steeped in sumac ; cop & wilder blitz

[gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte]

w i l d e r .

"does it ever get lonely
up there on the wall
to be looked at
but never to hold"

The poison is sweet tonight. Subtle enough that Wilder only catches it in between cocktails, where it settles in scars their buzz cannot reach. It's bad, but not the worst, and that in itself is worth celebrating. He can't remember the last time he could watch a sunset without feeling nauseous.

It was a mandatory appearance at a wrap-up party; he's been floating from table to table and spewing his practiced, pretty words for most of the evening. So reflexive that it's utterly thoughtless, hardly himself as he laughs and leans toward a familiar stranger like there's something magnetic in those bedroom eyes. The conversations are a wash of congratulations and condolences - someone's getting a divorce and someone else is expecting a baby. Probably. Could have been the same couple.

That'd be unfortunate. Kind of funny though.

"Good evening, Mr. Morningstar, having a nice evening?" There's a small window behind the bar, paint peeling off it's frame. Hairline fractures fun through it's pains, spilling shattered dusk onto the adjacent brick wall. He can't look away, she's caught him in a moment where he is no one at all. His eyes remain unfocused until she places a gloved finger beneath his chin and tilts his face up to meet her.

He calculates quickly, finds a smile that's more like a smirk. This is the kind of touch that wants to take something, he offers what he's willing to give "Are you?"

She's older, a donor of some sort if Wilder were to guess. Dark hair curtains the harsh lines of her face, painted a shade too pale so that the red on her lips stands out. "The fun has either left or passed out on the bar." She clicks her tongue, lip curling in disdain as she looks out over the scene, "Except for you."

"Maybe I'm not the fun then." Wilder finishes up the diluted whiskey at the bottom of his glass, grimaces against the burn, "Oh, well, that's a lie. Is this going to be an interesting proposition?"

He blinks though his lashes, hopeful, but his gaze keeps drifting toward jagged glass.

"I've got a business meeting in an exclusive location, and no plus one." She pushes her own drink across the table, Wilder lays his lips across her lipstick stain and keeps her gaze as he drains it in a gulp.

"You'll buy my drinks?"

She nods, smiling with canines.

"Sold."

He's always a cheaper than they expect.

ELEGANT

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

c o p e r n i c u s .

"I'll sharpen my teeth
A wolf in sheep's clothing
Knife behind my back
You don't know me"

He should have switched to water by now, he knows that. His friends know that, but Georgette's ordered them all a bottle of top shelf scotch, Zara's gone looking for Bruno, and Bruno's doing coke in the bathroom.

Everybody's busy.

They made friends at the club and brought them along as playthings to the speakeasy. Copernicus has already forgotten their names. They share a booth with them anyway in the back corner of the room. One of them- his name might be Otto, is telling a story. It's possibly funny, Georgette is laughing at least but he's pretty sure that's just because she wants to fuck him.

She pinches his elbow.

"Ow?"

"Why would you say that?" Georgette hisses at him under her breath. There's a sharp pain in his foot, like a dull knife is slowly trying to part his skin.

Cop blinks at her. Otto and the other new friend are gone. Zara and Bruno are sliding back into the booth across from them. Zara's redone her lipstick but Bruno's lips are swollen and stained a dark purple.

Georgette pinches his elbow again.

"Cup," she demands.

He slides it over and she pours a generous two fingers in, then pushes it back in front of him.

"Trying to get me drunk, Etty?" he asks, tone light, teasing.

"Oh we're long past that, pet," she says sweetly, then clinks her glass against his. "But where have you two been all this time? Hmm?" She's pointing an accusing finger across the booth at their friends, having moved on from Otto's disappearance.

Zara blushes. Bruno looks like he's done too much coke. He doesn't know who they think that they're fooling, Copernicus figured them out months ago. It's all little tragic really, since Bruno's obviously still not over Georgette.

"What." Georgette says softly.

Cop presses his fingers gently against his own lips, they're still there, but it's weird, it feels numb. Zara's staring across the table at him, eyes saucer-wide, it's unnerving. He blinks, takes a drink of scotch and turns his gaze to Bruno, whose face is in his hands.

Too much coke.

"We were going to tell you, Etty," he mumbles through his hands, "When the time was right."

Zara's eyes grow larger somehow as Georgette gets loud beside him. Copernicus watches her shift slowly towards the booth's edge, then as she goes still in the way a rabbit does in the split-second before it runs. He knows that feeling, running never does any good though.

