i'm just getting started

  Maybe it was just the feeling of being back here, nearly at Lysander’s doorstep that made him aware of just how cool the air was after the light drizzle the hour before. The way the air smelled fresher and less like decomposing garbage than usual, how everything shined a little as if they were glazed in silver. Demetrius took a deep breath of cold air before stepping inside, before he could start reminding himself of all the reasons why he should be nervous.

  The elevator ascent felt like forever. He took the earbuds out and carefully wrapped the wires around his music player, just to give himself something to do. 

  He wondered how appropriate it would be if he just hugged Lysander. Hugs, at least for Demetrius, always worked to fix emotional slumps. But maybe it wasn’t the right time for that. 

  The elevator finally comes to a stop and Demetrius stepped off, feet immediately taking him to stand in front of Lysander’s door. He took a deep breath, knocked twice, and waited. Eventually, the door opened, and Demetrius smiled faintly. “How did I do on the time?” 

  In actual fact, Lysander was a young man, he just hadn’t realised it yet. 

  Lysander let his thoughts wander. It wasn’t something he was prone to doing, he liked having everything ordered, even what was inside his head. But it was a tipsy-topsy day of misrule. He pressed a couple of buttons on his phone and put on a recomposition of the Four Seasons, that began playing from speakers on the other side of the room. At first he had been suspicious but, god, that violin had won him over. He closed his eyes. He wanted to make Demetrius sit down and listen to all 43 minutes of it. Wanted to grab the sides of his head and let the music pour into his skull. 

  Part 3 of Summer was his favourite, it felt as though that thin, high violin had reached inside him and pulled something out. And the mounting thunder behind it, the danger, the anger - and suddenly it was over, low chords now. It was quiet, his thoughts returned to Demetrius. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something like common sense asked if he shouldn’t be thinking about Abel instead. 

  The knock on the door startled him, and he sighed, switched off the music, heaved his corporeal bones off the sofa and answered the door. It took Lysander a moment to understand Demetrius’ opening statement, and he looked at him with a small frown before he realised. “Oh,” he said, “not bad.” 

  But it’s the sound of Lysander’s voice, that sounds so heavy with uncharacteristic emotion in it that concerned Demetrius more. He pressed the phone against his ear a little more firmly as he managed to tug on his jacket and drape a scarf around his neck. “I’ll be there.” The words sounded more like a promise than a simple confirmation, but that was what it was. Demetrius could still be bitter about how Lysander had cheated, leaving Demetrius feeling unimportant and betrayed, but of course in the end it didn’t mean that he didn’t care back at all. Demetrius did care. So much, too much maybe, but so, awfully much. 

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, unsure what else to say. His home was mostly tidy. He hadn’t eaten much of anything at all today, so there was no mess from plates or wrappers. Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. But he settled down, lay on the sofa, on his side, knees to bent into his abdomen. “Yeah, same place.”

  “Thank you,” he said, but it was loud inside and he wasn’t sure she heard. The noise was almost as bad as the cold, the music and bass thudding through his skull. His head was starting to hurt, but it was certainly warm in here. 

  When they entered the room and she shut the door, it was a little quieter, and he felt finally able to catch his breath. 

  His theory was confirmed when Lysander answered the door in the most casual outfit he’d ever witnessed him it, was almost as if he’d come to the door in his pyjamas. Q slipped into the apartment past the dead-eyed Lysander and waved a lithe dismissive hand, “nah, I ain’t gonna say no to drinks – here look I brought you something,” he offered the bottle of wine gingerly. Half of him wondering what made the usually totally composed Lysander look as if he might simply collapse and disappear into the floor, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to need to ask that it was all going to come spilling out.

  Alcohol had a tendency to do that, to set free what you wouldn’t otherwise say (false confidence after all). Q moved to settled himself down on the sofa and just like before stretched out as if he graceful feline, bottle of rum opposite him on the table now. “You started this party without me,” he gestured to the small glass which he had a feeling was more vodka than lemonade.

