man on the run • shyan

a prince among snakes

This wasn't his kind of scene.

The loud music thumped throughout the room, the jeering of a couple hundred people shouting out their bets as the two men fought each other in the central ring in the dingy basement of an even shadier pub.

It was dark, the only sources of illumination came from bright neon lights all around and flickering fluorescent lamps on the ceiling.

The sound bones cracking underneath a fist causes Tinsley to cringe as the crowd screams either out of excitement or disappointment. The detective avoids the ring room to an opening to a low lit bar.

But it was his.

In the south side of the city was an area known as Death Valley, a breeding ground of crime and vices. Hell was empty and all the devils were here, infesting the streets with illegal activity that causes the average citizen to shudder.

No one batted an eye at murder here in Death Valley, the lowest class, the dirt underneath the upperclassmen shiny boots.

No one cared much at Death Valley.

The address on the serviette let to a dingy bar called The Queen Mary, a tiny establishment with a backdoor that leads to an illegal betting pool.

If Tinsley were still a cop, he would've have shut this place down.

But he wasn't and he had a meeting with the devil tonight.

So he took a deep breath and continued his walk through the crowd.

It was a stark difference from their first meeting at a high-class gala

Instead of mingling graceful politicians swirling one another, this was a dance of criminals and grit, electricity and anger heavy in the air.

Concrete walls splattered in dark liquids replaced luxury beige wallpaper, loud electric guitar riffs replaced soft violin concertos, rage replaced privilege.

This place was infested and Tinsley knew he was looking for Goldsworth in the right place.

The bar isn't any less gritty than the betting pool but it sure isn't as dark. The patrons are seated in small groups, the stools mostly filled, a group of men watching over the entire establishment like predators.

And among them, the handsome devil in black, the same as he last saw him, smirking into the rim of a clear glass of liquid gold.

Tinsley trips over himself, catching the stares of a few strangers, his heart in his throat as the ache in his lungs burns into an irresistible need to have Ryan back in his arms, the nostalgia of all the fondness he held for the criminal plaguing his tired vessel.

He's the same as Tinsley's remembered him, as godlike and ethereal as the last time he's seen the other man. The strong jaw he loved cupping before pressing lingering kisses on lips he's grown addicted to. The gentle slope of the other man's shoulders Tinsley has rested his arms on countless times. The sharp gaze of russet eyes that melted his legs to slush.

For so long he's felt hollow and the sight Goldsworth had stricken a match and set aflame all of his dull feelings.

His eyes search desperately for the familiar tan skin and dark hair, as handsome as ever in the darkest basements, through gaps of the mingling crowd.

There was a strange way how Goldsworth managed to fit among the crowds of the upperclassmen and looked like he belonged among the city's lowest dirt all at once.

A prince among snakes that hide and snakes that strike with pride.

An angel among the vice and virtues.