I'm so-rry

Multiship. Contains NSFW and sensitive topics.

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  Oddly enough, Mike felt a little sorry as well, though why was anyone’s guess. All of this had been meant as a distraction, a way to stop Blackmore from dwelling on what was bothering him and see him returned to good form. That’s how it had started, at least. Now, he experienced a small pang of regret, not over bringing his colleague home, over… not being able to deliver, maybe. All that could be made out of the flower was that it was there, a patch of pale petals under falling darkness, shapeless and vague.

  “Don’t mention it,” Mike made a soft attempt to assuage both of their worries, although his smile was likely even more lost in the gloom than the flower was. Unless he showed teeth, he did have a tendency to blend into the twilight, or so he’d been told. Going off that logic, he might scare someone half to death if he did, no one would feel comforted by a floating mouth beaming their way. “It’d be too much to ask from you or the president for you to lay down your duties before they’re done. The flower’s not important, it’ll still be here the next time—”

  His hallway was only marginally less dim, yet with the door shut behind them, the sharp intake of breath with which Mike cut himself off must have sounded as loud as an engine’s roar. Next time. Well, he wasn’t opposed to there being one, he’d just been awfully presumptuous. For all Blackmore knew, he was doing his colleague a favor, that was all. How pleasant their chat on the way had been didn’t change that, nor did Mike’s overenthusiastic, jumbled emotions. They were selfish and in the mind of some perhaps even unnatural. Closely held unless he could be certain that his overtures weren’t in vain, after much subtle probing and doubletalk.

  Nothing he could simply ask Blackmore about. That he didn’t judge Mike on is skin tone was a blessing, one he wouldn’t throw away by giving him a different aspect he might be disgusted by.

  “Behind the door.” Mulling over the risks of becoming too attached, he answered in the shortest possible way, voice low quiet and slightly distracted. He came to from it when he realized he was staring at a door — the one leading into his living room, behind which coats did not go unless his colleague was asking for a recliner to hang his over.

  “This one, let me show you.” To reach the door in question, he had to politely squeeze himself past the assassin, his efforts at not touching him practically non-existent. Hope was persistent and what Blackmore didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. It was juvenile and selfish and a little sad if he was fully honest, as well as being more tempting than the devil himself.

  Benevolently looming, he turned the knob and revealed a tight little space, no more than a cramped, undecorated alcove with a row of hooks at the back. An unorthodox bit of architecture to close it off to be sure. Who would be so offended by the sight of jackets and cloaks that they’d need to hide it behind a slab of oak?

  A few of the pegs were already taken up by his winter coat and a collection of scarves piled thickly together to drape listlessly. One more now contained his jacket for lighter weather, the air of his house chilly now that he was no longer wearing it. He moved smoothly to stand behind his colleague, reaching for his shoulders and stopping short, remembering himself before he placed them on his shoulders. Maybe it was just how Blackmore seemed to drown in the dark folds, but he looked lost and a little hopeless, in need of assistance that Mike would be glad to provide. “May I take your coat?”

  The feeling of Mike's body brushing against his own, however faint and coincidental it was, made him suppress a small shiver of delight. It was inappropriate to feel such a way towards a colleague, not to mention a newly declared friend, but Blackmore couldn't help himself. There was simply something about the way the other man carried himself, the deep baritone of his voice, and that smile. That smile was breathtaking, no matter if it was a beaming grin or a tentative quirk of his full lips.

  He was pulled from his reverie by Mike's voice and the feeling of hands placed on his shoulders. Ah, he hadn't even noticed. After a small moment of thought, he realized Mike must have approached slowly and gently placed them there. It was... nice. Nice to not flinch at the touch of someone he liked, forgetting himself and almost leaning into the touch before he responded. “Ah, it's... it's quite alright, Mike. You're already providing dinner, the least I could do is put my own coat away.”

  Glancing at Mike, he gave him a warm smile before raising his own hand up to his shoulder and gently brushing the taller man's hand away. It wasn't at all unkind or meant to offend, it was more like he was softly pushing Mike's hand aside to take off his coat rather than simply brushing him off or ignoring the hand was even there.

  Once his shoulders were free, he shrugged off his coat and took it into his hands, giving it a firm shake out of habit before placing it on the peg next to Mike's winter coat, fingers brushing against it as he pulled his hands back. His coat looked... well, it looked nice, hanging there next to Mike's. The sight filled him with a warm feeling, his gaze softening slightly. If he was lucky, it would hang there many more times during his future visits.

  He hadn't missed what Mike had said earlier, that there would be a 'next time'. He was glad, not only because of the flower, but because he truly did enjoy spending time with the other man, feeling surprisingly at ease and comfortable at his side. Even if 'next time' only meant until he could identify the flower, he would be thankful for the extra time he got to spend at his side. 

  “However... Don't think this means I don't owe you. Hanging my own coat is hardly enough to repay you for dinner, I'll have to think of something to bring next time I'm over... That is, of course, if you'll have me?” Blackmore spoke with a joking tone, poking a small bit of fun at the exchange of dishes that had been going on between them for a while. It did taper off a bit at the end of his sentence, turning shy and a bit hopeful as his smile gained a nervous edge to it. “I, um... forgive me for saying this, but I do like spending time with you, even if all we've really done is exchange food with each other-- Which I still enjoy! But I'd... well, I'd like the chance to talk to you more.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  That made two of them, no wonder they’d never met. Similar to his companion, Funny wasn’t inclined to wander either unless he’d read a singularly stellar review of a new venue, or — as it had turned out — was in the mood for a movie. Candice's… the name alone sounded like the sort of place had had opened sometime during the 40’s or 50’s and hadn’t changed much since. To Funny, that was no issue, maybe it was just his age catching up to him, but things changed too fast nowadays. When he visited his hometown there were times he hardly recognized it even the streets he’d played on as a child.

  In short, it sounded like the kind of hole in the wall he would find comforting, a throwback to simpler times. Good pie, good coffee and good service. On the latter, he had made up his mind in Layne’s case, it was quite possible he could drop a hot cup of the aforementioned coffee in his lap and he’d give no indication otherwise. The things one does for companionship. “I’ll be sure to drop by one day soon,” he reassured the young man, making a mental note of the name. The directions weren’t all that precise, but a bit of driving around and a few attempts to appease his over-complicated phone should set him right. “It’s been far too long since I’ve had a pie fresh out of the oven, getting up early would be a small sacrifice. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Yet not as much as he was looking forward to a stiff drink now that he could see the bar and the bottles lined up row after row like a mosaic from an alcoholic’s dream. That was currently the only thing in this facetiously rustic establishment he had any liking for apart for the absolute prize fidgeting by his side. Funny nodded magnanimously, putting a little extra flourish on his gesture to follow. “Then that is what we’ll do. Do let me know if you change your mind, the selection seems to be more than generous here.”

  That impression didn’t change from up close the bottles familiar and unfamiliar filling the wall from waist to ceiling. The bartender paused his rather bored-looking wiping down of the counter as they approached, part of the few lone drinkers on a weekday night. Funny greeted him with a light “Good evening” before asking him to wait a moment and taking in the bevy of choices.

  Granted, he wasn’t an adventurous imbiber, sticking to the tried and true unless a glass of unknown substance as put in front of him. For all its flaws, at least this place had the decency to stock Angel’s Envy, though a few of the other amber bottles looked somewhat intriguing. That’d be his, then. Next vodka, that also didn’t appear to be a problem, some bottles of it domestic, the other tempting curiosity with their illegible Cyrillic lettering. They should have no trouble finding what they were after.

  Therefore, it came as rather a surprise that what his mouth said was “Tequila.”

  In the few moments it took for his brain to catch up, all he could think was why? He absolutely dreaded the stuff, it tasted only slightly better than turpentine, for Christ’s sake! Trying to cover it up with lime only served to make his stomach even more acidic and did very little about the actual taste. So why oh why had he just ordered tequila? It got you drunk, he’d give it that. It got you drunk and it was fun while you were young enough not to think of the raging hangover you’’d have the next day. Ah, that was it then.

  As he’d dug himself a hole already, he continued the charade, slapping a few bills onto the bar. An unknown amount and likely far too extravagant, but having come this far he might as well play the big spender. “Keep it coming, we’ll be…” He craned his neck, picking their seats based wholly on privacy. “We’ll be in the corner there. Consider what we don’t end up drinking your tip. Thank you.”

  Layne idly stood there at the bar, fingers tapping rhythmically against it as he waited for Funny to make a decision. He was sure he would pick something good... he was, after all, the one who had offered to buy him a drink, right? It just felt right to let the other man choose what it was, however strange it may end up being.

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he heard the word 'tequila' fall from Funny's mouth, giving him a shocked yet mildly impressed look. “Tequila?” He said, his voice almost betraying him and it took a moment before he was able to speak again. “Well, that's, uh... quite the surprise. I didn't take you for the shots type.” A small laugh bubbled up inside of him, equal parts nervous and excited. “It's been, um... a long time since I've done shots. I hope you'll forgive me for being out of practice.”

  Pushing himself up off the bar, he began heading for the seats that Funny had chosen, which he had no objections to. In a corner, away from people, a spot that he would've chosen if he were on his own so people wouldn't bother him. He silently thanked Funny for choosing it because, despite the significant lack of patrons in the bar, he'd still rather avoid socializing with anyone but the person he had come here with. 

  He sat down, letting out a small sigh as he did so and propped his elbow up on the table, mimicking his position from when he was at the bar, fingers resuming their idle tapping. “So, uh. Funny... When did you learn to play the violin? I've always really liked it and I did want to learn to play at one point, but between hockey and... other things, I never had the time.” A soft grin spread across as he reminisced on his first time hearing the instrument. He couldn't remember much about it, only that it sounded even more stunning than it looked. 

  “It's such a pretty instrument, isn't it? The deep color, the elegant shape, and not to mention the sound! Four strings but capable of so many gorgeous sounds it's..... I, uh, so-rry. I just really like the violin.” His cheeks flushed red the moment he realized he was rambling about such a boring topic, a look of embarrassment taking place of the passionate smile he once had.

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  Normally, talking to Blackmore was the easiest thing it in the world to him. The earliest conversations had been rather one-sided, Blackmore answering when asked a direct question and letting Mike do the talking otherwise. Slowly the assassin had opened up to a degree, adding small comments here and there, anxious advice or timid observations. There hadn’t been these awkward silences fraught with ill-defined danger that made Mike think thrice before he said anything… or not think at all.

  Even cooking was a risky subject despite being one of the reasons their friendship had blossomed. The eating of it, the sharing of it and the exchange of it, the latter of which seemed to disturb Blackmore slightly. Mike’s mouth opened to deny any sense of obligation and shut, lips pressing together for a long, rumbling hum. Truth be told, he did feel some requirement to, or something akin to it. The feeling was a mishmash of different sources; hospitality was one even outside of his own home. Someone did you a good turn, you did them one in return.

