[Mature] Happy That Way

[Meraki]

70 Yaris, 2719 || After Dark
A Basement in The Stacks

Mac Murphy died in 2714, by accident. He had slipped on the basement stairs, boots wet from the rain, and the fall had gone one hit too poorly. Back then, the stairs had no railings and no texture to the wooden steps.

The stairs to Mac’s basement were narrow, nearly vertical for how extreme of an angled slope they had, and led about thirty-five steps down from a hidden trapdoor entrance. In a little side room built to the house, the trapdoor hid underneath a woven mat.

At the night hours, a couple men known as the Gatti Brothers (they were both human, but not brothers) guarded the entrance. The Gatti Brothers were the judges of whether they let someone through. A person had to know the verbal password, to get through the side door, and look decent enough as well. The Gatti brothers would then survey and promptly read them about their appearance, the cut of their clothes, and what might suit the individual better. They would pat down the person-in-question to check for any weapons, and if they found some, they would throw them into a trunk to the side and lock them away to be recovered on the way out. Safety, after all, was a priority. There were railings on the stairs now, and little etches in the steps to help provide friction to wet boots.

Due to the railing and the steep decline, most people performed the climb down like a ladder rather than stairs. Once at the landing, within the basement, one was greeted by a bust of Mac Murphy underneath a rather libertine oil painting of the man with a bowl of grapes and his prized two dogs (fuzzy puffballs that were closer to the size of cats). If this were not shocking enough, it might’ve been the vivid vermillion red of the Anaxi man’s immortalized elaborate beard, curled mustache, and fluffed hair. The lantern lights caught the thick red oil paints to create a glaring contrast with the velvet green suit.

Across from the ostentatious memorial for Mac Murphy, a long counter bar wrapped around the brick-walled basement. The floor was polished wood with sections of tile behind the bar itself. Shelves and cabinets were decorated with various bottles of liquor. A wine rack hid in a shadowed alcove along with some smaller kegs. Past a corridor that went around the counter, one found a smoking lounge filled with comfortable armchairs and resting couches between various types of tables. Heavy tobacco smoke created a constant mist, but there wasn’t just tobacco laced in the haze and in one nested corner of couches, some men simply dozed with long pipes and the prized hookah of the establishment.

Past the lounge was a narrow hall that led to six alcoves that weren’t proper rooms but had thick velvet curtains to draw shut and padded benches for comfort while having private conversations.

There were a few unspoken rules about Mac’s Basement. The first being no weapons. The second that at least undershorts should remain on the person, in the main areas. The third was no coin exchanged for alcove time (this was not a brothel as Mac Murphy had been very adamant about that and the Gatti Brothers made sure to continue his wishes). The fourth was to gamble fairly and to not brawl. The last and fifth rule was that no women were allowed.

Meraki had first visited Mac’s many years ago. He rather enjoyed the place, if anything because it gave a spot to hide away and forget about the city of Brunnhold that loomed in the streets above. It wasn’t without its risks and dangers, though. No matter how much he enjoyed it, the past years since Mac’s death, he mostly avoided the place.

So, when he muttered the simple password of Precious prefers citrus. (one of Mac’s fluffball dogs had been named Precious) and the side door slid open, the Gatti brothers seemed surprised.

“Toby? Chimes! What the clock are y’ doing here?” asked the taller Gatti, thick dark eyebrows raised and then promptly lowered with suspicion.

“What anyone would be doing here?” he wagered back, and took out his knuckledusters to hand over.

“Haven’t seen y’ in… how long has it been?” the taller tossed the knuckledusters over to the shorter Gatti, who shrugged and tossed the weapon away into the trunk.

“Least a year or two,” offered Meraki. He held his arms out while the taller patted him down to check for any other weapons. “I’m not here for trouble, if that’s what y’ thinkin’. Promise.”

“Sure, you ent,” said the taller while he took out a switchblade from Meraki’s boot. He tossed it over to the shorter. “But has y’ seen yer pants? What is this material? Burlap? Y’ couldn’t be bothered to dress a lil’ proper?”

Meraki rolled his eyes and brushed away the taller’s hand from coarsely rubbing his leg. The older man had already found all the weapons there was to find. He said, “Just want to relax some, that’s all.”

The Gatti duo looked at each other, for a moment of consideration, then the shorter nodded. The taller flipped back the woven mat, and swung open the trapdoor. Meraki walked past and climbed down face-forward with a quick duck to avoid hitting his head on the opening’s frame. He hurried down and jumped the last couple of steps with a swift landing that caught the attention of the bartender and a few men settled at the counter. Meraki fixed his vest with a snap of the fabric, flipped his copper-blond hair to the side, then turned to take a moment of silence at the memorial for Mac.

After some silent thoughts, he started on a walk around the place to get an eye on the night’s crowd. It wasn’t as busy as he’d seen it before. Every year seemed to dwindle with less and less men willing to come to known places. Only a matter of time, they muttered. A place like that, so firmly established, location so known if one went looking… most gave in to the rotating network of tenement flats, warehouses, and alley ways that changed locations and didn’t have rules around behavior. The older gentlemen of the Stacks, though - the ones who weren’t exactly wealthy but liked to live like it, the ones who had mild natures rather than reckless, the ones who liked to pamper their toys and play pretend with courtships – those were the sort who still visited the basement.

Meraki went to the end of the corridor of alcoves, then walked back to the lounge. He found an empty armchair, sat down, and looked over at an acquaintance he knew lived past the campus walls of Brunnhold in the nicer neighborhoods.

“Why, Toby, what a sight I didn’t expect to see again,” recognized the older of the two. Paolo was a polished, but average-looking man with obvious Bastian blood to his features. He recrossed his legs so that his toe pointed toward the wick. The man leaned over and flipped open a cherry wood cigarette case in offer to Toby – much to the chagrin of the younger man sitting beside him. “Has Leon graced us with his presence too?”

Accepting one of the cigarettes, Meraki held it close while he waited for the flame of the other man’s match to light it. Once the embers got going, he leaned back in the armchair and shook his head. “I’m here on my own. This place is far too… how did Leon put it…” he mimicked his kov's Vienda-accent, “...operated on shame.”

Paolo smiled with a show of crooked teeth, then said, “What utter nonsense. Does he expect to cavort in the Intrepid Lodge?”

