[Memory] [Mature] I Never Wanted Anything

[Tom Cooke]

The Dancing Louse • Voedale

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

L
ittle toff was a fish on land. Uh, lotsa – Tom watched him through his stuttering, just as intent as if he was speaking some kind of poetry; he blinked once or twice, nodding serious-like, just to show Ewing he had all his attention and more. Whatever else you could say about him, he wasn’t breaking under the pressure, even though he’d started looking a pina uncomfortable with his head tilted to look at him sidelong.

You got gollies of all stripes as liked to slum it. He’d been living in the harbor his whole life, all three flooding decades in this fish-smelling spitch pile they called the scenic bits of the benny Rose, so he’d seen it before. Uzoji and his rosh, however he felt about them, were different; Winngate was different. They were his brothers, and they’d been here long enough to know their heads from their erses, and – mostly – long enough to know how to remove one from the other in polite company. Even Kit, with his mung pretty smile and his guitar, knew how to stay afloat.

He still wasn’t sold on Ewing slumming it on a weekend away from da’s mansion. You couldn’t talk like this to their type. Eventually, a natt got too bold, their delicate freckly faces would go scarlet and they’d storm out – or try and throw a fist.

He’d’ve bet more than a ha’bird his macha face was here for more reasons than one. The question was what, and that qalqa might take all evening to unknot. He looked forward to trying.

What gave me away? asked Ewing, and Tom would’ve sworn he was leaning into it, taking the bull by the horns. That educated golly drawl spilled out and dripped on the bar like honey. He found himself grinning anyway, then laughing. Kov had balls; you had to give him that.

He laughed even harder, then.

“Maybe I am, Mr. All-Ewing,” he said, real slow-like, giving him a sizing-up sort of look.

He took another drink, then sat back on his stool, hearing it creak and wobble. He knew how to spread himself out just as much as he knew how to make himself look smaller. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the crackle of a few muscles in his back; he was still bruised from his last job a week before.

He crossed his arms over his chest, tracing the lines of Ewing’s pretty face again. His head was swimming. The more and more he looked, the angrier it made him. “Hard to choose,” he said, mock-thinking, shaking his head and sucking at a tooth. He looked down at the bar. “Well, kov, you got your – lessee – you got your dark alleyways, an’ your dark alleyways, an’ I know a few benny tumble huts – jus’ a pina, see…”

He couldn’t keep his lip from twisting. That was, after all, what toff probably thought of his Rose. He ran a hand through his hair again, shaking it out, pleased to catch a whiff of lavender where he’d put a little oil in it earlier.

“Boemo, Mr. All-Ewing.” It was a curl of a smile; he tilted his head. “If you’re a man for spilt sap, there’s the Arena or the dogyard; an’ – I’m told – the Queen’s somethin’ of a tourist trap.” Not that you ain’t already been there.

He shrugged, then leaned closer, tilting his head and lowering his voice. “I know a place you can get stronger shit than this in the Cat’s Paw, where the canals go down to the bay, but the way’s mant strange, oes? Some sights’re more interestin’ than others.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Dancing Louse, Voedale

If Charlie was finding all of this hard to follow, it wasn't his fault. It was the bitter stuff in his glass, the noise in the Louse, and the fact that this was, actually, very baffling. Charlie had mumbled something about sights being hard to choose, and Tom had nodded so seriously Charlie got the distinct feeling he was being mocked. Either way, that didn't matter much to Charlie. If this degree of mockery was something that rattled him, he would never have survived school. Especially not towards the end.

So Charlie did what he always did: leaned into a blithe unconcern, letting the consequences roll out as they wanted and not trying to puzzle out anything beyond the current moment. He was quite good at it, really--a trick greatly aided by cheap alcohol and an underdeveloped sense of self-preservation. Tom laughed, laughed a lot, and didn't make Charlie feel any better. But it didn't make him feel any worse, so he let any misgivings roll off him.

His knee bounced a little, as much as he could manage with his foot awkwardly braced against the stool. The heel of his boot was caught on a support between the legs. Charlie resolved not to put too much weight or pressure on it, as it seemed liable to give way beneath such an onslaught even from one as delicately made as Charlie Ewing. The pace increased a bit every time another "Mr. All-Ewing" reached his ears.

"Well then, maybe... Maybe I do." There was a distinct tilt of menace in the shape of Tom's smile; Charlie couldn't decide if it bothered him or not. It should, he wasn't too drunk (yet) to know it should. But when Charlie reached down and tried to find where that concern should be, he didn't find much.

Charlie waved off talk of the Arena and the Queen; quite literally, long white fingers swimming in front of his own eyes. For one thing, he already knew where those were (although he had yet to go and wasn't sure that he wanted to). For another, at least as far as the Queen and other related establishments was concerned, he had never paid for sex before and was not about to start now. He made a face at the mention that begged the question of if he really looked like he had to pay for it.

"Oh? Not a series of tree-lined, well-lit boulevards then I take it." Honestly, the whole affair sounded distinctly like something that was going to end in him getting dumped in the bay. But if it didn't, that was interesting, wasn't it? He didn't say he was interested, in canals and strange ways and whatever "mant" was (he really, really would have to learn because this whole conversation was baffling enough without vocabulary shortfalls). He didn't refuse either, just took a contemplative sip of his drink which was rapidly disappearing before his eyes. His knee kept up that jittery motion even as the rest of his posture was so languid it was a wonder he kept upright.

[Tom Cooke]

The Dancing Louse • Voedale

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

W
hat in floods’ name was wrong with him? His eyes skimmed over Ewing again – he took in the sprawl, all long languid limbs, the look on his face, and then the knee bouncing. He couldn’t’ve said why it pissed him off – couldn’t’ve said how it made him feel in the first place – couldn’t’ve said much of anything, staring across at him, all the soft lights softening and the Louse’s noises tangling up in themselves like rats’ tails.

What the hell was he doing, was a better question? He leaned on the bar again, his hand on his glass, turning it round in its puddle of condensation. Sucking at his tooth, watching.

Maybe he did, Ewing said. All play-nonchalant, one heel braced on the stool’s support, leg bouncing and bouncing.

For the first time, Tom wondered if maybe the kov’d got started before the Louse, and not with drink. Acting strange enough. He didn’t dismiss the thought, but it didn’t give him much pause. Whatever his problem was, he’d something to hide.

What did he expect to happen? He wasn’t thinking ahead. Like hell was he thinking ahead. He’d come here so he didn’t have to think ahead; he was drinking so he didn’t have to think back. And here was a macha face, and some kind of a challenge, though he hadn’t figured out what kind yet.

Kov waved off the Queen and all that shit, anyway. Good. He shrugged his big shoulders, took another drink. Last time he’d been in the Queen, it’d been laoso; he’d rather not’ve remembered, so he didn’t.

Ewing made a hell of a face, still, like he was loath to even think of tumbles or their qalqa. “What,” Tom said, cocking a brow, “you ain’t got those – wherever you come from?”

Tree-lined, well-lit boulevards. At least he had a sense of humor, though that’d been in no doubt since the start of all this. Tom wondered again what he saw, looking at him. Some big storybook tallyboy, he reckoned; some kov as spilt blood every two, three, and five of the week, and whenever he felt like it besides, whenever there was ging to be got spilling under the skin of a man’s throat.

Well, he was right, wasn’t he, if that’s what he saw? The local flora and fauna, with all its scars and whisky-breath. How funny the local animals act. You want me to laugh along, kov, tell you I ain’t never heard of a well-lit boulevard?

He didn’t laugh, this time. He just shrugged again. If something’d soured about his smile, it was still a smile; it still clung faintly about his face, just curling his scarred lip. “Ne,” he said. “Ne many trees in the Paw, an’ ne down there. Streets ain’t much more than boards over the water. If you was lookin’ for trees an’ boulevards an’ shit, you’d’ve best got that macha face of yours to King’s Court, not floodin’ Voedale.”

He took out his wallet again. When he pushed himself up from his stool, he set one penny, then another, then a third on the bar. “That what I owe, Bill?”

Bill didn’t give him the satisfaction, at first; he kept talking to one of the old wicks. Then he turned, took in the pennies on the table, and frowned. “Just about, Cooke.” He looked again at Ewing – Tom was about to say it, I ain’t fuckin’ botherin’ him ne more, when the old man turned away.

“Mr. Ewin’,” he pronounced this time, leaning on the bar and looking down at the golly. “The invitation has been extended.” He bit off every syllable, leaning into his broad Rose accent. Half-grinning, half-something-else.

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Dancing Louse, Voedale

Tom had shrugged, and Charlie had sort of followed the motion in vague fascination. He wasn't sure why he couldn't quite get over the man's size, but he couldn't. He was just drunk, he insisted petulantly to himself, and couldn't be held accountable for the things he thought or did.

