[Closed] [Mature] Our Young Faces

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

What Fucking Time Is It on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

I
t was the laugh; strangest thing, how it was the laugh. All tied up, strangled by something that might’ve been a whimper or might’ve been a groan. Even aching with every fiber of him, it was the laugh. He broke in the end too, he thought – he wasn’t paying too close attention – he knew his words got all choked and tangled with laughter. Once he thought he’d been good at all that dirty talk rubbish, at least with some kov, them as wanted to hear it. He couldn’t seem to remember how he’d done it, once, slid into it all smooth and olio, without any laughter or shame either.

Now all he could think of was Alioe’s skirts and clocking clocks and Hulali’s nethers, because somehow he’d got started on blasphemy. Charlie didn’t seem to mind, he thought, even if he could barely manage to make it all the way around the Circle.

Gratifying all the same, to hear that laughter cut off. To feel those long fingers – that’d been so cold and graceful, flicking the match and lighting his cigarette – splayed out and digging into his back, warm and sweatslick. To feel the fine muscles of his throat twitch and flicker against his lips.

It was driving him moony, whatever it was Charlie was doing. He could feel his finger tracing against his inner thigh, intricate, though he couldn’t and hadn’t the space to guess what it was doing. Sometimes they shuddered, traced backward; he grinned and let out a choked laugh of his own, pressing a kiss along his collarbones, too desperate to be gentle with his lips or teeth. It reminded him of something, and every time he thought hard enough to feel it, another jerk of wanting went through him, ‘til he was taut and ready to break.

Ready, but not breaking, not yet.

He stopped talking at some point. The words must’ve petered out, but he wasn’t there for them. He wasn’t there for anything. He had narrowed down to the skin pressed against his, the arm splayed out on his back, the fields shedding deep red and gold and silver and fascination. He wasn’t sure whose was doing what, now; he’d lost track of the mona, static and clairvoyant, wild in the air. The rhythm of his hand was steady and firm, fair firm, and Charlie was still going, and that fingertip was still moving, in spite of everything.

The cord was taut, but not breaking. It wouldn’t break for some time yet. He was patient, and Charlie was demanding; and he was demanding of patience, and very pleased to please and be pleased. There was no more speaking, but there was laughter in the midst of all the gasping, and little bursts of gold threaded through his field, with a pattern he could taste but couldn’t see.

*

He had dreamt of vines, curling over and over. Unfurling across ballroom floors, twining up columns and seizing mezzanines in a lush and terrifying whirl of leaves. He had dreamt of quiet little birds amid the greenery, poking their heads out and uttering toe-curling profanity.

And then he was awake, by turns.

He groaned. His head was an anchor at the bottom of the Mahogany, and every limb was snared by seaweed.

No. Sheets – sweaty, tangled sheets. One of his legs was bare, and he could feel a heavy chill prickling against his skin, settling almost into the bones. The rest of him might’ve been on fire; his heart was hammering, his mouth tasted like rust, and his throat hurt. He tried to open his mouth and found his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He opened his eyes, Vita tilted, and then he squeezed them shut again, grabbing the first thing he could find and burying his face in it.

It was a pillow, and it was only a brief sort of relief. He grunted, shifting. There was a spring digging into his back. He shifted again, and there were two springs digging into his back.

He must’ve passed out, he thought. After – after. After? He had a crisp memory of pouring another round, of drinking more, of… singing, maybe, he couldn’t…

“Fuck,” he said out loud, sounding to himself like a particularly deep-voiced frog. “Fuck me,” he tried again, quieter, trying to disentangle himself from the sheets. He couldn’t; something was weighing them down. Eventually, he decided he didn’t much care, being honest, and instead pulled what he could of the covers over his head, to block out the paltry light.

Light. Light meant morning. How early? He blinked underneath the sheet, but he couldn’t make anything out by the slant of the light. Then he breathed in deep, and like an odd counterweight to the taste in his mouth, he found that the linens smelled – familiar. A good sort of familiar, he registered distantly.

That was just about all he could register. It wasn’t just his head that felt like it had been cracked with a hammer. Every muscle in him – his godsawful clocking hip, his shoulders, his back in particular – was aching. He shifted and felt a pleasant sort of friction, and realized he wasn’t wearing anything.

