Broken Guns

[translations at the end of the chapter]

The sky had opened and an endless rain had begun, pouring so hard against the thin roof of their room that neither Ezra nor Emmerich had even tried for sleep. It was as though they were inside of a stretched-skin drum, with coins pelting down upon it. Emmerich was almost sure that the roof would eventually give way beneath the force of it all, or at least begin to leak. The streets had turned to mud below, and besides the rain there came the loud rush of water through the roof gutters.

Ezra and Emmerich sat up by candlelight, amidst the clutter and shadows, and made inventory of everything they had found within the crate. It kept them busy, occupied their minds, and neither of them spoke. They simply worked in comfortable silence, the only sound the rain clattering relentlessly against the printing house. They had a few tallow candles between them on the table, which smelt horribly but provided a longer light than the rushlights and a brighter one than the oil lantern.

“And I thought that it felt like snow earlier,” Emmerich said idly, reaching to light another candle with the dwindling stub of another.

Ezra smiled at him, an open and comfortable expression that was brightened even further by the candlelight. They were both in much better spirits than they’d been in days and even with the cold and the damp and the unrelenting noise of the rain, Emmerich felt at a sort of peace. Trouble would come to them later, no doubt, but for this moment he could find nothing to worry himself over.

“I think I’ve an idea of who our unexpected friends at the canal were,” Ezra said then. He was examining the pistol he had taken off the man he’d shot in the neck, twisting it about in his hands. The wood of the grip was grey and the metal tarnished, the barrel very narrow and curiously elongated. “Have a look here.”

Ezra held the pistol out towards Emmerich, the base of the grip pointed to him. There was a kind of brand at the bottom of it, scratched or pressed into the metal. Emmerich peered at it, making out letters arranged in the symbol but, as always, taking some time to recognize them as such and to read them.

“OFK?” he said, when he was sure.

“It’s the Öggwollrog Company. The fishing trade, up in Norrbygd,” said Ezra. He turned the pistol nimbly about in his fingers, flipped it so he was looking down the length of it. “They’re mostly an honest establishment, but some of their men can go for shadier work, what with all of the traveling about to different ports. Makes for simple smuggling and trade, some extra income on the side.”

“And they would care about a box of four pistols and bullets and metal workings, why?” Emmerich said, and Ezra only lifted a shoulder.

“I only know that this is the Öggwollrog mark,” he said. “Looks like it was scratched on by hand—OFK doesn’t manufacture anything themselves, certainly not arms. But I’d assume these were men who are, or were once, with the company. What I heard them speak, it was a northern tongue. Perhaps they were just men like us, like the others. Looking for something that will help them survive.”

The others; Bartho and his two companions. The two of whom were now dead and Bartho himself likely escaped somewhere, as Emmerich had not seen him nor his body after the shooting had begun. He was not concerned about the man as a threat, especially now robbed of his companions. Yet not knowing what had become of him was troubling; perhaps because it made him one more lost thread in the strange tapestry that was being woven in in the city’s downmarket, a pattern that neither Emmerich nor Ezra could fully see.

Ezra shivered suddenly and drew his coat tighter about him, then pulled one of the candles closer to himself. They had no fire going in their small hearth, since they did not want to open a window to let the smoke from it out—that would only bring in more cold, and the damp as well. The room smelt enough of wet wool and soggy wood as it was. The tallow candles were all they had, and they were only very little light and very little warmth.

Emmerich was built more sturdily than Ezra, perhaps more thick-skinned as well, and did not chill as quickly. They sat apart across the table now, but there would be nothing untoward if they were to sit beside each other instead if only for a little heat. They slept beside one another every night, after all. Perhaps they could even go to bed now, if not for sleep than to simply to hold on to each other, for comfort and warmth and—

There came a rap upon the door.

“Yes,” Ezra called out, and the door opened and Luca peered in. He held an iron clip with a light in it and looked to be only half-dressed, wearing trousers but a night-shirt. “Ah, Luca. Couldn’t sleep as well?”

“I heard you speaking, knew you were up,” Luca said. He came in with the iron holder, set it on the table near the candles. There were only two chairs at the table, so he leant against the wall nearby.

“You heard us over all of this?” Ezra said with a laugh, gesturing a hand upwards.

“Noticed the light as well. I see you’ve a new load of wealth here,” Luca said, sweeping his hand towards the contents of the table. “Where’s it come from?”

“I’d rather not tell you anything about it, honestly,” Ezra said. Emmerich noticed suddenly that the northern pistol was nowhere in sight. “It would be likely to only draw you into trouble, and you’re inviting enough of it as it is keeping us here.”

“I suppose that’s truth enough,” Luca said. “But it’s all under my roof—yourselves, and that money, somewhere—“ his eyes flickered about, and Emmerich had a sudden thought that Luca might have looked for the satchels at some time when he and Ezra had not been here, and not found them. He could not truly be angry with the man over it, not after knowing what Vena did to help them survive.

Emmerich had truly not thought about the money at all for some time—only the repercussions of having taken it, as they were the most immediately pressing. Now that he was remembered of it, he was beginning to think that he and Ezra ought to do something more with it than keeping it stuffed between the boards of the wall. It wasn’t of any use, to anyone at all, there. And of the three of them, clearly Luca was in the most need of it.

Ezra must have been thinking something of the same, because he leant forward upon his elbow, his eyes dark against the candlelight.

“How exactly did you get yourself into such debt, Luca?” he said. “Oughtn’t you have been more responsible, especially with Vena to look after?”

“I don't see how it's any concern of yours,” said Luca, with a sudden edge to his voice.

“Well, I do. Your daughter is—“ Ezra began hotly, but Emmerich caught his wrist beneath the table and turned it hard, hoping to quiet him before he told a secret that was not his to share.

“—worried,” Ezra finished, through his teeth. Emmerich let up on his arm, concerned that he’d hurt him, but Ezra was sturdier than that. He was only aggravated, and it was showing clearly on his face. “About you, about your livelihood. As am I.”

“And what business of it is yours, Ezra?” Luca said. “You can’t drop in and out of our lives this way, telling us what we ought to do after we’ve not laid eyes on you for nearly a year. You've no right.”

“Haven’t I?” Ezra said. “I oughtn’t be allowed to care simply because I was gone for a time? Things weren’t this dire for you a year back, perhaps I ought never to leave at all if you can’t manage your own affairs, if you only get yourself into foolish situations with your funds—”

“Ezra,” Emmerich said then, quietly but with force. “Halt die Klappe.”

Ezra looked to him, startled, enough so that he seemed to be at a loss for any next words. Luca appeared to have had enough of him anyway, and pushed off from the wall and strode across the room to the door, forgetting his rushlight on the table. Ezra said not a word to call him back, just settled back in his chair and folded his arms with no apparent concern. When the door had closed behind Luca, and his footsteps had faded from their hearing leaving only the sound of the rain, Emmerich turned to Ezra.

“Why don’t we give Luca some of the money,” he said. “There’s so much of it, and we haven’t used it for ourselves.”

“I suppose,” Ezra said, but sounded unconvinced. He pulled out the northern pistol from somewhere beneath the table, and began to examine it again.

“We wouldn’t have to simply give it to him. If we were only to lend it—“

“Then he’d only be in the same predicament with us that he is with his other collectors,” Ezra said.

“But we wouldn’t harm him for his debts. And we could take other payment back, other than money—if we needed something printed, say, or—just for allowing us to stay here...”

“What would we ever need printed?” Ezra asked, and Emmerich shook his head.

“Nothing. I only thought—“

“And it’s a good thought, Emery, it is. I only think we ought to survive having taken it before we start passing it out to others.” Ezra leaned back, still playing with the northern pistol, running his fingertips over the etched symbol in the metal.

“I suppose,” Emmerich said, and Ezra did have a point.

“Oh, let’s not fight about it,” Ezra said. “We’ll think of it later; I’m not wholly against it. Just, now—the timing’s rather unfortunate.”

“I think the timing might always be unfortunate,” Emmerich muttered.

