[Closed] [Mature] Our Young Faces

[Tom Cooke]

Bayley’s, sans Bessy

Too Loud an Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

N
ot just the people, he wanted to say. The lights, those seemed too damned loud, too; he was grateful to be indoors, because the sky had itself been something like a scream. Snow was loud. The prickling in his skin as feeling crept back into it, the damp of melting snow in his eyebrows, was also very loud. He sniffed and cleared his throat, and that was deafening. The hiss of frying oil and the smells might’ve been loud, too, but they were a sort of loud he thought he could manage, if only for the sake of something warm to put in his gullet.

There was a pipe in his hands; he wasn’t sure when it’d come back to him, or how, but he was grateful for it. He took a draw, steadying himself on it.

He’d a faint recollection of the night before, of thinking whatever in the hell was in this blend wasn’t t’vårue. Well, whatever in the hell last night had been hadn’t been his usual blend, either, and he’d been sober enough by the end of it. Whatever it was, it was taking the edge off same as it’d done then, and loosening him up in ways he resolved not to think too hard about.

I am adorable, Charlie agreed, and he snorted.

But it wasn’t Charlie’s usual blend of expressions he saw, either, looking back over at him through a whirl of smoke. It hadn’t been for some time. His mind wandered not altogether unpleasantly, thinking of him swollen-eyed and tousle-haired, the pillow crease still drawn across his cheek – his mind stumbled over its own feet and shook itself, shivering. He frowned, his brow furrowing. There was a wallet in Charlie’s hands, and he was looking down into it; he couldn’t see what was inside from here, but the expression told him all he might’ve needed to know.

Beth shifted, impatient, nodding at Charlie and nodding again. Three eggs; he raised his brows, glancing over Charlie, unsure why he felt oddly impressed. Nothing like meat, he noticed grimly, thinking again of the wallet.

Whatever the lucky toff wants. He snorted again, almost coughing on the smoke, waving it away languidly. It was so funny he could’ve laughed again. All that ging Anatole had, and he might as well have been broke. Thank you, darling, he almost said.

“And what does the lucky toff want?”

“Eggs,” he blurted out, then cleared his throat. “Uh – scrambled,” he went on, “two – no, three – two. With, uh, cheese, and – a lot of cheese…” He tapped his finger on the table, squinting down. “Hashed potatoes,” he said, “for me, too.”

“How sweet. Boemo,” Beth said, shrugging. “Damn me, I’ll let Bayley figure this one out. Anything with that?” She waved away a tendril of smoke.

“Tea,” he said, sitting up a little. “Black tea.”

“Boemo.” She went, and only cast a glance over her shoulder; he could hear her yelling to the back as she darted behind the bar.

He looked down at the gleaming tabletop, tapping it again. He took another draw on the pipe, then traced his fingertip across, watching the oil come away in a line. He traced out another line to join it, idly, and another, finding the place where two circles met. A line down, a line through it…

A wince spasmed across his face; he was looking at half a clairvoyant invocation. He scribbled through it, coughing on another draw, then went to pass the pipe back.

“Circle clock, what is in this? I already feel better,” he admitted, grimacing and glancing up. “I’ve another damned soirée,” he lisped, ssttthoir-eee, “to go to this evening. I do hope you’ll let me keep some of this shit for later. If I ask nicely?”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - Too Early For This
Bayley's Cafe, Cantile

Charlie chose to ignore that snort at the mention of his adorability. He'd meant it to be funny, but something still annoyed him. As if, he thought to himself peevishly, as if there was any doubt. He knew what he was, and he wasn't about to let some people make him pretend otherwise. He was rewarded anyway when he passed the metaphorical ordering baton across the table and another one almost turned into a choking cough.

He couldn't tell if the order had been downgraded back to two eggs in deference to appetite or budget. Charlie chose to believe it was the former; his heel tapped on the floor a couple more times, thinking on the latter. It was fine. This was all fine—the rent being a couple of days late never hurt anyone. And he still had... well a week or so to pick up another job. That was perfectly doable. Yeah. He wasn't going to think about it anymore.

