A View From The End Of The World (Cael/Laz)

11:45 PM
31st of December, 2011
Bar Ristorante Tre Scalini, Piazza Navona, Rome

On the Piazza Navona there is a small bar, quite the site for tourists looking for a good meal. When the weather is nice, their outside tables have the faintest of breezes roll by, and the smell of pasta and pizza fills the air of the surrounding area in Rome. It has a quaint feel, almost like home. None of these reasons, however, are why Cael chose to agree to meet a comrade at this establishment. No, the only reason he needed was that they served sake. Some guys like beer, some drink wine, but when you're trained by a Japanese swords master you learn to have an acquired taste for alcohol, in particular that which makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside after a few dishes are poured.

Cael was already on his fifth cup, cheeks reddening as he waited for the man who said he would be here fourty-five minutes ago. Giving a silent look to the waitress as she passed by, he held out the, now empty, bottle. He wanted more, but it wasn't because he enjoyed being drunk. He was trying to get his mind off of more pressing matters. His friend, Lazarus, was going to be moving back to America. Washington D.C., something about an offer. The samurai scoffed at such an idea, being lead by someone else without the slightest idea of their true intentions? No, Cael wouldn't be lead by just any man, and this had bothered his friend. So, now, the man would drink his troubles away. He'd pay for it in the morning, but it was worth it.

"Cun y'refill this alruddy?" He asked impatiently. The woman gave him a look as if he'd had too much already, but didn't say anything out of the way. He was paying, and he wasn't causing too much trouble, might as well leave him to his prerogative. Sliding the dish to his lips, Cael slurped down the rest of his rice booze, before looking back to the door again.

"Where the hell are you, Laz..."

Before the Hunter, before the change, before the Demons, before Hell, and, most importantly, before the man, there was a boy. All stories begin somewhere. And when he would retell this story to a chosen few in eons to come, Lazarus Carter would begin his personal epic here. New Year's Eve, late at night, in a bar, on the year of 2011. Rome. And here, the man was meeting an old friend; a friend he'd never realised how little he knew of.

Lazarus had flown out on the twenty-ninth to Rome as part of his Christmas break. He'd met with his family over the period proper, and, then, of all the presents, his family had pooled their funds to buy him, before his flight left back to London mid-January - a flight he would later cancel - a return ticket from D.C. to Rome. Renowned as one of the greatest cities of all the Earth, and certainly one of the greatest of Europe; with a long, bloody, and eventful history, Rome had always been somewhere that the redhead had wanted to visit since childhood; but alas, recently, it had not been possible.

His visit was not a long one. But within it all, the sightseeing, the awe, the smiling and the general tourist bullshit, the teen had come into contact with an old friend. A very old friend, one from years ago. Washington DC. Those three years had been brilliant, if only for a man he'd only known for a few months - who recently, enigmatically, as was his nature, had somehow gotten ahold of Laz's details, and the pair of them had been planning to meet up ever since. The coincidental visit to Rome was infact just another additional factor.

"I just want to see your blood, I just want to stand and stare..." The redhead teen murmured to himself as he strolled casually down the piazza, absentmindedly surveying his surroundings for the place his Italian comrade had said they'd meet. It was weird to think this would be their first reunion in... what, four years? Five, maybe? Between Christmas, his nineteenth birthday, and flying all over the place, this break had been something of a hazy blur to him, all in all. But regardless: he was itching to catch up with his old friend. For the past few days, he'd been hotel-jumping around the city; and was, at the moment, barely a block away. Thus, the location had been nothing less than ideal. And who better to spend New Years' with than the oldest and most mysterious of all his friends, the swordsman?

Ah! There it was. Ristorante Tre Scalini. Meant nothing to the American, through and through - though he supposed that even as his attire was somewhat unfitting for such a city of class, it was best that he put away his headphones as a show of at least some respect. The bar looked fairly upper-class. But alcohol was alcohol, and Lazarus had drunk in utter shitholes and some of the most classy bars in all of London. Wherever you went, the sting of whiskey and the cold taste of lager was all the same. Except if you ordered different whiskey. Or different lager.

Regardless, he pulled his headphones down and instinctively fumbled through his pocket to switch off the music. It was a crime to ever prematurely mute Bruce Dickinson, but the disturbance he would cause within the quaint-looking bar was probably going to be worse. A quick check at his watch - only forty-five minutes late, score - and he entered the bar with that beaming, signature Lazarus grin, diving straight to the counter. "Una... uno... scotch-ione, buono?" The barmaid looked at him, puzzled. Fuck it. So much for soaking up that Italian culture. "Double measure of scotch on ice." With an enlightened look on her face, she nodded, and immediately got to pouring his drink. God, did he love European drinking laws.

With that out of the way, exchanging the money, he cast an eye over the bar, almost immediately catching his grumpy-looking stoic companion, who would be towering over him were they standing. A look of revelation on his face, and Lazarus made his way over with a hearty smile. "Cael Gladius." He announced proudly, still clearly remembering his ancient childhood friend's name - though it hadn't so much been childhood for the swordsman. "What in the living fuck happened to you?" With that, grinning, he extended a hand over the table, eager to reunite with an old comrade.

Taking another sip of his sake, Cael gave half a glance over to the door again. Dish to his lips, he found his eyes cast upon someone's torso, however. His gaze moved upward to their face, and he recognized the young man right away, even though he had aged quite a bit from the kid he knew back in D.C., between his days of training with Gin and Matiz. Lazarus Carter, once a boy who watched him as he trained in that abandoned warehouse near Dumbarton Oaks Gardens, now stood before him, hand extended, nearly a grown man.

"Lazarus..." Cael put down his drink for a moment, and he shook the young man's hand firmly, straightening himself in his seat. "You could say that I found a new calling here." Taking his hand back, he finished off his sake and let out a sigh of both relief and burn. "Take a seat, boy, tell me what you've been up to."

It had taken Cael a long time to finally find the loose end to his string of training as a Demon Hunter. Lazarus, as far as he knew, still had no idea of what Inferis was, but there was still the fact he'd seen the samurai's blade in action. Even if it wasn't being used to slay demons at the time, the boy had spectated to his training on wooden boxes and makeshift dummies. He'd laid eyes on the weapon of a hunter, and, as such, he could be prone to becoming one as well. After all, entering Inferis was no simple task for a mortal, but as a child Lazarus had done so without even noticing. He saw no difference there than he did in the land of the living.

