[Closed] [Mature] Our Young Faces

[Tom Cooke]

An Omnibus Bound for Cantile

Time No Longer Has Meaning on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

O
r terribly unlucky,” he drawled, then snorted, then giggled. If fortune was blasphemy, what was talk of misfortune? To blame the gods, he thought, for what didn’t suit you. He’d done plenty of that; hells, he’d nearly sung himself to sleep with it the past two years.

She inclined her head and didn’t say anything.

She glanced away and down, a wisp of brown hair sliding over her damp cheek. She looked out the window, then down at her hands on the handle of the bag. There was a scuff, he noticed, on one of her knuckles. Finley-Blue, he thought, looking again out the window, Finley-Blue. More of Lossey skidded by, ‘til he thought the edges of it were blurring into the Fords. The middling bits of the Fords; not the sprawling estates, not the broad–paved ways, but the streets where the houses started to tilt Mugrobi, the neighborhoods folk called little Thul Ka.

The lass was looking out the window with a pinched expression now. She looked like somebody in a strange place, he thought. Like –

She wrinkled her nose. He supposed it might’ve been them; hot, running water, he thought, and felt a little easier.

“We’ll try, uh –“ To get you off at the right place, he thought, and laughed preemptively. He cleared his throat. “We’ll try to get off at the right stop,” he said instead, and caught a dubious glance of dark eyes. He snorted.

Another stop. He wasn’t sure if it was the second; there might’ve been more, in-between. The lads got off here anyway, though the tsat couple stuck around, still huddled. The rain kept coming down. A bedraggled Mugrobi man got on next, dressed in a shabby Anaxi suit. Two women followed in bright Mugrobi wraps, and another tsat.

The wheels lurched back into motion over the stones.

Well, Charlie had said. The long drawl of it still bounced about in his head. He breathed in another long drag of their fug – sweat and ganja, rain and mud – and tasted blood on his tongue, still, parched-dry, and sagged against the other man. His eyes stayed on the window: the Fords drifted by, and sometimes he’d a glimpse of the familiar. Here, the edges blurred into Sharkswell; here, he knew it best.

Guess, he’d said. Not sharp, but he’d felt a kick of something bitter all the same. “Being honest,” he murmured, “I can't guess much of anything about you.” He grinned.

He was damned high, he figured. His head felt a swarm of memories. But funny how he couldn’t – didn’t seem to – remember that night like this. The shapes were all different, and the colors, too. The world had been drowned then, but there’d been no tinsel out the window, and there’d been no blasphemy. The blasphemy of whatever the hell this was. A pair of slim shoulders against him, both of them bundled up with wet wool, and him trying his damnedest to keep a man awake.

And the fact that he wasn’t particularly sure what would keep him awake, and sure as hell didn’t know if it was this.

“The Finley-Blue stop’s not far from Sharkswell,” he grunted as they came to the next stop, where the lads got off. “You don’t live in a tenement,” he murmured as the omnibus lurched back into motion, “but you don’t live in a mansion, either. But that’s half the godsdamn Rose. You...”

Quieter streets slid past; these, too, painfully familiar. “Anywhere near Richie Street? I used to drink at Marin’s; spent a lot of time in Sharkswell, if you can believe it. Got into plenty of fights thereabouts, when I was a hot-headed lad. Hell, I suppose that’s not very believable.” It wasn’t bitter; he laughed. It was a fact; he wore it as such, as comfortable at least as his bedraggled coat. “Maybe you ought to guess. What kind of man was I, back then?”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2720 - Fuck, Who Knows Anymore?
On the Omnibus Towards Cantile

"Unlucky! With my—our—enchanting company? Never." Anatole actually fucking giggled, which was funny enough to set Charlie off again. The girl wasn't saying anything. That was probably for the best. Little rumpled mouse, Charlie thought as he didn't look at her from the edge of an eye. He was looking out the window. She just happened to be between his eyes and the window glass.

He didn't know why he thought of her as little; she was almost assuredly taller than him. Taller than both of them, honestly. Anatole was taller than Charlie, but neither of them were by any stretch of the imagination tall. The girl wasn't either, for her sort, but her sort tended to be bigger so. Still. She had an aura of smallishness.

The omnibus rattled to a stop, and the loud group departed. Charlie looked out the window again. Not yet, not yet. Kind of hard to see in the dark and the rain and the tinsel—he realized, quite suddenly, the omnibus was decorated in a horribly pathetic kind of Clock's Eve cheer—but he thought he'd still know when they'd come to the right one. Probably.

