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Timothy honestly didn't know why he had chosen to stand out here, letting the wind hit him in this freezing caboose.
Things had simply unfolded in sequence: a bit of free whiskey, two guns aimed at each other's heads, a teeny tiny bit of murdering spree, and now two people with blood smeared on their faces, cigars puffing away.
Yes. Two.
He didn't know what had possessed him either, what kind of madness drove him to sit beside a complete stranger, icy snow whipped through his hair while his coat snapped loudly in the wind. Truthfully, the only reason he could endure being out here at all was adrenaline. As for the man he'd just mentioned, dressed in a neat, thin vest, his expression utterly unchanged, casually swirling the nearly empty glass in his hand and taking a sip of bland liquor, the ice long since melted.
Calling him "crazy" or "strange" wouldn't quite cover it. Though Timothy was fairly certain that most of the bodies scattered across the train were his own handiwork. Killing that many people without much thought probably counted as a kind of abnormality in itself, so he had no place to judge if the man next to him decided to hang around in the midnight cold or not.
He could feel free to get hypothermia, for all he cared.
What was almost funny was that the way they'd met was no less unusual. Timothy only remembered hearing footsteps at the corner and having his gun ready, waiting to add another name to a one-way ticket to the other side. All of that just to realize the man facing him was aiming a revolver identical to his own. The first thing he noticed was the slightly trembling yet unwavering gun barrel, white hair paired with pallid skin, the look of a frail intellectual, if not for the scruffy beard on his chin. But what stood out most were the eyes, golden irises glimmering brightly like lanterns, blazing and feral, the eyes of a wild beast. And in the moment their gazes met, like flint striking steel and bursting into flame, a shared understanding flashed across both their faces: Ah. An accomplice.
Two murderers meeting in the dark corner of a train cabin, heh. It sounded no different from the thrillers playing at the cinema lately.
Reality returned quickly, dragged back by the cold and the heavy scent of cigars. The familiar aroma of cedarwood and leather drifted through the winter air, overpowering even the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
"Liquor and cigar," Timothy hummed, "Aren't you afraid of heart attacks, old man?"
The man, The Proprietor, a name he'd chosen for himself, eccentric as he was, turned and raised an eyebrow, faint surprise flickering across his face, the way a man would act when a statue suddenly came to life. Then he returned to his relaxed posture, eyes fixed on the dark horizon, one arm resting on the metal railing of the caboose, the other lifting his cigar.
"Nay," he said with a faint laugh, "Death will ring my doorbell when the time comes, anyway. Who gives a damn?"
With that, he brought the cigar to his lips again, inhaling with the indifference of someone who couldn't be bothered. Pale smoke drifted into the air.
"As long as you enjoy yourself while you can. Life's short."
Timothy said nothing. Yet he could understand that kind of hedonism, the pleasure, the freedom of doing the vilest, most immoral things to feel alive. Alcohol, opium, lust, bloodshed. Any of it would do. After all, he and this man were cut from the same cloth; passing judgment would be pointless. Perhaps because the silence stretched on too long, it was The Proprietor who spoke again, striking up the conversation.
“Here. Have one, clear your head. You've been frowning like you just got robbed."
As he spoke, he held out a brand-new cigar along with a lighter, his eyes flashing with a teasing glint.
Timothy felt a flicker of irritation, tempted to retort that this was simply his characteristic thinking face, but he let it go. Arguing would only make the man treat him like a child, and that would be worse. He reached out to take the cigar, then paused instinctively.
"Hey," he said.
"What is it?"
Timothy stared straight into The Proprietor's bright golden pupils, then frowned.
"... Is this laced with poison or something?"
His suspicious question was met with a sly, mocking grin from the unhinged old man.
“Heh. Take a guess?"
Annoying. Impossible to tell what this lunatic was thinking.
Timothy waved a hand dismissively and looked away. For some reason, he didn't want to keep staring at the man's face.
A sigh.
"Ugh. Then forget it."
Seeing that he wasn't going to smoke it, The Proprietor raised an eyebrow.
"You really don't have a sense of humor, do you?"
"Caution is a virtue in business, you know that."
"Want the one I'm smoking instead?"
Timothy froze.
"... What?"
Before he could collect himself, The Proprietor had already offered his own cigar. For a split second, the way the man's slightly cracked lips parted from the tip made Timothy's mouth dry, his Adam's apple bobbing unconsciously.
The Proprietor lightly waved the half-burnt cigar in front of Timothy's mouth, more like a peddler trying to entice a potential buyer than a model sheriff.