  The other ingredients were more complicated to lay out so neatly. There was no need for him to feel beholden to the assassin for a shared lunch or a loaf of bread and yet he did. Somewhere along the line, he’d started compartmentalizing his life away into a system of checks and balances, carefully monitoring how he had benefited and how it must be repaid. A routine in his brain that ran over and over, convincing him that debt detracted from his worth or somehow granted the debtor a strange form of… ownership.

  None of which he could share with Blackmore. Besides knowing it was there, he could hardly explain the reasoning to himself.

  “I always make too much,” he replied guardedly, idle hands slipping into his pockets. That was a truth, but not the truth. The truth was that he made too much so he wouldn’t have to prepare anything for the next day; a quick slice fried corn pone for breakfast, a bit of everything for lunch and the rest of it for dinner. “I don’t mind, it’s good to see you enjoying the world of my cooking and—” He risked another shoulder bump then, paired with a jocular smile. “—I think you enjoy it more than I do. The least I can do for the food is give it to someone who appreciates it.”

  The smile fell immediately at Blackmore’s next remark. He didn’t talk too much, not at all. This may be the most Mike had ever heard the assassin talk and, for the most part, it was as pleasant as a spring day in Savannah. He wasn’t surprised about his faraway ambitions to be a baker in the slightest the only thing that disturbed him was the concept of ‘a kinder world’. Good that Blackmore could imagine one, Mike could not. In a kinder world, he wouldn’t be here, he wouldn’t be him. He’d be Mike Newman and that threw up a fresh set of problems. Would he or would he be a completely different Mike, one with yet another last name that was even farther removed from him than his previous identity?

  “You’d make a great baker, I’m sure.” He couldn’t quite look his colleague in the eye, the issue of his identity an oddly shameful one. He knew who he was with full certainty and it was someone who could only exist in the unkind world that was their reality. A person who was almost completely fabricated, a mask that had sunk into his skin and now he couldn’t remove. Worse, he suspected there was no mask at all and there had never been, the stark divide between his personas the true fabrication.

  “A kinder world… let’s continue to work for that. It’s close now, all we have to do is support the president.” Mike bent low to all but whisper those sentences into Blackmore’s ear. They were lucky and the coach had not arrived yet, the small sign that indicated the stop a huddle of people in various states of impatience. They didn’t remain in that state for long, the horse tram turning the corner even before Mike had had a chance to come to a full stop.

  Before long his feet were on the ladder leading up to the driver and he’d paid for two to the Naval Yard. A seat on one of the plain wooden benches inside, chosen so he wouldn’t be too close to anyone. Except Blackmore, he stuck to him like glue, his nervousness making him seem more out of place than a negro. An odd pair, they made. One that the other passengers would rather leave alone from the looks of it, the gap to either side of them never getting filled regardless of how many passengers the tram took on.

  From the stop where they got off it was only a short stroll across the river, a habitual feeling of diffuse pride welling up in Mike when he first spotted Cedar Hill looming over the neighborhood like a guardian angel. A kinder world… perhaps the bold made themselves one.

  It couldn’t be seen from Mike’s steps, the row of similar townhouses blocking it from view, though it may well be the darkness. The flower that had started all this was a mere bright blur in the gloom and Mike breathed a disappointed sigh. “Looks like we can’t do much about this unless we get a lantern out. Come in, it’s not going to get any lighter if we keep standing around, we may as well have dinner first.”

  Not only had Mike graced him with a gentle brush of their shoulders and a smile, but that compliment... You'd make a great baker. It rang in his head, bringing an even wider grin to his face as he idly picked at a loose thread that he'd inevitably have to fix once he was back home. Thinking of yourself as a good baker was one thing, but hearing someone else say it... especially Mike... Good God, it made his heart flutter as if it was going to fly straight out of his chest.

  Which was not at all helped by the way that Mike had leaned down and whispered into his ear, the deep rumble of his friend's voice sending a delighted shiver down his spine and forcing the heat to his cheeks once again, leaving them a light shade of pink as he nodded wordlessly in agreement.

  He followed Mike in a way that was akin to the way a duckling followed its mother, sticking close to him despite his mind telling himself to put at least a little bit of distance between them. Reason, however, would always lose to his own anxious fretting in these situations, staying strictly by Mike's side in an attempt to calm himself down somewhat even as their arms occasionally bumped against one another. Ah, that was calming his nerves while also doing nothing to lessen the redness of his cheeks.

  It was both a blessing and a curse when they finally arrived at their stop, Blackmore almost immediately missing the contact between them but also thankful that his cheeks were finally cooling down after staying red for an embarrassingly long time. The sights around them both helped somewhat, Blackmore taking his a breath before letting it out in a slow sigh. It was rather nice. Maybe he would've like to live here had he known it existed. 

  Blackmore did indeed spot the faint blur of the flower, squinting in an attempt to see it better in the darkness that surrounded them. “Ah... you're right. I can't see it well enough to know for certain what kind of flower it is, so-rry.” It was a genuine apology. Had he not been late to their meeting they could've arrived a lot sooner than they did, guilt building in the pit of his stomach. “...Dinner does sound rather nice, thank you... I'm so-rry again for making us late.” Another genuine apology, feeling as if the first one wasn't clear enough. Two should do it. For now.

  As Mike unlocked the door, Blackmore had already begun unbuttoning the front of his coat. As much as he loved it, the billowy folds hiding what he did not want others and even himself to see, it could be a bit of a pain to get out of, especially with the way his nervous fingers were fumbling with the buttons. By the time he had finished, he was standing still in front of an open door, his hood pulled down and his coat hanging open in a way that looked almost as awkward as he felt. Almost. “I... Uh, I'm... Do you have somewhere I can put my coat? It was getting, um, rather... warm.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  As Funny had no particular expectations of Layne occupying any grand position — or any care — the only thing that was of any surprise was his age. Nearly 30. He certainly didn’t look it, the lucky devil could have passed for a decade younger than that. Not that Funny had any complaints about his own appearance, though any facade of youthfulness had fully evaporated over the years. All in all, Layne still had 14 years on him. Not a small amount, but certainly better than being caught attempting to seduce some barely legal twink. The catch of course being that getting caught in the ‘company’ of another man would do his career no good at all.

  If things were even headed that way. While Layne’s nerves were easy to read as a 12 story book written in titanic letters, his actual interest in more than a drink and a chat were still unclear. Funny had his suspicions, but just like the endearingly  awkward joke, how long he’d held onto his hand could be no more than the young man’s way of expressing friendliness. Even so, it got a honest-to-god smile, warm and open; not for the joke landing, but rather the delivery. Though it contained none of the uncertain pauses of the short run-down of Layne’s life, how hard he was trying to be amusing was crystal clear. Funny would be lying if he said all the effort wasn’t extremely gratifying.

  “As long as you don’t expect a performance worth of a virtuoso master, I have no objections to playing for you,” he accepted the timid suggestion graciously. Oh yes, he’d be delighted, as much as he was about being spared the trouble of finding an excuse to invite Layne into his home himself. For this one, however, he’d need a little time. If not for the maid coming around, the violin case would have been positively interred in a tomb of dust, he hadn’t played regularly since… Well, there was little point playing without an audience, let’s keep it at that. “If you want to hear the violin played well, we should choose a different venue.”

  And that would take care of any embarrassment in finding a diplomatic way of asking the lad out should tonight prove less than productive. Quite pleased with his cunning, Funny threw Layne a glance out of the corner of his eyes, head thrown back haughtily and golden curls flowing freely over his shoulders, glowing in the streetlights. “But before that, could I convince you to tell me where your mother’s diner is located? I must say you’ve made it sound like a hidden gem I have been unaware of all this time. One can’t throw a stone without it crashing through the window of a fine dining establishment in this town, but their selection of baked good tends to be lacking and I have somewhat of a weakness for them, I confess.”

  From up close, the bar looked no less garish than it did when he passed by, but as long as they served passable whisky, Funny would have no complaints. He’d have even less after a few glasses of it, amazing how even cheap liquor got better the more you drank of it. The lighting inside was a little too bright for his tastes, but alas, the time when bars were dimly lit affairs inviting intimacy seemed to have passed. Likely millennials were to blame for this state of affairs. Regardless, the proximity to alcohol was enough to inspire a great amount of good cheer along with the pleasant company. “What’s your poison, Layne? I can take care of the order if you’d care to find us a table. Unless you’d prefer accompanying me to the bar?”

  There seemed to be a new spark of interest and hope in his eyes when Funny agreed to play for him, his gaze softening into something more relaxed than before. He wasn't entirely sure why, but the fact that both his attempted 'joke' landed and Funny's willingness to share his violin playing put him at ease. Maybe it was because it made the other man seem less intimidating, the smile that graced his lips warming Layne from the inside out.

  “Actually, it's... not too far from here? I usually stay around this area, whether I'm working or not, I enjoy the atmosphere... That being said, it's a couple of blocks...” he thought for a moment, making sure he was correct before pointing in the general direction of the diner. “...that way. It's rather, uh, small and easy to miss, but we do pride ourselves on serving high-quality dishes, even if they are more on the simple side... You should be able to find it if you look for a window with the name Candice's painted on it in cursive.”

  Layne gave Funny a certain look that seemed equal parts mischievous and anxious, as if he was about to tell Funny some great secret yet was unsure of himself. That secret, however, was just a tip on how to get the best pie. How scandalous. “...I'd recommend the apple pie. I make them fresh each morning so it's best to get there early so they taste their best... just a small tip.”

  He'd walked by this very same bar many times, but never found a reason to enter. His reasons ranged from not wanting to deal with a hangover at work to drinking alone just sounding extremely lonely. Even if he didn't have work the next day and he was going to be drinking with a newfound friend... No, not friend. Acquaintance. They weren't friends just yet. Even if he was drinking with a newfound acquaintance, he still felt a tug of reluctance from deep inside of himself. Enough of that. It wouldn't go away but it would get easier to ignore after a few drinks.

  Drinks which he was still deciding on. “I'll, um... I'll come with you. I still haven't decided what I'll be drinking tonight. It's been a while and I can't make up my mind at the moment.” He gave Funny a soft grin, rubbing at the back of his neck almost like he was embarrassed. Which he absolutely was. And while he was telling the truth about not deciding on a drink yet, he had decided that it would be much safer if he tagged along. Funny was friendly and kind to him so far, but one could never be too careful, especially in this day and age.

