Part Ninety-one
Feb. 8th, 2025 09:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luthier_balloonistOriginally posted here
It was wonderful being back at the Bell. Barir led the way over to Malik and Sharma’s table, to be greeted with enthusiastic handshakes and back-pats. Kay hung back a little, and when all expectant eyes turned to him Barir saw him school his expression into a careful blank, like a rockface. It was a look familiar from their early acquaintance, and made him look more forbidding, though Barir knew by now that it was simply a sign of discomfort. He put a hand on Kay’s arm to draw him in a little.
“Gents, this is Kay Tumoe,” he said. “You’ve met Malik and Sharma before, of course. This is Will Derby, Luke Simons, and Tom—”
“Cambridge,” said Tom Cambridge, eyeing Kay with rather frank interest.
“Glad you could join us at last, Tumoe,” said Malik with his usual good cheer, leaning over the table to shake Kay’s hand. “I have to say, it was something of a shock to hear Rizvi’s news. He spent all summer mooning over you, quite convinced that he hadn’t a hope.”
“It wasn’t entirely like that,” Barir protested, sitting down.
“Oh yes it bloody was,” said Malik. “But you're like a cat with nine lives, my friend.”
“I didn’t moon,” Barir told Kay.
Kay’s face didn’t change, though there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Didn’t you?” he asked drily, and Barir had to give an embarrassed laugh.
“Come on, then,” said Luke Simons impatiently. “Fill us in. Did you really leave your fiancé at the altar, Rizvi?”
Clearly the tale of his return had grown more sensational during its two week run along the grapevine. Barir fortified himself with some beer and drew out his pipe before he filled them all in on what had happened in India – abridged, mostly filling in the gaps and misconceptions of the story that had already been gleefully passed around by Malik and Sharma – and then asked after the others. Kay was mostly quiet during the conversation around the table, much as he was the first night Barir met him, smoking impassively with his dark eyes taking in everybody, as though weighing them up. Barir saw his gaze linger on the easy way Malik covered Sharma’s hand with his own, on Simons kissing Cambridge on the cheek when he handed him a new drink.
As the others talked, Barir let his hand slide onto Kay's knee beneath the table. He squeezed it lightly, and Kay looked at him, clearly taken aback by the public gesture. After a moment his expression softened, a light in his eyes, and he covered Barir's hand with his own.
Inevitably, of course, the conversation turned to Kay, and he soon found himself at the centre of a typical Bell grilling. This was the part Barir had worried about, sure that Kay would be disgruntled and rude when having endless questions put to him. He was a little rude, in fact, but in a laconic manner that mostly seemed to amuse people, answering questions with varying levels of patience about his work, about music halls, about the company he kept, about his musical preferences (this latter mostly from Sharma, until Malik elbowed him in the ribs).
“So where did you use to fetch up before this, Tumoe?” asked Cambridge, chin in his hand, regarding Tumoe like some fascinating exotic creature. “Would have thought I’d seen you somewhere before now.”
“I didn’t typically fetch up anywhere,” said Kay, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “I preferred to keep to myself, but unfortunately Barir is a sociable type, and so…” He gestured vaguely about the pub.
“He isn’t as misanthropic as he makes out,” said Barir, and Kay gave him an unimpressed look.
“Surely not, if Rizvi came all the way back from India for you,” said Simons in a wistful sort of voice. “It’s dreadfully romantic.”
Barir felt a hot blush prickle at his neck and took a gulp of beer to try and hide it, setting the glass down a bit too hard.
“I’m not sure he came back entirely for me,” said Kay. He looked at Barir and, after a flash of hesitation he put his hand over the top of Barir’s, his long fingers slipping between Barir’s own. Barir’s heart thunked in his chest, and he couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. “I think he missed the English food and weather.”
“Absolutely true,” Barir agreed. “A few weeks away and I was utterly desperate for drizzle and overcooked mutton.”
“The tall, handsome chap was just a bonus, then,” said Malik.
Kay took a drag on his cigarette and blew a passable smoke ring across the table. “Many of my acquaintance would much prefer to be thousands of miles away from me,” he said. “But luckily for me Barir is a singular fellow.”
The door to the pub opened, letting in a gust of wind and rain and a couple of new arrivals. Barir recognised the curly hair of one of them, just as he felt Kay tense beside him and curse under his breath.
“Speaking of people who would prefer to be thousands of miles away from me,” Kay muttered, slumping in his seat as though it might somehow make him more inconspicuous. It didn’t work a jot, of course; Ben Eder glanced absently around the pub, and when his eyes fell on their table he froze, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.
“You can’t avoid him forever,” Barir murmured. “And he certainly knows about you now. Go and speak to him.”
Kay looked as though he would rather throw himself in the Thames. He sighed and got laboriously to his feet, a mountain rising. “Very well. But if he punches me in the nose I shall hold you partially responsible.”
