priorcommitment | have yourself a merry little christmas

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have yourself a merry little christmas

Order, like everything else in Ishiah's life, has its place. Life comes too quickly, ever tumultuous, for Ishiah to expect it in all walks, senses increasingly honed over the centuries to pick up on the slightest changes in the wind, but he finds it in the slightest of details, holds them close to his chest. The same mug of coffee whenever he walks into the coffee, testing its strength, stocking enough to offer the patrons who never seem to know their limits, or otherwise insist on testing them day by day. The same pattern with which to wipe the counters, sweeping motions that waste no time, but overlap enough to guarantee cleanliness. It isn't that Ishiah is incapable of change, but instead that it's only during the constants that he manages to relax at all, shoulders losing their tension even while his eyes and gaze are held sharp. All of it, at its core, amounts to little more than a stubborn habit and addiction clung to by a man never meant to walk the earth for so long.

Mornings have turned lazy over recent months, never quite the same, but still a constant. Tangled limbs and reluctant murmurs, a press a back to chest and fingers weaving through hair. Warmth, always, and heated with a kiss.

The break of that constant is always as abrupt as the shattering of glass.

Ishiah adjusts to the gentle rocking of the train car long before his mind is able to process the details, wings appearing in a blinding flash and sword pulled out with the cool slide of metal. It's a mistake immediately felt as the other passengers in the compartment begin to shriek and yell, some clutching sharply to their chests — the only acknowledgment comes in the sharp furrow of Ishiah's brow, confusion in his expression. He should have sensed them, and quickly enough to stay his hand.

Another second, then two, and both wings and sword are put away.

"Illusionist," he offers by way of explanation, jaw tensing as the train starts to slow, pulling into an unfamiliar station.

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For two weeks now, there had been a vendor selling live pine wreaths and other decorative plants for the holidays. This morning, the leftovers are sitting out unattended, with a donation box.

Robin doesn't leave a donation, but he takes some wreathes with him.

He doesn't celebrate Christmas in general, is in fact mildly disgusted by much of the behavior surrounding it (although it had always been a good time for the dealership, what with the need of some people to purchase extravagant gifts) -- but Christmas tradition is anything but tradition. Most of it was forcibly taken from elsewhere, and though Robin can't appreciate the birth of Christ, he can at least appreciate a good immortality symbol when he sees one.

And he can hang it on the door to his bar. Which is, of course, open tonight.

But as he turns to head back into town, he catches sight of something so surprising he could piss himself, and so ironic he could vomit. At the very least, he finds himself standing, gaping and startled, as one of the wreaths under his arms falls to bounce lightly, once, and roll to a stop.

At a pair of feet that belong to Ishiah, though everything in Robin's gut says that they can't. They very probably cannot. Because Robin could not be that supremely lucky.

Or quite so horribly cursed.

The first thing that registers when Ishiah steps off the train is the cold. It's practically a snap compared to the mild weather he'd been experiencing earlier, flakes falling heavy and white as Ishiah stares quickly up into the sky. He wonders, first, how much time he's lost. And then he wonders where he is at all, stepping forward and further out onto the street as he digs his phone from his pocket and flips it open. The network that his phone picks up is different than any Ishiah's accustomed to, outside of the good half dozen plans that he's on, and it makes his eyes narrow further in suspicion.

It's too busy, unfortunately, for him to take flight and get a good look at the place just yet.

"Merry Christmas!" a young girl next to him chirps, causing Ishiah's brows to raise in surprise as he nods his acknowledgment, smiling down at her before slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," he says quietly, before glancing up, feeling the slight brush of attention on his skin.

Robin stands across the street, holding wreaths and dropping one of them. Raising his brows in slight surprise, Ishiah waves a hand in acknowledgment before swiftly crossing the street and bending down to pick up Robin's fallen prize.

"I think I may be suffering from memory loss," he remarks with a furrowed brow, because Robin, for one, looks accustomed to these surroundings.

