Jayce Talis

Vander's enjoying himself more than he should. The Piltie's visibly flustered, his blush a gorgeous russet underneath olive skin. "Easy," Vander says, slow and deep. "Look like you're gonna do yourself an injury, you're so worked up."

He takes another pull from his pipe, releases it slowly. Smoke hazes the room, offering a filter of gentle, herbal calm. "You didn't hear wrong. Plenty of scrap traders downstairs'll happily empty whatever's in your pockets." He lifts an eyebrow, the double entendre tripping with a light irony off his tongue. "Bigger problem for you, though, is you've attracted a lot of attention to yourself. Won't get too far down there tonight without more hands on you than I'd wager you want. So you've got a few options. There's a back staircase that'll get you into an alley and back out to the Lanes where you can run off home, no harm done. Tomorrow morning Benzo's opens at ten, and if you tell him Vander sent you, he'll give you a decent price on whatever it is you're looking for."

A heavy pause. Vander leans back in his seat a little, his thick thighs spreading. One hand is draped comfortably across the armrest of the seat, his fingers absently stroking at the upholstery.

"Or, you can wait it out up here with me." He exhales again. The Piltie's trousers look uncomfortably tight. Vander wonders if it's not just bartering the lad's green with. It would explain the tension across his shoulders, in the set of his strong jaw. Sympathy wars with amusement.

"Got a name, pup?" he says, the vaguest hint of a smirk pulling.

Jayce could get lost at this hour, in this unfamiliar district, he reminds himself, and who knows what lurks within the alleys of Zaun at night. Vander’s fumose room is unexpectedly inviting, warm and familiar by contrast. But there are only two chairs, a bed covered in homemade blankets, and a secretary set. If he were to stay the night… he could sleep in a chair, yeah? He’s done it before.

Jayce tries to take a breath, to calm down, considers walking around the room, but realizes it’s a bit too small. He slowly takes a seat into the chair across from Vander, looks at the bed. He takes off his cloak, balls it in his lap, and feels the magnetic pull of the man next to him. It must be his sheer mass. He looks up through dark lashes, hair falling in his face, his pomade dissolved by now dry sweat.

There's a touch of arrogance in the way Jayce says, "Just Vander?" It's not quite mockery. He's not being deliberately disrespectful. But somehow Vander would be willing to bet his bar Jayce hasn't so much as spoken to a Zaunite before tonight.

Vander tilts his head in acknowledgement. "Vander's plenty. We're not as fussed about lineages and houses and whatever else it is you Pilties put stock in. Down here, it's simpler. You decide who you are. Not your name."

Jayce is blinking up at him through thick, soft eyelashes, eyes puppy-huge and dazzled in his handsome face. He's sitting awkwardly, like he's not sure what to do with all his limbs. The poor lad's probably never relaxed a day in his life, Vander thinks. Puffed up and blustering with something to prove. He wonders whether anybody's ever fucked it out of him. Emptied that pretty head and left him blissfully loose, just for a few hours.

Probably not. He'd put Jayce's age somewhere in his early- to mid-twenties at a guess. Vander doesn't know much about what's expected of these fancy Academy students, but then, he can't imagine any Piltie who'd come venturing into the Lanes searching for scrap is sticking strictly to their textbooks.

Jayce dreams of roughness. He’d been asked to provide it, did so reluctantly, but all the while felt a twinge of jealousy, wondering what she felt, knowing he could never have it. It was complicated, alright? So maybe he’s a little gay, or something, because Jayce is harder than he’s ever been in his life from a man old enough to be his father calling him pretty.

So fuck it, right? He… it’s just one of those things, one of those experiences just for him. Maybe he is slumming it. Maybe he just didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe… and maybe he likes Vander. Respects him. Wants his respect, too. His praise and attention.

Vander's enjoying himself more than he should. The Piltie's visibly flustered, his blush a gorgeous russet underneath olive skin. "Easy," Vander says, slow and deep. "Look like you're gonna do yourself an injury, you're so worked up."