Cheese, though. He hadn't considered cheese. He should have, and he regretted it, but not enough to change his order. The idea of another "how sweet" from Beth made his skin crawl in a way he couldn't quite identify. And unidentified skin crawlings, much like his rent, were problems for another time. Beth moved off, barely sparing them a backwards glance; as he slouched forward he could hear her yelling to the kitchen in the back. And feel it, too, in all the places where he hurt.

His eyes dropped as he leaned onto his elbows to watch the path his fingers traced in the grease of the tabletop. He didn't mean to, but he couldn't seem to stop doing it either. Just too hazy, now, to fight it. A line, and then a loop, and then— And then it was scratched out, abruptly. Charlie looked up. The pipe was being held back out to him again. For a moment he hesitated, but he waved it off.

"I have absolutely no idea," he admitted with as much cheer as he was really capable of at this hour, "I never ask." This wasn't his best habit, but it was firmly established as precedent and he saw no reason to change now. He was still alive and more or less unharmed, wasn't he? A few close calls here and there—but what was life without those? Boring, that's what.

The lisp on "soirée" made a sharp smile twitch across his face. Oh, and will you ask nicely? How nicely is that? I could be convinced, he bit his tongue on. He almost said no, too, but in the end he didn't think he needed the souvenir.

"You paid for it," he pointed out mildly. He raised his eyebrows, two thin dark arches of pity. He was also the one who was going to need it; Charlie had no such problem. He was done with high society for the foreseeable future. "And keep the pipe too, if you want. I certainly don't care."

Charlie drummed his fingers on the table once, eyes flicking up to the door as it opened again. A woman entered, harried-looking and not quite dressed for the weather, with a child firmly attached to each hand. Charlie frowned; they were young. That meant loud. The mother had started to a table, but the children pulled her to the counter and he could see her only briefly contemplate fighting against them. She took the seat the other woman had vacated, in fact, when he had come to sit at the table. There was a twitch on her face when she looked over at them, but she smoothed it over quickly enough.

"Fuck," he muttered, and hunched forward just that much more.

[Tom Cooke]

Bayley’s, sans Bessy

Too Loud an Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

T
he lad hesitated for a moment, but he grunted when Charlie waved the pipe away, shrugging and putting it back to his lips. He thought he’d caught eyes following the motions of his finger; it prickled at him in a way he couldn’t quite grasp, slurry and strange. He took another draw stubbornly, telling himself it was easing his nerves well enough. “It’s good, whatever it is.”

Never ask, he thought, another tendril of smoke drifting out between them. Is that your philosophy with regard to everything? he got the urge to ask; it’s certainly been your approach, he thought wryly, with me.

Well, for the most part, he thought less wryly. For the rest –

His head felt like the cabin of a ship. (The brig, maybe; what do we do with a drunken…) He wasn’t sure if it was the hour or the lighting, the glow seeping through the dirty glass of the oil lamp behind, diffused through steam and smoke; or the smoke itself, playing with his head.

There was an edge to Charlie’s languid drawl; it was sharper, too. So was the slash of a smile on his thin lips when he spoke again, and the arc of his lovely dark eyebrows, a pitying expression. He found himself wondering if he plucked them, before he wrenched his attention back.

There was an edge of red to one of Charlie’s eyes, a few creeping veins. He glanced down at the tug of his thin lips, and the two freckles, and then down to the stained cuff of his shirt. Those pale fingers drummed on the table, marionette-abrupt.

I couldn’t possibly take the pipe, he wanted to say, mock-insistent, but something about his expression when he’d looked into the wallet stopped him. Oh, I paid for it in full, did I? he wanted to say, and that sat awkwardly in his mouth, too.

“I shall cherish it,” he said with another wry, easy smile. He took another draw, blew out smoke, and shifted in his seat, shifted in the other man’s shirt and trousers, the braces that sat so familiar-unfamiliarly on his shoulders.

It was a cold draught and a whirl of light and snowflakes caught him; Charlie was frowning in the corner of his eye. He looked back over the cafe.

He couldn’t help the twitch of a smile, and a little concern knit his brow. Hair was slipping loose from the pile of dark on the nattle’s head, and the little lass’ was even more wild; the two of them were a pair of big, curious hazel eyes. She looked harried, and at the glance in their direction, he looked away sharply. Fuck, said Charlie, and slumped forward.

He grunted himself, shrugging; he was frowning now, too, or close enough.

