[Memory] [Mature] I Never Wanted Anything

[Tom Cooke]

The Canalworks • The Cat's Paw

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

T
here was a funny twang of the zither, and then Linden was roaring with laughter, head rolled back against the cushions. Tortie’d gone off the back of the couch; Tom couldn’t see where she went, only the motheaten throw was all wrinkled and rumpled, like she’d darted off in a hurry. Tom’s smile faltered a second – his lip twisted – he shot a look at Linden, but then shrugged it off and took another drink of eza.

“Oes,” Ipadi was saying, pouring himself a little at the bar, “oes, ent we got ourselves one? Ye drag in the most interestin’ kov, Cooke.” He was smiling in his lopsided way, that long face of his crooked with it, his eyes keen.

“Fuck me!” Linden said, finally. “Wha’ – whawas I goin’ t’ play?”

“Why don’t you play us somethin’ about the macha hunter,” shot Tom back, idle-like.

He was looking at Charlie, studying him up and down. That smile was still on his face; Tom thought he’d heard something in his laugh, something like he’d got off-balance. Boemo, he’d thought, good. It was strong shit Ipadi distilled, and he could already feel it warming him up where the damp’d settled into him, though his shirt was still damp and stuck to his skin, and his hair was still tangled slick down his back, messy where it was starting to dry.

“Ne chen nothin’ ‘bout ‘im.” Linden shrugged. “Wo chet, Alan, pass me tha’...” He leaned down to where the kov Tom didn’t know was lounging, his hand with his pipe resting easy on one knee; Linden took the pipe out of it easy-like.

Tom shrugged. “Play somethin’ Bastian, then,” he said, “if you ain’t too fucked up.” He stood at the edge of Charlie’s field, the now-familiar woobly of it lapping against his skin.

Toff did look flooding ridiculous in his coat; he liked it, how silly he looked, those long slim hands peeking out of his baggy coatsleeves. Both his brows went straight up when he knocked back the eza, but he didn’t say nothing, just started grinning. Mung fucking toff. Mung, pretty toff.

Linden was choking with laughter again, and for a second there was just the sound of him and Charlie coughing.

“Mujo ma, jent,” said Ipadi with a shrug, leaning back beside Nevio. The natt’d passed him his blunt, and he took a drag, blowing out fragrant smoke. “Been at this qalqa long enough. Ent never had eza?”

Second or third drink, he could separate out a light, sweet taste, almost like cider. In the candlelight, all Charlie’s delicate angles were sharp; the glint of his irises was fair bue. His eyes wandered to the fingers wrapped round the glass, traced them long, then he eased closer to the toff again. If Charlie let him, he’d wind an arm through his, hard as it was to find the skinny thing in all that coat, and guide him to the cushions scattered about the floor.

“My kint’s yer kint, long as y’ent ne trouble.” Ipadi shrugged, then moved in his winding way to join them, blowing out another whirl of smoke. “What brings ye?” He knelt, tilting his head and offering Charlie the spur.

“Pretty toff says he wants to self-destruct,” Tom said, shrugging his big shoulders.

Ipadi’s lips curved down in a mocking pout. “Destroyin’ a work of art?” He smiled. “Ye think destruction’s macha, Charlie?”

“Macha,” said Tom, leaning conspiratorial close for just a moment – just so his breath’d stir the hair near Charlie’s ear – “means beautiful. Jus’ so you know, kov.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Canalworks, The Cat's Paw

Charlie looked sideways at the zither player--playing might have been a generous word for it, but he was feeling generous now that he was a little warmer--when there was that awful kind of noise from his general direction. Charlie didn't see what was so funny, but the cat was gone.

"I live to entertain," Charlie shot off, not sure what he was one of and not caring much. There was some kind of exchange back and forth, about hunters and things to play. Idly, Charlie wondered if he was any good; it was hard to tell, given everything. He didn't really care about that either.

His eyes still couldn't seem to settle on any one thing. Charlie found himself looking for the cat, and he wasn't quite sure why. He didn't even like cats, not really. Reminded him too much of himself. He looked at Tom out of the corner of his eye; seemed amused at Charlie's coughing. Well, that was fine. It was a dumberse thing of him to have done, but it worked out in the end. Story of his life, really.