He takes another pull from his pipe, releases it slowly. Smoke hazes the room, offering a filter of gentle, herbal calm. "You didn't hear wrong. Plenty of scrap traders downstairs'll happily empty whatever's in your pockets." He lifts an eyebrow, the double entendre tripping with a light irony off his tongue. "Bigger problem for you, though, is you've attracted a lot of attention to yourself. Won't get too far down there tonight without more hands on you than I'd wager you want. So you've got a few options. There's a back staircase that'll get you into an alley and back out to the Lanes where you can run off home, no harm done. Tomorrow morning Benzo's opens at ten, and if you tell him Vander sent you, he'll give you a decent price on whatever it is you're looking for."

A heavy pause. Vander leans back in his seat a little, his thick thighs spreading. One hand is draped comfortably across the armrest of the seat, his fingers absently stroking at the upholstery.

"Or, you can wait it out up here with me." He exhales again. The Piltie's trousers look uncomfortably tight. Vander wonders if it's not just bartering the lad's green with. It would explain the tension across his shoulders, in the set of his strong jaw. Sympathy wars with amusement.

"Got a name, pup?" he says, the vaguest hint of a smirk pulling.

Vander is massive within the chair, broad, scarred fingers softly parting the worn velveteen. His legs are tree trunks, rooted and splayed, larger than Jayce’s. Few people were larger than Jayce, and certainly not to such a degree. A chair within a chair, he thinks nonsensically.

“Jayce,” Jayce replies, then amends, “Talis.” As if his name means anything, anywhere, especially to someone like Vander.

Jayce could get lost at this hour, in this unfamiliar district, he reminds himself, and who knows what lurks within the alleys of Zaun at night. Vander’s fumose room is unexpectedly inviting, warm and familiar by contrast. But there are only two chairs, a bed covered in homemade blankets, and a secretary set. If he were to stay the night… he could sleep in a chair, yeah? He’s done it before.

Jayce tries to take a breath, to calm down, considers walking around the room, but realizes it’s a bit too small. He slowly takes a seat into the chair across from Vander, looks at the bed. He takes off his cloak, balls it in his lap, and feels the magnetic pull of the man next to him. It must be his sheer mass. He looks up through dark lashes, hair falling in his face, his pomade dissolved by now dry sweat.

Jayce pulls on the last of his new pair of boots, wiggling his toes within its ill-ventilated interior, and cracks his neck. Despite spending much of his morning and afternoon bent first over his increasingly irrelevant dissertation, then over his considerably more interesting “independent study” research, Jayce feels energized and only marginally nervous.

“You try going across the river?” Art had asked when Jayce bemoaned the cost of copper. “Stuff comes cheap.”

”You mean the Undercity? I don’t know. Are you sure it’s… safe?” Jayce had replied, eyebrow lifting, thinking back several years ago to his rebellious teenage ventures, embarrassing trips which only took him within the outskirts of the place. “Not really, but I hear they sell scrap metal for crazy cheap. I can’t remember the place my buddy mentioned, but I’ve heard The Last Drop - some bar - is a good place to start. Kind of the main watering hole down there, used to outsiders.” ”I’ll think about it,” Jayce had replied, scratching the back of his neck. ”I thought you had your prototype built?” Art had asked, hands on his hips, head cocked to the side. “Just how behind are you, Talis?” ”Ah, just some independent research. I might shift the direction of my dissertation, I don’t know. I’ll - I’ll talk to you about it later, alright? Anyway, gotta go, Arty. Thanks a lot.”

He finishes the pull, and slides the drink across the bar.

“Thank you, darling. Add it to my tab,” Merrik purrs, her age-thickened nails clicking on the glass.

Vander huffs a low chuckle. “Your tab’s about due to celebrate another birthday,” he says. “Square us up by the next one or you’ll be getting nothing but dishwater.” It's a well-worn joke by now.

She grins anyway, revealing a mouthful of silver. “You’ve got more interesting things for me here than your drinks, anyway.” She dips her chin meaningfully toward something over his shoulder. “Who’s the pretty Piltie boy? Looks like an Academy brat.”

Vander doesn’t look right away. He takes his time, collecting a row of empty shot glasses, wiping a sticky smear away from the polished bartop.

When he does turn to his newest customer, he’s surprised. The stool’s occupant is less a boy than a young man; tall, well-proportioned, broad across the chest and shoulders in a way Vander can tell he’s still filling into.

