[Closed] [Mature] Our Young Faces

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

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

I
’m afraid not, he thought to say; politics is a whole hell of a lot more about eggs than you’d think it’d be. But it was the grin that made him hesitate, splitting lopsided across Charlie’s face, and then the laugh that made him forget. He choked on a little snort himself, clearing his throat and turning as if to look back at the bottle. But he didn’t want to look there, either, and Charlie’d turned round to dig back through his dresser, and he’d the sneaking impression that looking more wasn’t going to hurt anything.

The lesser, he reckoned, of two evils.

So he watched, snorting again – loudly – at that. “I can’t say I’ve heard that,” he said, “but, uh, you see some strange regimens these days. Maybe I’ll try to make a daily dose of whisky and grease the new fad among the ladies and gentlemen.”

Charlie was swearing and wrangling with the drawer, but he got it in the end, fumbling out a pair of work trousers to toss on the bed in a heavy rumple of denim. He scratched the back of his neck, idly watching the slim muscles of his calves flicker against the sock garters as he bent to fish out a shirt. His headache slammed against his skull, relentless.

His clothes were folded up in the bathroom, still: the shirt he’d got from that Ten kov, mismatched with those expensive trousers and those once-polished, now-misshapen shoes. He could, he supposed, put them back on. He glanced dubiously at the work trousers from last night, still in a heap on the floor.

Then he saw a flash of dark grey, and just managed to catch a shirt Charlie threw at him with fumbling hands. “Ah,” he said, and then almost winced as it was followed by braces.

Charlie was pulling on an undershirt now, neat and matter-of-fact. He tried – and failed – not to look. The eight, he didn’t want to say. He wasn’t ready for it to be the eight.

He watched Charlie pull his shirt round his shoulders a little ruefully, then caught his sharp, coy blue glance with another clear of his throat. His long pale fingers were working their way up the buttons of his shirt, and his eyes were flicking over him, and his lips were curled in a smile. And he – smiled, just a little, just a little twitch at his lips.

He scuttled back to the washroom posthaste, grabbing the trousers as he went. He was dizzy-headed, so he almost stumbled on the doorframe.

The drawers from last night weren’t so bad, all told; leastways, they weren’t so bad as the trousers, which were still damp at the hems. He threw off the robe without looking too close and pulled them on, then his undershirt, then his shirt, buttoning it up with some relief. The trousers fit decently, if they were a little short in the hem, and there was something comfortingly familiar about buckling the braces.

He rose up, caught the mirror in the corner of his eye, and found himself looking at Anatole in work clothes, straight-backed underneath his suspenders, an old spot of a grease stain by the breast pocket. He was tousle-headed and raw-eyed, like he’d just come from the factory. He looked – he felt, in the suspenders and the roughspun –

Shit.

Too hungover for that by half. He turned, fleeting the mirror almost as quickly as he’d fled for the washroom.

“To grease, then,” he offered cheerfully and matter-of-factly. Charlie was already mostly dressed, and he caught the sight of him with something like surprise on his face, glancing over the narrow line of his shoulders underneath the work shirt and braces. Not, he thought, a bad sight. He tried to put it out of his aching head.

He got Anatole’s coat off the radiator. It wasn’t in such good shape, either, but he’d had worse – much worse – drycleaned off of it. He threw it round his shoulders. “Like hell am I looking forward to going out in the sun,” he muttered, buttoning his coat and checking the pockets. He cursed. “I don’t have a single ha’penny…”

He froze with his hand in an inside pocket, with a few fluttering blinks.

He took out a small paper bag, marked and a little mottled. “It’s Ten’s shit,” he said. “They didn’t – well, what do you know.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - The Start of Greasy Eggquest
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Charlie was entertaining and hilarious, so laughing at all of his jokes was to be expected. Even at this Lady-forsaken hour of the morning, when he wasn't so sure he was at his sharpest. That's why he didn't, of course, think anything of how many of them seemed to land. It was neither pleasing nor displeasing, just... Normal. Like the rest of it.

Yeah, like any of this was anything fucking close to normal. And he was Queen of Anaxas, too. Shit.

He had looked, and Charlie had caught him, smiling while he did up his buttons. He thought he should have known what to do with that, but he was standing there in his drawers and his undershirt and a half-buttoned work shirt and he had no fucking clue. Not in the dim morning light that filtered in through his truly hideous curtains and touched on the edges of the wire that made up Tippy's cage. Anatole smiled, the tiniest bit, and then he scuttled away tot he washroom. More of that bizarre modesty, or whatever it was.

