[Mature] Funeral Pyre

[Meraki]

13th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
The Ayton House, Castle Hill

The door to the kitchen, sounds of ladle against pot, scents of vegetable sauce (tomato from what he’d seen), and warmth from the fires kept inside. Colder in the little basement-like room, light framed the thin bordered lines around the rectangular door at the top of the rickety wooden stairs. Shadows traced through the room, not too dusty but not too clean either. A small horizontal window let light in from the top border of the room. Flowers filled Meraki’s arms, of varying colors and vivid dark green stalks. The last flowers before winter frost would steal their petals away. Death would come to them, one way or another, but at least if they were plucked – they could be enjoyed by those who had taken the time to admire them.

“Bedrooms? You certainly don’t waste time,” he teased simply, without care if it wasn’t very original. He just enjoyed seeing when Lars tried to pretend that he didn’t get as flustered as he did. Like he couldn't observe the blush that rose on those pale cheeks. At least in his blissful state, Meraki enjoyed it. It had once annoyed him, greatly, when Lars acted that way but that had been when he thought the passive was a tried-and-true harlot, not an entrapped naïve servant forced to remain in prostitution. He had thought it’d been some sort of coy act, and that had insulted him, but now he realized that it was simply Lars being Lars – and he loved that.

Admiring the other man in the low light, the Anaxi held still while Lars held his hand and then fixed his hair.

“Lead the way, Lucky.”

Meraki breathed quietly, arms full of the flowers, and uncaring for the low light. He could see Lars close enough to make out the gaze that looked back at him.

A glance to the stairwell door. A glance to the kitchen door. Meraki could no longer restrain his passion, not when they had a shadowed spot to themselves. He shifted the flowers to gather in one arm. With his freed hand, he cradled the back of Lars’ head and then he placed a desperately rushed kiss to the other’s lips. How he wanted it to last. How he wanted to throw the flowers down into a floral bed of which he would lay Lars against the petals; and they would do all manner of indecent things with each other.

As much as he felt this way, there were greater feats at hand. Vaster ambitions that suited them more. Meraki did not mind these. He had once suffocated and suppressed his dreams of such things, of his little flights of blood, bones, and a proper trail of bodies. It wasn't like he could truly do such things in the Stacks. He always had to be so careful, and the closer that murders got to each other, the more dangerous they increasingly became. There was only so many natts one could kill until the Collies started to feel the pressure from a fretful populace... which was why it had always been of the greatest importance to Meraki to make sure that there weren't any corpses to be found. Missing natts were a completely different story than murdered natts. A story that made it easier for the authorities to overlook. Of his years, less than a handful had actually been found by anyone and those had been during the early, unrefined times of his youth. As messy and rough as his first kisses.

With Lars, in the harbor, he no longer felt as if he had to avoid indulgence of pursuing such thoughts. That he no longer had to choke away his desires until they no longer whined in the back of his mind, until he could pretend they were gone like the flesh of natts who got underneath his brutal hands. He had once insisted to himself that he had no dreams, for the very idea was laughable for a impoverished bastard like him. What could he hope to gain as he was? His magic was weak, his coin was fleeting, his body failed him often, and his mind far more so. Dreams of ambition weren’t meant for a wick like him.

Yet Lars made him want to dream them anyway. To share them. Like now. And he took the other’s hand and led up the stairs. Through the door, which had a small lock for a skeleton key but was left unlocked, they entered a foyer hall that connected to the front door and the routes to the rest of the house.

It was a fine enough affair, with sensible wallpaper and frames. A musty scent of wood tinted by floral scents filled the place. It was also quiet and only lit with whatever daylight came through the various windows. No one else was in the house. A polished stairwell with carpeted runners led upward into two more stories.

Meraki walked past the various living and common rooms, a study and the like. He paused only to take out some dying flowers from a vase and replace them with a handful of fresh ones. The wick left the dead flowers on the table to collect on his way back. He glanced at the front door, then said, “Wires would work best there, or fishing lines with hooks. Still have some from- String it up with the coat rack there and nail it in place on the other edge. Anyone who tries to leave or enter, would get tangled up in it. Enough to make some noise...”

“Ah, but wouldn’t want to hammer it in, lest to be very quiet while doing so,” he thought aloud. He walked up the stairs with a jaunty bounce in his step, and only paused at the top to make sure Lars kept near. “There ent any side doors, so it’s the front and garden doors that lead out.”

He opened the first door in the hall, then gestured for Lars to go inside before he went down a way to switch out another vase's flowers. Meraki joined the passive quick enough and glanced around the plain bedroom that had a quilt on the top of the bed. He went across to switch out some more flowers in a scrawny vase on a vanity, then he slowly slid open the drawer and took out a jewelry box. His gloved fingertips traced over the top, then he opened and slid it aside for Lars to browse.

The tsat settled all of the flowers on the surface, then brushed off his sleeves and surveyed the bed. The blankets were wrinkled but otherwise looked clean… to him. Meraki lifted the corner of the heavy blankets and then just placed them flat. It seemed he believed this was making a bed and even though it remained lumpy, and wrinkled with the old bedding, not even a single pillow fluffed, he walked away from it as if that was that. It wasn’t like the tsat knew how to make a bed proper. He’d tried some during his work in the hotels, and Doris had shown him a few times, but what point was there to that? His own bed only ever was a bundle of thin ragged blankets and he felt lucky if he got a night where his pillow or bedding wasn’t soiled by some unknown wet or sticky stain left behind by the tenement youth who made use of his flat whenever he left it open to them.

Besides, Meraki was far more practiced in making a mess of a bed than he ever would be at tidying one up.

[Lars]

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

A

few moments of silence in the darkness. Lars could hardly make out the details of the other man's face, let alone decipher his expression, and he did not bother to try. Any fear of true rejection had long ago passed him by, and he stood before him almost expectantly — so when something was shifted into Meraki's arm and a newly-freed hand went to hold the back of his head, the passive was already smiling. Pleased as he could be with the kiss, rushed though it was, the older leaned slightly closer before his lover was pulling away. Allowing themselves a moment's contact was hardly sustainable in the long run, he thought; the more he gave, the more he wanted. It practically felt dangerous simply looking at Meraki, considering each glance only made it harder not to stare, and each gap closed between them made it harder not to close them all. He wondered, then, if the younger understood just how much power he held over him. How much he'd held for a long time, now — but he could not imagine him not knowing such a thing by now.

The passive had basically proposed, after all. It was not that hard to figure out.

The quietest little laugh left him as Meraki turned away and led them to the stairs. Lars was grateful for the hand that took his own for the journey, seeing as he would have had to reach out and use the other man as a guide anyhow, and only once they stepped through the unlocked door and out of the stairwell did his hand drop back to his side. Both hands slipped into the pockets of his velvet trousers then, in some preemptive move not to reach out and touch gloved fingers against everything in the house. Too much furniture, too many colors, too many things to take. His eyes drifted about the foyer as Meraki shut the door behind them, and though he took care to listen for any other sounds on the main level, he was confident enough in his lover's schedule-keeping not to worry too terribly.