"Anything... interesting as of late?"

"Lazarus..." There it was, that voice again. Stoic, quiet, calm... not detached, but all the same generally something that seemed so utterly fitting for the man Cael was. "You could say that I found a new calling here." For all the talk of vanquishing evil and honing his body through the utility of his weapon, the swordsman had always given the redhead the impression that there was something out there beyond them, some grand design, some cosmic masterplan, that he was sure they were all part of, each just a cog in the machine. Little did the teen know just how right his Italian-American comrade was.

Blinking, Lazarus made a snarky rebuttal with a half-grin. "A new calling and a good two thirds of a bottle of sake, it looks like." Typical. Of all the alcohols in the world, the Italian-American chose not beer, not wine, not tequila, and not orthodox Western spirits, but instead Japanese sake. Somehow, he recalled the pair of them having previously glossed over the topic, and it hadn't surprised the teenager in the slightest. Not then, not on the phone, and not now. He was a sake drinker through and through - and apparently, on this New Year's Eve, something of a heavy sake drinker, cheeks taking on a reddened flush.

"Take a seat, boy, tell me what you've been up to." Doing exactly that, Lazarus grinned and sipped eagerly at his whiskey, happy at the very least to just see Cael again, to reunite with an old comrade of his, if anything else. The teen scratched a head of red hair and stared off up into the ceiling with a slack jaw, making a deep, plebeian, and yet somehow pensive sound as he slumped backwards, idly nursing the scotch in his hand, acknowledging that he had some serious catch-up drinking to do before it ticked over into 2012. "Anything... interesting as of late?"

"Uh, let's see... finished school, moved to London, started university, begun and promptly dropped a couple of bands..." The boy continued, and would have done - oddly fitting - with numerous half-drunken stories of conquests both sexual and social, but he knew instinctively - and from what he remembered of the swordsman - that such tales of hedonism, debauchery, and mindless frolicking were not the sort of things that Cael could always sympathise with. Whilst he was not a hardass, he believed in himself and he was always focused on... well, his blade. Lazarus had never viewed it as anything big or of monumental importance, but the pair of them had a pact. Their friendship was as public as anything; but his knowledge of the sword's existence, for whatever reasons, were not to be imparted with anyone. The redhead wasn't about to argue, considering that the Italian was the one with the sword. "Guess I've just got a lot more life experience under my belt, but I imagine you've done some pretty hardcore shit in the past few years, right?"

God, how long had it been? Thirteen, maybe fourteen, he'd been... and he was just nineteen now... four and a half, five years? Shit, it felt like weeks, at most. He had just been a kid, a little boy not sure what the fuck was going on, and even Cael - well, he looked like he'd beefed up and seen the world. It had worn visibly on his face. Lazarus could see. Even as inexperienced as he was, he was analytical, from years of media exposure, and could tell when people had at the very least endured things. It wore on them, grated on the aura they seemed to exude. "What about you, man?" The redhead had always presumed that the swordsman was destined for greater things. "What'd you disappear off to do all those years ago?"

Cael nodded, listening to the tales of school life and music, slightly relieved that the boy hadn't been exposed to the same hellish plans in life that he had been. Still, one could never be too sure of these things. It felt like only yesterday that Cael was standing witness to that which would be his future prey. One master had prepared him for such trials, and another... Another had showed him not to hold anything back against them.

"When I left D.C., I had heard rumors of a swordsman traveling around the states. He just so happened to have been seen in my hometown." Cael smirked, hoping that Lazarus was prepared for one of the man's long stories that he was famed for. "His name was Matiz, and after meeting him I agreed to follow as his pupil. He taught me what it is to be in service to your weapon, heeding its call for blood as it lay within your hands. More importantly, he taught me what it meant to be considered a son..."

He paused momentarily to bring a fist up to his lips, belching slightly, before continuing, "I spent two years training under him, and six months within the deserts of Texas. I survived only on what I could find, and, in the end, I discovered what it truly means to feel hopeless, beaten, broken..." His eyes moved to Laz, a small smile curling upwards on his lips. "Only to then find what it means to have everything I felt lost restored just as I was nearing my demise."

Looking up, he scratched the back of his neck. What else could he satisfy the boy's curiosity with? Oh how he would love to tell him of his exploits within Inferis, but, alas, those tales would have to haunt only him in the end. That's how he saw it, anyway.

"I've been training here now for the past three years, living here and growing to find love for the culture of my heritage." He lazily poured another dish of sake. If he had to be in this alone, he might as well find some way to enjoy it.

"When I left D.C., I had heard rumors of a swordsman traveling around the states. He just so happened to have been seen in my hometown." Nyeh? Oh, right. For a moment, he'd forgotten Cael and how connected he was to these "callings", and his swords. Lazarus had personally all thought it a bit odd; though, as jaded and enthusiastic as he was now, at thirteen, when he'd happened upon that warehouse for the first time, paint peeling from the walls, as the Italian-American struck time and time again at wooden panels with that hardy blade... there was just something empowering about so much as watching it. The redhead had never been able to imagine holding it. He'd never asked. "His name was Matiz, and after meeting him I agreed to follow as his pupil. He taught me what it is to be in service to your weapon, heeding its call for blood as it lay within your hands. More importantly, he taught me what it meant to be considered a son..."

Lazarus should have known - or remembered - better. Idly, he threw a look up towards a clock over Cael's shoulder. The man was renowned for these great epics he recounted. Normally he was stoic enough, or the redhead had known him as such, but he did have a fondness for regaling these tales of blades and "monsters". Half of the time the teen considered the man's stories to be more metaphysical than anything. Maybe the Italian was crazy, but he was still just as much fun. "I spent two years training under him, and six months within the deserts of Texas. I survived only on what I could find, and, in the end, I discovered what it truly means to feel hopeless, beaten, broken..." Alcohol in the mix meant only the whole thing would drag on longer. They were only ten minutes away from 2012, now. And it seemed like it'd be a good night. "Only to then find what it means to have everything I felt lost restored just as I was nearing my demise."

