#one of my friends let me use his steam library with that family-household-library share thing

[dawntheduckrb]

Game acquired >:)

[lluvguts]

chapter one!🌻 🖤

word count: 4,695

pairing: reddie + stenbrough

warnings:  there’s some mentions of family dysfunction and depression, so if you’re sensitive to those topics then you’ve been warned :)

it’s also unformatted (no italics) but the ao3 one has those if you like em

Richie wasn't expecting his thirteenth birthday to be anything special. The usual for the Tozier house was balloons and typically a dessert for breakfast. For his twelfth birthday Richie muscled through an ice cream sundae, so he was hoping that this time it'd be a cake. Or maybe waffles, he loved those. But when Richie dragged his sleepy feet down the carpeted staircase to the kitchen, all his doubts faded away as he was welcomed to the morning smells of a steaming griddle and Maggie, Richie's mother, softly humming a tune while she poured some water into the thick waffle batter. He was about to say something, maybe let out a little mumble of complaint that the sink water messed with the goodness of the waffles (but was stopped by how off her happy hum sounded, at least coming from her usual quiet) when his dad piped up.

"Hey! The birthday boy's up. How about some coffee, son?" Wentworth rose from where he was skimming over the Derry newspapers to give him a smelly, dad-cologne hug. Richie noticed the few doctor's papers Went had brushed under the usual mail before the hug, but didn't say anything.

"He's thirteen, Went. Hardly much of a man to need coffee in the morning," Richie heard his mother murmur absently through his dad's arms covering his ears.

Wentworth released Richie, who adjusted his askew glasses and worshipped the clear kitchen air, then ruffled Richie's already mussed head of black hair. "That's alright, Chee. We'll get her on our side soon enough."

Richie loved that his parents called him that. Chee. It wasn't dopey enough of a nickname for him to hate it, and being thirteen after all, Richie knew he was venturing into the realm where kids thought their parents were losers who were always out to get them. They don't suck a mouth of rocks, Richie thought. They made me waffles and didn't even ask if I wanted syrup and whipped cream on top. They knew I liked it.

"All of my other friends drink coffee," Richie said with his hands playfully crossed. He meant to say, if I had any friends, I'm sure they drink coffee. But he kept his mouth zipper shut.

"Strawberries, too?" Richie appeared at his mother's side and let his hand rest by the soft hem of her nightdress. Her face reflected in the kitchen window looked pinched and tired. Richie held in the bowling boll of worry that rolled into his gut, because even if his mother usually stayed in bed past ten in the morning, it was his birthday, after all. It was only okay with this one exception. Richie's mother hardly got enough sleep. Or rather, she slept often but was never fully rested. It was something to do with the depression conversation that Richie had overheard one night at the foot of the stairs when he should have been in bed. It was odd to him, but his mother simply couldn't get a few good chucks from the sun that shone through the blinds like he did. Maybe she was lonely. Does it get dead boring sitting at your desk, staring out a window that you wished maybe had a few more kids in front of it, or something to see other than the neighbors and all their baby's toys in the yard? Richie wasn't stupid. He knew they were "trying" (a fancy word he also picked up, which just meant they were having sex) for more kids, but just, couldn't? But...wasn't Richie enough? It was the question that kept him up at night, when the Superman clock by his bedside often read midnight, in brilliant red. They wanted a baby girl, they didn't want you. They have another kid and you're all alone now, Richie. It was the topic of discussion that went unsaid in the Tozier household, though to Richie it was the big fat elephant in the room. An elephant with enough weight to send him spiraling under the covers when he should be sleeping, heavy enough so that his sides heaved as the pillow drowned his sobs. An elephant that sat in every corner, even if it was Richie's birthday.

"Of course, baby," Richie's mother took her free hand and hugged the side of his face to her dress, then set the sliced strawberries on top of the whipped cream mountain. She took his plate with both hands and walked toward the table, so Richie steered around her just in time to sit down next to his dad before they broke into the familiar off-key Happy Birthday chorus.

"Was there anything you were hoping you'd get when you turned thirteen, Chee?" His dad asked once Richie had speared a few massive amounts of waffle into his mouth. Maggie smiled politely at her messy eater and then tried to wipe the dark circles from under her watery brown eyes. But things like that didn't just go away.

Richie slung his arm across his lips to catch the maple syrup he felt dripping down his chin then spoke in a careful voice. "I was, uh, hoping to get a bike?"

"And why would you want something like that? Walking to school is perfectly fine. Healthy, even," His dad fired back, but by the way he heard the telltale smile in his voice, Richie knew he was playing, too. Both his parents shared a knowing glance and then turned back to Richie.

"What? You mean, you're serious?" Richie nearly spilled a glob of whipped cream from his mouth. "You guys got me a bike?"

"Why don't you check the front porch, there's a mysterious package with your name on it," Wentworth said.

"Oh, let him finish his breakfast first," Maggie interjected but Richie was already racing out of the kitchen to the front door, his fork still gripped in one hand.