“Can you imagine?” inquired Meraki with a scoffed laugh of disbelief.

“Absolutely moony,” agreed Paolo easily. He looked to his younger companion and said, “Be a darlin’ and get us some drinks? Or… a bottle of… red? Or did you like white, Toby? Forgive me, I forget easily these days.”

“Hanged Man or Long Haul,” answered Meraki before he took a long, drawn-out drag of the cigarette and glanced around the lounge at the other men there.

“Ah, yes, excellent. Hanged Man, then.” The older man patted for his companion to get on with the task with the lightest of intimate taps. Anywhere else, it would have raised eyebrows. Not at Mac’s Basement though. Which is why they were all there.

Meraki, however, felt a slight discomfort. He tried to ignore it. Out of the gathered men, he suspected Paolo was his best bet. Cigarettes, drinks, and hopefully information. The Bastian man always did like to exchange things for attention and time. Of the crowd, Meraki recognized he was the only wick and there wasn’t a galdor among the lot. All human, tonight. It wasn’t always like that, back in the day when he used to visit. There’d used to be spokes that’d come through, or the rare occasional other tsat, and a span of time when galdori loved to slum in the place but that had been back when Mac Murphy was still alive.

[Fionn]

Yaris 70, 2719 | After Dark
A Basement in the Stacks

.

This was how he could make the most of his day off, or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. The youth wanted company and there were only so many avenues open to him, especially given his inclinations. Being in a public place and giving signs that he was interested in men turned out to be a very unsettling experience, not to mention strangely embarrassing to him, because humans weren’t exactly approving of men who were attracted to those of their own sex. Unfortunately, there were an awful lot of humans in the Stacks. They seemed to view it as a weakness, something lacking in a man’s character, and Fionn couldn’t have explained just how poorly that sat with him. The youth still had to contend with his own internalised homophobia, and he had had plenty of reason to feel ashamed of himself over the years.

With the other passives, it hadn’t been as bad, mainly because they’d come from galdori backgrounds where a gay marriage was as legally valid as a straight one. Of course, galdori could still be homophobic — his father being a prime example — and in his experience, he’d found that some of his fellow passives preferred to look away and pretend that it didn’t happen because it made them uncomfortable. Perhaps humans were just more honest. That being said, he’d prefer not to have been spat at or called the sort of names that he had, even if he was expanding his vocabulary!

The youth had had a number of weeks to discover that the environment wasn’t a particularly comfortable one, especially as Fionn was left feeling as if he made himself stick out and the very last thing that he wanted to do was make himself too conspicuous. But gods help him, now that he was staying in Umberto’s house and didn’t share a room with Jamie, didn’t see the servants who had been his peers for years and who he had learned to spot by their willingness, he found that he wanted company. Okay, yes, there was a fair bit of general lasciviousness with which he had to contend but it wasn’t all about sex. No, odd though it seemed, the teenager found that he actually missed having someone with whom he could talk. He might be a talker but he hadn’t ever been the sort to have friends, not really, and when it came to normal conversation, he wasn’t sure that he knew how that worked either. He just wanted to be near someone with something in common with him and he’d thought that having a place where he could be somewhat himself would help with that.

Why else would he have accepted the invitation from that man he’d met this afternoon? A harmless invitation, an opportunity to meet in a space with others “like us”, was how he’d put it. A men’s club, somewhat… exclusive. If he’d somehow failed to come to the correct conclusion by putting together the words and the conspiratorial tone, then the careful, lingering touches would have helped to hammer it home. Oh it probably looked friendly, yes, just men being perfectly ordinary companions — despite showing signs of not knowing each other mere minutes beforehand — but a hand clapped lightly on his shoulder managed to stay there and then when he’d dropped that hanky out of his pocket and crouched down-

Fionn had gotten a very clear picture, perhaps a bit too clear actually, especially as the man’s interest had unsettled him at the time, not because there was anything untoward about him — though he must have had at least a decade on the lad — but rather he reminded him of others he’d known. The teenager had always been good at attracting older men and that had been especially true since he’d started meeting them in bars in the Stacks, bars where he lingered in spite of having no money. Going to this hangout and using the password he’d been given might come with certain expectations but it had been very easy to talk himself out of that.

Wasn’t he already dealing with expectations in the bars he was lingering in? Wasn’t he reliant on others to procure drinks for him so that he could stay in such places? Of course, people could socialise there but it was with the understanding that people were customers. It wasn’t as if he’d complained about any of his fleeting companions; he’d been lonely enough after all.

Once Graves — his older admirer — had left, it was all too easy for him to justify going to Mac’s Basement because he’d be able to relax better there than anywhere else. Better to go there rather than haunting the sort of establishments he’d been in over the past few weeks, the sorts of places where he was probably becoming known; returning to the same places was courting a beating. Around men with similar interests, the teenager would be able to unwind a little without fear—with less fear—and look at men to draw them without having to worry about getting filthy looks and his drawing materials crushed into the gutter. Even if he happened to encounter Graves in Mac’s, he didn’t owe him anything and in theory, he’d have more men from which to choose. Ultimately, when it came down to it though, it had nothing to do with lust or safety or anything else. The youth was still damn lonely and what he’d been seeking these past few weeks, he hadn’t managed to find it. Fionn was reminded of the way he’d felt for many of his years in Brunnhold and he knew that touch didn’t always cut it.

Make an effort, that’s what he’d been told and godsbedamned, he’d done his best. As a passive, it wasn’t as if he had a wardrobe of fancy clothes. Even humans had good wear, something that they kept aside — their best. What Fionn had beyond his passive uniform was the kind of clothing that he could wear in the Stacks without drawing too much attention. Clean and presentable but nothing fancy was usually what he could manage. His sister had gotten him a grey-green sweater for the impending autumn and while it would be damn near impossible to wear it in the daytime, it would serve well enough after dark, especially without a jacket. It wasn’t a particularly heavy sweater either — not that the Yaris night could be termed cold, even this late in the month — but he chose to wear a shirt under it anyway, on account of it looking more respectable. Well, he thought that it did but honestly, he didn’t know. In truth, it was like he was wearing another kind of uniform, something he donned without any thought. There was nothing of the youth’s personality in it after all. The sweater might be a new addition to his ‘casual’ clothes but the rest of it was simple and worn, dark trousers getting a mite shiny in places and the collar of his shirt thinning and sadly drooping even when he starched the damn thing. Fionn has certainly done his best but the men at the door, well…