He tried to say something, but all that came out was, “Hnnnghhhh,” and he buried his face deeper in the pillow.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2719 - Results of Bad Decision Hours
Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

Blasphemy, of course the topic of choice had been blasphemy. The stupidest, most ridiculous kind, too. Charlie might have wished it didn't work so well, that dumberse shit going on and on with the steady, unyielding touch. Might have, if he had the room for it. If it, you know, wasn't working just fucking fine.

He liked this, though, when his head was emptied out of anything but wanting. No past or future, no shame or ego or much of anything at all. He wasn't Charlie and he wasn't Charlton, because those were concepts too abstract for the moment. Like being drunk, but better because if the feeling lingered the next morning that was usually good. He wasn't unanchored completely, just enough to narrow himself to a sliver of the present moment.

At some point the stream of blasphemy had stopped; hadn't even made it all the way around the Circle. Charlie couldn't have said where it left off. He couldn't care, either; what filled up after wasn't silence. (It never was, unless he really had to be quiet.) There were teeth scraping against him and all the things that drew out of him, the soft press of a field that he didn't mind at all right now, and somehow laughter too, more than in a long time. As well as the feeling and taste of skin, hot and slick and good.

But no real thoughts at all, still, just tension, just a kind of pleasant white noise. Until there wasn't any more of that either, because that broke apart with all the rest of him and he was nothing at all.

***

Charlie hadn't fallen asleep. He couldn't have fallen asleep; he never fell asleep. He closed his eyes and waited, and then eventually he left, but he never fell asleep.

Of course, he never had anyone in his bed either, so there was, seemingly, a first time for everything. Apparently. Charlie only knew he fell asleep because he woke up at some point in the night, needing water and also to turn off his lights before he burnt the fucking building down. He turned the radiator off, too, just in case.

Fuck, but he might have overdone it on the drinking. Or the drugs. Both? Ah, well. He'd be fine. Nothing a glass of water and going back to bed couldn't fix. He'd drifted over in the dark and grabbed a pillow from the couch for reasons he'd not quite processed. When he woke up in the night like this, he did honestly try not to be too awake. Made it harder to go back to sleep, using the brain too much. Maybe that was why he stood there for a moment, thinking he was going to wake up Anatole and tell him to leave, and then changed his mind.

Too late now, anyway. Might as well just go back to sleep and decide what he remembered later. Charlie scrambled blearily back into bed. Yeah, that sounded like a Later kind of problem.

What woke him up again, a little more properly, was a voice. He knew it was a voice, but he couldn't quite recall why he was hearing it. Seemed like he wasn't surprised, but he also couldn't hear it very well. He'd jammed his head under the pillow he'd rescued from the couch, so he almost missed it. Almost. But not quite. Only half-awake, he laughed. Sort of. It was a very laugh-adjacent kind of noise. Charlie wasn't really much of a morning person. Also, he did have a pillow over his face.

Hey.

Hold on.

The pillow came off of his face. He frowned. His head hurt. He was on his bed, which wasn't right. And he was on one side of it, not somewhere in the middle, which wasn't right either. He turned, and—

"I'm still here," he mumbled, confused. No, that wasn't it either. "You're still here." Yeah, that was it. Of course Charlie was here; he lived here. This was his bed. So it was the Anatole part that was a surprise. Combined with the whole "his bed, where he lived" part. Was he asleep? He had to be, didn't he? Except his head didn't usually hurt so much when he was asleep. No, he was awake, and he was getting more awake every moment. Charlie wasn't entirely certain he approved.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

What Fucking Time Is It on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

S
omebody laughed, and he recognized the sound in – again – a funny distant sort of way. It made him want to laugh too, but it was just too damned tiring; he started to, and then the sound petered out into another quiet groan. The pain throbbed dully, the light swimming and pulsing behind his eyes.

The mattress creaked underneath him. That sound, too, was familiar.

And that he remembered clearly, crisp-clear, sober-clear. Godsdamn, but it’d been a while, and it’d been good. He sighed, pushing his face deeper into the pillow. Thinking about it made him feel a pleasant tingling. It was fair nice to think of, and he might’ve fallen back asleep, if not for…

The mattress creaked again, and this time he felt the springs shift. I’m still here, somebody said. Too close to be anywhere but in bed, and too real to be a dream. Then, after a pause: You’re still here.

