Warren and Felicia -- Tablemates
Sep. 10th, 2018 04:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logs Warren's bad day gets worse when he intentionally ditches Felicia
Even though things were superficially back to normal, Warren couldn't shake this sense of existential dread that had come over him. It wasn't so pervasive that he could tell something was definitively wrong, but it was enough to make him realize that spending time with people he liked and cared about wasn't always the best move for him.
Sometimes, he'd be cuddling with Bobbi and he'd wonder what it would be like to slap her.
Sometimes, he'd be having dinner with Miles and his parents, and he'd genuinely debate the merits of flipping the table over and stomping out. And had he really sent him Jolene's phone number to fix the tuition? Warren could have sworn he remembered it but wasn't it just August now?
Sometimes, he wanted to drive onto the sidewalk, just for kicks. Weed usually calmed these feelings down. So did the HFC. It made sense then that he'd barely spoken to anyone that would actually realize it. That's why he couldn't hide his annoyance when he realized that Felicia Hardy, his one, his only, the true love of his entire existence, would just HAVE to be seated next to him at the 25th Annual Gala for Orphans and Widows Who Love Good Stuff 2018. Something like that, he didn't actually know where he was. "Feliciiaaa," he droned out, giving her a salacious wink. "Darling, I thought you weren't going to make it. Does this mean you found matching underwear?"
“As if this dress could hide underwear,” Felicia returned easily, giving one of the older women at their table, looking positively murderous, a pointed smile. She turned a less menacing version at the young man dressed in catering black and whites who had pulled out her chair, and gracefully settled into it. “I am appointed with tape and prayer. Apparently the universe thought you were a good boy today, who knows why,” she continued, the low dip in the front of her dress so far holding steady.
“Bets on which one of our mothers bribed the event planner for this seating arrangement?”
"Yours," he responded. "Always yours." His mother was passed out somewhere anyways. She was always passed out now that her latest twink introduced her to Quaaludes. Warren was half-convinced his mother was trying that in order to be trendy. It was failing miserably, of course, like most of her attempts to rejuvenate herself. Once everyone was seated, and lame attempts at introductions were given, he leaned over to her. "Long time no see. Here I thought you'd run off with the circus. You would be an amazing acrobat."
Felicia gave him a warm smile, covering his hand briefly with her own. "Right back at you. I worried there would be another beard next time I saw you but you look as divine as I demand and adore." She sipped from her wine glass, after applauding the exact correct amount for whoever was circle jerking their white saviour complex today. "I've missed you, darling. Sleepover soon?"
He almost answered 'sure' but felt the answer stop in his throat. Reaching for his glass of wine, he drank a small sip, hoping to dislodge whatever was there but it didn't work. So another sip. And another. And then his glass was empty and he was lifting it up in the air angrily. "Where are the waitstaff," he muttered, ignoring Felicia for a moment. "Jesus, you'd think with the amount of money we were spending here, someone would make sure my fucking glass isn't empty," he said, his voice raising with every word until finally someone rushed over to top it off. "People these days, right?"
"Is this a leave the bottle night? Should I start force feeding you bread now to soak up the inevitable misery and regret?" Felicia asked, eyebrow raised over the rim of her own glass as she tipped it back. A slow but usually effective way of drowning out the worst of when Warren was making an idiot of himself.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He gave her a pointed look as he finished his second glass. The others at the table started to look uncomfortable but Warren did not. Give. A. Fuck. He'd already started the night with a raging headache, and this ...this was not helping his mood. "I don't regret anything. I live my life the way I want to live it. Are you sure you're not projecting something on me?"
"It means we self medicate on a regular basis but if this is one of those nights where it goes beyond I'd appreciate a warning so I can decide if I want to catch up," she replied cooly, also holding up her glass, which was refilled in a cautious though speedy manner. "Or not, if you're going to take whatever this is," Felicia continued, gesturing at all of him, "Out on me. I give zero fucks about how you live your life but you still don't get to be a dick."
Warren watched her as he poured a third glass, but he had the good measure to at least look embarrassed, and to put the cup on the table. He didn't speak for a while, longer than was normal for him anyways, while he tried to process what she'd just said. Duelling thoughts were conflicting in his mind, and it was hard to concentrate.
"Yeah," he finally said quietly, switching to French so he didn't have to admit anything in front of the others. "I haven't been feeling myself lately. I don't know why... but ever since Limbo..." He trailed off. "Je m'excuse."
The time between his apology and the sharpening of her jaw was a heartbeat, followed by Felicia smoothly getting to her feet and offering Warren her hand. "Fuck this. Mon chèr?" she asked, having already pulled a bottle of champagne from the table and tucked it under her arm, while one handed thumbing her way through her phone and an Uber. "There's a black car a minute away. I know the driver."
Following Felicia obediently, he stayed quiet, ignoring the drunken yell of his mother as he walked past her. So she did arrive. Good for her, he didn't care. Sitting down in the car, it was several moments before he finally spoke. "Thanks. I'm...not at my best these days." He looked out the window, the tint shadowing his face. "Doesn't matter how much I drink, how much I smoke, how much I snort ... I can't feel normal anymore. There's something missing inside me and I don't understand."