  His thoughts occupied him as he leaned against the bar, supporting his chin with his hand as he tried to decide before glancing at Funny. “....Maybe a vodka soda? But that's what I would, uhm, usually drink in this situation... how about you choose for me, Funny? I'm sure you'll pick something good.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  Any dismay about saying too much was hard to muster when the compassionate hand on his shoulder felt like it smoldered through shirt and jacket, much too warm for not only Blackmore’s chilly temperature but any human body. By all rights, it should be a reminder not to let emotion pull him in the much too familiar direction he was heading, but regardless shoulders he hadn’t realized were guardedly tense fell slack under the heat. “It’s not a world you should thank me for,” he muttered gently, staring straight ahead for fear of what he might see if he looked back at his colleague. Of what he might feel. “It’s only something I happen to know. I couldn’t tell you where I got it from in the first place.”

  What more could he say? Being tongue-tied was not a problem he encountered often, the stellar if unorthodox education he’d received had honed his mind to an efficient one, always ready to supply an answer or suggestion. It was failing him, dwelling instead on things unwise to consider. Blackmore had been on his mind often since they’d started taking lunches together, and not always in a manner as harmless as deciding what he might enjoy sharing the next day. It was… troubling to view a colleague with such inordinate approval. The risk was too high, there was too much at stake for him to give in to foolishness now.

  Perhaps after… If there would be an ‘after’ for either of them. That had never bothered him before, but he couldn’t deny the sneaky pang of regret he felt at that now.

  Blackmore’s innocent compliment didn’t make it any easier, Mike’s mouth falling open in stupefied glee. It shut in rueful realization. That… hadn’t been a sentiment casually shared between two men with only a amiable interest, but it wouldn’t be the first time the assassin had said something that might be construed as a little unusual. When he experienced any sort of mental stress or uncertainty, his mouth often got ahead of him, Mike had noticed. It wasn’t anything he disliked, but it meant dicining anything was nearly impossible.

  “Thank you,” he said, a small bit of that wistfulness bleeding into his voice. There was nothing to find out, nothing he should find out or even consider finding out. The odds that Blackmore had an interest in men that some might call peculiar was low, the odds that he’d find Mike attractive even lower. As the one that preached cooperation within their growing band of mercenaries, dashing any chance of it by pursuing a misguided fantasy he should have outgrown was nothing short of hypocrisy. He’d let go of so many things before, he’d let go of this. The saudade would haunt him, but he would accept the bitter with the sweet.

  The silence was deafening, their soles hitting the pavement like thunder, but nothing he could think to say sounded appropriate under the microscope of self-criticism. Once again it was Blackmore who broke the hush, once again the joy returned with an irrepressible smile in the face of a small kindness. “I’d like that very much.”

  This time, he did look over to take in the anxious look he often found himself so driven to ease. Only for reasons of synergy, he’d told himself. Only because it would make work smoother, would make it easier to attain the President’s goals, he still told himself that, even though he knew that wasn’t the entire truth. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you, the world of cooking I was taught was very… Southern. Amounts are judged by eye and feeling, a pinch of this and a bit of that until it’s just right. It might be easier if you just watched me cook.”

  When the smile returned to Mike's face, Blackmore felt warmth bloom through his chest, his nervous smile growing a bit in return. As strange as this day had been, from the halting conversations about family and friends to the pleasant chatter about cooking, he had smiled more times than he could count. It had definitely been more than the weeks before, where any joy he felt was fleeting and left him feeling empty after it had passed, not given enough time for a smile to spread across his face.

  Even the nervous and unsure smiles he'd give Mike were sincere, his entire expression softening from gloomy to something more akin to calmness. It was a strange look on someone who seemed perpetually in a state of melancholy, but it was still pleasant. 

  “That's how all cooking should be, Mike. You cook your food to your tastes, the recipe is merely a guide to put you in the right direction... Of course, baking is more exact and the recipe should be followed strictly, but measurements while cooking meals should be done by eye. Or heart, whichever term you prefer.” He felt surprisingly at ease as he spoke, words flowing freely and rarely stumbling over his words. Perhaps it was because he was speaking about something he enjoyed, perhaps it was Mike's gentle grin. “And watching you cook would be perfectly fine... I'd enjoy it, actually.”

  He did enjoy watching others cook the few times he was able to. Watching how other people measure and add extra things to their cooking, seeing the techniques they use and trying to apply them to your own cooking. It was a surprisingly simple yet very intimate exchange of knowledge.

  “You know... uh, when I bring you food, you don't really need to bring me something in return.” It was something he had on his mind, the way Mike would diligently bring him food after being given some. It wasn't that he didn't like Mike's cooking, he actually loved it, but it felt a bit... off, sometimes. Like Mike was returning the favor so he wouldn't be indebted to him. It was something Blackmore completely understood, yet it still brought a tinge of doubt concerning their friendship, even though it was only recently declared. 

  “It's not that I don't like your cooking, I enjoy it! It's just... you aren't indebted to me at all when I give you things. I don't know if that's the reason you do it, but I'd just like you know that I won't, um... call on you for something just because I gave you food and you didn't return the favor.” His soft smile faltered a bit, his voice coming across a bit more nervous and frantic than he had intended, but he meant every word.

  “And also— so-rry for talking so much— I... I really enjoy cooking for other people. Maybe in a kinder world, I would've wanted to be a baker, but... well, enough of that, I think we're here.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  How quickly the tides turned, the quirky grin with its lovable hint of nervousness melting like wax under a flame as soon as his hand hit the slim shoulder with a clothy slap. His original intention had been to let his grip strengthen for a squeeze and perhaps ever-so-helpful turn Layne in the direction the bar had been. While he young man made for diverting company, he’d be even more of a joy to be around in the presence of copious quantities of alcohol.

  The quickness with which Layne cringed, however, was shocking enough that Funny let his hand fall, fingers slack. Their gloved tips running lightly along a damp sleeve before he came to his senses and retrieved it to his side, where it curled into a loose fist. Runnels formed between his brows, the blond arches drawing down further; part in exasperation and part in confusion. Quite the strong reaction to a friendly gesture, one steeped in myriad implications, all unpleasant. He didn’t need the stuttered explanation to get the gist of it, though the knowledge that it was not touch that had triggered the fearful response was heartening. If it had been, he might as well make some excuse and go home.

  “Don’t apologize.” More of an order than a comfort, but Funny delivered it with soft sympathy, voice a low, rumbling murmur. As the human mind was wont to do, the no doubt dismal origins of the flinch piqued his curiosity. But that, he knew would best be left as a subject of ponderance than conversation. Whatever the exact cause may be, it would not be a happy subject of conversation nor conducive to his goals. Lightness suited the scenario he had in mind much better. “Next time I touch you I will endeavor to be less forceful and give you ample warning.”

  An airy chuckle, a blooming smile of private satisfaction and a casual wave of the hand to give Layne the go-ahead. If he knew where they were headed there was no need to lead, allowing for a more casual stroll, as if among friends. Not to mention, his newfound friend was not the only one desirous of a drink — Or two. Or three. — though the film’s ending had little to do with Funny’s need.

  “No, I don’t mind at all, though I imagine Wikipedia or some such has chronicled my exploits down to events I can hardly recall.” For such a retiring fellow, Layne appeared to be uncomfortable with silence and filled it up with the most general question possible. What to reply with? Humility would be best, Funny supposed, nobody liked a braggart. “There’s not much to tell, to be honest. I’m 43 years old, born in Connecticut, the state I’m honored to represent in Congress. I’m fond of music of many kinds and play the violin and piano on occasion. Truth be told, when I say ‘play the piano’ I must admit that it’s not more than an idle tinkle. I find the instrument itself pleasant, but I never took to the lessons my mother insisted I take and they lasted no longer than a few months. In hindsight I wish I’d stuck with them, but children hardly ever think about the consequences of their actions, do they?”

  That ought to do it. The brief was superficial, but under the circumstances providing more would only complicate things. Funny capped it off with a whimsically rueful shrug at the ignorance of youth, his expression relaxed and open while his eyes remained sharp. “How about you, Layne? I can’t imagine your pastimes will be more dull than mine.”

  Not once in his life had he ever felt so nervous so suddenly. Wikipedia? Congress? God, what did he just get himself into? Funny being a part of congress wasn't truly a problem, what the other man did with his life was none of his business, but... it made him seem much more intimidating than before. Funny was someone important while Layne was just simply, well, Layne. 

  Even so, he offered Funny a smile, albeit one filled with much more nerves than the previous ones. Despite how much more intimidating he seemed now, that lingering warmth in his cold gaze was enough to calm Layne, his shoulders relaxing as he answered. “No, no. I think I have you beat.” His expression softened slightly, his tone of voice shifting to one that sounded slightly embarrassed. “I'm 29 and I work at my mother's diner. It's something I really enjoy, especially since I do most of the baking there and I've always had a certain... fondness for it. Putting effort into something for others to enjoy is, well... it's gratifying. At least in my opinion.”

  His smile fell the smallest bit as he realized that he was rambling about his love of baking and quickly changed the subject, hoping it wasn't off-putting. “Anyways, I, uh... I also used to play ice hockey when I was younger. Not anymore, as much as I'd love to, I just don't have the time with, um, money being something that I need to survive. Actually, this is the first time I've gone out in a while.” That much was obvious with the way he was stuttering and the general air of unease that just wouldn't leave him be. Yet, his expression shifted into something more joking and playful. “And I spent it watching a sad movie while crying my eyes out. At least my amazing choice in movies got me some free drinks.”

  Jokes never came easy to him, usually stuttering his way through them and over-explaining them to the point where they simply weren't funny anymore. This one came out much more smoothly for unknown reasons. Maybe it was the promise of drinks or maybe he was just that desperate to seem more entertaining than he truly was. The last thing he wanted was for his new friend to lose interest in him so soon. It had happened before and it wasn't the best feeling, being abandoned after thinking you've finally found someone you can connect with.

  “You know, I've always liked the violin. You should play for me sometime, if that's alright...?” It was a small comment, something to fill the gaps in conversation, but still very true. The violin had a beautiful sound that he enjoyed quite a bit and he hadn't been lucky enough to hear someone play for him. Or anyone else. There weren't a lot of violin players walking around willing to play for strangers. “I've never heard violin playing in person... Well, I've never heard good violin playing in person.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  Although it was not extremely useful in improving his baking, Mike did not ridicule his colleague for his initial, idealistic answer. Head half-turned attentively, he at first wore an expression of muted surprise, parted lips pressing gradually together into a fond smile. It sounded nice, the way Blackmore talked about cooking, an everyday activity that brought forth feelings of gentle passion. Mike didn’t think he felt quite the same amount of simple, affectionate pleasure towards anything, apart from the quiet satisfaction of shaping his breath’s creations.

  It was not a need, rather a preference. He found a meditative pleasure in molding the endlessly elastic metal with his hands, twisting, folding the segments together until he’d achieved what he’d seen in his mind and sketched out on paper. No coincidence that when it came to baking, the kneading was the part he enjoyed the most after the end result. Somewhat of one that he might not be doing enough of it.

  “Could that be it?” he mused, staring ahead of him as he mulled it over, a deft sidestep taking him around and past a gentleman rushing towards them clutching his hat to his head. “Apart from what I’ve learned by doing, everything I know about the world of cooking comes from books. A lot of receipts specify to not not overmix, but they don’t tell you what will happen if you do. For all I know the dough will explode or turn into liquid if I’m too harsh with it. It’s good to know that fear is unfounded, I’ll be sure to try testing it next time.”

  What was supposed to be a casual conversation turned out to be full of pitfalls and Mike — stumbling around like a fool in the dark — dutifully followed a trail of crumbs that led him right to them. He kept his wince confined to his averted face, lips drawing momentarily back from his teeth in horror at his own carelessness. With any hope, Blackmore wouldn’t notice and assume Mike had spotted something interesting down the alley they passed. If the dark-skinned guard hadn’t forced his hands to his side, he certainly would have noticed how he picked at his nails when he experienced mental unease. He could just imagine Blackmore innocently asking where he’d learned by doing.

  Fortunately that innocence led his colleague down other roads, be they just as treacherous. Silently, Mike listened to the assassin tell of the woman he considered to be his mother and pondering his own thoughts on the subject, let the silence linger long after. Their circumstances were likely different, but this was an experience shared between their worlds. Or so Mike believed and had for too long to let go of the built-up bias. How and where he’d been born, who his parents were, he’d accepted he’d never know, but he hadn’t always.

  In the turbulence of adolescence, he’d asked and asked and asked. If she was his mother, she must know, she would have been there for all of it, conception and birth. Yet the answers he got were barely answers at all, evasive, short or dismissive, he’d liked none of them. An idea had started festering, a vague suspicion galvanized into something more sinister and spiteful. Perhaps it was wishful thinking of a sort, the kind of daydreams an unhappy young man with no place in the world might harbor because it brought comfort; she wasn’t his mother at all.

  Much later, when the wells of unguided rage had run dry and he was no longer a lost child, another thought occurred to him. Knowing what he knew, suspecting what he strongly suspected, he could think of many reasons why she might not want to bring those memories back to life by recounting them. One stood out like a blazing condemnation and he sat staring into nothing for a long time, long fingers curled over his mouth in shock and regret and doubt a slow but insidious trickle seeping into his bones.

  By then, it was too late to go back. Too late to apologize, much too late to make some effort to change the past. He was no longer the boy that, caught up in his own turbulence, had shouted demands at her when she didn’t give him what he wanted. That was… someone else, some other black boy unhappy with his lot in life and feeling helpless to do anything about it. Some thoughtless lout who made his little sister cry by thundering around in a futile huff.

  “She’s someone I knew a long time ago. She was eight years old when I last saw her, a little girl with skin the color of chestnuts and her hair slipping from her bun. She’d just had it cut and some of the shorter strands were coming loose.” Family… they weren’t his, not anymore, but somehow the broken spiral of his life would always have them at the center, pulling him in. “Saudade. I’ve only ever seen it written down and it’s foreign so I’m sure I’m not pronouncing it right, but that’s what it’s called. The feeling when you’re happy because you have good memories and sad at the same time for knowing you can never revisit them. Because you know they might never come back.”

  Saudade... what an odd yet fitting word for such a specific feeling. “That's the exact word I was looking for, thank you.” There was a hint of sympathy in his voice as he spoke. There was something about the way that Mike spoke about this girl that Blackmore found melancholic. Saudade. Slowly, his hand rose up from where it was hanging at his side, leaving it hovering uncertainly above Mike's shoulder for a second before letting it gently grasp at it, squeezing softly as a small sign of comfort. Understanding. Fellow feeling. A small connection between them both to show that things were alright.

  Not that he thought Mike needed comfort in the first place, his colleague was a strong man, rarely letting his emotions get the best of him. Still, comfort and kindness were things that everyone needed at some point in their life. If Mike didn't need it now, he could look back on this in the future when he did need it and maybe, just maybe, things wouldn't feel so bad anymore.

  Blackmore wished that someone had done that for him when he was younger.

  “...I really enjoy talking to you, Mike.” It was something he had just blurted out without thinking about it first, the red flush on his cheeks that never seemed to go away growing darker. “I mean- uh... I don't talk to many people. It can be very... exhausting for me. But I never feel that way when I talk to you, I'm not entirely sure why.” The corners of his lips quirked upwards into an awkward smile. “Your voice is very nice to listen to, maybe that's it...”

  Softly, he let out a sigh and his hand dropped back down to his side, biting at the inside of his cheek as he thought in silence. He did enjoy Mike's voice a lot, but that didn't feel like the reason he enjoyed speaking with him so much. It was just a feeling he couldn't quite wrap his head around. Maybe it was the similarities that they shared between them? That certainly made it easier to talk about the things they enjoyed.

  Or maybe it was because he was lonely. That could definitely be it.

  Before he realized, minutes had passed without a word between the two of them, the only sound from the many strangers around them. He quickly searched his mind for something to say. Anything to fill the empty void where their conversation had once been. “...I can show you how I make my bread if you'd like. We may not have time for it today, but I wouldn't mind coming over again to show you. Or you could come over to my home if that's what you'd prefer. Maybe you could also teach me how to make a recipe of yours.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  The very picture of sympathy, Funny gave the young man his full attention, nodding and shaking his head as the short rant required. He even ventured a soft, soothing tutting sound as more tears gathered on the youth’s lower lashed and streamed sluggishly down his cheeks to leave trails that glistened in the cinema’s garish lighting. A sensitive soul, wasn’t he? The kind that got upset when baby birds fell out of their nest, despite that the role nature reserved for baby birds. Obviously in need of comfort.

  That, Funny was ready to provide in great quantities for someone that looked like the specimen before him did. Call him shallow, he cared little. A man had needs and the view he’d had of the young man from behind had acutely reminded him of those. And why not? The film may have been rather dissatisfying, yet there was one thing he took away from it: make hay while the sun shines. Life might be shorter than one expects, drink and make merry while it lasts. And there had been a distinct lack of merry-making as of late, what with all the governmental upheaval.

  “I couldn’t be more sure. To be honest, it’s likely I would have ended up there anyway after this… experience. It’d be much more enjoyable with company.” If anyone was greedy, it was Funny, a quality he was not entirely able to keep out of his voice as it dropped to a low purr. Buying what felt like half the alcohol in the establishment in an attempt to get someone into his bed was nothing new to him, but the deference was cute regardless. Certainly a quality that begged the question of whether it extended to other areas of adult life. “We’re both adults and know our limits. I simply hate seeing you so distressed.”

  As it turned out the endearingly awkward air of anxiousness had its downsides as well. Funny’s smile didn’t go anywhere, but it certainly worked on his patience. Keeping quiet took significant effort, but with his experience, he somehow managed. The young man appeared to be talking to himself rather than to Funny anyway. Calm and reassuring, that was the ticket to convincing him. If there was even a possibility of that now. “If you’ll forgive me for pointing this out, it’s a Tuesday night. Not the time for any place to be overrun by anyone not regulars coming in for their nightly order.”

  A few seconds passed in silence, the pale youth seemingly debating with himself and Funny the somewhat unwilling spectator. What else was there to do? He could hardly drag his prey to the bar to pour the liquor down his throat.

  The smile took him aback, but it still found a reflection in his own expression, giving life to the radiant one he mostly reserved for those he wished to deceive. Except that in this particular case, it was genuine; self-satisfied and immensely pleased. There was no telling how the night may continue, but the pieces were on the board.

  It only fell the slightest when the inevitable question he dreaded came from the young — from Layne’s lips. It wasn’t an uncommon one, oh no, one of the most common if he were to wager a guess. And he’d answered it a million times before. All his life, in fact. There was no reason to be averse to it. But he was.

  “What a beautiful name. It’s very nice to meet you, Layne.” He grasped the outstretched hand in what he considered to be his ‘professional’ handshake. Firm and eye-contact kept all the while. It could be taught in workshops, so perfectly did it adhere to the classic affirmative handshake. Unfortunate that he had a tendency to pair if with pre-emptive self-deprecation when it came to introductions such as these. “I’m afraid my name is Funny.”

  As the stranger— no. As Funny explained, Layne's cheeks reddened even more as he realized his mistake. Oh, good GOD that was embarrassing. Even if the way Funny had introduced himself in a way that was easy to mistake for him being embarrassed by his name, he still felt mortified that he made such a mistake. His hands rose to cover his face in an attempt to cover up the shame he felt.

  After a moment, he peeked out from behind his fingers, brows drawn up in a way that made him look a bit like a sad puppy and his voice slightly muffled. “I... I'm so-rry. Your frustration is completely understandable, there's no need for you to apologize.” He forced his hands away from his face and back down to his sides. And forced them to stay put when hi fingers itched to grab hold of Funny's warm hand again. It shouldn't have taken as much willpower as it did but by God, there was something about the other man that just drew him in.

  Nervously, the corner of his lips quirked upwards in an awkward, yet charming, smirk. “...Maybe you should introduce yourself differently?” A quiet laugh escaped his lips, stopping immediately once Funny's hand hit his shoulder, flinching away from the touch and the sound it made and giving him an apologetic look when he realized how he had reacted. “Ah— um, I'm so-rry, but please don't do that, it makes me, uh... uncomfortable. I mean, not you having your hand on my shoulder, that's perfectly fine but the sound was... and how strong it was and, uh, I-I...” 

  Layne really was set on making himself out to be a pathetic fool, wasn't he? He shook his head to clear his thoughts, the sudden resurfacing of fear being pushed back down with as much mental strength as he could muster. “Never mind that. I did see the place while walking here and... well, there's no reason to wait any longer, right? I really could use a drink right now. Or two. Or three.” With that he set off in the direction of the bar they had both passed, looking back at Funny with an expectant grin. “I'm sure you feel the same after the movie we just watched.”

  Layne set the pace, hands fidgeting with his sleeves as he walked. “I know this is typically something you ask while drinking, not before, but could you tell me about yourself? I'm a bit curious.” To a fault, that is. Always wanting to learn and always asking questions. He tried to curb it, he really did, knowing that other people didn't appreciate being questioned so heavily but the urge to ask was always so strong, especially when it came to the mysterious man that was walking next to him. Something about him was so strangely comforting, even when the cold look in his eyes seemed to pierce through him. There was warmth in there, he knew it, he could feel it. “I could go first if you'd like.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  That a throwaway comment about how his sister used to berate him for when he outpaced her could lead to such a response. It wasn’t an elegant sound, no one would describe it as either tinkling or booming, yet Mike was instantly fond of the snort all the same. It had the essence of true mirth, no one just pretending to be amused would have chosen such a way to convey it. Nor would Blackmore if given the choice from the looks of it. The hasty hand slapped over his mouth and the averted eyes told the whole story.

