with. – @dogsoflondon
where. – coat room, the factory
when. – 18 june, near the end of the party.
They’ve drunken too much. It’s awfully apparent, they think, when they look at their hollow eyes in the mirror of the bathroom and the world around them seems to sway. Glitter sticks to their cheek and they rub at it, wanting to rid themself of everything that pulls attention to them. Wren decides it’s time to leave when it won’t come off, staggering to the coat room and wondering where they might have left the bottle of alcohol his Horseman had given him. Not that it mattered. It was more than half-empty, anyway.
It’s not necessary, per se, to wear a coat in these temperatures, but Wren is cold. He has been cold since Thomas died and now that they witnessed another murder on a screen, they feel even colder. As if a wind blows through them. So they don their old, beaten-up leather jacket and struggle with the buttons before nearly tripping out of the room. Their weight is caught by something solid and massive, something a lot larger than them, and Wren wants to sink through the ground and never return.
Until they crane their neck and look at Arthur’s face. “Oh, shit, hey. That top-shelf stuff hits different, yeah?” They grin, but it’s something manic and when their lips split it’s more like a wound than something genuine. “Are you leaving too? Party poopers, the two of us, eh? Leaving before most others do.” But Wren had a feeling that if they’d stay, they’d end up bawling in the midst of the party, and they’re trying real fucking hard to keep it together. Not really succeeding, in all truth, but luckily Wren had never been the centre of attention. They move their hands as if they’re raising the roof. “Best party ever!”
Arthur took a many things very seriously. Death was one of them.
They knew when they got messed up in gang business that death and injuries would become his new norm--especially as their on-call doctor. But to have someone’s death broadcast and laughed at, while risking Nana’s life, at an engagement party? Arthur had excused himself to the bathroom to avoid his true reaction showing. Nausea rolled in his stomach as the encounter continued, until finally he got the notification that it was over and Nana had won.
There were times that he loved his job. The parties, the money, the protection. During those times, he conveniently forgot what this little community was really about. Violence. Deep at its core, London’s underbelly was covered in blood. Arthur’s dark eyes lifted from the porcelain sink, finding his reflection’s gaze. He’d been proud of his outfit, a deep maroon suit complete with a black tie and gold tie clip. It fit him like a dream--but now he felt suffocated.
They ran a hand down their face, adjusting the hairs of their beard, and turned away from the mirror. Outside of the bathroom, the party continued, but Arthur made no move to rejoin. His appetite was spoiled for the evening and he knew he’d be called to Nana’s side before too long, so he’d rather change before his phone started ringing.
They didn’t have a coat, given it was almost sixteen degrees outside, but a familiar set of curls yanked theirs from the coat closet anyway. Judging by the way Wren yanked on the cloth, Arthur figured he was in the flying elbow danger zone, but before he could move, Wren’s much smaller body collided with his. The minute they locked eyes, Arthur had to hold back a laugh.Â
“Some of us more than others,” he mused with a smile, having drank very little of the alcohol himself. Then again, they could have drank the same amount and it would have affected Wren leagues more than it did him.Â
“Party poopers?” They asked with fake surprise. “No, I’ll let you in on a secret,” he started, moving to the exterior door and opening it for Wren. “We just know that you have to leave a party while its good, because they always turn to shit at the end.” The wink that punctuated their sentence was conspiratorial.Â
