riverviewlogs | Ronan walks into the month late and with a cup of alcohol [open]

who: Ronan and open
what: Open log. Ronan drinks and later he shops for his pets and brings along his raven and a dog.
when: Late December
where: A bar (ground floor of Trixie?) and a pet store respectively
warnings: Alcoholism, violence
notes: Can switch to brackets, message me if you’d like a different scenario

a. Putting that alcohol tolerance to good use

Ronan preferred to drink in private, before bed, and with his electronic music playing in his headphones. But moving in with his boyfriend had some drawbacks. His distaste for alcohol was one. As a result, Ronan was out doing exactly the opposite of what he wanted.

He went to a bar in the evening and had to deal with people talking around him. But he was here on a mission: drink as much as possible, as quickly as possible, and then think about nothing. And by God, he was going to do it.

He took a seat and glanced at the person next to him. “What’s that shit you’re having?”

b. Ronan should never name his pets

Ronan had never been in charge of the finances at the Barns. He didn’t handle it at Buttercup Farms either. So he was unprepared for how fucking expensive all his animals were. It was easy to keep Chainsaw happy. She’d eat anything. Dogs and cats? Jesus.

He walked into the pet store with his raven Chainsaw on his shoulder, as usual. But this time he had a dog with him, a young puppy with big paws, soon to grow into a fine dog. He was eating enough for it.

Thorpedo, as Ronan named him, was going to represent all the dogs in the house by choosing toys.

Should anyone be inside the pet store, this scene would unfold before them.

“Hey, mutt. Let’s get your crap.” When they reached the toy aisle, Ronan glanced around to verify no one was there, then grabbed a rope tug. “Hey, Thorpedo. What do you think?”

Thorpedo grabbed it.

“That’s my little shithead.” Ronan rubbed behind his ears.

And if anyone caught him after, Ronan hauled bags of dog and cat food, along with a small bag of toys, to his BMW while Thorpedo, still on a leash, trailed behind, carrying one chew toy and squeaking it periodically.

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That had been a vicious and brutal move, but Ivar wasn't sorry that he had to do it. For Vikings, you either won, or you died. He heaved himself out of his wheelchair, crawling over to Ronan's writhing form. He got on top of him and pinned Ronan's wrists down with his hands.

He lay there panting for a moment. Getting the better of Ronan had drained him, and as the adrenaline wore off, he could feel the bruises and cut on his mouth began to throb. "I think you're done. If you agree, I'll let you go. If not, I'm going to get out my knife, and cut off one of your fingers. Agreed?" Not much of a choice, but then, that was the only kind Ivar ever gave someone he let live.

Ronan struggled at first, twisting under Ivar until he could barely move his hands. He tried to move his legs, but with only one in commission, he was in no shape to try for more than a kick. There came a point when even he wasn't stupid enough to continue fighting.

He clenched his hands into fists but stopped struggling. "Get the fuck off me," he hissed.

In other words: agreed.

Ivar got off Ronan and just lay there on the floor. They'd certainly made a mess of the bar and everyone else had long since fled. He just lay there in silence for a few minutes, resting while he took stock of his injuries. Ronan had definitely come off the worse during their fight.

Eventually, he sat up, propping himself up on his arms, licking at the cut on the side of his mouth with his tongue. "So this was about me kissing Adam." It wasn't a question. Ivar knew that this would likely be coming, what with Ronan's temper and all, he just hadn't been sure of when.

Next time he got into a bar fight, Ronan decided he'd grab a beer bottle first. He pushed himself up enough toget a good look at his leg. He felt around his knee. Swollen, tender to the touch, and enough pain to leave him gritting his teeth. He'd need help walking, forget driving himself to the hospital.

He exhaled through his teeth and began to pick out the larger shards of glass still stuck in his jeans. "What the fuck do you think?"

"What I was thinking at the time is that I'd rather not end up killing my friend's boyfriend. He was getting under my skin." Ronan already knew what happened when Ivar's temper got riled up.

"I realize now that was a mistake." That was as close to an apology as Ivar was likely to get. It was rare he ever flat-out apologized. His pride wouldn't let him.

"Mistake! Do you have a single clue how fucked that is?" As he spat out the words, Ronan pushed himself away. Using his arms and his only uninjured leg, he slowly moved toward a chair. He fought back a wince every time he bumped into a chair.

Finally, he was within reach of a chair. He grabbed it and started to pull himself up. He kept his gaze on Ivar. His usual icy eyes blazed with unchanneled anger. Their fight had done little to cool that fire.

"Stay away from us."

"You seem to be putting a lot of stock in a kiss that meant absolutely nothing." Ivar's tone was flat and surly with anger. He was usually so much better at being able to see where his actions would lead, but even he could occasionally miscalculate.

He crawled back over to his wheelchair and then pulled himself back into it. "Don't presume that you can tell me what to do." Ivar would do what he always did, which was exactly what he wanted to.

Ronan moved himself from the chair to a table. He sagged against it, appreciating the opportunity to shift his weight off his leg and also its closer proximity to the exit.

"People like you never care about consent. It's just a word to you." It also wasn't a word Ronan used very often. Right now though, Ivar reminded him more of Kavinsky, who was fond of saying it and more than willing to ignore it. This whole mess stirred up more memories and emotions than Ronan could handle. "You poor son of a bitch."

"That's what this is about?" Ivar had a bewilderment on his face too honest to be faked. For Vikings, the concept of consent was very clear. Free women and men were not to be touched. Those that broke the law could be banished. When it came to slaves, even they had the ability to say yes or no to their masters. However, in the midst of pillaging and conquest, those being conquered were free game.

Ivar hadn't even considered what he did to have to do with consent. It had just been a way to get out of a situation that he didn't want to be in any longer.

Ronan reached for the chair, seized by the impulsive need to throw it at Ivar. Luckily, though frustratingly, most of his body's resources now went toward dealing with a broken leg. The movement jostled his leg and pain spiked through him. Ronan gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Threatening and wanting to kill him doesn't give me warm, fuzzy feelings either, shithead." He wanted to eviscerate Ivar with a look. He could almost see it now. His face cut into pieces by Ronan's fury alone. If this were a dream, it just might have happened. But in the real world, there was just this. Ronan glaring at an apparently baffled Ivar. "Jesus, I seriously need to explain this to you? Get fucked."

Ivar's patience with the situation had long since worn thin. But sitting here with Ronan insulting him at every turn just made it worse. He pulled out a knife, and for a moment, it appeared he was going to throw it at the nice big target that Ronan presented. He settled for throwing it just past his head, a reminder that Ronan was facing down a literal psychopath.

"I've wanted to kill a lot of people here. Doesn't mean I have. It just got personal with your idiot boyfriend because he said some things that got under my skin, not to mention disrespecting me. Hate me if you want, but the only thing I did wrong was kiss him. Everything else you two have done is solely on your own two heads." He didn't need to point out who had started this fight now, did he?

At that, Ronan ignored the pain, grabbed the chair, and hurled it. He aimed in front of Ivar instead of at him, and it broke apart a foot away from him.

"Anything that happens next is all on you," he snarled. "I never want to see your ugly face again."

That was when the bouncers finally intervened. It seemed beating each other was all well and good, but risking other patrons by throwing sharp and heavy objects was where they'd crossed the line.

Ronan walks into the month late and with a cup of alcohol [open]

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