things that got wasted or just withered on the vine

.{september 1865}.

Dinner parties were really only an excuse for public social ruin, in Friday's not-particularly-humble opinion. Nonetheless he had submitted obediently to his father's will, scraped together a smile and some small talk and done his very best, even if he was not entirely sure just whose sake it was truly for. He had tried, in any case; you could say that much for him, though probably not a lot more.

Eight hours later, with his shirt torn, mouth tasting thickly of blood and out on the streets in the sheeting rain, Friday reflected that he really could have tried harder; but with a reputation that was utterly impossible to live down and which would always precede him, the dice were loaded against him from the start. There were really only so many carefully worded comments, each one designed to lodge beneath his skin and cut, that he could take before needing to retaliate. Icily polite, of course, each rebuttal an exquisite structure of propriety and cruelty, until it got him a glass of wine in the face and that was really only the beginning of it all. Friday felt, really, that if Lorelai East felt the need to wear dresses cut so low that most of her breasts were visible then she should really have been prepared for people to comment on this fact. Of course, Lorelai East was the daughter of the head of the House of East, the ever-poisonous Malvolio, and he had never liked Friday. All in all, Friday supposed he was lucky to still be in one piece, even if it was almost five o'clock in the morning and he was out alone on the sharp bare streets.

This was tragic, Friday knew, walking through Carinn on the familiar path to the place that was the root of his very own spectacular downfall because it was at least a known quantity. He did not want to be there but he was, the slick leather of his shoes getting splashed with mud and grit.

"Fuck," he said aloud, because it needed to be said at some point, wishing he had had more wine or less wine or Deus knew what, "fuck. Fuck it all."

The street of whorehouses looked even more disreputable in the grey light before the dawn, abandoned by now and so desolate in appearance it did nothing to improve Friday's nihilistic mood. Mr Adams was notorious for closing his doors at no later than three-thirty, so Friday entertained no hope of going inside. Still, he wandered down over the broken cobblestones, squinting through the thick haze of rain at the depressing, crumbling facades of the surrounding buildings.

There was someone sitting on the steps, soaked to the skin, thin shoulders shaking beneath an almost-translucent shirt. Friday recognised the mane of black hair almost instantly, even flattened by rainwater, and a frown skittered across his face, stinging as it went.

"Mr Brooker," he said, crouching down beside him, "are you crying out here in the rain? Because if you are I shall have to think of something chivalrious to do and that has never been a talent of mine."

Bryde Brooker raised his head from his folded arms, clearly startled. He was wet all over and in the dim light it was impossible to tell where the water on his face had originated. His eyes widened as he took in Friday's appearance.

"My lord, your face-"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Friday responded, "or maybe that is the wine talking. I could be disfigured for life. I hope not; my prettiness is really my only redeeming feature."

Bryde's face crumpled with concern. "My lord-"

"I did tell you about 'my lord', didn't I?"

There was a flicker, almost like a smile, across Bryde's mouth. "You did, sir."

"Told you about 'sir' as well, didn't I?" Friday leant back a little against the step behind him, noting the decadence in his pose even within the ridiculousness of the circumstances.

"You're drunk, sir," Bryde observed.

"Amongst other things," Friday agreed. "Why are you crying in the rain, Bryde? I'll go and hurt whoever it was that upset you." He managed something that felt like a smile and which must have looked dreadful. "I could set them on fire for you, if you like."

Bryde laughed shakily, and didn't seem to know how to respond for a moment. "Why are you here sir?" he enquired at last.

The smile dropped from Friday's face, ice flooding his chest. "I have nowhere else to go," he admitted, a tremble to his voice, and couldn't bring himself to look at Bryde. He should not have not come here, but he had no choice.

"Come inside, sir," Bryde said quietly, laying a slender hand on Friday's shoulder. He could feel the coldness of Bryde's skin through his sodden shirt. Friday thought he might have had a jacket once, but he certainly did not now.

Friday hesitated, but where else could he go? He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and followed Bryde inside. The downstairs rooms were empty, quiet, shrouded in shadows. Bryde leads him through them, heading for the back stairs, whose existence Friday knew about but which he had never actually seen. They were narrow, the wood warped with age, twining up towards the mysterious upper floors of the house. Friday felt curiosity stir through the bone-deep weariness as they reached a narrow, dark corridor under the roof; Bryde pushed at one of the doors, discoloured paint peeling from the wood, and Friday followed him inside.

