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“AR?”
The man himself is sitting on one of his expensive chairs at one of his expensive tables, paperwork in front of him, a glass of something that certainly isn’t tea in his hand. Charlie spots the whiskey bottle and, well, that connects most of the dots. But there’s still one glaring inconsistency- AR doesn’t drink. Never has, said so himself multiple times. He’s been offered to sample some of their best product, always the best for you, Mister Rothstein, and he always refused. Alcohol and AR don’t go well together, Charlie’s been told.
“Charlie!” he looks up at him and smiles, arms open wide and liquor nearly spilling. “Sit down, have a drink.”
He takes out a chair and sits, perhaps with more caution than necessary, watching AR struggle to pour some whiskey in the empty glass he set before him. Charlie shakes his head, trying to signal that he’d rather not have any, but AR doesn’t pay much attention.
“So,” he gestures at the bottle, the glass in his mentor’s hand, “what gives?”
“It’s Purim,” AR says, as if that explains anything. “It’s a holiday.”
“Right, right. And what exactly do you do on... that day?”
He remembers the last time he said something in Yiddish (if that’s what it was?) wrong- Lansky fixed him with a pointed look, told him to stop trying, so he doesn’t want to push his luck.
“We get drunk,” AR responds, and that explains a lot of things. “Not just drunk, but we also get drunk.”
Charlie scoffs in lieu of a laugh, taking a sip of the offered whiskey. His knowledge of Jewish holidays may be lacking, but he never would have assumed that AR’s people were such a merry lot.
“Is there a reason for this, or are you just that, ah, festive?”
Lips curling into one of those lopsided smirks, AR shakes his head, humming in amusement. He thought Charlie would just be content with drinking, regardless of intention, but a part of him is glad that he’s in for more. They’re slowly falling back into that old, steady rhythm he used to cherish so much, and he’ll gladly spend all night explaining the miracle of Purim if that’s what it takes to keep it up.
“I could tell you the story. If you’d like,” he adds, trying to give Charlie an opportunity to opt out before he starts anything, knowing it gets equally interesting and long-winded later on.
“I’d like that very much, AR,” Charlie responds, voice light and almost mocking, remembering all those times AR’s corrected him on his grammar or syntax or politeness (or, rather, lack thereof). His taunting seems to go undetected, however, and he watches his boss struggle to swallow a mouthful of whiskey, not used to its taste or its potency.
“Well. A long, long time ago, in a land far, far away, there lived-”
“I’m not ten, AR,” he interrupts, and it’s not like he has anything against being told a story, it’s just- that’s not what he came here for. He’s sick of Arnold treating him like some child that needs his protection.
“Yes, of course. In... Persia, there lived a man, and his name was Mordechai.”
Charlie nods, so far as invested in the story as he can be when he’s trying not to think about the way AR’s looking at him, hazy and unfocused. AR sips his whiskey again and makes a face, lips set in a scowl- the liquor must be burning his throat.
“And what’s this Mordechai do?” he asks, purely to remind him of the task at hand.
“He had a sister. No, ah, a cousin.”
“Alright,” Charlie concludes after a few seconds pass and AR reveals nothing else about Mordechai’s character. He looks down at his hands, somehow still stained with gunpowder, hoping this isn’t where the story ends. He’d have no idea how to fill the silence.
AR then takes a breath, trying to fit the role of the wise storyteller, and solemnly continues.
“Now, Persia also had a king-”
“Oh, it did?” Charlie interjects, amusement evident in his voice. AR glares (to the best of his ability)- it’s almost endearing. His cheeks are flushed, stark against his pale skin, and he sips more whiskey just to make a point. It doesn’t go much better than the last few times.
“Yes. And the king had a name,” and Charlie can’t stop himself from laughing again, caught between the surprise of seeing his mentor like this and something else, something he’d rather not name spreading through his chest and gripping at his heart.
“The king was called Ah- Aha... hm. It was something with an A.”
AR frowns, gazing upwards, trying to jog his memory, but the ruler’s name still escapes him.
“Could just make it up,” Charlie suggests while he pours himself another drink, and AR shrugs indifferently, not opposed to the idea.
“Fine. We’ll call him-”
“Let’s call him AR,” the glint in his eyes and playful tone of his voice earn him another glare, and he pictures AR in a crown with a sceptre in his firm hand, voice as steady and commanding as ever, all the cards laid bare in front of him, all the strings pulled by his adept fingers. Charlie shivers involuntarily.
AR remembers the particular Purimshpil in seventh grade where he had to play the king despite all his attempts to stay out of it, and that petulant little boy that’s still hiding somewhere inside of him rebels at the very notion of being associated with the pitiful man.
“I don’t want to be the king,” he whines, and Charlie- damn him- cocks an eyebrow at him, clearly finding the whole thing hilarious.
“But you are a king. In a way,” he adds, and he can almost feel the give in AR’s resolve.
“Alright, alright. Mighty King AR, and he had a wife. But he, ah, he didn’t like her anymore. So he was looking for a new wife.”