“Mum,” he heard a whisper: “mum, I want eggs.”

“An’ you’ll have them, Ollie,” came the nattle’s low voice.

“Egg!” giggled a voice. “Egg, egg, egg… eggeggegg –“

“Ollie!”

“Mummy, I want eggs, too!”

“We’ll all have eggs this time, lad.”

“I’m hungry!”

The lad’s sharp voice sent a twitch flickering up one side of his face. He shut his eyes, running a hand through the cowlicked mess of his hair.

The nattle was whispering something sharply to both bochi; he couldn’t hear. “... Stay put,” a little louder, “an’ you’ll get your eggs, but mummy’s got to…”

He barely got his elbow out of the way when Beth slammed a teapot and two cups down on the table, one cracked at the lip, the other battered metal. She set down a creamer, then, but the whiff he caught of the milk didn’t reassure him. “Thank, uh,” he mumbled, glancing up, but Beth was already gone.

The smell twisted something in him: burnt-dark leaves, oversteeped already; he could almost taste the bitterness clinging to his tongue.

In the corner of his eye, something was missing. The nattle, he realized. The lad was perched on one of the stools, elbows on the counter, half-slipping off; he saw the lass tug his suspenders. “John,” he heard, “John, look.” The babble of bochi-talk cut off abruptly, and he could see two pairs of eyes turned in their direction.

There was a whisper.

“I ain’t gonna, Ollie, I ain’t.”

“Egg,” came the lass’ voice, louder, with all the strength of an insult. “Egg, egg, egg.”

Strong black tea seemed to him at that moment the next best thing to yats, and he took up the pot without a moment’s hesitation, trying to ignore the bochi.

There was no point ignoring them. By the time he’d got both cups poured, the bochi’d crept, silent-terrified, into field range. The lad straggled behind; the lass came right up to the edge of their table, ten little fingers on the edge, staring between him and Charlie with wide eyes. And stayed there, staring, silent.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - Too Early For This
Bayley's Cafe, Cantile

Children. Why did it have to be children? Especially plural. Charlie wasn't the biggest fan of children even in the singular, hungover or not. So of course there were two of them, one of each type, and of course they sat at the bar near him. Because why not? What better to add to this perfect, idyllic morning than two noisy brats?

Anatole smiled at their entrance, which surprised Charlie a little. Just one more for the pile, but he really hadn't thought of him as a man particularly fond of children. Not fond enough to smile at their appearance, anyway. He had two of them, Charlie supposed (really not good at not thinking about that), but that was just what one did. It had very little to do with whether or not one actually liked children, in his experience.

This lot had started out reasonably quiet, and Charlie had almost let himself relax. Almost. Until the giggling started; that rarely was a good sign in this sort of thing. One could possibly argue that happy children were better to be near than unhappy ones, but since they both seemed to involve shrieking, Charlie couldn't really see how the state of their mood mattered. As if on cue, the boy raised his thin little voice at just the right pitch and volume to send a lance of pain through his head. Charlie scowled at the table.

The scowl shifted from the table to Beth as she came over and slammed a teapot down in her abrupt way. And two cups. Charlie had wanted coffee, which was nowhere to be seen. Beth moved off the moment he opened his mouth; Charlie spent a moment thinking he would shout after her, but gave it up as a pointless effort. Maybe she'd remember later. He could dream, couldn't he?

The coffee here wasn't good, but the tea was worse, and was less effective besides. Steeping it longer didn't make it more so, although that seemed to be the guiding principle. Maybe he'd take some anyway—he needed something to do with his hands. To take his mind off of the—

Now, hold on. There was actually less child-noise than he'd expected. Less than there had been a moment before, in fact. Some whispering, and then—no, there was the noise again. This time from the girl one, although he wasn't sure. He wasn't looking and children all sounded the same at this age, anyway. Looked the same, too, except for how they were dressed.

It got quiet again. Charlie looked over, only to find they were much, much closer. Too close; surely they'd come close enough now to think they ought to stay away. But no, of course not. The girl child had come bold-as-you-please up to their table, staring at the both of them with wide, round eyes. That was the other thing with brats—they did love to stare.

