tampered | Log; Ongoing

Log; Ongoing

When; 10/2 (late night at the ball)
Rating; PG-13? (language, and maybe more)
Characters; John Constantine (

silkcutremix), The Corinthian (

bitingnightmare)
Summary; a tour through the ground's gardens for a breath of fresh air, and to avoid the amorous advances of angels or demons
Log;
The hedge maze wasn't quite expansive as those one might see in their world. It was rounded with a center fountain, lined with benches, stone and dirt path, harboring secluded shadowed alcoves. One could smoke or trade shots of vodka out there undiscovered, untouched by the scent of aphrodisiac, though one could also question how long that spice stayed in the system after inhalation, and they both had had a brief sample. Maybe some fresh night air would clear the senses, cool the tingling (or just enhance it). Why the hedge maze indeed.

"Word gets around you're into secrets and mysteries," he upnodded to the maze, "what's at the end of that one?"

It wasn't a trick question, really. The Corinthian reached into his pocket for his third pair of shades then lifted his mask off his head, getting a little stuffy under there.

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"What else would you expect from a party hosted by a pack of prats?"

That was a rhetorical question; a slight curiousity picked at him, but, aw shit, he had a feeling it would be something else. Always getting distracted, always...

Just take whatever as it comes. He thought best at the last moment.

He thought about what Morpheus had said earlier, Morpheus who was now at the mercy of a particular angel, not that The Corinthian was privvy to such details. He considered John behind his black sunglasses for a moment, self-embittering blonde magic man. Sometimes the guy just had to loosen up. Admittedly the nightmare was at fault for the tense situation from only days ago.... Did he feel a need to apologize, or just roll with the punches and move on?

"Come on, old man," he regarded the other with a faint smirk and offered him a cigarette before walking down the path to the first row of hedges.

A slow smile crept across the weathered features, and the magus seized the fag from his fingers gingerly, lighting up. The maze appeared to engulf them as they entered on steady, slow feet, two men framed in the night.

"'Old man,' eh?" Constantine took a good, relaxing drag. "What does that make you then?"

The nightmare sparked a light for his own cigarette as well, puffing to the side. His mask settled on the back of his neck then, he was looking more like some sort of escapee from a Renaissance Faire than a nightmare. In general he liked the attire but much preferred the comfort of his jeans, the leather hugged in all the right places however it was high maintenance. Right then, he glanced aside to the Englishman thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure, time's been pretty good to me though," said The Corinthian with a brush of fingertips to his own chin. Nice pale moonlit profile, the face of a man with eyes that clearly said otherwise.

Another heh. They continued to stroll.

"So what brought you out here? Didn't think this kind of shite would be your game. Woulda' went with you otherwise."

The aphrodisiac was a peaceful buzz, a little suggestion, at the back of his mind. Easy to ignore, hard to dismiss completely.

"I had to talk to someone," he nodded, "my maker. That setback in the bathroom, he came to help."

John may have known, being a resident of the apartment, but The Corinthian wasn't sure if Morpheus had even come to him in reality or just in his dreams, to soothe the explosion in his head. He exhaled again to the left, feeling a little prickle of that spiced perfume under his leathers, under his skin. Easy to ignore, surely, but hardly something he wanted to dismiss completely. The nightmare raised his cigarette, sleeves falling back to reveal the fading red stripes on his wrist, once almost resembling ligature marks.

"No hard feelings," he asked John, serious but still casual. He knew what he had done was a mistake, but he did not regret storming that prison in ana ttempt to liberate the magus.

"Figures your pop wants to have a word. Must be a helluva' father." Constantine eyed his cigarette for a moment, thinking about his own. The chop of memory at the coffee stain, the rest of his childhood buried away somewhere in England, brought him back to reality. No time to wallow in that wreck.

During the Corinthian's bout of insanity, the magus had taken up his usual vices and stayed with him in the apartment, although in a drunken smoked haze that helped dull the madness trickling along in miserable spurts. Poor bastard. The marks along the nightmare's wrist was a petty reminder.

The rescue? He did not want to get started on that bleedin' fiasco.

"No hard feelings if you help me clean the damn place up." John was not grinning, but smiling.

Leave it to Constantine to call things as they were. Yes Morpheus was practically his father, formed by his hands on the shores of Corinth, taught by the former Dream King, led to the waking world by his hand. He was like an estranged father, something he didn't know John could relate to, although the nightmare had a feeling Thomas Constantine was not a particularly kind individual. He recalled Charles in a brief glimpse, the twin who couldn't kill until The Corinthian came to Venice.

"Not the best, but I can't deny who he is," he shook his head and took a heavy pull from the cigarette.

Hn, he looked at John curiously. It was a reaction he appreciated, one he was told not to expect from the Englishman. There were truths Morpheus revealed, but they were only words, nothing written in stone.

"I wouldn't let you scrub that shit out alone," Cori, as he was called by the magus, a name he accepted now, returned the smile with one of his own. A rare expression.

Now there was a moment, the two of them surrounded by green and night, the moon shining on the pairs of teeth. Two figures in the hedges, content with one another. A love-hate relationship it was, but on either side Constantine had enjoyed the nightmare's company. More than he thought he would, even; misery shared, he supposed, whatever that might be. Bloody City wouldn't be the end of him, he would be sure of that.

