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thecapitol2015-01-20 10:58 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thecapitol2015-01-20 10:58 pm
Entry tags:
- aang,
- albert heinrich,
- daryl dixon,
- event: crowning,
- felicity yoshida,
- firo prochainezo,
- haruto soma,
- jason compson iv,
- karkat vantas,
- kousuke nitou,
- linden lockhearst (l),
- phillip gray,
- porrim maryam,
- rick grimes,
- roland deschain,
- sam wilson,
- sigma klim,
- swann honeymead,
- the grand highblood,
- the signless,
- wesker,
- ✘ arya stark,
- ✘ brock samson,
- ✘ bruce banner,
- ✘ dandy mott,
- ✘ dave strider,
- ✘ dorian pavus,
- ✘ eponine thenardier,
- ✘ feferi peixes,
- ✘ gary epps,
- ✘ holly day,
- ✘ jack sparrow,
- ✘ jane,
- ✘ jolie,
- ✘ luke,
- ✘ maxwell trevelyan,
- ✘ milla vodello,
- ✘ nill,
- ✘ piers nivans,
- ✘ tess,
- ✘ the iron bull,
- ✘ thorin oakenshield,
- ✘ venus dee milo
The Crowning Of The Signless
Who| Everyone.
What| The Crowning of The Signless.
Where| An alcove in a nearby mountain.
When| From dusk to dawn, on Thursday.
Warnings/Notes| This event is mandatory for all Tributes to attend. Even if you do not tag in, your character will attend this party. Peacekeepers will be on high alert. There will be no chance to runaway.
Tributes are encouraged to sleep all during the day, before the crowning. The reason for this is revealed when they are roused at sundown and brought to the closest mountain to the city, where they are greeted by an alcove within the moutainside that has been carved into a temple to what may be an illicit faith. The stone alcove is dim-lit by candles arranged along walls and by what appears to be altars set before iron cancer signs, some plain, some inlet with intricate carvings. Bright red drapery hangs about the room, tapestries with the cancer sign and cirles of blending color spectrum. There are also some waist high leggings hung upon one wall. In the center of the room, shackles hang, glowing bright from some sort of internal heat and light. A hole in the ceiling is set on each side of it, to allow the smoke to escape from the great bonfire that roars beneath it. If one takes a seat upon any of large stones and logs aranged around it, they can see both the stars twinkling down and the way the smoke looks as though it is coming off the shackles.
The only windows otherwise are made from stained glass depicting images from the Signless's life, such as his rescue by "Alternia's First Mother" (so described on the metal plate below), "The Recording of His Teachings" depicting The Disciple writing the Signless's words into a book, "A New Follower" showing the Psiioniic joining the Signless, a boat deemed "The First Ship", and "The Execution" which features the death of the Signless before thousands of followers, a fifth troll- resembling Terezi- bearing the shackles as a necklace and another with great brown wings, a single window of Karkat and Kankri Vantas, as well as a sinister depiction of six indistinct shadowy figures of cerulean, blue, indigo, violet, tyrian, and maroon. Cave-style paintings cover the stone walls, styles ranging from simple scribbled etching to circles featuring twelve colors in circle, with bright red at the center, and yet more elaborate shadowy depictions of those in the stained glass, esepcially the Signless himself, both prior and following his execution.
But not all is dedicated to the Signless and his old posse of biblical age trolls. A shrine has been set up for redeemed and then so quickly lost victor, Matthew 'Punchy' O'Conner. Punchy has been painted upon a cave wall like he fits right into the theme. Upon his shrine lay all varieties of bling; Bling-jewelery, a bling goblet, bling boxing gloves, a hoodie, a nun habit, and a stone with a memorial rap engraved atop-- with bling, of course, all shimmering by the spotlights placed before the shrine. Refillable 40 oz bottles are lain out so that sorrowful guests, wishing to pay their respect to the boy so cruelly slain by rebels when he had turned from them, can pour one out in his honor.
Marius is also honored there with a tea light and small framed photograph set upon an empty table with an empty chair, along with souvenir versions of his and Cosette's wedding rings that guests can take home. Beneath all these rings is a photoshopped picture of javert with a single tear running down his manly face.
The only seating besides the stones and logs and Marius's single chair, are those that are sat at a table at the end of the room. Each is draped in a different color, six on each side for each district and each blood hue-- presumably of the Victor's choosing. Between these chairs sits yet one more with a tall back like a flogging jut that got the redesigned at the base to make a throne that some trolls might recognize as belonging to the Empress. The arms of the chair feature open shackles. The throne is decorated in chains of gold and jewels of all colors. The victor is given a crown of gilded flowers and thorns on chain.