In spite of the inner, joking cynicism, there was a connection to and a cadence through Cael's words that he could just... feel. There always had been. Nothing the swordsman said was ever to be taken too lightly - not in these tones, anyway. And drunk words being sober truths, Lazarus could tell, rang true tenfold for the Italian. There was no hint of malicious falsehood in his speech - and if there was, it was hidden extremely well. The redhead nodded. "I've been training here now for the past three years, living here and growing to find love for the culture of my heritage."

Of course, he was half Italian, after all... that made sense. "Yeah, well, sounds like you've had a hell of a ride compared to me." Laz mumbled, half-irritated with himself. Dammit, why didn't he have any cool stories about almost dying in the deserts of Texas?! "And it looks like you're more finding love for that sake bottle at the moment, as empty as it is." The look of self-agitation formed quickly into a grin and he smiled off at Cael, finishing his drink, before raising his hand to get the bartender. She hurried over quickly. "I'll take another one of these, double measure." Quickly she nodded, and hurried back off; but with his hand on a defined, stubble-coated chin, Lazarus Carter wondered... they had maybe ten minutes, and what would make this a night to remember? Aside from their five year reunion, anyway... well, there was always something...

The redhead held a finger up to Cael, to pause him, and as she hurried back with his drink, the teen grinned back off at her, completely honestly, and made his second request, just as the glass of the refilled measure of scotch set back down upon the table. "Now we'll take three lemons, a salt shaker, two shot glasses, a knife..." Something completely insane flashed in the teenager's eyes. Then he whipped his head up and stared the bartender boldly in the eyes. "...AND YOUR CHEAPEST, NASTIEST BOTTLE OF TEQUILA." Almost taken aback at his dramatic tones, she regarded Lazarus with a slightly concerned look, before inclining her head and rushing back off to the bar to oblige them.

Almost upset, Laz turned back to Cael. "I expected more of a reaction." He frowned. "BUt, yeah, regardless, we're getting fucked up, my man." It was still two years before he could legally do this back home, anyway. Ah, Europe. Land of the prejudiced, the snooty, and the teenage binge drinkers.

Cael allowed an eyebrow to arch, his eyes lidded as he watched the boy's antics. While older, Lazarus definitely had much maturing to do before he would truly be a man. Still, it was a special occasion, he supposed. One couldn't disallow themselves the pleasure of a memorable evening with their comrades. Pushing his sake bottle to the side, he smiled and slid over to the redhead, slapping him on the back.

"Never would've taken you for such a risky drinker, kid." Chuckling, he looked over the barmaid. For such a mature man as he liked to think himself, Cael definitely had an eye for women. No saints left in this world it seemed. "Hey, throw in another bottle, this kid needs to drink his fill tonight!" The tongue of his lineage passed fluently, no matter how drunk he was. The woman giggled at his exclamation and picked up another bottle.

"I hope someone's paying for all of this," she teased back in Italian, pointing to the swordsman's chest. He smirked, looking down, before pulling out his wallet. Sliding several bills over, he looked back up as her eyes widened.

"Buy yourself something nice too, my dear." He gave a quick, playful nudge and peek to Laz as he said this. "Maybe a date with my friend before he leaves? You could show him all the finer parts of Rome, I'm sure." She blushed and turned away, walking back to the other end of the bar.

"Finer reaction than I could've expected!" Cael let out a hearty laugh before picking up one of the two glasses and filling it with the cheap alcohol the two would be consuming together. Slinging it back, he quickly brought a lemon slice between his lips, still chuckling beneath the acidic taste and burn of the tequila.

"Never would've taken you for such a risky drinker, kid." Lazarus grinned that grin of his and simply shrugged. What, a bottle of tequila made him a risky drinker? It made him a hard fucking partygoer, that's what it made him. And here, tonight, the premier of all social events was to be held here, in this very bar, on New Year's Eve 2011, with two men and a bottle of tequila. And possibly a teasing barmaid, it seemed.

"Yeah, well I never would have taken you for such a lightweight," The redhead retorted in a tease with another grin. "Yes, Cael." He continued sardonically. "That was a challenge." The game was very much on - and the swordsman's next action seemed to do nothing but reflect that. What were they, butting heads again? Lazarus could deal with that. Provided it wasn't actually physical. The swordsman was a tank compared to him. Sprinter or not, a punch from Cael would fucking hurt.

"Ehi, gettare in un'altra bottiglia, questo ragazzo ha bisogno di bere il suo riempimento stasera!" In spite of that pink-red flush on his cheeks, the language still flowed from his lips near perfectly. With a smile, he looked over his shoulder to the barmaid he'd seen earlier, and waited as she teased back in Italian. "Spero che qualcuno sta pagando per tutto questo," Well this left him awkwardly out of place. Moments later, the swordsman drew his wallet and slid a few Euro bills over the table. "Buy yourself something nice too, my dear." Always the chivalrous one, wasn't he?

Though, speaking of which, she would look damn good in something nice, from what he reckoned. Even in a black tee and a pair of jeans, she was wearing a casual set of heels, and it apparently rang true about Italy's women. Bleach blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, presumably for work, and her clothing accentuating all the right curves- "Maybe a date with my friend before he leaves? You could show him all the finer parts of Rome, I'm sure." Oh, Cael, you cheesy motherfucker...

Lazarus wasn't reacting fast enough, but as soon as she dove off, blushing, he grinned back at the swordsman and shook his head. "Fuck me, you're terrible," A gentle, short spurt of laughter came forth, and the shakes became ever more vigorous. "Though I wouldn't mind a tour of the 'finer parts of Rome'..." Lazarus said, looking back over in her direction, scanning her up and down as she tended to another customer efficiently, and shot a shy smile back in response. "...but I'm pretty sure the only fine parts I'd want to see would require a degree of undressing-" The murmur trailed off, but sooner, rather than later, the boy snapped back to his comrade, shaking himself out of it.

The bottles of tequila had long since found their way to the table, and, swiftly enough, the redhead reached over and cracked one over, looking to the Italian swordsman and speaking in slightly less humorous tones than usual. "Hey, man. Let me pay for the second bottle at the very least. I'm not here on your expense, I don't wanna be a burden or anything." Doing so, he produced a trio of five-Euro bills from his pocket and slid them over, nodding towards the clock in the corner. "Eleven-fifty." Ten minutes. The redhead poured out a shot into the glass provided, and quickly sawed open a segment of lemon, before sprinkling a thin lance of salt along his hand.

