DenUK fic -- in progress
Mikael slung himself down onto the stool at the bar, ordering a beer with a half-slurred sentence and a five dollar bill slid across the counter. Remnants of the night’s work were still on his face, in the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the few scattered sparkles still left on his cheekbones. As the weary bartender slid a draught of the cheapest beer they had across the counter, Mikael lit a cigarette, adding to the already thick smoggy haze, half-smothered by the cloying air freshener that the club sprayed into the air in hopes that nobody would notice what kind of place the building was, and what it smelled like. Taking a drag off of his loosely held cigarette, Mikael fanned his take for that evening out under the long polished bar surreptitiously, snatching a quick glance around him before he began counting the bills, he’d had to deal with some unwanted attention because of the money before, and he’d rather not repeat the experience, as exhilarating as it may have been.
Most of the bills showed signs of crumpling and fumbling, the results of being pressed from nervous hand to nervous hand, sometimes followed with shy whispers and high-pitched giggles at the beginning of the evening, but as closing time rolled around, the slips of paper were nearly always followed by bawdy shouts and raucous laughter, as the patrons became more inebriated. A smile rolled across Mikael’s face as he found one of the more personal ones. This one a ten dollar bill blotted with a lipstick kiss and a hasty “Mikey” scrawled across in fuchsia lipstick. That would be one of his regulars then. One of the “lovely ladies”, as he called them, that didn’t just come here on a whim, convinced by some friends and freedom from boyfriends or husbands for a weekend, or from a bachelorette party. No, most of the women who came to the club more than once or twice lived in the City. Some even worked in operations similar to this, but most were just in the background, the ones always staying in the casino for /just one more round/, and when they were lucky, they came here. Some of them even came to see him, for which Mikael was thankful. Without tips, the money this job paid was crap.
Satisfied that he’d made a decent amount, Mikael stuffed the money into his abused and beaten up leather wallet, setting a few aside for the rest of the night’s drinks, which more than likely would be reaching the double digits. Removing his cigarette for a moment to take a swig of the beer he’d been left by the bartender, the messy-haired blond heard a soft groan from his right.
A figure sat in the next occupied seat a little down the bar, hunched over a glass. The silhouette was only vaguely familiar and it took Mikael a moment to connect the profile to his colleague, Arthur. Usually Mikael was used to seeing the man in considerably less clothing, and considerably more joviality than he was in currently. He was wearing an oversized black pea coat, that, as Mikael could see as he stood up, was draped over his otherwise bare shoulders haphazardly, as if placed there out of habit rather than necessity. Grabbing his glass loosely, Mikael walked the few steps over to the seat next to the man, before sliding onto that barstool. Checking once again to make sure that his wallet was still in its place, Mikael hazarded a grin at the melancholy Brit. “Some show tonight, huh? It was weird to see so many of them out on a Thursday.” He laughed at this, cheerfully continuing on, “Lucky bastards who work tomorrow’ll probably get even more than us, huh?”
At this the man sitting next to him raised his head finally, a stern frown across his face, the eyebrows that had the looks of being trimmed down, furrowed into a glare, he got a response, in accented English, “Yes. I suppose it was. Now, pray tell, /why/ are you sitting next to me?” There was a slightly incredulous look on his face as he said this, and as Mikael paid more attention to his words, he thought that the Brits eyes were redder than usual, and his cheeks more flushed, as well.
As always, tact was shoved to the back burner for the Dane as Mikael asked over his cup, “Ah, man, have you been /crying/?” And while there was a certain teasing edge in the words, Mikael was actually interested to know this. To know why on earth somebody would be crying after a night of dancing and a full wallet.
But, it turns out that he didn’t get an answer for either, as Arthur scrubbed at his cheeks with the sleeves of his coat, and spluttered, “M-most certainly not! I would never do such a thing, least of all in public!” As he took another gulp of beer in his mouth.
Mikael could see now that Arthur’s chest was bare beneath the jacket, as he’d guessed, as Arthur had swiveled around on his stool to look him in the eye. And the Dane was almost sure that he could see tracks of tears on his face, no doubt from the small amount of makeup that they were all set up with, prior to each night. Mikael had been at the club for long enough that the girls that went around beforehand didn’t even bother with him, knowing that he’d done his face up nice and pretty like they’d instructed, and was probably working on his best “sexy” faces in the mirror. But Arthur was new to this club, new to the whole business, really, and so that evening he hadn’t put on his own makeup, and he still wasn’t used to wearing it, and he’d smeared it when he’d rubbed his eyes, leaving faint shadows of black eyeliner behind. As Mikael’s gaze traveled down slightly, he could see that Arthur had been saddled into the new role of the “waiter”, as most newbies to the club were, when they first joined. It was a test, really, to see if they had the guts to actually go up there and dance as provocatively as they could, without really caring if they could take off the clothes correctly. That was because the “waiter” costume, was, to say the least, skimpy. It didn’t consist of much more than a collar, bow tie, some cuffs, and a pair of tight shorts that were surprisingly flexible. All modeled after a tasteful tuxedo, of course. Because in this line of business, while tasteful wasn’t always the element, personal taste was. And hitting the right bands of personal taste was oh-so-important, to both the men and the club owner.