It was instinctive. He snorted. “What’d you have me do,” he mumbled, “wander out into the night and get a knife in my guts?” A wretchedly funny thought, after all that. Perhaps it was an assassination attempt after all. Perhaps – he stifled another half-awake laugh – that’d been the plan all along: bed him, leave him vulnerable for the knives. Ah, shit, he thought, dizzy with the pain, that was funny. That was like something you heard in the Post.

I’m still here, he’d said. What a damned ridiculous thing that was to say. I’m still here, he’d said, as if it wasn’t his own –

His flat. Charlie’s flat. Charlie Ewing’s flat. Charlie Ewing’s bed, in Charlie Ewing’s flat. Next to – Charlie Ewing, for some Circle-ordained reason. He thought briefly of Alioe’s skirts and almost smiled, then felt very strangely. He froze, then shifted again uncomfortably against the springs. Wakefulness was unwieldy, sharp-edged. Awkwardly-shaped.

“Ah, shit, I’m still here,” he muttered. “I don’t… usually…” He rolled over, disentangling himself from some of the sheet, daring to lift his head from the pillow by a half-inch. He was braced for the blow this time; he’d had enough of them to know how to bear it. He opened one eye, looking at the hazy, thin face across from him, nesting in tangled dark hair and linen.

Charlie looked, he registered dully, not too well. Well, you didn’t usually, after you drank that much. Not even particularly pretty just now, in a way that reminded him rather of the faded wallpaper. His thin lips looked dry, and there was a pillow-crease on his cheek.

He glanced away, then pushed himself up on one elbow, more of the sheet slithering away.. Why was he still here? Why, more importantly, were they in bed? He opened his other eye, sleep-sticky, and squinted around the flat.

He found Tippy’s cage first, and Tippy a small white shape inside. He realized dully that Tippy had indeed been there the entire time.

Shit, he mouthed again, glancing down at a swath of freckled chest. He pulled up the sheets a little when he shifted to sit up. This, he decided vaguely, was his first priority. Covering – that – up.

Then a wave of nausea hit him, and bile rose in his throat. He buried his face in both hands, digging his fingernails into his scalp. “Fuck me,” he muttered. “Where – uh – damn, I need a drink.” That, or to throw up. Or both.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2719 - Results of Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Somewhere in the sleepy haze of Charlie's mind, he registered the mumble about knives, and he smiled. There was another partial laugh, and then Charlie realized he was smiling and stopped. Fuck him running, his head was going to split open like a godsdamn egg.

There was too much light in the flat. Not a lot of light, but any amount was too much. He needed to draw the curtains. Those awful, awful curtains. They were patterned too, a different pattern than the wallpaper that clashed hideously with it. A sort of swirling, blobbish pattern. They'd been here when he moved in, and he hadn't thought about them long enough to consider doing anything other than leaving them exactly how they were.

Charlie scrubbed at his face with one hand, now that he was sitting up. There had been some squeaking noises from all the shifting around, which stopped; Charlie squinted down. "Do this often enough to have a usually? I'm heartbroken. I thought I was special." Ugh, this was awful. He wasn't awake enough for banter. Just awake enough for this prickling feeling all over the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. This was weirder, he thought, than anything before. Anything he could remember, anyway. Unfortunately, Charlie thought he could remember almost everything.

Everything except what the fuck he'd been thinking.

No, that was an easy one: he hadn't been. Not well, anyway, or this wouldn't be... "Happening" was a strong word to use. Nothing was happening at the moment; things had happened, and this was merely the result. Anatole squinted one eye at him; Charlie raised his eyebrows, and he sat up a little more, looking around like he'd not seen it all before. Well. Like he had, and sort of wished he hadn't. That made two of them, then.

Few people, Charlie reflected, really looked that attractive when they woke up. Excepting his own self, of course; he was of the humble opinion that he was attractive at every hour. For instance, at the current moment, he could tell that shoving a pillow over his face all night—and probably, mostly, having hands in his hair while it was drying, a thing he was pointedly not thinking about—had given him a charmingly disheveled air. Not like the man next to him—seriously, why had he even let this...?—who looked like he'd been run over by the omnibus.

