2015.01.01 - Happy New Year, John Constantine

It's New Year's Eve! Which means it's time for Constantine to do what he does every night he possibly can, go down to the bar and get rat-arsed. Looks like, when he arrives, he's been working on it for a while, but then on New Year's Eve, booze does flow freely most everywhere. "'d rather leeeave while I'm in loooooove..." And so tonight, he's singing. He's got a good voice, all things considered, but it would probably be more melodious if he were even anywhere in the vicinity of 'sober'. "...while I stiiiill belieeeeve...the meaning of the wooooord..." He winks at the bouncer, ambles into the Oblivion proper, and makes his way to the bar itself.

Kent Nelson can be found at his favorite barstool, leaning against the bartop and sipping not his customary pint but a glass of Scotch. He lifts it in toast to the clearly well-lit Constantine, then takes a long, slow sip. Setting down the glass, he calls over, "John! A happy New Year to you. I've just been enjoying a night alone, such as one can."

John sighs as he slumps on the bar, looking more like a tablecloth than a man for a moment or two. He stares in Kent's direction, steepling his eyebrows, and then with some effort he pushes himself back up to something closer to standing. Before he slumps again, this time with his bottom on a barstool. "I don't wanna be alone tonight. So I came here."

"And so, to the public house," Nelson responds, lifting his glass again. "Where one may be alone in good company." He chuckles softly and takes another sip, glancing John's way again. "But good lord, man--perhaps you ought to ask the Keeper for tea instead of liquor. You look half a fright."

"I always look like that." John waves a hand at the barkeep, holding up two fingers and then pointing to Kent, or more precisely, to his drink. He'll throw in for scotch. "Thought you liked being alone. Always at that tower, weren't'cher? Wonder what it looks like, looking through that bell."

"One hardly wears the 'bell' all the time," Kent retorts, "and I do not eschew company. However, neither do I generally seek it." He raises the glass, watching as the Keeper pours one for Constantine. "However, the passing of one year to the next is an occasion better marked. So, I mark it here--an appropriate place for those such as we."

"Right," John answers, watching Kent's glass as if it were a pendulum, a hypnotic pendulum, for a moment until he snaps out of it and picks up his own drink. He holds it up with a broad, thin smile. "Here's to the new year. May it be less shit than the last one!" But he waits until Kent's made his own toast to drink. It's only right.

Nodding, Kent says, "To a new year and new beginnings, certainly." He too lifts his glass in toast, and then he takes a long, slow drink. Setting down the glass, now empty, he signals for a refill. "And so, here we are. At such a new beginning."

John does his best to savour his, even though he's not regularly a scotch drinker so much as he is other beverages. The glass rests against the rich wood of the bar, and his eyes go to it as he lets out a sigh. "Just midnight again, really. Dunno why we put so much truck into it. Just another midnight like any other, at the end of a month and the beginning of another one." He flicks his tongue across his lips. "Maybe if more people put as much thought every day when this happened, into thinking about the coming days or how it might be different...ahh, shit. I'm beyond pissed out of my mind."

"The symbol of a new beginning is important," Kent says with a mild shrug. "And symbols are powerful things. In truth, all demarcations of the passage of time are artificial and their meaning constructed, but that doesn't make it unimportant." He nods to the Keeper once the glass has been refilled, picking it up once more, and nods again to John.

"But does it make it *important*? Or is the importance just as much an artificial construct?" John brings his glass up and finishes the scotch in one gulp, though at least he does let it open up on his tongue before just swallowing it down. "I think I need a cider before the season's over. A nice tall cider. Maybe two at once."

Chuckling softly, Kent says, "I enjoy those, myself." He continues to sip his Scotch, though, and looks thoughtful. "I'd say, at the least, the belief placed in it--and the impact it has--make it important. Important enough, anyhow."

John flags the barkeep down again. "Two ciders, mate." Another sigh, and he slides the empty glass away from him, towards the back of the bar where it'll be easier to pick up. "Right. From now on, all belief gets poured into old Johnny scoring as much and as frequently as possible. We'll make it a religion, like." He turns and flashes his grin at Kent. "It'll be symbolic! Yet refreshingly fundamental."

Taking another long sip of his Scotch, Kent regards Constantine severely. At some length he remarks languidly, "John, you are most spectacularly drunk. You're hardly even talking sense just now."

"I am *not*!" John looks horribly affronted, and he folds his arms over his chest as the two ciders arrive: one in front of him, one placed before Kent. "I'm *disappointingly* drunk, there's a subtle but important difference."

Waving a hand, Kent says, "I shall bow to your superior experience on that point, then." He drains the last of the Scotch, slides the glass back to the Keeper, and then regards the cider contemplatively. "Curious how calm the mystic plane has been, though. Apart from that business in the Nevernever the other day, of course, but that seemed rather... innocuous timing."

