[Mature] Funeral Pyre

[Meraki]

11th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
A Street in Castle Hill

Ten minutes.

That was how long Meraki slept for, during the twelfth hour on the ninth day of Vortas, in the sweet bliss of his lover against him. The sweat had barely dried on their skin. Somehow, a blanket had gotten on top of them and Lars held tight to his body in a warm, comfortable cuddle. His heart picked up its pace again, upon witness of the passive’s peaceful slumber.

Twenty-one minutes.

That was how long Meraki remained where he was, though he didn’t sleep. He simply watched Lars, occasionally brushing aside the mess of wild white-blond hair. Underneath, he felt the many layers of wrinkled clothes between them and the bedsheets. Gently, he ran the sole of his foot against Lars’ calf and then started the very slow, gradual slide of a man who knew how to escape a lover’s bed without causing the other to wake.

Thirty-two minutes.

That was how long Meraki quietly cleaned the apartment while Lars slept. He picked up what he could of the clothes, folded them as best he could, and returned everything to the dresser. When he reached the clothes that laid underneath Lars, he carefully moved the passive with the familiarity of how the other man could sleep so heavily yet follow guidance without the slightest awareness of it. In this way, Meraki settled Lars properly in the bed, with a few more blankets. He gathered a couple with a pillow to simulate the warmth of a body, so that Lars had something to cuddle. After a moment's observation to admire the other man, he left to start a hearth fire and then tidy up the main room – which he’d left in a chaotic state due to emptying out the contents of his bag. He still didn’t know where most of the items had come from.

Forty-three minutes.

That was how long Meraki tried to clean the upstairs apartment. Tried because he kept finding himself distracted. Only above Lars, but not in the same place, he couldn’t focus as well. He’d locked the door to their Lars’ apartment behind him, and frequently brought out the key to kiss it, then force himself to get back to the mess he’d left. He mopped with the cold soapy water, from wall to wall and room to room. He scrubbed surfaces. He got on his hands and knees and he rubbed at the hardwood floor with a bristle brush. The bloodstains had long since gotten cleaned up, but he could still see them in his mind’s eye and he wanted to get rid of them.

Fifty-four minutes.

That was how long Meraki spent in the bathroom, kerchief tied tight over the lower half of his face to keep out the thick deathly scents. He cleaned out Clem. By the time he’d finished, his arms were coated in sickly red, up to the tan lines of his biceps. He rinsed the bathtub with the excess soapy water, then used the empty buckets to hold the offal.

Sixty-five minutes.

That was how long Meraki stripped what was left of the unfortunate other wick. He boiled water in a couple tall pots. Tub filled up, he fastened a tarp over the edges and secured it with rope to keep the steam and heat inside. There, Clem would soak.

Seventy-six minutes.

That was how long Meraki ferried buckets of blood and gunk. He poured what he could into any drains within the apartments. It was nearly midday, so he had to take some time with cleaning himself off too. After checking on Lars, who still slept, he dressed and left Hot House Glass to acquire necessary items to finish with the clean-up. An emptied keg was the prime need, and he found it where he’d left it days ago, but it took a while to get it to the apartments and up the stairs. Once he had though, he made good use of its barrel. It’d been worth the trouble.

Eighty-seven minutes.

That was how long Meraki spent in front of the mirror where Lars’ diablerie had occurred. He stared at his own reflection, and he rubbed salt into the scrapes and scratches on his skin until he couldn’t stand the raw pain of it anymore. It sharpened his senses. Acting on instincts, he meditated with the mona around him. He muttered and murmured and kept his gaze locked on his own eyes.

Ninety-eight minutes.

That was how long Meraki tried to figure out how to cook a meal that Lars might like. He’d left the apartments again, ran to the market with a cloth bag, and acquired what he could for food. Upon return, he checked on Lars yet again – and the exhausted passive remained in a deep restful sleep. Meraki still felt weary, and achy, and the cocaine had worn off. Yet he didn’t sleep. On occasion, he shut his eyes (even while standing) and lost track of a few minutes… then he would inhale sharply and become hyper alert of his surroundings. This happened while he cooked, and it made for an erratic and burnt affair of vegetables and rice. When he tried a bite, the entire thing could hardly be chewed, let alone swallowed. He spat it out and started a different meal… only to do worse the second time around. He gave up on the sixth attempt, as each one only seemed to get worse than the previous try. The tsat returned to the bedroom, shed his clothes, and then curled up underneath the blankets to lay with Lars.

The rest of the night -

- came and went. When Lars awoke, Meraki kept him under the blankets to repeat declarations of passionate devotion. He did the same in the hot sweetly-scented bath they shared afterwards; and then in the kitchen while Lars tried to make sense of the several failed attempts of different meals left on the counter; and at the dining table while they ate whatever the passive managed from what was left of the acquired food; and in front of the hearth while they shared cigarettes and exchanged thoughts of random light-hearted interest; and they slept on the blood-stained rug in a nest of blankets and pillows, warmed by each other and the fire that crackled next to them; and Meraki fell asleep…

…and he slept… and slept with feverish dreams, and muttered statements about Lars and himself and other people – people whose names weren’t known to Lars – people who Meraki would have never said aloud by choice – such as Doris, but not only Doris, as the names of other men slid past his lips such as Leon and Emmett and Rubin and Paolo and Gregory and Cole and Ellis and Gio and Booker and Russ and Henry and Virgil and Claude and Jessie and Troy and Godric and Clint and Vaughn and Ronnie and Talbot and Gabrielius – Gabrielius, sir –
gabrielᴳᵃᵇʳⁱᵉˡⁱᵘˢgabrielᴳᵃᵇʳⁱᵉˡⁱᵘˢgabriel… all that and more muttered in strings of half-thought phrases accompanied by noises of discomfort, of moans and growls and whimpers, and movements to turn over and roll away from Lars, stuck in the unconsciousness of his sweat-drenched, nightmare-riddled sleep… until the tsat settled with his arms wrapped around his head, face hidden against the crook of his elbows, and his knees drawn to his chest in a curled-up ball of tormented sleep…

…and the sun rose again, like it always does.

The first light -

- woke Meraki so suddenly that he shot up and scrambled to his feet, breath short and adrenaline rushed through him, as if confused as to where he was. He only eased when he realized that he was in the harbor, in Lars’ apartment. Without a word, he fled to the bathroom. He ran the water… for a long time… and when he returned, he’d rinsed off his entire body. His eyes were bloodshot, his newer injuries raw and red, but he looked far healthier than he had the day before.

And he didn’t waste any time in starting the day with Lars. He didn’t wish to talk though, and swiftly avoided any attempts to do so unless it was about light-hearted nonsense. Meraki got dressed in simple attire, dark trousers and dark button-up shirt and his vest. Boots, gloves, a scarf, and the coat that he still didn’t know where it came from, nor why the pockets were loosely filled with various meager coins flecked with dried blood. He left the hat behind, though.

Meraki led them through the harbor, in the early morning of dawn, and he kept close to Lars. Very close. Close enough that occasionally, he brushed their hands against each other… and his fingers lingered in a gentle hold before he seemed to get anxious and then quickly let go. To a bakery shop, he paid for breakfast, so Lars did not have to cook for them, and he let Lars decide on whatever he wanted to get from the pastry display. However much, too. Lars could have tried to buy out the whole shop if he wanted, and Meraki would have tried to manage that. He got himself some black tea to drink while he smoked a cigarette.

They didn’t linger at the shop, already on the move, as the wick obviously had something in mind (though he did not share what that was). He led them through the streets with a certain ease, and it proved to be a familiar path while they walked through the street – and then the alley in which they’d shared their first kiss. Here, Meraki came to a stop – just long enough to share a very quick and nervous kiss and whisper simple words of romance. He didn’t linger here, either, and he continued without much pause for Lars to cling to. Though he’d slept, and though the cocaine had worn off, his mind hadn’t calmed in the slightest when it came to the rush of life.

Through Castle Hill, he walked up a steep upward path and around a corner that led into an incredibly nice residential area. A wealthy pocket within the greater neighborhood, carriages rumbled past well-dressed folk that had started to enjoy a cold, but sunny day.

Meraki found them a seat to share on a bench that rested between a pair of lush columnar trees. At the end of the street, there was a lovely estate bordered by tall hedge bushes. A couple gardeners worked on clearing the night’s frost and morning dew, setting tarps over modest kitchen gardens. Through the slivered peek between the hedges, Meraki watched them move about. Above in the fine-glass windows, he could see the occasional shadow pass by, or even a face while someone looked out. Such as now, when he saw a young lady stare up at the sky, then close the curtains.

The Anaxi sipped his tea, kept warm in a cheap copper bottle. He didn’t say much, attention fixed on his observation of the estate at the end of the street. Flicking the drawn dried cigarette to the ground, he took out another cigarette, only this one wasn’t like the others. A different scent rose from it, like vanilla with tobacco combined with an earthy blend of cannabis. Meraki struck it with a match, then took a deep breath before he offered it to Lars.

[Lars]

Castle Hill
11th hour of vortas 10th, 2719

"...and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow,
where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps,
and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me,
and nobody would ever see us any more."
— Franz Kafka, The Castle

Lars wished he had known,

throughout the infrequent highs and varying lows that had made up his life, that he would one day find himself sitting on a bench in the early morning air, breaths escaping his lips in cold little clouds, half-eaten teacake in one hand and a quickly-disappearing tea warming the other. He wished he had known, on his tenth birthday, that the university's red fortress walls would not contain him forever, if only to ease the pain of being left there all alone. He wished he had known, a year ago, that broken bones would heal, wounds would mend, and the scars left behind would make him think not of what could have been, but of what he was glad to have lost.

Lars slept, and he did not dream. It was an unusual but not unwelcome change; he slept, and slept, and all of him slept. All of him at rest, all of him at peace, all of him asleep. He did not stir, even as the room around him shifted and tidied under a wick's quiet care, even as he was moved into a more comfortable, warmer position underneath blankets and cuddled up close to pillows and clothes. He held onto them as if he thought to take their warmth, and though it was hardly as satisfying to his sleeping body as his lover's warm embrace, it kept him asleep and content. He hardly moved after that, the passive easily falling into a much deeper sleep as he was, once again, left alone in the quiet comfort of their his bedroom.

And when Meraki returned, after a time that Lars would not have even thought to consider measuring, unaware of its passing, he forsook inadequate imitations of the familiar wick and pushed pillows to the side in favor of holding to his lover. When he awoke, he could not have said if Meraki had remained there beside him the entire time or if he had, at some point, gone away and simply returned before he woke... and in the end, it did not matter to him either way. He was there to wake up to, there to hold when it mattered. Lars' mood did not falter for a moment in the hours that came after, and even when his smile faded from his lips, and settled into comfortable neutrality, it did not think to leave his eyes.

The other man's attempts to make them a meal — scattered about the counter of the kitchenette — were only met with more affectionate words, and though he teased, gently, about the wick's abilities in the kitchen, so too did he offer, quietly, "I don't mind cooking for you, you know. But next time you'd like to try, I'll show you—" and he ate in relative silence, allowing the younger to lead much of their conversation out of the desire to simply listen to his voice. Through it all, through the cooking and eating and the cleaning up afterwards, he remained close to the blond, hardly bothering to suppress his desires for little touches here and there to his arms, his waist, little brushes of legs. And when they retired to the hearth, bundled in blankets and pillows, Lars smoked, and talked when he could, and tapped delicate fingers against his lover's skin and the blood-stained rug below them.

Meraki fell asleep, eventually. Lars listened to him speak, mumbling on about people he did not know and likely would not care to hear much about, and he laid on his back while the younger curled in on himself in a bundle of nightmarish sleep. He grabbed another cigarette, and he pondered each and every word that fell from his sleeping lover's mouth, but he did not linger on any of them for long. The harlot kept to himself while the cigarette gradually disappeared and died down, deep, contemplative clouds of smoke blowing past his lips as light eyes absentmindedly inspected the ceiling above. And once he had finished with it, he turned to lie on his side, and pulled Meraki back to him to hold the younger in a protective embrace.

And again, Lars slept.

When, in the morning, his hold around the wick was disturbed by a sudden rush and a mad scramble, Lars remained on the floor, eyes wide in his surprise, but lacking in any sort of judgement. Less bothered that he had been stirred and more that Meraki had awoken with such a start, the Hessean did not question him, and when he disappeared into the bathroom without a word, Lars set about tidying up the room. Blankets and pillows were returned to the bedroom, furniture was moved back into place, remnants of cigarettes were swept up and tossed into the ash-coated, cold hearth.

He dressed when Meraki did, making a mental note about what all was missing from his wardrobe (where was that burgundy shirt? He liked that one!)... but he did not inquire as to the whereabouts of such missing items. He dressed in a plain black shirt, the velvet trousers his lover had worn the day before, and tied his dark kerchief about his neck. Socks were offered to Meraki when he noticed that the younger was... missing his own, apparently, and then he pulled on the dead spoke's jacket with the hope that it wouldn't be too terribly cold outside. He wore the gold and pearl earrings, but the rest of his jewelry was left alone, and after pulling on his dark, pointed shoes, Lars followed Meraki out of the apartment.

The little bakery was nice, he thought. The comforting, warm smells of the kitchen brought a pleasant smile to his face, and he looked over the various pastries and breads offered with an inquisitive yet slightly critical eye, pointing out any perceived inconsistencies in quiet whispers to his lover... but he was satisfied, all the same, with the little teacakes he ended up with. He still thought that he could have done a better job himself, but found himself grateful, too, that he no longer had to do such things unless it was of his own volition. Meraki ordered tea, and Lars did the same, though a flavor far less strong, and far more sweet. He sipped at the hot, sugary drink as they walked, teacakes in a little bag at his side. Each brush of Meraki's hand against his own earned a little, playful twitch of his fingers against Meraki's in return.

Lars accepted each and every hint of affection, and did not press for more. Even in the alley in which they had first kissed, first admitted any sort of feelings for one another, he simply took what he was allowed (quite happily) and did not try to keep the wick when he wanted to set out again. Calmer now than he had been many of the days before, Lars did not struggle to keep up with Meraki's sudden shifts in pace, nor the flighty whims that brought them from the bakery to the alley and back out onto the street. He just held tight to his little bag of teacakes and his tea, pulled the kerchief a little tighter around his neck, and followed the restless wick wherever he wanted to go.

Into Castle Hill and onward, Lars kept close to Meraki's side, never daring to touch without prior permissions but unwilling to walk much farther away than he was. Where they were going, he had no clue, but the pale-haired harlot seemed happy enough to be out and walking about. Once they had settled down into a bench in the wealthier part of the neighborhood, Lars lowered his tea, holding it between his knees while his hands occupied themselves with the bag of teacakes from the bakery. While Meraki looked around, observant and perhaps even distracted, Lars focused on the pastries. He held one and took small bites of it with a thoughtful expression, light eyes finally bothering to look around them while he chewed.

Fancy, he supposed. He had not often ventured into Castle Hill. He had never had much reason to do so, unless he was merely drifting through to get somewhere else. Reminded him too much of Brunnhold, really, even if he otherwise enjoyed the place. Nice carriages, well-kept yards and gardens, houses with nice clean paint and servants to tend to them, too. Setting the little bag between them on the bench, he drew his legs up to cross beneath him, his tea held in his lap. He finished off the sweet bun, gazed across to inspect the nice estate his lover seemed occupied with, and said:

"I bet they have a nice kitchen. A full one," glancing back down to his lap for a moment, Lars' grabbed his tea, lifting it to his lips to take a sip. Across the street, a young boy walked past, tossing a rock down at the path before him. It tumbled against the ground with little clicks, and he continued on without a glance to either of them, grumbling something that the passive couldn't make out from the distance. Drawing in the floral scent of the tea held close to his face, Lars blinked, snowy-white eyelashes fluttering against cold ivory cheeks.

"Maybe we can live in a place like that, sometime," he considered, and after another sip of his tea, it was set to the side. "Oh, we could paint the ceiling, too. My room in Dorhaven had a painted ceiling, it was pretty. I don't know how anyone got up there to paint it. Never met a golly tall enough to touch the top of a door frame, let alone a ceiling."

Perhaps he was exaggerating a bit, but the sentiment still rang true. Lars glanced over as he heard his lover strike a match, and breathed in the pleasantly sweet scent that drifted lightly in the air as the lit cigarette was handed over. A pale hand reached out to accept it, and he brought it to his lips for a deep, smooth inhale of smoke — it was kept between slender fingers, but held out between them, and gray eyes shifted back to the estate.

It took him a moment or two to speak, and when he did, smoke curled from his lips to accompany his quiet question, "what are we out here for, love?"

[Meraki]

11th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
A Street in Castle Hill

There came a time, a small little moment that drifted into existence without prelude or warning or declaration, in which Meraki felt Lars close to him and their breaths clouded in the cold air with the warmth of their tea – Meraki’s herbal and bitter, Lars’ floral and sweet – and the heady smoke blend of a shared spliff served as a peaceful way to remain close in the public eye. For when Lars had taken his breath, Meraki slid his hand along the other’s to gather the smoke back into his own fingers, and when he took a deep inhale, he knew that he placed his lips where Lars’ lips had been only seconds before, and he thought of their alley and their whispers and their love, and his heart beat fast but he could feel Lars’ warmth beside him on the bench, and it grounded him though he'd eaten nothing for the morning because the only true nourishment he required would only ever be his Lars, and a moment came as simple and swift as the way he returned the smoke to the other’s hands in a mere excuse to touch again.

A moment in which Meraki felt the world and the past shed from the skin of his mind, or the scarred mess of his heart miraculously smoothed over, and when he looked at Lars and thought of what he’d said about the kitchen, about the estate, about the ceiling – (of which, he had to think a little to figure out what Lars meant. After all, the ceilings in Hot House Glass were painted, were they not? But then he thought a little more and considered that maybe Lars meant a painting like he’d seen in some of the hotels in the Stacks) – and he’d offered a bemused expression at the joke about not knowing how it’d been painted. Meraki could think of many ways to paint a ceiling, if one wished to, if one truly desired to manage such a feat… there was always a method. Always. To Meraki, deep down, nothing was ever truly impossible, or out of reach, and especially so when his mind was in the blissful state it luxuriated in. He mentioned with quiet confidence, “I would paint a ceiling for you, if you wanted.”

Meraki turned to look at the estate again, and he hadn’t noticed the very instantaneous moment when his mind altered in a way that would never revert to what it'd been before. The moment in which he could never return to the man he was before, and no one in the entire world could have noticed when it even occurred, not even Meraki himself.

“We are out here for us,” he replied in a low voice, and he did not wince or grimace or shush Lars when the other man called him love aloud, though there was a couple of natts across the street who were busy preparing a carriage, and a galdor lady and her maid headed down the sidewalk in approach to pass behind the bench. He hardly noticed at all, except for that it still felt as nice as it ever did to hear Lars’ voice and see his lover’s lips form the sentimental word. Meraki returned his gaze to look at Lars, and he leaned closer with a slight smile. His hand drifted, slid over the other’s thigh, then he swiped the cigarette from the older man again, as if that had been his intention. He dragged an inhale, then looked over to the estate at the end of the street. It certainly was the largest estate for the stretch of fine houses they observed. Meraki leaned against the bench, one arm casually draped over the back behind Lars, and he widened his stance with obvious improper manner. A quiet hmphed gasp rose from the galdor lady, who picked up her heeled boots and walked faster past them with her natt maid quick to keep up. Meraki glanced over his shoulder to watch them go, then he looked at Lars and quietly shared, “She lives there. The eldest daughter.”

“There’s about nine servants,” he murmured while he turned his gaze to look back at the estate. “Three daughters, and two sons, all too young for west of here except for the one we just saw. Two elders, the married father and mother, and an uncle I assume.”

Meraki slid his gaze back over to Lars and said, “Nine natts, ten golly…”

“That’s too much, ent it?” He shrugged, then leaned over and took back the smoke to take another inhale. He looked into Lars’ fair gray eyes, and he happily breathed out warmth in a visible cloud of breath. Meraki finished his tea, if only to place the copper bottle between them so he wouldn’t be tempted into the kiss he so deeply desired to steal. “The neighbors across the way, there, have far less. Only three natts, a wick, and four golly.”

“Down that way,” he nodded past Lars and looked over while he whispered, “That side street leads into a circle of homes which are run by natts themselves. Not as impressive to look at, from the outside, but I’m certain their kitchens are just as nice and full, and there ent any wagging tongues to snip out.”

[Lars]

Castle Hill
11th hour of vortas 10th, 2719

W

hen Meraki retrieved the smoke, hand sliding against his in the most subtle of touches, Lars almost thought to hold it tighter. His fingers pressed the rolled paper between them, as if he had thought to keep it — or more accurately, as if he had thought to make it harder for Meraki to take it, in order to make the fleeting contact last just a little longer. But the little squeeze was brief, and the smoke passed on, and his eyes traced the lines of the other man's face for just a moment before he forced them away. Away, away, to the nice estate with full kitchens and possibly painted ceilings. He doubted it, though; not many families he knew cared to spend the time or the money on such things. Then, he realized, he did not exactly know many families anymore... and still did he doubt their taste.

The smoke was handed back. With a half-smile he brought it back to his lips, and allowed himself the pleasure of another glance at the wick. Bundled up in that strange new coat (not that he disapproved of it, by any means, he thought it rather well-suited to his lover's form, handsomely eccentric as he was), Lars wished he could grab fistfuls of the fabric and pull him close. He supposed there was something sweet in the slight interactions they did have, and did not let himself dwell on it long. Holding his breath, the passive looked back to the estate house with a satisfied smile. I would paint a ceiling for you, if you wanted. Thick smoke escaped the corner of his mouth, billowing out in Meraki's direction. "I would help you," he quietly assured.

For us, said Meraki, as if that was all the explanation one should need, and Lars thought that it was.

He only noticed the smile when he felt a touch to his thigh, unexpected and unobtrusive, appreciated nonetheless by the passive that turned his head for another glimpse of Meraki. Again the smoke was transferred from hand to hand, a smile was returned, and Lars' satisfied hum was quiet against the sounds of the neighborhood around them. The Anaxi moved, an arm placed over the back of the bench behind him, legs spread apart as if they weren't in the middle of a higher class area. The disapproving reaction of a passing galdor and her hurried servant brought an involuntary laugh from the passive, soft but apparently loud enough to be heard. Her head turned slightly, a golden gaze glowering at the two of them for just a moment before her attentions were shifted away. An eyebrow raised, and Lars watched the women as they walked farther and farther from the bench they shared.

Meraki's murmurs drew his colorless eyes away, to dart back to the freckled face of his lover. Nine servants, he said, looking back to the estate, and Lars followed his gaze as if the property would provide further explanation. Three daughters and two sons, all too young for Brunnhold—save for the lovely lady that had recently passed them by—and a mother, father, and an uncle. Nine servants, ten galdori. Lars found himself less sure of the latter, and his lips twitched, frowning subtly in thought. "Six gollies," he said instead, but did not interrupt further. Four children hardly counted. As it was, even he was more magical than any of them, and one required a field to be considered anything of importance in galdori society.

(He knew it wasn't true. He was certain that the parents cared quite deeply for their children, and would never have to consider feeling otherwise.)

"That's too much, ent it?"

Lars gave a half-hearted shrug. It depended on what Meraki meant, but the passive did not really need to ask to know. Nine servants, six gollies. Yes, he thought that was likely too difficult of a task, though he could appreciate the idea of it being otherwise. Would that not be just lovely? He had not killed nearly as many galdori as humans and spokes. More alert, they were, more powerful... although often their confidence was easy enough to manipulate, if one knew how. Lars supposed there were some good things that came from spending his life around his more competent brothers and sisters.

"Maybe not," he offered, breathing in the smoke as it left his lover's lungs. Gray eyes met green, and Lars watched him finish off his tea before the copper bottle was set between them, with the bag of teacakes. A cold hand was extended to rest over the bag, fingers tapping against the crinkled paper. He lifted his own tea again, taking a long sip of the cooling liquid while Meraki mentioned the smaller house nearby. Three natts (the word still felt so strange to him, even now, but he rather enjoyed hearing the other man say it), a wick (he liked those, now, he decided that recently), and four gollies. Far more manageable than the nicer estate's residents, though still not a task he would deem easy. It was, however, one that he would attempt if the tsat so wished it. He would have attempted anything, for him.

And then a nod to the side, and Lars set down his emptied cup on the ground by the bench. He looked down to the aforementioned side street. Leaning back again, he let his head fall back in a little stretch, and white waves of the passive's hair brushed against Meraki's arm. The dark kerchief concealed part of his neck, bared otherwise in its backward curve, and gray eyes slipped shut as he breathed in the cool air and wafting smoke.

"Sounds like a lovely place to start," said the harlot, an amused little smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and his fingers continued to tap away at the bag between them, the object little more than a placeholder. "We'd need to be careful. Quiet. We don't need the whole circle to know, of course."

Another hum, sudden and curious, and his head snapped back up, gaze settling on Meraki. "How many houses? What if... we could do them all. One by one. Do you think so?"

Lars sat up a little straighter, pulling his hands back to his lap to rest upon his knees. For a moment he began to lean towards Meraki, but he did not get too far before he paused and moved back. Trying again, he reached out with his hand this time, and took the smoke from the younger to take another long drag. Not bothering to hold it in quite as long, he spoke through the smoke, voice a little muffled, "ah, but that would be..." a small cough, but he recovered just as soon, glancing back to Meraki. A lot, that's what it would be. In fact, any one of these houses was likely too much, if they did not wish to catch Hawke's attention. Though he did not believe the Seventen to be much of a problem, in the harbor, he did not exactly want to entangle himself any more with Hawke's men if he did not have to.

"Should we?" he sounded a little unsure, then. Lars handed the cigarette back, reaching for his bag of teacakes again to take another one out. Wordlessly, he offered one to Meraki, and whether the wick accepted it or not, he gathered one for himself as well. Taking a small bite, he continued, "I don't want them coming after us for anything else. I don't think this would go unnoticed, love."

[Meraki]

12th Hour
Castle Hill
10th of Vortas, 2719

Six gollies, not ten. For a few seconds, the statement confused Meraki. Only when he glanced at Lars’ expression did he realize what the passive meant. He could not claim to understand much about the nature of passives and their relations to galdori society, but he knew far more than he did before he’d met Lars. In the back of his mind, he considered the diablerie again. That’d been something… but it wasn’t entirely something he felt ill or upset over. It’d caused no small degree of problems, exhaustion and soreness when there were practical measures to attend to (such as the wick who now soaked in the upstairs bathroom) but part of Meraki also felt glad that it had occurred. He knew more about Lars, now. He knew what it felt like, and it wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt before and he rather enjoyed that. Whatever magic was within Lars, it was as magnificent and beautiful as the galdor-born man himself. He could feel Lars’ nexus, while he sat beside him, and he’d never stopped feeling it since the moment he’d recognized the sensation. It was demure by comparison to the diablerie, but now he knew that the magic hidden within Lars was just as powerful as the man, himself, when he’d swung the glass shard through the sailor’s eye.

Meraki wanted to think that maybe they weren’t all that different: a passive like Lars and a tsat like him. The Anaxi wasn’t a proper wick, not a spoke… it wasn’t exact, he wasn’t a parse, but he was a lonely half-a-thing mutt - rejected by the world - who couldn’t go beyond the interior wall and devour the knowledge hidden away in the university, nor could he bear the thought of wandering about with nomads, trying to learn their confusing traditions. Meraki didn’t much fit in, anywhere with anyone, and he liked to think that maybe Lars was similar in that regard… and maybe that’s why they fit so perfectly with each other. It suited him fine, he didn’t need anyone else other than the older man.

Maybe not. The simple answer sent another rapid pulse through Meraki’s body, an impulsive reaction, and thankfully Lars set the bag of teacakes between them. He glanced at Lars’ bare fingers, and frowned, then looked to see how far the golly lady had gotten. She had worn a nice pair of gloves… gloves that would look far nicer on Lars than her. He caught sight of her, standing at the farther end of the street, talking to her maid.

After he finished the simple explanation about the residences around them, he looked to Lars while the other man stretched and leaned against his arm. Meraki admired his lover, unthinking in doing so, and he couldn’t resist but offer a small pure smile of his own when he caught sight of the passive’s amused expression.

How many houses? What if they could do them all? One by one… Meraki scratched his temple and moved closer to Lars while he did so –

- and Lars leaned toward him at the same time. They were so close to one another. Far closer than even a lady and her suitor should be in public. Only the youngest and boldest of sweethearts dared for their breaths to intermingle so closely while others could look on. Gods, he wanted to kiss him… he wanted to press his lips against those plush pale pink lips and he wanted to taste the sweet sugar from Lars’ mouth, and he wanted to throw him to lay back on the bench and take him right there in front of the stuck-up gollies and their idiotic manners and spit on their polite society, and Meraki’s face turned ruddy. He wasn’t the one who moved back first. A slight disappointment showed in his expression, and he glanced down when Lars took the smoke back. The tsat reluctantly fixed his posture, so they weren’t so near one another. He crossed his arms in front of him, and sulked as he slid against the back of the bench and stuck his feet out farther in front of him, keeping to the wide stance. His arms tightened over his chest, as if he were suddenly freezing cold and trying to keep the coat’s warmth around him. The Anaxi’s lips twisted, an attempt to avoid the involuntary frown that pulled down at the corners.

Meraki glanced over at Lars, about to say something more, but then he saw what was coming down the street. His green eyes widened, and he lifted out of his sulked posture. He took the cigarette when Lars handed it back but snubbed it out and then set what remained in the pocket of his coat. Distracted, only a flicker of a smile showed when he accepted the teacake; but his gaze proved obvious in that he looked down the street where a couple Seventen ambled down the sidewalk. Gradually approaching, they headed straight along in the direction of the couple on the bench.

Hand on Lars’ elbow, he swiftly guided the passive to stand along with him. He set the teacake in his mouth, though he didn’t eat – just held it there in a soft bite. Meraki brushed his gloved hands off, then started to walk. The officers didn’t look like the usual patrol, but he couldn’t claim to know the routes so well as to make a clear call on that. They could have been from the adjacent patrol that traveled along the main street of Castle Hill, which connected all the residential sections together.

“Stay close,” he whispered while hardly moving his lips while he did so. He started toward the officers. Meraki fixed his coat some, ate the teacake in three quick bites, then shoved his hands in his pockets while he kept his head up. His pulse rapid, his heart pounded a bit faster within his chest when they got closer to the officers. As they reached each other, Meraki moved off the sidewalk to walk on the street itself so that the officers could take the paved path instead. His boots were muddied by the gutter.

“Mornin’, sirs,” he greeted the officers simply with a nod, then glanced over his shoulder at Lars to make sure the passive had kept up with him. One of the officers murmured a quick automatic return of the greeting, and then they headed in the opposite direction. Meraki went back onto the sidewalk. About five paces away, his steps slowed when a call sounded.

“Oy,” called the officer who’d greeted them.

Meraki turned around, uncertain what to expect, but he forced a slight friendly smile. The officers had gotten to the bench. In the hand of the one who had called, they held out the copper bottle that Meraki's tea had been in.

“Y’ forgot this,” mentioned the Seventen.

“Oh, right,” said the tsat. He jogged over to collect the bottle from the officer. “Thank y’, sir.”

That was that. The officers continued their meandering patrol to the estate at the far end of the street. Meraki hurried back to Lars and muttered, “I’ll show y’ the natt houses. There’s six of ‘em, all facin’ each other. Could be a way, main problem is blockin’ off the exits, so nobody gets to the other neighbors or back streets after seeing things.”

“We can’t be livin’ like we ent never gonna get caught,” mentioned Meraki in a quiet voice while he turned down a narrow street that led into the cul-de-sac of affluent homes that were far more modest than the galdor residences, but still had wealth in every laid brick and fine timber that built up the two to three stories, depending on the house. “Not to say we shouldn’t try otherwise, ‘course, but whether to do somethin’ or not, that ent up to them. Up to us. Y’d be surprised by what all y’ can get away wit’. People busy in their own lives, plenty o’ folks leave to go elsewhere and no one ever thinks otherwise ‘bout it.”

“And… oh!” Meraki got distracted and paused when he looked through an adjacent alley. He handed the copper bottle over for Lars to take. “Hold this and stay back.”

Just like that, he left the passive’s side in a quick hurried step down the alley and to the next street. The tsat had caught sight of the galdor lady and her maid. He swiftly caught up to them, then came to a halt right in front of their path.

“G’ mornin’ misses.” Meraki smiled thinly, then flipped his hair to the side and nodded while the galdor lady took a small step back to get more distance from the wick. “I works for Mister Grahame, he sent me to see how it was your stitchin’ been holdin’ up.”

“My… oh, they’ve been very well. Thank you,” said the lady, confusion obvious but not ruining her otherwise polite manners. She glanced at her maid with her golden eyes.

“Good, good, he’ll be pleased to hear it,” Meraki glanced at the gloves that the woman wore. A satin white with lace stitched over the front. He said, “Mister Grahame got in some new silks and furs this mornin’ and he was wonderin’ if y’d be interested in stitching a new pair of gloves that’ll be warm against the snow, keep the wet out too.”

“I- uh- I didn’t know Mister Grahame had an apprentice,” mentioned the young woman.

“He’s just needing a pair of your gloves to make sure he gets the sizin’ right. Think o’ it like a … how’d he put it… gift for yer patronage? Yeah, I thinks that’s what it was.”

“My gloves? I… oh, I suppose. Miranda, do you have any extra gloves of mine?”

The human maid glanced between the two, staying just out of range of the field and the glamour. She rummaged in a purse, before she brought out a simple pair of tan suede gloves.

“The ones yer wearin’ would do best, miss, if y’ don’t mind. They looks to be the exact right fit.”

The lady sighed, then pulled off her silken white gloves.

Meraki glanced between the two pair of gloves and he wasn’t sure which would look best on Lars. So he looked at the maid and said, “Y’ happen to have any others, both of these would do well for Mister Grahame to get the best fit with the new materials. Quite a thin fur, it is, but to line it right, takes a trick. Right, Miranda?”

A frown showed on the maid’s features. She was a stern looking woman, with severely thin brows and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. The maid spoke up, “I gave Mister Grahame the appropriate measurements for Miss Newport’s hands in our last visit.”

“Did y’?” challenged Meraki, tone a bit snappish. He noticed that the maid put the suede gloves back in the purse, and that the golly had started to put her gloves back on. Shit… shit… He looked at the lady and said, “Apologies, miss. Shoulda given a proper call, but they is a list of ladies I got to meet. I figured y’ could be the first though, given that Mister Grahame talks so fondly of y’… but… I can comes back later, if they is any of the material left from the other ladies’ gloves.”

Meraki shoved his hands in his pockets and started to walk away. He hoped his gamble would work. As he walked, he heard some hushed but quickly exchanged words between the lady and her maid.

“Wait,” called young Miss Newport. “Here, Miranda, give the fellow these. Would these do?”

The tsat smiled slightly, then turned around and walked back to the lady. In the maid’s hands, both the suede and the satin gloves were held out for him to take. He quickly gathered them, folded them neatly, and pocketed them in the front interior of his coat. “Yes, miss, these will do.”

“Is there any way I could get three pairs rather than one?” inquired Miss Newport.

Meraki hummed, then he nodded and said, “First pair is a gift, but I suspect Mister Grahame would ‘pect proper pay for any more given that he’s got all the other ladies to-”

“Miranda,” interrupted the lady with a small gesture. The maid handed over a small handful of coins. “Will that do for two more?”

“Yes, miss, yes it will,” said Meraki with a nod of gratitude as he surveyed the coins in his palm. A little over a couple shill, with a few tallies. It seemed a bit much, but then again, he knew the underlying reason why the woman was paying. She didn’t want all her lady friends to also get the new fancy gloves, and he understood she was paying him to not offer them to some of the other women that he’d mentioned before. It wasn’t just payment for the gloves, it was a bribe. He pocketed the coins and said, “Understood, miss. Will let Mister Grahame know. Will youse be about next evening or so if I comes ‘round with the first pair to see if they’re to yer liking?”

“Oh, I’m terribly afraid that I have a prior engagement…”

“I can come ‘rounds at any time for y’, if y’d wanted, Miss. Could come in, late,” mentioned Meraki, with a wary glance at the glare that the maid gave him.

“Well,” huffed Miss Newport, though her cheeks turned pink. “I… I suppose that could work. I'm expected back around the midnight hours. What did you say your name was?”

“Carver,” answered Meraki without hesitation. He nodded, and started away. “I’ll come ‘round the servant’s entrance, late tomorrow. Shouldn’t take more than a short exchange to see if the glove fits, miss.”

He turned around, not bothering to listen to the burst of a nervous giggle from Miss Newport and the swift chiding of her maid. Golly ladies in the harbor were a bit different than in Brunnhold, but not by a lot. Meraki had encountered far more than one in his lifetime spent at the Stacks. Usually they required to be a little tipsy before they dared to flirt with the taboo notion of a wick – but they still liked to dare, now and then. Probably made them feel alive or something and Meraki couldn’t fault the ladies for that.

The tsat made his way to Lars, whether it took a bit of searching or he found the pale man easily. Meraki wasn’t sure if Lars had watched any of that, or got close enough to listen, but he immediately said, “That took longer than I expected…”

Back on the path they had been going, he led into the cul-de-sac. He felt a nice mellow buzz in his head, from the smoke and tea before. Though he felt energetic and alert, the presence of Lars relaxed him into an easy sort of mind. The Anaxi asked, “Do y’ like lace or suede more, love?”

However his lover answered, he took out the gloves and gave them to Lars without another word about it.

---

Rolls

Avoiding the Seventen:
SidekickBOTToday at 7:38 AM
@Lazulum: 1d6 = (3) = 3

Convincing the Lady for her Gloves:
SidekickBOTToday at 7:39 AM
@Lazulum: 1d6 = (2) = 2

Trying to get the Maid to Help:
SidekickBOTToday at 7:39 AM
@Lazulum: 1d6 = (1) = 1

Attempt at a Recovery:
SidekickBOTToday at 10:16 AM
@Lazulum: 1d6 = (4) = 4

[Lars]

Castle Hill
12th hour of vortas 10th, 2719

R

ather than provide a response, Meraki accepted the teacake wordlessly, and Lars lifted his eyebrows in silent question... until he followed his gaze down the street. The passive glanced away just as soon, extended hand retreating back to himself and grabbing onto the paper bag he had set between them. Naturally, as soon as he made mention of the Seventen... there they were, eager to prove him wrong. He did not appear to be terribly concerned, but he reminded himself again to be wary, and did not resist when a gloved hand guided him by the elbow to stand up. He supposed it was likely that his lover had dealt with more of the green-uniformed galdori than himself, at least in any meaningful fashion. While there had been plenty of Collies on university grounds, they (like many others on campus) cared little for conversation with a servant that was unlikely to know anything of importance anyhow.

He could not blame them. Could not blame any of them for that, really. He would not have provided anything useful to anyone at all, even if he had had something to give.

Following just a few steps behind the wick, the Hessean shoved his hands into the pockets of the dead spoke's jacket, folding up the bag of remaining teacakes (two left inside, partially crushed) to keep safe in there. He took to the street at the same time as Meraki, taking care to avoid the muddy puddles, pointed shoes clicking quietly against the stones. Though he did not greet the officers, as they passed by him merely a moment after his lover, the passive dipped his head in wordless respect. It was just habit, really. When he saw a green uniform—student, Seventen, or otherwise—he shut up, dipped his head, and averted his gaze. Silent, respectful, invisible. To do anything else, to greet them so casually... the thought had never occurred to him, and it was not any different now.

Lars followed Meraki back onto the sidewalk, allowing himself to keep a bit less of a gap between them now. The call of someone's voice from behind them angled his head to the side, though his eyes only lingered for a moment on the uniformed galdori by the bench. He paused to wait for the tsat to run back and collect his copper bottle, fingers tapping against the insides of his pockets, and the paper bag inside crinkled with each beat of his fingertips. Lars waited for Meraki to catch back up before he started walking again, and offered a small smile when he did.

The mention of the natt houses earned a nod, the passive looking forward as they walked and watching his breaths leave his nose in fading plumes. It was not as cold as it had been a few days before, but still the pale harlot's nose was pink, and his cheekbones were dusted the same faint hue. He sniffed, pulling a hand from his pocket to fix his kerchief (he wore it so infrequently that it still felt strange), and light eyes flicked over to Meraki for a moment as they passed from the main street into one narrower. They couldn't be living like they would never get caught... he knew that. He had felt it for months, breathing down his neck, ever since he managed to leave Brunnhold. He was surprised every day that he was not found out, but did what he could to prevent it from happening.

This was different, he supposed, but no less important. Lars thought that, either way, whether he was caught for the simple fact of being passive or the more harmful matter of being a murderer and a thief, death would find him sooner than Brunnhold. And he preferred that, he supposed. Being gated again, after finally experiencing the world outside, after meeting Meraki and falling in love? That would be, he thought, a fate worse than death. Knowing what awaited outside those fortress walls, knowing what would continue and move on without him, knowing what he could never have again. No, no. He was grateful for Meraki's voice beside him, distracting him from the sudden, unwelcome thoughts.

"And... oh!" Meraki handed him the copper bottle, and Lars' lips parted as if he was about to voice a question, but instead of doing so, the passive did as requested. He stayed behind, gaze following after the wick until he disappeared from view. With a little hum, Lars blinked, looking down to the bottle. What was Meraki doing? He had not noticed anything out of the ordinary, himself, but then he had not been paying the most attention either. Left on his own for a few minutes, the Hessean moved to the edge of the street, carefully avoiding any puddles and mud again as he went to sit down and wait. Turning the copper bottle over in his hands, his fingers tapped lightly against the sides, testing the sound of little clinks as his nails hit gently against them.

"Another teacake?"

A small frown. The suggestion did not bother him, but he did not want another, not yet.

"We've had three."

"You've had three," he corrected, "Meraki's had one, I've had none."

"Just pretend. You're gonna make me sick."

Lars groaned, but it was quiet, barely audible to anyone but himself.

"Not the same. But fine. Where did he go?"

Looking up from the bottle, he found Meraki was still out of sight. He did not bother to strike up any further conversation, and waited patiently until he saw his lover's return. Pushing himself up, Lars dusted off himself off, and stepped forward to meet the Anaxi. Curious, the passive gave a dismissive shake of his head when Meraki mentioned it taking a while, and fell back into step beside him as he was led into the cul-de-sac. The houses were still far nicer than anything they could have afforded themselves, despite being noticeably smaller (and noticeably more human) than the estates along the main street. He felt terribly out of place, but did not let it show.

They were allowed to walk through, after all. There were no rules, as far as he knew, against them simply taking a stroll through the neighborhood. They were hardly troublemakers. Lars smiled, a little, and glanced over with a curious look as he was questioned about lace or suede.

"Uh... I don't—" he lost his train of thought as Meraki produced two pairs of gloves from the pockets of his newly-acquired coat. "Oh!" he reached for them immediately, gray gaze sweeping over them before darting upwards to his lover's face. His smile widened to reveal a glimpse of white teeth. These were... the silk and lace gloves were the ones that galdori woman had been wearing, weren't they? Well. Lars struggled to keep himself from leaning closer and kissing the other man right there, but he managed, and nudged his elbow against Meraki's in a brief touch as he looked back to the gloves.

Suede seemed a bit warmer, he thought, but he rather enjoyed the look of the lace. With that in mind, the tan gloves were slipped into his pocket, and Lars pulled on the pair that the golden-eyed woman had so recently worn, the silk slipping easily over the fine bones of his hands. A satisfied hum, and Lars answered, "lace, I think."

He gave the empty copper bottle back to Meraki, and afterwards took a moment to simply admire the gloves on his hands, fingers extending and then curling into light fists as they tested the fit. Not for too long, of course, as he was not sure of the whereabouts of that golly and did not really want her to spot her gloves on some stranger's hands, but long enough for another little smile to grace his features before they were put away into his pockets again.

"Thank you," offered the harlot, but he did not comment further. They were not exactly in the best place to express themselves fully, after all. Especially not the sort of gratitude that he preferred to give. So Lars looked around the street, head tilting a little as he inspected the nice houses and the paths that led to each.

Gently biting his lower lip, he murmured, "would be easier at night. If we could stay quiet... if everyone's asleep, then..." He considered it for a few moments, and then continued, just as quiet. "Wouldn't have to worry about them running off if they don't even know we're there."

It would mean doing things carefully, quietly, gently... but it would allow for the possibility of so much more. He could hardly even imagine it. How many people lived in just the cul-de-sac? How many in each house? What a feat that would be, he thought. Lars' gloved fingers began to tap away in his pockets again. "What do you think?"

[Meraki]

12th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
Vincennes Place, Castle Hill

In the center of the cul-de-sac, there was a little island of bushes, trees, and flowers and a couple flat stone benches. Four black carriages lined the island, parked in wait for the houses that owned them. Between a couple of the carriages, the drivers huddled in a group and talked to each other in low voices. The round-about wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t empty either. The tsat and the passive weren’t the only ones out for a morning walk in Castle Hill, and there was another couple across the way. Of course, this couple looked like a proper one – being that it was a lady in a pretty tartan dress with her arm looped tightly around a tall dark-haired man dressed in business attire.

Meraki glanced at them, but quickly looked back to his own lover – unusual as the pale harlot was – as unusual as himself. The young tsat felt the sharp stab of self-awareness pierce through his erratic blissful confidence. He swallowed the rise of insecurity, then quietly scoffed in a laugh when Lars nudged his elbow and smiled at him with such gratitude. He didn’t consider what he’d done to be all that much trouble, but he felt content to know that Lars enjoyed the gloves and wouldn’t have cold fingers during their walk.

He took care to make a note to remember that Lars preferred lace to suede, or so the passive thought. Meraki considered whether Lars also liked robes to lounge in… a crimson robe with lace on it would certainly go quite well with the gold and pearl jewelry that complemented his lover’s ghostly features so well. His index finger tapped on the copper bottle, in imagination of what such a vision might look like and it was an immensely distracting vision indeed. He simply nodded in response to the verbalized thanks, then forced his gaze away. He looked over at the other couple. The lady twirled her parasol about, to shield herself from the bright sun, and seemed to be pointing at one of the houses while chatting about something. Too far away to hear, he read her lips some but there wasn’t much to draw from without the context of the few words he caught.

At each house, along a column beside each front door were bronze plaques that held addresses and engraved family names on them. The first house they walked past, on the round, held a simple number of #1 Vincennes Place and underneath a script name of The Rennolds. Between each house was a narrow alley, just large enough for two cart-styled wagons to fit through. Beside the Rennolds’ home, the alley had a servant loading a wagon with refuse to cart away.

Meraki listened close to Lars, and the suggestions which the other man made were perfectly reasonable, but he could not stop thinking about how he wished that the passive might take his elbow instead of only having nudged it. His gaze flitted over to the couple across the way, and he felt irritation gradually simmer, then boil as if to steam away the contentment and elation that had presided over his mind for the last day or so. Why couldn’t Lars hold his elbow like that? Or, why shouldn’t he? He knew it would make them stand out though, only bring even more attention to them than they naturally already did by their mere appearances as a ghostly pale, fine-boned human who wore earrings and bracelets and - - and an eccentrically dressed wick with a mouth full of obvious poverty, surrounded by a field that often slanted and made people prickle with discomfort whenever he got near. Add the moony insistence to act like a proper couple? That was just begging to be gossiped about and attract the attention of entire strangers – like the bored drivers at the island. At best, in the working areas of the harbor, the benefit of the doubt might have been granted for them to simply be shrugged off as an odd laborer and his pansy harlot. Neither of which suited Meraki much. Such was why Lars couldn’t hold his elbow like the respectable lady across the way who held her upstanding companion’s elbow. Meraki and Lars would never be seen as a sweet young couple, out for a morning walk, decently in love… and he supposed there was some truth to that; they were hardly decent.

Yes, it would be easier at night. Yes, they should stay quiet. Yes, it would be tricky, but much less so if everyone was asleep. He nodded three times, in agreement with each statement. Despite the distraction of his annoyance, he did his best to keep it from coming across in any visible manner. He kept a hand in his coat pocket and the other held onto the copper bottle, index finger tapping slowly against the top of it. His gaze continued to survey the houses around them while they passed by #2 Vincennes Place; The Suggitt Family.

The front door of the Suggitt’s house opened, and a pair of young boys walked out before what looked to be a nanny by the modesty of her dress. She ushered them down the steps of the house, onto the sidewalk, and past to start along the sidewalk. The boys were chattering about whether or not they could go fishing later, only to be chided by the governess that their father would be away for business until tomorrow and they were awful boys to not remember such a detail about their own family. The children only laughed at her and insisted that she could take them fishing instead.

Meraki glanced over his shoulder, until they got farther away, while he slowly led their own path toward the front of the third house. He looked over to Lars and said, “What I think is that it is a wonderful idea, however we go about it. If we know the locations of the doors, then it is as simple as setting nails or wires to stop any dashes away.”

“There’d be a certain advantage if we started at the two ends and worked our way to meet in the middle,” he mentioned with a look toward the single adjacent street that led to and from the dead-end round of houses. “Yet I’d much rather be with you… even if it might take us longer, but perhaps it wouldn’t. We would have a good eight hours to work with, if we kept quiet. Whether to start with the fewest or the most, though…”

“Around the back, there’s a narrow street that connects all the house gardens,” mentioned Meraki in a quiet voice while he nudged his shoulder against Lars’ and then gestured toward one of the alleys as they passed by #3 Vincennes Place; The Buckley Estate. “Past that is a wall, stonebrick, with iron spears on the top, that blocks off the rest of the neighborhood. Two gates are left open that lead out to alleys which go into the neighboring streets. First between two and three, second gate is between four and five.”

