legionworld | [OPEN] You were lying on your back in the grass, counting backward from a thousand

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[OPEN] You were lying on your back in the grass, counting backward from a thousand

Who| Azúcar (Sombra) and you!
What| Hangin' out on the beach, getting drunk, being miserable and coping like an adult
Where| Sombra's section of the Habitat Deck
When| after the events of Silent Horizon
Warnings/Notes| possible talk about body horror and/or death, depending on the conversation

PROMPT A

Azúcar is harder to spot these days, following the events of the Silent Horizon. Most of her time— nearly all of it, in fact— is spent in the relative safety of her biome: a quiet shoreline, warmed by salted breezes even at night, when the lights of a nearby city's somewhat distant buildings cast a golden glow along breaking waves.

Before she'd left, she kept to the ruined industrial building hidden away behind foliage on the cliffs above the beach - that seemingly abandoned safehouse the only reason she'd constructed this illusion in the first place. Practicality over sentimentality. Now she wanders closer to the edges of the city limits where the sand bleeds off into stone and dated cement: each time she crosses the threshold, passing out of bounds for the plot given to her by the Legion, the mirage fades. It didn't used to be that this place was Dorado, the city she left behind. She thought she was immune to missing the familiar, that she was better than everyone else somehow. Less prone to that kind of vulnerability. Now she just thinks she wants to buy out someone else's biome. Expand her own with the closest Legionnaire's and get lost in the old city streets.

Ah well.

Barefoot, sporting a cutoff shirt from New Vegas and a pair of weathered, second-hand shorts, pulling a long, long drink from the bottle of tequila in hand, Sombra's perched on a rock near the city's edge, staring up into the warm glow of lit windows with a look that's entirely impossible to read. Longing, maybe.

How miserably fallible.

And so for that fact alone, every few minutes or so, she picks up another shell, another pebble, another cork from another opened bottle, and throws it out of bounds, watching it vanish from sight with a little virtual hiss.

PROMPT B

Most of her injuries have already been taken care of. No scars, no lingering damage; the Legion was thorough enough with their checkups once they peeled off the shuttle for all the follow-ups and debriefings. It's her cybernetics she was touchier about, quicker to hide: and aside from looking obviously damaged to anyone with a pair of eyes, the full depth of what that means for her is a problem too easily overlooked for the average medic, too easily (stubbornly) ignored by Sombra herself, when all she wants to do is coil around the idea of control over her own space, her own assets and resources for better— and in this case, albeit temporarily— for worse.

The skin around her spinal implants and ports is scorched from heat, reddened and raw from impact, though it's harder to notice in comparison to burned out circuitry and dulled metal.

She waits until the tide's in (all artificial programming), when it's quiet and she's alone, to slink down into the water and soak— sinking in up to her neck beneath the waves. Eyes shut, hair loose and coiled around her shoulders to light the water immediately around her, turning it a pale, luminescent blue. It's a small comfort for that incessant ache, but it's hers.

That said, the water's nice. The beach is warm, set up with a few crates full of beer and tequila and a lone parasol surrounded by laid out towels. No one would blame you for diving in with her— or maybe just setting up camp in the sand.

WILDCARD

[Want something more specific? Need a reason to sit by the ocean and chill, want to snoop around the outskirts of that ugly old industrial building instead of the very brilliant, beautiful shoreline? Feel free to run with whatever works best if you've got an idea in mind, or hit me up at ladyavali!]

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What.

Is going on.

Locus doesn't blush. It's not a thing that happens, and maybe he's just physically incapable of it. But being flustered certainly is a possibility, and there are tell-tale signs. The quick dart away of his eyes, the way he appears to hunch ever so slightly, like he's trying to retreat from sight.

He could. He's got the power to. But it's a bit of an overreaction, isn't it? They're likely just having a laugh at his expense-- and right on cue, he hears Sombra collapse into giggles. The startled look is quickly replaced by annoyance, and his next huff of breath flares his nostrils.

"Very funny." And he eyes Taylor in reprimand.

"Did I do it wrong?" Still moving, still dancing he twists enough to peer at Azucar. "What was I supposed to do."

Instructions unclear, caught dignity in fan.

Still there's that hunch, that quick aside glance and oh- that's. Kind of adorable and kind of sad how it immediately shifts to annoyance. He thinks they're making fun of him. After their talk earlier? Taylor cannot have that, oh no. "I am, on occasion, hilarious- but no that was. Yanno."

An inarticulate little twirl of his fingers. "Affection? I think. I was following instructions. Azucar, what was I supposed to do? Be specific."

"You did everything perfectly, mijo." Said while still chuckling softly, dipping her chin down into the curve of her own arm.

"And you should definitely finish what you started." What she started, if he's so keen to take everything at face value, drunk and steeped in affection, with his arms so tightly wrapped around Locus. Which— come to think of it— it occurs to her then that she can use this newfound power to her advantage. "Just make out with him already, está bien."

Sombra gives it fifty-fifty odds that he actually will— or won't.