The face he made had been misinterpreted, possibly on purpose. Charlie raised his eyebrows and leveled what was very definitely a kind of high-handed sneer at the big man on the stool next to him. Part of him knew that was stupid, but his face was rather ahead of his thoughts and his blue eyes rolled in his head anyway. "No," he said and to his own ears it was in fact something of a whine. "Fewer in Brunnhold than elsewhere, one must admit but--please."

In case it was unclear, still, what he had meant, Charlie gestured very emphatically and meaningfully to his face and general person with the hand that held his glass. A small amount threatened to slosh over the sides, but mostly he just dripped condensation on himself. He tripped off that little line about trees and boulevards, then finished the rest of his glass swiftly after. Drinking made joking easier, and joking made everything else easier still.

The joke had not seemed to land, and Charlie was drunk enough now to find that rather rude. You don't get to lean in all intimidating and so forth, and then look offended when it's met with a comment implying the same level of menace. At least not in his estimation, and his estimation was the only one he really considered as worth much anymore.

Tom's smile had taken on another kind of tilt Charlie should have found worrying, but the smaller man perked up at the mention of his face. He had no idea what "macha" meant, but as it was in reference to his person he thought it had to be complimentary. Well, in reference to his face, and not his personality. Positive comments on the latter were fewer and farther between. Some people had no appreciation for the finer things.

"I didn't say that's what I's--was looking for." That had come out a little slurred around the edges, consonants sliding into each other. Was that worrying? This was only his second... Third...? Possibly fourth drink. And he'd had something else before, but that was harmless. Probably. So the fellow who had given it to him the other night had assured him, and one had to retain some faith in the better natures of humanity, didn't one? Yes. Totally.

Also, he had wanted to take Charlie home after giving it to him, which didn't work out if the substance proved fatal. So there was that, too.

Tom Cooke didn't have any appreciation for the finer things either, it seemed, because he complained about Charlie's joke and then made as if to leave. Well, that was fine. Charlie should go home, anyway, so he would just wait and then stumble on back to his apartment and his Tippy and maybe have some water. Possibly. He couldn't remember if his single glass was clean; it was so hard to keep track of things like that for himself. He missed having hired help rather keenly. Tom paid his tab, and Charlie raised his empty glass vaguely.

Ha! Ha--he knew he'd been doing that on purpose, the "All-Ewing"s. So he had been making fun of him. Charlie had the feeling, and was pleased to be right. He always could tell. Charlie looked up, and his face shifted from pleased with himself to surprised.

Invitation--invitation to what? Tom had not, actually, specified. There was a smile there and there was something else. Charlie was very drunk and possibly high and probably not making very good decisions. He considered these facts objectively; his face split into a kind of leer. What else was he here for--the Louse, the Rose--if not to indulge himself in stupid whims?

"Alright then," he nodded, smile still on his face. Charlie scrambled down from his stool with only a little less of the feline grace he normally displayed. No wobble in this step when he touched the ground, at least, although he instantly felt considerably smaller than he had when they were both seated. "Invitation accepted, Mr. Cooke."

[Tom Cooke]

Outside the Dancing Louse • Voedale

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

S
till wasn’t sure what the kov’d been on about. Please, he’d said, waving a slender hand at himself – at all of himself – with that flooding ridiculous look on his face. What, he was too toff for that shit? He’d’ve been mant sorry to break it to him, but there was plenty richer and gollier than him as shelled out ging for flesh. Plenty richer than him on the whole, if his threads and current choice of company were anything to go by.

He’d just about spilt drink on himself, so Tom guessed he might not’ve been sure what he was driving at himself. Fine enough. He was happy to see that mungerse, exaggerated expression leave his pretty golly face, replaced by the usual easy-going, bland smirk.

Brunnhold after all, hey? Didn’t know why that would’ve been his first guess.

There was another expression on the golly’s face as he turned away, fair different. He was drunker than a kenser in Brayde, Tom reckoned; he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, or what he was thinking, but that was a hell of a look. He thought he knew what it might’ve meant, and that didn’t make it any better.

He was still thinking on it as he went out the door. His pulse was thrumming in his ears. His head was aching like a riff. He was so flooding angry.