Still not entirely terrible, though. You didn't have a different face when you woke up, either. The thin morning light was enough to see that much, anyway.

"Buy me another drink first," Charlie said, automatically. Like his stupid mouth couldn't resist the opening while his brain was busy trying to escape the confines of his well-shaped skull. He needed water. He was going to get water. They were both, he thought, going to have water. And—Charlie frowned, looking at Anatole turning green around the edges—maybe he would find that bucket.

Other than the headache, he felt remarkably fine. Maybe he moved a little gingerly as he scrambled out of bed in a chorus of springs and oddly-loud linen noises, but that was what he expected. His mouth tasted vile, too; he hadn't, he realized with a small degree of horror, brushed his teeth. So that first, then water. Or... The bottle was still on his counter, and Charlie considered it.

"If you throw up on my floor, I will be extremely annoyed." Charlie had come to a slightly unsteady stand. He glanced at the clothes on the floor out of the corner of his eye, then shrugged. He'd get dressed later. Order of operations: teeth, drink, maybe pants.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

What Fucking Time Is It on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

B
uy me another drink first, came Charlie’s voice, before the rest had even half tripped out of his mouth.

He snorted and then laughed helplessly into his hands.

The mattress creaked again beside him, and the whole bed frame rattled. How had they fucked on this thing? How had he slept on it? The linens rasped as Charlie disentangled himself from them, and he felt them pulling away from him. Still keeping one hand over his eyes to block out the light, he grabbed for the sheet before it slipped off his lap.

Heartbroken, he thought again. His lips twisted. Usual hasn’t been usual in years, he thought sourly, and there’s nothing usual about this. You’re very special, Charlie Ewing; don’t worry.

He gulped down another wave of nausea, rocking slightly on the bed. His aching shoulders were up around his ears. Now his mouth tasted like a blend of weeks-old whisky-breath and bile. He almost lost it then; he gagged, gritting his teeth tight, and waited for it to pass.

“Oh, will you?” he slurred between his fingers, when he could speak. Very tentatively indeed, he lowered his hands.

Charlie’s slim, pale shape was moving with a languid sort of purpose for the bathroom. His head was a mess of dark cowlicks; he prickled with the memory of running his hands through them, and clasped his hands tightly together in the sheets. Distractedly, his eyes followed the delicate ridge of his spine down. “And what will you d –”

He blinked, and his eyes snapped wide before they narrowed again. Fuck me, he thought again, like a skipping phonograph. “What will you, uh… do to me?” He couldn’t quite finish the thought.

He wasn’t sure he’d’ve been able to tell what it was, if Charlie hadn’t already laid that knowledge on him. He traced the broad inked curve of what he thought was a C, half-hidden in an ornate nest of lines; the lowercase h swirling out into the a, coiling into what was almost unrecognizable as an r...

Charlie disappeared round the corner and into the washroom. He blinked rapidly, but the sight was imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. The problem was, it wasn’t a particularly unpleasant sight.

He heard the tap go on, a patter and then a rush. It reminded him first that he needed to piss, and, like any man who’s been reminded of the fact, urgently. It reminded him second that he was parched; his tongue felt like sandpaper. Suddenly both of those things seemed inextricably intertwined with his headache, and suddenly he needed them both like a fugitive needs a church.

He eased to the edge of the bed, testing his feet against the floorboards. Everything ached twice as bad.

His eyes caught the light as he moved; he squeezed them shut against it, then shot a withering look at the window. He glanced at the half-open door to the water closet – fidgeted – then decided maybe he ought to wait ‘til Charlie’s lovely, disrobed self was out, on account of the shopping list of things he didn’t want to be thinking about just now.

His eyes alighted on the grey robe from the night before, lying in a tangle with the sheets; he snatched it up and pulled it on posthaste, not caring if it was slightly too small. Then, his hand pressed to his mouth against the nausea, he tottered over to the window. He got a clumsy fistful of those godsawful curtains – he couldn’t even tell what they were, aside from blobs and swirls of color, and he didn’t think being sober would’ve helped – and pulled them to.