Ezra laughed, though it had a bit of a tiredness to it. “You're right in that,” he said. He leant forward suddenly, to take up the box that held the Acllaum pistols in it, and in doing so shifted another aside. Emmerich caught sight of the metal oddments and workings it held, which seemed to have no place amongst bullets and guns, and a faint idea began to take hold at an edge of his mind.

Ezra opened the box that held the pistols and spun it, so that the neat silver line of their hammers faced towards Emmerich, glinting in the candlelight. “By the way,” he said. “Which of these four very identical pistols would you like?”

Emmerich leant back in his chair. “I’d rather keep on using the bulldog for now.”

Ezra looked to him, a quick frown flitting across his features. “You’re very sure?”

“I don’t trust these little things.” Emmerich nicked the handle of one of the delicate-looking pistols, sending up a bright metallic ting from it.

“You have strange loyalties,” Ezra said, but Emmerich ignored him. It wasn’t much of a loyalty, but rather a desire to stay with the familiar. Perhaps his pistol was no great value, but he understood it, and a new one wasn’t going to make him any better of a shot than he was.

“Well, we’ll still keep them either way,” Ezra went on. “At least for a while; trying to sell or trade them would be a careless move at the moment.”

“Naturally.”

Ezra seemed to hear the curtness in Emmerich’s voice, which he had not meant to let show—but he was getting rather tired of Ezra’s opinions intruding everywhere, especially in places they ought not to be. About debts, about pistols, about how others should conduct their lives.

“The rain’s let up some,” Emmerich said, which at least was true. He rose from his chair, stretching his shoulders back. “I’m going to try for sleep.”

“All right,” said Ezra carelessly, making no move of his own from his chair. He was beginning instead to disassemble the northern pistol in slow but certain movements, learning its pieces as he took them apart and laid them out neatly upon the table. Emmerich took off his coat and shoes and rolled himself into the blankets, facing the wall away from Ezra. The rain continued to patter at the roof, quieter than before, and Emmerich closed his eyes.

#

He was unsure if Ezra ever came to bed, for when Emmerich woke in the morning the bedding beside him was cool and the boy himself was dressed and scrubbed up and seemed to be readying to go out altogether. There was a small handful of money set on the table, which Ezra scooped up and stowed into a pocket of his trousers as Emmerich watched, braced upon one elbow.

“What’s that for?” he asked, expecting Ezra to startle or turn. He did neither, instead fiddling at his braces and wedging his boot on more firmly by pressing the heel of it against the table leg, his back to Emmerich.

“Well,” he said. “I’ve decided that we’ll pay Luca a bit of due for our stay, and I’m out to the market now so that we’re also not eating him poor as well.”

Emmerich couldn’t help but smile at this sudden charitable turn, no doubt brought on by their conversation of the night before. It was not what Emmerich had asked of him, but perhaps it was better. He was coming to understand that Ezra simply did not comprehend what it truly meant to be this poor, to be desperate and needing to support more than just one’s own self, and a part of him would never fathom why Luca hadn’t just done something else to keep from owing. Ezra hadn’t spoken out of arrogance, just an inability to comprehend—a thoughtlessness that held no rancor.

Ezra turned about then, his expression gone a bit soft. “I’ll not be long,” he said., then tilted his head. “Unless you’d like to come as well.”

“No, I think I’ll rather stay in today,” Emmerich said. Perhaps it would do them good to spend just a little time apart—after all they had hardly left each other since meeting, except for the hour or so that Emmerich had gone to see Archie. It was no wonder they were having moments of exasperation with each other by now, after nearly a fortnight of this close living.

“All right then,” said Ezra easily enough, reaching for his coat. “Don’t get too bored without me.”

“I’ll manage to occupy myself, I’m sure,” Emmerich said. Ezra turned his head just enough for Emmerich to see the edge of his smile, and then he was slipping out of the door and closing it softly behind him.

Emmerich listened to his footsteps creaking along the floorboards until they reached the back stairs. Then he got himself out of the bed and dressed, forgoing his coat because even though it was still chilled inside the room, he wanted to have the easy mobility of his arms. He also left off his braces, for another reason. Then he took out the box of metal bits and pieces that had come in the stolen crate, as well as his small toolkit, and went to work.

Ezra returned before the afternoon, looking pleased with himself and carrying a pasty in each hand, one of which was in a half-eaten state. Emmerich only gave him the briefest of glances when he entered their room, most of his attention focused quite deeply elsewhere. He had spread his work out over the floor near the window, as the floor was roomier than the table and there was much more light here to see by.

“One for you as well!” said Ezra, waving the flaking pastry in its thin paper sleeve.

“Danke. Auf dem Tisch, bitte,” Emmerich replied, voice muffled from the tool clamped between his teeth.

“You are concentrating, aren't you,” Ezra said, amused, and crossed the room to place the pasty on the table as asked. He dropped down in a chair and chewed at the corner of his own meal, his eyes on Emmerich. Emmerich could feel Ezra’s gaze prickling at the back of his neck, disruptive to his concentration. But after a few moments it no longer bothered him, and he sunk back into his work.

Ezra had half-undressed himself and fallen asleep curled up on their bed the next time Emmerich looked up, one arm thrown across his eyes against the watery light coming in at the window. While the rain had not returned, everything remained soggy and swollen and there was a heavy dampness to the air. Water from the overfilled gutters trickled down the edges of their window. The shadows they cast trickled over Emmerich’s shirtsleeves and hands.

Sometime even later, Emmerich noticed Ezra sitting up, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. He was vaguely aware of the boy leaving the bed and getting to his feet, but more important was setting a final spring into place.

“Emery, you haven’t eaten yet,” came Ezra’s voice from the direction of the table now.. “What are you tinkering with over there that's got you so involved?”

“Only an idea,” Emmerich said, looking round his shoulder. “You’ll see if it comes together.”

Ezra laughed, and Emmerich felt the familiar warmth in his chest that kindled whenever he heard that sound. “All right,” he said. “Is that my boot?”

He had taken it whilst Ezra slept. “Don’t worry, I’ll not ruin it.”

“Well, I suppose I trust you,” Ezra said, and his smile was bright and playful. Emmerich ducked his head back to his work to hide his flush—not only from Ezra’s teasing manner but also his words. It was always a pleasure to hear Ezra speak of trusting him, and would have been no matter how appealing Emmerich found him.

Ezra came across to him then and rested his chin on Emmerich's shoulder, peering down at the work he had scattered across the floor. He smelled a bit of soot and wet wool and the out-of-doors. “Looks complicated,” he observed.

“Not terribly,” Emmerich said. The way Ezra was against him, his chest pressed lightly to Emmerich's back, scattered his thoughts and heated his skin. And then Ezra put an arm about him and held something up before Emmerich's face, a brown and white shape that smelled of turnip and onion.

“Are you trying to feed me yourself?” Emmerich said, though his stomach suddenly clamored at the presense of food, and at the reminder that he hadn’t eaten all day but for a piece of dried meat earlier.

“If you won't eat on your own I'll have to do it for you,” said Ezra, quite seriously. If only to appease him, Emmerich leaned in and bit off the top corner of the flaking dough. There was still warmth trapped within the pasty, and bits of warm cooked vegetable crumbled in his mouth. It was much improved from a dried bit of meat.

Ezra continued to hold it for Emmerich as he worked, and stayed rather close up against his back and shoulder. It was strange, but perhaps a way of Ezra offering an apology—despite that Emmerich was hardly even thinking of their tiff any longer. It did no good to dwell on these things, he could no more change Ezra’s past than his own. He rather thought that Luca deserved more of an apology than himself..

“Can I help in any way?” Ezra asked, once Emmerich had eaten the whole of the pasty out of his hand and there was only a bit of greasy paper left behind. Ezra crumpled it up and tossed it towards their tiny hearth.

“You could find me a pillowslip, or a sack, or anything that we could stuff up a bit with cloth or rags,” Emmerich said. Ezra looked puzzled by this, but he did as asked and went to root about in the cluttered corners of their room. He came back with a rough jute sack with several others stuffed up inside, and held it up for Emmerich to see.

