---

---

January 16th
5:00 pm

Cappuccino. The proverbial answer to driving the blues momentarily away. A few tablespoons of espresso, a smudge of steamed milk, and a generally tasteless dash of powdered chocolate, and suddenly life was supposed to be all in perfect order once again. What bollocks: Ryder Renwick had already been through three cappuccinos –and would have to painfully remove money from what little he had left to pay for them-, and his life was not yet back to what it had been. His father had not reinstated him, he did not suddenly have a roof over his head and he certainly did not have deep pockets full of gold. Cappuccinos were nothing but a warm drink, and whoever stated otherwise deserved a hard smack on the head and a grave dug early to lie in.

A sigh pressing past thin lips, Ryder made quick work of picking up the tab, groaning inwardly at the expense, and tossing the few muggle coins on the worn table. It was the last of his muggle money, and not much more than a galleon remained; his one and only hope would be for Balthazar to allow him entrance to his flat when he opened the door and found him standing behind it. As he pushed his chair back –with a screech as the legs dragged against grimy linoleum-, the eighteen year old stood, green eyes darting apprehensively towards the front windows of the small, unpleasant café, where rain slashed defensively against glass and formed delicate spider webs of either intricate meaning or utter gibberish. His blonde hair was still damp, and the idea of stepping back out into the storm was rather unattractive. Gritting his teeth, Ryder pulled his bag over his shoulder and, holding onto the strap tightly, decided he would have to brave it.

A bloke on the corner was yelling about umbrellas, but sorely tempted as he might be to purchase one, he had no muggle money left. In his position, others would have simply gone for the mugger’s way of facilitating the obtainment of anything they saw as needed or desired –but Ryder Renwick was not a thief, and no matter what his current situation he would not allow himself to fall into such a low place. As it was, he would have to beg –an action he would have sneered at in any other moment of his life- if he was to have a roof to sleep on this evening. As his heels smashed through puddles and the rain dashed at his frame, Ryder found himself remembering the pitiful look on the house-elf’s face as the detestable creature had informed him that The Master says Sir is not to return. He had laughed coldly, at first, wondering just what this entire joke was on about –until he’d try to press past the animal, and it’d thrown him back with a single, powerful twist of its wrist.

Ryder had landed on his back in a puddle of mud and water, his clothes drenched and his pride mangled like a strangled man’s neck. And when he’d looked back up at the doorstep, he’d seen his father standing in the threshold with a look so cold it might have froze him, and his mother standing right behind with something akin to regret on her features. Your spot on the Renwick tree is no longer. Leave. Ryder wasn’t sure -as he pulled to a stop at the next corner to allow a car to rush by, and as his eyes dribbled about in search for an empty alleyway he could enter- whether Aidan Renwick’s voice had truly echoed around the front lawn of the house, or they’d simply stumbled through his brain like a lost child searching and invading each nook and cranny for its place in the world. To say he’d been shocked would be untrue, but he certainly hadn’t been jumping like a bunny at the news. Still, as his eyes had grown cold upon the sight of Aidan Renwick with the slight hint of pride, he’d quickly made the best decision he could in this conundrum: he would look at this as nothing more than a simple game.

If Aidan wanted war, war he would have.

Finding an empty alley, Ryder stepped off the main street, careful to keep away from the dumpster overflowing with trash. The smell was atrocious, and his nose wrinkled distastefully. Each piece of torn up paper, each dirty diaper, every single rotten piece of meat that had been stuffed into quickly decomposing bags, was just like his father: forgettable, easy to step on and crush like a bug. Teeth gritting together, Ryder was rather pleased with the comparison, as he twisted in his heels…

…And stumbled as his feet landed on the firm ground of the hallway outside Balthazar’s flat. Lungs expanded as he inhaled a deep gush of air, warding off the unpleasant sensation, Ryder’s eyes narrowed; he’d been in this hallway only once before: six months ago, his fingers had dragged diligently along the lime green wall, his stomach a mess of knots and woven threads, his head a mosaic of conflicting desires; his heart had thumped against his ribcage like a rabid dog trying to escape captivity, as he had drawn up to Balthazar Strathmore’s door, his hand raising, his digits curling into fists and his arm trembling with the effort to oblige himself to knock. In the end, he hadn’t, and the next day he’d left for Berlin.

He hadn’t seen Balthazar since.

Currently, he pressed an open palm into the pit of his stomach, inhaling and exhaling air and oxygen as he gathered his wits about him. Ryder had never been one to be nervous –but when you’d last seen your best mate seven months ago, and on said occasion you’d snogged his brains out before running off, nerves were a small price to pay. His knees seemed to want to drag him off and out of the building by their own will, but he held them in place. When he finally decided to step towards the door in question, each step felt like lifting led from the ground –and raising his arm in order to hear the dull sound of his knock was perhaps even more complicated. But finally, he’d done it, and there was no turning back now –unless he wanted to run, which was honestly not Ryder’s style. From inside the flat, he could hear the sound of movement, but it was a few seconds before the door was pulled open, and Balthazar Strathmore was once again in his sight: raven black hair over startling blue eyes, pale skin that seemed as milky as moonlight, red lips that were like ripe strawberries and utter perfection. Ryder’s heart fell to the pit of his stomach as Balthy’s eyes first popped open in shock –but then, his best mate was smiling, with his head cocked sideways inquiringly. Ryder opened his mouth, and said the one think he could think of.

“Guten tag,” His German wasn’t as fluent as he hoped, but it did the deal. “I need a favor, Balthy.”