extent | duplicitynet

( equally tactfully, nick opts to ignore the text for the vast majority of the day. he does reply though, eventually, and very eloquently. )

do u want to get fucked up

yeah, sure

where do u wanna meet

idk find me somewhere in the down people won't come looking

alright

i know a shithole of a club, real hole in the wall
i'll send u a pin for it in an hour?
from there we can go even farther off the grid if u want

yeah ok that sounds p much perfect
bring good shit if u have it i have $$$
my freeloading days r over xo

i'll see what i can scrape up

[Might empty his stores but - hey, what're you gonna do in a situation like this. Tate takes about fifteen minutes just to dig around and pull out the last of his coke and molly, emptying a cigar box he keeps by his bed into his backpack and throwing in some weed for good measure. It's not going to do much in the wake of the rest, but tonight's not a day to play it scarce. He throws on his black hoodie and sets out, finding the little seedy bar in the underbelly of the Down just as he remembered it. Small and cramped but not as busy as thrumming clubs and party hot spots. There's not a face in the place he's ever recognized, and people aren't exactly looking to make friends either.

He sends Nick the pin after arriving, finding a corner booth under a hanging green light; an empty pool table is crammed into the other corner and while more people drink at the bar, everyone's more or less keeping to themselves. Tate's lazily examining a wall of signatures and other obscene graffiti, standing next to said booth with his backpack sitting on the table to claim it. While he waits for Nick, he takes out a sharpie and scribbles in his initials amongst the throng of other words and names.]

Edited (gross u didnt see that) 2021-03-21 19:44 (UTC)

( nick has never rushed a day in his life and he doesn't start now, though it's more caution than intentional tardiness that has him dragging his feet out of the up. funny how it's supposed to be the better area, and yet all the trouble nick has ever had has come from this side of the elevator.

when he shows up, he's perfectly fine. there's not a trace of the video on him, which is exactly what he wanted the potion to do, and he looks more or less exactly like the nick that was walking about the day before, and the day before that. his hair is damp like he's recently had a shower, the t shirt fits poorly like it belongs to someone about half a foot taller, and there's a hoodie haphazardly tugged over all of that, but other than that, it's all normal.

he slides into the booth, hands flat on the table, and doesn't bother to smile. he doesn't expect it's particularly believable, anyway. )

We're not talking about that. ( he says it quickly, raps his knuckles on the table once and then looks up from the scribbles to tate just as quickly. ) I have stuff but it's all magical, I don't know what that'll do to...whatever it is you are.

[Tate finishes his writing of TL '94 on the wall and looks over at Nick when he approaches, nodding to him as he slides into the seat. He caps the pen and joins him by sitting across, shoving his bag out of the way in the process. It's a modicum of decency that has him look down and into said bag when Nick references that - and he puts the pen away and starts looking through the rest of the junk floating around in his bag.]

Dead.

[His one word answer, probably not the most helpful but he's still nonchalant as he starts picking out loose baggies that he probably should've kept together. He doesn't really give a damn about people seeing said stash, dropping the drugs on the table like they were candy and still on the search for his smokes. It's only after he fetches out those and puts one cig between his lips that he looks up and decides to elaborate.]

I'm dead. But it'd probably work, I guess? Hell, I'll still try.

( the information isn't a surprise in the same way that the information that tate wasn't strictly human wasn't a surprise. he hadn't known the answer, but once it's provided it makes sense, as though he'd always known the answer. )

You're very corporeal.

( that's a little tactless, even if nick isn't especially unkind about the way he says it. he shuffles through a few of the bags on the table, separating one and holding it for a moment as if in serious thought. then the pills just get shaken out into his palm and tossed down his throat without ceremony, before he actually stops to twist until he's mostly facing tate. )

A lot of it needs to be smoked still. ( he pulls out a case that's been sloppily stuffed full of pre-rolled joints, some containing herbs that clearly aren't weed, other's a little harder to tell apart. ) But these--

( another pocket, this time with more traditional looking baggies, each filled with different coloured powders. no more organised, of course, and he spreads them out in front of tate. )

These are new. I haven't tried it yet.

I get that a lot.

[He's not like other ghosts. Something he takes pride in, maybe, because he has a little more control. More than back home, so far as limitations went for free roaming and just... existing without compromise. He's not shying away from the topic but he's not voluntarily throwing more out there - trusting Nick enough with this is, perhaps, offering him something to talk about as a distraction or otherwise just a selfish tactic to endear him to Tate. Tate who wants to secure any and all friendships he can get, greedy, jealous and afraid of loss as he is.