Merrik’s assessment appears to be correct, as Vander catches a glimpse of a uniform under the neck of his cloak. He is pretty. He also looks nervous.

Interesting.

“Hey, pretty boy, what you studying?” A male voice chorused by mean-spirited laughter. “Get lost on the way to the Academy, Piltie? Don’t worry, I can teach you a lesson or two!” He can tell the shout is followed by dirty commentary by the tone, thankfully unable to make out the words. Jayce chuckles, unnerved, scratches the back of his close-shorn head self-consciously. “A-anyway. I’m looking - “ Jayce can feel the men approaching, sauntering up behind him to the bar. *Fuck.* His cheeks redden and he pastes on an amiable expression, like he’s in on the joke, shaking his head at the man behind the bar like the whole thing is a silly inconvenience or misunderstanding.

“Yeah, you can get a drink alright,” one of the men says, meaningfully grabbing at his own crotch while the other guffaws. “Got plenty for you to swallow right here. Get that pretty mouth working.” There’s a fresh wave of hooting from the idiots back at the table.

Heads from neighboring tables turn to watch, more than a few barely-concealed smirks lifting. The only thing more entertaining than a confrontation for a full house of barflies is a confrontation with a Piltie. Vander knows all too well how happily this crowd would watch an Academy uniform ripped from its wearer’s shoulders without lifting a finger to help. More than a few would probably relish the opportunity to land a few kicks of their own.

Despite his show of bravado, there’s a flush creeping up the young man’s clean-shaven cheeks. Being flustered only makes him look even more appealing, something Vander recognizes as the source of impending trouble that it is. Not only for his pinup-perfect face—which would’ve been bad enough on its own—but for that little self-righteous flash of determination in the way he’d drawn himself up as he lowered his hood, the way he’d pinned that charming smile on like a new-gleaming badge.

This boy’s going to cause problems, he thinks, his thumb stroking his index finger absently, whether he knows it or not.

Jayce studies the bar top, insides alight, trying to keep his expression insouciant, but unable to meet the eyes of anyone, his plastered smile souring around the edges. He is surrounded on all sides, a spotlighted figure in a dark and increasingly quiet, observant bar.

Vander smiles, just a hint, enough for the lamplight to catch. “That’s right,” he says to the drunk. “Lad’s here to talk to me. So I’ll thank you for taking your hand off him before I have to explain to Neelo why his crew’s two men down tomorrow.”

There’s a collective inhale as the audience waits to see what happens next. It’s quiet enough to hear the rattle of ice in a near-empty glass from one of the corners.

Then the drunk huffs, deflating. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he says. “Was just a compliment. Fuckin’ Pilties. Always too stuck up.”

He wanders back to his table, and, disappointed, the rest of the watchers return to their drinks. Conversations restart with the roughness of smog-throated laughs, like a chorus of old engines turning over.

Vander turns back to the Piltie, whose cheeks don’t seem to have recovered entirely from their russet heat yet. Pretty. And troublesome, Vander thinks again.

“Come on,” Vander says. “Think it’s best if we talk upstairs.”

“And how, exactly, were you going to handle it? Both of them at once, or one at a time? On your knees, or your back?” He’s disapproving, but not unkind. He pulls a pouch from inside his pocket while he’s speaking, taps out a measure of tobacco, packs it into the bowl of his pipe, and strikes a match to set it alight.

“Would’ve thought that fancy Academy’d only be taking in the smart ones. But there mustn’t be much going on inside that pretty head if you think walking in here wasn’t an invitation for trouble. There are easier ways to get yourself brought off than flashing it around to a mob of drunk miners, if that’s what you were looking for.”

Jayce has had dreams, alright? But they were just dreams, stress over exams manifesting in strange subconscious scenes of his male professor bending him over a desk, locker room tousles ending not in laughter, but against walls in steaming showers. He’s not gay, not that there’s anything wrong with that. He has had girlfriends, satisfied ones at that, but the sheer… look, maybe it’s the power dynamics or something. Maybe he’s just a little fucked up, alright, because when Vander calls him “pretty” and describes him on his knees, exhales smoke like, like… well, it does something for him.