It was wonderful being back at the Bell. Barir led the way over to Malik and Sharma’s table, to be greeted with enthusiastic handshakes and back-pats. Kay hung back a little, and when all expectant eyes turned to him Barir saw him school his expression into a careful blank, like a rockface. It was a look familiar from their early acquaintance, and made him look more forbidding, though Barir knew by now that it was simply a sign of discomfort. He put a hand on Kay’s arm to draw him in a little.
“Gents, this is Kay Tumoe,” he said. “You’ve met Malik and Sharma before, of course. This is Will Derby, Luke Simons, and Tom—”
“Cambridge,” said Tom Cambridge, eyeing Kay with rather frank interest.
“Glad you could join us at last, Tumoe,” said Malik with his usual good cheer, leaning over the table to shake Kay’s hand. “I have to say, it was something of a shock to hear Rizvi’s news. He spent all summer mooning over you, quite convinced that he hadn’t a hope.”
“It wasn’t entirely like that,” Barir protested, sitting down.
“Oh yes it bloody was,” said Malik. “But you're like a cat with nine lives, my friend.”
“I didn’t moon,” Barir told Kay.
Kay’s face didn’t change, though there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Didn’t you?” he asked drily, and Barir had to give an embarrassed laugh.
“Come on, then,” said Luke Simons impatiently. “Fill us in. Did you really leave your fiancé at the altar, Rizvi?”
Clearly the tale of his return had grown more sensational during its two week run along the grapevine. Barir fortified himself with some beer and drew out his pipe before he filled them all in on what had happened in India – abridged, mostly filling in the gaps and misconceptions of the story that had already been gleefully passed around by Malik and Sharma – and then asked after the others. Kay was mostly quiet during the conversation around the table, much as he was the first night Barir met him, smoking impassively with his dark eyes taking in everybody, as though weighing them up. Barir saw his gaze linger on the easy way Malik covered Sharma’s hand with his own, on Simons kissing Cambridge on the cheek when he handed him a new drink.
As the others talked, Barir let his hand slide onto Kay's knee beneath the table. He squeezed it lightly, and Kay looked at him, clearly taken aback by the public gesture. After a moment his expression softened, a light in his eyes, and he covered Barir's hand with his own.
Inevitably, of course, the conversation turned to Kay, and he soon found himself at the centre of a typical Bell grilling. This was the part Barir had worried about, sure that Kay would be disgruntled and rude when having endless questions put to him. He was a little rude, in fact, but in a laconic manner that mostly seemed to amuse people, answering questions with varying levels of patience about his work, about music halls, about the company he kept, about his musical preferences (this latter mostly from Sharma, until Malik elbowed him in the ribs).
“So where did you use to fetch up before this, Tumoe?” asked Cambridge, chin in his hand, regarding Tumoe like some fascinating exotic creature. “Would have thought I’d seen you somewhere before now.”
“I didn’t typically fetch up anywhere,” said Kay, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “I preferred to keep to myself, but unfortunately Barir is a sociable type, and so…” He gestured vaguely about the pub.
“He isn’t as misanthropic as he makes out,” said Barir, and Kay gave him an unimpressed look.
“Surely not, if Rizvi came all the way back from India for you,” said Simons in a wistful sort of voice. “It’s dreadfully romantic.”
Barir felt a hot blush prickle at his neck and took a gulp of beer to try and hide it, setting the glass down a bit too hard.
“I’m not sure he came back entirely for me,” said Kay. He looked at Barir and, after a flash of hesitation he put his hand over the top of Barir’s, his long fingers slipping between Barir’s own. Barir’s heart thunked in his chest, and he couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. “I think he missed the English food and weather.”
“Absolutely true,” Barir agreed. “A few weeks away and I was utterly desperate for drizzle and overcooked mutton.”
“The tall, handsome chap was just a bonus, then,” said Malik.
Kay took a drag on his cigarette and blew a passable smoke ring across the table. “Many of my acquaintance would much prefer to be thousands of miles away from me,” he said. “But luckily for me Barir is a singular fellow.”
The door to the pub opened, letting in a gust of wind and rain and a couple of new arrivals. Barir recognised the curly hair of one of them, just as he felt Kay tense beside him and curse under his breath.
“Speaking of people who would prefer to be thousands of miles away from me,” Kay muttered, slumping in his seat as though it might somehow make him more inconspicuous. It didn’t work a jot, of course; Ben Eder glanced absently around the pub, and when his eyes fell on their table he froze, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.
“You can’t avoid him forever,” Barir murmured. “And he certainly knows about you now. Go and speak to him.”
Kay looked as though he would rather throw himself in the Thames. He sighed and got laboriously to his feet, a mountain rising. “Very well. But if he punches me in the nose I shall hold you partially responsible.”
