Sanguine Eye

The amber liquid slid out, tantalizingly laborious, in in slow, short, sudden, drops. One, two, three: to top off the glass. There had been drunkenness in the past and then there was this. There had been abject misery in the past and then there was this. There had been everything, and everyone – and now, there was this. It would have been alright, if he could have deciphered why. Why had it come to this? He just didn’t know. God knew, he just didn’t remember – and he would be damned for it if he didn’t admit he’d tried to make it so. He’d succeed, too. The world was so deadpan and dull – like a muffled speaker just thrumming against him just as a restless tide would upon a ravaged shore. He was the shore, now, and his life the endless tide.

For tonight, he stopped the tide with his own swell of liquid. Amber. Straight. To the top of the glass. Then back. All of it at once. And oh, didn’t it burn? Not even a good burn. It didn’t satisfy. It just was. Three and four times, times a hundred times he did this until the bottles were all gone and rum was the next solace, good enough to scald the hurt inside out and so bottles of that would follow. He’d stopped the merriment, seeing fit that as his own was so gone, gone, gone … no one else could have it either. The bar was emptied. The restaurant left deserted. The doors were open but closing time had come and gone. And here he sat, twenty-two years old: Elijah Nathaniel Krum. A cigarette to his lower lip, burning itself to its blunt end, a glass in his hand, and a guitar in his lap.

The cigarette hissed as it was extinguished, thrown into an ashtray with a dribble of whisky in the bottom. He took a long slug of his drink, liquid spilling past his lips and down his neck to stain his skin beneath the collar of his shirt. He’d pulled it open as far as he could remember to, two buttons keeping it together at the end. His tie was, well, long gone now. Rage had filled the bar with glass and had overturned tables in the restaurant. Now, underfoot, the floor was sticky with mingling alcohol and sharp with glass to be trodden in and found to cut the foot of an unwitting woman who could no longer toddle in her heels in the days to come. Blind rage had destroyed the immaterial and the arbitrary and here he was: sat on a low sofa, his feet on a coffee table covered in glasses, alcohol and cigarettes … his old friends. Merlin, how things did not change.

Pushing the guitar away, Elijah barely registered the thud and twang of it hitting the floor. He kicked it away from him and his blind, imprecise hands found the bottle and with the same accuracy he sloshed its contents half onto the table, half into his glass. It would do. His tongue wrapped around the neck to lick clear the mouth of its stray juices and with a resounding slam he put the bottle back down before scattering up into his hands the glass, sending waves of rum across the lip of the glass, God only knew where. He made to bring the glass to him, to bring the liquid to taste. In the last breath his arm whipped out and he threw it, the piece sailing across the room. Its smash heralded its landing and heralded his, too. Firmly on this earth, here he was trapped. Left. Forgotten about. Alone.

Balthazar was drunk. Not I-think-I-forgot-my-name drunk, or even I'm-not-gonna-remember-any-of-this-in-the-morning drunk. No, Balthazar was a pleasant intoxicated-enough-that-I-can't-remember-my-problems-but-not-intoxicated-enough-to-land-myself-in-a-holding-cell-for-public-indecency drunk. Which was a rather nice type of drunk to be, as far as the man in question was concerned. He had, long ago, ranked his levels of intoxication, ranging all the way from I-am-far-too-sober-right-now drunk to daaaaamn-I'm-plaaaastered drunk. His current state was, almost undoubtably one of his favorites, right up there with I'm-sexy-let's-f*ck drunk and making-friends-with-random-strangers drunk.

The man had been bar hopping for, well, he wasn't really sure how long. That wasn't important. What was important was that he was going to Eli's. As in the bar. Not Elijah's house. Because that would probably be crossing some sort of line. Or maybe it wasn't. Balthazar was a little too drunk to tell. Perhaps he should err on the side of caution, then. Eli's it was.

The wizard probably shouldn't have, considering his drunken state, but he apperated home in order to pick up a wooden box just small enough to fit inside of the long pockets lining his jacket. The man apperated into Diagon Alley, then, thankfully not splinching himself in the process. That certainly would have put something of a damper on things.

Striding through the unlocked door, completely unaware that the establishment was not open during the current hour, Balthazar's eyes locked on the owner of the restaurant. Balthazar had been in America, the past months, meeting with trade partners and smooth-talking investors. The man hadn't bothered to tell anyone he was leaving, he'd never had any need to. His cousin would always find out if he'd left through one of their many secretaries, and there wasn't anyone else he'd cared about and met with on a regular basis without some sort of owl or communication being exchanged first. The wizard hadn't stopped to think about any connections he had forged between his last business trip and this one, instead slipping back into old habits.