"There's not much room," Bryde told him, looking embarrassed; he was right, there was scarcely room for the narrow iron bedstead, an uncomfortable-looking chair and a flat-topped wooden box, presumably for personal possessions. A single candle was burning; Bryde used it to light lamps bracketed to the plastered walls, flooding the depressing little room with light.

"Well, this is fucking homely," Friday muttered, sitting down on the end of the bed. Bryde flushed miserably, hanging his head, and Friday sighed.

"You should take nothing I say right now seriously," he said quickly. "I am tired and I am very drunk and I am bitter and I will probably end up hurting your feelings several more times before I leave here."

Bryde raised his head, eyes suspiciously pink-tinged, but managed a wan smile. "I shall bear that in mind, sir. Shall I get Erik?"

"Deus, no," Friday said. "He shall never want to speak to me again if he sees me like this. He does so like to focus on the positive side of things and there really is no positive side to this at all."

Bryde nodded. "I'll be back in a moment then, sir. Please try not to make too much noise; we're not meant to have visitors up here."

"Understood," Friday said, and when Bryde turned to the door he added: "can you bring me more wine?"

He got no response, and the door closed softly behind Bryde a moment later. Friday shifted on the bed - which was mercifully not as uncomfortable as it looked - and stared at the greyish walls, trying to imagine how one could survive trapped in a little room like this day to day. It was, at least, a distraction from his own problems, from the wreckage he had left his life in when he had literally been thrown out into the rain. Firmly shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind where they belonged, Friday's gaze landed on a battered-looking book lying on the chest and without even thinking about it he picked it up, leaning back a little so as not to drip on the pages, and began to flick through.

It was Bryde's sketchbook, he realised a moment later; pen and pencil drawings covering every available page. Many different views of Carinn city, of South Tower, of the whores who lived in the house. Erik's familiar smile sparkled up from a double-page spread, Mr Adams' furious scowl was drawn with startling accuracy on another leaf. There were other people Friday did not recognise; customers, he assumed, with an uncomfortable grimace that hurt. And, towards the back of the book, there was another sketch, surrounded by blank sheets on either side, as though an attempt to hide it. It was light, unfinished, not quite clear, but Friday recognised his own eyes staring up at him and he realised that, at some point, Bryde had attempted to draw him. It was a good likeness, he had to admit, right down to the sardonic twist of his lips, the jaded bitterness that lingered around him like a cloud, though he could not quite figure out quite how he felt about Bryde sketching him, alone in this tiny room, hiding the image away so that the rest of the world would not see it. Friday shut the book and put it back approximately as he had found it, deciding to put that thought away and take it back out again at a later date when he would be able to dwell on it with something approaching clear-headedness.

Bryde reappeared a short while later, balancing a tray. He laid it down on the lid of the box, pushing the book askew, and closed his bedroom door behind him. There was no lock, Friday finally noted, and wondered how it must feel, to be deprived of even the smallest form of privacy. Bryde sat down beside him, keeping a careful distance, but reached to tilt Friday's chin a little more toward the light.

"Someone hit you," he observed after a moment, sounding surprised.

"A good assumption," Friday told him, with a rueful smirk that ached, "not quite right though." At Bryde's quizzical look, he added: "it was not a someone; it was three different someones, and it was certainly more than one hit."

"You need to be cleaned up," Bryde told him, voice surprisingly steady, and Friday respected him for it. "You're completely covered in blood."

"That would be when I struck my temple on the stairs between the third and fourth floors of South Tower, I believe," Friday explained, watching as Bryde took a piece of cloth from the tray and dipped it into a bowl of water he had also brought. "Head wounds always bleed a lot." Bryde began dabbing at his temple; Friday hissed as the cut stung.

"How did you hit your head on the steps, sir?" Bryde asked, frown etched between his eyebrows. Even sodden and miserable, hair a tangled, dripping mess, he was exquisitely beautiful, Friday couldn't help noting.