His tongue followed on not a moment later, lapping up the salt and almost grimacing, before taking the shot back, and fuck, was that the nastiest tequila he'd had the misfortune to try. It tasted like a used ashtray that someone had found in Tijuana. A moment later, he bit down on the lemon - an absolute necessity in this scenario - wincing before he discarded the segment. "Fuck that for a laugh. That shit's like gasoline." He wouldn't have been surprised if that was the major source of the liquor in question. "But, hey, your turn, sword boy. We're getting fucked tonight, and I'm challenging us to have made at least four shots by the time we're into 2012." AND SO BEGUN THE PACT.

Cael belched into his fist and looked back at the bottle. The alcohol was definitely foul, but he'd had worse. Nothing like a night out with Matiz to teach you how rancid a liquor could truly be. He poured a second shot of the tequila and held his nose before downing it as quickly as possible. He didn't bother with salt, Cael never really had much of a taste for bitterness. The samurai looked back to Lazarus between sucks at his lemon slice before he discarded the fruit wedge.

"Aye, midnight is nearly upon us, boy." He gave a nod to the other clock behind his friend. New Years; no doubt there would be all sorts of ruckus going on this night. Not just in the mortal realm, but in a place far off, yet close to them at the same time. Yes, Inferis would be all aflame, many a demon wishing to possess individuals and go for a joyride through whatever city they happened to be in. Of course, this wasn't of any concern to Cael tonight. Lazarus was his top priority, and he had to be sure to give the kid a good time.

He began to pour his third shot before a bottle flew between the two of them and crashed against the wall. The shards of glass shattered about the floor and counter, and the man quickly covered his glass so none would fall into it. He had never quite had the pleasure of alcohol burning cuts down his throat, and he didn't plan on that happening anytime soon. The swordsman turned in his seat and watched the barfight that had started up, downed his shot, and stood up.

"No need to worry, dear," Cael said as he looked back to the barmaid. "The night is young, after all." He stumbled slightly as he approached the two and caught both their fists as they slung at one another. Their arms were quickly twisted behind their backs as he shoved them along to the door. "Why deny them the pleasure of getting a better view of the darkness?"

He continued to shove them along before he twisted their arms tighter and kicked the door open, slinging them out into the street. Expletives were launched, spit as well, but with only a shrug in response the swordsman let the door clatter shut in front of him. He walked back to his seat then and sighed, hoping that the men wouldn't decide to come back for more. If they were smart they would stay out there.

By the time Cael was pouring his third, it was five minutes to midnight and Lazarus was raising his to his own lips. With a grin, the redhead nodded at his comrade's speech, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol take hold and give him a more physical exuberance, his every action accentuated and exaggerated. "Aye, midnight is nearly upon us, boy." For now, the sensation - one he was all-too-familiar with - was pleasant. The teen knew it could, and most likely would very quickly end up going downhill.

Smash. As if on cue. Lazarus set the shot glass down, and before he knew it, Cael was up on his feet, grinning like an idiot, walking over to the bar fight, the redhead sitting and looking on with his jaw wide open as the swordsman got to his feet. Was he going to... really? "Non c'è bisogno di preoccuparsi, cara. La notte è giovane, dopo tutto." More Italian. In a deft movement, he split the fight apart, grasped the pair of them and yanked their arms backwards, soliciting shallow yelps from the pair of them. "Perché negare loro il divertimento di avere una visione meglio del buio?"

Lazarus could make out words that sounded similar to English, but aside from that was completely dumb to Cael's words. However, as the swordsman sidled back down, the silent bar began to fill with concurring applause, and the redhead grinned at his comrade, shaking his head incredulously and pouring his fourth shot, taking another glance at the clock. 11:57. Three minutes to midnight. "You're crazy, man." The applause died down after a few moments, and the pair returned to their drinks quietly. The teen knocked back his shot, going straight for the lemon, the alcohol from the past few kicking in and making him forgo the salt with the endgame of simply getting hammered.

"Never before have I seen someone do that of their own accord. Seriously." To be fair, Cael was a touch more chivalric and honour-bound than most of his drinking companions, but the teen continued to shake his head. He'd seen people stick their heads into fights with strangers because they were bored, but never in an attempt of just improving anyone's night. Especially on New Year's, and especially as drunk as the pair were. Lazarus still couldn't believe it. "I'd ask what you'd do if one of them pulled a knife or something,"

A grin slipped onto the teen's face. "But I know how you operate, Cael Gladius," Lazarus spoke with a sly waggle of his finger. Was it him or was that bottle more empty than he'd thought it was. "And I know you'd fuck those guys up good if they pulled a little blade on you." He shook his head once more, and poured himself another shot, raising it for but a moment, and speaking in slightly louder tones. "To Cael!" The redhead announced to the whole bar. "The finest sake-drinking motherfucker I've ever had the fortune to know!"

A cheers from some of the other tables nearby echoed his toast, and Laz dropped the shot back down his gullet, sitting down. That was five - and with that, he looked up to the clock. Two and a half minutes. Not another two before they begun the countdown into 2012 - and not a finer drinking partner he could have hoped to be with. "What is it they say over here?" The teen half-drunkenly queried his comrade. "'A cent'anni', or something, right?" Boastfully he jerked a thumb towards his chest. "I know all of that shit from watching the Godfather, bro." Who said his extensive knowledge of crime dramas would never come in handy? When in Rome indeed...

The patrons of the bar cheered joyously, to which Cael merely gave a shake of the head and drunken chortle in response. Lazarus really liked to make a scene of that which was simply common courtesy, especially for someone with the lifestyle of a true swordsman. The needs of the many outweighed the wants of the few, and peace during an important holiday such as the coming of a new year was important to a great degree.

He slung back his third shot, and, without even a reach for something to stop the horrible taste, he began to pour his fourth. Without hesitation he held his glass high before kicking it back as well and nearly felt that his stomach would boil and turn inside out. A bit of a show, attempted entertainment through strength, at least where drinkers and the like were concerned. It was then that the odd-haired man picked up a knife and sliced a clean chunk of lemon to stuff between his lips. His head could spin all it wanted, he wasn't the sort to black out from drinking. As long as his body moved, he was in control of his faculties.

