" last night "

Chapter 27

While patrol usually wasn't too exciting in non-gang occupied territory, today was especially boring and miserable. Snow was expected to fall the night before, but all that fell from the skies was bone-chilling rain that seeped through three layers of clothing and thick leather boots. The only thing keeping all the guards on duty was the pay that they would be receiving at the end of the day.
When Darion eventually found himself on break, the first thing he did was shoot Sergeant Begum an exaggerated wink and take off in the direction that he last saw Petrov. It didn't take long to find him; his rumbling voice and throaty laugh could be heard a mile away.
     Unsurprisingly, Petrov was storytelling to some of the younger guards about how he received certain scars, upon their inquiry.
     "As swiftly as death itself, hounds had my arm pinned!" Petrov took a dramatic pause to pull up his sleeve, revealing a mangled mess of scar tissue. "With one arm, I fought mongrels, and with other, I fought their master! Eventually, I was able to grab dagger from my belt, and just before I drove it between mutt's eyes—"
     The eager expressions of the three teenage girls and two teenage boys were quickly replaced with irritation as Darion interrupted Petrov's more exciting tale. Petrov was only amused, or at least, that's all he let on to being.
     "Hey big guy, how ya doin'? Got another story to fish out to the kids?" Darion asked, acting as if the young adults present could not hear him.
     "Rude," commented one of the girls, narrowing her brilliant amber eyes.
     Darion laughed at the jab and slapped Petrov's shoulder. "You got yourself a feisty crowd this time."
     "So it would seem," he replied, lighting up a cigar and offering one to Darion. Darion accepted, sucking in the first scrap of smoke as soon as the end of the cigar was lit.
     "As much as I would love to come over here to annoy starstruck teenagers—" This earned Darion a few aggravated groans, "—I do have a reason to be over here. Petrov, may I speak to you privately?"
     "You may not."
     "I—What? Why?"
     Petrov took a long drag from his cigar and exhaled in Darion's face. "You interrupted my conversation with these lower guards. Because of that, you may speak to me, but in front of them."
     "No— what? No, fuck that! I ain't saying shit until you can talk to me alone."
     "Sir," one of the boys piped up, "With all due respect, the least of our concerns is your business. At the most, it may prove mildly amusing." Ah, this must be the doctor's son that Lee was grumbling about. His speech and posture were much too stiff and polite to be any of the other recruits.
     Darion rolled his eyes. "Can it, boy. Just 'cause your papa can buy your status in the Watch doesn't mean you're any better than the rest of us bastards."
     Just before the boy made a sharp retort, Petrov smacked Darion on the back of the head. "If all you are going to do is annoy rookies, then I will tell Schmidt where your habberweed stash is."
With a defeated sigh, Darion complied. "Alright, alright, just... You know where to find me when you're done, yeah?"
"Of course. Just few more moments," he replied patiently. As Darion walked away, Petrov withdrew a large knife from his belt. The same knife soon flew through the air, finding purchase in the rotting timbers of an elixir crate.
"Just before I drove it between mutt's eyes, I launched it across courtyard and into whaler's throat. Hounds retreated immediately as it saw its master dead." The young adults were dead silent as the thud from the knife sticking deep into the wood reverberated around them. There was no readable emotion on Petrov's face...
...Until he grinned widely and threw his head back with a loud bark of laughter. "You do not need to be so serious! I tell for your enjoyment, no need to be afraid."
That seemed to loosen the lower guards up a bit, but what really got them giggling to themselves was when Petrov said, "Now, let me tell you how that man, Milyukov, whined and mourned about how he was chasing his friend with affections only to realize... same friend chased him right back."

