[Well, that didn't take as long as he'd thought it would.
Astaroth's eyes are just as red, though that's just as likely to do with the scent of booze on him as it is the subject of their conversation. Still, he's aware enough to cast an eye out for either of his minders before tugging the angel inside.]
[Uriel can smell the liquor on his former brother, probably because he's been so drowned in it himself. Somewhere between getting home from the bar after the team's celebration and getting into Eden's side stash of glass-bottled-liquid-coping devices, Uriel hadn't done a very good job of sobering up. Something about all these text messages had given him the ill-conceived plan to make it worse. It wasn't a difficult thing to resist, being already intoxicated.
He stumbles through the door and doesn't even give a thought about minders before grabbing on to Astaroth's shoulder.
He wants to ask, but his look does for him. This isn't a game, is it? His barriers against emotional states like this have long been torn down by disarming text messages and liquor.]
[Astaroth isn't going to return his look, at least not yet, but one of his arms automatically wraps around the angel — to support him, of course — when he grabs his shoulder. He's hardly sober himself, but he still has the presence of mind to keep looking out for his minders as he leads the way back to his bedroom.
He doesn't pull away from Uriel until they're both there, and when he does, it's to flop back onto his bed with a heavy sigh. Even as intoxicated as he is, the gravity of this situation isn't entirely escaping him.]
[Somehow, that phrase alone is enough to shake the worry from Uriel, sobering the doubt attached to even coming here and it leaves him with little more than what he started with. There's a shaking guilt to everything, and a certain aching for that ease they used to have. There are no premonitions for this, not an inkling as to where this is all going.
Uriel climbs onto the bed with a bit of attempted ceremony and ends up teetering over once his bum is on it. He looks over at his brother, rolled to his side.]
[Astaroth doesn't roll onto his side entirely, but he does turn his head to look at Uriel. The only reason there is even the slightest echo of this is a bad idea still ringing in his head is simply because of who — of what, really — Uriel is. There is little room for doubt in his capacity as a demon, and even less for regret, but that doesn't keep the memories of what they were from lingering.
[Astaroth doesn't respond for a moment, his gaze flickering downward. He's not used to not having a sure footing with words, even while inebriated. It unnerves him like nothing else.]
[That question breaks every bit of resistance Uriel has. Face knitted with a mixture of pain, unparalleled contrition, and so many other unnameable emotions, the angel rolls close enough to wrap his arms around Astaroth, muttering against his clothing:]
Not the best set-up for a joke, but they're not quite at the bar just yet. Honestly, Astaroth doesn't know if he can even convince Uriel to accompany him there — well, perhaps tempt is a more appropriate term, loaded as it may be — but he's not going to get off without trying. He's much more entertaining with at least a few shots in him, after all.]
[The problem with temptation was that the company Uriel kept was far too good at it. For being an archangel of judgement, this was not the better of his calls. Then again, Uriel had walked a fine line between being "good" and being "just good enough" for the better part of the last 1,500 years. No matter what his mortal vessel was, the body always leaned towards his former brother without thought. A good show of being unreceptive and judgemental was the best counter-agent he had for Astaroth's poison.
After all, if he didn't cross his arms and throw scathingly coated remarks, no matter how much out of fondness they were said, he'd fall for the lesser of Astaroth's ploys.
So the angel leaned against the rail of the elevator, pulling his fingers through the mop of blonde hair atop it with mock complacency. Slightly crumpled slacks. A crinkle-nosed look towards his fallen brother.]
You always take me to the best places. [A half-grin. It's half-mocking, only because it's true. Astaroth always picks the better places. The joke would be that Uriel far preferred the seedier locales.]
[Honestly, if Astaroth didn't feel like he was already pushing his luck, he would hardly have hesitated to try pushing the angel into some neater clothes. Wrinkles, really? But no, he'd just have to bank on his own put-togetherness making up for the both of them.]
I imagine it's not hard to beat whatever places you've been frequenting. [A sharp smile accompanies that, though it's sharp only because of Astaroth's usual manner; the only fondness to it is what he's reserved for his angelic brethren, even if only this member of them in particular.] And there aren't any card tables in heaven, last I recall.
