rollo lives in ramshackle now

communion wine

synopsis: rollo finds you having a drink and decides to join. he asks questions, you answer them, and he's left with more thoughts than he'd like to have.

a/n: shamelessly waltzes forward and drops this into ur lap after relentlessly bullying rollo in my server since the minute he was announced. this was written in honor of him coming back, good luck to everyone pulling

There was something about the thick glass bottle sitting half-hidden behind a box of cereal that caught Rollo's eye. Large, square-shaped, halfway filled with amber liquid that clung to the edges just a tad bit longer than water would—that's the sort of thing that's supposed to be kept in cabinets at the far side of the kitchen, behind little wooden doors and tucked out of sight whenever guests came over so that there would be no assuming.

Unlike wine, that is not meant to be out in the open. Wine is acceptable—in his community, wine was cherished. Wine could be drunk in public and frequently was, especially in front of rows upon rows of pews and at the foot of a smiling Virgin Mary. Wine is a sacred symbol.

Bourbon is not. And yet, it is the only liquor that you've found appropriate to leave out after a day of classes.

Rollo stares at it for a few seconds, not understanding why you'd have it. What could you want with it? Were you holding it for something? Was it for another one of your obscure little projects or events that nobody but you and your wild group of friends understood? It takes him entirely too long to understand that the drink is for you. You are drinking it. That is why you have it out.

It's only further confirmed when you walk into the kitchen, tie loosened around your neck and the first few buttons of your shirt popped. There's a glass in your hand filled up with ice and that same amber liquid; Rollo's eyes zero in on it like it's magnetized, like there's something pulling all of his attention towards the bourbon swimming around the ice in golden streams. Perhaps what's drawing him so sharply towards it is the fact that you're the one holding the glass—the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm, holding a glass of liquor like it's not against campus rules and like it's not, in Rollo's eyes, entirely blasphemous and unbecoming.

"I didn't think that was allowed on the grounds," Rollo points out in a polite, clipped tone. He's giving you a look that reads This is entirely unprofessional and completely against the rules, but I'm going to give you a chance to explain yourself first.

You shrug, looking much more unbothered than Rollo thinks you ought to. "Technically it is, but nobody checks anymore. And anyways, some of the guys owed me a few favors after their Overblots—figured it wouldn't hurt to ask for something extra." It's like you don't even care that you're carrying a cup of nothing but indulgence. The manner in which he was raised prohibited any sort of this—this impurity. On instinct, he raises his handkerchief to his nose and mouth, like it could protect him from the foulness that is four-year aged bourbon.

"...It may not be wise to be drinking that." You hold your eyes back from rolling—Rollo has always made a point to voice his thoughts, whether or not you found it useful. Sometimes, it's his way of helping. Other times, he just wants his opinion to be heard. It's harmless, and the only thing he's doing is taking up a few seconds of your time, so you let him run his mouth as often as he wants to because it's "therapeutic", apparently.

(Anything to keep him from exploding at the other students. Even if it means listening to him grumble on about his own grievances, which are more often than not minimal and trivial things that he has, for some reason, magnified to create more trouble for himself.)

"Well, thank you for your input, Mister Former Student Council President. I will keep that in mind as I enjoy my late-night drink and regret the consequences in the morning." You're about to leave and sit solemnly in the common room, contemplating your life choices and how the fuck any of them led to being roomed with the guy who had attempted homicide during a school field trip, but—fuck, you're supposed to be socializing him. You're the Prefect, and he's your student, and at some point you're going to have to stop acting like he's just another spot on the wall and start making an effort to get along because despite everything, you're living with him, and you'd much rather not get yourself a spot on his list of enemies.