swordhardy | NOCT OVERFLOW

Entry tags:

noctium

NOCT OVERFLOW

OVERFLOW & EVENTS

[ The burrito-shaped body grunts in response to the toe prodding, curling in on itself more as if to escape the light of day filtering through the kimono jacket. But the damage has been done; Stiles is gradually stirring to life. Long naked legs unfold from where they’re drawn up to his chest, stretching to full length as he works out the kinks in cramped calves and hamstrings. His feet make the mistake of scraping over a clump of beached seaweed in the process, the wet, slimy texture causing him to yelp in a mixture of disgust and fear as he jolts into an upright position, eyes wide open.

The sudden movement is another mistake. A grave one. Rokurou gets no warning as Stiles turns to the space between them and, without further ado, paints it in a spray of bile and alcohol. He’s still wrapped up in the kimono jacket, which somehow successfully escapes the upheaval of his stomach, even as Stiles gags and chokes – and here’s round two, followed by a round three. It’s an impressive amount of puke. Tears are streaming down his face by the time he’s finally done, gasping for breath and dizzily climbing to his feet. Without a word to Rokurou, he shambles over to the ocean’s edge, crouches down, and gargles a handful of water to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. Once that’s done, he turns around and squints wearily at the other man.

Even hungover as he is, Stiles’ eyes linger unconsciously at the groin level before jerking back up. ]

Who… Who the hell are you? [ Then, becoming increasingly aware of the situation, he balks. ] Why are we naked!?

[ Rokurou isn’t the only one with memory gaps, apparently. ]

[ Oh. Great. Just what every guy needs after a night of hard drinking and probable criminal activity—a puke shower. Truly disgusting. If Rokurou were a gagger or sympathy puker, there'd be no end to the bile onslaught .... but thankfully, being a callous killer gives you a pretty metal stomach when it comes to bodily fluids.

Stiles staggers to the water's edge and the swordsman promptly removes himself from vomit vicinity, drawing to his feet with half a groan and a generous neckrub to work out the kinks from passing out on the ground. The scrub continues to his cheek, palm sliding along his jaw as he blinks wearily into the morning sunlight. When was the last time he was this hung over? This might not be outside of his usual track record .... but it's still unsettling. ]

I know why I'm naked. You're wearing my jacket.

[ Blatantly ignoring the fact that he probably wears more than that on a normal day, but the nudity doesn't bother him much—there's nothing but confidence in his posture as mismatched eyes idly scan their surroundings, with no moves whatsoever to hide any part of his physique. The thought doesn't even cross his mind; if there's anything he's vain about aside from his skills with a blade it's that he's as chiseled as a Greek statue.

Besides—there are more pressing matters at hand. Much more important. ]

I don't see my swords.

[ Or anything else, actually. It's alarmingly desolate around them, void of so much as a stray sock strewn against the sand. Surveillance and assessment of the immediate area finished, the daemon turns his attention back to Stiles—seems that they're equal strangers, because he sure as hell doesn't remember hooking up with this guy. Gaze unwavering, he studies every inch of the other man, running from brown scruff of hair, along jaw, down to dramatic adam's apple, and then flickering south—trying to trigger a memory of last night ... but it all comes up black and hollow.

After running a hand through inky black hair and licking dry lips, Rokurou puffs out a breath. ]

Do you remember anything at all? [ glancing over at the marks along his arm, the swordsman cocks an eyebrow, ] Are you usually a biter?

[ But looking at them again, maybe they aren't actually bitemarks. Messy red spots could be anything. ]

[ Clutching the kimono jacket around him like the easily scandalized virgin he certainly is not, Stiles eyes the stranger suspiciously. If the impressive musculature hadn’t tipped him off, then the comment about the absent swords certainly would have: The man is some form of warrior. What looks like tribal tattoos crawl up the right side of a ruggedly handsome face from the collarbone. Stiles finds himself doing a doubletake however, sharp gaze snagged on something off about the right eye. Salt-stiffened, messy hair obscures most of it, but the bloody red sclera is just visible through the curtain of bangs. Curiosity coaxes him close, movements like a nervous foal ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

God this guy’s body is something else. ]

I’m definitely a biter, [ he acknowledges wryly, jaw shifting from side to side as if he’s trying to recall setting his teeth in anyone recently. ] Only one way to find out.

[ Head throbbing, he brings up his own forearm and bites down – hard enough to leave an impression behind. Then, using the exercise as an excuse to eat up the remaining distance between them, he raises that arm to Rokurou’s, comparing the imprints. They’re fortunately dissimilar enough that only a single conclusion can be reached. Stiles sighs in relief. ]

Not me. [ Thank god. If he’d been getting that nippy, it would have been a sign of a struggle or, worse, sex. As hot as this stranger is, Stiles really hopes they didn’t casually hook up. It’s just not his style. ] But I think I do remember something.

[ From the dark void of his memories, he can see Rokurou’s chest. The man must have already shed his clothing by that point. Stiles was pinching a nipple, drunkenly muttering about “big mommy milkers.” In the present, his face grows hot with embarrassment. ]

…Never mind. False alarm. I remember nothing. Tit’s fine. It’s fine, I mean.

[ If there is a god, they will smite him where he stands and put him out of his misery now. ]

[ Appraisal of the marks proves that they aren't the same—the clear ridge of teeth setting pink into Stiles' flesh doesn't align with the smear of red painted across Rokurou's. Hell, now that he's observing through the throbbing hangover, the pattern isn't quite toothlike. Not to mention how he knows (and relishes) the after-throb of a good bite. This is more like ... a burn, with skin taut and irritated.

It's seemingly meant to remain a mystery. Rokurou blinks a few times when the younger man (and he is younger, it's clear from cut of his jaw, the span of his shoulders; the line crossed into manhood has been passed but not left far behind) backtracks, stumbling over his words. Probable age a thought pushed to the wayside in light of blotched pink, blush almost putting the red trimming on the jacket he's yet to return to shame (cute). Rokurou laughs, offering an easy smile; generous lines crease around golden eye, well-worn and used often. ]

You sure about that? [ teasing, mirth shades the corners of that lopsided mouth, but he seems willing enough to let it go. reaching up in another languid stretch, the daemon rubs scarred palms along sweeping fingers parallel motion toward his ears, ] Don't worry, I don't think we had sex. [ may as well go straight for the jugular on what they both must be thinking, elephant on the beach from the second they woke up naked— ] I know my body well. From how I feel, I wouldn't say so.

[ What he would wager is that alcohol was involved—a lot of it—from the knots weighing down at every joint. A fight, perhaps, if the scratch along his scalp and light matting of blood means anything, clumsiness not a weapon in his arsenal even when twenty-seven sheets to the wind.

Spanning wide, callused fingers continue along sideburns before threading into the weight of thick, dark hair that's gone wild in salty aftermath. A sweeping comb rids him of that veil, manelike layers pushed back from his hairline with a generous sigh to welcome sunlight like a freshly budding shoot.

Shifting black only reveals more of the same—a cragged carapace mars the right half of his face, mottled over jaw and ear, its swirling pattern stitching into rich tan in an upward sweep that reaches tight into his hairline to meet loose strands that are already trying to curl back despite stiffening seawater. Crimson breaks in deep strokes along his forehead, a vague sheen of blood everpresent in veining that reaches down to an eye discordant with honeyed gold and drooping eyelashes.

Brilliant red on inky sclera. Onyx threads swirl in his iris's ruby hue as that pinpoint pupil adjusts to the lighting; glancing back over to Stiles, that color brightens upon mutual eyecontact before settling down into a shade befitting cooling embers. ]

Aaa, but how about you? I might have dragged you into something troublesome. Hurt anywhere?

[ You know, aside from the vomit-launching hangover. ]

[ Though he’s never been one to take someone else’s word on anything, Stiles has to privately agree on the matter regarding sex; his body may feel bruised and fatigued, but that’s likely the result of a rough night spent doing who knows what followed by sleep on a dense bed of grainy, unforgiving sand. There’s no telltale evidence that they fucked, beyond the question of where all their clothes (and aforementioned swords) disappeared to. At least he still has this jacket; Stiles isn’t actually prudish, just deeply self-conscious and insecure. Standing next to Adonis here, he’d really rather not show off his lanky, lean physique if he doesn’t have to. So, until Rokurou asks for the kimono jacket back, it’s staying with Stiles. And if there’s some comfort to be had in the familiar scent of sweat and sake – the latter of which he recognizes now from relatively recent experiences with Itachi – then no one needs to know.

The man pushes back his hair. Stiles stares, expression frozen with a sharp, almost predatory interest as he scans the blight in fascination. While he’s aware of how potentially dangerous such an eye could be thanks to his association with the Uchiha brothers, the teenager demonstrates little caution in meeting it dead on, studying the irises and sclera intently. Instinct, always two steps ahead of him, warns Stiles that this man isn’t to be trifled with. Whatever the markings mean, this is someone who could clearly snap him in two. Unfortunately, the latent threat does almost nothing to deter him; Stiles has always been driven primarily by curiosity and a thirst for violence. ]

My ass hurts.

[ Forcing honey warmed eyes away from that unique face, Stiles does a cursory inventory of his own body – a few abrasions have scraped the skin on his knees and forearms – before belatedly realizing how his confession sounds. With a sheepish, amused huff, he rolls his gaze heavenward and amends the statement. ]

Like, as if I fell on it. Not sex.

[ There’s no accompanying flush of color this time. He is, after all, generally difficult to embarrass. (“Big mommy milkers,” reminds his subconscious pointedly and Stiles inwardly groans.) ]

I doubt we got in a fight. I mean, you look like you’d break me on your pinkie finger. [ That said, it does look possible that the stranger fought with someone else. Difficult to say, when the blood isn’t fresh. ] What’s with the bits of paper?

[ Stooping down, he seizes one of the receipts that had fluttered to the ground when Rokurou had finger combed that black mane. Brows disappear into his hairline as he reads the banishment notice. ]

Dude, I hope I was there to witness whatever went down at the strip club. It sounds epic. Think they confiscated your swords?

[ No refute comes for the comment about being able to break this kid in two with his finger—lean or skinny can still mean dangerous, but there's nothing about him that makes the daemon think threat. Even the open scrutiny of his blight doesn't strike as predatory ... no, while there is something very familiar about all of this, it isn't a sense he's gleaned from the battlefield. ]

Yeah, a bunch'a those were stuck to me when I woke up...

[ He kneads his palm over the thatching of blight along his neck as he watches the stranger dip to collect some of the paper scraps that have scuttled across the sand. Leftovers of the night he had been quick to dismiss since he couldn't remember shit about them, but the mention of his swords has him perking up right away, wheels in his muddled mind beginning to turn— ]

H'oh, you're right! [ brightening, he bends to scoop up the others he had only quickly scanned before brushing aside earlier, smoothing them out to better read the blotchy ink, ] And if they aren't there ... then they might be at one of these other places. I've got a sizable drink tab waiting for me at some place called the Salty Seadog, [ probably not shocking to either of them, ] and a receipt for one small tattoo from Tattoos for Less.

[ Pausing, he draws his hands up to scrutinize his body again, going so far as to bodily twist and check his own ass for signs of some ink that was apparently finished and paid for.

But—nada. Not a thing amiss. Not even a sad doodle of his favorite sword, which is absolutely what he would have gotten while drunk, no question about it. ]

The hell, did I just buy a tattoo for someone random...? [ well, whatever. that's a tragedy for his bank account, sure, but not the worst thing in the world. he shakes off the thought and crunches the receipts in his first, turning bright mismatched eyes back on his unexpected companion. ] Hey, will you help me out? If I've been banished from the strip club it might not be easy for me to get in there and check for my swords. I'd really owe you one.

[ You know, whoever the hell you are. ]

[ At the suggestion that the man may have bought ink for someone else, Stiles heavily scrutinizes the scarred, masculine form before him – almost desperate to find some trace of a fresh tattoo. He even circles around Rokurou, squinting in the garish sunlight. Seeing nothing, he reluctantly pulls the kimono jacket away from his own body, forgoing modesty for the sake of determining that he didn’t drunkenly get new ink so soon after having his last tattoo from Aefenglom removed. Fortunately, beyond the usual flat moles dotting his skin, a few old scars, and the Emerald embedded in his right shoulder, nothing seems to be amiss. He heaves a sigh of relief, quickly yanking the kimono closed again. One less thing to worry about. ]

Sure. I need to find my clothes and phone anyway.