"If I've been smoking it, then it can't be poisoned, right?" he grinned. "Cuban cigar. Wasteful not to try."
"Generosity out of the blue would have made anyone raise their guard, you know."
The Proprietor clicked his tongue, his face briefly taking on the sulky look of a child.
"Oh, come on. Ask yourself what I'd gain from harming you. Just think of it as a thank-you gift for helping… hm… 'clean up' back there."
After that, refusing would've been awkward, so Timothy took it. He took a slow drag, savoring the mild intoxication of cedar and cacao, mixed with the bitterness of whiskey. Somehow, the aftertaste made him oddly self-conscious, aware of how intimate the gesture was.
At the very least, The Proprietor had decent taste; that much Timothy had to admit. “Good taste" was the one redeeming quality he could find in this half-mad, pleasure-seeking geezer.
… Though even that assumption would still be mildly reductive.
"Well," he exhaled smoke, "you're better at all this killing than I expected, Sheriff."
This time, it was The Proprietor's turn to pause.
"You knew who I was."
"I've seen you once. Came through on business."
Business being an excuse for indulgence, really, but there's no need to clarify that to the other. The Proprietor has memorable features, one on posters around town, that's all.
After a moment of silence, the man finally spoke.
"Funny. I should be the one surprised, Kruger. Thought businessmen didn't get their hands bloody."
… Timothy hadn't introduced himself. Upon seeing the twist in his expression, the man chuckled and slapped Timothy's back hard enough to make him jolt.
"Don't look so shocked. Isn't it our job to research our targets?"
The Proprietor shrugged. "And the name 'Kruger' carries weight around here, eh? Hard to miss."
He turned and swept his gaze over Timothy from head to toe, no different from an art critic appraising a piece. That scrutinizing look made Timothy feel an almost irresistible urge to shove the man's face away.
"Although… I certainly didn't expect one of the owners to look this young."
Christ, this geezer really did seem to enjoy judging other people's age for some reason, huh? An irrational irritation crept up on him, and Timothy pulled the hand that had been resting on his back away, taking another drag from his cigar.
"Not that young," he shot back. “Though compared to you, I guess a person like me would still count as 'youthful.'"
"I'm only just pushing forty, not that old yet, Kruger."
Ignoring The Proprietor's defensive justification, Timothy answered the earlier question.
"Just... experiences from dirty work on the side. So I know a thing or two. That's all."
"Enough ‘know-how' to use flashy toys like grenades, hm? I'll give you that."
The sarcasm dripping from the remark was enough of a telltale sign that the man didn't believe him. Timothy didn't bother responding. Whatever The Proprietor thought didn't matter.
"So," the man continued, "does your brother know about this?"
Timothy shot him a sharp glare instead of answering.
"Judging by that look, I'd say no," The Proprietor nodded knowingly, glass still in hand.
With that, he set the glass down on the metal rail and lifted Timothy's chin. Timothy's breath hitched at the gesture, his hand clenching and then loosening again. Half joking, half serious, the man curved his lips into an infuriating smile, mocking amusement written all over it.
"Successful business, good-looking face… and yet you choose a dangerous path like this, hm?"
God, Timothy wanted to wipe that smirk off.
"You could try asking yourself that in the mirror."
Unfortunately, the reply only inflated The Proprietor's ego further.
"So you think I'm handsome?" he chuckled, poking Timothy's cheek in teasing fashion. "You do know being homosexual gets you thrown in jail, right?"
Out of that entire sentence, he only latched onto the word "handsome."
The irony was absurd. A man blatantly flirting while warning him about prison. Timothy curled his lip.
"Sure. Consider it one more charge on my list."
As if sodomy would be the worst one on it.
No matter how irritating it was, Timothy couldn't deny it. Despite the white hair, the man's features looked far younger than his age. The deep, dark indigo suit accentuated a lean yet powerful build befitting a model sheriff, while the gold watch practically screamed indulgence, or at least wealth. From the smooth, practiced movements that spoke of casual violence to the composed demeanor, at least until he opened his mouth, The Proprietor was irritatingly charming.
Fascinating enough that Timothy had no other choice but to take a glance.
"Is there something on my face?" The Proprietor suddenly spoke.
The sound startled him.
Shit, it seemed Timothy had been staring a little too long. But before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.
"... There's blood on your lips."
Out of all the details on that face, he could have pointed out, his brain had chosen that.
Argh, damn it. He was definitely going to get teased for this.
Yet what he got back wasn't the barbed remark he'd expected.
"Ah, is that so? Would you mind wiping it off for me?"
"Wiping it off," as in… Timothy's pupils widened as he stared straight into those blazing golden eyes, a question unspoken. The Proprietor answered only briefly.