It was still cold for Loshis, cold enough to bite and nip, cold enough to ache in his scars. Or maybe he was getting old. He’d flung his worn old coat round his shoulders before he’d left the Louse, and now he shoved his hands deep in the pockets. The overhang and lean of the buildings kept some of the rainwater off the street; it rattled through the rickety gutters, flowed in little rivers at each side, collected and pattered in the potholes.

The breeze was fresh and cold, and it was dark, fair dark, except for the sound and light spilling out of the Louse. It was like stepping out of a haze.

“Fuck’re you doin’ this for, Ewin’?” he asked sharply, slurring a little, looking over and down as the other man came out. “Listen t’ me, lad, ain’t you got someplace better t’ be? Shit, you need a – you got someplace to stay? Shit,” he repeated, like saying it twice would make any of this make any more sense.

He tried to imagine bringing this kov to Arlo and Ipadi’s little kint down by the water. It’d seemed like a good idea in there, leastways, when the rain was just tapping at the window and not a deluge in the street. They moved round; it was easy enough to find them on a good day, with the water low, but navigating the canals in this weather’d be hell. He was staying on his feet well enough, now, but Tom’d seen how he’d wrangled himself off that stool.

The soft glow from the Louse caught the elegant line of a cheekbone, though he couldn’t see those clear blue eyes for the shadows. He stood sucking at a tooth, staring down at him. Golly like that, with a field like that – his mind turned it over, sloshy and slow, reluctant as the chill crept through him – looked like an easy lift to just about anyone.

“Shit,” he muttered again, through his teeth.

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Dancing Louse, Voedale

No stumble or wobble in his step as Charlie exited the Louse after the big, scarred-up man and stepped out into the cold. Good. Charlie felt rather pleased with himself, all things considered. He was getting better at this. Perhaps a dubious skill to acquire, but he felt pleased to have done so all the same. Charlie had always been decent with his drink for his size, but it was only recently he had added other substances to his repertoire. Combining the two was also accordingly new--and possibly not smart, but nobody had ever accused him of being a clever man.

As they stood there under the overhang, Charlie put on his coat. The packet of cigarettes in the breast pocket knocked against him, reminding him they were there and also that he wanted one. He fished around in his pocket for the the case and his matches, lighting up with practiced ease. Alioe he liked smoking. Why had he ever thought stopping was a good idea? Charlie Almond was a nitwit, that's why. He had quit at someone's request for a time, because he was young and stupid and did things like that back then. Last year he had picked the habit back up with a vengeance, and was happier for it. He was happier with a lot of things, since he'd stopped being Charlie Almond. A heartwarming tale of reinvention, or what the fuck ever.

Outside the Louse, the Loshis night was cold and dark and rain dripped everywhere. Made ponds out of potholes and rivers where gutters should be, catching light here and there where they could. Mostly they couldn't.

Charlie squinted as he exhaled, looking sidelong up at Tom. Couldn't see much in what of the light escaped from the Louse, seeing as he was giant and dark and also Charlie didn't have the best eyesight. Tom was mostly just a shadowy shape next to him, hands in his pockets and not really going anywhere. Charlie shivered in the breeze, his coat more for form than function. Tom looked down at him and Charlie raised his eyebrows at the question.

"I could ask you the same question," Charlie said with a shrug. What did he mean, what was he doing this for? Wasn't it obvious? For fun. Killing time. Expanding his horizons. Following strange, fucked-up looking men with nice hair who were three times his size into the dark. You know, the usual. "You came over to me, not the other way around." Charlie took another drag and tried to think on the question more than that but it was difficult.

"I'm not--destitute, if that's what you're asking. What, haven't you ever met a rich boy with a self-destructive streak before?" Charlie grinned, like his assessment of his own nature wasn't bleak. Just a joke, see? You say with a smile and a shrug and nobody takes you very seriously, which is what he wanted.

Shit was right--if this was how it was going to be... He didn't need pity, or whatever this was. Not from anyone, and certainly not from a man like Tom Cooke. He was fine, just bored. You approached me, he wanted to say again, feeling a flash of peevish irritation. He was going to go home and be bored by himself; he still could, and it looked like he would do so after all. Disappointing, annoying--at least, he consoled himself, he got a drink out of it.

[Tom Cooke]

Outside the Dancing Louse • Voedale

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

A
in’t you never met a drunk tallyboy with a death wish?” he bit off, lip curling. There was a twitching to his smile, now, a nasty hook.