He cursed as he fought the rickety curtain-rod, but succeeded eventually in throwing gloom over the flat. He sagged and passed a hand over his brow. “Lady, Lady,” he sighed.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2719 - Results of Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

The maidenly shyness was back. Charlie didn't understand the point. Not now—the lights had definitely been on last night. Charlie had a dim memory of getting up in the night to turn them off, in fact. Charlie Ewing had never been shy once in his entire life, so he supposed that he failed to understand on some fundamental level.

The floor stayed still beneath him, which was a good sign. He felt awful, but fixably so. Good. Although it wasn't like he had work, he thought sourly. He was picking his way across the floor, trying not to step on anything sharp or otherwise painful as he shuffled over to his washroom, when he heard that question. He laughed, but cut himself off quickly enough. Clock the entire Circle, it was too bright and too early. "You mean the weight of my displeasure isn't threat enough? Fuck, I don't know."

He had managed a drawl for the first part; he'd lost it at the end. Shit. Well, it was early. Probably. It seemed early—it could have been the middle of the afternoon, and he'd still feel like it was early. There was no appropriate hour for this. Whatever this was. A darling little morning after. A-li-oe. Fuck no.

Charlie did make it to the washroom with no further incident. That was good; there were a few steps in there where he wasn't sure. But it was fine, and he was going to brush all of last night right out of his mouth. He closed the door, and turned on the light. He regretted it almost instantly; he looked less than his most charming, he had to admit. Charlie scowled, running a hand briskly over the back of his head, as if more ruffling would solve the problem. No, he'd just have to pull his hair back. And wear a hat, maybe. He still had the one from his school years.

There was, also, a faint mark on his chest that Charlie could almost remember getting. He always had marked up easily. Some people had really liked that about him; those people were not Charlie. Well, nothing to do about it. The getting it had been—he wasn't thinking about that now, it was too weird. All of this was too weird, except it was fine. Right? Yeah.

When he finished brushing his teeth, he left the washroom. The flat looked—different. It took him a second to recognize it was because the horrible outside light was being blocked. Anatole had drawn the curtains in his absence.

"I don't think She governs hangovers," Charlie announced, taking very clear note of the grey robe. He wasn't to the pants step yet. He might have been to the robe step, but that was his, and he only had the one. So, that was that. Charlie licked his lip and frowned. Dry. He needed—something not dry. They probably both did.

What the fuck, he found himself wondering as he walked very deliberately to his kitchen, did one do in this sort of situation? This non-situation. This circumstance? Shit. He glanced at the birdcage as he walked past. Tippy was still asleep, a little white ball of fluffy feathers. Even though he'd not thought to throw the blanket over her cage like he normally did. She was a good girl, his Tippy. Forgave a multitude of sins.

Thinking about Tippy and her cage wasn't productive. He kept walking, finding the same cups from the night before. For a second his eyes hovered on the bottle; hair of the dog, he thought. But no, what he wanted was water. And something with grease. Preferably large quantities of it. He was, actually, starving. He couldn't remember eating at all the night before; canapes at the ballroom didn't really count.

He went to his sink and filled one cup; without much hesitation, he filled a second, too. He didn't turn around to look behind him, but that itchy feeling between his shoulders wouldn't fucking go away. It needed to. He didn't know where it came from; this was weird, but that was fine. What did he care? It was all... all fine. Ugh.

"Here," he raised his voice and the second cup both. Then he winced, because that had been too loud, even for his own ears.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

What Fucking Time Is It on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

H
e was starting to get used to it, that funny, smug satisfaction he felt getting a laugh out of him. And that toff’s drawl was back, for at least as long as he’d managed to hold it together. Through the throb of his headache, he smiled a little; then he frowned, scratching his jaw.

“You don’t think so?” He was still thick-tongued and raspy; he felt like he was talking through a mouthful of mud. “What’s a hangover but time catching up with you?” His eyes flicked over Charlie as he moved to the kitchen, trying not to linger anywhere in particular. Charlie looked past him – briefly – at Tippy’s cage, then away, then his back was turned again. He looked at Tippy too, very still on her perch. Sleeping, he thought.

He stood there like that for a moment. He heard a scrape and clink, then more footfalls on the floorboards. He heard another tap squeak, and a gargle of liquid. He breathed evenly, lowering his hand. He kept his eyes shut; without the light stabbing through his lids, he could almost pretend it was nighttime-dark. He licked his dry lips. A wince flickered across his face when Charlie spoke, and he opened his eyes, squinting owlishly.

