31st Day of Achtus
To say that Leander Aguilar’s face wasn’t a familiar one in certain… establishments would be a lie from the lips of whoever uttered it. In his formative years, when the young passive wanted to pretend to himself that he hadn’t sunk so low, he had developed a routine of patronage: visiting each in turn, changing his location each night so as to avoid the suspicion that he did not rely so heavily on the toxic liquids to get though each day. It became a pattern, and the rotation took a few days, but it was nightly and, as the years passed, it could not be ignored, not least by himself.
By that point, Leander was so ingrained in his routine that it had become a tradition of sorts, and he continued to meander on his crawl, never deviating from his self-imposed rules on drinking. Whatever the bar tenders thought when he walked through the door, there was no doubt they were aware of his consistency: he was expected. Regular patrons also grew to expect him and, though he mostly kept to himself, Leander had managed to develop a relationship of sorts with some of them.
One such regular, Leander often crossed paths with. Not always: Kit was hardly as rigid in his routine as Leo, so hardly as predictable. There were many things about the pair that were as different as the sun and moon, but they shared enough in common that drinking together was easy. The knowledge of the other’s status as a galdor initially had Leo warring with himself: here was a man who had had everything, and had thrown it away. The years of company had painted a very different picture, however.
It was a while into their acquaintanceship that Leo started to feel a pleasant warmth of familiarity spread through his gut whenever he saw the older man, inevitable drink in hand, standing at the bar. It took even longer until he realised what that sensation was.
This afternoon, pushing open the door to the tavern, he saw the galdor’s silhouette in the dimly lit room as his eyes adjusted to the light. The corners of his lips curled upwards into a smile and he sauntered over. “We must stop meeting this way,” the counterfeiter said, clapping a hand on the other’s shoulder as he announced his presence and came to rest against the bar. “The usual,” he muttered to the barmaid with barely a glance in her direction, typical for his interaction with anyone providing him a service. That done, he looked back at Kit, smile returning to his lips and his tone becoming more animated, as he finished his greeting, “People will talk.”