"It isn't the thing in Brunnhold somehow, no." Charlie shrugged, watching the smoke curl from that long face. He didn't mind admitting he'd not been here long; he'd done so to Tom already, at the Louse. And anyone who cared to listen before that. There was a particular kind of repulsiveness that even Charlie would not engage in that came when someone pretended at familiarity with a place they were not from.

Neither would it have been the done thing for golly boys in green uniforms to wander into fucked up wick hovels to get any, Charlie reflected, even if there was eza for the getting. School was very limiting that way, and Charlie was glad to be graduated. There was something sweet that lingered the more of it he had. He was going at it a little slower than he had at first, but probably fastered than he should have.

Charlie looked up (and up, again, because godsdamn) when Tom came back over to him. Alioe, how did they manage to be standing with such a group of general deviants, and Tom still looked like the worst idea out of the lot? It was his overall size, Charlie thought, and his professionally terrifying demeanor. Charlie wasn't complaining in the least.

His lazy grin focused when Tom took his arm, as best as he was able. And he was perfectly happy to stop standing, too. It was getting to be something of an effort, the more of this stuff he had. The coat settled around him when he sat like some kind of ridiculous blanket; he didn't unwind his arm. The glass he settled on the floor, happy not to hold it anymore. He had drained rather more of it than he'd thought.

"I strive to always be trouble. But not that kind, I don't think." Charlie raised an eyebrow, watching Ipadi meander their direction. Kind of like a snake Charlie had seen once--rippling and not quite how you expected it to move. "I have been warned," he added primly, "and I quite like my face the way it is." Charlie looked up at Tom then for a second; his eyes flicked back to Ipadi's outstretched hand. He didn't know what was in it, and he took it anyway. For the second time in as many nights, he reflected. It had worked out just fine the first time.

Charlie huffed, just a little. None of this had been his idea, he had just agreed to it. He wasn't sure that made a difference. He took a drag, and as he exhaled he knew it didn't. Tom's breath against his ear made him shiver a little; he wasn't complaining about that, either.

"Oh is that what you've been calling me all night? I knew it was a compliment." His voice wasn't projected further than it had to be; that was not a comment for the room in general. Charlie held the blunt in his hand, outstretched in a way to suggest that someone take it from him, and he didn't care who it was. Ipadi could take it back, Tom could take it--whoever the fuck these other people were, too. Charlie hadn't caught anyone else's name really, and he didn't think he wanted to.

"And sure, it can be. Stars are brightest before they burn out," he laughed. One of the few things from an otherwise dreadful class that had stuck with him.

[Tom Cooke]

The Canalworks • The Cat's Paw

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

Q
uite like it that way, myself,” Tom drawled, imitating that Brunnhold toff accent again. He was still grinning. Shouldn’t’ve expected otherwise, but something about the way he spilled it out again, easy-like – not like some toff slumming it, getting off on just how clocking worldly his lily erse was – pleased him, and he could tell from the curious look in Ipadi’s eye it pleased him, too.

Ipadi wasn’t grinning; wasn’t his way. He settled himself cross-legged on the rug, thin wrist resting on his knee, tumbler dangling from his long fingers. He swirled the dregs of eza in the bottom, rhythmic, round and round. Tom thought of Charlie’s slender, pale fingers winding round the rim of the glass again.

“Been callin’ ‘im macha all night, have ye, Cooke? Ye spoil ‘em so.” Ipadi rolled his dark eyes, tossing back the last of his eza.

Charlie shivered; that pleased Tom, too. He took a drag, blew out the smell of red sage, and held out the blunt like it was his flooding gift to the lower races at large. Ipadi didn’t reach for it first, so Tom took it, ‘cause they was communal here, if nothing else. He wondered, letting himself feel a pina petulant, if he’d have to share tonight. He reckoned that’d be up to Charlie.

Both Ipadi’s eyebrows raised, and he blinked his heavy-lidded eyes, gold sparking above his lashes. If Tom flinched at the mention of stars, it was only briefly. “Ye’d rather burn bright than burn long, adame,” he said, shrugging his thin, broad shoulders. “Boemo. I can respect a kov who thinks that way.”

Tom settled a big arm round Charlie’s shoulder; he let his thumb stroke his arm. “An’ what of those of us who don’t burn bright, or long?”

He took another drink. He was getting drunk, now, and fair. Wasn’t like it used to be; there was no settling into it, no easy glide from warm buzz to plastered. He felt sober half the time even when he knew he ought to be drunk, and it pissed him off; seemed like he could never get rid of that prickle of a headache behind his eyes, always there.