“Will this do?”

“Nicely,” said Emmerich. “I think I’ve about finished here.”

“All right,” Ezra said with interest. “Let’s see it what it is, then.”

“Show you, more like. Come here,” said Emmerich, and Ezra willingly put the jute aside and went to him. Emmerich caught him by the shoulders and stopped him, positioning him in an open area of the room with clear space all around him. Ezra only seemed amused by it, at least until Emmerich went to a knee before him and put a hand to the side of his leg, near his belt.

“Emery,” Ezra said then, his voice gone strange and soft.

Emmerich cleared his throat, and shook the harness in his other hand. “I’m just going to fix this round your leg and to your belt.”

There came a long pause, during which Emmerich kept his gaze firmly on Ezra’s boots and nothing else.

“All right,” Ezra said, finally, his tone untelling. “Go on.”

Ezra’s leg was warm through his trousers and Emmerich could not help but glean a sort of comfort from it; feeling the life of another person beneath his hands. The muscles of Ezra’s thigh flexed as he shifted in place, adjusting his stance. When Emmerich gave him his altered boot to put on, he did so by bracing one hand on Emmerich’s shoulder and pulling it on with the other. Then Emmerich began to connect the long strap from his waist to the mechanism he had built inside, which rested just below Ezra’s knee at the top of his tall boot.

“If you wore this elsewhere it would need to go on before you put your trousers on,” Emmerich told the side of Ezra’s leg. The straps would be meant to go through small slits that would be cut into the trouser fabric above the boot, so that the main mechanism rested in the inside of the boot but the tension line would run against Ezra’s leg beneath his trousers. “So it would be hidden.”

“I imagine so,” Ezra said. His voice was still careful. Emmerich thought this must be mortifying for him, and he tried to work as quickly as he could. He wished he could tell Ezra to not be ashamed, that he had the same wants and needs, but he was still afraid of what it could mean if he did. That Ezra might not take him up on it, or that he would.

“I made it to fit you,” Emmerich said then, if only to distract them both from what he was doing. If they kept speaking, there would not be any strange silences.

Ezra flicked his fingers against the back of Emmerich’s head. “And you knew my measurements how?” His voice was playful again, and Emmerich was glad of it.

“Took them while you were sleeping,” he said, before he could think better of the jest. He hadn’t done so, not at all—he simply had a good eye for dimensions and had rightly guessed Ezra’s.

Ezra’s smile faltered, his eyes uncertain, and he seemed at a loss for what to say next.

“I only estimated,” Emmerich said, more quietly. “That’s all.”

“Emery—“ Ezra began, but then fell silent and did not speak again until Emmerich was climbing back to his feet.

“There,” he said, moving a distance away and looked Ezra over. The collection of metal pieces and cut bits of braces made a strange addition to the side of Ezra’s body, but would be hardly noticeable if worn beneath clothes. Or so was the idea. Ezra was bending himself at the middle, curving over to examine the full appearance of the mechanisms.

“All right,” he said, glancing up again with a smile. “Now what is it?”

Emmerich went and retrieved the stuffed jute sack whilst Ezra watched, hands braced on his hips. He propped it up in one of the chairs, resting against the back of it lengthwise. Not the most functional set up, but it might do for a simple demonstration. He turned the chair about so that it faced Ezra.

“Now put your knee into it,” Emmerich said to him. “As if it were a man.”

Ezra briefly raised his brow, but he did so. He crossed the floor, put a hand to the chair’s back, and smoothly and swiftly raised his knee into the stuffed sack. Emmerich heard the tinny sounds of parts working, a sharp shing of metal. There was also a soft thunk as the new blade in his boot sliced through the fabric, and struck the wood back of the chair. Ezra’s eyes widened a bit.

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

When he withdrew his knee, there was a narrow but rather neat slash in the jute. The smooth sound and motion of the blade withdrawing cleanly back into the mechanism when Ezra put his boot to the floor again was also quite satisfying. Emmerich hadn’t known how smoothly all of it would go when fully affixed to a person, but it was functioning as hoped for. The blade was fully hidden from sight in the top of Ezra’s boot when retracted, and at a good strong angle from the kneecap when triggered—easy to sink into a man’s gut, or thigh, or whatever body part could be most easily reached.

“Where’s the knife from?” Ezra said. “Not mine, is it?”

“There were several small blades in with the rest of it,” Emmerich said, gesturing to the crate upon the table. “Yours would have had too much weight besides.”

Ezra raised his leg again tentatively, moving his knee about. “Won’t it come out too easily while just walking?”

“No; you’ve got to set this spring at your belt, just here—“ Emmerich touched Ezra’s hip, quick and brief, “every time, before the mechanism will trigger. Try walking.”

Ezra took an obedient stroll round the table, looking down at the rigged boot the entire time he did so. But the blade stayed sheathed within the hidden pocket and didn’t reappear until Ezra triggered the spring and then propped his foot up on a chair.

“This really is quite clever,” he said, glancing over at Emmerich. “How did you come up with it?”

Emmerich shrugged away the pleasure that the praise raised in him. “It was something I always wanted to try. Allister was always fascinated by blades hidden up sleeves, but those are easily guessed and easily found. No one looks here. I’ve had the design in mind for a while, just no opportunity or means to try.”

“Why did you make it for me, and not yourself?”

“I—“ For a moment, Emmerich was entirely unsure of an answer. Then, “you’re already comfortable with a blade, whereas I’m not. I thought it would be a better start with you.”

Ezra gave a nod, as if this was perfectly reasonable, and Emmerich let his breath out again. His protective instincts towards Ezra were going to give him away if he wasn’t more careful about them. It might just make Ezra angry, that Emmerich appeared to think he needed to be looked after like a child. It was only that...after so very long, he again had something that he couldn’t bear to lose. Protecting Ezra was like protecting himself. Emmerich needed him. The same way he thought Ezra might need him in turn.

“And they’re after you mostly,” Emmerich added, a belated afterthought that made Ezra frown and look away. He sat down at the table and folded his hands upon its surface. Against his leg, the mechanism clinked softly.

“You could still leave, you know,” he said, after a few more moments. “Seeing as they are after me mostly. If you went away from all this...I doubt they would keep after you for long.”

“No,” Emmerich said. “I won’t. I told you before I won’t. There’s nothing worth more than what’s here.”

“Your life, perhaps,” Ezra suggested, but his cheeks were pink and he still wasn’t looking Emmerich’s way.

“And what would I go back to?” Emmerich said. Hauling crates for near no wages, picking pockets, dodging constables, nights spent in the squalor of the Brokens, going to his knees more often than not—none of it was anything he could bear to do again. Perhaps this partnership with Ezra was far more dangerous, but he also had choices he’d never been given before, more freedoms than he’d had in years. He felt that he could do anything he wanted to, now that he was no longer shackled to Allister or to the close or to anything else that he had not chosen.

He also had a friend. A man who would stand at his back or at his side, wherever he was needed, and for whom Emmerich would do the same.

Ezra was watching him from across the room. His hands were still folded neatly before him, but there was a tension in them and in his shoulders, and he seemed overly still and hushed.

“No,” Emmerich said again. “I wouldn’t leave you for anything.”

#

The places that Allister and Kegg had housed their operations were all empty. There was no sign of either crew, as though they had all simply uprooted and disappeared into the underworld of the city.

Neither Emmerich nor Ezra took this as an uplifting sign. They could not imagine anything good out of this disappearance, especially one so sudden and complete. They could find hardly a trace of either gang, or of anyone who seemed to know anything of where they had gone. Certainly nothing that told them if they had joined together as one crew permanently, or if Staard and Clavel were still working independent operations in the wake of their leaders’ deaths.

By midday they had come to the last place that either of them knew of, a stone tenement building above the thick, dirty streets of the Bowbuttle market that had been a place of moving goods for Kegg. Yet this building was empty as well. Dust coated shelves and the corners of the room in gaping patterns that betrayed a recent presence of removed objects, from large crates to small boxes. There was a lingering smell in the air, of smoke and sweat and gunpowder, but nothing else.

“They must be expecting us to be looking for them,” Ezra said. “Must have heard what we got our hands on.”

“I hardly believe they think us that much of a threat, even with a few more bullets at our use,” Emmerich said from where he stood near a window. Though it was Sunday, there was still a bit of business going on in the marketplace below—punishable, of course, if noted by a constable. But several of them were bribed to overlook it. “Certainly not that they’d need to hide from us.”

“Well,” Ezra said, crouching down and touching his fingers to a dark stain upon the floor that looked of spilled drink. “Perhaps not us.”

“You mean yourself, then,” Emmerich said. He was trying quite hard to imagine how this pretty young boy could possibly have frightened an entire pack of grown men that badly, enough that they would want to keep themselves from his way.

“Emery, perhaps it’s not been clear to you that I’m not a good man,” Ezra said then, rising back to his feet. “We’ve been allies, and friends, and you’ve seen the more pleasant parts of me because of it. But I didn’t get Kegg to take an interest in me because of my manners or my breeding. The work I did for him was not the same of what you did for Allister. There’s very little I haven’t done, none of it delicate or clean.”

It startled Emmerich to heard Ezra speak of himself this way, and so matter-of-fact, as though there was no other way about it. But then he thought of the way Ezra had terrified Marcellin Chambért by whispering mere words to him, how he had so easily suggested that they kill Chambért’s nephew if he would not speak, and the way the men at the Thistledown had spoken of him, how he had casually shot a half-stunned man in the throat on the rooftops. Perhaps none of that made Ezra a truly wicked man, but there might be reason that the men who had known him might be more wary of him than Emmerich had thought.

Ezra sighed and rose to his feet again, tucking strands of hair back off his face. Dusty light came in at the window and cut across his shoulder, gleamed brightly against his shirt through the tear in his coat sleeve.

“Well, nothing for it, then,” he said. “We wait for them to find us. Meanwhile, we keep an ear to the ground, in hopes we catch a hint of their whereabouts.”

“Is that truly the best course to take?”

“Have you another suggestion?” Ezra said, and moved to catch Emmerich's arm when he frowned and turned away. “Honestly, Emery, I would hear anything you have to say about it.”

“No, I’ve no other idea,” Emmerich admitted. “It only seems, well...rather passive. I’m not fond of sitting and waiting for a threat to come to me.”

Ezra pinched at the hem of Emmerich’s coat, playing with the fabric there. “Neither am I,” he said. “The only thing left to do would be to ask openly about, and that’s more vulnerable than I’m willing to make myself. I’m certain they want to find us on their own terms, not to be taken unawares. Perhaps they’re even watching these places, to see if we come to them, and aim to follow us away to see where we go.”

“We oughtn't go straight back from here, then.”

“No, certainly not,” Ezra agreed. He let go of Emmerich’s coat, and laid his hand on his shoulder instead. “We can wander about the city for the rest of the day, I suppose, as we’ve nothing else doing. Any part of it in particular you favor?”

Emmerich lifted a shoulder at first, as he did not think Ezra much shared his interest for the missionary schools and it was a rather far way, besides. Although, if they were simply meaning to aimlessly range about for some time...then surely it didn’t matter how long of a journey it was. He was only about to say so when Ezra began to speak instead.

“Then I would like to take you to see something,” he said. “Would you come with me?”

“Yes, all right,” Emmerich said, and Ezra smiled oddly.

“You didn't even ask where I mean to take you.”

“I assume you’ve a reason for it,” said Emmerich. “I’d like to know it, whatever you would have me see.”

“All right,” said Ezra, with a much realer smile. “Then let’s off.”

#

Emmerich had never been this far into the central city before. Once he had gone as far as the outskirts of Bridehart Tor, wanting to see the grand missionary schools there, but had balked before even coming close. While it was easy to lose oneself amongst the bustle and crowded streets of the more affluent marketplaces, any man of his dress and general appearance was an eyesore in the splendid streets of these less turbulent districts. Beggars and thieves did not fare well here, and constables patrolled often and thoroughly. Even now, with a man at his side who knew the district, Emmerich could not be at ease.

Perhaps it was in part the very buildings themselves, which were fine solid stone and brick, and stood like long somber faces at either sides of the streets. Unmovable and with far more presence than the stout factories or the rickety buildings of the slums, and with a grandness to them that left Emmerich in slight awe. And not only the buildings themselves—blinkered glossy horses pulled fine carriages down the roads, and trundling between them were the mechanical carts that puffed steam and clanked noisily over the cobbles, all brightly trimmed in gleaming metal and painted in rich colors. Just as bright were the dresses of the women who swept along the pavement, and their hats, all a colorful clutter against the darker garb of their male companions.

“This is Paxstone Circus,” Ezra told him. “It’s where my family keeps a residence. We're nearly there.”

“Oh,” Emmerich said, and had nothing more to say.

Ezra looked to Emmerich, and took him by the wrist. “We won’t be troubled,” he said. “I know my way here.”

It was not another minute before they arrived in a large residential square, with rows of terraced houses with a shady green in the center and a wide cobbled lane that ran between them. Emmerich tried quite hard not to marvel openly at the intricacy and work that were apparent in even just the iron of the gates that ran before the houses, not to mention in the masonry and in the glass of the windows. He might have stopped walking altogether just to stare, if not for Ezra leading him firmly along by the wrist across the road and into the green.

It was certainly lovely here, quiet and peaceful, the trees planted here shivering in the breeze. A man and woman dressed in finery strolled together on a path beneath them, as the pale wintry sun cut short shadows beneath their feet. Ezra and Emmerich kept from their way, avoiding paths entirely and moving instead on the grass among the trees. Their clothes and general state of grubbiness would be a certain giveaway that they did not belong.

A bronze monument of a man mounted upon a horse sat near the center of the common, the top of its stone base higher than Emmerich’s head. Ezra took them past it, but stopped before they came near the other edge of the green. They stood together in the shadows of the trees, looking towards the row of terraced houses, and Ezra still held on to Emmerich’s wrist.

“That one there,” he said quietly. “The one with the L on the gate.”

L was a letter Emmerich was quite good at recognizing, as it was in his own name. And as such, he could pick out the gate of the residence easily—the tall wrought ironwork and large glass lanterns set upon the posts, the gleaming white trim against the slate-grey brick. It was both beautiful and cold, identical to those around it except for the monogrammed gates.

“Your family’s, then.”

Ezra nodded. “It’s called Hystead House.”

“But there’s an L on the gate.”

“That’s for our surname. Hystead is from my father’s title, and therefore the house’s.”

“This is all very complicated,” Emmerich said, and at last Ezra smiled.

“Yes, I suppose it would be,” he said. He was fingering the edges of his coat, and as he spoke he glanced at the gash in the sleeve that Luca had made with his knife. “Rather second nature to me, however.”

Emmerich could say nothing to that, nor was he sure if Ezra expected him to reply. They stayed standing in the hushed, shifting shadows of the trees and neither of them spoke nor moved. Emmerich had stopped watching the house, which was unlikely to do anything else worth seeing, and was instead studying Ezra from the side of his vision. The boy’s head was slightly lowered, his chin tucked nearer his collar than usual, and his eyelashes flickered. But he kept his eyes up, fixed on the house of his family’s name.

“You come back often,” Emmerich said, unsure if it was a question or not.

After a moment, Ezra said, “No. Only twice since.”

Emmerich wondered if that was for Ezra's own sake or for his family's, if it was to save himself from seeing them going about their lives or to prevent the risk them catching sight of their disowned and dishonored son. “Do you miss it?”

“I don’t miss who I was in that life. I was...” Ezra sighed and gave a distant smile, “a spoilt, silly little boy. And I would have turned out a spoilt, silly man in the end. No matter what I am now, it’s better than that.”

“Surely you weren’t all that bad,” Emmerich said.

“No, I was worse.” Ezra tilted his face up to Emmerich then, a mirthless expression there. “Nothing like you.”

Emmerich could not remember at this moment what he had told Ezra about his own childhood that would make him say this, and was about to say so when the clopping sound of horses’ hooves caught both of their notice. A covered carriage of dark maroon and brown was coming along the street, drawn by two glossy horses with dark coats. The large spoked wheels were colored inside with red, and the doors were of fine detail with glass windows. A driver in a neat uniform sat up front, but Emmerich did not get a much clearer look at him before Ezra had seized his elbow and dragged him backwards.

“That’s my family’s carriage,” Ezra said in a whisper. He pulled Emmerich behind a nearby tree as the carriage settled to a stop in the road and the driver climbed down. They still had a good view of the back and part of the side of the carriage closest to the row of residences, and thus could see quite well when the carriage door was opened up.

A young woman stepped down from it, a girl who was some years younger than Ezra. Her hair was as dark as his, her build just as slender, and though Emmerich could not make out her face clearly from this distance, he already imagined that they would look very much alike in their features. She wore a high-collared dress of dark blue and a small cap that matched. A parasol swung from the crook of her elbow. She spoke a quiet word to the driver, who closed the carriage door and went round the back to a luggage board.

“Oh, Hannah,” said Ezra quietly at Emmerich’s side. Emmerich did not ask, nor did he think he needed to. Clearly a younger sister of Ezra’s. She looked quite lovely and refined, ascending the steps of what Ezra had called Hystead House. The driver followed her, laden down with several carpetbags.

“Oi, you two there!”

Emmerich and Ezra both whirled about. Two patrolling constables of the clergy guard, white crosses bright upon their helmets, were bearing down on them from across the green. One was brandishing his truncheon.

“Oh, honestly,” Ezra muttered. Then, as he was wont to do when such things happened, he caught Emmerich’s hand and began to run.

Escaping the constables was easy—the men hardly gave chase once they were beyond the square, and Ezra knew this part of the city as well as he knew the poor districts and rookeries. He was even laughing by the time he pulled them both to a stop around a corner in a narrow alley, bracing himself over his knees in his mirth.

“That was just as easy as when I was a child,” Ezra said, breathlessly. “I used to sneak out at all hours, especially when I was meant to be doing something I wasn’t fond of—sums, or the violoncello, which I was terrible at to begin with. The constables were just as slow then.”

He lifted his head with something of a sly smile on his face. The alley was narrow enough that even being against its opposite walls put them quite near each other, and with them both leaning forward as they were, their shoulders were nearly touching. They were not directly facing each other, set a bit apart against the opposite walls, but Emmerich could feel the boy’s breath and the heat of him as Ezra could likely feel the same. Ezra’s eyes had gone dark and focused on Emmerich in a way that sent a frisson of anticipation up through the core of him. He felt a touch upon his hand, and quite badly wanted to allow this.

And yet, he could not.

“My father was a farrier,” Emmerich said, and Ezra went suddenly still. Their hands fell apart. “He kept a small workshop in our village. Once my mother died it was the only way he had to support us, myself and my brother and sister. But sometimes, if he hadn’t enough work or there wasn’t enough need for what he made, the only way to keep the shop itself was to borrow. He had debts because of it, greater than he could have ever paid, and he met his death because of them. But without the shop, our family wouldn’t have even survived as long as we did.”

Ezra leant back against the bricks then, tilting his head to the wall and looking at Emmerich with heavy eyes. “Oh, Emery,” he said, his tone subdued. “What you must think of me.”

“I wasn’t—” Emmerich began, but Ezra shook his head.

“The things I said to Luca...no wonder you told me to quiet myself about it. I truly did have no right.”

“We both know you didn’t intend to be cruel.”

“And yet I was, to both of you.”

“But Luca doesn’t know why you wouldn’t understand. I do.”

“Do you,” said Ezra, with a sudden twist of his mouth. “It seems as though you should understand me just as poorly as I do you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

But Ezra had drawn himself up, a hardness in his mouth and a furrow between his brows. “No, of course. You’ve only heard a small part of my past, seen a small part of how I lived, of course you understand it all so perfectly.”

“Ezra.”

“I’m very sorry about your father,” Ezra said, before setting his shoulders and striding out from the narrow alley. Emmerich gave a sigh and after a moment followed after him, knowing there was very little else he could do.

#

Emmerich was quite sure that if in fact they had ever been being tracked by any of Clavel or Staard’s men, they had long lost them. Still, Ezra did not head back towards the print house. Instead he took them back to the Thistledown, by way of alleys and roundabouts and occasionally rooftops. Neither of them spoke, and Emmerich was resigned to following the hard set line of Ezra’s shoulders. He was unsure what exactly had upset the boy this way; perhaps just seeing his old home and his sister, perhaps something Emmerich had said—though he could not think of what.

The streets around the brothel were far less crowded with the usual trudge of working people, seeing as it was Sunday, but there was a small crowd hanging about the brothel doors. Rough men smoking and talking in low voices, lurking inside their own little cloud of bitter smoke. One of them had his arm about a thin and rather dark-complexioned girl who was clearly employed of the place. She clung against his side with a look that Emmerich knew very well—a fierce mix of both necessity and repulsion. Emmerich could not even meet her eyes as they passed, a feel of cold iron in his belly.

He was quite glad to see Vena in the foyer, and perhaps even more so that Ezra did not appear to notice her. Instead he disappeared into the working portion of the building, the steam and heat from the still room, and left Emmerich by himself. Emmerich did not mind this at all, and went instead to speak with Vena. She was sitting upon the sofa beside another girl, one who was older and more full-figured than she, perhaps of Ezra’s age. Her hair was a fine reddish-gold, straight as straw, and her skin smattered with light speckles. She and Vena were gripping tight at each other’s hands and had their gazes quite riveted in the direction of the far back room behind the stair.

Emmerich glanced that way himself. In the dimness of that room, Miss Ingsbel and a short ruddy-faced man of some girth sat at a table together, deep in some discussion. The man appeared to likely be a client of the place, and he twisted a yellowed handkerchief between rough and stubby fingers. There was agitation in his movements, compared to Miss Ingsbel’s glass-like stillness across from him.

Vena turned her head a bit then and noticed Emmerich standing there. “Oh, hello, Emmerich,” she said, and peered around. “Is Ezra about, then?”

Because it would only be natural to assume the two of them would be together. “Oh, somewhere,” Emmerich said, and took a place on the small threadbare shepherdess chair beside the settee. This seemed to alarm Innogen, as it placed him closest to her, and she looked at him rather warily. A strange reaction, Emmerich thought, for a girl of her occupation.

“This is Emmerich,” Vena said to her. “You needn’t worry about him—“ and she leaned in to finish speaking in the girl’s ear. Emmerich frowned, but both girls only shared a smile with each other.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Innogen then, strangely polite and in such a full brogue that Emmerich could hardly understand her. He was most used to the accents of the city, and Innogen was clearly not from here.

“And you as well,” he said. He glanced once more over towards Miss Ingsbel and her companion. “What’s happening there?”

“Oh,” said Vena, as Innogen paled and gripped at her hand more tightly. “That man there hopes to make a purchase.”

“Of what—” Emmerich began, but at that moment both Miss Ingsbel and the man across from her rose from the table. The man’s face was rather redder than before, his cheeks puffed in irritation, and did not share the same calm that Miss Ingsbel was keeping quite well at hand. He shoved his handkerchief into a pocket of his coat and strode towards the front doors as quickly as his bulk would allow him to, only casting one look back as he went.

In the meanwhile, Miss Ingsbel made her way over to the corner of the parlor in which Vena, Innogen, and Emmerich sat. Her eyes passed briefly over Emmerich, with something near to disinterest at first. Then she seemed to recognize him, and her countenance became more familiar.

“Mr Mandelbrauss, back again,” said Miss Ingsbel. “I see that I didn’t quite scare you off full proper.”

“Not as such, miss, no,” Emmerich said.

“Well,” she said. “Good. There’s hope for you yet.”

“Miss Ingsbel,” said Innogen then, half rising from the sofa in her anxiety. She was clutching handfuls of her skirts and wringing at them with white-knuckled fingers. “Will I stay?"

“I told you that for as long as you ask for protection under my roof, you shall have it,” said Miss Ingsbel, touching a hand to the top of Innogen’s bright hair. “I do not sell people like common chattel.”

Innogen burst into tears. But despite the startlingness of them, they seemed to be in happiness. She threw her arms about both Miss Ingsbel and Vena in turn, and then ran for the stairs, holding up her skirts to keep from stumbling over them.

“I suppose she’s gone to unpack her things again,” Miss Ingsbel remarked.

Emmerich rose from his chair, moving nearer to her. “That was kind of you,” he said, and Miss Ingsbel glanced him over.

“Not kind, no,” she said. “It should not be a kindness to treat a person not as goods or property.”

“But not all others would do the same. Especially here.” Emmerich then remembered their last conversation, how she had not appreciated any insinuation of a disregard for the well-being of her girls. “I mean no slight, Miss Insbel.”

Miss Ingsbel looked at him carefully for a long moment. Perhaps she saw something in his face, drew an understanding from him that she had not had before, as she touched a hand lightly to his arm in a way that was only reassuring. “You ought to call me Sophrona, as you are neither client nor employee.”

“Then you should call me Emmerich,” Emmerich said, quite sure that neither of them were going to do so. Miss Ingsbel’s knowing smile told him the same.

Just at that moment Ezra reentered the parlor along with Lilin, who was dressed in the same tawdry fashion he had been before; trousers that fit him too tightly and a shirt that fit too loosely. He had Ezra by the wrist, taking him eagerly along towards the stairs. Both were smiling and rather flushed, and Ezra happened to turn his head and catch Emmerich’s eye over Miss Ingsbel’s shoulder. He faltered in his steps, his eyes flicking between Emmerich and the back of Miss Ingsbel’s dark head. Emmerich found his voice wavering at the back of his throat, wanting to say something, to call out, but he did not know what.

But then Lilin came back to Ezra and slipped an arm about his waist, speaking into his ear and beginning to draw him forward again. And Ezra went with him, breaking his gaze from Emmerich’s. They climbed the stairs together and disappeared along the landing.

Emmerich found himself suddenly upon the settee, that he had somehow sat down without being aware of it. His blood fluttered in his throat and there came again that same cold feeling of iron in his stomach, a band around his chest that would not yield to his breathing. Only Vena was left near him—Miss Ingsbel had gone.

“Oh, Emmerich,” Vena said, and put a thin hand to his shoulder. “I am sorry.”

“No, it’s...all right,” Emmerich found his voice very dull and strange to his own ears. “We were never—it only surprised me.”

“You were never?” Vena asked, and sounded startled. “But—“

“Don’t make anything of it, please.” Emmerich caught her wrist, gently, and held. “Not to him.”

Because he knew well by now how Ezra and Vena got, how they flared up at each other over anything and everything. He did not want Vena angry at Ezra for his sake. It was his own fault that Ezra did not know what Emmerich wanted, because he had been too cowardly to let it show. And he had clearly seen the interest Ezra and Lilin had in each other. It had all played out as he had allowed it to, and there was no blaming of anyone but himself for it.

“He’ll never realize he’s hurt you,” Vena said then. Her hand was still upon his shoulder, holding firm. “So if you’ve got to be angry with him, choose to be so over something he’ll understand. It’s what I do, mostly.”

“He hasn’t hurt me,” Emmerich said. “I’ve done it well enough myself.”

“But—”

“Is there something I could do here?” Emmerich asked her, before she got any further. “Repairs, or maybe you’ve a door hinge that squeaks or a latch that won’t turn. I’ll not charge a fee, I only need something to do with myself.”

“There’s a chair with its leg come off,” Vena said, a frown tugging at her mouth. But she said nothing further upon the topic of Ezra.

It was nearly a full hour later that Ezra and Lilin came back down the stairs. Ezra did not look as though he’d been rolled about in a bed, but Lilin seemed so pleased with himself that Emmerich could assume nothing else. After all, there were plenty of things to be done that did not leave one mussed at the end of them. Emmerich could not even look at either of them, and instead kept himself mindlessly occupied with the furniture. He had set the leg of one chair to rights and evened out the tilt of a small table, and had just begun on the foyer’s cheval mirror—perhaps once a centerpiece to the room, but now cast aside to a corner because of its cracked glass and loss of its silvering in spots. Still, it was serviceable, although a pivot pin had worked its way half out of the frame. Emmerich had only just managed to lever it back into place when a hand came down heavy on his shoulder.

“It’s time we left,” said Ezra’s voice, and his tone was far more amiable than it had been since Paxstone Circus. Emmerich did not want to think on why. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Making myself useful,” Emmerich said, rising off his knee back to his feet. “Have you finished then?”

“I suppose.”

“Then we can go.”

#

As it was a Sunday, the print house was empty and Ezra and Emmerich entered through the downstairs instead of the back staircase to their room. Emmerich was just as glad of it, as he wasn’t sure he and Ezra would do well stuck in a small space together at the moment. The air between them was tense enough.

Emmerich sat himself in a chair near a drafting table whilst Ezra prowled the length of the work room towards Luca’s office, calling out for the man. After a moment Emmerich let his head rest into his hands and closed his eyes. It was pleasant there, in the darkness behind them, and for a moment he could forget the arduous day behind them and the uncertainty before them.

Footsteps came back down the workroom floor then, heavy and seeming rather frustrated.

Emmerich glanced up from his hands. “Luca?”

“Not here,” Ezra said with irritation, and removed his pistol from the back of his belt and threw himself down in a chair. He leant back and raked a hand through his hair, frowning slightly. His cheered mood from earlier had disappeared, and Emmerich himself was not in one much better.

He no longer cared about their earlier words in the alley, or whether Ezra could ever understand his life or if he could ever understand Ezra’s, it mattered so little. Perhaps it would always be a small chasm they could not cross, a bridge they could never build to meet properly. But there was plenty more between them that they did both understand, more things in the present that they knew than things from the past they didn’t. Whatever disagreement they had had seemed rather petty now.

What was in his mind instead was the sight of Lilin, taking Ezra by the wrist and leading him upstairs, and the heat that filled his head was red and senseless with jealousy. He oughtn’t care so much, he knew it, and yet those same protective instincts for Ezra that he couldn’t rid himself of were twisting, becoming something else that was possessive and selfish and shameless. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else touching Ezra in any way—whether their aim was to hurt or please him.

“Lilin,” he bit out suddenly, helplessly. “Did you sleep with him?”

Ezra made a startled sound and looked to him. “I—what? Emery, why—no. Ich tat nicht. No.”

Relief ran through Emmerich in such strength that had he not been already sitting down, he would have needed to. He covered his face with his hands, breathing into the stifled dark behind his fingers, afraid to leave it again and be forced to face Ezra and anything he might say. He could feel Ezra’s eyes on him even now, watching him. Because the question had been inappropriate, impulsive and bitter, and only someone with an interest in whom Ezra bedded would have asked it. He had no explainable reason to have that interest; not one he was willing to share.

When he managed to take his hands from his face, he made them move down to his holster to retrieve his own revolver. He swung the chamber out and emptied the rounds, for no other reason than that he needed something to do with his hands, to keep them from shaking, to keep himself from looking at Ezra.

“Emery.”

“Hm.” Emmerich concentrated on the bullets, lining them up a careful row before him, for no beneficial purpose. He simply had to do anything he could but look at Ezra.

“Emmerich.”

“Ja, was?”

“Emery, look at me.”

“Was ist los?” Emmerich snapped, slamming the bulldog down to the table. The bullets toppled over and rolled about, shuddered and clinked together. “Ich bin beschäftigt!”

“Do it,” Ezra said, still quite calm.

Emmerich spoke through his teeth. “Was meinst du?”