As a scrap, he’d either had others look through him or look down on him, albeit in a well-meaning way. With the gollies, there was always that sense that he was a child or feeble-minded, ‘poor thing’ always seeming to hover in the air between them even if it went unvoiced. With them, they were his own kind — more or less — and yet it was humans, supposedly the lowest of the low, scarcely above beasts from what he’d been taught — good, somewhat dependable, necessary but still little more than beasts — who he’d found gazing down their noses at him and not just literally. They viewed him as one of their own and perhaps that allowed them to judge him more readily, and they liked to judge from what he could tell. They certainly had standards at which he could never have guessed from the particular way that galdori regarded them. It was unfortunate though that he seemed to be somewhat disappointing to them as well. Oh they might not have fields to convey their feelings but the fact that he lacked something essential, something vital that would make them truly one of them, seemed to ooze their pores.

The men guarding the door to Mac’s Basement hadn’t been an exception. The lad was clean, he’d tried to force his hair into some reasonable state, he’d even shaved, not that anyone could usually find the hair on his face when he left it, but they had still managed to pick up on the worn condition of his clothing, had tutted over the way he’d bared his forearms and made ‘clean’ sound strangely insulting. They’d patted him down for weapons as well, not that Fionn had had any notion what they were doing initially and it was only when he found his art stuff being scrutinised and the pair exchanged opinions on what someone could do with a pencil that he had understood. By the time they let him in, after what seemed like an eternity of interrogation, the young man almost didn’t want to enter. Soon enough, he regretted having done so at all.

It wasn’t his heart-stuttering trip down the staircase that was more like a ladder, or the fact that he didn’t see anyone that he knew, not even the man that invited him. No, instead it was what the place was, the occupants of the clandestine establishment that unsettled him — ironic given that they were the very reason that he was here. It was bloody idiotic but it was like he’d made a declaration by coming in here — again, hadn’t that been the clocking point — and he felt ashamed to have done so, almost chilled by it in spite of the warmth of the space and the layers he wore. Frankly, he probably would have preferred to have flashed his tattoo at them all and declare something rather different about his nature. Beyond that, it wasn’t readily identifiable why they should cause him such discomfort.

The bar gave way to the lounge and frankly, the youth didn’t do a lot of looking around, the notion of catching someone’s eye too frightening to contemplate for the moment and so he found an empty armchair and settled himself into it, all too aware that he was too stiff. And the place was so full of tobacco smoke — and other things less familiar — which only made him itch with desire for a cigarette, a craving that he’d been having more often of late. It had been months since he’d had a cigarette, especially given that he’d gone through a period where the thought of one, never mind the smell had made him recall things with far too much clarity. Perhaps here, he could beg a drag off someone or better yet, maybe an entire fag to himself. One couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t the only itch that he had to contend with though, the burn marks in the bend of each elbow irritated anew, prickling with heat as they had done when they were healing.

Probably the sweater or maybe the way that the rolled cuffs of his shirt had settled.

The sweater sleeves were pushed up higher, the shirt cuffs rolled anew so that they were placed securely over the other material. Nothing touched the inside of his elbow, no chance of friction being caused as the pockmarks were on full display but the uncomfortable tingling persisted.

Trying to settle himself and look less like someone expecting an uncle to drag him out, Fionn crossed his legs, an ankle resting over one thigh while his knee jammed against the arm of the chair. His leg acted as an easel, allowing him to rest the small pad of paper he had at a favourable angle. It wasn’t the highest quality of paper but it served well enough, especially in light of the awful scribblings that he could produce, and he wouldn’t risk anything better anyway, not after the last incident. Additionally, he only had the one pencil, on the softer side, because at least if something nasty happened, he was only losing the one. It was enough to serve his purposes anyway, the softness of the lead enabling him to add shade more readily but also it easier to make his lines looser instead of quite so precise — in theory anyway.

The young man had been attempting people lately, a tricky subject and while he had been doing a lot of self-portraiture with the aid of a mirror, scrutinising his own face wasn’t always the most enjoyable of activities, especially when the results were so often abysmal. No doubt it was a shame to take an attractive face and warp it but variety helped so it was something he wanted to get here.

It worked to loosen the tension in his muscles, the activity absorbing his attention as he went through some warm-ups, trying his hand at bottles, forcing himself to capture their outlines — the essence of their shapes — in loose, sweeping lines. It distracted him until he felt the field close at hand, different from what the galdori had and one he had come to recognise as a wick’s. Smaller, freer, less predictable and yet strangely welcome because it was something instead of the vacuum that lay beyond the confines of his nexus. The appearance of the glamour was enough to get his attention and make him glance away from his current subject but the owner made him look again.

The young man was handsome, pretty — pretty handsome! — and his face was one he’d seen before. He’d seen him in one of the pubs he’d been to recently on more than one occasion. Actually, Fionn had thought he’d found his disapproving eyes on him more than once from behind the bar; the wick had been the bartender, which meant that the blond hadn’t had reason to interact with him as others had. He’d had no idea that he was- that he had an interest in-

Well, clearly he had misread quite a lot.

He should have gone back to his practice sketches or chosen someone to draw who was an acceptable distance away so that he could scrutinise them safely. Unfortunately, the wick wasn’t too far off and he couldn’t resist peeking at him, eyes tracing the lines and angles of his face, especially when it was in animation. Youth and vitality, both things that made him stand out along with his looks, his field, his-

Really, he stood out, didn’t he? Maybe not as much as Fionn, maybe more than Fionn, honestly, the youth didn’t know if anyone was paying attention to him or not but surely the wick should be a source of some focus. He could appreciate him but he couldn’t draw him. No, it’d be a crying shame for him to try because he could imagine how poorly it would go and it would be terrible to mess up that face, even if it was only a representation.

The passive did attempt to turn his eyes elsewhere but there was no hiding that the pencil had stopped its sketching even if it did continue to shift back and forth in his left hand, a pendulum swing. His other hand betrayed his nervousness, fingers trailing through his hair and throwing his hard won attempts to tame it into disarray — further disarray; he’d unknowingly tangled his fingers in it while he drew. Now, he wasn’t drawing, he wasn’t doing much of anything. At least, that was what he wanted. Not be conspicuous, not look at the other youth, not look flustered.

