|Printable Version of Topic
Click here to view this topic in its original format
|Wizarding Realm > Kitchens > a part of your design|
|Posted by: Isaac Jackson Apr 25 2018, 11:25 PM|
| Isaac had been angry. Rather, he had felt so persecuted by the unfairness that the initial sting of hurt had resulted in rage instead, which had rotted his stomach and made him nauseaus and unsteady. The cool owlery air bit at him as the owls hooted, the sounds of evening growing even more distant the further he read along. He was dimly aware that his hands were shaking around the letter clutched in them, the one with the familiar handwriting that had been haunting him over and over throughout his school year. It seemed no matter how hard he tried, his mother would continue to find flaws. To be a Jackson was to be the top of all the intellectual pursuits, and to be Isaac was to fall short of that every single time without fail. It seemed that it was impossible to be both.
He balled up the letter in his fist as he stalked out of the owlery, swinging the door open so hard that it hit the stone wall with a heavy crack. Several owls hooted indignantly, but he didn't hear it, because why would he care? He'd been working his ass off to improve his grades and it didn't matter because the effort in itself wasn't good enough. It felt like something was overflowing in him, and no matter how much he pressed his stupid palms down on the leak, it was unstoppable. His eyes burned, but he refused to cry, so he lit a cigarette instead. It felt like a comfort and a mockery all at once- to be a Jackson was to be politically correct, and nothing about a boy smoking on school property was correct. Nothing about him was correct, because what he wanted wasn't what he was supposed to want.
Which is to say, what he wanted was worthless to his family and pointless to pursue. But, he could not better himself, so what else was there to do? He watched the ash form on the tip of the cigarette, hands clasping each other from where he stood on the bridge between towers. The urge to blow off every attempt he'd made to better himself rose in him again. Why would he try to be what he wasn't, after all? If she really thought he would always be useless, then he may as well have fun. He blinked tears from his eyes and steeled himself instead.
(Anger was always easier than hurt.)
Isaac smoked the rest of his cigarette and weaved his way through an indifferent castle. The halls were familliar and dimly lit in the falling night, but they lacked something that he couldn't place. Everything was lacking because he was at it's epicenter; the most lacking human on the entire planet, apparently. Now, he was lacking the ability to give a single shit about what his mother thought. If she wanted a problem child, she could have one. He let the sick thrill of rebellion run up his arms as he entertained the thought. See what she would think when he took his broom and raced until he died like the others, spinning through the air unable to save himself, until he hit a building or the ground and became unrecognizeable and abandoned by an industry that only liked him if he was fun to watch. At least he'd die rich and entertaining.
Instead, he found himself in the kitchen. He took off his hoodie and tossed it unceremoniously onto one of the long preparation tables that were empty now, as the house elves had presumeably gone off to wherever they sleep. Isaac was looking for something, but truth be told he wasn't sure where to find it. He pulled his wand out of his pocket and pointed it generally at the room, snapping, "Accio wine!" There was the sound of a rattle, but little else. He followed it until he uncovered where they kept dusty bottles of red in a cabinet with a glass front and old wood under lock and key. Hah. As if that would stop the likes of a rebellion-fueled teenager. "Alohomora." It shimmied, but did not unlock.
Oh well. Isaac stood up and put his foot through the glass panel of the cabinet instead. Fuck that shit. The glass shattered noisily, but he didn't much care. Let them catch him. He reached into the hole he had made and withdrew the first bottle he could find, uncorking it without much ceremony before tipping it back and drinking it straight from the bottle. It was a sweet wine, which he didn't expect, with cherry perhaps- but he wasn't here for the taste. He was here for the burn that started along the back of his throat as he drank.
He would give her a problem, even if it gave him twenty.
|Posted by: Martín Marzán May 7 2018, 04:26 AM|
Life wasn’t easy, great, or even perfect. Not even for those who called themselves deities.
It was a simple fact. One obvious too. Easily confirmed by looking at just any tragedy concerning deities in the Ancient Greek’s grand plethora of myths. Gods suffered. Gods knew of pain, of anguish, of loss, of treachery, of defeat, of humiliation, and of anger. Gods could love and have their hearts broken, and they most definitely didn’t always get everything they wanted. It was often that Martín wished the latter had not been true, that everyone had been right when they spoke about just how easy being a god must have been. But he knew the truth, didn’t he? He had seen it, he had felt it, and he was all too aware of the kinds of tragedies and suffering that befell upon deities. Mars. Martín Marco Marzán. Every aspect of himself meant to represent that Roman god of war with whom he was never able to identify as much as he did with its Greek counterpart. Ares.
