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It was a sleepless night, restless. Ciaran sat with the book of Duviri tales in their lap, tracing over the comforting familiar words and illustrations. There was joyful Mathila and Luscinia with her lovely song and Bombastine. All ever so familiar, and the letter print was a little faded here and there, even if the tales lived on.
The book looked entirely out of place in the backroom of year 1999, but to a degree, so did its owner.
Suddenly by the front door, Kalymos growled and meowed. Her voice was displeased, and her face scrunched when Ciaran approached the kavat and the door.
“What's going on, Kalymos? Someone out there?”
They scratched the top of the kavat’s head and listened in.
There definitely was someone right outside the door. Even through a thick layer of metal that sealed it, Ciaran could feel the motion. There was a single knock to the side of the door, some cursing and muttering. Ciaran stepped closer, listening.
“Shit, where are they… C'mon, Drif.. Drifter. Let me in.”
Ciaran sighed. Arthur, drunk again. His occasional pasttime, with a bottle in hand and a floor for company. Sometimes he allowed others to join his fun and sorrow, but not Ciaran, not just yet.
They moved and allowed the door to dissipate open.
There he was standing, Arthur, although standing was quite a strong word for it as he staggered, staying upright only by holding onto the door frame.
“Arthur?”
“There… you are. I been… knocking for ten bloody minutes.”
Ciaran watched him sway on the spot, then gesture with his arm towards the backroom.
“Can I?”
“Sure. What's up?”
Arthur stumbled inside the room, looking around. His face was displeased and his hair was utterly disheveled. His dog tags tangled together. He reeked of cheap alcohol. The image of a put together commander, a leader, was but a gossamer dream, much like the faded pictures in Duviri tales.
Kalymos sniffed Arthur once and let out an unhappy growl.
“Shhh, kitty. Shitty day calls for shitty measures.”
“What… made it so shit?” Ciaran asked, watching the door seal close.
Arthur swung on the spot, gesturing about him with his arms.
“All… All of it. Dammit, all of it. The Techrot… Entrati… Fuck him. The city going to shit.”
He brushed his hair out of his face and his good eye somewhat focused on Ciaran.
“You. You…” Arthur pointed an accusing finger in their direction. Ciaran did not flinch, but felt something tugging inside them, an unhappy churning feeling. They wondered if Arthur would finally give up what particular problem he had with them at last.
Arthur stumbled into the table, throwing off one of Entrati's old trinkets. It shattered on the floor with a loud clang.
“Shit, you have so much stuff. Sorry.”
“It's Entrati's.”
“Fuck him. Fuck him, and fuck you, Marty.”
Ciaran felt a small voice in their throat, protesting.
Arthur had more to say, however.
“You travel here willy-nilly, think you-u are gonna… put it right. All right, yeah?”
“I just want to help.”
“Well we don't need it. Your help… You can't even help yourself. I've seen you fight. You f… f. Flail. Dammit.”
Arthur slumped on a couch, bottle sitting on his side, and buried his head in his hands. His fingers curled into his disheveled hair and gave it a proper, nervous tug. He muttered something as Ciaran got closer.
“I just don't want you to get hurt,” Arthur murmured in his drunken stupour. “You keep… Going out there.”
Ciaran felt a sensation crawl up their skin. Like they were an outsider, overhearing a conversation about them, not meant for their ears. It echoed and made their hearing muffled and anxious. Still, they could not leave Arthur in that state. Just couldn't leave him at all.
He looked defeated. He never quite talked so much, especially not to Ciaran, yet it seemed the words kept stumbling out. He wanted them out while the alcohol held open the flood doors.
“Some days I just wanna grab you by the shoulders… and tell you how bloody important you are to the team. Stop getting into trouble, Marty. Stop it, hear me? Shit, why are you like that.”
He flailed his arm in Ciaran's direction.
“If you get hurt, what will we do? What will I do?”
He leaned back on the couch, staring into the tall ceiling, bringing his bottle to his lips.
“Drink myself to sleep, reckon. Regret not saying anything to your stupid, pretty face.”
Ciaran's cheeks acquired a tint of blushing rose. They were no longer sure they were privy of Arthur's confessional tirade, but he seemed less and less aware of their presence. Another gulp of his favourite medicine, however, seemed to have subdued him, and not long after Ciaran realized Arthur fell asleep. He was at his lowest and most vulnerable.
And most peaceful.
The bottle hit the floor and scattered away, spilling a trail of whatever was left in it.
Ciaran sat on the floor next to the couch and watched Arthur as he slept. His face smoothed out a little. His breathing calmed. Every worry of the day left him, scared away by his drunk state.
It didn't surprise Ciaran much now, that Arthur sought comfort at the bottom of the bottle. It didn't ask questions, only soothed his spirit. It hid him away from his own thoughts and the world that he thought needed saving.
Still, Ciaran had began to hope that other things could do the same for Arthur.
With some small effort and the help of a warframe, Ciaran moved Arthur to become horizontal on the couch. He did not protest, but neither did he help. His limbs were useless and his arm hung off the edge of the couch until Ciaran pushed it carefully under his head. They drew a light blanket over him and watched.
Something compelled them.
They reached out and gently hovered their fingertips over Arthur's brow.
Then, they carefully ran their hand down Arthur's hair. Soft texture beneath their hand. Arthur did not flinch, did not stir. So Ciaran continued caressing his hair, until Arthur was heavily sound asleep.
How easy it was to like him then. With his peaceful handsome face and the history in scars that split his cheek. He had a beautiful jaw where it met the warframe and beautiful lips. Ciaran watched with fascination, having little experience with real people. Their heart fluttered, and they smiled.
They remembered what he said. Arthur called them pretty. Whether he meant it truly or only through a lens of a bottle remained to be found out. Still, Ciaran blushed at the thought and pocketed it close to their heart.
They would not admit to anyone how much they liked Arthur when he was awake, too.
***
Arthur woke up with a ringing in his ears and a disgusting headache pressing at his skull. How much did he drink last night? Was he an arsehole to anyone? He probably was.
His eye focused on the ceiling until he realized there was gentle sunlight coming from the windows, the windows that were discernably not his.
“Shit,” he got up from the couch, throwing off a warm unfamiliar blanket. He was in the Drifter's apartment. And the Drifter was sleeping on the floor, head resting on a single pillow.
“Bollocks,” he sighed awkwardly. “You damn fool, Arthur Nightingale.”
Drifter stirred and the guilt came up his throat. He really took their bed, well, couch. Probably told them something shitty, too. Some pack leader he was.
Drifter moved, sitting up and rubbing their eyes. Then, they smiled, and Arthur felt punished and disarmed. His heart did a happy flutter, which he did not appreciate.
“Hey… Sleep well?”
“Look, Marty, I'm sorry. How much of an arse did I make myself last night?”
Ciaran smiled.
“A fair bit.”
“Hope I didn't give out too many dirty secrets.”
“Just a few. But, they'll be safe with me, Arthur.”
He opened his mouth to give a witty return, but something in Ciaran's face paused him. Like they knew something deep and secret, like they meant what they said. He told them something important in his drunken state, and the secret was safe not just from the others, but himself.
Arthur sighed and looked away.
“I'll make it up to you with some breakfast. Would that cover for my behaviour?” he said instead.
“You'll still owe me, but just a little bit.”
“Sounds like a fair deal. Now, got anything for a headache, Drifter?”