riding lessons. I should probably credit both my experience on horseback, as well as my lack thereof, to him. I was often distracted during lessons, you see," Milan lets out a long sigh, her words fading as she recalls the memories.
"I assume your parents were not fond of these interactions?"
An unladylike snort escapes Milan at that, and she simply rolls her eyes. "When my parents caught wind of our... intimate relations, they ordered an immediate execution. I watched it all, and wept over him for hours in the aftermath."
Flynn blinks in astonishment, sympathy creasing his brow as she continues. "I was heartsick for the better half of a year. Refusing to do anything other than breathe, which even then was a chore. That was the final straw for my father, and so he arranged a marriage to have the loathsome daughter I'd become shipped from the castle, and hopefully broken out of my depressive little stupor. Little did he know, this was my final straw as well."
"And that's when you left?" He asks.
"Rightly so, I left that very night," she rips another roll in half, stomach already quieted to a manageable level of discomfort. "Gracious Lord above, these are incandescent."
Flynn chuckles, reaching for one himself only to have it swatted away. He reels back, withdrawing his hand as though stung.
"None for you," Milan sweeps the plate to her chest, hovering over them protectively.
"What do you mean, none for me? I bought them!"
"With the money you practically stole from poor drunk men," she retorts. "It is no more yours than it is mine."
"Stolen? I am no dishonest man!"
They stare each other down, serious faces breaking into a cacophony of laughter at that.
"You can tell yourself that for as long as it takes for you to believe it, I reckon you'll find your arse in a church before that ever happens," she jests.
"I reckon I would," he agrees with a playful roll of his eyes. When his gaze lands on the window across the room, the corners of his mouth tilt into an unpleasant frown. "I also reckon we should take our leave, before the others come lookin for us, ey lass?"
She follows his line of sight, peering out the window and finding only inky evening gloom. She can't hardly tell the difference between the drunken haze and nighttime fog, so she assumes it all to be drunken fog.
"I suppose you're right," she answers slowly, looking back to him for any sign of trouble, but even the subtle frown has vanished.
He stands up, nodding to the door as they take their leave.
"Oh, and lass?" Flynn whispers in her ear as he reaches for the door handle, "Try not to look too heavily intoxicated."
Before she can ask more than what the puzzled look on her face says, she finds herself face to face with Callaghan's withering glare.
"Oh- hello there, Cally," Milan slurs a bit, caught off-guard. He grunts, nodding his head without so much as a word. Flynn follows behind him obediently, silently.
"It's not like I need to say anything, you know every word I'll say," Cal says after a few minutes of walking down the dim streets.
"I reckon you shouldn't then," Flynn says with a shrug.
"Then why won't you listen to what I tell you? Addictions like this are pernicious, especially now."
"Because I can handle my own damn addiction," Flynn growls. "I don't need you babying me."
"So you admit it's a problem? And still, you seek it out," Cal turns to size him up.
"Now is not the time," Flynn exclaims exasperatedly.
"It's never the time for you to grow the hell up, is it?" Cal snaps. Milan expects there to be more yelling by the way they stare each other down, locked into a silent battle of will. She doesn't find out who wins, however, as Cal shakes off the topic in favor of storming off toward the central market. Milan is resigned to standing near Flynn, who clenches his hands into a coiled fist, vibrating with hostility.
"For what it's worth, I thought you were pretty impressive at cards," she tries, offering a smile that she hopes seems inviting. Flynn just shrugs her off without a word and marches after Cal, who has since disappeared from sight. Embarrassment - or perhaps it's the alcohol - burns at her cheeks. She kicks herself over the foolish remark; he did not need compliments on his skill with the one thing he was just lambasted for. She races after him down the cobbled boulevard, before he can fade too far from view. Her racing, however, does not take her very far, nor very fast.
In the light of the moon the streets are empty and cold; the bustle of vendors is absent and the chatter of townfolk is damped. Aside from the quelled uproar of one busy pub, the streets are silent. The drip of rainwater runoff can be heard loud and clear as it falls from roof to stone street, an unusual plopping echo. In the absence of a crowd, it is not hard to find Flynn - along with Nolan - staring at a poster wall outside of the town hall. Milan saunters up to them, waiting to be acknowledged before striking up any conversation.
"They got my nose all wrong," Flynn huffs, poking at the paper with a poorly sketched drawing of him. Not only that, but similarly is a portrait of Cal. The papers depict one last person of interest, and the picture makes Milan's heart drop.
"Oh, no."
"Why the long face? I think your picture is the most accurate one," Nolan grins, much to Flynn's dismay.
"It's not my picture I'm worried about," Milan casts him a peeved scowl.
"What? You're not worried that people actually look at these? I promise nobody is going to-" he's cut off by the sharp twang of a knife striking wood. A crimson streak of blood runs down his cheek where the tip of a polished knife slit the skin, before embedding itself in the poster board. The group stills in unison and the dead streets come alive in the silence.
The rush of blood in her ears impedes on Milan's ability to hear anything, and her instincts are still trapped behind the smog of inebriety. Luckily, she doesn't have to think about more than moving her feet as Flynn grabs her by the arm and takes off down the avenue with Nolan in tow.
- e n d -
hello! it feels good to be back, and with this school year winding down, I'm able to get back into the groove for writing. I hope to be updating a little more frequently now :)
all my love~
- kat <3