It was all decorated nicely enough, he supposed, as he picked up his feet to begin following after the young tsat again. Less than optimal, in the fieldless galdor's humble opinion, but there was only so much a human could really do in terms of style, he thought. He could not imagine things like that came easily to them. Better suited to little stone houses with square dinner tables of rickety old wood, what was a human family meant to do, when they somehow acquired such wealth? When they rose above their stations? He wondered how on Vita they managed. Surely the entirety of Vincennes Place could not have conned a galdor into giving them such free reign. Still, Lars did not mind the interior of the house. It was far nicer than anything he could afford, and that meant something to the materialistic little harlot.

Looking over the door, Lars offered a nod, but did not comment any thoughts on the matter of wire. Meraki was right in that it would provide a good barrier to those seeking to escape, but the passive would prefer not to give anyone the chance of escape at all, and the wick realized himself that the noise of setting things up would surely alert the family too soon. He hoped it would not be necessary. While he did so enjoy the idea of some terrified plowfoot running into the trap, he did not wish to deal with the noise, and the struggle, and everything else that came with it.

Up the stairs they went, and he stepped into the first room when the door was pushed open for him. While Meraki moved farther down the hall to presumably replace more of the flowers, Lars' gray gaze swept over the bedroom curiously, and he pulled his hands from his pockets. They began, immediately, to tap at his thighs, but the pale Hessean hardly noticed, beginning to stroll through the room in careful inspection. The bedclothes were unclean, unmade. Fine enough to the uncaring eye, perhaps, but not to a man that had spent the better half of his life in servitude. The finest layer of dust had collected, already, over the modest furnishings, and Lars bit idly at the inside of his cheek. Surely if the Ayton's could afford such a house, they could afford a better staff. One that actually did things well, but then, he wondered if they could even tell the difference.

Meraki slipped into the room. Lars stepped aside as he went to the vanity, replacing another vase of flowers before unloading the rest of them onto the surface and taking out what appeared to be... a little box. It looked familiar, somehow... a jewelry box! The passive was back at his lover's side before the little thing was even slid across, and gloved hands reached immediately to pull it closer. Already scavenging (delicately, of course) through the contents, Lars' head tilted to the side in careful consideration. Not as many pretty things as they'd be sure to find in a golly lady's house, but there was a pair of earrings he rather liked. Tiny collections of glimmering lights, the little blue and green dots (were they real stones?) formed flowers over their backings, and they were slipped easily into his pocket before the jewelry box was gently returned to the drawer.

Lars looked towards the bed in assumption that his lover was tidying it. What he found, however, could hardly be called tidying at all. The former servant's lips parted, as if he wished to speak, but no words escaped his throat. Instead, he moved forward, meeting Meraki at the side of the bed and quietly nudging his hands until his own could replace them.

"The bed is dirty, love," he commented then, even as he began to make the bed properly, "but I suppose a few hours of sleep in dirty sheets won't hurt them."

It was not like they would be around to complain about it in the morning. With that in mind, the passive quickly fixed the bed, straightening out the wrinkled sheets and fluffing each pillow before they were set into place. The blankets, too, were tidied and pulled into place, until not a crease remained in the wake of Lars' diligent hands. Without another word about it, he rejoined the younger, light eyes lingering on the pillows.

"We could suffocate them," he threw out in suggestion, gaze darting back to Meraki's face, "if we really wanted to be quiet."

Not that any screams would be entirely muffled. But it was an idea. Lars turned on his heel, approaching the vanity with a thoughtful look. A single flower was retrieved from the bundle Meraki had carried, and he twirled the stem between his fingers. "I wonder if any of these houses have a chandelier," Lars pondered aloud, watching the flower slowly twirl for another moment longer. "Do they know you? The Aytons, do they know your face?"

He would not presume to know how humans conducted their business with servants. It was still so new to him that they were allowed servants at all. Lars turned again, this time towards Meraki, and held the flower at his side as he approached. His other hand was brought up to cradle the other man's cheek, and the delicate harlot offered a smile.

"Not exactly a face they could forget, if they do. But maybe we could use that, too. What are you thinking, my love? What would you do, if you could do anything you wanted here?"

[Meraki]

13th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
The Ayton House, Castle Hill

“Dirty?” repeated Meraki, and he gave an actual scoff – not his usual little laugh of disbelief but an almost insulted sound. Though he understood what Lars meant, he looked over the bed, as if uncertain he saw the same thing that Lars did. He swept a gestured hand. “This is not dirty…”

Meraki went to the end of the bed and crossed his arms while he watched Lars fix up the sheets and fluff the pillows. He tapped his fingers along the edge of his jaw, a thoughtful fidget. Perhaps he might have helped, if he didn’t think he’d make the process harder for Lars. So, he simply observed as the wrinkled creases were smoothed to hardly being noticeable at all.

“Suffocation takes a while, and they struggle,” he returned to the suggestion with a glance to catch the look in the other’s fair gray eyes. “Scratches, bruises are likely… besides you can never be sure if it is done, until you peek, and some are desperate enough to take advantage of that chance. Far better to slit their throat or snap their neck. No chance, then.”

The tsat considered for another moment while Lars went to the vanity. Upon question of the chandelier, he shrugged and said, “Maybe the Suggitts, the house across the way, but I have not gone so far into their house.”

He prepared to respond upon hearing the question but paused when Lars approached. He glanced at the flower, then returned a small smile of his own. The touch to his cheek warmed him, more than the heat of his body but in a sensation within his unseen heart.

“Likely most everyone in this neighborhood knows my face by now. My name? Who I am? No. No one knows me like you.” He ran his hand over Lars’ hand to take hold of the gloved fingers. The Anaxi considered to tell Lars that he could not take any of the jewelry with him, that it would place suspicion in the household and might cause some hints as to what was to come… but Meraki could not bring himself to deny his lover. So, instead, he simply continued with explanation. “I do not have noticeable scars on my face and when one describes me, I am not so… astonishing as some, such as yourself. There are a fair enough number who can fit the witness of an Anaxi with blond hair and dark eyes.”

“It matters not, though. For I have been walking through these streets since I arrived in the harbor, love. It does not concern me…” a lie. He did not pause. “Come with me, Lars.”

Meraki held the other’s hand, gathered the flowers back up, and left the bedroom to go through the narrow hall. The floorboards creaked underneath, sounding old despite the fresh polish on them. Paintings and portraits hung along the pale wallpaper, and sunlight dimly came in from a tall window at the end of the hall, which faced the brickside of a neighboring house. He pushed open a green-painted door, and another bedroom was revealed. Compared to the last room, it was far more luxurious and had a writing desk rather than a vanity within it. From the various clothes strewn about the place, this bedroom clearly was meant for a man while the last was meant for a woman.