Food can be found upon the altars or the victor's table, in surplus. Alternian delicacies are served, featuring insects, flavored or plain, and food made from insects. Guests may find a giant beetle being served upon a spit roast. Even the meats appear to be topped with bugs. The cakes, marshmallows (which can be roasted with stick by the fire!), and orange creamsicles may be the only things truly bug-free. Drink options are water, wine, and soda.
Stylists are encouraged to dress their tributes primarily in black, with a single bit of color put into the design matched according to district (with exception to trolls), or any manner of draping fabrics, cloaks, and costumery reminiscent of religious iconagraphy that one might expect of ancient aliens. Waist high pants and leggings are also in high regard, as well as fake horn, fangs, contacts, and anything to make guests look more trollish. The only rule is for the main colors to match to the blood assignment.
The music playing is the sort one might expect from a church, featuring mournful vocals, soft bells and melodies, and of course, organ music. But for one or two jarring differences. Where this music is coming from remains a mystery but since the space is open and clear, guests have plenty of room for dancing.
Those who don't wish to dance can talk and regale tales around the bonfire, or may instead seek out the book of "scripture" at one of the altars that features nothing more than various parables- with names that Tributes might recognize! Each Tribute has one parable contained within, telling a tale in flourished manner of a part of their life, featuring a pro-capitol moral at the end.
Elsewhere, are models of the flogging just, where guests can put their hands through the oversized cuffs and pretend to writhe in agony, an Alternian bioware helm where guests too can pretend to have their lifeforce and power used a battery for the sake of the Alternian empire, a dress-up station where guests can customize their appearance to match trolls sold into gruelling slavery to seadwellwers, and an area designed to look like a cave with extensive "Alternian" (gibberish) writings of the Signless's words, where guests too can pretend they've lost everyone they love and are carrying on their legacy by writing upon the walls and leaving their own messages of love and mourning. Not to mention, a life-sized drone with realistic piercing claws, for all your picture posing needs.
A sandpit lies just around a corner for children to make castles, dig trenches, and act out games of pretending they've trekked thousands of miles through zombie infested desert just to speak to a couple of people! Guests can also meet a "mutantblood lusus" a four-eyed crab creature with lizardlike structure-- only sized no bigger than the average dog and perhaps about as intelligent. Guests are warned not to put their hand too close, lest the claw pincers manage to pinch them.
Late into the crowning, everyone is brought out to the dark mountainside, well monitored by peacekeepers, and divided into teams. Everyone is given belts with velcro flags attached, colored according to the "blood" they were matched with by district. Those in the eighth, ninth, twelfth, third, tenth, and eleventh districts are deemed the "lowbloods. Those in the first, fourth, second, fifth, sixth, and seventh districts, are deemed the "highbloods". Each team is given a velcro board to attach the flags to. The first team to lose all their flags loses, winners getting tiny necklace copies of the shackles. The last one standing with a flag wins a larger necklace copy and the option to get it redesigned into a symbol of their choosing.
If you failed not to be "culled", fear not! All tributes receive a participation sticker at the end. This sticker features a number. It is not indicative of districts or of age, as will be announced shortly, but of the new scoring. These will be announced for everyone to hear- and pick out targets from.
The crowning officially ends with the coming dawn. And so begins, to everyone's surprise, preparation for the arena. Tributes will be going right from the crowning off to the Tribute launch tubes. Happy Hunger Games!
[Note: This is ICly on Thursday! Just before the arena on Friday!]
What| The Crowning of The Signless.
Where| An alcove in a nearby mountain.
When| From dusk to dawn, on Thursday.
Warnings/Notes| This event is mandatory for all Tributes to attend. Even if you do not tag in, your character will attend this party. Peacekeepers will be on high alert. There will be no chance to runaway.
Tributes are encouraged to sleep all during the day, before the crowning. The reason for this is revealed when they are roused at sundown and brought to the closest mountain to the city, where they are greeted by an alcove within the moutainside that has been carved into a temple to what may be an illicit faith. The stone alcove is dim-lit by candles arranged along walls and by what appears to be altars set before iron cancer signs, some plain, some inlet with intricate carvings. Bright red drapery hangs about the room, tapestries with the cancer sign and cirles of blending color spectrum. There are also some waist high leggings hung upon one wall. In the center of the room, shackles hang, glowing bright from some sort of internal heat and light. A hole in the ceiling is set on each side of it, to allow the smoke to escape from the great bonfire that roars beneath it. If one takes a seat upon any of large stones and logs aranged around it, they can see both the stars twinkling down and the way the smoke looks as though it is coming off the shackles.
