The Meadows on At Home

Killian Row

October 09, 2020 1:27 PM

The Meadows by Killian Row

CW - Vague mention of loss or death, description of an injury.

The Meadows was a casino at one point, a hotel at one point, and a seedy prostitution house at one point, but it had long since burned down. After being shut down. Still, magic people in Las Vegas weren’t the only ones drawn to off-the-map places to go about their business, and the old location had been converted into a hotspot for illegal gambling and other activities that were illicit even in the heart of Sin City. Muggles thought it was just a little more magical than some of the other casinos on the strip, and they were exactly right, although there were rules in place to be sure none of them found that out. Still, there were definitely more wizards leaving with fuller pockets than Muggles were, and there were always people trying to make a complaint about that. They usually cared less about the rules when they were offered their own full pockets, or a room of full-figured women.

Killian had been to casinos before but nothing like this and he felt his skin crawl as he stepped through the entrance, flashing his wand at the man at the door to let him know exactly which crowd he was a member of. With a grin, the man gestured at a side door that Killian was pretty sure none of the passing Muggles could see, and Killian shook his head with a polite smile. He wasn’t trying to get at whatever was in there, and if the sounds of giggling and exploding were anything to go by, he knew exactly what sort of fireworks he was avoiding.

Instead, he followed the rest of what could almost be called a crowd as they poured onto the main floor. Slot machines and other sorts of electronic gambling were, understandably, not so popular here, but there were a dozen tables with Black Jack, Roulette, and various other games Kilian didn’t know the name of set up around the room. It wasn’t a huge place but it was big enough. The expressions on the faces of passersby ranged from elated to devastated and it was a bit like having a good dream in bed next to someone with a nightmare.

The card in his pocket, the one with the Meadows' address, felt like it was burning him, reminding him why he was here as he looked around. Finally, he spotted a tall man with broad shoulders and a shaved head. He wore a white suit and easy, wide smile. It was a familiar expression to Killian, and he hated it. A big part of him wanted to leave right then, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it; he had to at least get answers.

Crossing the room was a challenge, as there seemed to be some sort of family reunion taking place between himself and his brother (or maybe it wasn't? People were yelling, someone couldn't find someone else, and it wasn't really clear what was happening), but he eventually found himself squared up with someone who looked as surprised to see Killian as Killian was disappointed to see him.

"Lorcan," he said in a low voice.

Lorcan didn't respond right away, nervously adjusting his suit jacket and jerking his head around to see who was nearby. The muscles in his neck twitched and his jaw clenched anxiously before it was released, only to clench right back up again. "Welcome to the Meadows, little brother," he said with the ghost of a showman's voice.

"Don't try that. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

Lorcan nodded glumly, leading the way through an adjacent bar full of people and up the stairs in the back to what could politely be described as short-stay hotel rooms.

"Nice place," Killian said sarcastically, raising an eyebrow with some hint of menace when Lorcan looked like he was about to thank him. "So Las Vegas?"

"Las Vegas," Lorcan confirmed. "Listen, I got into it bad with some guys in London. I was losing money and didn't know what to do."

"You didn't have any money to lose," Killian hissed. He wanted to hit his brother then, thinking of all the things that Bonny could have used a few extra galleons for. Hell, give the girl a sickle once in a while and let her buy a new bow or something.

"I did! I was winning for a while, I was doing good. These guys here, they saw that and they offered to get me out. I came here, and we've been doing so good, mate. Half the folks here don't even realize and--"

"You're scamming Muggles," Killian summarised. "You're scamming Muggles in Las Vegas after you abandoned your daughter without word, and you're doing 'so good'."

Lorcan opened his mouth and closed it again, stammering over a few ways to start his next excuse. Finally, he settled down. "Don't tell her," he said decisively.

Killian blinked several times quickly. "What? Don't t-- are you kidding me right now?" he growled.

"Better she thinks I'm dead than this," he said, looking around. Killian might have believed that his brother really felt bad about his stupid little empire if not for the greedy glint in his eye.

"Better you get to play bachelor for a little longer than remember you have a daughter who needs a father," Killian corrected him. His voice was growing more loudly and Lorcan looked shaky and pale. He reached into his jacket pocket and took a swig from a flask he found there. Killian leaned away from him. "Not that she ever had a father in you, did she?"

He pushed past him, eager to be gone, to feel the sickening stomach-swirling sensation of Apparation to make him think maybe it wasn't this encounter that made him want to puke.

"Yeah, you'd know all about being a father," Lorcan said in a dark voice from behind him. Killian stopped and turned to face him. "Or no, I guess you wouldn't."