AR reaches for the bottle again and Charlie places a hand over his to stop him, seeing as he’s had more than enough by now, his poise loose and words nearly slurred. It does make him pause for a moment, but also look up, meeting Charlie’s gaze- be it by accident or intention, they hold like that for a moment too long, until he clears his throat and gives in.
“Go ahead.”
The bottle nearly slips from AR’s unsteady hand and he spills a few drops of whiskey in the process, but most of it lands in his glass, more or less. He forces himself to take another sip of the drink, coughing and spluttering. The concern in Charlie’s eyes, at least, is comforting.
“King AR needed a new wife. Now, remember Mordechai’s...”
“Cousin?” he offers after the other trails off. He’ll have to tease him later for having to fill in the blanks of AR’s own story, but for now, he plays along.
“Yes, cousin. Her name was Esth- actually,” a crooked smile graces AR’s mouth, “we’ll call her Charlie.”
“Oh, come on!”
AR sniggers, having expected Charlie’s indignation. Serves him right, for having him play the king all over again.
“What, I gotta be the fucking broad, and you’re a king?”
“Easy, Charlie, you have to hear the rest of the story,” but a smile is still dancing at the corner of his lips and his attempt to calm Charlie down doesn’t sound particularly convincing. He lets it go, choosing instead to take in the other’s frown and hunched posture, to focus on his eyes- always so wild, so lost, searching for something he’s never going to find here.
It takes Charlie a moment to recover, too, but by the time he realises AR is staring at him (and he’s very much staring back), the blush has already crept up his cheeks. He looks down in vain, mumbles a “Go on then,” and hopes AR doesn’t notice.
“Now, Es- Charlie. Charlie was very beautiful.”
Charlie’s humiliated groan and exasperated expression only encourage AR to push his descriptions further.
“Yes, she was... breathtaking. Ravishing. The most- most gorgeous woman in all of Persia.”
“I got it, alright,” Charlie interrupts, and saying all that out loud was certainly worth it just to see him pointedly stare down at the whiskey in his glass, flustered and gritting his teeth.
“So. King AR,” he starts, nearly falling backwards in his chair while gesturing, “King AR was very powerful. He was the king. He had a gun. More than one, actually.”
Charlie smiles despite himself, figuring that this is the point where the story becomes less Purim-related and more AR’s whiskey-fuelled fantasies. His mentor’s had more than a few glasses by now, and one couldn’t say that his alcohol tolerance is something worthy of praise. But- be it for his own sake, or AR’s- he lets him continue undeterred.
“Now, this is important. The king-” AR shifts in his seat, places a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, “He holds a contest. To find the prettiest woman in all of New York.”
Charlie doesn’t bother correcting him.
“And can you guess who won?”
With a reluctant sigh: “Charlie won, didn’t she?”
“That’s right. Charlie won, because she was beautiful.”
He turns to AR, who has apparently been looking at him for quite a while now, and something surges in his chest, wanting to burst from his ribcage- must be the whiskey. This whole thing that they’re doing is funny, in a way, because it makes AR less like a mentor or a boss or an employer, and more like flesh and blood, just another human being- one who has the ability to decide if Charlie sinks or stays afloat, and ain’t that the kicker. He knows that what his body is urging him to do is the polar opposite of what he should want, but. But his gaze is still drawn to AR’s mouth, against all better judgement, and he suddenly forgets everything about the tale he’s spent the past five minutes listening to.
“And what happens then?”
AR leans in.
It must be the chastest kiss Charlie’s ever experienced- a mere brush of lips, lasting barely a few seconds before AR pulls away. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and wishes, perhaps too strongly, for AR to come closer again, to press against him- he wouldn’t let him go that easily this time. He’d grab the lapels of his ridiculous striped waistcoat and hold on, keep him there, just to take control of the situation- perhaps, then, he’d take control of the maddening beat of his heart, too, of the warmth in his chest. Arnold’s looking at him, lips still parted.
“Then they get... married,” AR says, searching his face for any sign of discomfort, disgust, pleasure, anything- but Charlie’s expression is blank. He can get away with this, he knows, just as he knows that the other won’t talk about it to anyone, regardless of how he may feel, but that doesn’t make what seems like rejection any easier. He sits back and feels strange, as if his head were filled with cotton, and the sting of the whiskey is a welcome distraction. He hopes to forget this whole fiasco by tomorrow.
“Not to pry, AR, but I think you should call it a day.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, and if he feels the slightest bit hurt, he’d rather not admit it. “And what about the story?”
“You can finish it tomorrow,” Charlie says, pushing his chair away to get up. He stops mid-movement, sits back down and places his hand on AR’s knee, expression as innocent as he can manage. He squeezes, just once, hoping to make his intentions clear.
“I’d like to know what happens to King AR and his wife.”
“Of course. Of course,” AR’s gaze lingers on him as he downs the rest of his drink and walks away, leaving AR alone with his whiskey and his thoughts and his joy at another year his people survived. He then remembers that he didn’t even get to mention Haman, and Esther’s secret identity and Haman’s plans, and- well.
‘Tomorrow’ is no more than a promise in disguise.