r.

What is the memory? The one that tastes like ash in her mouth. The one that beats in the roots of her sinew, her tendons, her ligaments, her muscle and flesh. Something her body knows that her brain won't tell her. 

When Illayona Ikeda returns from months of oblivion, screaming and kicking and covered in blood, like her second birth, violence turns to rot in her body. With blood that hisses and spits, bones that thrum with unused venom, muscles that ache for the thrill of a punch, her reformed self likes to think of herself as somewhat of a pacifist. 

There's a line. Some blurry, intangible thing, that carves out two selves. Before and after. 

She's retired her old life (a dark, damp whirlpool of hate and misery so consuming it could send the unwise to the brink of insanity) and, as Gojo has put it to her, turned over a new leaf.

She doesn't fight, doesn't spar, doesn't exorcise, she hasn't raised a fist in months, she hasn't even cussed out Gojo for weeks. And perhaps resisting insubordination and violent tendencies doesn't quite call for the level of celebration she's affording herself, and maybe Principal Yaga has a point when he says that she hasn't really proved anything, given her technique has relied on avoidance and no introspection or self-work, but that's not the point.

She's renewed. 

Illayona doesn't have to address the haunting nightmares that's plagued her mind, chipped away at her shaky resolve, brought her to crushing lows. Her past is a murky, slithering thing that refuses to be caught, it's nothing but a flash of teeth and hair and wounds. She cannot work her mouth around the words that sing to her, she cannot confess to a crime she doesn't recall. 

So Illayona's healing on her own terms - and she's doing that by healing others. Tokyo Jujustu High's very own... medical assistant? She doesn't really have a specific role, with her newly discovered Reverse Cursed Technique, she mills around and leaves the hard work to Shoko. It's better than trying to touch something innate that she cannot recall. Her technique, like a taunt, like an omen, unreachable, indecipherable. No longer accessible. 

But no one needs to know that. 

Illayona doesn't need to talk about her months in some alternate dimension she refuses to describe, name or even mention. She doesn't need to tell anyone about the strange link she has to a cursed tool the Jujustu society believes has been lost in time.  No. She doesn't. Because that would entail picking at sticky, unsettling threads, like will reveal a rat king's worth of tangles so sickening she'd rather just wait for death to come to her. 

But that was before a murder, eerily reminiscent to the mission she was on before disappearing emerges. And it was before her dreams began to bleed into reality, her two selves shrouding each other in darkness in an attempt to converge. And it was before some odd, unsettling feeling of being observed began to overrun her days. 

And now she's saddled with Yuta Okkotsu, trailing after a goose chase that may just be enough to rip apart the fragile peace she's created for herself. And what she definitely doesn't need is another, traumatised, pretty-eyes-with-a-dark-backstory sauntering into her life. 

It's for the best to shove him as harsh and hard out of her life. If there's any constants in her life, it's two things: hunger and death.

Even if he looks at her like that. 

posted to wattpad. will be cross-posted to ao3 eventually

The morning fruit and vegetable market in Dublin is a heinous place that might’ve been the closet event in your life to the gladiator fights in Ancient Rome. Agatha tried to usually have her food and cloth sent to the house, but on a rare occasion, the delivery is missed and you are sent down to the market to fight your way through the push and pull of the crowd, which moves like fluid water, to scramble together enough food to feed your girls for the week. 

The cons of working in a whorehouse is that they always get sick first. The pro is that they always recover first too. But you, trapped in the centre of this hungry, bidding crowd, might just be exposing yourself to the second wave. You can feel the sweat and spit bounding off the edges of people’s lips. The heat of their bodies, hard and unforgiving as they slam against you. You try to push your way through to the edge of the crowd, ripping and tugging on cloth, against tables, anything to move out of the heaving beast that had swallowed you whole, you can feel a cry for help catching in your throat, the sting of tears teetering on the cusp of your eye, when a hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you out with a firm pull. 