Subtlety was something he tried as he peeked at the other from beneath his lashes, unable to resist, especially as he’d made it forbidden to himself, and his head tilted up gradually without him noticing until he did catch someone’s eye, intruding on that little knot of interaction without meaning to do so. His gaze dropped fast, too quickly to be anything less than obvious.

"Fucking clockstopper!" the blond muttered, staring at his drawings too intently, as he began to add shading to a bottle without looking anywhere near his still-life model. Couldn’t risk it. Who could say that he’d ever been looking at all? Obviously, he hadn’t been riveted, no, not him.

Absolutely not.

[Meraki]

70 Yaris, 2719 || After Dark
A Basement in The Stacks

There were a lot of gazes that a person could give. A lot of looks, and glances, and stares, and otherwise that could be exchanged. As many, or more, expressions in the world of body language existed, as did any vocalized words on the tongue. Meraki knew Estuan, and how to converse in Monite, and a reasonable amount of Tek, and while he didn’t know the sign language of the hands, his true fluency laid within the body and people’s expressions. Words could mean so many different things, depending on what the face did while giving them. The way the eyes darted around, or averted, or the way the lips tightened or parted, or the way a jaw clenched, or the brows twitched. The way that some people pulled at their ear when nervous, and others sniffed when telling a lie. Meraki had been observing people and their faces, their bodies and voices too, before he could even walk. He simply never stopped with that insatiable curiosity of exploring all the variations people could make.

Paolo, for instance, proved incredibly simple to read. The well-to-do, but not wealthy, human liked to show his crooked teeth whenever he thought he was insulting someone. He liked to look around when telling a lie. He liked to tap his foot against the air when anxious. And when he bit at his thumbnail, then slicked his dark hair back against his thinning scalp… that told Meraki that Paolo had certain expectations for the night. Meraki wondered if those expectations included his younger companion or if Paolo would simply discard the fair-eyed stranger instead. Could be, either. The Bastian transplant liked to share with multiple men at the same time, which wasn’t entirely rare among the older gentlemen of the Brunnhold underground. In Meraki’s experience, they seemed to live vicariously through collecting as many willing bodies as they could to move around like stage actors or dolls. He didn’t care for it, himself, if he had any choice about the matter.

While they waited for the wine, Paolo conversed about trite issues with his art shop. Apparently, someone had swiped a collection of paintings he’d wanted to auction off. Meraki listened, but he continued to survey the room… and he recognized a young man, yet a new face - an unexplored face - that he’d been seeing around more and more. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see him among this crowd, given how he’d observed him acting in the bars in the past days, but he was slightly impressed that the young man had figured out where Mac’s was and how to get past the Gatti Brothers.

From what the wick could tell, he wasn’t accompanied by anyone either. That was… dumb of the boy.

The wine got set down with a quietly annoyed huff from Paolo’s companion. Meraki swiped up a glass of it, then exchanged three quick, modest kisses to Paolo’s cheeks for a second cigarette. Usually he wouldn’t have bothered, but the cigarettes were exceptional. High quality, and laced with something other than just tobacco, and whatever the blend - it mellowed Meraki in a way that made him want more. He could tell Paolo knew this, with that tap of his foot against his leg and how Paolo slicked back his thinning hair yet again, but especially when the natt gave him an extra two cigarettes as well. Yeah, the old man definitely had expectations for tonight.

He didn’t need to excuse himself in any particularly formal way. Paolo knew him, already. And men who already knew Meraki, also knew the tsat didn’t stay seated for long. He always got up and simply wandered whenever he felt like it, never feeling obligated to remain or listen or any of it. Rude, some of them chided him at times, but then how could they stay mad? Meraki knew exactly his worth in the underground, and so did all the rest. Not newcomers though. They had no idea.

Meraki casually meandered over to the artist who sat trying to act like he hadn’t been peeking at the wick for the whole time since Meraki had arrived. As if he hadn’t been making eyes while Paolo had gone on and on. Cute, in a way. He set down his untouched wine glass on a nearby sidetable, and leaned over to glance at whatever it was that the artist was drawing.

At the side of the chair where Fionn sat, the wick lowered onto his knees. He rested his elbows on the arm of the chair and took a deep drag of his laced cigarette. Dark eyes, the faintest glimmer of light that suggested the green within the irises, stared up at the other blond. The Anaxi half-breed blew a dense cloud of smoke into the younger’s face.

“Y’ know, y’ can look all y’ want here, right, kov?” he asked, a twitch of a smile on one corner of his lips. Without care as to personal space, or introductions, or anything of that like; Meraki reached over and set his finger on the sketch paper. He tapped at the drawing of the bottle.

“Why y’ wastin’ all this finery and pencilin’ some bottle? …this some… what do y’ artists call it, in-nu-en-dough?” His fingertip ran over the length of the bottle, smudged the shading, then he lifted it to look at the tiny stain of graphite on his calloused fingerprint. “Y’ know, my kov over there, he sells art. Maybe if y’ drew his boy all fancy like, he’d give y’ some coin.”

Meraki got back to his feet, picked up the wine glass, and he knew Paolo was watching. He sighed, then took a sip. At least it was a type with a flavor he liked. With a lazy incline of his head, he observed the younger man. “Where y’ from? I haven’t seen y’ around ‘til recent like.”

[Fionn]

Yaris 70, 2719 | After Dark
A Basement in the Stacks

.

If the man had been a human then perhaps Fionn might have failed to notice his approach but of course, the location of that glamour shifted so that he knew that the youth was on the move, even if he didn’t know the direction. It would have been far better if he could have been blissfully unaware but instead, he had to feel the frantic beat of his own heart and prevent his breathing from quickening in spite of the way his body screamed at him to take in air faster. It wasn’t panic, it wasn’t fear — okay, maybe it was a little like those — but mainly, he found himself charged with anticipation. He didn’t dare risk a glance, even tilting his head away so that he wouldn’t catch the movement in his peripheral vision until he was practically upon him — if he ventured this way. He might be on the move but that didn’t mean that he’d grace the passive with his presence. Oh he’d definitely realised that the teenager was eyeing him but that didn’t mean anything. No doubt he got that a lot and he imagined that the other had his pick of company.

Why would he bother himself with Fionn?

