I CRASH INTO 'EM LIKE THUNDER!

Someone else — A man who he let slip through his fingers, all because he's... Himself, Samto supposes. And Gatrie is not that man. He probably never will be, and that's fine: What this guy doesn't know about his past won't hurt him in the slightest. For now, anyway. Would he be feeling like this, if he hadn't bother with Gatrie at all?

...Well, guess he'll never know!

"'Course I do. What else would I have meant, eh?" He says, leaning just a bit closer like he's telling Gatrie something truly extraordinary. It's normal for guys to feel that sorta way for each other, where I'm from..."

He's cute. Samto hopes, sincerely, that he can find someone who'll make him truly happy after this. He can't do that, he's certain of that much, but maybe he can at least give him an idea of what he wants? It's hard to say, in the end. And, wherever you go, the only way out...

"Chin up. You'll meet plenty of guys like me, if you keep your eyes open! Though, no one as handsome as me, I'd dare to say..."

Is that--is that even possible?

Something twists inside of Gatrie--like a young girl twists an apple-stem, singing the alphabet to find her one true love's initial.

In the next breath, his eyes are welling with fresh tears. They burn him, all that soft tissue, and his breath is hitching in his throat--!

"Heh," he forces out a half-laugh, "y-you must be teasing."

But Samto is... handsome. Even if that's not something Gatrie would have ever said, even if it's not something he'd ever let himself think...

It's true. And there are--there have been plenty of true things that Gatrie never really understood. That he's just figured out how to live with.

Can a man like Samto... can men like Samto's plenty of comrades... can they be something Gatrie can just live with?

He doesn't know. He sniffles. He crams all manner of acrid memories back down his throat.

Gatrie lifts his beer and swallows it all in one shot. He wipes away a tear.

"I... don't think I want to be at the tavern anymore," he says, wretchedly.

Fuck, he'd tried to convince her, really gave it his all...

He sniffles. It's just the slightest bit simpler to bear, when someone's touching him like they actually want to.

Even if it is a man. Even this man, laced as he is with roguishness...

What would people think? It's not as though the tavern's empty.

But Gatrie hasn't got the heart to care. Any port in a storm, that's something people say. Right?

He's so busy tripping himself up like this, tangling his threads, that he almost misses what the roguish stranger says. Sweet things, honeyed things. Things that swirl and coil inside Gatrie's embattled chest.

Nice name. Handsome. Pretty guy like you...

The people in this pub... they can't see what's happening, the light that's flickering inside of Gatrie's body. The stranger can't see it, either. So it's okay.

Right?

Gatrie sniffles once more, shakes his head as though to clear away the storm-clouds. Half-smiles, wet and faint like the tiniest rainbow.

"Oh, for sure." He practically sneers. "Everybody goes crazy for me once they get a good look at my handsome face."

(...all except for the one whose attention he wants the most, even now. ah, well: he fucked that one right up, and the ship's long since sailed. and it's sort of a pain he's here too, but...)

...Well, whatever. He's got a sweet catch right in front of him right now, doesn't he? He won't let it go to waste because of the past, he can't. It's... Disrespectful to the ones who didn't make it, Samto thinks, to get lost in the past, in things that can't ever happen again.

(never mind then, that the past does often feel much closer than it is in times like these.)

The kind of man who commands the gaze of—of everyone?

Wetly, Gatrie blinks—but even through his red eyes, their tearful ache—even now, bereaved as he is, Samto is handsome. And bold—bold eyebrows, bold jawline, bold enough to say something like that? Here, out in public?

In the pub?

Gatrie colors, though it can scarcely be seen against his ruddy, tear-stained face. He giggles, anxiously, “you mean…?”

You mean men?

His throat works. He can’t swallow, can’t go on speaking. Nothing but soft, fluttering laughter, for far too long a moment.

His heart is thrumming, sprinting, doing little flips. To think…

“Hah,” he murmurs, exhilarated, catching at the coattails of his voice. “I-I’ve never met that sort of man before…”

It’s a lie. He has. But—but here, in the world washed clean with tears, it feels new.

Almost.

"Gatrie?" It clings nicely to his tongue, Samto thinks, as his trap is set. "That's a nice name. Handsome. Fits ya' well."

