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Lambert returns to the bar and tries again. Another part of Architect!Bert and Barman!skel. Part 1.

CW: mutism, Lam-butt is cringe.

Lambert had a late conference call with a contractor in Japan the following evening and grabbed a pot of noodles from the takeaway on his way home. He told himself it was easier than going out of his way for his usual dinner at this time of night, and the bar would be crowded by drunks anyway, and his reluctance to go was absolutely nothing to do with making a tit out of himself in front of the new barman. The noodles ended up cold and in the bin, and his mind wandered away from the schematics on his desk to the mental schematics of a broad shouldered, scarred hunk of hotness.

Fixations weren't anything new. Lambert was used to them. From the six months in secondary school when he had become obsessed with jazz music to the point Vesemir caught him planning to shoplift a saxophone, to the year he raided religiously on World of Warcraft every night to the detriment of his social life. His brain craved dopamine and latched onto anything that could provide it. Eskel was a big, handsome shot of it; novel, interesting. Like a fucking laser pen to a tomcat. It would pass.

Lambert’s next two trips to the bar went much the same as the first, but without the foot-in-mouth moment of being an absolute prick to someone who definitely didn’t deserve it. Lambert watched Eskel work, desperate to talk, but too worried about being a dick again to open his stupid mouth. Aiden ribbed him for it out of Eskel’s earshot, muttering something about steak and thirst, or—an attempt at wit and humour that left Lambert scowling, his skin prickling with a deep awareness of being in Eskel’s presence. He couldn’t explain it. It was more than the pleasant hum caused by a good saxophone solo.

There was an irritating air of mystery around Eskel. That was it. Lambert could see the intelligence and character lurking behind his eyes, like a lion napping in the sun, fierce and sharp but happy to bask lazily as the antelope gallivanted around it. The sun. Yeah, those eyes, not quite the piercing white yellow of the sun, more a deep, honey-gold that reminded Lambert of the foil packets that came with expensive coffee; the kind that made you feel warm and comfortable on your cushioned window seat while it poured with rain outside. And Lambert would have sworn blind he could hear Eskel humming sometimes; a low, soft rumble carrying a familiar tune, but barely audible beneath the bass of the bar’s music system.

Even while he was at work, Lambert’s mind kept drifting to Eskel. During one particularly laborious meeting, he ended up sketching a quick outline of Eskel’s face at the corner of his designs before he even realised what was happening. He scrunched it up, threw it in the bin, only to extract it for his portfolio before he left for the bar that night. It was a good likeness and—just shut the fuck up and stop judging him, alright?

Eskel was working that night, of course, and greeted Lambert with a wave of the hand. Lambert’s whiskey was on the bar before his arse found the stool, and he cleared his throat. “Hey, Eskel, I… uh. I think we started off on the wrong foot. I’m… what I said, that wasn’t… that wasn’t… cricket.”

There were those glittering eyes again. Glittering. Yeah, that was amusement. Lambert hid his scowl with a swig of whiskey and prodded the beer mat in front of him. His mac and cheese arrived within fifteen minutes, the bacon still sizzling on the surface, and he tried again. “This is weird for me, alright? Sal and I, we used to chat shit all night. He was a blockhead, but he was good company. He knew stuff, you know? Kind of stuff you only learn—” Lambert waved his hand vaguely at the door, “—out there.”

Eskel’s gaze dropped briefly, and Lambert was worried he’d managed to upset him, for real this time. When Eskel looked up, he tilted his head in apology. Lambert chewed on the inside of his cheek, which seemed to prompt a flash of inspiration. He leaned down from the stool, arse cheek balancing precariously on the edge, and yanked his notebook free. “How about writing? You can write, ye—? You know, forget I just asked that.” Lambert felt his ears warm, but Eskel didn’t seem to be offended. The same soft shine, the head tilt. He reached for the pencil that Lambert had placed beside the pad, and wrote two words, ‘Sounds good.’

Lambert grinned. “I’m… uh, Lambert. I shoulda introduced myself earlier, but… you already knew my dinner order, most interesting thing about me, really—the dinner part.”

Eskel looked thoughtful before he plucked up the pencil again and scratched a question. ‘What’re the drawings for?’

“Boring shit,” Lambert murmured, nudging the tightly bound scrolls with his toe. “I’m an architect. Residential. You know, houses, flats.” Of course, he fucking knew what residential meant. Lambert felt the heat under his collar again and took another fortifying sip of whiskey.

‘Can I see?’

“You want to see a bunch of angles and pencil scratches?”

‘Yes. Don’t have to if you’re shy.’

“I’m not fucking—all right, move the bowl—”

Lambert stooped down to snatch up the first scroll he came to and then hesitated… his passion project was a mere inch to the left. And that was the most impressive, wasn’t it? Eskel didn’t need to know that no business in their right mind would fund something so extravagant for the poorest in society. It was an easy flex. Lambert tugged the scroll free and unfurled it on the bar. He weighted the edges down with his bowl and half-drunk tumbler of whiskey and glanced up at Eskel for his reaction.

Usually, people puffed their cheeks out in confusion at the architectural scribbles and mumbled some vague comment of appreciation. But Eskel examined it for a long moment, head tilting to and fro. When he picked up the pencil, Lambert held his breath as if awaiting the verdict of a shareholder, and—

‘Reminds me of the KAEC.’

Lambert’s jaw metaphorically hit the bar. “You know about the KAEC?”

‘I’ve been there.’

The KAEC—or King Abdullah Economic City—was an architect’s paradise. A complete flop, of course. With a target population of two million by 2035, it was currently a ghost town of just seven thousand. But it was meant to be one of five sustainable mega cities built in Saudi Arabia, aimed at placing the country in the top ten investment destinations. It was the kind of sprawling vision that could manifest when money was no issue, with some of the most cutting-edge structural designs and engineering in the business. It had been Lambert’s dream to go and visit, but the company kept him busy, and he used his holiday to go look after the old man, you know. He’d get there, eventually… “Really?” Lambert croaked.

‘Yeah. About 10 years ago.’

“Why—? How—? What did it look like?”

‘Big.’

Eskel didn’t smile with his mouth, but the way his eyes shone like that, Lambert knew he was being grinned at. Lambert huffed and folded his arms across his chest, his own eyes narrowed.

Eskel wrote again, ‘Sorry. It was quite something—‘ he tore the page off to start another, ‘—I’ll bring some photos next shift’.

Lambert’s lips quirked in one corner. The first glimmer of a smile. “Sounds good. You know, I think I’ll treat myself to a dessert. One of those tall, chocolate-y fuckers that’ll give me early onset diabetes.”

‘One tall chocolate fucker coming up.’

Turned out that Eskel couldn’t only make a good mac and cheese, pour a good Godfather, but he could also make an absolutely cracking sundae

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