[Mature] That Awful Bitter Taste

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 44 Roalis, 2719
Hog's Run, Basin Court

Hog’s Run was a small, dingy bar, somewhere shy of squalid, tucked in at the edge of Basin Court, where it wasn’t quite Cat’s Paw yet. For all it was a four, Basin’s Court was busy in the early evening; Aremu had moved through the crowds with a prickling awareness of every person he passed, as if he might know what they knew by the sight of them, as if the tension in his shoulders might help him be ready, in case. His left hand and his prosthetic made matching bugles on either side of his pants pocket, the long-sleeved linen shirt loose enough around the arms to hide the sight of the straps. Maybe he’d pulled them too tight; the ones on his shoulder were digging in, achingly, and he didn’t dare to reach up and adjust them.

He was already, Aremu thought grimly, late enough.

Aremu crossed through the flood of blue phosphor light at the edge of the door, opening it inward with his shoulder. He slowed as he stepped inside, glancing around, his gaze skimming over the bar and the handful of rickety tables spread across it. The sight of the other man wasn’t much of a relief. Aremu made his way over to the bar, leaning against it, not quite bothering to sit.

“Galen,” he said, low-voiced, glancing left.

“The fuck’s this?” Galen had a gap-toothed grin; he sprayed spittle when he talked, all over the bar before him. “I was expectin’ the widow, ne fuckin’ scrap.”

Aremu sat, after a moment, so that he could tuck his right wrist into the shadows of his lap, out of sight unless someone was looking for it. He didn't get angry; he knew enough about what it didn't do. Instead, he shrugged. “You get what you get,” Aremu said. He didn’t look at the other man again; his left hand waved for the bartender. “Hullwen Ale,” Aremu said, quietly.

Bartender glanced between him and Galen, and wandered off, fetching the bottle and setting it down before Aremu, cap laid to the side.

Aremu took it in his fingertips, although he didn’t drink.

“I ent in the business ‘f passin’ messages to any kov as want ‘em,” Galen said, low-voiced. “He told me to give ‘er the message direct, ye chen?”

Aremu shrugged. “It’s not your arse on the line if the job isn’t done,” he said, quietly. “Unless you don’t pass along the message.”

Galen grimaced; his tongue stuck out between the gap in his teeth as he swept it across his mouth, sucking at a tooth. He took a wad of something foul-smelling, and jammed it into his mouth, chewing it at the corner of it. “Fine,” he said; the spittle was red-tinged now. He leaned in, and spoke, quiet enough to be almost inaudible over the hum of the bar.

Aremu listened, intent, his gaze fixed on the uneven bar, the lumps in the wood, the droplets of sweat trickling slowly down the cloudy bottle. He grimaced, and he inclined his head, when it was over.

“Ye got four nights." Galen said. He paused. "Ye ask me,” Galen added, almost cheerfully, “he ent much worried whether she lives ‘r dies, doin’ tha’.”

“Nobody asked you,” Aremu said, glancing back at him.

Galen spat on the floor, and grinned, leaving his empty glass behind. “Fuck you too, scrap,” he said, casually, and left.

Aremu didn’t close his eyes; he didn’t dare. He felt the rest of the men in the bar behind him, a crawling presence that crept down the back of his neck and along his spine. Better, he thought, to sit here a bit; he didn’t want to chase Galen out into the street, and he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he had to talk to the man another minute.

The worst part, Aremu thought, taking a drink of the beer and grimacing faintly as he set the bottle back down, was that Galen wasn’t in the least wrong. He’d spent four months fighting every day to keep the plantation in Niccolette’s hands; he hadn’t realized how close there they were to there being no more Niccolette for the holding.

Aremu shifted in his chair, glancing around once, and stared down at his bottle once more. He’d never had much in the way of friends in the Rose; he didn’t know, he thought uneasily, if he’d have gone to him, if things had been – different. Aremu grimaced, and took another sip of beer, which tasted no better than the first. Some doors were better left closed, he thought, no less uneasily.