He let go of Lars’ hand and went over to look through the clothes in a wardrobe left ajar. Meraki tossed aside the flowers on the writing desk. The blond took out a long-sleeve, navy blue turtleneck and held it up to himself to check the size of it. A bit large, but he turned toward the passive, shirt still held in test of its size to his lithe body, and he asked, “What do y’ think? My color?”

“Suffocation of a pillow would work if combined with cutting out the throat or breaking it. To steal the breath is to steal the voice and to take the voice is to take a chance.” He said as if speaking in poetic verse with rhythm to his carefully enunciated Brunnhold accent, like a child reciting a rhyme. “There will always be a chance… but the fewer for them, the better for us. Which do you prefer, love, clean or red?”

[Lars]

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

N

ot dirty? Lars could have scoffed in return. He didn't, though. He went about his task silently instead, not bothering to argue the definition of clean when he had seen the state of the wick's old hovel. Clearly the two had rather different ideas about what was and was not an acceptable work space, but he did not really mind. Dirtiness could always be cleaned and dirtied again. A considerate hum was his only response to the mention of suffocation being too slow and uncertain; he had never done it before. There were so many things he wished to try, and he reminded himself, as he left the bed and grabbed a flower from the vanity, that there was time. Time to try whatever they pleased, time to wait when need be. Whatever they did tonight, to however many unfortunate humans in Vincennes Place... there was time to do something else, somewhere else. Their world was not ending tonight, even if they ended a few others. He crossed back to the wick and questioned his thoughts, and his smile softened when he heard his response.

No one knows me like you, his own voice repeated in his head, his fondness bleeding through the spoken words.

His thumb brushed against Meraki's hand as it was placed over his own. A dark brow raised in curious suspicion at the word 'astonishing,' as he was not quite sure whether to take the suggestion as a compliment or not. Astonishing could have meant a number of different things, plenty good but plenty bad. It could solely refer, of course, to the peculiar sight of his pale visage, dressed a human and formed a galdor, but one could always assume him a traveler from Gior, could they not? But he did not... often come across many Giorans. None so delicate as himself, in any case, so he dismissed that line of thought and with it, threw out his useless considerations on the meaning of a word.

"Well, it should still concern me quite deeply for any that can't recall your face," he countered easily, but did not argue further. The Hessean glanced around the modest bedroom one last time as he was guided away, and his other hand pulled the door quietly shut behind them. Still holding his single flower, he lifted it to his nose as he was led through the hall. Perhaps not as fragrant as it might have been once, the petals provided only a hint of what must surely cling stronger to the bundle in Meraki's arm. A need for movement brought his gloved fingertips to rub against the stem, continuing to twist it back and forth as the tsat brought them into the next bedroom.

While it still did not live up to his (admittedly quite high, and likely impossible-for-a-human) standards, the second room was considerably nicer. Far less tidy than even the first bedroom, which he had not dared to imagine, but it was a solid room underneath the clutter. Meraki went to the wardrobe near the writing desk, meanwhile Lars lifted the flower once again, but did not bring it to his nose. He allowed it to rest over his ear, fragile petals settling into the white waves of his hair.

"What do y' think? My color?"

"You have many," said Lars without a moment's hesitation, though it was a moment longer before he actually bothered to look at him.

Navy blue, long-sleeved, and just a little big for his lover's frame. As a rule, Lars did not appreciate blues in any form. There were certain shades he could enjoy, such as the greenish tint to the little earrings in his pocket, but navy, along with a pale, neutral blue, were hardly colors he gravitated towards. Yet, as he stared across to the opened wardrobe and the lovely man standing beside it, he could not find it in himself to say such a thing. He could not find the strength to really feel it, either, beyond the initial automatic rejection his mind spewed forth. Meraki could have made anything look good, but the style of the shirt, the sleeves and the neck... it would suit him well. "I think it's a lovely color on you," he gave in a slightly softer tone, and found, after the words left his mouth, that it was not a lie.

Looking over the bed as he walked, debating the sheets and blankets in need of proper tidying, Lars crossed instead to meet Meraki at the wardrobe. He reached out to touch the shirt, light eyes dropping down before sliding back up in quick inspection. "You know what I prefer," a devilish curve of his lips, involuntary. It lingered for a few seconds before his fingers fell back to his sides, a small sigh escaping him. "You were... right, before. About how we can't live like we'll never get caught."

Taking a step back, he considered the bed yet again, drawing his hands together in front of him to occupy his restless fingers. "Of course we should not limit ourselves because of that. I think that... whether pillows, or wire, or knives, I will always enjoy myself with you, and I will follow your lead, no matter what..." the passive actually moved to sit down, then, seating himself at the very edge of the bed. Turning his gray gaze back to Meraki, he once again adjusted his kerchief, and then continued, voice lowered in his concern.

"But what are we to do, then, if someone does take notice? If Hawke realizes what we've been doing? We might avoid arrest, but the King will not be pleased with us for cleaning up his dirty harbor."

And that was a rather strong understatement, he thought. It was more likely that the King was already perfectly aware of their ventures.

"I can't lose you, Meraki," and as he extended a hand towards him, slender fingers clothed in silk and lace, it was clear that his concern did not stretch much further than the man in front of him.

"Ever."

Even if it meant slaughtering one house rather than six, or one person rather than a house full of them. There was no way that Hawke, or at the very least, his henchmen, would not take notice of an entire cul-de-sac being wiped out under something besides his authority. Lars could not shake the fear, despite his eagerness to push forward, and it showed. The conflict within himself to even mention any of it at all, lest Meraki change his mind... the fact that it had to be acknowledged even so. It was hard for him, trying to be sensible in these situations, and he could only hope that it mattered.

[Meraki]

13th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
The Ayton House, Castle Hill

You know what I prefer.

Yes, he did know. Meraki enjoyed the smile that Lars gave and the way he inspected the turtleneck. The fall of the hand, coupled with a demure sigh, confused him though. Was the passive tired again? He could understand if so. It had only been a couple of days or so since the diablerie. While Meraki felt returned to his prior energy, and then some, part of him worried for Lars’ recovery. The words that followed the sigh, however, clarified that it was not weariness of the body – but rather of the mind.

Meraki lowered the turtleneck, and his gaze followed the passive. What Lars said next about his willingness to do whatever if it was with Meraki, it made him feel odd. Unlike he’d felt with anyone before, though such a thing was not uncommon when it came to Lars, but he was not sure if he had the vocabulary to put such bizarre feelings to language. He did not desire to lead Lars into capture… he didn’t want Lars under anyone but himself.

He set aside the turtleneck. The statements of practicality irritated his mind, which much rather think of other things like weapons and barriers, but he understood why Lars said them too. He breathed quietly.

“I can’t lose you, Meraki... ever.”

The tsat looked at the elegantly gloved hand, outstretched in gesture toward him. Meraki took hold of the hand in his own and lifted it to kiss the lace over the knuckles. He lowered onto the floor, knelt in front of Lars, and he found Lars’ other hand to hold them both between his. He glanced at the flower against Lars’ hair, and the vivid color of it contrasted to the white locks.

“You won’t,” he insisted in a whisper. “We won’t lose each other, Lars. I’d rather bury everyone in all of Vita than be without you.”

“If… If someone takes notice…” he considered the question, though he didn’t have an answer for it. He’d never had to deal with such a criminal authority, not in the Stacks. There were criminals, of course, but they were hardly the same. Meraki frowned, then rested his head against Lars’ thigh. One of his hands drifted to caress the shape of Lars’ knee. He sighed.

“Fuck the King,” he murmured. Meraki lifted to look at Lars, a serious expression on his half-breed features. “I don’t care what pleases him or not. We… we don’t have to stay. I only care about what pleases you, Lars. I only want to please you, and I want to see you in red.”

He gently guided the other man to lay back on the stranger’s bed, and he kissed Lars on the lips. Murmurs behind the kiss, he added, “Why not all of it? Pillows, wires, knives, rope… our bare hands…”

Little kisses between each word, as his excitement rose, he caressed the fabric of Lars’ shirt. “We can start with the neighboring house…”

He gathered the passive’s shirt to get at the pale skin underneath while he continued to whisper, “It’s only an old couple and their nurse. Then we could come here. Steal keys on our way out, now, or convince Miss Hayes for a favor of a beneficial sort. She’s offered me a bed before, to avoid the night’s cold, I could convince her again for such a thing.”

“The servants first,” he insisted in a potential plan while he lowered to kiss along Lars’ neck. His woolen-soft gloved hands traced over the bare skin of Lars’ waist. “Quick… pillow to muffle, snaps and slits. It’s just Miss Hayes, the maid, and the driver who sleep downstairs.”

“The creak in the hall, have to be careful of.” He continued to lower along his lover’s body while he lifted the shirt up. His lips came to press gently over Lars’ ribs, then stomach, while he spoke in hushed tones. “The lady, then her brother here… silent for the girl, but… we should tie up the brother, gag or cut out his tongue. He’s a fair looking fellow, dark of hair and light of eye, not much older than myself. We should let him watch while we take care of the Lady and Mister Ayton upstairs.”

He pulled at Lars’ waistband, but only to tease, then glanced up and smiled. It was a mischievous smile that broke through the otherwise stern nature, as if he’d stepped aside from practicality to share a terribly amusing joke with the passive. “There, in the upstairs, once we’ve blocked the path out to the stairs… gags, then use the ropes, and anything else you desire.”

“If we feel up to it, the neighboring house has a window that’s usually left unlocked. But if not, we can leave through the gate. Past that, though, one house over is a small household as well, only three siblings and one servant. Couldn’t be too hard. It is the Suggitt’s that would be a trick of any sort… there are many of them, and their house is well-cared for and secure.”

Meraki ran his hands over Lars’ body to warm the passive up. He returned to kiss the other man’s lips, then lay beside him. Gathering the older man in his arm, he brought him close for a cuddle, and then said, “There is a patrol, comes ‘round a couple times. It would be important nothing seems out of the ordinary from the street, that lights remain off in the houses, and so on. Now, come. I don’t know how much time we have, and we should check the way to the upstairs bedroom.”

Though he said it, he remained on the bed with his arm around Lars, and didn’t make the slightest motion to actually leave the spot. He fondly gazed at the passive, relaxed.

[Lars]

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

M

eraki took his hand, and a kiss pressed so sweetly to the joints succeeded in softening Lars' expression further. For all the things he desired of the world, for all the materialistic needs of a man so used to having nothing at all, he was quite easy to please. He wanted the world and everything in it, and that much was clear as day when one was given a chance to see through him, through all of his constructed identities and lies — but at the heart of it all, he found the most sincere fulfillment from little moments such as this. Gazing upon his lover's handsome face as the man knelt down before him, smoothing his thumbs against his hands when they were gathered into Meraki's. Little else (if anything) could compare, and that was why he asked what he did. That was why, in spite of the ever-present need to release himself from the constraints of moral law and decency, he would have preferred to lock himself away in their apartments all night if only to prevent their possible capture and separation.

Even so, he would follow Meraki wherever, and he would do so gladly. His hand was dropped as Meraki moved to touch his knee, instead, and while the wick rested his sweet head over his thigh, Lars ran his fingers lightly through the fluffy hair he'd so recently fixed. He did not muss it terribly, and the hand moved the short distance down to his cheek when Meraki lifted his head. Lars could have smiled then, as gray eyes met green, but he didn't.

"Fuck the King."

A sentiment he did not find hard to get behind. The words might have worried him, although only slightly, because he thought that the King certainly needed to be taken into account whether they continued on with their current plan or not... but he could not disagree. He did not wish to. He continued to rub his thumb gently against his cheek instead, brushing over the cheekbone, allowing the younger to have his say. It fell to the wayside, of course, when Meraki moved to push him back, but the passive complied, leaning back until he was lying upon some unknowing gentleman's bed. Immediately did his hands find Meraki's waist, and he lifted his head ever-so-slightly to meet the kiss.

Pillows, wire, knives, rope... their bare hands... it did not help that the tsat's gloved hands were smoothing against his dark shirt, gathering up the material to slip underneath and touch his waist. The soft, woolen nature of the other man's gloves provided an oddly pleasant friction, and though nothing truly compared to Meraki's bare skin against his own, the contact brought a pale, rosy warmth to his fine-featured face. The neighboring house, if it was so sparse as his lover claimed, did not sound as if it would be an issue. How old was old, for a human? Gods, if he was human himself, would he be considered middle-aged already? (His mind wandered over the thought as if it sought to distract him from Meraki's presence above him. It did not work.) Two elders, however old they happened to be, did not sound as if they would prove difficult, and he doubted that a single nurse, however old they were, could do much against them either.

And then, as the Anaxi said, they could come back here. The mention of Miss Hayes (or rather, of relying on Miss Hayes for a favor) gave him a little twitch, just beneath his left eye. He would so delight in killing her. In killing any and all of them, for that matter, and though he knew that both he and Meraki preferred doing things with a bit more... style, a bit more flourish, the sheer number of people in the house did not allow for mistakes. Pillows and knives would do just fine, for the servants. They deserved little more than that in the first place, let alone the pleasure of Meraki's calloused hands. He focused on that, again, rather than the lovely kisses that trailed down his neck between the other man's words. His mind recognized, even when his body and heart did not, that now was hardly the time to linger on his lover's offered affections.

A small, distracted nod of acknowledgement for the creaking floorboards. He could remember that. His steps were ever light, and silent save for the days on which he wore his pointed shoes... he would remember to keep it in mind. Or try to, at least, but in truth all he was really thinking about now (despite his attempts to do otherwise) was the way Meraki's warm lips felt against his cool ivory skin, trailing over his ribs and down his stomach. It sent the tiniest of shivers down his subtly curving spine.

"We should let him watch—"

"Yes," came his insistent reply. Yes, yes, he wanted that. They would have to ensure that the brother (this was the brother's bed, yes it was, and he needed to stop thinking about that too) was properly silenced before doing so, but that should not prove difficult. Not with his lover's penchant for removing pesky tongues, and the use of a good makeshift gag. Lars' eyelids fluttered shut, and so it took him a moment to register when Meraki tugged at his waistband and then simply looked at him, smiling like the teasing little delight he was. Another moment to return the smile, but then he offered a nod, and lifted to prop himself up a bit better on his elbows. Yes. The plan, that was the important thing right now. What had he thought before, about his mind properly sorting priorities?

He already had plenty of ideas. (Only a few half of them were off-topic.) The other houses, similarly, did not sound impossible to get through. Unless Meraki made a decision on that front, Lars supposed he would wait until later on to decide just how many to attempt... but already, the passive's confidence had returned, his doubts assuaged with the wick's careful plans and wandering hands. Again, he was made aware of just how easily his thoughts were swayed, when in the presence of something so divine as the man he loved. He did not mind it when Meraki moved away, lying at his side but throwing an arm around him to pull him close again. Lowering his arms to lie flat, Lars turned, and slipped them both around the blond's slender waist.

"Yes, I... might need a bit of help getting around in the dark, then," he admitted, returning the other man's green gaze, and he could not help a shy smile. Slightly flustered from the simple matter of being kissed and caressed so sweetly in some human family's house, his cheeks remained pink, and he held a little tighter to his companion. "But I trust you."

Really, sometimes he wondered if he would be better off without opening his eyes at all, in the darkness. It was not something easily navigated for the pale-eyed harlot, and the shift in his vision had seemed to worsen, if only slightly, after the latest appearance of his diablerie. "And you're right. We have plenty of work to do."

Yet the older did not pull away either. Not yet.

Rather, he leaned closer, and kissed his lover once again. Arms holding close at his waist, his leg lifted over Meraki's, as if the velvet-adorned limb sought to pull him closer too. Lars kissed him deeply, passionately — he kissed him like he wanted to kiss him on the bench, and in the street, and in front of those Seventen, and that haughty golly lady, and encouraged his lips to part as his tongue sought deeper connection. Whether his hips pushed forward against Meraki's or not (they did) was entirely unimportant, because he really, truly did not intend for them to do so, and the idea of doing anything but getting up and continuing to look through the house could not be further from his mind. Honest.

One hand slipped beneath layers of shirt and vest, silk-covered fingers dragging lightly over Meraki's back. The lace scratched gently at the skin just behind each smooth caress, and Lars hummed into the kiss, pulling away with a little intake of breath.

"Onward, then," he decided, drawing his hands back, and he fixed the flower in his hair before he pushed himself up to stand.

"Show me the upstairs room? I'd love to see how dear Lady Ayton and Mister Ayton live."

And, perhaps, how the lady spent her coin. Did she care for jewelry? Was more of her wealth spent on a fine wardrobe? Perhaps she cared for more practical things, and did not have much of either. But Lars could not see the point of wealth if one did not spend it on such things.

[Meraki]

14th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
The Ayton House, Castle Hill

“Yes, I… might need a bit of help getting around in the dark, then… But I trust you.”

I trust you.

Pink of blush and shy of smile, fair gray eyes clouded with fond adoration, Lars held Meraki a little tighter. Meraki felt a twist in his gut, an ache in his heart, and he wondered about the unusual feelings that roiled within him. He felt them, but he could not put thoughts to them. Though they were in a stranger’s bed, though they needed to move along before the family returned, he could not bring himself to pull away from the cuddled embrace of his lover.

A kiss, close, deep, passionate; Meraki returned the press of their lips, the touch of their tongues, the exchange of their warm saliva and breath. He gave Lars all that he had to give in the kiss, his eyes fluttered between open and shut in a moment’s overwhelm. His blood rushed through him, his muscles tensed with needy desire, his hands got a bit more insistent as he lowered them to feel along the shape of Lars’ hips. The sensation of the silk and lace against his scarred skin drew him closer. Lars’ hum coaxed him near.

When the demure blond pulled away, a stubborn growl rose from Meraki and he followed to kiss along the other’s cheek, then jaw, then neck. He didn’t want to let Lars go. Why couldn’t they just stay right here in the bed and if anyone bothered them, then he’d just slam the person’s head against the wall for bothering to interrupt. They could use the blood and-

-he reluctantly eased and let Lars get away. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a couple breaths. Painted, but not like how Lars meant when he’d said painted ceilings. He glanced at the spackled dots of beige, then forced himself up and off the bed as well. “Upstairs, yes.”

Where had the flowers gotten to? Meraki glanced around. He left the turtleneck to the side and forgot about making the bed entirely. Recovering the flowers, he waited for Lars then took the other man’s hand to lead through the hall. The stairwell leading up was separate from the other stairs, located instead across from the brother’s room. At the top of the cramped stairs was a narrow door with a lock… and Meraki realized it was actually locked when he went to try the handle and it wouldn’t budge.

“Hold these,” he said, handing the flowers over to Lars, then he lowered to peer at the doorknob and the metal lock to see what type it was. The wick murmured simple Monite, the same that he’d spoken in Sharkswell, and a faint click sounded and the doorknob turned. The door creaked open, as if unlocked from the other side. Meraki grinned, an energetic elation filled him, and he looked over at Lars. He opened the door farther, stepped inside, then held it for Lars to follow. Meraki quietly shut and locked it behind them.

The upstairs was a single but expansive room that included a lounge suite next to sectioned off areas of a bedroom and bathroom. The sections were created with large Hoxian panels rather than any walls. A grand porcelain tub sat in the center of the bathroom, connected to copper pipes that went along the wall, with a large sink and a small closet where a toilet hid behind a curtain. The Ayton’s bathtub proved far larger than the bathtubs in Hot House Glass, with gold trim, an ornate faucet, and sturdy claw feet. Mats protected the floor underneath. On a table nearby, different soaps and a stack of fluffy towels were organized. On the wall, a line of bathrobes and lounge robes hung off a strip of iron hooks. A couple mirrors paired with each other, one full size and the other portrait size.

It seemed that dear Lady Ayton and Mister Ayton liked to spend their money on the furniture of their private quarters. Their bed was no small matter either, so large that one had to wonder exactly how they’d managed to get it up the stairs – or perhaps the house had simply been built around the centerpiece. An ornate four-poster with a velvet canopy of purples, the bed was mostly clean. The pillows needed to be fluffed, and there was a silken ivory night dress that hung off the edge of the frame. A rug was underneath, along with runners to keep the feet warm instead of having to touch the cold hardwood floors. At the end of the bed, a bench sat with a sturdy brown trunk stored underneath.

