Love's Curse [Social|Ahote]

Soul Bar. It was a place there even the most fearsome of enemies could gather and confide their sorrows and qualms into each other, if only for an evening. It was also a place where underage teenagers and irresponsible alcoholics would go for a good time or a better time than they were having before they drank their nights away. Overall, it was a comfy little place and there wasn't much else to be said about it than one could derive from taking it at face value. But if there was nothing else to make this bar special, it was the knee-slapping, soul rivetting alcohol that resonated within anyone's soul who would dare part lips with their glass. "Oh, is that why it's called the Soul Bar? Funny. . ." a messy-haired brunette would say to himself with a peal of giggling as he thought this.

Giovanni sat there among only a few others on the red, squeaky stools, closest to the bar, where he could admire the shot and wine glasses that glimmered in the orangish, dim lights, always polished with a clean rag but never used. It was a glamorous display, almost rivaling the shelves upon shelves worth of alcohol that was surrounding it, except many hands could touch it was it was frequently restocking.

He was supremely well-dressed, wearing a suit with traditional black and white aesthetics and loafers that seemed to shine even more glamorously in the light. But while he dressed so nicely, his unblemished skin was perhaps the only thing as equally well-kept. His hair was a mess and parts of his face, neck, and arms were wrapped in bandages. But he still wore a smile of someone of some importance.

Despite being at the very core of a bar, Giovanni did not drink. In fact, he hated it! But, for such a booming place, it was a very intriguing spot for future business, and before resorting to his normal methods, sucking up to the community and the owner was his first objective. His presence was a friendly and warm one, so he thought. Getting to know others and having others know him made his daggers unnecessarily sharp. So when a rather solemn boy sat down just a seat away from him, Giovanni turned inquisitively to behold him.

"I haven't seen you around here before. Depressed?" Giovanni would ask him with an overweening smile.

Giovanni would continue to stare at this brooding man with his acute hazelnut gaze, a rush of inquisitiveness and intrigue overcoming him almost as quickly as pain and pleasure would for his company when what Giovanni would consider battery acid slithered down his throat. His complexion was nice and he had a wonderful appearance, but the mysterious and everwondering Giovanni could see his very livelihood reduce when the alcohol went into his system.

Although he was briefly acknowledged, if one could call it that, then ignored, the messy-haired man only hunched over his seat as if listening in on a conversation. His soft expression never wavered, but the patience in his words did. After the moments of silence, Giovanni would finally resolve to continue their unique exchange, "You know, there's a saying that goes something along the lines of "alcohol is necessary so that a man can have a good opinion of himself, undisturbed by the facts," or something like that," he started, staring at his glass, but his tepid enthusiasm quickly soothed to a boredom as his cheeky words became sighlike, "but even now I still can't drink that stuff. Tell me, does it really make your problems disappear?" he leaned in, his smile ever-present.

Giovanni looked at the man almost as quizzically as the man would look at his glass, almost inspecting the reflection that it cast within its strong flavors. The sorrow of others always had some interesting elements or details to its story, but Giovanni wouldn't ask the smaller questions he had for him. Since, of course, if he were to do that, he would have to end up listening to the problems of all the men, women, and ne'er-do-well children that congregated here.

The messy-haired man scoffed, mildly bewildered by his brooding and his willingness to admit it was meaningless, and perhaps more detrimental than he thought. The smile continued to weakly stretch his lips, seemingly forever etched into his countenance. He'd tap the countertop gingerly, "Ahh, is that right?" Giovanni said matter-of-factly, like an offhand "aha!" moment. Despite this satisfying moment of clarity, his usual "tut-tut" waves of snickers followed, "Then why do you drink it?" he asked curiously, with sharp, glossy eyes. Anticipant of a response, he quietly peered over.

Giovanni continued to peer at the brooding man with an acute and distinctiveness fascination and tenderness, as if he were studying, visually inspecting some thing before him. Although his gaze was strangely inappropriate, it did not relinquish the warmth within them, and he’d continue to listen to him. He’d watch his eyes, the way they’d stare fixedly and emptily at his glass, and then at the bar before them. Whether it was the wetness in his eyes or his silence that gave it away, it was obnoxiously clear that life had not been his most warm of companions as of late. It didn’t seem so for anyone here.

"I suppose alcohol’s its own sort of magic, then." Giovanni exhaled through his nose, staring down, eyes low and following the lines in between the wooden boards for a countertop and tapping his pale fingers against them rhythmically. He looked plainly at the shelved wine and shot glasses again, "You're quite upset, aren't you? To be drinking so heavily." Giovanni grinned, teeth and all, but he did not wish to mock the brooding man, or even invite him to confide his troubles. But the factualness of it all couldn't help but make the curious man smile. His brooding company, in most cases, should have concluded it to be humor more than his own mockery. That seemed to be the best of cases, most often.

