The question had been somewhat rhetorical; he knew he'd told neither of them this particular story. At least, he was fairly certain—he'd told them each a slightly different set of stories on their own, and hadn't told them this one together as a group.
"Just so," he agreed as Baz put his hands in his pockets. Charlie had already started walking, moving steadily in the general direction of their next destination without much of a wobble in his step despite the three drinks he'd had already. He felt all over much better than he had before those, warm and a little fuzzy around the edges. His coat was unbuttoned, despite the chill. The night air that cut across still had a bite to it, this time of year. It was pleasantly bracing just now; in an hour's time he'd be grumbling with his hands deep in his pockets, perhaps, but that was later.
Or maybe he wouldn't be grumbling at all—it rather depended on how the joint in his cigarette case suited him, when he got around to it. He thought he'd finish his story first, then offer. He thought Chrysanthe would take it, but he wasn't so sure about Baz. Maybe. Fucking someone on their birthday didn't precisely give you a deep insight into their character. Perhaps he was less proper than he seemed. One never knew.
"It started," he intoned, turning around backwards to look at them while he walked, each step easy and comfortable, "with a rather unfortunate decision to try my hand at cards. I'm not much of Rooks player," he wound on, voice settling into the story, only turning around after it was well underway. The trail of smoked followed him, and his breath too.
The neighborhood was changing in character gradually as they went on, Charlie animatedly telling a story about losing at a round of cards he'd over-bet on, running away, and then getting gloriously drunk. It was a subtle shift from the moderate levels of respectability of this part of Cantile to increasingly lower levels as they got further towards Sharkswell. Charlie paid very little attention to it, too used to all of it to care. He just kept on steadily with his story. He must have run into a sailor, at some point, because he'd woken up on the boat.
"If I'd slept much longer, I don't know if I'd be standing here today. I can't swim, you know." Charlie grinned, tossing the look over his shoulder. He had finished the last of his cigarette, and they were almost out of Cantile and into Sharkswell proper. Now, he thought, was a good time to pause for something else. Charlie stopped, leaning against a stretch of wall. He waved Chrysanthe and Baz over, looking particularly pleased with himself.
He opened his cigarette case with a flourish, the joint obvious next to his cheap cigarettes. "Ta-da! I have a bonus." Whatever their reaction was, Charlie wasn't to be deterred. He pulled it out and put in his mouth, freeing up his hands to both put the case away and get out his matches. He struck one; it didn't catch. Frustrating. The third time it did, though, and he lit up. Charlie, of course, happily filled his own lungs first before holding it out to his two companions.
"I did promise fun," he said cheerfully. He knew fun, and he was going to prove it.
