Something Wild #2
Liquid courage and glass crashed to the floor, followed by a cry of outrage at the loss. Kept upright by those around him, the offended person whirled around with a fist raised. Upon seeing Watt, the man faltered.
Something like recognition and fear widened his bloodshot eyes, and his lips parted in a way that reminded Watt of childhood.
But what tipped Watt over the edge and into impossibility was a mole beneath the man’s left ear.
Dark and round, the size of a pencil eraser.
Watt’s fingers twitched at his sides. He could not restrain his tongue, or his inevitable curiosity.
It's what nearly ruined him time and time again, after all. Asking what if.
And today was no different. He whispered, “Annie?”
The patron laughed, and it was so damn glacial that Watt's blood froze.
“Nah,” he said, and punched Watt in the face.
Watt’s nose suffered for his mistake, fracturing beneath the impressive force behind the other man’s knuckles. First blood spurred fights between those who had nothing to do with the matter and those who did, giving those itching for release the excuse to do so.
The man’s aggression didn’t wane, and neither did his attempts to land another blow.
He was paced and methodical, but his favored left leg betrayed his weakness.
Watt clung to defense, but it was a struggle to stay out of the man’s reach.
Despite the man’s size he was quick on his feet, and he nearly landed several blows.
Hot blood trickled down the back of Watt’s throat, and the white hot pain in his nose was a brilliant reminder that his heart wasn’t as dead as he once thought.
“Enough!” Watt shouted.
His opponent said nothing, only growing more furious with each missed opportunity. If there was one thing Watt was exceptionally good at, it was avoiding bloodshed. Unfortunately, avoiding violence required a knowledge of how to inflict it in the first place, and God knew he’d done enough of that.
“Hey! I’m sorry!” Watt tried again.
Again, the man said nothing. He came at Watt like his life depended on it, his eyes like knives glinting beneath the bar’s dim lights. His hair had been slicked back, but now it hung over his forehead in sweaty impressions of curls. Perhaps if it were longer, the curls would be more pronounced.
There was something wild about the way he moved, his limbs cut through the air with a deftness that threatened to distract Watt.
Unable to deflect a particularly vicious wallop aimed for his kidney, Watt shouted and the man growled in response like a feral animal.
Watt spun around, prepared to block again, but his opponent had forfeit.
He slipped through the chaos and further into the bar, curses rolling off his tongue in French and English.
Watt staggered forward, hands opening at his sides.
He paused, then shook his head and opted for escape.
He fled in the opposite direction his enemy had gone, and within moments he stumbled out onto the street, which was twice as loud as when he had left it last. Blood oozed from his nose onto the wooden pavers, the leakage at a slower pace than before.
A siren wailed at the opposite end of the narrow street, followed by shouting.
Fear was a belated guest, riding on the heels of the realization about the type of place he’d been, the consequences of his presence there. Not only a speakeasy, but one with an eccentric crowd that could be arrested for simply existing, let alone drinking.
“And you’re not one of those filthy fairies, are you?”
Watt limped back the way he came, doing his best to bury his father’s voice and avoid confrontation with others wandering home and elsewhere.
He did his best to keep the hotel in his mind’s eye, but it was a difficult task considering that a massive fucking headache, a bruised kidney, and whirlwind thoughts dogged his every step.
Nonetheless, he prevailed in this venture, at the very least. The late hour ensured Watt made it through the hotel’s lobby without incident, and a generous tip kept the concierge from asking questions regarding his battered face.
He encountered no one else, the narrow halls were dim and the overwhelming silence broken only by his keys jingling as they slid home.
He glanced over his shoulder at the door directly across from his, then shook his head.
She didn’t need to be woken up at this hour with his personal problems. Watt entered the cool darkness, and shut the door behind him.
For a moment, only worrying silence welcomed him.
Then the bed frame groaned, and a long yawn followed.
He sighed with relief and proceeded to cross the room, settling down on the edge of the bed.