“The first leads down to the waterfront, past the market, if y’ follow the road all the way right through the curves,” he explained, recalling the last time he’d wandered to learn the routes during his days back in Dentis since he’d first started casing the neighborhood. “Second gate leads to Berret Park if y’ follow the path enough. At night, they close ‘em up and only the houses have keys for the padlocks. Ent no way, in or out, other than the street there with the way the walls built about.”

Meraki paused just between #4 Vincennes Place; The Thimbles and #5 Vincennes Place; The Ayton House. He nodded down the alley through which a sturdy iron gate could be seen held open, that led past into an adjacent alley.

“Would you like to see one of the houses?” he asked Lars. He looked about, but glanced at the passive a few times to try and figure out what the other man might be thinking or feeling about the idea. “The inside that is. Ayton is likely possible, if y’ want to. Right now, that is. See how the rooms are set up and the like. Otherwise we best get movin’ before those officers come ‘round again.”

[Lars]

Vincennes Place, Castle Hill
12th hour of vortas 10th, 2719

L

ars found the entirety of Vincennes Place incredibly strange for a number of reasons. Gray eyes flitted about, openly inquisitive and, perhaps less clearly, almost critical of the area around them. As was true when they had visited the bakery, the galdor-born could not help but compare the things he saw now to the things he had known before. It was not a reflection of his surroundings, he knew, but of himself. He had not known that humans could do any of this — that they could even think to desire things such as nice, proper houses and carriages, fine clothing and names engraved in stone... but he supposed the harbor provided opportunities for all kinds. While the residents of Dorhaven had been mostly human, he could not recall a single estate that had not belonged to a galdor. Humans had their little houses, and their horses, and their farms, while the gollies lived like...

...like normal people. The passive looked over the carriage drivers awaiting instruction, frowning for a moment. His lover was half human, he supposed, or at least had enough human in him to muddle his blood. Meraki was hardly the same as any of the galdori men he knew, students or professors or Seventen or otherwise, but he was not made any less for it. Lars did not fault him for his heritage, for something that he had no control over, and he could only hope that the younger did not fault him, either, for his magical inabilities. They were things that did not matter, when they were together. Things that would never disappear, but that paled in comparison to the love they shared. And still... it felt wrong to see so many humans in such an environment. He tried to shake it off.

The children exiting the house up ahead, followed by their governess, did little to ease the discomfort. Lars thought then that surely they deserved to die, for twisting such things for themselves, for the imitation of high class society, for making a mockery of proper men and women in their nice houses. And he realized, too, as he listened to the young boys laugh at their own joke, that he was doing the exact same thing himself, and less successfully, at that. How humans could be allowed their nice lives, yet a man born of pure galdori heritage like himself could not, well. Unease washed over him in an all-consuming wave, and he had to tell himself to stop looking at them, to force his gaze back to Meraki instead.

It helped. More than anything, it grounded him. Lars focused on the sound of his voice rather than any of the men and women around them in Vincennes Place, and the side of his mouth curved upward in a half-smile. "I'd rather be with you too," he offered in quiet agreement, "even if it takes longer."

How long could it really take, anyway? If they just went in, killed them in their beds, and moved on to the next? Certainly it spared no time for theatrics, but none for the chance of getting caught, either.

Lars' fingers resumed their tapping in his pockets while Meraki continued. He had not even realized they had stopped; the repetitive motions of his fingers also did well to banish the remaining discomfort. A nudge to his shoulder directed his gaze to the side, and he looked down the alley to see the aforementioned connecting street. He nodded, and let his eyes dance over the engravings as they passed by.

V-I-N...VIN-C-E-NNE-S P-L-A-CE

And along the next line...

THE B-U-C-K...L-E-Y — THE BUCKLEY ES-T-ATE

Two gates, between house two and three, and house four and five. One that could bring you to the waterfront, one that could bring you to Berret Park. Both closed during the night, leaving the cul-de-sac protected, save for those that might wander in from the street. Another nod from the Hessean, who pulled his hands from his pockets to draw them together in front of him, his gloved, slender fingers interlaced. Was the street monitored, he wondered, after the gates were closed? He supposed they could always just find a way to stay inside of the cul-de-sac until dark, if they could neither pass the gates nor come in from the street, but what could they possibly do until then? And where could they wait, where they would not be seen nor bothered? Not bothering to ask such things just yet, Lars allowed the wick to finish speaking, and came to a stop right beside him when he paused at the alley to the second gate.

"Would you like to see one of the houses?"

Were they not... standing right between two of them? Lars' confusion bled through his fine-boned features only until more explanation was provided, and then it was replaced, quickly, by a curious sort of delight. He did not smile, not quite, but it looked as if perhaps he wanted to. Otherwise they should get moving, Meraki said, and the harlot shook his head in dismissal of that idea. "No, I'd like to," confirmed the older, and his hands fell away from each other, to tap at the sides of his legs instead. "Which of these is Ayton? And — they're out now, you think?"

"Come," lightly he grabbed the wick's elbow, stepping to the side to pull him into the narrow alley. While it did not provide nearly as much cover from the world as the alley in which they had shared their first kiss, it was still better than standing out in the street, deciding how to go about slaughtering the neighborhood. Lars spared a glance back at the pretty little island out in the center of the cul-de-sac, to the carriages and their drivers, before raising his dark brows and looking to Meraki expectantly. Reluctant though he was to do so, he let go of his sleeve, releasing the wick's elbow from his grasp. His hand brushed over the forearm as it was drawn back to himself.

"I assume we aren't walking through the front door, then?"

Unless Meraki felt particularly daring, of course. Then he supposed the whole plan could be thrown to the wind and they could do whatever they pleased. But for now, Lars would be content with a simple look through the house. With a small smile, he added, "I'll follow you, love." Not that he had many other options. His one and only attempt at something as little as picking a lock had not gone well, considering Meraki had ended up opening the door for him anyway, and he was not confident enough to believe that he would not draw suspicion from the rest of the neighborhood should he try anything on his own.

[Meraki]

13th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
Vincennes Place, Castle Hill

A slow smile lifted Meraki’s spirits when Lars agreed that he’d like to look at the inside of the Ayton house. He inclined his head simply to the correct house nearby, and he explained while he followed the other man into the alley. “The Aytons are often out in the mornings, they have family in a different neighborhood that they go visit to share a meal with before carrying on with their day.”

Though he likely should have looked about, Meraki insistently kept his gaze on Lars – and when the other raised his dark brows and looked at him, so expectant and ready to follow… he felt a rushed return of the elation from before. He couldn’t even recall being irritated anymore. Not when the passive looked at him like that, and reluctantly let go of him as he did with the brushed touch against his forearm. How tempting it felt, to simply pin Lars against the alley wall and prove their indecent natures without care for the world around them. Yet again, like on the bench and with the gloves, Meraki found himself in the struggle to restrain himself.

So, he laughed when Lars made comment about using the front door, with that small smile and assurance that he would follow. The tsat crudely teased, “Lars… you know I prefer the back.”

He winked, then headed through the alley to the back area of the house. There was a white palisade that bordered the Ayton’s gardens. Simple, practical gardens meant to stock the kitchens with, rather than anything for decoration. Still, it was more than those in the tenements or slums had. The fence went right up to the stonebrick wall, where the open iron gate led onto the path to Berret Park. Along the garden's side, a smaller gate of painted white allowed access to the private yard. Meraki went to it, and simply pressed it open – it wasn’t locked.

Glancing over, Meraki searched to find, then take Lars’ hand. He guided him through the gate’s threshold and into the Ayton House gardens. Once the gate closed behind them, he squeezed the softly gloved hand, but then let go. He walked over to a small backdoor that had crisscrossed grating over the window. The wick simply tried the handle and it opened with ease – also unlocked.

Without the slightest hesitation, Meraki walked into the house. He held the door open for Lars. It led into a small mudroom where gardening and cleaning supplies were haphazardly placed with buckets, winter coats, and rainboots. Two swinging doors were on either side of the adjacent hall. Beyond the left door, the clink of dishes and the sound of cooking could be heard.

The Anaxi pulled off his coat and hung it up on the hook as if familiar with the place. In fact, he acted incredibly familiar with it all, not even glancing around to gather his bearings. Meraki retrieved some coins from the coat, to put in his pants pocket. He fixed his sleeves some, smoothed out the fabric of his shirt, then combed his fingers through his hair to tidy his appearance up some. Walking through the swinging door that led into the kitchen, he gestured for Lars to follow him.