He saw the way they all looked at him. Wasn’t looking so good, of late. Could see it in the mirror, even past the crooked twist of his thrice-broken nose and the scars that split his lip and his brow. The shadows under his eyes were deep and purpling.

Linden just laughed. Ipadi smiled some uliam’s smile and stood up, heading back over to the bar.

“‘Nother round for the lad an’ me, Ipadi, mujo mujo ma?”

“You’d better have the ging,” Ipadi said.

“Plenty of ging, tonight.” But his attention was back on Charlie; he was looking at that macha face, closer than it’d been all night. “What is the – thing” – he bit off the word, still smiling – “t’ do in Brunnhold, then, Charlie?” The name was sharper on his tongue than on Ipadi’s; he rolled the r, rrr.

At the same time, he set aside his glass. He brushed the backs of his fingers over Charlie’s cheek, tracing the line of his cheekbone; it was gentle-like, at first – as if to say, these hands’re good for more than breaking – and if the toff didn’t protest, he’d continue doing it.

He’d been wanting to touch that face half the night. He’d been wanting more than that. What d’you think, he wanted to ask, looking down into those pretty blue eyes, what d’you think burning bright is? (Is that real, about stars, or did you just make it up – ‘cause our kind wouldn’t know any better?) What’s Charlie Al – Albington, Alderwood, Almquist… – what’s he doing here?

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Canalworks, The Cat's Paw

Something about the way Tom imitated Charlie's accent back to him made him laugh. Returning to a more pleasantly muddled state of mind certainly helped. Charlie was enjoying a lot of things more as he reached the bottom of his glass. Even more after he took that hit of whatever it was he'd been offered. One day, he thought, he really needed to learn to ask first--that day was not today.

Tom took it from him anyway while Charlie went on about the death of stars. Maybe he'd ask later, maybe he'd forget. He sort of hoped he forgot--if Charlie had the presence of mind to ask later, it would only be because the experience was less entertaining than he'd like, really.

Burn bright, rather than long--yeah, that was the long and short of it. Charlie couldn't exactly picture what "long" meant, anyway. It was hard to frame himself at thirty in his mind--let alone at forty, fifty, beyond. That shit about stars--the fuck had he put it that way for? Well, whatever. The point had gotten across, and Charlie let his mind swim around pleasantly. He leaned against Tom, because he was there, because Charlie liked it.

"No choice then but immolation," Charlie said without quite knowing who he meant, not looking up at Tom's question. "Burn up--whoosh." The fingers on one hand bunched together and splayed out, an explosion. He didn't know if anyone present would be familiar with the word "immolation"; that was fine. They said plenty of shit he couldn't make heads or tails of too. Seemed fair either way.

He couldn't tell, in the end. There was laughter and a kind of smile, and more eza--Charlie finished what he had then, and quickly. It didn't burn so much when he was expecting it. Just kind of melted the inside of him, just like he wanted. Charlie settled himself a little more, against Tom and into his attention. Feeling just a little smug, just a little pleased. Just a lot drunk, but that was good too.

"Besides being overly pleased with oneself, you mean?" Charlie snorted. The sharp sound of his name--and it was more his name when Tom said it than in Ipadi's accent, especially after a night of All-Ewings--made his skin prickle. Charlie made some pleased hum at the brush of those fingers on his face. Took long enough, Charlie thought. He did so like feeling appreciated. He thought of the threat at the door and the contrast to the touch now, and he was pleased. Hopeless dumberse, but what else was new?

He didn't like talking about Brunnhold, but he'd mentioned it so he supposed he got what he deserved. That, too, always seemed to happen in the end. "I don't know--nothing terribly interesting. The better parties," he said with a hint of wistfulness, "sometimes had coca wine. But Brunnhold parties are extremely dull, really." Charlie shrugged and shifted his eyes away, but stayed where he was otherwise.

He knew what he did at those parties, but he didn't really want to get into that. That was something else entirely, and had nothing to do with the substances on offer. One could not really claim that was the thing at those parties either. Besides, it was possibly very obvious. He had been to some other parties, once or twice, with more expensive offerings--he wanted to talk about those even less, somehow. There weren't many interesting stories with those; he'd thought them fun at the time, but the seemed dreadfully dull on reflection. More proof that Charlie Almond was a dumb fuck who deserved anything he got.