Clutching the greenery still in his arms to his chest, Robin stares outright at Ishiah until he's crossed the street, and standing near enough to him for Robin to know absolutely that he's real. Reaching a hesitant hand out, he takes the wreath that Ishiah is holding forward and gives a shiver, suddenly and inexplicably cold.

"You are not," he says, nothing hesitant about the words, though the expression on his face has become guarded. "You are suffering from displacement, in space and time. Or near enough to it, so far as I can tell. And you aren't the only one."

The turn in Robin's expression is more obvious from a closer distance, Ishiah's brows furrowing as he crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to shield himself from the cold. It's been a while since Robin's pulled away as obviously as this, and the beginning of the explanation gives Ishiah more than enough reason to pause.

Travel between dimensions usually results in a displacement of time.

But this jump obviously wasn't planned.

"So what is this place? It looks like any other mid-sized, American urban city."

"It is any other mid-sized American city," Robin murmurs, face turning with depressed nausea for only a second, before he raises it again to stare intently at Ishiah's face, devouring the pale skin there, lingering on his lips before he takes a step closer. Something is writ in his eyes that is not quite open enough to be concern

If this is real, and nothing tells Robin that it isn't, then Ishiah is not appropriately dressed to be standing out in the snow dressed to be standing behind a bar.

"Darrow. It functions. Nothing exists to tell me how it functions, or even that it ought to, but it does. Electricity, roads that get salted and plowed, all of the modern conveniences. But why, I can't tell you. What I can tell you, is that there are two kinds of people and two kinds of people alone in Darrow. The kind of people who can leave, and the kind of people who can't leave."

Robin's mouth purses in personal affront before the tension eases slightly from his entire body and he tuts.

"Come on. Let's get you off the street before you catch a draft and croak like a pet parakeet."

It's not enough of an explanation, but it's sufficient for lighting a fire to Ishiah's thoughts as he takes a couple of stuttering steps forward, trailing after Robin without much conscious thought at all. As though there's simply a force that keeps the both of them together, even though everything about Robin's body reads a little more tense than usual. He glances at the people who pass by; while he gets a few glances for his height, it's nothing more than he generally encounters in New York.

"The kind of people who can leave, and the kind of people who can't leave. But you've said nothing about how they arrive, so... are we the kind who can leave, presumably?" Ishiah leans forward and tries to catch Robin's gaze. "Or are you looking at me this way because you haven't been able to find a way out?"

"We are the kind who can't leave," he says, stiffly -- for this is, in part, some of what keeps Robin tense, but he dreads to mention everything else that he knows, absolutely, that he must. If not for his own sake, then for Ishiah's. He does care, however much he does not like to own up to the fact.

"For seven months." Robin sucks a deep breath of cold air into his lungs, to avoid allowing the next words to come out in too acid of a hiss. Meeting Ishiah's storm-gray gaze with his own, he slows his steps and shakes his head slowly side-to-side.

"For seven months, I have been here, and I have not been able to find a way out. Which has led me to believe that there is no way out, and that for whatever reason, I would be spending much more than seven months here, at the least, before one presented itself. Trapped here in this insipid, tiny, pointless crick in my dick city, alone, with nobody to know my name and no hope of rescue from it all."

He listens, suddenly stock still save for the regular steps, left and right, forward and towards a bar whose name gives its ownership away entirely. And that's when it hits. Robin's been trapped, unsure of any out, caught against his will and caged in a place that makes forever seem like a sentence. It doesn't take much to guess at what seven months means, and Ishiah certainly doesn't think that it's taken seven months for Robin to make the decision to reshape his life. His own muscles tense at the thought of being stuck in a city like this one.

It's not right, holding them against their will.

"Wait," he says, shaking out of his concern and brow furrowing as he reaches out to rest his hand on Robin's shoulder, squeezing tight. "I'm here now. Seven months isn't enough time to know that we can't leave. We'll look, we'll scour this city. You shouldn't be talking about being trapped here like it's inevitable."