He snorts when Nick tosses back pills, but in a jovial way - getting fucked up has a certain flair of fun to it, at least for him. For Nick it seems to be a way to drown out bitter memories and... Tate wants to help with that. He's been in that place and had someone support him in turn. He taps his fingers against the table, looking at the strange powders; raising a brow.]

I see how it is, I'm the guinea pig? Fine, cool, but - at least tell me you have some idea of what they do.

[He says, while plucking one up to look at it after holding it up, letting the light overhead back-light it.]

You're very interesting, do you know that?

( nick would never claim to say he knows tate, certainly not in any kind of all encompassing way, but sometimes there are these moments when he realises just how little he actually knows. every time he learns something new, it spawns five new questions, ten. all he's desperate for answers to.

it makes tate pretty perfect to be around when he's trying very hard to get out of his own head, actually. )

'94. Is that when you were born, or when you died?

( he pretty much takes that as a sign that they're diving into his weird little work experiments, though, and spreads them out more carefully. )

That one– hallucinations, I don't know if that's a good idea. ( none of them are labelled, but it's easy enough for him to tell which is which. nick slides one across the table, a delicate light pink colour. ) This one, it's supposed to just be euphoria, without side effects. The last batch I tried was okay, so long as I had gum.

[Tate tips his head as if to shake off that compliment, but it's clear he likes it. He finds Nick to be interesting too, so the fact it's a two way street of intrigue just assures Tate that things are good. He cants his head to the other side, still pretty pleased, and toys his finger against the edge of the baggie in front of them; looking at the colors, listening to what does what.]

Not big into hallucinations, I get those without trying sometimes.

[Overshare? Who cares. He looks at the euphoric powder instead.]

And yeah, it's when I died. Good era of music, though. Some of the best shit. Call me biased.

What sort of hallucinations?

( curiouser and curiouser. sometimes tate just says these things like they mean nothing at all, and nick thinks he could fill a book with them and still not find enough to satisfy his interest. there's just a lot going on under the surface, and the more he knows the more he wants to uncover, understand.

in fairness, he doesn't often meet ghosts that died in the nineties – but then also, nick was already like this before that little piece of information landed. )

You died before I was born, that's weird. Five years. Did I tell you it's my birthday soon?

( a fascinating topic, probably, but not nearly so interesting as the pink powder he'd previously indicated. he taps some out, plays with lining it up by the edge of the baggie, and then pauses to slide a new colour over to tate. )

That one's supposed to be to come down, so it'd probably work if you took too much. I guess?

( probably. maybe. i guess. he doesn't sound very confident for someone who's already bending over to snort the line off of a questionably clear table at best. )

How soon is soon?

[So Tate knows when to send those birthday wishes; he smiles in a way that doesn't meet his eyes though, when thinking about what to divulge about the hallucinations that plague him even after death. He occupies his hands with the baggie in front of him, spreading out a line for himself but taking his time in setting it up. It lets him have time to figure out how to answer.]

I see shit sometimes - when I'm stressed out, mostly. It's like seeing shadows on the peripherals of your vision type deal. Things that aren't there, when it's really bad. Only heard things a few times, but I'm getting better at ignoring it.

[Tate's eyes are downcast when he speaks, and he doesn't look up immediately. Much rather, he does his line of mysterious powder - rubbing at his nostril afterward, even when there's no burn. It doesn't feel like he's snorted anything without it, so it makes him immediately doubtful. So he waits for the buzz to hit, but sprinkles out another line just incase. He should probably be more reserved about his mental health. Save it for the therapist's chair.]

You think I'm weird yet?

It's the 27th, best get me something nice.

( by virtue of being a drug designed both by and for nick, it's quickly effective. there's a quick and immediate rush that makes him blink a few times, tapping a finger as he waits for it to settle. the moment is pretty obvious, mostly because nick more or less immediately props his chin up with his elbow and a lazy grin much more becoming of nick.

he's not entirely expecting to get an answer about the hallucinations, but once he does he's glad for it. he taps his other finger over the table lightly, crossing the space until he can poke the tip of his fingers a few times on top of tate's hand. )

If you're weird, so am I. Do you think I'm weird?

( maybe. maybe tate has a little more of those ...oddities than nick does, some of the time, but he's lumping himself in the category anyway. he pinches the back of tate's hand, looking with a quiet tilt of his head and wondering if it would be reasonable to demand every thing that tate has ever thought about nick. )

I told you, I think you're interesting. I want to know everything about you. Is that weird?

Edited (words?) 2021-03-22 06:53 (UTC)

I don't think you want to know everything.