"And that," he declared idly, "is why I left as soon as possible. To great reward." They would be all the more dull without him, he thought. This was stranger, he told himself firmly, but strange was at least worth a story, later. "This one time, I followed a man who told me he was a serial killer into a dark alley, and..." Charlie couldn't finish the story, not yet. He tried not to guess at the endings, when it came to things like this.

[Tom Cooke]

The Canalworks • The Cat's Paw

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

W
hoosh.

Tom was too busy admiring that macha face to feel too offended. Still stung, someplace too loud, someplace he wanted to drink quiet soon as he could. Whoosh, he thought. Mung natt’d understand that, if not fucking context.

Never mind whoosh wasn’t the only sound a kov made when you set him on fire, though he didn’t expect Charlie to know much about that. Then again – he thought about the sorts of things he’d seen Uzoji’s rosh do with voo, and about the sorts of things you heard about aeroships. He wondered if this toff expected to find work dockside or on board one. Maybe he’d get his wish, in the end.

A ship’s flooding mechanic –

Tom’s lip twisted. Overly pleased with himself was one way to put it. “Besides that, oes,” he drawled; he wasn’t smiling anymore, dark eyes flicking from one of Charlie’s to the other. He could smell the spirit on the toff’s breath, this close. The eza lingered sweet on his own tongue; he wondered if he’d taste it on Charlie’s. The toff’d leaned into him, nice and easy, and he was closer, now. He was tracing Charlie’s jaw with his fingertips, and he was listening to those pretty empty words and everything between them.

Extremely dull. Gollies said dull a mant lot. Brunnhold, dull. Imagine that. Tom couldn’t, ‘course; that was the laoso thing, coca wine or not. Bunch of toff in some fancy hall like he’d seen in King’s Court, whenever they sent him to a golly’s house. Wines like he’d never tasted. A thicket of fields, all woobling against your skin. Sea of coppery hair.

He’d never known any natt that worked in a golly house; that wasn’t his crowd. Even that sort of folk looked right down their noses at him. As a boch, he’d never cared to work under some toff’s manicured thumb, and the second his qalqa’d scarred him up proper, he’d never’ve got hired on.

There was something a pina firmer about the way he traced his hand down Charlie’s cheek, the way his finger found its way underneath his chin. “Great reward, kov?” he repeated, raising his heavy dark brows. He tilted his head, leaning a little closer; their noses weren’t too far apart.

Linden’s fingers found their way, as he’d known all night they would. Linden was a laoso; half this shit, he knew, maybe more than half on a good night, was a joke. A few delicate, off-tune twangs lapsed into a more skilled sort of tuning, testing, like an inhale.

Then the zither’s strings were singing: long, slow notes, notes that shivered and bent in the air, and Linden’s rough voice humming underneath them, wandering. He was drunk, oes, but he knew his qalqa, and he wasn’t mung. Ipadi was laughing, swirling more eza in a glass, and the blunt’d found its way back to Nevio.

All this he saw in the corner of his eye. He was looking into Ewing’s face, thinking about Narkissos looking into the water. He was wondering what it’d be like to look in the mirror and see that face. Some pressure was building inside him, thrumming pleasantly along with his anger.

His hand was bigger than Ewing’s face; he could imagine how easy it’d be, like a reflex, to seize that pretty chin and wrench – “An’ what rewards’d these be?” he asked in a low rasp.

He stroked Charlie’s chin gentle; slow-like, he bent his head to kiss him. There was no force or firmness in it, this time. If the toff drew away, there’d be no more to it. But if he leaned in, so would Tom, with vigor.

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Canalworks, The Cat's Paw

Talking without saying very much was a very important skill for a Brunnhold student. An important skill for any scion of a wealthy house, or so Charlie had come to understand. He was pretty good at it, if he chose to be. It was easiest, he'd always found, if it seemed like he was revealing far too much. So he told stories about every lurid, embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him, and sometimes they got a laugh and sometimes they got a scoff but nobody ever asked anything more about them. He'd not worked himself up to that, not yet, but he was well on his way.

Moody fuck, though, Charlie thought again when the smile dropped away from Tom clocking Cooke's face, for the millionth time that night. Because of--what? The gesture with his hand? Fuck. Charlie didn't give a shit, he wasn't going to think about it anymore. None of it was enough to take that big, scarred hand away from his jaw, so Charlie figured it couldn't be so pressing a concern. Tom Cooke was not the first man to find Charlie infuriating and attractive in equal measure; he almost preferred it that way.

