Chapter Text
Another Sunday night and those ones might be the worst of all. Second only to Monday mornings and not for the reasons culturally palatable newspaper comics make their clever little drawings about. (God, how I hate the unimaginative and gauche, how I despise the praise it steals from artists with something new to say.) I can live with myself on most days, I can forget the dread of my stagnant living situation on Fridays and Saturdays and drown in the anxiety of making Sunday night the immaculate performance it has to be, but on Monday mornings I can still taste him and a deep blue feeling nests between my lungs. It sings to me about how the world promised me more than prostitution and a hope of upward mobility that has no substance.
I smoke, then, to silence the bird in my ribcage, and to get myself to feel compliant, moldable. To drown the bird is the only way to stay afloat, really. I could give in to the revolutionary tendencies dormant in all of us, but where would that get me? Under the ground, most likely. If I’ll even get a burial.
Is it unreasonable of me, then, to be a good little stepping mat for the ultra-elite if it keeps me afloat?
And before I could come to the conclusion, that such a stance is indeed unreasonable and the logical thing would be to rob the world the opportunity to exploit my body by fucking killing myself, a man no more than 35 wandered to the backyard that had become a home for some mercenary’s unsightly corpse. A grim reminder of what I should be doing indeed.
I stood for a moment, in the tragic street light glow of Sundays. The show finished earlier today, the taste and sensation fresh on my skin. I excused myself for a moment of silence, to sort out the blue bird within me. He did not protest, he was already falling asleep. Usually he would, my friend prefers drifting off with me in his arms, selling the illusion of true human connection, but I must’ve exhausted him. He’ll be gone tomorrow morning, before I awake, but I know he won’t go for another few hours. In fear of my thought processes from before continuing, I distract myself. There is someone new standing below me, after all. That doesn’t happen often here.
“And what does such a handsome monsieur look for in this dead-end backyard at such an hour, I wonder?” I say out loud, catching his attention.
“I mean no trouble, my mind simply needed something new to look at. The closed harbor gates get depressing after a while.” Ah, a lorryman. To think about it, I might’ve even seen him at the Whirling once, but not more than that. Unlike the rest, he doesn’t seem to be a decaying alcoholic. Lorrymen are really the optimal customers: they rarely have any commitments - their transient lifestyle offers a sense of distance from everyday morals.
“May I offer a change of scenery from this point of view?” I propose without thinking. Losing the vantage point of being higher and more hidden than him means losing a part of my mystery and thus - power. This proposition doesn’t stun him, however. He’s either not a lorryman or he isn’t a homo. Whatever, I can still convince myself I had no ulterior motives, if all else fails. Nevertheless he replies with a clever, playful tone.
“Only if I can borrow a smoke, friend.” He says, stepping closer, more into view. His brown hair reaches his shoulders, it glistens with a warm undertone in the street light’s glow. His clothes are strikingly proletariat, a working man for certain. He has fallen victim to the exploits as well. A trench of sadness in his eyes wakes the bird in my chest. I take a long, contemplative drag, looking as though I am sizing up my prey, even though I’m merely drowning the birdie in smoke. I have no choice, I made the offer, so I enter the hallway, most likely leaving him wondering if I left for good. He need not wonder for long, because moments later I open the door to him, but I don’t let him in immediately. No, instead I lean against the door frame. He isn’t responding to my flirtations according to the script and I have no real plan (I can’t take him back to my place), but hell, I want to play. I’ve deserved it.
“First, tell me your name, monsieur,” I smirk.
He tilts his head - contemplation. I recognize the dilemma. Which name do I give? I don’t know either.
“Tommy,” he says. There’s more to that name, but he decided in favour of starting this off in a friendly manner. “Tommy le Homme.” He finishes, in a more formal tone, though, saying we’re strangers, but we can be friendly. You can call me Tommy.
I smirk devilishly and I hope that hides the wear and fatigue between my eyes. Of course I don’t give my own name, not a single one of them. Of course I wave him to follow after me and of course he follows wordlessly. We make it onto the balcony and he stops abruptly, but not because of any second thoughts. The fucking corpse caught his eye, obviously. Hate for Martinaise wells in my heart, a trivial feeling that suffocates the bird, and I say “Welcome to Martinaise,” with a sardonic smile, spreading my arms welcomingly.
He mutters a few cursewords under his breath and turns to me with utmost sincerity and sympathy: “Shit, man, and you live like this?”
Uh oh, something in me cracks. A corner of my mouth twitched or a tremble ran down my back - it doesn’t matter. That sentence wakes the birdsong crying for a more just world. Obviously he didn’t mean it like that, he couldn’t have, this is maybe the third sentence he’s said to me. Nope, nope, nope. Not doing this. No bits of reality matter right now and neither does the fucking corpse.
I twist my mouth into a grin and place the smoke between my lips, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say, of course I live like this - we all live like this - there’s just no other way. If the union decides to lynch some guy and leave the body rotting in the backyard, then we better start greeting the body as a neighbour too.
“What happened?” he continues as I hand him a cigarette and then lean on the balcony edge.
“I don’t know,” I admit laconically, “but it’s something we can’t change now.” I demonstrate way more calmness and maturity than I actually have. Maybe it’s the Sunday night effect, maybe it’s the fact that someone outside this wretched bubble finally admitted, that this is indeed fucked up, but if he decides to push a bit more, I will cry.
“Of course, of course,” he agrees, fumbling for a lighter. A sudden flash of boldness makes me lean closer and grab his wrist, bringing it to the lit cigarette between my lips. I hold my gaze fixed on his and my grip firm as the cig takes light. That finally stuns him, but he thanks me and takes the first drag. I don’t know why I’m like this, maybe because this is not me, so it’s okay. I haven’t seen me in a long time. He lives behind an easel. Maybe it can all be explained by the fact that whoever I am right now wasn’t satisfied tonight.
As we settle in, me leaning against the balcony, resting my elbows on the cold concrete and him with one hand in pocket, I strike up conversation after a moment of quiet night silence.
“So what brings you here?” I say the most cliche sounding bit of small talk written. I want to say something beautiful, but I can’t.
“There’s a FALN lorry in the traffic jam. I drive that. Well, I was supposed to, that is, but you know the strike situation better than me,” I don’t, he continues nevertheless, “anyway, I’m nearly done with my shipment, but the last stretch is taking as long as the entire journey here.” He chuckles, I smile. It’s his turn to ask me something now, so he goes “You have any family here?”
“What, monsieur are you trying to tell, if the pretty boy lives alone?” I tease, but he doesn’t falter.
“Of course not, you seem like a student, that’s all.”
“I am,” technically “and I do live alone, yes.” His sincerity and calm demeanor makes it hard to tease further. He asks what I’m studying by raising an eyebrow inquisitively.
“I am a student of beauty, I like to say. I study at the fine arts university across Esperance.” He nods approvingly and admits: “I am fond of the arts as well, but I occupy myself with crafts more lyrical and musical.” He regrets admitting this so boldly. A lorryman who calls himself a musician seems naive to a stranger.
“Well, then you’ll fit right in. There’s a fellow artist in one of the more sea-facing rooms, next to the book club.”
“Who knew Martinaise calls to the artistic souls,” he states, but I interject: “Well, it’s mostly this apartment complex. Besides us, we mostly have union labourers and those sold,they were already aged when the revolution began. Then there are the obvious drug addicts and alcoholics across the canal, of course. And the occasional dicemaker or disco dancer here and there.”
“You paint a vivid image of Martinaise, my friend. Maybe I won’t mind staying here for longer,” he jokes in a light-hearted tone.
“Be my guest, Martinaise needs more soulful people. Those book club kids can get annoying after a while.”
“I wish, but my lady’s waiting for a second and I doubt this is the place for children to grow up.” Ouch.
“...unless you want them to mingle with some particularly homophobic twelve year olds, then no.”
He laughs, that was unexpected for him.
“No really, they aren’t here at the moment, probably doing speed in an outhouse somewhere, but keep away from those ginger kids. Cuno is one of them. Speaks in third person. Biggest gangsters in all of Revachol,” I exaggerate. His laugh is melodious like his speaking voice. Entertaining him fills some vacant void in me. He’s a good distraction. But he has a wife and kids waiting for him, so I promise myself not to get too distracted.
Somewhere along our conversation I forgot that I planned to do my courting dances with him, but it’s better that way. Where would we even go? I haven’t properly cleaned up either. I call him handsome and he calls me clever and I’m glad I’m leaning on the balcony, because otherwise my knees would buckle, but a friendly distance remains between us. He calms the anxious, shivering bird in me and when I finish my cigarette, I don’t light a second one. I lose track of time and learn he’s from Deora-of-the-Seven-Seas and he appreciates the beauty of the mundane. He’s been chasing music since childhood and his wife has an angelic voice. He doesn’t learn much more about me besides my occupation as a student and my passion for beauty.
Our friendliness doesn’t last for long, not even close to an hour, because my paper-thin walls betray the awakening of my friend as he gets up to pour himself a glass of scotch. All I hear is the heavy cupboards clattering and my head snaps over my shoulder. My face must’ve betrayed concern, because Tommy gets the hint and looks at his watch. The last thing I want is to be alone, but my Sunday friend may pop his head out the door at any moment and I cannot conceive what would become of the tender sapling of friendship I’d cultivated with him. I say something about it being late, effortlessly regaining my composure. He agrees, thanks for the cigarette and decides he should get going. I offer to accompany to the exit door. I say it’s easy to get lost here, but it isn’t. At the door, he starts to say some common platitude of gratefulness, but I cut him off with a whisper-tone and a suggestive smirk:
“You know, I always find it rather unsafe how the residents of this building have taken up a habit of hiding the key under a rock left of the entrance.” I don’t know why I do this, I’m never going to see him again, but I’ve become a darling at crafting false hope and starting to believe it myself. He smiles again, registering what I just implied, and says something about how he hopes that doesn’t cause us any issues in the future as he wanders off.
I reach my front door with the Sunday friend waiting for me. Tonight must’ve been so exhilarating he’s still feeling rather brave to overstep boundaries as he grabs me by my waist and pulls me into my space, as if he owned it. (He does so legally, but to overtly claim ownership of my space is to claim ownership over me and at that point I might just actually die.) He inquires about what I was doing outside and I lied about letting someone’s dog out. I was ready to explain the sounds of conversation as me talking to the dog, but he doesn’t care. Instead, he pulls me to bed and a bit of my soul cracks off once again. We don’t fuck, even though that’s what I actually would’ve preferred to pretending there’s anything substantial between us. He’s gone by the first streaks of sunlight infiltrating the drawn curtains.