The only windows otherwise are made from stained glass depicting images from the Signless's life, such as his rescue by "Alternia's First Mother" (so described on the metal plate below), "The Recording of His Teachings" depicting The Disciple writing the Signless's words into a book, "A New Follower" showing the Psiioniic joining the Signless, a boat deemed "The First Ship", and "The Execution" which features the death of the Signless before thousands of followers, a fifth troll- resembling Terezi- bearing the shackles as a necklace and another with great brown wings, a single window of Karkat and Kankri Vantas, as well as a sinister depiction of six indistinct shadowy figures of cerulean, blue, indigo, violet, tyrian, and maroon. Cave-style paintings cover the stone walls, styles ranging from simple scribbled etching to circles featuring twelve colors in circle, with bright red at the center, and yet more elaborate shadowy depictions of those in the stained glass, esepcially the Signless himself, both prior and following his execution.
But not all is dedicated to the Signless and his old posse of biblical age trolls. A shrine has been set up for redeemed and then so quickly lost victor, Matthew 'Punchy' O'Conner. Punchy has been painted upon a cave wall like he fits right into the theme. Upon his shrine lay all varieties of bling; Bling-jewelery, a bling goblet, bling boxing gloves, a hoodie, a nun habit, and a stone with a memorial rap engraved atop-- with bling, of course, all shimmering by the spotlights placed before the shrine. Refillable 40 oz bottles are lain out so that sorrowful guests, wishing to pay their respect to the boy so cruelly slain by rebels when he had turned from them, can pour one out in his honor.
Marius is also honored there with a tea light and small framed photograph set upon an empty table with an empty chair, along with souvenir versions of his and Cosette's wedding rings that guests can take home. Beneath all these rings is a photoshopped picture of javert with a single tear running down his manly face.
The only seating besides the stones and logs and Marius's single chair, are those that are sat at a table at the end of the room. Each is draped in a different color, six on each side for each district and each blood hue-- presumably of the Victor's choosing. Between these chairs sits yet one more with a tall back like a flogging jut that got the redesigned at the base to make a throne that some trolls might recognize as belonging to the Empress. The arms of the chair feature open shackles. The throne is decorated in chains of gold and jewels of all colors. The victor is given a crown of gilded flowers and thorns on chain.
Food can be found upon the altars or the victor's table, in surplus. Alternian delicacies are served, featuring insects, flavored or plain, and food made from insects. Guests may find a giant beetle being served upon a spit roast. Even the meats appear to be topped with bugs. The cakes, marshmallows (which can be roasted with stick by the fire!), and orange creamsicles may be the only things truly bug-free. Drink options are water, wine, and soda.
Stylists are encouraged to dress their tributes primarily in black, with a single bit of color put into the design matched according to district (with exception to trolls), or any manner of draping fabrics, cloaks, and costumery reminiscent of religious iconagraphy that one might expect of ancient aliens. Waist high pants and leggings are also in high regard, as well as fake horn, fangs, contacts, and anything to make guests look more trollish. The only rule is for the main colors to match to the blood assignment.
The music playing is the sort one might expect from a church, featuring mournful vocals, soft bells and melodies, and of course, organ music. But for one or two jarring differences. Where this music is coming from remains a mystery but since the space is open and clear, guests have plenty of room for dancing.
Those who don't wish to dance can talk and regale tales around the bonfire, or may instead seek out the book of "scripture" at one of the altars that features nothing more than various parables- with names that Tributes might recognize! Each Tribute has one parable contained within, telling a tale in flourished manner of a part of their life, featuring a pro-capitol moral at the end.
Elsewhere, are models of the flogging just, where guests can put their hands through the oversized cuffs and pretend to writhe in agony, an Alternian bioware helm where guests too can pretend to have their lifeforce and power used a battery for the sake of the Alternian empire, a dress-up station where guests can customize their appearance to match trolls sold into gruelling slavery to seadwellwers, and an area designed to look like a cave with extensive "Alternian" (gibberish) writings of the Signless's words, where guests too can pretend they've lost everyone they love and are carrying on their legacy by writing upon the walls and leaving their own messages of love and mourning. Not to mention, a life-sized drone with realistic piercing claws, for all your picture posing needs.
