[attr="class","beck"]he spares no words for the miasma-exuding underboss. he simply slides into the seat next to him, beckons for the barkeep, then gestures to a random bottle on the shelf. it takes a little before two drinks are placed in front of them. he slides one over; golden-brown liquor swishes against cool glass.

he says nothing.

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

Like a wild animal, Gavin stiffens at approaching threat. Teeth bared, eyes gleaming, he shifts a venomous stare toward the one who'd dare interrupt his wallowing.

He exhales sharply upon recognizing THEO BECKETT, miasma spilling from his nostrils like dragon's smoke. He doesn't tell him to leave.

He picks up the offered glass with little care to its contents and tips it back, drinks, gasps. His muscles shudder with suppressed energy, eyes watering.

"Got a smoke?"

[attr="class","beck"]merlino downs his drink in one. little time is wasted before theo gestures for a refill. until then, he reaches into his blazer, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and places it on the counter. he offers it as a gift, allowing merlino however many he should desire tonight.

the barkeep returns and places another glass in front of merlino. theo has yet to pick up his.

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

This time, Gavin does not immediately reach for the drink.

It's the smokes he goes for, trapping one between fingers that tremble as he lights the tip. He shouldn't, and he knows it, but the flood of familiarity that comes from the deep hit of the cigarette makes him close his eyes with relief.

He scrubs a hand against his face, sighs.

"Cheers."

[attr="class","beck"]"cheers."

he echoes, then finally reaches for his drink. the condensation drips against fingers as he raises it to his lips. like merlino, he downs it in one. he slides the glass away, beckons for another.

smoke and miasma mingle and mix around them.

"would you like to talk?"

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

Gavin coughs, wisps of gray smoke and black miasma forced through a closed fist.

"We're not the best at talking."

Humor, grim; it's not a no.

[attr="class","beck"]"you're not the best at smoking."

and yet, here he is inhaling smoke and downing liquor like it's nothing. the barkeep returns with a refill then immediately steps away and does their best to fade into the background.

he reaches for the drink, then waits.

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

"S'posed to have quit," he grumbles.

It's not the first time he's tried, but it's the only time THEO BECKETT's known about. It never sticks; like conditioning, the mind lapses back into familiar boundaries.

His lungs burn as they fill with smoke.

He sips this drink slower, calmed enough by the cigarette.

"Not here," he decides.

[attr="class","beck"]he offers no response but an acknowledging nod. he sips, then lets his eyes drift around the room. he remembers walking past a few others but it looks as though they've long vacated.

he returns his gaze, sips his drink.

"what do you usually drink?"

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

He'd have lied, once.

"I usually don't." Not like this. "Scotch, Galarian."

His gaze follows Theo's around the room. Had it been his presence alone to spook those who'd left? Your Rocket is soft. Yet he's glad that they fear him; they should.

[attr="class","beck"]scotch, galarian is what is ordered next. the gesture is recognized and it only takes a few moments before the barkeep returns with two glasses. he disappears again, stepping away from the miasma.

"you might want to take it slow."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

"Yeah," he agrees.

To his credit, he does just that. There's a curt, acknowledging nod to the grunt tending the bar; not an apology, but a subtle hint that the underboss is coming down from whatever primal rage had consumed him.

He sips at the scotch. The taste no longer reminds him of home. Galar wasn't home, hadn't been for a long time. Yet it remains a comfort, a steady burn down his throat to join the ache in his lungs.

The tremor in his hands remains.

[attr="class","beck"]he downs what remains of his drink, then replaces it with the scotch. he waits, lets this one nurse against ice. it's not the first time he's seen merlino's hands tremble and it likely won't be the last.

he sighs, saying nothing. merlino's right — they aren't the best at talking.

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn