like my birthday (like my payday)
The loudest sound in the room is the small twinkling fountain. Each drop of water shines like an adolescent pearl, and each costs almost as much. Eleven-twelfths exactly, actually. Beau should know—he was, after all, the one who had to attach exact numbers to the idea.
The fountain is a recent installation; most of the partygoers are not. Some of the new faces will become old in time, and some won't. He could bet on who's going to fall into which column, except no one, not even the most naive of the newcomers, is willing to wager against him. This is fine, he isn't actually a betting man, himself.
Beau winds around a pillar choked by a remarkably hale specimen of needlepoint ivy and stops just short of sloshing his untouched flute of wine. "Yejun? Aren't you supposed to be"—he swallows out fixing problems—"working?"
hands adjust and tug at the expensive suit he's been forced to wear for tonight's party — something about a dress code that even he couldn't get out of despite his many protests. he shoots a bothered look at the man beside him, letting out an soft groan. ''this is truly ridiculous, you know that? who the hell's this party for anyway?'' yejun starts as he continues to pull at his tie, voicing his complaints to mercy. he wasn't sure if the man was even listening to his hushed outbursts, not that he minded it much if he wasn't. still ... attending such an important event had its uses, too. there were some vaguely familiar faces he'd only seen once or twice before, powerful and influential figures that may loosen their tongues if they have one drink too many. yejun just needed to make sure that he was there if they started to spill some secrets — there were people out there counting on him for that after all. he turns as he catches sight of someone coming around the pillar, rolling his eyes as soon as he recognized who it was. ''believe it or not, even us rough elite guards get to attend fancy parties sometimes.'' yejun replies with a small yet insincere smile before his gaze shifts between the two men near him. not completely sure if they'd already met before. ''mercy, this is beau. one of hala's top analysts.''
Mercy is listening, but he doesn't think to show it. This has little to do with the panic-induced wine he ingested fourteen seconds after entering the party, heedless of Yejun’s puzzled look. If anything, the alcohol heightens his focus, which isn’t entirely positive. The crowd is too thin to hide in and yet full of too many faces to ignore. Everything smells of perfume and desperation— to be liked, to be listened to, to be noticed. The thought makes him feel a touch bad for ignoring Yejun. Lucky for Mercy, Yejun doesn’t seem to care, especially not for his suit. Here, they differ; Mercy was afforded the budget for a delicious, satiny suit, complete with jewelry and a matching pair of gloves. He is walking luxury and he adores it.
By the time Mercy turns to answer Yejun, it’s too late. Someone new chafes at the edges of their one-sided discussion. To Yejun’s casual, unmasked beneath his suit and tie, Beau, as he’s called, is the very picture of his name. There’s something literary about the way he carries himself. Mercy doesn’t recognize him, but he thinks he likes that he almost spilled his drink and the possibly good-natured dig at Yejun. In any case, Yejun’s smile says something. Mercy’s hand jumps out before his greeting.
“I’m M—” He stops, because Yejun already did that for him. His gaze darts somewhere around Beau’s cheekbone. Mercy clears his throat and lowers his hand. Silky palms skate over the front of his pants. Maybe he can blame this on the wine. Or hide behind Yejun's friendliness like he planned.
“I work with Yejun,” he decides to say, as if that isn’t obvious. “What do you, um, analyze?”
Beau doesn't say I analyze you, because that's rude, and he's aware that's rude, but it's still a near thing. Maybe he's more tired than he thought, maybe lingering past his alloted-for-politeness's-sake time frame hasn't been a great idea. He can't even blame the free-flowing alcohol—he's still nursing his original glass, now body-temperature tepid. He sips from it anyway and fails to completely hide a grimace. He'd say HALA could afford better, except they really can't.
"I'm a forensic accountant, mostly," he says, which may or may not tell them everything they need to know. Some of the guardians, in his infrequent but memorable experience, have heads carved out of cottonwood. He gestures with his glass of nasty toward the greenery trimmed into polite shapes around the room. "Sometimes I get drafted into predictive, though."
It's difficult not to notice that Mercy and Yejun are making opposite and yet related statements with their outfits: dressed to kill and killed by dress. Flexing their status, their indispensability, their freedom and their lack thereof. Beau feels decidedly average by comparison, neat but unremarkable. He can't pull off Mercy's sleek but flashy gloves and cape, can't get away with Yejun's one-button-too-many undone. Even with the inch-and-a-half boost Beau's heeled formal boots provide, he's still looking up into both of their faces. Once, he might have been bothered by this.
Flipping through the admittedly scant list of shared safe topics, he asks Yejun, "How is Nami doing? Has she gotten over her head cold?"
there's a soft chuckle as yejun catches the analyst's grimace, feeling a strange mix of amusement and dare he say it — relief at the sight of someone else not being particularly at their best tonight. he couldn't help but feel extremely out of place, hala's over the top luxurious party not really up to his taste and seeing mercy's indifferent attitude towards it all ... well, that wasn't entirely surprising to be honest. yejun could never really tell what he was thinking anyway, but it certainly didn't help with matters tonight. so, seeing another familiar face amongst the mostly pretentious crowd was welcome, even if that person turned out to be beau. he raises a brow at the younger man's question before he noticed a passing waiter, snatching himself a full glass of wine from a tray. ''nami's doing much better since then,'' he nodded, trying to recall the last time that they'd met at his aunt's small shop. it had taken her a little while to get over this illness and he'd been worried for her health but his sister and her frequent updates about life back home had thankfully kept him sane enough throughout this. ''she's even asked about you and when you're coming to visit next.'' yejun added, not quite sure why she'd bothered to concern herself with the accountant. maybe beau was one of her favorite customers? the woman was known for her odd tastes after all. taking a sip from his new glass of wine and relishing the slight burn down his throat, yejun turned to the man beside him. ''mercy, i've told you before about the shop my aunt runs, right? before you think he and i are all buddy-buddy and friends here — he just happens to stop by nami's shop quite often. apparently she has taken a liking to him, too ... can you believe that?''
Forensic accountant. Mercy reminds himself that this does not necessarily involve dead people and thus is not as salacious as it sounds. As it is, Beau doesn’t seem a salacious individual— not boring, but maybe not a minefield, either. He’s well-dressed, but that’s not where his personality lies, Mercy thinks. It’s in the way Beau’s nose wrinkles over a sip of slightly-too-warm wine. Mercy thinks it must be, anyway. Nobody interested in getting drunk leaves a glass of wine that full for long.
Mercy has observed Beau for what he knows is about three seconds too long when Yejun starts in on his aunt’s shop. It speaks of an easy connection that Mercy quietly envies. He only knows Nami's shop through the grapevine and Yejun's occasional mentions; Beau, however, has a rapport. It’s closer to friendship than Mercy’s gotten with... well, most people. He feels more like a well-dressed guard dog than anything— not much worth showing off to your family. Yejun is more the spunky but beloved family pooch. Mercy doesn’t even like dogs all that much.
“Yes, you’ve told me,” Mercy hears himself say, deadpan. His eyes track the passing tray of wine before returning to Beau and Yejun. "I can tell when you've visited. You smell grassy."
Was that rude? It might have been, if the flick of Beau's brow says anything. Mercy can't be sure if the brief lull is natural or not. He rushes to fill it, thumbing the edge of his cape at his hip. Its militant style feels like armor, even cut from silk and satin.
"Sometimes, at least. It's a little like vetiver. Not a bad scent. Usually you smell, um, inky."
He catches the edge of Beau's gaze again. Idly, Mercy wonders where he factors into his math, both in this moment and the next, and the next, and the next. The crowd seems even tighter with variables.
"I like perfume," he supplies. "I'm looking for a new supplier. My last one got in a fight with his tobacco grower."
Now he sounds like he's got a screw loose, and neither Beau nor Yejun has responded yet. Not that he gives them a chance to dwell. His spine stiffens in an effort to look more imposing. It probably works, but only to someone who hasn't heard him speak in the last five minutes. He sort of yearns for an explosion or something. Easier to barter with life and death than social currency.
Beau's pleased by the report on Nami's good health. He's less pleased by the tone in which the news is delivered. Being younger than average for his position was always going to come with backlash, but he hadn't been prepared for just how far afield he would encounter dismissive or even hostile attitudes.
He breathes through the burning offence, the way he breathes through Mercy's comments that only seem airy at a glance. Beau's used to people who recognize scents and who recognize patterns—both, together, is somehow enough to leave him wrong-footed long enough that he doesn't realize another guardian is drawing Yejun aside for a private word until it's already happening. Splish-splash, goes the fountain, merrily drowning every three in four syllables. Their expressions are the unhappy sort of stiff.