On the other side of the room, past a set of lounge chairs and a couch that benefited from two sunlit vertical windows, was a pair of writing desks filled with papers and inkwells. A portrait hung on the wall, and one could only assume it was the family given there were four of them – the son and daughter much younger than their rooms suggested, so likely an older painting. They were a family of dark-haired humans, but only the son had light-colored eyes. Other paintings on the wall were of the ocean, of ships, of renditions of the docks and crates being moved along the harbor of Old Rose.

Meraki wandered over to the desks, and glanced over the papers, then at a bookshelf nearby. He immediately leaned and observed the spines of the books. Among the other things in the living space were a wardrobe, a dresser, a vanity, and a drawing table.

“Plenty of space, don’t y’ think, love?” he inquired Lars while he took one of the books off the shelf and flipped through it. “If only we could manage to drag everyone here at once, but that seems… unlikely. The audience of one will have to do.”

He shut the book and returned it to the shelf. Meraki wandered through the room, with the slightest gesture toward the vase of flowers on the vanity – for Lars to switch them out. The tsat hummed, turned in a circle as he surveyed and crossed his arms. He still felt an elation from the spell he had cast, as if the mona agreed with the plan, as if everything was perfect and right. There was no need to fret about getting caught, or separated, or the consequence of Hawke or the like – no, this was all perfect. Even whatever went inevitably wrong… it would be perfect.

Meraki felt certain of this. He walked over to the bed, then knelt and looked underneath. He dragged out a long tin box, then flipped the clasps to open it up. Inside, there was a folder of document papers, a few keepsakes, and then…

“Ah, thought there might be somethin’. Seems Mister Ayton ent that law-abiding himself.” Meraki took out a pistol. He held the gun as if to use it, the smooth handle in his grasp and he closed one eye to peek down the barrel. He aimed toward one of the armchairs. The dangerous tsat’s gloved finger stroked against the trigger. His smile slanted, the scar on his lip ruddy-violet due to the stretch. “Naughty, naughty natt…”

The half-breed lifted his gaze to look over at Lars. He gestured with the gun, without care for where it aimed and he held it out in offer. Meraki cheerfully asked, “Did y’ want to hold it?”

---

Rolls

Open/Close Spell on Door:
SidekickBOTToday at 1:31 PM
@Lazulum: 1d6 = (6) = 6

[Lars]

The Ayton House, Castle Hill
14th hour of vortas 10th, 2719

L

ars did not forget about the bed, nor the fact that the sheets and blankets needed to be straightened up, but he left it alone regardless. He thought it less likely for the brother to notice such things, and once Meraki pushed himself up as well, Lars simply ran his hands over the blankets quick to smooth out the wrinkles. With everything else left alone (although he did want to see Meraki in that navy turtleneck), he followed after the young blond, reaching out to accept his hand. Another glance around the bedroom and then they were out. The passive shut the door behind them, listening for any other sounds in the house as they once again entered the hall and continued onward. Still quiet, so they were still alone, as far as he could tell. He did not let himself worry too much about it.

The staircase was directly across from the bedroom, narrow and shadowed in the unlit interior of the house. Lars' steps were light in their short ascent, and he let go of Meraki's hand as they reached the top. A door blocked their path — locked, by the look of it — and he did not bother offering any assistance. He took the bundle of flowers as they were set into his grasp. Either the tsat would get it open, or they would simply have to hope for the best later on in the evening, because there was no way that Lars was getting it open himself. Perhaps, he thought then, he could get a lesson in lockpicking in the future — but Meraki did not bother with that either, and a few muttered words of Monite were all it took to undo the lock. For once, the wick seemed pleased with his success. Lars could not make out his face all that well on the stairs, but as the door was pushed open, and light from the bedroom windows filtered through... the Hessean smiled to himself, enamored.

A few steps into the room and Lars paused. Dark brows furrowed, he looked around the room, eyes flitting over the various expensive furnishings, the nice paint on the walls, the rugs and runners underfoot, the paneling that sectioned off a bathroom area...

"...What the fuck," fell from his mouth in a murmur, the entire bedroom (and everything within it) completely at odds with everything he knew about how humans lived. The whole house was a blatant rejection of human status, but this? That bed? That bathtub? He almost dropped the flowers, for how his grip around the stems loosened, but he adjusted them in his hold so that they rested comfortably between his hands in front of him. This wasn't right. None of it was right. How the fuck did humans do this? How did they live like this? Was the whole neighborhood in league with Hawke? No, no, Vincennes Place looked like a respectable place, not like somewhere he imagined the Brothers working out of... but there had to be connections. There had to be. None of this made any sense at all.

Lars inhaled, realizing he had forgotten to breathe. It was just... no. He did not understand. Meraki moved across the room to check out the desks and bookshelves, and the older blinked, dipping his head out of habit. He walked along the wall, light eyes scanning over the paintings scattered about as he did. The flowers were shifted to the crook of his arm, and a hand lifted to trace gloved fingertips over the wall. It took Meraki's voice to stir him from his shock, and even then, Lars stared after the young blond, watching him flip through a book. Was this normal, to him? Humans did not have such nice things in the Stacks, did they? Or did it make no difference, to Meraki, who the house belonged to? Not for the first time, the fieldless galdor was bothered by the ease with which the lower races found lives that were never intended for them. As if it was natural.

"Ah — yeah, yes. Plenty of space," he agreed a bit distractedly. It was not that he did not appreciate the room. He enjoyed it immensely. He just could not help the feeling of... what was it, he wondered. There were a few. Judgement... embarrassment?... bitterness, for sure... jealousy. Burning bright and toiling deep within him. Clearing his throat quietly, Lars took the cue from Meraki to go and switch out the flowers on the vanity. Wilted flowers set aside, he placed a handful of fresh ones into the vase, fingers delicately arranging them into a better-suited display. The others remained on the vanity with the old, and he stepped away, turning until he caught sight of the wick.

"Naughty, naughty natt..."

Brandishing a pistol in the direction of an armchair, Meraki's words, combined with that wicked smile of his, begged to pull his thoughts astray again. Where had he... ah, beneath the bed. His gaze drifted over the tin box his lover must have found the weapon in, before darting back to that handsome face when said weapon was held out towards him.

"Oh," eyebrows raised, Lars hesitated. Did he want to hold it? Yes, he thought, he did. Yet as the ghostly harlot stepped forward, closing the distance between them with an extended hand, he considered against it. "Or — I... shouldn't."

Fingers curling into a light fist, his arm was dropped, and Lars offered a half-smile, only slightly embarrassed. "Restless hands. I shouldn't try it unless we want to give everyone a loud warning already."

And though he did not reach for the gun, he still came closer, moving to the edge of the bed and allowing a hand to rest against Meraki's shoulder while he inspected the bed. Or, more accurately, he tried to inspect the bed, but ended up distracted by the ivory garment draped over the edge. His free hand went to brush his fingers over the silk, and he offered, "last time I shot a gun, I still wound up getting stabbed. So I think that's best left to you, my love. Fewer chances for them, better for us..."