[ And, y’know, learning what the hell he got up to the night before would sure be nice. The last time he had holes in his memory like this, Stiles was possessed by a dark kitsune. Suffice to say, he’s more than a little keyed up about the whole ordeal. ]

We can’t walk around like this, though. [ A pointed gesture at Rokurou’s junk, casually hanging five. ] Wanna meet back up in thirty? I’ll give you your jacket then.

[ Once it’s agreed that they’ll return to the beach after changing at their respective lodgings, Stiles jets back to the villa he’s staying at and takes the world’s speediest shower to clean the sand and sea salt from his skin. After he’s properly dressed – and with his spare, modified phone pocketed – he takes care of Sophia and then makes his way back to the beach. Upon spotting Rokurou, he jogs over and offers the carefully folded kimono jacket. ]

Thanks for lending me this. Unless I stole it from you last night. In which case, you can prove nothing.

…Uh, you can call me Stiles, by the way.

[ Oh........ right. Clothes. Rokurou glances down at himself when Stiles gestures toward his business as though he'd completely forgotten he was nude to begin with before nodding in agreement. Alright, yeah. Probably a good idea to not get double-banned from the strip club.

Much the same, it's a quick shower to rinse off the sand and sweat before dressing. Though he normally dresses in traditional attire, the whirlwind of strewn clothing around his room is too much to deal with. Satisfied enough with the knowledge that he must have come back sometime during the night to ruffle through his things (explains why he had his jacket), he pulls on a simple black v-neck t-shirt and black pants instead. Cleaned, his inky hair is easy to draw back into its usual low ponytail, finally somewhat tame without the crust of seafoam and unknown debauchery.

Lone dark outline on the beach, Rokurou flattens and then folds all the receipts from last night to create a makeshift map of where they have to go. Something he's drawn away from at the other man's voice; he looks up and stands straighter, quick to accept the jacket and tuck it beneath his elbow. ]

Stiles...? I know you. [ pause, then, ] Well, not know. We've spoken on the network before. I'm Rokurou.

[ With a snort, ]

Aaaand you're right, I can't prove anything. I still can't remember anything from last night, so I guess these are the best we have. [ in exchange for the jacket, he passes Stiles the pile of receipts he's made. ] I'm thinking the strip club first, and then the bar if we don't find them there.

[ Hands sliding comfortably into his pockets, the daemon begins to head toward the address that had been on the receipt for the strip club. His phone pings, alerting a turn for the address he pinned, leading them away from the shore. ]

Ahh, I really hope someone didn't take them.

[ The receipts are carefully flipped through as they walk, brown eyes darting over each word on the crinkled paper like they might help jog his memories. Seeing the sheer number of drinks ordered at a bar, he glances surreptitiously at Rokurou’s middle as if questioning whether the man could ostensibly hold that much alcohol. It seems unlikely. A few of the drink names are familiar to him – Noctium’s equivalent to whiskey, his drink preference. Well, his dad’s drink preference that Stiles inherited while in Hell. The point is, Stiles thinks it’s evidence enough that he’s been traveling with the swordsman since at least this bar. With that in mind, he rearranges the receipts in chronological order according to the time stamped beside the date.

He almost misses Rokurou’s introduction, distracted as he is. When he perks up, it’s to squint at the man thoughtfully before recognizing the name. Oh. That guy. A niggling reminder of what Rokurou said – that the man is here for a good time, not a long time – has him momentarily wrinkling his nose in distaste. Well, the proof of that statement is right in his hands, isn’t it? Rokurou really wasn’t kidding. ]

Beyond your sentimental attachment to them, are the swords valuable?

[ A pause as he turns as directed by the phone. ]

I doubt the natives would be interested in them except as antique novelty. You probably don’t have to worry.

[ Stiles hums, reconsidering. ]

Or maybe they’ve already been melted down into scrap and you’ll never see them again. Guess you’ll have to change your network username. “Swordslessss” or something.

You go straight for the heart, huh? [ eyebrow raised, the daemon glances over to Stiles with a wry little smile, ] I don’t dislike that though.

[ His beautiful swords melted down into scrap? Rokurou whistles at the image, soft on an exhale as he turns his attention forward again to needle through the growing crowd. People that pass are in varying states of disarray: smeared makeup, splattered neon gone dull in daylight, high heel backs hooked over curled fingers, flat-footed walk of shame stagger. ]

That would be tragic. What’s a swordsman without his swords? [ if Stiles wants to know their value, this sword nut is more than pleased to debrief, ] They’re obsidian blades inlaid with siam forged by a daemon blacksmith. Not the rarest materials, but their edges are so sharp that a man’s throat may as well be butter. Good weight, easy to handle, and probably not very common around here. They’re actually kukri, if you’ve heard of the type.