"In a given definition of reward," he said and he grinned, undeterred by the change in pressure. Physical or otherwise.

To look up that much was putting a crick in Charlie's neck, but he didn't mind. It was getting hard to keep track of, with everything layering right on top of one another. No future moment and no past moment, nothing too far outside of his own skin. Charlie couldn't have looked over no matter how surprised he was when that off-tune noise turned into actual playing. His awareness of it was brief, and then the sound filtered in and out. Almost as much of a haze as the smoke, as the smell of perfume and incense and whatever else.

Fuck, shit was hitting him hard now.

"Well," he said looking up, thinking about nothing, "I'm not complaining now, for instance." Not complaining when the little distance between them was closed, either. Enthused, even--waiting all night to get this clocking far. Charlie's head was all fucked up and getting more so and this was pretty good, honestly; an enthusiastic two thumbs up from this corner.

Charlie wasn't used to having an audience for this, a tiny part of his mind was aware of that fact. Honestly? Normally the kind of people who wanted to kiss Charlie, Ewing or Almond, would rather nobody see them do it at all. Back rooms and alleyways, that sort of shit. Charlie thought he was rather neutral on it, but it was sort of an interesting data point to have. If he were in a position to be interested, or collect data points, which he wasn't.

The beard thing was a new and interesting experience also. It kind of made him laugh, and he pulled back. What had he said, ages ago? Taking in the sights, meeting new people. Some shit like that. This wasn't quite what he meant, but it wasn't not what he meant either. He kept laughing, too, even though nothing was very funny. It just suddenly seemed so absurd, and he couldn't focus on very much.

"Very rewarding." Charlie's attention slid away, trying to keep track of where he was, who else was there. He couldn't, He didn't care.

[Tom Cooke]

The Canalworks • The Cat's Paw

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

H
e smiled as his eyes fluttered shut. “Neither’m I, toff,” he murmured into Charlie’s lips. Didn’t know what he’d’ve said about rewards, or stars burning out, or none of that shit. His hand slipped round; his fingers curled into the rough fabric of his coat. Am I your reward, golly lad, he thought about whispering, about tracing the words and his lips along that benny jaw.

His lips brushed Charlie’s, just barely, and he felt a burble of laughter in the space between them. He grunted when the toff pulled away, blinking.

Linden was still winding through the melody, that mung head of his fixed on his zither, like the whole rest of Vita’d disappeared. Old spoke gkacha, Tom though someplace he could still think. Couldn’t remember the words; nobody was singing, anyway. Behind him, he could hear Ipadi’s and Arlo’s voices, Ipadi slipping into soft singsong Mugrobi.

His heart was hammering in his chest. His hand was still on Charlie’s back, though he’d let go of his coat. It slipped away, uncertain, settling on the cushion behind them. He could still taste the first touch of those thin lips.

Everything in him told him to lean in and kiss him again – firmer, this time – to take that pretty face in his hands and give him something to laugh about. This is what you left that flooding golly school for, ain’t it? he wanted to say. Meeting all kinds of fucked up people, seeing all kinds of fucked up places? Or did you just want to come here and laugh at us? At me?

Toff was still laughing. Tom drew in a breath through his teeth, ran a big hand through his hair.

The empty tumbler was glinting in the candlelight not too far from him. Tom studied his face. He looked – different, laughing like this. Younger, maybe, he reckoned; he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He didn’t think he’d ever paid attention to his teeth, neither – leastways, not long enough to notice the funny crooked set of some of them. Didn’t make him look any less macha.

Tom drew away a pina more, ‘cause he wasn’t sure what else to do. He felt another surge of anger – another surge of something else – he felt empty-handed and empty-headed, and he didn’t much like the thoughts that were trickling in to fill that mung skull of his.

He was a natt, godsdamn it. Not a man to talk about stars or myths or any of that shit. He’d done it once, and look where it’d got him.

“Fair rewardin’,” he repeated, one dark eyebrow raised. “That so, Charlie?” His breath was still fast and hard; his voice came out a heavy, raspy, a pina breathless. He wanted to reach out and touch that face again, but he held himself back, watching him instead.