The little repeat drew his attention back to Meraki's face, and he stared in silence for a moment before his attention shifted to the pistol in his hand. Night dress forgotten, and in spite of what he'd said before... a slender hand grabbed Meraki's wrist, to guide the weapon closer. Fingers did not tap against the joint, but brought it towards him in a smooth motion, and there was no indication of what the inquisitive harlot might have been doing until a pointed pink tongue touched the barrel.

Tasted like... metal, and wood. His curiosity sated for the moment, Lars' tongue disappeared behind plush lips, and he released his hold on the wick's wrist.

"That'll be nice to have, once we're done with these houses. Do you think they would know, if we took it now? Surely he does not check beneath his bed every night. We can't have them shooting at us, if we can't reach it before them."

[Meraki]

14th Hour
10th of Vortas, 2719
The Ayton House, Castle Hill

Meraki wasn’t sure why Lars seemed confused by the upstairs. It wasn’t entirely luxurious, but it wasn’t unimpressive either. The tsat couldn’t make sense of the reaction so he simply didn’t linger on it. It would have made no difference to him if the house had been plated in gold because his mind focused on things other than the wealth of the house. He wanted to see if there were any obvious treasures, but not of monetary means, of sentimental value. The sort of thing that would cause a man to scorn all his wealth, if only he hadn’t lost that one precious item. The sort of thing that would make a woman wail in hysteria, but no one around her could ever understand why it was she was so upset when only a single thing had been taken and she still had so much left. Between that and the search for what might cause them undue trouble in their night to come, he had little concern for however Lars thought of the bedroom. It wasn’t as if they would be moving in or anything.

When he found the pistol, and brandished it with glee, he thought briefly of the few times he’d gotten to hold a gun before. Some natts had them in his area of the Stacks, but not a lot. There was no small amount of trouble that came with a gun, especially if one got caught with them, but he sometimes found them tucked away and hidden. It was amazing how many people hid their treasures directly underneath their bed. As if they could guard such things while asleep. He supposed it was one of those instincts – like the instinct to survive – that simply overrode the general thoughts a person had.

Maybe that was what it was. Meraki realized as he offered the gun for Lars to hold. Maybe that was why he couldn’t put language to, or figure out, the odd sentiments he’d felt toward the man since they had started to case the house together. They weren’t feelings proper, not of emotions, but of something deeper that lurked underneath. They were instincts. He’d come to love Lars so much that his attachment wormed its way into a primordial part of his soul, as powerful of an instinct as anything else. He needed Lars as much as he needed to breathe, as much as he needed to eat – maybe even more so. The wick felt a little dizzy while he gradually realized this, as Lars closed the distance between them.

While he listened to the reluctant refusal and watched the endearing embarrassment on his lover’s handsome features, Meraki didn’t realize his own expression. Unaware of how fondly he looked at the other man, or how his slanted smile had faded – forgotten – to a sort of silly little quirk of a grin. He nodded and eased further when the hand rested against his shoulder. Meraki lowered the gun, so it pointed away from them. He observed the older’s touch against the ivory silk and he wondered if Lars wanted the garment… if he wanted to wear the lady’s nightgown… he wondered what it might look like on the fieldless galdor’s delicate frame. The human woman was a fair bit larger than Lars, broad in the chest and hips. He suspected the gown would fit fine because of it. It would look nice with the pearl and gold jewelry too. His perfect moony lover… or… husband? Wasn’t that what Lars said galdors called each other when spouses? Lars would be his husband? The thought felt unusual too, a twist through his body as places unseen got bundled up with those instincts, and a ruddy blush rose to his cheeks.

“You’ve shot a gun before?” he asked, partly as means for a distraction from the overwhelming love he’d started to feel. A fit of manic bliss would be unwise. So, he tried to draw himself away from that ledge, even though he could feel the lure beckon him. Fortunately, the idea of Lars getting stabbed diverted the upward path of elation. He thought of the scar he’d seen on the other man, that he’d caressed and licked and kissed over their many embraces. Meraki suspected that must be the spot then. He gazed back at Lars, calmly meeting sights and they stared in silence toward one another.

A slender hand grabbed his wrist, but Meraki remained mostly still and didn’t flinch. He let Lars guide him, curious what it was that the older man wished for. Whatever it was, he’d give it to him… to an extent. Meraki realized there was one thing that he would not allow for, even if Lars wanted it. One thing, and the only thing, he suspected. He watched as…

…

…

…a pointed pink tongue touched the barrel of the gun.

Breath held; Meraki’s body heat spiked in temperature almost immediately. It went quick. Lars’ tongue darted back behind plush lips. The hold on the wrist let go. Too quick. Meraki stared, dark green eyes wide in disbelief for a few seconds. Lars had completely surprised him, but in the most delightful of ways. He regained some semblance of composure while he listened, but he didn’t quite hear what was said. Meraki felt desire, hot and yearning and relentless.

A swift grab, he took hold of Lars’ waist with his free arm. He barely paused, not answering the question, and tossed Lars onto the bed. He threw his lover face-down onto the soft blankets, beside the silken gown. Meraki followed, swiftly crawled over and straddled Lars’ lower back. He combed his fingers through the white blond hair, then turned Lars’ head so he could kiss the other man’s cheek. Fistful of hair held tight, so Lars didn’t move around much, he slid the barrel of the gun against Lars’ face. He stayed close, hot breath against the older's ear while he slowly tilted the gun to press the muzzle to the passive’s temple.

“I love you, Lars,” he whispered, raspy voice rumbled low like thunder. His teeth lightly grazed against the ear in a playful nibble, then he turned the gun up and away. He lifted and released his hold on the pale blond. Meraki retreated off the bed then, as much as he wanted to continue, and he glanced toward the windows. The tsat walked away and hovered near the frame while he looked down at the cul-de-sac’s street. He surveyed the carriages, and though the Aytons hadn’t returned yet, he said, “Time to go.”

Meraki went to the writing desk and he laid the gun on the surface. He gathered some puddy-like wax, then used a pen to shove it into the inside of the barrel. Once certain there was far more than enough to block up any attempt to fire anything, at least for enough seconds to shock Mister Ayton, he returned the pistol to the tin box. “Better we don’t have it, my dearest. A gun out of hand can be far more devastating than a knife. Besides, if it were me... I would check every night, yes. A fake sense of protection, though, that can work to our advantage.”

He finished up and paused to glance at the nightgown… then shook his head and collected the wilted flowers. Meraki took hold of Lars’ hand and led him out of the upstairs. On the way out, he muttered corresponding Monite to lock the door behind them again – just as they’d found it. He hurried down the stairs, only a couple creaks sounded, far better than the floorboards in the hall. The tsat didn’t linger, only gathering the wilted flowers left behind and he kept a tight hold on Lars while he led past the bedrooms and down the other flight of stairs into the ground floor. Meraki paused here, to glance past the foyer into a sitting room, then he nodded when he saw the time on a clock. He turned and looked out the nearest window that faced the street. Sure enough, a carriage rolled to a stop in front of the house.

