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@the-big-bad-mysz
"Did you need something?"
His voice is low and a little rough, holding an indirect resentment that doesn't seem to be aimed at you, but at the words themselves, as if the very act of speaking pisses him off. It's something he doesn't seem to be aware of until–
"Sorry."
————————————————————————
Name: Wilson Leonard Dann Jr.
Alias: Mysz/Mouse
Pronouns: He/him
Age: 36 (as of 2024)
DoB: 17/10/1987
Height: 6'11"
PoB: Poznań, Poland
————————————————————————
Rules and Guidelines
17/10/2008, 02:32
"What say thee–" Tim cuts himself off with a burp, then a hiccup. "–to another shot?"
Mysz glances at him, red-faced with the biggest smile ever, before bursting out laughing. "Wh– Why'd y' say i' like tha'? 'Wha' say thee–' are we in fuck'n'– medieval times or somethin'?"
Tim, who has also begun to laugh way too hard for what was said, pushes Mysz lightly. "Ah, fuck off, do you wan' a shot or not?"
Sniffling in the aftermath of his little outburst, Mysz shakes his head waving his hand in a 'go ahead' sort of motion. "Nah. We should prob'ly get some rest, hm?"
Tim seems to have only just realised the time. "Oh shit, yeah. Hey do you wanna take an edible with me before we go to bed?"
"Really? Never 'ad one before."
"Oh, you'll love it," the slightly older man assures him, already shuffling through his desk to find the little bag. "Then again, you seem more like a bong guy."
"Do'I?" Mysz asks, looking nothing less than confused. ".... D'you have a bong?"
Tim chuckles. "'Course I do, birthday boy."
Moan~
@kalinasyzmanska
Mysz wants Kalina. He would never admit it to anyone, not even her yet, but he thinks about it an embarrassing amount. Not always with his hand tucked into his pants and arm thrown over his eyes so that he can imagine her better, but today's been rough and thinking about Kalina and imagining that she's there, riding him like he's going to disappear, generally helps.
"Ah– fuck, Kalina..." he groans, back arching ever so slightly as he speeds up his hand.
He'll muster up the courage to discuss this with her soon, because this might kill him from the sheer humiliation of being this desperate, even if nobody else knows what he does at home.
send "moan~" for my muse to call out your muse's name while pleasuring themselves.
Alternatively, send "moan for me~" to be the one making my muse moan your muse's name.
"Hey, kochanie?~"
Kalina approaches where Mysz is sitting down and wraps her arms around his shoulders. Hugging him from the side, the side of his face definitely ends up pillowed against her bosom, but the hug is innocent enough.
She kisses his temple and hums, letting out a soft 'muah' sound when she pulls back slightly. "Do you have any idea how kissable you are?"
@kalinasyzmanska
"Hm?–" Mysz is in the process of spinning around to face Kalina when she wraps her arms around him.
There is a brief moment where he freezes up completely in the hug, blood rising to his face as his eyes widen slightly. He hardly breathes in that moment, only blinking when Kalina kisses his temple. A kiss. She just kissed him.
It's a miracle that he doesn't melt into a pile of goo or combust entirely when she calls him kissable. Since when was he kissable??
This, frankly, is the most positively expressive anyone has ever seen him.
It's at least 40 seconds before he responds, wrapping his arms around her waist firmly and tries not to look to his right, closing his eyes in an attempt to steady himself and his mind. "Kissable?"
Try to fluster my muse. Do whatever it takes to make them blush!
The helicopter ride back to base is silent, except for the rotors cutting through the air. Kalina is... well, honestly, she doesn't even know how she's doing. If she had to describe it in one word, it would be numb. She feels numb.
Thinking back on what happened, it almost felt like it was someone else who tore through that mansion like a vengeful spirit, and she was just watching from the sidelines. Still... she saved those girls, and the info they gathered from the scene and the target could possibly lead to saving more. And the world now has fewer monsters in it.
That's all that matters.
An attempt is made to clean herself up. The emerald dress is ruined, covered in enough blood that even club soda won't help it. She has various scrapes and bruises on her arms and legs. The most obvious injury is her left arm, placed in a sling until she can get examined in the infirmary.
She hears the call go through, the pilot informing HQ that they were set to land in three minutes. Kalina can feel Jackson's eyes on her, but all she can think about is one person... Mysz.
@the-big-bad-mysz
Mysz has been nothing short of a total wreck for most of the day. Even now, when he knows that Kalina is safely on her way back to HQ in a helicopter, a range of feelings war inside of him, the main ones being stress, worry and relief.
But he's also proud of her, in a way — for making it out alive, for also doing anything she can to protect the innocent. Still, he'd been so worried, to a point where he is perhaps slightly, infinitesimally, upset with Kalina for putting herself in danger like that.
As the helicopter lands, though, any shred of anger dissipates and he promises he really is trying not to cry but the wave of relief that washes over him when he sees that she's still in one piece, that she really did survive. It hurts him in a way that he can't describe to see her injured, but she's alive.