You can feel hair coming loose and your clothes rubbing against the rest of the people as your dragged along, and you might’ve had bells ringing in your ears to wake you up to the prospect of this being an unkind saviour, but the relief of the first intake of fresh air out of the midst of it is enough to distract you entirely; savouring the cool taste of it against your tongue. 

‘We need to stop meeting like this,’ Edward snaps you out of your daze, and you clutch your woven basket in shock. 

‘You mean you purposefully seeking me out against my will?’ You sigh, trying to shove as much air back into your lungs as possible. 

‘I’ll have you know the first time you sought me out—,’

‘To help!’ 

The laugh that bounds from you both is one shared, and you catch yourself staring at him, head thrown back slightly, the apple of his throat moving up and down with rivets of laughter. You take a quick glimpse of his clothes and notice they’re much nicer than the usual garb he dresses himself into to visit the docks. Black, sleek fabric tailored made to his body. Not the rags that hang off his frame. It’s a nice body, you muse slightly, which is followed by a sharp urge to slap yourself across your face. 

‘What are you doing here?’ You finally swallow, trying to alleviate your dry mouth.

‘You mean other than saving you from the crowd?’ Edward tilts his head towards the market with a playful grin. ‘I was heading to lunch. I have a meeting. I noticed you being swept up on my way.’ 

‘Oh well… I shan’t keep you,’ You nod curtly, trying to escape when you feel his hand grasp around your wrist, warm and gentle, lightly tugging you back. 

‘Who said you were keeping me?’ When you turn back over your shoulder, you feel his grip tighten slightly, and when you finally will yourself to meet his eye, you try to study him, gaze impenetrable, but mouth pursed shut, as if trying to stop himself from saying anything. He stares you down with an odd intensity that makes you want to recoil inwards, you feel heat ricochet through your body. ‘It’s a shame,’ he releases your hand, ‘that one of us is always coming or going.’ 

‘You,’ you correct, ‘are always coming and going.’ 

‘Yes, you’re quite right. I am,’ Edward ducks his head, staring at his feet. He pauses, and you try to get a small glimpse into his mind, whatever strange and odd cogs may be spinning. ‘I was wondering about you—,’

‘Oh?’ 

‘Wondering if we could have a moment where I wasn’t coming and going,’ 

His face is stern, serious and you feel your heart stutter a moment, before clearing your throat politely. 

‘I don’t believe that would be too proper of a young man of your… station,’ 

‘I would counter that men of my station have a tendency to do as they please. Shan’t I carry on in their place? Unless you would rather we not meet again?’

You bite down on your bottom lip, hard, and you pretend to not notice the way his eyes seem to latch onto the movement.

‘The company men in your station tend to keep are not I,’ You sigh, ‘Edward, I am not a whore.’ 

‘I was not trying to imply—,’ He sputters. 

‘That’s worse,’ You say firmly and you watch his face twist into confusion, ‘I might understand if you were in pursuit of that kind of company. It has a point. It has a clear, transactional nature that is of no consequence and of a clear end. But if you weren’t, as you say, then I would say the endeavour is a waste of time. I’m in no place to begin some kind of unrequited affair.’ 

You feel the cynicism, tangible and heavy in your stomach, burning and crisping up against the deep, sticky feeling of want, of desire, that seems to try and drown it in your hopes. You try to turn once again, to begin your quick journey home, pushing through the crowd, but you feel him behind you, hear the faint whisper of your name ringing above the cacophony of the people. When he finally manages to weave his way through enough, you can hear his voice becoming clear. You’re body burns with discomfort, with anxiety, with a want that terrifies you. It pools in your belly, in your blood, it thumps your head. rings your ears. You want to put as much space between you and it’s cause as possible. To drown yourself in work and sleep and pretend that you never met this man. 

‘Who began saying anything about it being unrequited? Or an affair?’ You can feel him grasp onto your forearm and pull you back to him. You stumble over your feet at the motion, your basket of food clutched in the crook of your elbow, and he grabs you by your waist, a rigid hold that seems to linger, you can feel the heat from his palms bleed into your skin through your fabric and your breath catches when you look up and see his face only inches from yours. His breath heaves, slow and measured, and you can taste the faint hint of beer and tobacco, of cinnamon and a whiff of cologne too expensive to conjure a name for. His chest is flush against you, and you think he might be able to feel your heartbeat, thundering through your ribcage, banging against the bone bars of it’s cage. He’s so warm, he’s been this way since you first met him, warm and inviting. 

His voice is low, so low you might’ve missed it if he wasn’t so firm against you. 

‘I want to know you,’ he whispers your name, so soft and heady that it spins your head, as if you’d just drawn a breath straight from a cigar. ‘You can call me insane. Call me unrealistic, but since I’ve met you, I’ve been measuring my life in the instances between seeing you. And seeing you today in this crowd, my mood has such been lifted that I know understand that I yearn to be in your presence every second since seeing you for the first time. So if you need it to be transactional for your peace of mind, you can lay a contract before me and I’ll sign my soul to you… to the devil… to anyone if need be. I’m not asking for anything you won’t give. Just your time. if you want me to pay, I’ll pay. If you want me to beg, I’ll beg. Just name your price,’ the words roll off his tongue like a prayer, wanton and indelicate in a way that makes you scorch beneath the intensity of his stare. ‘I’ll pay it.’

‘What if you can’t?’ You finally force out, stifled by the cloud of desire that hangs dizzily over your head. His eyes seem to flicker with the hint of a challenge, his mouth curling slightly, as if chipping away the first layers of sedimentary rock towards the core of his goal. 

‘Name it,’ The words, almost a growl, echo in your ear. ‘I’ll find a way to afford it.’ 

He leans in, and hesitates, waiting for you to push him away, to shove yourself back through the crowd, to tell him you can’t keep him and you don’t want to cross lines, the words that echo in his nightmares as he rehearses this moment in his mind. But you stare up at him, hazy eyes and parted lips, lips he could bite hard enough to draw blood, skin soft that he could press his fingers into the plush, he imagines everything he could do with you and he feels like a man possessed. A rabid dog, unable to control his actions, foaming at the mouth for a chance to touch you. 

Finally he leans in and kisses you, presses your body against the nearest wall and prays to the lord above no one witnesses this plain moment of indecency, because he cannot restrain himself even if he wanted too. His lips are warm, hard, and they press against you with urgency. You feel yourself drop your basket, and wrap you arms around him, a little hesitant, a little unsure. But Edward seizes your moment of pause to push himself against you harder, to probe his tongue into your mouth a little deeper, to tighten his grip a little further. 

‘Edward,’ You finally force out between breathes and kisses. ‘Edward we’re in public.’

He pauses, and draws himself back like an animal ragged from the hunt. He has a cursory glance of your surroundings to affirm to himself that no one saw and looks back to you. 

‘Was that… satisfactory?’ Edward finally asks, awkward like a root growing through cobblestone. You want to laugh, but instead you bite down on your tongue and nod. ‘Then I will be by tonight. If that is okay with you?’

‘That is quite… okay with me, Edward,’

‘I shall… be off… then?’ 

You nod again. He begins to draw away. 

In winter, sickness and fever go together, swinging through enclosed spaces hand in hand. In a place like the Croyston girl’s home, it ravages through as quickly as it may leave; hanging only onto the bodies strong enough to resist it. When it finally sparks through the corridors, leaving the workers trembling, aching and groaning, it’s your job to come to the rescue. To nurse the girls individually back to health, to change their sheets, to wipe their sweat-beaded foreheads and keep their sick as far away from the house as possible. You spend most of your days brewing both the tea for their sore throats, and boiling the water to drench anything they touched in. Agatha mightn’t have been a cruel mistress, but she wasn’t about to lose hundreds of pounds in profit on account of a little fever. You suspected it was the continuous work that kept the girls from recovering, sculling brandy by the second to keep their illness from shining through. 

In the midst of this flurry of disease and cleaning; mopping sick and wiping skin, the last thing you expect is to have someone you recognise wander through the front doors. Most of the men not addicted to the lifestyle of booze and sex have excused themselves from a week of sin, and the only customers brave enough to wander through were regulars, attached at the hip to Agatha’s girls. You were in no such work, yet, although, you knew the offer always remained charged off her tongue, ready to strike whenever a moment of weakness came. 

Instead, your days had you resigned recently to sweating over your cast iron boiling pot of water, the stink of sick hanging low in the air around you, not even the kind aroma of the brewing tea enough to ward it away. You wipe your own sweat away, a product of overworking and under resting, and thankfully not illness, and you barely lift your head up when you hear the back door creak open. You assume it’s another rushed delivery of food or sheets, and leave it to sit on the doorstep until you had checked on the other sick girl. That is, until you hear a faint knock and a little psst. 

Your head snaps up in horror to an unfamiliar-familiar face peering in through the dank basement. The basement was something of your haunting ground: no girl had to resign themselves to your area, where you slept, ate, cleaned and occasionally boiled if the cold outside wasn’t so awful that it drove you and your spoilt sheets inside.

When Edward catches your eye, his face cracks into a small, guilty smile. The kind of look a toddler gives you when they know they’ve done something naughty and yet know all the same they’ll get away with it. Your breath hitches at the sight of him, and you use your stick to quickly dunk the sheets further into the water and you draw over to the door. 

‘What are you doing here?’ You hiss at him, one hand clutching the door, ready to slam it shut in his face. 

‘I need a guide through the docks. I figured I’d rely on the girl with the most demonstrated knowledge,’ He shrugs. There’s something about him that seems a little far away; as if there was some barrier between him and the normal operating of a human. You don’t seem to find yourself caring enough to let it disrupt the strange eruption of tingles in your lower stomach.

‘I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. How did you even find this door?’ You try to shrug him off, peering over your shoulder to ensure no one was going to come bounding down the stairs and catch your visitor. 

‘Sure I do, you’re,’ he repeats your name and you feel a ricochet of lightning rip up your spine at the sound of it. He remembered your name, you try to shush your girlish, overwhelming thoughts. ‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t remember mine?’

Despite the words sounding like they could be a joke, there’s a graveness to his voice as he furrows his brow slightly. You jump to defend yourself to the strange accusation, ‘Of course I remember you, Edward.’

Another flicker of a smile plays across his lips, slightly chapped from the whipping wind. 

‘I don’t mean to disturb you,’ Edward sighs, slumping his shoulders slightly as he feels you being to acquiesce to his presence, ‘I understand you work hard, but I desperately require someone to show me to Champion. He’s taken to hiding from me.’

You cock your eyebrow, releasing the door and instead leaning against the wall, allowing him to brush past your body into the room. He doesn’t hesitate, slipping through, and you feel your skin burn beneath the fabric where the weight of his tall frame slightly meets your’s. ‘What business do you have with Bonnie Champion?’

‘Nothing untoward, I assure you,’

‘All business with Bonnie Champion is untoward,’ You retort. 

Inside your small quarters, you become hyper-aware of the repugnant smell of boiling vomit and snot hanging in the air. Perhaps it’s the slight twitch of his nose as he tries to repress any outwardly response to the smell, or your own peculiar, overwhelming feeling of your nerves standing on edge, suddenly becoming so conscious of fraying edges of hair peaking out from your bun, or your raggedly washing clothes you wear to avoid soiling your nicer garments, but you can feel his stare running over you, hard and impenetrable, sparking up every vein in your body, your blood thrumming with energy. 