It wasn't until New Years Eve, while he watched a friend dipping his wife into an utterly indecent kiss, that he thought of how Elijah would have heard nothing. It was far too late to send any sort of missive now, the man had reasoned, having left the British Isles months previously. However, Balthazar could still find the man a birthday preset. The once-Slytherin was almost certain that the Krum's birthday had already passed, but that didn't mean he couldn't present the gift one he made it back home.

"Eli!" Bathazar exclaimed, swaggering drunkenly up to the younger man. Most in his situation would have taken note of the overturned tables and broken glass littering the floor, but the Harding male did not. In his experience as a drunk, shattered glass and upturned furniture was more common than its absence. Then again, the parties he went to did get a little more rowdy that your average bash. "I has a thing for you!"

“We’re closed.”

The deeply sensual Bulgarian verve vibrates across the room, filling it with this warmth that the moody intonation could not suppress. Despite his repellent language, his tone was inviting and illicit, bearing the promise of secrets that were stormy and arousing. In his haste to quash the surge of feeling with drink, he’d left the frontage unlocked, lingering on the latch so that anyone could get inside. Luck arose in the fact that it was the benign that entered as opposed to the malign. Regardless, the upper, aristocratic lip lined with bullish fluff curled and it was clear that no forgiveness had been bred within the veins of the Krum with regards to the Harding man.

It was bitterly ironic that the man was left in more of a state of surprise due to the arrival of Balthazar Harding than he had been at the news of his retirement from the spheres in which they operated and which overlapped to allow their meeting. It was another name and, indeed, yet another face that had pulled out of the life of Elijah Krum until, it seemed, something arose, most notably and often to do with painting nurseries, in which he was needed once more. Like a dutiful dog, though he was far more feline in mother ways than not, he would reappear with his paints and would try to etch his way back into the lives of those he could not help but love; and he was rebutted, painfully so.

Only now, herein the man staggered while his associate sat hunched on a low sofa. Elijah had wanted to be alone to wallow and perhaps drink enough to die under the noses of those who feigned caring for him and would dare to presume they bore enough influence to stop his hand from splashing any more into the glass. They’d make him live, not that he had much of a desire to die, yet he felt trapped and stifled – not by the life he’d made for himself but the life that had been thrust upon him and more especially the loss that punctuated his existence so achingly that it made him want to retreat into what he had: nothing. He had nothing.

“I’m really not in the mood, Bal,” Elijah sighed, the air blustering past his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t want whatever you have. You shouldn’t have bothered yourself.”

"But I has something for you," Balthazar whined, somehow avoiding sounding like a child as he did so. The alcohol had made his voice gruffer than it normally was, deepening his tones until what had been intended as a winge came out as something that could almost be called a growl.

Stumbling towards the other man, Balthazar pulled the box out of the inside of his jacket. Cradling the box close to his chest, as if the wood alone could give him comfort, the elder man stopped just before the sofa Elijah was occupying.

"It was your bir'day," Balthazar stated, nodding sagely, "while back, bu' I misse' it." Reaching out with his hand in order to touch Elijah's face, the man's hand only go half way there before his features curled into a frown. "Sorry," he slurred, hand retreating away from Elijah's face and instead scratching at the facial hair on his own chin.

"Was my bir'day too," the businessman admitted, "but tha's okay. I got reeeally drunk." In fact, the man couldn't remember much of anything from his birthday. There was poker involved, he knew that. And Absinth, from the bottles he'd found the next afternoon. Other than those two little bit of information, the day was basically a black hole in Balthazar's memory, and always would be. The man didn't exactly mind.

"But, I got somethin' for you!" he informed Elijah, voice brightening, "there was that village, an' everyone was all paint-y. An' doin' paint-y things. An' everyone was ravin' about this lady who mixes paints and all. Appa'ently she's all famous with paint-y people. An' I thought, Eli's all paint-y too, yah? So I gots you some'f her paints."

Flipping open the metal latch to reveal the paints, Balthazar pressed the box into Elijah's hands. Flopping himself down onto the sofa next to the other wizard, the co-owner of Harding&Sinclair leaned into Elijah's shoulder in order to peer at the contents of the box along with his friend.