[ Seafoam green and shell blue shops along the way are locked up; some windows are broken, some patched up, pieces of broken glass gather in corners and against doorstops. The daemon’s eyes rake over the night’s aftermath, quietly taking in the sight of sluggish cleanup and dazed blinks.

Looks like they aren’t the only ones who had some fun. ]

Interested in giving ‘em a swing? Assuming they haven’t been turned into decorative mugs.

[ Despite his unfamiliarity with blades, he listens with the rapt attention of someone who’s genuinely interested. Swordplay is a type of training that various individuals have offered to teach him over the past year and a half of dimension-hopping, though Stiles has continuously rejected each offer; the idea that he’s too clumsy and absentminded to wield such a lethal weapon has been ingrained in him by society. Still, many of his otherworldly friends rely on swords during combat. For that reason alone, he’s intrigued about the make of Rokurou’s blades. How would they compare to Sasuke’s?

Siam, kukri – the words may mean little to him now, but he tucks these details away for future examination when he can ask someone about them. For the time being, he simply nods as if he knows exactly what Rokurou is talking about.

The sorry state of the stores along the path distracts Stiles long enough for him to tear brown eyes away from mismatched ones. Scanning the shops, he carefully affects an expression of distant curiosity, like he’s only just arrived to Filia and possesses no knowledge about the general insanity of the night before. Surely he and Rokurou weren’t responsible for any of this…? Brows furrowed, Stiles glances through the receipts to ascertain none of the store names match the shops they pass. Fortunately, they don’t. ]

What, seriously? [ A pendulum swinging between conflicting stimuli, Stiles whirls back on Rokurou. ] You haven’t even found them yet, and you’re already gonna offer them to some random guy you woke up naked next to on the beach?

[ A pause. He considers all the reasons why he’s avoided handling swords until now. Curiosity trumps common sense. ]

Sure. Why not? [ Naturally, that’s the moment when Stiles trips over debris littering the path, nearly falling flat on his face. ] I mean, besides the fact I could seriously maim myself or you. You got life insurance, by the way? Totally unrelated, I promise.

[ It’s automatic—Stiles stumbles on debris and Rokurou’s arm cuts out across the younger man’s chest to catch. But Stiles doesn’t actually fall, leaving the swordsman’s arm awkwardly strapped across his front in half-catch limbo. Mismatched eyelids flutter once, twice, before that smile turns sheepish. ]

No life insurance, [ what’s that, sounds fake, ] but I’m not worried about a few more scars.

[ He turns that arm over to share its underbelly, uncurling fingers at the same to offer his palm. A thick scar beds at its center, marring fortune and life lines—a mark mirrored on the back just beneath the rough ridge of his knuckles. Below his wrist zags another in toward his elbow, old and faded into white contrast against olive tone and tan deepened beneath sweltering sun. There are others scattered here and there, some with tender pink heal and others a darker pigment in midlife settle.

Dropping his arm, he follows along the row of buildings as they grow more faded and dusted; lighted signs flicker with low hum and signage grows more weathered. The pufferfish bikini girl pinup plastered against the next window they pass seems right. ]

I did say I’d owe you one for helping me find them. Besides, I don’t think I can really explain their value—some things you just have to feel for yourself.

[ As for Stiles maiming himself … a distinct possibility, but high risk high reward? As long as he remembers to direct the pointy side outward, it should be fine.

Speaking of risk—the GPS stops them outside a rundown hovel off the main strip. A strained metal twang is the only warning before the i in the “fish” of Jellyfish Stripclub sign plops sadly on the ground in front of them. ]

What do you call a fish with no “i”s? [ he mutters the old joke while rubbing his neck, not looking particularly impressed with the joint. ] Honestly, I’m not really into places like this. Is this somewhere you’ve been before?

[ It’s not a particularly pointed question; he’s known Stiles for all of 30 minutes, but he feels like that’s a no. Yet memories stir no clear answer, still as dark as the night of a lunar eclipse.