Locus, meanwhile, looks towards Sombra with a snap of his head, as though she'd just betrayed him entirely. Now he knows he's being made fun of, and there's an acute wash of discomfort at the entire situation. Followed by the overwhelming urge to go back to his biome.

"Do not," he grunts, before allowing his hands to drop away from Taylor entirely.

"Obviously, you've had your fun. I should return."

"Uh-" he's drunk, sure, but not Casbah drunk. "I don't think we're the kinda friends that kiss for one, and for two..."

Taylor doesn't move away from Locus, but he doesn't push further into his space either. "It's not really my thing to make out with the uncomfortable or unwilling."

Right now? Locus is both and it kinda twists in his gut that he's played a part in making him feel that way. That was the opposite of what this was for. "Unless he's willing and comfortable, not gonna do that."

A beat.

"You shouldn't either."

Her eyes roll back as she's chided (too much Sombra, not enough Azúcar), too slow to realize she's being unkind to them both until a few moments later when she plucks up the bottle from the sand beside her. "Relax, I was only joking around."

Another pull, head swimming with heat from it before she tips it out towards the both of them. "Here." An offering— a peace offering— meant to put a little more Sugar back into her figurative stride. "Take it. I'm not trying to upset you, mijo."

Whether Locus or York decide to take the bottle, she leans back into the sand, crossing her legs. "I wouldn't have kissed you if I didn't I want to."

Sombra gets a good deal of side-eye, though it does honestly seem like they're both a little more contrite about the whole thing. York's remarks in particular put him a little more at ease.

He shouldn't think poorly on this. They're drunk, obviously having a good time, and he's souring the mood significantly, isn't he?

Only one thing to do, then. Eyes flicker between her and the bottle, before taking hold of the peace offering with a nod and taking a swift swig for himself.

All forgiven.

As the tension dies down and things become ok again, Taylor relaxes enough to lean against Locus properly, all head on shoulder and eyes half closed in languid focus. Something in Azucar skidded sideways there. He saw the blip in the pattern but couldn't put a name to it. Couldn't make it make sense- but they're all good now. Locus drinking, music playing, the breeze blowing off the ocean.

"Me either, bud." Not a thing he does, putting his mouth of people if he doesn't want to.

Sprawled out like a cat across a ledge and limned in glimmering violet and blue, she breathes in and out for a few lazy beats, trying to process her own thoughts— the full depth of the situation and who she's with versus where her mind is clearly trying to wander to, riding the high of a night filled with tequila and dopamine— because yeah, fine. Maybe it's somewhat difficult to keep her composure up when she's so close to the both of them like this. A little too hungry, a little too used to getting her way.

Maybe it's better to let them lean on each other, then. York is better at it than she is by miles, after all.

"Even so. I'm..."

Not much fun? Not good at reciprocating? Not worth it? Could be any of those things really, and the fact that it's not entirely jest just means taking another swig before regarding Taylor with determination.

"I thought you were going to show me how to dance."

"Learning how to people." Taylor finishes with a soft smile, hand patting Locus' back. "Lemme tell you a secret- we all are."

Time for drunk philosophy unless he's otherwise distracted- and the gleam of Azucar in the sand, the line of Locus' throat as he swallows? Is pretty damn distracting. So too is the reminder that hey- dancing. Should be a thing. "Right, so- um. Bilando."

And the tune changes to something more upbeat, easier to move with. Hands on hips and the thrum of tequila in his pulse- Taylor starts up that simple step and glide again. Leading by following.

"Look at that, you're a natural." And she should know: she's got the best seat in the house from where she's sitting. The best view of them, beside the fact, tall and sturdy in their silhouettes. Taylor...is surprisingly adept when it comes to teaching. More patient. Part of his abundance of human empathy.

Still, to his comment about them all learning, she has to fight the urge to flatten her expression; breathing out a small little sound and tucking her arms behind her head for the sake of getting more comfortable.

He still feels ridiculous -- more so when he becomes aware of Sombra watching them -- but this is part of being people, right? Having people. Sometimes indulging people, and there is now a very stubborn desire to prove that he's worth having around even for moments like this.

"You don't have flowers," he notes dryly, as they move. As his hands settle on Taylor's waist. He crooks his head back to regard Sombra, addressing her. "He should have flowers, shouldn't he? Or he'll feel left out."

Locus is, sometimes, capable of being a little shit.

"I-" he starts, snorts to cover the sudden moment of tickleshness brought up by Locus' hands resting where they are, and continues through the step two three turn five six. "Don't need flowers. I'm the lead, and a lead's job isn't to be pretty."

Seriously, guys. Get with the program. Of course this is coming from old ass lessons back when he was a kid- but. Point remains.

"The lead is the frame and you are the painting. It's my job to make you look good." A beat. "Uh, this is where I'd be all smooth and dip you to prove my point but I don't think I can hold you up, man."

Still, sheepish and smiling and deeply pleased with having this is he. "Besides- I got y'all. Prettier than any flower crown I could code."