"I imagine that was somewhere around the time Malvolio East threw me down them," Friday responded, watching Bryde dip the cloth back in the water, staining it pinkish. Bryde looked startled, but he said nothing, continuing to wipe the cloth down his face, cleaning sticky drying blood away. He reached the raw gash across Friday's cheekbone, and Friday flinched.

"Sorry, sir."

Friday sighed, closing his eyes. "Please, Bryde, please stop calling me 'sir'. Please."

Bryde's touch was more tentative and considerably more gentle as he cleaned the cut. "How did you get this one?" he asked at last.

"That would have been the ceremonial ring of the South family," Friday murmured, not bothering to open his eyes. "Worn on the right hand of my father, and consequently rather painful when it connected with my face. Still, I believe the last laugh is on him; it will be rather awkward to get my blood out of the setting of the diamond."

Bryde's hands stilled. "Your father punched you?"

"Again, more than once," Friday corrected him. "I believe he is also responsible for what feels rather like a bruise rising on my jaw, and for what is almost certainly a cracked rib on my right hand side. The one on the left was Malvolio. I suppose I did insult his daughter." He sighed when Bryde neither responded nor continued cleaning him up, and opened his eyes. "We could sit here and feel sorry for me, or you could tidy me up a bit so I can have a modicum of dignity when I have to walk back into that house."

"Right, sorry si- sorry," Bryde mumbled, jerking back into action. His hands were a little clumsy as he moved from the cut to cleaning the dried blood on Friday's cheek and jaw, and put the cloth back in the bowl. Shaky fingers touched to the corner of Friday's mouth, to the bruises Friday could feel blossoming there, to his split lip. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"I believe that was the honourable Nicholas Wilton," Friday sighed, lips brushing Bryde's fingertips as he spoke. "I think I said something that may have upset him."

Bryde made a soft sound of amusement, picking up the sodden cloth and dabbing Friday's lips. "Really?"

"If I remember rightly, I asked him if he wanted to suck my cock," Friday said, and revelled in the way it made Bryde choke with surprise. "Well, he seemed so very concerned about what I did with it in other places that I thought perhaps he wanted to try it for himself. I misread the situation completely, of course, but by that point the remark I made about Lorelai East's rather interesting lack of modesty had made it back to her father and he chose that moment to summon up a wind to throw me down a staircase. The rest is history."

"Fucking hell," Bryde said softly, pulling away and putting the cloth down again. "How exactly did all this happen?"

"Dinner parties are really just brawls with a cheese course," Friday assured him. He looked at the tray, seeing two cups of tea but no bottle. "I asked for wine."

"You've had enough," Bryde told him. "You can have tea."

Friday attempted to stare him down, but with one eye swelling closed he must have made a fairly pathetic image and so finally leaned forward to pick up one of the cups. It was warm, the heat slowly seeping through his bones, and he finally noticed how much both he and Bryde were shivering.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes," he said, raising the teacup to his mouth again.

Bryde looked doubtfully at him but then leaned down to begin unlacing his battered boots, kicking them underneath the bed when they were off. As Friday sipped the cheap, bitter tea he watched Bryde awkwardly fumble with the buttons of his shirt, eventually standing to drag it over his head, dropping it in a wet heap on the floor. His skin was pale, much too youthful, and he began to clear off the lid of the chest, clearly planning to find dry clothing, but as he turned Friday caught sight of something and reached automatically to grab Bryde's wrist. He wasn't prepared for the way Bryde froze at this, tensing automatically as though expecting a blow, and Friday immediately loosened his grip even as Bryde looked ashamed for his reaction. Friday carefully pulled Bryde closer, turning him to face him, and looked at the perfect handprint of bruising over Bryde's ribs, an angry purple colour, and the smaller bruises and marks dappling Bryde's waist above his trousers, absolutely on his eyelevel.

"I will kill him," Friday said quietly. "Name him and I will kill him for you."

Bryde attempted a smile with a mouth that was shivering, his skin covered with gooseflesh from the chill. "You don't mean that."

"Oh, I do," Friday assured him. "That's the problem."

Bryde caught his plump lower lip between his teeth for a moment before releasing it and reaching down to touch the injured corner of Friday's mouth, touch light as a butterfly or the edge of a kiss. "You're a good man, Friday South. Possibly insane and the most unusual person I've ever met, but a good man."