[Charlie Ewing]

Roalis 44, 2719 - Evening
Hog's Run, Basin Court

Charlie liked Hog's Run. Well, no, scratch that. "Like" was a fairly strong word for what he actually felt about the bar. Charlie liked it as much as he liked any place that wasn't sliding completely into the sea, took his money, and got him drunk. That really sort of opened the door to a lot of places in the Rose. He was less fond of it than, say, the Duckling.

He just really couldn't afford the Duckling right now.

There was something galling, he thought and stared petulantly into his drink, about being so consistently out of money. He had never had to worry about it before he came here. That was his own choice, of course, and Charlie wasn't a smart man but he wasn't so stupid as to be unable to connect the dots that led from Point A (moving to the Rose, changing his name, and mostly cutting himself off from his family) to Point B (not having the cashflow to keep himself in the manner to which he had been previously accustomed). He just thought he'd have had more luck with work by now.

Last summer, at least, he'd had that job with the engine repair shop. That had ended somewhere around the start of the fall, through no fault of his own. Okay, maybe through some small fault of his own--he had come in fall-down drunk and two hours late. Twice. Three times? Who kept track, honestly. Petty small-mindedness. There had been some other places in between, and his odd jobs kept his rent paid and all that rot.

He'd felt really good about this most recent place, until this morning. He'd been there about three weeks, just before his birthday, and things were going pretty good for him. No incidents of any kind, and he was--he was, he insisted fiercely to himself--good at his job. No matter what people tended to think when they met him. So it had all be just delightful, really looking up. Until the owner's wife had caught him looking at Charlie, and possibly more relevantly, Charlie doing a lot more than looking back. More petty small-mindedness, in his opinion. It wasn't like he wanted to marry her clocking husband. He shuddered just thinking about it.

Oh well. Onwards and upwards, he thought. Best not to dwell on such things. He'd find something else. Land on his feet. He always did. The trials of being a creature of such beauty, he reflected, were many. At least there was alcohol, and cigarettes, and all kinds of other things to keep him from sliding into the depths of despair. He was too pretty for despair. That was the logic that had drawn him here, so he could drown his sorrows reasonably cheaply. He was halfway to doing so already, so that was nice at least.

Thinking on his cigarettes, Charlie wanted one. He fished through the pocket of his vest, unbuttoned and hanging loose of his narrow shoulders, to pull out the battered metal case. It had been nice, once; he clearly had not taken great pains to keep it that way. He had a better one, of course, but why bring it here? Charlie flipped it open, and then his face fell. Empty. He snapped it shut again with an annoyed growl.

Life was just very unfair to him, sometimes.

And sometimes, life was a little less unfair. He hadn't taken much notice of the people around him since he came in, seeing as they generally cut him something of a wide berth. The regulars, those who had seen him around before, they didn't tend to mind so much. But there were few enough of those that there was almost always a seat or two between him and anyone else. That suited Charlie just fine. This wasn't the sort of place he came for that sort of attention, anyway. Strictly a get-drunk-go-home kind of place.

Bereft of cigarettes and put upon by the universe now though, Charlie did look. And saw a new face, a handsome Mugrobi face. If one that didn't look particularly thrilled to be here. Charlie thought about it for a fraction of a fraction of a second, then he grinned to himself. He could fix that, he thought. He turned, holding his empty cigarette case aloft so that the inside was visible. raising his voice so he could be heard a little ways down the bar.

"Say, you don't have a spare cigarette on you, do you?" Charlie smiled, and rather charmingly if he did say so himself. He did always said so himself.

[Graf]

Evening, 44 Roalis, 2719
Hog's Run, Basin Court

A
nd d’you know what they do with them then?”

The chip’s face was flushed with laughter. She ran a hand through her tangled dark hair, still shaking with the last of it. “Ne,” she said, garbled with giggles, “ne. Shut yer head!” She held up one hand, long fingers spread, while she downed the last of her ale.

He studied her curiously. Her eyes were caked unevenly with kohl, a little smeared; her cheeks were bright red even underneath all the rouge. You’d’ve thought she was pissed, by the looks, but if Nevio had been much of a betting man, he’d’ve bet otherwise. She was watching him closely, and he let her see his eyes trail down to the swath of white skin under her neck, and that corset that put just about everything on display.

“Fuckin’ toft,” she giggled.