"Laaaame." Calls Sombra, kicking up sand at his heels as punishment for daring to be so dorky, sitting upright on her elbows. "Locus is right: we're not your tesoros, Taylor. We're friends. Equals."

She is, after all, precious to no one.

"You need a flower crown."

And with that she curls her fingers, distorting the digital projection of her own habitat by directly tapping into the code itself - all superficial byways. A few moments of careful thought (what flower would suit him? what do flowers even look like instead of just the image in her drunken mind?) and she manages a mostly stable projection of what looks like a circlet of gold roses. Well— rose-ish. More like a memory of what they should look like but it's close enough.

"Eh."

#Nailedit.

Locus watches those flowers form into being, lending Taylor a golden glow around his head, and the image is so terribly fitting that he can't help a little chuckle. His eyes crease at the corners as he feels some vague sense of satisfaction before nodding once.

"Much better."

Equals. Friends. Another knot untangles itself and, after that prompting from Taylor, Locus attempts instead to lean him backwards instead.

Taylor might not be able to hold him up, but Locus? Has this part.

"Look when it's your turn to lead YOU can be the frame and I get to be pretty. We take turns leading and following- or, you know, invent a way for three people to dance at the same time." He tips his head in her direction, brows lifted. "You were supposed to say I'm already pretty and stuff."

He might pout. MIGHT. But then there's a golden flower crown on his head and, well, it's hard to pout about shit when you're wearing a flower crown and getting dipped. In a show of complete and utter trust he leans right into it, bending backwards, head tipped to the ground, a fairly decent dancer's posture on him in the moment that leaves him staring at Azucar upside down. "I think he's getting the hang of it!"

Edited 2017-02-10 18:22 (UTC)

"I told you so." It's a patient little scoff of amusement from where she's lounging, cheek now resting against her palm.

"And besides: there is a way for three people to dance together."

But it's less formal, that's for sure. ~~Not to mention more her style.~~

Locus grunts, before tugging Taylor back up once more to a standing position. "You know that you're pretty," he accuses, eyes narrowing. "There is no point in reaffirming what is already clearly true."

And he glances towards Sombra with a raised brow. Come on. Back him up here.

If pressed or pointed out- York'll blame the booze and headrush of having been bent backwards- but as Locus hauls him up he goes further, arms around his shoulders, one leg hitching up in a tango's embrace, head dipped forward to hide the sudden bright flush on his cheeks. He's- cocky but not pretty. That self assured 'hell yeah I got the girl and all this' sort of blew up in a bad way with one grenade awhile ago. "Doesn't hurt to hear it now and then."

They make an attractive couple, all rucked up against one another. An easy contrast— and she's not above soaking it all in (hell, drunk on tequila and still warm from Taylor's hand where it'd wound around her wrist, she said yes on instinct: spurred on by fine features and...even finer assets)— letting out a low whistle as she shamelessly looks on.

"I couldn't have asked for a better date." Said with a pointed glance at Taylor, because honestly between a busy night of laughing, drinking and letting go, she can't remember if she'd mentioned it before. "Or better company now."

"Tu eres muy hermano."

Locus grunts, satisfied at least that Sombra has assisted in her own way, while he cocks his head to try and get a bearing on where York is at. Is he...is he actually blushing?

That registers as odd, somehow. But he shakes his head, nodding towards where Sombra is sprawled in the sand. "We should go keep your date company."

And that word doesn't quite needle him the same way it did, hours before. Maybe just the reminder that he's still a part of this, even not necessarily romantically, is encouraging. How long has it been since he could say he had friends?

"Friend date." Sorta? Kinda. He only knows how to do it one way and this better than he'd hoped. He didn't fuck up, the dinner was good, the dancing was great- and this with Locus at the end? a good reminder that they're all sort of in this whatever it is together. Friends.

It's been awhile since he's had this kind of ease and certainty and it's nice to have it again. Without movement to follow he sorta. Holds position for a second before slipping back down, hands skidding from Locus' shoulders to his wrist to pull him back to Azucar with him. "It was nice, don't get me wrong but I'm sorta- not. Going on that ride again. Long story short this?"

He says as he flops down next to Sombra, dragging Locus with him. "This is all I really need. Bros."

She hums out the start of a laugh that she's too tired to carry as they drop down, legs curling in against warm sand. "Don't worry about it. I didn't come here looking for true love, mijo."

They all have a job to do, one that's more important than all this. And now that they've all recovered in one another's company (in part, or in whole), it's time to get back to it.

"Friends are all I need."

Oh.

Well then.

That settles a great deal, doesn't it? Some additional thread of tension finally uncoils and slithers free as Taylor tugs him down to the sand, and Locus obliges with a grunt, careful not to spill what's left in the bottle. Instead he remains sitting up, leaning in towards them with one hand braced in the sand, and the other lifting said bottle for another swig.

"Friends."

People he trusts, people he feels safe around. That's worth a great deal. And if all of this is in the name of friendship? He feels a little less ridiculous about enduring the flower crown, at least.

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