“I mean; what it is that you want to do.” Ezra tilted his head, shifting suddenly forward onto his elbow. The table creaked softly beneath him. His eyes were very bright. “Do it.”

Emmerich took in a hard breath and rose from his chair. But Ezra stood with him, grasping his wrist. Emmerich faltered then, his breath stuttering in his throat. Ezra’s eyes were full of something strange and hot, and there was an edge of a smile on his lips.

“I said, do it,” Ezra said, and caught the front of Emmerich’s shirt in one hand. “Jetzt.”

It was too much—all this time of holding back, of easing and tiptoing around Ezra and so careful not to do anything like what he’d just done, but now Ezra was telling him to. He threw a hand around the back of Ezra’s neck and caught at the base of his head, cradling him with splayed fingers and pulling him close, their bodies flush together. Ezra’s breath hitched and caught, but his eyes were bright and eager and just as challenging as they’d been a moment ago. He wasn’t reconsidering.

He wasn’t waiting, either. Emmerich didn’t have time to do anything further himself before Ezra seized him by the collar and keeled him against the table, throwing him down on his back and climbing atop him. Emmerich gripped at Ezra’s shoulders and turned them about, bullets hard beneath his shoulders and the emptied pistol pressed between them. Ezra fumbled it out of the way—it thunked to the table and fell out of Emmerich’s care entirely—and then his hands squirmed between them, pushing fabric aside until hot skin pressed together and Emmerich could feel Ezra’s ribs grinding hard against his and smell a sharp, spiced scent that was so familiarly Ezra’s that he could hardly catch his breath.

Emmerich dragged his mouth up Ezra’s throat to taste him, scraping his teeth against his skin until sinking them gently into soft skin—Ezra groaned and jerked against him, their hips rolling firmly together. Emmerich caught a handful of his hair and yanked him up for a rough bite of a kiss, all teeth and bone and heat. His other hand caught Ezra’s wrist, slid up palm to palm, caught their fingers together and pressed them down to the table. The metal ring of bullets rolling off to the floor was distant and unimportant.

There wasn’t time for anything, no removal of clothing or even opening of trousers and they were thrusting together through cloth, Emmerich grunting helplessly through his teeth and Ezra making soft low noises as he spread his legs wider apart and clamped his knees against Emmerich’s thighs. The table squeaked and thumped below them as their movements grew faster, more desperate; Ezra clawed into Emmerich’s back and dug at his skin with his free hand, his body taught and flexing beneath Emmerich’s weight. Emmerich pressed his bared teeth to Ezra’s collarbone, panting and heaving while his belly burned with heat and his fingers twisted so tightly with Ezra’s that it felt as if they had ground down to their bones and left no flesh remaining.

It didn’t take either of them very long. Ezra’s final cry echoed about the quiet workroom floor, echoing down the rows of silent machines into the shadowed corners, and his hands stilled on Emmerich’s back. Emmerich heaved out a gasp of his own and bit down into Ezra’s shoulder, all of him pulled taut and aching, and the world became a cluster of colored spots and flashes to his eyes. When he came back to himself, Ezra was huffing and smiling beneath him, his eyes closed and one hand tangling lazily in the back of Emmerich’s dampened hair.

“Mm,” Ezra said. “Oh.”

Emmerich couldn’t even manage that much; he rested his head against Ezra’s shoulder and listened to his own heart beat hard against his ribs, heard it fluttering down to a gentler rhythm slowly, slowly. He held Ezra close against him and shut his eyes, a soft fear beating in his chest. If Ezra did not want to make something significant of this, Emmerich would not insist. But he would make this moment last, press the heat of it into his memory like a wax seal, and keep it there.

It was a few long minutes before either of them spoke, and it was Ezra who broke the silence first. “I’ve wanted to do that for so very long now,” he said, pressing the words against the edge of Emmerich’s mouth that he could reach..

A faint swell of hope pressed itself outwards from within him. “Why didn’t you?”

“I hardly knew that you wouldn’t mind it!” Ezra said, and laughed. “I've...never tried to do something like this before; catch another man's interest in that way, and I didn't know how successful I was being at it, or if you were even so inclined. I only thought, perhaps, sometimes—you must realize that you aren’t easy to understand.”

Emmerich reached to catch Ezra's dampened face between his hands. “And what about just now?”

“Just now, I was tired of waiting.”

“Ich bin froh, das zu hören,” Emmerich said, and kissed him properly. Ezra laughed into his mouth and Emmerich tried to swallow the noise, drag it deep inside him and keep it there so he could remember it always, Ezra sounding just like this, just for him. Emmerich could feel the boy readying again against his own body—he was somewhat younger, after all, quicker to recover—and he moved his legs apart, settling Ezra more firmly against him.

But Ezra’s hand went out, caught his wrist, held him still. “Wait. Not again like this. Take me to bed.”

For a moment, Emmerich’s ears rang with the words, hearing but not understanding. And then, “You would...want that?”

Ezra let his head drop back to the table with a groan, but he was smiling. “What do you think this was all about, Emmerich? This was very nice, but—far less intimate than I’ve been wanting with you. So, can we get to our bed?”

“Oh,” Emmerich said, and closed his eyes against the swell of relief and joy that had been suddenly let loose in his chest. “Of course.”

#

Emmerich undressed Ezra with shaking hands in the quiet and dim of their own room, drew him carefully to the bed that had always been theirs, and laid him out upon it. Ezra chest rose and fell rapidly with his breathing, his eyes watching every movement Emmerich made with rapt attention. There was an oddly frightened quality about him, and Emmerich thought that he might know what had brought it on. It seemed very likely now that Ezra had only ever been with one man, the brother of his fiancée. And Emmerich had been with far more than that.

But Ezra had loved his one man, and Emmerich never had any of his. He was not certain he even knew how to do this act in a loving way, though he was desperate to. So it was different for both of them, and more uncertain now that they’d already got the edge off against the printing table and were hesitantly naked together, pale under the thin light that streamed in through the round window. Ezra must be wary of how Emmerich could hurt him, just as Emmerich was afraid of the same.

So Emmerich went to him carefully, made his hands gentle and his movements slow, took care of his boy as best he could. Ezra’s body still had a clumsiness to it, an inelegance of youth that had never before been obvious when he was running rooftops or climbing walls or wielding his pistol, but was now evident in the way his legs and arms tangled about Emmerich’s waist and didn’t quite know how to hold on, elbows and knees knocking about. He made wonderful noises, little yelps and gasps that Emmerich drank out of his mouth and smeared back against his skin. Emmerich himself was lost in the heat of him, marveling at the realness of the boy in his arms and breathless in the fervor of true wanting, of a desire felt equally.

Ezra curled up to Emmerich afterwards, flung a lazy arm across his chest and kicked a leg between his and went to sleep almost at once, snuffling hot breaths against his shoulder. Emmerich stayed awake, stroking an absent hand through Ezra’s hair and staring at the broad beams of the ceiling, wishing for a cigarette or at the very least, a drink. His head ached, and despite the lightness in his chest there was a heaviness in his gut.

It was what he had been wanting. From nearly the moment he had laid eyes on Ezra, it was what he had wanted. Though it had slowly turned from a base desire into something more aching, more genuine, it had been constant enough with him that this should have eased it some of it. He should have been happy; content. And yet he wasn’t. But it was a different sort of fear now, not of what Ezra thought or wanted of him, but what others would. Perhaps a fear that had been there all along, an old one planted when he had been young and grown with him all his life.

The two of them were outlaws already. This could do very little further harm to them. Ezra had already lost everything. Emmerich had nothing to begin with. Ezra had long ago suggested they stay together, but he hadn’t meant in this way, and that would only make things twice as dangerous if they were. Acts such as this between men were something done only in the dark, in the shadows, hidden away and never spoken of for fear of the noose—or worse. And to take another man as a lasting lover was...something Emmerich had never heard of. Not done as seriously or as lasting as a man took a wife.

So it would be better for both of them if they stayed neither as allies nor as lovers, and parted ways entirely. Because Emmerich now knew he could not have one without the other, so it was simply too dangerous to have either. Ezra already had more troubles than years; Emmerich didn’t need to add to his problems, or become one of them himself.

But Emmerich also couldn’t leave him. As much as pulling away was the best thing to do, the safest and wisest, he couldn’t. He had promised. And, the idea of leaving Ezra chilled him deeply and sunk a hollow pit in his stomach so gaping that he could hardly catch his breath. The fear of that was stronger than any he had of being caught at this, but it was still the most difficult choice to make.

#

Emmerich fell asleep in the late afternoon and woke into dark. The air of the room was cramped and still and warm, thick with their breathing and the leftover scents of their earlier exertions. Ezra was still curled up to his side, hand beneath his own cheek, dark head tucked up under Emmerich’s arm. He was smiling in his sleep, a gentle expression that started a quiet aching in Emmerich’s chest. This boy trusted him, cared for him, was more of a family than Emmerich’d had in years, and he deserved better than all of this, better than anything Emmerich could give him in return.

Emmerich got up carefully, unwinding himself from Ezra and covering him back up carefully with the blanket. Ezra only shifted and sighed under his touch, catching sleepily at Emmerich’s hand and tangling their fingers together. Emmerich held still for the fragile moment before their hands slid apart again, and he could move away from the bedside.

He went to his customary place at the window, a view familiar to him now at any hour of the day. The moon drifted behind wispy clouds, shining through the greasy sky of the shipyards and factories. Gaslamps burned along the river, greenish in the low fog that crawled out from the riverbed. He thought of Archie, of nearly ten years spent hiding the things they did together, never speaking of them and never admitting them, and knew he could not do that again. Not with Ezra.

Some time later, Emmerich heard the sound of Ezra shifting, sitting up and pushing the blankets aside. The floorboards creaked beneath him. After a moment, he joined Emmerich at the window, weak moonlight painted over his arms and dark hair. He was naked, the still-healing scar on his arm standing out white and silver. Emmerich could hardly look at him. His heart hammered in his chest and his palms sweated against the window sill.

“You’re all right?” Ezra said, after a few moments. Emmerich nodded, words trapped within his throat. Then, so casual that it couldn’t possibly be, Ezra added, “Regrets?”

“No. Yes. Ich weiß nicht. Ezra—“ Emmerich turned, and Ezra was already looking at him, face pale and young in the moonlight and terribly vulnerable. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Ezra said, tight-mouthed. “I only want—I don’t regret it. But if you do, I can forget that it ever came to pass.”

“It isn’t anything like that,” Emmerich said.

“Wasn’t I any good then? Is it—“

“Ezra, stop. It’s not you. It’s this. All of this, and what we’re trying to do. None of it’s safe, but this—“

“Oh, shut up, Emery,” Ezra said, suddenly heated. “Now I see. You’re just a coward.”

“Wie kannst du—” Emmerich began, but Ezra went on speaking over him.

“I know what this is and I know what it means and I know how dangerous it is, I’m not a fool. But we know how to be careful and we know how not to get caught and why would this be any different? This may even be less dangerous than what we’ve already been doing, and you’re still afraid?”

Emmerich only said, “I’m trying to protect you.”

“Don’t bother yourself,” Ezra said fiercely, now breathing so heavily that the glass panes of the window were fogging. “I don’t need it.”

“Ezra.”

“No, I don’t want to hear any more of your reasons.”

Ezra turned back to face the window, hands braced on the frame and shoulders hunched, his face creased and downturned and looking like Emmerich had just broken his heart. And maybe he had. He was only just coming to understand that Ezra was truly sincere about this, had desired this, and not only the very agreeable physical part, but perhaps wanted everything else just as much as Emmerich did. It was something startling to realize; that for the first time there was something mutual between himself and another man, something meaningful. Something to keep, exactly what he had sought for so long.

Emmerich put a hand to the back of Ezra’s neck then, turned him, caught his bare hip with his other hand. The boy’s skin was warm, his bones sharp beneath it.

“Ich bin ein Feigling nicht,” Emmerich said, low and steady.

Ezra’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Prove it.”

So Emmerich gripped Ezra’s hips and hoisted him up into the narrow ledge of the round window, shoving him back against the glass. Ezra gasped and clamped his knees on either side of Emmerich’s ribs, his hands catching at Emmerich’s shoulders and chest. Emmerich pressed forward, prying Ezra’s legs apart, and then leant back. Hesitating.

“Are you—“

“Yes,” Ezra snarled at him, so Emmerich lunged in and kissed him fiercely. Ezra’s skull smacked against the glass and Emmerich slid a hand up to cradle him, cupping the back of his head in his palm. Ezra whined and gasped and dragged at Emmerich’s hair with his fngers, tongue curling into his mouth and his ankles hooking behind Emmerich’s back, arcing forward with keen impatience. They were both ready and eager against each other, nothing between them now in their nakedness.

Emmerich took them both in hand and stroked them together, working his other hand deeper between Ezra’s legs until the man was flexed and writhing against him, bare skin squeaking against the window glass. The sounds Ezra made were nothing so much like words any longer, just artless babbling, sometimes wrapped around moaned versions of Emmerich’s name. When he spent himself, it was with such a sharp cry that Emmerich feared he had hurt him, until Ezra laughed breathlessly and moved his own hand between them, to close around Emmerich in turn until he too was brought to release.

Ezra dropped his face against Emmerich’s shoulder then, flushed and damp and heaving, and Emmerich touched a hand to his hair and stroked the back of his neck. Ezra made a keening noise and pressed forward, trembling with exertion. Emmerich rubbed the back of his shoulders until both of their breathing had evened out again, until perspiration had cooled against their skin.

Feeling strange and unsure, Emmerich let Ezra slide down from the window ledge, moving a step back as he did. But Ezra moved with him, tucking his hands around Emmerich’s waist and keeping himself close against him. Emmerich’s arms went around Ezra’s shoulders because it was the only thing he could really do, and then they stood there together, quietly, embracing in the dim light.

“Don’t protect me from what I want,” said Ezra, eventually.

Emmerich closed his eyes. “Es tut m—“

“Don’t even say that, Emery. Stop apologizing, stop running, stop all this thinking that you do. Just take this as it is. It’s quite easy, really.”

“Du, ” said Emmerich, pressing a kiss to the top of Ezra’s head, “bist nicht einfache.”

Ezra laughed and nipped at Emmerich’s chin. Emmerich shoved him away, chuckling, and marveled at how easy it did seem to be in this moment. Especially as Ezra caught his hand, pulled it against the side of his face and held it there, his eyes going softer. But, there was still one last thing Emmerich needed to know.

“What was it that Lilin wanted of you, then,” he asked, had to ask, and Ezra sighed.

“Emery—“

“It matters. Bitte.”

“Only to show me his work,” Ezra said. “Drawings, and inking—it’s all quite fine. He learnt abroad, I think, to put inks to people’s skin. It’s not something he can do much of here, but he thought I might appreciate seeing his talent. And he is quite good, and was pleased to be complimented.”

“Is that all?”

Ezra kissed him gently. “Das war’s.”

“Danke. I only needed to hear it.”

Ezra smiled, and kissed him lightly once more. “Let’s go back to bed,” he said.

“Again?” said Emmerich, and Ezra laughed.

“To do what’s also done in a bed,” he said, tugging Emmerich gently towards their shared mattress. “Sleep.”

[TRANSLATIONS]

Halt die Klappe. = Shut up.
Danke. Auf dem Tisch, bitte. = Thanks. On the table, please.
Ich tat nicht. = I did not.
Ja, was? = Yes, what?
Was ist los? Ich bin beschäftigt! = What is it? I’m busy!
Was meinst du? = What do you mean?
Jetzt. = Now.
Ich bin froh, das zu hören. = I’m glad to hear it.
Ich weiß nicht. = I don’t know.
Wie kannst du— = How can you—
Ich bin ein Feigling nicht. = I’m not a coward.
Du bist nicht einfache. = You are not easy.
Das war’s. = That’s all.