He nearly falls to his knees, the stress having made everything hurt so much more.
Jackson is the first one to disembark the helo, and even though Kalina protests and insists that she can step down herself, he's hearing none of it. The stern set to his jaw reminds her of Jimmy when she's being 'a rock head', and she knows better than to keep arguing at that point.
Grabbing Jackson's hand, she steps down and does her best not to stumble. His coat is hanging over her shoulders, partially covering the sling and the various cuts and bruises. The adrenaline has long since lifted, and her body aches all over.
But it's nothing compared to the knife in her chest when she sees Mysz. Her bottom lip trembles, and she has to bite it to make it stop, lifting her chin as she makes her way closer to him. The guilt is acid in her gut as she looks up at him, at a complete loss for words. First time for everything, right?
The moment Kalina is close enough, Mysz wraps his arms around her in a hug, face hidden in her hair, crutches hitting the ground beside them but he doesn't care — she's okay. He's cautious of her injuries, of course, but the hug is still firm.
"Nigdy więcej tego nie rób... proszę..." he pleads quietly, clearly a little teary-eyed. She's okay. "Mogłeś umrzeć." She's Okay.
It's the only thing that properly goes through Mysz's mind for a few moments as he practically clings to her. She's okay, she's okay, she's okay. He'll have to let go soon — he won't be able to stand for much longer and he doubts Kalina has the strength to hold him up right now — but he can't bring himself to just yet.
Kalina knew that Mysz would have been worried about her, but as the hushed Polish frantically spilled out of him, she's hit with the crushing wave of just how much her actions have affected him.
Please don't do that again. You could have died.
While she can't bring herself to regret her actions, she realizes she could have gone about it differently. In the moment... well, she wasn't thinking clearly, was she?
"Bardzo mi przykro, Mysz..." She hugs him firmly with her good arm, using every last bit of strength she has to keep them upright, burying her face against his chest.
Jackson lingers nearby, probably to make sure they don't fall over. Reaching down, he picks up Mysz's crutches, standing by for when he's good to take them. "C'mon, you two," he speaks up, his voice softer than usual. "Need ta get that arm looked at proper..."
Taking a deep breath, Mysz tries to internally reason with himself — he has to let go so that Kalina can go to medical; he can go with her, probably, but he can't cling to her like this forever, no matter how much he wants to.
"Cieszę się, że żyjesz, Kalina." With a parting kiss to the top of her head, Mysz slowly lets go of her, taking his crutches from Jackson so that he doesn't immediately fall over.
Kalina knows Jackson is right, but she doesn't move away just yet, squeezing her eyes tightly when he kisses the top of her head. It's only when Mysz moves first so he can grab his crutches that she takes a step back, sniffling and holding her chin up. The last thing she needed to do was cry right now. She has nothing to cry about, she's fine.
Honestly, she's more worried about Mysz. And even when they begin to walk down the corridor leading to the medical bay, her good hand rests on his lower back. Where she knows it pains him. Gods, that moment in his office seems like a lifetime ago.
Once Jackson has ensured they make it to their destination, he nods once, ever the stoic guardian. But Kalina can see it in his eyes... she worried him, too. "Right then," he says gruffly, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. "Get settled, and I'll grab the doc."
"Thank you, Baran," she murmurs, giving him a meaningful look. Once it's just her and Mysz, the silence feels oppressive as they sit down. She's not even sure what to say, what she could possibly say to make this alright. The adrenaline has long since worn off, and her arm fucking hurts. She needs a cigarette. "I... I shouldn't have cut comms like that... I'm sorry."
Mysz inhales sharply through his nose, pausing so that he doesn't crumble to the ground when Kalina rests her hand on his back — it's a wave of relief that comes with a moment comfort, both things that hit him hard enough that he would've toppled over.
Once they make it to Medical, Mysz sits down in a chair beside one of the beds, glancing at Jackson as he speaks and giving him a grateful look and a nod. "Thank you."
Then it's just the two of them and suddenly all his attention is back on Kalina as he shakes his head at the apology. "It's... it's fine. How are you feeling, how's your arm?"
The helicopter ride back to base is silent, except for the rotors cutting through the air. Kalina is... well, honestly, she doesn't even know how she's doing. If she had to describe it in one word, it would be numb. She feels numb.
Thinking back on what happened, it almost felt like it was someone else who tore through that mansion like a vengeful spirit, and she was just watching from the sidelines. Still... she saved those girls, and the info they gathered from the scene and the target could possibly lead to saving more. And the world now has fewer monsters in it.
That's all that matters.
An attempt is made to clean herself up. The emerald dress is ruined, covered in enough blood that even club soda won't help it. She has various scrapes and bruises on her arms and legs. The most obvious injury is her left arm, placed in a sling until she can get examined in the infirmary.
She hears the call go through, the pilot informing HQ that they were set to land in three minutes. Kalina can feel Jackson's eyes on her, but all she can think about is one person... Mysz.