Even as the copperplate neon letters above the bar come into view, calling out its name in relaxing green like Tiffany glass, he stops at the feel of Ishiah's strong, calloused hand folding over the crisp material of his black wool coat. Robin lets the touch guide him to turn.

He forces a smile, a watery one which eventually fails entirely, like a break in the winter cloud-cover.

"I'm tired of looking, Ishiah. And I've got too much work to do until at least tomorrow morning. Work complicated by your arrival. But."

But there is nothing that Robin wants more than an embrace now, after seven months of absence. To fit his face into the curve of Ishiah's large shoulder and fill his lungs with the smell of his gold hair. And yet, he doesn't feel that he can have any of that. He feels that, perhaps, he doesn't deserve it, and he knows very well why he feels that way. Though he damns the feeling as soon as it strikes him.

"You know, I am truly sorry that you are here. You don't belong here; you, of all people."

There are certain things about Robin that Ishiah will never understand. That particular strain of guilt that threads through him, one spurred by actions that Ishiah himself would never take, and thus could never know — he sees it, weaving through like an angry hot wire, silent and searing. But what he needs to do in order to calm that, Ishiah isn't quite sure; he does his best by standing directly in front of Robin, resting his other hand on the other shoulder, before then smoothing both palms inside along the shoulders, closer to Robin's neck.

"I'm not sorry that I'm here, and you don't belong here any more than I do, but there's no point lingering on that thought right now. I understand that; my arrival was abrupt."

Sighing through his nose, Ishiah dips his chin down a couple of inches, squeezing Robin on either shoulder. "Now, tell me if it would help if I came into work with you, or if you would rather that I wait somewhere else until your shift is over."

Robin gives his own sigh, lengthy and unusually ragged-edged, before letting the familiar squeeze on his shoulders relieve some of the tension in them. Some, but only some.

He hikes the round wreaths further up his forearm as he lifts his hands to wrap around Ishiah's wrists, gentle and uncertain, though there all the same. Not letting him go, certainly not pushing him away.

"Don't. Don't ask what I would want. There are a lot of things that I do deserve, but that consideration isn't one of them. Not right now. You no doubt wouldn't be offering it if you really understood what you were offering. You have to know, Ishiah. That I've not ... that I broke a promise. The one that I made between the two of us."

The warning is delivered with dreadful sincerity -- no wry irony, and certainly no sly jokes.

The fingers wrapped around Ishiah's hands drive him to action, anchoring him there, the heat calling out some of the peri's own with a small flare of air. Tugging against their pull and resting his palms along the lines of Robin's jaw, Ishiah leans forward to press a kiss to Robin's lips. It's barely more than chaste, a dry press of lips and a bump of their noses and a pinch of Robin's lip between his own, but that's all that Ishiah should need right now.

It's not about passion or the reunion — hardly even a reunion by Ishiah's time, anyway. It's about the need for reassurance and a slow, yet constant learning on Ishiah's end to fit himself into those cracks in Robin's disposition.

"I'm not an idiot, though you seem to very much enjoy calling me that on occasion. I know. I know, and I'm still here, and I'm not leaving, and we'll need to have a talk. But your bar needs your attention, and I'm completely unfamiliar with this city. I'd prefer some direction."

The kiss is hardly returned, though certainly not out of lack of desire, or fear. It speaks more volumes than any of Ishiah's words, though they offer just as much a no-nonsense description of Ishiah's immediate thoughts on the matter. Simply, Robin doesn't react but to allow it receptively, only because he wants to enjoy it for what it is, fully and entirely.

He should have suspected. That Ishiah would answer this way. That he would know Robin so much better than even Robin knows himself.

"Well, then," he says, relinquishing his hold on Ishiah's wrists to nod them down the last length of snow-lined dirty sidewalk. He digs through the deep pockets of his coat for the heavy ring of keys to the bar. "This is the direction. And as the lyrics go, there is bound to be talk tomorrow, at least there will be plenty implied. But right now, it's cold outside."

