The Canalworks • The Cat's Paw
Evening on the 18th of Loshis, 2718
G
ood, then, the toff’d said, same way you’d say boemo, breathless between kisses.
Mung, Tom kept thinking, this time almost admiringly. Being honest, he didn’t know what he’d wanted, if not this. Wouldn’t’ve been the first time he picked up some macha kov at a bar in Voedale or Redwine or anywhere on the east side, for all they wasn’t usually gollies like this one; he’d been looking for a distraction anyway, and now he’d found one, and cutting to the chase should’ve been – was – it was a flooding relief.
Charlie stopped. So did Tom, fingertips still curled in the fabric of his coat. He looked back; Ipadi’d stirred, poured himself from where he’d leaned on the bar. He was standing closer to the toff now, a whirl of red sage smoke leaking between his lips.
This time, Ipadi did grin, and a fair mant manna grin it was. Behind him, Nevio was stifling a laugh, scratching at his jaw. “Wo chet,” Arlo scoffed from behind the bar.
“Boemo,” shrugged Ipadi, grinning at Tom, “ye’ll find out.”
Enough. Tom shook his head, a laoso grin curling his own lip. He looked at the toff a moment more, with that crooked-tooth grin, a flush spreading over his thin, pale face. Then he laughed, and laughed harder; he grabbed his old coat a pina more roughly, setting off again into the dark.
The ceiling in the corridor – if you could call it that; the walls had a funny cramped inward tilt, a flimsiness – was low as the door to the street, and Tom had to duck his head again. Where the hall ended a few paces off, peeling wallpaper and worn plaster, the noise of muted voices drifted in from somewhere, and running water even more muffled. There was one other narrow door in the hall, shut; Tom pushed open the one that stood ajar, from which the light leaked.
The room was fair small, cluttered with spitch of various sorts in one corner, but not laoso; there were a couple of cots and more cushions scattered in the floor. The light was coming from a small lit phosphor lamp on a table, the tiniest blue glow, half-shuttered.
He didn’t shut the door behind; he didn’t know, after all, if he was enough of a man for Charlie Ewing. His lip twisted again, and he turned.
In the low light, the sharp edges of his pale face were soft; he reached out and ran his thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone. The low blue light caught one of his eyes, glinted in his short dark hair, though the bulk of his coat bled into its shadow against the wall behind.
There wasn’t much room in here, but he wasn’t sure he was complaining. He bent again to kiss the toff, this time as forcefully as the first – as lingeringly as the second – and broke away, but let his lips trail along his jaw.
“Say somethin’ in that golly accent of yours,” he grated, feeling the anger and the bitter and the sad inside him wrestling, turning into something else, “tell me you think I ain’t man enough…” He could hear his pulse rushing in his ears as he reached to work at Ewing’s belt, as he started to sink lower.
ood, then, the toff’d said, same way you’d say boemo, breathless between kisses.
Mung, Tom kept thinking, this time almost admiringly. Being honest, he didn’t know what he’d wanted, if not this. Wouldn’t’ve been the first time he picked up some macha kov at a bar in Voedale or Redwine or anywhere on the east side, for all they wasn’t usually gollies like this one; he’d been looking for a distraction anyway, and now he’d found one, and cutting to the chase should’ve been – was – it was a flooding relief.
Charlie stopped. So did Tom, fingertips still curled in the fabric of his coat. He looked back; Ipadi’d stirred, poured himself from where he’d leaned on the bar. He was standing closer to the toff now, a whirl of red sage smoke leaking between his lips.
This time, Ipadi did grin, and a fair mant manna grin it was. Behind him, Nevio was stifling a laugh, scratching at his jaw. “Wo chet,” Arlo scoffed from behind the bar.
“Boemo,” shrugged Ipadi, grinning at Tom, “ye’ll find out.”
Enough. Tom shook his head, a laoso grin curling his own lip. He looked at the toff a moment more, with that crooked-tooth grin, a flush spreading over his thin, pale face. Then he laughed, and laughed harder; he grabbed his old coat a pina more roughly, setting off again into the dark.
The ceiling in the corridor – if you could call it that; the walls had a funny cramped inward tilt, a flimsiness – was low as the door to the street, and Tom had to duck his head again. Where the hall ended a few paces off, peeling wallpaper and worn plaster, the noise of muted voices drifted in from somewhere, and running water even more muffled. There was one other narrow door in the hall, shut; Tom pushed open the one that stood ajar, from which the light leaked.
The room was fair small, cluttered with spitch of various sorts in one corner, but not laoso; there were a couple of cots and more cushions scattered in the floor. The light was coming from a small lit phosphor lamp on a table, the tiniest blue glow, half-shuttered.
He didn’t shut the door behind; he didn’t know, after all, if he was enough of a man for Charlie Ewing. His lip twisted again, and he turned.
In the low light, the sharp edges of his pale face were soft; he reached out and ran his thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone. The low blue light caught one of his eyes, glinted in his short dark hair, though the bulk of his coat bled into its shadow against the wall behind.
There wasn’t much room in here, but he wasn’t sure he was complaining. He bent again to kiss the toff, this time as forcefully as the first – as lingeringly as the second – and broke away, but let his lips trail along his jaw.
“Say somethin’ in that golly accent of yours,” he grated, feeling the anger and the bitter and the sad inside him wrestling, turning into something else, “tell me you think I ain’t man enough…” He could hear his pulse rushing in his ears as he reached to work at Ewing’s belt, as he started to sink lower.
