[CLOSED] And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth

[stumbledfromtheashes]

who: Iona Lavellan (stumbledfromtheashes) and Dorian Pavus (tevinteraltus), Iona Lavellan and Relm Hawke (indigobird), Iona Lavellan and Natasha Romanoff (unmakeme)
what: A friend and lover has left the Quarantine
when: Somewhere around the October 10th-14th range? Just after Cullen left.
where: their place
warnings: Nothing. Just a lot of heartbreak


REALISATION. For Dorian.
Iona doesn’t believe it, at first. When Cullen goes silent, when she doesn’t hear from him, see him... She refuses to believe it. (A part of her knows. A part of her knows what it means. But she just... can’t. Not yet. Not at first.) But she needs to know. She has to. So she checks. With the guard, first.

And then she goes to his room. The one they shared as much as they shared hers.

Pushing open the door, she stands in the doorway, staring at his pristine quarters, the things he’d purchased, the things she’d bought him to make his room a little homier, sitting where they had been carefully placed. But no Cullen.

It’s then that reality sets in. The heart-wrenching realisation that he’s gone. She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. She stands there, the hand she has pressed against the doorjam unsteady. She doesn’t even notice the tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

He’s gone.

LATER. For Hawke.
It’s later, how long Iona doesn’t know, when she makes her way down to their wine cellar (‘wine’, although there’s more than that), choosing whatever bottle of the strongest alcohol she can find first, and heads outside, to curl up in the nature corner. In the hammock. She spent a lot of time there, with Cullen. Curled up just the two of them. And now he’s gone.

It guts her, and she hates it. Hates that she’s so destroyed by his loss. (Does he even remember her? He’s gone back to his world, his Inquisitor... does he even remember their time together? Does he miss her the way she misses him?) Hates that he’s gone. She hates a lot of things at the moment.

Mostly her heart is broken. Just shattered in her chest and she doesn’t know what to do with it. With herself.

So she curls up in the hammock with a bottle of alcohol, wearing one of Cullen’s shirts (she’s laid claim to his clothes. Mostly his shirts. His shirts and the little things that remind her of him. Because she’s a fool) and starting to aggressively drink her sorrow away. Or numbing it as best she’s able.

Comments

[tevinteraltus]

"Good evening, all. I'm certain you're all thrilled I've returned."

Dorian spent a great deal of time at home these days, what with work, and the sadness, and the hominess of being around people from his world, who would never leave, would they? They wouldn't abandon him the way, well, others had. It hadn't been an exceptionally fruitful day at work, though, and thus he was looking forward to a long bath, possibly surrounded by earthy candles and a glass of wine with a good book, and well, more wine obviously. The door to their home swings shut as he hangs his coat on the rack. The lack of response gave him pause and he looked around the first floor of their home slightly confused before mounting the stairs.

"Is anyone even-" the sight of Iona standing in the entry way to Cullen's quarters gave him pause, though, and he was quiet for a moment before approaching. "Iona?"

[stumbledfromtheashes]

Dorian.

Oh, Dorian. She wants nothing more than to fling herself into his arms, but she stays frozen in the entry way to what was once Cullen’s room. She wants to barricade herself in her room and sob herself hoarse. She wants to hide in Dorian’s bed and not come out until the hurt fades a little. Until she feels like she’s fit for company. She wants to scream her heartbreak to the sky. Beat the shit out of something.

(She wants Cullen.)

Instead she takes a hitching breath and swipes her hand across her cheeks, although she can’t bring herself to turn towards him, just yet. “I’m afraid that Cullen has been sent home.” Her voice doesn’t quite break, but it’s a near thing. A very near thing.

He’s gone.

[tevinteraltus]

He recognizes that heartache, having felt it himself on more than one occasion due to this accursed place. He moved to her side as best he can, which isn't too difficult considering the petite elf's size, and simply moves his arms around her, pulling her against him and holding her. Three years ago, he'd wondered what having a real family would be like. Now, after meeting Iona Lavellan, he wouldn't trade it for anything.

He didn't speak, a rare occurrence for him, but simply held her there, offering her his strength until hers returned.

[stumbledfromtheashes]

Dorian pulls her against him and she turns into him, burying her head against his shoulder. Holding tight to the man who is her brother in every way that is important. There's no stopping the tears, now, the heart-wrenching sobs that rip loose from her.

[indigobird]

Cullen is the first departure that's really hit Hawke in a significant way. It brings a strange mix of emotions, a jumbled mess that she's not sure how to sort through or do with. But she's not the one who's hurting. And one feeling Hawke knows readily is worry.

For all her sarcastic brashness and purposely obnoxious bearing, Hawke can be quiet when she wants to be. Her steps are silent as she approaches the entryway into the nature corner. She watches as Iona curls further into herself, alcohol in hand and wearing and breathing in what remains of Cullen. Her heart breaks for the elf, it really does. Whatever her feelings about Cullen were - are - Iona's hurting and Hawke wishes she knew what to do here.

She takes another step forward, then hesitates. What even is her plan here? Iona has booze, and Hawke has no idea if she wants company. But... she should try, right? She remembers when her mother started haunting her, and the way Alex spoke to her about it. It helped, so maybe it'll help here, too.

A little more sure of herself, she moves towards the hammock. She doesn't take a seat, but she leans against the post/tree where the head end of the hammock is tied. "Good thing we stocked up on the good stuff." ...okay maybe not the best opening there. "I, um... if you want company, I'm here. If not, I can leave."

[stumbledfromtheashes]

It might not be the best opening, but it earns her a soft, tearful laugh, although she can’t quite bring herself to look up. Not yet. “We’re going to need to restock, at this rate.” Between the three of them, their wine cellar is going to deplete at a rapidly advanced rate. Hawke’s offer is... complicated in its answer. She does. She doesn’t. She wants nothing more to wallow in her sorrow alone. She wants nothing more than to have company so she’s not alone. It’s conflicting desires and it’s chance (no it’s not) that she chooses the latter. “No. It’s fine. I don’t... I don’t mind.”