Charlie knew what to do with it, actually. The answer was: not fucking thing about it, because it wasn't important. They were going out to get eggs, and grease, and the combination thereof—his headache demanded it—only because Charlie didn't want Cherry to break his jaw. If she ever found out, which he didn't think she would. They weren't exactly close—he didn't know if he meant himself or the man hiding in his washroom.

He didn't hide forever; he came back out, and Charlie was taken aback, slightly. It was just a—a weird sight, red hair going to grey all a mess, in Charlie's work clothes, looking like... Ticks, he didn't know what like. Like something. Like someone who'd over-indulged the night before, which Charlie supposed he was. Charlie was pulling his hair back and looking for a tie on the top of his dresser.

"Good news," Charlie said as he pulled his hair back and Anatole retrieved his coat from the radiator. "It's Ophus in the Rose; there's no sun to be seen." He was already throwing his coat on by the time Charlie pulled his hair back and started looking for his hat. Like he couldn't wait to get out of here. Charlie felt faintly offended; it's not everyone who gets in that door, you know, he wanted to say. I wouldn't have invited you, if not for...

Yeah, better to just leave it alone. He found his hat underneath of a scarf in the closet; Charlie grabbed both, and was going for his own coat when he heard that mutter. That's right—the whole mugging thing meant the other man was flat-out broke. Charlie evaluated this information, frowning as he tugged the hat on. His coat was no longer damp, but it was unpleasant to wear. Ugh. He supposed he knew what he should do, he just didn't like it.

He opened his mouth, frowning; he shut it again and grinned when Anatole pulled out a small paper bag. He'd just assumed that had gone with the money. Evidently their erstwhile attackers didn't know how to have a good time. Abstinent criminals. What a concept.

"I'm not that destitute," he offered, shrugging his own coat over his shoulders. He licked his lower lip, debating—ah, fuck it. "My high price is that you have to share." Charlie grinned and leaned in, flicking the bag with a pale finger. The paper sounded too loud, and his head was killing him. So what better than to take the edge off, right?

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

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

S
uppose you’re right,” he grumbled. “Sky’s still a little too bright for my tastes, at any rate.”

Charlie had already pulled the cowlicked mess of his hair back – looking, he thought, no less a mess, but more characteristic. As characteristic as he could look in rough denim trousers and braces, with stains at his cuffs. He was a mechanic; it fit with the work table, with the scattered pieces and tools, with the schematics and spiky handwritten notes. He couldn’t think through his headache why he felt so strange about it.

Charlie was rooting round as if looking for something in his closet. He’d been too occupied to pay attention to what he was doing, searching the pockets of his coat.

When he’d taken out the bag, he’d looked up – and blinked, eyebrows raised. Godsdamn, but that was a hell of a sight. He didn’t know how to place it at first, above that roughspun shirt and that even stranger face nestled in the midst of it all, no less delicate and angular, now all spread in a crooked-toothed grin. It put him in mind first of a brigk, but it wasn’t that sort of hat. He’d seen them before, worn by the lads in green.

And so he thought he looked somewhere between a Brunnhold lad and a tsat mechanic, a mechanic wearing a Brunnhold lad’s hat, a Brunnhold lad dressed up like a mechanic. Then Charlie was shifting his coat on over his thin shoulders. It wasn’t any wetter than his, but it looked as if the wet and the heat from the radiator had robbed it of its shape; Charlie’d the look of a man who’d been bedraggled the night before and then drunk too much, and found his Brunnhold hat instead of his cap. And when he spoke, it was still with that practiced accent, somewhat reconstituted from the hungover mumble it’d been a few minutes ago.

He wasn’t ever one thing or another.

Flood this. He shook off the thought. He must’ve looked damned strange, too; he tried to picture himself, and it only made his head hurt worse. “Oh?” Looked like he was considering it.

He lifted an eyebrow as Charlie leaned in, catching a whiff of that familiar soap and something else familiar he couldn’t name. The back of his neck prickled; he squinted through his headache, but he managed another sideways smile when he flicked the bag.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he grunted. “I was saving it for a, uh – a rainy day, see.” He cleared his throat and snorted, shifting away to rifle through his coat pockets again. “Take off the edge, eh? Light up before we go.”