He grinned broader, shifting in his seat, sprawling himself out on his chair. “Me? A liar?” he purred.

The tumble giggled again, sliding into his lap. “This one’s got a mouth on ‘im, ent he?” She was grinning over at old Ardi opposite, and Ardi was laughing his deep, wheezing laugh, picking at his teeth with a fingernail. Nevio tossed a look over his shoulder at Ardi; he winked as the lass settled herself on his lap.

Wasn’t a bad place to be, all told, if he’d not known better. He was a man, and they both knew it well enough – the tumble was giggling harder – and he entertained the thought briefly.

It’d been a long enough day, and not the kind of long day that was interesting enough to make up for it. Hawke’d had him working at another of those laoso Hessean puzzle locks for the last week, and his hands and his back ached from it. Many more years in this qalqa, and he’d be a bent old hag; he missed the days of breaking into some toffin’s Court mansion, of working for the Carlisles and the Mattinglys both, of trying his luck on his own. Missed the days before Hawke, lately, though he’d not’ve spoken the sentiment aloud in the company he kept these days.

He was still grinning when the lass’ hand found his wallet. She was good, but not good enough for Nevio Faenza. “Mmm,” he said, “no. ‘Fraid I’m not that mung, my dear.”

His grip was a little firmer, a little less pleasant, when he removed her hand. He shifted and straightened up in his seat. “Had to try,” she shot back, grinning. “Sure y’ent still interested?”

“Plenty to be interested in –” Ardi’s wheezing laughter burbled off into the background; his eyes had skittered over to the bar and widened slightly. “Maybe later, actually,” he said.

He took his whisky off the table and shifted, and the tumble spilled off his lap, looking faintly put-out. “Ent be a later.” She snorted. “Havakda!”

It’d been – how long’d it been?

He watched, keen-eyed, as the kov with the gap-toothed grin left. Looked faintly familiar from somewhere, but Nevio couldn’t place him; some job or other, he figured. Throw a rock and hit a Brother, in these parts.

And so it was, if indeed it was him. He watched, taking a sip of whisky. He looked uncomfortable, but then Nevio supposed he always had. Comfortable enough where it counted. As he watched, the kov next to him – pretty-faced jent – held out his empty cigarette case, sparking metal, and asked for a smoke in an equally familiar voice.

Nevio got a good enough look at his face, when the Mugrobi turned to shake his head. He was already out of his seat, because he’d got a good look at the jent’s, too.

“Maybe I can be of use to the two of you,” he put in brightly, sliding into a seat on the dark-haired golly’s other side. He didn’t much think when the woobley shivered over his skin; it was weak enough, anyway, as weak as he remembered. “Narkissos, eh? I don’t suppose you remember me?”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, offering one to the golly and then one to the scrap. He grinned. “Perhaps you do,” he added, eyes glittering.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 44 Roalis, 2719
Hog's Run, Basin Court

Just the two of them, then, Aremu thought; his fingers tapped lightly on the side of the bottle, his right wrist still settled on his leg beneath the bar, well out of sight. That was bad enough. Worse still was that Hawke had not known he would be in town, and must have thought it would be only Niccolette. His jaw clenched, silent.

She hadn’t written. That was about the only thing he could think of. He hadn’t known – and how could he have – because she hadn’t written. He knew she’d spent some time in Vienda; he knew she hadn’t written about any of the estate business, not in months. He’d thought – what had he thought? He hadn’t thought, Aremu knew, then, grimly, his shoulders tight beneath the lines of his shirt. He took another sip of his beer.

He wasn’t the man for this. He hadn’t done this sort of work – since. His wrist throbbed, painful, and he had the odd but not unfamiliar sensation of feeling an ache in the place where he knew the prosthetic was. He wasn’t the man for this, and he didn’t know whether he could pull it off – whether they could – but he supposed it didn’t much matter, in the end.

Was that how he had – Aremu had never asked Uzoji how. He didn’t know whether his friend had known; he never would, now.

Aremu took another, longer sip of his beer.