"Half the suppliers in the city suffering because of Dvorak's lies," Beau says to Mercy, and doesn't try to hide his distaste for the whole debacle. His arm itches a bit under his sleeve. Inky indeed. "I don't think Nami sells perfumes herself, but I'm sure she knows someone who hasn't been affected. Or are you looking for raw ingredients? Because I can introduce you to—"
yejun's a little taken aback by his colleague's sudden commentary on their particular ... smells? was that right? he feared he might've just misheard it altogether — if it wasn't for the fact that mercy doubled down onto the matter immediately after. they, or at least he, smelled grassy after paying his aunt a visit? and was that even a bad thing? he honestly couldn't tell from mercy's deadpan tone, the indifference with which the other male spoke often driving yejun up the damn wall.
he starts to ponder over this newfound knowledge, over whether or not he's supposed to pay attention to what he touches or brings back with him for his next visit to nami (or if he just needs to invest in a somewhat stronger cologne around his odd colleague) until something else in the distance catches his attention. pushing the accountant aside for a bit to see better, yejun sees a few guests scrambling around for their belongings, knocking over drinks as they rushed around to leave the party in a hurry. ''what's going on?'' he utters, feeling a sense of unease creeping in as he catches more and more people leaving in a now almost frantic haste. it doesn't take long before the panic reaches their little isolated circle of three, another guardian running over to pull him aside and inform him of the situation at hand. ''there's been an explosion not too far from here,'' the male starts, somewhat out of breath. '' ... and we suspect that it won't be the last. there have been sightings of unknown individuals in the building across from here. they're not sure of what or why it's happening so for now, the guardians have been tasked with getting these people to safety,'' giving yejun a nod, his colleague opts to leave. ''i suggest you both get to it, party's over.'' ignoring beau's ramblings as he makes his way back over, he leans in close to mercy — telling the other of what he's just heard himself. ''let's see how many we can get out of here before another goes off,'' he speaks in a hushed tone, voice a little bitter. after all, yejun's pretty damn certain of another explosion happening soon ... but why had they excluded him of these plans tonight? shouldn't he have been made aware of such grand messages to the elite, to help them all stay one step ahead? a pit forms in his stomach that he tries hard to ignore, mind going in all directions before realizing that now was not the time to dwell on such things. ''alright, let's get beau out of here first.''
Click. Mercy’s superfluous social module slides back to welcome the much preferred, much more adept combat package. There are far more variables now, but at least the dependent ones are more clear: life, death, or something in between that usually leads to death anyway. He’d been afraid this would happen, which is good, except it’s happening, which is bad. Lucky he didn’t have that second glass of wine. He becomes steel in a moment.
The rumble from the explosion had been weak but felt all the same. Mercy’s even weaker math supposes there’s something like a few thousand feet between them and the detonation devices, but who can be sure? He thinks Beau might know, but ironically, he isn’t the person to ask.
Mercy finds the exits— two near the south corridor, one by the punch— and nods. He’s not looking hard enough at Beau or Yejun to gauge their expressions, but can guess Yejun mirrors his own and Beau… does not. Oh, well. It’s getting him out of here alive that matters.
“Right. I don’t suppose we can fight a bomb.” This being code for I agree, let’s turn tail. No telling where the next explosion will be. A crowd seems like the best bet. He reaches for Beau, pinching the crook of his elbow. He looks a little green, but Mercy doesn’t begrudge him except for his attention.
“Can you run? Or should I carry you?” He asks. It’s not meant as a dig, probably chafes anyway. A passing couple skids past Mercy with not nearly enough care to avoid brushing his shoulder. He careens between Yejun and Beau, bracing himself against a shoulder each. The sound that leaves him is mostly exasperation.
“Whatever. Yejun, through the south corridor? Too much traffic by the drinks.” He’s already corralling Beau in that direction. They’ve wasted enough time getting their bearings.
Between one breath and the next, the pitch of the party sours before skewing up into something shrill enough that Beau temporarily cannot hear the twinkle of the fountain. And then he can't hear the fountain because he's being dragged away. His glass dashes apart on the stone floor, a crystalline eruption that's behind them before Beau can spare a moment to worry about injuring anyone.
A bomb? Here? No. Can't be. It goes so far beyond any conceivable wastefulness—
"You— What? No, you don't have to— I'm fine." Keeping up isn't the problem, it's all the people going almost but not quite the same directions as them. Mercy's hand is heavy, heavier still, shoving, and Beau trips over another person traveling at an oblique angle. They go down; Beau doesn't, but only thanks to Mercy's hand, and it's Mercy's hand that prevents him from turning back to see if they're okay.
There are other guardians, he reassures himself, they'll help the other people escape from—from whatever's happening.