@the-big-bad-mysz
Mysz has been nothing short of a total wreck for most of the day. Even now, when he knows that Kalina is safely on her way back to HQ in a helicopter, a range of feelings war inside of him, the main ones being stress, worry and relief.
But he's also proud of her, in a way — for making it out alive, for also doing anything she can to protect the innocent. Still, he'd been so worried, to a point where he is perhaps slightly, infinitesimally, upset with Kalina for putting herself in danger like that.
As the helicopter lands, though, any shred of anger dissipates and he promises he really is trying not to cry but the wave of relief that washes over him when he sees that she's still in one piece, that she really did survive. It hurts him in a way that he can't describe to see her injured, but she's alive.
He nearly falls to his knees, the stress having made everything hurt so much more.
Jackson is the first one to disembark the helo, and even though Kalina protests and insists that she can step down herself, he's hearing none of it. The stern set to his jaw reminds her of Jimmy when she's being 'a rock head', and she knows better than to keep arguing at that point.
Grabbing Jackson's hand, she steps down and does her best not to stumble. His coat is hanging over her shoulders, partially covering the sling and the various cuts and bruises. The adrenaline has long since lifted, and her body aches all over.
But it's nothing compared to the knife in her chest when she sees Mysz. Her bottom lip trembles, and she has to bite it to make it stop, lifting her chin as she makes her way closer to him. The guilt is acid in her gut as she looks up at him, at a complete loss for words. First time for everything, right?
The moment Kalina is close enough, Mysz wraps his arms around her in a hug, face hidden in her hair, crutches hitting the ground beside them but he doesn't care — she's okay. He's cautious of her injuries, of course, but the hug is still firm.
"Nigdy więcej tego nie rób... proszę..." he pleads quietly, clearly a little teary-eyed. She's okay. "Mogłeś umrzeć." She's Okay.
It's the only thing that properly goes through Mysz's mind for a few moments as he practically clings to her. She's okay, she's okay, she's okay. He'll have to let go soon — he won't be able to stand for much longer and he doubts Kalina has the strength to hold him up right now — but he can't bring himself to just yet.
Kalina knew that Mysz would have been worried about her, but as the hushed Polish frantically spilled out of him, she's hit with the crushing wave of just how much her actions have affected him.
Please don't do that again. You could have died.
While she can't bring herself to regret her actions, she realizes she could have gone about it differently. In the moment... well, she wasn't thinking clearly, was she?
"Bardzo mi przykro, Mysz..." She hugs him firmly with her good arm, using every last bit of strength she has to keep them upright, burying her face against his chest.
Jackson lingers nearby, probably to make sure they don't fall over. Reaching down, he picks up Mysz's crutches, standing by for when he's good to take them. "C'mon, you two," he speaks up, his voice softer than usual. "Need ta get that arm looked at proper..."
Taking a deep breath, Mysz tries to internally reason with himself — he has to let go so that Kalina can go to medical; he can go with her, probably, but he can't cling to her like this forever, no matter how much he wants to.
"Cieszę się, że żyjesz, Kalina." With a parting kiss to the top of her head, Mysz slowly lets go of her, taking his crutches from Jackson so that he doesn't immediately fall over.
The helicopter ride back to base is silent, except for the rotors cutting through the air. Kalina is... well, honestly, she doesn't even know how she's doing. If she had to describe it in one word, it would be numb. She feels numb.
Thinking back on what happened, it almost felt like it was someone else who tore through that mansion like a vengeful spirit, and she was just watching from the sidelines. Still... she saved those girls, and the info they gathered from the scene and the target could possibly lead to saving more. And the world now has fewer monsters in it.
That's all that matters.
An attempt is made to clean herself up. The emerald dress is ruined, covered in enough blood that even club soda won't help it. She has various scrapes and bruises on her arms and legs. The most obvious injury is her left arm, placed in a sling until she can get examined in the infirmary.
She hears the call go through, the pilot informing HQ that they were set to land in three minutes. Kalina can feel Jackson's eyes on her, but all she can think about is one person... Mysz.
@the-big-bad-mysz
Mysz has been nothing short of a total wreck for most of the day. Even now, when he knows that Kalina is safely on her way back to HQ in a helicopter, a range of feelings war inside of him, the main ones being stress, worry and relief.
But he's also proud of her, in a way — for making it out alive, for also doing anything she can to protect the innocent. Still, he'd been so worried, to a point where he is perhaps slightly, infinitesimally, upset with Kalina for putting herself in danger like that.
As the helicopter lands, though, any shred of anger dissipates and he promises he really is trying not to cry but the wave of relief that washes over him when he sees that she's still in one piece, that she really did survive. It hurts him in a way that he can't describe to see her injured, but she's alive.
He nearly falls to his knees, the stress having made everything hurt so much more.
Jackson is the first one to disembark the helo, and even though Kalina protests and insists that she can step down herself, he's hearing none of it. The stern set to his jaw reminds her of Jimmy when she's being 'a rock head', and she knows better than to keep arguing at that point.
