Barred Teeth

ANNAKI HAD ALWAYS NATURALLY BEEN AN OPEN BOOK. Her heart had faithfully been worn on her sleeve no matter how many times it had been bruised or broken or taken advantage of, and she didn't think she was capable in navigating her life in any other sort of fashion even if she wished to not wear her emotions and thoughts so clearly for the entire world to see and dissect. Deflecting as a means against sharing how one felt was practically a foreign concept to her. "Do you do that a lot, or is it just because I'm asking too many questions? Well, I guess that's another one. I'm not really good at not asking questions." And she wasn't very good at realizing just how much patience that asked of others, either. "Not welcomed? Well that can really take someone out of the wedding mood, no wonder you have thoughts of something bad happening. We just need to find a way to restart the party spirit in you! It usually only takes a few minutes on the dance floor to do that for me." A wince cross their face at the first question he had asked back, the nail of her pointer finger meeting her teeth as they considered how to weasel out of it without admitting to her guest list crime, always coming back to spilling the truth regardless. "Well, I love weddings. Just all the love in the air; it's magical. But I don't...exactly know the bride or groom...nor do they really know I'm here. I mean, it's not really wedding crashing; I came to pick up my girlfriend, and I guess I just wanted a peek at the party. Please don't blow my cover."

He was certain they just asked him to dance. And he was horrified. But it also didn’t seem like they were suggesting they went together. Which meant Benny saw an opportunity to do what he did best: make someone else uncomfortable. “Are you suggesting we dance?” he asked with a smirk.

He laughed - out loud - at the admission that they were essentially not on the guest list. They seemed to think it was a crime, even if there were probably enough wedding crashers. The comment about their girlfriend seemed pointed, so Benny took the hint. It wasn’t said that way, but Benny, known as a flirt, translated it to: no chance with me. And despite the settling unease, he could deal with rejection. He still thought they were cute. “Your secret is safe with me,” he assured them.

The pink-haired menace took a step back when the stranger leaned in closer. Anymore, they couldn't tell the difference between whether there was something off about another person, or their mistrust autopiloting to collide them directly into a dumpster fire. Though there was the bristling urge to snap and warn the other back, the terror had possessed Ivy. No longer could they think straight, and the last time something like this had happened, their girlfriend had been in the vicinity — not yet their girlfriend, but... a kind and willing stranger to volunteer shelter until the fright had passed. Until it felt safe enough to venture out again.

Through scrambled thoughts, they tried to pull everything back together, uttering, "No, I..." Wrong place, wrong time — shit like that sounded like a laughable excuse to most strangers. "I think... I learned something about them that I'm... I'm not supposed to know, but if it's not them, then it's..." They didn't want to say it. To the point that their stomach turned and battered against their petite body and demanded retribution for comprehending the thought, and their fist loosened around the note. Taking the note in both hands, she started to rend it from one end to another, until the divination splintered into miniscule pieces.

She hummed. "Hmm, doesn't matter? Who is them? We could pay them a visit? Go to the police together?" She hoped they'd say no to that last one. Gemma only walked into a police building when she had something to gloat about. She tapped a finger to her chin. "We could find you a place out of the crowds for now. Have you ever petted a horse?"

Was she attempting at kindness? Maybe. She simply liked to hurt people, and hurting people who hurt people were the best to hurt.

He wiggled his eyebrows, unavailable hadn’t stopped him before, but that was with people who didn’t care themselves that they were. And Benny was a serial cheater. Did not mean he wished that on anyone else. “Nah, I’m good, I’d rather fly under the radar.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “It’s gotta come to me at some point,” he said. “Probably need an a-ha moment, or a smoke.” Or something stronger. This party had very few clients though, rich people tended not to buy their drugs off of street rats like him. “I don’t? Here I thought I was basking in rosey energy.” He brought out a cigarette and searched his other pocket for a lighter. Maybe he should burn the letter too. “Got an invite,” he said. “Business pall with the groom, you could say.” And that had led to the letter… he eyed Edward Weiss from across the room. He hadn’t disclosed being a Vampire to anyone, but if they already knew… “And you? Got in because you’re memorable?”

while the rest of the city had dressed itself in imitation—cowboys, rhinestones, and other borrowed mythologies the strip sold back to them at markup—the warehouse continued as it always did. unremarkable. untheatrical. functioning regardless. even if he had intended to take the night off, and had nearly been persuaded otherwise by one flower-named roller-skating variable of chaos, he could not ignore what the crowd became when half of the city was otherwise occupied by spectacle above ground. less restrained. less interested in pretending otherwise.

instead, he remained beneath flickering warehouse light that never fully committed to illumination. someone nearby coughed into a towel already too used to be called clean. the irony, at least, was consistent.

the third fight ends the way most of them do—loud enough to convince the room it mattered, abrupt enough to suggest it never did.

the ring is already dissolving into its aftermath. one fighter sits half-folded against the corner post while gauze is wound around skin that is too weak to hold itself closed. another is being guided off with an arm slung over shoulders, weight dragging behind them. someone wipes the canvas down with a towel, even more blood and grime within its fibers.

the crowd has already begun to forget it happened.

then, finally, toward the newest arrival. a pause. “if you were going to take anything tonight,” he adds flatly, “that would’ve been the one to bet on.”