What the fuck was he doing? Nothing that would make any of this stranger, he thought. In fact, he thought with a dawning, comfortable certainty, this would make it less strange.

He glanced over again at that thin pale face, glanced away. The edges of his field were just apart from the static mona now, as they’d been the night before, until – it was funny to think of, like a dream. Not good or bad – it’d been very good – he didn’t much like thinking that, either – not good or bad, just funny, he thought, like a dream that hadn’t happened, except it had. It had, and he’d been sober for it, and even through the headache, he was remembering it damned well. Every bit of him was remembering it damned well.

It was hard not to think about, with him standing this close.

“Damn,” he muttered, waving a hand irritatedly. “Dropped my pipe in the alleyway. D’you happen to have anything?”

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - The Start of Greasy Eggquest
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

One day, Charlie would get himself a new hat. Eventually, anyway. He'd not gotten around to it yet, hence the school cap. It kept his head warm, at any rate, and covered up the chaos of his hair. Even extremely charming and handsome people like himself had bad hair days, right? Right. The Brunnhold cap looked good on him anyway, so he wasn't in any particular hurry to replace it. It seemed to catch Anatole by surprise; Charlie raised his eyebrows back, and said nothing at all.

Nothing about the hat, anyway; there were more important subjects. At least the coat covered up some of the sight of someone else in his clothes. His work clothes, and not just someone else, it was—Nope, not thinking about that. This was all fine, and even if it wasn't, there was the novelty to consider. Novelty went a long way. That this bit—this whole weird clocking godsdamn morning—was something he didn't think he could make a story out of was a little annoying, though. Made him itch between his shoulder blades, made him drum his finger quick against his thigh.

"Well," he drawled, leaning away again and very definitely not putting his hands in his pockets, "once again I remind you: it is Ophus in the Rose. Today may prove to be a rainy day yet."

He kept looking at him, Charlie noticed, and then away. He supposed he knew that look well enough. Only slightly out of place with the rest of it; not out of place at all if he put it in the right frame. The midlife crisis frame. Well, whatever. Just because it had been a while didn't mean he didn't know it well enough; Charlie usually just didn't stick around long enough to see it. So there it was, a reminder on why he had rules in the first place.

Annoying, though. Some people, Charlie thought, needed to learn how to have a good time and let that be it. He wasn't wasting any more time thinking about it, anyway. His head hurt too much.

That hungover muttering in that voice was jarring, but kind of amusing, too. A pipe, was it? Charlie didn't carry one around, but he ought to have something somewhere. Probably. "I believe so." If they weren't leaving yet, he wasn't wearing this coat yet, either. He took it off again, throwing it on the bed like he did everything else. "Around here somewhere..."

He eased away. This was stupid; it was too early for this. Or maybe it was genius, and it only seemed dumb because he was too sober for the hour. That seemed likely as anything else. Charlie drifted off to rattle through his things. The most likely place was, unfortunately, also the one that would make it hardest to find—a lot of stuff ended up on his work bench, in with all his actual, you know, work things. He started there, muttering to himself and wincing every time something was louder than he expected.

Behind him, he heard footsteps. Those he ignored, instead drifting over to the other extremely likely place for a pipe to be—the general area of his sofa. Other things on the list of "stuff Charlie Ewing was ignoring": the prickle on the back of his neck while he looked through his blankets and pillows, all obviously more slept-in than his bed. Normally. Not, he thought with a grimace, last night. Charlie shoved his hand between the cushions; there was what felt like a tally or two back there, something jagged, and—ha!

He knew he had a pipe somewhere, and he had been right. Charlie was grinning again when he turned around, only to raise his eyebrows. Anatole was standing next to Tippy's cage again; he'd never known him to be that much of an animal person, but he'd never known him to be a lot of things before that he did now.

"I knew it," Charlie said, picking his way back over, "you were just using me for access to my bird."

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

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

H
e snorted, lip twitching. When folk said they were saving shit for a rainy day, he couldn’t imagine they’d this sort of rainy day in mind; still – something pleased him about it, holding the paper bag, dry where it’d been tucked into his coat but wrinkled at the edges from where he’d taken it out outside Ten’s. Charlie was still looking at him. He’d looked away, down, and in the corner of his eyes, he could see those long pale fingers dancing against the hem of Charlie’s coat, same as they’d done in the rain.