“I came here for scrap metal,” Jayce blusters. He watches the pipe leave Vander’s lips, watches the smoke follow, wonders what the tobacco down here tastes like, if it leaves a trace behind on teeth and tongue.

Fuck, is he really getting harder?

Jayce pulls on the last of his new pair of boots, wiggling his toes within its ill-ventilated interior, and cracks his neck. Despite spending much of his morning and afternoon bent first over his increasingly irrelevant dissertation, then over his considerably more interesting “independent study” research, Jayce feels energized and only marginally nervous.

“You try going across the river?” Art had asked when Jayce bemoaned the cost of copper. “Stuff comes cheap.”

”You mean the Undercity? I don’t know. Are you sure it’s… safe?” Jayce had replied, eyebrow lifting, thinking back several years ago to his rebellious teenage ventures, embarrassing trips which only took him within the outskirts of the place. “Not really, but I hear they sell scrap metal for crazy cheap. I can’t remember the place my buddy mentioned, but I’ve heard The Last Drop - some bar - is a good place to start. Kind of the main watering hole down there, used to outsiders.” ”I’ll think about it,” Jayce had replied, scratching the back of his neck. ”I thought you had your prototype built?” Art had asked, hands on his hips, head cocked to the side. “Just how behind are you, Talis?” ”Ah, just some independent research. I might shift the direction of my dissertation, I don’t know. I’ll - I’ll talk to you about it later, alright? Anyway, gotta go, Arty. Thanks a lot.”

He finishes the pull, and slides the drink across the bar.

“Thank you, darling. Add it to my tab,” Merrik purrs, her age-thickened nails clicking on the glass.

Vander huffs a low chuckle. “Your tab’s about due to celebrate another birthday,” he says. “Square us up by the next one or you’ll be getting nothing but dishwater.” It's a well-worn joke by now.

She grins anyway, revealing a mouthful of silver. “You’ve got more interesting things for me here than your drinks, anyway.” She dips her chin meaningfully toward something over his shoulder. “Who’s the pretty Piltie boy? Looks like an Academy brat.”

Vander doesn’t look right away. He takes his time, collecting a row of empty shot glasses, wiping a sticky smear away from the polished bartop.

When he does turn to his newest customer, he’s surprised. The stool’s occupant is less a boy than a young man; tall, well-proportioned, broad across the chest and shoulders in a way Vander can tell he’s still filling into.

Merrik’s assessment appears to be correct, as Vander catches a glimpse of a uniform under the neck of his cloak. He is pretty. He also looks nervous.

Interesting.

“Hey, pretty boy, what you studying?” A male voice chorused by mean-spirited laughter. “Get lost on the way to the Academy, Piltie? Don’t worry, I can teach you a lesson or two!” He can tell the shout is followed by dirty commentary by the tone, thankfully unable to make out the words. Jayce chuckles, unnerved, scratches the back of his close-shorn head self-consciously. “A-anyway. I’m looking - “ Jayce can feel the men approaching, sauntering up behind him to the bar. *Fuck.* His cheeks redden and he pastes on an amiable expression, like he’s in on the joke, shaking his head at the man behind the bar like the whole thing is a silly inconvenience or misunderstanding.

“Yeah, you can get a drink alright,” one of the men says, meaningfully grabbing at his own crotch while the other guffaws. “Got plenty for you to swallow right here. Get that pretty mouth working.” There’s a fresh wave of hooting from the idiots back at the table.

Heads from neighboring tables turn to watch, more than a few barely-concealed smirks lifting. The only thing more entertaining than a confrontation for a full house of barflies is a confrontation with a Piltie. Vander knows all too well how happily this crowd would watch an Academy uniform ripped from its wearer’s shoulders without lifting a finger to help. More than a few would probably relish the opportunity to land a few kicks of their own.

Despite his show of bravado, there’s a flush creeping up the young man’s clean-shaven cheeks. Being flustered only makes him look even more appealing, something Vander recognizes as the source of impending trouble that it is. Not only for his pinup-perfect face—which would’ve been bad enough on its own—but for that little self-righteous flash of determination in the way he’d drawn himself up as he lowered his hood, the way he’d pinned that charming smile on like a new-gleaming badge.

This boy’s going to cause problems, he thinks, his thumb stroking his index finger absently, whether he knows it or not.

Jayce studies the bar top, insides alight, trying to keep his expression insouciant, but unable to meet the eyes of anyone, his plastered smile souring around the edges. He is surrounded on all sides, a spotlighted figure in a dark and increasingly quiet, observant bar.

Vander smiles, just a hint, enough for the lamplight to catch. “That’s right,” he says to the drunk. “Lad’s here to talk to me. So I’ll thank you for taking your hand off him before I have to explain to Neelo why his crew’s two men down tomorrow.”

There’s a collective inhale as the audience waits to see what happens next. It’s quiet enough to hear the rattle of ice in a near-empty glass from one of the corners.

Then the drunk huffs, deflating. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he says. “Was just a compliment. Fuckin’ Pilties. Always too stuck up.”

He wanders back to his table, and, disappointed, the rest of the watchers return to their drinks. Conversations restart with the roughness of smog-throated laughs, like a chorus of old engines turning over.

Vander turns back to the Piltie, whose cheeks don’t seem to have recovered entirely from their russet heat yet. Pretty. And troublesome, Vander thinks again.

“Come on,” Vander says. “Think it’s best if we talk upstairs.”

Jayce pulls on the last of his new pair of boots, wiggling his toes within its ill-ventilated interior, and cracks his neck. Despite spending much of his morning and afternoon bent first over his increasingly irrelevant dissertation, then over his considerably more interesting “independent study” research, Jayce feels energized and only marginally nervous.

“You try going across the river?” Art had asked when Jayce bemoaned the cost of copper. “Stuff comes cheap.”

”You mean the Undercity? I don’t know. Are you sure it’s… safe?” Jayce had replied, eyebrow lifting, thinking back several years ago to his rebellious teenage ventures, embarrassing trips which only took him within the outskirts of the place. “Not really, but I hear they sell scrap metal for crazy cheap. I can’t remember the place my buddy mentioned, but I’ve heard The Last Drop - some bar - is a good place to start. Kind of the main watering hole down there, used to outsiders.” ”I’ll think about it,” Jayce had replied, scratching the back of his neck. ”I thought you had your prototype built?” Art had asked, hands on his hips, head cocked to the side. “Just how behind are you, Talis?” ”Ah, just some independent research. I might shift the direction of my dissertation, I don’t know. I’ll - I’ll talk to you about it later, alright? Anyway, gotta go, Arty. Thanks a lot.”

He finishes the pull, and slides the drink across the bar.

“Thank you, darling. Add it to my tab,” Merrik purrs, her age-thickened nails clicking on the glass.

Vander huffs a low chuckle. “Your tab’s about due to celebrate another birthday,” he says. “Square us up by the next one or you’ll be getting nothing but dishwater.” It's a well-worn joke by now.

She grins anyway, revealing a mouthful of silver. “You’ve got more interesting things for me here than your drinks, anyway.” She dips her chin meaningfully toward something over his shoulder. “Who’s the pretty Piltie boy? Looks like an Academy brat.”

Vander doesn’t look right away. He takes his time, collecting a row of empty shot glasses, wiping a sticky smear away from the polished bartop.

When he does turn to his newest customer, he’s surprised. The stool’s occupant is less a boy than a young man; tall, well-proportioned, broad across the chest and shoulders in a way Vander can tell he’s still filling into.

Merrik’s assessment appears to be correct, as Vander catches a glimpse of a uniform under the neck of his cloak. He is pretty. He also looks nervous.

Interesting.

“Hey, pretty boy, what you studying?” A male voice chorused by mean-spirited laughter. “Get lost on the way to the Academy, Piltie? Don’t worry, I can teach you a lesson or two!” He can tell the shout is followed by dirty commentary by the tone, thankfully unable to make out the words. Jayce chuckles, unnerved, scratches the back of his close-shorn head self-consciously. “A-anyway. I’m looking - “ Jayce can feel the men approaching, sauntering up behind him to the bar. *Fuck.* His cheeks redden and he pastes on an amiable expression, like he’s in on the joke, shaking his head at the man behind the bar like the whole thing is a silly inconvenience or misunderstanding.

