Part Ninety
Feb. 3rd, 2025 12:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luthier_balloonistOriginally posted here
November had slunk into December before Barir was able to pin Kay down to come to the Silver Bell, since Kay's contract with Sam Collins’s had run to the end of the month. He was still tied up with regular rehearsals for the upcoming Christmas concerts, but it meant that he was no longer working every evening. He began to look less tired and wan, and they had even managed to go out for dinner and to a lecture at the Royal Institution, followed by warming the bed at Barir’s rather cramped and miserable new digs.
“Ready?” Barir asked, as they turned into Parson Street. The Silver Bell was a drab, innocuous place with a single faded sign, tucked between two taller buildings. Andrews, the regular doorman, stood outside, smoking; new attendees could only come in with an invitation from a known person, a rule instituted after a series of police raids some years previously.
“I think so.” Kay’s voice sounded rather taut, though Barir thought his face was as impassive as ever in the light of the gas lamps. “I'm not sure what to expect.”
Barir had felt much the same, that night five years ago when he had walked down this same street with Malik. He had been to bath houses and to a couple of the fancier clubs that Marcus had frequented, but he had never been to the kind of every day place like the Bell. And Kay, of course, had never been to any place that catered to their type.
“It's just a pub,” Barir said reassuringly. “Truly. There's probably a darts tournament going on.” And fellows sneaking off to gamahuche in the back room.
Kay gave one of his low, thoughtful hums and adjusted his spectacles, a sure sign that he was nervous. “Do you think that Eder will be there?”
“Ben Eder? Perhaps. He has a few haunts, but he turns up pretty regularly. So you may not be entirely among strangers.”
Kay said nothing to this, and just ducked his chin into his coat collar. Barir was becoming a little more adept at interpreting his various silences, however. “What is it?”
“I have not… that is to say, Eder doesn’t yet know anything.”
“About us?”
“Yes. And about myself, specifically. I have intended to tell him, but it just never seemed the right time.” Kay sighed, like a knackered old cab horse. “He’s sore at me, at the moment. I was rude to him, and he’s taken on about it. I don’t think I’ve been any worse than usual, but…”
“Ah.” Kay was frequently rude, Barir knew, or at least abrupt and honest enough that it seemed like rudeness. Eder had always seemed to let it slide off him like water, but perhaps Kay had found a sore point at last. “Well, he may not be here. And if he is, he’s usually in a good mood. You shall just have to speak to him, get it over with.” Barir nudged Kay’s arm. “Apologise, perhaps.”
Kay gave him an inscrutable look. “Oh, very well,” he muttered. “As you wish.”
It was a good crowd at the Bell that evening, as it often was on a Saturday: there was indeed a darts tournament in progress, and a group of people – mostly men, but also a couple of women in mannish clothing – clustered around the billiards table. Old James Langley was playing the shabby old piano in the corner, beside the discreet door that led to the low-lit back rooms. Barir quickly glanced around the full tables, and soon spotted familiar faces by the window: Malik and Sharma; Luke Simons and his strong-jawed sweetheart, Tom Something-or-Other; and Will Derby the tinsmith, a fairly new arrival who had a sweet spot for Luke, the poor sod.
Barir led Kay to the bar first, where Sam Baldrey was serving. He was a slim fellow, made slimmer by the corset he must have worn beneath his shirt. He had thick spitblack about his eyelashes, a dash of red on his lips, and a narrow look on his face when he took in Kay, his arms folded.
“Alright, Rizvi,” he said, his gaze dragging the full length of Kay’s tall form. Kay looked rather stonily back, and Barir felt a little anxious suddenly that this wasn’t going to go well. At least Kay had long experience with men who dressed as women and was unlikely to comment. “I heard you’d come back. Couldn’t keep away from us, hm?” Sam looked at Barir then, a little twinkle in his eye.
“I thought of you everyday, Sammy,” said Barir easily, leaning on the bar. “This is Mr Kay Tumoe,” he added, and put his hand on Kay’s arm, both to try and relax him and to assert his claim, a little. One of the fellows perched on a nearby barstool was regarding them with interest. “This is Sam, our noble proprietor.”
“Noble, is it?” Sam raised a shaped eyebrow. “You’re not going to charm any free drinks out of me, you old sauce. This your chap? I know you like ‘em tall, Rizvi, but good lord. Welcome to the Bell, my friend.”
“Thank you,” said Kay, and to Barir’s relief he sounded perfectly polite. “I had no idea this place was here.”
“Well, hopefully we’ll be here a good long while. We’re here for all types, sir, and you ain’t the first of your sort to come through the door either. What’ll it be, gents?”
When Sam turned away to pour the drinks, Barir leaned up to Kay a little. “You see? It’s just a pub.”
“I suppose it is.” Kay was looking across the room, where a red-faced young man was perched in another’s lap, fingers sliding through his sandy hair. Barir recognised the sandy haired chap as the one he had accompanied to the back room, back when he was trying to cut off his infatuation with Kay. Warmth prickled up his neck and he looked away. “It’s not the sort of thing that would pass at my brother-in-law’s establishment, I have to say.”
“That’s why we like it,” Barir pointed out, and Kay met his eyes for the first time.
“Yes,” he said, and he put his hand on Barir’s back, between his shoulder blades. Slid it up, so his fingertips drifted beneath Barir’s coat collar to stroke the back of his neck. Barir shivered. “I understand. Come,” he removed his hand from Barir’s neck, leaving a chill in its wake, and picked up his beer mug, “I suppose I should meet your friends.”