Certainly cold enough to excuse the faint flush warming Robin's complexion.

Ishiah knows the song well enough. He knows the modern controversy that's arisen over its lyrics — he also knows that the lines chosen are relatively tame compared to the rest. He's not entirely sure if there's a deeper reason to Robin's pick of those lyrics. The overarching motivations are always easier for Ishiah to put his finger on than the details, the jokes, the ones Robin will poke at him later for not understanding.

But at least Robin's open to poking fun, even if it's strained.

He watches Robin dig around for keys, reaching forward to help Robin with the wreaths and staring down into the dark, forest green of the needles and leaves.

Struck with a sudden thought, he glances up, brows knit in thought. "Merry Christmas, Robin," he says, a small grin teasing at his lips. "Should I expect for this bar to be modeled after mine, or have I learned from you how to develop an ego?"

Robin gives a grunt at the Merry Christmas, though it is decidedly a fond one. "Yes, Happy Commercialized Winter Retail Holiday yourself." He allows Ishiah to take the wreaths without even an ounce of argument, and gives the lock an imperious look before slipping the key into the slot and pressing the door in with a hip in less than a second.

Shutting it behind both of them, he allows himself to relax just a fraction more, sighing into the warm, dark womb of Semele's, happy to be off the street, and somewhere that their conversation can be more private, and his breath can be had without itchy lungs and cloudy puffs in the chill.

He reaches for his scarf next, looking up, and up, at Ishiah, with one dark brown eyebrow raised. "You can expect and think whatever you would like, but that makes no reflection on the truth. Either way, I know how to run a business, and I know how to keep people wined and dined at precisely the right price. And I mean 'people' as in 'every kind of people.'"

But there is much of Ishiah in the bar, whether Robin would admit it or not -- in the scattered potted plants, and the fat oranges and cream tabby who peeks a head out from the office, purring, at the sound of voices.

Edited 2012-12-26 08:23 (UTC)

Truth be told, his pulse is thrumming. Truth be told, Ishiah's still unsettled, his whole world feels unbalanced, his skin feels just slightly too tight to properly hold him. This city is a place where he can't stretch his wings wide, can't work out all the kinks in his muscles, but Robin is at his side, reason enough to stamp down on any residual panic for the time being.

And he has a great deal to stare at once inside of the bar, wreaths hung over his arm and weighing down on his elbows. It's not the same as the Ninth Circle. The decorations are more ornate, and not all of the labels on the bottles which line along the bar are easily identified — although Ishiah has no doubt that Robin's gone through all of them already, testing for taste, quality.

Ishiah rubs at his cheek nonetheless, and arches a brow at the cat that pads quietly out with a loud, rolling purr.

"A cat who actually looks happy to see me," Ishiah remarks, crouching down and reaching out with a wide hand, wondering at the color of the cat's fur, such a familiar mix to the eye. "There's a change."

"Yes," Robin says dismissively, moving to take the wreaths from Ishiah's arm and then back to the door, to open it and hang one on it in a perfunctory manner before depositing the others on the coat-stand beside that front door, for the time being. "This one is alive, and requires his litter box to be cleaned at least twice a day, and to be fed and watered in the same manner, and large amounts, as you can tell by how damned fat he is."

And the dismissal is almost complete, at least, until Robin recalls what the cat's name is, and the pleasant pink of his face drains quickly. He shakes his head and moves back behind the bar, quickly starting up the two computers to open their POS programs for the day, and then moving to the bottles to make sure nothing is in arrears.

"The staff generally takes care of him. He was named Cambriel." After, of course, the peri who had died, simply because he had been always friendlier than the others to Robin, which had then extended to Caliban.

While Ishiah does little more than let his hand hang in front of the cat, it's enough movement for Cambriel to close the distance between the both of them, licking at Ishiah's long fingers with his rough tongue. He's half tempted to pick the cat up, honestly. Half tempted to just leave the cat be. It's an interesting choice of a name, surely one that serves as a constant reminder to Robin, though Ishiah isn't sure that it's a burden he particularly cares to have Robin bear.

