[Closed] Pigeon on the Roof
Posted: Fri Aug 14, 2020 5:03 pm
the rather blustery day, a pub
too damn early for this spitch on Bethas 17, 2720
A sparrow in the fist is better
than a pigeon on the roof
-CHZECK PROVERB
than a pigeon on the roof
-CHZECK PROVERB
For the second day in a row, the sun rose too damn soon, too damn bright, an' jus' a pina mana earlier than the day before, creepin' through curtains, dancin' over messy sheets an' too much skin as if it were bright enough to sort through the tangles. Well, ne. It weren't too much of anythin', really. It were jus' enough in Emiel's opinion, but only 'cause he were biased about whose skin it was warm against his in his bed, even if he could do without mornin' for a few more hours. Sometime in the strange hours of the night, the purple-haired wick 'd even been kind enough to open his door, which had proven itself to be both a boon for his lil' flat an' a curse for sleepin' arrangements. Curled on his pillows, tiny claws precariously near his face while his arms were ridiculously occupied around the dark-haired galdor he'd hardly let out of his sight since she'd breezed into his bar with some clockin' ersehole, save for, well, those several hours he spent in jail for smashin' said ersehole's face.
A gentle knock on his door while Em dozed, curled as close as possible 'round Cerise even though he were well aware he had to work an' the Arts Fair weren't enough of an excuse for her to miss any more days on campus was only slightly out of place, though one of the neighbors did deliver milk an' the paper every day. With a sigh, he slid away, carefully excavating himself first from one young woman with a few kisses and then from one teacup drake with a few scratches, watching as the terribly selfish beast simply poured herself right into his warm, previously occupied space with barely a glance, ruffling metallic feathers in contentment.
Stretching tugged at the scabs down his back, between his shoulders, and he did his best not to rake his fingers too roughly too far through his hair. Em at least had the presence of mind to fumble for trousers, to light the stove and put the kettle on as he crossed the little flat, old floors clockin' cold on his bare feet. A few locks an' a lil' peek through a crack an' there on his front steps were two lil' glass bottles of milk an' a folded up paper, as expected. One of the bottles, though, had a sticker on the cap—a lil' purple bird.
Emiel knew what that meant, an' maybe he was hopin' he'd have another day to himself, but ne. It was what it was. Bringin' everythin' in all quiet-like, more careful with the paper than he would've been now that he figured there were more tucked inside. Settin' the milk on the kitchen table still littered with last night's dishes, last night's empty bottle of wine, he peeled the little round label off and shoved it in his pocket while he riffled through the paper for the coded, hand-scrawled note inside:
The Rather Blustery Day Pub, 2nd hour after noon.
A sparrow in the fist is better than a pigeon on the roof.
Fine.
Tossing the note into the stove, Em set about washing dishes, making breakfast, brewing tea. He let Cerise sleep as long as she wanted, and even if Sish joined him first at the scent of bacon, he didn't begrudge a few more hours with both lovely ladies before he finally, reluctantly turned the pair out of his flat and back onto the street, but only after clean bandages, a few more needful kisses, and the sharing of one old key—there weren't any way in all 'f Vita he were goin' to let one dark-haired galdor disappear a second time, ne clockin' way. Consequences be damned.
The purple-haired wick, once alone, removed gold rings from his face an' hands; tucked his foe'd locks into an old, worn brown cap that stung against the cut up, sore back of his head enough to make him wince and curse; an' then spent too much time fussin' over whatever his less flashiest vest was that were clean. All part of the costume, all part of dressin' up an takin' on his brother's persona, now his—Wren.
He looked back over his notes, resistin' the urge to curl back up in bed for a few hours, if only 'cause he'd rather bury his face in sheets that smelled like one Miss Vauquelin than try an' remember every damn vowel in a Gioran's ridiculous name.
But, whatever. This were for a good cause, right? The greater good—did it include beautiful Brunnhold students or had he jus' fucked up all over again?
Better to walk those thoughts out of his godsbedamned mind, Emiel realized, leavin' early to meander his way through the back alleys an' tight side streets of the Stacks he'd called home his whole life. Weren't much 'bout the neighborhood he didn't know—where safehouses were, where the drains were jus' wide enough to crawl through in a pinich, an' where all the rusted ol' ladders were to get on the rooftops so Collies couldn't chase a kov.
He arrived jus' early enough to sidle up to the bar an' order a drink. It wasn't a big place, just a narrow sliver of a pub tucked between two much larger buildings as if it were too stubborn to sell out an' be overrun by the new construction. It had once been a house, apparently, and the interior was somewhat still set up as such: there was a foyer and a staircase that led upstairs to more private rooms. The rest of the first floor'd been gutted, save for the kitchen, and made into a beautiful pub with the shelves behind the bar that were enviably stocked with expensive spitch that he tended to enjoy. When the ol' barkeep—Hector, if he remembered right, an' he usually did—asked him if he were here waitin' for someone while pourin' him his shot, Wren smiled,
"Ne, I'm here 'cause I heard a sparrow in your fist be better than a pigeon on the roof."
"Oh, aye. I heard that one, too. 'Specially on a windy day like this one, eh?" The grey-haired older wick didn't smile, an' his expression didn't even falter, but he reached up and rubbed his face while his other hand pointed, indicating the hall to the side of the bar. It was dark and narrow and probably led to the cellar, which was always a sensible place to hold secret meetings between folks who weren't supposed to exist discussin' things that they weren't supposed to know, as was Wren's new hobby.
