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Luca's wrist pops at the same time as he involuntarily clicks his tongue but, despite this, he keeps a steady grasp on the goods in his arms. The glass bottle is cool against his warm skin and he hopes that the liquid too retains its chilled temperature.
He knocks on the door again, and this time, the inventor hears shuffling; Luca straightens his posture before the door opens.
“What do you-” the other man pauses, glaring at the man opposing him. “What?” His tone doesn't soften, nor does his expression relax upon seeing Luca.
The inventor at the door grins, holding up the biscuits in one hand, and the wine he's been cradling. “I thought'cha might like some company,” Luca takes a step forward, “shit, that and I didn't see you at dinner, either.”
Edgar swiftly attempts to close the gap between his door and the frame, simultaneously blocking Luca's path. It's as the prisoner peers closer that he takes account of the man’s strained posture.
“Why?”
Luca quirks an eyebrow. “Whaddaya mean ‘why’? ‘Cause Duos was brutal, can't nobody blame you for skippin’ dinner, but still oughta get something into ya,” he holds up the biscuits to prove his point.
“I'd hesitate to deem it brutal,” the artist mumbles, “I pissed Leo off, I got what I deserved.”
“Man, it's like you alone forget Duos is meant'a be fun.”
“What do you want from me?” Edgar urges, the gap between the door narrowing hastily. However, like a true gentleman, the inventor wedges his foot into the door.
“All my friends are busy, you won't humour me an hour or two?” Luca pouts in the exact manner he knows will piss off Edgar. He’s already preparing for a scolding or an insult, but against all expectations, the artist suddenly relents.
“Make it quick.” The painter seethes under his breath, stepping past the door to allow Luca entrance. The inventor stands stunned for a split-second, but enters the room before Edgar revokes the opportunity.
Any and all comebacks he'd had lined up on the tip of his tongue immediately lie forgotten as the coarse reek of iron suddenly assaults his senses. He leaves the bottle on a side table, and turns to glare at the painter right as they close the door behind him.
“You’re still bleedin’,” Luca says dumbly, transfixed on the brown stain sticking out against the white of the man’s shirt. “Your match was four hours ago! You coulda seen Dr. Emily or-!”
“I don’t need Dyer touching me unnecessarily.” Edgar bites back, and he steps away from the door to glare at his surprise visitor: “you haven’t brought any glasses.” he punctuates his point by picking up the bottle.
“I-” Luca realises his sudden lapse, “hah, shit.”
“Just leave it.” The painter abandons the beverage, and returns to the painting situated beneath his window. “Are you intending to be on your way now?”
“I’ll help ya? If y’ want?” His jaw clicks as soon as the question leaves his lips, but neither men pay the tic any attention. “I won’t touch ya, or anythin’- anythin’ you don’t want me doin’ I won’t.”
The artist narrows his eyes.
“Emily sent you. Didn’t she?”
And to this, Luca rolls his own.
“You’re paranoid, asides, she’s been in a match for a bit now. Ain’t even seen the doc.” He plops himself down on the neatly made bed, purposely ignoring the man’s responding glare.
Luca already has a plethora of possible arguments lined up, but the artist falls silent. He proceeds to awkwardly stand in the middle of the small room; neither man dares to break said silence. Luca reaches over to the bottle, and takes a casual sip. It’s to this which Edgar rolls his eyes. “I’m not day-drinking with you.”
“It’s eight o’clock?”
The painter stretches his back before sucking in a harsh breath.
“I’m here if ya need.” But the inventor makes no move to approach him.
The artist ponders for a moment, before: “if it’ll shut you up.” Edgar reaches into the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulls out a tin box of something that Luca can’t quite discern. He pulls out a roll of bandages, a previously stained rag, and a pocket-sized bottle of spiritus. It’s half-empty, though.
He brings the contents onto the bed, and peels off his shirt as he sits facing away from the ‘prisoner’.
Luca recoils at the sight before him. It isn’t deep, no, and he’s already faced his own fair share of nasty wounds and cuts here and there, not to even get into the amount of splinters he’s had to dig out of his skin with the help of Charles.
“You’ve just sat around like this for an hour?” Luca asks, beginning to dab at the crusted blood with a soaked rag.
“No.” Edgar huffs. “I took a bath earlier, that dealt with the worst of it.”
