kuropeco
He was not drunk.
This was what Auguste told himself as he leaned against the wall outside of the bar, his eyes closing momentarily as he took a moment to breathe in the scents around him. It was a warm night, though not unbearably; every now and then a gentle breeze made its way through the city, rustling through his hair, cooling the back of his neck, which felt flushed, along with his cheeks.
He hadn’t done this in so long, these nighttime wanderings, though Auguste wasn’t sure why, because doing this had always given him a thrill. Even when he had been younger and didn’t have any clue as to what he was doing, he had known that there was something a little uncertain and a little dangerous about walking around the city late at night. Once, Isaiah had found him, and another had led to Colin finding him.
There was no one to find him now. It was just himself, and the bargoers, and the people on the street and the feeling of the alcohol sliding through his veins. It was the taste of someone else’s mouth on his, even if it was just a simple kiss, a taste of what he had once had long ago, hands on his hips until he’d pushed them away and changed his mind.
Outside, the air was better. Outside, he could breathe.
Or he could pretend to breathe. He wasn’t sure if there was a way for him to actually breathe anymore.
The streets around him were unfamiliarly named. Auguste wasn’t even quite sure where he was, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt, the dim overhead light from the street lamp not doing much to illuminate the place. It was some side street somewhere downtown, and it was relatively busy, so at least he wasn’t completely in the middle of nowhere, except that he was.
He was not drunk, but he pulled out his phone anyway, because it felt like his body was moving on autopilot now. Auguste skimmed through the list of contacts and selected the first one he saw, relatively sure that it was probably Nadia or Lorne.
Text: i dont knowwhere iam
Text: wheres peachtree lane
Text: ithink thats whereiam
Text: canyou comegetme silvousplait
Text: im outside ofsomewhere
This was what Auguste told himself as he leaned against the wall outside of the bar, his eyes closing momentarily as he took a moment to breathe in the scents around him. It was a warm night, though not unbearably; every now and then a gentle breeze made its way through the city, rustling through his hair, cooling the back of his neck, which felt flushed, along with his cheeks.
He hadn’t done this in so long, these nighttime wanderings, though Auguste wasn’t sure why, because doing this had always given him a thrill. Even when he had been younger and didn’t have any clue as to what he was doing, he had known that there was something a little uncertain and a little dangerous about walking around the city late at night. Once, Isaiah had found him, and another had led to Colin finding him.
There was no one to find him now. It was just himself, and the bargoers, and the people on the street and the feeling of the alcohol sliding through his veins. It was the taste of someone else’s mouth on his, even if it was just a simple kiss, a taste of what he had once had long ago, hands on his hips until he’d pushed them away and changed his mind.
Outside, the air was better. Outside, he could breathe.
Or he could pretend to breathe. He wasn’t sure if there was a way for him to actually breathe anymore.
The streets around him were unfamiliarly named. Auguste wasn’t even quite sure where he was, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt, the dim overhead light from the street lamp not doing much to illuminate the place. It was some side street somewhere downtown, and it was relatively busy, so at least he wasn’t completely in the middle of nowhere, except that he was.
He was not drunk, but he pulled out his phone anyway, because it felt like his body was moving on autopilot now. Auguste skimmed through the list of contacts and selected the first one he saw, relatively sure that it was probably Nadia or Lorne.
Text: i dont knowwhere iam
Text: wheres peachtree lane
Text: ithink thats whereiam
Text: canyou comegetme silvousplait
Text: im outside ofsomewhere
felyn
For once, Matteo wasn’t just hanging around somewhere, up to no good. His shift at the mall had ended early and he had come home to spend some time with his grandmother because she was all that was good and right with the world. Since Arturo had died, she had doted upon him more often, and even if he always knew why that was, he still didn’t mind the attention. He could never mind his abuela in all her warm, unconditional love.
He was up to his elbows in flour when his phone began to vibrate on the table behind him, listening to his grandmother’s careful instructions while she sat at the kitchen table, hands folded over the top of her cane. It was possible he wouldn’t have noticed at all if it weren’t for her soft, pointed words.
“Tu teléfono, alguien te necesita, Matteo.”
When he turned, his dark eyebrows were drawn down curiously - who could need him at this hour? At any hour? His phone was held out, screen facing him, in one of her delicate hands. Above it, her eyebrows rose. She was too old to hide her feelings, it was something she said to him quite frequently. With a sigh, he wiped his hands off on the towel he had tucked into his belt and took the phone with a mumbled gracias, abuela.
In no time it was open and he was scrolling through half coherent messages from Auguste; was he drunk? Matteo couldn’t stop the amused smirk that pulled on his lips, at least not until his grandmother made a curious, playful sound behind her own. When their eyes met, she feigned innocence, but he knew her well enough to know that playful look in her eyes.
“Ahh, don’t you start that.”
She laughed and pushed herself up onto her feet, brushing past him with a hand on his shoulder to tend to the bread he had abandoned. It was just as well because the more he read of Auguste’s text, the more sure he was that the man was probably in trouble. Peachtree Lane was only a few blocks south of the old house he shared with his family, a place full of quaint little ritzy bars that stayed open too late and fussy boutiques that closed too early. Looking at the time, he could assume where Auguste had been.
“Necesito ir a buscar a mi amigo. Estaré en casa más tarde, ¿de acuerdo?”
His dark eyes shot over his shoulder at the woman but she was humming gently to herself already, kneading dough with an ease that belied her age. When he stepped close to press a parting kiss against her cheek, he saw her smile, and it was everything he could do not to roll his eyes at whatever assumptions she was making. He hadn’t had a friend in a long time.
[To Auguste: Just stop wherever you are. I’m on my way.]
It would be hard enough to find somewhere on Peachtree Lane even without him wandering in the opposite direction. He shoved his feet into his kicks and snatched up his skateboard on his way out, then hit the pavement running. In minutes, he was making the left turn onto Peachtree. It wasn’t as busy at this time of night though he could smell the alcohol on the few wandering patrons that were pouring out of the milling bars.
It was a little while before he saw Auguste, pale hair haloed beneath a street lamp. Well, at least he hadn’t wasted his time. He dug his foot into the pavement and kicked off again, beelining for the smaller man.
“Hey, drunky,” he chimed as he slid in close, only planting a foot to stop when he glided in next to him. “I told you that I would get you drunk if you wanted, not to just go get drunk by yourself.”
He was up to his elbows in flour when his phone began to vibrate on the table behind him, listening to his grandmother’s careful instructions while she sat at the kitchen table, hands folded over the top of her cane. It was possible he wouldn’t have noticed at all if it weren’t for her soft, pointed words.
“Tu teléfono, alguien te necesita, Matteo.”
When he turned, his dark eyebrows were drawn down curiously - who could need him at this hour? At any hour? His phone was held out, screen facing him, in one of her delicate hands. Above it, her eyebrows rose. She was too old to hide her feelings, it was something she said to him quite frequently. With a sigh, he wiped his hands off on the towel he had tucked into his belt and took the phone with a mumbled gracias, abuela.
In no time it was open and he was scrolling through half coherent messages from Auguste; was he drunk? Matteo couldn’t stop the amused smirk that pulled on his lips, at least not until his grandmother made a curious, playful sound behind her own. When their eyes met, she feigned innocence, but he knew her well enough to know that playful look in her eyes.
“Ahh, don’t you start that.”
She laughed and pushed herself up onto her feet, brushing past him with a hand on his shoulder to tend to the bread he had abandoned. It was just as well because the more he read of Auguste’s text, the more sure he was that the man was probably in trouble. Peachtree Lane was only a few blocks south of the old house he shared with his family, a place full of quaint little ritzy bars that stayed open too late and fussy boutiques that closed too early. Looking at the time, he could assume where Auguste had been.
“Necesito ir a buscar a mi amigo. Estaré en casa más tarde, ¿de acuerdo?”
His dark eyes shot over his shoulder at the woman but she was humming gently to herself already, kneading dough with an ease that belied her age. When he stepped close to press a parting kiss against her cheek, he saw her smile, and it was everything he could do not to roll his eyes at whatever assumptions she was making. He hadn’t had a friend in a long time.
[To Auguste: Just stop wherever you are. I’m on my way.]
It would be hard enough to find somewhere on Peachtree Lane even without him wandering in the opposite direction. He shoved his feet into his kicks and snatched up his skateboard on his way out, then hit the pavement running. In minutes, he was making the left turn onto Peachtree. It wasn’t as busy at this time of night though he could smell the alcohol on the few wandering patrons that were pouring out of the milling bars.
It was a little while before he saw Auguste, pale hair haloed beneath a street lamp. Well, at least he hadn’t wasted his time. He dug his foot into the pavement and kicked off again, beelining for the smaller man.
“Hey, drunky,” he chimed as he slid in close, only planting a foot to stop when he glided in next to him. “I told you that I would get you drunk if you wanted, not to just go get drunk by yourself.”
kuropeco
He was pretty sure that he had texted Nadia. Or Lorne. Or both of them. Those were the only people that he talked to, anyway, so it made perfect sense for them to be the ones that he had texted. His gaze was slightly unfocused as he looked down at the screen at the return message, Auguste squinting to try and untangle the words that he wasn’t entirely comprehending on the screen.
He was, maybe, a little more drunk than he’d thought he was. It had been that guy that had kept buying him drinks, the one who had called him pretty, who had kissed him until Auguste had said no and walked away and left him annoyed at the bar.
He had thought it was what he wanted. To forget. To not think. But alcohol always made him think more, and it wasn’t the same, because it all felt hollow. There wasn’t anything that could fix the void.
He had to stay where he was, Auguste knew that much. That was what the text had said, so he stood there, under the lamplit street, watching the passersby give him questioning and probably irritated looks, because he wasn’t exactly dressed like he was supposed to be out on the street this late at night. Five minutes after he’d gotten the text to stay put, Auguste had begun to feel the overheated night air on his skin and had dragged off the sweatshirt. Underneath he was wearing a low backed halter top over his leggings, which had started to become a habit to wear. He looked more like he was from a misplaced eighties movie about dancing than he did a clubgoer.
Five minutes after that, he’d slumped against the lamp pole, forehead pressed to the cool metal, laughing to himself because this was a stupid situation and he really needed to stop getting into them.
The approaching footsteps weren’t heard. It was only when a familiar voice - a voice that was definitely not Lorne or Nadia’s - wafted towards him from close beside him that Auguste lifted his head, his pale hair falling across his freckled face as he turned to look at the newcomer.
It took him longer than it should to actually make sense of what he was seeing.
“Matteo,” said Auguste. The name came out slightly slurred. Auguste made a sincere effort to try and turn and face him, but his feet mostly just shuffled on the pavement.
“What are you doing…” He’d forgotten the word for here in English. Auguste didn’t bother trying to end the sentence, but instead changed it to, “I am not drunk.”
This was followed by a wobble that very clearly contradicted this statement.
He was, maybe, a little more drunk than he’d thought he was. It had been that guy that had kept buying him drinks, the one who had called him pretty, who had kissed him until Auguste had said no and walked away and left him annoyed at the bar.