Almost he could see a queer little ape face in the moon.

"Great then. You fucked it up pretty bad."

A love-hate relationship, a relationship nonetheless. Sometimes he believed their gravitation towards each other had everything to do with what they had in common, a rebel streak, the defiant smirk, nothing more than a silent countenance over tragedy. He struggled to reconcile what he was with what he wanted to do. The City wouldn't be the end of him either, and neither would he allow it to be the end of John Constantine.

"I don't know my own strength," the nightmare said with a casual shrug, but his tone of voice held an undercurrent of suggestion.

There was an alcove of shadow and green up ahead with a semi-circle milky white marble bench tucked away. He tossed his finished cigarette to the stone path and ground it out under his toe. No need to set fire to the bloody place, he didn't hate those angels or anything of the sort.

Constantine had already discarded his own ciggie. He too did not want to start a fire, although for different reasons; he planted his little seed of trouble elsewhere, obviously. Besides, it was peaceful, and the rest of him wasn't screaming for a mad fuck. Large as that place may have been, the costumes, the masks, the attire, it made him cramped, somehow. Strange, given his time in London and all the shitty, tiny flats he had to bear with. Coming upon the bench, John paused and glanced at Cori, a silent cue.

"Care for a sit?"

A party was great now and then, if one kept the nature of it in within public knowledge, such as that film screening the nobleman had advertised.The prats who organized this entire event and the majority of its attendees had made the nightmare feel cramped. He did enjoy a little celebration, however odd the occasion being celebrated, and he certainly had a soft spot for masking that came from another time... But the people, the aphrodisia, it was all a ruse, as usual. That explained his fondness for staying outside, for leading the magus out with him. It was quiet here, lacking the pretentious emotions and acts put on by those inside the mansion.

"Yeah," The Corinthian answered the other and settled on the marble bench. His leather coat flared out under him, a little cumbersome for something so fashionable. "Do you really think I look like a ponce," he asked John with a smirk, though it was not another trick question.

Constantine allowed the nightmare a seat first before joining him. Courtesy or something of the sort, not like that it mattered. They were informal enough. That thing Cori wore suggested enough: Fashionable, but far from the frilly nonsense. That, and Constantine might have considered himself a bit uncouth but no need to admit that to the world.

Instead, a grin had pulled at the magus' cheeks in return. "And do you really think I should bother answering that?"

Courtesy? As long as it didn't suggest something dated like ladies first or any of that dead chivalric nonsense. Informal was right, despite his classy gear the nightmare sat unlike a gentleman, seams squeaking once as he shifted on the marble surface. Hmm, he arched a brow at the other and returned the cheeky grin.

"There's a difference between being one and looking like it," The Corinthian offered his retort then leaned back slightly, hands on the outer edge of the bench. "Should have brought the JD with me," he mentioned, "I don't trust what you're packing."

The magus' expression went almost sly. "Oh? How can you be so sure?" There was a little bit of the vodka left. He wasn't sure if he was saving it for some other occassion where a little... color was necessary or wanting to see the effects for himself, even if it meant caves inbetween a reclined stone woman's legs or leylines and blood.

Then again, scratch the latter.

"About the ponce thing or what you're packing," he asked the magus to clarify with a smirk.

He let the leather coat fall down his shoulders and arms so that he might remove yet another cigarette from his pack of smokes. Was the nightmare always such a chain smoker? Or was he picking up dangerous habits... Fortunately he wasn't susceptible to the long term effects of such poison, unlike his companion here who'd beaten the sickness once anyway. Still, The Corinthian offered the cigarette to John.

Constantine reached into his coat and produced the small vial with a little of the enchanted drink swishing around inside it, enough for one or two sips. Peculiar it was to see him not take a cigarette at that moment; his tar-stained lungs already were tightening in anticipation of another fix. Would the nightmare accept the exchange?

"One or the other, 'less you wanna' take a swig and see how much unlike a ponce you can be."

That sounded like a challenge to him, ol'Cori could smell it a mile away, and yet he was more than willing to accept. Maybe it had something to do with Constantine's refusal of a cigarette, a feat in itself. Hmm, he puffed on the stick of Mild Seven and blew the smoke just under John's chin, warm and scented of tobacco. The nightmare smiled a sly one.

"You want to see what I'm made of," he concluded and gestured for John to hand over the concoction.

A cigarette for what could possibly a fucking amusing moment, or night. With the warm temptation tenderly stroking that stubbly chin, let's see.

"Well, well then." Constantine handed the vial over without no hesistation, eyes on shades. "Show me."

He handed his cigarette off to the magus then. Granted it wasn't a Silk Cut but nicotine was nicotine, and a fix was a fix. After all, what would John do if the brand were to suffer a stock market slay, doomed to close up shop and deny the man his white carton with the gold and purple label? Painful tragedies aside, The Corinthian accepted the switch. He raised the vial to his lips, glanced to the Englishman out the corner of his eyes briefly, then took a generous dose of the laced liquid.

"....." He swallowed twice to quel the burn over drinking the thing undiluted, "a little bitter."

What an interesting feeling. He offered the vial back to John, but found himself using the gesture to sort of lean on the man's shoulder.

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Log; Ongoing

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