“Since. You called it Limbo? Since then?” Felicia asked quietly, setting the bottle of wine at her feet before slipping her arm around Warren’s shoulders, drawing him against her.
Warren waved a dismissive hand. "Hell land, whatever. That place that feral small child brought me to." He gave her a pointed look. "I'm not depressed, okay? This isn't just in my head. I know that something's going on."
"Okay," Felicia said, as simple as that. Moving her hand up she gently dug her fingertips into the gold curls at the nape of his neck, finely manicured nails lightly skritching there. "I mean, I have to tell you that if you change your mind, that's okay too. Let's not create mental illness stigma here. But I believe you and will do anything to help. Do you know what you need?"
Warren snapped. "Why can't you just say what you mean? 'Do you know what you need'," he mimicked. "Fuck. I need peace and quiet. Can we just go to the penthouse? Bobbi and I are off again, I don't wanna sit in a bull shit fundraiser. Let's just go."
Felicia's hand stilled in his hair and dropped into her lap under the guise of searching for her phone. "I'm not sure why you think I'd suddenly decide to start lying to you now," she replied woodenly, now scrolling through her Instagram feed, dark nails clicking on the screen. "We're already headed there, which you could have figured out by looking out the window. Maybe try remembering who pulled you out of said fundraiser, asshole."
He brushed her off and stared out the window, brooding in silence. His moods were shifting so quickly, it was starting to scare him. The only time he felt normal lately was when he had smoked a metric ton of marijuana, but that just left him sitting on the couch, ignoring everything but the television. The rest of the ride, he refused to talk. Eventually, he drifted off to the sound of her nails, waking up only when the car stopped. "Are we here already,?" he asked sleepily, looking around.
"Thanks Al," Felicia said, her face lit up by her screen as she entered in her tip and review, lost in her own thoughts and ignoring the question. She left the car door open for Warren once she'd slipped out, holding the long hem of her dress in one hand, combined with her clutch, and was trying to maneuver her phone into it as she forced herself to wait for Warren to emerge. "Oisillon?" she asked, looking over at him.
There are moments in one's life where you can see two distinct paths: one will take you where you need to be, with loved ones to support you, and comfort.
Warren chose the other path. Slamming pounded on the divider window, urging the driver to go on. There was no way he could be alone with Felicia. Not now. Maybe not ever. All he knew was he needed to get away
He refused to look back at her.
Even though things were superficially back to normal, Warren couldn't shake this sense of existential dread that had come over him. It wasn't so pervasive that he could tell something was definitively wrong, but it was enough to make him realize that spending time with people he liked and cared about wasn't always the best move for him.
Sometimes, he'd be cuddling with Bobbi and he'd wonder what it would be like to slap her.
Sometimes, he'd be having dinner with Miles and his parents, and he'd genuinely debate the merits of flipping the table over and stomping out. And had he really sent him Jolene's phone number to fix the tuition? Warren could have sworn he remembered it but wasn't it just August now?
Sometimes, he wanted to drive onto the sidewalk, just for kicks. Weed usually calmed these feelings down. So did the HFC. It made sense then that he'd barely spoken to anyone that would actually realize it. That's why he couldn't hide his annoyance when he realized that Felicia Hardy, his one, his only, the true love of his entire existence, would just HAVE to be seated next to him at the 25th Annual Gala for Orphans and Widows Who Love Good Stuff 2018. Something like that, he didn't actually know where he was. "Feliciiaaa," he droned out, giving her a salacious wink. "Darling, I thought you weren't going to make it. Does this mean you found matching underwear?"
“As if this dress could hide underwear,” Felicia returned easily, giving one of the older women at their table, looking positively murderous, a pointed smile. She turned a less menacing version at the young man dressed in catering black and whites who had pulled out her chair, and gracefully settled into it. “I am appointed with tape and prayer. Apparently the universe thought you were a good boy today, who knows why,” she continued, the low dip in the front of her dress so far holding steady.
“Bets on which one of our mothers bribed the event planner for this seating arrangement?”
"Yours," he responded. "Always yours." His mother was passed out somewhere anyways. She was always passed out now that her latest twink introduced her to Quaaludes. Warren was half-convinced his mother was trying that in order to be trendy. It was failing miserably, of course, like most of her attempts to rejuvenate herself. Once everyone was seated, and lame attempts at introductions were given, he leaned over to her. "Long time no see. Here I thought you'd run off with the circus. You would be an amazing acrobat."
Felicia gave him a warm smile, covering his hand briefly with her own. "Right back at you. I worried there would be another beard next time I saw you but you look as divine as I demand and adore." She sipped from her wine glass, after applauding the exact correct amount for whoever was circle jerking their white saviour complex today. "I've missed you, darling. Sleepover soon?"