There, shining like a beacon among the weedy yard and creaky old porch furniture was a great lump covered in blue wrapping paper. Richie's favorite color. It was the color of the calm sea he'd seen as a toddler and blue raspberry slushies, the kind that stained your tongue neon blue and made all the hurtful words the bullies said not matter as much when you had a mouthful of sugar. Even that same royal blue of the empty baby's room next to Richie's. But he let those bowling pins stay in place for now. Richie bounded down the steps and didn't bother waiting for his parent's approval to tear through the wrapping paper. Hidden beneath the layers of paper was in fact a bike, but it wasn't one he'd ever seen before. If he had, the monster of a bike was bound to be from a pawn shop or something. The bike was old. With huge fading handles and a package carrier on the back. It even had one of those rubber horns clasped to one of the handles. Richie crouched down to stare at the wheels, where it looked as though his dad or maybe a less experienced man had tried ripping the cards once inserted between the spokes, and left a few wispy pieces of paper as a ghost of their presence. Even more odd, the word Silver was scrawled in a barely perceptible line across the slim body of the bike. Richie felt like he was touching the cool metal of the past, and loved every second spent staring at the bike when he heard his parents step out onto the porch in their house shoes. Richie turned his head and flashed an appreciative smile at the both of them.

"What do you think?" His mother held her hands firmly to her stomach, wringing them when Richie remained silent. "We found it over by Center Street. Some fellow, Denbrough something or other was giving it away, but I had to pay him at least something-"

"I love it!" Richie flung himself up to wrap his skinny arms around his mother equally skinny waist, then buried a string of thank-yous into her nightdress. He held her tightly and hoped his words were proof enough for her to believe it. He wasn't lying, he did like the bike. But he liked knowing he could race past the houses and cars, right to school. Right past awful Henry Bowers and Victor Criss.

"You're welcome," Wentworth and Maggie said with a high laugh. Well, his father laughed but his mother's didn't go past her lips, like maybe her mouth remembered how to be happy but the rest of her didn't.

"You're growing up, Richie. Thirteen now, but soon you'll be twenty and never even realize it...Then you'll be having kids of your own..." Maggie trailed off, no longer meeting her son's wide eyes.

"...Mom, you okay?"

His father butted in once more when he noticed Richie lingering far too long on Maggie's frown. "You wanna try it out? I'm sure you've got hardly any homework to do on a Saturday."

"Can I?" Richie asked his mother, who only replied with a nod. He sure did have an ass load of school work to do, but he didn't want his mother to worry over him even more.

"Don't be out too late, or I'll be sending the hounds on you, mister."

"Dad, we don't have any dogs, remember? Maybe I'll ask for a puppy for Christmas! How bout that, eh?" Richie laughed, but it died when he saw the pained, fragile look in his mother's eyes.

Went took Maggie by the shoulders and guided her into the house, where the sound of her short little cries escaped past the front door. Richie waited with his eyes shut till he couldn't hear the stifled sniffling to slip back into the house for his messenger bag in his bedroom then quietly shut the front door. He didn't want to be in the way, not after seeing how worked up she had gotten. He mounted the bike--Silver, or whatever name it was to the last kid that used it--and fastened the radio from his bag to the basket in front of him. A cool rhythm played out along the Derry streets as Richie pedaled (or tried to, as he'd only ridden one bike before maybe-Silver, when he was only five) toward his freedom. He had the whole day to himself, whether it be spent at Costello's for some candy in exchange for the loose pennies in his short pockets, or at the library for a new comic. Or, on a completely different note, on the burning asphalt because Richie had sped up too fast around a turn down Jackson with his head floating far above the clouds, leaving him jolting back awake and not nearly enough time to break. The bike swung him forward, angrily bucking like an untamed horse, and Richie slipped off the seat and into the sidewalk as the radio strung out another cheery, soulful tune. The sun-scorched mounds of rubble ground against his cheeks and Richie thinks for a second that maybe riding a bike (especially such a behemoth like this one) was such a good idea. His glasses flew off into a patch of dying grass a few feet in front of him, and when Richie found his bearings he realized he hadn't fallen along the sidewalk at all. In fact, there was no sidewalk. The road ended a mile or so back, and all that remained was a few rundown houses showcased by uneven edges of asphalt and sidelines of jagged gravel that cut into his bare knees and chin.

I knew I should have worn pants today, Richie thought as he scrambled over on his stomach for his glasses. He blinked up for a street sign, but there weren't any of those, either. The last one he'd remembered seeing was Neibolt Street, and the realization alone made his body shiver despite the throbbing heat from the scrapes and cuts. This was exactly where his mother might pray Richie wouldn't end up. The houses on Neibolt (if someone were to really call them homes) were scattered and obviously vacant, with boarded up windows and an overall stench of mildew rot that hung over each property. Richie righted his bike and switched off the radio, worried some hobo were to peek their grimy head out from a near window if they heard the music. The closest house loomed over him, it engulfed the entire street with its dark wood-rotted panels and what seemed to be a garden, perhaps in a happier time, but had gone straight to hell. The porch was barely visible through a twisting snarl of rosebushes, the only colorful thing about that wretched house as Richie could see. Those scarlet blooms called to him, and Richie couldn't help but take a tentative step with his battered sneakers up to the chipped picket fence, staring out into the dead quiet for a sign of life inside the house.

A flash of chestnut zoomed past one of the roses, and Richie stopped dead in his tracks. His hand was hovering above the unhinged gate for more movement, holding his breath. A bird must be caught in there. That dark brown softness hesitated behind the bush, then disappeared under the porch and what looked like into the caved in cellar. Oh my god. It's not a bird...that's someone's hair. It's a boy.