  He took the bottle, looked at it. A 2076 bottle, but not awful quality. Lysander guessed it hadn’t been any more than $10 though. “Thank you,” he attempted a smile, didn’t really manage it. Had he been more himself he might have smirked, made some comment about how cheap it was. But he wasn’t really in the mood. Q had tried, and it meant something to Lysander to know that. He was grateful. 

  Q had been before, so Lysander just gestured, entered the living room. It was colder than the hall, somehow. When Q settled on the sofa, Lysander smiled ever so slightly. It reassured him that he was so at home, here. Clearly it wasn’t too impersonal. One past flame had hated it, she always complained about the cold, that he hardly ever switched on the lights.

  “So I did,” he commented lightly, sitting again. “What else was I suppose to do whilst I waited?” 

  But instead, she withdrew, reminded of her distaste for her natural desire to protect, and knowing that not everyone wanted to be touched by strangers. She coughed a short laugh, apologizing silently, in a way he would likely not recognize. She instantly fell back into her facade, smirk touching the corners of her lips. “You can come in. You should come in.”

  When she reached out to touch him, he didn’t draw back. Lysander knew better. His eyes went to the door. It looked warm, but the consequences if he was seen would be humiliating. “I can’t say I’ve ever been in a strip club by choice before,” he answered carefully 

  Given just a few more minutes, Demetrius would have fallen asleep, except the sudden discord in the music that played caused him to abruptly open his eyes in confusion. The Swan was definitely still playing, but when had Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14 started playing? His eyes landed on his phone vibrating at his bedside table, and his mind clicked together the pieces. Without even needing to look at his phone’s screen, Demetrius knew that it was Lysander calling. No one else had that as a ringtone. 

  Almost a fantasy.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Demetrius pressed the answer button and placed the phone against his ear. “Hi Lysander.” It came out as almost a question, for calls between them were rare now, but it was far from unwelcome. He sat up as he listened to Lysander on the other end, whose voice sounded slightly different than usual. Maybe it was just the reception? His fingers picked at the edges of one of his blankets as he immediately responded, “No, I don’t have anything going on tonight. I could come over, but… what’s the occasion?” 

  One night, he could afford to ask for help. He wouldn’t develop a dependence again - last time he and Demetrius had parted ways, it had hurt him more than he cared to admit. Besides, his father’s death was just proof, just fucking proof of everything he had told himself. He’d tried to help him, put his own happiness on the line for it, and now he was here. Miserable and alone. 

  If only he hadn’t moved that fucking coffee table. 

  It was only after he spoke, heard the tone in Demetrius’ voice, that he realised just how his request could be interpreted, and he wanted to take it back. Not that he didn’t want to fuck, but he had more important things to worry about right now. 

  He cleared his throat, wondered whether to tell him now or later. Fuck, it would come out sooner or later. “Dad died last night,” he said with a candour in his voice that he was unused to. A straightforwardness. He almost liked it. It made a change, anyway. 

A woman caught his attention by speaking, and he looked up at her. She was beautiful. “No, thank you. I just need a moment.”

  an angle of his head at the wiry youth, slow rake of eyes down, equally as slow on their way up, and there’s a small smile that flickers to his lips -  lacking anything but a sense of self-amusement at the reaction.

  perhaps the jaeger enshrouded youth was king of his very own castle… and good luck to him with that.  but this?  this wasn’t a castle.  this was the street.  and everyone, every single individual in night city - no matter their bank balance, or arrogance or pride – was on a very, literal, level footing here.  

  you needed to be quick ( with mouth for intimidation, or wallet for bribes, or hands to land a blow or draw a gun ) to stand half a chance - or be good at running… just how fast are you little king?