“Yeah, you can get a drink alright,” one of the men says, meaningfully grabbing at his own crotch while the other guffaws. “Got plenty for you to swallow right here. Get that pretty mouth working.” There’s a fresh wave of hooting from the idiots back at the table.

Heads from neighboring tables turn to watch, more than a few barely-concealed smirks lifting. The only thing more entertaining than a confrontation for a full house of barflies is a confrontation with a Piltie. Vander knows all too well how happily this crowd would watch an Academy uniform ripped from its wearer’s shoulders without lifting a finger to help. More than a few would probably relish the opportunity to land a few kicks of their own.

Despite his show of bravado, there’s a flush creeping up the young man’s clean-shaven cheeks. Being flustered only makes him look even more appealing, something Vander recognizes as the source of impending trouble that it is. Not only for his pinup-perfect face—which would’ve been bad enough on its own—but for that little self-righteous flash of determination in the way he’d drawn himself up as he lowered his hood, the way he’d pinned that charming smile on like a new-gleaming badge.

This boy’s going to cause problems, he thinks, his thumb stroking his index finger absently, whether he knows it or not.

Jayce studies the bar top, insides alight, trying to keep his expression insouciant, but unable to meet the eyes of anyone, his plastered smile souring around the edges. He is surrounded on all sides, a spotlighted figure in a dark and increasingly quiet, observant bar.

Jayce pulls on the last of his new pair of boots, wiggling his toes within its ill-ventilated interior, and cracks his neck. Despite spending much of his morning and afternoon bent first over his increasingly irrelevant dissertation, then over his considerably more interesting “independent study” research, Jayce feels energized and only marginally nervous.

“You try going across the river?” Art had asked when Jayce bemoaned the cost of copper. “Stuff comes cheap.”

”You mean the Undercity? I don’t know. Are you sure it’s… safe?” Jayce had replied, eyebrow lifting, thinking back several years ago to his rebellious teenage ventures, embarrassing trips which only took him within the outskirts of the place. “Not really, but I hear they sell scrap metal for crazy cheap. I can’t remember the place my buddy mentioned, but I’ve heard The Last Drop - some bar - is a good place to start. Kind of the main watering hole down there, used to outsiders.” ”I’ll think about it,” Jayce had replied, scratching the back of his neck. ”I thought you had your prototype built?” Art had asked, hands on his hips, head cocked to the side. “Just how behind are you, Talis?” ”Ah, just some independent research. I might shift the direction of my dissertation, I don’t know. I’ll - I’ll talk to you about it later, alright? Anyway, gotta go, Arty. Thanks a lot.”

He finishes the pull, and slides the drink across the bar.

“Thank you, darling. Add it to my tab,” Merrik purrs, her age-thickened nails clicking on the glass.

Vander huffs a low chuckle. “Your tab’s about due to celebrate another birthday,” he says. “Square us up by the next one or you’ll be getting nothing but dishwater.” It's a well-worn joke by now.

She grins anyway, revealing a mouthful of silver. “You’ve got more interesting things for me here than your drinks, anyway.” She dips her chin meaningfully toward something over his shoulder. “Who’s the pretty Piltie boy? Looks like an Academy brat.”

Vander doesn’t look right away. He takes his time, collecting a row of empty shot glasses, wiping a sticky smear away from the polished bartop.

When he does turn to his newest customer, he’s surprised. The stool’s occupant is less a boy than a young man; tall, well-proportioned, broad across the chest and shoulders in a way Vander can tell he’s still filling into.

Merrik’s assessment appears to be correct, as Vander catches a glimpse of a uniform under the neck of his cloak. He is pretty. He also looks nervous.

Interesting.

“Hey, pretty boy, what you studying?” A male voice chorused by mean-spirited laughter. “Get lost on the way to the Academy, Piltie? Don’t worry, I can teach you a lesson or two!” He can tell the shout is followed by dirty commentary by the tone, thankfully unable to make out the words. Jayce chuckles, unnerved, scratches the back of his close-shorn head self-consciously. “A-anyway. I’m looking - “ Jayce can feel the men approaching, sauntering up behind him to the bar. *Fuck.* His cheeks redden and he pastes on an amiable expression, like he’s in on the joke, shaking his head at the man behind the bar like the whole thing is a silly inconvenience or misunderstanding.