Heat rose like a flare in Killian's stomach as a long neglected memory appeared in grainy detail in his head. He'd been so young . . . too young. But he'd been there. Right until the end, he'd been there for her. He was breathing hard now, his nostrils flaring as his shoulders rose up and down, bitter fury and grief making him sicker still. It was the same feeling he'd had in the hospital all those years ago with Lorcan, but he wasn't the same young man now and he wasn't about to go lighting things on fire by accident these days.

"No," he said quietly. "But I would've given anything to be able to."

He turned on the spot, not bothering to make it outside before Disapparating as far as he could safely go from his brother. He landed in a clearing he recognized as the one where Quidditch and flying events were sometimes held in Tumbleweed, a place he'd been several times before. It seemed like a different lifetime. It hurt to walk, it hurt to think, it hurt to breathe. It wasn't until he'd made his way to the hotel and sunk onto the bed of the room he'd been given that he realized it wasn't entirely emotional: he'd managed to splinch himself. Looking over the wounds, he confirmed it wasn't severe, but it was enough that he thought the receptionist had been more than a little neglectful not to say anything to him, as it clearly had resulted in him bleeding onto his jeans and shirt; a thin line of skin was missing on one thigh and on his ribs on the other side.

Raising his wand to summon room service, he waited until someone knocked at the door before making his way there, his jeans rebuttoned and his shirt in place, although he pinched it to keep it away from his actual skin. "Dittany please," he requested.

The room service person nodded with a glazed expression, although they did a double take and nodded a bit more hastily after just a moment. They popped away and Killian leaned into the bathroom to find that he'd managed to splinch a small bit of skin on his face, too. Turns out that Las Vegas to somewhere in Arizona was a bit far in his state. The receptionist must see some crazy things if she didn't think to comment on this particular series of events.

The room service person reappeared with a small bottle and he took it, thanking them before closing the door and stripping off his clothes. At some point, he would have to think about how to tell Bonabelle or his parents. He'd have to think about work. For now, he was just going to focus on applying dittany and sleeping, hopefully for a long time.

22 Killian Row The Meadows 1450 1 7

Killian Row

October 22, 2020 10:12 PM

The mirror. by Killian Row

OOC: CW: Description of an injury; mention of skin-picking. BIC:

At some point, Killian had awoken and taken himself back to the bathroom mirror, only to find a stranger looking back at him. The face of the stranger was familiar in the sort of way that people said someone was a stranger when they'd really met them before in passing at a school reunion or family party, where everyone was a little familiar and everyone was a little anonymous. There was an injury across the stranger's dark face, and his stubble was getting patchy (that part was especially familiar). His eyes were black and distant, and they burned. His mouth was set in a hard scowl and his eyebrows came down to frown. This expression was familiar too, although the last time Killian had seen it, he'd been standing in a hospital bathroom, looking over the sink at a much younger version of the same strange man. Before that, the stranger had practically still been just a boy.

The man in the mirror moved when Killian did but not the same as Killian usually did. His motions were stiff and hard, and he looked like he might creak at the joints if the tension in his body was any indicator of stiffness. He was fit, too, something Killian hadn't been for a long time until this summer, and he was letting his fingers run across the line on his chest, and his face. Killian felt those same fingers, but could hardly believe the lines were on his own body, even though the body in the mirror looked like a familiar stranger too.

It was easy for the man in the mirror to think the scars that would naturally come with picking at old wounds were deserved, like battle scars on the bodies of the losing side. Or perhaps the scars on a soldier's body after he maimed himself to avoid the war at all. It was easy to think that moments like these, moments that felt too heavy inside, should be heavy on the outside too. It was easy for the Killian to think maybe the familiar stranger was right, if only for a moment. Before he could get carried away with himself, voices in his head reminded him that he was not that stranger. Of course, they didn't know they did that, and there were a large number of voices he was trying very hard to block out. But some of them were soft and offered pancakes, and others were playful and offered vegetables, and others were small and offered birthday parties. Some of them were amalgamative, offering empty flats and temporary beds. All of them offered something that felt very much like living.

The familiar stranger put his hand down when Killian did, resting it out of sight as Killian rested his on the sink. He took a breath and forced himself to look into the water that was swirling there. He'd left the sink on. When had he turned the sink on? He brushed his teeth because it seemed like the thing to do when the sink was on. Then he went to the bathroom because it seemed like the thing to do when the toilet was so close. Then he showered. Then he dressed. It was the thing to do.

Breakfast was the next thing to do, but that was harder. That meant smiles and friendly voices and rules of etiquette, both on his own part and the on the parts of those he was sure to interact with. But maybe that was just . . . the thing to do. Perhaps he'd order pancakes. That seemed like the thing to do. And maybe if he was lucky, he wouldn't see the familiar stranger again for a while. Just in case, he didn't look in any more mirrors.

22 Killian Row The mirror. 1450 Killian Row 0 5