Charlie stared back, doing his best to look imposing. It was hard, dressed like this, slouched over the table. He clearly didn't manage, because those eyes stayed fixed on them both. Yet another thing he didn't like about children, Charlie thought with a twinge of renewed irritation, was that if you told them to fuck off, people tended to look at you like you were the one in the wrong.

"Go away," he offered instead, making a sort of shooing motion with his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he started looking for their keeper. Surely she couldn't be too far off. One would hope.

[Tom Cooke]

Bayley’s, sans Bessy

Too Loud an Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

Y
ou could’ve painted a godsdamn portrait of him. If he’d looked the sour, hungover sort of sleeping prince in bed, he looked sourer now. His thin lips were a dark twist, and his eyes cold as the sky was pale; he looked like somebody’d pissed in his coffee, or else drained a handful of years off the end of his life.

He’d seen the exact moment the lad’s voice had driven a stake through the mechanic’s head, because he felt it himself. Twin winces.

But – she’s just a boch, he wanted to say, a little peevish. He didn’t like bochi, he told himself – firmly – but that didn’t mean he approved scowling at them. He’d tried to get his own mind off it with the tea; at least they were being quiet now, and he’d no doubt mum would be back soon from wherever she’d gone. He’d glanced over once, and then back at his tea, trying not to encourage her. Charlie was scowling right at her over the side of the table.

A whirl of steam came up from the cup he’d poured, drifting in the musty air. The boy had come no closer to the table; he was at the edge of their fields – just enough, he thought, to feel them. The lass was right in the middle, and seemed utterly undeterred by Charlie’s grimace.

That face, he thought with a snort, didn’t always do him favors. He was pretty even scowling, even bloodshot-eyed and cowlick-haired; or maybe there was something about that sour twist of his pretty face. He’d thought so last night – that acid, petulant edge of his – godsdamn, but Ten’s shit was doing something to his head. He grunted, setting the pipe aside, and took the warm cup in both his cold hands. He blew through the steam, watching the too-dark water ripple.

Go away, Charlie said eventually, waving one pale hand.

Estuan did not hold the weight of monite, and nor were bochi so easily reached as the mona. The lass stayed fair still, big round eyes still fixed on Charlie. Her lips were set solemn at first, but a small smile twitched at them.

“Ollie,” hissed the lad from behind, as if they couldn’t hear him. “Ollie, they’re gollykind.”

“I ain’t blind, John.”

“Uh – listen…”

“I don’t think,” the little lass said to Charlie in a quavering voice, “you’re as mean as you look.”

He pressed the heel of his hand to one eye against the slamming pressure of his headache, tapping his fingertips on the side of his mug. “Oh, he’s even meaner,” he slurred, sighing. “Listen, look at me, look at me – where’s your mum?” When he’d got her attention, he tried to soften his voice; he tried something like a kind smile, through the throb of his headache.

The lass shrugged.

“Ollie,” hissed the boy.

“You look mean, too.” The girl pouted. “You look fair mean.”

“Yes, I do. Especially this time of the morning.” He sighed, starting to push himself up from the table, ignoring the prickling of dread that’d started up at the back of his neck. “You’re a good lass, come on; you’ll get in trouble with your mum, if she finds you –”

“Why’re you dressed like that?” she cut across him, looking back at Charlie suddenly, jabbing a finger at his work shirt. “You’re too pretty to be a mechanic.” She paused. “Are you magic? Mum says real golly folk don’t eat food like us. Do you eat eggs? Do you cast spells?”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - Too Early For This
Bayley's Cafe, Cantile

One of the precious little moppets, the girl one who had come so boldly to the table, was staring at him. Even after Charlie had waved her off. The problem with being so lovely and attractive, he thought mournfully, was sometimes it attracted the wrong sort. Like little girls, evidently. The smile on her face did not bode well for this interaction.

Not as mean as he looked. Charlie's thin mouth had started to pull into a sneer even before Anatole stepped in. He shot a sort of withering look across the table; just what was that supposed to mean? Charlie couldn't tell if he was supposed to be insulted or not. "Oh am I now?" he muttered sulkily.

That was a good question though. Just where was their mother? Shouldn't she be, oh, keeping an eye on them? Charlie had, of course, escaped his minders many a time as a small boy—but that was different than just being left to sit on his own in a restaurant, free to roam about and bother innocent mechanics trying to have a hangover in peace.