Charlie leaned back against the seat, and Anatole into him. A damn sight from jerking his hand away from Charlie's shoulder, from that weird kind of distant-not-distance he'd been playing at all night. And all it took was a semi-mugging in an alley in some godsforsaken corner of the Rose. While they were both incredibly fucked up on whatever Ten had sold them. A bonding experience. Heartwarming.

"Good," Charlie said, looking away from the window for a moment. Smiled, bright and sharp, with his eyebrows quirked just so. "I do try to maintain an aura of mystery, after all."

Wouldn't be much of one for long, he supposed. Not much mystery in the peeling wallpaper, the pile of scrap metal. Charlie might have felt worse about it if the didn't both look and smell like something dredged from the bottom of a garbage bin. Hardly room to complain at this stage. Dimly, he wondered if this would somehow make it back to his parents—then he snorted, thinking about it. "Funny thing, Mrs. Almond. I met your son, Charlton, when last I was in the Rose. You would faint dead away at the sight of his flat. Oh? Why was I there? Well, you see..."

No, somehow Charlie didn't think that was much of a risk.

And what if they did hear about it? he demanded of himself. What then? Too bad, he thought fiercely. It wasn't like they'd ever come to see it. "My home is my castle, si—uh. But you're right, I don't live in a mansion. Nowhere near the de la Cours, not by half."

Spent a lot of time in Sharkswell, he said, then followed it with that magic phrase: if you can believe it. No, Charlie couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe any of this weird shit that had come out of the other man's thin mouth all night. It sounded like a half-remembered fever dream, not like things that had happened to a man he'd known a good chunk of his life as Cherry's distant father. The convenient focus of all of her ire; their families sat near each other in church sometimes.

"Not believable at all," Charlie agreed easily, lightly. They approached another stop while Charlie thought about the question. What the fuck kind of man, indeed. What kind of man was he now? Charlie had a guess he would have sworn was a good one at the beginning of the night. Now he had no fucking clue. He supposed it wasn't like they'd precisely had a lot of heart-to-heart chats. But Sharkswell, really? When did he even find the time?

The omnibus clattered to another stop. One of the horses whinnied loud enough to be heard when the door opened. A thin Anaxi man in a sack coat that had seen better days got on; his face was ashen and pinched in the blue light, and his hands shook when he handed over his tally fare. He took one of the seats nearest them, but more to the front. Charlie frowned and looked away.

"Not the next stop, but the one after," he murmured, then remembered the tall mouse. He repeated himself again, a little louder. What kind of man. What kind of man? Charlie couldn't give it too much thought. His head hurt, and it was full of smoke and drink besides.

"Near enough to Marin's, if not right by," Charlie admitted. He'd been a handful of times; he'd been to most bars, a handful of times at least. Guess, he said. He wasn't very good at guessing. "A serial killer," he offered, grinning. An absurd answer, but it seemed as good as any other he could think of. Whatever this strange fiction was being built here, that fit as well as anything else.

[Tom Cooke]

An Omnibus Bound for Cantile

Time No Longer Has Meaning on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

A
n aura of mystery. He snorted again at that smile; he must not’ve quite come down from the high, because it worked very well on him. He almost didn’t need to wonder where the kov lived. He was almost looking forward to the surprise. At not believable at all, he laughed again, too tired to care.

But it was when he raised the tired drawl of his voice to mention the stop again, the mousy lass looking over with a small nod, that his smile tilted funny and crooked. He wasn’t sure why; he glanced away.

He looked out the window. He wasn’t paying attention when the omnibus stopped and then started again, though he saw a tired shadow sink into a nearby seat. He’d almost forgot – or thought Charlie’d forgot, or never much cared – about his question. “Marin’s,” he grunted fondly, “good place to get pissed…”

A serial killer.

He stiffened slightly, glancing over at Charlie’s familiar, gleaming grin. Then he looked down, dazed, at his hands. They were sitting side by side in the dark wool of Anatole’s coat: they were Anatole’s hands, too. Long fingers dotted with freckles, fine bones, coppery hair just catching passing light.

Then he laughed. It was more of a hiccup at first; then it was a snort, then full blown laughter. “Right on the money,” he managed.

What else, after all, was he? What would he be in a century or two? What else did you call it, what he did?

