open to EVERYONE
it’s the hour in the evening in which the stars that hang about the velvet sky are brightest, when everything seems to possess a faint, rosy film of stardust and eventide charm. the energy in paranoia is that of a slow winding down, of drowsy companionship and the quiet, warm prattle specific to the drunk and addicted and their waning hours. how gabriel could drown in these hours, until he knows nothing but round edges in his vision and warm nerves and the honeyed sweetness of a drink burning its way down his throat.
he parts from where he sings, pale ivory robe trailing behind him, the smell of jasmine skin and honeysuckle hair cuts through the sharp scent of sitting alcohol and smoke; he’s, at once, a fixture of paranoia as much as he is an anomaly. perhaps there are still those who do not know him by name, only by fragrance or by sound, or something they’ve known in a dream - he doesn’t mind it this way, never ever believing he was meant to be more than an enigma, a creature to know in halves.
“there you are,” he says, and it’s not certain if he’s addressing one patron over another, only that they hope he might at all before daylight comes and wakes them. a faint smile flits about his lips. “you won’t pass out on me, will you?”
“gaaaaaabriel,” nine coos from her booth. she’s fully horizontal, because, well. who doesn’t prefer to be horizontal, right? but she pushes herself up off the elbow she’s leaning against to sit upright, and there’s the slight clack of the mint she’s sucking on moving around in her mouth, hitting against her teeth. “pass out on you? nah, my dude, don’t even worry about it, i’m, like, so good.” the complete lack of grace in her movements might suggest otherwise, but honestly, nine’s not flying as high as she usually might be during her drop-ins at paranoia. “don’t you know i’ve gotta stay totally fuckin’ centered for my very favorite pop star?” she taps her temple and shoots him a wink ( and, of course, an actual shot from her very cool finger guns ).
“hey, where the hell did you get this thing, anyway?” she trails a hand along a few inches of gabriel’s robe. it’s practically part of his lounge singer uniform, sure, but she doesn’t think she’s ever actually asked. “you always look so beeeeautiful, babes.” fidgety as ever, nine drums her fingertips along the tabletop, then curls her fingers into a fist, knocks on it a couple times. “i dunno, i guess i’m in a funny mood. or a funk. a funky mood! but not like,” she shimmies her shoulders, hums a jazzy beat, “not like that. like... you know when you don’t wanna be alone, but you kinda do wanna be alone, so you go somewhere where you’re surrounded by people, but then you just feel even lonelier? it’s fucked up, dude.”
