Elbow grease and effort he knew all too well. His roughened hands was the one thing that never did match his ballroom appearance (that and his beard, so terribly out of style) - roughened by callouses and scars from rope and nets cutting into his flesh. He was a scrawny 6’5” scarecrow until the age of sixteen — hauling tens upon tens of kilos of fish for hours on end was a make or break job — either get the muscle to perform it, out fall out into the sea.
But that was of no importance here; not in this city, not in this scene, not in these times. No one wanted an uneducated, simple fisherman as their companion and conversation partner; they wanted someone intelligent, intellectual - someone rich and leisured who had the common touch.
And that was what the Host has given them.
He never shook hands with the flappers, at least, lest his secret be revealed. No wealthy man had such rough hands, not unless they tried working themselves to death earning that wealth.
The beard belonged in the previous century, though no one seemed to mind its existence other than a peculiar little blonde that had pointed it out once, in the past. He had started growing it out in the late summer of 1918, once the shrapnel wound on his chin started to heal. It was the only one that healed for a long time.
He had been bedridden for six months, his knee shattered. Three of them he spent in a hospital in France — and come November, once the Germans surrendered (six days after his twenty eighth birthday. Happy birthday), another three months at home. He waltzed about on crutches when he could. Later, only one. He left it on the dock when he left for Atlantic City in early 1920.
(The pain wasn’t gone. The pain was still very
much present. He simply powered through it,
ignored it — he noticed how once he repeated
a certain lie enough times, he would forget that
it was not the truth. Same went for his wounded
joint. So long as he didn’t acknowledge the
pain, it wasn’t really there.)
The smile on his lips grew, brow raising in a mixture of gratitude and curiosity as the other man offered him his own cigarettes. Personally, he disliked rolling tobacco - tasted like burned grass - but it was a nice change, for once, to be offered. They seemed intriguing enough, at least — certainly not like anything he’d seen around the ballroom.
"Much appreciated, lover. Thank you." He murmured as he placed his Lucky Strike back into the silver case and reached to retrieve one of the strangers’ smokes. The expression on his face only brightened, brows going higher and smile growing into a full-blown grin as the man’s hand went to his own and he leaned in close to light his own cigarette. He couldn’t quite help the low chuckle, a rumbling thunder with that deep, husky baritone of his, that came from the pit of his chest.
"Well, aren’t you just a heap of trouble?" He asked, gaze turning away only momentarily as he shielded the flame with his hand and ducked his head in order to light his own smoke. It tasted…
Such warm hands, he had almost said, but caught himself in the act and said nothing for a moment as he returned the lighted and case to their appropriate place, in the lapel of his jacket. No need to be blunt (as if he weren’t being blunt enough as it were — though it wasn’t often that another man placed his hand on the Host’s. Certainly not around these parts).
Something about his smile was… off. Surprising as it may be — the Host hadn’t a great way with words, not when he truly needed them. He couldn’t put his finger on it to save his own life; but while his own smirk was devilish, the stranger’s was… god, he couldn’t think of a word. There was something off-putting about it — as if he had some sort of ill intentions.
Though that couldn’t be the case, could it? When the host smiled, it seemed as if he was out to seek nothing but trouble — but he didn’t seem malicious, did he?
"I do beg your pardon — I meant no offense, my dear. A simple term of endearment."
Hand sliding into the pocket of his trousers, he leaned back against the wall and had another long drag off the cigarette. Still peculiar. Just what was it?
"Oh, nothing you won’t be able to handle." There it was, that familiar devilish smirk, the ever so slightest show of teeth. Oh, this was worth losing his break over. Very much so. ”Oh — where are my manners? The name’s Galway, darling.” He placed the cigarette between his lips and offered his now-free hand for the shaking. “The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.”
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