Charlie knew he shouldn't encourage the rugrat by laughing. He did it anyway when she turned her wide-eyed gaze onto Anatole and declared him fair mean-looking. It was more of a spiteful sort of cackle than a laugh, really. Charlie wasn't sure he wanted to be the less intimidating of the pair of them, but it amused him anyway. See where trying to be nice to children got you? Insulted, that's where.

The other man was coming to a stand for reasons Charlie couldn't quite fathom. To hand them off to their keeper, he supposed. The boy seemed to have more common sense, standing just at the edge of field range. He kept hissing at his sister, to no avail. She was, it seemed, the more headstrong of the pair. Just his luck.

His eyebrows shot up as the girl pointed at him, demanding to know why he was dressed the way he was. A question not at all leveraged at the other man, which Charlie didn't quite know how to take. The compliment didn't mean quite as much coming from a little girl, of course, although he found himself slightly warming to her. Very slightly. At least she had eyes, which was a good quality to have. Even if nobody seemed to have told her that children were meant to be seen and not heard—if even seen at all. Preferably, neither.

"Yes," he said simply, not bothering to elaborate on which bit he meant, "I am." He almost rolled his eyes at that second bit though. Honestly, the sort of nonsense... "And yes, I do."

"Although," he said, his face curving into joyless sort of smile as he looked down his narrow nose at her, "I think you'd best listen to my horrible friend over here, before I change my mind—noisy children aren't off the menu either." Charlie snapped his teeth at her, doing his best to look sincere. He might have felt sillier saying it, but she'd started it. Did they eat food? No, he was just here for the charming atmosphere and delightful interactions with underaged clientele. Clearly.

[Tom Cooke]

Bayley’s, sans Bessy

Too Loud an Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

C
harlie had shot him a sulky look from under those thick dark lashes. He’d just raised an eyebrow back, sharp, already coming to a stand.

That wicked laugh was like a chisel to his skull. He reckoned he deserved it, after that. He threw another sharp glance at Charlie, up and over through the tendril of smoke still curling up from the pipe.

You certainly, he got the urge to blurt out, didn’t seem to think I looked too mean last night. A smile twitched at his lips, barely-suppressed. He managed to bite it back; not in front of the boch, he chid himself. He wasn’t hungover – or high – or moony, though maybe he was nearing it – for that.

He was enough of both that the act of looking over made his head spin. The room swam. He managed to hold himself upright against the table.

Charlie looked like nothing so much as a cat that’s just been grabbed by a boch. He could imagine it fair well, a pair of sticky little hands lifting him up, claws digging into the carpet and a lazy growl bubbling up in his throat.

He almost felt bad, put that way. The lass didn’t seem to be getting the picture, as bochi often didn’t. Her round dark eyes just got rounder and darker, and now she’d wiggled herself up closer, firmly on Charlie’s side of the table. She nodded once, intent, as if to say, I knew it. I knew you were magic.

Although, Charlie went on, and he felt the first burrowings of dread. He opened his mouth, reached out a hand; he stopped short of touching her shoulder, hesitant.

He frowned at horrible friend, then frowned even deeper. The lass gasped and flinched back at the snapping of Charlie’s teeth.

He groaned audibly. “Come on,” he grunted, and he wasn’t sure if it was to the lass or to Charlie. Children, he wanted to add. He glanced up; he could hear heavy footfalls, and he caught a whiff of fried potatoes.

“It’s not true!” the lass gasped, loud enough one of the old men in factory uniforms at the bar looked over his shoulder. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “You don’t eat children. I’m too cute to eat.”

“Don’t encourage him,” he mumbled.

He jolted, startled, when Beth squeezed in round the lass to put two plates roughly down on the table.

The clang was like a fist against his skull; he stifled a groan, but found himself blinking down at three yolks, and a steaming hash of potatoes – burnt round the edges – and melted sharp cheese. He breathed it in and found his eyes prickling. One of Charlie’s yolks had broken, and a little of it had trickled off onto the plate, pooling round the steaming hash.

Wordless, Beth juggled out a steaming cup of coffee, nearly spilling some over the rim as she set it down in front of Charlie. It was almost as dark as his hair, and a few grounds floated in it.

He almost said something to her about the boch, but she waved him off, departing swiftly to another table with another plate balanced on one shoulder.