His laughter died down. He’d fair well sagged into the other man, the two of them a tangle of wet wool and wet disheveled hair and funny smells. The nattle had looked over sharply at the word serial killer, stiffening and almost rising to move. Now she let out a small huff and looked back out the window, her lips pressed thin.

The pleasures of the omnibus, he reckoned, many as they were, were short lived. A handful of natt got on here; phosphor light drifted ghostly through the windows, edging them in blue. He got up, almost tangled with Charlie in the tight space, and he thought the nattle was fairly pressed to the window waiting for them to go by.

So were the new passengers. One wrinkled his nose when they passed. Another, a lass, eased out of field range. The Anaxi hadn’t got off, but he didn’t look up when they passed, not even at the brush of their fields. He was looking down at his hands.

He’d flooding forgot it was raining. He got a faceful of it; the bench here wasn’t covered. The street was a damn sight quieter and shabbier, too. Achingly familiar once again.

The human lass unfurled her umbrella first. It came open neatly, the rain hissing against the cheaper fabric. He finally managed to open his up, but not before he and Charlie got damn well soaked.

“Shit, hot water,” he breathed. “Funny how the temperature makes all the difference. You’ve a way, didn’t you know, with serial killers,” he added, grinning down for a moment through the rain dripping from his hair.

The horses clopped into motion, the omnibus lurching; the wheels threw out water onto their hems, though the human lass moved delicately out of the way, lifting the pointed hem of her skirt at a puddle.

“Thank you,” she said, quiet, nervous voice barely reaching over the rain. She cast a long lonely shadow under the streetlamp; she hadn’t gone, but she was looking at them hesitantly, standing just out of field range.

“I’m not actually a serial killer,” he felt the need to blurt out. “At least, not the kind who, uh – madam.” He cleared his throat.

She blinked, then addressed Charlie instead, making a quick decision as to the saner of the two. “It’s – it’s this way to Marlon Street, is it?” She gestured. “I’ve come here from Vienda, to live with my aunt. I don’t, ah, I’m terribly sorry, sirs.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2720 - Fuck, Who Knows Anymore?
Somewhere Between Cantile and Sharkswell

If the serial killer crack crossed a line the necrophilia joke didn't, Charlie would be—well, fuck, confused honestly. He would have thought the one more tasteless than the other, especially as he'd said it in front of a small girl. Whatever age Tall Mouse was, she was at least older than the kid at the omnibus shelter. There was a stiff-backed pause.

The pause gave way to laughter. Just a little bit, and then some kind of weird floodgate opened and Anatole laughed for real. Way too loud for the hour and the setting; a few of their fellow travelers looked over with a glare. Tall Mouse was not one of them. She looked staunchly out the window, although he saw her edge a little closer. Charlie grinned and drummed his fingers lightly against the top of his knee.

"Quite the tale of reform then," Charlie snorted, his mouth all crooked. The Tall Mouse hadn't liked the joke much at all, which did make it a little funnier if he were being honest. Once again he reflected that this was unlikely to be the worst thing she heard this year. This week, even. If it was, then Tall Mouse led a blessed life few could lay claim to.

The next stop was theirs. Charlie sat up as they approached, and put the foot he'd kept tucked against his chest flat on the floor again. He'd been meaning to save them some trouble departing the omnibus, but it didn't really seem to work. Tall Mouse looked horrified by that, too, but Charlie was laughing too hard to care. He tripped over his own ruined, faintly glistening shoes on the way out, just barely catching himself. That didn't stop him laughing; he didn't stop until he stepped off the omnibus and got immediately drenched by the rain.

"Hot water!" Charlie echoed, with feeling. He'd have told Anatole not to bother with the umbrella, but he was too slow, thoughts too sludgy in his head. It was only another block and some to his building, and this would hardly be the first time he'd dripped water all over that floor. This part of town was nicer than the one they'd nearly been stabbed in, but not by a whole lot. Home sweet home, or what the fuck ever.

"You know," Charlie continued, pushing his hair away from his face with one pale hand, "that's not the first I've been told that. Actually, there was this one time when I—Alioe's tits!" The thread of the story he'd been about to tell was lost, his thoughts derailed by the splash of cold, filthy water from the wheels of the omnibus as it clattered away.