Grabbing Jackson's hand, she steps down and does her best not to stumble. His coat is hanging over her shoulders, partially covering the sling and the various cuts and bruises. The adrenaline has long since lifted, and her body aches all over.
But it's nothing compared to the knife in her chest when she sees Mysz. Her bottom lip trembles, and she has to bite it to make it stop, lifting her chin as she makes her way closer to him. The guilt is acid in her gut as she looks up at him, at a complete loss for words. First time for everything, right?
The moment Kalina is close enough, Mysz wraps his arms around her in a hug, face hidden in her hair, crutches hitting the ground beside them but he doesn't care — she's okay. He's cautious of her injuries, of course, but the hug is still firm.
"Nigdy więcej tego nie rób... proszę..." he pleads quietly, clearly a little teary-eyed. She's okay. "Mogłeś umrzeć." She's Okay.
It's the only thing that properly goes through Mysz's mind for a few moments as he practically clings to her. She's okay, she's okay, she's okay. He'll have to let go soon — he won't be able to stand for much longer and he doubts Kalina has the strength to hold him up right now — but he can't bring himself to just yet.
There's no scramble in catching the glass, just the glass rolling into his hand, almost as if he was expecting such a petty action.
Would it be bad to throw a bottle of water at Aaron? Would it truly be so bad if it hit him in the head? The bottle's plastic, it'd only hurt if he used force.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Mysz cleans the glass then gets back to work properly.
It's unfortunate that Mysz is the bartender, because Aaron could really have used another drink, right about now. He's already trying to come up with desperate plans to make rent and not get a bat to the ribs, but none of them are sounding too promising. He guesses he'll call up some of his... regulars.
God, he fucking hates doing that.
The night wears on, with very little money made. Shit. Before he knows it, club's closing up and he's absolutely fucked.
Observant as he is, Mysz has realised that Aaron seems to attempt to meet a certain quota every night, and that the man seems to stress out when he doesn't and, while he isn't entirely sure what the quota is, Mysz wants to help him reach it — just because he's a dick doesn't mean he deserves to struggle.
So, when the club is practically empty apart from the two of them and whoever's in the office, Mysz clears his throat quietly and calls the man over.
"Aaron. Come 'ere."
Aaron can't be bothered to pay attention to other people. Too busy trying to survive, thanks. He barely notices any of his coworkers, only interacting enough to keep them at an arm's length with dry, sarcastic comments and glares. The boss is the only one he has to keep on the good side of.
Usually the first one in and the last one out, he still hasn't changed out of his 'uniform' when Mysz calls his name. Suspicion immediately flares in his chest. They were definitely not on good terms. What could the bartender possibly want?
Aaron considers ignoring him. "What is it?" He asks instead, heels clicking agaisnt the floor as he moves towards the other, stopping a few feet away. Arms crossed over his chest as if that would hide the hunger-panged frame.
"How much d' you need?" He asks with neither kindness or malice, face almost blank. The question is a bit vague but he doubts he'll need to elaborate given the situation. He does still add something though. "And who d'you owe it to?"
Kindness should be met with gratitude. But there hadn't been enough belt whippings in the world to get that through Aaron's skull. He is immediately distrustful, and his grip on his own arms tightens, more defensive.
"No idea what you mean," he lies, like he always does, looking in Mysz's eye without any indication that he's not telling the truth. "I don't need anything." Least of all pity. Least of all from a coworker.
Besides, not like Musz had two hundred bucks just lying around.
Mysz raises an eyebrow at Aaron, unamused by his bullshit, before handing him an envelope. "Take it. No catch."
Enclosed is about five hundred dollars cash. If Aaron won't be specific, he'll just have to guess. "If's not enough, tell me."
Then he goes back to closing down the bar.
"Wh—?"
Aaron is a little baffled at being given an envelope, and he tries to crush any hope that dares to spark in his chest. He can't be ridiculous. Nobody helps just because they want to.
But it's money. And a lot of it.
"What do you want?" Aaron asks quietly, feeling numbness crawl its way up his arms. "I— I'm not gonna owe you."
He'd just been a dick to Mysz. Like to everyone. Why would he ever...?
"Y' won't owe me anything. Just tell me whenever you need anything and I'll see what I can do. Good?" He makes it very clear that not only is he being honest, but that Aaron is allowed to say no. "You're a cunt but I'm not a sadist — you shouldn't have to suffer."
Pulled in every direction, Aaron doesn't know how to react. Anger is usually his only friend, the only thing that keeps him safe. But it's not working. It hasn't pushed Mysz away. And now he owes him.
Because he does. Because life is transactional.
Envelope still clutched in his hands, heart beating so fast it might actually be an issue, he swallows. "I— you've got to want s-something." Damn stutter. Thought he'd gotten rid of it ages ago. Anger again. "I-I'm not suffering." He's not a dawned damsel in distress.
He hands Aaron a bottle of water, cold and hopefully soothing. Wouldn't want the poor guy to have a heart attack.
"Don't want anything. If you wanna repay me that bad, let me take care of you. That's it. Suffering or not, I like taking care of people." It's not entirely a lie, not in the slightest. Mysz does like meeting people's needs — it's part of the reason he's a bartender.
It doesn't make sense. Does Mysz get off on taking care of people or something? Aaron really shouldn't entertain stuff like that with coworkers.
Not that that has stopped him before. Desperation and all.
The water is cold and grounds him a little. "N-Not in front of the others," he stammers, blood rising to his face. Wouldn't want word getting out that he was weak.
It's not that he gets off on it per sé, it's more of an emotional thing, something that makes him feel wanted in a way he can't describe and doesn't care to look into any time soon.
Mysz nods at Aaron's request. "'Course. Whatever you want, babe."
Aaron can't tell the difference. Never had.
The conversation leaves him feeling untethered, but at least one thing is for sure. He can make rent. He's not getting his ribs kicked in.
"...sure," he mumbles, unsure if he can leave or not. Taking a few steps back, he hesitates before turning his back on Mysz and going to get dressed.
"Night, Aaron," he says as the man walks away before taking a sip from his own bottle of water and officially closing the bar for the night after running inventory. Then it's home time for him.
There's no scramble in catching the glass, just the glass rolling into his hand, almost as if he was expecting such a petty action.
Would it be bad to throw a bottle of water at Aaron? Would it truly be so bad if it hit him in the head? The bottle's plastic, it'd only hurt if he used force.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Mysz cleans the glass then gets back to work properly.
It's unfortunate that Mysz is the bartender, because Aaron could really have used another drink, right about now. He's already trying to come up with desperate plans to make rent and not get a bat to the ribs, but none of them are sounding too promising. He guesses he'll call up some of his... regulars.
God, he fucking hates doing that.
The night wears on, with very little money made. Shit. Before he knows it, club's closing up and he's absolutely fucked.
Observant as he is, Mysz has realised that Aaron seems to attempt to meet a certain quota every night, and that the man seems to stress out when he doesn't and, while he isn't entirely sure what the quota is, Mysz wants to help him reach it — just because he's a dick doesn't mean he deserves to struggle.
So, when the club is practically empty apart from the two of them and whoever's in the office, Mysz clears his throat quietly and calls the man over.
"Aaron. Come 'ere."
Aaron can't be bothered to pay attention to other people. Too busy trying to survive, thanks. He barely notices any of his coworkers, only interacting enough to keep them at an arm's length with dry, sarcastic comments and glares. The boss is the only one he has to keep on the good side of.
Usually the first one in and the last one out, he still hasn't changed out of his 'uniform' when Mysz calls his name. Suspicion immediately flares in his chest. They were definitely not on good terms. What could the bartender possibly want?
Aaron considers ignoring him. "What is it?" He asks instead, heels clicking agaisnt the floor as he moves towards the other, stopping a few feet away. Arms crossed over his chest as if that would hide the hunger-panged frame.
"How much d' you need?" He asks with neither kindness or malice, face almost blank. The question is a bit vague but he doubts he'll need to elaborate given the situation. He does still add something though. "And who d'you owe it to?"
Kindness should be met with gratitude. But there hadn't been enough belt whippings in the world to get that through Aaron's skull. He is immediately distrustful, and his grip on his own arms tightens, more defensive.
"No idea what you mean," he lies, like he always does, looking in Mysz's eye without any indication that he's not telling the truth. "I don't need anything." Least of all pity. Least of all from a coworker.
Besides, not like Musz had two hundred bucks just lying around.
Mysz raises an eyebrow at Aaron, unamused by his bullshit, before handing him an envelope. "Take it. No catch."
Enclosed is about five hundred dollars cash. If Aaron won't be specific, he'll just have to guess. "If's not enough, tell me."
Then he goes back to closing down the bar.
"Wh—?"
Aaron is a little baffled at being given an envelope, and he tries to crush any hope that dares to spark in his chest. He can't be ridiculous. Nobody helps just because they want to.
But it's money. And a lot of it.
"What do you want?" Aaron asks quietly, feeling numbness crawl its way up his arms. "I— I'm not gonna owe you."
He'd just been a dick to Mysz. Like to everyone. Why would he ever...?
"Y' won't owe me anything. Just tell me whenever you need anything and I'll see what I can do. Good?" He makes it very clear that not only is he being honest, but that Aaron is allowed to say no. "You're a cunt but I'm not a sadist — you shouldn't have to suffer."
Pulled in every direction, Aaron doesn't know how to react. Anger is usually his only friend, the only thing that keeps him safe. But it's not working. It hasn't pushed Mysz away. And now he owes him.
Because he does. Because life is transactional.
Envelope still clutched in his hands, heart beating so fast it might actually be an issue, he swallows. "I— you've got to want s-something." Damn stutter. Thought he'd gotten rid of it ages ago. Anger again. "I-I'm not suffering." He's not a dawned damsel in distress.
