ad he heard a snort?
Damn, he didn’t know; whatever it was, it hadn’t quite pushed its way past the ringing in his head, the ringing all that light and noise made even louder. The rattle of the key in the lock was like a needle in his ear, and by the time he’d got his eyes open enough to survey the street – to look at the pennant – it was like a weight had settled on his skull, relentless.
That was the way of it, he supposed. You thought it was easing off, and then it doubled down like a man shoving your head back into the bucket after giving you some minutes’ reprieve. And when it came back, it was always worse than it’d been, always such that you thought it’d last forever, getting worse and worse ‘til you crumbled under it like a spider under the sole of a shoe. And when it eased off, it was like a gods’ flooding gift, like a Token; that, or it seemed like you’d never hurt at all, for all you craved the buzz twice as bad.
No, he wasn’t going to have thoughts like that, not now. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already fallen off the wagon. He’d been tangled up in the kenser’s hooves last night, at the party; it’d been some time last week, he felt sure, he’d fallen off the wagon proper, sometime during that whirl of parties, when Etienne’s whinge had got to be too much, when carrying round a half-full glass hadn’t been quite enough –
Last night, at the party? Last night, at the party –
“Snowing,” he repeated numbly, covering up his face with his hand. He dug his fingernails in against the splitting ache, groaning. “It’s fucking snowing.”
No party, he thought. No fucking party. No party, no champagne, no him. It is, Charlie said, and he heard a groan like an echo. The wind picked up, and it seemed to cut right through Anatole’s coat and even the thick denim and roughspun work shirt underneath. He shifted to lean a moment on the railing, curling his toes in his shoes; he found himself wishing he’d asked to borrow a pair of socks. And a pair of boots, come to think of it, for all he wasn’t sure if Charlie’s would’ve fit. He must’ve looked ridiculous, bedraggled golly coat, denim trousers peeping out underneath – surreal enough by themselves – and underneath those a pair of shoes fit for the ballroom, bedraggled and misshapen and probably with cigarette butts stuck to the soles.
Fuck me, groaned Charlie.
He managed to kick himself into motion when he heard the other man start down the stairs. Whatever the hell he was – whoever the hell he was – whoever the hell Charlie was, Almond or Ewing or Narkissos, he didn’t want to be left alone on these stairs in the snow. And there was another rough twist of an ache in his stomach, and the thought of eggs and grease was even more of a spur than the chill.
He’d the pipe in his hand, leastways, and he took a drag; it helped with something, though he couldn’t’ve said what. He almost skidded on the last step, caught himself on the railing, and then fumbled after Charlie.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” he shot back with a sudden grin, which only made his head hurt the worse. “I already have.” Must’ve been Ten’s shit. “Buy me a drink first,” he blurted out anyway, “or at least a good strong cup of Anaxi tea?”
A woman, a tall dark-haired nattle they passed, jumped at the brushing of golly fields; she caught their eye, then looked away sharply. He snorted, then winced at the sound. He nearly dropped the pipe when he offered it back to Charlie, raising his brows. “Happy early Clock's Eve, by the way. Alioe fill your - uh - your cup.”