Tall Mouse had fared a little better; a blessed life, indeed. He'd almost forgotten about her, she was so quiet. Would have done so entirely, if she hadn't piped up then. Actually, he would have then too if Anatole hadn't said something to her. Tried to insist he wasn't a real serial killer; Charlie snickered. And to go so far as to call her "madam". Well, she could be a madam—Charlie couldn't tell, with humans. They were so clocking tall, you know?

"That's right, you're quite reformed." Charlie was faintly shocked she chose to address him then, to ask for directions. From Vienda, was she? A long way from home, then. Charlie shook his head. "We'll be neighbors of a sort, then. But Marlon is... Ah, shit. Let me think."

Thinking was a tall order. Tall order for Tall Mouse, who had not looked at all reassured by his sudden lean into a bit more Vienda in his voice, or his (absolutely handsome) smile in her direction. Probably the hand he'd put on Anatole's shoulder, leaning into it dramatically. More of a plastering-against than a lean, but he was entertaining himself. He gave her directions in the end; it had been depressingly easy. He was, he thought, rather more than halfway to sober actually.

So why was everything still so fucking funny? Charlie couldn't think on it too long. He winked at her as Tall Mouse walked away into the dark and the rain, then gestured the opposite direction up the street with a fine-boned hand.

"This way then, to the Cave of Mystery. And the wonders of modern convenience contained within." He really, really was looking forward to that bit. And any other bits he could arrange when they were there.

[Tom Cooke]

On the Way to Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Time No Longer Has Meaning on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

R
eformed, he thought numbly.

The lass’ face was pale in the shadow of the umbrella, her thin lips drawn. She was looking down at them now on the street: standing, she was a good head taller than him, and a little more than Charlie. He’d to tilt his umbrella a little to see her, and he could feel the spray of rain on his face, already numbing the tip of his nose with the chill.

Charlie was half sprawled against him. He could feel a set of thin cold fingers through the shoulder of his coat; the rest of him, pressed up against his side, was pleasantly warm, and he tried not to think too hard about that. Being honest, he tried not to think too hard about anything, and didn’t do a good job of it. Neighbors of a sort, Charlie was going on, sounding for all the world like an Uptown toff, his voice unfurling in the rain like silk.

He wondered how close she was, in the end. He couldn’t help wondering, when finally she turned her back and was a bobbing umbrella and the drab, whispering hem of a long coat, and nothing else.

He stared after her, feeling oddly unsettled.

The cold prickled uncomfortably at his skin, and so did the chill, wet fabric of his trousers where it clung to his legs. His hands ached. After the shivering tinsel and low murmur and rattle of the omnibus, this quiet street on the edge of Sharkswell – too familiar, he thought, too damned familiar – was surreally quiet.

The pale wisp of Charlie’s hand in the dark jerked his eyes away from the empty lane behind. He might’ve looked ahead, where the street curved round another row of leaning houses, but he found his eyes lingering as if mesmerized on Charlie’s long fingers.

He blinked, then looked over and caught his smile, then snorted. “The Cave of Mystery,” he snorted again. He scratched his head and grunted. “And to find out,” he added, raising an eyebrow, “whether you’re planning on killing me after all. You’ll let me clean up first, at least, if you’re the gentleman you say you are.”

They were still huddled, sagging into each other, as they started up the street. For a little while, all he could think was to walk.

He tried not to look too hard, when he looked round. Empty clotheslines, candles lit in dusty second storey windows like rheumy eyes.

He tried to swallow the ache. The Mugrobi would’ve called it ip’iwu, or maybe dzep’iwu after all – it was all familiar, but he felt himself looking out of fresh eyes; he felt he should’ve recognized it, only he didn’t. Time changed places like this, places at the edges, worn and run down places. Houses fell and were cobbled back together again; folk moved in and out. It could’ve been a hundred streets in Sharkswell or Cantile, and yet he felt he’d been in all of them. And never been in any of them.

Hot water, he thought, like he was an animal and getting warm was all that mattered.

“Reformed, my erse,” he grunted after he didn’t know how long. Soon, he thought surely, soon. “I’m afraid to say I’ve only gotten worse since then. There are worse things than serial killers, you know. Like politicians.” Their breaths steamed, mingling white in the rainy air.

He grunted again, remembering something. It’d just been empty words at the time, cut off by the laoso splash. Now, he turned it over in his head, grasping at something just out of reach. “Spend a lot of time with serial killers, do you?”

