The Horror and the Wild

XIV. The Sound of Breaking

December 31, Thursday

Owen was waiting outside when Cillian pulled up on the motorcycle so that Cillian wouldn't have to bother turning off the engine. He clambered on behind the druid, clinging tight to Cillian's shoulders.

Cillian drove them out to a bar called the Black Rose. The building had what was presumably the Irish translation on it, as well. But Owen wouldn't have known how to begin trying to pronounce Róisín Dubh. The only language he had any basis in outside of English was Latin, and English was rooted in Latin so it hadn't exactly been a huge leap.

"Cillian," he asked as the druid lit a cigarette. "How do you say that?"

Cillian followed where Owen was pointing to the lettering over the windows, and his perfect lips curved into a smile around his cigarette.

Owen's best guess of what Cillian said was that it sounded like 'row-sheen doov' which did not at all sound like the words looked. There wasn't a 'v' anywhere, for starters. He tried to repeat it, and Cillian laughed— clear and bright as a bell.

"Was it that bad?" Owen asked, feeling a smile start in spite of himself.

"Aye, Preacher Man," the druid replied. "You're butcherin' my language, but somehow it's cute."

Owen felt his face heat up, and Cillian's responding smile only served to worsen the problem.

"Just finish that so we can go inside," Owen muttered. "It's cold out here."

Cillian grinned and poked at his cheek. "I really dinnae think that's yer problem."

Owen batted his hand away, almost whining like a child. "Cillian! Stop that!"

Cillian laughed and put his cigarette out before wrapping a friendly arm around Owen and guiding him inside. Owen gasped a little at the press of the druid's body against his. But if Cillian noticed, he thankfully didn't draw attention to it. Owen tried not to focus on the feeling of Cillian's hand on his waist or Cillian's body heat against his side. But ignoring the tiny man was made a lot harder when the burly bartender noticed them and shouted, "Cillian!", drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

Cillian grinned, releasing Owen in favour of bolting over to the other side of the pub and hopping up onto the bar to embrace the man who was at least three times his size.

"Are you gonna sing for us tonight, you wee rascal?" the bartender asked, ruffling Cillian's wild curls as they broke apart.

"I dinnae know," Cillian said with a wry smile as Owen hesitantly approached them. "I'm here with a friend, tonight."

"The reedy fella, there?"

Cillian laughed. "Aye. Preacher Man, this is my friend Pádraig McCarthy."

"Paddy or McCarthy is fine," the man said.

"Aye. Paddy, this is my man, Owen."

Owen frowned at Cillian. "Your what?"