There was something about it, like a Bastian painting gone wrong. He couldn’t help looking, now. That thin, pale face a little mottled in the cheeks with last night’s drink, dry-lipped, the shadows under his eyes a deeper in the gloom – pillow-crease fading, but still edged in red – he knew the look. Still pretty, he thought now, in an odd sort of way. His eyes didn’t move down to his chest, though he could see the red mark stark against his pale skin; he blinked, eyelids fluttering, remembering the taste of sweat and soap and skin.

He swallowed tightly.

He grunted and tottered over, taking the cup. He knocked half of it down right off. He’d heard the tap go, but somehow he’d still thought it’d be liquor; the cool water was a surprise. He took a deep breath, then drank more, suddenly aching for it.

He cleared his throat when he set it down again. “Thank you,” he said. “Uh.” He gestured vaguely at the washroom; he felt Charlie’s eyes on him, and he almost pulled the robe a little closer about him, but he’d’ve felt damned ridiculous for it. After what they’d…

He shook his head as he stepped gingerly round and to the washroom, shutting the door. He didn’t look at the mirror at first; he didn’t have to. When he did, washing his hands, his stomach gave a lurch.

Maybe it was that he hadn’t expected it to be him in the glass. Thin-cheeked and clean-shaven, with his lidded pale eyes and his crooked thin lips. Maybe it was that he had, for once. He’d seen this face hungover before, and worse than this; he wasn’t sure why it ought to bother him, this time.

His stomach gave another lurch, and then he was retching into the toilet.

He came out a little shaky at first. He’d washed his mouth out in the sink, but his throat was still dry. His stomach felt like it’d been hollowed out, and now he’d had something to drink and taken a leak, he was aware of it: a clawing, twisting ache, but oddly comforting for its familiarity. If he kept up like that, maybe he wouldn’t have to think about any of the other shit going on.

His hands smelled like the soap from last night, and he caught whiffs of liquor as he eased himself back to lean on the counter; it made him feel funny, and he resolved not to think about it, either. He glanced at the bed briefly, the sheets still tangled up like two kov had been in it.

He took up the glass Charlie’d poured him and took another drink of water, pretending it was liquor. “Well,” he said, still deep-voiced and rasping, “I feel more like a hatcher than a prince. Hungry as one, anyway. About as pretty.” He managed a bruised sort of grin, then winced, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2719 - Results of Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

That voice didn't sound so fine now. Not, Charlie noted to himself with an internal sort of grimace, unpleasant. Making stupid pithy comments across the flat to him about whether or not Alioe was the Goddess of Hangovers, too. His mouth twitched into a smile that he twisted into his more usual lazy kind of grin. He was awake enough for that, now.

As Charlie held out the cup, Anatole squinted at him through the dim light of the flat. Perceptivists had trouble with sight, Charlie remembered suddenly. Unwillingly, he remembered this. Except, Charlie thought with a frown, that wasn't a perceptive field. Unless he had gotten worse at knowing these sorts of things since graduation, which was possible—but he was never that bad. The mona might listen to his commands about as much as a cat might, but he still was what he was. He was probably just remembering Cherry complaining about Mrs. Vauquelin, and attributing the complaints to the man who was only just now looking at him. Keeping his eyes respectfully above Charlie's collarbones, he thought; it was funny and annoying at once.

"Think nothing of it," he said loftily, with a wave of his now-empty hand. The other man had looked surprised by the water. Good. Charlie did hate to be predictable. That was the first step to becoming uninteresting. His eyebrows raised at the "uh", the gesture to the washroom door. What was he waiting for, a hall pass? Charlie just stared, the smile fixed a little too firmly on his face.

Anatole left, shutting the door behind him.

Right. That was two steps down. He'd brushed his teeth, and he'd had water. Just for good measure, Charlie had another glass. Once again he looked at the bottle on the counter with something like longing. There was just something about having a drink at this hour in front of witnesses that made Charlie feel. A little off-kilter. Only a little, but it was enough.

So what had step three been? Ah, that's right. Pants—maybe. He thought about not putting them on, as hard as he could when he also felt like he'd driven one of this sharper tools into the back of his skull. The idea of bending over to get them seemed beyond the amount of effort he was willing to put into anything at the moment. The problem was that he was still ravenously hungry, and there was nothing to eat in the flat for anyone but Tippy. Somehow Charlie thought she might take offense to him eating her birdseed just because he didn't want to put his trousers on.

He heard the sound of retching coming from his washroom, and it made him gag a little himself. At least it wasn't on his floor, or in his line of sight. He could comfort himself with that. By the time Anatole came back out, Charlie had at least put his underwear back on, and a pair of socks. Not his favorite pair; these were slightly too loose and needed sock garters to stay up. But that was fine. He was in the middle of digging through his drawers for a pair of clean trousers, but mostly was just finding denim work pants.

"Don't say that darling," he threw over his shoulder in a sing-song sort of lilt, "you'll always be beautiful to me. No matter how many extra teeth you have." Actually, did hatchers have more teeth than people did? Charlie wasn't quite sure. Well it was the thought that counted, probably. He had nothing; he really needed to have his laundry done. Work clothes it was.

That might be better in the long run, anyway. Considering what he wanted was eggs, greasy ones, and some terrible tea to go with it. Potatoes maybe. He grabbed a pair and turned, frowning. "There's nothing to eat here. I was going to go out." He paused, squinting. Anatole really did look terrible. If he dropped dead, Charlie wasn't sure that Cherry would ever forgive him. No matter what she said about him when he wasn't there to hear it.

"I was thinking about eggs," he said uncertainly. Once again, he had the distinct feeling he was making a horrible mistake. This one seemed less fun than the other ones. He couldn't quite bring himself to properly extend the invitation, but he thought it was somewhat implied by his standing there in his socks and waiting expectantly for a response. Probably.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

What Fucking Time Is It on the 28th of Ophus, 2719

H
e laughed, because he couldn’t seem to do otherwise. It was this godsdamn hangover, making him moony; he wasn’t sure how much of his head he’d lost to it. “Just as gentlemanly in the morning, I see,” he said, clearing a frog from his throat, “and so generous.” His mouth was still dry; he glanced down at the empty cups on the table, breathing in deep.

There was a rattle of drawers, a shuffling of cloth. He didn’t look over at Charlie, though he could see the slim white line of his back shifting in the corner of his eye.

He blinked and studiously did not look.

But the only other thing to look at was the counter. His eyes wandered to the bottle from last night, still sitting a little aside from the two cups. The glass was tinted and cloud-smeared; it was hard to tell how much lower they’d drunk it, but he’d a sinking feeling it was a damn sight lower than he remembered. The liquor caught the dull light that filtered through the heavy drapes, mirror-dark as Narkissos’ pool.

He shook the thought off. His eyes wandered further: then to the haphazard pile of envelopes. Some crisp and white as if they’d been sent a week ago, some tinged or curling at the edges, some blooming with faded tea– or alcohol-stains. Spots of color, stamps or wax. Most, not all, with the addresses in the same curly handwriting. Charlton, he read, oddly dazed, before he could stop himself, Charlton Lawrence…

34 Willow St…

His throat tightened; he jerked his eyes away. The back of his neck prickled, and he reached up to run a hand over it. He found himself running a fingertip over his ear instead, remembering the holes where earrings might’ve gone, the cool stud against very hot skin. His fingertips lingered on a faint mark and flickered away; he remembered a crooked-sharp tooth. Worse, he found a smile twitching on his face.

His lips twisted. He shifted the hem of that little robe over his knees, suddenly conscious of the exact contours of the man it was supposed to fit. Fuck me, he got the urge to mutter again, and he didn’t – less because he was scared of what the answer would be, and more because he knew he’d laugh at it.

Charlt– Charlie was still at his dresser, rifling through.

He hadn’t meant to look. Charlie had his back turned; he could see the ridges of his spine and the muscles flickering underneath the skin. He hadn’t seen, last night – last night – shit – the one or two freckles breaking up the pale expanse. He’d put on drawers, at least, though he couldn’t’ve said they hid much – especially as he shifted his weight. Funny enough, the garters got him worse; he hadn’t seen them coming out of the washroom, and now they were all he could see, dark against his slim calves.

