Escargon wondered what cosmic deity had it out for him. It could be the only reason he ended up in so many terrible situations. It wasn't even fair really. Kirby was the one who was usually bothering various all powerful entities. He looked down at the scattered bottles and the very intoxicated man who had presumably generated them.

"I have blood" Meta said "in my alcohol stream." Escargon rubbed his temples. The knight was enough of a bother sober.

"What…" he paused, lost for words. "Why…. Why are you…?" Escargon gestured at the scattered bottles. Meta fixed him in a markedly unfocused gaze. He patted the floor next to him.

"Sit" he said. Escargon made a point of sitting across from him instead. The other man leaned forward, elbows resting on his legs. "So…you wanna know why I'm drinking?" he asked. Escargon felt a distinct sense of dread well up.

"I…suppose?" he said. Meta leaned even closer, yellow eyes boring into the other man.

"Because I'm fucking miserable!" he sang "And all my friends are dead!" Escargon leaned back, torn between faint sympathy and a healthy amount of fear. Meta could be volatile at the best of times and an elevated blood alcohol content certainly wasn't doing him any favors. This only caused Meta to further invade his space. "I can't even show my face. Fuckin pathetic" Escargon flinched. Meta was never crueler to anyone than he was to himself, it seemed.

"C-calm down" he sputtered. Meta only laughed, a cold and joyless sound. A sudden flash of movement caused Escargon to shield himself instinctively. A cacophony of metal on tile erupted, before an oppressive silence fell.

"See?" his voice was oddly soft "Nothing but scars." Escargon glanced up and suddenly saw a world weary man sitting across from him. Sharp features and dark hair clashed with the soft light of gray eyes. A wicked pair of scars ran right over the left eye, originating from the right. He noted how the other man's eye and mouth seemed to droop lower on the more damaged side. Nerve damage..Escargon mused. The knight's helm lay scattered several feet away.

"You really don't look that bad..." he offered. Truthfully, the scarring did little to conceal that Meta was in fact drop-dead gorgeous, but he'd rather eat his own glasses before admitting that. Meta remained despondent.

"As a person I'm disgusting" he stated "What good has looks ever done me? Nothing, nothing at all. Never stopped 'em, not once." The insinuations of the other's ramblings formed a deep pit of sorrow and dread within Escargon.

"What did they..?" he started.

"They hated. They destroyed. They damaged." Meta gazed upwards for a long moment. "They made me who I am…"

"That isn't a bad thing really." Meta gave him a long look. Escargon bristled. "Look, you're definitely an asshole, but I've met worse who have much less of a reason to be!" Meta started laughing, but it was a genuine, unrestrained cackle, uninhibited by his usual reserve. He flashed a crooked smirk.

"Nicest thing I've heard in weeks" he chuckled. Escargon flinched, and wondered if the other man realized how depressing his statement was. He awkwardly laid a hand on his shoulder. Meta stiffened.

"You're way more tolerable when you're sober, however" he quipped. Meta relaxed, and looked at the other imploringly.

"Help me up then. I don't wanna sleep on the floor." After a considerable amount of effort, the two lumbered towards the knight's quarters. Finally, Escargon managed to get Meta seated on his bed. The man's room was clad in dark blues and purples, sharply contrasted against the numerous stark white diagrams plastered upon the wall. Escargon stood in front of him, hands on his hips.

"I'll be in the throne room tomorrow. And I don't want to hear you complaining about any hangovers!" he snapped.

"Sure" Meta paused as the other man began to leave. "Hey" Escargon stopped, and grouchily heeded Meta's motion for him to come closer.

"What is it thi-" he stopped as he saw the earnest look in Meta's eyes.

"Thank you" he said solemnly. Escargon nodded, before awkwardly scuttling away.

"N-no big deal" he squeaked out before fleeing, an unwelcome warmth burning in his cheeks. Meta waited until the footsteps faded before standing. The watered down garbage he'd snatched from the castle store had only served to get him tipsy. But somehow, he couldn't stop himself from pouring out all of his negativity. And he was certain Escargon was far too frightened of him to recount what he saw. He was a safe choice, the easiest option, and lacking fear of consequences he merely let everything tumble out. A small voice in the back of his mind laughed at him, muttering a thousand reasons for his actions that were far more troubling. Meta viciously silenced it, but he knew all too well it would return. Such troubling notions rarely stay buried.

(Author's note: I really have no good excuse for this nonsense. Chapter two will be a counterpart of sorts. Hope you enjoyed, and as always, I love all feedback! -Poecilotheria)