What would Ares have done had he been in his place? How would a proper Olympian, by right and by name, react and deal with all those things with which he had to deal? Perhaps Ares would have called for revenge, he would have fought, he would have destroyed everything that stood in his way. Or perhaps he wouldn’t have done as much. For, what if those who caused all such struggles were stronger than himself? Like the Hephaestus who had once tricked him and trapped him in a cage. Like the Zeus who claimed to dread him despite having created him; the king of the gods himself, impossible to defy even him who carried Fear and Terror’s strength. All of his life, Martín had looked up to the Olympians, seen example in their actions, and sought advice in their myths, but as he had come to learn years ago, there were some things in life that not even the power of gods could fix.
What a depressing thing to think.
And why was the Spaniard even thinking about things like those? Why were such grim thoughts filling his mind as he walked through Hogwarts’ dark and empty halls? Well, much alike Isaac’s situation, that too was because of a letter, yet one he had received weeks ago. A letter written on paper as black as soot, one which’s content he had attempted to ignore for long, all thoughts of it burned away as soon as he read it – much alike how the paper had been burned too. But now that date written in elegant handwriting approached, and Martín knew all too well that no matter what he did, no matter what stunt he pulled or how much he complaint, he could not avoid going back to Madrid. He could not avoid stepping into that beautiful villa were everything was golden and a thousand flowers bloomed. He could not avoid facing his grandfather. And he could not avoid all the painful thoughts and memories that would come with it all…
The mere possibility of it all: simply considering what would happen when he visited Madrid, was the reason why the lion found himself in desperate need of a glass of wine… or two, or maybe even three. Hades. Honestly, all Martín wanted to do was to get drunk and stop thinking about all of it. ’It’s just a weekend, Mars. How awful can it be?’ The thought came as he stepped before the familiar painting that lead into the kitchens of the school. Yet Ares’ descendant already knew the answer to questions like those, and he knew that had it been within his power… that nightmarish villa in Madrid would have been burnt to the ground long ago. Sadly, it was not, and his own powerlessness was why the Spaniard chose to drink, too weak to even face the situation he was in. That too was a depressing thought, yet one he didn’t think about for all too long, as the moment he stepped into the kitchens he realized he wasn’t the only one who seemed to be in need of stealing wine and breaking the school’s curfew.
Out of all people, he hadn’t expected to run into Isaac Jack. Perhaps he should have, considering how much of their friendship consisted on partying and getting wasted. This, however…this was different, and it truly was a sight Martín wished not to be facing. For a mere second, as he stood by the door, he considered leaving, but the thought was one that left as soon as it came. It was simple really, for while he himself would have liked to be left alone in Isaac’s place, for while he knew it was not his right to ask what was wrong with the badger despite being friends; even though he didn’t really understand why, Mars couldn’t bring himself to just leave. Plus, how was he supposed to deal with his own issues and his thoughts on this with no wine? Unthinkable! So, he stepped closer, quiet and calm, not saying anything as he took a seat on one of the nearby kitchen stools, conjuring himself a wine glass. “Hey, mind passing me the bottle?” The question finally broke through the room, as if that were some regular situation… as if they were just two friends having drinks like any other evening. Pretending. Always acting, pretending and hiding his true feelings. What a sorry excuse of a deity.
|Posted by: Isaac Jackson May 8 2018, 02:38 AM|
| Isaac pretended too, but in a very different way. He felt the hot licks of alcohol beginning to burn his throat and stomach- only interrupted by a voice that was unmistakeable. He lowered the bottle and took a hitched breath, turning his head to stare at the Spaniard sitting calmly on one of the kitchen stools. For one turbulent moment, he was consumed by a wave of jealousy over how calmly Mars sat there, as if the fucking world wasn’t burning down. But the feeling passed, because for Mars, the world wasn’t burning down.
At least, not that he knew of. They had partied their fair share together, but this was not an excited drink. This bottle of wine that he had broken school property to unearth was not joyous, nor was it a toast to a game well won or a test that was a passing grade. When Isaac walked up to Mars and placed the wine bottle down hard on the table, he sighed. “Sorry, didn’t want you to see me so...” he paused, for comedic effect of course, “rakish,” he plummeted into a chair and regarded his friend. His cheeks were already pink tinged.