He tried to ask it serious-like, but he found himself laughing. He huddled closer, shivering, all his worry forgotten; he was damned cold. He must’ve been coming off his high – his head was starting to ache, and there wasn’t much to take the edge off the pain – but it was still funny, somehow. He caught sight of a tatty silver Clock’s Eve ribbon, the only one here, round the pole of a streetlamp, and he laughed more.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2720 - Fuck, Who Knows Anymore?
En Route to Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Charlie set off up the street after pointing up the block; onwards to his flat, to the worst idea he'd had all night. At least Tippy wouldn't mind. She didn't really care if there was company or not. Whice, Charlie reflected, weren't a particularly social breed of animal. It's why he liked them.

"Why, that's part of the mystery, isn't it?" Charlie grinned, close enough now he had no doubt his face could be seen even in the dark. The rest of the walk was so familiar he hardly paid attention. Well, he did live here after all.

Unfortunately, this left him a great deal of mental space. He filled part of it with complaints about the weather, which had ceased being charming hours ago, about the soggy nature of his socks, about the rock underneath one of them. Part of it with how he was going to have to send Cherry that fruit basket after all, and each and every one of the ways he wanted to earn having to do so. A lot of it with how he was too fucking sober now to not feel that twitch as they got closer to his flat.

Too fucking late now, though. The night had been weird enough, he reminded himself; one more thing was fine.

They came to a corner; Charlie didn't bother checking before he started across the street. There wasn't likely to be much traffic, this time of night. They were about halfway across when Anatole spoke again. Charlie laughed again."That's true. Politicians are much, much worse." His eyes slid upwards to Anatole's face, and then away to watch the rain come through the hole in his umbrella. Drip, drip, drip.

"One does tend to, in the Rose," he quipped, shrugging and smiling. They couldn't get much closer than this without sharing a fucking coat. He'd done that before, and it was sort of rather pleasing actually; the logistics here wouldn't work quite as well. "Although one lent me his coat once, among other things." Charlie's smile turned to a more feline grin, attention perked up at the chance to tell this story. He'd started, he remembered now, when they got off the omnibus. Lost track of it.

By now they were in front of his building. Nothing about it was particularly nice, though it wasn't the shabbiest on the block. Not even close to shabbiest. Average, Charlie thought defensively. Perfect, acceptably average. The light in his landlady's kitchen was out, which meant she was asleep. Good. She sometimes felt compelled to ask him questions about the hours he kept, and Charlie wasn't in the mood at the moment.

"And here we are!" He announced it grandly, flinging his arm wide. "The Cave of Mystery. A hidden gem in the edges of Cantile, near to public transit and all sorts of amenities. Like bars, and... more bars. Possibly others, I wouldn't know." Charlie took the stairs on the short flight to the door two at a time, suddenly light. There was a Clock's Eve-themed pennant on the door, slightly askew. It had clearly seen better days, and a lot of them. Charlie absently straightened it, but it only slid back into its former position immediately after.

He reached into his pocket and found his keys, jangling on a ring with a church key and a few other necessary odds and ends. Charlie unlocked the front door, giving Anatole time to close the umbrella, and then turned around. He bowed deeply, all theatrics, and held out a hand. A prince from a story, only even more handsome and with better drugs. Most of the time.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

Time No Longer Has Meaning on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

A
nd you know what’s worse than a politician? he’d the strange urge to blurt out. A thing that scrapes out the thinking, feeling bits of a politician, and stuffs his own inside, and then pretends to be that politician, all the while getting plastered and high off gods know what with a kov he met and fucked once in his past life, except now everything’s flooding strange and he hasn’t got a damned clue what’s going on in his head when he –

Sobering up, he reckoned. Always a damned shame.

Charlie Ewing was pressed up against him, all warm wool and pale, winsome smiles; and it was nice – very nice – and very unlikely to go away anytime soon, given their destination. It was hitting him now with every chilly breeze what that might mean. Hot water, he kept thinking, like that was the worst of his worries.

If, he thought to say, if, if you are planning on killing me, you ought to know this: you’ll be the next one. The threat felt empty. His mind skirted the thought of wearing that face and those hands, and it was too much for him even halfway to high.

He doubted somehow Charlie planned to kill him. Get something out of him, he thought, oes, that was still on the table, whether it was ging or some kind of info, or even just blackmail. But somehow, turning it all over just made him feel tired. There was another option: one he had felt in the slight parting of the other man’s thin lips in the alleyway, in what he’d thought might’ve been eagerness looking out at him from underneath those thick dark lashes.