‘Perhaps,’ Edward’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, ‘But it is not… my business,’ he edges slightly closer to you, and instinct tells you to take a step back, push yourself away from his intrusive presence, but you stand your ground. ‘I am bargaining something on behalf of my brother.’

‘The drunken relative,’ You suggest and he nods. 

‘Quite,’ He pauses, taking in a deep breath through his mouth, purposefully avoiding his nose. ‘So… any ideas where I might find him?’

You pause for a moment, before sighing, walking over to the cast iron pot filled with sheets and you pull out each dripping garment and throw them into the basket beside it, before shoving the pot off the fire and quickly stamping it out. ‘I’ll hang these up, and then I’ll show you to where he might be.’ 

Edward breaks into a grin, ‘Thank you!’ He claps his hands together and takes a large step towards you, and then hesitates, as if unsure what he was actually planning to do. You stare up at him blankly, before bending over to pick up the basket of clean sheets. 

He follows you, reminiscent of a puppy, as you trail outside, lock the door behind you, and begin rushing through hanging up the girl’s clothes. It wasn’t too cold that they might frost, but it certainly ran the risk. However, you couldn’t bare to be inside the stinking basement any longer. Edward stood politely behind you, silent and grabbing a sheet himself, haphazardly throwing it over the line. 

‘So,’ you huff, hanging the last sheet over the line, ‘Why me?’

‘Well,’ Edward steps back from the line with you, huffing slightly from the work, ‘I needed someone discreet who wouldn’t go reporting back to my family.’

‘You’re family?’ You scoff, stretching slightly before wordlessly beginning on your trek to Bonnie Champion, ‘Who’d report back to your family?’ 

He pauses, acting like he’d been caught in the middle of stealing bread and you want to laugh, but you bite down on your lip harshly. His eyes seem to catch on the motion, before clearing his throat and continuing on beside you. ‘Oh… no one. My cousins are the only ones who know this area and I couldn’t go to them.’ 

His lie tastes like barbed wire in his throat and it sounds like it, shredding the air of comfort between you. ‘If you’re going to lie, you should’t look so nervous doing it.’

Edward doesn’t respond but he does’t repute it. The accusation hangs between you, heavy and aching. 

The cold penetrates the fabric of your dress in no time and you regret not bringing any thicker outwear. He watches you shiver, his eyes repeatedly darting from the footpath before him and you beside him. 

‘You’re cold—,’

‘You’re not from here—,’

You both speak at the same time, coming to a stop to face each other. He stares at you, a deep, lingering gaze and you try to hide the quickening of your heart, glancing away, swallowing harshly.  He wordlessly begins to unravel the scarf from his neck, handing it over. When you don’t take it, he winds it around your neck, the warmth of his fingers brushing against the flesh, and you gasp, before taking a step back. 

‘Who are you… really?’ You huff, ‘I’m not to be taken a fool of and I know you’re not from these parts.’

‘Would you accept that I couldn’t quite tell you?’ Edward sighs, looking away towards the nearing, wooden shack on the edge of the dock where you were leading him. 

‘I could accept it if you would stop lying. And perhaps give me a reason why?’ You finally glance back and he catches your wary gaze with a half-smile, the kind he relinquishes in defeat. 

‘My family,’ 

‘So you’re aristocracy?’ 

He shrugs. ‘In a way.’ He purses his lips, the kind of face one makes before working up the courage to ask something bold of their own. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ You reply, a little shocked.

‘You’re a maid for a…,’

‘If you’re going to pretend to be from around here, you’re going to have to learn how to say whorehouse,’ you state bitterly. 

‘Why are you not,’ Edward pauses, running his tongue over his top teeth, ‘in employment?’

You startle, surprised by his forwardness. You consider telling him to back off, to run himself home to the butler, to stalk away and pretend you never met the troublesome boy, but you feel yourself giving in before your mind can say no. You try to ignore the strangle rippling of excitement as he takes a step towards you, gloved fingers almost bushing against the tips of yours. 

‘I was twelve. My parents were dead from influenza. The boarding house I lived in got sick often and my mum taught me a few tricks to help. I offered my services but no one was interested in housing a little girl with nothing to her name. The orphanages around here are… no good,’ you look over to the water, watching it’s icy fingers crawl up against the side of the wooden docks, rattling against the whip of wind. ‘So I was trying to avoid getting caught and dragged to one. And then… Agatha found me. At first I think she was just happy to have a servant who’d clean… anything. She’s proposed the work to me a few times, I won’t lie but I—,’

You hesitate, unsure whether to continue, but there’s an urgency in his eyes that seem to have an override on you mouth, forcing it to spill the rest of it’s contents. He takes another step closer, whether subconsciously for heat, or purposeful, you’re not sure, but you can feel the pressure of him close to you, and you crane your head up to meet his eye, his lips slightly parted, dark, heavy eyes enraptured in your story. 

‘I haven’t even held another’s hand before, kiss another person, let alone… I didn’t want all of it taken by that business. Maybe one day, if I’m desperate and love has past me by, I’ll consider it but until then—,’

‘Don’t,’ He replies. You can feel his hand wrapping around yours and pulling it up. He inspects it for a moment, callouses, dry skin and all. He pulls his own glove off to touch your skin and you wait for his disgust at the dirtiness of them, the hardness of them. Worker’s hands, you know they are, but he touches them like they’re glass, captivated by them as if they were pearls fresh from the water.

A sharp shooting sound of a ship horn snatches the moment away and he drops your hand, taking a step back. ‘My apologies…,’ 

‘It’s alright, sir—,’

‘Edward,’ He gravely corrects. ‘I didn’t mean to pass judgement I was just… a lovely girl such as yourself will have no trouble finding love, let alone stopping it from passing you by. Thank you for your help, I can resume the rest of my journey alone.’ 

WHEN the night is bitter, a running chill weaving itself like a thread up your spine, you find it is the best time to begin cleaning. The girls are usually preoccupied with customers, and their rowdy patrons have either been plied with enough drink to become docile clay within their expert moulding, or caused enough fuss to be removed from the establishment altogether. You had been lucky to find the only whorehouse on the docks not owned by Bonnie Champion, but rather, an older madam, who despised the man as much as she despised filth. When you pitched yourself as an in-house cleaner, available at all hours of day and night, ready to scrub and boil whatever stained or soil cloth or carpet came your way, she had accepted in exchange for room, board and two shillings a week in payment. In a strange way, you had become close to Agatha Croyston, the older lady. She had taken kind upon you, and the girls’ increasing betting pool about when you would cave to the… other work… she offered, remain stagnant and unclaimed. 

You try to scrub the newest sheet offered to you by one of your favourite girls, Lottie, who always smiled sheepishly when she handed you a neat bundle of cloth, sheet and whatever other… instrument was used in the night’s activities. When the scrubbing offers no reprieve, you allow it to sit in the boiling pot of water, a medium-ish, iron bowl you’d set atop a flame in the back of the whorehouse. Whenever it threatened to bubble over, picked up your stick and stirred it around until it was satisfied and growled itself into submission. 

The air prickled at your cheeks, not the usual, harsh slap of winter, but a malevolent kind of coldness, that settled into your clothes and bleed past the fabric, deep into your bones. You pull your coat around yourself tighter, huffing to yourself before you began to hear a rattling at the Champion gate. It banged and crackled in the night, but you heard the frivolous, upbeat band in the inside of Croyston’s Girl’s Home drown it out, barely a whisper beneath it’s might. 

You quickly glance either side, trying to see if the attention of any of the Champion security guards were piqued. Through the iron bars, they seemed disinterested, either purposefully ignoring him or genuinely unable to hear. You hum to yourself, taking another gulp of the scene before you to see if any thieves laid in wait to snatch your clean clothes. When you were satisfied with the emptiness before you, you rounded the large, brick manor on the edge of the dock. 