"Wait!" Richie called out, abandoning maybe-Silver at the corner but still had his messenger bag slung across his sweaty chest. He dove toward the rosebush, his head full of wonder as to why a kid would hang around a dump like this, and not the least bit concerned for his own safety as the thorns tugged on the soft flesh of his forearms and ankles. The boy had maneuvered through the sharp pieces of the broken porch to get to the cellar, and Richie whined despite himself at the pain as he crawled on his hands and bloody knees to the shattered entrance. It was beyond dark in there, but it seemed quiet and barren to Richie so he stuck one leg into the mouth of the cellar and jumped down. Nothing seemed new, as it all sounded so ancient and tomb-like as the dust from his fall settled, the leaves definitely weren't from this season and the glass wasn't sharp to the touch of his soles. They were worn into the decaying earth of the cellar floor, like they were used to being stepped on. Richie nearly tumbled into the boy when his feet connected with the spongy spring leaves and glass shards.

"Oh! Jeez, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be-" Richie started to say, but stopped himself short when what spare light flickered across the boy's face let Richie really get a good look at him. Though bathed in darkness and musty shadows, the boy looked young. Maybe thirteen, like he was. But what made Richie's heart speed up to an unsteady clang in his dry throat was the boy's face. His lips were parted, as if in awe, and as he did so a thin trickle of a black sticky something dribbled down his chin to his shirt collar. The boy only wiped it away, as if it were a pesky fly and nothing more. His fingers and hands were stained too, with that syrupy something. It couldn't be...blood? It's too dark to be blood, really. Unless it's so deep inside him that it's- God, stop it Rich.

Richie reached out a hand to the boy. "Jesus, are you alright? What're you doing down here?"

He couldn't really make out the words through the stream of blood or mucus passing through the boy's mouth, but he heard something along the lines of, "You can see me?" With this was the kid's hands recoiling from Richie, until he stumbled against the brickwork behind him.

"Um...Yes?" He blinked, still staring, completely fascinated by the way the boy didn't really care about his bloody speech impediment. "Say, what's that all over your mouth? Some costume?"

"I wish," The boy hiccupped, or let out some sort of wheezy intake of breath, and more blood coursed down his front. It reminded Richie of when Ron had cursed himself in Harry Potter and began to hurl mouthfuls of slugs. Except that was a fairytale and this was actually happening. He didn't just say that he casually throws up blood. Or black loogie stuff. He couldn't have.

"You mean that," Richie pointed to his stained lips, making him frown. "Happens all the time?" Richie gaped at him, and the other boy only looked away into the depths of the cellar with the lines of his cheeks dark in embarrassment.

"Don't act so surprised, if you'd been through what I- Oh, never mind," He turned back to Richie and wiped his mouth. "What're you doing down here? How did you even find me?"

Richie glanced at the chips of glass by his shoes, feeling stupid. "I fell off my bike. But I saw some idiot wandering into a haunted house and wanted to make sure they weren't going to get their guts unzipped." At the last of his words the boy's brows furrowed and he was glaring with pursed, blood-stained lips. Richie couldn't help the few extra words that often times were the garnish of his sentences. It just came out. His tongue usually betrayed him like that, and these little blips in his brain were the main cause for the teasing at school. Teasing was putting it lightly, though, Richie knew. He didn't come home with black eyes and a practiced lie to his mother for some teasing.

What'd ya say, trashmouth? How about I smash those buck teeth in for ya, faggot?

The boy considered this, his brown eyes softening in the dusty light. "Well, next time don't go chasing a stranger into someplace you don't know. And it isn't haunted."

"I'm only a stranger because you didn't ask for my name."

"And I still haven't," He spit back.

"It's Richie."

"Eddie."

Richie held his hands up in defeat. He wasn't exactly an expert in the making friends department, though he wished he was. God, he did. "C'mon. I just met you and you're already mad at me. Must be a world record or something."

"I'm not mad at you. You just shouldn't be here, Richie," Eddie interrupted himself with a wicked gasp and another gush of blood glistened along his already stained shirt. "It's not safe."

"And why not? Why did you ask me if I could see you? What, are you a ghost or something?" Richie asked playfully, but Eddie's face paled. Water shuddered with a groan through the pipes, somewhere above them, making Eddie jump slightly and then wince at the blood that was caked on Richie's knees and bare arms, as if seeing it for the first time. His next words were grave and demanding, and Richie didn't feel up to debate when such a small thirteen year old kid looked so terrified of some plumbing.

"You need to go," Eddie stated, but didn't try to push Richie away.

"What's the matter? Afraid you won't get any hot water in your shower tonight?" His traitorous mouth spat out.

"Go Richie! You need to get out of here!" Eddie's breath came in ragged pants, and with it more gross blood oozing like snot from between his chattering teeth. He really is scared shitless, Richie thought.

His feet wouldn't move, only lock up in the crazed moment he remembered the glass underneath his shoes and their cool, hard presence like an old knife against his toes. The water in the pipes reached a new height, and the noise stopped directly above them, where a resonant thud pounded across the ceiling and made a few scraps of paint tumble down. Richie felt the world settle around him too, maybe for the first time in the past few minutes, and that was when he felt the weight of his messenger bag grounding him to the earth.

