Man on the Inside

4

There is a thought, somewhere, that is disbelief- that somehow, Brontë might have done it. He can't fully process that thought- he's just looking at the man in front of him.

He's got a deep, husky type of voice, and Brontë watches the smile in the curve of his lip as he talks. It's slight, but it's there. He's got a bit of dark blonde stubble, like he hasn't shaved in a few days, and his blonde hair is just long enough that he's pulled a section of it back, and the rest brushes against the nape of his neck, just over his eye in the front. His eyes are piercing, palest grey underneath the blonde eyelashes, eyebrows- although the dark ring around the outside of his iris makes them stark.

"...hi." Brontë finds himself slightly speechless, and it's only partially because this is the second person tonight to be leaning far closer than he thought they'd be, so close he can smell this man's cologne- elegant, expensive, dark. He's wearing all black, too, his collared shirt buttoned up all the way under a suit jacket- the gaze, the clothes, the context, the possibility, are all intimidating. It's only slightly mitigated by the fact that, even sitting down, Brontë can tell he's quite a bit taller than the man in front of him. "Absolutely. Let's talk."

"Nice to meet you." Brontë feels like he's about to be shaken down, but if he is, that might be the best thing that's happened to him in a while- for his career, that is. "Do you like the place?"

"Is it yours?" Brontë finds himself smiling into another sip of his drink.

He's surprised when this new stranger blinks harshly again, shrugs one shoulder sharply, mutters fuck, in the same instant- but immediately he seems fine again, and doesn't acknowledge it. "Good observation," the stranger says. "Have we met before?"

Brontë squints his eyes like he's thinking about it. Oddly enough, this man looks familiar, but Brontë's pretty sure he looks familiar because he's not very far off what Brontë's been imagining him as. Brontë's never met him in his life- although he's been trying to.

"I don't believe so," Brontë says, and he finds himself subconsciously lowering his voice, trying to match the man in front of him. It never occurred to him what to introduce himself as, whether or not to lie- he doesn't get the chance. "I'm Neil."

He extends his hand, and it's taken immediately and shaken. "You can call me Art."

Brontë nods like he's being polite, as every thought in his mind screams that it cannot have been this easy. If he can pull this off, he'll be a legend at the office forever, and maybe his mother will talk for even a moment about his achievements at Christmas this year. But he didn't think he'd meet him today.

He's happy with this achievement as it is. Especially as any moment now Artemy Volkov is going to tell him to leave, because he knows he's a cop. Brontë isn't worried about the stabbing he'd get if this was any other Volkov, at least. And now he knows where to look for Artemy again.

He realises he forgot to let go of Artemy's hand. Art? Technically, he doesn't know this is Volkov. So Art it is. "It's nice to meet you," Brontë says. "You've got good whiskey here."

He looks at Art's hands; he's got small, thin fingers, covered in dark rings, that drum against the bar in front of him. Brontë catches sight of the bartender watching them with detached interest, but he hardly cares about that right now.

"Is that why you came?" Art asks, an eyebrow raised. He looks expectant. Is Brontë meant to know who he is already?

Better to play stupid, he supposes. "Oh, you know, drowning my sorrows, et cetera." Brontë looks at the last bits of whiskey to avoid looking Art in the eye. He'll be able to read him, Brontë just fucking knows it- how has he not already? "I was complaining to your lovely bartender about it."