That frightened him most of all.

The cave of mystery, he announced in the shadow of a building not unlike any of the others. He found himself laughing again, helpless to it even in his fright. Damn him.

“Bars and more bars,” he said. “Well, I’ve heard tell of things other than bars, but I can’t be sure they exist.”

Charlie took the stairs fast on his spindly legs, even weighed down by the wet wool; he skipped every other step, and left him climbing up behind with the ache in his hip.

He snorted when Charlie fixed the pennant hanging crooked on his door, only for it to fall again. More so because he hadn’t imagined him the sort of man who’d hang one in the first place; something about it tickled him. He bounced on his heels, watching the keys glint in the rainy dark.

When it came open, all he thought of was the warmth. He was in before Charlie’d unfurled all those long pale fingers; he was shivering and dripping on the floor before he’d got the door shut. He felt the other man move past him in the dark to light a sconce.

His eyes adjusted to the soft light.

He didn’t take off his coat just yet. The first thing he noticed was the wallpaper, all faded, peeling flowers; then he blinked and took in the rest. He sagged a little under his coat, taking a deep breath, oddly relieved by the sight.

It was a little room, though there was a little kitchen and a loo, if you could call them such. There was a heavy workbench taking up most of it, with a tangle of shit he couldn’t’ve named if pressed; he caught a curve of pipe and something like half a schematic peeping out under a jagged-looking metal something-or-other, and he thought of – he glanced away, following a trail of more metal somethings scattered about the floor, the qalqa’s slow crawl over to the couch.

Wasn’t much of a couch, he reckoned; couldn’t see the couch, underneath the tangle of pillows and blankets. Looked a little like the window seat in his study when he slept there, which was most of the time, even nowadays. He left it like that sometimes, only to find the servants had fixed it up all neat by the time he got back.

He felt a funny tug, looking at the bed, at the unopened envelopes piled up on the counter. He looked away.

“That’s a bird,” he said, raising both his brows as his eyes alighted on the cage. He blinked, shaking his head. “Uh,” he grunted, trying to find a thought in the whirl, smiling crookedly. “Hot water, was it? You first, or me? Before you kill me, that is.

“And, uh, if I can test your generosity,” he said after a moment, scratching his jaw, “d’you have anything, uh, dryer than this?” He gestured at himself. “Unless you’d prefer me without my clothes.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last bit; he wasn’t sure why he had, except it’d come out of his mouth. He blinked, clearing his throat.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2720 - Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Spoilsport, Charlie thought but didn't say when Anatole breezed by him and his theatrics to step inside of his flat before he could even really lean into it. He just straightened back up and shrugged, slipping in after and shutting the door behind them both. It was dark for a moment, with the only light the cool blue from a distant street lamp. The rain drowned out most of that, and the cloud cover made sure there were no stars or any moonlight to help it along. Only for a moment, and then Charlie lit one of the sconces on the wall. Moved methodically and out of habit lighting a few others, too, for good measure.

He resisted the urge to shout "ta-da!", but only barely.

There wasn't really anywhere to put their coats; Charlie had never gotten around to buying a coat rack in the nearly two years he'd lived here. Normally, when it was dry, he put it in the closet, and when it was wet... Well, he did what he was doing now, which was to drape it over the radiator. He also turned the radiator on, already cold. The great cast iron hulk had seen better days, but it worked—most of the time—which is all he could really ask it to do. He'd repaired it himself just the other week for what he hoped was the final time.

Charlie waved his hand around vaguely, feeling far too sober and oddly—awkward. He looked around, seeing his little flat through someone else's eyes as best he could. As best as he would allow himself, which wasn't very well admittedly. The fading wallpaper, the mess on the floor. The couch. Ah. Right. That. And of all the things to comment on in the whole fucking place? Anatole picked Tippy.

"I see nothing escapes your keen-eyed observation," he said, moving through the single room and kicking a bit of scrap out of the way. "My bird, in fact. This is Tippy. I can't remember if you've ever—probably not, I don't know why that would have happened." He had gotten Tippy while he was still in school; she went to Brunnhold with him, and came home with him for all breaks. But she mostly stayed in his room, which, obviously, Mr. Vauquelin had never seen the inside of.

