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Visiting ghoul bars was always a strange affair. Kaneki wasn’t sure if his first visit to one had formed a terrible association in his mind (Itori had rubbed his head for SO LONG and had told him SO MANY uncomfortable truths. She’s also basically sent him to his death now that he thought about it…) or if his constant hyper-vigilance made him notice the things he did.
You see, in a coffee shop Kaneki would see what he expected to see. Ghouls blending in, investigators trying to blend in, and maybe some civilian doing a crossword. In…well, he actually didn’t have any other ghoul-run establishments to compare with the bars and coffee shops. In a ghoul restaurant (nope nope, bad memories, moving on)? A ghoul mask shop (mask making was usually a private process, so nope)? Ghoul clubs were practically ghoul bars…
Essentially: Kaneki saw the mundane in coffee shops. He saw the more…culturally pronounced parts of ghoul life in the bars. Displays of dominance, the hashing out of territorial divides, some ghoul-specific courting rituals that involved dyed blood (so the civilians wouldn’t find out, but Hell it still smelt of blood and was sticky like blood, therefore Kaneki was pretty sure they could figure it out), and more injured people getting absolutely hammered than you could shake a stick at.
He’d come to this bar for information under Itori’s smirking instructions. After his first few disastrous visits at other establishments (and finding another ghoul restaurant…and almost getting murdered…), he’d learned how to act the part. Don’t behave quite like a human or a ghoul on the streets, and always always have a drink in hand. The drunks were always left alone because they were either:
A) Injured severely enough to numb themselves during healing
B) Spoiling for a fight
Or
C) Had just lost something and were, by what he was beginning to think was ghoul law, also spoiling for a fight.
Pushing his critical thoughts aside (what did he even really know about ghoul culture? He was pretty sure Touka would kick his ass for that last one), Kaneki slunk up to the bar.
“One glass of red.”
He ordered the bartender, scanning the room as casually as he could muster (there should be a woman in red sunglasses). The bartender quirked an eyebrow at him and, embarrassed, Kaneki quickly muttered,
“Not the house special, please. It’s a drink for show.”
Sometimes the bartenders would help him out with his information hunts. Itori had said every ghoul that owned their own establishment had no sense of self-preservation and a massive penchant for curiousity. So far, Kaneki had found she was mostly right (and prayed she was again because where the Hell was the Madame?).
“Sorry, kiddo.”
The bartender responded (not looking sorry at all - Itori should’ve just said they were all sadists),
“That guy over there has managed to knock back the last 3 bottles of red I keep here. No idea how he choked it back - that stuff is as off-label as it comes. I actually had to take a whiff to make sure one wasn’t the house special.”
Despite himself, Kaneki’s gaze followed the jerk of the bartender’s chin to a massive man slumped over the bar. No bottles were littered around him (the bartender clearly kept their space clean…probably a good idea if you didn’t want unsuspecting humans drinking fermented blood), but a thoroughly-stained and half-full wine glass were all the evidence Kaneki needed to see.
“Is it even legal to give one man 3 bottles of wine?”
Kaneki wondered out loud, shooting the bartender a contemplative look. The woman chuckled and reached across the bar to thump him on the back.
“Sure it is,”
She said,
“He’s practically a wall of muscle with the metabolism to match. He’s smack in the middle of the maudlin stage of drunk - keeps complaining about some guy who messed with his worldview and ditched him.”
Oh no.
Oh no, Kaneki knew somebody who was a solid wall of muscle. A solid wall built into a rather lovely triangular shape. With black hair, a nice suit, and yep, yep, of course, that was a rosary twisting in those big hands with wine-stained fingernails.
Kaneki twitched, took an aborted step forward, and then stalled in the face of the bartender’s confusion.
“Uh,”
Kaneki licked his suddenly dry lips and darted a glance around the bar. His mark still hadn’t arrived, he had some time to kill, this place wasn’t safe…
“Give me a glass of the house special then. It’ll look good enough.”
He muttered, shoving his spasming hand (he hated the concept of blood wine, hated the idea of something tasting good after so long-) into his jacket pocket and trying to smile naturally. The bartender’s face went a little pale, so that probably failed, but he got his drink so all was well.
Except that there was an investigator at the same bar as him.
Except for the fact that this investigator was complaining about him.
In a ghoul bar.
Christ, this man had to have a death wish.
Amon was pretty sure he had a death wish.
He’d tried (for the tenth time) to go for a run punishing enough to make his brain shut up. He’d even done it in his work suit because he couldn’t stand the idea of going home (of relaxing, of doing nothing) to change. Then, because it wasn’t working, he’d ducked into some dive bar in the middle of nowhere with suspiciously high patronage. They had red wine and, because his Catholic upbringing wasn’t quite right and his sense of humour was equally shot, he’d ordered himself enough to knock out a horse.
It had tasted just as bad as he remembered (”Japanese swill” is what Donato had always called it, gazing longingly at a bottle of “Italian” wine Amon now knew wasn’t the blood of Christ but was definitely the blood of someone else). It tasted just sour enough to match his feelings about communion with a saviour who had abandoned him.
God, saviours. Mercy. Being left alive.
Why had he been left alive?
Again. Again and again and-
There was blood being spilt around the world, blood enough to fill a thousand cups, but it only granted a benediction for him. Nobody else got to drink from the cup, nobody else got to walk the sawdust trail, and so Amon got to drown in holy favours he’d never wanted.
Maybe God hadn’t abandoned him. Maybe he’d simply abandoned everyone else. Maybe, like a pagan in a horror story, Donato had offered up enough dead orphans to protect Amon forever.
The wine in his cup was beginning to taste like self-disgust.
“Don’t turn around.”
A voice came from behind him and, locked in his own head as he was, Amon decided to hear them out. The voice sounded pleasant enough, tenor and somewhat childish, and it was familiar.
That really should’ve been his first warning (but hey, enough wine to knock out a horse).
“This place isn’t a bar for humans. You’ve drunk all the actual wine in the place, so I wouldn’t suggest ordering another glass.”
Even drunk, Amon managed to make the connection in his mind.
“That’s why there’s so many customers in such a cruddy location.”
He mumbled, barely loud enough for his mysterious benefactor to hear, and then snorted,
“Maybe he’ll come here. Maybe I can ask him…”
As he trailed off, his benefactor settled into the stool next to him. They were a man with pale white hair that formed a curtain obscuring his face (was it a trend lately? He’d thought Eyepatch’s hair had been white at the raid, Arima’s definitely was, and he couldn’t tell if Juuzou’s was natural).
“Ask him what? I might not be who you’re looking for, but…”
The stranger’s long elegant finger toyed with his wine glass (not the blood of Christ, but certainly the blood of somebody else), dark black-red nails tapping the stem,
“I could listen. You could ask me what you want to ask him.”
Amon stared at him, absolutely bewildered, however the stranger just barrelled on,
“Not here. It’s dangerous here. So if you leave with me, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
The wine in Amon’s glass was nearly black (much the same shade as the stranger’s fingernails) and it distorted the room around him threateningly. He was alone in a ghoul bar, drunk as Hell, and no one knew where he was. But…
“I’m staying here.”
He muttered, jaw setting at a stubborn angle,
“Eyepatch is gonna show up and I’m gonna-”
Darkness swallowed up his vision.
Kaneki sighed to himself, wondering if he should regret knocking out such a massive man in such a public space. The Investigator had been yelling though, and far too determined to stay.
Itori would have to go without her information. Kaneki had an investigator to carry…
Shit.
He didn’t know where the guy lived.