@zuggzwangg
Sebastien was the type to rarely voice complaints, unless they were warranted, useful in terms of constructivism, or under duress:
Namely, under the arm of one of his drunken coworkers, the man’s sweaty armpit uncomfortably close to face.
So if he had a complaint to voice, it would be that whatever Powers That Be (here he mentally crossed himself, his hands too full with glassware and inebriated interns to do it physically) saw fit to stop aging him with his young, unlined face and slim, unassuming build.
If he looked as old as he felt, he thought morosely, he might’ve been able to avoid the swarms of hopeful twenty-somethings that swarmed outside his office door in the evenings to drag him to places he had less than no desire to be, like Nollendorfplatz and Kreuzburg. Sebastien thought longingly of the small hole-in-the-wall near his own flat where the barman greeted him with a nod and the same drinks he’d been ordering in a rarely-altering rotation for years.
Someone he couldn’t see over the obstacle of Sweaty Armpit suggested they move their gathering to Zum Schmutzigen Hobby; Sebastien immediately cringed as the group agreed as one voice, gathering their belongings. The arm around his neck never budged and he silently vowed to terminate its owner’s employment in the morning.
I want to be an old man, he despaired as he was herded down the street by his underlings. An old, fat statesman with a moustache.
The violently-lit interior of Zum Schmutzigen Hobby had Sebastien immediately stricken with a tension headache, symptoms I’m-Too-Old-For-This and Why-The-Strobe-Lights: medicine came in the form of sympathetic alcohol shoved into his hand. He stared at it for a moment before downing it and requesting another.
The rest of the night was vague, Monet-esque impressions: dark human-shaped blurs against a backdrop of intense reds and yellows, a woman clutching a papier-mache bird perched atop a table while crooning old love songs. A pack of giggling girls (some from his own group) collapsed together on a bar sofa with alarmingly coloured cocktails in hand, another indistinct blur straddling his lap to press their mouths together briefly before slipping away and leaving Sebastien with only the sensation of stubble against his cheek.
Later still, he surfaced long enough to recognise the interior of a cab and the person whose shoulder he was pressed up against, their worried exchange a pleasant addition to the buzzing in his ears.
‘Are you sure this is it?’
‘This is where he told us earlier!’
He lifted his head from his intern’s shoulder to peer out of the cab’s window and spied a familiar residential building.
Oh. Yes.
A puddle.
A dimly-lit flight of stairs.
A lock that he stared blankly at for too long before remembering--keys.
A darkened hallway where he--just barely--remembered to slip off his shoes.
Better, even--a small herd of dogs padding into the entry curiously to greet him with soft whuffs of caution before licking his hands once in welcome.
Another closed door that had him puzzled for too long before--oh, no, it hadn’t been closed all the way.
From there, it was an easy enough task to strip off his shirt by rote muscle memory, leaving him in singlet and trousers (and socks, he thought distantly). The bed, however, was far harder and lumpier than he remembered. And unmade too, how had he forgotten-it seemed to shift and sway beneath him and ask him what the hell he was doing. That seemed like a great deal more lip than he was willing to accept from a mattress this late at night, so he groaned and smacked at it gently, willing it to shut up.