“Miss Hayes,” said Meraki in his low gravelly voice that rumbled in his chest.

A plump woman, human and dark tan of skin, turned around and her face lit up into a brilliant smile that revealed mostly gums and tiny stumps of yellowed teeth. She threw down a ladle into the sauce she’d been scooping out into a bowl. Wiping her hands off on a terribly stained apron, she lumbered over with a shrill exclamation of a greeting. “Lucky! Whatcha doin’ here?”

“Was in the neighborhood, miss,” he said with a respectful bow of his head. He bent over slightly while she set a hand in his hair to immediately ruffle the honey-blond strands. Meraki winced in a theatrical way, with one eye shut while he peeked at her in a charmingly youthful look. “This here is my kov, Hunter.”

Miss Hayes looked over at Lars and her smile faded somewhat. She gave a scrutinizing glance up and down, then turned away to return to her ladle. “You boys hungry? Can’t spare much, but we’ve got some old rotten cabbages if y’ wanted ‘em.”

Meraki hummed lowly, then he reached into his pocket and set a couple tally coins on the preparation table that was covered with a mess of bowls and flour dust and various ingredients. “The family is out, right?”

“It ‘bout that time, ent it?” she retorted simply, with a glance at the coins. “What’d y’ want, Lucky?”

“I heard a lady outside talkin’ ‘bout how the house is up for sale, that right?”

“That’s right,” confirmed the cook. She tottered over in a reach to swipe up the tally coins. “That all?”

“So, I wanted to show Hunter ‘round if I could. He ent never seen a house like ‘is before, and figured, well, y’know…” his words trailed off and he glanced at Lars once. “Won’t take too long, and if y’ needed me to do anythin’ while I’m about…”

“Y’ can replace the flowers,” she said immediately with a waved gesture toward the other door in the room that led farther into the house. “That damn Felicity ent shown up again and do they think I got the time for such nonsense? ‘bout time they get rid of her for a maid ent gettin’ herself lost in the drink every night. Oh, dears, could y' fix up the beds too?”

Meraki hummed in agreement, then subtly gestured for Lars to start toward the door. He walked carefully away with his gaze fixed on the cook as the woman continued to rant about the no-good drunkard maid. When he reached the door, he said, “Well, I can sure do that for y’, Miss Hayes. Won’t take me long now, thank y’.”

Through the door, they escaped from the kitchen and into a small basement-styled room. Meraki exhaled lowly. In the dim light, a stairwell led up to a shut door which sectioned off the house proper. He looked at Lars and slightly smiled, then found freshly snipped flowers tossed onto a worktable. The tsat gathered them into the crook of his arm and he asked, “What would y’ like to look at first?”

[Lars]

The Ayton House, Castle Hill
13th hour of vortas 10th, 2719

H

ow Meraki knew so much about the neighborhood, and about this Ayton house in particular, Lars did not know. He suspected the younger had been watching the place for a while now, to know so many schedules (the Ayton's, the galdori family up the street, he would bet that the wick knew the schedules of most—if not all—of the families in Vincennes Place) and familiarize himself so well with their surroundings. Was that a part of what he had done, during all those days apart? He did not think he would ever grow disinterested in the antics and schemes of his lovely, thieving wick. How curious he was, even now, and though he was confident that he knew more of Meraki than anyone else possibly could, he knew that he would never be aware of it all. His smile widened a little as it was returned.

And, in true Meraki fashion, he reduced the passive to flustered silence with but a few crude words and a wink. Lars did not even bother trying to respond, surprised as he was by the statement, and after a moment to process (truly, polite society had done a number on him, despite his more recent endeavors in prostitution), he gave a nod and followed after the younger. He was brought through the alley and to a painted white fence, sectioning off the Ayton family's garden from the other sides of the street and running all the way to the stonebrick wall. His hand was grabbed as he was led through the little white gate and into the garden, and when he squeezed Meraki's hand in quick return before it was let go. The contact was far too brief, far too little, but he accepted it all the same and did not whine when it was done.

The garden was well-kept, he supposed, and light eyes drifted over the various leafy greens as the scent of soil and herbs reached him, waved on by the gentle breeze. Meraki did not even have to fiddle with the locks; he reached out and opened the door with ease, stepping inside without a moment's hesitation. Though he was unsure of the situation, Lars stepped through to follow him, dipping his head in quiet gratitude when the door was held open. Before he could even look around the little mudroom, the familiar sounds of a kitchen reached his ears — Lars jerked back and to the right, eyes wide, staring to the swinging door the noise seemed to emanate from. What — why was —

Oh so casually, the Anaxi shrugged off his strange new coat, hanging it up on a hook and taking something out of its pocket. Lars simply stared, looking rather uncertain about whether he should be freaking out or not, but then the younger was already moving again. Quickly, he removed his own jacket, hanging it with Meraki's before he followed him through the swinging door. Straight into the noise that he had assumed should not be there. Really, it was unwise, to be so willing to blindly follow the wick. He did it anyway, and knew that he would continue to do so, too.

The kitchen was occupied. No field, no glamour, no nexus; the woman that turned away from her saucepot and came closer to greet his Meraki was completely and utterly human. Lars stayed back a few feet, not wishing to intrude but also, admittedly, not wishing to stand much closer to the servant than he had to. He could dance with humans for Meraki, he could sleep with humans for Scarlett, he could handle them when he had to... but to say that he enjoyed being in their presence would be a rather painful lie. The human — Miss Hayes — seemed fond enough of his lover, greeting him with a wide, gummy smile and a playful ruffle of his honey-blond hair. And he had just fixed it, too.

When Miss Hayes' attention was shifted towards him, scrutinizing gaze scanning over him as if he had something to be ashamed of, it took all of his strength not to glare. What the fuck was she looking at? Lars maintained his careful countenance, even as the agitation toiled and grew within. What sort of dirty plowfoot had the right to look at him like that? She was not the only human servant he had come across that had done such a thing, either. No, he could still quite clearly recall Niccolette's servant's suspicion when he had walked into her home with Aremu. (Rotten cabbages, said Miss Hayes, as if they were rabbits in a garden, scavenging for scraps.) What was it about him that threw them off? Of course, had he the patience to really think about it, there were plenty of reasons to be wary of a strangely refined, ghostly vision of a fieldless man. He simply did not have the energy to devote to the thought processes of humans.

So he did his best to remain polite. It was easy, considering all he really had to do was be quiet, and he was good at quiet. (Here she was, telling them what to do. Meraki had asked, he supposed, but how dare she respond with valid requests? Did she not know that her betters would never ask a question like that looking for it to be answered honestly? What sort of servant was she, airing out the dirty business and dreadful practices of her peers? Felicity was out again, well Felicity was lucky to be allowed outside of the house at all! His kerchief felt like it was strangling him.) Good at keeping a straight face, too, with just a hint of something warm beneath the surface, just real enough not to cause alarm.

Soon enough the young tsat gestured towards the door, and Lars was glad for the instruction, turning on his heel to approach. Slipping through into the other room, his dark brows drew together in momentary confusion. It was... what was this? There was a small stairwell leading up to another door, and after another glance around the dim room, he settled down, a bit of anxious energy releasing with the tension in his shoulders. Meraki stepped away to... grab something, he thought, but he could not tell exactly, as his vision began to blur in the low light.

"I... oh," he had not thought about it, really. Lars had not been in such a nice house in a good while now. The bedrooms were an obvious choice, but — oh, it really depended on how nice of a house it really was. How many rooms? How big? Were they decorated and utilized properly, or were humans truly capable of maintaining a house at all? The harlot hummed in consideration, fingers tapping away at his sides, earrings glinting in the light.

The bedrooms, right? Most important if they had any intentions of returning later on, as that was likely where the residents would be. "The bedrooms first," decided the pale-haired passive, and he reached for one of Meraki's hands, brushing his fingers against it and then taking it into his own. That did not seem to suit him for long, however, as he was moving it soon after to fix the wick's hair. The fluffy blond locks were mussed further beneath his fingers as if he could not help himself, and then dutifully tamed, pushing the hair back into a state of relative calm. He could always mess it up again later, and then it would not be the result of some servant's hands.

"Lead the way, Lucky," Lars said with a smile, standing close in front of the younger. Close enough to touch, close enough to kiss, close enough to feel his breath against his skin... yet still so impossibly far. Too far. His colorless gaze did not falter, despite the blur.