"Here," Richie flipped open the front of his bag and handed Eddie an empty potato chip bag he'd left in there. He didn't know why he was handing him some week old trash, he just thought that it would help the boy's...problem. Eddie only blinked at him, incredulous, before snatching the bag with a shaky hand.

"So you don't ruin any more shirts," Richie explained, then mimed the action of throwing up into an invisible baggie. Eddie's face got that weird pinkish tinge again, and Richie thought the boy was going to say something, or maybe giggle just a bit, but the memory of the creaking and angry pipe sounds made his soft features fall.

"What're you still doing here? Go before it's too late!" Eddie waved his hands frantically at Richie, looking conflicted between shoving his skinny ass up and out of the cellar and perhaps curling into a ball. Maybe he can handle the loogie stuff better that way, Richie thought. He spun around and leapt for the small crag of windowpane left in the cellar, with just enough leverage to haul himself up and back underneath the porch of the house on Neibolt Street. As he half-crawled, half-staggered his way out from under the dry stench of the porch, he didn't hear any more groaning from the pipes. But if Richie stood by the rosebush and bent his head down toward the wooden skirt, he swore he heard Eddie's short sobs, much like his mother's. They were the type that didn't care if you had something to say. They raged through your lungs and out your throat with a little dash of tears to go with it. Except, among the hushed rustle of nearby rosebushes, Richie realized that Eddie's choked sobs were fearful. Like that raging something was attacking him instead.

He found maybe-Silver perched just where he'd left it, the only breeze of reality that allowed Richie to swing his stinging knees across the seat and pedal for home. Get out before it's too late, Eddie had said. Before what?

"What harrowing tales does Richie the Brave have for us tonight?" Wentworth asked. Richie sat across their little kitchen table, the one that collected hospital documents and angry-seeming papers with debt scrawled in red ink, and was shoveling mashed potatoes and burnt asparagus into his mouth. Richie's mother had went to bed early, her dinner going untouched next to Went's empty chair (which explained the over-cooked dinner but not the extra plate and silverware. Did he think she'd come down and inspect the house for fire once she smelled the burning chicken?). After the outburst from this morning, Richie guessed he was too scared to wake her to eat. Richie didn't blame him.

"Oh, not much," Richie began, and made a little mashed potato ski slope as he thought over what to say. He knew it were best to leave out the creepy house on Neibolt from his daring tales, but maybe adding a new character to the story wouldn't hurt anyone. "Went to the trainyard and accidentally busted up my knees. But I made a friend on the ride back home."

This was good, he knew. It wrapped up his fake story with enough packing peanuts that it passed as the real one, with his injuries all accounted for, and Richie even had the guts to tie a little ribbon around it and say he actually made a friend. It got Wentworth listening, which was the real bow on top. His dad grinned and pretended to pull wax from his ears.

"A friend? That's great, son. What's he like?"

Richie stared into the mess he'd made of his dinner. He wished his mother were downstairs too, just so maybe she'd smile at how great his day had gone. He missed her smile.

"His name's Eddie. I don't know much about him, we only talked for a few blocks before he had to turn back and see his ma, you know? But I think he's got some trouble breathing."

"Asthma?"

"Huh?" Richie looked up from his plate, sure his dad had just said ass mom.

"Maybe your little friend's got asthma, Chee."

Richie shrugged. "Maybe. But he's got it real bad. Coughing up blood and stuff." He didn't mean for the last part to trickle out, but like Eddie's weird blood fits he fell into, it just came out.

"Coughing up blood?"

"Yeah. Like motor oil," Richie bit his lip but still the words came. His dad only gaped at him, not looking the slightest bit convinced but all the same concerned.

"Do Eddie's parents know about this? That doesn't sound good, Richie."

The boy's name didn't sound right coming from his dad's mouth, and on top of that he used Richie, his full name. This was unfamiliar territory Richie had land-mined himself into. When was the last time his dad had called him by his real name? Or sounded as skeptical as he did now?

"You think I'm making it up, aren't you?" Richie asked, not knowing where this foreign anger had come from or why it decided to pump through his veins, white-hot energy straight to his brain. Wentworth's face faltered, but he gained some composure. For the first time Richie realized how tired and strained his dad's face looked. Not just his face, but his whole body. His shoulders were curved and hunched, as if pressed down by some invisible weight, circles tracing his brown eyes, a nervous twiddle of his index finger around his wedding ring. His dad looked exhausted, and old, and Richie wasn't sure what to make of that.

"I- Of course not, Chee. I'm just trying to get a better picture. You said your friend has asthma-"

"Can I be excused, dad? I'm not really hungry." Richie was super hungry, after all that had happened today, but wasn't liking the idea of having to conjure up more lies to string along his story. I should have just kept my goddamn mouth shut. He hardly knew why the hell Eddie was down in that disgusting well house, let alone his odd habit of throwing up blood. It all seemed too peculiar, but not fake enough for Richie to just shrug it off. It was real. He could smell those dead leaves in his nose, still feel the thorn pricks burrowing shallow nicks in his skin, the coppery stench of Eddie's body once only a few feet from him, making the stuffy cellar stink like old pennies. All because of Eddie. Eddie, with his pinched face and tiny arms. Eddie who was probably the same age as Richie was but still had a tender childlike orbit to him, even if it got swallowed up by the crippling fear he'd seen smash into those bright brown eyes-

"Richie? Are you okay?" His dad was leaning across the table now, his plate clean and pushed aside. Richie brushed his advancing hand away and gathered his own plate.