You know I'm not a betting man, brother. I always see the favour in things.
[A bad habit. Or perhaps righteous was a better way to call that penchant of his to relate the unrelated to his duty as an archangel. There was just something about Vegas that made him itch. The sinliness that was basked in eagerly by the people here was worth more than a sigh and a stiff drink. It made his job seem... something akin to ineffectual. Impotent. Compulsory yet superfluous. Vegas brought to the forefront of Uriel's mind the things the angel contemplated privately. Just what could one bloody archangel do, particularly a forgotten one, in a city like this?]
I always end up watching, though, don't I?
[There's almost a laugh in that, but he doesn't look at Astaroth. He's eyeing the panel of buttons wondering what floor they're supposed to be going to.]
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[Well, that didn't take as long as he'd thought it would.
Astaroth's eyes are just as red, though that's just as likely to do with the scent of booze on him as it is the subject of their conversation. Still, he's aware enough to cast an eye out for either of his minders before tugging the angel inside.]
Come on.
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He stumbles through the door and doesn't even give a thought about minders before grabbing on to Astaroth's shoulder.
He wants to ask, but his look does for him. This isn't a game, is it? His barriers against emotional states like this have long been torn down by disarming text messages and liquor.]
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He doesn't pull away from Uriel until they're both there, and when he does, it's to flop back onto his bed with a heavy sigh. Even as intoxicated as he is, the gravity of this situation isn't entirely escaping him.]
This is fucked up.
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[Somehow, that phrase alone is enough to shake the worry from Uriel, sobering the doubt attached to even coming here and it leaves him with little more than what he started with. There's a shaking guilt to everything, and a certain aching for that ease they used to have. There are no premonitions for this, not an inkling as to where this is all going.
Uriel climbs onto the bed with a bit of attempted ceremony and ends up teetering over once his bum is on it. He looks over at his brother, rolled to his side.]
I was honest. I always have been.
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When he speaks again, it's in a murmur.]
You never could help that, could you.
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Never. Particularly not with my brothers.
[His shift sets him a bit closer to Astaroth.]
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Am I still your brother?
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To me you are.
[His eyes sting and he blinks them furiously.]
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Not the best set-up for a joke, but they're not quite at the bar just yet. Honestly, Astaroth doesn't know if he can even convince Uriel to accompany him there — well, perhaps tempt is a more appropriate term, loaded as it may be — but he's not going to get off without trying. He's much more entertaining with at least a few shots in him, after all.]
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After all, if he didn't cross his arms and throw scathingly coated remarks, no matter how much out of fondness they were said, he'd fall for the lesser of Astaroth's ploys.
So the angel leaned against the rail of the elevator, pulling his fingers through the mop of blonde hair atop it with mock complacency. Slightly crumpled slacks. A crinkle-nosed look towards his fallen brother.]
You always take me to the best places. [A half-grin. It's half-mocking, only because it's true. Astaroth always picks the better places. The joke would be that Uriel far preferred the seedier locales.]
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I imagine it's not hard to beat whatever places you've been frequenting. [A sharp smile accompanies that, though it's sharp only because of Astaroth's usual manner; the only fondness to it is what he's reserved for his angelic brethren, even if only this member of them in particular.] And there aren't any card tables in heaven, last I recall.
apparently I have a tl;dr problem recently
[A bad habit. Or perhaps righteous was a better way to call that penchant of his to relate the unrelated to his duty as an archangel. There was just something about Vegas that made him itch. The sinliness that was basked in eagerly by the people here was worth more than a sigh and a stiff drink. It made his job seem... something akin to ineffectual. Impotent. Compulsory yet superfluous. Vegas brought to the forefront of Uriel's mind the things the angel contemplated privately. Just what could one bloody archangel do, particularly a forgotten one, in a city like this?]
I always end up watching, though, don't I?
[There's almost a laugh in that, but he doesn't look at Astaroth. He's eyeing the panel of buttons wondering what floor they're supposed to be going to.]