He almost answered 'sure' but felt the answer stop in his throat. Reaching for his glass of wine, he drank a small sip, hoping to dislodge whatever was there but it didn't work. So another sip. And another. And then his glass was empty and he was lifting it up in the air angrily. "Where are the waitstaff," he muttered, ignoring Felicia for a moment. "Jesus, you'd think with the amount of money we were spending here, someone would make sure my fucking glass isn't empty," he said, his voice raising with every word until finally someone rushed over to top it off. "People these days, right?"
"Is this a leave the bottle night? Should I start force feeding you bread now to soak up the inevitable misery and regret?" Felicia asked, eyebrow raised over the rim of her own glass as she tipped it back. A slow but usually effective way of drowning out the worst of when Warren was making an idiot of himself.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He gave her a pointed look as he finished his second glass. The others at the table started to look uncomfortable but Warren did not. Give. A. Fuck. He'd already started the night with a raging headache, and this ...this was not helping his mood. "I don't regret anything. I live my life the way I want to live it. Are you sure you're not projecting something on me?"
"It means we self medicate on a regular basis but if this is one of those nights where it goes beyond I'd appreciate a warning so I can decide if I want to catch up," she replied cooly, also holding up her glass, which was refilled in a cautious though speedy manner. "Or not, if you're going to take whatever this is," Felicia continued, gesturing at all of him, "Out on me. I give zero fucks about how you live your life but you still don't get to be a dick."
Warren watched her as he poured a third glass, but he had the good measure to at least look embarrassed, and to put the cup on the table. He didn't speak for a while, longer than was normal for him anyways, while he tried to process what she'd just said. Duelling thoughts were conflicting in his mind, and it was hard to concentrate.
"Yeah," he finally said quietly, switching to French so he didn't have to admit anything in front of the others. "I haven't been feeling myself lately. I don't know why... but ever since Limbo..." He trailed off. "Je m'excuse."
The time between his apology and the sharpening of her jaw was a heartbeat, followed by Felicia smoothly getting to her feet and offering Warren her hand. "Fuck this. Mon chèr?" she asked, having already pulled a bottle of champagne from the table and tucked it under her arm, while one handed thumbing her way through her phone and an Uber. "There's a black car a minute away. I know the driver."
Following Felicia obediently, he stayed quiet, ignoring the drunken yell of his mother as he walked past her. So she did arrive. Good for her, he didn't care. Sitting down in the car, it was several moments before he finally spoke. "Thanks. I'm...not at my best these days." He looked out the window, the tint shadowing his face. "Doesn't matter how much I drink, how much I smoke, how much I snort ... I can't feel normal anymore. There's something missing inside me and I don't understand."
“Since. You called it Limbo? Since then?” Felicia asked quietly, setting the bottle of wine at her feet before slipping her arm around Warren’s shoulders, drawing him against her.
Warren waved a dismissive hand. "Hell land, whatever. That place that feral small child brought me to." He gave her a pointed look. "I'm not depressed, okay? This isn't just in my head. I know that something's going on."
"Okay," Felicia said, as simple as that. Moving her hand up she gently dug her fingertips into the gold curls at the nape of his neck, finely manicured nails lightly skritching there. "I mean, I have to tell you that if you change your mind, that's okay too. Let's not create mental illness stigma here. But I believe you and will do anything to help. Do you know what you need?"
Warren snapped. "Why can't you just say what you mean? 'Do you know what you need'," he mimicked. "Fuck. I need peace and quiet. Can we just go to the penthouse? Bobbi and I are off again, I don't wanna sit in a bull shit fundraiser. Let's just go."
Felicia's hand stilled in his hair and dropped into her lap under the guise of searching for her phone. "I'm not sure why you think I'd suddenly decide to start lying to you now," she replied woodenly, now scrolling through her Instagram feed, dark nails clicking on the screen. "We're already headed there, which you could have figured out by looking out the window. Maybe try remembering who pulled you out of said fundraiser, asshole."
He brushed her off and stared out the window, brooding in silence. His moods were shifting so quickly, it was starting to scare him. The only time he felt normal lately was when he had smoked a metric ton of marijuana, but that just left him sitting on the couch, ignoring everything but the television. The rest of the ride, he refused to talk. Eventually, he drifted off to the sound of her nails, waking up only when the car stopped. "Are we here already,?" he asked sleepily, looking around.
"Thanks Al," Felicia said, her face lit up by her screen as she entered in her tip and review, lost in her own thoughts and ignoring the question. She left the car door open for Warren once she'd slipped out, holding the long hem of her dress in one hand, combined with her clutch, and was trying to maneuver her phone into it as she forced herself to wait for Warren to emerge. "Oisillon?" she asked, looking over at him.
There are moments in one's life where you can see two distinct paths: one will take you where you need to be, with loved ones to support you, and comfort.
Warren chose the other path. Slamming pounded on the divider window, urging the driver to go on. There was no way he could be alone with Felicia. Not now. Maybe not ever. All he knew was he needed to get away
He refused to look back at her.