Reaching out, he tugs on the handle to the front entrance—unsurprisingly locked given the daylight hours. Rokurou looks contemplative for only a second before promptly deciding, ]

I guess we have to break in.

[ Shooting a belatedly appreciative look at the arm that was flung out to catch him, Stiles pats the man’s impressive bicep in gratitude. Much like shinobi, Rokurou reacted to his stumble with the casual celerity of a trained warrior. It makes him wonder, really – does his current companion possess unnatural abilities and powers too? There’s definitely a story buried in the blighted markings crawling up half the swordsman’s face, a story that may also be reflected in the scars shown to Stiles now. With no small measure of curiosity, he studies the displayed arm in thoughtful silence. Assuming the hand was impaled, a scar such as the one knotting the flesh over Rokurou’s palm surely would have caused severe nerve or muscle damage, wouldn’t it? But the man has stressed multiple swords, a possible indication that Rokurou is still ambidextrous despite the healed injury. Or maybe Stiles is grasping at straws here.

Any questions on the subject are forestalled by their arrival at the strip club. Brows disappearing into his hairline, he gazes at the decrepit building before turning brown eyes on the surrounding area. The neighboring shops appear to be in similar states of disrepair; over the passage of time, the salty air has eroded the storefront façades, signs nearly weathered to the point of illegibility, roofing peeling away to a slow, withering death. Locals seem to be avoiding this particular area, faces turned away from the two strange young men outside the strip club after hours. ]

Oh yeah, I drop loads of cash on strippers, [ comes the sarcastic response, lacking any real bite. ] I’m a regular, can’t you tell?

[ Digging into a pocket, he pulls out his travel-size lockpick set and kneels down in front of the door. ]

Stand behind me, would you? Just block line of sight.

[ It doesn’t take long to break in; the lock isn’t robust. After taking time to return the lockpicks to their appropriate sleeves, he slides the kit back into his pocket, stands, and pulls open the door. Sunlight pours through, illuminating a dark, dank room that reeks of fish. ]

Ugh, god. So not ready to be sick twice today. [ He pulls up the collar of his shirt to cover his nose and mouth before glancing toward Rokurou. ] You first, dude.

Oh? [ well, look at that! ] Didn't realize I picked up a rogue. Lucky me.

[ Stiles tells him to stand behind and he obeys without thought, stepping in to block the sight of the younger man crouching with an unexpected lock-pick kit. Arms crossed, he scans up and down the street—nothing else seems open either, with metal shutters drawn and locks slapped across doorknobs. Even the offshoot alleyways seem quiet, though the daemon knows better than to trust silence for what it is.

Quick work—Rokurou nods in approval when the lock peels away and the door opens, but it's admiration quickly replaced with recoil. Heightened senses are a damn curse when sporting a hangover; the stench burns right into his sinuses, rust and sweat and moldy old seaweed. The odor earns a generous nose crinkle of distaste, eyes beginning to water slightly. ]

Ugh... I'd kick last night me's ass for this if I could.

[ With one last big inhale of fresh air, the swordsman strides into the unlit expanse of the club.

Despite the narrow lean of outside buildings, the inside of the club is sizable. A wide open space with a long coral-jagged bar on the left, backlit with a stagger of brightly colored bottles and paneled with mirrors. Mosaic tile spans outward toward the stage and stripper poles in curls meant to mimic waves, and lining every wall and dipping into the stage's curves are tanks filled with jellyfish. Blue, orange, pink, purple—a meld of colors float and stream together in the water. Scraggly paper is taped to the tanks every few feet with handwritten big block letters sprawled: DO NOT JUMP INTO JELLYFISH TANKS!!! DO NOT TOUCH JELLYFISH!!!!!

Suspiciously, Rokurou glances back down to the red marks that along his arms with a vague sense of dread. Oooooohhh. Maybe? ]

.... I think I know what my nefarious jellyfish behavior was. [ though it doesn't quite explain the scratch against his scalp; it's a small piece of the puzzle. ] C'mon, let's look around before someone comes. I'll check over here, you look behind the bar.

[ He'll start on the farthest end, crouching around the stage in search of his missing weapons. Swords—swooooooords? No, just g-strings, stray garbage, and glitter. When Rokurou pokes up from a different part of the stage, he's half body glimmer and still swordless(ss). ]

This place ringing any bells for you?

