"Spades," he offers. "Lived here in my old world, too. For...business." You know what kind of business that was, don't you? "I can hazard a guess that you aren't a Goro."
A long drag. Spades burns through the rest of his cigarette in one go. "Fuck, dude. That's rough."
It's a brusque, utilitarian kind of sympathy -- the kind that conveys a human reaction without lingering on styrofoam pain. No need to be anything more.
He pops out another cigarette, playing with his lighter for a few before finally igniting it.
Honestly? Kou appreciates that more than any 'sorries' or downtrodden condolences he's ever received. He barks out a chuckle-- the kind that doesn't particularly convey happiness, or any deep emotion at all, honestly.
"Sure is," he agrees without any further commentary, rough and to the point, papering over any deeper pain or grief.
This guy gets it. No need to go deeper than necessary.
Kou raises an eyebrow, humming at the question. A drink, huh... he supposes this is behind a bar.
Kou hasn't had any alcohol in forever. Not like he ever particularly enjoyed it, but it did always numb the feelings when- well. It made everything feel a little less intense, he supposes. Less painful.
"Everything's free anyway," he points out, blowing out a bloom of smoke, "but why the hell not?"
He takes a drag, pulling at his cigarette until it burns away entirily, and then drops it to the ground, grinding it out and turning to Spades.
Kou hums, vaguely interested, and allows himself to be guided inside. He takes a cursory look around-- seems like a regular old Shinjuku bar, gauche decorations and all.
"Well then," he says, leaning against the bar, eyebrow raised, "do show me, then."
Akira, of course, closes the door behind himself and slides behind the bar, straightening up. "Welcome to Crossroads. What can I getcha tonight?" He winks, mouth curling in charm. "I have a feeling you won't tell if I don't check your ID."
"Ah, so that's how it is," he says, smirking slightly. "Well, I suppose that would be the least of my crimes." He winks. "I won't tell if you won't."
Useless. There's nobody to rat to, anyway, but for a moment, it's just a matter of feeling... normal. Like a person, or something, rather than drown in guilt and grief.
He hums, looking over the bottles behind the counter. Then...
"Pour me some of that Pisang Ambon," he says. Fuck it-- who cares, right?
"It's a straight shot kind of day, I think." Without much fanfare, that's exactly what he gives Kou, sliding the liqueur over in a shot glass. "Bon appetite."
Then, he downs the entire thing in one go, grimacing at the overwhelming combination of the banana flavored drink and alcohol. It's sweet, almost disgustingly so, but hey, it's what he chose.
"Gross," he comments, and slides the empty glass back, "I'll go with your recommendation next time."
"Maybe I can find something more pleasant for us," Spades hums, plucking the glass off the bar, turning it against the rag in his hands as he evaluates the shelves behind him. "Too sweet, I assume?"
"Much too." Kou grimaces. He honestly just picked the first thing that caught his attention... big mistake. "I don't dislike sweets, but this was... far too much."
"A bitter chaser should help cut the sweet." While he's talking, Spades pops a bowl of edamame in the microwave just behind the counter. "Pisang Ambon...Dutch, if I'm not mistaken." He hums, grabbing another shot glass. "Why don't we stick to Europe? Gammel Dansk should clear it right up."
In no time at all -- before Kou can even blink, really -- another shot glass of alcohol comes to a neat rest right in front of him.
"I can't say I'm that familiar with alcoholic beverages," Kou admits, but readily accepts the new shot. "I've had some in the past at events... but nothing quite like this."
Not good for his (Goro Akechi's) image, after all, to be found in bars. Not that he's... that interested, but considering there's nobody to stop him anymore, or no image to ruin left...
"Cheers," he raises his glass, and takes a more careful sip this time. Oh-- it's bitter alright, and Kou does his best not to cough, fighting to keep his composure.
"What about you?" he asks, "just going to feed me drunk by myself?"
"Nope," Akira pops the p. He produces another shotglass from behind his back, pours himself a serving of Pisang Ambon, and pounds it back -- unflinching, like it's just a healthy dose of water.
Beep. The edamame's done. Akira doesn't miss a beat as he opens the microwave and places the steamed soybeans in a bowl to share, producing two pairs of chopsticks and rests.
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"For business, huh," Kou hums. Ah, so that kind of business. "So I see."
He takes another drag, and sighs.
"Corvus," he offers, "Goro is-- was my twin."
Painful, even now. He quickly hides any leftover emotion behind his cigarette, letting the acrid smoke burn his lungs.
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It's a brusque, utilitarian kind of sympathy -- the kind that conveys a human reaction without lingering on styrofoam pain. No need to be anything more.
He pops out another cigarette, playing with his lighter for a few before finally igniting it.
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"Sure is," he agrees without any further commentary, rough and to the point, papering over any deeper pain or grief.
This guy gets it. No need to go deeper than necessary.
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For several moments, he simply watches the smoke rise and disappear from his cigarette. "Wanna get a drink? On me."
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Kou hasn't had any alcohol in forever. Not like he ever particularly enjoyed it, but it did always numb the feelings when- well. It made everything feel a little less intense, he supposes. Less painful.
"Everything's free anyway," he points out, blowing out a bloom of smoke, "but why the hell not?"
He takes a drag, pulling at his cigarette until it burns away entirily, and then drops it to the ground, grinding it out and turning to Spades.
"Lead the way."
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"Well then," he says, leaning against the bar, eyebrow raised, "do show me, then."
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"Ah, so that's how it is," he says, smirking slightly. "Well, I suppose that would be the least of my crimes." He winks. "I won't tell if you won't."
Useless. There's nobody to rat to, anyway, but for a moment, it's just a matter of feeling... normal. Like a person, or something, rather than drown in guilt and grief.
He hums, looking over the bottles behind the counter. Then...
"Pour me some of that Pisang Ambon," he says. Fuck it-- who cares, right?
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He grabs the glass, raising it in a mock toast.
"Thanks."
Then, he downs the entire thing in one go, grimacing at the overwhelming combination of the banana flavored drink and alcohol. It's sweet, almost disgustingly so, but hey, it's what he chose.
"Gross," he comments, and slides the empty glass back, "I'll go with your recommendation next time."
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In no time at all -- before Kou can even blink, really -- another shot glass of alcohol comes to a neat rest right in front of him.
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Not good for his (Goro Akechi's) image, after all, to be found in bars. Not that he's... that interested, but considering there's nobody to stop him anymore, or no image to ruin left...
"Cheers," he raises his glass, and takes a more careful sip this time. Oh-- it's bitter alright, and Kou does his best not to cough, fighting to keep his composure.
"What about you?" he asks, "just going to feed me drunk by myself?"
He chuckles-- it's not a funny joke.
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Beep. The edamame's done. Akira doesn't miss a beat as he opens the microwave and places the steamed soybeans in a bowl to share, producing two pairs of chopsticks and rests.