He thought it came out all defensive-sounding. Well, fuck it. A rich boy with a self-destructive streak was exactly how he’d had this Ewing pinned – what’d he told Bass? (Being honest, he couldn’t remember what he’d told Bass, now, but that was neither here nor there.) He’d come over because – because hells, he didn’t know; he’d half-forgot by then that he was the one who’d done it, who’d strode across the bar and straight into that irritating field like a…

He breathed in the smell of smoke mingling with the rain-scent, the slushy, fishy standing water and all the smells leaking out of the bar behind. He’d seen the match spark to life, and now he could see the tip of Ewing’s spur, glowing like a tiny ember in the rain slick dark.

The door to the Louse opened, throwing light over the both of them for a second. He was taking a drag, the ghost of a grin still on his slim, petulant face. His spur between two long, slim fingers, almost ghost-white in the low light.

He thought about the calluses on those delicate fingers; he thought about the lackluster shake, and then pictured the fingertip moving round the rim of the glass, rhythmic, over and over. The back of his neck prickled.

The door creaked shut. The light glinted off a bald head at the top of a big, round, tottering shadow. “‘lioe’s skirts, Tom,” he slurred, hiccup-coughing.

“Fuck you,” snarled Tom. “Fuck off, Bass.”

Was too dark to see the look on his face, but he threw up his hands, then tottered off down the street. Wasn’t long before he’d disappeared. Tom grit his teeth, shrugging his shoulders. Smoke drifted.

Why the fuck’d he wrecked it all? What the fuck was he supposed to be doing? So Ewing didn’t want his sympathy; he didn’t want to give it. What he’d wanted was – what he’d wanted…

The thought of going home now, crawling back to hama drunk after their last – ne, ne.

He shook it off, feeling another spur of anger. Should’ve got a bottle for the road, only he didn’t think Bill’d sell to him. Always too sober, anymore. The first bracing cut of the chill behind him, he felt that itching again, underneath the pounding of his headache. So Ewing was in the mood to get himself killed; the fact that he cared meant he was too godsdamn sober. Well, he could fix that.

In one of his pockets, he could feel the rumpled edge of a pack. Then he groaned softly – empty.

“C’mon, then, toff, let’s self-destruct. I volunteered, didn’t I?” Cursing under his breath, he shrugged again, pulled his coat tighter about him, and made to set off down the street. “You work wi’ those pretty hands of yours, kov,” he grated, starting to grin again, sharp and cold. “Little birdie tells me you got a qalqa. You know what that word means?”

Neither of them’d cared to bring an umbrella, far as he could tell; he reckoned they was both fit to get drenched. Fine with him, he thought, raking a few tangles of wet hair out of his face. He liked to walk in the rain.

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
The Dancing Louse, Voedale

"No, of course I haven't," Charlie shot back just as quick, because he couldn't see Tom's expression in the dark and even if he could have, nothing seemed to put him off so far. He did not, in fact, even know what a "tallyboy" was. It sounded like some kind of slang word for prostitute, but looking at Tom Cooke he didn't really think that was the man's line of work. Possibly--who knew, really? Not Charlie, Charlie didn't know shit and he didn't want to.

So he didn't know what a tallyboy was, and he didn't know anything about Tom Cooke other than his name and that for a man who'd extended the invitation in the first place, he seemed awfully put out by Charlie taking him up on it. That was rude. Charlie thought to open his mouth and tell him so, to tell him that it simply was not done, to be all threatening and mysterious and keep looking at Charlie in that way and then get all annoyed when it worked. Somewhere in between thinking it and opening his mouth, the thought drifted off.

The door opened and lit them all up, and the lakes and the rivers on the street besides. Enough light for Charlie to see Tom's face by, enough light for Charlie to really consider that this was maybe more than he was usually angling for. Tom, at least, didn't look like he was having much fun. Although, Charlie reflected--he hadn't really the whole time, had he? Charlie's grin stayed right where it was, even as he kept on with his cigarette, and as some other drunken lout stumbled out into the street as the door shut again.

Well that wasn't fair, Charlie thought. He might not be a lout. The odds were just distinctly tilted in that direction. Charlie certainly wasn't a lout, though, and he was here. Lots of other things, but "lout" was not the right word for any of that. He rather preferred "libertine", or at least "rake". They had a ring to them, Charlie thought.