With another chuckle, he spat out the wedge and patted Laz on the back, a muffled, "Close enough, boy," finding its way crawling from his vocal cords. He checked the clock and saw that it was drawing closer to the final minute that remained of 2011. A new year, new beginnings for some, endings for others, and even still some who hadn't quite reached either point in their journey. That was life. It wasn't about where you spent your time or why you chose to do so. It was all about the how, and in this moment Roman Cael Gladius IV found himself glad he had spent these moments with the redheaded boy he had met years previous in Washington D.C.

"Here's to the world, Laz. Here's to everything." He picked up the bottle this time and chose to take his final shot straight from it. Slinging his head back, he allowed quite an amount of the tequila to pour into his mouth before he slammed it back down. "To the future in our grasp! Hmhmhm..."

"Close enough, boy," Fuck it. Just about everything was close enough. And they were a good third of a bottle of tequila down each, their wallets having been hit just as hard. In tandem, the redhead went to pour himself a fifth and final shot, before instead locking eyes with the Italian swordsman, who rose, instead, the bottle in his own drunken toast, making a grand proclamation. The alcohol, it seemed was hitting pretty hard for the pair of them now. "Here's to the world, Laz. Here's to everything."

A bold statement indeed. And as Cael rose his bottle, Lazarus rose his own, grinning and locking gazes, crimson on that hawk-like piercing gaze, and the pair of them slung back the tequila in unison, glugging until the alcohol began to burn their throats; and then glugging some fucking more. Because they were smart. Or really, really stupid. A few moments later, and slam, the bottles were back down, the redhead gasping greedily for air to soothe his scalding throat. God that shit was vile. "To the future in our grasp! Hmhmhm..."

"FUCK YEAH MOTHERFUCKEEEEER!" Lazarus half-screamed in response, nodding his head vigorously. It seemed that tipsy was swiftly becoming something of an understatement to the redhead, and things were beginning to spin. Ah, tequila. The drink of the gods. That was, if gods were Tijuana gangbangers. "WE'RE GOIN' INTO THE FUTURE, BITCH, LIKE DOC BROWN AND MICHAEL J. FOX." Wait, but wasn't that movie called Back to the Future? That... it... what was the sense there?!

The half-intelligible proclamations began to die down and every head in the bar turned towards a great plasma TV pinned to the wall. In London they had a show for Big Ben; and in Washington the countdown was done differently, too. An hour ago it had ticked over into 2012 in England, his new "homeland", but as the ten-second countdown pinned itself up in great neon lances on the walls of buildings in Piazza del Popolo in Rome, a completely different experience begun altogether. And he found himself counting not in his own language, but in a language he'd never thought to know. "DIECI!" It started from the bar, swelling out into the crowd, a great, joyous call of camaraderie ringing out between them. "NOVE!" Fuck it, this was starting to sound similar to Spanish. He could do this. Right? Right.

Before long, Lazarus looked to Cael with a grin, raising from his chair instinctively, bottle in one hand, and he continued to scream along with the patrons. "OTTO!" Whoops, he'd almost fucked that one up. "SETTE!" He was sort of going along halfway through numbers, anxiously trying to sense them as they came up. "SEI!"

2011 had been a good year. A year of love, a year of friends, and a year of family. But how would 2012 fare for the redhead? Would it offer as much of a change as this year had? "CINQUE!" God, it was basically Spanish. The answer to his question was not one Lazarus yet knew; infact, in his head he doubted it. In 2011 he had moved from America to England, changed scenery, changed surroundings, changed the people around him, and even changed himself. The redhead thought that was the year that he had left behind being a boy and took up the mantle of being a man. "QUATTRO!"

And with that, he looked to Cael. He wasn't that kid that the swordsman had known anymore. He wasn't that silent fourteen year old who had looked on from afar as the Italian sheared apart blocks and crates in that warehouse in D.C. "TRE!" But even so, not even the green-haired bladesman or Lazarus himself could preempt just how intense next year would be. Change, for Lazarus Carter's life, had only just begun. "DUE!"[/color] But that was another story for another time. This was a night of joy, and a night of celebration. "UNO!"

The redhead slumped backwards and screamed his own translation in English as fireworks launched themselves into the skies around the bar, audible from both the television and the outside night ambience. "BUON CAPODANNO!" Happy New Year. And with that, he looked to Cael, and extended his fist for a brotherly bump. It had been a good night so far, but they were barely a quarter of an hour in. As the swordsman had said concerning the unruly punters; the night was young... and for a little addendum? It was time to start the fucking party.

"Happy New Year, you great big sword fucker." And here he would start the party, in Rome, with a man who was like a long-lost estranged brother. 2012. Who knew what secrets and what excitement this year would hold for them? Well... only the Devil himself.

Cries of joy rang out through the bar, everyone coming together to chant the countdown to 2012. Cael, however, stayed perfectly silent. Partly because of how drunk he was, but the wide smile on his face was put there because he knew, without a doubt, that the boy standing next to him would soon be a man he could count on. No matter how idiotic he seemed, even in public, there was a good, strong heart to Lazarus. Everyone needed a companion, a friend to be able to call when in need, and Cael was glad to say he had found his.

"BUON CAPODANNO!" the swordsman yelled out with the other occupants, chuckling and throwing his arm around Laz's shoulder after he stood up as well. "Hmhm, Happy New Year t'you too, boy." What demons could come, and what fights he would be subjected to this year seemed far off in Cael's mind. Leading his comrade to the door, grabbing the half-bottle of tequila as he left with redhead in tow, a sly grin curved its way across his tanned face.

"All of Rome is at our call, Lazarus. Where would you like to go?" He stopped outside the door as it closed behind them and took another swig of rancid alcohol. The taste had become at least bearable now. Perhaps the kid would want to see the coliseum or go out looking for a party going on in one of the main parts of the city. Anything was fine, but wasting time in one place was never Cael's style. "Like I told the nice lady inside, the night is young."

"Hmhm, Happy New Year t'you too, boy." Cael's arm round his shoulder and the pair of them clutching their respective bottles, levels of capacity more or less equalised, the camaraderie in the bar was thick enough that it was palpable upon the tongues of the two young men. "All of Rome is at our call, Lazarus. Where would you like to go?" The pair of them, shoulders slung around one another, in a march of brotherhood and masculine friendship left the bar with drunken grins upon their faces, slurring their words and sipping at their bottles. "Like I told the nice lady inside, the night is young."

With a vigorous nod of his head, Lazarus disconnected himself from Cael and took another dangerous slug of the alcohol, still burning its way down his throat. "As a potentially great man once probably said somewhere or other, 'the night is young and so am I, so let's get really drunk'." That sounded like a legit quote, most definitely. The redhead stifled a hiccup, some of the vapour from the tequila burning on its way back up as the teen exhaled, feeling as if he could probably breath onto a naked flame and turn himself into a human flamethrower. Now that sounded fucking cool.

"Well, my man, I don't know about you, but I need a fucking smoke." Lazarus was never one to have truly smoked in full, and even at university in one of the most populous smoking centres of the world, London, he'd managed to dodge a bullet in not becoming addicted, but, alas, habits were still habits; and after three pints and twenty minutes, the nineteen year old began to find himself yearning for a cancer stick. "You probably don't smoke, being a fucking fitness freak swordsman thing or whatever, but I occasionally fancy a cig when I drink..." With a dramatic slash through the air and an outstretched finger, looking off into the middle-distance, the American loudly proclaimed their next goal. "TO THE TOBACCONIST'S, COMRADE!"

Though specifically, the world was now seemingly his oyster. Or, at least til approximately six in the morning, when he'd collapse somewhere and rise a few hours later covered in various strong alcohols, ash, and party hats, stumbling like a hungover zombie back to his hotel room. Which, for the life of him, he currently couldn't remember the location of. Oh well. He had a bottle and he had his bro. And in life, that was all that mattered. Laz idly checked his watch, and once more spoke. 12:05AM. "But, yeah, anywhere that'll serve me a pack. At this time of night. On New Year's Day. Totally reasonable." Fuck grades. Fuck results. Fuck degrees. Fuck working. FUCK MONEY. It was all about FRIENDSHIP. And PLATONIC LOVE. And ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. And... most of all... SWAG.

Another swig of the tequila - a bottle now a third empty - gave rise to only an increased sensation which manifested best as a craving for tobacco, only making him want a cigarette more. With an agonised stare, he regarded the gold-tinted glass of the bottle and mouthed "no", as if it had betrayed him in his nicotine-deprived state. A single teardrop would have fallen from his eye, but that was too far, this was not Shakespearean drama, and he was not yet drunk enough. "Cael..."

In horror, however, the boy rose his head to his older friend, and stepped forwards, before getting onto his knees and raising the bottle up. "I-I... I think..." A pause, his breath growing hoarse and haggard. "...we're... r-running out of alcohol..." The world was growing to be a terrifying place indeed. "And also, I have no idea where to buy any form of cigarettes whatsoever. This is your town, lead the way, sword boy."

Cael watched, eyes half-lidded and smile drawn back in into a slight smirk, as the redhead dropped to his knees. Spluttering and tipping over at the jest, he knocked the teen back with a nudge of his knee and walked on around him. He wanted a cigarette, and the swordsman knew where to find one. Stamping his foot upon the stone walkway beneath them, he wiped at his brow and continued down the street.

"I know where a shop is, come on." He didn't stop for his friend to make sure he was following. There was a 24-hour convenient store that wasn't too far from here, and if Laz couldn't make it there... Well, he was just too drunk to be out and about anywhere then.

"Not too fond of smoking, myself," the samurai started, catching the first glimpse of the bright sign outside of the Run-In. "Still, better time spent than sitting around in one place."

"Still, better time spent than sitting around in one place."

"Truer words never spoken." The redhead concurred drunkenly as the pair of them drew up beside a convenience store, seemingly manned at this late on New Year's Eve by a single Indian-looking man with a thoroughly bushy moustache. "Won't be a sec, bro." Pushing through the door to the establishment with the trill of the door's chime ringing out and almost deafening Lazarus, he winced and approached the counter.

However he had not accounted for a single factor here, something he had not seen upon his drawing up beside the store as the clerk had regarded the drunken pair with scrutiny and a watchful eye walking along the road. The shopkeeper himself, whilst appearing grumpier with every step closer Lazarus took, WAS WEARING AN EYEPATCH. The urge to make pirate jokes were getting too great. Already, prior to conversation, he could feel the preemptive laughter welling up in his gut. Disabilities weren't things to make fun of, and whatever was wrong with this man's sight he held the greatest sympathy. But, fuck, he was Rome's Indian Captain Hook. "Cosa ti piacerebbe, signore?"

Lazarus blurted out an automatic response. "Bless you." It had sort of sounded like a sneeze, Indian accent being an undertone and all. "No hables Italiano." That was right, wasn't it? The shopkeeper just looked at him - SINGLE EYE BORING INTO HIS VERY SOUL - as if he had two heads. Consequently, in response, the redhead picked up. And with a language that was universal, stumbling forwards into the counter, a single pointing and determined finger launched itself forward and gestured immediately at the racks upon racks of cigarettes behind the till. "MARLBORO." The teen boomed.

Complying warily with his demands, he slid a packet of Reds over, and then Lazarus jerked the same finger down towards the lighter, before pulling his hand back up and making the crude demonstration of how a disposable cigarette lighter work, as if the man was a moron. Glaring back, single-eyed, once more, he did so, and racked up a count of how much the redhead owed on the till. Graciously he slid the money over, and taking the packet, lighter, and change in hand a moment later, he skulked backwards - actually walking backwards, not taking his eye off of the one-eyed Indian man for a minute, bushy moustache and all - gently muttering. "Goodbye, Blackbeard. Please don't kill my family."

Standing nonchalantly outside the shop as the keeper looked at he and Cael bemused through the window, Lazarus walked out, and almost cartoonically, stuffed his hands in his pockets whistling, walking to the sidewalk before double-taking, seeing the Indian once more, and, without a single warning to his swordsman comrade, bolting down the street screaming at the top of his lungs, every fluid ounce of might he could muster siphoned straight into his calf muscles as the drunken sprinter roared down the street leaving his Italian comrade in his wake.

"THE PIRATES ARE COOOOOMING!" Lazarus howled. "LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS, LOCK UP YOUR WIVES, LOCK UP YOUR HOUSES, AND ALL YOUR PRECIOUS GOLD AND BOOTY!" He cried. On second thought, Cael, considerably less exuberant and misunderstanding in his own state, probably would have been a better candidate for buying the cigarettes. Three corners later, standing on the entrance to some grimy back alley in one of the quieter parts of Rome - surprisingly not thrumming on this last day of the year - the teen ground to a halt, wheezing, and immediately lit up a cigarette.