But they all have their crosses. And Cambriel's face isn't one that Ishiah's liable to forget for a very, very long time.

There's enough background noise for Ishiah to focus on as a distraction, but he's not trying hard enough to let it take him away. Instead, he finally reaches out for the cat, picking him up and stepping towards the bar stools, seated with his knees pointed to the side and Cambriel settled in his lap.

"You'd given up on the idea of my coming around," Ishiah remarks. It's not really a question.

"You are mighty sure of yourself."

Finished with his work for half a moment, Robin grabs a glass from under the bar to fill it with a more than generous pour of liquor. He sets it in front of Ishiah, before leaning as well as he can over the broad, dark wood of the bar and pressing a humid kiss to the pale skin below Ishiah's ear, along the tight, smooth skin of a very old scar.

"But that's true enough. I had given up on the idea of any face that I recognized. It seemed too improbable. An infinite of infinities and only one of them is the one that I fit into? I would sooner believe in fucking Santa Claus." He gives a wry snort, looking between Ishiah and the large cat. "But here you are. So maybe I have been a good boy this year. Pity it means we get to suffer together."

Though, complain as he might, Robin is doing typically well for himself, sober and inserted into the local economy, living eternal life on his normal day-to-day basis. But there is a subdued quality to all of it, which certainly proves Ishiah's point.

"Yes," agrees Ishiah with a soft look in Robin's direction, although he lets it flicker away just in time for Robin to press a warm kiss against the line of Ishiah's jaw. Were it touched by anyone else, the peri wouldn't be half as receptive, but with Robin there, it's the very act of filling an old, worn, and familiar void, his eyes sliding closed and content. It goes a great way towards calming frayed nerves.

On his lap, Cambriel purrs, tail flicking lazily from left to right.

"Probability isn't always a direct matter, Robin. There are forces at work that we can never wholly predict, but their choices don't seem arbitrary, simply out of our reach and comprehension. If I'm here, a familiar face out of countless infinities, and arguably within the five closest to you, then I'd like to think there's a reason," muses Ishiah, reaching out for his glass and tilting it along the rim for an easy swirl before taking a small, burning sip. "But I guess you tend not to hope for luck that you can't guarantee. And that, I can't fault."

"I tend not to rely on anything that I can't guarantee," Robin jokes, though there is a very obvious air of self-criticism in the words, drying them out. He moves to the wall by the office, turns on all of the rest of the interior lights, though the bar itself remains dark, as all good bars are.

"I am a pessimist by nature and knowledge. An optimist only by force of will. Lucky then," he says, as he comes to stand beside Ishiah on the other side of the bar, arms folded gently over his chest. "That you are a sure thing. Reason for your being here, I can't guess at, and frankly don't want to. But here you are. And you're welcome to stay here until I can leave here, or to explore town. I honestly don't know which might let you learn more. But you've got an apartment waiting for you, and some money, because our captors are creepy bastards, but thoughtful. And I can get you situationed once I'm not running this place on a holiday skeleton crew."

Edited 2012-12-26 18:52 (UTC)

"Meaning you tend not to rely on anything but yourself and the unreliable nature of man," Ishiah muses, carefully avoiding the brunt of the weight in his words, even though they're strongly felt. He'd like to be a guarantee at some point, someday. But doubt reads so easily in Robin's eyes.

Pausing to let Robin sift through the rest of his thoughts, Ishiah carefully releases Cambriel, who leaps to the floor with a pitiful meow, before reaching out to close his hand around the crook of Robin's elbow in an effort to bring him closer. There are a slew of words that slip out from Robin's mouth, but frankly, frankly, the majority of them aren't necessary. (Although he files away the thought of the apartment and cash, wondering what the mechanism is for offering those to incoming individuals.)

He tugs again, trying to turn Robin around so that he can press the line of Robin's spine to his own chest, wrap around the puck protectively. "It's Christmas," he says, enunciating every word. "I'll stay here to help you at the bar. Just give me a menu and let me know what types of liquor are roughly equivalent to what we have back home."

Giving a grunt of surprise when the large hand closes around his elbow, Robin puts only the exact right amount of struggling resistance into the pull as Ishiah reels him in. Enough to make it look as if he tried, but not enough to do anything more than move his body around a lot, and delay what is inevitable for a few seconds more.

Eventually, as planned, he falls back against Ishiah. The stool is just a little too high for him to slide easily into it without standing on the rungs, but he leans back anyway and ignores the wood digging against the bottom of his ass. It's easy enough, when Ishiah is like a very friendly furnace, despite having walked a few blocks in the winter with too few clothes on.

"So it is Christmas. Which means absolutely less than squat to me, as you well know." And just a slice more, probably, to the people who will show up at Semele's today, which is doubtless why Robin is opening, despite giving most of his staff the day off. "But I'm glad to have your so charitably volunteered help." He pauses, abruptly awkward.

"My apartment is already warm and the bed is already half unmade. And it's mostly clean -- mostly. If you would rather sleep there, just for the night." It's presumptuous. But not on a Robin level of presumptuous, which stands out more than anything.

Edited 2012-12-26 19:08 (UTC)

Ishiah's accustomed to the show of resistance, to Robin trying to fight what he'll inevitably cave to and may even be comforted by. He allows it as one of Robin's less concerning habits, and opts instead to think of Robin caving as more of the compliment than anything else. Indication of how much Ishiah means and how much they've shared now, finally able to put aside thousands of years worth of cutting arguments.

Not that they don't have those at times, still. Robin does very much like to make a point.

"And while Christmas may well not mean very much to me, either, I like the so-called Christmas spirit. I like the idea that there is a day most people are given off from work in order to spend time with their loved ones," Ishiah murmurs, a pleased thrum on his skin as he nudges the tip of his nose against Robin's curls. He hasn't had time to miss Robin, but the same can't be said the other way around. It's Ishiah's job to smooth that over.

Even though he can't quite help the way he tenses at the invitation to Robin's bed. Pausing in thought, he asks, "Will you be joining me?"

Because without Robin in the bed, there's little point.

"It's ridiculous," Robin argues, not content to simply let Ishiah get away with such a statement without comment. But beyond those two words, Robin lets the topic of Christmas drop almost fondly.

He can feel Ishiah's breath in his hair, slow, gentle and warm, and he relaxes -- before stilling, and then pulling away to turn in the other man's grip until he can settle his hands on Ishiah's shoulders. His eyes dart briefly toward the clock, but focus quickly again on the only other person in the building.

"Is that what you want?"

Not an argument, Ishiah retorts silently, stamping down the words if only because he knows that Robin needs to get the last one in, and any extra time spent on the matter will just cause the both of them to swirl for that much longer. It isn't an argument, though. That Christmas has turned into more of a commercial event than anything else doesn't make it ridiculous.

Or maybe it does, but Ishiah still enjoys it nonetheless.

His expression remains carefully even for the rest, for the way Robin's warm pulls away and leaves Ishiah empty-handed, a touch too cold.

"Yes. But that doesn't mean that we can skip our talk, because we definitely still need to have a talk," Ishiah adds, words slow and measured. "A lot can happen in seven months."

"Well, we will talk later. But how later is later?" Robin asks, not, curiously, dithering as he often does in the face of straight questions and straighter answers. He pauses, in where he was moving to the office, to stare at Ishiah from across the small distance. The bar does need to be opened, after all, within the next hour. And Robin must be prepared to do more than his fair share, thanks to whatever possessed him to let employees volunteer for work on the holiday.

"I don't like what I've ended up doing to you. But I did it of my own decision, and I can't change that I did it. Does the motivation mean enough to you?"

"Motivation, rationale, and even nature — everything matters, doesn't it? And nothing is guaranteed to mean enough or doomed to mean too little," Ishiah replies, raising his glass to take another sip, this one deeper, held for a moment in his mouth until the burn sears through, at which point it's swallowed down like so much else in their lives. "I want to talk as soon as you have a reasonable chance, which probably means after work today."