On the same side of the fence as the attempted intruder, you tried to peer through the darkness to see if you could make out his shape. He was tall, with a cap and highly wrapped red scarf. You wondered if he was a rowdy customer, long ejected from their establishments; but if so, you wondered why he wasn’t trying to break his way into the Croyston home. It tended to pick up the stragglers from Champion’s - either tired of the services, the prices, the drink or the unwelcoming strain of hospitality Champion offered. He didn’t have the usual stutter in his step that most drinkers had, the purposeful concentration that ended in a strange misstep in their footing, swaying from right to left to keep themselves centred. 

You could hear the faint call of a voice, low and certainly not slurring. He was calling a name, and as you drew closer, you could faintly make it out beyond the pitch of the music and the gleeful shouting from each house. 

‘Arthur! Champion, tell me where my brother is!’ He roars, rattling on the iron bars, gripping one in each hand. 

As you get closer, the heavy stink of alcohol washes away, the sea breeze caressing your nose and cheek, and his demands become louder. ‘Where is he?’ 

His desperation becomes apparent in his calls, a strained cry in each word, but there was a unique kind of rage that accompanied it, a startling strength as he pulled harder and harder on the iron bars. 

You’re not sure what possess you to speak to him. Either the dull repetitiveness of your days, the knowledge that most girls would be preoccupied till morning with the shipment of whiskey Croyston brought in, or the desperation of the man in front of you, who’s side-profile you could just discern in the darkness, parted lips and mahogany eyes. 

‘There’ll be no one here tonight, sir,’ You finally mutter out. The thickness of your own accent seems startling against his, low and refined, almost aristocratic. But his clothes and position seemed to beg otherwise. 

He doesn’t quite jump at your voice like you expected, but he turns on his heel quickly, snatching his hat off his head once he realises it’s a woman addressing him. He seems almost ashamed, cheeks tinging pink at being discovered, although, you think momentarily, it could’ve been from his roaring at the door. Either way, his breath catches slightly in his mouth and he turns his head back a moment, before looking around at their barren surroundings. 

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ You quickly clasp both hands in front of yourself, lowering your head slightly, refusing to make eye contact. Something stirs in your stomach as you finally get a look at him - definitely not drunk, no repugnant stink of alcohol, clothes remaining undisturbed upon his body, his hair slightly amiss from ripping his hat off, but nothing further. He stands tall, shoulders pinned back and head pulled back high, you finally get to witness his face and it’s disturbingly handsome. Strangely familiar. Whilst there’s no strong smell of alcohol, there’s definitely a faint tinge of beer that hangs around him, on his clothes. He immediately shakes his head, taking a step towards you in which you instinctively step back; an instinct you learnt quickly in the whorehouse, learning from the girls around you. 

‘No, no,’ He quickly raises both hands, as if to wordlessly communicated he meant no harm. ‘Absolutely not, I’m sorry if I was… uhm… disturbing you?’

His eyes seem to catch upon the building behind you. Croyston’s Girls Home was infamous in the same way as Bonnie Champion. Champion’s was the place you went when you needed to forget everything and have everyone forget you. Croyston’s was the place you went when you wanted a whore to remember your name and your children’s birthdays, even when you forgot. He purses his lips and you know an assumption is brewing in his mind, but if he’s disgusted at his own revelation, he doesn’t betray it. Instead, breathes out a heavy sigh. 

‘Why is no one coming?’ He instead asks, craning his head back up at the large, iron gate. 

‘It’s half-off night, sir. The girls offer half-off fees and half-off…,’ you pause before continuing, a thrum of bashfulness shooting through your body. ‘Clothing. Sir.’ 

His eyes widen slightly for half a second, before they settle back into harsh realisation. ‘It attracts too many men sometimes, so they bar it off at a certain time. No one in after ten and until sunrise.’ 