"Wasn't there," John replies, starting on his cider. There's an appreciative light in his eyes, at least, once it meets his tongue. Now he's more in his element. "It'll hit the fan soon." It's casually stated, but with no doubt or hesitation to the words. "You can always guarantee that. Wait long enough, there'll be a typhoon."

"Ah, the inevitability of patience," Kent says dryly. "The affair of the demons' danse was hardly catastrophic, though it could have been messy enough if allowed to go on. No, mystically speaking we've been in a fairly quiet period. Of course, I do not complain." He lifts the cider, samples it, and nods approvingly. "Then your current state of... cheer... is just that?"

"My current...whahuh?" John pauses before he takes another sip of his drink. Now he's confused. The drunk boy's confused! "Me current state is drunk, 's nothing more than that. Any cheer may or may not be authentic." For a while he's just fixated on the gloss of the surface of the cider, the shine as it catches the low lights.

"Quite," is Kent's only comment as he sips his own drink, noting the pleasantly sweet, fruity flavor of the bubbly beverage. He also notices the reflection in the surface, inwardly sighing. Another year gone. When did they begin to pass so very quickly, after all?

It's quieter than usual in the Oblivion tonight. John's noticed it from the start, ever since he got there. Not that he hasn't brought some life to the place, but even he's settled into a temporary silence. Then it's shattered again. "So I guess what'm saying is, lemme come over. I'll keep you company and I promise not to get any sort of bodily by-product on anything really valuable."

Raising an eyebrow, Kent says, "Whyever would you wish to come to the Tower? It's hardly ideal for entertaining guests, and it's very... quiet there." He gives John a rather grandfatherly look of mild reproach. "And you'd best abandon any notion of getting your bodily by-products anywhere to speak of, for that matter."

John laughs again, propping his cheek on his hand. "Got to go somewhere, mate." Another sip, and he smacks his lips. "That's why it's so ideal though, yeah? Quiet. Full of interesting things. You know, we're not that far apart. Giving me that look like I don't know better." His grin spreads slowly. "How long's it been since you cut loose and had a good time?"

Shaking his head, Kent says, "I do not 'cut loose,' John Constantine. That part of this life is long over. I exist now only at Nabu's pleasure, and I do not commit myself to idle pleasures any more demanding than a quiet drink here at the bar."

"To that I say...horse shit!" John snorts and gulps another mouthful, then reaches into his coat to produce his Silk Cut cigarettes. "Is everyone in this goddamn place just a bunch of dead people walking around? Everyone just," he puts on a sort of sassy impression, "existing for some piss-ant self-styled tinfoil god on a pedestal's 'pleasure'." Once he has a cigarette out, he lights up and rests the pack on the bar, looking around him and snagging the nearest ashtray.

Laughing softly, Kent says, "A fair few are, no doubt. Though I find it rather silly of you to speak of Nabu in such terms. He's hardly a self-styled god, at any rate. But if you've come seeking life, my boy, then you're looking in quite the wrong place by joining me. I am an antique that has long outlived its day, and my primary role in this day is to offer what wisdom and aid I can until Nabu chooses another."

John snorts again, even more contemptuously this time. "You are exactly what you decide you are. If you want to be a place-holder, then by all means. I'd rather at least try to enjoy myself in this shithole." There's a beat. "Not the bar, mind. I like the Oblivion. Probably live here if they had rooms to let." And then suddenly he turns to face Kent. "'My boy'? How old d'you think I am, mate?"

Looking mildly amused at Constantine's fiery demeanor, Kent sips his cider again. Then he says, "I find satisfaction in my existence. I'm simply long past sowing wild oats." Regarding John again, he says, "As to your age, I'm going to guess you've a long way to go until you see an hundred."

Constantine's mien lightens considerably, and he laughs, drinking again and licking his lips. "Not so long. And I've seen more than most have who reach the century mark. That's what I'm talking about..." The man motions with the hand holding his cigarette, which sends ribbons of smoke wisping up and about in the air around him. "'s no way to live, like. Get a few wild oats in there."

"I've had my share," Kent says, shaking his head again. "And I am content--which has little to do with my age and much to do with my life. I suppose I could remark also that the ancient mind of Nabu weighs heavily upon me, but it would mean little. You are, perhaps more than anyone I have known, John Constantine, your own man. I, for most of my long life, have not been. It is simply who we are."

John makes a sort of grumbly rumble in his throat. It's obvious he doesn't have a ready retort for that, but he just shakes his head and ashes his cig, then brings it to his lips again. "Everyone in this goddamn place is boring."

"Everyone," Kent says with a small salute of his glass, "Except you, John."