A Meeting of Liars [Tino/Mihai]

[Tino Väinämöinen]

cause I lie, not because i want to

But I seem to need to all the time.
Yeah I lie
And I don't even know it
Maybe this is all a part of my
Flawed design

Indulgence was something that Tino didn’t normally-… Ah hell he indulged whenever the hell he wanted to. Hence, the empty shot glass in his hand that had been drained only moments before. It was a Saturday night and Tino had had the day off, thankfully, but it wasn’t as if he were relaxing. He spent most of the day fixing up his hole-in-the-wall of a home, as well as grocery shopping. While that may have seemed mundane, recall that Tino’s cabin was a solid 2 kilometers from the perimeter road, and that his ‘driveway’ was not plowed. Tino had enough sense to buy a toboggan to pull behind him, loaded with all his plunders from the grocery store. Nevertheless, he had walked far more than he intended to and his house still looked like crap.

Ah well, at least he’d eavesdrop and hopefully sniff some trails tonight.

The Freedom Fighters proved to be a mixed bag sort of group. Some had looser lips (aided by alcohol of course), but they never really said anything of importance, or enough to warrant arrest. Tino had discovered little, other than the clear presence of the organization in Archadia. Tino was brought in on the chance of a revolution; now he knew that the outcome was likely if things were allowed to continue as they were. The government precautions were stagnating, aside from the relocation of Agent Väinämöinen. The Freedom Fighters were moving, constantly changing around. They weren’t stupid, that was for sure, and Tino would give them credit for that.

However…

In all of Tino’s days, he never found any organized crime to be ‘that stupid’ as to sell their secrets to a complete stranger. Any that did were often snuffed out long before they reached the media’s ears. True criminals were never heard of, unless they were caught by sheer bad luck. The Freedom Fighters were well regulated and difficult to pin down to individual people. That task would take time and skill on Tino’s part, as well as a lot of snooping and sniffing at loose ends. Tino ordered another shot of vodka as he rubbed his temples. He definitely had his work cut out for him.

He’d start as he had though. Alcohol loosened tightly-held secrets, and Tino was as coy and as cunning as a fox. He’d never reveal his fishing schemes or lead on that he knew for more than he appeared to. As far as his current state, he appeared to have had a hard day and was drinking to compensate. Far and few between would expect him as a tapped bug.

His shot appeared and he pushed forward a crumbled bill with a lopsided smile and an appreciative nod. He threw his head back and took it in a single motion before wrinkling his nose and placing the glass back on the bar table.

“Вот некоторые хорошие России вода, да?” // That's some good Russian water, yes? He said with a laugh, rosy cheeks pulling his lips into a toothy grin.

CODED BY ELECTRIC OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Mihai C. Eliade]

the truth is just a rule that you can

bend

I

t was less so indulgence than excessiveness for him. It wasn't easy to live the way he did, the way any mutants did. They were deprived of the most basic freedoms and joys that should have been their birthright, denied their autonomy and choice. They were given only one route in life—enslavement—and they served until they died if they hadn't already died beforehand. How bitter it all was! How terrible and sickening that what had once been denounced by the whole world over was, once again, à la mode without so much as a protest from respectable society. He was twenty-two now, supposed to be in college. Maybe he'd have gone through studying history and he certainly would have gone through more than a couple of hearts and beds, but the way things were, he didn't know what lied tangent to the curve of a broken heart, only knew that everyone who had ever said history was cyclical was right. That was how he lived—as property, as a secret, carved open every once in awhile like a piece of meat. It was only natural that he would seek to fill the emptiness in his life with whatever excesses he could find. What he lacked in fulfillment he made up for in alcohol and nicotine, too much of it, because it never even came close to giving him a feeling of wholeness. Still, he went out drinking when the stocks in his room ran low, even if he hated being out and hated being in the company of others. It seemed, at least, that his misery was not remarkable, and drunkards rarely paid him more heed than a slur and crude comment.

He was nursing a glass of vodka and some juice mix (he didn't know, except that it was red and tasted vaguely of cranberries), and it wasn't the hardest thing he'd had that night. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and an artificial warmth spread from limb to torso. It was pleasant in a vague sort of way, since his thoughts were considerably more subdued though he knew that wouldn't be the case if he proceeded in excess. He didn't really care, at the moment. It was hard to be more of a wreck than he already was, so he may as well drink until he had to throw up in the filthy bathrooms, for all the bad it would do him. God knows it was either this or something worse. There was nothing that drove him to sickness and untoward thoughts quite as easily as the looming date of his next job, and he'd been beginning to fancy the view from the roof quite a bit more than he should, even though he knew it would never work. It never had before, and all that would be left behind would be a mess to clean up and an even more painful process of putting himself back together. So to the bar it was, where he could drink until awareness was clinging on by one last thread and hopefully when he woke up next he would be in his room and nothing would be broken. Either that, or he'd die by alcohol poisoning which frankly didn't sound too bad either.

His eyes lazily followed the bartender as she delivered another shot glass to the man next to him. His gaze then lowered, down to his own drink, where he swirled the liquid around and watched the circular path the ice traveled, clinking its way around the glass. He barely noticed the words the other man spoke to him, the Russian melding seamlessly into the background noise of all the conversations that were happening around them. For a moment, he merely looked at the stranger uncomprehendingly, before realizing the greeting had been directed at him. "Ah… yes," he answered, likewise in Russian. He took another sip of his drink, then lowered the glass and went back to watching the ice cubes circle round their trappings. "If only I could drown in it," he murmured to no one in particular.