He had thought it was what he wanted. To forget. To not think. But alcohol always made him think more, and it wasn’t the same, because it all felt hollow. There wasn’t anything that could fix the void.
He had to stay where he was, Auguste knew that much. That was what the text had said, so he stood there, under the lamplit street, watching the passersby give him questioning and probably irritated looks, because he wasn’t exactly dressed like he was supposed to be out on the street this late at night. Five minutes after he’d gotten the text to stay put, Auguste had begun to feel the overheated night air on his skin and had dragged off the sweatshirt. Underneath he was wearing a low backed halter top over his leggings, which had started to become a habit to wear. He looked more like he was from a misplaced eighties movie about dancing than he did a clubgoer.
Five minutes after that, he’d slumped against the lamp pole, forehead pressed to the cool metal, laughing to himself because this was a stupid situation and he really needed to stop getting into them.
The approaching footsteps weren’t heard. It was only when a familiar voice - a voice that was definitely not Lorne or Nadia’s - wafted towards him from close beside him that Auguste lifted his head, his pale hair falling across his freckled face as he turned to look at the newcomer.
It took him longer than it should to actually make sense of what he was seeing.
“Matteo,” said Auguste. The name came out slightly slurred. Auguste made a sincere effort to try and turn and face him, but his feet mostly just shuffled on the pavement.
“What are you doing…” He’d forgotten the word for here in English. Auguste didn’t bother trying to end the sentence, but instead changed it to, “I am not drunk.”
This was followed by a wobble that very clearly contradicted this statement.
felyn
Two dark, thick eyebrows rose over his equally dark eyes.
“No, you aren’t drunk,” he muttered, “you are absolutely trashed, aren’t you?”
It didn’t take him long to piece two and two together - Auguste hadn’t even meant to message him. If Matteo had to guess, he was probably just too close in his contact list to someone else. It nagged him, a little, to think the pale man hadn’t really needed his help specifically but he wasn’t cruel enough to turn away from him when he was so obviously out of his mind.
With a sigh, he slipped his arm around the narrow shoulders of the other man, tugging him to walk with his board tucked under his opposite arm.
“Why are you even-”
No, he stopped that thought as quickly as it had bubbled up on his tongue. Matteo didn’t have to ask why Auguste was here because he knew that two years ago he would have been in much the same place. Their woes seemed different, their broken hearts not quite the same, but he recognized the agony that existed there for a mirror of his own. His fingers curled a little tighter around the flesh of Auguste’s upper arm where they rested and he pulled him close, offering him a chance to lean into the strength of his body as he put one foot in front of the other.
“Nevermind. My house isn’t far, okay? You’re going to end up passing out and I’m not gonna let you do that in the street.”
Not with the sick, twisted ******** that lived in their city.
“No, you aren’t drunk,” he muttered, “you are absolutely trashed, aren’t you?”
It didn’t take him long to piece two and two together - Auguste hadn’t even meant to message him. If Matteo had to guess, he was probably just too close in his contact list to someone else. It nagged him, a little, to think the pale man hadn’t really needed his help specifically but he wasn’t cruel enough to turn away from him when he was so obviously out of his mind.
With a sigh, he slipped his arm around the narrow shoulders of the other man, tugging him to walk with his board tucked under his opposite arm.
“Why are you even-”
No, he stopped that thought as quickly as it had bubbled up on his tongue. Matteo didn’t have to ask why Auguste was here because he knew that two years ago he would have been in much the same place. Their woes seemed different, their broken hearts not quite the same, but he recognized the agony that existed there for a mirror of his own. His fingers curled a little tighter around the flesh of Auguste’s upper arm where they rested and he pulled him close, offering him a chance to lean into the strength of his body as he put one foot in front of the other.
“Nevermind. My house isn’t far, okay? You’re going to end up passing out and I’m not gonna let you do that in the street.”
Not with the sick, twisted ******** that lived in their city.
kuropeco
”Moi?” Auguste said, brows raising. “I am not trashed. I don’t get trashed.”
Except that the world kept tilting dangerously around him, and he wasn’t quite able to focus on much of anything except Matteo’s strong presence as an arm slid around his shoulder. It was a firm and unhesitating grasp, and if he’d been in a better state of mind, Auguste might have remembered how it reminded him of how Matteo had dragged him up that hill to get to his secret spot.
Instead, he just stumbled forward, almost losing his balance. “Where’re we going?” Auguste managed to get out, forming words slowly, because his mind worked in French most of the time and although he spoke English excellently, he still couldn’t turn off the part of his thoughts that was always going to be his native language.
The half asked question made him lift his head, Auguste glancing over at Matteo. “Why’m I even what?” he asked, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the question had been in the first place. Auguste felt the grip on his arm tighten but couldn’t focus on it, although it felt nice to be both guided and kept upright. He let his head tilt sideways, leaning into Matteo’s side probably a bit more than necessary, because concentrating on walking was taking a fair bit of effort. One of his own arms rose, twisting around behind Matteo, a hand latching onto the back of his shirt.
“Your house?” Auguste repeated, frowning. “ ‘m not going to pass out. I don’t pass out.”
He tripped over a sidewalk crack and almost faceplanted onto the ground.
“ ‘m very much bien.”
Except that the world kept tilting dangerously around him, and he wasn’t quite able to focus on much of anything except Matteo’s strong presence as an arm slid around his shoulder. It was a firm and unhesitating grasp, and if he’d been in a better state of mind, Auguste might have remembered how it reminded him of how Matteo had dragged him up that hill to get to his secret spot.
Instead, he just stumbled forward, almost losing his balance. “Where’re we going?” Auguste managed to get out, forming words slowly, because his mind worked in French most of the time and although he spoke English excellently, he still couldn’t turn off the part of his thoughts that was always going to be his native language.