He hands Aaron a bottle of water, cold and hopefully soothing. Wouldn't want the poor guy to have a heart attack.
"Don't want anything. If you wanna repay me that bad, let me take care of you. That's it. Suffering or not, I like taking care of people." It's not entirely a lie, not in the slightest. Mysz does like meeting people's needs — it's part of the reason he's a bartender.
It doesn't make sense. Does Mysz get off on taking care of people or something? Aaron really shouldn't entertain stuff like that with coworkers.
Not that that has stopped him before. Desperation and all.
The water is cold and grounds him a little. "N-Not in front of the others," he stammers, blood rising to his face. Wouldn't want word getting out that he was weak.
It's not that he gets off on it per sé, it's more of an emotional thing, something that makes him feel wanted in a way he can't describe and doesn't care to look into any time soon.
Mysz nods at Aaron's request. "'Course. Whatever you want, babe."
There's no scramble in catching the glass, just the glass rolling into his hand, almost as if he was expecting such a petty action.
Would it be bad to throw a bottle of water at Aaron? Would it truly be so bad if it hit him in the head? The bottle's plastic, it'd only hurt if he used force.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Mysz cleans the glass then gets back to work properly.
It's unfortunate that Mysz is the bartender, because Aaron could really have used another drink, right about now. He's already trying to come up with desperate plans to make rent and not get a bat to the ribs, but none of them are sounding too promising. He guesses he'll call up some of his... regulars.
God, he fucking hates doing that.
The night wears on, with very little money made. Shit. Before he knows it, club's closing up and he's absolutely fucked.
Observant as he is, Mysz has realised that Aaron seems to attempt to meet a certain quota every night, and that the man seems to stress out when he doesn't and, while he isn't entirely sure what the quota is, Mysz wants to help him reach it — just because he's a dick doesn't mean he deserves to struggle.
So, when the club is practically empty apart from the two of them and whoever's in the office, Mysz clears his throat quietly and calls the man over.
"Aaron. Come 'ere."
Aaron can't be bothered to pay attention to other people. Too busy trying to survive, thanks. He barely notices any of his coworkers, only interacting enough to keep them at an arm's length with dry, sarcastic comments and glares. The boss is the only one he has to keep on the good side of.
Usually the first one in and the last one out, he still hasn't changed out of his 'uniform' when Mysz calls his name. Suspicion immediately flares in his chest. They were definitely not on good terms. What could the bartender possibly want?
Aaron considers ignoring him. "What is it?" He asks instead, heels clicking agaisnt the floor as he moves towards the other, stopping a few feet away. Arms crossed over his chest as if that would hide the hunger-panged frame.
"How much d' you need?" He asks with neither kindness or malice, face almost blank. The question is a bit vague but he doubts he'll need to elaborate given the situation. He does still add something though. "And who d'you owe it to?"
Kindness should be met with gratitude. But there hadn't been enough belt whippings in the world to get that through Aaron's skull. He is immediately distrustful, and his grip on his own arms tightens, more defensive.
"No idea what you mean," he lies, like he always does, looking in Mysz's eye without any indication that he's not telling the truth. "I don't need anything." Least of all pity. Least of all from a coworker.
Besides, not like Musz had two hundred bucks just lying around.
Mysz raises an eyebrow at Aaron, unamused by his bullshit, before handing him an envelope. "Take it. No catch."
Enclosed is about five hundred dollars cash. If Aaron won't be specific, he'll just have to guess. "If's not enough, tell me."
Then he goes back to closing down the bar.
"Wh—?"
Aaron is a little baffled at being given an envelope, and he tries to crush any hope that dares to spark in his chest. He can't be ridiculous. Nobody helps just because they want to.
But it's money. And a lot of it.
"What do you want?" Aaron asks quietly, feeling numbness crawl its way up his arms. "I— I'm not gonna owe you."
He'd just been a dick to Mysz. Like to everyone. Why would he ever...?
"Y' won't owe me anything. Just tell me whenever you need anything and I'll see what I can do. Good?" He makes it very clear that not only is he being honest, but that Aaron is allowed to say no. "You're a cunt but I'm not a sadist — you shouldn't have to suffer."
Pulled in every direction, Aaron doesn't know how to react. Anger is usually his only friend, the only thing that keeps him safe. But it's not working. It hasn't pushed Mysz away. And now he owes him.
Because he does. Because life is transactional.
Envelope still clutched in his hands, heart beating so fast it might actually be an issue, he swallows. "I— you've got to want s-something." Damn stutter. Thought he'd gotten rid of it ages ago. Anger again. "I-I'm not suffering." He's not a dawned damsel in distress.
He hands Aaron a bottle of water, cold and hopefully soothing. Wouldn't want the poor guy to have a heart attack.
"Don't want anything. If you wanna repay me that bad, let me take care of you. That's it. Suffering or not, I like taking care of people." It's not entirely a lie, not in the slightest. Mysz does like meeting people's needs — it's part of the reason he's a bartender.
There's no scramble in catching the glass, just the glass rolling into his hand, almost as if he was expecting such a petty action.