A sandpit lies just around a corner for children to make castles, dig trenches, and act out games of pretending they've trekked thousands of miles through zombie infested desert just to speak to a couple of people! Guests can also meet a "mutantblood lusus" a four-eyed crab creature with lizardlike structure-- only sized no bigger than the average dog and perhaps about as intelligent. Guests are warned not to put their hand too close, lest the claw pincers manage to pinch them.
Late into the crowning, everyone is brought out to the dark mountainside, well monitored by peacekeepers, and divided into teams. Everyone is given belts with velcro flags attached, colored according to the "blood" they were matched with by district. Those in the eighth, ninth, twelfth, third, tenth, and eleventh districts are deemed the "lowbloods. Those in the first, fourth, second, fifth, sixth, and seventh districts, are deemed the "highbloods". Each team is given a velcro board to attach the flags to. The first team to lose all their flags loses, winners getting tiny necklace copies of the shackles. The last one standing with a flag wins a larger necklace copy and the option to get it redesigned into a symbol of their choosing.
If you failed not to be "culled", fear not! All tributes receive a participation sticker at the end. This sticker features a number. It is not indicative of districts or of age, as will be announced shortly, but of the new scoring. These will be announced for everyone to hear- and pick out targets from.
The crowning officially ends with the coming dawn. And so begins, to everyone's surprise, preparation for the arena. Tributes will be going right from the crowning off to the Tribute launch tubes. Happy Hunger Games!
[Note: This is ICly on Thursday! Just before the arena on Friday!]
no subject
But lord above, Rick had to be well and truly lit to be bringing up ghost stories like that. And so nonchalantly, as though Lori had merely stepped away for a spell and might return at any moment to take care of her errant husband, and hadn't in fact died in a gruesome manner, going by the scant details Maggie had shared once.
Daryl suppressed a wince before it could be fully realised, leaving the tightness at the corners of his eyes as the only traces of what could have been. It became easier to let those troubling thoughts go with the way the smile seemed to bring life back to Rick's eyes, and it wasn't long before Daryl found his own answering it, the amusement in his smile softened by fondness, and more than a hint of the shy gentleness the world still hadn't managed to extinguish in him yet. That Rick would share such a memory with him was strangely touching, even if it took him being shitfaced to have done so.
"You could always jus' stand on my feet," he suggested, but dropped his arm before Rick could change his mind. "I'm a real good ballroom dancer, y'know. Had lessons n'everythin', back when the worst I had to worry 'bout was spillin' fancy wine on my tux." It was an obvious and blatant lie, one which he hoped Rick would find some humour in.
The dim light provided by innumerable candles reflected off the materials of Rick's suit in a way that would have been more distracting, had Daryl's interest not been so intently focused on the man himself. But even so, the glimmering gold wasn't entirely lost on him. Reaching for Rick's shoulder, his hand rested there a moment before sliding across his upper back as Daryl leant in, lowering his voice. "I'm kinda wonderin' how thorough your stylists were." A pointed look was directed toward Rick's lower half while he struggled to keep a straight face. "S'all of it really... gold?"
no subject
... Just like his own rising temperature was purely the fault of the wine and the crowded room. He'd explained it away the same way the he had the undeniable trend of his current thoughts, chalking the fixation up to loneliness and a lack of inhibition.
Though he hated to admit it, Rick had come dangerously close to enjoying the evening. As much as he didn't care for parties and hated the Capitol and everything the event stood for, it was the closest they'd come to relaxing in a long while - which, given the torture chamber themed decor, spoke volumes. It had been so long since they'd been able to stop, Rick had allowed himself to become afraid of it and what it would mean for them. But here, now, it... didn't seem that bad.
Admittedly, it was a conclusion fueled by liquid comfort and likely one that would change come the following morning.
He'd barely finished laughing at what he'd correctly interpreted as a joke before Daryl was close to him again, hand sliding across his back in a way that nearly had him dropping his glass. There was no disguising how he swallowed at the feeling of his breath too hot against his ear again, and he had to lower his gaze before he stirred up any other, harder to hide reactions.
Christ, had he always been this bad when he was drunk? Had Daryl's voice always sounded like that? Rick suddenly seemed to have lost his.
"All of what?" He sounded huskier than he'd intended to, colour rising in his cheeks.
no subject
After everything they'd been through together, sometimes it was hard pinning down exactly where their boundaries were, and harder still knowing when a particular boundary had dissolved to the point where he could safely push past it. Usually Rick could be his guide in those situations, but it seemed he was on his own with this one.