The half asked question made him lift his head, Auguste glancing over at Matteo. “Why’m I even what?” he asked, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the question had been in the first place. Auguste felt the grip on his arm tighten but couldn’t focus on it, although it felt nice to be both guided and kept upright. He let his head tilt sideways, leaning into Matteo’s side probably a bit more than necessary, because concentrating on walking was taking a fair bit of effort. One of his own arms rose, twisting around behind Matteo, a hand latching onto the back of his shirt.
“Your house?” Auguste repeated, frowning. “ ‘m not going to pass out. I don’t pass out.”
He tripped over a sidewalk crack and almost faceplanted onto the ground.
“ ‘m very much bien.”
felyn
“s**t, Auguste.”
Matteo felt the other man’s weight falter and it nearly knocked the taller man off balance, spelling disaster for the both of them. The curse was short and terse as his free hand shot out and grabbed the closest thing to him - a rather unpleasant, partially rusted wrought-iron fence that grated his palm. It made him growl as he curled his arm tighter around Auguste and hauled his weight up more pointedly against him.
“There’s not a ******** thing about you right now that is bien.”
It was sharp and a little angry, even if it was only because his palm came away from the fence chapped and scraped. It was no worse than falling off of his board but he was never any more pleasant when that happened either. Auguste was a first hand witness after all.
“You are definitely going to pass out,” when he began walking again, he managed to reel in his anger, “and if you don’t eat something or drink water before you do, then you’ll also be sick in the morning.”
He didn’t know how much the smaller man had to drink to get so sloshed but judging by how much tequila he had given him and how much worse he seemed to be comparatively, he could only imagine. By the time he got him within sight of his charming, quaint two-story, he had pulled Auguste back steady on his feet at least half a dozen times. The only saving grace was that the longer they walked, the more accustomed Matteo got to the floppy, boneless way Auguste flailed next to him.
“You’re like the world’s smallest tube guy,” he mumbled, pushing open his own front half gate with ease, “just flailing around without a care in the world.”
Matteo felt the other man’s weight falter and it nearly knocked the taller man off balance, spelling disaster for the both of them. The curse was short and terse as his free hand shot out and grabbed the closest thing to him - a rather unpleasant, partially rusted wrought-iron fence that grated his palm. It made him growl as he curled his arm tighter around Auguste and hauled his weight up more pointedly against him.
“There’s not a ******** thing about you right now that is bien.”
It was sharp and a little angry, even if it was only because his palm came away from the fence chapped and scraped. It was no worse than falling off of his board but he was never any more pleasant when that happened either. Auguste was a first hand witness after all.
“You are definitely going to pass out,” when he began walking again, he managed to reel in his anger, “and if you don’t eat something or drink water before you do, then you’ll also be sick in the morning.”
He didn’t know how much the smaller man had to drink to get so sloshed but judging by how much tequila he had given him and how much worse he seemed to be comparatively, he could only imagine. By the time he got him within sight of his charming, quaint two-story, he had pulled Auguste back steady on his feet at least half a dozen times. The only saving grace was that the longer they walked, the more accustomed Matteo got to the floppy, boneless way Auguste flailed next to him.
“You’re like the world’s smallest tube guy,” he mumbled, pushing open his own front half gate with ease, “just flailing around without a care in the world.”
kuropeco
”Pardon,” Auguste managed, as they staggered sideways, Matteo’s curse ringing in his ears. There was a decidedly irritated note in the other man’s voice that, if he was sober, Auguste would have found irritating himself. As it was, he merely blinked dazedly up at the other, eyes flickering to the gate beside them, then back at Matteo’s face, and something in Auguste’s expression shifted, became almost afraid, somehow.
”Je suis désolé,” he whispered. ”Je ne voulais pas le faire.”
His voice trailed away. For a few seconds the expression was still there, something haunted and dark, but then it disappeared, replaced instead by the almost curious, lighthearted face that turned into polite confusion as they stumbled forward once more. Matteo was keeping him upright, but Auguste couldn’t make himself understand why that was
His own arm was still around Matteo’s waist, clutching at the back of his shirt as though it was a lifeline. “I am not hungry,” said Auguste, but this wasn’t that true, and he couldn’t remember why it wasn’t true.
The house was very neat and tidy. Auguste was able to spare it a glance before he was hauled towards the front door, managing to keep on his feet more securely this time, at least enough to not trip over the stairs going up to the place. That might have had something to do with the fact that Matteo’s grip had become vice like after having keeping Auguste from faceplanting several times on the way over.
“I don’t know what that means,” Auguste mumbled. “This is a nice place. You live here?”
”Je suis désolé,” he whispered. ”Je ne voulais pas le faire.”
His voice trailed away. For a few seconds the expression was still there, something haunted and dark, but then it disappeared, replaced instead by the almost curious, lighthearted face that turned into polite confusion as they stumbled forward once more. Matteo was keeping him upright, but Auguste couldn’t make himself understand why that was
His own arm was still around Matteo’s waist, clutching at the back of his shirt as though it was a lifeline. “I am not hungry,” said Auguste, but this wasn’t that true, and he couldn’t remember why it wasn’t true.
The house was very neat and tidy. Auguste was able to spare it a glance before he was hauled towards the front door, managing to keep on his feet more securely this time, at least enough to not trip over the stairs going up to the place. That might have had something to do with the fact that Matteo’s grip had become vice like after having keeping Auguste from faceplanting several times on the way over.
“I don’t know what that means,” Auguste mumbled. “This is a nice place. You live here?”
felyn
By the time Matteo was able to push open his front door, he was all too glad.
At some point Auguste had become almost unintelligible, muttering in low, worried French - he understood some of the words but they were few and far between. The only thing that really resonated with him was how pathetic he had looked, worried and afraid, and though Matteo knew it was just the drunken stupor he had worked himself into, he couldn’t help being concerned. Concerned for Matteo, unfortunately, translated to a furrow of the brows and a hard set of his jaw.
“Yes you do,” he mumbled, dragging Auguste forward into the warm light of his foyer, “those flailing tube guys they put in front of stores that flap around in the wind? That’s you. ”
Matteo paused long enough to shut the door behind them, kicking off of his shoes one at a time as he held on carefully to Auguste. The last thing he needed was him tripping over himself here and busting his head open on the table where his mother kept her car keys.
“Yeah, I live here with my family. Abuela won’t let you come in any farther with your shoes on, drunk or not.”
With his chucks tucked neatly under the bench, he turned his dark eyes down on Auguste, then swept them down to his feet.
“Do you need help?”
At some point Auguste had become almost unintelligible, muttering in low, worried French - he understood some of the words but they were few and far between. The only thing that really resonated with him was how pathetic he had looked, worried and afraid, and though Matteo knew it was just the drunken stupor he had worked himself into, he couldn’t help being concerned. Concerned for Matteo, unfortunately, translated to a furrow of the brows and a hard set of his jaw.
“Yes you do,” he mumbled, dragging Auguste forward into the warm light of his foyer, “those flailing tube guys they put in front of stores that flap around in the wind? That’s you. ”
Matteo paused long enough to shut the door behind them, kicking off of his shoes one at a time as he held on carefully to Auguste. The last thing he needed was him tripping over himself here and busting his head open on the table where his mother kept her car keys.
“Yeah, I live here with my family. Abuela won’t let you come in any farther with your shoes on, drunk or not.”
With his chucks tucked neatly under the bench, he turned his dark eyes down on Auguste, then swept them down to his feet.
“Do you need help?”
kuropeco
Auguste was frowning.
“I don’t…recall,” he said, except that he had a sudden image in his head of some flailing noodle thing that was probably what Matteo was talking about. He tried to picture that, then himself, and couldn’t quite make the two connect, though that had less to do with the truthfulness of the statement and more to do with his alcohol slogged mind.
How many shots of vodka had he had to drink, anyway? It had all started to get a little blurry after the second or third one.
Auguste swayed a little where he stood, his other hand rising to clutch onto the front of Matteo’s shirt, along with the back. He was squinting at the other as he bent to take off his shoes, though moving seemed a bit of an issue right now. Either Auguste moved too much or he moved too little, and right now it seemed to be the latter.
”Non,” he mumbled. “I can do it.”
Sliding down Matteo’s side, Auguste slumped to the floor, fingers picking at the laces of his simple, plain white shoes. Somehow, the strings seemed foreign to him.
Auguste’s eyes flickered back up to Matteo with a truly pitiful expression on his face.
“Maybe,” he said.
“I don’t…recall,” he said, except that he had a sudden image in his head of some flailing noodle thing that was probably what Matteo was talking about. He tried to picture that, then himself, and couldn’t quite make the two connect, though that had less to do with the truthfulness of the statement and more to do with his alcohol slogged mind.
How many shots of vodka had he had to drink, anyway? It had all started to get a little blurry after the second or third one.
Auguste swayed a little where he stood, his other hand rising to clutch onto the front of Matteo’s shirt, along with the back. He was squinting at the other as he bent to take off his shoes, though moving seemed a bit of an issue right now. Either Auguste moved too much or he moved too little, and right now it seemed to be the latter.
”Non,” he mumbled. “I can do it.”
Sliding down Matteo’s side, Auguste slumped to the floor, fingers picking at the laces of his simple, plain white shoes. Somehow, the strings seemed foreign to him.
Auguste’s eyes flickered back up to Matteo with a truly pitiful expression on his face.
“Maybe,” he said.
felyn
Dark brows rose as Auguste slowly slumped onto the floor but his hands were hovering as he slid down the length of Matteo’s body, ready to catch him if he seemed like he was going to faceplant before he made it safely to the old hardwood. Thankfully, Auguste was too smashed to hear the breath of relief that released from his lungs.
In the kitchen he could hear the oven opening and knew his grandmother was still busy making her batches of bread. The house was filled with the warm smell of it, a smell he associated with his childhood, with home and comfort -
Maybe.
Matteo sighed as he slid down onto one knees and began to deftly pluck away the strings of Auguste’s clean white shoes. One hand circled his ankle and the other worked the shoe free, settling it next to his own beneath the bench - in no time the other one followed. Honestly, he didn’t know how much the pale man had drank so far but it must have been a lot more than the few sips of tequila he had given him. With the shoes tucked away, he grabbed Auguste by the hands and slowly pulled him back up to his feet.
The swinging door of the kitchen creaked open, Matteo would have known the sound of those hinges anywhere, and when his eyes rose they met a matching pair settled in an aged face.
“Matteo,” the short woman started, shuffling closer to them and raising a pair of wrinkled, gentle hands to Auguste’s face. She stared into those bright eyes like she was seeing past them, right down into his soul, and then looked up at Matteo with a very clear tsk.
“What?” he answered in English, then, with a huff, “I didn’t - no es mi culpa, abuela!”
Her cane hit the floor pointedly as she dropped her hand slowly over Auguste’s cheek, grazing his chin tenderly with all the adoration of an old heart. Then she was turning, waving them forward, and Matteo grudgingly tugged Auguste along toward the kitchen.