"Sorry, yeah. Dazed off for a bit." But Wentworth was still staring fixedly at him, like maybe he'd never believed a single thing uttered from Richie's trashcan of a mouth since he'd came home.

"Alright, well goodnight then. And happy birthday," His dad grabbed Richie's arm before he could run away (and Richie did his very best not to cry out as his dad's fingers squeezed the sore scratches) and brought him in for a side hug. He cringed out of the hug, but couldn't stop the broken-looking smile that stretched across his face. It showcased far too much teeth.

"Thanks, dad." Richie wrinkled his nose at how strained the conversation sounded, like neither really wanted to sit down and play house while their missing piece of the puzzle wasn't there to complete them. Richie just wanted to sleep away whatever had happened between him and his mother, but the Neibolt house tugged at his consciousness through his aching muscles and tiny scabs. And that equally striking pang of worry for whatever had Eddie trapped inside its walls.

[diningpageantry]

Unveil

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617/chapters/41439146

Chapter 8/11 of Of Wealth and Leisure

Word Count: 4213

Summary: Unspoken secrets of the past come into focus, leading to the only known clue in the murder of Mrs. Pitch. Their lead reveals something much darker than expected.

“So, you’ve been getting along awfully well with Mr. Pitch,” Ebb says, speaking more into the room than towards me. Sparks burst out from under the log as she prods it with a poker, adding another into the flames.

I feel guilty for shivering only moments ago, which prompted her to fuss completely and add to the fire. The late December air drifts through her weakly sealed windows and door, leaving the poor woman to live within layers upon layers of clothing. At times throughout the last month or so, I’ve been subtly sneaking her extra clothes; an old, ill-fitting jacket I’d forgotten about, a pair of thick cotton trousers. She dotes upon me, ruffling my hair as if I were a child and saying that I’m too good to be in such a dark household.

She’s not particularly wrong in her statement; I have been growing particularly close with Mr. Pitch, or Baz, as I call him privately. We’re not joined at the hip, exactly, but the threatening air between us has shifted dynamics entirely. Instead, we now spend afternoons reading through old trade documents and family records books, attempting to find recurring names. Some have stuck out, but all fall flat eventually.

He’d shared with me his anxieties over his title; the heir to both wealths and the power structures in play. We’d gotten drunk one night, weeks into his recovery, and laid sprawled out upon the Moroccan rug of his bedroom floor. He had told me, in a long winded speech, that he’s as equally fearful of his allies as compared to his enemies, as neither are predictable.

When I rested my hand upon his shoulder and lolled my head to the side, asking him whether or not he trusted me, he took a long moment's pause before closing his eyes. “Yes,” he mumbled at last, settling my ruffled edges with his liquor-smooth voice. “If you’d have killed me, you would have left me with my injury and fled.”

I had no other words for him, hand lifting up and tracing down his nose.

He let me brush my hands upon his bared skin that night, curious to feel the curves of his wrists and dipping slope between his chin and Adam’s apple. In silence, he sat and observed my delicate movements up until I’d settled my index finger on his lips. In fear, I’d retracted back and rolled to face the ceiling again before distracting myself with talk of my interactions with wealth.

Such events haven’t been uncommon between us since. An unspoken intimacy of grazing touches coupled with long, extended moments of staring. I think it’s grown into a competition; who can breakdown first, crumbling into a newly directed conversation to avoid whatever’s at hand.

Whatever is at hand? It’s been gnawing at me, making a home inside the carved out part of my brain where my usual thoughts once occupied and endlessly pestering my conscious mind. Agatha’s words ring clear in my ears every time I make Baz smile, even if just with a poorly said tease.

“Do you fancy Mr. Pitch?” Do I? Surely, I’m overthinking such statement. Although, it’s rare for me to think over something so tediously at all. Not being one much for thinking, it’s bitterly unfair that the only thing I can think about is the state of my attractions. For the sake of myself, and for the fear of a truthful answer, I allow a single repeat of the word “No” to filter through my mind as I stare at his stone-grey eyes.

I do not believe I fancy Mr. Pitch.

If anything, I’m unsure if we’re truly friends. I believe we endure each other’s company in order to make my time here more bearable, as compared to slicing each other to shreds. At least, that must be his perspective--I would not refuse to call Baz a friend, but I doubt he would share the same sentiments.

“We’ve been working together, yes,” I say into my mug, feeling the steam dampen my nose as I tip it up for a taste. It’s only a few degrees off from scorching me.

Ebb turns her head and looks over me curiously as she closes the fireplace curtain. “Working? That’s an interesting word, ‘innit?”

“No,” I retort quickly, blinking before backtracking. “Well--no. Maybe. Perhaps without context…”

“And what context is that?” she prompts, still staring at me quizzically as she draws back her seat, resting across from me.

As per impulse, I shrug while hearing remnants of Baz’s voice in the back of my mind, mocking me for doing so. “I’m trying to help him with finding his mother’s killer. It clearly haunts him, and I’m curious as to solving it.” My fingertips feel down the teacup, pressing against the clay ridges and inconsistencies. “You don’t happen to know anything about that day, do you?”

Ebb swallows visibly as I speak, eyes downcasting as I finish. While I’d say it’s suspicious, I remind myself that it is Ebb. She would never hurt a beetle, let alone have any part in the murder of Natasha Pitch.