The voice from his side caught him by surprise; he’d noticed the slim man a few moments ago, though he hadn’t paid him much attention. He’d leaned in, and as he did Aremu felt the faint brush of a weak field – very weak, but a field. He held for a moment, half-expecting – but all he saw beneath the thick dark hair pulled back was a bright grin. Aremu’s gaze dropped to the empty cigarette case; he frowned, slightly, and shook his head. “No,” he said, and then, half-hesitant, “sorry – “

The voice from behind the galdor was a surprise. Aremu glanced up at a familiar cleft lip twisted in a grin, dark eyes gleaming beneath his shaved head. “Nevio, isn’t it?” Aremu said, after a moment; he did remember, the gleaming bridge and its stones full of secrets, Tom’s eyes uncertain on him in the dark, the sharp pain of teeth digging into his shoulder, a choice he hadn't known he'd made until it was too late, and a thumb bearing down on his hip. His gaze dropped to the cigarette, and he shook his head a second time.

Yes, Aremu thought; I remember you.

He shifted a little on the stool; the fingers of his left hand were curled around the beer bottle, still. He was turned, awkwardly, to look over his shoulder; he’d sat down with Galen on his left, and it meant that to look at the other two men with his wrist hidden, he had to twist himself up.

Aremu glanced back at the galdor – an inch or two shoulder than him, he judged. Narkissos sounded to him like a Bastian name, though he didn’t think the galdor’d had a Bastian accent. Something in Nevio’s tone left him uncertain if it was a name, a nickname, or some other joke; he didn’t add anything to it.

There was a burst of shouting from across the room; it collapsed into laughter as quickly as it had risen. Aremu had glanced over, his shoulders tense; he glanced back at the other two men.

There was a choice, Aremu thought. Nevio, he knew, was a brother; was this some other message? And the galdor…? Aremu didn’t think him the type, but he didn’t quite know what to think of him either. He could have gone, he thought; he probably should have, back to Quarter Fords to drag Niccolette out of bed and force her to talk to him.

Aremu took another sip of beer. He shifted on the stool, turning; it brought the wooden prosthetic on his lap gleaming into the light, if either of them looked for it. He said nothing; he didn’t look down himself. He didn’t need to; he knew what it looked like.

[Charlie Ewing]

Roalis 44, 2719 - Evening
Hog's Run, Basin Court

Charlie hadn't thought much when he felt no field as he leaned in. Could mean anything, or nothing. He always had been bad at telling the difference between a human and a scrap, with Mugrobi. Not that he tried very hard, usually.

Also, he was drunk and didn't care. Maybe he should have. Someone else might have. Whatever, though. Charlie didn't, and he was the one here in his skin, wasn't he? Yes. The other man didn't seem particularly comfortable here in the bar, but no more so when Charlie leaned over to ask for a cigarette. That was a good sign; it was always disappointing when someone was put off by the whole field situation. Annoying, even, and he was annoyed enough this evening. He had prepared to pull his face into a charmingly affected sort of pout at the denial of cigarettes--not that he had any other kind, mind you, but this one was cultivated. The pout got lost when he heard a voice behind him.

Charlie turned to see a man slide in to the stool next to him. No field or glamour here, either. Maybe the universe loved Charlie more than he had thought. The night was looking up, after all, despite a rocky start. Charlie was nothing if not an optimist.

"Why, my hero!" Charlie said brightly, taking the cigarette offered to him without hesitation. The face and voice were familiar; the face, certainly. Distinctive enough. And the name, Narkissos, that was ringing a bell too. He didn't think that was one he'd tried out, when he was considering changing his first name as well as his last. (That was before, of course, it had proven too complicated to keep track of two names he didn't recognize, and he had settled on just the one.)

Charlie pulled some matches out of his pocket; he still had those, at least. While he struck one, he thought some more. This was going to drive him absolutely moony if he couldn't remember. Charlie lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply. On the exhale, the pieces slid into place. He grinned.

"Oh I remember you! The canalworks, wasn't it? You'll have to forgive me, my memory is... incomplete." The emphasis Charlie put on it was gleeful; he had been completely fucked up that night. He remembered the important things from it, he thought. Probably. At least they seemed to be the important bits, and anything he couldn't remember was by default not important. On account of how he couldn't remember them to say otherwise. It was a good system, if he did say so himself.