“All right, lass,” he said a little more firmly, angling for authoritative, clearing his throat. He reached out and touched her shoulder lightly.

“Ollie! John!” The frazzled woman swept back in, wide-eyed and paler than before, half gathering the lad into her skirts and grabbing the lass’ arm. When she came into the range of their fields, she startled.

“Mum,” she whined. “The pretty man snapped at me.”

“I’m sorry, sirs,” she said, “I’m fair sorry,” bowing her head, a few more locks coming loose. All the factory workers were looking, now. One of them, about the size he’d been in life, baggy sleeves rolled up to reveal immensely hairy, muscled forearms, was raising a thick eyebrow.

“Uh, don’t – uh, worry, madam.” He sank hesitantly back down into his seat, inclining his head. With another bow, the woman bundled up the children – the lass still whining, sticking her tongue out at Charlie over her shoulder – and was moving back toward the opposite side of the bar. One of the men got up and offered her a seat.

The factory workers were still looking at them.

He cleared his throat, reaching for his tea again. He burned his tongue and coughed. “To eggs, then?” he muttered, raising his cup half-heartedly.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - Too Early For This
Bayley's Cafe, Cantile

The dreadful shriek of disbelief cut right through him; Charlie all but hissed at the miserable combination of pitch and volume. Those dark eyes were the size of dinner plates, so great was the little girl's shock. And the groan—Charlie had just barely managed to bite his tongue on a she started it. That would have been childish, even if it was true. Which it was, and she did.

He hadn't really thought she'd scream about it so much. Maybe, just maybe, the teeth had been too much. Still. None of this would have happened if she'd just gone away, would it have? No. This was why he didn't like children. No medium settings for anything. Charlie wasn't so great a fan of moderation himself, but there was a time and a place. So he'd been told, anyway; he didn't recall that he had listened to that particularly well at this age, either. Better, he thought dubiously.

Encouragement or not, he wasn't really here to entertain small children. So that was really unnecessary; what else was he going to do? Nothing, that's what. It's not like he'd start—shouting at her, or something. To say nothing of how he didn't think he had the will for it, that kind of thing didn't tend to play well in a crowd. Not that he cared, but he hadn't exactly missed the looks from some of the other diners when the brat had yelped.

He did snort, shrugging shoulders softened by the drape of his work shirt and leaning back. Too cute to eat, was she? "Awfully certain, aren't we? I—Alioe's tits, Beth." His threat was lost, swallowed up under the clatter of plates set down just a bit too firmly. A displeased sort of snarl had been making its way to his mouth, but that too was lost because she'd also brought his coffee.

Charlie darted out one pale hand, ignoring the eggs in favor of what he knew was a particularly nasty and effective way to cure what ailed him. He paused only to put three sugars in it; it was hot, too hot, and bitter as anything even with all the sugar in it, but he didn't care. He swallowed it down as quickly as he could, draining a third of it before he set down the cup again with a little sigh.

Blessings upon blessings, because by the time he had set his cup down the woman he assumed was their mother was back. He didn't straighten in his seat but remained slouched with that equally slouched grin making its way back to his face now that the menace was to be removed and he had his coffee and eggs. He was feeling terribly magnanimous.

They were certainly a spectacle, though. Charlie wasn't quite used to being so much of one—not here, not dressed like this. His foot tapped against the floor, a rapid little tattoo. It seemed louder than he'd expected—the weight of the boots, he thought absently. The crawling feeling wasn't helped by hearing Anatole call the mother madam in the midst of her apologies. That was... certainly not any stranger than the rest of this, he thought. Which was all very strange. Fine, and he didn't care what odd little habits the man had picked up since, shit, Charlie couldn't remember how long it had been.

Being overly polite to bedraggled human mothers was surely not any weirder than— Yeah, whatever. It was the incongruity of the moment that made Charlie not think twice about sticking his tongue out at the little girl as her mother carried her away, boy clinging to her skirts. Most of the eyes had turned away from them, but a few remained. Charlie was suddenly, sourly appreciative of the fact that he didn't often come out during factory-worker-breakfast hours.

"Enjoy the show, won't you?" he mumbled to himself, reaching for his coffee again. Tap-tap-tap. Not that it mattered what some aged factory men thought of him. Or anyone else but himself, for that matter. He just didn't like the thought of hassle in the future. That was all.