Even as he felt that glamour slink closer and tried to tell himself that it was coincidence, the servant had a fair idea of the answer. The blond was a novelty, a new face, a young face, and certainly not bad looking, certainly worth something in this place. Really, he knew that it was a wonder that he hadn’t had anybody else approach him yet since he’d arrived in Mac’s but at the same time, he hadn’t been crying about the lack of attention.

The pretense of being focused on shading was a poor one, something that must have been quite obvious once the man actually reached his side. He caught sight of the wick in motion even as his monic aura washed over him, the youth’s breath temporarily stopped as he marvelled at it, simultaneously attracted and repelled by it. Glamours were new to him, albeit somewhat familiar because of the similarities they shared with golly fields but you couldn’t mistake one for the other. They were a new experience, something he’d only experienced since gaining some freedom outside of Brunnhold’s walls. It was better than the strange voids in which humans resided and glamours weren’t too difficult to grow accustomed to but that initial moment caught him, especially when it slid into his space.

The young man’s pulse fluttered excitedly as the wick knelt beside his chair, settling himself down with incredible nonchalance and billowing smoke into Fionn’s face before he even opened his mouth. Arrogant son of a bitch, wasn’t he? The boy knew that he was pretty and he evidently knew how to use it, especially given that he’d caught the servant peeking at him. And that smoke? Well, that was a power move if ever he’d seen one and he had seen many.

While he did lean somewhat away from the cloud as it stung his eyes, the blond also breathed in deep, nostrils flaring wide as he inhaled as much of the scent as he could. It was second-hand and didn’t offer the same kick it would have if he’d dragged it pure into his lungs but damn, if it wasn’t good all the same! It had been so long since he’d had a cigarette and he could feel that absence, how it made the smoke scratch at the back of his throat so that he couldn’t help but cough lightly until he acclimatised. Once his throat clearing was done, he made the mistake of looking at Meraki fully, coinciding with that smirked question. He’d thought that he was prepared to look at him but he clocking well hadn’t been.

His face blazed and he cursed inwardly, hating himself for the blush that he knew had manifested all too clearly on his cheeks. His eyes shifted downwards again, a hand tangling in his hair. A self-conscious smile played about his lips, which pressed together, pursing as he smudged his shading.

“I know that I can look here, yeah. There are consequences though, same as out there,” he commented, waving vaguely towards the ceiling to indicate the Stacks as a whole. “Well, not the same. Least you still attract attention. That’s not necessarily bad, y’know?”

In spite of the blush, he managed to look at his newfound companion, regarding him askance as a knowing smile turned up the corner of his mouth. No, the wick’s attention didn’t seem like the bad sort, at least he seemed close to his age, attractive, not like many of the men in here. He knew how that went and it didn’t take a genius to work out the dynamics in this place, maybe the Stacks more widely. Things could certainly be worse but if this youth was the only company that he attracted, he’d be grateful. He doubted that the other would expect anything from him, not in the same way the man who had invited him here obviously had or that older fellow that the wick had been kissing on the cheeks.

It didn’t matter if it was considered all right here. Fionn didn’t think that he could get over the sight of having seen those kisses exchanged so publicly, chaste though they had been. Any public exchange of affection was strange to the youth, far too used to such things being relegated to the shadows. Honestly, it didn’t matter who it was or what their sex might be, the teenager thought he’d be awkward about it but the added taboo of it only unsettled him more.

His brows didn’t merely twitch upwards but damn near scaled his forehead, gaze flicking from the practice drawing to Meraki and back again, focus flitting briefly to the ‘kov’ to whom he was referring. That was another thing he had to get used to out of his confinement, these words that didn’t fit into the perfect Estuan he’d been taught. Kov seemed a straightforward one from the usage of it — man — but perhaps in this context, it had some added meaning, at least in relation to Paolo, especially given the prefix of ‘my’. He didn’t know how he felt about that and he couldn’t deny the sensation of a cold finger being dragged along his spine that it produced. Paranoia, pure paranoia. Just because he’d mentioned the art dealer and had been sitting with him mere moments ago didn’t mean that he’d been sent over to procure the youth for the older human.

He managed a chuckle, a mix of nerves and self-deprecation, doing his best to bury his anxious speculations. He considered his drawing again and snorted.

“Innuendo. I don’t know whether to applaud you for your imagination — or lack of it!” he commented, chuckling again before he jammed the end of the pencil between his teeth, unaware that he was nibbling on the wood. “Nah, it’s a warm-up, just to get my hand into it. If you uh… if you think that I could draw his boy up fancy then well… maybe your imagination really is something because we clearly aren’t looking at the same drawing.”

His soft laughter faltered a tad as the wick rose, some sense of disappointment that he’d lost the other’s interest already, what brief curiosity he might have elicited quickly sated. Or so he thought.

As Meraki sipped at his wine, Fionn unwound a bit in his armchair, leaning towards the other and propping himself on the arm. The pencil in his grasp beat a lazy rhythm against his thigh as he looked up at the wick.

“Honestly, I’m lucky I can draw the bottle and have it look like a bottle. I ent got that kind of talent. Was gonna try my hand at it but… not him, not for anybody to see either. Don’t need anybody else seeing how badly I fuck up,” he admitted frankly, shrugging. He stretched his hand out towards Meraki, his arm unfolding to reveal the burn marks at the crook as he reached, index and middle finger parting.

“Vienda. ‘M from Vienda originally as I’m sure you can hear.”

He tried to laugh it off, well-aware that his Viendan accent still lingered after all these years, stronger of late, perhaps on account of the time he’d spent around his sister as if it was all coming back to him. Conscious again that he was trying to be inconspicuous.

“Haven’t been there in years, never liked the place neither. Got a job here a few weeks ago though so… now I’m around. Mind if I have a drag?” he asked, his gaze was hungry every time it shifted to the cigarette in Meraki’s hand and since he’d blown smoke in his face, he’d been thinking about tasting it far more than his sanity could rightly stand.

“Been fucking months since I last had a fag, near a year actually. Thought I’d kicked the habit but I suppose some urges don’t… go away.”

The corner of one eye twitched shut in a wince as he realised what he’d been saying, heard how it sounded to his own ears. His shoulders hunched, the young man closing in on himself more although left his hand out, waiting for Meraki to give him what he wanted or else tell him to piss off.

Another throat clear, more of an awkward pretence this time.