Isaac at least had enough pride to conjure himself a wine glass too. If they were going to drink unceremoniously, mid-week, they may as well do it with a sense of class. He poured himself a glass, and then poured one for Mars; the movements were practiced and exact. Such a picture of pure blood heritage, except it was doomed to be ripped out of the family portrait. The feeling still spurned him somewhere deep and vulnerable, but he angrily ignored it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” He asked, every word a continuous exhale. He sounded very tired, but also like he was attempting a façade of satirical false cheer. A lazy smirk pulled his lips, matching the rings under his eyes and the faint smell of smoke that followed him wherever he went.
“I’ve never known a God to drink profusely, especially not a Greek one,” Isaac quipped, though it was a butter knife compared to the usual sharpness of his wit. He swirled the wine and examined the legs on the glass, then sipped properly, but it was a typical cooking wine and bore no exquisite flavors. Besides, chugging it like a fucking Gatorade might have dulled his tastebuds temporarily.
|Posted by: Martín Marzán May 9 2018, 03:42 PM|
There were times when it felt as if the universe itself enjoyed mocking Martín Marzán, as if life were some great conspiracy against him, and as if, somewhere high up in the skies, all other gods laughed. This felt as if one of those times. Things just could never go his way, could they? All he had wanted to do was to was grab a bottle of wine and drink until all those chaotic feelings were numb; until he could no longer think about letters, and fires, and villas, and and every single word that would come out of his grandfather’s mouth. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Isaac. It wasn’t that he would have rather not ran into him that night, or become aware that things were most definitely not good and perfect in his friend’s life. It was the contrary. Deep down, he had always known, for people with good and perfect lives didn’t party or drink as much as they both did, nor did they constantly try to smile and laugh no matter what. People with good lives didn’t need to hide the small pains that bothered them, they didn’t feel a need to pretend. But even though he did feel this need, and even though he was beginning to become sure that Isaac must have felt it too, in the past he had chosen to ignore the signs every time, to pretend things were as happy as they wished for them to be at times.
Now, he could not ignore any of that, and as Martín had stepped into those empty and poorly lit kitchens, he had felt the sudden and unusual need to reach out to Isaac and ask if everything was alright. That was the issue. That he cared. That in the middle of that unforeseen and terrible situation, the lion finally realized how much someone like Isaac Jackson mattered to him as a friend. So, then, why hadn’t he asked if Isaac was alright? Why had he sat on that kitchen stool, pretended that nothing was wrong, hid his concern and troubles, and asked for wine? Well, because, the moment Martín began to make sense of that whole situation, the moment those feelings of worry began to spark, was also the moment when the words came – cold, mocking, ringing in his mind and causing a chill to run down his spine. ’Los fuertes jamás perecen, Martín’*. It was the voice of Emilio Marzán; the voice that had spoken those words a thousand of times in the past; a voice that the boy dreaded, that made him want to scream, that filled the most terrible of his thoughts and haunted his every dream. A voice that, when hearing it for the first time as a child, had been so terrifying it had caused him to cry. But his grandfather was right, wasn’t he? He had to be strong. He couldn’t let his concerns and weaknesses show.
That was why he smiled. Not a fake smile, but one true and bright, for it was years ago that Martín had learned how to truly smile no matter how bad life decided to become. Think about the good things, about what you like and love, about everything that is beautiful and mesmerizing before your eyes. Like the thought of the delightful taste and aroma of the wine he had gone all that way to drink. Like the way dim candlelight danced upon those stone walls, creating light during such a dark time. Like the gentle scents of the kitchens: coriander, parsley, rosemary, a thousand other herbs and even the scent of dust. Like the sight of Isaac Jackson, whom at those moments looked as if a broken glass figurine: shattered yet still undeniably beautiful, shimmering pieces of glass asking to be picked up yet so terribly capable of drawing blood and causing harm. “Perhaps my godly senses told me you really needed someone with whom to share a drink,” the Spaniard shrugged as he replied, the smile still present on his lips. “Perhaps I’m here to answer all your prayers and wishes, I hear that’s a hobby of us divine beings.” Those next words came accompanied by a wink, jokes coming naturally and with ease.
How many times had he done things like those? How many times had he lied to all those he knew? Laughed, joked, and pretended to be the happiest and most carefree person in the world. One too many, honestly, as the truth was that there wasn’t a single day in Martín’s life that was as happy and carefree as everyone seemed to imagine them to be. And so, with that same smile, he watched as Isaac poured those glasses of wine, aquamarine eyes setting on the scarlet hues of the liquid that looked so much darker under such light. For a moment, he didn’t say much, picking up the glass both nonchalantly and elegantly, all before calmly flicking his wrist ever so slightly in order to make the wine swirl. ’I’ve never known a God to drink profusely, especially not a Greek one’. At those words, a single sound came, perhaps a chuckle of perhaps something else, then lifting the glass to take one sip that was most definitely too long to properly taste any particular notes. It was sweet, that was all Martín really got, but truly, at such times the taste didn’t matter to him at all. “All gods enjoy the simple pleasures of life, my dearest Isaac. And what better pleasure than wine?” It was an almost teasing question, the never-lacking Madrilenian accent making it seem as if somewhat of a purr as he turned to look at the boy by his side, gently sliding the glass on the table to ask for an unspoken refill now that more than half its content had already been drank.
