synopsis: rollo finds you having a drink and decides to join. he asks questions, you answer them, and he's left with more thoughts than he'd like to have.
a/n: shamelessly waltzes forward and drops this into ur lap after relentlessly bullying rollo in my server since the minute he was announced. this was written in honor of him coming back, good luck to everyone pulling
There was something about the thick glass bottle sitting half-hidden behind a box of cereal that caught Rollo's eye. Large, square-shaped, halfway filled with amber liquid that clung to the edges just a tad bit longer than water would—that's the sort of thing that's supposed to be kept in cabinets at the far side of the kitchen, behind little wooden doors and tucked out of sight whenever guests came over so that there would be no assuming.
Unlike wine, that is not meant to be out in the open. Wine is acceptable—in his community, wine was cherished. Wine could be drunk in public and frequently was, especially in front of rows upon rows of pews and at the foot of a smiling Virgin Mary. Wine is a sacred symbol.
Bourbon is not. And yet, it is the only liquor that you've found appropriate to leave out after a day of classes.
Rollo stares at it for a few seconds, not understanding why you'd have it. What could you want with it? Were you holding it for something? Was it for another one of your obscure little projects or events that nobody but you and your wild group of friends understood? It takes him entirely too long to understand that the drink is for you. You are drinking it. That is why you have it out.
It's only further confirmed when you walk into the kitchen, tie loosened around your neck and the first few buttons of your shirt popped. There's a glass in your hand filled up with ice and that same amber liquid; Rollo's eyes zero in on it like it's magnetized, like there's something pulling all of his attention towards the bourbon swimming around the ice in golden streams. Perhaps what's drawing him so sharply towards it is the fact that you're the one holding the glass—the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm, holding a glass of liquor like it's not against campus rules and like it's not, in Rollo's eyes, entirely blasphemous and unbecoming.
"I didn't think that was allowed on the grounds," Rollo points out in a polite, clipped tone. He's giving you a look that reads This is entirely unprofessional and completely against the rules, but I'm going to give you a chance to explain yourself first.
You shrug, looking much more unbothered than Rollo thinks you ought to. "Technically it is, but nobody checks anymore. And anyways, some of the guys owed me a few favors after their Overblots—figured it wouldn't hurt to ask for something extra." It's like you don't even care that you're carrying a cup of nothing but indulgence. The manner in which he was raised prohibited any sort of this—this impurity. On instinct, he raises his handkerchief to his nose and mouth, like it could protect him from the foulness that is four-year aged bourbon.
"...It may not be wise to be drinking that." You hold your eyes back from rolling—Rollo has always made a point to voice his thoughts, whether or not you found it useful. Sometimes, it's his way of helping. Other times, he just wants his opinion to be heard. It's harmless, and the only thing he's doing is taking up a few seconds of your time, so you let him run his mouth as often as he wants to because it's "therapeutic", apparently.
(Anything to keep him from exploding at the other students. Even if it means listening to him grumble on about his own grievances, which are more often than not minimal and trivial things that he has, for some reason, magnified to create more trouble for himself.)
"Well, thank you for your input, Mister Former Student Council President. I will keep that in mind as I enjoy my late-night drink and regret the consequences in the morning." You're about to leave and sit solemnly in the common room, contemplating your life choices and how the fuck any of them led to being roomed with the guy who had attempted homicide during a school field trip, but—fuck, you're supposed to be socializing him. You're the Prefect, and he's your student, and at some point you're going to have to stop acting like he's just another spot on the wall and start making an effort to get along because despite everything, you're living with him, and you'd much rather not get yourself a spot on his list of enemies.
"...If you wanna join me, I'll be in the common room." You move to leave, not checking whether or not Rollo is following you.
He is. In hindsight, you probably should've expected this—you're the only person willing to let him talk to you without immediately attempting to torch his ass. It makes sense for him to want more of your attention, since you're the only one giving him any.
Rollo is still entirely focused on your drink. His eyes haven't left it for a second; it looks so warm and inviting, like it could wipe away all of his problems in a sip. He's conflicted—he's been taught to stay away from inhibition-weakeners like this one, but you look perfectly content sipping it. Besides, it's not like he's been feeling particularly pious recently.
A taste couldn't hurt, right?
"I'll join you," he says from behind the safety of his handkerchief. You look up, realizing that he's talking to you—his tone is still stiff, reminding you of how undersocialized he is when it comes to domestic settings like this. You shrug, not exactly understanding why he felt the need to announce it instead of just joining.