“I’ve uh… I’ve seen you around too, yeah. You tend bar, right?” he questioned softly, feeling his face warm anew as he imagined the ways he might have seen Fionn. “You’ve a memorable face. Um! What I mean is- I look a lot. At people, things, buildings, whatever. I might not be able to draw well but I can observe and I have an eye for pretty thi- I mean!”

Oh sweet clocking Lady! How difficult could it be to get through a sentence without making it sound as if he was- Well, none of it was lies but he wasn’t trying to say it. Gods! Could he not have a conversation without making a clockstopping fool of himself?

He tucked his pencil behind his ear before he tapped a hole through his leg in his agitation and started rubbing at the back of his neck instead.

“It’s Fionn by the way. That’s what you can call me. Because it’s my name. Also I’m an idiot in case that uh… wasn’t obvious either.”

He was smiling or his lips were turned upwards at any rate, his teeth showing. Maybe it was more pained, as opposed to being a true show of mirth but he was clocking trying, damnit! Definitely an idiot and he didn’t know why he was being this way. Perhaps the stress of everything to do with this evening, including the newness of his location were taking their toll.

“I swear I’ve had a conversation with another person before, it’s just- I’d like to say it’s been one of those days but… I am an idiot and I’ve only had a moony golly for company for the last week and he’s… moony, even for a golly. Maybe he’s rubbing off on me.”

This time his laugh sounded more genuine, lacking the self-deprecation that it had done before as his shoulders relaxed. Well, he’d certainly broken the ice and if the wick didn’t walk off in disgust, it should be easier to interact from henceforth.

In theory. Fionn didn’t tend to make things easier for himself.

[Meraki]

70 Yaris, 2719 || After Dark
A Basement in The Stacks

Meraki could always pin a smoker when he saw one. There were those who coughed, those who turned away, and then there were those who inhaled so deep you’d think it was the breath of life itself that they tried to get in their lungs. The younger man was the latter, and was he ever greedy about it too with the flare of nostrils as he tried to devour as much of the cloud of smoke as he could – as if there’d never be another cloud of smoke after it. Yet there was a light cough, which suggested to the wick, it might have been a while since the newcomer had last had a proper cigarette. He wondered if the other man could pick up on what also laid within the bundled tobacco leaves.

It was nearly impossible to not chuckle when a vivid blush burnt the human’s face red. So shy in a place like this? Alone? Truly, truly, an even dumber boy than he’d initially thought. An artist too, by the look of it. That made sense. Most artists were exceptionally… less than attentive to the practical measures of the world around them. Ah, but the boy insisted he knew there were consequences and Meraki didn’t pay it much mind even when he saw the knowing smile. He set his attention on the sketch instead and suggested that the younger might make some coin by selling the practice instead.

Another deep drag of the cigarette, and he raised an eyebrow askew in a glance at the anxious chuckle that bubbled out of the newcomer. As if he weren’t sure what was so funny. As if it wasn’t the sort of thing you were supposed to chuckle at. As if he was reconsidering the conversation entirely. Meraki stood and sipped his wine, while he listened to the slight comment of attempted wit and an explanation about the drawing, with vague and distancing interest. Self-deprecation wasn’t something that he very much cared for, when it came to such things.

So, he shrugged and continued to sip the wine, and inquired about where the newcomer was from. His interest immediately showed again when he heard Vienda; for he looked back at the younger man with a thin, spontaneous smile that only showed his front teeth. His eyebrows raised, then he walked over and sat in the nearest armchair to the side. Seated in a wide stance, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. One hand held the wine, the other balanced the cigarette to the side and to his mouth in casual inhales.

“…Mind if I have a drag?”

A bark of a sound, Meraki laughed. The wick leaned against the armchair. Legs spread without the slightest formality to the posture, he rested in a slouched posture and laughed again while his foot bounced a few times in amused consideration while he heard the furthering explanation that wasn’t all that necessary, but the younger provided anyway.

“A year, huh?” he smirked, not showing his teeth as he did so, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Can’t argue with ‘at, no. Some urges stay, very much so.”

He didn’t offer the cigarette over though. Instead, Meraki slowly lifted it up and set it to his lips, took a drawn inhale that drew the embers inward past half the stick. While he held the hefty draw of smoke in his lungs, he watched the natt question softly and then ramble on. He nodded simply to confirm that he did, indeed, tend bars.

“…and I have an eye for pretty thi- I mean!”

Meraki coughed. He couldn’t hold the smoke in his lungs anymore, not when he needed to laugh so badly. It ended up a mixture of both; coughs and laughter. From across the room, he caught another older man staring at the two of them. The tsat recovered, tilted his head, then waved to the man. He looked vaguely familiar, where had he seen him before…

“Huh?” he said as he lowered his hand and returned his attention to the younger. “What was ‘at? Your name? ‘fraid I missed it.”

He hadn’t. He glanced at the other’s teeth, immediately categorizing how well cared for they were. His gaze returned to make eye contact, and he took another slow drag of his cigarette.

But he was starting to get bored of it, already, and why did that other man keep looking over and seem so familiar, and then Paolo kept crossing his arms which meant that there was some upset that Meraki wasn’t drinking more of the offered wine. He rested his head against the palm of his hand, then took another sip of wine while he barely listened to the younger man.

“A moony golly? Ent they all moony?” he suggested in a light-hearted comment. “Y’ gotta be careful with ‘em gollies, don’t want ‘em rubbing too hard on y’ lest they rub their moony onto y’. And ‘at's a right mess, now ent it?”

A slanted smile, he glanced to see if the younger would catch the innuendo in his own statement. His eyebrows raised briefly to make it more obvious. He took another drag of the almost spent cigarette, then he leaned forward and lightly gestured with a small beckon of his hand for Fionn to move closer to him.

“Y’ know…” he breathed out the laced-tobacco smoke, and depending on how close Fionn had gotten, he’d be able to breathe it in. He didn't shy away from direct eye contact, if the other dared it. “…y’ give in to urges, y’ just gonna have more of ‘em later. But if y’ want a cigarette, y’ should earn ‘em yourself ‘stead of moochin’ in a place like ‘is. That’s got a hell o’ a lot more con-se-quen-ces than lookin’, tell y’ ‘at much, finny boy.”