He felt something funny, as Charlie moved away. The feeling tilted into something more physical, abruptly: his stomach twisted. He thought he was sick at first, though he’d nothing left to be sick on; then, he knew it for clawing hunger.

Charlie took off his coat again, tossing it on the radiator. He shivered into his own, tucking his hands with the paper bag into his pockets.

It was to the couch the mechanic went, and began rifling through the pillows and blankets.

He thought again of – he didn’t want to picture it, not with the lancing pain in his head. He’d come back to it in less than a week, in time for Clock’s Eve. Margaret or one of the other maids would’ve fixed it up by then, taken all the blankets and pillows back to the guest bedroom, hung the throw on the quiltrack, and he’d have to fix it back the way he liked it again. He thought of the room in Lossey wistfully, the map of comforting chalk marks on the floor, the books stacked precisely as pleased him.

He looked over at the two battered cups on the counter, the stack of mail. He looked down over the work table; he stepped round it, not quite sure where he was going, except that he avoided the crooked-sharp edge of a piece lying in the floor, and the rumpled curl of a sock. One of Charlie’s socks, he thought, one of the ones from last night –

His eyes wandered up to the bed then, where the blankets were all rumpled in that distinctive way. Charlie was still bent over the couch, and he kept wondering why he hadn’t kicked him out yet. It was one in a long list of whys, like why he hadn’t run straight out the door the second he’d woken up, and why he still hadn’t.

If Charlie couldn’t find a pipe - then by the gods, he’d find something to roll a joint with, if he had to learn the static conversation in a quarter-hour and make the rolling paper out of nothing but sweat, pain, and his own awkward feelings.

And then, somehow, he was next to Tippy’s cage.

“Hello,” he murmured, wincing again against the sound of his voice, peering through the bars. He was quiet; Tippy, it seemed to him, was still asleep. She looked very round and soft, and smaller even than she’d looked last night.

Still with her fine, fancy feathers, and that demure face that hid a plethora of colorful words.

Charlie’d turned round, in the corner of his eye; the back of his neck prickled. But he snorted, all the same. “You found me out. But d’you know, I haven’t found out the half of the state secrets in that charming little head of hers,” he said, and found himself keeping his voice low, out of respect to Tippy. “Perhaps I should’ve plied her with the rest of the Bastian verses,” he sighed, but when he turned to Charlie, he was still smiling fox-bemused. Another thrum of pain through his head; he really was addled.

He held out his hand; if Charlie let him, he’d take the pipe, fussing the bag open again with cold, shaky fingers and beginning to pack it, loose at the bottom and tighter as he tamped more in. “To Tippy, then, eh?” he grunted after a long moment, when he’d finished, and turned the pipe to hand it back. “I'll light us up this time, Charlie Ewing?”

He immediately regretted it, but not enough to take it back.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - The Start of Greasy Eggquest
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

LSomething about the way Anatole kept his voice quiet, like he didn’t want to wake up the bird, made Charlie grin in a way he didn’t like. Not the sort of lazy, mocking curl to the edges of his mouth he wanted. Charlie thought it was genuinely pleased, which was a horrible thought he was trying not to dwell on.

Everyone should act so around Tippy, anyway. He just wasn’t used to it, because there wasn’t ever anyone around her to act any way at all. Deference was Tippy’s due, honestly. She was a very good bird, his Tippy. Despite spending all her time around him and almost nobody else. Her language was more colorful than her feathers, but in Charlie's personal and completely unbiased opinion, that merely added to her charm.

”Hmm,” he hummed, not sure what to make of that face. ”You think her secrets can be bought so easily? You’d only get mine for that, which are worth considerably less in most markets.” His own voice was quiet, even though he knew better. Tippy slept through anything, after spending most of her life with him. The stupidity was contagious.

Charlie felt worse than usual after a night like that. Maybe it was being awake before midday that was doing it. The hour was almost certainly not helping at least. He wasn’t ever up this early, no matter what he’d done or not done the night before. It tilted all his reactions sideways, and that irritated him. Nothing food wouldn’t fix, but still. Food and coffee, as strong as he could get it.