As Arthur saw the Dane looking at him, his cheeks grew a bit redder, and he clutched the pea coat across his chest, glaring at the blond as he did so. Mikael ignored it, instead saying with a teasing tone, “You sure? Those look an awful lot like tears to me. I mean, I can understand weeping at my awe-inspiring appearance, but I’m pretty sure that that happens /after/ I talk to you, not before I do.” He paused for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face, before continuing, “Unless, you know, you’re psychic. Which!” A grin found itself onto his mouth again, “I don’t think you are. So unless you’re psychic, you’re crying for something that’s not me.”
Most of the bills showed signs of crumpling and fumbling, the results of being pressed from nervous hand to nervous hand, sometimes followed with shy whispers and high-pitched giggles at the beginning of the evening, but as closing time rolled around, the slips of paper were nearly always followed by bawdy shouts and raucous laughter, as the patrons became more inebriated. A smile rolled across Mikael’s face as he found one of the more personal ones. This one a ten dollar bill blotted with a lipstick kiss and a hasty “Mikey” scrawled across in fuchsia lipstick. That would be one of his regulars then. One of the “lovely ladies”, as he called them, that didn’t just come here on a whim, convinced by some friends and freedom from boyfriends or husbands for a weekend, or from a bachelorette party. No, most of the women who came to the club more than once or twice lived in the City. Some even worked in operations similar to this, but most were just in the background, the ones always staying in the casino for /just one more round/, and when they were lucky, they came here. Some of them even came to see him, for which Mikael was thankful. Without tips, the money this job paid was crap.
Satisfied that he’d made a decent amount, Mikael stuffed the money into his abused and beaten up leather wallet, setting a few aside for the rest of the night’s drinks, which more than likely would be reaching the double digits. Removing his cigarette for a moment to take a swig of the beer he’d been left by the bartender, the messy-haired blond heard a soft groan from his right.
A figure sat in the next occupied seat a little down the bar, hunched over a glass. The silhouette was only vaguely familiar and it took Mikael a moment to connect the profile to his colleague, Arthur. Usually Mikael was used to seeing the man in considerably less clothing, and considerably more joviality than he was in currently. He was wearing an oversized black pea coat, that, as Mikael could see as he stood up, was draped over his otherwise bare shoulders haphazardly, as if placed there out of habit rather than necessity. Grabbing his glass loosely, Mikael walked the few steps over to the seat next to the man, before sliding onto that barstool. Checking once again to make sure that his wallet was still in its place, Mikael hazarded a grin at the melancholy Brit. “Some show tonight, huh? It was weird to see so many of them out on a Thursday.” He laughed at this, cheerfully continuing on, “Lucky bastards who work tomorrow’ll probably get even more than us, huh?”
At this the man sitting next to him raised his head finally, a stern frown across his face, the eyebrows that had the looks of being trimmed down, furrowed into a glare, he got a response, in accented English, “Yes. I suppose it was. Now, pray tell, /why/ are you sitting next to me?” There was a slightly incredulous look on his face as he said this, and as Mikael paid more attention to his words, he thought that the Brits eyes were redder than usual, and his cheeks more flushed, as well.
As always, tact was shoved to the back burner for the Dane as Mikael asked over his cup, “Ah, man, have you been /crying/?” And while there was a certain teasing edge in the words, Mikael was actually interested to know this. To know why on earth somebody would be crying after a night of dancing and a full wallet.
But, it turns out that he didn’t get an answer for either, as Arthur scrubbed at his cheeks with the sleeves of his coat, and spluttered, “M-most certainly not! I would never do such a thing, least of all in public!” As he took another gulp of beer in his mouth.
Mikael could see now that Arthur’s chest was bare beneath the jacket, as he’d guessed, as Arthur had swiveled around on his stool to look him in the eye. And the Dane was almost sure that he could see tracks of tears on his face, no doubt from the small amount of makeup that they were all set up with, prior to each night. Mikael had been at the club for long enough that the girls that went around beforehand didn’t even bother with him, knowing that he’d done his face up nice and pretty like they’d instructed, and was probably working on his best “sexy” faces in the mirror. But Arthur was new to this club, new to the whole business, really, and so that evening he hadn’t put on his own makeup, and he still wasn’t used to wearing it, and he’d smeared it when he’d rubbed his eyes, leaving faint shadows of black eyeliner behind. As Mikael’s gaze traveled down slightly, he could see that Arthur had been saddled into the new role of the “waiter”, as most newbies to the club were, when they first joined. It was a test, really, to see if they had the guts to actually go up there and dance as provocatively as they could, without really caring if they could take off the clothes correctly. That was because the “waiter” costume, was, to say the least, skimpy. It didn’t consist of much more than a collar, bow tie, some cuffs, and a pair of tight shorts that were surprisingly flexible. All modeled after a tasteful tuxedo, of course. Because in this line of business, while tasteful wasn’t always the element, personal taste was. And hitting the right bands of personal taste was oh-so-important, to both the men and the club owner.
As Arthur saw the Dane looking at him, his cheeks grew a bit redder, and he clutched the pea coat across his chest, glaring at the blond as he did so. Mikael ignored it, instead saying with a teasing tone, “You sure? Those look an awful lot like tears to me. I mean, I can understand weeping at my awe-inspiring appearance, but I’m pretty sure that that happens /after/ I talk to you, not before I do.” He paused for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face, before continuing, “Unless, you know, you’re psychic. Which!” A grin found itself onto his mouth again, “I don’t think you are. So unless you’re psychic, you’re crying for something that’s not me.”