"Where," he asks between every other bone-jarring footfall, adrenaline soaring like gulls, "exactly are we going?"
adrenaline spikes, the familiar rush being enough to put him back into gear — into guard mode. he's agreeing with mercy as his gaze locks onto the smarter exit, following the other guard and beau towards the south corridor. the panic of the crowd was hard to dash through in a hurry, lagging behind the other two a bit at times to help the other guests up from the floor after a hard fall. yejun had full faith in mercy's capabilities, they may not have been the best of friends but they seemed to match well when it came to all things combat — having worked alongside each other for quite some time now. he knew that if it came right down to it, that the analyst was safe in the other's hands as well. so, maybe he could ... ? thoughts continue to swirl in his head, how frustrated he was at the situation at hand. how unsure he was of what kind of plans they had set in motion tonight, and why he was left out it completely. he's itching to get his answers, to demand why he was thrown into this chaos the same way they had others. he's nearly hesitant to follow his colleague, wanting nothing more than to demand these answers from the rebellion group right away but safety was a first priority. he knew this and despite how bothered he was by the knowledge of having possibly been misled by the very group he's supposed to work alongside with, his training surely didn't let him forget. safety first, anything else came later. ''somewhere safe,'' is all yejun tells the other. beau doesn't need to know the details, not right at this very moment while they're still far from any kind of safe place. ''mercy, you have any bright ideas on which place would be best to stash him at? preferably far from these buildings.'' it's a genuine question that falls from his lips, looking at the other briefly when they finally reached that south corridor exit, opening the door to a deep stairwell. after all, two heads are better than one and he trusted mercy to know where to go next.
This is one situation in which Mercy doesn't question another person's faith in his abilities. Possibly the only situation. His mind and body are an autonomous network, guiding them through the smoky crowd. Some part of him registers the man Beau mows down, but that part doesn't necessarily care. He'll be fine. No sense in getting trampled in an effort to check on him.
"Out," Mercy tells Yejun as he steers Beau away from an overturned vase, lest he asks the flowers how they're doing. His grip is maybe a little tight. "Home. We should take him home."
Out first, then they can escort him home. Beau can't live too far from here— even if he does, better to find shelter that isn't here. Fish in a barrel. Mercy does not want to be a fish. He doesn't even like fish. That much Mercy is sure of, and Yejun seems sure of very little. Chaos does that to a person. Usually.
A hard left brings them to a dark, musty stairwell, thick with the stink of high traffic and low care. Top notes of dust and mildew, middling of oil, and a salty base. It's eerily quiet save for the hiss of an overhead light. Mercy steers Beau toward the steps before remembering to announce his intentions.
"Down," he says stupidly. The ensuing eye roll is for him alone. "This will take us down and out. Should be a quick exit."
Beau moves, and so does Yejun, and so does Mercy, their footsteps like rain on a tin roof. It's not a long trip down. Mercy's head doesn't have a chance to catch up with his autonomic nervous system before they edge toward the last of four flights. He finally releases Beau's arm now that he can remember to, sandwiching him between he and Yejun.
Not a long trip down at all, but perhaps long enough for the light's idle noises to quiet instead of increase. Curious. Mercy follows after the other two, the sounds in his periphery. Nagging. When they're down the last flight, Yejun looks back for a head count. Second-nature and good discipline even if there's only three of them.
All three are fine, and Yejun opens the door. The door is open and the sound still hasn't quieted. Mercy's hair stands on end and he very suddenly wants out of this briefly safe respite. He can't even hear the crowd now; all he registers is that insect-like hum. Probably a light makes that sound. A large, old light. He wishes he knew when this building was erected.
It could be in his head, he decides, as Yejun introduces them to the outside once again and cool air beckons them. Except Beau looks confused and Yejun is perturbed— that much Mercy can read as he all but shoves them out of the corridor. He doesn't like the way his heart rate surges. The door clangs shut and they should be safe but buzzing, humming, hissing, and— Fifty feet from the entrance. They're well away from it, almost enough to be safe, and Mercy spots a nondescript package over his shoulder.
"Fuck." He should've thought of that.
He's lucky it doesn't detonate until after he tackles Beau and Yejun behind a trash barrel. Not so lucky is the flying of shrapnel and the heat singing the edges of his pretty coat.
His ears roar.
It's been years, a decade or more, since Beau was last flattened under the full weight of a body larger than his own. He can't say he misses it. Breathing's rather nice. He misses breathing. His chin hurts, a bright kind of pain that somehow seems more real and important than the—the explosion? They almost died? They might still die. Pathetic way to go, trapped beneath a bad-tempered slab of muscle.
It's very loud, a crush of noise he cannot comprehend, and then it goes quiet, mostly. Mercy's breathing hot against the back of Beau's neck, not fast enough for panic or even strain, but not steady either. If something isn't wrong, it certainly isn't right. Not his problem right now.
"You weigh," he gasps with most of his remaining air, "as much as three of my siblings."