  The man in front of him wasn’t well-turned-out by Lysander’s standards, not at all. He was probably of the anti-materialistic, communist-type stock that tended to see designer clothing (good clothing) as a frivolity. Something unnecessary, elitist. Lysander supposed the latter may be true, but god, clearly these people had no idea how difficult it was getting a good suit, these days. He saw it in the people he worked with, they wore ill-fitting, untailored suits, and laboured under the impression that they looked presentable, professional. Sometimes he had to suppress smirks. 

  Almost for show, he dusted down the sleeves of his jacket, straightened them. They hadn’t creased at all from where The man had grabbed his wrist to stop him from falling. He supposed he should thank him, but he didn’t want to. He was still waiting on some decent food, still tense and twitchy in case of developments in this murder case. 

  His eyes went to his phone, and he began tapping a stern message to the intern in charge of reporting back to him. Lysander had only been out of the building about twenty seconds, but he was highly-strung today. 

  As he typed, he commented, “It’ll dry clean. After all, this is good quality.”

the scene had been picked clean by reporters, police, forensics.   and he wouldn’t be here otherwise, but it’s simply on his route. and for a moment, 13 pauses.

sometimes people were so focussed on the details, they don’t see the bigger picture.  and instead of looking down at the murky water, he looks up - around, wonders what it was that possessed the killers to drop a body here.  unimaginative.  cliche.  and very, very likely ( since, factually proven ) to be found.  

he’s not bothered about the body. what is gnawing a little, is the carelessness of the kill.  and if it - was - a hired hit, the dank, dreary, mar on his ‘profession’ that such an act would bring.  he’d very much like to find out who had done it - ( again, could care less about who provided the pay packet on the other side, or the reasons behind it, though they could certainly do with some ‘education’ in selecting their instruments in the future ) - if only to satisfy himself that it was as - a m a t e u r - as first appearances might suggest.  but just as he wasn’t quite ready to drink down every word the networks were feeding, he wasn’t quite prepared to think this was a ‘slight’ – and not a setup.

he’s also mentally cursing himself for the fact that the story had lodged itself in his brain.  had tempted out a rare curiosity.  but if not for that slight - irritation ( a moderate offence at mess and – media… septic little parasites that they were.  leeching from the paranoia of the city… modern man’s pulpit from which to preach as they so wished… here is your new GOD, take heed of his word and believe… )

so he leaves.  sets foot to path once more and takes himself into those weaving streets, a slight diversion to take him past the building in which the self same cockroaches scurried - lit up like the temple of truth it proclaimed to be.   news never sleeps.   apparently.

and he snorts - a derisive sound ( because yes, while he may not have much by the way of morality, he has standards, and there’s a brutal honesty in his work at least ).

and there’s a grin - sharp slice as he eyes the guards at the door - hired muscle and cheap tech.  employed to be… intimidating - no doubt.

“c minus.  must try harder.”  

it’s muttered as he walks past the entrance.  rounds a corner ( with the momentum of a walking tank ) and almost - almost - delivers a slender, wiry, tall youth to the ground.  only crumpling the suit slightly as he saves it from the dirt of the road beneath with a quickly snatched hand to steady the other on his feet.

dripping indifference in a low, lazy drawl–

Lysander was praying for a second victim. A calling card of some sort. God, he would kill for a good story to get his teeth into. He would have to call up a couple of hackers and ask them to find the police files for him. “Anonymous sources tell us...” was his favourite phrase.

He had been at the office now since five in the morning, surviving off coffee and whatever he could find in the vending machines, which offered very little that he considered edible. Mostly crisps and chocolate, which he rarely allowed himself to partake. So Christ, he was hungry, he wanted a sandwich and some fruit and he never wanted to look at coffee again in his life. 

On a quick break, he stalked out of the building. He’d terrorised an intern until she promised to text him if anything new came up, in case he needed to get back. 

On his phone, lost in his texts, Lysander didn’t notice the tall man until he had barrelled into him. Nearly knocked off his feet, nearly dropping his phone - fuck - Lysander turned to look at the bull, damn near furious. 

“It’s Jaeger,” he retorted, sniffing self-righteously.