Fuck it, but there was something funny about that laugh, too. About all this. His own lip twitched, and he let out a little snort. He wasn’t sure if he was pissed or laughing or turned on or too drunk and high to tell.

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Canalworks, The Cat's Paw

What had set him off laughing? Charlie couldn't remember, but now that he'd started he couldn't seem to stop. It felt good at first to do it, even though his attention had been up until that moment focused more directly on wanting to kiss Tom Cooke's moody godsdamn face. Then he just sort of felt like momentum was moving him forward with it, all purpose lost.

Charlie hadn't meant to stop with the first activity, not really, because he'd barely even started. It was just hard to do both, and again--he couldn't remember what was so funny. He certainly hadn't intended to not lean back up when he'd calmed down a little. Except then Tom drew away and Charlie thought that this was doing that thing again, frustratingly going back several steps every time he thought it was going the way he wanted it to.

"It could be," he said (whined, maybe) with a hand coming to grasp at Tom's shirt now that there was nothing else in it. It was only halfway to being dry still; Charlie couldn't think how long they'd been here enough to determine if he was surprised. Not long, he thought, but long enough. Or so he would have thought.

All of Charlie's impulses were tangled up in his mind, making it hard for him to consider any of them. Even to the low degree he usually did, of course, which was really very low indeed. Charlie shifted, turned towards Tom more fully. The coat was still on his shoulders and Charlie thought he could still feel the ghost of Tom's mouth on his. Charlie couldn't figure this out and it was annoying him. He was starting to think he would have to construct some kind of large painted sign in block letters--except, could Tom even read?

Charlie looked sideways, trying to see if he could figure out where anyone else was. The zither was still meandering through whatever song it was going for, and he heard voices somewhere that he couldn't track well enough to place. His field of vision wasn't so wide, at present.

He felt a little strange, being five seconds away from crawling into Tom's lap and demanding to know what the fuck he wanted from Charlie but also sort of vaguely remembering there were other people around. It wasn't normally so frustrating, Charlie thought--he smiled, he draped all over the other person like some kind of affection-starved cat, and they usually got the message and took him to bed and that was that. He had very little interest in dragging someone kicking and screaming into touching him, no matter what he wanted.

He was starting to think his features were not proving as well-appreciated as he had assumed, and was a little put out. It was Charlie's turn to frown now, staring. Maybe it was the venue. Maybe Charlie really did need to make that fucking sign. He didn't know what else Tom could have wanted from him, if not this--why approach him at all, bring him all this way, make passes at him? This was all anyone ever wanted from him, and he was happy enough to give it.

"I didn't think I was playing hard to get, but just in case, let me be plain: do you want me or not?" Too far gone and too frustrated for subtlety or coyness, Charlie's drawl had tilted to a breathless kind of whining. For all that he was high out of his mind and drunk besides, his attention was very focused in this specific moment. He could draw his thoughts together, when it was important.

[Tom Cooke]

The Canalworks • The Cat's Paw

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

T
hose macha long fingers was knotted up in his shirt, now. Could be, he whined, that Brunnhold drawl slurring in his mouth. Wasn’t grinning ne more. Tom couldn’t place the look on his face, and he reckoned the toff wasn’t too clear on it, neither.

He stayed still, silent, looking down at the hand in his shirt. He wasn’t smiling, now, either. The anger was boiling inside him, bubbling over. He was gritting his teeth hard; his head was empty of thoughts. He couldn’t think why it pissed him off so bad, that whine in that mung, pretty voice, that expression on his mung, pretty face, that look of vacancy and focus all at once in the eyes that’d first caught him at the Louse.

You want him, Tom Cooke, he thought, just fucking take him. Show him his reward. He wondered if anything the toff’d told him was true; he wondered if this wasn’t Charlie Alderwood, Arlington, whatever the fuck his name really was – if it was even Charlie – he wondered if this wasn’t his trip to the Rose, if he wouldn’t be back in Brunnhold or Vienda soon as he got done touring the slums.

He knew it was a mung thought; those weren’t the calluses of a man who worked someplace like Brunnhold, he was sure, even if they weren’t the calluses of a man who worked with engines often enough to get burned. But he liked it, the thought; he liked thinking it. He liked thinking this kov was a liar, just like others he’d known. Let him go back to his golly flooding friends and tell them all about it, with his benny wine and his –

More words spilling from those thin, petulant lips now. He’d thought nothing could make him angrier than that laughter; he’d been wrong. Playing hard to fucking get.