There. The radiator was on, his coat off and draped over it. He didn't really care where Anatole put his coat, or the umbrella. The floor was wood, and would survive. Probably. There was some damage to it already since he'd moved in, from his work.

He'd almost opened his mouth to quip something about going first, but Anatole kept speaking and made a new, better opening. His eyes lit up, a cat spotting a bird on a nearby branch. That seemed entirely accidental, and it was delightful. Charlie had stepped a few paces away, to mill aimlessly around the room; he turned back around. They weren't outside, and Charlie wasn't patient or in the mood to be coy. "That," he declared, stepping close enough to be absolutely in violation of anything approaching personal space, "was rather the idea." He put a hand against the other man's shoulder, moving his face in close, so very close—

—and then drew back, putting his hands up and grinning. Okay, maybe he was in the mood to be a little coy. Also, he smelled like a sewer. They both did. "If you want," he said with a grin and a shrug. Like it didn't matter to him one way or the other. He supposed it didn't, other than how he'd be very annoyed and put out.

"I should have something that will fit. And I can graciously allow you to go first, I suppose. If you insist on taking turns." Charlie moved back across the room and went to sit on the couch, shoving his blankets and pillow to one side. He needed to take off his shoes still, too. And his deeply, unpleasantly wet socks. He hucked the shoes vaguely in the direction of his closet, over by the bed, where they missed completely. The socks he just sort of left in a pile to one side of the couch. He'd deal with them... later. When, he didn't know, but not now.

"Do you need a tour? A drink? I have... Well I'm sure I have something." Charlie crossed his leg over his opposite knee, which tapped just a little on the floor.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

Bad Decision Hours on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

T
ippy,” he repeated, with a little smile.

I wouldn’t’ve, he got the urge to say, not unless you’ve a habit of bringing your bird to the pub; and I never came here, not… No, that wasn’t what Charlie meant – he shook it off, trying to think straight. Why the hell would Anatole–?

Too sober. After that slip of the tongue, he was swaddled even tighter in his coat, if that was possible. He looked at the bird instead. Charlie was in the corner of his eye, stepping round the workbench and idly among the scattered things of his qalqa. He’d stopped and was looking intently: he could see the glint where the soft oil light was catching his eyes.

Was it? he almost quipped, but the words never came. He looked down at Charlie, who was looking up at him with that same look he’d had in the alleyway. There was a hand on his shoulder, and every layer of cotton and wool couldn’t keep him from feeling it like a tug down through him, a sudden, white-hot jolt. His eyes trailed down those fine, delicate features and to his lips, and then he blinked, because the other man’s face was close and getting closer. He smelled strongly of an Old Rose alley a beggar had just pissed in, and that didn’t matter much.

He almost tilted his head, like it was second nature. Maybe it had been, once.

He was oddly conscious of his chapped lips. He wondered when he ought to shut his eyes. He was afraid of his hands, which seemed liable at any moment to do terrible things of which he had only a vague and hungry concept. He wanted to put them deep enough in his pockets he’d lose them and never find them.

He didn’t have to. He almost grunted when the other man moved away, frustrated and relieved at once. Charlie spread his hands, grinning with all those nanabo crooked teeth.

He snorted.

He got the damned coat off in the end, at least. Charlie’d cleared a space for himself in the mess of a couch and was taking off his shoes; they knocked against each other as he tossed them over toward the closet.

He stepped round them awkwardly. Somehow, the thought of sitting among the pillows on the couch was more intimate than the bed. So he went with the bed, perching on the edge in his shirtsleeves as he took his ruined shoes off.

“I’m afraid I have to; I don’t think there’s room in the bath for both of us. I’ll be, uh, quick about it,” he said.

He cleared his throat, peeling off his socks.

“Thank you, though. There’s really no end to your generosity.” He raised his brows and tried a grin, standing tentatively. “Just keep an eye out. I might get lost in here.” The floorboards were cold and rough against the soles of his feet as he padded over.

Wasn’t much of a washroom; there was a divider, at least, between the latrine and the tub and the rest of the flat, and what looked like an old grey robe flung over it. It looked like the cleanest spot in the flat.

He turned one of the knobs and a trickle came out, then a jet, then a stream. He glanced up curiously at the boiler, the iron-dark barrel of it and the tangle of pipes on the wall. You didn’t see those a lot in his neck of the Rose, and you didn’t see them Uptown, either, hidden as they were in closets and boxes and suchlike. In-between place, this. Funny.

He fluttered a hand under the stream – still cold. He turned the knob again with a creak, wiping his hands off on his trousers. Give it a minute, he supposed. Charlie was bouncing one spindly knee, the sole of his foot tapping silently against the floor. “I’ll pour us a drink, then? I’m already up; don’t trouble yourself.” Something for the nerves, leastways. For both of them, he thought. “And, uh, water? Not that there’s anything’ll do much for this; it’s going to be a hell of a hangover.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2720 - Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Things would absolutely not have gone the way Charlie wanted them if Anatole kept that coat on the whole time, so he was glad enough when it came off. Charlie had gone to sit on his couch; he could have moved more of the blankets and pillows to the side, if he needed to. But he didn't need to, because Anatole was sitting across from him on the bed. Just Charlie's sad little coffee table—if it deserved such a glorified title—between them.

"You don't know that!" Charlie protested, all of him alight with false affront. "You haven't even seen the bath; besides, I've been told I'm rather conveniently sized before." He grinned and sunk back into the couch. It wasn't a particularly comfortable article of furniture, no matter that he slept on it. It was just better than the floor, or his work bench. The bed didn't enter his equation much at all.

"You're right though. Called my bluff." Charlie's knee hadn't stilled. His grin didn't fade a whit, either. He was having the time of his life, watching Anatole peel of his damp socks, sitting on Charlie's bed. He hadn't said much else; Charlie couldn't think what he was waiting for. Something. It was weird having someone else in his space. Especially someone who knew him at all.

Charlie's turn to snort then, as Anatole came to stand. Weird as shit, that's what it was. Just fucking bizarre. He was starting to sober up, and he didn't like it. "I'll send in a search party after you!" he called. The door closed with a soft click. After a moment, Charlie heard the chug of water out of the pipes. The boiler worked well enough, but it did take a moment. He thought he should have mentioned that; too late, he supposed. Just like a lot of things.

He wasn't sure if the other man would hide in Charlie's washroom all night, or what. That was certainly a distinct possibility; Charlie found he couldn't quite make heads or tails of what was going on here. Not with Mr. Midlife Crisis. He'd thought, you know, earlier, that there'd been interest. Right? Yeah, there had been. But then, you know, he leans in and—Charlie could have sworn the man looked like he was about to be shot, or worse.

So hiding in his washroom wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Even if Cantile was a long way to come just to hide in his washroom. A long way just for hot water. They both knew, Charlie thought, that the hotel would have let him in. Anatole Vauquelin was a clocking incumbent; no hotel worth the name would toss him back out onto his erse. Not even in the state he was in right now.

"Oh, uh. Water. Right. The tap is clean, but..." Charlie frowned. He had liquor somewhere. And cups, too. He just couldn't have said where. They didn't so much have a place as Charlie put them in one as he needed to. The idea of Anatole rummaging around in his bare cupboards made his skin crawl. Charlie rose to his feet, grousing quietly to himself about the cold floorboards. The radiator was trying its best; the room was already a couple of degrees warmer than it had been.

"I'll, uh. I'll get it. You go ahead and sit. I have to feed Tippy anyway." Charlie shrugged, the very pictured of a man unbothered by anything. Because he was. Unbothered, not a picture. Pretty as one, but. Ah, fuck. He needed that drink, he thought. Charlie made a sort of "get the fuck out of my kitchen" gesture with his hands, and then set about pouring drinks for them his own damn self. It took a few minutes of rattling around, but he found two (mostly) clean cups, and a bottle of... fuck, he had no idea. Homemade, by the looks of it, and unlabeled. But definitely alcohol; he opened the dark glass bottle and it left him no illusions.

Charlie poured them each a generous amount. Then he frowned and got one more cup; he didn't own more than the three. What was the point? It wasn't like anyone came over. He usually just rinsed the same cup out over and over. Easier that way. He filled that one with water from the tap and set it next to the tin mug that he'd poured for Anatole. Host's duty, all that shit. Just because he didn't have people over didn't mean he'd no manners at all.

And just because he had manners, didn't mean he would use them. Charlie retrieved Tippy's empty dish from her cage. The bird watched him and came closer to the door, but otherwise made no sound. Charlie smiled at her anyway, a soppy sort of look he wiped off his face i-fucking-mmediately. Shit. Just feed the fucking bird and get on with it, right? Yeah. He fed the fucking bird.