Chapter Nine #2
“When do I ever want to go to the Rat Cellar?” asked David.
“You do, though.” Meredith turned in his seat to put his feet up on Sylvania’s vacated chair. “I figure I’ve got about a two-thirds success rate getting you to go out.”
“Well, consider tonight the other one-third,” said David, returning from the kitchen. “Besides, the name alone is enough to drive any sensible person away.”
“But it’s brilliant! You see, it’s a pun on Ratskeller.”
“Yes, you’ve explained before,” said David.
#65: He attempts, in fact, to explain this every time.
“Besides, the place isn’t a proper Ratskeller at all.” It might have been at one point in the distant past, but for as long as David had known it, the graffiti-adorned bar had little to offer beyond cheap beer and a rotation of mediocre punk and goth bands.
“Oh, come on, you must admit it’s a clever name.”
Personally, David was inclined to admit nothing of the sort. “Yes, well, I suppose I fail to grasp the Germanic sense of humor.”
Meredith considered that. “I don’t think we’ve got much of one, really. Collectively speaking.” Then he perked up again. “Oh, but they’ve got Desperation Pie playing tonight, they’re quite good.”
David gathered the empty cake plates and snatched Meredith’s cup from his hand, ignoring his cry of indignation.
“Thank you, but no,” said David firmly. “I do not wish to go to the Rat Cellar, and I certainly do not wish to go out anywhere with you. Two beers in and you’re either abandoning me to go off chasing after anybody who catches your eye or making a spectacle of yourself shouting at the band to play ‘Anglepoise Lamp.’ ”
Meredith narrowed his eyes but didn’t bother denying it. “Yeah, well, I can think of a way for you to put a stop to both.”
David picked up a stray dessert fork and gave up on attempting to parse that nonsensical statement. “What in the world are you on about?”
Meredith frowned. “What am I on about?” he echoed in apparent incomprehension of his own words, eyes traveling once more to the obsidian ring.
#66: Half the time he doesn’t even make sense to himself.
Making the last trip to the kitchen sink, David didn’t dignify the question with a reply.
“Well, as you like,” said Meredith. “Your loss. I don’t suppose the man’s come about the washroom yet?”
“No, not until tomorrow,” said David. “You’ll have to use mine.”
At last, as Meredith went to take a shower, David had a moment’s peace. Not much longer, he told himself. As early as tomorrow, if all went well, he could be making an offer on a house. Still, there was no sense mentioning it to Bednarek—or Meredith, for that matter—until it was a sure thing.
The peace, as usual, was short-lived. David was just glancing at his email on the way to his own room when the crash sounded from the bathroom.
“All right?” he called, pocketing his phone.
Instead of a reply, there came a second crash, as of ceramic hitting the floor tiles, and, clearly audible from the other side of the door: “Oh, hell.”
“Do you need help?”
The question was facetious. Naturally, Meredith took him up on it. “Would you?”
Cursing himself, David pushed open the door and stepped into the heady mixture of steam and heat and the scent of patchouli.
Though the two of them had shared a house for several years, neither was in the habit of appearing in common areas in a state of undress.
Consequently, David found himself entirely unprepared for the sight of Meredith with nothing but a towel around his waist, for the jarring contrast of dark ink and pale skin before the initial overwhelming impression separated itself into details.
David had seen the tattoos on his arms many times.
He had caught the occasional glimpse of the vaguely tribal, vaguely floral motif below his pierced navel, and the flock of Steadman bats along his collarbone.
Though he hadn’t been aware of the specifics, he was by no means surprised at two other previously unseen tattoos: a few lines of script over the ribs and, dead center of his chest, a black and spiky thing that David just recognized as a heavily stylized love heart, split open in places to reveal tiny, faceted slivers of deep ruby.
He had not known about the nipple piercings. He could have happily gone on not knowing.
#67: That is, unfortunately, no longer an option.
David cleared his throat. “What’s the trouble?”
Meredith held out an open jar of an oily greenish substance—Mrs. Jupiter’s healing salve. “Bit difficult at this angle,” he said apologetically.
David didn’t follow until Meredith turned, displaying his latest tattoo, a peacock feather trailing down his spine. It was the too-real bright black of fresh ink, with a few minuscule color details in the eye.
Perching on the edge of the vanity, Meredith swept his hair out of the way over his shoulder; though he hadn’t washed it, the ends were wet from the shower. A single rivulet of water ran down his back.
David’s eyes followed. Then, realizing, he tore his gaze away and blinked hard. The steam, he suspected, was slowly cooking his brain.
Best to get things over with. David scooped a large quantity of ointment onto his fingers and spread it between Meredith’s shoulder blades; the surrounding skin was pink and warm to the touch. Despite David’s efforts to be gentle, Meredith gave a hiss of pain.
David considered telling him that he ought to have known exactly what he was letting himself in for; similarly, he had no shortage of potential remarks on the subject of beggars and choosers.
What he ended up saying instead was, quietly, “All right?”
“Yeah,” said Meredith. “It’s just everybody says spine tattoos kill, and I mean, I believed it, only, knowing firsthand is something else.”
With the lightest touch he could manage, David resumed his task. Before long, he found himself uncomfortably aware of Meredith’s proximity, of his every little twitch and intake of breath. To break the silence, he asked, “This is good for tattoos, is it?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Meredith. “It’ll be all healed by morning.”
“Here, turn a bit, would you?”
As Meredith shifted position, David caught sight of the deep ugly bruise on his side. He reached out, fingers brushing over the spot. “What happened here?”
Meredith tensed at David’s touch but didn’t turn around. “Ah. That’s from the other day.”
“I didn’t realize Brian actually hit you when he threw that jar.” A sudden anger flared to life inside him.
“It’s not—” Meredith began, but David cut him off.
“Believe me,” he interrupted, “I’d have given him a bit more than a piece of my mind if I’d known.” His gaze fell upon the jar in his hand. “Is this good for bruises as well?”
There was a long pause as Meredith considered. “Don’t see why not,” he said at last. “Never occurred to me to try it.”
David gathered nearly the last of the salve from the bottom of the jar and carefully applied it over the area of the bruise. He could feel every rib beneath his fingers.
“Look,” he said gruffly, “if you happen to see him around, or if—if anybody gives you any trouble—” David broke off, not quite sure himself what he was trying to articulate and already regretting the attempt.
The steam, he told himself. He really must get out into cooler air.
It was insufferable and probably unsafe, the way Meredith had practically turned the place into a sauna.
Meredith leaned back and rested his head against David’s shoulder, heedless of the wet tips of his hair dampening his shirt collar. “I know,” he said sincerely. “I’ll be all right, so long as I’ve got you looking out for me.”
#68: He just had to go and speak that cosmic temptation into existence.