There was some part of him, someplace, wondered where all the love in him’d gone, if you could call it that. Maybe it’d never been love; maybe it’d been something else, putting on a show. He didn’t know why he wanted it so bad now, of all things, and why he couldn’t get it anymore. Mostly, he hurt, and he didn’t know why, and it made him want this even more.

No more talking; he wasn’t much good at that shit, anyway. He answered Charlie’s question the easiest way he could. He drew the golly in this time, tilting his head up and kissing him, hard.

His other hand went to the toff’s, still grasping at his shirt. He found his wrist, fingertips brushing over the delicate bones of it; he took it and guided it down, and further down.

He could taste the eza on Charlie’s tongue, and the lingering taste of the blunt, earthy and a little sweet. He broke away, breathing heavy. “Oes,” was all he could manage before he kissed him again, this time more gentle, painstakingly slow.

Grabbing hold of his coat, he fumbled to his feet. His eyes didn’t linger much anywhere as he glanced round the room; Ipadi and Nevio were still passing the spur back and forth, Ipadi watching him and Charlie with a faint smile on his face.

“That enough kov f’ ye, toff, or ye wan’ company?” came the wick’s lilt. Tom was starting toward the narrow dark hall tucked behind the bar, round which light trickled from somewhere.

As he passed, Ipadi reached out with that woobly of his; he felt it skim across his skin and shivered, and felt it brush Charlie’s field, still gentle but playful.

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Canalworks, The Cat's Paw

Of course, Charlie could have read all of this all wrong. He didn't think so, but it was possible. He tried to make allowances for being surprised. This whole night was an allowance for being surprised, obviously. He hadn't known where it was going and he hadn't asked, just sort of decided to "yes, and..." the whole thing and see where that led him. Where was still the question, both metaphorical and (at this point) literal--but that was fine. It was just this one thing he was having trouble figuring out. Normally he was very good at figuring this out. At least he thought so.

Forget it, he almost said, because he didn't know what to do with that face Tom was making and he certainly couldn't think clearly enough to figure it out. They could just sit here on the fucking floor or whatever, or Charlie could--well he could try to leave, except he thought he'd fall in a canal at this point. (Wouldn't that be rich? And nobody would ever know, not for ages.) Just forget it, don't answer me. I don't know what else you expected from me, or what else you wanted. He'd already said what he was, hadn't he? Right from the start. A rich boy looking to self-destruct. Could have left him there at the bar if he didn't like it, Charlie pouted to himself.

He didn't get that far, which was good because he didn't have a plan for what came after that. He had been in somewhat unfamiliar territory before; Tom tilted his head up and Charlie found he knew where he was, after all. All the breath knocked out of him, all his attention diverted from any other consideration. (It wasn't hard, really, to catch his attention like this.)

"Well. Good, then," Charlie said with a dazed kind of grin. And luckily he didn't have to say anything more after that. Just slide into that kiss, lingering and not as hard as before. Serial killer, Charlie thought. Lifting him over that gap, taking his hand at the door. Gaps and contradictions, Charlie liked all of it. He was almost reluctant to get up, but he thought--yeah, that was better. Could be, anyway.

Charlie stood too, with no more grace. He snorted a little laugh; he was fucked up, that was for sure. Good. Charlie thought to look around, but he really had to focus on the whole standing and following business. He was, at least, relieved to not just be sitting in the middle of the room anymore. Every time he remembered how visible everything he did was, he felt a little weird about it--something he'd have to get over, he thought. Probably. He was not, he reminded himself, in Brunnhold anymore.

Charlie trailed after Tom, but he paused when Ipadi spoke again. It took him a moment to grasp on to what he was being asked--he didn't think--well, that was certainly new. His narrow, pale face was flushed; drunk or high or turned on, it didn't matter which reason. All of the above.

"Uh," Charlie began, a little bleary. He wasn't, he didn't think, opposed--maybe. First time for everything, he thought. Was he supposed to say, sure, yeah? He thought he might be. Charlie was, he thought in a lofty sort of way, a little overwhelmed at the moment. Still.

"Maybe--I'll find out, if... if it's enough." And Charlie thought he arched his eyebrows and grinned again, looking at Tom and then back. He didn't think--well. No sense in closing that door entirely, he thought.