Meraki winked, then slumped back in the armchair again. He rolled his neck to stretch it, then groaned and forced himself to take another drink of the wine. The Anaxi tapped his fingers against the glass, then he looked at Fionn and said, “But… if y’ don’t care ‘bout all ‘at, I could introduce y’ to my kov. He’d be sure glad to give y’ a cigarette, right. Where I got 'em.”

He got to his feet, then gestured for Fionn to do the same. “C’mon now, don’t be shy. What else y’ gonna do? Sit here, starin’ like a little lady waitin’ to be asked to dance, while drawin’ bottles, when we both know what y’ really want to be making art o’?”

Regardless if the younger started to stand or not, he shrugged and said, “Y’ want to make friends, y’ know where to find me.”

Meraki crossed the room without waiting, and returned to Paolo and his other companion. The tsat lowered to sit in the first chair he’d originally taken, and he set the mostly finished wine glass on the table in front of him. He glanced at Fionn, then gestured for Paolo to come closer. The older man shifted on the lounge couch, leaned over, and Meraki whispered in his ear behind a cupped hand while he gazed directly at the newcomer. He wondered how the younger might handle such simple scrutiny; if he would fold right there and then, or if he’d bluster, or something else. Meraki felt curious enough to observe.

[Fionn]

Yaris 70, 2719 | After Dark
A Basement in the Stacks

.

Fionn had never had to do this. He’d never had to actually converse with other men like this, never had to make himself interesting, never had to be ‘normal’ in these sorts of situations and it was obvious, wasn’t it? He might not be accustomed to this kind of thing but he could tell that the wick’s attention was wandering. How could he interpret that as anything other than the fact that he was boring the young man? Gods, even as he asked the passive questions, it was clear that he was going through the motions, seeking information but somewhat disinterested in the answers even before they were provided.

Well, it should have been clear—it was—but the blond was a bit slow on the uptake. Yes, he’d realised that his interest was slipping but he’d thought it was- He didn’t know what he’d thought it was. As if he wasn’t interesting enough, wasn’t taking the bait with enough enthusiasm and should be damn near throwing himself at the other youth. Instead of making any sort of real move, the blond tried to use his mouth to fill the gaps and unfortunately, he realised that he probably talked too much and said all the wrong things. Honestly, Aurelie was the only one who seemed thrilled by whatever came out of his mouth.

Mentioning the place of his birth managed to draw the wick’s focus, which was regrettable. For a moment, he regretted having said it, fearing that some follow up question would be forthcoming and gods, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about that place, especially as he hadn’t even been there since he was ten. The anxiety of it made him pine for a cigarette even more, something inside him itching for one all the more desperately.

The dreaded follow-up question never came, possibly because the man wasn’t all that intrigued after all or perhaps due to Fionn’s needy plea. Clock the Circle, he’d try to be casual about it but it really had come off as needy, hadn’t it? Gods, was he really reduced to begging for the taste of a cigarette as if he couldn’t cope without it? He’d managed a year without them and he hadn’t even thought about them all that much until recently so the situation was nowhere near as dire as his brain tried to suggest.

The blond chose to handle the situation in the way he knew best — filling the space between them with chatter. If he continued to talk, especially about things not related to cigarettes then he could pretend that Meraki hadn’t heard that wheedle in his voice, even as he watched the other go out of his way to taunt him with the very thing that he wanted.

Oh no, the wick didn’t say anything, didn’t even acknowledge the boy’s request at all but that hard drag that set the embers crackling up the paper and leaving ash in their wake could only be deliberate. He obviously thought that it would get to the passive (it did) and no doubt, it made him feel powerful. He had the upperhand and with every breath he took, the teenager was left feeling as if he was growing more and more powerless, simply by existing in this space.

When the other started coughing with laughter, smoke billowing out of him in tantalising clouds, the servant smiled sheepishly, certain that his blush was visible to every onlooker at this point.

“What was ‘at? Your name? ‘fraid I missed it.”

Embarrassed as he was, the servant took him at his word, opening his mouth to provide his name once again before his brain clocked that it must have been a tease.

“Fi- Fuck you,” he responded without vehemence, a dimple appearing in one corner of his mouth. He thought that he might have the other’s attention back or at the very least, it felt as if the conversation might be taking a turn that was slightly more natural. For instance, gollies being moony seemed like good common ground.

“Course they’re all moony but he’s really moony, even by golly standards,” the blond chuckled, the end of the pencil finding its way back into his mouth. The wood yielded beneath the soft press of his teeth.

The bite strengthened at the other’s innuendo, wood squeaking slightly beneath his teeth although it might have been felt more than actually heard. While his lips turned upwards around the pencil, his demeanour was otherwise a rigid one. After a moment, he succeeded in rolling his eyes although he said nothing, plucking the drawing implement from his mouth before he bit through the damned thing.

The gesture drew him in and the youth gladly leaned near, even though it made the wick’s glamour hug him more closely. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant. He was closer to the man, almost able to smell him but they were both wreathed in smoke so he couldn’t be sure he truly could pick up on his scent or if it was his imagination. They shared much of the same air now, little space for his exhaled fumes to disperse in before Fionn sucked them into his lungs, second-hand but so much better than nothing. The youth was of half a mind to reach out and pluck the remnants from Meraki’s fingers instead of allowing this taunt to persist for much longer.

“...if y’ want a cigarette, y’ should earn ‘em yourself ‘stead of moochin’ in a place like ‘is...”

And that right there killed the impulse, a chill creeping over his skin as the other pressed on, wholly unaware that the only way that the passive had of ‘earning’ such things was by doing the self-same mooching that the wick was warning against. Fionn could hardly tell him that he had no money, had never been given money to handle, and that no one in their right mind would give it to him if they knew what he was.

But I can’t exactly tell you that, can I? he thought miserably, wishing that he could simply climb out of his own skin and be someone else for awhile. Genuinely be someone else, not this pretending. He knew what he was and they may not realise it but he could feel his nexus surrounding him, could tell that it wasn’t wholly unaffected by the glamour that overlapped it. Meraki had no idea, nobody in here did. To them, he could only be human and really it would take such a small reveal on his part to bare his true nature to them — bare being the keyword.

The teenager suddenly felt incredibly weary.

“It isn’t that I don’t care…”

He didn’t know where he was going with that, had no notion how he wanted to finish the sentence. His jaw slowly hinged shut, a sigh escaping his lips before they pressed glumly together.