She swallows a sob, breathes it out silently. “But I’m afraid I’m not in the best state.” As though the other woman isn’t bloody aware of her state. But a warning seems only fair.

[indigobird]

"We can all chip in some money and send Dorian on his way. Given he's got the snobbiest taste of us all, he might as well do the selecting." Said lightly with no real venom. He's Tevinter, she's Fereldan. They're duty bound to shit on each other.

Hawke shrugs. "I didn't expect you to be. I'd be more worried if you were acting like you were." Iona's stubborn, to say the least, but Hawke at least is glad to see she's not trying to hide her pain.

[stumbledfromtheashes]

"And at least that way it'll be of a quality he likes." Iona's gotten pretty good at choosing wine and other alcoholic beverages that he likes since arriving in Riverview, but still. He's got the best bloody taste, when it comes right down to it. The Ferelden-Tevinter sniping would usually amuse her, and it does... a little. It's just buried down somewhere under all the sorrow and heartbreak.

"Well, that's good, then." Something that might almost be a smirk flickers across her face. And then she holds out the bottle. Even as devastated as she is, she's still polite, damn it.

[indigobird]

"Exactly, and it'll spare us all a fair amount of complaining and whinging." Because he absolutely would, knowing him. Relm's convinced it's partly because he just likes hearing his own voice, and what better way to do that then complain? Though at least he uses his complaining for good, like getting quality drinks. It could be worse.

Hawke huffs out a laugh before taking the bottle and taking a drink. She hands it back to Iona; she needs it more. "Anything I can do? If you want a sparring partner or something, I'm game."

EVEN LATER STILL

[unmakeme]

There is no warning given, no permission asked, no precursor to Natasha's visit. She knows Cullen is gone, and she's aware of what he and Iona had, so she simply shows up. As such, she's prepared to be turned away. Wouldn't blame Iona one bit for wanting to be alone. Some small part of her might even be hoping for it. It would all be so much easier if she could just detach herself from connection, from giving a damn.

Her own tough luck.

She may not be Russian any more, but some traditions and customs transcend cultural borders and limitations, can't be wrung out of you. She's holding a bottle of alcohol, the same stuff Iona was drinking when they first met, smoke swirling in the small space not occupied by liquid in the bottle, trapped by the heavy cork. It bumps against Natasha's thigh as she walks into the room, against the comfortable black yoga pants, which match the soft black shirt, somber and plain and not at all fussy. A mask which gives the appearance of no mask at all.

She doesn't say anything. What is there to say, really? Anything she could put into words would ring hollow. Ask how Iona is? That's a stupid question. Express how sorry she is? No one wants to hear that. It doesn't do any good.

So she just holds the bottle out in the space between them, inclines her head ever so slightly, eyebrow ticking up. Company? Someone to be miserable with, so she's not quite so alone? She can do that, if nothing else.

[stumbledfromtheashes]

Natasha has caught her dressed comfortably, barefoot, in loose sleep pants and one of Cullen’s shirts over a camisole. And Iona should probably be more surprised by Natasha’s sudden appearance in the home she shares with Dorian and Hawke. Had shared with Cullen. But she’s not. The redhead reminds her too much of another redhead she knows with a penchant for knowing things and being places.

At the offered bottle and arch of an eyebrow Iona nods, something that might almost be a smile briefly flickering across her face. She’d appreciate the company. And drinking companion. Because she’s not yet ready to give up seeking numbness. It’s too damn early for that.

And then she leads the way to the couch. If they’re going to drink themselves stupid they’re going to be comfortable doing it.

[unmakeme]

The couch is good. And comfortable is also good. Not much about life is going to be comfortable in the days to come. This might as well be.

Before she sits, Natasha grabs the nearest piece of small furniture. Table, chair, ottoman, doesn’t matter. Just something to drag closer to them, touching the couch cushions, just something to set a couple of glasses and the bottle down on.

She toes off her ballet flats next to the couch. Barefoot, like Iona, she folds herself onto the cushions. She still hasn’t spoken. There still isn’t anything to say that makes it better. She knows that, more intimately than most people do. There’s nothing that could ever be said that makes it better. You just have to wait it out. You wait for it to fade. And that sucks. It sucks so much.

Which is what makes numbness so appealing. Which is why Natasha pops the cork and pours the liquor. Who is she of all people to deny anyone their avoidance?

[stumbledfromtheashes]

Iona feels as though she should probably say... something. Perhaps several somethings, even. But she doesn’t have the words, and she doesn’t have the energy to spare for them, even if she DID. So instead she curls up on the couch. Later. The words will come later. After the numbness.

Instead she takes the glass of liquor that Natasha pours her and takes a large swallow.

[unmakeme]

Natasha isn't offended when Iona doesn't speak. She's not in any hurry to break the silence, herself, because words aren't anything but another weapon to her. This is more honest, and the liquor is more important, anyway. It's the point of all of this, the numbness that Iona has apparently opted for in the wake of her loss. Natasha knows it's not exactly healthy, but she's also in no position to judge. Iona is a grown ass woman, and if this is how she wants to deal, this is how Natasha will support her dealing.

She tucks her legs up underneath herself when Iona does, silent little bookends on the couch, each absorbed in their cups, which empty far too quickly. Natasha lifts the bottle again, nudging Iona's cup down to rest on the cushion before she fills it, and then hers. Old habits and all that. She takes another sip, feeling it burning through her veins, hitting her mind, softening the sharp edges. No, she's in no position to judge anyone who chooses to take this approach to coping.