“Ya cleaned it, at least, I’ll give y’ that.” Luca mutters, moving the man’s curls to one side to reveal the extent of the injury. He tries to ignore the man’s uncomfortable shudder, and mentally notes to refrain from inquiring any further.
“How was th’ match, then?” Luca absent-mindedly asks.
Edgar gently shrugs. “You weren’t spectating?”
“Not all of it. Tell me.”
Edgar sighs. “The hunters were Hell Ember and the Naiad - my lungs still feel wet, I tell you - we were in the Eversleeping Town–”
“The train getcha by any chance?” Luca chimes in, fingers ghosting over a stretch of bruises reaching across the man’s left side of his lower back, up to his neck. They’re ugly and black, sticking out like a sore thumb against the man’s paper white skin. Luca can see self-inflicted scars littered across his hips, and he can assume there’s more beneath his waistband and under his jeans. Luca respectfully looks away.
Edgar scoffs. “It was that or the Naiad drowning me: pick your poison.” Luca exhales in amusement.
“And, it may’ve been avoided, mind you, if not for the Perfumer. I had it handled, and she had one job!”
“What’d Vera do?” Luca asks mutedly.
“She’d already told me she had the Hell Ember taken care of, I was doing my own duty in allowing everyone else to decode. I had one painting left, and I was holding out to let the tram hit her instead,” the painter hisses in discomfort as the cold alcohol graces the torn flesh, “she came out of nowhere! I told her to leave, but whenever is she one to listen.”
“So. . . what happened?”
“She used her excitement. The train hit the perfumer and I. Then, two detention hits each.” Edgar murmurs the last part of his sentence.
“Still a win, eh? Ain’t that somethin’ to be happy ‘bout?” Suddenly, the deep gash on the man’s back makes much more sense, given the whole detention-detail.
“I only signed up to-” Edgar stops short. “The perfumer convinced me. I’m not listening to her again any time soon.”
“Hah, but whenever I invite you to tarot?” Luca laughs, proceeding to abandon the rag, with his attention set on the roll of bandages he’d been left with.
“You’re a freak who likes tarot.” Luca can basically hear the artist roll his eyes, although he doesn’t let it bother him.
“Tarot’s fun!” Luca argues playfully.
“Freak.”
-
The inventor intentionally takes his sweet ass time wrapping the other man’s wound, well, obviously out of care, but then there’s the whole not wanting to get prematurely kicked-out, either. He finishes up rather anticlimactically.
“You’re finished?”
“Yeah, I-” Luca’s hand twitches, “done now, yeah.”
“Good.” Edgar shifts, contorting his body to get a look in the mirror. His expression doesn’t visibly change.
“You want a drink?” Luca passes on the bottle regardless. “Oh! The biscuits, too!”
He gives the plate to the artist, who stares at them rather strangely.
“Not mine, I’ll admit, but Emma’s.” Luca takes a bite for effect. “Sweet, I gotta admit, but totally worth, y’know. I feel kinda bad, she was so proud of them, and only Tracy and somebody else had a few. I thought you’d want some.”
“I’ll pass. Give Woods my thanks.”
“Not one?” Luca pouts.
“No.”
The inventor relents, and washes down the biscuit with a sip of the sweet wine.
“Is the wine-”
“Demi’s, yeah. Good, ain’t it?” But it’s upon finishing his sentence that Luca realises Edgar’s yet to actually have any of it. Huh. “So, uh, you gonna try some?”
The painter mutters something unintelligible. Luca raises a brow.
“Save it.”
Luca sits there awkwardly for another few minutes until he decides he’s had enough. He tried, sure enough he tried.
“I’d, uh, I’d love to stay a lil’ longer, but I promised Charlie and Trace that I’d-” Luca begins, a heavy guilt suddenly sitting on his chest. Edgar doesn’t even look at him.
“I understand. I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah. . .” he stands up slowly, popping his joints and carefully stretching his arms. His wrist twitches, then again, “you can drop by, any time if ya like, I don’t reckon we’ll be dozin’ off any time soon. . . offer stands.”
Edgar nods gently. “Goodnight, Luca.”
“Yeah, yeah, ‘night, Ed.”
Were it any other of his friends, Luca would probably leave with a delicate punch to the shoulder, or a fist-bump maybe; he refrains from doing so.
He leaves the room, looking back with a grin at the painter as he shuts the door. Luca makes a purposeful effort to leave the plate of biscuits sitting where he’d left them. Hey, maybe he’ll change his mind? Who knows.