[Tate answers honestly, remembering a brief moment when the talk of stabbing someone had to be backpeddled as not to put off an impression Tate couldn't take back. Nick's understanding, he's - not afraid of what Tate is but if he knew the depths of the truth of who Tate really is? He might not still think of him as a fascination. He just might turn the other cheek and want nothing to do with him at all, and Tate doesn't want that. He can't have that. Not here, not from people he's come to like.

He's made a note of Nick's birthday but it's not like it's going to be a time where he expects celebration to be center stage. Will Nick still need some time to himself, then? Still, Tate'll check in on the day. Hopefully find something worth giving to him. Might stress him out for the better half of the week, trying to figure out what kinds of things witches like. Real ones, not the stereotypical ones.

Tate's lining up more powder, taking a moment to loll his head to the side and close his eyes. He feels it, thank God, a sweet buzz in his head that feel a little too good to be true. He's eager for more, so after a long few seconds he's bowing his head again and taking another hit. Probably should've asked more questions about this shit, but hey. They're saying fuck you to convention and logic.]

But I like that, though. Knowing someone intimately.

[A certain romance he appreciates, even though that doesn't apply here. But the toxic, neediness and overly indulgent desire to know everything about someone? That's what he idealizes as romance but really is something darker and much more selfish. Tate wipes his nose again, wishes he had gotten a drink before sitting down.]

I think I probably do.

( it's all very conversational, for a talk about a habit that neither of them should probably be entertaining. but then it's probably a little late for that — it was probably a little late right around the moment where he managed to convince himself that stabbing tate was a good idea.

( it had been a good idea, he stands by that, but there's no denying that the whole thing was perhaps a little too intense )

he trades out for something new, this bag filled with brightly coloured crystalline structures that look an awful lot like rock candy. it leaves the impression of something sweet in the mouth too, even if nick can't quite get the taste to linger. )

I don't usually, but...you're lucky, I suppose. ( if that's the word for it. the idea of knowing and being known never settles comfortably with nick, but it's also pretty easy to ignore the knee jerk need to bolt the second tate looks away.

...the sex and drugs has probably helped a lot with that, actually. ) Don't overdose, I haven't renewed my CPR cert.

Takes a lot more than this to kill me.

[Tate's feeling more relaxed now, now that Nick's aware of who - and what - he is, and what that means. He can drop the layer of filtering he usually does around people who don't know he's dead, and be drier with his humor. Let it stoop to darker places without blinking. He's always been a morbid kind of kid, but that's nothing to be afraid of admitting here. In time he'll even admit more of his... interesting side habits, too. Squeak squeak.

He looks at the 'rock candy' and arches a brow, silently imploring Nick to explain it but also breathing in deep and steady when he feels a warm pull of endorphins surge through his skull. He's happier now, shoulders slumped and a half-smile on his lips.]

What do you want to drink? I'll grab it.

Good thing too, I could be in prison right now. Killing a Dominant, scandal.

( it's all fun and games of course, because there was no lasting damage. tate's wounds practically disappeared before his eyes. nick's crept away a little slower but they're definitely all gone by now. it's a funny joke only because nick stabbed tate in the side and he's still sitting across from him, no worse off for it.

as he shakes a couple of the candy looking things out onto his tongue he considers the merits of making them crackle like pop rocks, but he expects he won't remember the thought come morning anyway. it's not particularly exciting, something designed to drag out the peaks of these highs and keep them going longer, but he slides the baggie over to tate without explanation all the same. another trust exercise, maybe. he really should stop this, but the rush is sweet and high is getting quickly tangled with the rush of all these weird little games. )

Something that embarrasses you to order, I don't care what.

( there's no need for it at all, except for that the idea makes nick grin wider, clearly and easily amused. )

I'm not going to get embarrassed ordering you a drink.

[Tate says with cocky confidence, swiping his hand to take the offered baggie as he pushes to stand up. He's going to swipe it away with him when he heads off to the bar, disappearing from sight with an eye roll. If he was ordering for himself, well - maybe there'd be some embarrassment in choosing a particular drink rather than the beer and shots he's used to but. Well, when he can pin it on Nick it's not the worst thing.

He comes back around with a beer for himself, bottle held by the neck and a frosted glass with strawberry lemonade and vodka; a skewered piece of pineapple and cherry stuck to the rim. He slides that toward Nick and then sits back down - whether he took some of the candy or not, he's not forking back over the baggie. Instead, he's just carrying on through.]

So.

[He's prompting Nick for something, anything, because what do they talk about if not that or any reference to it? Tate's sipping his beer like it'll give him a long enough period of time to think of something else.]