Would it be bad to throw a bottle of water at Aaron? Would it truly be so bad if it hit him in the head? The bottle's plastic, it'd only hurt if he used force.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Mysz cleans the glass then gets back to work properly.
It's unfortunate that Mysz is the bartender, because Aaron could really have used another drink, right about now. He's already trying to come up with desperate plans to make rent and not get a bat to the ribs, but none of them are sounding too promising. He guesses he'll call up some of his... regulars.
God, he fucking hates doing that.
The night wears on, with very little money made. Shit. Before he knows it, club's closing up and he's absolutely fucked.
Observant as he is, Mysz has realised that Aaron seems to attempt to meet a certain quota every night, and that the man seems to stress out when he doesn't and, while he isn't entirely sure what the quota is, Mysz wants to help him reach it — just because he's a dick doesn't mean he deserves to struggle.
So, when the club is practically empty apart from the two of them and whoever's in the office, Mysz clears his throat quietly and calls the man over.
"Aaron. Come 'ere."
Aaron can't be bothered to pay attention to other people. Too busy trying to survive, thanks. He barely notices any of his coworkers, only interacting enough to keep them at an arm's length with dry, sarcastic comments and glares. The boss is the only one he has to keep on the good side of.
Usually the first one in and the last one out, he still hasn't changed out of his 'uniform' when Mysz calls his name. Suspicion immediately flares in his chest. They were definitely not on good terms. What could the bartender possibly want?
Aaron considers ignoring him. "What is it?" He asks instead, heels clicking agaisnt the floor as he moves towards the other, stopping a few feet away. Arms crossed over his chest as if that would hide the hunger-panged frame.
"How much d' you need?" He asks with neither kindness or malice, face almost blank. The question is a bit vague but he doubts he'll need to elaborate given the situation. He does still add something though. "And who d'you owe it to?"
Kindness should be met with gratitude. But there hadn't been enough belt whippings in the world to get that through Aaron's skull. He is immediately distrustful, and his grip on his own arms tightens, more defensive.
"No idea what you mean," he lies, like he always does, looking in Mysz's eye without any indication that he's not telling the truth. "I don't need anything." Least of all pity. Least of all from a coworker.
Besides, not like Musz had two hundred bucks just lying around.
Mysz raises an eyebrow at Aaron, unamused by his bullshit, before handing him an envelope. "Take it. No catch."
Enclosed is about five hundred dollars cash. If Aaron won't be specific, he'll just have to guess. "If's not enough, tell me."
Then he goes back to closing down the bar.
"Wh—?"
Aaron is a little baffled at being given an envelope, and he tries to crush any hope that dares to spark in his chest. He can't be ridiculous. Nobody helps just because they want to.
But it's money. And a lot of it.
"What do you want?" Aaron asks quietly, feeling numbness crawl its way up his arms. "I— I'm not gonna owe you."
He'd just been a dick to Mysz. Like to everyone. Why would he ever...?
"Y' won't owe me anything. Just tell me whenever you need anything and I'll see what I can do. Good?" He makes it very clear that not only is he being honest, but that Aaron is allowed to say no. "You're a cunt but I'm not a sadist — you shouldn't have to suffer."
There's no scramble in catching the glass, just the glass rolling into his hand, almost as if he was expecting such a petty action.
Would it be bad to throw a bottle of water at Aaron? Would it truly be so bad if it hit him in the head? The bottle's plastic, it'd only hurt if he used force.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Mysz cleans the glass then gets back to work properly.
It's unfortunate that Mysz is the bartender, because Aaron could really have used another drink, right about now. He's already trying to come up with desperate plans to make rent and not get a bat to the ribs, but none of them are sounding too promising. He guesses he'll call up some of his... regulars.
God, he fucking hates doing that.
The night wears on, with very little money made. Shit. Before he knows it, club's closing up and he's absolutely fucked.
Observant as he is, Mysz has realised that Aaron seems to attempt to meet a certain quota every night, and that the man seems to stress out when he doesn't and, while he isn't entirely sure what the quota is, Mysz wants to help him reach it — just because he's a dick doesn't mean he deserves to struggle.
So, when the club is practically empty apart from the two of them and whoever's in the office, Mysz clears his throat quietly and calls the man over.
"Aaron. Come 'ere."
Aaron can't be bothered to pay attention to other people. Too busy trying to survive, thanks. He barely notices any of his coworkers, only interacting enough to keep them at an arm's length with dry, sarcastic comments and glares. The boss is the only one he has to keep on the good side of.
Usually the first one in and the last one out, he still hasn't changed out of his 'uniform' when Mysz calls his name. Suspicion immediately flares in his chest. They were definitely not on good terms. What could the bartender possibly want?
Aaron considers ignoring him. "What is it?" He asks instead, heels clicking agaisnt the floor as he moves towards the other, stopping a few feet away. Arms crossed over his chest as if that would hide the hunger-panged frame.