With that aside, her voice drips with guilt as she speaks. In her typical fashion, tears start welling up in the corners of her eyes, and progressively grow until they steadily drip down her cheeks. “I was here, you know. I’d moved to the grounds when I was 11, invited by the family to work alongside Mrs. Pitch. I’d told you, I’d been friends with Fiona, and our families were friends. Therefore, Mrs. Pitch trusted me to help her tend to the estate, and so on. She called upon me soon after she’d had Basilton, and her being herself, refused a nanny.

“About four or five years into my staying, the attack happened. I was preparing one of her horses for an afternoon ride and I’d heard such awful screaming--like the world was set ablaze. When I got there, I’d found Mrs. Pitch dead and the poor, young Basilton with a nasty injury. He survived, of course, but when the investigations came through and they’d asked him what happened to his mother, he was too shocked to even speak still. Don’t think he ever fully got over it.” She stops, wiping her face and staring off out the window. I fear stopping her, so I allow her to pause before continuing to speak. “While nothing ever got confirmed, my brother Nicodemus always had a crowd that aroused suspicions-”

“And what were those?” I cut, jumping a tad in my seat as my brows narrow. For the first time, the slightest hint at a lead sets me on my absolute edge.

Ebb taps her tears away onto her scarf, sniffling as she occupies her hands with her mug. “He’d always said there was such horrible business deals going on in town. I never quite wanted to believe him, but he’d say he’d sit at the tavern and hear men speak in hushed tones over body counts and trading hit deals...”

I let a beat pass, mind reeling as I assess the information. “Ebb, do you know where you brother is now?”

She seems to ignore my question, mind off somewhere distant as she continues. “He always got into so much trouble, my brother. He’d eavesdrop on conversations he shouldn’t have. Part of me blames that on his skipping the country with Fiona, but I also think he just wanted to leave…”

“Did he know anything?”

“... he seemed scared for me to stay, but only because how close I am in proximity to the Grimm-Pitch family…”

“Ebb?” I plead, eyes searching hers frantically as she appears glazed over and distant. Heartbeats between us pass irregularly before she snaps away and stares up at me, tears streaming more steadily.

“He said he’d heard a hit for Mr. Pitch’s life,” she breaks, cracking around the edges. “I didn’t believe him. I should’ve believed him. If I’d believed him--”

I stare on, throat constricting as I raise a hand. “Don’t--it’s not your fault, Ebb. It wasn’t… it was a while ago, and you were young. You cannot hold yourself at blame for the actions of others, even if the situation is so haunting.” I swallow around my words, trying to push the next ones out. “But, this is important, Ebb, so please. Did you know who said it? Where it was said?”

She wrings her hands around her navy blue scarf, knuckles bearing a bit white as she swallows down a lifetime of guilt. “I… no. I’m sorry, Simon. I just know it’s the only tavern in town…”

Searching her face, I nod and stand. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I have to run, but thank you so much.” I take her hands, shaking both of them as she nods understandingly and waves me off without a word.

I find myself sprinting up to the manor, taking stairs two at a time and rushing into the library where I know Baz is lounging with a book as he waits for my return. While perhaps a tad dramatic and unneeded, given this information is nearly two decades old, I still burst into the room with a heaving chest and eyes wide.

He stares up at me in bewilderment, eyes narrowing and mouth turning sour. “What is this fuss about--”

“We have a lead,” I say breathlessly, struggling to catch air back into my lungs as I lean on the door. “Ebb--she--the tavern--a lead.”

He bolts upright, book falling onto his lap as he studies my face. “A lead?” he asks, pushing himself to his feet carefully before limping over and standing in front of me, hands in front of his chest as he tries to decide what to do. “Good heavens, a lead!”

I nod, impulsively outstretching my hands and linking them between his. “Do we have time to run? Shall we make our leave tonight?”

His fingers curl around mine as he looks over my face, thinking. “It's Christmas Eve, man, we can't run now. But, surely, we can take a horse from the stable and ride into town after everyone has fallen asleep.” His lips twitch, threatening a smile. “At last…”

My feet shift, keeping my balance steady as I lean up to speak to him. “What do we do if we find the man?” I whisper, eyes searching his as I keep up on the balls of my feet to speak closely with him.

“We’ll decide there,” he says somewhat dismissively, hands unlocking from mine and lowering as he glances over me. “Do you plan on changing for dinner?”

I blink at the conversation change, feeling suddenly inadequate in my everyday outfit. “I hadn’t particularly planned on it, why?”

“Such a ghastly outfit for a holiday dinner, don’t you think?” he comments bluntly, rolling his eyes before catching my wrist. “Show me to your clothes; I’ll pick what should be worn for tonight.”

For the past months within this residence, the awareness my of social stature has somewhat gone mute. There’s the general activities we participate in, but since there’s little to no discussion between the family (besides Mr. Pitch and the children) and I, there’s no need to try to show up each other. This, though, changes within the flash of an eye when a holiday is presented. Unsure of whether or not we’d have company, I’d assumed my daily fashion would be proper enough, but the way Baz flips through my outfits makes my stomach churn.

“Do you have visitors?” I ask the question that should’ve been brought up long ago.

He waves a hand to dismiss it. “No.” And that’s all there is to that. No.

