#rashk

Eight dumped out the hamper of clothes, sorting them out as he hummed a tune he'd heard long ago. A poorly remembered shanty filled in with bits of other melodies to make an off-key jumble of sound. Work clothes, home clothes, crime clothes sorted into piles rather than any sensible method of sorting laundry. He didn't dare wash Rashk's things, frothy bits of silk and convoluted straps made for a disaster when the rogue attempted and those things were /expensive/. Yet something caught his eye when he pulled a shirt out. A strange smudge of black right across the front of it. The humming stopped and the rogue picked it up, bringing it closer as he rubbed at the mark with his thumb.

It smeared easily, made immediately worse by the rubbing. But from this close he could see more strange marks on the crimson fabric. Powdery grey and shimmering silver. Flecks of gold. How in the hells? After some mulling it finally it dawned on him and a grin slowly spread across his face until it split to reveal small fangs. He held the shirt up and surely enough, the marks aligned near perfectly with his mouth and his eyes. From this close he could also smell faint traces of alcohol.

The scene played out clearly enough from there… Rashk had come home after a night of drinking and when he hadn't found the rogue at home he'd settled for nuzzling into the next best thing; the clothes that still carried his scent. Eight held the fabric close, pressing his own lips to the dark smudge before he balled up the shirt and tossed it into pile of laundry. Mayhaps it was about time he took a vacation from working so hard being proper-like. Mayhaps there was something more important he was losing sight of. Mayhaps he should just let it burn…

It takes a pinch of effort to break someone’s orbital to fucking bits, squeeze that tiny brace of bone in their necks so that they swell and pop. It takes a bullet to load that fucking gun, like how, sometimes, it just takes a little part of you to fuck someone’s night up.

I could have just drank.

I could have just lied.

I could have smiled, too, a less bloody one, when you think about the things I could have done in that moment.

But I didn’t fucking want to.

When you’re passive, you should only be so because you made the calculation that it just didn’t fucking matter.

That you had better things to cut yourself up over.

Not because it’s polite. Not because you want everyone to forget about this moment and move on, this moment that gets you in that forgeheart of your temper - right there, right hemisphere of your fucking chest, concentrated in that last rib you could just rip out of yourself. I don’t fuck with that sort of shit— not when you get on me like that with your stupid smiles.

Frankly?

I don’t want this to be an ephemeral moment for everyone but me.

I never want you to fucking forget.

And that’s easy to fucking do.

All it takes is a little part of me.

It doesn’t hurt, it’s nothing more than a clipping of my nail, a peel of skin already dead, white, and vacant.

But I’ll make it fucking hurt for you.

I’ll make you feel bad.

I’ll make you pause for at least one fucking bell of your life and wonder all of the morbid shit that everyone wonders and no one says: How bad was it? Was it just your feet? Was it in your legs, your knees, your hips? Did it shock up your body the way that you can snap a tree in two with that right hit along the grain? Were you a kid? Did you do anything else? Was it dirty? How many times? Who did this?

I’ll smear myself on you like a haunting.

A hook abandoned in a tree branch where it had been lost. A length of wire generally used for more dubious purposes. A stick. A stolen earring for a sparkling lure and a bit of spiced mole jerky for tastier bait. All of it came together to make a sad looking attempt at a fishing pole and the starry-haired Keeper did not seem impressed by his dusty companion's masterpiece.

"It's gonna work!" Eight insisted, settling himself down on the dock's edge to dangle his feet in the water and cast his line to secure the two miqo'te a fine fish supper. Rashk was not convinced, yet managed to keep his complaining to a minimum of whining... and none of it very serious at all. There were worse ways to while away an afternoon than lounging by the water.

The line did not twitch at all for the entire afternoon as they chatted, drank and ate up the rest of the myriad snacks they had brought to use as 'bait'. Not that Rashk suspected fish really cared for rice balls and jerky, but Eight had insisted. Conversation had calmed to a comfortable silence and during those quiet moments the miqo'te forgot the fish all together.

By the time the sun threatened to slip below the horizon, Eight had sprawled out on his side, a cheek propped up on his palm while Rashk leaned back onto him. His head resting on the rogue's side and the generous fluff of his tail draped over the taller Keeper's legs as his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm of light sleep. Eight's fingers stroked idly through raven curls, blinking a losing battle again a nap of his own.

It was then that the pole bent, wire pulling tight with the surely-impressive size of the long-awaited catch. Ears perked immediately but Eight did not move. Rashk shifted slightly against him and the decision was made. The rogue curled around the smaller keeper, twining his tail around the other's as the line went limp again.

Eight could always tell him later he'd caught a mermaid while he slept and kindly let her off the hook in exchange for wishes...

Mismatched rings, unmarked vials of reagents, bits of string, a packet of aldgoat jerky, one harlequin-patterned sock that had been missing for a sennight, an Ishgardian teacup, candies one would find at the bottom of an old woman's purse and the crowning glory was slightly dog-eared triple triad card. That final bet was flicked onto the pile with a graceful turn of Charlatan's wrist. "Call." They declared smugly.

Knave flashed a dagger-toothed grin over the top edge of his hand. "Real shame 'bout that." He apologized sarcastically as he laid out his hand onto the table. "Full house." He declared proudly as he displayed a hand with a few too many cards that matched suits.

"You're right. It's a real damned shame, indeed." Charlatan agreed as they laid out their own hand with a flourish. "Royal flush." They declared, proudly displaying an impressive array of mismatched cards that even included a Lady and a Lord amongst the usual Kings, Queens and Jacks.

"You dirty cheat, you stole that Queen that from me!" Knave exclaimed with a cackle as he rose to his feet, slamming his hands down on the table hard enough to rattle the bet pile.

"You stole it from me first, so I stole it back! All is fair~" Charlatan yowled smugly in return. "I'm just the better thief. Pay up!"

"I'll bet you pilfered my pocket aces too! Lemme check!" Knave laughed as he dove across the table towards the smaller miqo'te in a flash of black and red. Scattering the bet pile and the remaining cards in a flutter of paper.

Charlatan screeched in mock-horror though the sound quickly dissolved into laughter as the miqo'te tussled, rolling off of well-padded bench seats onto the floor. "I played them two hands ago and you didn't even notice!!" They howled. The play-fighting and pocket-checking dragged on for some time until the contents of both of their waistcoats, sleeves and so on were littered across the hardwood floors with the two panting miqo'te in a tangle at the epicenter of the mess.

Knave flopped over onto Charlatan with a sigh, signaling the end of the post-game brawl and the other miqo'te responded by swatting the taller thief in the face with their tail. Leaving a smudge of white dust on one cheek. "Alright, you win this time." The red-and-black cad allowed with a noise akin to a chainsaw attempting to start, and failing miserably. "Someday we're gonna write the rules down proper-like then your days are numbered-" He threatened.

"I always win." The Charlatan countered, curling lazily around the other. "Can't write the rules down if we change 'em every game. Where's the fun in that?" They teased, ears perking at the sound of footsteps in the bookstore beyond. They groaned and started to disentangle themselves from the pile. "Alright, mask up. Now for the real games..."

"What is this, then." The medic asked as he reached for the slip and turned it over. "I suppose the serving girl was simply so enamored that she is inviting me over later." He decided as his eyes drifted over the note's contents. Rashk scoffed, stuffing a few more tartlets into his pockets. Knowing full well what was going on there. It was not an address, nor an invitation but rather a list of everything they had eaten and drank that afternoon. Alongside of which was a series of numbers. Underneath that was a similar number listed from previous dates, all in all totaling a rather impressive sum.

"It's a check, Lebeaux." Rashk drawled sweetly, anything else that hadn't been eaten already on the table secreted away into various pockets. "It tells you how much you have to pay for what you've eaten." He explained as though dealing with a particularly slow student. The miqo'te settled his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his palm, fluttering his lashes. "And since you've picked this one up, you're paying it. Thanks for lunch." He added on, painted lips curled in a delighted smile.

"That is impossible. I have a tab. It should be sent directly to the Order and taken care of by the Sister's assistant." Lebeaux explained, incredulous. The nerve. The audacity. Expecting him to pay for his own meals?!

"Seems like your tab's been closed. The dear Sister must be mad at you. If you can't pay it maybe they'll let you work it off washing dishes instead of calling in the Brass Blades~" Rashk continued to tease, absolutely delighted with this twist.

"Hardly. There must be some mistake." The Ishgardian insisted, turning in his seat to snap his fingers for the waitress's attention. Instead it was a portly lalafel that waddled over, a falsely-apologetic look on his face. "Now see, there is a mistake here. My bill should be sent directly to the Order of Nald, specifically to Sister Irara…" When Lebeaux turned to ensure Rashk was going to back him up he found the seat across from him empty. The miqo'te had already silently fled the scene, leaving only crumbs behind.