He blew out the last of thesmole from the discarded cigarette and stepped over the threshold. He hadn’t expected to be addressed so quickly, Which he decided not to read into when he recognised the Cactus Cat member. He was familiar with all of them, either from years ago when he’d also been affiliated or because he did well to know his enemies.

He shrugged with a casual air, feeling the weight of the drugs in his inner pockets. “I ain’t like these people,” he said. “Not here for bets but to drink and see some blood and gore.” Also not why he was here, but he’d play the part as he always did. “Reckon I for some more of that to look forward to?”

"Usually I am set up at a table and sitting at it, but sometimes I end up hitting off the table, having records falling over and not to mention my back. Got to give my back a break when it comes to sorting things out." She spoke, fixing the ones that she had sorted out on to the counter that separated the two of them. "Oh there's no need to apologise, some people might think it's rude, but I don't. Some people come in to browse, but I've never met somebody who admires the art." She spoke, her eyes looking in to his for a moment before she spoke once more.

"You okay? You look pretty drained?" Her voice was soft as she spoke. "I can make some coffee up in the staff room if you'd like some." Andrea added.

"New music?" he asked.

"Okay good, because I feel terrible if I walk into a store and don't buy anything." He picked one cover he'd been looking at. "I might be a bit shallow, I think the cover should entice you to buy it. Or at least say something about the music. And I like it because I know I couldn't come up with it myself."

The offer of kindness took him by surprise, and the smile he gave her was genuine and relaxed. "I worked a night shift," he said. Because Harsh rarely told people about his job as an actor. If people didn't recognise him, that was all the better. "I have a day shift tomorrow, so going to bed now seems like a sure way to ruin my night." He paused. "So I'd love a coffee."

Nothing, and he meant nothing, could persuade him to step foot inside the Glitter Gulch Lounge, including Stella's personal entertainment with the guts and glory of a mechanical bull. However, he had resigned himself to linger outside when the business owner was forced to tail in after one of her friends, and instead preoccupied himself with the contest sheets that Damiar had sloppily written his name down on. Trust one of his siblings to dive right into the heart of the stupidity of it all and make a complete ass of himself, and of course, the person with that little shame was his younger brother. Thus, he found himself standing stone-faced behind a pair of sunglasses and taking small bites out of a lemon bar that his wife had brought back out to him.

"Rooting for someone?" She tapped a hand to her heart. "You have mistaken me for someone who wants to see people succeed. I want to see as many people fly off it as the night allows. The quicker the better, the further the better." She leaned her head on her hand and studied the guy with the green hair. "I hope he lands so hard he breaks something," she said with cheer. "Are you planning on attempting the bull?" Please say yes.

Gemma wiggled her one eyebrow, the expression of the other seemed a bit awkward, but she had stopped caring about what people thought of the patch. She thought it was bad-ass. A bitch in traffic, but totally bad-ass.

“sounds like you have a nice family,” though he understands families can be complicated, it’s still nice to be grateful for the positives. while he wishes he had a more supportive mother from birth, his foster parents were there to champion him as much as they could when he was younger. his smile extends at the words and they sit with him longer than expected—like something that’s found a place to stay. that someone like them could have started from somewhere uncertain too—it doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the distance between then and now feel… smaller. “thanks. i’ll remember that,” he adds quieter. “when i start overthinking things.”

the violin is something that is fond but a bit strained. in truth, he hadn’t learned a new song in awhile. “when i have time.” he nods. “work fills most of my days now. and my brother tends to turn the apartment into noise whenever he’s around, so…” a brief, softer exhale. “it’s not always the right moment.”

then, after a beat — a bit more open, but still tentative: “but i like it. when i do play.”

a pause.

“maybe one day i’ll take you up on that,” he agrees. “maybe one day i can play for you, if you have any favorite violin pieces.” 

At the comment of his family, Zakir nodded with a longing smile. There was enough to say about any family, and currently he was trying to solve a mistake made by his uncle. But overall, Zakir couldn't say a bad thing about them. He hadn't been raised like that. "I do," he agreed. "I do miss them, and hopefully I get to visit soon, Inshallah."

He couldn't be a hundred perecent, but he was certain his words helped the other. It was good. He did hope to be inspirational one day. "What made you learn the violin?" he asked. He'd never been good at instruments, though he'd always been inspired by the more traditional instruments from his home country.

He chuckled. "That's a deal, I don't know a whole lot of violin music, but I do know Vivaldi, if you know any of those songs. Never much of a... European classical type of guy. My mother had a friend who often preformed with a sitar or a rubab, string-instruments that I think are most similar to a gitar. Hauntingly beautiful when she also sang along."

At this hour? Brows furrowed, unsure of how to take the other's tone. "It's somewhat important. They say that the longer a person is missing, the less likely it is to find them alive. Should I not have haste?" Holding up the missing persons poster for Heejin Mae that was stacked under his arm, Atticus let him get a good look at it before he returned to what he was doing. "Ah, yes, it's a good evening for a night cap, I suppose."