And, as the first of those hooks sink into Gatrie's skin, Samto thinks that, well, he is quite handsome. A bit dumb too, maybe, but that's not a bad thing at all — It's been far too long since he's been able to let loose like this, or even able to entertain the thought.

Fuck, he'd tried to convince her, really gave it his all...

He sniffles. It's just the slightest bit simpler to bear, when someone's touching him like they actually want to.

Even if it is a man. Even this man, laced as he is with roguishness...

What would people think? It's not as though the tavern's empty.

But Gatrie hasn't got the heart to care. Any port in a storm, that's something people say. Right?

He's so busy tripping himself up like this, tangling his threads, that he almost misses what the roguish stranger says. Sweet things, honeyed things. Things that swirl and coil inside Gatrie's embattled chest.

Nice name. Handsome. Pretty guy like you...

The people in this pub... they can't see what's happening, the light that's flickering inside of Gatrie's body. The stranger can't see it, either. So it's okay.

Right?

Gatrie sniffles once more, shakes his head as though to clear away the storm-clouds. Half-smiles, wet and faint like the tiniest rainbow.

Again, Gatrie sobs; whimpers right into his savior's handsome face. But--isn't it thrilling, to have someone care what's wrong with you?

People say Gatrie is prone to hysterics. But this time, this time his world is really, honestly ending.

And someone actually cares why, which is...

"Hi," sniffs Gatrie. "Thank you... You're sweet, I just..."

The words are acrid in his throat. There's nothing but to cough them up, right here in the stranger's lap.

"My wife," he croaks, "my Theophania, she--she left me."

"Wife? That's rough, isn't it?" He slinks ever closer to the stranger, like a snake tempted by the sight of juicy prey. "But I guess that's how it is, sometimes... You meet a sweet belle, and everything's swell until you find her sittin' real pretty with someone who isn't you."

...Honestly, behind all the tears and swelling and general nastiness, his stranger's got a handsome face — The sort of cute, wounded-doe look that would make him go crazy if he weren't trying to worm his way into him first, sinking the hooks in before he starts taking risks.

“‘M Gatrie,” he mumbles. There’s a surname, too, but the last time he heard it was when—was when Theophania renounced it. So he doesn’t say.

Just sniffles. His hands are hot with spilt emotion—he clutches at his mug of beer to cool them.

He lifts it, and takes a sip, and grimaces. Hiccoughs—it tastes terrible, but this is what men drink when they are full of sorrow. Gatrie heaves a ponderous wet sigh.

“Only… I don’t want other girls… I want my Tiffy, my Theophania…”

Only Theophania doesn’t want me.

Gatrie stifles a sob, and shakes his head. Takes another pull at this awful, awful beer.

“She’s not even—she’s not even with some other man. It was her brother, who came and brought her home…!”

There is nothing, then, but to hunch over his beer and wail.

○○○○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ○○○○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ○○○○○ | TRUST

But that's okay, because the alehouses that crowd up when the sun sets are warm and full of people. Now, Samto would very much like to think of himself as a changed man from his days back home, no longer prone to pulling the sorts of dangerous-but-really-well-paying stunts he did there; he contents himself with the bone die he keeps tucked away in his pockets, so far as risk goes.

And that'd be all well and good, except for the fact that, tonight, there's some guy blubbering his eyes out at the counter... And, when Samto thinks blubbering, he really means it. Poor guy is sobbing into his drink like he just lost his wife, or something like that. And honestly? He might have, hell if he knows!

Samto just sighs to himself. Okay, this is... Pretty bad: How's he supposed to get anything done if this guy's crying like the world's gonna end tomorrow? Normally he doesn't get involved in things like this, it's too much risk to get into matters of the heart like that, but... Well, everyone else needs their peace too, y'know?

"Hey, now," he croons, putting on his best smile for the impression he ought to make. "What's got you so beat up, huh?"

Again, Gatrie sobs; whimpers right into his savior's handsome face. But--isn't it thrilling, to have someone care what's wrong with you?

People say Gatrie is prone to hysterics. But this time, this time his world is really, honestly ending.

And someone actually cares why, which is...

"Hi," sniffs Gatrie. "Thank you... You're sweet, I just..."

The words are acrid in his throat. There's nothing but to cough them up, right here in the stranger's lap.

"My wife," he croaks, "my Theophania, she--she left me."