Prompt 25 -- Strangers

Title: This House Is Vegas
Genre: Drama
Characters: Philippé, Arrigo, Duane, Dillon
Prompt: 25 ~ Strangers
Word Count: Approx. 1344
Rating: PG-13 (just in case)
Type: Series
Summary: Philippé meets a familiar bar mate.
Warnings: Language, drug references

Ordinarily, Philippé judged people who drank during the middle of the day, but as it turned out, he had just experienced a particularly bad morning and wanted nothing more than to drown his sorrows in beverages that his mother did not allow in the house. He'd bombed three job interviews, been stood by a woman for a lunch date, and had very nearly gotten in a fight with a cab driver--today, Philippé had no interest in petty social conventions.

Unfortunately, the bartender seemed visibly absent; in fact, the only person in the room was some random customer, his head on the table, two mugs in front of him.

Philippé had to admit, he felt pretty bad for the guy, sitting around getting drunk in the middle of the afternoon without a single companion. Of course, by that logic, he ought to feel sorry for himself too.

In that, he found a kinship with the stranger, a distinct connection as he recognized some part of himself sprawled out on that table. Now that he thought about it, Philippé really didn't want to sit alone; he felt like enough of a loser already.

Taking a quick breath, he strode to the man's table and placed his hand on the chair beside him. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

"No," groaned the stranger in reply. "Go ahead."

Flashing a brief smile, Philippé pulled back the chair and sat down. "Thanks. Rough day?"

The man managed to shake his head awkwardly. "Try 'week'."

"Oh."

He glanced down at the man, torn between an outsider's pity and some twisted desire to match his suffering. What exactly had happened to this man? Surely his morning had not been so bad as Philippé's own? That couldn't have been possible.

"So... what happened?" he asked cautiously.

The stranger moaned in exasperation. "You first."

"Okay. Well, I got turned down for three jobs and my date skipped out on me. Oh, and a cab driver tried to hit me with a crowbar. How about you?"

A muffled sound could be heard from the table--if Philippé hadn't known better, he might have thought it was a laugh. "Well, what's your story?"

With some difficulty, the stranger peeled his face off the table's surface and looked him in the eye. Philippé blinked; there was no way he was any older than eighteen, if he was even that. There was also an incredible familiarity in the kid's features--his straight nose, his pouty lip, his ebony eyes. Truth be told, it was rather unnerving.

"Well, I've been fucking this girl," he began bluntly. Philippé frowned; was he still the only guy who hadn't been sleeping around in high school? "Like, it wasn't anything serious, but still... she's a friend, you know?"

Hesitantly, Philippé nodded. "Okay..."

"Anyway, she's in the hospital," the stranger continued. "O.D.'d on ecstasy. Probably would've died if I hadn't found her when I did. She'll live, but she's in rough shape right now."

Oh. That did seem like a valid reason to drink at this hour. "You were the one who found her?"

"Yeah," he confirmed dully. "Last time I saw her before that, we fucked. Then, just a few hours later, I find her passed out by the pool. Scariest thing ever--just makes you think, you know?"

"I... see what you mean," Philippé supposed, although admittedly, he couldn't truly relate. It wasn't as though he looked down upon that sort of crowd--well, he supposed he kind of did, but not to the extent that he would have never spoken to any of its members--it was just that he had never stayed in any place long enough to even become familiar with anyone who had been in such a situation, much less get into one himself.

And really, he did not mind that in the slightest; he most certainly did not envy this kid.

Philippé had never really known anyone like him--yet he still looked hauntingly familiar. This was going to bother him, he was sure of it; he just had to know where he knew this guy's face from.

"Uh... have we met before?" he asked awkwardly, prompting one of the stranger's eyebrows to arch.

"I don't think so," the young man replied. "Why?"

Still squinting, Philippé shook his head. "You just... look familiar, that's all. Like... really familiar."

The stranger didn't seem to share his concern with the matter, as he merely shrugged. "I don't know. You don't look all that familiar to me, but I'm a little doped up right now, so I wouldn't know. Damn drugs, fucking with the mind like that."

Philippé frowned. "Drugs?"

"Prescription," the kid assured him. "It's too early in the day for the recreational stuff. God, you're a bit of a prig, aren't you?"

Philippé decided to ignore that comment. "Okay. What sort of prescription? What are you taking it for?"

"None of your damn business, that's what," he snarled, curtly standing and shoving the chair back into its place, nearly running it right over some of Philippé's toes. "Look, I get that you're a twenty-something virgin who probably still lives with your mom, but that doesn't give you the right to stick your oversized nose into other people's lives--just fuck off and get your own, okay?"

Damn. This guy was good.

He made his way to the door, then hurriedly turned around. "Oh, and if I look familiar to you, it's probably because I fucked your girlfriend--if you ever had one, that is."

And with that, he was out the door, his presence promptly replaced by that of a middle-aged man with glasses and a sharp suit. What was with that kid? Philippé blamed bad parenting.

"Good afternoon," the newcomer nodded to Philippé.

Congenially, he smiled. "Same to you. Here, take a seat."

"Thank you," the man acknowledged him, promptly occupying the empty chair the boy had left.

Behind the counter of the bar, a door creaked open, the faint smell of marijuana suddenly wafting about the room; finally, the bartender had returned.

"Dillon," the new customer addressed him.

"Duane," replied the bartender with a grin. "Who's your friend?"

"Philippé," he introduced himself. "Nice to meet you."

Dillon cast a quick glance around the room, then sighed in relief. "Oh good--that kid's gone."

"You know, you're going to get in trouble if you keep serving to kids," Duane warned him.

"Guess which kid I'm talkin' about?"

Duane fell silent. "...oh."

"Yeah."

Philippé's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What, that kid who was just here? What's so special about him?"

His apparent ignorance was met with two disbelieving stares; he couldn't help but tremble slightly.

"You must be new in town," Dillon observed correctly.

Unsure of what else to do, Philippé simply nodded. "So... what's so special about him?"

"Well, nothing," admitted Duane after a few stunned seconds, "except for the fact that his father practically owns the whole town."

The bartender nodded in agreement. "Owns this building, actually. My lease is almost up, so I figure it can't be the worst thing to suck up to the guy and his son. I mean, I'm all for stickin' it to the man, but... hey, I gotta make a living."

"If his hold on your lease is anything like his hold on his son, you're fine," mused Philippé, prompting a chuckle from Duane.

"Oh yeah, that kid's bad news," he agreed. "Totally out of control. Skips class, smokes whatever he can get his hands on, fornicates like a damn rabbit, and no one ever calls him on it because then they'd have Daddy Dearest to deal with. If ever was a kid doomed to grow up to be a total failure, it's Arrigo."

Now it was Philippé's turn to gape in shock. "...Sorry?"

"Arrigo," Dillon repeated on Duane's behalf as he began to wash his hands in the sink behind the bar. "That's his name. I get that you ain't been around here long, but you might've heard the father's name thrown around once or twice--Vinicio. Vinicio Morticelli."

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