Enoch watches her squint at the cucumber gimlet, and looks both pleased and surprised by Crysta's assessment. His illusions are getting better, after staying nearly stagnant for the past couple of years. And if he compares what's changed in that time...
"I'm concentrating. But not as hard as I used to." He grabs a napkin and begins cleaning his section of the bar, another thing he picked up from watching Parson. "I've been following your advice. Focusing less on making everything seem real, and more... I don't know. The approximate image of a thing. The feeling of it."
"Cool." It's impossible to not smile a little smugly, and flip her hair over her shoulder, because it's one of the few times that she's ever been proven right. This also means that Enoch took something she said seriously, which she's not used to quite yet. That's not the important part, she knows. This opens the door for Enoch's apparitions to be truly powerful, with his level of detail and this added flexibility. Soon, her brother would be able to construct his own reality, and it would probably be terrifying.
But for now, she simply produces a flask of finer gin than she'd provided to the party at large from her little bag, as though she'd been expecting a meeting with the only person who could appreciate, and makes the drink real. And then, Crysta stares wistfully at it and heaves a sad sigh. "Well if that's working, then why isn't my drink pink yet, bartender?"
Enoch lets go of the illusion when Crysta produces her flask, which should leave him plenty of brainpower for this next request. It should be, theoretically, an easy thing to do, far easier than making club soda taste like gin. But even as he imagines it, sorting through the various shades of pink in his mental catalogue, he can't help but think that it makes sense for something that looks like a cucumber gimlet to taste like a gimlet, but not for something that looks like a cucumber gimlet to not look like a gimlet.
Crysta's drink becomes Cosmopolitan pink, setting off the green of the cucumber-and-lime garnish, then abruptly turns back to its original colour after barely two seconds. Enoch sighs in frustration. "It's not supposed to be pink."
It's only a drink that won't go pink, really, but Crysta's seen Enoch languish about roles he's supposed to fulfill, and benchmarks he's supposed to reach long enough that the corners of her eyes wrinkle. It's when he does what he isn't supposed to do that he feels most like himself, to her. It's when he defies things that aren't meant to be defied, like their mother, or normal laws of physics that she thinks he might be happy.
She shoves the flask at him, too, in case he'd like to re-make the gimlet for himself. "Respectfully? Fuck supposed to." Crysta says, like it's the most obvious conclusions in the world. "They're your illusions. The only rules that matter there are your own."
Edited (maybe one day i will read a tag before i press send today is not it x2) 2023-12-31 04:08 (UTC)
Enoch looks sharply at his sister. She makes it sound so simple. There's a confidence in her voice that he wants to dissect, to see if it comes from stupid rebelliousness or a genuine belief in his abilities, or maybe just scorn of his limitations.
His fingers tap against the bar with a hint of impatience. No... not that. Crysta knows him, even better now that they've been working together. And he knows her. They might not ever say so without masking it in irony, but he trusts her, and he suspects she trusts him too.
"I need a shot," he says, and sniffs the gin in Crysta's flask with a grimace. He fills the shaker with ice again. "It's easier not to think when I'm inebriated."
Crysta pretends like she doesn't see his glance, so as not to have to explain the momentary enthusiasm, which is probably too revealing for their current sobriety levels. Possibly it's best she and the rest of Enodia aren't stuck in the universe of Enoch's mind's own creation, as that couldn't be pleasant for any of them. It's just something she thinks he could do if he tried. Or expressly surrendered, and didn't try, wherein lies the issue, of course.
"That's gin." She informs him, helpful forever, "If the sheer stubborness of your brain requires more immediate action, I taped little shooter bottles to the undersides of all the barstools to taunt people later."
Enoch laughs, the kind of startled snort-laugh that happens when you're trying very hard to not even smile at your sister. Dammit. "You are so unbelievably annoying," he declares, and reaches under the nearest barstool to retrieve a mini bottle of apple-flavoured Crown Royal. "Ugh. Horrendous." But he tips the whole bottle into his shaker and pours it out as a shot, not bothering with any mixers beyond ice.
He drinks the Crown Apple shot in one go, and gives Crysta his most severe, humourless expression in an attempt to counter the smugness on her face. "And what's under your chair?"
Being called annoying is the only love language she's known, ever. It's the least aggressive taunt, and clearly he doesn't mean it all the way. She manages to look pleased about it while still exhaling the world's most long-suffering sigh. "You said you needed a shot, and then I provided that shot? I'm actually incredibly useful and I deserve more credit?"
He will be able to ping that entirely as a lie, but Crysta didn't think about filtering it. She's too busy digging around under her chair to unstick a tiny Fireball bottle and sighs even longer. "I thought this was the tequila chair."