“So tell me, Mr Prefect, how many House Points will I be losing for this?” Martín asked, quirking a single brow, as if either of them cared about such things.
*Spanish for: 'The strong never perish', words that are motto to the Marzán family.
|Posted by: Isaac Jackson May 9 2018, 11:03 PM|
| Isaac may not have been privy to what Mars was bringing with him, but he knew it was something. The preformers of the world never truly did rest their weary bones, and although he was more transparent with his emotions, he certainly didn't embrace them. Isaac, long ago, had been taught to 'smile for the cameras!' in childhood, and even though the lenses of the Daily Prophet no longer honed in on him, he could feel their presense and their flashes every time he dared to cry, or express in any way. There was always shame that followed his emotional outbursts, but no matter what he did, the feelings and the words always ran through his slippery fingers before he could really catch them.
It's how he got himself into situations where he slept with people that he otherwise wouldn't have. It's a miracle he could hear the dim dripping of a faucet somewhere in the kitchen, because all he could think of was how many hands had touched his body on nights when all he really wanted was to talk. For one, dangerous moment, Isaac looked up through the messy lop of hair hanging low over his eyebrows and regarded Mars' aquamarine eyes and his tanned skin, and the way he held the wine glass with practiced poise. Would Mars just result in another fling that left him? A feeling of uncomfortable dread filled him. Normally, when that thought came around, Isaac shut off the hopes that the encounter would be anything else but physical. Tonight, he breathed in through his nose and sighed quietly on the exhale, sitting upright to look at his friend. Tonight would not be one of those nights.
"Your godly senses are incredibly accurate," Isaac agreed, a weak smirk tugging his lips. It was nothing like Mars' smile, fake, but incredibly convincing. Isaac could choose to believe it, he supposed, like everyone else did- but something had brought Mars to the kitchen, in search of wine. He knew his friend's behavior well enough to know that was the case. For a moment, he waffled between replies, whether or not he should wave hello to the elephant in the room. A short, forced laugh erupted from him as Mars spoke next; "Perhaps I'm here to answer all your prayers and wishes, I hear that's a hobby of us divine beings." Followed by a goddamn wink, because he's Martin Marzan of course.
But this wasn't a night for pretending. Pretending exhausted Isaac down to the bones on nights like these, so he drained the rest of his glass and shook his head, pouring himself some more. "Unfortunately, even gods have their woes and their... problems, or whatever," He was already slightly tipsy, the edges of his words becoming fuzzy. "Let's just say- I think you're a social drinker, Marsy, but only when you have things to forget. So if there's no one around, well..." He trailed off, raising his glass and drinking it as if he was drinking hard liquor and definitely not wine. "Which, I'm not judging you, I just kicked open a wine cupboard so, clearly I have my own issues too." Then came the grin, sharp and hot and dishonest on his rosey porcelain cheeks.
The dim light shrouded the room in a little too much darkness for him to see the intricacies of Mars' expression. Lazily, he lifted his wand and uttered- "Accio jar," Which he caught with surprisingly accurate precision as it flew towards him, and placed it on the table next to the wine. Mars could be forgiven if he thought Isaac was going to drink out of the thing. Thankfully, he wasn't- instead, he cast the Bluebell fire charm into it and illuminated them in a blue glow. How fitting. It made Mars look ghostly, as if Isaac was really alone. Following this feeling, he had a strange urge to hold Mars' hand and feel that he was real.
He didn't. Instead, he snorted and poured Mars more wine. "None, if you keep your mouth shut," He ran his fingers through the harmless flame for a moment as a new wave of shame washed over him. For a moment, his face faltered. "Prefect of the year, am I right? Damaged school property, drank their wine..." He trailed off, and figured he needed more liquor for this.
He drank more wine. "How have you been?" He asked, after swallowing, and while he stared down at the glass and swirled it. Though his gaze intermittently flickered to Mars' face. It was a very clearly loaded question: Mars could answer honestly, if he wanted, and Isaac would listen. But he didn't want to pry either... So he left the choice to Mars instead.