An outfit change for people I eat with everyday. Just as Friday dinners are, but apparently more pressuring, due to the festivities at hand. Whatever those will be.

He drags out a particularly sharp suit (a grey one), stuffing it into my arms before making a bored face as he shoos me off. Upon my return to the room, he’s nowhere to be seen.

I don’t see him again until the dinner bell rings.

As I take my seat, drawing in my chair and looking over the decorative dinner spread, he saunters in casually and nods at each of us. Suddenly, I feel naked despite such a well tailored outfit, looking dull in comparison to his. A deep maroon, with black lacing details. Every piece matches, down to the draping coat and tie. He has his hair pushed back, and his hat sits delicately and well-framing on the top of his head as a few waves of inky black lay on his shoulders.

He must catch that my jaw is slightly open, because he mocks closing it subtly. I blush, barely even knowing that I’m blushing.

Dinner is brief and joyless; a typical night’s meal, just accompanied by better dressing and more holiday based decorations. At the end, we all wish one another a good night before making off to our typical evening business. Baz and I find ourselves in his room, trying to create a sturdy game plan.

I’ve slowly grown to be more alert while in Baz’s private chambers. Despite the fact that our interactions have been remaining as relatively innocent, I still feel the prickling anxiety that a servant would walk in and have the wrong idea of the nature of our relationship. The way we act here is unusual, to say the very least. Given our slightly more turbulent interactions outside of our private conversations, it allows anyone who may know the truth of our “friendship” grounds to speculate.

Nevertheless, I make no effort to spend less time with him. I fact, more than often, I spend the night sleeping on his sofa. This way, we would research and work until our eyes couldn’t take the strain any longer and we were forced retire for the night. While I’m aware that my bedroom is feet away, I actively decide to tell myself that it’s easier to stay than to leave the room.

I elect to ignore my other thoughts on the situation.

Tonight, though, we don’t allow ourselves to get tired. I don’t believe I can, truly; the adrenaline sparked from the new revelations and the adventure only hours away keeps my mind running.

I lounge back on his long, deep velvet maroon bed bench, my gaze following him as he paces impatiently. At first thought, I consider telling him to settle near me and speak his mind, but I know how much effort that takes in itself. So, instead, I let him run himself in circles as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Baz,” I utter after watching him wear a track into the wooden floors, sitting upright as I speak. He doesn’t immediately snap away, hand up around his face and holding his forehead in the crook between his pointer and thumb. “Baz?”

His head lifts upon the second calling, blinking into consciousness and nodding. “Hm? Oh, yes. What is it?”

“I believe it’s nearly midnight,” I say, planting my feet onto the floor and forcing myself up as I button back up my smooth grey jacket. I catch him studying my every movement, gaze softening around the edges. I elect to ignore it. “Shall we make our leave?”

He nods wordlessly, collecting a heavier overcoat before instructing me to go collect my own. We meet out in the hallway, halfway between our respective bedrooms. In utter silence, we trek down to the stables and carefully tack and saddle both rides. Within minutes, we’re making our way out the far exit of the gates (the one that takes much less effort to open) and riding rapidly down the winding roads towards the town.

I stay behind Baz, trying to be aware to any dangers around us whilst failing to do so miserably. He’s utterly distracting; a cavern of darkness from behind, seemingly pitch black in comparison to the bright, freshly lain snow. I cannot see much besides the whipping tail of his jacket and the billowing of his shoulder length hair in the wind, but the bright moonlight nearly turns him blue in the dead of night, reflecting iridescently and hypnotizing me into a trance.

I don’t snap from it until we reach the edge of town, slowing our horses to a more calmed trot as we near the tavern. He guides me through, as I’m barely accustomed to the area itself.

In the dead of night, the gentle clomping of the horses’ hooves echo down the somewhat emptied alleyway, occupied only occasionally by a shying away woman of the night. It’s clear we’re not welcomed by any person in the town; it’s never a good sign when wealthy men come down in the early hours of Christmas morning. The dawning realization hits me of how much we look like we’re tempting the Devil.

Upon reaching the tavern, Baz ties off the horses nearby and leads the both of us inside, stuffing tobacco into his pipe. As the doors push open, heads turn in the dimly lit haze of the room. It reeks of hops, and the cloud of smoke nearly makes it impossible to make out faces even feet away from you. Everything's hanging heavy in haze of the the holiday drunken depression.

Confidently, Baz swaggers over to the bar, leading me to scurry behind him as he orders a local brew. I, on the other hand, stay sober in fear of needing to be the defensive brawler for both of us. In seeming disregard to his class status, Baz throws back his drink and orders a new one immediately after, melting right into the scene as he spins the rim of his mug.

As his hand reaches out for the second, a deep, ugly voice snarls something from the other end of the bar. He sits closer to the fireplace, silhouetting his figure. In the hidden identity, he still bites a characterful commentary towards my companion. “Why is such a pigeon-livered boy like you here?”

Baz stiffens beside me, fingertip still tracing the rim as his eyes remain downcasted.

“I said,” the scraping of wood reverberates in my ears despite the chatter around us as the man stands away from the table, “what’s your business here, ratbag?”

Without raising his head, the voice beside me addresses the offensively bold man. “I’m trying to find out information. Doubt you’ve got the brains for it, though.” As the other man draws closer, I can smell the wafting stench coming from him. A cocktail of liquor and sweat, seeping into his clothes and giving the illusion that he lives to drink and drinks to live.