"That getup you're wearin', n'whatever you got on underneath," Daryl explained with a patience cultivated from too many years of dealing with alcoholics — at least Rick was the amusing sort of drunk, and there had never been so much as a hint of violence about him when he was this far gone. His decency wasn't compromised by alcohol. It was one of many reasons why Daryl had become comfortable enough to let down his guard around him, regardless of the circumstances.
He quickly lost the fight for composure, and laughed quietly to himself as he decided to cut straight to the point. "They give you matchin' underwear? They did me." Wing-themed underwear, to be exact. Why was unclear, when no one else would be appreciating that attention paid to detail tonight, or possibly ever. Could it really be solely for his own... enjoyment? Did people usually care about their underwear that much here?
With his unoccupied hand he reached for Rick's wine glass, fingers curling over top of Rick's on the stem and holding them in place.
"You're gonna spill, man," he said while carefully guiding the glass up to his own mouth as he tilted his head back, and finished off what was left of the wine. If Rick wasn't going to be drinking it himself, there was no sense in letting it be wasted on the floor, after all. His grip loosened afterward but his hand remained covering Rick's, and he was watching his face for any indication of whether the touch was unwelcome.
no subject
Rick wasn't sure which part had him blushing harder - the fact that Daryl had hit the nail on the head about the ostentatious gold and black briefs he was currently sporting, or at just how quickly his mind had painted up a vivid image of what Daryl might have been wearing beneath his own suit. The latter was enough to give him pause, even his inebriated mind capable of identifying the early hints of arousal.
In all likelihood, Daryl was just poking fun at the ridiculousness of their situation. When compared to their lives back home, to survival, being strong-armed into wearing matching undergarments was hardly a blip on the radar. They were lucky to be able to change their clothes on a semi-regular basis, much less worry about harmonizing colour schemes. It was innocent fun, which shouldn't have left him questioning underlying motives. Was it some kind of wishful thinking? Did he even really want this?
Rick distantly knew he should have quit while he was ahead, but he couldn't help the way he was confusingly transfixed by Daryl's lips as he finished off the glass, his mind not quite wrapping around the notion that he should have released his hold then. The touch felt natural, almost unnoticed in how comfortable it was. Familiar. Everything he wanted in that moment, and the exact opposite of unwelcome.
Could this be entirely blamed on loneliness? The lack of physical affection had seemed so inconsequential when measured up against the things they faced, shoved aside in favour of moving forward; maybe he just hadn't recognized that repressed part of himself, dressed up in a pleasant disguise if drunken bad decisions. Whatever tangled, misguided feelings he had, Daryl deserved better than to be dragged into his own ill-time identity crisis. He deserved better than what would surely amount to awkwardness and broken friendships, all because Rick wanted to remember what it was like to feel human.
Whether it was intentional or not, he tested his own limits, his lips brushing Daryl's ear as he leaned in; it was more ungainly than seductive, but it had his heart pounding all the same.
"I knew you had me covered."
lmao i'm sorry i accidentally deleted instead of editing /goes to bed
There was just something about Rick Grimes in gold underwear.
In that moment, he was pretty sure it had to be the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard before in his life. About as funny as it was appealing, but he'd be keeping the latter thought well to himself. So maybe his motives hadn't been entirely innocent, but nor were they calculated toward selfish ends; he wanted to tease Rick, as long as it was all in good fun. Maybe Rick would even remember this enough to be embarrassed about it later. Daryl hoped so — a joke was always funnier shared.
Most importantly, Rick hadn't pulled away from his touch. While not necessarily an indication of anything in itself, when he felt lips brush his ear a moment later, he was pretty sure that was. There was an urge to let his eyes slip closed which he ignored, knowing it would look odd. Less easy to dismiss was his acute awareness of their physical proximity to each other, and the thought that all he'd have to do was tip his chin up as he turned into Rick, tilt his head just so, and they'd both have something even better to occupy their mouths with.
He couldn't find it in himself to feel any shame about the situation or his thoughts. Maybe it'd catch up to him later.
He was so fucked.
"Rick?" he asked, or tried to, but forcing the word past a throat gone tight had it coming out embarrassingly breathy. And he was floundering, torn between what he understood of his own nebulous desires and what he could only guess about Rick's, set against an inner monologue of fuck and oh my god on repeat. Between the heat rising to his face and collecting in parts of his body he rather wished it wouldn't, he couldn't pretend his arm, the glass, were anything but excuses to be touching Rick.