What was he meant to do here? What the fuck was he meant to do? He didn’t know that he’d come here to make art of- to do what Meraki was getting at but he supposed that he hadn’t discounted the possibility either. Company, that’s all he’d wanted, company without having to pay for it. But there were always transactions weren’t there? The youth had never had money but he had plenty of experience in buying and selling, albeit mainly selling where he was the prime commodity.

Sweet Lady have mercy! Could he not have a choice for once? Could he not make a decision for once in his life that he actually wanted instead of having it thrust upon him? He might have chosen Meraki but if he followed him then he’d just fall into familiar patterns, making choices without really having the luxury to choose, granting permissions and favours without actually feeling as if he could say no.

“I’m not waiting for anyone to-”

But Meraki didn’t care; the wick would leave him regardless of what he tried to say. He’d been a worthwhile diversion for a few moments but whatever cachet he’d held in the other’s eyes was slipping away. So ready to dismiss him and for what? What the fuck had he done wrong?

Angry. Upset. Ready to scream.

The blond’s eyes fixed on the wick’s back, skittering sideways to his ‘kov’ and disquiet increased.

He didn’t have to do this, he realised, glancing down to his drawing things. There was a choice that he could make that would be entirely his: he could leave.

He collected his things but made no effort to rise, indecision still weighing on him. If he left now then he wouldn’t have achieved whatever he’d come here to achieve and Circle only knew what he’d be driven to do as a result. It’d feel like defeat but then maybe that was better than the alternative.

Rising reluctantly to his feet, the young man’s gaze swivelled to where Meraki had gone and then continued on towards the way out and found someone else who was allowing their gaze to travel: Graves.

“Shit!” he hissed, realising that he couldn’t get out without passing the man and given that it was Graves who had invited him here in the first place, there wouldn’t be a clean getaway for him; there would be no leaving now. The sight of him also made his stomach churn and in that moment, he chose what he saw as the lesser of two evils: Meraki’s kov.

He made to look away to focus his attention towards the little group he’d been invited to join before Graves caught sight of him looking but too late, their gazes met briefly, the passive’s browns skittering away as he moved with purpose, hoping that it wasn’t clear that he had started to tremble.

He was pissed off. Truly and utterly pissed because how dare the human take the one choice that could have been truly his away from him! How dare the wick trot off as if he wasn’t worth his time! How dare he be forced into this clocking situation!

It’s all your own fault, you know, an inner voice chimed in smugly. That pissed him off more. Perhaps that was what made him so godsbedamned reckless, dropping his drawing materials on the table beside the wick’s wine glass, sending its contents swishing wildly up the sides albeit remaining below the level of the rim. It didn’t help that the other young companion of the kov — liked his young blood, didn’t he? — appeared to be looking at him in a way that seemed… disapproving. There was a slight smile on his lips that appeared predisposed to transform into a sneer.

After what felt like a rejection from Meraki, the blond had a hard time not viewing it as if he was being looked down upon. His fingers twitched, the scars on his knuckles growing briefly more prominent as the skin tightened over the bones and then the fists eased. He wanted to knock that look off the man’s face but there was another way to do it.

Fionn still wanted a cigarette and the fact that the wick had denied it to him was another source of irritation but this ersehole had one poised between his lips, freshly lit and just begging for the blond to snatch.

He’d moved to sit but he arrested the movement, pushing off the arms of his newly claimed seat to bounce up onto his toes. He used the momentum to stand and lean forward, one toe almost leaving the ground entirely, and he felt gravity tugging at him as he became acutely aware of the precarious way his balance teetered. It’d be so like him to lose it and on this occasion, he might not be able to catch himself. Adrenaline began to course wildly through his body, his brain anticipating how poorly this would go but he didn’t desist. Somehow, he managed to catch the cigarette between his index and middle fingers, feeling its heat from how close to the lit end he’d grabbed it, and then it was his, plucked straight from the young man’s mouth as it slackened in shock.

Reversing his course, he managed to transfer weight from his toes and the balls of his feet back to his heels, gravity accepting him back into its embrace as he dropped back into the chair, which made a huffing sound as his weight hit it, its legs letting out a soft squeak. Every nerve in his body seemed to be alive with energy, urging him to jump around to burn it off and his pulse hammered in the base of his throat but damn if it wasn’t worth it!

He couldn’t help but grin as he placed the fag in his mouth, drawing on it appreciatively as its former owner gawked at him. His brown eyes slid to Meraki who was whispering about him — of that he had no doubt. How was that for earning it!

Smoke spilled from his nostrils as he tried to hold onto the taste in his mouth and breath at the same time. He released his breath reluctantly.

“Evening,” he greeted softly, something smug seeping into his tone. He took another drag as Graves appeared in his peripheral vision.

“Fionn...”

The man almost made it sound like a question, his voice quietly reproachful. The passive let his gaze slide to him, regarding him coolly while he focused on his cigarette. It was cruel but he was in that kind of humour. This was all the ersehole’s fault, especially the fact that he was still here instead of trotting back to Umberto’s with his tail between his legs. He blew out smoke and turned away, as dismissive as he’d felt Meraki had been to him.

Shifting to his feet again, albeit without the energy of before, the teenager turned his hand so that the cigarette was flipped, offering it back to Paolo’s companion.

“Thanks for that, sweetheart. Tastes as good as it smelled but your friend wouldn’t let me have a drag.”

With the cigarette passed back, its taste lingering tantalisingly in his mouth, the youth settled himself down again, collecting his art things from the table to deposit in his lap instead, well aware that Graves still stood where Fionn had left him, not quite intruding and yet hovering at the edge of things all the same. Gods, the servant wished he’d go away or else this would end up being far more uncomfortable than even he could stomach.

Rolls

Attempting to snatch a cigarette out of someone’s hand
SidekickBOTToday at 18:35
@Maximus: 1d6 = (4) = 4
(Success for Fionn)

Attempting to have functional coordination
SidekickBOTToday at 18:38
@Maximus: 1d6 = (5) = 5
(Success for Fionn, functional nervous system activated!)

Graves attempts to make a nuisance of himself
SidekickBOTToday at 18:40
@Maximus: 1d6 = (1) = 1
(Basically a failure for Graves, win for Fionn… maybe?)