He peeled his shoes off, eyes adjusting to the dark.
Maggie rubbed against Watt’s side, inhaling the places he’d been from his clothes and skin.
She huffed against his neck where she discovered the night’s events and licked his cheek, then sneezed her dismissal when he flinched away in pain.
Maggie returned to her very important job of warming up the bed, and Watt’s lips quirked at her nonchalance.
Oh, to be a dog. She was a typical German Shepherd, with more black fur than brown.
White and grey peppered her thick coat, and a plethora of minute scars decorated her snout.
Her eyes, a soulful brown, spoke of many years.
After slowly undressing, Watt dragged himself into the bathroom and turned on the light.
His face was an ugly mess of blood, and his nasal bones were wrenched out of place.
Luckily, it appeared to be an easy fix. Watt reset the rebellious bones, not for the first time, and groaned in response to the nauseating pain that exploded through his face, nearly worse than the break itself.
He gripped the edges of the sink, steadying himself against waves of agony and nausea.
After a few moments, he shakily washed his face the best that he could.
Blood lingered in the stubble along his jaw, and stubborn bits dried in the hair at his temples.
He closed his eyes.
Recognition. Fear. Anger, oh, was there anger.
Watt shut off the bathroom light and crawled into bed beside his companion, naked as the day he was born.
Maggie laid atop the blankets, which Watt pulled up around his neck.
He rested his hand between her ears, gently stroking her fur.
He stared into the dark and finally allowed himself to examine, and accept, several hard truths.
He found Annie, who most certainly did not want to be found, least of all by him.
The prospect of dying in the jungle without speaking his piece was a hard truth to swallow, but he had no choice.
And perhaps this was the world’s way of telling him he never deserved to be forgiven in the first place.
It was not the first time Cornelius’ roommate nursed him back to health, but it was the first time he’d done so in such silence.
Giovanni was disappointed in him, which cut deeper than his anger would have.
He flushed blood and grime out of the scrapes over his knuckles, and proceeded to wrap his hands.
After withdrawing from his fight with Watt, Cornelius had sought out others.
He'd been winning until Giovanni found him, and the distraction had landed him with a black eye.
Cornelius summoned all his willpower in order to do the only helpful thing he could.
Stay still, and not throw up on Giovanni’s shoes.
It was a difficult feat, and it had nothing to do with the drink.
If Cornelius had one positive trait, it was that he could handle himself after even the most ambitious of nights.
But his pain was beyond belief, both in his leg and heart.
Cornelius stared down at his own loafers, scuffed brown toes inches away from the polished black leather of Giovanni’s.
Irritation coursed through him with vicious intent, preventing the night’s events from passing in a pleasant blur like they typically did.
He couldn’t help but twist himself into knots over the whole ordeal, and closed his eyes in an attempt to shut it all out. Like that ever helped.
Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that Watt Johnson would waltz back into his life, interjecting himself into the one corner of the world Cornelius had carved out for himself and deemed safe.
His, and his alone. Cornelius’ family knew where he lived, but they hardly intruded upon his life in person.
Cornelius couldn’t fathom why he was there, or how Watt had recognized him.
It wouldn’t surprise Cornelius if his ever meddlesome Mama told Watt where he was, but why?
Watt had closed the door between them years ago, and Mama and Papa had practically locked it shut behind him.
It’d been fifteen years, and the idea that parts of who Cornelius used to be lingered in the person he was now was unsettling, to say the least. The sound of his old name on Watt’s lips danced on the fringes of his brain over and over again, and his skin crawled with every rendition of it.
He'd imagined their reunion, long ago of course, and despite his clear disgust over Cornelius' new identity, he never imagined Watt using his old name.
He hadn’t heard it in years, and forgotten how much it made him want to scream.
“There,” Giovanni said, tapping Cornelius’ forearm once before leaning back. His chair creaked, and Giovanni sighed with great effort.
Cornelius opened his eyes, clearing rawness from his throat. “Thank you.”