"...You're drunk," he tried, pleased that his voice at least sounded normal. Ish. "N'we should prob'ly be gettin' your drunk ass back to your room, but—" The Peacekeepers hadn't been allowing anyone to leave, he noted with a glance toward the entrance, then looked back to his companion. "Think we'll be stuck here a while yet."
For better or worse, he was going to give up one pretense. Drawing the glass away, he set it aside, out of the way. And before he could lose his nerve, he took Rick's hand in his own again. There was a measure of certainty in the gesture that hadn't been there before, his expression earnest, though he'd since lowered his gaze to Rick's chest.
"Rick." There was something that should come after this, but damned if he knew what. He settled for lightly pressing his thumb into the underside of Rick's wrist, and after a moment, stroked the thin skin there. There existed no ulterior motive, it was touch for touch's sake, simply because he wanted it. Because Rick was allowing him to want it.
no subject
"Yes I am," he admitted with a chuckle, his weight heavy against the other man's side.
Daryl had been right on all counts. There was no question that he was drunk, too drunk for this, and that they really should have been heading back. He'd have to trust his judgement about the Peacekeepers, not nearly as concerned as he should have been about their presence there and its potential meaning; it wasn't half as threatening as the dangerous wants that lurked within his own mind. At least Rick knew he could weather the fallout of the former.
The glass was looking inviting all over again, his eyes tracking it with the same tenacity that Beth's new puppy followed food; there wasn't enough wine left to make him any more capable of handling the situation, but it was better than nothing. Better than nothing, and being moved out of his reach-
Oh.
It wasn't the first time that evening that words had escaped him; even now, Daryl was still finding new ways to surprise him. It was such a small gesture, easily dismissible had it come from anyone else, under any other circumstances. Had it been Beth, had it been Maggie or Carol, it would have been safe, comforting. Benign. So why couldn't he shake the feeling that this meant something? If not to Daryl, then to Rick himself, if only based on that alarmingly familiar tightness that had worked its way into his chest, his heart skipping in a way he couldn't seem to blame on the booze.
Even as that small part of him slowly began to understand, it was overshadowed by the rest of him, still scared as hell of where acceptance of that sort of revelation could lead.
Despite all that, he made no move to resist. He couldn't seem to find the desire to, instead electing to watch his progress, quietly mesmerized by the slow stroke of his thumb and the way the skin seemed to burn in its wake. Rick knew that they needed to stop, the nagging idea still there, insistently clawing up the back corners of his mind with increasing urgency. Needing to be heard before he acted on his clouded, rasher instincts, like closing that too-short distance between them with his lips. It would have been easy enough, and for a few crazy seconds, god, did he want to.
If what he felt was- He needed to be sure. He needed to be sober.
"Hey," he said finally, voice soft. Even if the timing was wrong, he didn't want to fuck this up.
no subject
Well, he knew he did. Brother, Rick had called him, never guessing that he was the axis around whom Daryl's remarkably unbrotherly thoughts and desires revolved, even then. And maybe it was wrong to feel this way for someone who, he reasoned, wasn't likely to reciprocate, or even be capable of reciprocating, and who might not understand— shit, he was being a selfish prick, wasn't he? Best to put the brakes on his stupidity now, especially with how humiliatingly affected he was by everything. It wouldn't be long before it became noticeable to others as well, if he didn't figure out an excuse to escape and make the necessary... adjustments, in private. A need which he'd never imagined having in this kind of situation — they'd been holding hands for fuck's sake — but the drape of his feathery poncho-cape fortunately accommodated his problem well.
"... Really fuckin' drunk. You should sit down," he blurted out, inelegant as a newborn foal tripping over its own unsteady legs, and tightening his arm around the other man's shoulders, he guided him down onto the nearest seat. The amusement had drained from his features and he was chewing on a thumbnail as he stood there, staring, worrying, waiting to see whether Rick could sit upright without assistance, his mouth feeling unaccountably dry despite the wine. Irrationally, he had an urge to thump Rick upside the head for making such a goddamn mess of him, but even more than that he blamed himself for wanting. And really had to wonder if any of this ever could've happened, had Rick been sober.
"Stay here. Gonna get you some water so you won't hate yourself as much later."
He all but evaporated before he could make an even bigger fool of himself. But he knew better than to trust anyone here, with a handful of exceptions — Rick wouldn't be left on his own for very long.