"Nicotine, how I missed you," He admonished shamelessly, looking behind him for Cael, who would be hopefully trailing not far behind.

((We're in a presumably shadier part of Rome, standing out front of an alleyway on New Year's Eve, having a smoke and talking loudly. THIS IS PERFECT SETTING FOR A MUGGING GONE WRONG KENNY. JUST AN IDEA, BUT TAKE WHATEVER YOU WOULD LIKE AWAY GOOD SIR.))

A short chuckle passed through Cael's lips as his friend dashed away from the store spouting something about pirates. As unrealistic an observation as it was, the swordsman was too drunk to think on it or care. He simply followed behind at a jog, even if he had begun to fall over himself long before.

The man was quickly snapped out of his drunken stupor, only slightly though, when he noticed something odd. The sound of footsteps, neither his nor Lazarus', could faintly be made out. As he stopped in his tracks, he started to call after the redhead but stopped himself. He didn't give a look back. The decision to not alert the pursuer came to his mind just in time, and he continued onward at a walking pace.

"Not going to give me a break tonight, are you?" He yelled out to Lazarus and gave a fake laugh. The footsteps grew closer now. What was this guy playing at?

As the swordsman kept his pace, he soon could smell alcohol in the air. Heavy, and wasn't from himself. He spun around and caught the assailant's wrist just as a knife threatened to bear down into his back. The assailant's eyes widened, and Cael recognized his face. The man from the bar, the one he'd thrown out. Wait, didn't he throw two out? Cael shook his head and placed his free hand over his eyes as he tried to think. Hopefully the other wasn't in on this too.

He lowered his hand and finally spoke, albeit staggered, "Friend, you seem to be the sort that never learns." A rather loud hiccup rang out through the streets before he twisted the man's arm and turned him around. Cael leaned his forehead against the drunk's black hair and began to whisper into his ear.

"How many more people do you have out here with you?"

"N-None!" The man responded in pain. Cael wasn't so sure about that.

"You sure?" He twisted the arm tighter under his grasp, and the man yelped.

"O-O-Okay! Okay! Two m-more, your friend is heading toward them!" And with that Cael kicked the idiot forward and released him, which caused the attacker to fall flat on his face.

"Too kind." The samurai smirked and turned around. He ran forward then, and hoped more than anything that Lazarus wasn't already in trouble. Playing hero was fun sometimes, but when it put your friends in danger... That was when chivalry stung the heart.

"Not going to give me a break tonight, are you?"

Immediately the redhead screamed back. "Breaks are for PUSSIES!" His voice was emphasised in all the wrong places, the pitch and tone unnaturally giddy; of course, that was the tequila speaking. When wasn't it? But in moments Lazarus would find the spirit of Mexico to be a greater asset than he had ever envisioned. Not noticing the halt of Cael's footsteps in the distance behind him, the ignorant, drunken teenager continued to stroll on, and turned a corner...

...straight into the path of the second drunk Cael had thrown out. This one was however busying himself with a cigarette of his own as Lazarus' Marlboro continued to burn down in the two-finger grasp. The element of surprise was still on the redhead's side; the glint of a butterfly knife in the moonlight rang out loud and clear with a deadly message. But instead of beginning what would undoubtedly be a fleeting and efficient assault, the American instead blurted out the first thing on the mind. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Spinning around as he lit the cigarette, in surprise, the Italian did nothing short of what he knew; though the grasp on his knife was faltering, and the youth in his face shone through - the black in his hair a more gelled and synthetic colour than the natural dark sheen that the older assailant possessed - the hostile intent was still there as he barked shakily at first, placing his hand on the nearby ridge of an empty dumpster: "Portafoglio!" Lazarus blinked in confusion and slowly took a drag from his Gold. Uhh... "E... walleto!"

Ohhhh. That was clearer. Lazarus nodded at first; in understanding, though it seemed to be a gesture of compliance. And that was certainly not happening. "I'm afraid, bud, that even if I gave it to you, there wouldn't be much point." The redhead shrugged. Whilst he was a man of music, he was a drunk of principle. Instead, he took another final drag from the cigarette, ready to stand there defiant, and flicked the glowing butt up into the air, far over the pair's heads.

However, with such a flick, the burning end, as if by some stroke of insane magic, flew upwards in an arc, and singed the final, frayed strand holding up a set of hefty metal blinds, otherwise rusted and ruined in this clearly-dilapidated neighbourhood. The glowing embers of the cigarette completely severed the string, and with a loud clatter, caused the heavy weight of the blinds to come crashing down upon the upright lid of the dumpster, which in itself closed with a solid whoomph. There would have been a huge, resounding clanging noise as it slammed shut, but instead, there was an obstacle in the way. The fingers of Lazarus' assailant. Which broke instead with a sickly crack.

"FIGLIO DI CANE!" The Italian screamed, temporarily forgetting about his victim and letting the knife fall from his grasp, instead gingerly turning to the issue of his mangled fingers beneath the hefty lid of the dumpster, further weighted by the metal blinds pressing it down on top as he continued to groan and half-sob from the sheer pain. The digits were said to be the most sensitive parts of the body, after all. Arching an eyebrow, but nonetheless content, Lazarus reached down and plucked up the butterfly knife, edging back out of the alley slightly to look towards Cael, who had himself just finished with a quarrel of his own.

Holding up the blade, the redhead grinned and quoted Monty Python. "I HAVE DISARMED THE FOE, THUS RENDERING HIM USELESS!" A haughty smile and a shrug, the drunken American clearly very much happy with his endeavours. "No, seriously, dude's down here with a dumpster cover on his fingers." And all for the fault of a single cigarette butt. "You know what they say. Mess with the best, die like the rest. All that shit." "Talking out of one's ass" had just been redefined.

"Huh... Well, good job, boy."Cael stopped and scratched the back of his head. The kid  if just by dumb luck, had actually gotten the weapon away from his attacker. Still, something bugged the swordsman. The man who'd been after him had told him there would be two other men, and from what Lazarus was recounting there had only been one.

Cael took a step forward, and immediately realized there was someone a bit more deadly than the other two to deal with when a hooded man fell from the building above them. The final attacker had wrapped his legs around Cael's neck and forced him to the ground. Disoriented and in drunken pain, the young Gladius gave a few coughs and a grunt before he grabbed above the hem of the man's pants and slung him off.