In the kitchen he could hear the oven opening and knew his grandmother was still busy making her batches of bread. The house was filled with the warm smell of it, a smell he associated with his childhood, with home and comfort -
Maybe.
Matteo sighed as he slid down onto one knees and began to deftly pluck away the strings of Auguste’s clean white shoes. One hand circled his ankle and the other worked the shoe free, settling it next to his own beneath the bench - in no time the other one followed. Honestly, he didn’t know how much the pale man had drank so far but it must have been a lot more than the few sips of tequila he had given him. With the shoes tucked away, he grabbed Auguste by the hands and slowly pulled him back up to his feet.
The swinging door of the kitchen creaked open, Matteo would have known the sound of those hinges anywhere, and when his eyes rose they met a matching pair settled in an aged face.
“Matteo,” the short woman started, shuffling closer to them and raising a pair of wrinkled, gentle hands to Auguste’s face. She stared into those bright eyes like she was seeing past them, right down into his soul, and then looked up at Matteo with a very clear tsk.
“What?” he answered in English, then, with a huff, “I didn’t - no es mi culpa, abuela!”
Her cane hit the floor pointedly as she dropped her hand slowly over Auguste’s cheek, grazing his chin tenderly with all the adoration of an old heart. Then she was turning, waving them forward, and Matteo grudgingly tugged Auguste along toward the kitchen.
kuropeco
He was dimly aware that there were sounds coming from the rest of the house; that there were likely other people here, someone moving around unseen, the smell of...something...wafting towards Auguste. He couldn’t quite make himself focus on what any of that meant, his fingers plucking uselessly at his laces before his gaze moved back to Matteo again. Pale cheeks were flushed pink with intoxication, blue-green eyes looking almost lost.
Matteo was on the ground within a few seconds, probably impatiently. That was sort of the definition of him, Auguste remembered through the fog of vodka; impatient and scowly, which for some reason amused him more than it should have, and he gave a small, helpless sort of laugh as Matteo pulled his shoes off. One of Auguste’s hands rose to cover his own mouth, trying to stifle the noise.
Warm, strong hands took his and pulled him up. Auguste couldn’t remember anything about having his shoes taken off for him, except that they were off and now he was clutching Matteo’s fingers like a lifeline because he was afraid if he let go he might just topple over. His gaze followed the other’s as Matteo turned his head and caught sight of an elderly woman standing in a doorway nearby.
”Bonjour,” said Auguste to her, giving her a small smile that was nonetheless pretty happy. He felt gnarled fingers against his cheek as she touched his face, the gesture surprisingly sweet; it took Auguste aback, though he didn’t move, eyes widening just a little bit.
A motherly - or grandmotherly - touch. Something he wasn’t familiar with. Something he’d never had.
Even though the haze, Auguste felt a twinge of something like pain in his chest.
He leaned closer to Matteo on instinct, shuffling alongside him, clinging to his arm because right now it was the only thing keeping him upright. He sort of understood that Matteo had been speaking a language that wasn’t English - Spanish, maybe, though he would have known better had he actually been sober enough to grasp it.
”Pardon,” Auguste murmured. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
Matteo was on the ground within a few seconds, probably impatiently. That was sort of the definition of him, Auguste remembered through the fog of vodka; impatient and scowly, which for some reason amused him more than it should have, and he gave a small, helpless sort of laugh as Matteo pulled his shoes off. One of Auguste’s hands rose to cover his own mouth, trying to stifle the noise.
Warm, strong hands took his and pulled him up. Auguste couldn’t remember anything about having his shoes taken off for him, except that they were off and now he was clutching Matteo’s fingers like a lifeline because he was afraid if he let go he might just topple over. His gaze followed the other’s as Matteo turned his head and caught sight of an elderly woman standing in a doorway nearby.
”Bonjour,” said Auguste to her, giving her a small smile that was nonetheless pretty happy. He felt gnarled fingers against his cheek as she touched his face, the gesture surprisingly sweet; it took Auguste aback, though he didn’t move, eyes widening just a little bit.
A motherly - or grandmotherly - touch. Something he wasn’t familiar with. Something he’d never had.
Even though the haze, Auguste felt a twinge of something like pain in his chest.
He leaned closer to Matteo on instinct, shuffling alongside him, clinging to his arm because right now it was the only thing keeping him upright. He sort of understood that Matteo had been speaking a language that wasn’t English - Spanish, maybe, though he would have known better had he actually been sober enough to grasp it.
”Pardon,” Auguste murmured. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
felyn
Matteo ignored the apology. It wasn’t because he didn’t appreciate it, it was simply because there was nothing to be done for the intrusion.
“She just thinks this is my fault, somehow.”
It made Matteo want to roll his eyes, even if he knew his grandmother was giving him a hard time. She had stayed up late more nights than he wanted to admit to and as he watched her bustling about the kitchen, he knew what she was getting at - there were eggs in her hand, potatoes. With his arm still firmly around the paler man, he grabbed a chair and pulled it back.
“Sit.”
But his eyes weren’t on Auguste, they were on the wizened old woman where she was setting a cast iron pan over the gas stove. Their house had once been bustling with family and now it was a little lonely most nights, a little too empty, and he knew that even if she was picking at him for being a bad influence (yeah, right) that she would indulge herself in the opportunity to take care of some other lost boy. She was too good for the world and it made his heart ache.
“Cual es su nombre?”
Matteo caught her dark eyes when she cat them over her shoulder. He could have just answered, he supposed, but instead he squeezed a hand on Auguste’s arm.
“Tell her your name.”
“She just thinks this is my fault, somehow.”