He shuts his eyes, pushing the memory of the afternoon away hard.

When he opens them again, a waiter is there, silently picking up broken glass from the table top. His friends are gone. The back of his hand is bleeding.

"Thank-you for your diligence sir," the bartender places a new bottle of scotch on the table in front of him with a fresh glass.

Interesting.

[gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte]

w i l d e r .

"does it ever get lonely
up there on the wall
to be looked at
but never to hold"

She says her name is Tara. Just Tara when he pushes, gentle like his fingers into the notches of her spine. Means he'd probably recognize it and have to face the fact that he's resting his head in a lion's gaping maw. A drug deal maybe? Hopefully something more interesting than that.

He's leaned into every blade they've ever held against his throat.

But Tara doesn't know that, she's still trying to play pretty. Covered the dirt beneath her nails in gel polish; to see no evil and speak much of the same. She's quick-witted, better at holding a conversation than most of the wealthy elite. They tend to get lazy and replace manners with throwing their money around. Wilder does try to make her sharp tongue sting but she's insistently gentle with him.

"If you're going to kill me, can it be in a prettier alleyway?" He comments after a sudden, sharp turn. They walked for a few blocks after the driver let them out, it occurred to him that he should try to remember the cross roads. Too late. His world is nothing but the path ahead of him, it's concrete illuminated only by light stolen from adjacent buildings.

"We've not known each other long," She hums into the side of his jaw, tugging sharply on his hand to stop him from continuing past a paneled door, "but long enough that it's an insult you'd think me so boring."

She exchanges coded secrets with some guard, Wilder loses the finer details in favor of counting constellations in the starless sky. She could have killed him in the dark hallway, or the staircase after, but she doesn't. She buys him a drink like she promised and disappears into the Speakeasy proper.

Adrenaline prickles, cold, down his spine. The hair on the back of his neck stands on ennd, anticipating fangs. Behind him glass breaks, his elbow catches the countertop when a body brushes past him. It'll bruise, pretty and purple as the fruity something Tara had thought he would like. He can still smell the hemlock in her perfume. No idea where she's gone though.

"Oh dear, someone's having a bad night"

For once it isn't him.

ELEGANT

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

c o p e r n i c u s .

"I'll sharpen my teeth
A wolf in sheep's clothing
Knife behind my back
You don't know me"

He'll be forgiven eventually, he knows that. If he's not, then he doesn't truly care. Though he's known those three for over half his life, it's not as if it's been entirely by choice. It's probably a good thing anyway, maybe they'd gotten a little too familiar to him, and they'd become a little too safe.

He knows that he's the farthest thing from safe. They probably know that too now, apparently Bruno is going to need stitches.

Copernicus doesn't really know what happened, it's all little more than a blur and a bar napkin glueing itself slowly to the back of his hand. When violence becomes commonplace, it becomes forgettable and to Copernicus, it has always been part of his life.

That or it's just the scotch.

"Oh dear, someone's having a bad night."

The voice comes from behind him, back towards the bar.

Copernicus smiles a little into his glass, now full again with dark liquor. The understatement isn't all that funny, he just sounded a little bit like Wilder. It's also something he would say in a moment like this, even the delivery was perfect. Cop sometimes wonders if Wilder only makes comments like those to try and get him to laugh.

Foolish though, stupid actually, to think that way.

Except He's alone now, with a nearly full bottle of scotch and no one to share it with. He'd just call him except it's two in the morning, he had that wrap party to go to, and Copernicus doesn't want to bother him anyway. Calling at this time of night would make Wilder think that there's something wrong.

"Oh I likely deserved it," he says, then raises a hand lazily over his shoulder to beckon his heckler over to his table, "But if you join me, I'm sure my night could only be made better."

[gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte]

w i l d e r .

"does it ever get lonely
up there on the wall
to be looked at
but never to hold"

He recognizes that voice.

Wilder's true smiles never last. This one is smothered reflexively with his fingers dragged across his lips, smearing Tara's lipstick down his chin. She lingers like rust on his fingertips, he feels a twinge of regret that she'll find this seat empty when she returns. Her company wasn't bad, at least he's certain she could have been worse.

He approaches the table with a measured gait, struggling to get his bearings through the blurred amber glow of a drink too many. Composure is unbecoming but he re-fastens his cufflinks and straightens his collar anyway. Terrified that that cunning gaze will find every burst seam and think less of him for it.