‘Is it…,’ He clears his throat politely, trying to fumble through his mind to arrive at the right wording, ‘I mean… can they leave?’

‘Oh sure. Just not through that gate. If you wanna sneak in, or speak to a guard, you’ll have to go ‘round to the back entrance, sir,’ You nod along to your own words. 

‘Right…,’ he trails off, eyes blankly staring at the dock. ‘I feel quite impolite. I didn’t introduce myself, I’m Edward.’

He extends his hand and you furrow your eyes in puzzlement, before responding your own name back to him and taking it in a strange handshake. 

‘You don’t know where the back entrance is, aye?’ You crack a small, mischievous smile and Edward smiles in response, wide and inviting, shaking his head, a lock of hair waving with it. 

‘No, I’m afraid I’m not a common frequenter of this area,’ 

‘Don’t worry. It’s usually only maids and security that know that part anyways. And people who have to pick up their drunken relatives,’ You shrug and begin to walk by him, towards the back entrance. You walk for a few steps, before turning over your shoulder to notice him standing their, head tilted in confusion. ‘Well, do you want me to show you where it is?’

‘Oh!’ He nods, ‘Yes, of course. My apologies.’

‘So, are you trying to join the fun or help someone escape?’ 

‘I’ve been in the business of drunken relatives for a while. My brother…,’ Edward hesitates before continuing, biting on his lip, unsure if he could trust you. ‘I just want to make sure he’s safe.’ 

‘Of course,’ You nod politely, walking side by side. ‘Truthfully, I think it’s just me and the guards who know this way. Most of the patrons they show through the back door are too blindly drunk to remember. So, please keep it to yourself.’

‘Yes, no, absolutely…,’ You watch him closely from the corner of his eye, feeling his body heat as he brushes beside you slightly. ‘So are you not,’ he clears his throat again, obviously uncomfortable. He keeps his eyes forward, but you can see him flushing deep red again as he builds up to his question. ‘Offering the… tonight’s deal?’

‘Are you trying to ask if I’m a whore, sir?’ You come to a step a few metres away from rounding the back. Edward seems to pause in shock, lips parting slightly, pink and soft. His aversion to crudeness informs you of something about him that you squirrel away: he’s not from these parts. 

‘In a way that isn’t rude,’ Edward confesses, hanging his head, but doesn’t back down from the question, which you appreciate. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ve never-,’

‘I can tell, sir,’ 

‘Please, call me Edward. No need for such formalities,’ 

‘Are you sure?’

He cocks a sharp eyebrow at you, a half smile playing on his lips. ‘You’re awfully bold. So what is your purpose here then?’

‘I’m a maid for the girls. I make sure they stay clean and healthy at all costs,’ You nod, and Edward notices a slight gleam of pride radiating from your face. ‘You know, if you’re going to try and sneak through the docks like you’re one of us, you shouldn’t seem so shy.’ 

He lowers his head, trying to stifle the smirk forcing itself to his face. ‘I suppose I’ll be needing some guidance the next time I come.’ 

‘You’ll be coming a next time?’

‘Drunken relatives rarely sober themselves without cause and I’m afraid I have no cause to offer him,’ He shrugs, ‘Besides, apparently the company is as inviting as they boast.’ 

Edward meets your eye and you feel yourself bloom with shyness, taking a meek step back. ‘I’m sure there’s another who could offer more.’

‘I’ve never quite enjoyed the transactional nature of all that,’ He waves his hand around, dismissing your careful response. There’s a small moment of pause between you two, before he inhales another breath, steady. 

‘Well,’ You huff, readjusting your coat around your body. ‘The door is just there,’ you point to a smaller gate, where a man stands guard. ‘If you offer him ten shillings, he’ll fetch whoever you want.’

‘Thank you, truely,’ He follows your gaze to the door and then back to you. ‘I should allow you to return to your nightly duties.’

‘Quite… Edward,’