It made Matteo want to roll his eyes, even if he knew his grandmother was giving him a hard time. She had stayed up late more nights than he wanted to admit to and as he watched her bustling about the kitchen, he knew what she was getting at - there were eggs in her hand, potatoes. With his arm still firmly around the paler man, he grabbed a chair and pulled it back.
“Sit.”
But his eyes weren’t on Auguste, they were on the wizened old woman where she was setting a cast iron pan over the gas stove. Their house had once been bustling with family and now it was a little lonely most nights, a little too empty, and he knew that even if she was picking at him for being a bad influence (yeah, right) that she would indulge herself in the opportunity to take care of some other lost boy. She was too good for the world and it made his heart ache.
“Cual es su nombre?”
Matteo caught her dark eyes when she cat them over her shoulder. He could have just answered, he supposed, but instead he squeezed a hand on Auguste’s arm.
“Tell her your name.”
kuropeco
“Is it your fault?” Auguste asked curiously, because he wasn’t actually sure what Matteo was talking about, but it was something possibly to do with him, so he had to ask anyway. His head was spinning in a circle, going around and around in an unpleasant mixture of alcohol and dizziness, and while the nice, floaty edge of the vodka was not exactly dissipating so quickly, he still felt the effects already beginning to seep into him.
Maybe Matteo would give him another drink. Then he could go back to that blissful feeling of absolutely nothing at all.
Auguste sat obediently in the chair, slumping down like a sack of potatoes without a body, his arms immediately folding up as he rested his head on top of them. He was watching Matteo speak to the old woman, who, if Auguste squinted hard enough, looked a little like Matteo, come to think of it. They had the same eyes, or the same face, or something. It was hard to maintain anything in his mind right now.
The Spanish - he was at least sure of that now - sounded like French but with all the syllables and sounds in the wrong place. Auguste felt Matteo’s fingers squeeze his arm, and it took a moment for him to actually understand that he was being asked a question.
”Je m’apelle -” His voice cracked a little. ”Je m’apelle Auguste.”
His throat felt dry. Auguste swallowed instinctively, giving Matteo a pitiful look.
“May I please have a drink?” he asked, lifting his head off of the table and swaying a little. “Um. Any kind of drink.”
He definitely meant alcoholic.
Maybe Matteo would give him another drink. Then he could go back to that blissful feeling of absolutely nothing at all.
Auguste sat obediently in the chair, slumping down like a sack of potatoes without a body, his arms immediately folding up as he rested his head on top of them. He was watching Matteo speak to the old woman, who, if Auguste squinted hard enough, looked a little like Matteo, come to think of it. They had the same eyes, or the same face, or something. It was hard to maintain anything in his mind right now.
The Spanish - he was at least sure of that now - sounded like French but with all the syllables and sounds in the wrong place. Auguste felt Matteo’s fingers squeeze his arm, and it took a moment for him to actually understand that he was being asked a question.
”Je m’apelle -” His voice cracked a little. ”Je m’apelle Auguste.”
His throat felt dry. Auguste swallowed instinctively, giving Matteo a pitiful look.
“May I please have a drink?” he asked, lifting his head off of the table and swaying a little. “Um. Any kind of drink.”
He definitely meant alcoholic.
felyn
“You can have water,” Matteo responded very pointedly and slowly let his hand slip away from the man’s shoulder where he was gripping it. He still wasn’t convinced Auguste wasn’t going to slump onto the floor if he had to hold himself up but he also knew that he needed to get water into the man if he wasn’t intending on mopping up puke in an hour.
Before Auguste had time to protest, he was at the cupboard, two glasses in hand in the matter of a second and he was busy concentrating on filling them with water at the fridge filter when his grandmother spoke up.
“Je m’apelle Clara,” the words were slow and disjointed, like a voice not confident with the sounds she was trying to make. “C’est un…”
She paused, her fingers poised with an egg above the cast iron as she trapped her tongue between her teeth.
“Plaisir… de vous recontrer?”
There was the distinctive sound of an egg cracking and then it hit the pan with a sizzle. Yet she looked over her shoulder, amused at herself, even if she had ended her words on a question. It had been a very, very long time since she had needed to speak the French tongue.
Matteo didn’t seem surprised by it as he returned to the table and plopped a cup in front of Auguste. The other one he held cradled in his hands, glancing from his grandmother, then back to Auguste, warily waiting for him to pick up the glass. The look in his eyes was very pointed.
“Drink.”
Before Auguste had time to protest, he was at the cupboard, two glasses in hand in the matter of a second and he was busy concentrating on filling them with water at the fridge filter when his grandmother spoke up.
“Je m’apelle Clara,” the words were slow and disjointed, like a voice not confident with the sounds she was trying to make. “C’est un…”
She paused, her fingers poised with an egg above the cast iron as she trapped her tongue between her teeth.
“Plaisir… de vous recontrer?”
There was the distinctive sound of an egg cracking and then it hit the pan with a sizzle. Yet she looked over her shoulder, amused at herself, even if she had ended her words on a question. It had been a very, very long time since she had needed to speak the French tongue.
Matteo didn’t seem surprised by it as he returned to the table and plopped a cup in front of Auguste. The other one he held cradled in his hands, glancing from his grandmother, then back to Auguste, warily waiting for him to pick up the glass. The look in his eyes was very pointed.
“Drink.”
kuropeco
The look Auguste gave Matteo was an almost petulant one, Auguste frowning up at him, feeling unduly punished for some reason. The hand that had been on his shoulder had indeed kept him upright for the majority of time, and almost at once Auguste began to slump forward, one elbow resting on the table with his hand propping his chin up.
