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It’s late. Far too late into the night for any sensible person to be out here in the park all by their lonesome. But for someone like Whiskey, it’s more like lunchtime— though this one is a small break before it’s off to the next step of whatever grand idea that grasps his interest for the moment.
No rest for the wicked, after all.
Though for once, he takes in the sight before him. He hasn’t been back in this city in a long time. The park sits on a hill that overlooks the once sleepy town, evolving into a multicolored beast that never sleeps over the years. It’s one of the few civilizations left, scattered amongst the wastelands that the Fallen Angels have dominion over.
He hears the footsteps as if it were announcing the man’s presence. Heavy and measured yet the pace is casual and unhurried. He glances up, seeing a familiar ginger strolling up to his bench wearing an easygoing smirk with purple eyes trained right on him.
Whiskey raises a brow, lips quirking at the corners. “What brings you here, friend?”
Spaghetti laughs. “Kicked out by Borscht.” He said, sounding a mite affronted. Whiskey only hums back in response, imagining briefly the aforementioned woman bodily dragging out the taller and more built Spaghetti out of whatever safehouse they have in this city.
The man slides into the empty spot beside him and leans back, letting out a sigh. He drapes his coat over his lap, two large milkshakes on a takeout tray in one hand. Whiskey sees that there are bandages peeking from beneath his rolled up sleeves that look suspiciously flecked with blood. In fact, he sees a fleck here and there on the man’s usually pristine attire. He says nothing about it.
“You know that fox of yours is right about one thing. It’s easy to find you.” Spaghetti begins, then takes a long quiet sip from one of his milkshakes. His gaze is far-off, looking at the city lights. “The stench of a decaying forest isn’t hard to miss.”
“Praising that errant fox, are you? That’s a first.”
Spaghetti waves it off and replies, “Not really. I’ve already come to that conclusion a long time before he did.” He leaves it at that, a small mystery for Whiskey to ruminate on for another time.
Instead, Whiskey leans in and tilts the milkshake towards himself. Spaghetti only glances while he takes a long sip from the same straw.
Sweet and creamy, as always. His tastes never changed. The bespectacled con man pulls away, rolling his tongue around in his mouth to savor the cool milky taste.
“So what brings you here?” Spaghetti asks, nonchalant about the action.
“A thread that needs a little bit of snipping. It was getting too frayed at the end.” Whiskey answers, “And I picked up some fresh samples. Perhaps my little curiosity will yield better results this time.”
Spaghetti raises an eyebrow and his smile turns ever slightly threatening. “Should I be concerned about these results?”
“Not if you have business in town for the next few days.” Whiskey says without fanfare and hears Spaghetti mumbling darkly under his breath.
He tilts his head, in the way that annoys the ginger and has told him once or twice to stop. Whiskey knows why, but why stop when the arrogant king can only toss him off the nearby railings at worst? He’s seen Spaghetti do much worse to those who didn’t carry his favor.
“How many this time?” Whiskey asks as if he knows the meat of the matter.
Spaghetti composes himself, glaring at the other man like he’d just killed his puppy. “Twenty give or take the servants on the perimeter on the day of.” He says as he gestures with his free hand. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to set this up?”
“You can always move the date up.”
Spaghetti’s face contorts in displeasure. “I’m not doing that. The bespoke suit and dress will be done in two days and the event isn’t in my control to change the date of.” Spaghetti retorts. “Either delay your curiosities or forget about it altogether.”
Whiskey shrugs. He looks at his wristwatch then back to the man. “Do you take me for one of your pawns?” He asks. To this, Spaghetti rolls his eyes and looks back to the city.
“Suppose if it overlaps, what am I to expect?”
“A few missing people, a Food Soul or two should they interfere. Perhaps if things go awry then the several local gangs will disappear along with it.”
“Several local…” Spaghetti trails off, then laughs again. This time when he locks gazes with him, there’s a smear of incredulity on the proud mask he wears. “I may have hatred for this pigsty and its mortal follies but your apathy is something entirely different, my friend.”
Whiskey’s smile falls a little. Apathy, is it? When he thinks about it, Spaghetti has a point. He holds no love for most of the creatures around him, nor hatred. He doesn’t think that what he does feel could be called any of those labels. His Liliana, the faintly twinkling star in the vast emptiness of the void, is the only thing that even sparks something in him. Even then, he barely remembers anything beyond her name and the reason why he’s still here.
Spaghetti leans into his vision and he blinks. “You’ve gone brooding.” He states. “Didn’t think you’d be so taken with my commentary.” The redhead leans back and finishes off his milkshake. He shakes the empty container, looking momentarily rueful before setting it down between them. He takes the other from the tray and starts on it.
Whiskey’s eyes land on the empty cup, then slowly climb up to the profile of the man. He thinks of the years that slipped by him like grains of sand, like whispers on the wind, and thinks of the end that would someday arrive. It always comes no matter what— And everything starts once again.
When he looks at Spaghetti, he feels neither love nor hatred. Only pity and envy that he would remember little of anything that came before. And yet without fail, Whiskey would always say yes.
“Sometimes a little brooding is good.” Whiskey says after a beat, “After all, you’re a master of it.”
He appreciates the disappointed look he’s thrown. Whiskey lets himself smile, a little more genuinely this time though it would be lost on the other. Fine, he thinks, he’ll dampen his enthusiasm and swear not to make a big fuss before Spaghetti’s little play date is over.