But first—other things to attend to. Charlie looked at the bird and not the man, until a hand was held out. He handed the pipe over with very little fuss and a great deal of open evaluation. Those thin, freckled hands shook, but they did know what they were doing. Charlie looked away from that too, casually. For no reason in particular, he just felt like it. Or didn’t feel like it. Fuck. Whichever applied—his head hurt too much to care.

”Oh will you now, Anatole Vauquelin?” Charlie snorted, leaning back against the workbench. He drummed his fingers against the underside as his hand curled around the edge. Tap tap tap. Something about hearing that name out of that mouth was still sitting in a funny kind of way in his head. ”How kind of you.”

There wasn’t room in his head for anything to sit at all, funny or not. And if there was, he was going to fill it with smoke instead. Fill his head with smoke, and then the rest of him with caffeine and grease, and then… He actually didn’t know what, after that. Charlie was trying not to think that far ahead, or much behind, or really at all.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

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

I
n which markets? he thought, his mind wandering where it didn’t want to go. The back of his neck prickled; his headache was too bad to hold onto the thought, too heavy to squeeze anything else through, and that bothered him a damned lot worse. He was looking at Tippy, the soft, downy feathers of her breast rising and falling, only a few clawed toes visible underneath her.

My secrets are worth more, he thought, disturbed. Is that why you haven’t kicked me out yet, Charlie Ewing? Still waiting for me to – He blinked, unable to hold onto the thought.

The bulb of the pipe was in his shaky fingers; he looked down the stem of it, down to the face that was looking back at him, all narrow and pretty, all blue eyes fringed in eyelashes. His lip twitched and started at a grin when Charlie started, then twisted at the name, leaping at him unexpectedly and cutting right through his headache.

Anatole, Charlie pronounced, Vienda-precise, Vauquelin. The first time he’d said the name, he thought. Must’ve been, because he’d’ve remembered it.

Too godsdamn weird.

And was that – his head was still whispering, too sober – was that a reminder? Was that a reminder of what he could do? Charlie’s face was a lazy curl of a grin, sharp-crooked teeth; he looked at him a moment more, brow furrowed, and then raised one eyebrow up very high. “Huh,” he blurted out, rubbing his temple with a couple of fingers. “Forgot that was my name.” He hadn’t realized he’d said it, almost. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.

He didn’t think they’d lifted the matches off him. Hoped they hadn’t, anyway. He felt deep in one pocket, and a confused grimace flickered across his face as his hand touched something slightly wet. He searched another, this one more promising – leastways, he hoped so – and found it empty, except for a bit of paper and a couple scraps of lint.

It was the inside pocket, the other one, that he found his matchbox in. “I’ll have to get it tattooed,” he added. “Did say you’d have to come up with something to call me. Is that what you’ve settled on? Bit of a mouthful.”

He tried to ignore the funny sinking in his gut. He didn’t look behind him at the stack of mail on the counter. They don’t know you a whit, he thought. Any family would send any other family a card, when something like that happens to a man like Anatole, a man of influence; besides, he was estranged –

Ne, he thought, ne, it didn’t matter. Too hungover.

And this would help. Looking down at the matches, he saw the cuff of his work shirt just emerging from the sleeve of his expensive coat. In an attempt at a flourish, he failed to light the match the first time; the second time, he was more successful. So he lit the pipe without much ado and gave Charlie the first drag, glancing aside at Tippy, feeling even worse about the funny smile that twitched at his lips.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - The (Actual) Start of Greasy Eggquest
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Well that was weird, even compared to all the rest of the slog of fuzzy-headed oddness. There had been the start of a smile, and then it had veered off into a weird twist at the sound of his own name. Charlie thought he might understand, or sort of understand, and the idea made his stomach turn. Either that, or it was last night was reminding him that the flesh had limits. Probably that. No matter what Charlie thought about making that kind of face at the sound of your own name out of someone else’s mouth.

Forgot—whatever Mr. Midlife Crisis wanted to believe. Wanted to believe Charlie would believe. Charlie snorted, but he looked at that absurdly lofty eyebrow and thought better of saying anything to the contrary. Too early to argue with something so stupid, not even to be funny. Which he would have been, unlike that sad attempt at a joke. You didn’t forget, not when you were sober. If you could, he’d love to know the trick of it.

”We did say that, didn’t we?” Alioe, he wanted to take a pick to his skull just to take some of the pressure off. Instead of grabbing something sharp from the bench behind him, Charlie cocked his head, bird-like and evaluating. Scraped his eyes up and down, then grinned again. ”You could probably fit all of that, depending on where you get it tattooed. Lots of available real estate, in my expert opinion.”