The man on his other side twisted to face him and--Ne... Oh now, he'd just heard the name. It definitely began with an N, and it wasn't Narkissos. Well. He'd hear it again later, or it wouldn't matter. The system had many applications. Charlie's eyes flicked down to the wooden hand that caught the pitiful illumination of Hog's Run; both his eyebrows raised. Was that a deterrent? Charlie pondered the idea for a moment; no, he didn't think it was. Could be interesting, somehow. One never knew.

"You know each other?" His smile was broad, and he gestured between them with his cigarette. "What a small world."

[Graf]

Evening, 44 Roalis, 2719
Hog's Run, Basin Court

N
evio Faenza,” the picklock said brightly, still grinning. “Aremu, wasn’t it?”

Mind like a steel trap, Nevio had. He couldn’t remember a last name; he didn’t think he’d given one, which was well enough for men in their qalqa. Nevio’d nothing to hide about his. Maybe Faenza the elder had been somebody in Bastia, but he’d been a drunk ersehat in the Rose, and he’d never known his mother. But he supposed a scrap’d be less keen on spreading his name around.

Aremu was craning his neck, it seemed to him, half turned away. Whatever Nevio thought of it, his grin didn’t falter or change, not even when the scrap shook his head. Nevio shrugged, as if to say, your loss.

Narkissos was a great deal more receptive. “Aren’t we appreciative,” he laughed. When the pretty lad lit up, he watched those long, pale fingers flicker the match across the matchbox, watched them bring the spur to his thin lips. Nevio held out his own cigarette. “Maybe you can do something for me, too.”

If Narkissos obliged him, he’d take a long drag, blowing out a ripple of smoke with immense relish. He took his tumbler from where he’d set it on the bar and took a drink of whisky, rolling it round in his mouth. He found himself laughing again.

“Aye, the canalworks.” He’d remembered the lad was funny, at least, to go along with those fine blue eyes. As shameless as he’d been before, too – though not, Nevio thought, nearly as drunk. Getting there, perhaps. Well, more power to him; he was on that road himself, and gladly.

Narkissos turned to look at Aremu when he did. There was something about the way he’d been sitting, and something about the way he turned, too. Nevio didn’t understand at first; he watched Narkissos’ pretty eyes flick down, and he followed them.

Hard to hide his surprise, this time. He took another drag on his spur, eyes stuck on the carved wooden hand. A few thoughts slid into his head; he lingered on them, following the curl of those wooden fingers, before they slipped out. There was an amused smile playing across his lips when he looked back up at the scrap, whose long, handsome face wasn’t smiling, though there was a strange kind of look in his eyes. He took another drink.

He wondered how long it had been. He thought that explained how he’d been sitting. Maybe it hadn’t been long. It was like that, for some men; he’d known enough of them. Maybe he was imagining a look of challenge in his Brother’s eye, or maybe he wasn’t. He met it head-on, anyway.

He’d seen the way Narkissos’ eyes had lingered on it, too. He suspected a lot of men looked at it in a lot of ways; he knew something of that.

He wondered if he’d gotten used to it, or if he’d ever get used to it. Nevio was used to it; it wasn’t as if he could go around keeping his mouth shut like he had when he was a boy, and not speaking with the voice the Circle, damn the ten, gave him. Even if he had, men still would’ve stared. Men always stared; he was a man, and he stared, too. He knew of other Evers where they’d not favored him even so much.

“Mm.” Nevio dragged his gaze away from Aremu’s eyes. He smiled again at pretty-face. “It is, isn’t it,” he said. “Would’ve thought the two of you’d’ve known each other, given our mutual friends. Or one of them, anyway.”

He thought he’d known the mung kenser well enough to know the kind of grin he’d gotten, when he’d brought up the scrap. Didn’t remember his name, his fucking erse.

“Charlie, if I recall?” he asked. Mind like a steel trap, after all. He’d been looking at Aremu again, and he looked at the golly again now. Neither of them had last names, he supposed. Well, a toffin like this had reason enough, too. Curious.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 44 Roalis, 2719
Hog's Run, Basin Court

Yes,” Aremu said, evenly. Nevio said his name like an Anaxi; he came down hard on the consonants, and paid little attention to the vowels between, though he didn’t broaden them as much as another had, once. Nothing about the way he spoke changed that.

The galdor accepted the cigarette cheerfully, and lit Nevio’s in return. The light of the match gleamed on his hair, and sparked in his eyes when he brought it up to his mouth; it caught in Nevio’s dark eyes too, and glinted off the hard planes of his face.

They both looked down, when he turned. The little galdor’s eyebrows went up, and then came back down. He looked away; his smile didn’t budge. Aremu didn’t look down, still; his gaze was on the small, sharp-featured face, and Nevio’s broader one, though there was plenty sharp in the cut of his cheekbones, as well. Nevio’s gaze lingered too; he was smiling, though there was more amusement in it than in the galdor’s.

He met Aremu’s eyes, at least; there was something in the gaze, for a moment, that Aremu couldn’t place. Aremu met his gaze, too, and he smiled; it was a smooth, even smile, carved into the wood of his face, very deliberate.

Aremu thought about it; all the same, he thought about it. He remembered Nevio well, even if the memories were mixed up with other, stranger things which he’d been too foolish not to feel – which, worse – Aremu’s jaw was tight, and he loosened it as the smile slid away, and took another drink of his beer. He’d nearly finished it already. Maybe he wanted it to hurt. He thought about that, and he couldn’t have said it wasn’t true. The galdor’s field was less even than most of the wick’s he’d known.

If he was lucky, Niccolette was sleeping; he did not, really, even know that she was home. Tonight wouldn’t make a difference, staring down the barrel of it; he’d have better luck with her in the morning, in the sunlight and the heat.

Aremu drank the last of his beer, and set the glass down, his fingers still curled around the emptiness of it.

Could he ask him? How was he, before? When? He’d thought maybe he’d have the courage to go to the house in Quarter Fords; it wasn’t so out of his way. It wasn’t so far from Uzoji’s house, for all that it was, also, Evers away. He’d be here in the Rose a few more weeks, at least; maybe by the end of it, he’d find enough bravery to go and look, though he didn’t really think he’d still find Jaeli there; he didn’t really think it would matter, if he did. He was a liar, but there was little sense in lying to himself.

No, Aremu thought, looking at the amused little smile on Nevio’s lips, the sharp gleam of teeth beneath it. He couldn’t.

Charlie, Nevio named the galdor. Aremu’s gaze followed him down to him. Our mutual friends, Nevio had said, cheerfully, and then: one of them.

Was he a Brother? He hadn’t seen it before; he didn’t see it now, on that pretty, pouting little face. The canalworks, of course; that hadn’t surprised Aremu. He knew Nevio for a regular there, and he could see Charlie there easily enough – far more easily than he could see him in the Palace. "We've not met; I think I'd remember you," Aremu said, slowly, trying to see if he could loosen up.

He shifted, slightly, his gaze glancing up back to Nevio. He frowned.

“One of them?” Aremu came out and asked it. He glanced down at the empty glass, and he was sorry he’d drained it; his mouth was dry, suddenly. He didn’t glance sideways at the bartender, for all he thought about it. He met Nevio’s gaze and held, for just a moment; his glance flicked down, between the human and the galdor, lingering on Charlie for a moment, and settled back between them, where the smoke from the two cigarettes met and mingled in the sour-scented air.

[Charlie Ewing]

Roalis 44, 2720 - Evening
Hog's Run, Basin Court

The least Charlie could do for the man who had rescued him from a cigarette-free evening was light him up after. And provide the sparkle of his presence, of course, but Charlie Ewing was a magnanimous man. He was rather delighted to have remembered correctly, given how so many little details escaped him of that night in general.

The grin on his face broadened when he caught other man with the serious face looking at him. Rightly so, really, but Charlie did so like attention. Attention and interest, which he was less sure of, but was willing to bank on. He was rarely wrong. The drag he took lingered, and the exhale too. Well wasn't this just shaping up to be a much better time than he'd expected all around? The Rose really had a way of turning his frown upside-down. How delightful.