"How much ice do I put into my own glass?"
You pause. He...wants to drink the bourbon. Your hard-earned bourbon.
Nuh uh.
"I said you could join me, just not for a drink. Your communion wine and this—" You rattle the ice in your glass. "—aren't the same thing." You don't mention the fact that he'd asked you how much ice to add into his glass.
Rollo blinks. He thought—nevermind. He'd been so caught up in his own fantasy of slowly breaking away from the ideals he'd been raised on that he'd forgotten that he wasn't exactly on good terms with you, either. Of course you weren't going to share. You had no reason to extend him any extra kindness other than the bare minimum—considering what he had done to you and your friends, he found that he couldn't exactly be miffed about it.
You must've caught onto how Rollo still hadn't stopped looking at your glass, because you sigh. "Go get milk or something if you really want to drink with me. Leave my supply alone."
Rollo pads off and that's the end of that. You're glad to be finally left alone to your own thoughts—you love your friends, but sometimes you just need your alone time to make sure that you don't snap and beat their heads in. You can only handle so many shenanigans at once before you start to seriously consider first-degree murder.
The peace only lasts a moment before Rollo returns with... a glass of milk.
You stare at him standing in the doorway for a minute, your tired brain working overtime to register what's happening in front of you before a laugh bubbles up inside of you. You can't stop, even as Rollo gives you a look that's just as confused as you feel before the realization hits the both of you. His eyes widen almost comically, and then his face falls flat.
"You didn't mean to actually—"
"No I did not," you tell him, still chuckling. "I didn't mean that you had to get milk if you wanted to talk. I meant that—if you wanted something to drink you couldn't have any of my shit, I didn't mean—oh my God, I haven't laughed that hard in a while."
Rollo suddenly feels quite cold. He's misinterpreted your words and has only managed to embarrass himself. He'd thought—he'd thought that you'd meant that he had to get milk if he wanted to drink with you. He should've known better. He just...he hadn't thought to think more about just the surface implication.
"I'm going to the common room. You can, uh, take your milk with you if you want to." Rollo doesn't know if he should be more embarrassed over your words, but he follows anyhow, his glass gripped tight in his hand. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he sits down awkwardly in the armchair across from you, holding his glass in both hands as he shifts on the cushion. You can't help but grin—Jesus, he's bad at picking up social cues.
Rollo notices you grinning and frowns. "What? What are you smiling for?"
"Hm? Oh, nothing," you say, but Rollo's frown only deepens and you remember that you're supposed to be socializing with him, not isolating him. You sigh. "You take things pretty literally, don't you?"
"How else am I supposed to take them?"
Good lord. You're beginning to wonder if he got any healthy socialization outside of his brother—and that was a long, long time ago. It's like he doesn't know how to loosen up—you wouldn't be surprised if this was his first time doing something that's not to further any goals of his.
"Look," you start, hoping to clear things up, even though you feel completely ridiculous while doing it, "what I meant back there was that this—" You hold your drink up and give it a shake, watching Rollo listen to the ice clink against the walls, "—isn't available for you. I'm not offering you any of this. What I meant to say was that if you wanted to drink with me, you'd either have to pull your own bottle out of somewhere or choose something completely different. I did not mean to tell you that you had to bring milk if you wanted to talk with me."
Rollo feels like curling up and dying on the seat cushion as you explain it to him. That's—that's something he should've picked up on his own. Having you explain it to him like he's a little kid is embarrassing; you shouldn't have to coddle him over something that anyone else would've understood. It just makes him feel even smaller. His face burning as he tries to keep it straight is only making things worse, because he's pale enough that he knows that you can see it too. Still, it would be strange if he just sat and stared at you, especially after making a complete idiot out of himself, so he forces his mouth to open and grates out a few tense words.
"I appreciate the explanation." He doesn't. You can tell.
You decide not to mention it, instead leaning back in your seat and holding the little glass in your hands, waiting for the ice to dilute it. Even though Rollo's still somewhat embarrassed, his eyes haven't left your drink. There's something in his eyes that you can't make out—he wants it. He hates it. He hates that he wants it—it's probably not something he grew up having a positive view on, if at all. A question pops to the front of your mind, and you let it out before you can think to stop it.
"You don't practice abstentionism, do you?"
Rollo looks up from your drink, eyes wide, and blinks in surprise. "Um. No, no I don't. Why do you—?"