“C’mon, we’re out of time.” He hurried through the servant’s door and made care to help Lars down the shadowed stairs once it shut behind them. Meraki kept the wilted flowers in arm, then he went into the kitchen.

Miss Hayes sat on a stool, smoking a cigarette, and she looked startled for a moment then snorted and relaxed again when she saw it was just the two men. Her eyebrows rose when she noticed that their hands were held. "Enjoy yerselves, loves?"

"Ye, thank y', Miss Hayes." Meraki quickly shook off Lars’ hand and didn’t make any mention of it. Instead, he lifted the dead flowers. “Where did y’ want these?”

“Compost, out back by the shed,” she told him, then coughed.

The tsat handed the dead flowers over to Lars and he looked at the other man with a stern gaze – the sort that offered no argument to what the instruction to come – while he said, “Hunter, could y’? I’ll be out in a bit.”

Once Lars left the kitchen, Meraki turned his attention to the plump cook. It wasn’t difficult to convince her to let them stay overnight – as he offered to work for the shelter. Miss Hayes took no haste in giving him a list of items she needed from the market, and insistence that he’d have to try and keep it under a shill for everything. A rather impossible task, unless one used less-than-respectable means to acquire such goods. Which, Meraki knew was why Miss Hayes bothered to entertain the exchange of his procurement for a warm, comfortable bed to sleep in – though, she mentioned in a coarse voice, that Hunter would have to sleep on the floor because if she caught them trying to share the bed, she would throw them both out by the scruff of their necks.

Like that, he'd secured them an expected place though. He got his coat back on, readied to leave and found Lars again. He took hold of the passive’s arm, led him out the gate, and down the path which would lead to Berret Park. Meraki took the next turn though, to move across a winding path of cramped alleys in the direction of the waterfront. He offered a small smile to Lars, then said, “We’ll return later, as the sun lowers. For now, we have some shopping to attend to…”

[Lars]

The Ayton House, Castle Hill
14th hour of vortas 10th, 2719

W

ell, he had shot a gun before. Only on one occasion, and not very well, all things considered. He had killed the man, of course, but had it not been for Aremu's assistance in doing so, he doubted that he would have managed it at all. Lars was still mad at himself for getting himself stabbed that night; it had not been his intention, and he had been pulled, quite literally, into the fight without a choice in the matter, but running straight into the wick's knife? Yes. That had been his mistake. Entirely. So at the question pertaining to his experience with such weapons, the passive could only offer the smallest of shrugs, and answer, "once. Not very well."

It was then that the curiosity overwhelmed, and when Lars turned back to face Meraki, he pulled the gun towards himself. A testing touch of his tongue to the barrel and then the urge was sated, allowing him the mind to think instead of a more practical use for the dangerous object. It did them no good to put the damn thing in his mouth, even if a part of his mind wanted him to do so regardless. He was not sure what that said about him... if he was truly too reckless and self-destructive for his own good, or if he was simply more moony than he thought. Either felt likely enough, and he did not dwell on the thought nor did he bother making the distinction. He asked, instead, about whether or not the gun could be put to good use later on.

But instead of answering that particular question, Meraki's response seemed to be fueled by the harlot's little antics instead. Lars gasped as he was grabbed and thrown so suddenly to the bed, though any further noise he might have made died out against the blankets. Making no attempt to turn himself over, a little, amused laugh escaped him, and the smile that graced his face as Meraki straddled his back was far too smug for a man in his current position. Fingers threaded through wavy white hair, and then pulled his head to the side, holding tightly to the strands. A pleased hum from the older, whose delighted smile only widened as he felt the cold muzzle of the gun against his temple. The uneasy, jilted beat of his heart was not one that he could have ever expected to find pleasant, and yet as Meraki breathed hot against his ear, he could not wish for anything else.

An audible exhale, a flutter of snow-white eyelashes, and Lars returned, "I love you, Meraki."

Meraki was moving away far too soon. Too quickly did the tsat's weight shift above him, releasing the disappointed passive. A quiet, disapproving whine was his only acknowledgement, something that seemed to be rather habitual of the older when he did not get what he wanted. Through his reluctance, Lars pushed himself up and off of the bed, and smoothed out the wrinkles in his dark shirt. While Meraki looked through the window, he went about tucking the material into his trousers, and offered only a nod when his lover mentioned leaving. Right, yes. He was not aware of how much time had passed since they first stepped into the kitchen and spoke with Miss Hayes, nor was he aware of the family's schedule, and was perfectly alright with following the Anaxi's lead in lieu of knowing himself.

"I was hardly finished with that," said the pale-eyed harlot in a mockingly offended tone, as Meraki set the gun back into the tin box he'd found it in, "but fine. If you think so, love." Once the wick gathered the dead flowers from the vanity, he moved to meet him, and entwined their gloved fingers when his hand was taken. He was quiet as he was taken out of the lavish bedroom, and down the stairs, and through the hall, and back down to the main floor — his eyebrows raised in question when Meraki paused to glance into the foyer, and then through the nearest window, but he did not voice any concerns. Suspecting that the family must have been arriving back home, Lars kept his mouth shut, and was led farther down the hall and into the dim light of the basement-styled room. Meraki's guidance was, as always, appreciated by the Hessean, and he gave the wick's hand a little squeeze as they made it to the kitchen door.

The sight of Miss Hayes did away with whatever sort of pleasantry the little gesture might have conjured. Lars remained silent even so, and both of his hands slipped into his pockets as soon as Meraki so hastily released their hold. He was not offended by it as he might have been anywhere else, and if there was any sort of insecurity concerning the matter, it did not show on the passive's face. Expression carefully made neutral, he only nodded in response to dear Carver's request, taking the dead flowers and turning immediately to leave the kitchen. He did not mind the quick departure. The sooner he could get away from humans (and return, inevitably, to destroy them) the better.

He grabbed his jacket on the way out, slipping it on as he exited the Ayton's house. Stepping lightly through the garden, Lars found the shed after a few moments of searching, eyes adjusting poorly to the difference in light. The withered stalks and dried-out petals were tossed with the rest of the compost, and then he found his way back to the little white gate. His fingers resumed their incessant tapping against the velvety material of his trousers, then, and light eyes wandered the surrounding area as he waited for his lover's return. More gardens, more fences, more gates... Lars did not know how long he was out there alone, but by the time Meraki rejoined him, the tip of his nose had gone pink again, and he made sure to keep close as they left the family's modest garden.

Though his arm had been grabbed, he adjusted the limbs to link them properly, walking ever closer still. The smile was easily returned, and once they were far enough from the gates not to be seen by any wandering Seventen... his other hand reached into the pocket of Meraki's coat, taking out the remnants of the smoke he'd stashed away to quickly relight and return it to his lips. A little cloud of smoke dissipated around him soon enough, and as they passed through a winding, darkened alley, he leaned his head down to rest upon the other man's shoulder.