"Yeah, fuck off Bass," Charlie echoed cheerfully. Hadn't the faintest fucking clue who Bass was, but he was happy to support the movement. Happy to do lots of things, right now, even though it was dark and cold and raining and he'd forgotten to bring his umbrella or even a hat. Bass fucked off. Good man, that.

They were still just sort of standing about, which was fine with Charlie for the moment. He'd his cigarette to finish, after all, and he couldn't smoke and walk on account of the weather. He wasn't sure he wanted to go anywhere with Tom anymore, if he was going to be all sullen and no fun about it. He was still staring in the dark in the general direction Bass had fucked off towards, smiling but in a way that somehow looked like he was pouting at the same time.

Charlie looked back up in surprise when Tom spoke again, perked right back up again. "That's the spirit! Just let me finish this, eh? Can't exactly smoke and walk with all the..." Charlie gestured lazily at the water that dripped off the overhang in front of them. "I'd offer you one, but, again." Thin shoulders shrugged. He took his last drag and tossed the butt to the street, grinding it under the heel of his boot.

He couldn't help but preen at the compliment. Well, he could help it probably, but he didn't want to. So he liked it when people said nice things to him! There were worse things. "Aww, you think I'm pretty? I'm flattered. No, I have no idea what that means--why would I?" Charlie was happy to trot off into the rain and the dark, too drunk and too high to mind what he would absolutely have complained about any other day. What he might complain about later, honestly, but for now this was all fine fine fine. Self-destruction awaited, after all.

[Tom Cooke]

Dark Streets • Voedale

Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718

I
’ll take you up on that, toff.” Ewing was right; wasn’t much point in lighting a spur the rain’d just put out. And it was coming down hard, now, so hard the leaning buildings weren’t much shelter after all. That thin coat of Ewing’s must’ve been soaked through by the time they hit the street corner, and there was a little ways to go.

Any less cold and he’d’ve stripped off his own by now, and the shirt too. Wasn’t much point in all the extra weight, and he missed the summer rains, anyway – missed the way it’d start getting in Hamis, right on the cusp of Roalis, when the breeze started getting warm and smelling of green things.

It was funny to think of, plastered in the pouring rain, too coward to go home. Rattled round in his head, unwanted but nowhere to go. The blooming of hama’s garden, the bochi playing outside in the Fords. Not too far off, he kept thinking, like it mattered, like there was anything to look forward to.

He’d almost said something out loud – how sick and tired he was of the godsdamn cold, every year – then remembered his company and thought better of it.

He really did want a smoke. Well, they was crossing into the Cat’s Paw, and wherever they found themselves in the end would be dry enough. And he did like the rain, even if he didn’t care for the cold.

Toff seemed pleased enough himself. He snorted. “Oes, kov,” he growled over the rain, “‘fraid it’s that pretty face of yours that’s got you into this trouble. Hazards of takin’ a face like that round Voedale, Ewin’, you never know whose eye you’ll catch.”

He was grinning, now, still half-laughing. There was a distant peal of thunder, and he laughed again. The Louse was just on the edge of the Paw, so a straight shot would’ve been quicker, but he took them round a little; pub not too far off where some of Bran’s boys still drank, and if Ewing was planning on being as breezy belligerent as he’d been all evening, he didn’t much want to get them into that kind of trouble.

He was still grinning, thinking back on the way he’d told Bass to fuck off right after him. Godsdamn, it was less that he had balls and more that he was mung – a mung rich boy, he corrected, with a self-destructive streak. A mung, pretty rich boy. There you go. Well, the mung part didn’t matter much; he was pretty enough to make up for it, and if he got himself killed, it was his own fault, wasn’t it? Nobody’d made him come along. He’d given him his chance to back out.

Why would I? “You got a qalqa. A line of work, kov,” he said. “Three guesses as to mine.”

He snorted again loudly.

“Say you’re a bored rich golly-boch; those hands tell a different story.” He shrugged his big shoulders, not slowing his pace a pina. He stalked cat-quiet for all his size, toe-to-heel, hands still shoved deep in his pockets. He was looking about himself, and not just at Ewing – at every alley they passed, every dark entryway of every dark, creaking house, every window that stirred with movement.

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 18, 2718 - Evening
Nefarious Streets, Voedale

Alioe's tits it was cold, and wet too. Charlie hadn't picked a coat for this; he didn't even think he owned a coat for this, to be quite honest, not anymore. In school he'd just used his uniform cape, and he'd thrown that away as soon as he graduated along with all the rest. Except the hat--he had kept the hat. He looked rather good in the hat. One day he might even take it back out of the box he had stored it in and wear it.