Word Count: 677 || Tags: Tino Väinämöinen || Notes: Gaah I'm sorry it took so long. Let me know if I need to give you more to work with. ;w;

by worldie on iof

[Tino Väinämöinen]

cause I lie, not because i want to

But I seem to need to all the time.
Yeah I lie
And I don't even know it
Maybe this is all a part of my
Flawed design

Even if Tino's senses were dulled due to the effects of alcohol, he found it strange that he was ignored after his cheery greeting. Almost any happy drunk in this bar would have burst into a fit of laughter, slapped Tino on the back and probably would have taken another shot with him. Perhaps that wasn't completely valid, but most patrons would have responded positively to Tino's icebreaker.

Instead, this odd fellow didn't hear him or something. Weird, as Tino had spoke loudly and his shrill voice was difficult to miss. The stranger looked at him dead on when Tino realized something:

He had seen this man somewhere before...

...But he couldn't recall where. Dammit, why did he drink so much? Think think think... This man was of average size, lean-build, and seemed relatively ordinary with his mouse brown hair and light brown eyes. He was far less noticeable when compared to Tino, who stood out like a sore thumb in this crowd. Tino envied him for that sole reason.

...But where the hell had Tino seen this guy? He was positive that he knew his face... but... not his voice. He must have seen him in a photograph, or on video or surveillance. Tino tried hard to think clearly. Was it long ago? No. It was recent enough, but not fresh (basically, not from his childhood). Brilliant deduction Captain Vainamoinen. Now that we've established he wasn't your best friend in grade school, THINK. Who is this? What's his name???

Nothing was coming to him, but it was on the tip of his tongue. He had to continue to the conversation. Maybe something would trigger his sluggish mind. He had barely caught the mumbled words, and even then, Tino wasn't entirely positive if he had understood the meaning of the phrase correctly. This man, whoever he was, had an accent. He was speaking Russian... but it was accented...

Which meant...

Right. He wasn't Russian. Damn, thinking was hard when he was hammered.

"Why so depressed, friend? Troubles with your lady?" Tino said, letting the smile drip off his face as he pulled over a stool. He didn't know who this guy was, nor if he were important or if Tino had just seen him in the newspaper, but he had a gut feeling that he should clarify this man's identity real quick before getting back to Freedom Fighter recon. He was young, maybe Tino's age. Was he in the MIA program as well? No... Tino didn't remember anyone like him passing.

Wait, Tino was the only one who passed in his group. The others were all dead. Oops.

Tino waved the bartender over and ordered another round for both of them, but Tino opted for a lighter beverage. He needed to sober up a little bit if he were to get anything out of this night other than a bad hangover. "I'll buy you another round. You look like you need it. Why so blue?"

CODED BY ELECTRIC OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Mihai C. Eliade]

the truth is just a rule that you can

bend

H

e hadn't expected the man to continue the conversation. Mihai certainly hadn't been looking for company that night, and he hadn't expected any to be offered to him—and yet, there the stranger was, smiling, slight and blond and a little too light to be in this place, and yet he was pulling over a stool. Mihai knew he would've looked stupid if he kept watching the man with that same dumbfounded expression, so he quickly wiped it over with a mask of neutrality. Still, his bewilderment wasn't exactly odd; he was much more used to being left alone, especially if he looked morose and off-putting enough. No one wanted to make conversation with a person who responded in quiet tones and provided only the barest of answers. And yet.

Still, what could he say to the other's questions? The first alone would be enough to delve into his entire life's story, Mihai thought a bit bitterly at irony of the situation. Someone finally cared enough to ask—a human, at that—and yet the other probably would not have wanted to hear an honest answer. Well, for starters, how about being locked up, not given the free will that you humans prize? Beaten down, punished, tortured—yes, I think that would quite make anyone depressed, but the words remained firmly sealed away. He knew better than to speak bluntly, knew even better not to bare his vulnerabilities to just anyone.

The follow-up caught him off-guard though, and he was, if anything, drunk enough to feel a flare of heat to his cheeks as his mind went very automatically to a certain green-eyed mutant. "No," he answered on instinct, that and a shy smile being the first replies to come to mind after being taken by surprise. Arthur could hardly count as a lady anyway, and Mihai's thoughts had not been dwelling on him that night. Even if the fights between them were not uncommon and had, on some occasion, driven him to drink, no—that wasn't what had been on his mind. "It's… something else," he said mildly, shaking his head, though he did not elaborate. What it was, was much worse than a few heated words, a beast that made dread curl in his gut, made the flesh under his skin itch and crawl until he wanted to dig that feeling from his body. Drinking was preferable to that, and he thought the others would like it better too.

Yet, the shocks kept coming. The surprise was plain on his face this time when he spun back to look at the man. He was being offered a drink? "No, that-that won't be—isn't necessary," he said quietly, ducking his head. It would be out of line for him to accept that sort of offer from a human, and, further, he didn't know why the stranger was offering in the first place. Had he not seen the dogtags that hung from Mihai's neck, denoting his status in society? It seemed to be a common mistake these days—people coming up to him without knowing what he was. He hoped the other would not feel deceived; often, those people had tempers to be frightened of, and he simply didn't want a scene that night. Or any night. "Sorry, I should go," he said, making to get up. He didn't know how to react, and escape seemed the easiest choice.

Word Count: 569 || Tags: Tino Väinämöinen || Notes: -

by worldie on iof