  “I’m late more often than not,” he said, his tone not betraying any of the wonder he felt at the unbridled sound. He could remark on it, wanted to tell Blackmore that the sound he’d made shouldn’t be a source of shame, but he didn’t. Drawing attention to it would only bruise the assassin’s wavering confidence. “If we miss this one, another will be along 20 minutes after, so there’s no need to hurry on our way.”

  Not speaking any further of the laughter also meant he would have to say no more on his family. That had been… careless. Of course he had a family, no human being sprang into existence without parents. Nor was it unusual to have siblings, rarer to be an only child like the president. But he had given a name.

  Names were dangerous, linking him to a past that was not Michael Oldfield’s. Though he had never seen them, there must be records documenting his ancestry, if only to serve as a pedigree when brought to market. A mother if not a father — or perhaps simply the erroneous name of the mother’s husband. Brothers, sisters, they would be listed as well. Unless Fate was extremely kind, there would be no Beulah listed, nor any of the others Mike had counted as his family when he had borne the surname Newman.

  There was no reason for Blackmore to look into his parentage, yet having said anything was a mistake. There was no Beulah to have run behind him arms pumping, her dimples disappearing as she frowned with determination to keep up. She was a part of Micheal Newman’s world, separated from his by a barbed wall of lies and manufactured indifference.

  The smile had fallen, expression back to one of unguided neutrality. He took his first step as he meant to go on, a slow swing of one long leg, measured and paced to match Blackmore’s. Yet after his misstep, what should he talk of? The sights they passed held little interest for his colleague, even if he took a different route, he must make his way past them on a practically daily basis just like Mike did.

  With a stranger to the town, he may have pointed out the ivory needle of the Washington Monument piercing the sky simply because it was there. The tallest structure in the country. Perhaps he would have advised them to climb its narrow stairs and see the city from its lofty heights. However, if Blackmore had any desire to do so, he would not have lacked the opportunity to.

  “If you don’t mind telling me, who taught you to cook, Mr. Blackmore?” A shot in the dark, a simple choice of topic concerning their common ground. And one over which a passive war had erupted ever since the gifted bread. Mike could not bring himself to accept it without some repayment in the form of a pan of corn bread. Blackmore, in turn, had been a long a few days later with a pie, to which Mike’s answer was a hearty bread pudding, the perfect use for the loaf’s stale ends. “Even using your recipe, my bread never turns out as well as yours. What’s your world’s secret?”

  Almost instantly his expression turned fond, looking up from the ground with all his previous feelings of embarrassment seemingly forgotten. Cooking was something that always brought him joy, even when he felt his lowest. A way to turn his emotion into something more useful. It was an outlet of sorts. “Would you believe me if I said that the secret is love? I believe it's true, as silly as it sounds.” His hand rose to scratch at the back of his head, seeming bashful after he had admitted it. 

  “Baking brings me a lot of happiness. I enjoy the process of cooking and I believe that you can taste the love with which the dish was made. I'm not proud of many things but making something that I can enjoy, something that others can enjoy... I think that is something to be proud of and that pride shines through to the taste.” Blackmore continued speaking with a soft smile, his voice full of fondness. Just talking about it brought back the few pleasant memories of his younger years, when he was shown that people could be kind.

  And though he was simply speaking what was on his mind, his colleague probably wasn't looking for such a useless answer. “Of course, if you want actual advice, you might not be kneading the dough enough.” He quickly added on, his smile gaining a slightly nervous edge to it as he continued. “A good way to test it is to grab a small ball of the dough and stretch it until it's thin and transparent like... uh, well, I suppose one of your balloons would be the best comparison. If it tears, you need to knead it more.”

  His stride was steady and he looked at Mike as he spoke, occasionally glancing in front of him to make sure he wouldn't run into anything. He felt he was awkward enough as it is, he didn't need to seem even more so by bumping into something. Or someone. “As for who taught me to cook... it was my mother.” Smile faltering slightly, his gaze fell to his feet for a second before continuing. “She taught me just about everything I know. She may have not been my birth mother, but... it feels wrong to call her anything else. I haven't seen her in some time, so I apologize if I get a bit, uh... I, I don't know the word for it.”

  Redness grew on his cheeks as he searched his mind for the right word to describe the feeling, staying silent for a moment before he came up empty. Maybe Mike knew? “...It's that feeling you get when you're remembering something happy but it also makes you feel sad.” It was a very simple and blunt way to put it, but it was true. Every happy moment that he remembered spending with his mother gave him this awful twinge of sadness in his heart, bathing the joyful memory in a sea of something akin to regret. Or grief. Maybe... both? Yes, both sounded about right.

  The grief of happier times being long passed and regret that it had been some years since he had visited her. He had planned on it, excitedly organizing his schedule and finding an empty period long enough so that he could visit her, even if it was only for a small bit. Life always had other plans, empty space was filled up with work and by the end of the day, he was too tired to even think about making the trip. There was work to do in the morning, after all.

  Before he knew it, minutes had passed in silence between the two of them, Blackmore's gaze not straying from the ground and his teeth worrying his bottom lip. He felt he had to say something, but all the words in his mind blurred and blended together into an incomprehensible mess. 

  Until one word stood out from the rest. What was that name that Mike had said? Beulah? “Mike, if you don't mind me asking... who is Beulah? From what she's apparently said about you having a horse's legs, she seems like she has a rather nice sense of humor. Of course, you don't need to answer if you don't want to, I know family can be... difficult to talk about.”

[uncharnel]

sinners and saints  /  living under the same sun                          holding the key  /  to the world in their hands

written by JOH  /  art credit

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  The very picture of sympathy, Funny gave the young man his full attention, nodding and shaking his head as the short rant required. He even ventured a soft, soothing tutting sound as more tears gathered on the youth’s lower lashed and streamed sluggishly down his cheeks to leave trails that glistened in the cinema’s garish lighting. A sensitive soul, wasn’t he? The kind that got upset when baby birds fell out of their nest, despite that the role nature reserved for baby birds. Obviously in need of comfort.

  That, Funny was ready to provide in great quantities for someone that looked like the specimen before him did. Call him shallow, he cared little. A man had needs and the view he’d had of the young man from behind had acutely reminded him of those. And why not? The film may have been rather dissatisfying, yet there was one thing he took away from it: make hay while the sun shines. Life might be shorter than one expects, drink and make merry while it lasts. And there had been a distinct lack of merry-making as of late, what with all the governmental upheaval.

  “I couldn’t be more sure. To be honest, it’s likely I would have ended up there anyway after this… experience. It’d be much more enjoyable with company.” If anyone was greedy, it was Funny, a quality he was not entirely able to keep out of his voice as it dropped to a low purr. Buying what felt like half the alcohol in the establishment in an attempt to get someone into his bed was nothing new to him, but the deference was cute regardless. Certainly a quality that begged the question of whether it extended to other areas of adult life. “We’re both adults and know our limits. I simply hate seeing you so distressed.”

  As it turned out the endearingly awkward air of anxiousness had its downsides as well. Funny’s smile didn’t go anywhere, but it certainly worked on his patience. Keeping quiet took significant effort, but with his experience, he somehow managed. The young man appeared to be talking to himself rather than to Funny anyway. Calm and reassuring, that was the ticket to convincing him. If there was even a possibility of that now. “If you’ll forgive me for pointing this out, it’s a Tuesday night. Not the time for any place to be overrun by anyone not regulars coming in for their nightly order.”

  A few seconds passed in silence, the pale youth seemingly debating with himself and Funny the somewhat unwilling spectator. What else was there to do? He could hardly drag his prey to the bar to pour the liquor down his throat.

  The smile took him aback, but it still found a reflection in his own expression, giving life to the radiant one he mostly reserved for those he wished to deceive. Except that in this particular case, it was genuine; self-satisfied and immensely pleased. There was no telling how the night may continue, but the pieces were on the board.

  It only fell the slightest when the inevitable question he dreaded came from the young — from Layne’s lips. It wasn’t an uncommon one, oh no, one of the most common if he were to wager a guess. And he’d answered it a million times before. All his life, in fact. There was no reason to be averse to it. But he was.

  “What a beautiful name. It’s very nice to meet you, Layne.” He grasped the outstretched hand in what he considered to be his ‘professional’ handshake. Firm and eye-contact kept all the while. It could be taught in workshops, so perfectly did it adhere to the classic affirmative handshake. Unfortunate that he had a tendency to pair if with pre-emptive self-deprecation when it came to introductions such as these. “I’m afraid my name is Funny.”

  As every second passed, the thought of drinking seemed more and more enjoyable. He had always loved how warm alcohol made him feel, each drink keeping the ice from his fingertips no matter the weather. Somehow, he was always cold and there were very few things that helped with it.... other than staying in bed all day, snuggled under his warm sheets.

  And the other man seemed to radiate warmth in a way that was very pleasant. He couldn't help but step a bit closer to him with an innocuous look on his face, his smile softening slightly as he did so. It was.... comforting. His fingers toyed with the ends of his sleeves once his hand had been released. Part of him wanted to fish the handkerchief out of his pocket and fidget with that instead, but he restrained himself. Now that would just look odd and that was the last thing he wanted to do in front of a particularly attractive stranger.

  Hearing his name spoken in such a beautiful voice sent a shudder down his spine. He did have a thing for deeper voices, but there was just something about this man's that made it affect him so much more. He found himself heating up slightly, his cheeks growing red just from simply hearing his name. It looks like he didn't need any help in seeming strange. 

  And that smile. God, that smile made his heart flutter oddly in his chest. It was different from the last few he had seen, this one seeming so much more genuine. Warmer, in a way, heating his cheeks up even more as he stared with eyes full of admiration.

  Only to be replaced by confusion the moment the stranger had mentioned his name being funny. He's heard his fair share of strange names through the years and was almost positive that whatever this man's name wasn't as, well, funny as some he had heard. 

  Layne grabbed his hand again, giving it a soft squeeze as he smiled and leaned in a little closer. “I'm sure your name isn't that funny. Trust me, I've met a lot of people with weird names and I won't make fun of you for it... Making fun of someone's name is just, uh, well... it's kind of a dick move, to be honest. So-rry for the crude language.” He spoke with a reassuring tone, doing his best to make the situation as comfortable as possible for the other man so he could finally get a name out of him.

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  Though it pained him to see the already shamefaced expression on his colleague’s face darken into glumness, Mike regretted being unusually direct only slightly. The color of his skin occupied him much less than it once had. When he had been younger and filled with a restless thirst for retribution, things had been different. He could hardly look at himself without his stomach turning sour and yet, he found it hard to stay away from his reflection. A form he found everything wrong with inevitable peered back at him, but he always found himself staring for much longer than he had any true desire for.