The gentle sound of the old woman’s voice floated towards him. It took a moment for Auguste’s foggy brain to catch up to the familiar syllables, however uneven they were, and after a second, his gaze flickered towards her, blinking a little in confusion. That had not been Spanish; it was perhaps not the most refined of French, but it was enough to make Auguste sit up just a little bit more.
The corners of his lips quirked up, in spite of himself. There was something almost bittersweet in hearing his native language spoken by anyone other than himself as of late, and he felt a wave of what felt like painful nostalgia wash over him, Auguste’s smile looking, for a moment, almost sad.
”Enchanté,” he murmured in response. “This is...this house is very lovely.”
There was a clink as a glass was deposited in front of him. Auguste looked at it, then looked up at Matteo, catching the pointed expression on his face, and both of his hands reached out and wrapped around the glass, pulling it slowly towards himself.
”Merci,” he mumbled, and took a swallow, more obedient than anything else. The water was cold enough to make him wince a little, but he took another few sips before setting it back down once more.
“What...what are you making?” Auguste asked, glancing from Matteo to the old woman - Clara - and back again.”
The gentle sound of the old woman’s voice floated towards him. It took a moment for Auguste’s foggy brain to catch up to the familiar syllables, however uneven they were, and after a second, his gaze flickered towards her, blinking a little in confusion. That had not been Spanish; it was perhaps not the most refined of French, but it was enough to make Auguste sit up just a little bit more.
The corners of his lips quirked up, in spite of himself. There was something almost bittersweet in hearing his native language spoken by anyone other than himself as of late, and he felt a wave of what felt like painful nostalgia wash over him, Auguste’s smile looking, for a moment, almost sad.
”Enchanté,” he murmured in response. “This is...this house is very lovely.”
There was a clink as a glass was deposited in front of him. Auguste looked at it, then looked up at Matteo, catching the pointed expression on his face, and both of his hands reached out and wrapped around the glass, pulling it slowly towards himself.
”Merci,” he mumbled, and took a swallow, more obedient than anything else. The water was cold enough to make him wince a little, but he took another few sips before setting it back down once more.
“What...what are you making?” Auguste asked, glancing from Matteo to the old woman - Clara - and back again.”
felyn
Matteo watched Auguste nurse his water slowly but seemed content enough with his effort to at least drink it - he had, for a real moment, thought he was going to have to hold the man down and force feed him water for the night. He would have, too, but there was no reason to point it out since Auguste seemed on his best behavior now that his abuela was being so welcoming. It would have annoyed him how easily she managed to do that if it wasn’t the same reason he loved her. Well, one of many reasons, anyway.
The messy bun at the back of his head bobbed as he slumped a little in his chair, watching the familiar, comforting form of his grandmother while she worked in a way that made her seem alive and vibrant. It made him smile a little.
“Toast.”
Clara said the word with a thick accent and did not elaborate.
Across the kitchen an egg timer older than Matteo himself started buzzing wildly on the counter next to a double oven. Behind her, the sound of Matteo’s chair legs scraping the floor was enough of a signal that she didn’t need to be bothered and she went back to her work. He was up in a moment, silencing the shrill buzz, and as pulled the oven open onto the room, it flooded the kitchen with the warm smell of fresh bread.
“Cómo es?”
“You always ask me that,” he sighed, but as he crossed the kitchen to her side so that she could see the perfect golden crust, the smile on his face was clear. “perfecto, como siempre, abuela.”
A wizened hand switched off the stove and shooed Matteo back to the table, earning a playful roll of his eyes. Any other day and she would have made him help but he was thankful to drop back into the chair next to Auguste instead. She was terribly finicky over her food.
In minutes, she sat a plate down in front of both of them, fresh baked bread, buttered and topped with a fried egg. Matteo knew it well enough to pick out the herbs she had added but all in all, it was simple enough for a queasy belly - and the same thing she always served him when he wandered in too drunk for her liking.
“Gracias,” he chimed, resisting the urge to point out that he wasn’t the drunk one. Instead he just grabbed the fork she had set on his plate and cast a sidelong glance at Auguste.
“If you don’t eat it she’ll whack you with the cane. Don’t let her fool you.”
The messy bun at the back of his head bobbed as he slumped a little in his chair, watching the familiar, comforting form of his grandmother while she worked in a way that made her seem alive and vibrant. It made him smile a little.
“Toast.”
Clara said the word with a thick accent and did not elaborate.
Across the kitchen an egg timer older than Matteo himself started buzzing wildly on the counter next to a double oven. Behind her, the sound of Matteo’s chair legs scraping the floor was enough of a signal that she didn’t need to be bothered and she went back to her work. He was up in a moment, silencing the shrill buzz, and as pulled the oven open onto the room, it flooded the kitchen with the warm smell of fresh bread.
“Cómo es?”
“You always ask me that,” he sighed, but as he crossed the kitchen to her side so that she could see the perfect golden crust, the smile on his face was clear. “perfecto, como siempre, abuela.”
A wizened hand switched off the stove and shooed Matteo back to the table, earning a playful roll of his eyes. Any other day and she would have made him help but he was thankful to drop back into the chair next to Auguste instead. She was terribly finicky over her food.
In minutes, she sat a plate down in front of both of them, fresh baked bread, buttered and topped with a fried egg. Matteo knew it well enough to pick out the herbs she had added but all in all, it was simple enough for a queasy belly - and the same thing she always served him when he wandered in too drunk for her liking.
“Gracias,” he chimed, resisting the urge to point out that he wasn’t the drunk one. Instead he just grabbed the fork she had set on his plate and cast a sidelong glance at Auguste.
“If you don’t eat it she’ll whack you with the cane. Don’t let her fool you.”