He knocked back his liquid courage with a hiss, left a hefty tip on the countertop, and waited a few extra moments in the barely occupied place before slippin' away, makin' as though he needed to take a piss already, but totally wanderin' too far. He'd been here once before an' knew the game, slippin' into the office next to the kitchen instead of down the actual cellar stairs, closin' the door silent-like. In the floor was a hatch that dropped right into a carefully partitioned section of the cellar and could be locked from below.
He didn't knock, didn't care if he weren't there first, but he sure as hell hoped there were some matches to light the lantern 'cause he didn't want to waste his own this time.
A gentle knock on his door while Em dozed, curled as close as possible 'round Cerise even though he were well aware he had to work an' the Arts Fair weren't enough of an excuse for her to miss any more days on campus was only slightly out of place, though one of the neighbors did deliver milk an' the paper every day. With a sigh, he slid away, carefully excavating himself first from one young woman with a few kisses and then from one teacup drake with a few scratches, watching as the terribly selfish beast simply poured herself right into his warm, previously occupied space with barely a glance, ruffling metallic feathers in contentment.
Stretching tugged at the scabs down his back, between his shoulders, and he did his best not to rake his fingers too roughly too far through his hair. Em at least had the presence of mind to fumble for trousers, to light the stove and put the kettle on as he crossed the little flat, old floors clockin' cold on his bare feet. A few locks an' a lil' peek through a crack an' there on his front steps were two lil' glass bottles of milk an' a folded up paper, as expected. One of the bottles, though, had a sticker on the cap—a lil' purple bird.
Emiel knew what that meant, an' maybe he was hopin' he'd have another day to himself, but ne. It was what it was. Bringin' everythin' in all quiet-like, more careful with the paper than he would've been now that he figured there were more tucked inside. Settin' the milk on the kitchen table still littered with last night's dishes, last night's empty bottle of wine, he peeled the little round label off and shoved it in his pocket while he riffled through the paper for the coded, hand-scrawled note inside:
The Rather Blustery Day Pub, 2nd hour after noon.
A sparrow in the fist is better than a pigeon on the roof.
Fine.
Tossing the note into the stove, Em set about washing dishes, making breakfast, brewing tea. He let Cerise sleep as long as she wanted, and even if Sish joined him first at the scent of bacon, he didn't begrudge a few more hours with both lovely ladies before he finally, reluctantly turned the pair out of his flat and back onto the street, but only after clean bandages, a few more needful kisses, and the sharing of one old key—there weren't any way in all 'f Vita he were goin' to let one dark-haired galdor disappear a second time, ne clockin' way. Consequences be damned.
The purple-haired wick, once alone, removed gold rings from his face an' hands; tucked his foe'd locks into an old, worn brown cap that stung against the cut up, sore back of his head enough to make him wince and curse; an' then spent too much time fussin' over whatever his less flashiest vest was that were clean. All part of the costume, all part of dressin' up an takin' on his brother's persona, now his—Wren.
He looked back over his notes, resistin' the urge to curl back up in bed for a few hours, if only 'cause he'd rather bury his face in sheets that smelled like one Miss Vauquelin than try an' remember every damn vowel in a Gioran's ridiculous name.
But, whatever. This were for a good cause, right? The greater good—did it include beautiful Brunnhold students or had he jus' fucked up all over again?
Better to walk those thoughts out of his godsbedamned mind, Emiel realized, leavin' early to meander his way through the back alleys an' tight side streets of the Stacks he'd called home his whole life. Weren't much 'bout the neighborhood he didn't know—where safehouses were, where the drains were jus' wide enough to crawl through in a pinich, an' where all the rusted ol' ladders were to get on the rooftops so Collies couldn't chase a kov.
He arrived jus' early enough to sidle up to the bar an' order a drink. It wasn't a big place, just a narrow sliver of a pub tucked between two much larger buildings as if it were too stubborn to sell out an' be overrun by the new construction. It had once been a house, apparently, and the interior was somewhat still set up as such: there was a foyer and a staircase that led upstairs to more private rooms. The rest of the first floor'd been gutted, save for the kitchen, and made into a beautiful pub with the shelves behind the bar that were enviably stocked with expensive spitch that he tended to enjoy. When the ol' barkeep—Hector, if he remembered right, an' he usually did—asked him if he were here waitin' for someone while pourin' him his shot, Wren smiled,
"Ne, I'm here 'cause I heard a sparrow in your fist be better than a pigeon on the roof."
"Oh, aye. I heard that one, too. 'Specially on a windy day like this one, eh?" The grey-haired older wick didn't smile, an' his expression didn't even falter, but he reached up and rubbed his face while his other hand pointed, indicating the hall to the side of the bar. It was dark and narrow and probably led to the cellar, which was always a sensible place to hold secret meetings between folks who weren't supposed to exist discussin' things that they weren't supposed to know, as was Wren's new hobby.
He knocked back his liquid courage with a hiss, left a hefty tip on the countertop, and waited a few extra moments in the barely occupied place before slippin' away, makin' as though he needed to take a piss already, but totally wanderin' too far. He'd been here once before an' knew the game, slippin' into the office next to the kitchen instead of down the actual cellar stairs, closin' the door silent-like. In the floor was a hatch that dropped right into a carefully partitioned section of the cellar and could be locked from below.
He didn't knock, didn't care if he weren't there first, but he sure as hell hoped there were some matches to light the lantern 'cause he didn't want to waste his own this time.