"You like it, righ'? The lady said you woul' like it if you were paint-y."

Obstinately, Elijah Krum wanted to push Balthazar Harding away and tell him that whatever it was he’d gotten him, he didn’t want it. Well, he’d already said it, really, so he’d have to say it again and he was determined to do so because all he wanted to do was be alone. Suddenly though, with company, he found that wasn’t the case at all. He wanted to be with Bal, not for company’s sake but because it was Bal and because of all people Elijah thought he would understand. Understand what, the Krum man wasn’t sure but he felt reassured in the midst of his rottenness. He had no idea if Bal helped or not.

Then the box was in his hands and all of Bal’s rambles fell by the wayside. Here it was: a birthday present. It was entirely his. Elijah closed the box, letting his fingers run across the top. It was beautifully made and what was inside was so completely precious to him that even through the blunders of drunkenness the reverence he felt towards it was profound and the gratitude he felt towards Bal was exceeding any other kind he’d felt towards the man before. Elijah took a breath as he felt tears begin to sting at his eyes. Everyone else had forgotten, barring his children of course, who had presented him with drawings and wonderful things they’d made and he was humbled and grateful and it had been enough but when no one else had cared he felt his true worth.

The Bulgarian man supposed that the only people in the world he should have mattered to were his children. He was glad that they did care. He didn’t know what he was going to do if they’d shown to not care. But even so, he’d wanted something. He’d wanted to see his value in his friends’ eyes. He wanted to know that they cared. His birthday came and went. Christmas came and so did the New Year. He’d enjoyed the time at home with his children and truly he was in his element but he’d hoped for visitors. He’d hoped for a friend. Someone to care. But no one did. Elijah ran a hand across his face and reached over to set the paints gently down on the table.

He turned to Bal, then, and in a rush grasped the man’s face in his hands and kissed him quickly, chastely, before letting go again. Finding a glass that wasn’t broken, Elijah poured wine for Bal and handed it over to him before flapping his hand through the air, brightening the room so he could properly inspect the paints. He’d bothered. Not that he had any reason to. Elijah couldn’t help but wonder why, of all people, it was the unconventional man he barely knew – not that Elijah appealed to any sense of convention mind you – who remembered; who cared.

“I love them. Thank you,” Elijah whispered. “This means more to me than you know,” Elijah swore. “I wish you’d told me it had been your birthday. I would have posted something to you. Can I make it up to you?” Elijah set the box down again and picked up his glass before swivelling around to look at Bal properly. “Why are you drunk?” He asked, sloshing wine clumsily over the lip of the glass as he pointed at Bal. “Or, better, why are you drunk and ‘ere and not in some lass’ bed?”

"Good," the Harding slurred, smiling. Elijah had kissed him. He certainly hadn't been expecting that. It hadn't been an unwelcome advance though, which was something of a new development. Usually, when males hit on Balthazar, he'd reject them gently with some sort of witty comment. His own gender had never appealed to him, not really. Yet, that kiss had been pleasant. Terribly pleasant. Balthazar rather wanted to do it again. Which was interesting. But not quite interesting enough for the man's drunken mind to dedicate all that much brain power to the conundrum. That was what morning after's were for.

"'t's alright," Balthazar said, patting at Elijah's arm and conveniently forgetting to remove it after the patting had ceased. "Only jus' passed, I w's expectin' to be back befo'e then, but there were all these meetin's so I only got back yes'erday," the businessman explained with a grin. He had planned to get back home two days before his 41st, but then there had been a terrible snowstorm. Reason number 173 why Great Brittan was better than the States, snowstorms involving a full meter of snow simply didn't exist. Good Merlin, that had been miserable. Due to the untimely precipitation, Balthazar's meetings had been rescheduled, causing the man to stay abroad a bit later than expected.

"You can if you wan'," Balthazar stated graciously. If the Krum felt the need to return the favor, then who was he to complain?

"I am drunk, becaus' I wan'to be. An' why woul' I be in t'e bed of some lass? Had plen'y of time to do that in 'merica. Bu' you wasn' in 'merica, so now I'm home an' I'm 'ere," the man stated, as if explaining something to a small child. It was rather obvious, wasn't it? It was within Balthazar's mind, at least.

Plucking the glass out of Elijah's hand, rather deftly for someone slurring as he was, Balthazar raised it to his lips and took a sip of the liquid. Humming in contentment, the man took another drink, before placing it back in the Krum's hand as though it had never left in the first place.