Wilder weighs the corners of his put-on smile to make sure it's even, leaning in toward Copernicus with his palm flat on the table. "Now, when have I ever made your night better?" Shards of glass nip at his skin, love bites that only play at pain. He smells the spilt scotch, comments "you're bleeding," as if he were making conversation about the weather.

In truth, he hasn't thought about Copernicus Fenwick once tonight. Made a point to steer his thoughts elsewhere when they began to drift. Didn't let himself check his phone, hoping there would be a message waiting.

He's dangerous, but not in the feral-wolf way his coworkers insist. It's that there's too much genuine affection in the laugh that accompanies the gentle pressure he applies to the back of Cop's hand with his handkerchief. He's captivated by the roses which bloom across blue satin, hopes they stain a lovely lavender.

This drunk, this far away from his feelings, he shouldn't feel anything at all.

"Let me guess, I should see the other guy?" He cranes his neck, pretending to look around. No sign of Tara so he takes a seat across from Copernicus and keeps hold of the injured hand. Panic tries to twist his pleasant expression, he reminds himself this is not a rooftop garden.

With his other hand he takes a swig of expensive scotch and refuses to cough even when tears spring to his eyes. "Fate must love us, or love to make fools of us." Wilder would enjoy the company either way, "What're you doing in a place like this?"

ELEGANT

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

c o p e r n i c u s .

"I'll sharpen my teeth
A wolf in sheep's clothing
Knife behind my back
You don't know me"

It's easy to paint a picture of the man he's meant to be.

In the time it takes his invited stranger to make his way over to the table, Copernicus runs a hand through his hair to push any strays back into place. Then he tugs the napkin off the back of his hand and slides his glass smoothly on top of it to hide the stain. He's good at that, hiding the ugly pretty things that always try to give him away.

A hand lands on the table in front of him, pale fingers spread out on dark polished wood. Copernicus gazes down at them, a heavy stone of something not quite dread but not excitement either, forming in the pit of his stomach. Some might call it 'hope'.

"Wilder," he breathes out softly, "You've found me."

There's no surprise in his tone, though there probably should be. It's not like he's been drinking in any random bar tonight, this place that they're in is so secret that it doesn't even really have a name. It's a rumour, above anything else, with a dozen or so nicknames and entry is reserved for very few.

It's just that he wanted Wilder to be here, so he is.

Maybe he is.

There's pressure on the back of his hand, he winces slightly at the sudden return of feeling and the inevitable sting of pain that comes with it. Then there's Wilder's light laughter, there's the warmth of his hand gripping Cop's. His fingers fold over Wilder's thumb where it presses into his palm. "Your handkerchief," he answers, "I'm ruining it."

Add it to tonight's list.

Wilder settles down in the booth across from him, where Zara was sitting before Bruno launched himself across the table. Copernicus blinks, gaze taking a moment longer than it should to settle on him. His hair's a little tousled. Red streaks his chin, like someone drew their nails down it- he straightens, tense for a brief moment before he realises that the marks aren't wounds. His shoulders fall. It's just lipstick- someone else's- It's not Wilder's colour.

"Probably shouldn't," he says, watching as Wilder lifts his cup to drink out of it, "Seems like a glass hit the side of his head." The rim of the glass comes away clear. Cop reaches out and runs a finger over the spot Wilder's mouth just was, nothing. Really not his lipstick then, he wonders whose it is.

His fingers are still curled around Wilder's thumb, the handkerchief is dark now with his blood. He thinks about the jacket that Wilder left in a heap on his office floor last week.

Copernicus lifts the glass and drinks. He can't taste the flavour of the scotch anymore through the scent of his own blood. Or maybe the drink has just numbed his mouth to the point of ruin.

"Out with some old friends," he says. "Old classmates from..." Cop waves a hand vaguely, "A place..."

He pushes the glass back across the table slowly, leaning forward with the movement. There's a light scent of cigarette smoke on Wilder's shirt and there's this quiet look in his eyes. It's fine if he's a little undone at this point in the night, it's late. Except his cufflinks are still both pinned, the collar of his shirt is straight.

Cop's fixed both of those things for him more than once at work.

"Hey, whose lipstick is that?" he asks suddenly, tone carefully casual. His eyes narrow slightly and his free hand finds the neck of the scotch bottle, tightening until his knuckles go white. "I can always buy another bottle," he says softly, thoughtfully, almost like he never intended to say it out loud at all.