The thin coat he had brought with him only barely kept the cold out. Any awnings there were on their journey towards dissolution provided very little protection from the weather as it was being driven rather sideways towards them instead of falling in a more vertical motion as was proper for rain. Dark fabric made darker by the water clung to his slender frame; if possible, Charlie looked even smaller than he had before. He would have taken it off, cold or not, but the shirt he wore underneath was white and not even he was quite prepared for that level of exposure. Yet.

"Oh, well. When we are somewhere dry then." Charlie had offered the cigarette of course. And he was content to share, on account of how the pack he had on him presently was cheap and reminded him of nothing so much as being fifteen again; he was quite content to be rid of them as quickly as possible. Somehow, he had not expected to be taken up on the offer and was a little put out. Still, he was a man of his word--as long as that wasn't too annoying for him personally.

They kept walking along, Charlie feeling quite cheerfully as if he were about to do something terribly stupid. "You don't even know the half of it," he chirped. My but he was feeling smug; at least Tom had eyes, even if he seemed rather generally to veer between being fun and being a bit of a wet blanket. "It is a trial and a burden, being an object of such admirable loveliness." Charlie's grin turned into a proper sort of laugh that didn't stop when thunder sounded somewhere in the distance.

"Sometimes it pays off though," he added on a whim, his shoulder getting drenched by a sudden deluge of water as they crossed between two buildings. Charlie had never been to this part of the Rose, not yet at least. He wondered if he could find his way home, and then resolved to leave that problem for future Charlie. Future Charlie was ever the keeper of his responsibilities and considerations.

"A line of--oh is that what it means? Why didn't you just say so." That was the problem with talking to the lower races, Charlie felt, although mostly wicks and not humans like this one--a refusal to speak plain Estuan. He suspected they mostly did it to be aggravating. At least in this case.

Charlie looked up at Tom again, as best he could in the dark. There was light, here and there, from an oil lantern hung hopefully outside of a door, or spilling from a window. Mostly it was just darkness and damp, making every alley seem a shadowy and nefarious passage into an untimely end. That might have made him cautious. Problem was, when they all appeared nefarious, Charlie simply couldn't work up the will to care. Simply background noise, atmosphere. Ambiance.

"Tallyboy" had been what Tom had said he was, and Charlie didn't know what that meant. A description of a person, of an occupation? A disposition? He knew what it sounded like, but somehow he couldn't quite convince himself that this was the man's line of work. Nor could he entirely rule it out, but he kept that to himself. There was no telling if the big fellow would find it insulting and decide to swing into a less fun mood again. Something about the way he moved--he was much, much quieter than Charlie, despite being approximately three times the galdor's size.

"A dancer, with the royal company," was his first guess, breezy and flippant. Not worried about insulting Tom now, because now he was clearly doing it on purpose instead of by accident. "No? Hmm. How about... day labor, of some kind? Construction, that sort of thing." That guess was more sincere, and Charlie paused to see if he was right or wrong. Not that, then. Charlie thought again, before his mind got quite tired of thinking and simply said: "I don't know. Serial killer. How should I know?"

If that one was the correct answer, Charlie would have to decide what to do, and he wasn't sure he was prepared. One ran that risk, he supposed, being in the Rose.

At the mention of his hands, Charlie had curled them into fists self-consciously inside of his pockets. He remembered the awful awkwardness of shaking Tom's hand at the bar. He had been negligent with taking care of them since leaving school. It was starting to show, evidently. Charlie hummed in assent. No point in denying what was true; lying was too much effort.

"Ah, saw through me! Well, if you must know, you are looking at a mechanic--a rather good one, if I do say so myself. I work on engines, specifically." Or he would, eventually. That wasn't a lie, it just wasn't true yet. Charlie had some difficulty finding a steady job so far, but he was sure he would soon enough. He wouldn't be doing this itinerant piecemeal work forever. "I can be both," he said after a pause, "I am a man of hidden depths, Mr. Cooke. Contain multitudes. Et cetera. Fucking tits it's cold."

The last he added after a particularly strident wind cut across, making Charlie's shivering renew itself. He did sort of hope that wherever it was they were going wasn't too far off; his head was muddled, sliding from sensation to sensation. Most of those sensations were, at the current moment, unpleasant.