Honestly the only problem he had with this particular arrangement was that it was difficult for Charlie to keep track of Nevio and Aremu at the same time, given as he was in the middle. There was some kind of exchange of various glances that Charlie just didn't bother himself with much. Things would either become more clear, or they wouldn't, and he didn't much care which it happened to work out to be.

He finished off the terrible gin and tonic in front of him, gesturing at the bartender for another. He was not nearly as drunk as he would like to be. That, too, was a fixable problem. He did so like fixable problems.

"I'm flattered you remember," he said, confirming his name. He fluttered his eyelashes in as maidenly a fashion as possible at Nevio, though the effect was marred by how smug he looked at all times. When Nevio mentioned a "mutual friend", Charlie raised his eyebrows and turned to his other side.

"Do we? I don't believe we've met either. I have been told by many a man in our fair city that I can be quite memorable. You'd think one or the other of us would, if we had." As was ever his habit, he leaned into that high-bred drawl. All this time here and he'd not managed to lose it, hadn't even tried. Sometimes it proved to be quite the hit. Charlie looked Aremu up and down, slow and obvious. Then shrugged his narrow shoulders, though he considered it a moment more in his mind.

Had they met? It was entirely possible, of course. He had met a lot of people in his year and some change in the Rose, and he certainly didn't remember all of them. It was a very long list. Still, Charlie did think he at least kept track of the particularly handsome ones. Most of the time. He certainly thought he'd remember one who frowned so fucking much.

"Who might this mysterious mutual friend be, then? At least a hint." His new gin and tonic was set in front of him; Charlie smiled winningly and got very little in response. Ah, well. Gin was always a friend, even when it was terrible. He looked to Nevio again, eyebrows raised in curiosity and amused light in his face. "There were quite a few people around at the time." Though none, he thought, who would be particularly keen to be described as his "friend".

[Graf]

Evening, 44 Roalis, 2719
Hog's Run, Basin Court

H
urte, but that damned smile. He remembered it from when the scrap’d spoke of the King, back when. Or it wasn’t the same smile, not exactly, not quite. It was smooth like a mask, or peaceful like a dead man – he’d seen their smiles – with nothing in the curl of the lip to tell you what he was thinking. Would’ve said there was nothing in the eyes, if he hadn’t known better. There was a chip of flint there.

The toff gestured to the bartender.

Nevio smiled at him when he batted his lashes all chip-like. “They’d be quite right. You’re a memorable sort of man, Charlie,” drawled the picklock, ashing his spur. His eyes swept over Narkissos’ pretty face again, with its thin-lipped lazy grin, then rose to meet Aremu’s. “You both are.”

Aremu was frowning again, as if he were wondering. Nevio’s eyes glittered, conspiratorial. Amused, still. In the corner of his eye he could see Charlie still looking at Aremu, drinking him in slow.

To be quite perfectly honest, he didn’t know about Narkissos’ affiliations. That was the way he liked it, when he could have it that way. He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t letting on. For all he knew, the golly lad was in so deep with Hawke he couldn’t see the way out. It was none of Nevio’s business, even if he hadn’t had him in the end. There was time enough still, and you could never be too careful about qalqa and pleasure.

With some men – men like him – there was never a chance or a question. He’d been a brutal man ‘til the day he died, as far as Nevio was concerned; he supposed Brotherhood was something some men couldn’t take off. He’d had no finesse in the bed or out, for all he’d had a clever tongue and a keen eye from time to time, for all he’d crept up on you sometimes.

But – no, the scrap was still frowning, a crease between his brows. Every line of him was tense, though Nevio could tell he was trying to loosen up. Nevio kept on watching him, considering; his eyes moved down, slow and easy, and then back up. The long fine fingers of his one hand were curled round an empty glass now. He’d finished off his pint, but he wasn’t looking over, not at the barkeep, not at anybody else. Those dark eyes were fixed.

That wasn’t Nevio’s business, either, but he wondered.

He drew out a pause, watching the scrap’s face; he didn’t look over when Charlie spoke, though his smile widened a whit. The gin and tonic clicked on the bar, ice jangling the glass, and that fine golly voice spilled around it. Cutting right through the pause like a key jammed in the wrong lock, like a lockpick snapping in two. Quite a few people, he went on, drawling.

