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Entry tags:

food fantasy: steak

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Who: Steak & Red Wine, Steak & Qrow.
When: Throughout the month, before the excursion event
Where: Aefenglom, The Wilde
What: Arguments, drinking, and general shenanigans during Steak's no good very bad month.
Warnings: Anger, violence, alcohol

— closed. red wine.

[ Every morning, once Red Wine wakes up, whatever peace Steak has found disappears. Once upon a time, it would be nothing more than the promise of being annoyed by this bastard's needless fussing, the constant complaining about sunlight and sweating, but now...

Now, the anger which burns inside him is something else entirely. Poison, potent and growing with each passing day. It sizzles under his skin, a persistent itch he can't satisfy, no matter how long he spends sparring and training. No matter how often his thoughts pull back to the executions earlier in the month.

It wasn't enough.

His fingers curl into the counter until they go white when the thought strikes, as violently as the spell which left his back scarred. It wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

He swears, an exclamation from the depths of his throat, and slams his head against the wall, as though that will manage to erase the strange venom of uncharacteristic thoughts. ]

— closed. qrow.

[ He prefers drinking out of celebration, but tonight he's restless and his body already aches from a day's work, leaving the Wilde out of the question.

So Steak finds himself — tentacles, newly formed ears, and all — in a bar near the harbour, pushing his way through people to get to the bar. ]

Is anyone sitting here?

[ He levels the question at a stranger next to an empty seat, tentacles already spreading across the stool in a clear sign that he intends to take it if they're not. ]

— notes.

[ If you want something specific, you can hit me up at isanghae / isanghae#8071 to discuss! ]

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[And Red Wine has been, perhaps blissfully, entirely unaware of the effects that his internal turmoil have been having on his bondmate. With his usual tactic of keeping the majority of his problems to himself until it's necessary to make them somebody else's business, he hasn't made any moves to talk about his feelings to anybody.

Meanwhile, the festering anger at everything in this place has been slowly but surely poisoning the mind of the one person guaranteed to be able to keep him sane.

It was never just the kidnappings, though the outcome of it was undoubtedly the catalyst. It's the complete lack of control that he has here, over everything that is happening to him. The sensation of a lack of purpose. The bloodlust that is now more real and present than it ever was, and what it means.

He walks into the kitchen to the sight of Steak smacking his head into the wall.]

... That's no way to deal with a headache. [He says mildly, crossing the room to rinse out a glass at the sink.] If you put a dent in the wall, you can explain to Caren how it happened.

Edited 2020-02-16 13:34 (UTC)

[ No one ever said these two were good at talking about their problems. It may just be a side effect of knowing each other for so long that talking things out often seems superfluous when you so often reach the same conclusions.

... Or, perhaps, it's that 97% of all conversation between the two of them devolves into bickering and fighting.

But right now? Right now it's because the anger inside Steak, the one which doesn't belong to him, makes him want to be almost anywhere else but in a locked space with Red Wine. When the familiar footsteps precede the even more obvious critique of his actions, Steak groans, frustration flaring inside of him.

Frustration which is, at least, entirely his own. Frustration at the new limbs, the new shape of his horns, the changes to his ears and the constant, constant pulling between two natures which have never before belonged to him. Frustration at Red Wine and the months of his transformation eating at both of them.

Frustration at the fact that this is the only thing he feels which is his own any more. ]

You want me to kill you?

[ Because that would deal with his headache quite effectively. ]

I'm already dead. [Red Wine replies blithely, having become used to that part of this transformation with far more ease than much of the rest of it. Enough to make off-colour jokes about it, at least.

He sets the cleaned glass aside and turns, resting back against the edge of the counter with his arms loosely folded below his ribs. He's sure that he's never going to get used to the way that Steak looks now, no more than he's ever going to be used to seeing what looks back at him in a mirror, but at least Red Wine's physical appearance has been left largely unmolested. Should anyone else from Tierra arrive now, it would take some explanation...]

What's wrong with you this time?

[ Not dead enough, clearly.

Steak lifts his head from the wall and rolls it to look at Red Wine, heavy and silent, the dark glare he levels at Red Wine entirely unlike anything he would usually throw his way. ]

As if you don't know.