  Take his nose: straight, slim of bridge and nostrils, so out of place among his peers. Marking him as different, just as the color of his skin set him apart from those who had once been his masters. A face made up of paradoxes, making him neither one nor the other. Neither could he change, not his features nor his complexion. It had been the topic of much youthful resentment, stewed over as he laid awake. And still he stared, took in all the things about himself he found detestable. Perhaps he’d enjoyed the anger, been fueled by it, preferred in some strange way over acquiescing. It would have been like admitting defeat.

  When acceptance found him, it had not felt like giving up at all. Holding the unguided ire — and hiding it — was exhausting, both mentally and physically; too many hours spent pondering the unfairness of the world rather than getting the rest he needed. He could not chance what he was, but he could change who he was, in his own world, see himself through different eyes not so full of distaste.

  Influencing the world of others had not been so simple. If it was, none but the cruelest would have kept men and women like livestock to be bought and sold. Even still, the emotions he inspired appeared range from anger at his sharing a space with decent people and pity for the origins of his birth. He was — and would always be— a negro first and a human being second.

  Unexpected vehemence from someone as quiet as Blackmore made his eyes widen in thrilled shock. The short tirade had begun normally enough, a halting start full of the kind of uncertainty he was used to, the kind that tended to signal that he should simply take what was offered and move along before he caused more discomfort. The assassin hadn’t let him, roundabout chatter growing into conviction to which Mike had no answer. “I don’t give a damn’, he’d heard that before too. Only from former ‘friends’, spoken as loudly and with as much bravado as possible. An indication that he would be tolerated, but only as an instrument through which to channel rebellion.

  “I…” The harmless placidity in Mike’s smile made way for genuine gladness, eyes soft and grateful. Just as Blackmore had spoken uncharacteristically much, he was speechless, the search for anything appropriate fruitless. He was used to weighing words, considering them carefully before he opened his mouth. Nothing he could think of seemed right. Nothing he could say would match the significance of Blackmore’s support. Wasn’t that unfair? The assassin had hidden nothing and he still kept his deliberate distance despite the vague affection.

  “You did ramble a bit.” Mike breathed a self-deprecating laugh, if this was his version of spontaneity, it was rather poor. Leaning in, he bumped his colleague’s shoulder with his upper arm, a far cry from a repeat of the comforting squeeze he wished for. “It’s not a bad world at all, not many people are comfortable enough with me to say whatever’s on their mind. I'm… Thank you.”

  Somewhat regretfully, he took a step back and quickly scanned the passers-by. Blackmore may not give a damn, but others might take offense seeing them huddled so close together. Yet no heads were turned in their direction, no eyes regarded them with scrutiny. In the early twilight, they were not the only ones thinking of home. “And I am sorry for how fast I walk, Beulah always said I have the legs of a horse. It won’t happen again. I’ve kept us for so long we’ll be late anyway, let’s make it a leisurely walk. We both deserve one.”

  Even if he had rambled, he meant every word of what he said. The color of Mike's skin meant nothing to him. He was a hard worker just like himself. He was human just like everyone else.

  Though, it was rather uncharacteristic for him to state that outright. When faced with things like this, he'd rather just stay quiet, melt into the background. For all anyone would know, he didn't have an opinion on any matter they had been talking about. But there was something about Mike, something that made him speak up when faced with the harsh reality that public perception mattered to most people. Maybe it was simply because he grew fond of him, or maybe because he was desperate to keep him as a friend. 

  Either way, he had spoken the truth, even if shame colored his cheeks.

  The expression on Mike's face caught his attention, the other man's grateful eyes softening his own expression in turn. It wasn't apparent, but he was almost overjoyed that his words hadn't somehow been taken the wrong way. It was always something he feared, a reason he was always so quiet, saying something and others thinking he meant something else.

  Seeing the smile on Mike's face warmed him to his core, glad to see no trace of his previous crestfallen expression even if it had only been there for a moment. Blackmore saw it. He paid close attention to every single movement. It was a habit, watching someone closely for any signs of a mood change, something he had to learn when he was younger to know when he was safe and when he had to hide. He didn't fear Mike, but it was something he couldn't stop doing.

  Not yet, at least.

  The taller man's comment about how he had 'the legs of a horse' pulled a quiet snort of laughter from him, his hand quickly rising to slap over his mouth as his cheeks reddened even further with embarrassment. Good God, he had not just made that noise. It wasn't something that happened often. Actually, he couldn't quite recall the last time he had done that but even though it was an expression of pure joy, he couldn't help but feel mortified the moment that sound had left him.

  “I-I, uh, I'm...” he stuttered out, his voice slightly muffled by the hand that was still over his mouth. His gaze shifted downward, much too embarrassed to meet Mike's eyes. “....Let's walk. Yes, that, uh, that sounds nice. Running to catch up to you was more tiring than I would've liked... I’m so-rry that we’ll be late.“

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  Not until Blackmore spoke up about his desire for a little rest did Mike realize how inadvertently demanding he must have sounded with his small dissertation on the trams that ran between his place of work and his humble abode. That was his schedule, his habit, his preference to keep going. What was the point — he reasoned — of stopping when he was already tired? A few minutes’ rest would not bring his energy back, so for what it was worth, he might as well jump on at the closest stop and sit when he was underway. It was a much more efficient use of his time than taking up space when he was no longer needed.

  From how Blackmore looked — flushed and with a light sheen of sweat on his forehead — his expression of longing for a chance to take the weight off was genuine. Perhaps unsurprisingly. Mike himself had a narrow-hipped build that had an aversion to putting on pounds, but at times, Blackmore looked anemic, like he was a day away from starvation. It was disconcerting, but he never commented. For all he knew, that was simply how Blackmore was made and none of us can help how we’re made. He reminded himself of that whenever the urge to ask after his colleague’s diet popped up just like he did when the old anger snuck up on him.

  “We’ll walk.” Mike exhaled, shaking his head with a mild smile, amused at both Blackmore’s hurry and his own unthinkingness. Fools, the both of them, acting like a missed streetcar meant they would be stranded on the streets for the rest of their lives. “The Georgetown takes a circuitous route so if we don’t make it to Lincoln Square in time, we can go down 11th and catch it on Independence. That’s a world I’m familiar with as well from working odd hours. It shouldn’t delay us by a more than few minutes at the most. Come on, walk this way.”

  And walk they did, down familiar hallways until they got to one of many doors that led outside, this one rather more nondescript than either of the official entrances. Regardless, Mike’s last few steps were hurried than his measured pace so he could hold it open for his colleague with a muted “after you”. A favor repaid, exactly like he diligently did with their shared meals.

  Yet when they were on the street, his gait sped up to the quicker pace he’d used to reach the door first, deftly weaving around the other pedestrians. Another habit, this one one of defense. Don’t loiter, don’t look too long or too hard at people, don’t draw attention. DC had not been unfriendly to him apart from a few encounters, but other places he had lived had not been the same. There was safety in purpose — or the appearance of it. Few bothered a man who looked busy and certain of where he was going. Even one who stood out by not belonging.

  There was a small problem, however. Losing Blackmore was very easy when he sped ahead to his goal with the single-minded aim of a loosed arrow. Moving to the side of the street, Mike waited for him to catch up before setting off again. That state of affairs lasted for perhaps half a minute, then his feet fell into their old rhythm again and he outpaced his colleague in a few long, rapid steps.

  Two more times he looked behind him and could only spot a corner of the black coat. Two more times he got out of the way and waited for Blackmore to jog up to him looking abashed about having to do so. By the fourth time it was obvious that going on like this would simply not work.

  “I’m going too fast, aren’t I? I’m sorry, when left to my own devices I often forget how big the steps I take are. Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll walk with you?” The purple eyes fell for a moment. Enthusiasm must be making him forget himself and the effect he could have on others. Blackmore had never said anything, but then, he might be operating under the same principles Mike did when he saw the pale skin turned ashen. “Unless you prefer to keep some distance? I’d understand, Mr. Blackmore. I’m well aware of the world of public perception and its impact. Just say the word.”

  It took all of Blackmore's willpower not to mumble a quiet 'thank God' when he heard that they'd be walking instead of running. As much as he loathed the idea of making them miss the tram, especially after he had been late to meet up with Mike, just the thought of running even more was making him feel out of breath. He was always eager to go home at the end of the day, but he never ran. Tired as he may be during his walk home, he used that time as sort of a de-stressor.

  Well, he was always fairly stressed and very few things could change that, but seeing a flock of pigeons pecking at the ground did bring a smile to his face.

  And he felt something similar as he walked through the seemingly endless halls with his colleague, the redness on his cheeks finally fading away only to be brought back when Mike walked ahead and held open the door for him. Blackmore said nothing, not trusting his voice to be steady, but gave Mike a small smile. A wordless 'thank you'. 

  However, his surprisingly good mood was soured slightly as he tried to keep up with the other man. It wasn't that he could lose him, Mike was easy to pick out in a crowd, but the steps he was taking were... very large. While he wasn't the shortest person ever, Mike was quite a bit taller than him. Of course his steps would be much bigger than his own. Every time Mike had to stop to let him catch up, he felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, his expression falling a bit more each time.

  A soft sigh of relief escaped him when Mike stopped for the final time, nodding at his suggestion with an embarrassed expression on his face until his colleague spoke up again, his face falling once more. It was the face he wore most of the time, melancholic but there was something deeper. It wasn't pity, it was more sincere than that. It should've hurt, that Mike would think he'd rather not be seen with him in public, but he understood why. 

  “Mike, I... That's not what's wrong at all. You, uh, do take very big steps and I'm a lot shorter than you. That combined with me being rather tired has made it hard for me to keep up.” He spoke, his words starting our unsure at first but quickly gaining an air of something that was similar to confidence, just slightly off. “...It is true that I care about how other people perceive me. Too much, maybe. But... this is one of the things where other people's opinions don't matter to me.” 

  As he continued, he leaned in closer to Mike, their arms brushing together as he offered him a small smile. Reassuring and slightly awkward. “You're, um... well, you're my friend. And if people are going to judge me based solely on the fact that you're black, then I don't give a, uh... pardon my language, Mike, but I don't give a damn about they think of me.” His voice trailed off as that last sentence left his lips, feeling unsure of himself once more. Restless fingers rubbed at the seams of his coat for what seemed like the millionth time that day. It was a miracle that it hadn't fallen apart already.