Enoch groans at the sight of the Fireball. "Bloody hell, you are trying to kill us." His evil choices are to stay sober, or drink nothing but the most disgusting novelty liquors tonight. But his personal standards have fallen steadily ever since Crysta came to Enodia, so really, this is a fitting way to kick off the new year.
He surveys the selection of mixers for a suitable match for the Fireball, and picks out a carton of seasonal eggnog. He wiggles it at Crysta. "You're drinking a shot." Surely this counts as appreciation for all of her efforts?
This time, it's Crysta who lets out a soft, despairing groan. "That's dairy, knock." She whines, because some habits passed to her are not so easily shaken. But she's nothing but a good sport, most of the time, and it's only fair to play by the rules of her own game. So she takes the eggnog, pours some into a glass to prepare for a chaser, and then neatly raises the little to her brother.
"But this is fitting, for one more year of somehow not killing each other outright, isn't it?" She looks like she's about to say something even more wistful and revelatory, but instead just swallows the entire teeny bottle in one artful chug.
Enoch raises his (empty) glass in return. "We still have a couple hours until midnight. Don't underestimate me," he says lightly, even though they both know he has no intention of harming Crysta, or vice versa. All things considered, it does feel like a minor miracle that they made it to the end of the year without incident. But neither of them make a habit of venturing out into the Riftlands.
He folds his arms as he leans forwards on the bar, staring at Crysta's cucumber gimlet. It's just an image. An idea. But "pink" is too abstract a concept, and so he envisions a measure of cranberry juice, mixing with the clear liquid. Artificially sweetened to cover up the sourness, but still with that bitter aftertaste.
The gimlet transforms into a soft pink, and holds.
She does take the eggnog chaser dutifully, but shudders. Weird drink for a weird night, though. There were still enough close calls that it feels like a big accomplishment to be sitting here with her brother, alive, on New Year's Eve. Last year, she remembers, unbidden, that in a strange attempt at a resolution, she'd deleted both of her brothers' numbers entirely from her phone, and their group chat, certain she'd never want to be reminded of the messages there or talk to Enoch again. New Years' resolutions really are stupid. Here they are, one little year later, her brother making her an impossible pink gimlet.
It's pretty. Her eyes light up. "Now was that so hard?" She chides. Crysta doesn't drink it yet. She has to let the eggnog settle. So almost casually, she squints again, and begins to re-constitute the cucumber slice. It's slow-going. Healing still is so much more annoying than destruction, knitting every cell together, one by one, piece by piece. She wants to show him he was right to have confidence in her, too. It wasn't misplaced, this time.
It wasn't hard, actually, but Enoch refuses to admit that when Crysta looks so inexplicably smug over his little success. He's still trying to think of a cutting remark when he notices Crysta get that focused look like she's puzzling through something complicated. There, a subtle movement in her drink.
To anyone else, the pink would obscure what's happening in the glass, but Enoch can see through his illusions and Crysta can see right down to the cellular level, to the crushed cucumber. There's something... fun about this moment, with the both of them focusing their powers on the same place, at the same time.
"Alright, showoff." He means to praise her knowledge and control, but what comes out of his mouth instead is: "You seem happy."
Crysta looks up, half a cucumber wheel re-constituted, eyes narrowing like she's been cornered all of a sudden. Perhaps through the lens of everyone else in the world, you seem happy might be a kind thing to say, but to her it feels like an accusation, immediately meant to be rebuffed. Unfortunately, he's right. She's happier than she's been, perhaps ever. But it feels like if she says that out loud, someone, even if it's not Enoch, because she's no longer sure it would be, would hear this conversation and create a wave of new grief, a storm of fresh doubt. Crysta gives a casual shrug, not confirming or denying.
Enoch straightens instinctively. Crysta is right to be offended; he'd spoken without thinking, but they both know that being happy is a weakness. The mark of a simple mind who doesn't realise that the moment you become complacent is exactly the moment you're most at risk of losing everything you've worked for.
He knows she's telling the truth. He's laughed more, argued less, relaxed rules he used to hold as absolute, and he feels like an idiot for it. Accepting happiness is a personal failure—or a professional one, essentially the same thing to him. What has he accomplished this year that he should feel happy with his life?
He won't apologise. That would be even worse. But he does look away, which is tantamount to admitting defeat. "It's a temporary state," Enoch says. True, according to his powers, but there's an ache at the thought. He doesn't want it to end for Crysta. She deserves to enjoy the moment.
She feels a moment of regret, rare but present, at pointing out this moment of weakness in them both. Crysta doesn't want Enoch's happiness to be temporary. He's worked hard for it. And even if he hadn't, he deserves it. Which goes against everything she knows and believes about happiness as a state at all, but if there was ever an exception, it should be for him.
"I know." She concedes, carefully picking her way around words like she's afraid he'll start to sabotage his own happiness right now, in this moment. She shifts her drink around and allows more skin to grow on the cucumber, not meeting Enoch's eyes. "It's like. A little bit your fault."
Which sounds like an accusation, like he deserves to suffer in that knowledge, but it's actually the most embarrassing truth she's ever admitted. She's happy because he's there.
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enodia_ic2023-12-29 08:04 pm
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
"I'm concentrating. But not as hard as I used to." He grabs a napkin and begins cleaning his section of the bar, another thing he picked up from watching Parson. "I've been following your advice. Focusing less on making everything seem real, and more... I don't know. The approximate image of a thing. The feeling of it."
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
But for now, she simply produces a flask of finer gin than she'd provided to the party at large from her little bag, as though she'd been expecting a meeting with the only person who could appreciate, and makes the drink real. And then, Crysta stares wistfully at it and heaves a sad sigh. "Well if that's working, then why isn't my drink pink yet, bartender?"
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
Crysta's drink becomes Cosmopolitan pink, setting off the green of the cucumber-and-lime garnish, then abruptly turns back to its original colour after barely two seconds. Enoch sighs in frustration. "It's not supposed to be pink."
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
She shoves the flask at him, too, in case he'd like to re-make the gimlet for himself. "Respectfully? Fuck supposed to." Crysta says, like it's the most obvious conclusions in the world. "They're your illusions. The only rules that matter there are your own."
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
His fingers tap against the bar with a hint of impatience. No... not that. Crysta knows him, even better now that they've been working together. And he knows her. They might not ever say so without masking it in irony, but he trusts her, and he suspects she trusts him too.
"I need a shot," he says, and sniffs the gin in Crysta's flask with a grimace. He fills the shaker with ice again. "It's easier not to think when I'm inebriated."
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
"That's gin." She informs him, helpful forever, "If the sheer stubborness of your brain requires more immediate action, I taped little shooter bottles to the undersides of all the barstools to taunt people later."
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
He drinks the Crown Apple shot in one go, and gives Crysta his most severe, humourless expression in an attempt to counter the smugness on her face. "And what's under your chair?"
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
He will be able to ping that entirely as a lie, but Crysta didn't think about filtering it. She's too busy digging around under her chair to unstick a tiny Fireball bottle and sighs even longer. "I thought this was the tequila chair."
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
He surveys the selection of mixers for a suitable match for the Fireball, and picks out a carton of seasonal eggnog. He wiggles it at Crysta. "You're drinking a shot." Surely this counts as appreciation for all of her efforts?
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
"But this is fitting, for one more year of somehow not killing each other outright, isn't it?" She looks like she's about to say something even more wistful and revelatory, but instead just swallows the entire teeny bottle in one artful chug.
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
He folds his arms as he leans forwards on the bar, staring at Crysta's cucumber gimlet. It's just an image. An idea. But "pink" is too abstract a concept, and so he envisions a measure of cranberry juice, mixing with the clear liquid. Artificially sweetened to cover up the sourness, but still with that bitter aftertaste.
The gimlet transforms into a soft pink, and holds.
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
It's pretty. Her eyes light up. "Now was that so hard?" She chides. Crysta doesn't drink it yet. She has to let the eggnog settle. So almost casually, she squints again, and begins to re-constitute the cucumber slice. It's slow-going. Healing still is so much more annoying than destruction, knitting every cell together, one by one, piece by piece. She wants to show him he was right to have confidence in her, too. It wasn't misplaced, this time.
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
To anyone else, the pink would obscure what's happening in the glass, but Enoch can see through his illusions and Crysta can see right down to the cellular level, to the crushed cucumber. There's something... fun about this moment, with the both of them focusing their powers on the same place, at the same time.
"Alright, showoff." He means to praise her knowledge and control, but what comes out of his mouth instead is: "You seem happy."
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
"And?" She fires back, instead. "You do too."
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
He knows she's telling the truth. He's laughed more, argued less, relaxed rules he used to hold as absolute, and he feels like an idiot for it. Accepting happiness is a personal failure—or a professional one, essentially the same thing to him. What has he accomplished this year that he should feel happy with his life?
He won't apologise. That would be even worse. But he does look away, which is tantamount to admitting defeat. "It's a temporary state," Enoch says. True, according to his powers, but there's an ache at the thought. He doesn't want it to end for Crysta. She deserves to enjoy the moment.
DRY BAR: Enoch & Crysta
"I know." She concedes, carefully picking her way around words like she's afraid he'll start to sabotage his own happiness right now, in this moment. She shifts her drink around and allows more skin to grow on the cucumber, not meeting Enoch's eyes. "It's like. A little bit your fault."
Which sounds like an accusation, like he deserves to suffer in that knowledge, but it's actually the most embarrassing truth she's ever admitted. She's happy because he's there.