[ The words are growled out, and Steak is all too quiet in the way he responds. There's no yelling, no snapping or quickness. He pushes himself from the wall like it takes effort to do.

Red Wine has become a lightswitch for his anger in the last couple of weeks, and where he once would have said that was normal, it no longer is. None of this feels right. ]

I'm sure I don't.

[But this isn't like Steak. He's too quiet, too level in his anger, and Red Wine's ears prick up slightly. The palm of his hand itches suddenly, and there's the peculiar awareness of the lack of the weight of his sword at his hip.

Why would he need it?

His eyes flicker up and down Steak's body, taking in his posture, how ready he looks to launch into a fight. He grips the edge of the counter with pale hands and frowns, shaking his head.]

Just what am I supposed to know?

[ It isn't, and the worst part of it is that it doesn't even feel good, or cathartic. This doesn't clear anything from Steak's head, but instead feeds it, the thing hanging over his head as heavily as the smoke from the fires did. ]

Stop lying.

[ Red Wine has to know why Steak's behaving this way. Everything about it lies on Red Wine's shoulders, after all, in the anger he's broadcasting like a beacon to the Soul he's bonded to.

He grabs Red Wine by the collar, another movement which is all too common but all too wrong right now, without any of the usual grumbles or fire behind it. Not even a why, you. ]

[No, this isn't right, and Red Wine knows it immediately. After all, who has known this Food Soul for longer than he has? He grips Steak's wrist but doesn't try to yank himself free, belatedly realising that the instinct to ensure he's still able to breathe is an entirely unnecessary one.

Steak can grip his collar as hard as he likes - Red Wine doesn't need to worry about it.]

You're acting like a fool.

[And it does nothing but add a spike of irritation to the undercurrent of toxic fury in Red Wine's mind.]

I am not going to fight with you here.

[ Does he really want to fight Red Wine, or just to hit something? To do something which will finally silence all this rage he's been carrying.

All this rage that isn't his own, which he could just get rid of if he got rid of Red Wine.

... Maybe the bastard was right. He was too fond of him. ]

This is your fault, Red Wine.

[ He knows it is, because it's only when Red Wine's asleep that Steak feels any measure of peace any more. ]

[He can feel it like a vicious feedback loop with Steak so close, with the contact, but it still isn't clear to him where all of this is coming from.]

What is my fault? Your apparent inability to control your ridiculous temper?

[And this time, he does try to pull Steak's hand off him, because how dare he.]

[ Red Wine has always been strong, but Steak has only grown stronger since his form began changing, and the cycling, increasing anger just makes it easier to tap into that here and now. ]

Why the hell are you so angry?!

[ The question is blurted out before Steak really realises what he's saying, but he stands by it nonetheless, even if he has a decent guess at just why. This, all of this anger, boils down to Red Wine's emotions affecting both of them, and it has been since the kidnappings, the rescues.

So why the hell isn't he noticing it? ]

[That stops him where he is, his fingernails digging into Steak's hand and his sharp teeth bared. He stares uncomprehendingly for a moment, his expression barely readable, then he thumps hard against Steak's chest with a clenched fist.]

You really need to ask me that? [Red Wine snaps, hitting out at him again.]

Why do you think, Steak? Why do you fucking think?

[ Fighting doesn't always help, but when Red Wine's fist hits his chest, he's almost relieved. The weight crushing down on his lungs begins to lift as he drops his hand from Red Wine's collar and levels his own punch towards Red Wine's ribs in return. ]

It's over. [ He inhales sharply, words firm. The perpetrators were captured, tried and sentenced. It can't undo the things that happened to Caren and the others, but they can't keep dwelling on it.

Or stewing in Red Wine's anger together. ]

No it's not. No it isn't.

[And he doesn't so much as trip over his words when Steak hits him, because there's no breath in him for the impact to rob him of. He steps hard on Steak's foot, kicks at his shin, shoves him away and wrenches out of his grip, walking to the other side of the room with his ears pricked up and his hands firmly clasped together at chest height.

Maybe he doesn't know why. Maybe he's just giving Steak too much credit.]

It isn't over, and it's never going to be over.