His gaze drops for a second, tracing along the line of the bar. "But you don't need to be worried about the talk, Robin. Not as much as your face suggests that you are, at least."

"All I can say right now is that I haven't done what I've been doing because I found you wanting, or because I wanted more than you, Ishiah. I just told myself that you weren't for me, anymore."

One corner of Robin's mouth quirks up, sheltering a fond smile that has to force itself to stop being longing, stop being a little bitter. There's not a lot of use for longing or bitterness, when what's past is past, and what he has, right now, is Ishiah sitting halfway across the room from him.

Robin closes the distance, leaning forward to press their mouths together. It isn't a dry kiss; it's certainly hungry. But there are no hands, and no doubt that Robin doesn't intend it as anything but a declaration of a desire no less after Ishiah's absence.

There's no hiding the smile that stretches across Ishiah's lips halfway into the kiss, nor is there any stopping the hand that raises to run down the line of Robin's cheek. One wouldn't be able to feel the absence in how easily their lips slot together, but there's something about the kiss that's closed a bit more tightly than usual, and Ishiah knows, he can feel as much as anything else that he's been missing from Robin's side.

So he does pull away from the kiss in time, leveling an even gaze.

"But I am for you. And I will always be for you," Ishiah says, tone plain. "That said, I may not always be around, and if that's the case, I'm not going to hold it against you if you look elsewhere. I want you to be as happy as you can be; you know that. Being miserable on my behalf doesn't serve either of us."

"Strong words," Robin says, but there is a smile beyond the sarcasm that says well enough that it's only there for self-defense. As much as Robin does adore Ishiah -- when he does not hate him with a passion, at least -- conversations like these are tiring. He wasn't made to have them. He wasn't made to stick around long enough to need to.

He appreciates the sentimentality, even as he refuses it.

"You can bartend for me today. The waitstaff is only coming in for four hour shifts and only one at a given time, so I'll be supporting that end of business today, whether I like it or not. We'll be out of here when the kitchen closes at eleven."

"I prefer strong words," Ishiah nods with a brief raise of his brows, as though prepared to judge Robin if need be. The layers are clear enough this time for Ishiah to easily find, his eyes focusing on a softer smile hidden behind sharper words. "They show strength of conviction."

Draining the rest of his glass, Ishiah easily stands and rounds the counter, immediately heading towards the nearest sink to wash out his glass. His eyes dart over the bottles, many of the labels clear, certain liquids colored much like liquors he knows from home. But, just in case.

"Some of these brands are unfamiliar. Do you have time to run over them with me?" Ishiah peers in Robin's direction. "Or do you expect me to sample them all?"

"Normally, I would prefer for you to sample them all personally." The look that Robin gives to Ishiah is positively gleeful -- he has just realized that, in addition to whatever else Ishiah means to him, he is, of course, one of Robin's more favorite toys. "But on such a short notice, you will just have to trust your instinct and my advice, if you should need it."

"Relax," he says, moving closer to slip his palms into Ishiah's front jean pockets. "It's Christmas. They are bound to be charitable, or to quickly be too drunk to care. Forget or celebrate, that's what a holiday is all about. But you're not getting away from the tasting. Eventually. The food, and the booze."

He can't help the smile that spreads over his face, exhaling quietly as his back arches to press flush against Robin's chest. Shaking the most of the water off of his hands, Ishiah reaches down to weave his fingers with Robin's, squeezing tight. "I'll keep a shot glass on me just in case someone asks for something I haven't tried," Ishiah muses, tilting his head in thought. Even if patrons are bound to be more forgiving, that doesn't mean that Ishiah wants to take advantage in any way. It's not in his nature.

Delivering a good quality product is key.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ishiah raises an eyebrow. "It sounds like you want to make a night out of it. Tasting. With wine."

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have yourself a merry little christmas

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