[RP: nexus]

[w0tcha]

It's the sort of long summer afternoon that's meant for relaxing -- and Will is doing just that. It's not entirely his choice -- Bran caught him doing the dishes, and Will found himself unceremoniously bundled out of the house with a blanket, radio and book and told not to return until he'd gone and done nothing for a good few hours. Bemused, but

Comments

[le_desirous]

Sagramore is fairly sober at the moment, but the truth is that after the housewarming he went home and got drunk and he's been drunk nearly straight ever since. The truth is that it was always going to come down to this, that he's probably bound to keep on drinking this way until it kills him, which shouldn't take very long at the rate he's going and with his sickness. Nothing's really going to change that.

And he's tired; as usual he's feeling his age, and to-day particularly it's making him miss the way things were, back perhaps when he was younger and meeting Courfeyrac, or possibly back at sixteen, falling into Mordred's bed with an ease that wasn't practised. You can't have those things back, and as much as he's making worse for himself he isn't likely to see them again.

He lifts a hand to greet Will half-heartedly, the circles under his eyes extraordinarily pronounced, his gait painful, his dark skin bruised.

"Afternoon, gyerek."

[w0tcha]

Will's not expecting company, but somehow he's not surprised, leaning back and shading his eyes to look up at Sagramore. "Afternoon, sir."

Sagramore's definitely looking worse than he was when Will last saw him; not merely the housewarming either and it's that contrast that is uppermost in Will's mind now. "You look terrible."

[le_desirous]

He laughs. "That's why I'm staying out of the way. I've no desire to be sworn at by my daughter. May I sit with you?"

[w0tcha]

"Of course." Will shifts to make space on the blanket. "I've been sent out to rest myself," he says, waving a hand to explain the radio, book and blanket. "I didn't know you had a daughter."