"Laz, I may be in need of that knife." Although the final assailant couldn't understand English, he pulled his own set of knives out after Cael spoke and staggered when he got back up. Long, eight inch blades shone in the moonlight, blood stains on the handles proof that this thug was experienced. "Maybe another if ya got one."

He snatched the butterfly knife from his comrade and flipped it open and closed a few times to adjust himself to the weight of the weapon. While this wasn't exactly a sword, he could make due.

"Bella notte per una lotta coltello, hm?" Cael chuckled and stepped toward the other man, who then backed up a few steps in return. "Ora ora, non c'è bisogno di essere così nervosi. Ci sarà essere il momento per che dopo che che stavate rinchiuso.." The swordsman flashed a smile and held his blade out in preparation. Hopefully Laz would get to a safe distance, because if this got out of hand... Well, he may be forced into playing his trump card.

"Huh... Well, good job, boy."

The junior, yet unwitting Hunter scowled in response and cocked his head, believing the last of the threat to be over. "Oh, no problem. Want me to go carry in the newspaper from outside, too?" The redhead grinned back, with just a hint of sarcasm. "Maybe I could roll over and do some tricks for you? You could always scratch my belly?" Though the words could be perceived as venomous, Laz shook his head. "Come on, Cael, I'm not totally useless..." He was.

And then, out of nowhere, Italian Batman descended upon them, only missing a cloak as he apparently fell from the heavens and caught the swordsman's neck in a complex maneuvre, pinning him to the ground. Lazarus could only stand there dumbstruck as the assailant subdued a man he'd known to be the most adept urban combatant in all the world with but a single move. However; as was to be expected of Cael, he swiftly removed himself from the attacker's grasp, and turned to the younger redhead. "Laz, I may be in need of that knife."

No shit. In response, the Italian uttered some devilish curse shit through gritted teeth and unleashed a pair of eight-inch balisong blades that had both seen the works - evident from the slight off-red tinge in the steel - and that the ringleader of this little merry, drunken gang apparently had a formidable amount of experience with, converging on Cael with alarming alacrity. "Two knives is just greedy," Lazarus spoke, in total ignorance of Cael's requirement for the blade, instead just watching the battle unfold as if it were a scene from Troy or Gladiator.

Not long passed before the Italian-American spun around and very simply wrenched the blade from his grasp, immediately turning back to his opponent and flourishing the tiny pigsticker. Laz didn't really mind. The other guy down the alley was still engaging himself with his mangled hand, shouting out curses in his mother tongue every once in a while. "Bella notte per una lotta coltello, hm?" Cael, apparently somewhat at home with his newfound mini-sword, stepped forwards with the blade, performing some form of intimidation tactic with his flowery language and presumably extravagant, hammy threats. "Ora ora, non c'è bisogno di essere così nervosi. Ci sarà essere il momento per che dopo che che stavate rinchiuso.."

As much as Cael was hoping for his would-be comrade to back away, Lazarus was doing no such thing; and whilst he didn't exactly take an active role in the combat, he simply watched their little pissing contest that presumably preceded the knife-fight - the outcome of which was already decided. The so-called "Roman" was the best person he'd ever seen wield a blade. Fact. That included the local butcher with his cleaver, his father with the carving knife, and his mother chopping up carrots. All of them had formidable skill, irrespective of whether their target was flesh or vegetable, but none could compare to the Italian-American; who was in himself still very much a spry and young individual with another good few decades of life ahead of him.

So, if victory was already guaranteed, what was the point of the pissing contest, and, by that logic, the fight in itself? So, Lazarus did what every bored, drunk man would do. "Well, fuck this." He waltzed straight up to the guy, taking him on his flank as his entire attention was turned on Cael, hooked his leg backwards, remaining unscathed the entire time due to his comrade, the swordsman, posing an adequate distraction, and brought his foot forwards moments later with the force of a thousand burning suns, kicking their knife-wielding assailant right in the nads.

The knives both clattered to the floor and the attacker doubled over in pain, cursing Lazarus' family with a scourge of sexually transmitted diseases or something along those lines. He still couldn't speak Italian. Kicking the blades away and giving the man another solid boot in the gut, the teenager sighed and turned back to Cael, proving that living in one of the rougher areas of South London had proved somewhat helpful. "Enough of this fighting shit." The teenager looked to his watch. "It's 2012. Let's leave these miserable bastards and go get some more tequila."

And thus it was proposed. Anti-climax to what would have been a truly hammy and glorious fight notwithstanding, Lazarus was bored, and no longer drunk enough to put up with all this shit: so thus it was proposed as their next idea for the remainder of the evening, and presumably some of the morning. Whether it was accepted or not was up to Mr. Stick Up The Ass, but the point still stood.

Dumbstruck at the simplicity in which Lazarus took down the foe, Cael blinked several times before he gave a sigh and tossed the knife to the ground. Fair was fair, he supposed, but even so a good clash of blades would have made the night rather interesting for the swordsman. After this, the last bit he remembered was walking out into the night with his young friend.

One phrase he could recall speaking to him as he threw his arm drunkenly over his friend's shoulder:

"Effective, but you've gotta remember that not every person you fight is going to just stand there and take a kick to the crotch. A boy is not a man until he makes a stand."

Obviously, many a blood-pumping, laughter-bringing, and badass event occurred that night. Something to do with a tiger, a pineapple, and an umbrella getting stabbed through a television set. But, of course, that is a tale for another time, children. Or not, who knows.

Cael awoke the next morning, topless and next to a woman he couldn't recall having stumbled upon. This was the norm when he went out on drunken escapades, but he seemed to have lost a colleague on his trek. He gave a stretch as he rose from the messy mound of blankets and pillows, at which point he stepped into the adjacent room. Still no sign of Laz, but further inspection provided him with a note to read over.

The only words etched onto the page, sloppily, were, "Fun night, swordfucker. Hopefully we'll see each other again soon."

Cael crumpled the piece of paper up at first, but, with a look out the window, he unwrinkled it and folded it together neatly. He felt warm inside; warmer than any alcohol could ever compare. This warmth would get him through his training and give him something he knew was worth fighting the good fight for. With a smile, the samurai put the note into his pocket and turned on his heel to head on out.

"Yeah, same to you, kid. Same to you..."