He drew it out still; he raised his eyebrows at Charlie and then at Aremu, slowly and casually, as if the latter wasn’t fixing him with that look. Did he know? Nevio Faenza sure as hells wasn’t going to tell either of them.

He considered. He’d’ve been a cat playing with mice to say Ipadi; either that, or it would’ve been the safer option. Nevio wanted neither, not tonight. He was too curious how this lock fit together.

“Cooke,” he said on an exhale, shrugging his shoulders. “Tom.” His eyes didn’t linger on Aremu, as if to say, maybe you don’t remember him. He kept the corner of his attention there anyway. “Maybe you remember him. Big man, black beard. Scar across his lip.”

He knew enough of Hawke’s butcher-dog to know he’d been soft on him. Hadn’t remembered, Nevio’s erse. The man was like an open book when he was drunk, and he’d been drunk most of the time.

He took another drink. “And Ipadi and Arlo and the rest of the kint, though I don’t recall I ever saw either of the two of you back.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 44 Roalis, 2719
Hog's Run, Basin Court

Nevio was smiling at him from the other side of Charlie. Aremu was left feeling as if the other man had taken a mousetrap and set it down in the space before him, had placed a bit of cheese on the spring with those long, delicate fingers, and stood back; he was left feeling as if he’d gone straight forward into it, as if even now he was reaching for the cheese, closing his fingers over it even though he knew the shape of the trap perfectly well. That was, Aremu thought, the trouble with bait.

At least a hint, Charlie said, with what Aremu supposed was meant to be a sexy sort of sulky look. It didn’t – it wasn’t, Aremu thought, shifting his weight ever so slightly on the bar stool. He didn’t find it so; he’d never found such sort of play so, not by men, and not so much by women either. Even Tsadha’s pouts hit a sour note for him, though they were always more playful than sultry. He had never thought they were quite about him, anyway.

Neither, Aremu thought, abruptly clear, was Charlie’s. He didn’t know what it was about, not quite; he knew it had nothing to do with him, and nothing to do with Nevio either. That was fine, Aremu thought, glancing down at the empty glass on the bar, his fingers curled around it still. He didn’t need it to be; he didn’t think he’d want it to be, really, not with them.

It was the answer he’d expected; it was the sharp bite he had thought would close over him, even as he reached for the cheese, Nevio’s grin as white and sharp as a cat’s, as if he could see the other man flexing his claws and arching his spine. Aremu hadn’t tensed ahead of the blow, but he didn’t know if he’d relaxed into it either, not quite. It hurt, all the same, as he’d known it would; it hurt, all the same, more than it should have.

“Of course,” Aremu said, evenly, inclining his chin slightly. He glanced sideways at Charlie, carving a thin smile into the planes of his face, looking at him through the dim, smoky-hazy air. “I don’t think he ever introduced us.”

Your type, Tom? He wanted to ask, though the other man wasn’t there for it. He didn’t – it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. It had never been between them such that it should; there was nothing in it to hurt. He remembered Tom promising to take him somewhere – he remembered the journey though the canalworks, chasing the blue lights together down into the depths of them, sprawled out on the bridge.

Did he take you for Hessean food afterwards? Aremu wanted to ask. Back home, afterwards, to put arnica and junia on your scrapes? He didn’t know where the bitterness welled from; he didn’t think Tom deserved it, because he had known better all along. You were the one who got ideas, Aremu told himself; you were the one who wanted to tell him, and couldn’t handle it after you had. If it bothered him, he never let go. You were the one who left, Aremu told himself, and didn’t come back. He should have been glad, Aremu thought, to think of Tom unbothered and taking another man to the kint.

He wasn’t sure what was on his face; he hoped it was still the same smile. He thought it was; there was the faint beginning of an ache in his cheeks which told him it might be. He glanced down at the empty glass. Another, he thought to say; it would be very easy to wave the bartender over and ask for another, as easily as Charlie had a moment ago. He uncurled his fingers from the glass, slowly, his hand settled loose on the damp, slightly sticky wood. This didn’t change anything, not really, Aremu told himself; just another.