*

     Patience is certainly not one of Darion's virtues; however, he was willing to wait for Petrov.
     That is, as long as he had something to do in the meantime.
In order to make the time pass by more swiftly while Petrov finished telling whatever outlandish (yet sometimes true) take he conjured up for the younger guards, Darion played cards with another officer that didn't have to be on duty for another half hour. Darion soon realized, fifty coin out of pocket, that he was not very good at gambling.
"Roll out."
"Royal flush, baby! Gimme everything you've got."
Darion began to protest before realizing that the other man wasn't lying. Begrudgingly, he pushed over the small stack of coin he had put onto the table. "How'd you get so good at this, Wesley?"
"Once your gambling-addicted brothers have made you play enough games in order to satisfy their fix, you learn a thing or two about poker," Wesley responded, pocketing the coins. After a few moments, he fished half of it back out of his coat. "Here, keep it. I won, but you didn't cheat like Brimmons or Fierro." He flashed Darion a grin. "Use it to buy some more paints or charcoal."
"Blow off, who told you?!" Darion hissed, graciously accepting the money back. "There's a reason I say I don't have many hobbies!"
"C'mon, Milyukov, there's nothing wrong with enjoying the arts. The only people who see it as you being soft or sensitive are the former prisoners we've recruited, and that's because they got too frustrated trying to copy Sokolov's paintings."
Darion shrugged, standing up and stretching his sore shoulders. He was glad he got Matthias out of that close call with a Bottle Street Boy, but damn it all to the Void if the man wasn't easy to carry with his frightened squirming. "I guess you have a point. Still, don't go shouting it around or nothin', I'm not a big fan of people knowing."
"Just like you're not a big fan of people knowing you slip back into Tyvian when you're angry?" Wesley jabbed, stuffing the deck of cards back into the depths of his coat.
Darion snorted with laughter. "Oh, my friend, everyone knows that all too well. Have you met the lower guards I have to herd around? They're like children, I tell ya. Morally grey, illiterate, criminal children."
Wesley shared in Darion's laughter until he spied Petrov approaching. "Looks like your man of the hour is here, Mil. Be quick, we got a shortage of officers that actually know what they're doing instead of taking up space because their parents were able to buy them into doing so."
Darion whistled, talking over his shoulder as he walked over to Petrov. "You certainly seem happy with someone, Wes."
Wesley shrugged and grumbled, "I do not like Blackwell at all."
Darion chuckled before facing Petrov. "Alright, now, if I may have a word?"
Petrov nodded.
     "Okay, so, uh, this probably seems stupid, but you're the only one around here besides Begum that I can actually trust with this."
     Petrov laughed, suddenly and loudly. "You're kidding, Milyukov! Half of people in our platoon know you fancy sword over sheath."
     "By the Void, that's embarrassing as it is, but never use that fucking euphemism again, holy shit," Darion cringed.
     "Alright, alright, now get on with your question."
     Darion sighed, crossing his arms. "...It's been a long time since I've formally courted anyone— we both know that." He inhaled deeply. "I... really wanted to, y'know... ask Windham on a date. An actual date, not just a back-and-forth friendly banter on duty. And I was wondering if you knew of a way I could ask him without looking like a dumb choffer."
     Petrov would have laughed and ask incredulously if that was what all the fuss was about, but he saw the exasperated look on Darion's face. Despite him being a huge flirt, he's really out of practice when it comes to anything involving traditional romance (besides acting the part of a gentleman; that was hammered into his brain as the young son of a noble family so hard that he still hasn't forgotten, nigh on eleven years later).
     Petrov brought his hand to his chin, thinking. "How adventurous is he?"
     "Pffft, besides being scared out of his mind of loud noises and people, he can't seem to keep himself out of abandoned houses."
     "Then take him somewhere full of life, occupied places, bustling and lived-in. Merchant's corner, perhaps. Something he's not fully accustomed to. It'll be breath of fresh air for him," the older man suggested, completely blowing Darion out of the water.
     "...Huh. That's—That's actually a really good idea! Thanks, brother." Before he headed off, though, he swiveled back around. "But how do I ask him? I may be the socialite of the two of us— actually, of anyone, for that matter— but...I choke up around him. Can't help but get a bit nervous, y'know?"
     Petrov smiled and linked his arms behind his back. "Sounds like you've got typical case of being absolutely smitten with him."
     Usually, Darion would have a smart comeback, but all he could think of was how sweetly Windham had kissed him and how warm his rare smiles were, how his touch was like electricity across his skin. His mind even wandered to the prospect of the overseer in a freshly tailored suit, messy hair combed back as he stood at an altar, a certain metallic glint at his left ring finger.
     But Darion was getting distracted.
     "Heh, yeah. Guess I really am in love with the guy."