November had slunk into December before Barir was able to pin Kay down to come to the Silver Bell, since Kay's contract with Sam Collins’s had run to the end of the month. He was still tied up with regular rehearsals for the upcoming Christmas concerts, but it meant that he was no longer working every evening. He began to look less tired and wan, and they had even managed to go out for dinner and to a lecture at the Royal Institution, followed by warming the bed at Barir’s rather cramped and miserable new digs.
“Ready?” Barir asked, as they turned into Parson Street. The Silver Bell was a drab, innocuous place with a single faded sign, tucked between two taller buildings. Andrews, the regular doorman, stood outside, smoking; new attendees could only come in with an invitation from a known person, a rule instituted after a series of police raids some years previously.
“I think so.” Kay’s voice sounded rather taut, though Barir thought his face was as impassive as ever in the light of the gas lamps. “I'm not sure what to expect.”
Barir had felt much the same, that night five years ago when he had walked down this same street with Malik. He had been to bath houses and to a couple of the fancier clubs that Marcus had frequented, but he had never been to the kind of every day place like the Bell. And Kay, of course, had never been to any place that catered to their type.
“It's just a pub,” Barir said reassuringly. “Truly. There's probably a darts tournament going on.” And fellows sneaking off to gamahuche in the back room.
Kay gave one of his low, thoughtful hums and adjusted his spectacles, a sure sign that he was nervous. “Do you think that Eder will be there?”
“Ben Eder? Perhaps. He has a few haunts, but he turns up pretty regularly. So you may not be entirely among strangers.”
Kay said nothing to this, and just ducked his chin into his coat collar. Barir was becoming a little more adept at interpreting his various silences, however. “What is it?”
“I have not… that is to say, Eder doesn’t yet know anything.”
“About us?”
“Yes. And about myself, specifically. I have intended to tell him, but it just never seemed the right time.” Kay sighed, like a knackered old cab horse. “He’s sore at me, at the moment. I was rude to him, and he’s taken on about it. I don’t think I’ve been any worse than usual, but…”
“Ah.” Kay was frequently rude, Barir knew, or at least abrupt and honest enough that it seemed like rudeness. Eder had always seemed to let it slide off him like water, but perhaps Kay had found a sore point at last. “Well, he may not be here. And if he is, he’s usually in a good mood. You shall just have to speak to him, get it over with.” Barir nudged Kay’s arm. “Apologise, perhaps.”
Kay gave him an inscrutable look. “Oh, very well,” he muttered. “As you wish.”
It was a good crowd at the Bell that evening, as it often was on a Saturday: there was indeed a darts tournament in progress, and a group of people – mostly men, but also a couple of women in mannish clothing – clustered around the billiards table. Old James Langley was playing the shabby old piano in the corner, beside the discreet door that led to the low-lit back rooms. Barir quickly glanced around the full tables, and soon spotted familiar faces by the window: Malik and Sharma; Luke Simons and his strong-jawed sweetheart, Tom Something-or-Other; and Will Derby the tinsmith, a fairly new arrival who had a sweet spot for Luke, the poor sod.
Barir led Kay to the bar first, where Sam Baldrey was serving. He was a slim fellow, made slimmer by the corset he must have worn beneath his shirt. He had thick spitblack about his eyelashes, a dash of red on his lips, and a narrow look on his face when he took in Kay, his arms folded.
“Alright, Rizvi,” he said, his gaze dragging the full length of Kay’s tall form. Kay looked rather stonily back, and Barir felt a little anxious suddenly that this wasn’t going to go well. At least Kay had long experience with men who dressed as women and was unlikely to comment. “I heard you’d come back. Couldn’t keep away from us, hm?” Sam looked at Barir then, a little twinkle in his eye.
“I thought of you everyday, Sammy,” said Barir easily, leaning on the bar. “This is Mr Kay Tumoe,” he added, and put his hand on Kay’s arm, both to try and relax him and to assert his claim, a little. One of the fellows perched on a nearby barstool was regarding them with interest. “This is Sam, our noble proprietor.”
“Noble, is it?” Sam raised a shaped eyebrow. “You’re not going to charm any free drinks out of me, you old sauce. This your chap? I know you like ‘em tall, Rizvi, but good lord. Welcome to the Bell, my friend.”
“Thank you,” said Kay, and to Barir’s relief he sounded perfectly polite. “I had no idea this place was here.”
“Well, hopefully we’ll be here a good long while. We’re here for all types, sir, and you ain’t the first of your sort to come through the door either. What’ll it be, gents?”
When Sam turned away to pour the drinks, Barir leaned up to Kay a little. “You see? It’s just a pub.”
“I suppose it is.” Kay was looking across the room, where a red-faced young man was perched in another’s lap, fingers sliding through his sandy hair. Barir recognised the sandy haired chap as the one he had accompanied to the back room, back when he was trying to cut off his infatuation with Kay. Warmth prickled up his neck and he looked away. “It’s not the sort of thing that would pass at my brother-in-law’s establishment, I have to say.”
“That’s why we like it,” Barir pointed out, and Kay met his eyes for the first time.
“Yes,” he said, and he put his hand on Barir’s back, between his shoulder blades. Slid it up, so his fingertips drifted beneath Barir’s coat collar to stroke the back of his neck. Barir shivered. “I understand. Come,” he removed his hand from Barir’s neck, leaving a chill in its wake, and picked up his beer mug, “I suppose I should meet your friends.”