"I think you understand what I mean, Kruger."
Even so…
"Do you actually know what the hell you're saying right now?"
"And do you think you're talking to a child? I saw you staring, so I figured you might be interested."
The Proprietor said it as he stepped closer, and Timothy automatically edged backward. Until his back hit the wall of the caboose. Ah, situations like this were really doing nothing for his heart.
"Or did I misread it?"
He'd only looked a second too long and was already being dissected. So much trouble over a glance. Even so, he had to force himself not to let the embarrassment of being caught show on his face.
"For an old man, your eyes are awfully sharp, you dirty geezer."
The Proprietor ignored the jab and moved even closer, boring in with eyes bright as lanterns. In that moment, Timothy felt as though his entire body had been soaked in oil, ready to ignite.
"Would be a shame not to admire someone like you."
More of those sleazy compliments. Worse still, they were actually working. Maybe the real one with a screw loose here was Timothy himself.
"And it would be terribly rude of a gentleman to be asked so politely and not give a proper answer."
"Or are you scared?"
That sentence was like pulling the pin on a grenade.
"… Don't regret it later, then."
The moment the words left his mouth, Timothy grabbed the man's tie and yanked him forward, the cigar tumbling to the ground, forgotten. And if he felt the sheriff's body flinch in surprise, well, the man deserved it. Timothy pressed his warmer lips to the other man's cold ones, and The Proprietor instinctively tilted his head, roughened fingers combing into the hair at the nape of Timothy's neck. Timothy's breath shuddered at the touch, but he leaned in closer, bolder, rubbing against the cracked surface and biting down. The Proprietor let out a low moan, that shamefully deep sound making the pulse at his wrist feel louder than the frantic pounding in Timothy's chest. How unfair it was, Timothy thought, that a man like this should have lips so soft. The sweet scent of liquor mixed with the bitterness of cigar smoke lingered at his nose, spinning his head like a whirling top.
When Timothy finally cracked open his tightly shut eyes, he saw those golden eyes still half-lidded, flashing with something hungry, and he felt as though he were being roasted alive. Coupled with the sound of a sigh, faint but enough to further quicken his already racing heart. When the kiss broke, he licked the blood from the corner of the man's mouth, the damp, metallic tang of iron clinging to his tongue.
Timothy looked down at The Proprietor.
Tie crooked, lips glossy and reddened from being bitten, and pale face was now flushed a soft pink, though not from the cold.
Disheveled.
The sight made Timothy feel victorious, even though he was fairly sure the expression on his own face wasn't much better.
It took a few seconds before The Proprietor finally spoke. He cleared his throat, putting on an air as if none of it had affected him.
"... You're not half bad either."
There was something almost bashful in the way he said it, and Timothy felt his ego rise a notch all the same.
"And I think you're far more tolerable when you keep your mouth shut, old man," he shot back, openly amused as he watched the other man struggle to keep his composure. Or perhaps he was merely mistaking the warmth creeping along the man's ears and down his neck for embarrassment rather than the cold. Either way, a man was entitled to his fantasies.
Although...
"I didn't think blood would taste like this," Timothy clicked his tongue, the flavors of dried blood and whiskey blending on his palate. The Proprietor let out a soft chuckle.
"What, you've never tasted your own blood before?"
Timothy frowned, visibly repulsed.
"That's disgusting."
"You just wiped that ‘disgusting' thing off another man's lips, Kruger," The Proprietor said, giving his shoulder a light pat, his smile edged with mockery. He earned a sharp glare in response.
"Just shut up," Timothy muttered with a sigh. Then, as if noticing something all at once, his gaze fixed on the man's chin.
"But why is your beard suddenly—"
"… Ah, crooked?" The Proprietor lifted a hand and adjusted it. "It's fake."
Seriously?
"Seriously?"
Clearly entertained by Timothy's stunned expression, he shrugged lightly, eyes twinkling as he stroked his chin.
"Do I look like someone who would lie?"
"With someone like you, who could ever tell?"
"Someone like me includes you, too, doesn't it?"
"Whatever," Timothy sighed. “Let's go back inside. It's freezing out here."
"Works for me."
Would he ever bring up what happened here, in the caboose? Probably not. It would be buried beneath layers upon layers of Timothy's most humiliating memories, left there to fade into oblivion. And yet, perhaps the faint bitterness of a fine cigar, the sharp bite of blood and whiskey, and the softness of a stranger's lips would remain. They would linger deep within his mind, like a restless ghost, haunting him in much the same way as the owner of those flavors himself.