𝙰 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙸𝚁𝙰 𝙳𝚄𝙽𝙷𝙰𝙼 & 𝙺𝙴𝙻 𝙼𝙴𝙷𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙸. // ‘ you could be right. ’ the youngest of the mehmeti sons sits with knees confidently spread in a comfortable, but somewhat aged leather armchair, a glass of something or other glittering in his hand, amongst a pair of brushed metal signet rings. while the spells of a thudding friday night begin to sound, in the nest this evening, it seems, is just one of the clan ; though adjacent to him, occupying a small portion of space on the intimidatingly wide sofa, ( usually seat of eldest son, murrat ), is the accountant, ira dunham ; a pint glass of bubbling cider before him. his gaze, trained on it in resting comfort, is weary ; kel has already clocked on. ‘ you’re right a lot more often than you realise, y’know. –––– are you going to drink that ? ’
‘ yeah, ’ a short, tethered response. while kel peers through the atmosphere between them at him, he wonders, for the briefest of moments, if he could persuade ira to let go of himself for once, to not hold so vice-like to the ground and float away, somewhere he’d actually rather be. needless-to-say, the money-man, as he so warmly has crowned him, is obviously exhausted from his day. ‘ just ... taking my time, that’s all. ’ ‘ we don’t have all night. come on. get some down you, at least. don’t make me sit here and do it all myself. ’ ira spares a look to the mehmeti ring-leader ; one simmering of an expression that stumbles somewhere between exasperation, and willingness to attend the match. kel’s pressure grants results ––– ira leans forward and takes the glass, granting himself that all important first sip. ‘ –– there. are you happy with that ? ’ ‘ of course i am, ’ in a smile lopsided, but brimming with satisfaction, kel takes to surveying the room ; sat with the midst of music that dares to entice itself louder every few songs, there is a hanging smell of perfume in the air. ‘ you should have fun tonight, ira. do you ever let yourself have fun ? ’ with a small roll of the eye, ‘ i’m not sure we have the same idea about what fun is. ’ ‘ maybe, but you do know what i mean. ’ ‘ ... i don’t, actually. ’ ‘ ––– fun. ‘ as if to drive his point further into ira’s stratosphere, kel braces a thick drink himself, and indicates across the room. the end of his fingertips stands, by the forefront of the bar, a woman ; her dress is a shimmering coal grey, and her hair falls in soft tawny waves, bracing her collarbones. she is unrecognisable, not a usual patron of the bar. as ira furrows his brow, the other lets a mischief anticipate his features. ‘ do you get it now ? ‘ a deep sigh, one that pushes at every corner of ira’s lungs, pools out in-front of him like a leaden weight. he chews the inside of his cheek, unsure of how best to respond ; and settles with a delayed, ‘ if you’re suggesting what i think you’re suggesting, then it’s ... fine. you go ahead. ’ ‘ i don’t mean for me. ’ mehmeti, now with a gaze fixated on dunham, won’t let him escape it. he slides forward in his chair, shrinking the gap between them further, enough for ira to systematically draw backward a shred. ‘ you don’t think talking to her would be fun ? ’ ‘ i’m sure it would be, ’ his words, a collection of symbols to his growing seclusion of the matter, are spoken a tone quieter ; it wouldn’t be accurate to call it intimidation, more simply his sliding into place, in respect of the way things are between them. ‘ i’m just not ... interested. ’ this seems to satiate him ; kel lets his survey continue, and as a beat passes, he indicates again. ‘ would that be better ? ‘ this time, the subject of kel’s selection is a man ; ira doesn’t even allow himself to view him more than a second before he rips it off, focuses on his drink. ‘ no. ’ ‘ you didn’t look. ’ ‘ i’m not interested. ’ ‘ how do you know if you didn’t look ? go on. what’s the worst that could happen ? ’ on the brunt of another sigh, and feeling as though arguing wouldn’t get him anywhere any quicker ; dunham looks over. the man must be in his late twenties, and he wears a blue flannel shirt. dark hair, with warm skin, laughing amongst a few others and holding a tall pint of lager. a nice smile. in his lengthier examination of this choice, ira explains himself without even needing words ; kel has already become dangerously smug. by the time his accomplice notices, it’s too late. ‘ kel, no. ’ ‘ i didn’t say anything. ’ ‘ you don’t need to. i’m not interested. ‘ ‘ okay, okay. ’ ‘ ... i’m not. ’ uncertain as to whether this was to try to convince kel, or simply to himself, ira shrinks further into his seat. silently cursing the albanian, and how quickly it seems to be to him that he’s able to pry him out his shell and form opinions of him ; opinions that often seem to be correct. ‘ that isn’t something i would say is fun, anyway. can we move on, please ? ‘ sensitive to touching a nerve, and ready with a response, mehmeti holds up his hands in defeat ; despite waving a victor’s flag behind them. ‘ fine by me. ’ as he drinks the remainder of his glass, he looks over to ira ; a man now reclined, existing back inside a water-tight shell ; and pushes his lips together. ‘ you don’t need to think the same as me. ’ as the mob-man stands, he steps by the spine of the sofa, and leans down, speaking opposite to ira’s shoulder and into his ear, free hand coming to rest on the other side. ‘ but you could have almost anyone in this room, if you wanted. ––––– i’ll put a drink for you behind the bar for when you’ve finished that one, boss. ’ contented with himself, kel steps off the podium with a straight back and sharp gaze ; already surmising his options of partners for the evening ; leaving ira to sit in a combination of two responses. the layers of walls he most often confines himself in ––– or this strange new notion in the base of his gut. kel is obviously wrong, is his first thought, but even as he thinks it he knows he might not be. the question mark remains long after the mehmeti has departed ; could he ? does he have something like that in him ? does something exist in him that the mehmeti wolf has already identified, already created a vendetta to draw out, regardless of ira’s unawareness of it ? ‘ jesus. ’ he takes another drink. longer this time.