What d'you wanna do next?

( nick grins, apparently very pleased with the drink choice. he doesn't particularly care one way or another for fruity, sugary drinks, but he cares an awful lot about issuing challenges and having them taken up. or, probably more accurately, making demands and having them being met.

he pulls the cherry off with his teeth, pointing the skewer in tate's direction and buying himself a moment of his own as he works over a response. all he wants to do is keep drinking and taking things until it no longer feels like a good idea, but it's hardly all that interesting to anyone that isn't nick.

his leg flicks out to kick idly at tate's shoe under the table, and he then he hooks his foot around tate's ankle as he takes a sip of the drink before he answers. )

You don't strike me as a big dancer, so. ( he ticks off the options on his fingers as he speaks, prodding the end of the skewer into his fingertip idly as he rattles them off. ) One, games? I suck at pool but I like the drama of it. Two, find somewhere with music or something to listen to. Three, blow this joint and find somewhere quiet to hook up.

( is it a test? not really, but also sort of. there's no wrong answer, exactly, but nick's head tilts a little as he watches tate. for all his insistence of not talking about it, nick is pretty well consumed with the need to know exactly how people's perceptions of him have changed. )

Wow.

[Tate feigns a look of hurt when Nick implies he's not into dancing. He's not big on it, maybe, the way other people seek out clubs to dance for the fun of it. For him he won't pass it up if it comes to pass, but he won't exactly be the one seeking out the dancefloor, it's true. He feels Nick's foot tug on his and it makes his stomach do a little flip of anticipation, prompting him to lean forward with his elbows on the table. He reaches for Nick's wrist, tugging it and the skewer closer; tipping his head to bite at and pull off the piece of pineapple. Then he leans back, chewing and raising his brows to show he's still thinking of his response.

Pool's an alright way to go about wasting some time. Tate's not sure he's going to be any good at it with a buzz between his ears but it's nothing he'd run from. Music though? That sings to his heart, where as the idea of disappearing for a hook up speaks directly to his dick. He smiles, a bit crooked, and then decides to narrow the options.]

I'd miss every shot, but - raincheck on pool? I'll hustle you another day.

[Tate taps his fingers against the glass bottle he's alternating sips out of.]

But we could hit two birds with one stone with those last two. Find some music, feel good and then - well, feel better. You up for that?

I think I could beat you.

( nick absolutely could not beat anyone at a game of pool, but he says it confidently anyway. if it's a test, which it's not, but if it was, it seems like tate has passed. he grins, visibly pleased, and jabs the skewer down into the table. it only sticks enough to stand up for a moment, but by the time it falls nick has gone back to his drink anyway. )

Anyone ever tell you that you're full of great ideas?

( it's not really a drink designed to be necked but nick is working through it reasonably quickly anyway, thumbing a drop off the corner of his mouth. for all the appeal a dirty hole of a bar has for various reasons, tate's suggestion has much more appeal. he sweeps together the pills and powders into one pile that gets nudged in tate's direction — it's not like nick brought a bag — and then he gestures a couple of wiggling fingers towards the beer. )

Drink up. If you finish first I'll get the next round.

( and nick is a dirty little cheat, because that's all the warning that tate gets before nick lifts his glass to tip the drink down his throat. )

Hey.

[Tate catches the way Nick's off to the races so far as drinks go, and he tips back his bottle to join him. He's not very graceful or talented at gulping back beer, so likely not about to finish in time. Not that he expected to, Nick's someone he thinks can throw it back without regard. He sets down his beer in mock surrender with a small amount at the bottom and wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand. Then he turns to start sweeping their collection of good vibe materials into his bag off the edge of the table.]

Alright, alright. C'mon.

[There's music to be found and fucking to be had. He gets to his feet and strings his bag over one shoulder, chuckling lightly as he feels his buzz really settle in. He then half-holds his hand out to Nick to beckon him to get up quicker, tugging him toward him in the process.]

( nick has never been particularly competitive, but he likes this. small victories, little personal meaningless wins that give him the opportunity for a brief, smug smile as he tips the empty glass above the table. it passes quickly, and then he quickly reaches out to snag hold of tate's hand.

he only really stumbles slightly as he gets up because he does it so quickly, but it still makes him snigger. the two of them make a right pair, nick takes a moment to examine tate's face – his eyes, really, just curious to see if it comes with blown pupils, wondering if he's blinking back with the same look. )

Do you know anywhere, or do we just keep our ears open until something calls?

( nick, it seems, doesn't actually plan on letting go of tate's hand any time soon, because he still has it wrapped up tight in his own as he sidesteps away from the table. )

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