"I'm not," Friday says, and something little broke inside him, "I'm a not a good man at all." He let go of Bryde's wrist but could not help reaching to touch a cluster of bruises over Bryde's hip, soft and gentle as though he could touch them and heal them. He could not; healing had never been a gift he possessed. That was Gaia's domain. Bryde's skin was cold and Friday knew his hands could not be much warmer, but Bryde did not pull away. In fact, he was leaning a little closer.

"You said you were a gentleman once," he said quietly, dark eyes never once leaving Friday's face. "Doesn't that make you-"

Friday pulled away as though he had been burnt, breaking any connection at all between them. "I am not a good man," he said fervently, "and you are still fifteen years old."

Bryde scowled, turning to the chest and searching through it. "I am a whore," he spat. "I am, and have been, anybody's for a given price. It is not as though I am a blushing boy you are deflowering; there hasn't been a flower of any bloody description for a very long time."

The bitterness in his voice was familiar; after a moment Friday realised it reflected his perfectly. He was, after all, not the only world-weary one in the room.

"I see you as a child," he said, ignoring the undercurrent of the lie beneath his words because this was his only option.

"Well, you're the only one who does." Bryde found a shirt, pulling it over his head. "I don't think I have anything that'll fit you," he added, tone softer and less confrontational. "You should take off that wet shirt yourself, though."

Friday nodded, working on the buttons. "You have talent," he said, not looking up at Bryde. "You are an incredible artist, you should be at a school somewhere-"

"With what money?" Bryde asked, and his voice was soft with no trace of bitterness at all. "With what patron? With what promise of a future? I'm not you, sir."

"I stand to be disinherited," Friday sighed, pulling the clinging shirt from his shoulders. "And I don't even have whoring to fall back on."

Bryde's mouth quirked a little as he took the bloodstained shirt from Friday. "This is a beautiful shirt," was all he said.

"It was, once," Friday agreed, toeing off his shoes. His head was starting to pound, his ribs to ache, his gashes to sting.

"You can sleep here tonight," Bryde told him.

"And where will you sleep?"

"It doesn't matter." Bryde's voice was calm, dismissive.

"Don't be ridiculous, we can fit both of us in here." Friday stood, the world swaying around him, and dragged at the ragged quilt. "You're just as injured as I am." Bryde opened his mouth. "Don't argue. Get in."

It took a while, but they managed to maneouvre themselves, Bryde lying on his side with his back to the wall, Friday also on his side, ignoring his complaining ribs, the two of them crammed close together. Bryde had blown out the candles themselves and sunrise was happening behind the shutters, weak light stealing through the slats.

"Sir," Bryde began after a while.

"I'm in your bed, Bryde, I really do think you can manage Friday."

Bryde laughed softly. "It's been a while since I slept with someone else," he remarked. When Friday frowned he added: "well, just slept."

"Me too," Friday replied, surprise colouring his tone.

A smile stretched Bryde's mouth. "You were right when you said you would hurt my feelings a few more times." There was no venom in it.

"I'm very good at hurting people's feelings," Friday told him. "It is why no one likes me."

"I like you," Bryde told him.

You shouldn't, Friday thought, and then: you won't for long. Aloud, he said: "that is because you are a child."

Bryde sighed. "One day, you won't think that about me." He sounded very certain; Friday arched an eyebrow, though it stung to do so.

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes," Bryde responded, with so much force that Friday almost believed him for a moment.

Bryde's eyes drifted closed and it did not take long for him to slip into slumber; Friday watched him, listening to his breathing, and tried not to think about his father punching him as though he never intended to stop, screaming: "I have months left to live, Friday, months, and I cannot leave you the House." His father throwing him out of the front door into the rain, with the ever-reliable you are no son of mine. His knuckles were bruised from pounding on the door screaming before the helpful apathy awoke within him. Things were falling apart around him, and it was too late to do anything at all to fix it.

Friday awoke a few hours later to find he had shifted onto his back and Bryde was lying on top of him, head pillowed on his chest, breaths tickling across Friday's skin. He smiled slightly, contemplating moving Bryde's warm weight, but decided to leave that along with every other aspect of his life as something to deal with later, and closed his eyes again, swallowed once more by numbing unconsciousness.