Charlie turned round before he was done looking, and he was suddenly and sharply aware of himself. He shifted the robe over his chest.

… to eat here, he was saying matter-of-factly. I was going to go out. He lifted both red eyebrows sharply, then immediately regretted it, squinting against another stab of his headache.

There was a pause.

I was thinking about eggs, Charlie offered in the same tone, as if it were a fact.

He blinked. “I think about eggs too sometimes,” he shot back, unable to stop himself. “Often, in fact.” Floods, if the facetiousness wasn’t contagious.

He cleared his throat. It was, he’d thought, an invitation. “Godsdamn,” he said, scratching his jaw. But hell if it didn’t sound good. Now he was thinking about eggs, too. “Eggs. Maybe, uh – wrapped in something,” he sighed, “wrapped in something else fried. Eggs – potatoes. Cheese. Scallions. Dripping grease, whatever the hell it is.”

Anatole’s stomach wouldn’t thank him for that. Anatole’s stomach was a flooding coward. Strong black Anaxi tea, he thought wistfully, too. He sucked at a tooth. “I’m assuming you have someplace in mind?” he asked.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2719 - Results of Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Charlie hadn't missed the fact that Anatole had been looking when he turned; Charlie never missed when anyone was looking at him. He prided himself on it. He still had Charlie's robe on, which he had forgotten about and surprised him for no reason he could think of. It was just odd, seeing someone else in that thing. It was a little shabby by now, but comfortable in that shapeless kind of way.

Charlie didn't look at his sofa and the nest of blankets still bundled up on it, or to the scattered bits of metal and tools and so on across his workbench. He had looked briefly to Tippy, but the little fluffball was still asleep. Charlie hadn't quite realized how much she could sleep through until now; she must have picked it up when he was in school. The dorms weren't exactly quiet at all hours. Not his, especially.

Godsdamn did he not want to think about what he did to make his dormitory room at Brunnhold noisy. Not in general, and certainly not at whatever the fucking time in the morning it was now. He went on about eggs instead, and offered—sort of—to... to what? Fuck, he didn't know. There was a pause, and Anatole blinked. Maybe he didn't get it.

"Is that what Incumbents do, think about eggs? And here I thought there was more to politics than that." Charlie's face split into a real grin, crooked and amused, and he laughed. That kind of awkward sound he made when he was too startled by it to do anything to smooth it out. At least he knew that his invitation had been clear enough, with a dumberse response like that. He really hadn't thought this was where Cherry got it from, but clearly he was wrong.

He was still grinning as he threw his pants on the bed; denim work trousers. He had to find his braces, too. And a second pair, he supposed. The clothes they had on last night were—they certainly weren't wearable without laundering. If even then. Charlie thought a little mournfully of his; he did look good in them, and he had fewer and fewer nice things these days. Maybe a trip home to get some of his stuff was in order. Ugh. But he really didn't want to. He'd get asked questions, stupid ones, like "how is work going" and "why do you never write back" and "are those piercings".

"Grease is an important part of the well-balanced diet, they say." He snorted and went back to digging through his drawers. The clothes they'd—the other set, that was still on the floor. So he needed an undershirt, and a regular shirt. The braces were in the back of his sock drawer, wedged partially between the drawer and the top of the dresser. No wonder the drawer stuck when he tried to open it. There was a volley of swearing, but he got two pairs out in the end. Dark and without decoration; they didn't show the grease as much that way.

The shirt he grabbed was the same, a dark grey fabric that Charlie thought was actually rather flattering on him. If you ignored the engine grease that had permanently stained the sleeves that were sort of permanently rolled up at this point. This one fit him a bit better than the one he'd thrown at Anatole, which is why he was wearing it and not his. His guest, he supposed.

What the fuck.

He continued talking as he pulled all of this on. "There's a few places—I don't know what time it is, but they should be... What day is it? The seven...?" No, he realized suddenly, it was the eight. Yesterday was the seven. His sister's birthday. Ah, shit. It was Laur's birthday, and Charlie had been... Well, it wasn't like he was going to see her or anything.

"You'll have to change out of that, though. They have a strict dress code at these egg-serving establishments." He shrugged his shirt on over his narrow shoulders and let his smile tilt. "A little more covered-up, I think, is the expectation. Not that I mind."