[ Thinking about it, he has no idea at what point he might have met up with Stiles, or why. ]

[ The sight of the club’s innards fails to impress him, though the wall of quietly bubbling tanks does draw a curious look. Drifting over to one unconsciously, he stares at the floating inhabitants with an untrustworthy gleam in brown eyes. Stiles is temped against common sense and warning notes to stick a hand inside. Some people tragically need to learn the hard way; he can often be one of such people.

Fortunately, he’s saved from the experiment by Rokurou’s comment on nefarious jellyfish behavior. Turning away from the tanks, Stiles meanders back to the man and follows the direction of his gaze. Ah, the swollen red markings! It makes sense. And, as he processes the connection, the glimpse of a black-and-white memory returns to him – of Rokurou flailing on the ground soaking wet, dark mop of hair plastered to his tanned face, limbs still twitching with the aftereffects of the jellyfish stings. Huh.

The bar is a goldmine of items confiscated by the bartender, though Stiles regretfully keeps his sticky fingers to himself. While he doesn’t find swords, he does discover his lost phone. With a whistle of relief, he powers it on to a dozen salacious messages from an unknown number – and oh god, that sure is a nude. Blanching, Stiles hastily blocks the texter. Just who the hell did he meet last night? ]

Nope! [ His voice cracks traitorously. ] Nada. Nothing. Zilch.

[ There’s a box beneath the register that doesn’t seem to hold any alcohol-related items in it. Intuition guiding him, he kneels down on the floor to pull it out, revealing a pile of discarded clothing. About midway through the box – guess last night was a busy night for the club – he finds the outfit he’d been wearing the day before and neatly folds it, tucking it beneath an arm. ]

Hey, any of these yours?

[ With a grunt, he hefts the box onto the bar surface for Rokurou to peruse. ]

[ Eyes gone narrow in suspicion of that clear lie quickly widen again when Stiles hefts the box onto the bar. Weaving back through scattered chairs and tables, Rokurou leans against the counter and reaches in to shuffle through the goods. Not without giving Stiles another glance, attention flickering to the folded clothing tucked beneath his elbow. ]

Yours? [ hey, if he's a rogue, he could just steal a decent outfit from lost and found, ] So we did meet here. Maybe you were dropping loads of cash on strippers after all, Mr. Regular.

[ The wad of clothing in the box proves to not be any of Rokurou's, not so much as a sandal, and it's soon clear that there are no swords wedged in. Disappointment is palpable; the daemon's bottom lip juts out in quiet sulk as he gives the box's contents another quicker rifle through.

Alas: it's not meant to be. A long-suffering sigh drags from his chest as he pushes the box back, a little bit mad at it for not housing his beloved weapons. ]

You're really not going to tell me what you remember? [ a probing question as he drops his ass down onto a stool and props his elbow onto the bar, resting hand beneath chin. hello, bartender. ] C'mon, c'mon. Was it me being so charming that you couldn't help but be drawn in?

[ Complete with absurd eyebrow waggle. ]

Or did I choke on a potato again?

[ A snort of amusement is all the answer that Rokurou receives in response to the title of “Mr. Regular.” This kind of place doesn’t interest him in the least; he’s watched one too many dramas about the harrowing lives of single-mother sex workers to ever be comfortable at a strip club. Not to mention, the idea of popping a chub over someone dancing for a room full of drunk assholes? Horrifying, in his opinion. Now, unless Itachi were up on stage – doing an exotic dance meant to tease Stiles and Stiles alone – strip clubs just aren’t his cup of tea. It’s almost a relief that he can’t remember his experience at this one, really. Though it does beg the question of what he was doing here.

The box seems not to have Rokurou’s belongings. Offering the daemon an apologetic quirk of the mouth, he returns the box to where he found it before turning back to the man. ]

What do you mean, again? Did you try shoving a whole potato in your face or something? Never mind, I don’t want to know.

[ While it’s tempting to serve a hair of the dog, Stiles instead fills two glasses with water, pushing the first over the bar’s surface to his companion before greedily knocking back most of his. ]

I don’t remember anything important, anyway. And there’s no guarantee that we met here – we might’ve come to the club together from somewhere else. We could try the tattoo place next. They might be open by now, and someone working there would definitely remember if you came in with swords last night.

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