[semi-open] tryin' to get a handle on a reason to shine

[shootsoff]

who: roy harper and whoever else
what: catch-all for planned threads and open prompts
when: August-September
where: wherever
warnings: Roy is a recovering alcoholic/addict and that's going to come up a lot in this entry because he's struggling with staying on the wagon in the wake of Jason going home. The main entry and open prompts in it will skim over the topic of addiction, to make it easier to avoid, I'll keep the bulk of in-depth meta about addictions in the "bar" prompt in the comments. If you want a thread with Roy that doesn't go in-depth about it, just shoot me a PM or note in your subject line that you're not interested in addiction issues, and I'll avoid it as much as possible!



[Things had just been getting better, they'd just been settling down, he'd been getting used to being here. Making friends. Feeling easy with things. Feeling less lonely than he had at home with the kids and Jason and people around. He'd been actually living instead of just kind of surviving in the gutter like he had been since he and Jason split up back home.

But of course, he's Roy Harper, and things never stay okay for Roy Harper. At some point, he's going to come to terms with that, to just accept that after things get better they're always going to get worse.

It's been about a week since he woke up and Jason was just gone. Gone without leaving a note, without saying good-bye. Just disappeared. Since then, Roy hasn't really left Wayne Manor. He's barely even left his room, except to trudge to the kitchen and pour some hot water into a cup of ramen noodles. Maybe not the healthiest coping mechanism, but the bonus of not leaving the manor was that it limited his options when it came to alcohol - if nothing else, Jay had known him and never kept it where Roy knew about it. He'd managed to keep himself from tearing Jason's room apart looking for anything he might've had stashed, but he's pretty sure that Jason would've at least pitched the bottles out of the window before he left. Maybe. Hopefully he'd cared that much.

Today's the day, though. It's the day he's going to finally clean up and get out of the house. Go somewhere. Do something productive. Maybe it'll make him feel better, stop wallowing, to go out and participate in the world, to move his body, to get his life figured out.

It totally has nothing to do with the fact he's run out of ramen.]

i. gym

[After shaving the red fuzz off his jaw and having an actual shower, the first place Roy goes is to the gym. Dressed in a black tank top and a pair of sweatpants, hands wrapped up, a handkerchief wrapped around his head to keep his hair out of his face, he spends a long time hitting the punching bag in the corner. There's no grace or real skill involved, he's just hitting the bag over and over, letting himself take out some of the emotion.

That much shows on his face - Roy's always been crap at hiding what he's feeling, especially when what he's feeling is so intensely negative. His mouth is drawn down, his brows are furrowed, and it's pretty obvious he's punching out his feelings. It takes about 45 minutes of this before he's stepping back, resting a hand against the bag, and taking a few sharp gasps for breath, hair and tank top slightly damp with sweat.]

Damn. One week and I'm already out of shape.

ii. walkabouts & smoothies

[After the gym, he's tired but his brain is still buzzing unpleasantly, and he needs to move, needs to keep his mind off things. Needs a distraction, because all he wants is to be out of his own head for a bit. So he walks through the Quarantine, through the downtown square, takes a look at the tent cities going up in the park, he browses through stores and outdoor markets and asks people questions at booths and in shops just to keep his mind occupied.

Eventually, he's exhausted, dragging his feet, and he stops in a smoothie place to get something to drink. Leaning against the bar facing the window with his giant cup of green juice he can hardly taste, he rests his cheek in his hand and stares out the window, expression distant.]

This sucks.

[Quiet, ostensibly to himself, but definitely loud enough to draw attention. Whoops...doesn't even occur to him that he might come across as talking crap about the smoothie...]

iii. wildcard

Hit me up with a random starter if you'd like one, or shoot me a PM or message on plurk at caffemisto for a custom one.

Comments

iv. bar

[shootsoff]

[And eventually he ends up here. In front of a bar, the one he knows would've been his favourite back in the day, with the perfect balance of upbeat fun and gritty underworld appeal. It's so appealing, a kind of wonderland, and he can feel the itch under his skin, the twist just under his diaphragm, the sensation like gravity pulling him toward the nearest liquor bottle. He can practically taste it on his tongue, the smooth bite of it, the rush of pleasure, the sensation somewhere between a vivid memory and a detailed daydream of all the fear and loneliness and emptiness falling away under the haze of inebriation.

It almost hurts, it feels like an injustice that he can't do it, can't just go in and drink it all away, it feels like the universe is wronging him. His throat feels dry as he leans against a bench in front of the bar just staring at it, watching as the door opens and he can hear the live music and chattering inside for just a moment before that portal to heaven closes. Watches the people smoking outside before going back in to finish their beers, smells the acrid scent of cigarette smoke mixed with the fruity sweet scent of vape steam, and wants that too. Paces back and forth for a long time before he gives in. He goes inside.

And once he's inside, he goes to the bar, he sits down, he orders a drink - a cheap whiskey, something he'd developed a taste for at his worst, strong and acrid and awful and perfect. For a long time, he just sits there. Staring at it, not drinking. Trying to work himself past it, through it, trying to talk himself into it and then out of it and then back into it again. Trying not to give in and trying to convince himself it's no big deal all at the same time.]

[OOC: I'm open to characters running into him pacing outside the bar or once he's gotten inside. Or anywhere else in or around the bar.]

i.

[bythehand]

[ Finn is a pretty frequent gym patron himself. It's been one of the easier ways to keep to a routine since he first got here. Especially in the first days after arriving, really, when the free time was almost too much to deal with, before he'd finally signed on with the Perimeter Guard.

He's better with a goal in mind, by force of ingrained habit; even a goal as seemingly trivial as being in a certain place at a certain time. Sometimes he spars with Jyn. Sometimes he just sees what looks most appealing or challenging to him at the moment. It's a good way to get out. A good way to stay occupied. A good way to get out restless, anxious energy without having to actually think about something causing it. He ends up doing that more often than he'd like to admit.

Finn catches sight of Roy on his way through to the treadmills-- almost veers off course to say hi before he takes in the sort of... vibe Roy is boring into the punching bag. He knows that vibe, or some approximation of it. Not frightening or off-putting in itself. His expression brings out a spike of worry, least of all after roughly a week of being Definitively Not Around, but a face like that might do better for having a little time to get worked through, in Finn's experience.

So he goes back on his way for a brief stretch. Stays in the building, gets in some work here and there as the whim takes him. He's kind of already well at the point where he knows he's planning to at least say hi before leaving, but he'd rather exercise a little patience than stroll right up and interrupt a whole process. No immediate or imminent danger. No reason to get super Extra.

When Roy looks like he's stepping back for a breather longer than two seconds, Finn is pretty swift to find his way back over, water bottle in hand. He offers it. ]

What, is that thing usually knocked off the ceiling by now?

[ It would be nice to say he's got enough of a poker face to school the concern out of his expression, but there's no point in his life where he's had the poker face for that. ]