"How much d' you need?" He asks with neither kindness or malice, face almost blank. The question is a bit vague but he doubts he'll need to elaborate given the situation. He does still add something though. "And who d'you owe it to?"
Kindness should be met with gratitude. But there hadn't been enough belt whippings in the world to get that through Aaron's skull. He is immediately distrustful, and his grip on his own arms tightens, more defensive.
"No idea what you mean," he lies, like he always does, looking in Mysz's eye without any indication that he's not telling the truth. "I don't need anything." Least of all pity. Least of all from a coworker.
Besides, not like Musz had two hundred bucks just lying around.
Mysz raises an eyebrow at Aaron, unamused by his bullshit, before handing him an envelope. "Take it. No catch."
Enclosed is about five hundred dollars cash. If Aaron won't be specific, he'll just have to guess. "If's not enough, tell me."
Then he goes back to closing down the bar.
There's no scramble in catching the glass, just the glass rolling into his hand, almost as if he was expecting such a petty action.
Would it be bad to throw a bottle of water at Aaron? Would it truly be so bad if it hit him in the head? The bottle's plastic, it'd only hurt if he used force.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Mysz cleans the glass then gets back to work properly.
It's unfortunate that Mysz is the bartender, because Aaron could really have used another drink, right about now. He's already trying to come up with desperate plans to make rent and not get a bat to the ribs, but none of them are sounding too promising. He guesses he'll call up some of his... regulars.
God, he fucking hates doing that.
The night wears on, with very little money made. Shit. Before he knows it, club's closing up and he's absolutely fucked.
Observant as he is, Mysz has realised that Aaron seems to attempt to meet a certain quota every night, and that the man seems to stress out when he doesn't and, while he isn't entirely sure what the quota is, Mysz wants to help him reach it — just because he's a dick doesn't mean he deserves to struggle.
So, when the club is practically empty apart from the two of them and whoever's in the office, Mysz clears his throat quietly and calls the man over.
"Aaron. Come 'ere."
Aaron can't be bothered to pay attention to other people. Too busy trying to survive, thanks. He barely notices any of his coworkers, only interacting enough to keep them at an arm's length with dry, sarcastic comments and glares. The boss is the only one he has to keep on the good side of.
Usually the first one in and the last one out, he still hasn't changed out of his 'uniform' when Mysz calls his name. Suspicion immediately flares in his chest. They were definitely not on good terms. What could the bartender possibly want?
Aaron considers ignoring him. "What is it?" He asks instead, heels clicking agaisnt the floor as he moves towards the other, stopping a few feet away. Arms crossed over his chest as if that would hide the hunger-panged frame.
"How much d' you need?" He asks with neither kindness or malice, face almost blank. The question is a bit vague but he doubts he'll need to elaborate given the situation. He does still add something though. "And who d'you owe it to?"
There's no scramble in catching the glass, just the glass rolling into his hand, almost as if he was expecting such a petty action.
Would it be bad to throw a bottle of water at Aaron? Would it truly be so bad if it hit him in the head? The bottle's plastic, it'd only hurt if he used force.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Mysz cleans the glass then gets back to work properly.
It's unfortunate that Mysz is the bartender, because Aaron could really have used another drink, right about now. He's already trying to come up with desperate plans to make rent and not get a bat to the ribs, but none of them are sounding too promising. He guesses he'll call up some of his... regulars.
God, he fucking hates doing that.
The night wears on, with very little money made. Shit. Before he knows it, club's closing up and he's absolutely fucked.
Observant as he is, Mysz has realised that Aaron seems to attempt to meet a certain quota every night, and that the man seems to stress out when he doesn't and, while he isn't entirely sure what the quota is, Mysz wants to help him reach it — just because he's a dick doesn't mean he deserves to struggle.
So, when the club is practically empty apart from the two of them and whoever's in the office, Mysz clears his throat quietly and calls the man over.
"Aaron. Come 'ere."
The nickname isn't meant to mean anything, nor is it even a nickname — Mysz is just British. However, it usually doesn't hold half as much venom as it does when he's talking to Aaron.
Why was he talking to him again? Oh yeah: concern. He doesn't wanna talk anymore; his throat hurts and he's getting a headache.
So he writes, in big block capitals just for Aaron. 'FUCK YOU.'
Aaron's head is also hurting: he hasn't had water the whole night, and alcohol does not hydrate. Even the big, blocky letters Mysz uses start fading from the center, and he doesn't even try to read them. Why try when he knows he's going to fail?
Instead, he flips the man off, lays his glass down on its side and sets it rolling towards the edge of the counter, toward the other man. Mysz is either going to scramble to catch it, or it's going to break at his feet. "Oops."
Then Aaron turns on his heels and leaves.
There's no scramble in catching the glass, just the glass rolling into his hand, almost as if he was expecting such a petty action.
Would it be bad to throw a bottle of water at Aaron? Would it truly be so bad if it hit him in the head? The bottle's plastic, it'd only hurt if he used force.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Mysz cleans the glass then gets back to work properly.