Charlie tore his eyes away from their rapt audience at the sound of Anatole clearing his throat. Charlie raised his eyebrows and his coffee cup both languidly, like he couldn't possibly care less about any of this. Which, of course, he couldn't. "And hot drinks," he added with a twist of his mouth. For a moment he hesitated, thinking he ought to say something else—anything else. But what? It wasn't like they had much to talk about, sober(ish) and in the light of day.

No point in worrying about it, then. There were eggs to eat, and he was far too hungry to care about much beyond that when he looked at them. Charlie broke open the yolk of his eggs with the side of his fork—they were slightly overcooked, and he didn't care about that either—and started studiously mixing the hash potatoes into the sticky yellow of them, combining egg and potato together before starting to shovel it into his mouth. Too salty, he thought cheerfully, and absolutely greasy enough. He felt better already.

[Tom Cooke]

Bayley’s, sans Bessy

Too Loud an Hour on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

C
harlie stuck his tongue out back at the lass.

He stifled a snort. It came on him unexpectedly; he should’ve been exasperated – should’ve been a hell of a lot of things – and maybe it was the splitting headache, or the way his stomach twisted itself up awful at every whiff of eggs and tea. But he snorted, and then he laughed, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, shaking his head.

He rolled his aching shoulders and sighed. He didn’t look over at the natt at the bar, but he could see them still in the corner of his eye. The big man was still looking; even if he hadn’t seen him, he thought he could’ve felt his eyes poking into him like chips of flint. A skinny towhead was smoking beside him and kept nudging him and waving a hand brusquely, and he heard a sharp whisper of, C’mon, it ain’t worth it.

Enjoy the show, won’t you? he heard Charlie mumble. That long-fingered hand went for the chipped old mug again. “Well,” he blurted out, half-sighing, “there’s plenty to enjoy,” glancing over the other man with a lift of his brows.

Tap, tap, tap, went the work boots on the floor. He watched Charlie through the haze of his headache and the curl of smoke that was coming up from the pipe.

It was only for a moment, when they toasted; he had an odd feeling like he wanted to keep the image in his head, like he wanted to puzzle through one last thing, though he knew that was the last thing he ought to have done.

It was there, he thought, seared into the backs of his eyelids whether he could make sense of it or not. Charlie Ewing – Charlton Almond, he kept thinking, in a voice that sounded like curling script, a voice he could almost remember from Vienda – somebody, anyway, slim frame wrapped up in work clothes, tartan green Brunnhold cap laying just to the side. The lamplight playing in his cowlicks and drawing the shadows under his eyes thick and deep. The calluses on his fingers. His expression, too languid and nonchalant for anything in this place, though he could tell by the way he lifted his brows he must’ve had a hatcher of a headache.

Charlie looked like he was about to say something else, but he didn’t, in the end. Too sober for this, he thought; if he got much soberer, he’d start wondering about the party last night, about his qalqa, about those letters again. He didn’t much like that kind of wondering.

When Charlie put his mug down, he was already picking up his bent fork, burying the twist of his lip in another sip of tea. He didn’t care that it burned. The coffee smelled acrid, but to each man his own; the tea was so overstepped it might as well’ve been coffee, anyway.

He watched Charlie’s fork break the skin of the yolk in the corner of his eye, oddly delicate – then he was eating like a hungry man, mixing up his hash and his eggs, shoveling grease-gleaming bites in his mouth. There was nothing for him to say, either, and he thought the clawing ache of his hunger would’ve drowned it all out anyway. So he set about his own breakfast, as ravenous as the mechanic, bites big enough he might’ve choked on them: he drowned the hash with the tea and the tea with the eggs, and the taste of that sharp cheese made him want to cry.

He’d go back to his hotel soon, he thought. Something told him they wouldn’t have much more to talk about; he thought of Charlie’s expression when he’d looked into his wallet. He didn’t see himself returning these denim trousers, either, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about the souvenir. He’d sleep it off before the party, at least as much of it as he could, and he wondered if he’d dream about any of this.

But at that moment, all there was was the pile of hash and black-edged eggs and cheese, the mingling smells of coffee and tea, and the two of them eating like starving men.