  “Ah, that was, uh— I was rambling, so-rry.” The stiff fabric bunched up as he gripped the hem of his coat instead of continuing to rub at it, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he thought of what to say. “....I guess what I was trying to explain is that public perception isn't the reason there's been some distance between us, you're just a bit too fast for me to keep up with.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  The chatter of a few stragglers leaving the cinema ruffled Funny’s feathers and he leaned one shoulder against the building’s garish facade to shield the sniffling young man from their vision. Likely he had little to worry about when it came to other sharks to come sniffing at the bait of vulnerability, a lone, weeping figure was rather readily ignored most of the time. Even Funny could feel the mild sting of contact embarrassment through his lecherous interest. The darker spots of wetness on the ends of his sleeves only made it worse. What was he, this fellow with the soulful eyes and long, pale hair? A child?

  Still, better safe than sorry. With his red face and redder eyes glistening through a veil of tears, he had a certain naive charm about him. And that sigh, like his world had just collapsed and he could only barely pull himself together. It should be shameful but Funny couldn’t help but wonder what he’d look like flushed with emotions more pleasant but just as acute. With luck and some tact, perhaps he would find out before too long.

  “Disturb me? Not at all, I can’t say I noticed and even if I did, I daresay you weren’t the only one wiping away a tear or two.” He smoothly poured the words over the younger man, sweet and cloying as honey, carrying the hint that Funny himself had been one of the ones unable to keep their eyes — and sleeves — dry. “I had little to go off but the poster and I expected a rather more conventional love story. At times I wasn’t even sure that it was one, truth be told, and when it became clear it was, I expected her to be the reason he persevered through suffering after all.”

  He stopped himself there, a languid hand denying the return of the handkerchief. His opinions were genuine, but bringing the matter up might lead to another bout of tears. What a fool he was, that he had hoped for such pointless glurge was a clear sign he would never truly put his former marriage behind him. Scarlet had been the one for such tales of love conquering all and curing every ill to the most extreme of extents, he was supposed to be the level-headed party. Choosing a romance limited in time over death with dignity was the height of folly.

  Yet he’d had a faint hope, not to mention a very definitive desire for alcohol as the questionable lovers went through promising enmity and passed into affection. Though maybe that was simply a side-effect of the rude telephonist and his antics.

  “Let me buy you a drink, you’ll feel better,” Funny said, following that train of thought and quite pleased with the idea if the expression on his face was anything to go by. A mite bold, but if now was not the time to move in for the kill ,when the young man was open to the suggestion of a kind stranger, when was? A calculating look passed over the young man, taking him in from head to toe, bright and flirtatious. “I think I passed a bar while walking down the street on my way here.”

  If he recalled correctly, it was one of those horrid faux-Irish pubs that served stout by the gallon and had more shamrocks than class, but any port in a storm. Provided they served half-decent whiskey in similar quantities, he wouldn’t be all too unhappy about it for very long. “You look like you could use one. Oh, and the handkerchief as well, keep it.”

  The moment the other man mentioned the man persevering through his suffering, he slammed his free hand against the top of his thigh with an exasperated sigh. “Exactly! I can understand him not wanting to hold her back but she wanted to stay with him. She wanted him to stay. I can also understand him not wanting to suffer anymore, but... Well, I guess I have very mixed feelings about the ending.” He smiled nervously as a few more tears rolled down his cheeks. He knew that it was only a movie and there was no reason to be sad about it, but he couldn't help it.

  Movies were supposed to be an escape from reality, where happy endings were much more common than in real life. He had expected a happy ending but the film was just too real, too raw. It was enjoyable to watch but god, it ripped out his heart and stomped on it before slamming it back into his chest, broken and battered.

  He had a horrible taste in movies.

  The mention of having a drink did brighten his mood considerably, his brows rising in surprise as he tilted his head slightly. “I, um... are you sure? I mean, about the drink... and the handkerchief, really, but mostly the drink.” As he spoke, he rose the handkerchief up to wipe away the last stray tears on his face. After thinking for a quiet moment, he spoke up again, the tone of his voice unsure. “I would like a drink or two, it's been far too long since I've had one, but I can get a little, uh... greedy? If that's the right word? Really what I'm trying to say is that you'll be buying a lot of drinks.”

  Idly, he fidgeted with the seams of the handkerchief before neatly folding it into a square and putting it in his pocket. Even though he probably wouldn't use it for its intended purpose, he was sure he could find a use for it. “And I don't really do so well in loud, crowded areas. It's a bit much for me... I, um, I might be rethinking this...”

  With every word he said, he just made drinking with him sound awful. That wasn't what he wanted to do, but the stranger was so kind and easy to talk to while he himself was just... well, he was rather dull. Boring and even more so when in a loud place. Bars were never really a good place for him, always preferring to drink in the comfort of his own home when he had the chance, but... Screw it, as unsure of himself as he was, he deserved a good drink, anxiety be damned. 

  “Nevermind, I'd like a drink.” He gave him a beaming smile, suddenly filled with confidence and excitement. As long as he concentrated on his drink and this man, he should be perfectly fine. Suddenly, a thought popped into his head, muttering a sharp 'oh!' before speaking up. “I completely forgot to ask. What's your name? I'm Layne, Layne Blackmore.” His smile didn't falter as he stuck his hand out for a handshake, looking at the other man expectedly as he did so.

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  Focus did not come as easily as it oftentimes did, the hints of doubt becoming more like announcements yelled by a town crier. Along with the progressively louder niggling, Mike had become aware of a misstep: while he had told Blackmore he would wait for him, he had never mentioned where. He has assumed that his colleague would understand this was where he would be, they’d run into each other here several times before. A puzzling happenstance to begin with as, rain or shine, the assassin was never without his coat, wearing it both summer and winter.

  In this clement weather, Mike had little reason to visit the cloakroom at all, his thick overcoat retired for the summer several weeks ago. As had most others, judging by how unusually empty it was. During winter, comings and goings might have diverted him, but in a world of sunshine and gentle breezes, he was left to his own devices with the ticking of the wall clock as his only company.

  With a sigh, he turned back a few pages to something he had worked on previously. He had called it a cat, but truth be told, it resembled one very little currently nor did he have anything but an inkling of how it would function. Still, he felt it had promise, that he was close to achieving something with the design. Its final form lay on the top of his metaphorical tongue, a few tweaks away from being useful.

  Before the now blunt tip of his pencil could find paper, the sound of the door opening pulled him out of his study, his frown smoothing into a placid smile. Praise the Lord, Blackmore had understood after all and found him in what looked to be more of a hurry than was needed.

  “Please, there’s no need to apologize, I understand,” he reassured with barely a second glance at the cheap sheaf of unbleached paper. His smile remained friendly while taking on a secretive edge, a light laugh escaping his lips. “To be honest, this is probably how I’d spend my time in the world of my home anyway. I suppose you could call it a hobby, trying to come up with new ways to shape my… balloons. Yes, I think it’d be fair to call them that.”

  You’d think Mike would have a better grasp on the nature of the drones his stand created, but what did you call a substance that was as malleable as rubber when inflated while still being very much metal? No, even that comparison didn’t quite hold water, rubber didn’t have the same hardiness, the living breath within putting too much pressure on it and causing it to burst if it was forced through a gap as small as those his ‘animals’ could traverse.

  “Cute…” the dark-skinned guard mused with a brief gaze at the open page. The cat-like shaped sketched out in dark lines of graphite did have an odd charm of it, he’d just never— “I’ve never thought of them that way. Not to say I mind you think so. Most people are… perturbed by them, though I guess I could see why.”

  With that meager explanation, Mike closed the cover on the flimsy pad,rustling pages showing a quick succession of other shapes. Into his inner pocket it went, along with the pencil. A neat, tidy fit, not disturbing the lines of his coat. Catching the blush on Blackmore’s face, his stand stilled for a moment, fingers playing over the cheap glue binding the pages together. His lips parted to speak, to say something that could well turn out to be extremely unwise. Blackmore had run and he was warm, that would surely be all. He forced it to the back of his mind, the retrieved hand gesturing towards the door.

  “Shall we? The streetcar should arrive at Lincoln Square in 10 minutes or so, so we should hurry if we want to catch it. We could also get on the Georgetown line from the Capitol Hill stop, but we’d have to transfer at the Naval Yard.” Just talking about it compelled him to move to the door, used to running to that stop or the other when his shift ended, his morning and evening schedules dictated by that of the various horse tram companies. He was already halfway through it, speaking to his colleague over his shoulder. “If we miss both of those we could also get onto the Metropolitan but they go no further than the Southern end of 4th.”

  Hearing that others were rather unsettled by Mike's balloons confused him. There was no reason at all to be afraid of them and he thought they brought a rather cheerful touch to the workplace, a small smile gracing his lips each time he saw one of the dog-like balloon creatures in the hallways. He had heard they were dangerous and there was no doubt in his mind that they were, but he felt he had nothing to fear. Blackmore wasn't an enemy in any way, shape or form. And, as he had said to Mike, they were rather cute.

  Much like their creator.

  Then there was Mike's voice. Even when he was explaining the streetcar schedules, he couldn't help but be distracted by the deep and soothing sound of his voice. He didn't know why it was so... distracting? No, no. That wasn’t the right word, maybe enthralling? Yes, that seemed correct. But he felt like Mike could talk about anything and he would still listen. Such a lovely voice was hard to ignore.

  Despite finally catching his breath, his cheeks were still red, albeit a lighter shade than before. It was a weakness of his, getting attached to anyone that showed him the smallest bit of kindness or fondness. It was useless to feel such a way about Mike, as useless as it had been with all the others he'd grown fond of. It never ended well, but... Mike seemed different. Kinder than the others. He didn't want to ruin the blossoming friendship between them. Still, he could dream.

  “Mm, I guess we should start running, then. I don't... really know how you're feeling, but I'd give anything to have a chance to sit down and relax for a moment.” He gave his colleague a soft grin, hoping what he said wasn't disrespectful to the work he had done. Yes, he enjoyed working quite a bit, but being on his feet all day without a chance to relax could become rather tiring. With the way he was already so unbelievably tired by the time he was dismissed, it was tempting to just find an empty room in some forgotten corner of the white house and take a nap.

  Or perhaps sleep through the night. He had thought of it before.

  With a quiet 'excuse me', he moved past Mike, making sure not to bump him accidentally as he opened the door in front of them, stepping to the side and holding it open as he gestured outside with his head. “After you. I'm not the most familiar with the locations of the streetcars, I've only ridden them a handful of times, so you'll need to lead the way... and, uh, don't worry about losing me, I'll be close behind and I'll have time to catch my breath once we arrive.”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  The night’s entertainment had not turned out as riveting as initially expected. It had seemed like quite the wonderful idea for a division from work; a visit to the cinema, the first in perhaps years. Come to him on a whim along with various musings on the topic of why he did not spend evenings out more often.Why not take in a matinee? It had been a long time indeed and he could remember enjoying the thrill of the light dimming, the breathless anticipation of it when he’d been younger.