”Although,” he continued on cheerfully, watching the failed attempt at theatrics with the matches, ”It’s certainly easier to fit than ‘Charlton Lawrence A— Almond’.” Charlie had almost choked on the end of it; what the fuck? Like it mattered now. Like they weren’t standing next to his letters, with his name—his real one, his legal one, however you preferred to think of it—scrawled all across them in his mother’s handwriting. Like he hadn’t lived on Willow Avenue right snug up next door for an absolutely ridiculous number of years.

Enough that line of thought. Whatever the fuck the thought was, that was enough of it, and he was done now. The second try had lit the pipe, anyway, and it was being handed to Charlie for the first draw. Then those grey eyes slid back to Tippy. She had never been so admired, Charlie thought with a mix of amusement and petulance. Not in a long time anyway.

The very act of drawing smoke into his lungs, the slow exhale, made Charlie feel a little steadier. Not too much, he thought lazily; they hadn’t even really made it to the front door. Hunger hit him sharp; yeah, he really wanted to leave. Lovely as it was standing around here looking at the little fluffball in her elegant wire cage. He handed the pipe back and then moved to put his coat back on.

”Come on, then. We can think of something better to call you on the way, if you want; the eggs are calling.” He’d have to get the coat cleaned professionally. How annoying. It looked awful, and whatever else he wore, he at least wanted to have a decent coat on.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

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

I
t hadn’t, of course, been the name. That hadn’t been why he’d fumbled. It was just this godsdamned headache; he was shit with his hands at the best of times, and now was not the best of times. Now was not even, he thought firmly, a middling sort of time. Not like last night, which’d… He wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking about Charlton – about Charlie’s little comment about real estate, either, though he could feel the leiraflesh crawling up every inch of his skin.

You did, he got the urge to say, just to break up all that tension and strangeness, you did survey the property. Want to move in? It’s not the most comfortable living space, but it’s – well, you put a little life into it, fix it up – well, it’s certainly more vigorous than I’d’ve thought –

“Huh,” he mumbled instead, though he could feel Charlie’s eyes on him.

Something about that tilt of his head almost reminded him of a whice. A few strands of hair shifting underneath his hat, brushing one pale cheekbone. A smile perched on his thin lips. His eyes weren’t a beady bird’s, though; he could see them in the corner of his eye, keen, with that thick fringe of lashes.

Damn, he thought, get a grip. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to get a grip on. Almond, Charlie’d nearly choked on, like the L and the M were just too much to say. He saw it in his head, kept seeing it floating like a film over his eyes, in the curly handwriting on those letters. Why the fuck did you say it? he wanted to demand, almost exasperated. To level the field, make you feel just as funny as I just did? Now we both feel funny. You get a grip, he thought petulantly.

Like sharing a bed hadn’t been enough. Couldn’t think about that, either. What his limbs might’ve done without him knowing it, sleeping sound as a drunk. Somehow, the thought of either of them sleeping anywhere but firmly on opposite sides of that bed was even worse than –

Best focus on packing the bowl. He felt like his head was splitting in two; best get something to take the edge off, and soon, before his skull cracked and his soul flew right back out where it’d come from.

When Charlie took the first draw, he was still looking at Tippy, sleeping sound in her cage. Smoke drifted from his thin lips, curled into the air between them; he breathed in the familiar scent of it, and even that eased his nerves. He took the pipe gladly when Charlie handed it over, and he leaned against the work table himself then, watching him go and get his coat again. That strand of hair was still loose at his cheekbone, and he wasn’t thinking about it at all.

He took the first drag. Rougher than he’d remembered, but that was sobriety. He exhaled; he shut his eyes. When he opened them, Charlie Almond – Charlie Ewing had his coat on, looking no less disheveled and bizarre than he had a few minutes ago.

“Well, who am I to deny the call?” he replied dryly, even as he felt the wrenching twist of it in his stomach. He didn’t look at the mail or at the cups; he didn’t look at the bed. He threw one last look back over his shoulder at Tippy, with a funny, crooked sort of smile.

The smoke certainly wasn’t going to make him less hungry.