"Just wondering. You don't seem like you drink, so I—I was just wondering." Strange question, stranger response—good going. This definitely isn't something that you'll think about when your brain decides to replay every embarrassing interaction you've ever had while you're trying to sleep at two in the morning.
Wonderful, moving on now.
"...Do you drink often?" Rollo's attempt at keeping the conversation going is as pitiful as yours. Socialize him, you remember, or else he's going to try to talk to another kid and get his head beat in 'cause of it.
"I—not really. Just on occasion. My tolerance isn't great, either, which is what the ice is for. I have to wait until it melts halfway to dilute everything, then I start drinking, but I'm also a slow drinker; it takes me up to an hour to finish just a glass." You're rambling—talking about nothing important just to fill the air, but it's worlds better than the silence and Rollo doesn't seem to be as tense whenever you take over the conversation.
Rollo mulls over this information, digesting it slowly. A little drop of condensation rolls down the outside of your glass and drips down onto your fingers.
"Do you not...do you not enjoy intoxicating yourself? Is it not...pleasant?"
Hm. That's certainly a question—and it's not one you're gonna give him the full answer to. You absentmindedly swirl your drink around in your hand; the ice clinks along the edges, not yet melted.
"Yeah. That's it."
Rollo knows all too well about the spirit of temptation and the consequences of falling to it. He's watched people fall for it; has nearly given into it himself; has seen what happens when you tread too far into the water and lose your footing.
"I can't—I can't imagine that intoxication is pleasant. It must be terrible, stumbling around without any coherency—and to think that people do it for fun." He shudders at the thought. Nothing he said was even remotely amusing, but somehow, for some reason, you grin again, albeit a bit wryly.
"Yeah, it's a crazy pastime. I just drink 'cause—'cause was something, like, cool to drink. I mean—it was reserved for special occasions, so whenever I drink it here, it brings me back to when I was allowed to have small sips back in my own world. Helps me escape for a bit when I think about something that ties me back there."
The sudden and harsh reminder that you're not from this world hits Rollo like a truck. You're not native to this place—he can't believe it slipped his mind to think that you'd miss your old place. He'd just...assumed that you were okay with being here, but now that he's started to have his doubts about that, he can't help himself from asking.
"Do you like living here, Prefect?" Something cuts through him when you start laughing, loud and humorless.
"No. No, I fuckin' hate it here, but there's no way for me to go back home. The people, though...I like 'em. Sometimes. Most of the time, anyway. They're a handful, but—well. I like 'em enough to stick around."
Rollo thinks of your friends—of those wild animals, brash and unbecoming and hedonistic like he's never seen before. He thinks of the trouble they cause, and how you're usually one to clean up after them. It's—he really doesn't see why you'd want to stay with people like them.
...He thinks about watching the support they give you when your abilities fall short of their magic. He thinks of the help they offer when you struggle, and of the comfort they freely give when something just isn't going right. They're more than rough around the edges, but you've melted them down and molded them into something...else.
Rollo doesn't have anyone he can consider a friend, but seeing the way that you interact with yours, he's starting to wonder if isolating himself was such a good idea after all.
"Do...do you miss it? Your home, I mean."
You raise an eyebrow at Rollo. "Would you?" It's another question, but it's all the answer Rollo needs. He can't imagine being ripped away from his home so viciously—he doesn't know that he'd be able to deal with the separation. And then he starts thinking...how much have you missed? Friends, family, school, work...how much time has passed by since you've been here?
"...How long have you spent here?"
"It'll be four years three months after break. It's been a long time, Rollo."
Oh God. Four years. Four entire years away from everything you knew. He looks at you in horror, wondering just how much you've had to adapt to a reality like this. Four years...Jesus. No wonder you're so tired.
"Do you think...do you think you'll ever get home one day?"
You think about that for a while. You stare into nothing, a slight wrinkle between your eyebrows as you ponder over what sort of answer you want to give him. It's the most pensive Rollo has ever seen you.
Eventually, you just toss the rest of your drink back, swallowing it in one large mouthful. You set the glass down maybe with a bit more force than was necessary. You stand—perhaps a bit too quickly, if that slight stumble meant anything—and start walking away, reaching for the handrail at the stairs.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
You stand—perhaps a bit too quickly, if that slight stumble meant anything—and start walking away, reaching for the handrail at the stairs.
In front of Rollo, on the small coffee table, the glass sits silently. It's still full of ice.
He stares at it. Silently, he brings his own glass to his lips, takes one last sip, and then places it next to yours.