  Currently, he could also remember why a good two hours spent sitting in a plush if threadbare chair in the dark had lost its charm. He had still felt it, that excitement when he was thrown into darkness — all hopes sadly dashed in short order by an endless parade of commercials and trailers — and there had been nothing wrong with the film apart from being more to Scarlet’s tastes than his own. More fool him for arriving late and not making a choice until the very moment he was at the counter to purchase a ticket, really.

  The atmosphere had simply been lacking. There was always one, wasn’t there? Always one person who could not bear to be parted from their precious mobile device, the comfort of others be damned. Funny not turned off his own, but if it had rung, it would be for more pressing business than the hissed, one-sided conversation he had been the unfortunate witness to. And then there had been the smell, stale popcorn and the sickly sweetness of spilled soda. And the stuffiness, alternately too hot and too chilly as the air conditioning alternated between inactivity and blowing cold air down the back of his neck.

  In comparison, the fresh air pierced by the copper beams of the setting sun was absolute nirvana, to be savored like he a man taking his first steps outside after years of imprisonment rather than a mere victim to a rather unsatisfying experience. Yet even that he could not enjoy in peace, a soft sniffling cutting through the gentle hubbub of patrons departing.

  Stood with his back to the theater’s showy edifice, Funny’s brows knit in annoyance as the stiff breeze stirred his curls. Granted, the movie’s finale had been more bittersweet than he’d anticipated from its premise, but it was hardly something one should embarrass oneself for by weeping like a child in public. Who—

  Ah. Well. Perhaps the initial annoyance was unwarranted when it came from a young man with striking features. A bit on the pale side, perhaps, but those sharp cheekbones more than made up for it. A bit waifish, but Funny found no fault with that. The fellow was pleasingly shapely in a slender kind of way, especially viewed from behind. Didn’t he owe it to himself to find different entertainment when this experience had been so disappointing? Of course he did.

  “The ending was rather unexpected, wasn’t it? Going in, I didn’t think I’d be feeling be quite this melancholy myself.” Spoken during his predatory approach like they were well acquainted rather than strangers, laced with false sympathy. None of the other fare showing today appeared deserving of such sorrow, he must have been in the same auditorium. A true shame Funny had a elected to sit next to the irritating telephonist. No doubt that would have been a more fitting time to offer the clean linen handkerchief he held out the rather bemused-looking boy. “Here, you look like you need it more than I.”

@whispereddreams

  This was just perfect. During the one day he had off of work, he decided to see this movie. He had seen the trailer and it seemed heartwarming if a bit sad at times. For the most part, it was. Except for the ending. The ending was absolutely heartbreaking. What kind of movie ends like that? It was bad enough that he was teary-eyed for almost the entire movie, but the ending made him sob. He was still sobbing.

  Few things were more pathetic than standing outside of a movie theater, crying and desperately trying to wipe your tears away with your sleeve. He leaned his side against the wall, letting out shuddering breaths as he tried to calm down. Come on, Layne. You could do this.

  He really couldn't.  

  It took a moment for the stranger's words to register in his mind. After all, who would be talking to him of all people? He glanced at the other man, cheeks and nose dusted red from his crying. His expression was less sorrowful now, his sadness easily being overshadowed by equal parts curiosity and confusion. “It, um... it w-was,” he stuttered out, tears still rolling down his flushed cheeks. Even now, he couldn't halt the flow of tears coming from his eyes. How embarrassing, especially in front of someone who was so... well, beautiful.

  As soon as that thought crossed his mind, the red on his cheeks grew darker. He hoped the other man wouldn't notice as he gratefully took the offered handkerchief from his hand. With a wavering sigh, he used the piece of cloth to wipe the tears from his eyes, thinking for a moment before deciding against blowing his nose with it. That just seemed unsanitary. And who even used handkerchiefs anymore? “Th-Thank you, now my sleeves won't be so... er, wet.”

  Really, it was a bit late for that, the ends of his sleeves were pretty much soaking from wiping his eyes. He gave the stranger a small smile, somehow both charming and awkward at the same time. “The rest of the movie was fine, but... god, the ending got to me more than I thought it would. It was horrible— not the movie itself, it was really good, but how it ended was so... so... Ah, so-rry, I was, uh, rambling. Here.” He held the handkerchief out in an outstretched hand, his eyes aimed elsewhere as he did so. “And, um, I'm so-rry if my crying disturbed you at all during the movie. I really tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t...”

[whispereddreams]

uncharnel‌:

  The very second slim fingers squeezed down on an equally slender shoulder, Mike knew he had made a mistake. Despite the intent behind the gesture, the actual effect it had was palpable, Blackmore tensing up so fiercely he almost expected him to vibrate in his seat.  Only for a moment, but long enough. Long enough to know that the vague expression of affection was unwelcome.

  Mike wished he could say it came as a surprise, but he knew better. He may act like he was blind to how people looked at him to preserve their dignity and his both, but nothing could be further from the truth. The curious gazes were perhaps the most benign, but hardly something he savored. Were he less even-keeled, he might let them wear away at him until he would do something stupid like rise in the middle of a mundane ride home to declare he was a man, not some exhibit to be gawked at. No need for it, a nod and a smile usually were enough to drive the interest away. There were whispers at times, ludicrously excited ones in which the word ‘negro’ stood out like a burning brand, but they meant no harm.

  Worse were the glances not so easily discouraged by acknowledgment. Judgmental. Cold. Full of disgust at an animal like him being allowed to go among decent people. Or maybe he just imagined that to be the sentiment behind them, yet the North had never been the haven he once imagined it to be. No saying whether it was the world inside his head that made it so. He was a long way from his home state, a long time from being little better than thinking cattle.

  And weren’t those thoughts treacherous, the ones that whispered to him of the time that everything had gone wrong because he had lost his place? That no matter how inhumane his existence had been, he’d had a purpose? That no matter how hard he tried, how hard he worked, he’d never be more than a pretender? He’d never be what they were, the color of his skin ensured that.

  Perhaps that’s why his hand stayed in place. He did not dare remove it out of the dim sense of guilt he felt. Blackmore seemed the type of person that would blame himself for any negative experience occurring in his presence and Mike felt an intense need to prevent it. How mysterious. Could be it was just the mellow tingle of something more than friendship. The uglier option was that it was an almost inborn drive to please and avoid the switch. But those were no longer a feature in his life. Would never be.

  Apart from the ones in the world of his mind. The suggestion he be good and behave or else. That was more devious than any snappy length of birch could ever hope to be.

  “I always have time to listen to you, Mr. Blackmore.” He dispelled the illusion of rejection with the same smile he employed to chase away the intrusive ogling. Friendly. Open. Not quite reaching his eyes but convincing enough if you didn’t look too closely. “Whenever I’m not required for anything, please come find me. I always enjoy talking to you, it doesn’t matter what about. We… should stick together, for our own sake and that of the president.”

  The now-inactive hand slid from Blackmore’s shoulder, slack and not resisting its removal. The reluctance the assassin seemed to display was likely as much imagined as the temporary reluctance to being touch. Nothing Mike should dwell on. He’d already said far too much and had no reason to keep his colleague here any longer than he was willing to stay.

  “No, of course.” They both had things to do, this being a quieter day than most did not mean there were no duties to attend to. There always were, small though they might be. There was no rhyme or reason to the gentle stab of regret or the soft hint of dismay in Mike’s voice. This had been time well-spent, ensuring Blackmore would work to his best abilities, but it was over now. “There’s a few things I should see too before we meet again as well. And don’t feel bad about making me wait. For all we know it’s me who will be late.”

  He wasn’t, the clock showing the time as being shortly before 7 when he took up residence in the cloakroom they’d encountered each other in many times before. What time it was currently, Mike could not say. It passed so easily when his pencil traced over paper, brain occupied with inventing new ways to bend a simple rubber rod. Tubular Bells’ form had some import, if not to it than to himself. A mental bridge that made assigning it a role so much easier when it had a shape he could recognize. New shapes might mean a new use, one he had never thought of but was so clear when he saw the end result. Improving his stand was as good as improving himself.

  But… how long had he leaned against the corner, cheap pad of paper in hand? Looking at the clock had an air of self-defeat about it, his eyes drifting from time to time to the door instead. Blackmore would come or he would not. That was a world Mike could not change, theonly thing he could do to wait and see.

  As he worked, the hours seemed to drag on and on much longer than usual. He also found himself glancing at the clock more than he usually would, a nervous fidget setting in as the clock neared seven and intensifying more as the minute hand ticked by. He was going to be late. Extremely late. This was just perfect, his first friend invites him over to his home and he was going to be late. Some friend he was.

  Though it took longer than he had expected, he all but bolted once he was dismissed, making his way through the halls in search of his colleague. He shouldn't be all that hard to find, his darker skin making him easy to pick out from a crowd, for better or for worse. Usually worse.

  It was something Blackmore didn't understand. How people would shun and antagonize their fellow humans. The fact that some had darker skin shouldn't matter as much as others thought. It was.... well, it was idiotic. Idiotic how something as simple as dark skin meant it was perfectly acceptable to ridicule and even harm someone that had done nothing wrong. Actually, he found dark skin rather... beautiful? Was that the right word for that? Maybe aesthetically appealing? Whatever the correct term was, he did his best to treat them the same as everyone else.

  Everyone was the same at their core, no matter their outward appearance.

  Seeing Mike settled in the corner of the cloakroom immediately pulled him from his deeper thoughts, stopping before the other man while panting quietly. When had he started running? A hand rose up to his chest as he tried to slow his breathing. After a couple of moments, his breathing was fairly normal, only the slightest bit labored due to some... issues he had. He gave Mike a friendly smile before he glanced at the nearest clock, his grin faltering. An hour? How had he been an hour late?

  “Ah, I'm... I'm very so-rry. The time... I was, my work was longer than usual and I just— I— uh—” He stuttered through his explanation, his cheeks that were already red from breathlessness deepening in color. It was humiliating, being late like that. “....I apologize, Mike. I'll make it up to you, I promise.” He gave the other man a hopeful and slightly awkward grin, hands toying with the edges of his coat as they did hours before.

  A deep sigh escaped him as he leaned against the wall, his expression melting back into its usual melancholy. It did soften slightly when he caught a glimpse of the pad of paper in his colleague's hand, his head tilting slightly inquisitively. “What's that? Are you making more designs for your, uh.... balloons? I think that's what they are? So-rry if my assumption is wrong, they've looked like balloon animals the few times I've seen them.”

  After thinking in silence for a moment, he spoke up again. “Actually, I find them rather cute... if that's alright. Especially the ones that look like dogs. I've always had a certain, uh, fondness for them.”