[ He's endured worse attacks, from Red Wine as much as the countless enemies they've faced during their lifetime, but he still yelps as his foot is crushed beneath Red Wine's heel. ]

Bastard!

[ God, the anger refuses to leave, but now there's a panic which isn't his that courses through him, driving him to move forward, following Red Wine with thundering steps, hands reaching for his shoulders. ]

Learn to handle it!

[ Steak always was one for the most simplistic solutions available. ]

Your anger is poisonous!

[ To Steak as much as Red Wine himself. ]

Don't touch me!

[The words come out too loud, pitched up into a near-shriek and he moves swiftly out of Steak's reach, hands clenched and shaking at his sides. Uncharacteristic, sharp panic spikes up and drowns out anything that he might feel in return.]

You asked for this, Steak. You wanted this, and if it's too much for you then we can end it.

[He rakes his hands through his hair, shaking it free of the ribbon holding it back and catching the slim length of fabric around one hand. So long-- so long of just keeping his worries to himself, and he can't keep them from crashing out of him like storm waves.]

And I'll handle it by myself.

[ It's a terrible feedback loop, each piece of conflict just feeding the emotions which keep echoing between the two, louder and louder.

But Steak knows Red Wine better than anyone else, and Red Wine doesn't shriek, he doesn't fall apart like this. The emotions claw at Steak, doing their damnedest to pull him down, to make his knees buckle.

But Red Wine's voice keeps echoing in his mind, each loop a strike which aches more than Red Wine's attempts to get away from him. In absence of anything else to grab, Steak's hands rake through his hair, and there's nothing but the sound of a long, shaking breath as it hisses out through his teeth. ]

... Dammit, Red Wine.

[ It's exhausted, a barely whispered thing as his head tips towards the ceiling. ]

I've no interest in severing this bond. [ Not just because it would be terrible for him, but because he made an oath to Red Wine, to their Attendants, that he intends to uphold. ] But your emotions affect us both.

[Everything in his head is too big and too loud to allow him to hear anything that might be coming back to him. It's been that way since they forged this bond between them - something that Red Wine often finds he almost regrets.

Sometimes, it isn't 'almost'.

He takes a breath - in, out - and re-ties his hair with delicate movements of his fingers. It's a veneer, nothing more than that, and Steak knows it and Red Wine hates that he knows it.]

And what do you propose that I do. [He says, treading the knife-edge of spiralling down again despite his careful words.] Learning to 'handle it' doesn't simply happen overnight. This is not going to get better. I thought--

[Red Wine trails off, glancing over to the nearest window.]

I thought I might get used to it. But I'm not.

[ He does, but as much as Red Wine's hair tying is a distraction, as is Steak's shifting, moving to lean against the counter, curling his hands into it and letting his head thud gently against a cabinet door. ]

I don't know.

[ He can admit that much. He has no idea how Red Wine can reconcile everything he's feeling. Steak doesn't feel things at this same sort of intensity, his vision of everything so simply black and white that complexity doesn't occur to him the way it does Red Wine.

Perhaps their respective namesakes are to blame for that — Wine with its myriad of varieties, the lists of things which can ruin its creation, and Steak nothing more than grilled meat.

He can't fix this for Red Wine, and he wouldn't even know where to begin. ]

Then maybe you should think before you start telling me to just get over it.

[And he's still angry, and afraid, and everything that comes along with it. All of those things, and he hates more than he could put into words that he somehow can't hide any of it. He has never been someone who easily advertised his troubles even if it meant putting his life at risk, and this is a kind of vulnerability that he is wholly unused to.

Steak wanted to do this. And he's angry at that, too.]

You should know better.

[ That feedback loop of anger has been itching at him all month, and Steak doesn't know how to productively deal with it. He can't productively deal with it, because it's Red Wine's burden, and Steak has never been good at putting himself in other people's shoes. ]

I don't understand it, Red Wine. [ As simple a statement as it is, Steak has never said it before. Never thought it needed to be said. Red Wine always overcomplicated things and he just needed to behave more like Steak did. ] All that matters for me is that you are by my side in all our challenges. If I have that, there's nothing I need to worry about.

[ He inhales, a deep, long thing, and rolls his shoulders back in a shrug.