“Still. On your own, after dark. Even if you feel like it can’t wait, your safety is important too.” He paused, took a sip from his coffee. “After my blunder, the least I could do is offer to act as your back-up,” he offered.

maybe sitting down would help too. something fried and simple to settle his nerves. onion rings, maybe. bars usually had onion rings, right?

he just hopes they won’t look at him strangely when he inevitably orders a soda instead of anything stronger. people in vegas seemed to expect alcohol the way hikers expected water.

“do you come here a lot?” he asks after a moment, voice quieter against the city noise. the question comes partly from curiosity. “my brother usually disappears into places lie this,” he admits, a little sheepish. “but i’m not really… familiar with bars. i usually end up in them looking for him, not… being in them.”

"Sometimes," he answered. "When I'm not ready to go home yet." And he waved over at the bartender. It wasn't normal that he'd come to the table, but Daveed saw the place was quiet enough. "Anything you'd like?" he asked. Though he didn't need to order anything, of course. The Press Release Manager finished his coffee and put the empty cup on the edge of the table. "Do you have money for the payphone?" he asked.

the menu flips immediately toward the desserts. that, at least, earns the faintest recalibration of sidd’s attention. most people unfamiliar with places like this gravitated toward whatever looked safest—naan, butter chicken or the over-explained combinations softened for tourists and hangovers.

his fork pauses briefly against the plate.

the mango lassi remains surrendered territory now. he reaches instead for his water, attention drifting once toward the counter. the owners move through steam and noise. a sweet old desi family. he hadn't bothered to ask where exactly they were from. they tend to greet him differently here, not like other places. not like he's an outsider. instead with the casual assumption that sidd was someone expected to return. as if he were one of their strays, protecting him with comfort food and the smell of home.

“sharbat’s better,” he says after swallowing. a slight gesture toward the nimbu adrak listed lower on the menu. less sugar. more spice.

his attention drifts down the page of his own menu in loose sequence. he begins his list of recommendations: “rotla if the kitchen hasn’t run out yet. dhokla’s the best i’ve had in the city. khichdi’s good too.” another scoop of chickpeas disappears with little urgency. “the potato curries are what i tend to order.” and obviously the samosa chaat. a beat. “the desserts are all very good too. i just don’t have much use for sweet things.”

finally, his gaze lifts toward the other properly again. not celebrity. not actor. just another person hiding badly. “who exactly are you avoiding?”

It was rare these days that he ate anything he knew from his youth. His mother had stirred him up anything Punjabi, while his father could make dishes from all over the country he was from. And then there was family, who say they loved him by making him food. His chest swelled with nostalgia. Like everything else, Harsh had ignored his roots and settled for whatever the people around him did. If they ate pizza and burgers and whatever new health snack was available on set, he followed. He didn't ask for a special treatment.

"I haven't had rotla in ages," he said, putting a leg up on his knee and thinking about what else he could order if it was indeed out. What next. If his stomach could still eat more after one whole meal.

"I live for the sweet things," Harsh said. "The sweeter the better. I'll try those," he decided. The box, that was. A little bit of everything, take what was left home.

While he had hoped that the other might've forgotten what had led Harsh to this place - in a rush - he knew that was wishful thinking. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to wave it off. Like it was nothing. "Just some... ladies who..." he paused. He had no idea how to explain it without sounding terrible. While he knew he was handsome, he hated walking around and flaunting it. "Fans."

She saw his look and gave her own in return. "Oh, don't give me that look. You can't tell me that you wouldn't just love to find something incriminating around here so you could finally nail the Weisses--sure, you'd have to come back with a warrant to get it but don't act like you don't also want answers."

When he mentioned his colleagues, she couldn't help but be at least a tad curious. "You know, I have to ask... I'm sure you're not the only decent person in that precinct but seems to me like it's pretty far and few between--how can you fucking stand to work knee-deep in corruption? You're not corrupt but a lot of your fucking co-workers are. I mean... If you don't mind me asking, are you...a black sheep or do you play along when you're around them? Because either way, that's got to be exhausting."

"I do want answers. But I'm also aware that I can't answer every single question," they said. Some cases were not theirs. Even if it usually felt like they should, because everyone else was going to fuck it up.

The shift in conversation made them turn to her with a question mark on their face. "Off the record?" they asked. You could never be certain with reporters. And they weren't in the position to be showing up on the record having said any of this. It was one thing knowing most people were crooked, it was another to say it out-loud.

"I don't play along," they said with a serious face. "I avoid." They licked their teeth. "I've considered plenty of times to move to a quiet time, be done with all of this." They shrugged then. "Then that thing happened." And now they couldn't leave, ever. "It's still appealing though. If you got a solid position at a town within state lines, would you take it?" Rest.

They nodded slowly. It didn't surprise them that she was good at her job, even if they couldn't say if what she said was true, it run true enough. People like him. Yes, it made sense that they wanted control. "Do we need to fear for Romi Weiss' life?" they asked.