10th of Vortas, 2719
A Street in Castle Hill
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
- 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.
- 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.