“You got plenty of years of education, you don’t need to learn nothing here.”

“Somebody knows more than I.”

I finally grow the gut to raise my eyes, peering up at the man who drew closer and finding myself meeting an unexpectedly familiar face. He looks like a near mirror image for Ebb, yet more time worn and tattered. It strikes me as almost as a blow to the head, sending me mentally toppling back in my seat.

This must be Nicodemus.

It all ruminates inside me, trying to catch up the situation. I had believed he left; I’d imagined that Baz had expected him to have left as well, but there he is. In the flesh.

In a disheveled, depressing state.

“Tell me, Mr. Petty,” Baz keeps his eyes focused elsewhere, finding themselves on his pipe as he turns it in his hand and returns it to his lips after swallowing the remnants of his second drink. “Who killed my mother? What did they want from her?”

The man’s eyes flicker over him, seeming a tad amused as he begins. “There was a difference there, Mr. Pitch, between who killed her, and the person who wanted something.”

Baz clearly pushes back his discomfort, head lifting as he fearfully looks over the man. “A hit, then?” Nicodemus nods. “Who was it?”

“You must me mad to think I’d tell you.”

“I’ll pay,” he offers quickly. “It’ll feed your habits for a while, if you take it. You can keep your facade of hiding for a little longer.”

The man pauses briefly, sitting at the bar beside Baz as he orders another drink. After he downs it, Baz impatiently cuts in. “What’s your point in hiding it? It’s done now, it should mean nothing to you.”

A longer stretch of silence between us extends, and the reality of his answer hits the brilliantly bright Baz before it reaches me.

“It wasn’t her, was it?” he breathes, eyes blowing wide as he backs up towards me. I resist the urge to reach out and drag him close. “It was meant for me.”

Nicodemus pulls his lip into his mouth, looking at Baz with a shockingly familiar look of empathetic sadness before his face falls flat once more. “I would watch my back if I were you, Mr. Pitch. You’re focusing on the wrong attacks now.”

As quickly Nicodemus’ cryptic messages spill out, the faster Baz bolts from his seat and leaves in a flurry of his dark coat and starling rush of footsteps. I freeze momentarily before following out, shouting his name as I watch him untie his own horse and take off, not even hesitating to my voice. In a panic, I shakily untie my own ride and race down the roads, following his far off figure as the kickback sprays more outwardly behind me.

Thankfully, he slows down after we reach nearly a quarter of the way back to his family’s residence. I expect him to fall into step with me and simply trail me home, but he abruptly stops and dismantles before doubling over and panting.

I pull up beside him, stepping off my horse slowly. Baz startles, staring down at me as I approach. Swiftly, he outstretches his hands and shoves me down onto the snow, snapping a tearful “Leave!” before disappearing into the woods.

In a chaotic, disorienting blur, I follow him in, hopelessly shouting his name. Eventually, I find him backed up against a snowy log and frantically searching his pockets. As I approach, he looks as skittish as a deer in the midst of a hunt. He practically yelps, chest still heaving as his hands fly to my chest and jacket, throwing it open. His hands dig into my pockets, shouting barely coherent cries in front of me.

“Good God man, where do you keep your dagger? Your sword? For the love of all that is fair, any blade will do!”

I feel my vision get dizzied, partially by the proximity and sliding of his touches, but also by the distressing rapidness of his words. In a haze, I slot my hands around his jaw and cup around it to feel his smooth, well shaved cheeks. He continues shouting, crying and begging me for a knife as I shake my head, trying to break through his words.

“Please, Baz,” I yell back, shaking him slightly as his hands dig through each of our pockets once more. “Listen to me, just listen!”

“It’s my fault,” he cries dismissively, “just please, grant me the fate I’d meant to be given.”

“Baz!” I snap, pulling his jaw forward and staring into his searching, wild eyes as tears stream down his frozen cheeks. “Good heavens, I beg of you to stop this now!”

He shakes his heads, warping further into an incoherent jumble that it makes me feel as if I’m the insane one, begging for a dagger.

In a whirlwind, fear fueled moment of total desperation, I pull his head forward and slam my lips into his in order to quiet him for just a brief second. To my surprise, it works immediately. His hands going limp and freeze against the fabric of my suit jacket, his mouth keeping up against mine in shock. After moments pass, I feel him push back into me, hands sliding up my chest and gripping whatever can get a hold of as he kisses me back with the force of a battle.

After a minute or so of rough, clumsy kissing, he makes the move to pull back and practically hyperventilate against me. Slowly, I snake my hands up his front and hold his hair, attempting to coach him through his breathing. I let him come down against me, stroking his head and murmuring sweet soothing words.

Despite the wet seeping through to my leg in this calf-deep snow at our feet, I stand still with him as he trembles and folds over on top of me. We stay put at first, unmoving and pressed up against one another. I consider moving to see him, but my mind begins whirling back into reality. What if I spook him into running again? What if I’d ruined our budding possible friendship with kissing him?

My mind gets cut short by lips pressing to mine. At first, it’s tentative; unsure motions and little, tracing touches of his fingers finding the exposed skin of my neck. Then, upon my positive response, it suddenly sparks back to heated and fervent, tumbling me back into the blanket of snow as his body covers mine.