8:01 pm



By the time eight rolled around, the small gathering at the Leaky Cauldron was in full swing.

With it being little more ‘n a week since New Years Eve—or, more specifically, St. James and O’Morain’s fancy shindig—it was all anyone in town still seemed able to talk about, something the locals wouldn’t – or couldn’t – shut up about for days; one way or another, conversation always seemed to turn back to it—who’d been wearing what, or went with who (or who one had seen, star-studded as the party apparently had been if the organizers’ names were anything to go by)—with nary an end in sight. Wherever you were, talk of it was almost always within earshot, a constant reminder that it had happened. And just when Christmas fever had nearly died completely…

Suffice to say, Rick was getting sick of it. It was bad enough having to constantly hear about it on the street; it still made its way into the shop, too. And if he thought the customers were bad—well, his clientele still seemed infected affected as well, in ways he didn’t even want to think about. (The growing number of fingers trailing along his countertop – coupled with meaningful looks, or hopeful touches on his arm – was getting on his last nerve.) What he needed was a break from it all, the talk, the speculation, the fucking frenzy that seemed to’ve overtaken the city.

What he needed, was a drink.

But this, though—‘this’ being the burgeoning group in the pub, a growing clot of music, drinks and people that seemed to have a metastatic effect on the rest of the room, the way it spread holiday cheer with every free round it bought for a lucky table—was not what he had in mind.

“Smile, baby,” a voice cooed in Rick’s ear, accompanied by a sticky press of lips to his cheek. “Or did your date bail on you?”

Rick turned ‘round to glare, something rude (and he’d definitely regret later) at the ready when a hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder, a heavy, stilling weight that had him biting his tongue. “Away with ye, Maevis!” another voice boomed jovially, and a second hand shot out across his vision –only to shove a glass at him. “You know how long it takes ‘im to get into any kind of partyin’ mood-”

Oh, fuck it. “Actually, she doesn’t,” Rick cut in, ignoring the hoot of laughter that followed in favor of downing the drink. With visible satisfaction he set the empty glass down with a sound thud, letting the alcohol curl and burn in his gut, into something that made his gaze slide over the woman’s chest and his mouth curve into a faint, lazy grin. Top on or not, it was still a familiar sight t’ see. “Gimme another, someone?”

Someone did. In one smooth movement, Rick drank that one too, and those closest to him broke out into more laughter and cheers. An arm – a thick, muscled, hairy arm – curled around his shoulder in a rough, one-armed hug. The drinks working fast to gloss over his usual misanthropy, Rick let it stay—and was grinning still when the bell above the door chimed, alerting him to familiar face appearing beneath it.

Ignoring his friends’ protests, Rick peeled himself away from them and slipped through the thickening crowd. Briefly, the smile widened into one uncharacteristically warm, before it was quickly (but not successfully) smothered in an attempt for control. “Dietrich,” Rick greeted, clapping the man on the shoulder before edging his way to one of vacant tables by the wall. Just far away enough from the crowd to be heard – but not too close to the door so they’d freeze – it was in a spot where the glow of the lights fell short, leaving the small area comfortably lit, the background noise rendered to a comforting hum. Rick pulled out for himself a chair. “Glad you could make it.”

Gracefully – if noisily – he sank into his seat, and gestured at the nearest waitress for drinks.

 

To say that Nightingale was having a bit of rotten luck would have been an understatement, the past few days had worked him into a solid state. His little shoulders carried such a load that his spine cried out with ever movement, wanting nothing more than to simply snap, but still he pressed on. Tired of the rain, and sick of the winter he’d never wanted the spring like he did—the warmer weather and fearful winds. Instead, he found his way down the long narrow path to the son of summer smiles and demanded they went out.

Dietrich Eisenberg, without much fight became one of Gale’s favorite friends, and frankly he didn’t care if the other man returned the sentiment. The fact that he tolerated him, and didn’t put up with his bullshit spoke enough. What started on a night much like this, became the very awakening he’d been searching for. A friendship forged with black lines carved into his skin, continued with other sessions, and late night drinks. He liked everything there was about the man, even when they sat in silence in places like this just to get shit-faced, and stumbled back on the streets that were unkind; or on rare occasion that words were necessary, that it was easy to confess his sins and not be cast out for them.

Tonight, however, had been one of those times when words were not needed, nor necessary. Gale had walked into the shop, his normally porcelain skin a shattering mess with bruises and blood-lines from the night before[1], and frazzled from his run-in with a rather stiff older man.[2]He had that wild look about him, the sort that spoke of the thirst of blood, the kind that needed the feel the poison of the fire-whiskey he was learning to hold, and to wake in the morning in the ash of his destruction to rise again.

“Can you just not ask? And take me out?” Gale asked looking over the counter at the man, dressed in all black, the leather of his boots stretching as he ran his toes over the back of one calve as he couldn’t keep still. His hair was down, though black feathers broke through the silver surface from the cuff he wore on one ear, and little silver chains chimed every time he moved his head—it wasn’t his normal silver bells around his ankles, or sparking magpie finds that he wore around his wrist. Tonight, Gale’s mouth watered for the chance to howl at the moon that bore him, and sitting at home feeling sorry simply wouldn’t do.

The venue of choice was new, something unseen to Gale’s solitary eye, and he searched every shadow, every corner, and every face as if searching his memory. The air exhaled, passing from his lips in a quiet hiss as he followed in the wake of the much larger man.

’Dietrich,’ voices spoke out in chorus, and their laughter pleased him greatly, providing him with cover. It was easy to fall in such with such a crowded space when the attention stayed on the other and he could sink easy enough in the seats provided. It was crowded, very crowded, and Gale couldn’t stand to have his back to the door.

“So many people,” He whispered to himself perching on the end of his chair, ever ready for the flight or fight that came with evenings out, and though there was a new face, Gale didn’t pay him much mind. In fact, he avoided speaking at all, and simply ordered his drink. Hell, he didn’t even tell the waitress thank you when she placed the glass down, and felt like a little rebel. Wild night out, Kesali, with his back talking function activated.

1.	I've Come to Burn Your Kingdom Down
2.	Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition!