Drown

[Sergei Vetrov]

It was a brisk sort of day that found Sergei walking down a quiet alley in New York. The wind was blowing, and the cold bit at his skin as he made his way down the alley, his coat wrapped tightly around him, and his face wearing a look of distaste. He despised America, and everything in it. He was more then educated with the cold, as his homeland was much much colder then this, but what Sergei disliked the most was the smell and the people. He found himself silently cursing his father for sending him here. He knew that his father was aware of his distaste for the country, but here he was anyway. Scowling to himself, he turned the corner at the end of the alley and noticed a pub just a few metres in front of him. Thinking a drink was much needed, he pushed his way through the door and into the pub. He instantly felt the warmth of the heated room, and pulled his coat off as he made his way to the bar. Ordering a strong bourbon, he sat down on a bar stool, and hung his coat over the back of the seat. Taking a sip of his drink, he sighed to himself contently as he felt the fiery substance crawl its way down his throat. It had been too long in-between drinks for Sergei, and he felt somewhat refreshed by the alcohol that he held in his hand. He was slowly coming to the realisation that he had become an alcoholic. He didn't like the idea that he was becoming reliant on drinking. He didn't like the idea of being reliant on anything, for that matter. It was a hard thought process to go through, but one that left him craving a drink the more he thought on it, which was a pointless endeavour.

Running a hand through his hair, he placed an elbow on the bar and brought his hand to rest against his head. These past few days had been extremely tiresome, and Sergei longed to be home. He hated being away from his estate for too long, and cursed his father again for forcing him here. He didn't think much of his mission. He found it a frustrating and time consuming thing. Thinking now of his brothers and sister, he cursed them as well. Sergei was the prodigy of the Vetrov family, the heir to the title and his fathers successor. This, in all practicality, made him a slave. His siblings were still at school, and whilst he understood their need to be at school, he often wished that his father would send one of them to do his bidding, and leave Sergei to his peace. The russian didn't ask much. All he wanted was some peace and quiet in the comfort of his estate, with his spirits and wines. He didn't care at all for travelling, and especially hated having to come to places like this. "Blast it all." he said to himself in thick Russian. He was getting sick of this. Taking another drink of his bourbon, he placed it back down on the bar and slumped back in his seat, weary from his travels.

 

[Samuel Phillips]

There was only a flash decision between another pretentious party and finding refuge in a bar and it was the bar that always took priority. Such a dank, low key pub was a place Sam usually avoided like the plague from fear of being mugged, or worse, verbally harassed by other men that had no sense of human decency, however choosing a bar so far out of his comfort zone meant an extra few minutes before Clementine barged in and dragged his drunk ass home. Devious was Samuel's mood when he chose a bar far out of reach and the last place she would expect him to hide. Planning one step ahead was one thing but underestimating his roommate's perseverance was an entirely different story. In fact, anger seemed to aid her ability to find him in the most outlandish places when the last thing he wanted was to be found. She was an intelligent girl, and since being her roommate Sam came to learn that her intelligence rarely faltered. Especially not when he left her for dead at a party to sink into a bar and drown his sorrows in whiskey. But spite Clementine's talent of finding him anywhere at any point in time, he had every high intention to get good and dunk before she ruined his fun.

And alas, Samuel was already heavily affected from the glasses of whiskey he downed when the sudden cold from outside hit his skin and the stranger that followed trudge towards the bar. If it were not for the fact Sam was already tipsy from the ditched party's champagne when he arrived and had not swallowed a copious amount of whiskey since then he would have recognized the guy and his Russian accent and in turn ignored him completely, but Sam's undeniable drunkenness forced him to forget a face he had not laid eyes on for the better part of ten years. He leaned back to hide the shiver that ran up his spine to observe the person he convinced himself he had never seen before. A stranger was all he could see the other man as, and it was the fact Sam believed he was a stranger that allowed him to open his mouth and speak to so confidently, without a care or insecurity in the world. "You alright there?" His tone was cheery, almost humorous and without a doubt a tone he probably should not have used in a bar towards someone that looked incredibly grumpy. "If I was as staunch as you were, I'd probably be drinking my glass of bourbon a lot quicker." He smiled, eyes half glazed and happier than he probably should have been given the situation. Samuel loved drinking, how it lowered his inhibitions and relaxed him in the most stressful times but he never failed to regret how much it dulled his common sense. Not that he gave his lack of common sense a second thought when caught within one of the many stages of intoxication. He continued his conversation with the stranger, assuming they were listening and willing to be on the receptive end of his words. "You seem out of place, like you should be in Russia and not in some gross pub in New York, no?" Choosing to bring up the guys accent seemed like a logical decision in Samuel's mind when he guy had failed to give him any other hint of something to talk about when they were both situated in a bar and Samuel had put in effort to have a coherent conversation.

blah. i'd say my posts will get better but they probably won't.​

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