All the same, nothing could’ve prepared him for the street. “Flooding gods,” he snarled, “flood the Circle, Alioe’s tits – put it back.” They eased out onto the stairwell, and he held one hand up in front of his face, squeezing his eyes shut against even the dull grey Ophus sky.

It was still damp. It smelled of damp wood out here; he tasted the damp on his tongue. He stood with his eyes shut as Charlie locked the door, and he only opened them when he felt the brush of something else against his face, and caught something else on his tongue.

“Is it snowing?” he groaned, blinking and blinking again.

The street was busier this morning, which hit him like another slap. He could hear calls and laughter; a woman in a coat was walking up the street below, and a coach rattled by. A light dusting of white had settled on the railing, and it was just as shockingly cold when he touched it as it should’ve been.

“Damn,” he muttered, looking back, staring momentarily at the Clock’s Eve pennant on Charlie’s door, as if he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 28, 2720 - A Picturesque Fucking Morning
Outside Charlie's Flat, Cantile

You want to get in any parting words to Tippy? he almost asked. It would have been funny, and he would have laughed. The idea that they both might have made drum his fingers in a quick little tattoo on this thigh, and Charlie put the thought right out of his head. Laughter, he thought solemnly, would make his headache worse.

He shouldn't have said the whole fucking name; why had he done that? It didn't matter that they both knew what it was. There was something really fucking annoying about not being able to fully escape it. Like even if life would let him, his own stupid fucking mouth would open and drag the ghost of Charlton Almond back up. Remind Charlie Ewing of the soil he came from, Charlie supposed. Fuck.

At least they were finally leaving. Then they could part ways, and—fuck. Not never see each other again, which was the problem, wasn't it? Or maybe they wouldn't. When would he be back in Vienda? Exactly. He didn't have to cross paths with Anatole to see Cherry again; he rarely did to start with. So that was fine. Assuming, anyway, that he ever did— Nope, not thinking about that either. Too early for that sort of chroveshite.

Charlie had known it wasn't going to be the most pleasant jaunt, the Journey to Grease, but he still swore when they opened the door to the street and he was immediately assault by a sharp slap of cold Ophus air. The pair of them were of a mind on that point, it seemed. Charlie was right—laughing did make his headache worse. Or maybe it was the cold. Either way, he snorted a laugh and tucked himself into his now-uncomfortable coat a little tighter.

"I'll get right on that, shall I?" Tits but it was cold. Charlie squinted out at the street for a moment, feeling very philosophical about the relative value of light when one was hungover versus completely sober. Thin, grey light it might be, but it was still too godsdamn much. He was a little relieved to turn his back on the sky for a moment when he had to lock the door. The thick fabric of his work trousers and his wool socks were at least better for the weather than what he'd been running around in last night.

From behind him, he heard Anatole's voice groan out something. Charlie didn't quite catch it over the sounds of city life on the street. Loud city life—he wasn't usually out and about at this hour, and he wasn't sure he liked it. "What?" He turned back. He blinked.

Oh, for fuckssake. Snow. He'd been grouching about snow. Because of course it was clocking snowing. Whyever not, after all? Clock's Eve rapidly approaching, all that. How picturesque. Awful. Terrible. Charlie hated snow. It was worse than rain, in his opinion, because when it stopped actively happening, the problem did not stop with it. This was just a light dusting of it, barely sticking to the railing and not at all to the street, but he was still displeased.

"It is," he agreed with a groan, and pulled his hat down a little more firmly on his head. "Fuck me," he growled, for emphasis. Well, it wasn't going to get less true as they stood here. He wasn't going to get any less hungry and hungover, either. If anything, the first problem was sharper now. Probably shouldn't have smoked at all, but it did make his head more bearable. And he had to do something, didn't he? To bear the rest.

Charlie folded his arms up and tucked his ungloved hands underneath. He'd forgotten them upstairs, and he wasn't about to turn around and get them. They were already outside. Too late now for regrets. Besides, Charlie tried not to feel regret as much as possible. Onward, then, to eggs.

He descended the stairwell and made a sharp turn down the street, in the opposite direction from where they'd gone before. At least the place he was thinking of was close. A few blocks of this Circle-forsaken cold, and it'd be time for coffee and grease and warmth. He didn't look back to see if he was being followed. Either he was or he wasn't, and it didn't matter to him. If Anatole stood there on his stairs forever, he could at least tell Cherry he tried.