Steak doesn't dwell. He doesn't even know where to begin considering the idea of such a long-standing nightmare coming to life. Or why Red Wine worried about it for so long on Tierra in the first place. ]

[Red Wine stares at him. Silent, disbelieving, knowing he absolutely means what he says and yet entirely insulted that he could so easily reduce it to something so simple.]

Well. [He says, his voice deceptively even. There's a shake in it that quivers down the bond between them like the pluck of a guitar string.] I'm so glad it's so easy for you. I'm so, so thrilled that's all you have to worry about.

[His fingers clench into tight fists against his thighs.]

But you're right about one thing, at least. You don't understand.

[ They can so easily communicate without words in so many cases, but when it comes to this... This is the one fundamental schism between the two of them, the one place where Steak can't quite wrap his head around Red Wine's point of view.

And when you hate someone quite as intensely as Steak hates Red Wine, that's saying something.

His fingers dig into the countertop and he eventually pushes himself away from it, slowly crossing the space between them, folding his arms as he comes to a halt a few inches from Red Wine. Perhaps all isn't entirely true — here and now, he worries about these transformations, the war of the two parts of his form which has carried on without him vocalising any of it. But he has to be alright, as long as Red Wine is here, because they've never failed at fighting anything before.

Even becoming monsters isn't enough to stop them. It can't be. ]

...

[ Red eyes bore a hole into Red Wine's own, flicking down pale skin to pursed lips and back again as his arms unwind and a hand reaches forward, fingers brushing lightly against the back of Red Wine's hand. ]

[But he's already failed, hasn't he? He's already broken under it. Still wakes up at night with the taste of Steak's blood on his tongue. Something he can't wash off no matter how hard he tries.

He hopes that Steak will get the hint and leave, but of course he doesn't. Feeling him coming closer is like an itch that can't quite be scratched, something that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he's tense and ready to lash out the moment the other Food Soul makes the mistake of laying a hand on him.

But it's a soft brush, not the rough grab or shake that he was bracing for. The ghost of a touch against his knuckles and he looks down, unclenching hands he hadn't realised were curled in so tightly.]

I've never been without you. [He mutters thoughtfully, eyes cast down.] I don't know what a life like that would be like.

[Quieter, probably.]

You're not going to let me drive you away from me, are you, Steak.

[ Failure is relative. Here, what Red Wine did is a measure of sanity. Something which prevents him becoming the monster he fears. That he's stood here, arguing with Steak, is proof positive of that. It's just... adapting to that mindset.

(And, perhaps, burying the vague worry of what they do, should they ever return home, where the rules are so much different.)

But that's Steak looking at it, so close and yet so far, trapped behind thick glass unable to ever really understand Red Wine's point of view. Why does it have to be so complicated, anyway? It makes no sense to Steak, it never has. But perhaps he doesn't need to say that, for once.

Perhaps all he needs to do is click his tongue lightly at Red Wine's final words. ]

You know me better than that.

[ As long as Steak still draws breath, he'll be at Red Wine's side. ]

[Qrow is not at all unused to people with animal features, but tentacles and cow ears sure are a ... new combination. There's a slow-motion migration of eyebrows, before he shrugs. He is not particularly a social drinker; he prefers to do so on his own, with nobody to bother him and no risk to anyone around him from the potential risk of bad luck precipitated by alcohol-fueled clumsiness. The latter, technically, is no longer an issue. He's had enough, at this stage, for that fact to have slipped from the forefront of his mind; but the advantage of alcohol is that it smooths out the sharpest edges of his awareness, and frankly? He can't be assed to make a fuss.]

They are now.

[ It's a stupid combination if you ask Steak. The mixture of hide and squid skin covering his body is irritating enough without all the new and changed growths making it impossible to truly get comfortable in anything he has to lie down on, anything with a back, really anything where the tentacles dig into a surface or he has to risk hitting his horns — stretched high above his head now, and nowhere near as nice as they used to be, in his humble opinion — on. ]

Thanks.

[ He drops into the stool and gestures to the bartender for a beer, leaning his arms onto the counter as he waits. ]

You're new, aren't you?

[ He doesn't recognise the man, anyway. ]

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you ever write a tag and then forget to hit post