eleutherios | (no subject)

Entry tags:

oom,
puck

(no subject)

Eros had been experiencing a dilemma, until about thirty seconds before he walked in the door. His dilemma was thus:

Things at the apartment are... interesting. And noisy. Very noisy. And busy. And there isn't really any privacy anymore, is there? And I get things thrown at me.

But if I go to the Bar, she'll be there. Goldy. And she'll look at me. With those... eyes of hers. And then I'll have to tell her...

No. Better to avoid it.

But I really want a drink!

But what if she shouts?

I need a drink!

Shouting!

What about the nightclub?

The what?

You know, the bar-within-a-bar?

Eh?

It's next to the brothel.

Oh, that club! ...That's a good idea, actually.

Why, thank you.

Dilemma solved, Eros thus makes his way up to the club. He is probably the first person to do so while caring more about what's coming up behind him than in front. That Goldy walks soft, when she wants to.

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Puck's eyes narrow fractionally.

"With, really."

"Ah. With. Of course."

He sips his drink, calmly.

"With someone who lets you know if you're allowed to have some mead."

Puck smiles, too sharp to be very pleasant.

"Yes, well. Ours is a relationship fraught with complexity."

"I couldn't imagine any less," Eros says, with infinite understanding.

"I don't suppose this is the same, er, complexity that gave you that bruise?"

Puck doesn't growl.

But it's a near thing.

With another smile, more a flash of fangs than anything else, "Do you really think some slip of a girl could be the cause of it? I'm curious."

Eros holds up his hands, defensively. "And how was I to know that's what she's like? I've learned not to assume based on names. You, for example, I have never taken to be a fan of hockey."

There's a brief pause.

"But since you ask... maybe."

Puck's eyebrows arch.

"The more fool you, then."

"It would depend!" Eros hastens to add, "On what the fight was about, and whether love was involved. I know you're a tricky fellow, Robin, but when it comes to some things, well..."

He waves a hand, attempting to define in quick gestures and a mild wince the completely indefinable.

"...Well, women."

He laughs.

"Oh, trust me, I understand perfectly." A wry smile. "I shall give you a hint, if you think you require it."

"A hint as to...?"

"As to what caused it, in my case." Short, cheerful. "Unless you had rather go on about spats and women, which, while assuredly edifying, strays rather far from the mark."

"Oh, no. Please." Eros looks shifty for a moment. "I may have been projecting, there. Hint away."

Puck laughs. Shiftiness is funny when it doesn't involve him.

"Love was very near to the last thing involved."

"Oh," says Eros, God of Love, and appropriately loses some interest.

"Do you mean hate, then?"

"Most likely." Puck shrugs. "Though with that one it strikes me as a matter of course rather than anything particularly noteworthy. Anger, at the very least."

And sex, too, which he imagines might pique Eros' interest, but that part of things he will be keeping to himself for the moment.

Not that the marks on his neck are very subtle.

"Hm."

Eros considers the facts.

"Anger and hate as part of the nature of the thing. And someone powerful, if you are really not just bragging when you claim your girl couldn't leave a mark on you."

He leans closer slightly, angling for a better view of Puck's injuries.

"And I happen to know that my father hasn't visited in Bar in ages..."

Puck's lips quirk wryly, but he doesn't move back.

"No," he agrees, "I can say with some authority it was not your father."

Whether Lilly could, in fact, actually leave a mark on him would depend, he thinks.

At the very least, it would be an interesting day.

"Hm."

A moment, then Eros snaps his fingers.

"One of the Satans?"

Puck grins.

"Oh, you are clever."

"The question, however, is which one?"

"I am not so certain you would know him." A thoughtful tilt of his head. "But this incarnation seems to favor an Irish aspect-- dark hair, a certain red about the eyes. Though the latter I expect has more to do with fire and brimstone than nationality."

"I'll keep an eye out," Eros says gravely.

"Dare I ask why he decided you should be bruised?"

Puck pouts.

"Apparently I stung his pride." He wrinkles up his nose. "Which is no enviable state in which to find oneself, may I assure you."

"I suppose you should consider yourself lucky that more people you - er, sting - don't have the same faculty for revenge."

Puck's eyes are very wide and exceedingly innocent.

"Oh," he protests, "surely you don't mean to imply that I make a habit of bandying insults about."

"Oh, no. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply," Eros says, exceedingly apologetic. "After all, why imply what I could say openly?"

Now there is pouting.

Oh, the pouting.

"Really," Puck murmurs reproachfully. "'Tis most unfriendly of you." He sniffs. "And here I had thought to give you a gift."

"A gift."

It's flat. Skeptical.

"Really."

He laughs, brightly.

"Yes."

And fishes around in his pockets for a moment, after which he comes up with a slightly crushed and slightly wilted purple flower.

Eros may or may not recognize it-- but it was his own arrows, after all, that turned it from milk-white to its current violet.

"I have been thinking on you of late."

Eros' eyes flash.

He takes the blossom, cradling it protectively in his palm, holding it out of Puck's grasp.

"You've been using...?"

"Only a little." Defensively.

Then he tilts his head to the side, an almost coquettish gesture. "It was so long since I had seen my own world-- I only wished to celebrate."

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