for ~exorkismos

[inconstantly]

Never let it be said that John Constantine wouldn't go to certain lengths for a laugh. A great deal of effort and it was out of the question, but if the effort was minimal while completing another task then sure, why not?

When he arrives at the address indicated, John stands at the door holding a single rose wrapped in plastic from his last trip to the supermarket. The flower is in mostly good shape save for a slight drying at the edge of the petals. What is the most glaring is a large yellow sticker against the plastic, declaring the item HALF OFF FOR QUICK SALE! The artist was getting his damn rose, but it was still very clearly on John's terms.

He gives the door a solid knock, not even waiting for Marcus to respond before calling loudly against it. "Yeah, it's John. You'd better not be in there doing a shit." Despite being relentlessly forward, there's a lightness in John's voice. He's here to listen to music and drink up Marcus' alcohol supply. Should be fun. In the hand opposite of the rose is a bottle of gin. He didn't exactly trust that supply to last.

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[exorkismos]

The building Marcus has directed John to is a crappy hotel that offers hourly rates and smells of cleaning solution and artificial lavender, strong and acrid enough to burn the inside of the nostrils. From the other side of the door comes the blare of music turned up too loud.

Marcus barely hears what John's saying over the noise, which is absolutely intentional. He's sprawled on the distinctly uncomfortable bed with his sketchbook in his lap and his cassette player right next to him. He doesn't turn it down, just roars cheerfully back, "It's open, you crude fucker, when did you get manners?" without looking up from the pencil sketch he's working on.

[inconstantly]

The second John hears "it's open," he steps through the door and slams it shut, creating even more noise amid the music and shouting. He finds Marcus lounging without a care and the sight feels like a familiar one. Though if he were in Marcus' position John likely wouldn't have a sketchbook.

In response to the question he slams down the bottle of gin on a nearby table and kicks off his boots to make himself at home. He then plops unceremoniously onto the bed, stretching diagonally on his back as if purposefully trying to take up as much space as possible. The rose is "handed" to Marcus with a lazy flick of the elbow, resulting in the flower smacking against Marcus' shoulder.

"I didn't get manners, but you get your damn rose so I hope you're happy." A pause before bringing up the top priority. "I thought you said there would be vodka."

[exorkismos]

"Hey." Marcus is laughing, grabbing at and inspecting the rose. "You're serious. You seriously brought me a rose." He shakes his head. Notes the sticker, unoffended; relieved, in fact. He'd expect nothing less. "Christ, I reckon I'm touched. Vodka's in my bag down there." He gestures to a beaten-up rucksack at the foot of the bed, clapping his sketchbook closed and putting down his pencil. "Couple of cans of diet Coke in there too, cos the last time I drank vodka neat I nearly died. That could just be my lifestyle, though."

[inconstantly]

At the indication of a mixer John wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Definitely your lifestyle, mate." John scrambles down to the foot of the bed and opens the rucksack, grabbing a can for Marcus and a bottle for himself. As tempting as it is to rummage through his friend's belongings for no other reason than to be nosy, he refrains. For now.

Instead when he returns to sit next to Marcus, John drags the rucksack with him. The drinks are set between them just before he opens the bag and reaches in with both hands.

"So what else do you have?"

[exorkismos]

Marcus, who is perhaps not good at boundaries, is actually surprised John doesn't just upend the bag and go exploring: he wouldn't care, would more than understand the urge. He's about to comment on it, but John's question distracts him. Expression a mixture of impressed and horrified, he reaches backwards to put down the rose and grab a glass off the bedside table without taking his eyes off John. The glass is clean. Okay, the glass has only had water in it. That's clean, water cleans things.

"You've got a bottle of gin and a bottle of vodka between two people, one of whom is fifty-sodding-three, and you're afraid we'll, what, run out?" He's mixing a vodka and coke, which — not his favourite. He used to drink it more, so to him it just tastes like the early 2000s. Not great. The vodka had been a somewhat unorthodox but kindly-meant thanks for the exorcism gift — he couldn't exactly refuse. Ah well, after two doubles, he knows he'll get his taste for it back.

[inconstantly]

"I just want to know my options," is the retort that comes quickly and easily. "And we don't know how long I'm staying here. It's very easy to get caught in a cycle of drink, pass out, and drink again." This is all of course making a great deal of assumptions. But people loved his company and Marcus was his friend, why shouldn't he stay a while?

John takes it upon himself to open the bottle of vodka, pouring a healthy dose into Marcus' glass before taking a long swig directly from the bottle. He feels the familiar burning sensation down his throat and up his nose and it fills John with a sense of readiness to see what the evening would bring.

He shoves the bag off the side of the bed and after hearing it drop with a thud screws the cap back onto the bottle and positions himself once again in a lying position on his back.

"Play that one again, the one that was on when I came in. I'd like to hear it from the beginning."