"But I wonder,” the vigor returned to his complexion, as did his tepid smile, ”what does one do when they recall their troubles? Do they drink again he next day and the day after that?” he queried rather rhetorically, but Giovanni would not suspect it if he answered. It was a valid question, after all.

Giovanni was pleasantly surprised and somewhat delighted to watch the liquor disappear into his mouth almost as quickly as he would pour it just moments ago. Human beings were so capable in all of the wrong places, it seemed.

It wasn't until questions of his bandages and the supposed injuries that lie beneath that replaced his jovial expression with a bewildered one, his hazelnut following the man's stunning emerald's ones until he had finally realized what he was talking about. He smiled again, clapping his hands together as if a sudden rush of resolve overcame him, "These? Well, I bruise easily is all. Does it show?" he'd ask rather sheepishly, although it was difficult to tell if the man was genuinely unaware of his strange appearance. Albeit, he wasn't being untruthful. The vessel he had discovered already had a messy group of cuts across their wrists and thighs, and the neck had the marks of tough rope etched into it. It was difficult for him to walk around with such injuries, though he was sure they had healed by now. Except for his eye and cheek, he had cut and poked them rather painfully, accidentally. "I didn't come this far for a fight, anyway." he'd drone again, shrugging.

Giovanni's eyes would sharpen when seeing the vigor rush to the man's head as swiftly as the alcohol rushed down to his stomach. The pretty-faced man didn't enjoy alcohol, so his aversion for drunks or the otherwise "intoxicated" was a natural development of his dislike for the drink. Many of his colleagues were avid drinkers and were intoxicated almost every time he spoke with them, but their coherent speech and superior metabolism made it nearly impossible to tell that they were tipsy to begin with. Regular drinkers, such as these and the giggly man before him, were more obnoxious than fun, but when garnering information, alcohol was as useful as a truth drug. Surely his liver would struggle this night.

Giovanni scrunched his brows together in a restrained form of mild amusement, smiling kindly at the drunken man. For someone who drank so heavily, he couldn't seem to hold his liquor, whatever that meant. He looked down at his bandages again, and with a blank stare concluded that perhaps it was more obvious than he had first realized, and sighed with a pout-like expression. The messy-haired brunette looked up to the man again, "I. . . see."

But the drunken man abruptly became far more solemn, which surprised Giovanni. He stared at him plainly before his usual smile returned to his expression. An outreached hand extended to weakly shake his hand, holding firmly in the space between them, "Giovanni," he started cheekily, "I'm just from out of town. I'm out and about, really. . ." he continued to explain, and it was true. His mafia was stationed in Lavanitir Port Town, but he was hardly home. He was often in places like there, collecting his usuries and other criminal things.

Giovanni whisked his hand away from their gentle handshake, quick to rest his jaw in both palms when his elbows would perch against he countertop soon after. He'd gaze lazily into the shimmering wine glasses in front of them, heaving a sigh from the bottom of his stomach as he stared. He watched his reflection within them, brushing the shock of hair away from his face, but to no avail.

Sage from Neutral Grounds seemed like a hearty guy. It wouldn't have surprised him if he were some well-to-do legal mage who works from job to job. He simply gave off the vibe. But everyone in this bar seemed to live a vastly different life than Giovanni. Some had the arms of butchers, while others had long, dextrous hands fitting for a bank teller or maybe a receptionist. Giovanni, however, had none of these qualities. In fact, he looked visibly smaller than most every man here despite his height. But unlike them, his tongue dripped with venom and hands often had the odor of blood or some other bodily fluid covering them. He could never be so sure just what these men and women did for livings, but he could tell they lived much differently from him.

Giovanni continued to stare into the glasses, his smile and hazelnut eyes emptier and far more longing before. His expression, in many other words, was melancholy. He lightly sighed again, his cheeks peachy and expression warmer, "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes people can be interesting. It's a great time-killer, I know that." he giggled like a drunk man, or perhaps childlike.

Giovanni watched the man carefully as he offered to get out of there together, his hazelnut gaze swirling with perplexion. The idea of vandalizing wasn't one that had crossed his mind since his juvenile days, and even then he would do so out of obligation or command—it was simply not a concern or desire of his at the time to break bottles and scratch a new car's paint with a key. But when the man had offered him this and had said it so earnestly, his stern expression couldn't resist a smile.

"The hell?" Giovanni chortled, taking a wrist to cover his grinning mouth and hot cheeks, "What kind of request is that? You're drunk, aren't you?" he'd continue to toss laughter from the back of his throat until it would dissipate into a light, relieving sigh, as if all thoughts of his were riding on its winds. The man was certainly amusing and his intoxication would make committing such crimes a real treat for the loitering Giovanni, who hadn't seen much since taking over the Tesoro Family. He'd look at him with a softer look now, "I don't want blood on my hands, now—if anything happens, let records show that you were the one who proposed it."